Surprised, I opened my eyes to find myself standing. My gaze was fixed on a vast crystal blue sky. A soft, icy breeze coiling around the hilltop conveyed the morning cold. I began shivering and asking myself how I got here when a glint of silver caught my attention. I looked over my shoulder to see a bright metal disc with a mirror polish, gigantic in proportion, hanging silently above me. Upon my realization, I was suddenly seized with a terrific force. Some invisible vice locked itself around my whole body; the air crushed from my lungs as it gripped me ever tighter against my consent. A loud metallic click resounded as I strained against what bound me and reverberated inside my brain. The disk and I began to interface. A deluge of images flooded my mental processes. I was a human particulate futtering between states of consciousness and dissolving in equal parts terror and astonishment.
Amidst the churning ocean of digital chatter I was drowning in, a single directive emerged, stronger and louder than any other. It rose above the crashing waves of analog noise and onto a crystal pedestal of clarity. "I was a builder." I was born to construct and fashion walls, towers, houses, bridges, ramparts, and roads in literal and ideological mediums. To create communities and weave together networks. People would be my primary material, igniting their purpose and unifying their goals. However, I was just as capable, maybe more so, of rendering instruments of destruction, of crafting poisons for the body, mind, and soul. I COULD DECONSTRUCT what I or another built, either piece by piece or in wide murderous swaths.
Having delivered its message, the disc released me. Oxygen came rushing back into my lungs along with spacial awareness into my brain. The disc shot upward with the speed of a bullet but with none of the force. Quickly, the sky grew dark, and the stars were again shown. I stood open to the elements. I was stripped down to nearly nothing, exposed physically and emotionally. The dying campfire's dim radiance illuminated my friends, cocooned in their sleeping bags and blissfully unaware of what had transpired. Dangerously chilled, I trudged back to them with frozen footfalls along a trail of my clothes.
A terrible wave of nausea welled inside me, and I began to dry heave. Over and over till I was dripping with sweat and finally vomited. Exhausted and mentally zeroed out, I collapsed on the hard ground and enjoyed the pre-dawn frigidity. The resulting walking pneumonia clung to me for almost three months, until the New Year of 1994, my sophomore year of High School.
The act of intentional and repeated separation from the group wasn't lost on me. Memories of being called out of class or pulled out of school assemblies to visit persons who disclosed neither their purpose nor identity bubbled up to the forefront of my mind. Institutionalized ostracization and alienation via institutional intrusion by The State of California's Educational Board's ties to black projects and genuine alien forces? For the vast majority, such a supposition need never cross their minds. Lucky them.
Taken.
Abducted.
Removed.
The feeling of division between self and other, fading since my family relocated from California to Idaho, was starkly reaffirmed. I had again been set apart. I was anointed not by sacred or holy oil as in my adult life's numerous religious and spiritual initiations but by otherworldly light and sound. I knew of the distance in close proximity and the feeling of separation, even in a crowd. Understanding these paradoxes would always and inevitably cause cracks in the foundation of all my relationships. However, through these fissures, I could access the liminal spaces between the worlds and experience interdimensionality.
If there was a solace to be taken, I would take it as this: I could at least be an architect of creation and traveler of realities. In exchange for eliminating my sense of societal normalcy or being relegated to the base act of mindless consuming, in contrast to so many others, I was granted that. I was long beyond the false sense of permanence. I suppose I couldn't miss the feeling of authentic security if I'd never known it. Still, I could fantasize about it and be jealous of others who had it.
Maybe I was like the cat who would bolt for the open door and the wild and uncertain, no matter how warm and cozy it was inside. Freedom to me had that irresistible siren's call. I suspected the dark figure that ceaselessly followed me resulted from wandering down shadowed corridors during my frequent early childhood astral and real-time projections. How frighteningly accurate that hypothesis was would soon be realized.
-Kevin Wikse, Strange Strangers: Tales of Childhood of Alien Abduction.
Keeping a low profile at the Dream Catcher RV in Deming, NM, I hunkered down inside a battered 90s C-class RV, letting my travel companion handle the driving and logistics. Like a nocturnal predator, I only emerged under the cover of darkness, moving through the night like a wraith cloaked in shadow.
The I-10 E was a blood-soaked artery, a highway of horror for the abducted, trafficked souls funneled between Mexico and the dark underbellies of Phoenix, AZ, and Las Vegas, NV. In 2018, it was a red-market conveyor belt of human misery. I had been summoned to sever a particular link in that grim supply chain.
