What’s My Price?

What’s your price? It takes more than 450 people to enable a Global Hawk drone strike. Let’s call the length of the operation 24 hours from leaving the hanger to post-flight debriefing and aircraft maintenance back in the hanger.
With salaries ranging from $20,000 per month for perhaps one officer in this scenario, yes, he spends his time at the Officer’s Club, to $10,000pm for the first actual working person on this job, to $1,700pm for the go-fer, with the drone operator making something around the middle of this range, it’s easy to see the costs are exorbitant. I’m making a ballpark guesstimate that one drone-kill-op costs upwards of $1.5 million; and I think that’s a low ball.
That of course does not include initial purchase price of about $140 million per unit, incentive driven gifting (wow, that was polite), and too many other obvious and not so obvious costs that counting them all would explode my brain. Seems to be doing that all the time these days. It’s the heat I tell you.
I think the question of my price comes back into the picture here. Wingnut Widgets offers me a job at $27.50 per hour, which I desperately need as I’ve been out of work for some time. I know that they are affiliated with the military, but exactly how I don’t know. My partner will be happy, we’ll have groceries, rent. I take the job.
About three months later a release mechanism that I had machined for a fake rock, containing reconnaissance equipment, performed a miss-timed release and at 03:35 local time said rock slammed into a home in Nebraska and weighing,in at well over 800 kilo demolished a sleeping Ashley and Kevin and removed their father’s legs; the bedrooms were adjoined. The rock was part of an inter-agency operation and designed for long-term neighbourhood watch and listen. This was a rock of the police’s dreams.
Had it fallen where it was supposed to, close to a high school, middle school, and parks, the ability to listen directionally or generally, visually see through a full range of the spectrum from hundreds of angles, and perform a wide range of other technological wizardry from phone and computer hacking to quite literally blowing itself up. Now it was a guest of what was left of the Miller family.
I’m going to leave, quite properly, how this story ends to your imagination. The Rock from the sky as it became known was unable to be explained and it was removed as expeditiously as possible. Alternate delivery methods for the technology were utilized in future operations. As for me, I had no clue that it was a slight error in my machining that had caused the mayhem. My company was in Tulsa. We used steel of unknown-to-me origin. All I did all day was work and be happy for it.
Meanwhile, other parts I had made during my training period were in use in Northern Pakistan on Predator drones with killer intent. I did not know this either of course. I had been bought for $27.50 per hour and could afford cable, watched the news and shook my head in disgust at the depersonalised approach to undeclared war that our government, and others’, were taking. But what could I do?

Taxing Work

Do banks own our police? Yes, where else would the cop go for money. Does the government own our police? Yes, but not our government of the people but the government within that. That government is appointed not elected, and able to create money from nothing in collusion with the banks. The government of the 1964 coup d’etat.
Do corporations own our police? Yes, these are the people for whom the money from nothing, and the laws that support that illusion by not-our-government enacts, exist.
All of this begs the question: if I am not part of appointed government (this includes innumerable acronyms from A to Z, a partial list of which may be found here – http://www.acronymslist.com/ and includes all police agencies,) banks, or the executives of corporations, then do the police work for me?
Have fun with that list, you will find laughs, chortles, guffaws, and many other synonyms, and surprises. We also find fear. The younger Bush spat in our faces with ‘you are either with us or our enemy’. He was not talking about Al Qaeda, which is only a database anyway, or any foreign terrorists. He was talking about and to us.
As with the previously linked PNAC, the terror is being fed to us straight. We are too attached to what we have, we recognize that revolution and mass gatherings will be suppressed by whatever means necessary. By the police.

New Readers

A reader fresh to this site would do best to start at the beginning. Hey, Doc., I hope that’s you knocking at the door of insight. This is a one-time notice and need not be heeded in the slightest way but, go ahead, you know you want to go here: copy/paste


I am jumping away from the fiction as I don’t have the time for doing it justice right now and will spell out the facts as I know them and be done with the sordid affair. My Facebook is fully transparent for this, and I am using this forum to put the order back to properly linear from FB’s necessarily reversed blog style.

Poor plain not-real Beth. I have no real sympathy for her. She was a greedy character who deserved no neural adventures in the brainy pathways of real people. Suffice it to say that the hidden, secret elevators below the Twin Towers of WTC1 and WTC2 were real. What really happened as the deliveries were made to those small empty rooms was that the elevator shaft was filled with an ultra-fast hardening slurry. One of the more technically difficult bits of the whole operation. You will soon know why.

The World Trade Center buildings known as WTC1 and WTC2 were turned to dust by dial-a-nukes, either RA-115 or RA-116. These were placed a very precise distance below each building and released exactly the energy required. I will be detailing each aspect as I can muster the time and energy, and will answer any and all objections once the detailed description of the crime have been published.

World Trade Center building 7 was brought down initially by pre-placed controlled demolition devices, and a dialled-down nuke was released at the exact end of that process to ensure destruction of the command and control equipment.

The devices used at WTC1 and WTC2 were not atomic weapons. They were thermo-dynamic two-stage hydrogen/helium devices. The radiation release was very low, in effect negligible at ground level.

In one of the few mistakes made in what can only be described as the most well planned and executed false flag operation in history, perhaps never to be bettered, there was slight gamma contamination at the sites of the placement elevator shafts. This was written off as background anomalies from various equipment being used on site.

