Spanking Prince Harry

Dead Planet LXXXVII

Spanking Prince Harry

I know it sounds perverted—and oh so sick But sometimes Prince Harry would let me—spank “Sarah Jane.”

After all the Prince’s nice fine ass—needed lots of royal attention. Simply oodles & gobs of it, my dears. Shameless British royal princes were into it—the Fine Art of S&M spanking, black leather nights & decadent druggy lost weekends.

In fact, we spanked each other—all the time actually. I’d bend him over my knees on the mock Throne in the apartment. One nice big hard slap on his fine little tight ass—causing titillating tidal waves up and down Atlantic & Pacific oceans, creating thrilling tsunamis washing up on all the vast shores of the British Empire.

Harry & I really got into it. We’d go all the way, José —into it from London to Mozambique. Harry’s nice fine hot Princely ass so pouty & blushing red. Almost as red—as his bright orange-red electric pubes glowing in the dark!!! My tongue got up there too—deep into his naughty tight Heart of Darkness.

What can I say? I confess it all—I got rudely abducted one weekend by a young racy Prince in a stylish Rolls-Royce. It happened one dark & stormy night. I met him in a local club—a dirty punk dive called The Tower of London. A kinky S/M venue—plus lots of young bored Parliament queens.

The travesty of profaning a royal British Prince—the obscene spilling of all that innocent youthful English Testosterone? Hardly, my dear. Get real. William & Harry are hardly innocent—that whole Clarence House crowd is a bunch of Lizards.

The shameless long drawn-out so-called Sacrileges of Love—get real. That went out the window simply centuries ago. Tricking with Romanov princes & queens, well, it’s more SSDD—Same Sex Different Dynasties. Yawn. Although I’ll agree—a Prince a day keeps Miss Freudenschade away…

How many times—did I get rudely abused, sneakily shanghaied & abducted, thank god? By Harry the Prince? I shan’t go into risqué details too much—other than to say that the Clarence House apartment was rather crowded with Harry & the newlyweds.

Prince “Charming” William and lovely Kate were waiting for their aging, decrepit Kensington Palace apartment to be remodeled—the old dump was full of asbestos & bad wiring. It’s a lovely threesome actually—the threesome get along simply famously. Even tho Harry’s bachelor lifestyle--sometimes gets rather kinky with me hanging around.

Innocence is something—I don’t possess. Living with Harry was more like— “Mars Needs Young Cute Redhead Studs”!!! Reptiles like me don’t walk—we slither like Snakes. Wrapping our lips around guyz—strangling our victims, draining them dry.

Lizards are all around the joint—they’re cold-blooded, no-nonsense, creepy creatures. How to recognize one? It takes one—to know one. Lizards, snakes, Reptoids—what else is new? The planet has always been ours—that’s no Jurassic jive either.

Harry wore a black silk kimono—I got him from the Tokyo Red Light District. It had puce fuchsias & pink dragon-flamingos. Harry was rather sophisticated—for an inbred spoiled aristocratic cocky pretender to the throne. After Kate moved in—William insisted that Harry not keep stumbling nude around the apartment after orgies the night before..

William, Kate, Harry—the three of them got along brilliantly—even though on one risque occasion Kate opened the door to Harry’s bedroom and found his close friend, Astrid Harbord, passed out nude in Harry’s bed after a particularly raucous night out.

Ah wonderfull Royal Youth!!! So charming & unsophisticated. Of course, it’s hard for me to remember very much about it—I had a rather debilitating hangover most of the time. I preferred keeping Harry home at night—away from the cruisy clubs & black leather bars. He should’ve owned stock—in the Trojan Rubber Company.

So we’d watch “oldie but goodies” movies at night—funky flicks like Nosferatu and Dracula. Silent ones—with our earphones on. Listening to our own music—Lady Gaga for him. Liberace for me.

We lived in our own separate worlds—sharing only one thing, really. And that was our somewhat mutual lusting flesh. That way Harry didn’t have to hear me bitch all the time—nor did I get bored with his primitive Uncle Philip the Virus animal grunts & groans.

We’d pantomime our filmic existence—when we’d get bored with things. He’d smirk like rubber-lipped, heroin addict Bela Lugosi—I’d guess the film right away. Whether Bride of the Monster or Plan Nine From Outer Space. I’d bare my fangs like a vampire fag—he’d guess bloodsucking Dracula’s Daughter each time.

“Don’t you ever get sick of it—playing tacky Marya Zaleska all the time?” Harry would say, dishing me. “I’m simply getting tired of that same old famished Hungarian Countess queen. Dream up another faggy avatar, sweetheart.”

We’d do bug-eyed outer space opera creeps—like The Thing. Or mad insectoid monsters—like Them or Tarantula. Or giant rabid starved rodents—like Attack of the Giant Shrews. Or ancient Jurassic lizards—and various boring Creatures from fetid Black Lagoons. They were all born losers—including us in bed.

“The horror! The horror!”—sayz Joseph Conrad in his tacky, depressing The Heart of Darkness. The Congo River was a long drawn-out Snake nightmare to him—but, well, it appealed somewhat to my rather phallocentric Reptilian urges. The only interesting thing about most human males on this stupid lonely planet—was the Snake each one had between their spastic legs.

Gimme Nights of the Iguana please—Latino boyz are quite enchanting. Ava Gardner thinks so—and so does poor hysteric Richard Burton. What a raving queen—tied-up in his hammock there in the jungle like a straitjacket talking head blithering away.

Yes, the Congo fascinated Marlow—drove Kurtz toward the edge. But for me, well—The Heart of Darkness was my own Tower of London. Locked away in Clarence House—with all those blueblood snakes & Reptoids. I became Prince Harry’s Royal Snake Charmer. Yes, I knew when to blow—when to play the flute. When to know—and not know.

Who could hypnotize me—better than Bomba? Better than Johnny Sheffield in a leopard-skin loincloth? And all the other young male Hollywood stars & uncredited cute extras? That’s no secret—I was easy & I could be had. We’d get stoned in Clarence House—the whole joint simply packed with Snakes, Lizards, Reptilians & Decadent Blue Bloods.

Royal Scandals & Shockers

Dead Planet LXXXVI


Royal Murder-Madness-Lies-Cheating & More!!!

A new collectors issue of Royal Scandals and Shockers has just come out in Japan!!!

On the cover it says:


Inside the Scandalous Royal Shockers:





And even a snarky article on Princess Grace!!!

Plus some Gossip on the Grimaldi Family!!!

There is soooo much material here we will be…
Kept busy for months gossiping about it all..........

Where shall WE begin with so much to chew over?

Operation "Royal Thistle"

Dead Planet LXXXV

Operation "Royal Thistle"

"Make Prince Harry Our King,
Say Canadian Monarchists"

Naturally, I was somewhat shocked by the Yakuza Mob Game Plan so quickly beginning to take on a realistic form there on the Event Horizon.

I barely had time to get my new tuxedo fitted—and my royal wardrobe quickly gathered together for my nefarious quantum jump to Jolly England to meet surreptitiously with the Evil Queen, the BP exec & the greedy Babylon Banksters…

But then all of a sudden—as if to thwart the Yakuza plans for Prince Harry’s ascendancy as Queen Bee to the Royal Throne—there in the headlines was the unexpected brouhaha surrounding the visit of Harry’s brother, Prince William, the heir apparent, the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge hogging the headlines!!!