It had become alarmingly routine for human traffickers on the I-10 E to pad their cargo with natives from the surrounding reservations, primarily infants and toddlers. In response, a clandestine group of private financiers, unsanctioned by official Tribal Governments, began hiring sympathetic and morally aligned outsiders to act as ghostly avengers against their people's enemies.
"El Cerdo"—The Pig—a monstrous brute with a reputation as vile as his deeds, was my target. This beast was a known pedophile, rapist, and murderer, rumored to dabble in necrophilia and cannibalism. A former member of a defunct 1%er motorcycle gang in Arizona, El Cerdo had woven a sinister network of drug and arms dealers, expanding into human trafficking in the early 2000s.
The shadowy financiers who enlisted my services had marked El Cerdo as a high-priority target. My companion was a fierce-looking Apache woman, her features sharp and thorny yet delicate and beautiful like a cactus flower. At 15, her baby had been snatched from her in the hospital right after birth. The doctor claimed she tested positive for methamphetamine, and CPS whisked the baby away. She was advised to forget about it, but the wound festered.
Our stars and morals aligned perfectly.
The RV's weathered exterior hid an immaculate interior. The warmth of her body next to mine, slightly offset by the efficient AC unit, spread her floral perfume throughout the dimly lit rear cabin. Her soft, dusky eyes held my attention until we drifted off in each other's embrace.
An earthen vessel buried near Shiprock Peak, a towering 7,000-foot rock formation, contained the bones, hairs, feathers, skins, teeth, claws, leaves, thorns, and seeds of my animal and plant allies, intermingled with parts of myself. Legend spoke of a great and terrible bird that once nested atop Shiprock Peak. This Teratornis, with a wingspan over twenty feet, would pluck sheep, deer, and even people from the ground, smashing them into the cliff face before feasting.
The myth of this bird struck a chord in me, invading my dreams for months. My initiator, who handed me the obsidian knife, told me of her—a sky queen and chieftess of the four winds, rival to Eagle and a cautious friend to Raven. She would be my mother, and in my second life, I would hatch from her egg, a thunderbird's egg. I buried a potent artifact of Curanderismo in Shiprock, irrevocably binding myself to her, the place, and its ghosts.
From this towering pinnacle, I soared over the astral and shadow realms, hunting my quarry under the auspices of a grand feathered predator. Laying beside my companion, I found an ease in shifting between liminal spaces, achieving spiritual flight across various non-physical realms. Gliding over Deming's shadow side, I saw angry earthbound souls and shadow people gathering below me, heralding his arrival. The Pig was coming.
At night, we stalked the streets. I scoped out bars and strip clubs El Cerdo frequented, while she posed as a junkie and sex worker, giving her number out and claiming she was a friend of The Pig's, wanting to know if he was around. On the fifth morning, her phone rang.
The voice on the other end was deep and gravelly, muffled and wet, cutting through phlegm. The speaker rambled incessantly. She looked at me, perplexed. "Ask who it is," I mouthed silently. She nodded, "Piggy, baby, is that you?" she asked sweetly. An awkward silence followed. We waited. "Yeah, it's me. I got a big load I need to dump. You come and fuck me," he slurred. "Sounds good, baby, where you at right now?" she responded, nodding at me. "Uh, I am at the Deluxe, room 19. Get your slut ass over here." His voice grew in strength and clarity. She looked at me and shrugged. I shook my head "no" and mouthed, "Tell him you will call back."
"Ok, babe, I'll call you back soon," she ended the call without waiting for his reply.
We didn't know if it was really El Cerdo or if he was alone. No rash moves. I needed eyes on him. Throughout the morning, she toyed with him over text. She picked a girl from backpage ads in Tucson and catfished him with her face and nudes. We got a dick pic in return, but not what we wanted. An hour of troubling sexting later, he gave up the face pic. It was him. No mistaking it. The face of a nasty, ugly Pig.
But we could have been catfished too. It wouldn’t be the first time I faced betrayal. Someone had made contact, claiming to be El Cerdo, providing evidence. The face pic was him, but when and where it was taken was unknown. The danger was real.
