Among their many transgressions,
the Illuminati have also been blamed for the many mass shootings in America ,
but, really, who are the Illuminati? They are the ultra rich politicians, CEOs,
religious and educational leaders, law enforcement and military, ETC; they want
to eliminate 85% of the world's population and have full control. In order to
reach their goal they have to destroy America
first, the only entity that could stop them.
This subplot introduces their latest victim,
Whit Malcolm (with ADHD and on drugs.) They abduct him, brainwash him, and send
him back into the world to conduct a mass shooting and then commit suicide to
prevent questioning, causing the liberals to again, fanatically, call for more
and more gun control which would, inevitably, end in registration of all guns
and eventual confiscation.
Even though this famous quote by Japan United States
But if the liberals have their way, there would soon be no
more American Minuteman.
****
Whit Malcolm’s day began like any other. Just a normal
twenty-two-year-old guy, nothing special about him except that he was shy and
mostly kept to himself, but that’s what made him special, and another perfect
choice. His sparse but well-kept room was three blocks from work so he always
walked. His walk took him past Arby’s. He could see the people inside. Some
always looked back at him, their eyes wide and wondering. But there was nothing
special about him, so he always wondered, why do they look at me?
The morning sky was lightening. He picked up his pace. Past
the fast food joint was a block-sized park of mature trees, a small pond and
singing birds. He always stopped for a moment, faced the park, the sunrise, and
listened, remembering a far, far, back past…a pond of his own…he remembered
the trees, the cattails, the bittersweet smell of unmoving water, the many
birds singing, the frogs croaking.
When he remembered that far back past his mind always
wandered to the negative, to his mother making sure he took that pill in the
morning and evening and twice during the day on the honor system. All through
his youth he had never missed taking the pills, and had never discussed the
side effects with anyone. He didn’t care. To keep everybody happy he just took
the pills to be done with it.
Finally, long after his parents were gone, and he had
insurance with his job, the human resources lady had called him to her office.
He would never forget it, “…Whit, people have complained about you…”
That was nothing new. It seemed people were always complaining about him for
something or other. He remembered listening to her list the reasons: “…acting
fidgety and dropping expensive ceramics, acting hyper and running when you
should be walking, forgetting how to do things…” He heard her continue
talking but managed to tune her out, until she came to the end, “We have good
health insurance here, Whit, I would like for you to make an appointment. Maybe
the doctor will increase your medication.”… He did hear the vehicle
pull up beside him. He thought nothing of it. When the prick hit his buttocks he
slapped at it. What felt like a bee sting was his last cognizant thought.
He didn’t remember his quick decent into the arms of his
abductors.
****
Whit wondered where he was, and what he was doing. He could
hear voices and could see two men—one older, one younger—talking before him. He
thought they were speaking English but not one word could he understand. He
managed to turn his head, both ways. There were two young men and one young
woman to his left and slightly behind, and two young men to his right, also
slightly behind. All five were just…sitting there, their eyes…he didn’t know.
Their eyes said nothing, like they were sleeping with their eyes open. Whit had
occasionally felt like that too. Both the men to his right, their arms…would
jerk, slightly, and each time their head would jerk. Those two must be kind
of crazy. He chuckled…at least it felt like he did. Then he managed to look
down. His hands were folded neatly on his lap. He tried moving the top one. It
moved but barely, and in slow-motion.
A picture came into his head of him firing a weapon. He
loved firing guns, and loved the sound of the blasts. If he could do only one
thing for the rest of his life it would be firing guns, all kinds, from the
smallest .22 handgun to his favorite, a military fully automatic M16, a weapon
he had never touched. He even liked BB guns, but BB guns didn’t make
much noise.