Suddenly the Yakuza bosses decided to postpone my Top Secret quantum time-jump into the future—too much was going on now in Canada, that notorious hotbed of radical monarchists & mad Frenchmen moiling about there in Quebec just looking for trouble...

I sat there in the underground Mob bunker—perusing The Telegraph’s scandal-sheet frontpage story from London. Apparently others beside the Yakuza gangsters wanted that handsome red-head Prince Harry to ascend to the Throne!!! Timing was everything—I breathed a sigh of relief, sipping my martini… Thank god…I was granted a much deserved reprieve!!!

The Telegraph 6/28/2011

“Having a head of state who only visits the country every two or three years plays right into the hands of republicans, after all.

But as they prepare for the arrival of the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge later this week, royalists in Canada have come up with a novel solution to the age-old problem: install Prince Harry as their king.

They want the Prince, who is third in line to the throne, to set up home in the capital, Ottawa, to give the Royal family a permanent presence and to silence those who believe the country should have an elected head of state.

Etienne Boisvert, the Quebec provincial spokesman for the Monarchist League of Canada, pointed out that the Royal family was “an institution that knows how to reinvent itself” and believes now may be the right time for a radical change.

“Prince Harry, who has virtually no chance of becoming king, could set himself up here and found a Canadian branch of the Royal family,” he said. “Or the future king could rotate – six months in Canada, six in Australia, six in London.”

Mr Boisvert, as a French-speaking Quebecois, is the exception rather than the rule in a province where most francophones are indifferent to the Royal family and many are openly hostile.”

Fukushima "Kiss Me, Deadly"

Dead Planet LXXXIV

Fukushima—Kiss Me, Deadly

I fixed another drink—and waited for him to wake up. These new Yakuza thug-droids were slow to kick-in—but it was meant to happen that way. He wasn’t human that’s for sure—I didn’t know what to expect from these new replicant boyz.

I’d heard some rumors in the strip-joint dives & local droid bars in the Kabukichō (歌舞伎町) District—that some of the new Snake punks were mean & ended-up offing their clientele. It wasn’t all paid Kabuki roughtrade thrills & chills anymore—but then there weren’t any cops around anymore to check up on these things. Like with everything—with freedom comes danger. Isn't that what us humans are good at? Testing the limits?

I had plenty of time to check-out the new kid—he was just outta the vats & I could still smell the baby-powder they used to cover-up the funky formaldehyde stink. He was breathing hard—trying to get used to the crummy polluted Tokyo air. The air conditioner came on & off—brown-outs & stoppages were normal these dayz. I sat in bed contemplating him—would he be a cute devil or a hustler angel? Did it make any difference anymore?


I could tell he was having nightmares—and then the gauche wetdreams began. The Snake-Trix© gigolo boyz told me all about it—it took time for the young male hormones to kick in & new droid blood to recirculate normally thru the kid’s virgin veins & arteries. It was a trip—watching him trying to push Eternity slowly back inch by inch. Making room for himself—with his sleek sidestepping unconscious disco movements. The kid had style even when doing the Lazurus Thing...

Like he was like dancing with Death—doing a strange Kabuki Tango to come back to life again just for me. He was tres helpless & vulnerable—so gangly & awkward sometimes. It made me wanna crawl in real close next to him—and just hold him tight to kinda reassure him. Yeah, I was still bemoaning the loss of my former loverboy K-Y—but really not very much tho… It was time for a change...and I didn't have much time anyway...

I spent all night wrestling between the damp sheets with him—the vibrator-heated water-bed the Yakuzza-Mafia had given me doing its soothing thing. Kissing his pouty lymphlips—his erect nipples, the butchy Japanese tattoos coming out all over him. All of it genetically a kimono-timebomb.

I ended up smothering him with loving kisses & sweet nothings in his ear. The usual routines to ease his way into my Nightmare World. It wasn’t pretty outside my rundown condo—Tokyo once so cosmo & busy now was just a sad Third World ghost-mall dump.

Poor kid—even his penis wasn’t his. It was K-Y’s legacy of cyborg-shame & android self-loathing. It still haunted me. Would he get a telepathic high having sex with me—would he get a sense of deja-vu nostalgia with that troublesome organ of his from a previous thug-master? When we'd make love & lose it—would he get an evil flashback of who he was & where he'd come from?

Jeeze, I hope not—for my own sake. At least I didn’t off K-Y completely—like some mafia hit. At least keeping his penis still alive. Yeah, I was chicken-shit of me. But knowing how nefarious the Kabukichō Killers were, I imagined they’d probably already would've recycled him—for their own much-feared, nefarious Assassin Hit Squad purposes. Plenty of rogue droids were roaming around Tokyo—settling old scores for their Yakuza bosses. Was I on the hit list...I'd probably find out.

Crummy politicians & former vice-squad detectives. They'd fled town & got outta Tokyo fast—those that stayed were eventually adroitly suicided. It wasn’t all suicides tho—the offing of many so-called rotten no-good Tokyo TPTB creeps & middlemen. It was just business tho. No big deal.

Some of them had headed for Singapore—they knew when the game was up. The bankers, politicians on the take, the TEMCO execs. I suppose K-Y was heading in that direction—working his way up in the Yakuza Mob hitman ladder & power hierarchy. The last I heard he was driving a limo for some mob heavy—one of the Underground Mafia bigshots. I shrugged—it was too bad but I still loved him anyway...... Kinda, sorta, I guess.

These new Fukushima droids tho—they'd been grown down deep in new mob subterranean vats beneath Tokyo & programmed differently than the usual simpering "Desperate Housewife" gigolo models. They were reverse-engineered with god knows what—whatever the Yakuza stole from the downtown intelligence files & Japanese DARPA weaponized secret labs. Japan had a long history of assassin bad as the West.

Why they got me this new loverboy droid so goddamn fast—that in itself was sort of a mystery to me. They knew all about me—a former NYTimes reporter gone bad. Sometimes I thought they were testing me—K-Y as a killer-thug droid-keptboy learning the NYC ropes with me. I wasn't much of a metro sugar-daddy tho.

I was just your typical run-of-the-mill has-been ex-literati type...with a hangover & a cracked bathroom mirror I couldn't stand to look at anymore. I was just another Raymond Chandler-Mickey Spillane wiseass know-it-all private dick ...all dressed up & nobody to blow...

I'd been a total failure at being an e-journalist—I got more than jaded on the job. I fell in love with Tokyo & Japanese culture. I got sick of serving the Western media bosses & their hidden agendas. Backing up the usual scams, Beltway whores & media bubbleheads. Now all I did was hang around what was left of downtown Tokyo. I had a reputation around the Red Light District for being easy. The young hustlers liked me. They tolerated me...

I don't know, I didn't really care anymore. Those that did care got outta town or offed themselves to save face. I didn't have any face to save tho...shame & self-loathing I'd left behind several lifetimes ago. In one of the lowlife bars in the Red Light District... What was this latest hidden agenda that the yakuzza-mafia mob had with me lately? What nefarious plans were in the works...for a washed-up hack reporter like me?

Were they grooming me for some kind of next-generation Yakuza assassin kid—to see if I could survive living with another one? Well, I didn't care anymore. I got this phonecall about what a no-good slut that hustler K-Y was...and if I'd be interested in a nice change of venue? I said sure & hung up....