With limited resources, we ran his number. A burner phone from an El Super in Albuquerque. Back to square one. She agreed to meet him at the Deluxe around midnight. El Cerdo assured her it was going to be quite the party. We settled in bed together. Her scent—a blend of tilled soil with a warm breeze over sunflowers—stirred something deep inside me. I closed my eyes and let myself go.
I realized I was dreaming as I rounded a hallway corner to my old childhood home. A ranch-style house with a large fruit orchard, shadowed by the penitentiary. The house was gutted, the roof gone, walls crumbling. I heard screaming—visceral, guttural, the expelling of vomit. Now lucid, I drew my obsidian knife and skulked down a hallway to find the source.
Peeking into a room I didn’t remember, I saw a dark-skinned woman chained to a wall, naked, beaten, sobbing. Smoke wafted from her head. She turned to me, half her face charred like red hot embers. El Cerdo brandished a welding torch, running the flame over her face and breasts. She writhed in agony as he roared with laughter. Time slowed. She locked eyes with me. "Avenging Angel...do your worst, and God will see it as your best," she said.
Time resumed.
A woman now stood beside her, her face a soft glow of golden pink. She placed a hand on the tortured woman's shoulder, and a deep peace washed over her face. Her body went limp. Flames engulfed her. El Cerdo laughed louder. "Time to put this bitch out!" he yelled, exposing himself and urinating on her corpse. The glowing woman ignored him, her gaze fixed on me.
Nearly a year earlier, in Mesilla, NM, I got lost and stumbled into a small shrine tended by an older Mexican woman. She said, "You are here because she brought you here, the Mystic Rose," pointing to a statue of Mother Mary. "She is the rose among the thorns." This woman initiated me into sacred mysteries.
Now, the Mystic Rose watched me amid the horror, testing if I would be the thorn I promised. For what El Cerdo had done, there would be blood. I stepped into the room, meeting El Cerdo's gaze. Seeing my obsidian knife, he ignited his torch. We collided with the force of two heavyweights. Using my left arm as a shield, I plunged my knife into his chest, driving it deeper until he stumbled back. I followed, twisting the blade.
I pulled the knife free, showing the bloodied blade to the Mystic Rose, but she was gone. A pile of rose petals remained. El Cerdo’s body now appeared mannequin-like. I cut him open, finding strange red gelatin instead of blood. Digging into it, I pulled out a hunk of meat where his heart should be—three rotten ribeye steaks bound with barbed wire, zip-ties, and duct tape.
Untangling the barbed wire, I found jagged writing on the steaks and a crumpled paper bag with "for the devil" written in a child's hand. I poured the bag's contents into my hand—a tiny baby bird, barely hatched, injured, and languishing. Intuitively, I knew it was El Cerdo's soul. Out of pity, I placed the bird on the ground and crushed it under my heel. At least the Devil couldn’t collect it; if anyone could fix it, God could. An explosion of scratching sounds began—the tabulation of Heaven weighing my actions.
Overcome with sadness, I awoke crying. My companion watched me, touching her forehead to mine and wiping away the tears. "I need to kill that fucking monster," I whispered. She nodded in agreement
To be Continued...
-Kevin Wikse
Thank you for visiting my page. I am the only medium, remote viewer, and occultist who, with frightening and stunning accuracy, foresaw the COVID-19 pandemic/hoax and its sinister connections to China. Masks, weaponized and experimental vaccines, mandatory compliance, medical tracking on smartphones, the debacle of the 2020 election, the border crisis, the ILLEGAL migrant and CCP invasion, the specter of World War III, and the looming Magnetic Pole Reversal Global Cataclysm—I predicted it all. VAIDS (Vaccine Acquired Immunological Deficiency Syndrome) and even Dr. Fauci himself, all in my sights as early as 2014. Don’t believe it? See the complete, time-stamped, and documented evidence HERE.
Additionally, I accurately predicted BOTH President Trump’s assassination attempt and that Joe Biden would not run again in 2024 for re-election in my “Merry Crisis and a Happy New Fear” 2024 post on 1/1/24.HERE
And that’s not all. My occult and remote influencing work played a pivotal role in the downfall of Jeffrey Epstein, the billionaire pedophile and human trafficker. This too is time-stamped and documented. Witness a true and authentic act of Solomonic conjuration from the Lesser Key, Ars Goetia. HERE.
A Fictionalizer Work of Non-Fiction, American Horror, and High Strangeness.
