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.
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.
The summer solstice nears, and for the astralnaut, or vimana pilot, their thoughts, now in a purified air space, will naturally incline themselves toward Lord Agni, the element of fire, and the red triangle Tattwa, for which RAM is the sacred vibration hidden inside. Within the Pancha Tattwa, Agni, or fire, is the chief cleansing agent of the five great elemental alchemical components.
Without robust and clean fire energy, the pollution and contamination of the entire Pancha Tattwa are guaranteed. Agni is responsible for how clean burning your internal combustion is. Your inner fire "digestion" devours as much of the organic fuel you put inside your body, rendering it into concentrated bodily waste to be expelled or exhausted through various states of matter or mixtures of states of matter, solid (excrement), liquid (sweat, urine, and discharge) and gas (exhales, and flatulence), purifying the blood and allowing better thinking and cognitive abilities. The more powerful your personal Agni, the more efficient this natural purification process will be. Thereby cleansing the other four material Tattwas or elemental building structures.
Agni exists with the three worlds (material, subtle and casual) and the nearly innumerable variations of loci or locations which reside with those three words. How Angi performs his duties in the material body (in the example stated above), Agni performs similar duties within your other two bodies (subtle and casual). Within the subtle body, your personal Agni is an internal astral bodyguard. Angi is called "He with a thousand eyes and a thousand spears." Agni is your warrior spirit and your will to fight and overcome. Agni is an offensive and defensive component of your aura, seeing (a thousand eyes) in all directions and aggressively holding the line (a thousand spears) against anyone or anything that comes against you.
The majority have weak, sluggish Agni. Smothered under a mountain of processed food, scattered by unfocused thoughts, and wasted on petty, fruitless desires. As such, their thinking is confused, and their actions are erratic. Their material bodies are poisoned by undigested, decaying, and rotting food. Their auras are dim, and they lack astral defenses. They are exceedingly likely to be puppeted and steered by parasitic non-physical intelligence, many alien and hostile. These people are dangerous. They are confused, stupid, lazy, and selfish. Be compassionate to them, live a life that inspires them to improve, but always be wary of them.
The development and purification of personal Agni burn away impurities that feed and help anchor non-physical entities (this type tends to be overwhelmingly evil) in your energy matrix. It burns away blockages and hindrances which stifle your vital energy and brings clarity to thought, action, and deed. The better, smoother you circulate your energy, the higher your vitality will be. Your capability to focus your will and achieve and accomplish will significantly increase. Your aura will become like an army of spartan warriors.
Specific to the astralnaut, the hotter and cleaner your personal Agni, the faster your divine vehicle will fly and the longer and further it can travel. The vimana will contain increased martial capabilities, ensuring the efficaciousness of your work and intent.
Morning to burn away obstacles between you and success, reduce any astral parasite or other non-physical intelligence picked up or accumulated while dreaming (hitchhikers) to ash, and ignite your external and internal digestive fire and combustion mechanisms.
Before bed, burn away petty concerns and prepare and energize the vimana for Dreamtime operations and for any unscheduled or opportunistic chances at lucid dreaming and or astral projection.
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