Then Snake-Trix shows up with this new kid outta thin air—they even did a penis-transplant on K-Y just for me. How generous of them. What could I do—other than just kinda try & flow with it? They knew I loved roughtrade types—thugs still made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I was that jaded by then...only violence & pain got me off anymore. Who was the real slut...the kid or the Red Light District SM queen like me? Huh?

Well, I kept getting these weird neo-noir old time American Gangster Thug vibes—cinematic flashbacks outta the past with those not so classy Raymond Chandler Fifties flicks back then like “The Big Sleep.” Or better yet—getting off on some skanky no-nonsense old Mickey Spillane “Kiss Me, Deadly” butchy detective flicks. Pulp fiction SM action. A funky kind of updated Yakuza-version tho—a Tokyo/Hollywood cynical shoot-em-up violent film noir gangster mind-fuck like Beat Takeshi Kitano's "Brother." Yeah, they had my number—and my number was up…


This new thug-kid though—well, he looked so goddamn innocent, virgin & unexperienced. On the outside anyway. Not enough time for a voight-kampff test like Deckard was good at, no time for any Blade Runner fun & games. No time for any Tyrell Nexus droid sexbot romance...or the usual SF Hollywood scams. This was post-Fukushima endtimes asshole-apocalypse Tokyo I'm talkin' about...without the fancy American cineplexes & now New Depression ghost-malls everywhere plus usual rundown ruins & Third World status.

I almost felt queerly, maybe even nostalgically guilty, about getting him off—or manhandling him the way I wanted to when he’d wake up. Even with K-Y’s cock to comfort & console me—I still felt fucking ashamed for some reason, lying there naked next to the kid in bed. Like he was either some kind of young innocent cute Adonis or some Chicken of the Sea Big Tuna never-before-ravished before.

A young nude Adam straight outta the Garden of Evil—before the nasty slutty Fall into my arms. He'd probably end up some raunchy Devil Boy from Mars tho...or some sneaky whorish Killer Teenager from Outer Space you know what I mean?

But WTF, the kid was just a Reptoid replicant that's all. They were dime a dozen now with the tanks down below & the skanky stemcell research out in the open & outta the greedy clutches of the aging TPTB. Now this kid outta the blue had my former lover's huge evil Serpentine endowment—professionally grafted, glued & transplanted down there between his long lanky legs.

Surely he was just another gigolo droid—for queer Desperate Housewives like me. Why get all guilty & bent outta shape over it—anaconda or python-genetically-modified spluge was still spluge regardless of whatever Reptoid Planet you lived on. I wasn't bashful or self-conscious...some of my best friends were snake-reptoids from Mars & the Moon. I was ready for Attack of the Giant Leeches ever since my Bijou balcony dayz back in LA...The Blob wasn't anything new to me, honey...

And besides, I didn’t have much time left anyway.

So when the new kid's slanted snake-eyes suddenly flicked open—I offered him some sake or maybe an Old Fashioned. A toke perhaps or a happy pill maybe? But he just started snarling at me a mean old junk-yard watchdog ready to bite my face off. So, well, that’s when I thought the game was up. It was just a set-up to get rid of me...I was just another crummy Anglo-American leech sucking the lifeblood outta Japan.

Surely I was meant to be his first victim—a stupid American guinea pig for his first gruesome android assassination? I tried to get outta bed as quickly as I could even tho I was drunk—and then I'd run for my fucking no-good life. But then the kid grabbed me & started pawing me—saying “Oh man, do I need to really like get off now after going thru what I been thru!!! You won't believe where I've been, man......”

I looked at him. It was amazing. K-Y’s snake was still alive & well. It had slithered back into this new skanky existence—just like I thought it probably would. Snakes don't die that easy...the reptilian brain isn't a loser. It's been around since the Jurassic...maybe even longer. Like from outter space, the moon, Mars after the asteroid Cosmic Wars?

But whatever, I told myself it was sure gonna be bumpy ride anyway—probably just another crummy rerun of the same old usual adolescent, selfish, narcissistic, self-fellatio jive & jizzy hustler action. Snake boys were in love with themselves...but what else was fucking new?

The whole male Naked Ape species was in love with itself right..yawn, I suppose it had a certain charm when it was young & chicken. But later on it got to be kinda old & saggy like Thanksgiving turkey giblets & grizzled gizzards, all hangy-down, wrinkly & ugly-looking... Oh well, Bad Seed I suppose—it was better than nothing, I guess. That’s what I asked for, baby—and that’s what I got…...... I had to live with it, that's all.

Yes, I couldn’t help myself—tracing his svelte curves & exquisite new Venus torso with my needy, greedy, hesitant tongue-tip. His damp armpits & snotty runny nose—I was in a definite snake-charmer mood. The smell of his naked ape animality overwhelmed me again & again—getting my twisty corkscrew tongue up into every forbidden nook & crevice & rectal hotspot the kid had. Lots of obscene orifices... Talk about dingy deja-vu denoument and the devil's devilsh detours...

When he French-kissed me the first time—it was truly like Mickey Spillane's skanky “Kiss Me, Deadly.” I knew without the shadow of a doubt, he was a young Kabuki Killer that's for sure then—and that the Mob had sent him to finally rub me out. He got me by my puce flamingo kimono sash tight around my neck—and strangled me half to death. It was just business for him—he didn’t even look at my face. He just kept smoking his Japanese cigarette smoke at the ceiling—not looking into my disbelieving glazed eyes. _____________________________

The next thing I knew—I woke up way down deep in the secret Tokyo underground in some top secret Yakuza bunker-headquarters of the new Kabukichō Mob. The young punk teenage Mobster Gangleaders—they were all standing around me , smirking, telling dirty jokes, laughing it up. dishing stupid American queer asshole types like me. It was a mean bunch & they meant business. I was doomed, but so what?

I was strapped down in a sleek chrome leatherette executive chair—still in my bedraggled puce & pink flamingo kimono with the yellow sash still dangling around my stupid neck. My thug keptboy was smoking an expensive Cuban cigar this time toward the back—proud of his first successful Mafia assignment. What a sucker I'd been. But then what else was new? What did they want with me anyway? Why was I still alive?

Apparently the Yakuzza Elite had plans for me—there was some kind of Reverse Operation Dandelion in the works. They seemed to have all read & actually believed in The Man in the High Castle...some pulp fiction two-bit novel by a has-been speed freak hack Berkeley writer named Philip K. Dick. Your typical hippie paranoid SF alt.history jive routine...ranting about what if the Japanese & Nazis won WWII.

And, of course, they did I suppose...but nobody was supposed to know that. Except Evita Peron & the Generalisimo down in Argentina & the bought-off Babylon Bankers in postwar Germany & New York City. Supposedly this NWO Nazi Elite had been exposed by this minor fiction writer & PDK had come out with a paperback Ace SF double-novel...about the whole sordid doppelganger affair. The Grasshopper Is Heavy as a kind of I Ching soap-opera come true with each coin-toss consultation...and Operation Dandelion as a Cold War attack on Japan by its former Nazi allies had been revealed.

Quite a SF fantasy really...but stranger things have happened tho. Most people don't realize or won't believe it but like...I had DARPA connections from my boyhood dayz back in New Mexico during the '60s & '70s. Rumsfeld & his Beltway gang—they'd got into the time-travel business. They used black budget tech to teleport young guyz back into the Yakuzza mob had their hands on the stuff. And they wanted to pull off the same thing...