I first heard about him while I was in Las Cruces. An old Apache knife fighter and Brujo, still honing his edge and blooding his hands in the desert. Based on a rumor, I spent a week trekking up and down the Rio Grande searching for him but learned from his friend in Mesilla I'd missed by a few months. It was in Lordsburg I caught up with him, a short and round man with eight or nine rattlesnake heads circling his hat band.
He flatly denied he was who I was looking for. I wasn't buying it, so I lunged at him after a couple more protests that I should go away. He had a knife as fast as a rattlesnake's strike, the tip pressing firmly into the skin under my chin. I smiled as he rolled his eyes. He'd blown his cover.
That evening, we shared a pack of Pall Malls and a 12-pack of Modelo in the alley behind his house while candles to Jesus Malverde and Saint Jude flickered in the darkening shadows. We told stories about hunting down our common enemy when he stopped abruptly.
"I will call you Gila Monster because you are tenacious and like to fight, but mostly because you are ugly," he said, staring off into the night sky. "I will show you how to walk the path of the Dead Dog, always on the warpath, always hunting. It will be up to you to keep up with the pack."
He took out his knife, and we sealed our pact with blood.
Astralnaut, before you proceed to this protocol, you must have spent at least 21 days developing and integrating with your astral Vimana, as detailed in this post. Once you have completed that essential task, you are instructed to begin this next step in your training.
Vimana Shastra Tantra Sookshm Ka can mean "Aeronautical knowledge of the Astral Realm." To expertly explore the astral, you will need a Vimana or vehicle. Having out-of-body experiences, lucid dreaming, and eliciting astral projection will happen due to this specific training modality.
More than that is "real-time" astral projection, the process of consciously producing out-of-body while still in a waking state to explore (most likely) the lower astral (it is the nearest vibration to the physical realm) and learn about and/or make last-minute edits to what is just about to manifest into reality. In these non-physical realities on the very periphery of the material plane, the astralnaut is most result-producing. However, it must be understood that the astralnaut will eventually face hostile non-physical and semi-non-physical entities in these locations. Encounters with these beings carry REAL consequences with lasting effects.
Do not fret, astralnaut. As your squadron leader, I will ensure you receive top-notch training in astral and, eventually, physical combat. Your formidability shall not be in question.
More on this to follow.
Repeat the steps detailed in the previously mentioned blog post.
With your astral Vimana's elemental building blocks purified and empowered, direct your Vimana to hover 5 to 10 feet above your head. Now a brilliant beam of soft white light descends down upon you, enveloping you and conferring a sense of courage and confidence.
Now begin one of our Tantras secret mantras. This mantra works only for our Tantra lineage. It will only be effective for people who have started the initiatory mantra to Lord Ganesh. There is also a certain subsection of individuals I have personally named in the presence of Lord Shiva, Lord Ganesh, and Lord Hanuman, who are forever barred from entering this lineage. They will be greatly harmed by the use of these mantras. Some of these people are obvious, and others would have to have the exceptional displeasure of making their acquaintance. Either way, you would certainly know if you are one of them.
Tread without fear, astralnaut. You are welcome with open arms!
The mantra is "Om Vimanikaya Om."
Ohm-Vi-Man-Ni-Ka-Ya Ohm
This mantra creates a unique link between you are your personal Vimana and can be thought of as your "key" for its ignition.
As you are bathed in the light projected down on you by your astral Vimana, speak the mantra "Om Vimanikaya Om" at least 36 times, but 108 is best. As you do this, feel yourself gently but continuously lifted up into your Vimana by the very top of your head, the most "yang" point of your body or Bai Hui point. Paradoxically at the same time, your should further relax your physical body. Hence, you feel a sinking feeling accompanying the lifting sensation. We called this, in high-level Daoist mysticism, "the separation of Fire and Water." When this internal alchemy occurs, the spirit and body can separate (although they are never truly separated while the soul is incarnated). When Fire and Water separate soul-travel, real-time projections, star-stepping, etc, can occur.
Eventually (when I cannot say), your consciousness will loosen, and you will enter into your personal Vimana in a real-time out-of-body experience. When that moment happens, life as you know it will change forever. You are not to force this. Surrender to the forces of lifting and sinking without too much expectation. This is a process, an attainment worth the effort. Allowing this to happen in due time lets the correct connections be established. The second time you accomplish this feat, you will find it easier, the experience more profound, and so on.