He had not been in the military. He tried but it was
discovered he had a heart murmur, whatever the hell that was, and also that stupid mental
thing. ADHD they called it. He remembered—after finally making the
appointment—sitting with the doctor as he read off a list of side effects. The
memory was so strong, he could still actually hear the doctor’s voice: “…loss
of memory…”—he hated forgetting things—“…mood changes…”—he knew that
was true; he could go from happy to depressed in the space of seconds; he
especially hated it when it happened at work, and made people stare at him—“…dry
mouth…”—he really hated that too, to have to go get a drink between
breaks and people always stared at him then, too, and getting a drink never
helped; he would always be still thirsty—“…drowsiness…”—at times he
actually fell asleep at work, until people started yelling at him—“…no
appetite, funny taste, anxiety, ringing in his ears…” He shook his head and
wished that fucking doctor would go soak his head or something! But on and on
the list of side effects went: “…loss of one’s sense of reality or identity,
abnormal dreams…”—he sometimes loved those ‘abnormal’ dreams,
though—but he could never quite exactly remember them, and the side effect that
really bothered him: “…Thoughts of suicide.” Those thoughts would
come out of nowhere, like lightening in a thunderstorm. The doctor did
increase his medication: One more per day. Fine! He would do what everybody
wanted, if they would just leave him alone!
Usually he felt nothing physically, but for at least an
hour every time after he took that stupid pill he would feel one or more
of those stupid-stupid ‘side effects.’ But, normally, according
to Whit Malcolm, he was one of the healthiest people around.
The strange voices intruded again. His mind picture
disappeared as he focused on the two men…where are they? He thought the
front of the room. There were two rows of chairs ahead of him. If he could just
get closer maybe he could understand what they were saying. He told his legs to
stand him up…his mind slipped to his far, far, back, past. He saw his
father, or rather the silhouette of a man working with maybe a shovel—yes, it
was his father…then he remembered that time being with his father while he was
building a fence around a pond…his father wanted to keep the milk cows from
wading and getting their udders wet and muddy…he remembered just being there,
not helping as he was too young, really young, one of his first memories of
watching his father and being with him and worshipping him as only a small boy
can worship a father…His mind returned to the present.
He had just told his legs to stand him up. Of course
he didn’t actually say anything to his legs; he just had the
instinctive thought to stand and move. His legs did nothing. Whit realized that his legs did nothing, but he thought nothing out of the ordinary. He
also realized that he didn’t think being
unable to move his legs was unusual. He was there, wherever there
was and that was all he knew for sure.
****
Excerpt of next scene:
Discussions & plans (of the Illuminati abductors) (This excerpt also refers
back to excerpt 1 and the abduction of Carter’s daughter and granddaughter.)
“How was your trip to the Mediterranean ?”
the older man, about sixty, asked.
“Very well, thank you,” the younger man answered, “I got to
meet Masters himself.”
“Is he as autocratic as some say?”
“More so, a very commanding presence.”
“Did he like our offering?”
“Absolutely. He even seemed amazed that such a beauty
existed in such a small child.”
“Is the abduction set?”
“Yes. Tomorrow. We know exactly where and when the mother
and child will be.”
“You will be there?”
“I’ll be in charge. There’ll be two with needles, plus the
driver. The abduction shouldn’t take more than a few seconds.
“Good.” The older man glanced toward Whit, “I like the new
one for our next event. His record says he spends every possible waking moment
shooting. Unfortunately, the poor fellow has no weapons of his own, so has to
rent them at the shooting range.”
“I agree,” the younger man said, “His friends and
co-workers know that about him, so when he performs his mission, and his remaining
co-workers are interviewed by the police, nobody will be surprised. In fact,
some likely will say they’re surprised Whit hadn’t gone off the deep
end long before.”
****
Last short scene of chapter. Whit is getting instructions
and training via brainwashing telepathy.
Study this dream carefully,
Whit, and remember it. Someone had spoken. But nobody was close by…was the
voice just in his head? And how could it know his name? Before Whit could
determine where the voice had come from a new vision appeared. He saw people
falling, and screaming. He saw much blood spurting. He looked down. A gun.
He was firing the gun that was causing all the screaming and blood.
He watched for a few seconds, then shook
his head. He tried. His head barely moved, but enough to end that horrible
scene. And what was that scene? Was it one of his abnormal dreams?—but
he was awake! It was daytime! He had enough mind left to realize that the scene
was viciously violent, and something he would never, never, ever, do. So
why was he dreaming that he would do it?
Thanks for reading
Author’s notes
(Digital
downloads $0.99-$4.99; paperbacks $10.00-$29.95)
In my fiction I do
not try to create super-heroes, but rather bring alive common and regular
people who try to find love, survive, and react to circumstances as best they
can, and, usually, try to do the right thing. The books are more than one
genre, from war to sex and violence to romance to humor to horror to
fantasy to science fiction to adventure, I write in
third-person with viewpoints by men, women, and children.
Contact
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