They weren't into the POTUS racket like Rumsfeld...or playing the God Routine with history like the Beltway Mafia. Not too much anyway...but yeah, they were into it too. Seeing into the future...playing exopolitical games with it. This new underground Yakuzza gang had their own hidden agenda now...and it wasn't pretty.

They needed somebody like me...I'd been there & done it. My next quantum jump had already been mapped & planned out—they had this Rube Goldberg black market hologram-time-machine all ready to go. I looked at the cheap wreck they planned to use...and just shook my head. It wasn't gonna fly...but then who cared if I ever came back anyway. I was doomed in post-Fukushima Tokyo...I might as well be doomed in the goddamn Future too.

“This is gonna be your Mission Impossible, whiteman..." they said. "As if you had any choice to say "No" anyway. You don’t get to come back, bub—you'll be persona non grata that's for sure. You better succeed in our little nefarious time-travel scenario...if you know what's good for you. Got it, kimosabe?"

I asked for a drink...make it a double, I said. I'd been propositioned before by worse guyz than these...but one can't say no to the Yakuzza mob any more than one could say boo to Rumsfeld's gradioise child idiot game-plans from hell. You don't wanna know how stupid things get...Back in the Future. When Repug born-again dummies... start seriously playing God.

So anyway, to make a long skanky soap opera story brief...the Yakuzza intelligentsia had this Plan to get even for Operation Dandelion. They called it Operation Royal Thistle. Time lines shift & PDK had it down pretty good...he got a Hugo Award for The Man in the High Castle. But these new Japanese sequels, well...they sounded kinda squirrely & Machiavellian to me.

But then who needs aliens, UFO's or weird Exopolitical treaties...with Greys or Reptoids or whoever out there? Out there in Outer Space...or on the dark side of the Moon or the weird Face or strange Pyramids of Mars? When the real Aliens & Reptoids...are really us Naked Ape Earth thugs, baby. We be the real evil Voodoo Snakes...that's for sure.

After all, they don't call the Earth...The "Prison Planet" for nothing, dontchaknow. We be the real Bad Seed Species...the real "Born to Die" Bikers from the Dark Side of the Moon. It's Intergalactic "Bad Biology" Bingo,'s "Brain Damage" Fun & Games time, fools. Dig it...funky Naked Monkey Moonshines & Snaky Space-Snake Soap Operas dead ahead....

Anyway, the Head Yakuzza Tokyo Boss comes into the conference room...and sits down beside me. He's fucking around. They all shut-up for The Man...waiting for him to give the Orders. Yeah, they're outta-this-world Marvel Comix Books orders too...but what more could I expect from this Manga Mob?

"We’re gonna teleport you back to NWO Central in London," the Boss said. "We’re gonna Play God like the Illuminati Ilk & change a few British Royal Family protocol affairs. You're gonna go back in time & help us make young Prince Harry the next Queen of England, got it whiteman?"

I nodded...knowing when to be a no-nonsense Yes-man.

"This next British Empire's gonna be Prince Harry, got it? so instead of their Machiavellian long-planned-out Game Plan with their supposed Heir Apparent Darling Prince William...their new Snake bloodline Lord & Master of the Universe is gonna be the Red-Haired Bastard. You’re gonna be Prince Harry's Right-Hand Man so to speak—if you know what I mean & I know you do."

The Yakuzza Mafia Lord & Master...smirked knowingly at me. So did K-Y my Thug Killer Lover... lurking & skulking back in the wings. He'd come with me...we were on a Mission for the New Rising Sun.

"There's gonna be this little Royal Putsch so to speak"...the Japanese Mob Boss said to me. "A kind of British Royal..."Night of the Long Knives" Operation. Like they pulled with Operation the TEMPCO Fukushima plant. Only it's gonna be our turn this time."

"But then, of course, you'll be taking orders directly from us. K-Y will be your make sure your Mission Impossible is successfu. Like when we say jump—you're gonna jump, mister. All the way to the Fucking Moon...if you have to. And for starters, my friend...your code name will be "Lord Alfred Douglas." Sound familiar, my dear? Got it straight, Kimosabe?”

I sat there in my flimsy kimono...looking around at the Yakuzza boyz & contemplating my sad "The Spy Who Came In From the Cold" existence. I was now so far down & out after hearing all that shit...that everything else in the world, well, looked kinda "Up." If you know what I mean...

Something told me to say "Yes"... and I did, of course. My so-called "The Man in the High Castle" plush lifestyle lately in was gonna change radically fast for me. And I was gonna end up way down there in the "The Man Who Knew Too Much"....

I looked around the room. "Jeeze Lueez," I said, glancing down at my crummy kimono rags. "Like don't I get a new tuxedo or something, hmmm?"

Reptile Planet

Dead Planet LXXXIII

Reptile Planet

Perhaps I want to—
Imagine a scifaiku
Invented planet

I could give it an invented name—treat it as a SF world, create a new Serpent Solaris, an extraordinary Reptilian surreal Lovecraftian nightmare.

I could claim I’m representing or analyzing this horrible Jurassic world—its exopolitical contours the major gestures of a DARPA discourse.

I could also isolate this scifaiku world (faraway) using a plethora of alien features—deliberately forming a system for weaponizing & destroying it.

This system perhaps I’d call: the Reptile Imagination.

But this “Reptile” planet can’t be approached as “real’—with the usual humanoid Orient/Occident comparisons & terrestrial contrasts: history, culture, politics.

There’re no Fukushima atomics, no HAARP earthquake technologies or hidden agendas to make this so-called narrative a matter of indifference whose invented interplay & manipulated features simply “entertain” me.

Nightmares aren’t entertaining—they’re Reptilian & otherworldly.

Reptile Planet is a nefarious game-text—a mutation, a slippage, a morphing, a SF segue, a devolution of symbolic occultations in a vast region of darkness (capitalist Japan, American NWO, alien high-tech research).

Someday we must eventually write the scifaiku history of our own alien obscurity—our own manifest density in all its extraterrestrial narcissism. Right down thru the Jurassic-Pleistocene footprints in which various exopolitical changes have been actualized.

Occasionally we’ve heard about such hidden agendas—and the genetic repercussions which infallibly follow like Joseph Farrell describes in “Genes, Giants, Monsters and Men” (2011). The surviving elites of an ancient cosmic war—and their genetic experiments with human beings.

Scifaiku writers have terrible “flashes” which afford them a situation for new dystopian realities. A certain disturbance of the writer occurs, a subversion of earlier readings, a shocked recognition of reptilian meaning, an extenuated “reverse-engineering” insight into an irreplaceable void—without the flash ever ceasing to be horrible, detestable, unthinkable.

Scifaiku is after all, somewhat a serpent satori—a Zen occurrence more or less creating “an emptiness of human language.”

And yet this emptiness creates reptilian meaning, it rewrites planetary histories, it synchronizes with Mayan futures, encompasses ancient breakaway reptilian civilizations & long-forgotten violent cosmic wars.

Our Reptilian Imagination

Dead Planet LXXXII

Our Reptilian Imagination

“The dream: to know
a foreign (alien) language
and yet not to understand it”
—Roland Barthes, Empire of Signs

Scifaiku articulates impressions—not affidavits. It dilutes, devolves, hemorrhages us into a fragmented, diffracted emptiness

This is what dreams do—especially with our Greek Aristotelian English language. It skips superficial sociality of discourse, communication. It’s vulgar, sexual, inconceivable—untranslatable, shocking, cuts out our tongue.