In the immediate future, you will begin to experience dreams about Vimanas and have a notable increase in lucid dreaming. You will experience involuntary astral projections and spontaneous out-of-body real-time projections.
If you should find yourself on board your Vimana or in a real-time projection during this process, maintain your composure and do your best to continue with the mantra.
There is something to be said about speaking mantras in non-ordinary reality. I was blessed to praise Lord Ganesha with "Om Gam Ganapataye Namo Namah" in his presence during a lucid dream turned astral projection. My world absolutely shifted towards great beneficially near immediately afterward. My world is still re-aligning...
After you have completed your selected number of mantras, let yourself come back into a waking state of ordinary consciousness and go do great things, astralnaut!
I advise extreme caution in approaching the rites contained in the Necronomicon. The book itself is highly dubious (the best Grimoires usually are); however, the potency expressed is unique for a decidedly modern Grimoire. Whatever the source of this, and while I could speculate in great depth, I won't, it is tangible and has lasting effects. You have been warned.
Passing the Gates is a series of initiatory rites within the Necronomicon, a grimoire of highly dubious origins (the best grimoires usually are) supposedly chronicling the ancient Sumeria-Babylon rituals and arcanum. Contrary to widespread misunderstanding, The Necronomicon has little to do with Necromancy or consulting the human dead. Instead, it is a book of dead names. Names of the Elder Gods. Dead to human memory, mostly. Be wise if it were left unspoken. They could stir in their graves and cast attention on the speaker.
I am unconvinced the Necronomicon survived the vast passage of time to be reprinted and sold in the New-Age section of Barnes & Noble. But I concede that Lovecraft and Simon may have channeled a forgotten but authentic sorcery lineage for consumption by the present-day Western occult enthusiast. The tradition outlined in the Necronomicon can rouse the slumbering forces from humanity's past into the here and now.
Passing the Gates is the second of three essential initiation rites. The first is "Star Stepping." The third needs no mention here. The apparent connection between the Necronomicon and Western occultism reveals the Kabbalistic structure for the zona or zones. Each zona's gate conceals the Qliphothic shadow the Tree of Life casts. I can attest to invisible presences detailed in the Necronomicon, belligerently answering my summons and who would not depart without leaving significant psychic turbulence in their wake.
The gate swings both ways. Sometimes the sorcerer astrally projects into their worlds rather than the entity being summoned to the sorcerer's world. This way, the sorcerer gains uncommon familiarity with alien landscapes and exo-cultural knowledge. This helps to facilitate pacts between a sorcerer and the beings they evoke.
Entering into these realms (each manifesting atop the point of seven planetary influences) and interacting with its denizens, the sorcerer plays an often rigged game of risk vs. reward. The further the sorcerer passes the gates, the longer they stay. The deeper the bond between themselves and that particular zona can be formulated. But, this comes at the price of leaving more of themselves behind when they return to waking consciousness, causing fissures in their psyche.
"I have raised armies against the Lands of the East by summoning the hordes of fiends I have made subject unto me, and so doing found the NGAA, the God of the heathens, who breathes flame and roars like a thousand thunders.
-The Necronomicon (the Mad Arab describing deals he made with summoned entities)
Passing the Gates is instrumental for the sorcerer to attain more profound, some say terrifying, knowledge concerning occult practices, spiritus-loci, or entities associated with the zona itself. Among the perilous interdimensional landscapes sit lost temples to dead and forgotten gods. Obscure arcane libraries containing secrets that cannot be fully transmitted via conjuration. Secrets of this caliber may only be learned through direct pilgrimage, besting its guardians, and pilfering their treasures.
"For this is the Book of the Dead, the Book of the Black Earth, that I have writ down at the peril of my life, exactly as I received it, on the planes of the IGIGI, the cruel celestial spirits from beyond the Wanderers of the Wastes."
-The Necronomicon (the Mad Arab describes his journey past the gate and his tutelage under arguably malevolent spirits to receive and scribe the Necronomicon).
Like all trips, these sojourns have an inherent cost. The sorcerer's resolve is heavily taxed, and their sanity is leveraged. There is no guarantee the sorcerer will return intact, if at all. There is every assurance the sorcerer will leave behind pieces of themselves with each Passing of the Gate until nothing is left. Now morally bankrupt, their soul is extracted as the ultimate price. Methods of soul retrieval are paramount.
The path laid out by the Necronomicon is crooked at best and widest, the width of a razor's edge. Treading this path, one quickly discovers what they are made of. The weak are corrupted and ruined, while the strong find infinite ways to get stronger. The Necronomicon serves as a dire warning. Knowledge and initiation always come only at a cost. Not all gates should be opened, and not all paths wandered down. As cautious as I am in Passing the Gates, I am smart enough to know that I am only so smart. The deeper I venture, the lighter my steps become.
I received an email from someone claiming to be a successful remote viewer. Did they predict or warn about anything I have for the past decade? Apparently not, because, according to them, "Remote Viewing doesn't work that way," So, in other words, the Remote Viewing they practice doesn't work, and if their Remote Viewing doesn't work, then what is the point? There is no point, and that is why the US Army shut that program down and went with something that produced results.
"What is it you do?"
My reply:
"We expose villainy through Remote Viewing and oppose it through Remote Influencing."
People who say it can't be done should keep out of the way of those doing it.
Kevin Wikse is the lead operative of the REDACTED. He oversees and directs the REDACTED operational activities, including which strategies and tactics it will employ. Kevin Wikse began his career as a psychic and medium early in childhood, pressed into a secret program called Project CHERUBIM while still in elementary school. Kevin Wikse is what in the UFO community is called an experiencer and a generational abductee.
Kevin Wikse is among the most accomplished Remote Viewers and Remote Influencers worldwide. He is globally recognized for his understanding of Metaphysics, and his accomplishments and accuracy place him in the regular employ of government officials, private researchers, and captains of industry. Kevin Wikse's longstanding predictions for the 2020 Global Pandemic, vaccines, lock-down-specific technology and protocols, and civil unrest are well documented.
No other psychic or remote viewer in the world predicted this event, and certainly not with the level of stunning accuracy and willingness to be public with their predictions as Kevin Wikse.
Perhaps the less said about Kevin Wikse's spectral influence behind the demise of billionaire child sex trafficker Jeffery Epstein, the better, but that, too, is publicly documented.
Kevin Wikse is also on record as the first Remote Viewer in 2017 to call the Oumuamua Asteroid, what is it, a fully automated interplanetary scout to collect and transmit recorded information about our planet from ancient monitoring satellites, including the infamous Black Knight Satellite. Kevin Wikse accurately "saw" the ignition of gigantic engines or machines (black pyramids, too), radio bursts, and other energy projections happening under and coming up from the ice in Antarctica. NASA confirmed what Kevin Wikse saw in press releases a few weeks later.
Kevin Wikse has been publicly sounding the alarm concerning the upcoming Pole Shift global cataclysm for over a decade. He continues to routinely accurately predict geo-political circumstances involving various quasi-governmental organizations which are not in humanity's best interest.
Kevin Wikse maintains psychic defense and astral protection for numerous high-profile individuals. He does this using an exceptionally powerful Egregore (an astral entity) he inherited from his spiritual mentor, who inherited it from his spiritual mentor. Kevin Wikse is commonly recruited into psychic warfare campaigns, successfully thwarting attempts at psychic espionage, preventing remote influencing, and bulwarking against the interference of interdimensional non-human intelligence.
As a remote healer, the influence possessed by Kevin Wikse has resulted in smoother procedures, significantly less anxiety, and accelerated healing times.
OnFriday, September 21, 2018,GULAND, demonic intelligence (he that causeth and cureth all diseases) of the Grimorium Verum, channeled through me during my mediumship session with him what is now known globally as the "Fell Wind Prophecy." No other psychic, medium, or channeler and I mean no other, came anywhere near my accuracy. You really should concern yourself with what I am being told about the very near future.
I evoked the Demonic force of GULAND to the astral plane and consulted him through my crystal ball.
Fuck all the pretenders. Their work is complete trash, and they literally are going to get you killed.