Dreams return us to our prehistoric nature—our “constrained” reptilian heritage. Dreams open up a whole fictive realm—primeval reptilian-brain texts (but no novel) permits us to perceive a Jurassic Park landscape which our speech can’t articulate. It’s too horrible to comprehend with our warm-blooded mammal cerebrums—so we project it onto Lizard UFO’s & Subterranean Evil Intelligences.

To make such dream-utterances while awake—requires certain precautions, repetitions, delays & insistences which sentences, simple lines of words, can’t communicate. Excess horror subjectivities provoke a more fragmented, anecdotal surreal language diffracted toward emptiness.

Dream-language is a Reptile-language—it distinguishes humanoid (human and/or replicant) from reptile consciousness on the level of its verbs “to be.”

The fictive characters introduced into a dream (once upon a time there was a lizard boy) are assigned the form of Lizard life—the reality of reptilian beings, the very structure of the Id restoring or confining these beings to their quality as Snakes cut off from the alibi referential par excellence: that of the living naked ape.

Or in a still more radical way—since it’s a matter of conceiving what our monkey language doesn’t conceive—how can we imagine a Reptilian verb which is simultaneously without a humanoid, transitive subject & without a human known object?

Yet it is this reptilian imagination which requires us—to face the Hindu dhyana, origin of the Chinese ch’an & Japanese Zen which we obviously can’t translate by human language.

The Reptilian mind isn’t just a primitive brain-stem throwback at the base of our monkey-brain skulls. The horror of our heritage is so great—we’ve been bred & genetically-engineered with a Right Brain-Left Brain Apocalyptic Schism to keep us sane.

We are the Naked Ape Lizard progeny of the Reptilian Annunaki—we’re Snakes who walk around on two legs. Adolescent nocturnal emissions & teenage wetdreams—are Lovecraftian flashbacks to our haunting Serpent exopolitical histories.

Fukushima Young & Evil

Dead Planet LXXXI

Fukushima Young & Evil

K-Y’s lips pouted & quivered. He didn’t resist having his t-shirt taken off, then his pants, then his shorts and, lastly, falling back in bed, his jock strap….

K-Y put his arms behind his neck & closed he eyes—smoking a Japanese joint for the last time. He didn’t see me leaning down & kissing him—before he felt the bite. Then K-Y screamed.

I couldn’t stand it anymore—his getting off without me. It drove me insane with jealousy—I wanted to see him helpless & mine. Fuck self-fellatio—fuck doing “69” on himself all the time.

A wild, suppressed whine entered his voice—K-Y had never loved me. He only loved himself—he was such a young male whore & harlot. But it was the end…

The pill the doctor gave me—it was already kicking in, putting him to sleep. K-Y grew weak & more paralyzed in bed—his wide snake-eyes glazed over.

One last sneer—and the kid passed out.

I pressed the remote & buzzed them to come up. The transplant service clumped up the stairs—the elevators had stopped running months ago. Tokyo only had power for a couple of hours each day—all the TEMPCO nuke plants had blown.

Some said it was a Siemens SCADA & Stuxnet conspiracy—others said that it was to stop Japan from exporting enriched uranium to the Third World. Some said it was a HAARP earthquake & tsunami—nobody knew for sure. Night fell over Tokyo…

Most of Japan had been evacuated—the rest dead & depopulated. Except for Snake City & Red Light District—the yakuza kept crime going & power going. Underground fly-by-night cyborg surgeons & illegal transplant factories—kept producing the new Snake cyborgs. Assassins & the Mob—didn’t give up easy.

I let them in—some dirty, skanky Snake-Trix© gigolo boyz. It was just business to them—they kept the customers happy. As long as they paid in gold—they got whatever they wanted.

The most forbidden decadent delicacies—had opened up after the Fukushima Fuck-Up. Nuke Apocalypses—were good for business.

A flourishing Black Market in cyborg-sex exo-flesh trade had opened up in Kabukichō (歌舞伎町)—centered in the most notorious, sleaziest prostitution district in Radioactive Tokyo.

They did a quickie transplant—used genital glue to attach it to the new kid. A new Tokyo Model—without the narcissistic glitch. It was a perfect psychotronic klone of K-Y—same gymnast hardcore physique.

I wanted to keep the same yakuza dick though—I was addicted to the kid’s shocking male endowments. I couldn’t give it up—it was the main thing that K-Y was proud of. It’s what the thing that turned a ho-hum Japanese hustler—into a Prince Charming stud that was all mine.

I know it sounds sick & dreadful—please don’t tell anybody. I’m ashamed enough—of everything I’ve done with my miserable life. But the isotope half-life of my deadly encroaching radioactive sickness—it’ll last hundreds of years compared with my stupid minor few years of crummy existence left. Might as well enjoy myself…

It was a perfect fit—the stem-cell cryogenic blowjob machine did its trick. The genetic glue was fast & neat—the new kid was fresh outta the vats. I fondled & cooed at the kid’s exquisite transplanted prick—I hoped it liked its new genealogical home down there.

The new reverse-bioengineering technology—was 100 times cleaner & more efficient than the old-fashioned transplant surgery dayz. No blood, no mess, no anti-rejection drugs—just mainline big vein plumbing, man. It was like plug & play…

The memory-chip male transplant—had already programmed itself to its new host-thug physique. I felt him up & could feel K-Y’s magnificent thug thing stir between my trembling fingertips.

It was as if K-Y had been resurrected from his depraved former demimonde existence—into this new delinquent deliquescent hoodlum Delmonico steak-hood. So much for nostalgia—I just picked up from where we’d left off. Without the baggage—and issues…

They put the old K-Y kid in a body-bag—for the recycle chamber back in the yakuza lab. I marveled at my new Snake-Trix© kept android boy—all fresh & new from the illegal underground genetics factory. Much more sexy & streamlined—than the previous model.

The boyz in white lab coats smiled—pleased to see me satisfied with my new Fukushima “Nuke Boy” loverboy. They turned out the lights—and showed me how the new K-Y glowed in the dark—plus his groin had a built-in ninja Geiger-meter with a digital counter to check out how hot he got.

I popped a couple of Iodine pills—to counteract the radioactive sickness & nausea I was getting lately. Tokyo was a Ghost City now—nothing but us Fukushima Zombie Dead left. Us klone fags & our replicant kept boyz—we weren’t fucking around in what was left of one of the most cosmopolitan & sophisticated capitols of the planet.

The infamous Yakuza Mob, of course—they’d already kloned themselves to the dark side. They’re commandeered all the best genetic scientists—and even kidnapped some of the best Reptile thug intelligentsia into their own Ninja Alternative 3.

The Japanese Yakuza weren’t dumb—they had their own plan for survival & migration of a certain percentage of the criminal underworld—the cream of the crop of Earth’s best crime & corruption mafia—to secret underground bunkers beneath Tokyo to avoid the future Pole Shift & other Cataclysms on Earth.

I gave the Snake-Trix© delivery boyz a big tip—for all I knew they were already klones themselves. Soon I was in bed with my new jaded K-Y klone—glomming onto the yakuza youth’s born-again Bad Biology. Or maybe I should say—the kid’s new born-again Other.