-Kevin Wikse
The Fell Wind Prophecy
"On my words is carried a viral message. Sweeping across the sphere, roaring over the water and screaming in the winds with unnatural speed, given swiftness by artificial propulsion (1). The black air, already with death as a passenger, once concealed and contained in the fetid lungs of the inoculated black skinned, oh they ached and writhed. Buried in mass graves, to ferment and fester. An old and efficient death, who when last spoke her message, half of the white skinned feel to their knees, and in sobs to a sacrificed lamb died in confusion and lament. Gnawed on by rats, who where being gnawed on by death's champion. The black winged fouler takes to the air again. Across the ocean she will fly, mouthing in silence the names of the millions who she will claim (2), who will die screaming her name through phlegm, and snot, and gurgle (3). From the land of the yellow skinned (4) will she depart. Long in the works and by design. She has now a prefect vessel built for her nocturnal ride. Those who suppose themselves to speak on air and through lighting. The rotten and poisoned Apple (5), polished by the dragon and sold back to the eagle...who took a bite (6).
The fell wind comes, over the waves, held, suspended in the air by buoyant particulates (7), a dread ship set sail on the clouds. The weather will be made perfect for her voyage, by voltage and magnetic fields. Her landing has already been prepared. Injected with medicine from the land of the yellow skinned at birth till now, the stage a theater of encoded bio-chemistry, set to receive her venom with thunderous applause (8). Virulent upon virulent. The eyes, and ears of the dragon in near every hand and pocket, near the mouth and the nose, and the ear of the eagle's people. From these little talking boxes will come highly sophisticated instructions carried by vibration and emitted frequency (9). The dragon, the sickness and the carrier will all speak. The message constant, the meaning: mutate. Close to the body the illness will hear the dire whispering of the dragon (10).
The sick will tell on themselves. Report on themselves. Post pictures, make fliers and plaster them on a profile they share with the others who wane (11). The dragon will calculate when to openly strike. First by subduing the right talon as the eagle's left is currently ripping at itself. Second by grasping the virtual throat and silencing the electronic voice, then by boots on the land of the eagle, trampling over the sick, the sick who helped fund their own invasion. (12) They have sold you out, the factions of the land of the eagle who have eaten your children, drank their blood and placed them on altars. They seek the embrace of the dragon because they fear the claws of the eagle. The dragon will publicly devour them, like Rome paraded the kings and queens of conquered peoples in cages (13). These traitors see that the Anglo-Saxon conspiracy has failed, and the protocols of Zion as good as the word of a Zionist. They know their sickness has been uncovered, the blue wave they spoke incantations for has become a red wave which promises to drown them all (14).
Look the west for it dawns as the sunsets. You will hear the cough as the time of casting lots begins, the rattle in the lungs, the clearing of throats will increase. The dragon will come only when the eagle lays gasping." (15).
A list of exceedingly reasonable estimations is followed based on what happened and educated guesses for the future.
A virus or viral contagion. It could be deployed by drones using skin-piecing nanotechnology.
The message is that many, many will die from this virus.
A respiratory disease, trouble breathing, and mass deaths caused by forced ventilators.
A clear indication of China's involvement.
Under Cuomo, the mass murder of people in elderly homes and hospitals in New York.
This a sign that Anthony Fauci sold his research to the Wuhan Lab in China, which sold it back to him.
A mention of early COVID-19s ability to live on surfaces and hang in the air. What gave rise to the cleaner, bleach, and mask idiocy.
The vaccine. The media rollout and the public near unquestioning acceptance.
GULAND is speaking about how systemic China's spyware was discovered to be embedded into our electronics. ZOOM, which was almost universally used for all school, work, and even government meetings, is owned by CHINA. TIK-TOK also saw a meteoric rise in popularity during LockDown, also owned by China.
The 5G rollout. 5G does have a profound effect on the human cellular structure. GULAND says that the nanotech within the m/RNA gene therapy or vaccines is being directed and updated by the 5G.
The vaccinated's targeting of the unvaccinated and called for forced quarantine camps. The phone app reported who you were next to, interacted with, or even passed by. The proposed vaccine passport. The contract tracers were going door to door, incentivizing reporting on your neighbors and collecting information on who lived where and if they were vaccinated or not.
China quietly declared another 30-year war on America. Their spies, spy devices, and Fentanyl were already deployed, waging war against us and killing American citizens. They wait for the perfect moment to go from a cold war to a hot war, with an invasion of America.
The media's endless war against President Donald Trump and conservative values.
The many factions of neo-liberalism have now begun to turn on themselves. The Left eats its own. Their Marxist, pro-abortion (a form of (depopulation), pro-pedophile, and morally bankrupting youth-based agenda has exposed itself. The rise of traditional American values will be the result.
ANOTHER respiratory pandemic will be required to finish America off. Ebola-like or maybe a Marburg virus.
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