Operation Dandelion (Fukushima)

(Chapter One of a Proposed Sequel)

“We have entered
a moment when
we are alone…”
—Philip K. Dick,
The Man in the High Castle

“Too bad I don’t have a copy of the oracle here,” Canaris said to himself. “I could consult it—take this issue to it for its 5000 years of wisdom…”

Der Dicke had taken off quickly in his Messerschmitt—back to the safety of his Luftwaffe base in Miami. As Canaris expected, Der Dicke had sent an urgent coded message to Miami for an emergency staff meeting. The subject—Hawthorne Abendsen.

There was more to the message—Berlin had been contacted. The three best Nazi Orientalist scholars from the Reich University were to be immediately flown to Miami—for their expert advice on the Book of Changes and other important matters of state.

Canaris smiled to himself—despite Göring’s skepticism at the situation conference with the Kommandos, the news had been taken seriously by Der Dicke. Things were now moving according to plan—let Luftwaffe counterintelligence try the impossible now. Where the Army and SS had failed—perhaps the Luftwaffe could succeed. And with their success—doom themselves to oblivion.


Then Admiral Canaris recalled—there was a copy of the I Ching in the Book Lounge in the Bunker. So he made his way from the conference room, down the elevator—to the deep sprawling bunker that was his underground Navy base beneath New York City.

The Book Lounge was actually a huge electronic library—with access to the complete Fourth Reich database. There was a small lounge for the more senior intelligence staff—the old naval counterintelligence class from WWII. Canaris had seen to that—the lounge was all chrome-steel & glass furnished in elegant art deco design. A period Canaris appreciated—Egyptian moderne he called it. A sense of power—yet respect for history.

The doors hissed open—admitting him into the main level of the lounge. He was a mile beneath Manhattan—inside the heart of the beast. He took a right to another room—his personal office. There it was—inside a battered battleship-gray metal filing cabinet he kept around for nostalgic purposes. It was wrapped in a black silk scarf—along with three ancient coins.

Sitting at his desk—he began the consultation. The moment was right now—it was time to consult the oracle. It would only be a matter of time now—before both Der Dicke and Reinhardt Heydrich the SS Reichsführer were doing the same thing. It was like a Domino Effect—snaking its way slowly through the haughty hierarchy of Supermen.

Canaris opened the silk scarf and took out the three brass coins. Then he wrote the question on the back of an envelope—“How should I approach the Nebenwelt?”

The Nebenwelt Project was moving right along—now that Kohler and Seligsohn were recuperating from their memory loss. The shift from Nebenwelt had temporarily paralyzed their short-term memory—but after several weeks it returned. Yet they were changed—somehow.

Canaris cleared his mind—then he began throwing the coins. The bottom line was Six, and so was the second and then the third. The bottom trigram in K’un—the Earth. That pleased Canaris—three changing receptive lines. As deeply receptive—as the North Atlantic. His home—away from home.

Then line Four and Five—both Eights. All yin lines so far. Good lord, he thought excitedly; one more yin line and I’ve got Hexagram Two, K’un, The Receptive. The dark, yielding, receptive power of yin. The other half of Hexagram One, Ch’ien, the Creative. The four fundamental aspects of both the Creative and the Receptive—“sublime success, furthering through perseverance.”

Canaris threw the set of coins one last time—but it was a Seven. A yang at the top of the hexagram—the roof of a crumbling house. Po / Splitting Apart. A sense of deep despair came over him—he breathed deeply until he was centered again.


Opening the book, Canaris read the judgment.

SPLITTING APART. It does not further one
To go anywhere.

Canaris studied the hexagram—then he looked at the chart at the end of the book and came up with what Po / Splitting Apart was turning into. It was becoming Hexagram 26—The Taming Power of the Great.

How could two hexagrams be so different? The roof collapsing—yet the power of staying still? He’d never got two hexagrams like this before—defeat yet victory.

Canaris read the judgment.

Perseverance furthers.
Not eating at home brings good fortune.
It furthers one to cross the great water.


Canaris narrowed down to a single line under the Image: The way to study the past is not to confine oneself to mere knowledge of history, but application of this knowledge, to give actuality to the past.

Canaris closed the book and thought about it. No action was necessary—it was best to do nothing. Trying to aggressively approach Nebenwelt was not the proper thing to do—not at least now. Nebenelt was coming to him—letting Nebenwelt approach was better.

Being aggressive would only yield doom and destruction—let both Göring and Heydrich tread where angels fear to tread. Knowing them, Canaris said to himself, they will try to control Nebenwelt like everything else in Reich politics—by sheer naked power.


Two things had already happened—the Little Doktor’s appointment as chancellor of Germany and all German-occupied territory and the sudden cancellation of Operation Dandelion. Now the news about Nebenwelt—a parallel world to the Nazi Planet.

Canaris was skeptical. Meaningful coincidence was just not how the Reich was run—synchronicity had nothing to do with Berlin or Berchtesgarden. The astrologers were, of course, still consulted—they were the ones who lobbied the most against the Book of Changes as nothing but degenerate oriental mysticism. The astrologers were politicians—like everybody else.

Canaris shrugged his shoulders. Astrologers? Necromancers? Dreamy Orientalists? Who or what was next? The entrails of an owl? The flight of egrets across an evening sky? What was happening to the world? Their former allies the Japanese were now the enemy—Operation Dandelion would surely become a long extended Cold War now. Apparently the alternate world was similarly cursed—was the roof falling in on them too?

Canaris returned the book to the filing cabinet—somehow the Nebenwelt was connected with the oracle. The Orientalists said the book was alive—it was 5000 years old. It was aware of the Nebenwelt—it was trying to tell us something. Abendsen used the oracle for his book—The Grasshopper Lies Heavy. Canaris rubbed his eyes—he had an uneasy feeling about all this.

Next to the oracle was Abendsen’s book—Canaris kept both of them together. They had similar invisible contours—they described parallel worlds in conflict. Canaris often wondered—did he have a Double in the Nebenwelt? The Kommandos had reported his Double had been hanged—after the conspiracy against Hitler had failed. How would this effect his intelligence egress between the Führerwelt and the Nebenwelt? What had happened to Naval counterintelligence after the war in the alternate world—had it been absorbed into the Nebenwelt power elite structure?


They’d known about Nebenwelt for 18 months now—two Kommandos were back. They’d been debriefed—their short-term memories had returned. They were smart—Canaris trusted them. Professor Wolfgang Pauli had been summoned from Norway—to explain the physical phenomenon of synchronicity to the Naval staff.

But how does one explain something like synchronicity to a young submarine commander—or to one of the crack Luftwaffe Mars Expedition rocket pilots? Yet to get to Nebenwelt—required aleatoric acausal expertise. It was an ancient technique—it was 5000 years old.

No one knew where Abendsen was—but they had his book. A tight group of neo-nazi literary scholars had been assembled—to map out on a point-by-point comparison the differences between Abednsen’s imaginary alternate world and the actual Nebenwelt. Germanics departments around the world had been alerted—graduate students were scrambling.


Canaris was interested in having undivided control over egress—so both worlds wouldn’t bleed into each other. There were enough problems in the Führerwelt—without adding Nebenwelt Cold War politics to his list of Mission Impossible projects. Nor did he want Heydrich causing problems—nor Der Dicke. These were ambitious men—there was no Leader to hold them in check anymore. The Little Doktor was Paper Tiger—where was Speer? That suave sophisticated Architect—Hitler’s pet and his biggest disappointment. Had he defected to Nebenwelt—like Rudolf Hess?

The oracle’s advice on Po / Splitting Apart was apropos—the collapse of the Reich in one world and its victory in another was mind-boggling enough. But to contemplate a peaceful non-military enantiodromia between two such opposing worlds was almost unthinkable—how could two such diametrically-opposed worlds co-exist once they became aware of each other? How had they been split-apart in the first place—how long had they been Twin Planets spinning around the same sun?


But Canaris had other things to worry about—within his own world. The powerful Nazi factions were again reorganizing themselves—the Nazi knights reorganized the order constantly. But something was going on in the Nebenwelt—something in both worlds. Canaris was fearful—such developments only spelled trouble. Such an unfortunate encounter—would be a War of the Worlds.

It was unthinkable—yet unthinkableness was his job. Canaris had been trained to think the unthinkable—after all he was the head of Naval counterintelligence. He still believed in the Führer-Principle—but the idea of Führer-Control over another world was sheer madness.

The Nazi Mars and Moon colonies were barely functional even now—despite all the best German science and technology available. How could his world hope to prevail over a parallel world—another aggressive alternate world already hopelessly bent away from the Axis?


Captain Wegener was back at Tempelhof Airfield after his meeting with Heydrich on Prinz-Albrechstrasse. He smiled and nodded to the young lieutenant driver—so proud of his mirror-polished Daimler phaeton sedan. Just another kid from Munich—who loved driving fast on the Autobahn. The whole world opening up to him—proud of his shiny chrome Luger too.

The new R-15 Messerschmitt rocket was in the air—soon Wegener would be back in New York. Canaris came on the emergency channel—there was a tremendous amount of static.

The image of Canaris jiggled on the screen—like a nervous water-spider. Moiré patterns dimpled the bunker background image—Canaris looked grim.

The admiral chose his words carefully. “Miami has been vaporized. The whole Luftwaffe complex is gone—along with Göring and his staff. It wasn’t Heydrich or the Little Doktor. It wasn’t the Japanese either.”

Wegener leaned toward the screen. “Who did it then, Admiral?”

The image faded—then it popped back on the screen. Wegener felt himself listing eccentrically—all sense of balance gone…..”

“The Nebenwelt,” Canaris said. “The Invasion has begun.”

The Reluctant Whistleblower

Dead Planet LXXX

The Reluctant Whistleblower

”What have you got planned for us, General Corso? For me & the Dirty Dozen down here? We'll probably need another safe house sooner than later. Maybe a safe planet. Some off-welt bunker? Like Mars maybe. Those DARPA chronovisor guyz are closing in, you know, sir....….”

“I dunno, kid. I’ve been talking it over—with some gentlemen. From the Future. Actually from the Past. They could just as well be from Mars though for all I know—or something they call the Galactic Council or whatever. I swear they're not human.”

“Probably Galactic Senators, General?”

“Well, well…ya know who I’m talkin’ about?”


The kid shrugged.

“So many Time-Masters, so little Time,” he said. “Well, I got this call last night. Outta the blue. I didn’t know Beltway DC 1860’s had that capability back then?”

“They didn’t, sir. Not back then. But obviously they do now. Like I said…alt.timelines.”
“Well, anyway, son, take a look at this…”


The message flickered, dimmed, then came on the vide-screen over Corso’s desk:
“I have two great enemies, the Southern Army in front of me and the Babylon Bankers in the rear. Of the two, the one at my rear is my greatest foe... corporations have been enthroned and an era of corruption in high places will follow, and the money powers of the country will endeavor to prolong it's reign by working upon the prejudices of the people until the wealth is aggregated in the hands of a few, and the Republic is destroyed.”—yours, Abraham Lincoln......................


“He’s still meeting with us?” “I haven't heard otherwise, son. If this communication thing is authentic, then he’s talking to us straight outta the past, right? It's called email? Who is this guy, anyway? I’m getting the feeling he’s not who I thought he was. He's not just a hick abolitionist backwoods politician-lawyer from Illinois is he?—some guy who got on a train and…” “Yes, general. Like I said—he’s probably a Galactic Senator or some kind of representative from the Future. You know, like Tesla…” “Tesla? I’ve been going thru his File, too. Now that guy is obviously from another Timeline. Even I can see that. Talk about pre-DARPA Darth Vader…” The kid smiled, nodded. Corso was wising up fast…

“That massive explosion that occurred near the Tunguska River over what's now Krasnoyarsk Krai in Russia,” the general said. “That was Tesla showing off one of his scalar weapons, wasn’t it?”
“Yup, just like Haiti, Indonesia, New Zealand, Fukushima—and all the other ones. They’ve weaponized the Future...and now it's leaking into the Past.”

“Well, son” said the general. “I’ve gone over your debriefing file. You were pretty mum about everything. All that shit’s gonna hit the fan in these different timelines it seems. A goddamn multiverse nightmare. Seems like for every Lincoln holding it together—there’s a goddamn Telsa genius waitin’ in the wings to blow it all apart again.”
The kid nodded. “It’s gonna be a bumpy ride, general.”


“These corporate-breakaway timelines, kid. There’s just no such thing as a naïve, innocent general outta the Fifties figuring all this out. I don't understand all this singularity shit or complexification points, it's beyond me? Lincoln was deep in the middle of one of them way back then, wasn’t he? I hope these 4th dimensional beings can keep track of all these goddamned Threads...”

The kid nodded. If only the general knew the whole story…
“Well, some have suggested off-planet Alternative Plans, sir—maybe Mars, for example. As a third alternate. I don't know whether I like that plan or not—but like it or not some of us have seen ourselves there one way or another. I don't know. We may not have a choice. The Beakaways & Aliens are making deals right & left all the time even as we speak. The Babylon Banker middlemen are reaching back into Time like Lincoln said. Then there's Webre who wants to try negotiating an exo-treaty. He’s an attorney dontchaknow—one of those smart-ass Futurists. So many Players in the Poker game, right now, general.”

The general frowned & looked at the screen.
“Yeah, I know. But from what I hear—you’re gonna be a whistleblower Futurist attorney, yourself young man. But why should I trust you either? You know how attorneys get your fingers in every fuckin' pie, right kid?”

“Yes, sir. That’s what they say.”
“They say Lincoln was a pretty sharp attorney, too.” “Yes, sir. He saved a young man’s life once back there in Springfield or somewhere in Illinois. With his dry wit & sense of humor. That plus calmly knowing whether it was a full moon or not during the crime according to the Farmer’s Almanac. Whether the so-called witnesses could see the scene of the crime or not...”


Corso bit on his cigar and pulled out a tome from outta a drawer in his battle-grey desk, placing it gently down on some other paperwork. It was "Exopolitics" by Webre. Then he pulled out a paper entitled “The Discovery of Life on Mars.” They sat there looking at the documents.

The buzzer on the intercom came on. "Yeah," said the general.

"Some kind of distortion going on in Japan, general. A nuke plant in northern Japan...some TEMPCO GE plant in a city called Fukushima. There's been an earthquake & meltdown. They..."

General Corso flicked it off & looked at the kid. "Well?" the general asked.

The kid frowned. "It's begun."

“Who are you anyway, young man?” Corso asked.

“That book Exopolitics & that paper of mine, “Life On Mars,”—both were published on the same timeline. A long time ago, sir—in the future.”

“Young man, I know that. I just wish I had your smarts back when I was your age. I would've never joined the Army. The first time I met you—I swore to god that I’d met you before. And then when you took me back to Gettysburg, well—there we were. Standing in that muddy field, waiting for Lincoln to give his speech. I realized right then & there—that that’s where I’d met you before. You’re my déjà vu liaison lieutenant with the Past & Future, aren’t you, son?”

The kid shrugged at the general.

“Son, I still don't get what's happening right now. All these so-called psyops games coming at me outta the Future, well, and now the Past. They've been saying since the Trojan War to beware Greeks bearing gifts, isn't that what they say?"

The room stayed silent for a long time. Corso lit a new cigar and was lost in deep thought trying to plan ahead. It was like Roswell all over again. Many conflicts dropping outta the sky or was it outta Time? And then this seemingly inevitable top secret security coverup scrabble at the last minute. Finally Corso said, "You tell your young colleagues down in the bunker to sit tight. They’re safe from DARPA for awhile anyway. Who knows how long though. All you young clairvoyant gentlemen—you’re supposedly time travelers, so what am I gonna do with you? You probably sense better than me or any of my staff or the rest of us—what to do or what’s coming down. Any suggestions, young man?"

The kid didn't say anything.

"If and when the DARPA boyz breach our defenses," the general said, "then they'll probably do a jump down here into the bunker, don't you think? Do we have much time to teleport your asses outta here—safely somewhere else? But where? These black ops boyz as you say—they can probably do anything they want to now or back or in the future; anytime they want. There’s no privacy anymore—not here in third dimensional time or quantum time or space either. Not with them nosing around, right, kid?”

“Some of the older trainees need medical attention, general.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Well, they’re vulnerable. LIKE do you think it’s possible for a person to be a whistleblower & not know it?”

“What’d ya mean, young man?”

“I mean like what if maybe some of us were “sleeper-time-travel” agents. Just waiting to be activated by DARPA or whoever—and didn’t know it? They can erase memory too, general.”

Corso bit on his cigar. Jaysus christ, he said to himself. This kid’s really been bruised & beat-up. On the other hand, it's pretty convincing that he’s onto something.

“Well, don’t blame me for getting goddamn paranoid, kid. I know I am right now. And probably you too. The same with that tall gaunt man back in the 1860's Beltway... Goddamn it, he's goddamn paranoid too. It wears a man down. He didn't look well. I guess it goes with the turf, so be it…”

“But General Corso—like I’ve talked it over with some of the other younger teleportees downstairs in the bunker. Some of them knew—some of them didn’t know. Some of them only found out thru hypnosis & dream-regression. Others got a crash-course in time-recognition—when we made our breakout from DARPA training headquarters.”

“Found out what, kid?”

“That they’re just like me…”

“What’d mean?”

“That we’re all precog chrononauts.”

Corso nodded & lit his cigar. The kid was worried about something. But he wasn't saying what it was. If the kid was precog, then...

“Well, yes, of course I believe you, young man. I wouldn’t have taken all you boyz under my wing here at headquarters—if I didn’t think you had something going. Whatever it is, give me a clue. Do any of you need emergency medical attention right now? What can I do, son?”

"Some of us don't have much time left, sir. Open-heart surgery hasn't been perfected yet back here in the Fifties yet...."

Corso leaned back in his swivel-chair & blew smoke-rings at the ceiling—thinking things over. The snoopy nervous DARPA lieutenant’s sudden appearance had complicated matters immensely. Yet it gave them away too. What was DARPA up too?

“I’m not saying some of us ended up like Manchurian Candidates or anything like that…”

“But son, that’s what’s being implied. That DARPA trained & used you guyz for time-travel underground or black ops missions—and that you were, well, somehow unknowingly maybe even unwillingly programmed for secret TTT missions or clandestine assignments without knowing it? Right?”

“Well, sir, there's something else. Like it's…”

“Well, I know what you're gonna say, son. The early DARPA program used kids like you & you were just expendable for their own black-ops purposes—and the program was supposedly canceled. The quantum jump timeline results weren’t consistent like they wanted. Each time you were teleported back to the same location resulted in some kind of minor distortion or difference to the plot or characters or some other detail. It wasn't totally verifiable & repeatable. Or cover-up proof. And yet the program obviously continued, right?”

“Right, sir. It’s still online.”

“And what you you suggested was that DARPA just shifted its game-plan a little bit? Rumsfeld had plans for you guyz to end up at the Naval Academy in Annapolis—some military place under their thumbs, somewhere where they’d have total control of you bigtime? Once they picked the cream of the crop from the pool of trained youngsters?”

“Yes, sir. We were a test group, a pool of tested quantum jumpers they could easily use for a bunch of spies or whatever. Or future proxy POTUS candidates."

"Yes, we've gone over that too; with Bush, Clinton, Obama."

"They axed our program because it was supposedly too transparent—but the TTT intelligentsia just wanted their assets more covert that’s all. The program went deep black ops even further—selectively erasing our memories. What could be more covert—than a time-traveler that didn’t know or remember it? Like after a Mars assignment or political appointment or assassination rogue rotation.”

“Hmm. Yup, I see what you mean. So where you going with this angle?"

“Well, some of us older participants have already been developing heart-valve defects—because of all the jumps. The ventral valves in our hearts are too rigid now. The teletransportation causes heart problems.”

“Like what kind of problems?”

“Well, for example, mitral valve prolapse where the valve fuses into a kind of butterfly effect, so that the cardiac surgeon asked my parents later on how I developed this murmur valve problem—a birth defect problem from some early childhood disease they thought?”


“Later we know many of the adult participants after many time-jumps had to have open heart surgery operations in the future to correct this hardening & degeneration of the heart valves. I’ve got a pig’s valve inside my heart right now—calcification & actual thickening of the heart valve due to all the time-jumps & living in alt.timelines...”

“So, you’ve gone thru surgery—as well as this hypnosis regressive therapy thing—and…”

“I’m a whistleblower they cultivated to help the program grow into the future, sir. They let me know early—others didn't find out until now.”

“All 12 of you down there?”

“Yes, sir. We were all expendable. I got them outta there just in time.”

“Jaysus christ…”

“Most of us were early DARPA student trainees. They didn’t discontinue the program. They only went deeper into black ops with us.”

“You remember some of the black ops missions?”

“You don’t wanna know, sir.”

“Son, it’s my business to know. Whatever you time-traveler kids did or were forced to do—I need to know everything. All of you are safe for now. At least temporarily anyway.”

“Yes, General Corso, but some don’t trust you either…”

Corso got angry at first, then thought about it. He relit his cigar & nodded to the young man.

“Your right, young man. All of you were set up. I don’t blame you for not trusting anybody at this moment in your lives. All of you have been used & abused—in ways I’ll probably never be able know or comprehend.”

They sat in silence for awhile.

“Well, here I thought the Nazi Breakaway Gang was a nasty mob of thug characters—them and the Babylon Bankers. But then maybe they’re the ones who'll end up getting used by all this devolving TTT espionage bullshit. Along with blowback from using all those initial South American dictators plus all the young Latino victims…”

The kid shrugged. He tried to stay outta exo-politics. The general smoked his cigar.

“Well, young man. Our little Gettysburg jump back then caused quite a flap here at Headquarters. With the DARPA boyz too. BTW who was that handsome young Union captain accompanying you back then in that crowd? Jaysus, he looked kinda familiar, didn’t he, son?”

“You should know, general,” the kid smiled.