The Pentagon was hit by a missile that precisely hit its target. Had it not there was a 0.5 megaton thermo-nuclear device on board that would have ensured destruction of a large part of Washington D.C., including the office of ONI which was the intended target.

All of these devices were of Russian/Soviet origin and purchased by the perpetrators, with the Pentagon missile fired by a Russian ship some distance offshore.

This is in no way to insinuate that this was a Russian operation. Their crime was one of capitalism taken to the extreme. This gives Putin insider power far beyond any other leader/oligarch.

The criminals are arranged in layers of knowledge with Dick Cheney and Don Rumsfeld as the ones with the bulk, but not all, of the plan. They both had back-up shadows I will talk about later as they were not required and eventually disposed of quietly.

The key instigator and chief perpetrator was/is George H.W. Bush.

I will get on with describing the crime of the millennium (okay, that’s obvious hyperbole in many ways, but maybe not so much in some…) in the morning. A distillation so far: WTC1&2 dustified by dial-a-nukes placed below with WTC7 finished off as clean-up. Pentagon struck by missile. Criminals GHW Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld and many others. The easing into the conversation by Architects and Engineers and others is the criminal’s fall-back position and was accomplished by the actual placement of some these things so as to leave traces. There had to be a fall-back as the official theory was not physically possible. Now journalists and bar room talksters can say that yes it was controlled demolition but with all the evidence gone let’s just get on with life.

Here is what the “pile” disappeared into… oh, the disgusting puns are going to get worse…this is old, old tech. but is your homework for tonight.

One Act – Act 1

What follows is Part 1 of a short story that fictionally tells what cannot be factually told due to compartmentalization of those involved in the affair, and airtight plausible deniability for those very few that know the full scenario and how it went down. My research began around 10am Yukon time on September 11th, 2001, and has never ceased. This date should be properly known as 11/9 but the propagandists ensured the Americanization of it to 911, forever etching that initial emergent crisis into global consciousness as a phone call away.
Within half an hour Osama, CIA asset, had been made the fall-guy, and the rest is history as dictated by various acronymic suits and uniforms, a compliant and complicit press, and me and you in not wanting to upset the cart too much lest we all lose. No criminal investigation, disposal of evidence as quickly as possible, withholding of in-disposable evidence, and an agenda lain bare right in front of us within the PNAC http://www.wikiwand.com/en/Project_for_the_New_American_Century

Act 1

A woman stepped confidently out of the deepest elevator shaft available

to the maintenance staff of World Trade Center building 1. The smell was

of a concrete stuffiness despite the huge space. Perhaps it took decades

to cure way down here, she thought to herself, and fired up a cannabis

cigarette as if to dispel the notion. Decades? The way the world

conceived of itself would be changed within hours.

The orders for her and her other two con-patriots (sic. – there’s to be a

lot of sic(k)ness ahead Dear Reader) were clear, precise, and the pay for

such a simple task plain extraordinary. Her Cayman account had already

received $10 million with another 90 to be deposited upon her phone call

to the Pentagon from a lobby payphone here at WTC1. $100,000,000. Nobody

would turn that down.

The task was dead simple. She walked a few hundred yards through the

echoes, smelling and starting to feel just fine, until she spied the tiny

red dot. Unless you knew better first instinct would be to sweep it up

or, as it had been for a very long time for the few that came down here,

ignore it as a flaw in an otherwise perfectly poured floor; in the manner

of the finest Persian carpet requiring that almost invisible blemish,

proving that only Allah could do perfection.

Beth was not Muslim or of any faith. Twenty-five years old, plain and

dressed the part, with a large multi-hologram badge that allowed access

without question anywhere she wanted to go within the building. Removing

the jeweller’s kit from her false phone, Beth placed the smallest

screwdriver on top of the red cotton microdot and pushed. That seemed so

silly but there it was, a micro-hole and she turned the driver one full

turn and two full turns the other way. The doorway to hell consisted of a

lock the size of nothing, in essence.

A block with a Maxwell Smart phone booth rose up and in she stepped. What

happened next rather surprised her as they had said this was another

elevator. Instead, as soon as the door had been properly pushed shut, the

downward velocity got fast in a hurry until it was a virtual free fall.

That lasted virtually no time, slowed to a carnival ride quick stop, and

did nothing. She pulled open the door, always a hassle with those old

payphones, and stepped into a small room with one bare cupboard and an

off white bulb.

Beth had been told that her package, weighing around 20 kilos she

guessed, was to be placed in the cupboard any old way and that was it,

job done. This she did, though being a neat type person she squared it up

to the centre, admired her non-work and took the step back to the phone

box and shut the door. The expectation was to be whisked back up, ready

for the abruptness this time, return to the lobby, make her call, and hop

a flight to Belize where she had booked a high-end suite.

What actually took place was nothing. There seemed to be a lot of nothing

these days and she was starting to take it personally. Like any rational

person she did all the usual opening and closing and banging and clanking

and swearing things she could think of to get some action, always keeping

in mind that a sudden start at the wrong time could deftly remove a part

or parts of her body. She got out of the phone box and stared at it. That

is when she knew.

I’m Coming in Time

World War 3 began in 1939, we have the numbering wrong. World War 4 began with Victory in Japan and the rise of global Fascism and continues today; by which I mean the indistinguishably of corporate and government agendas.

WW1 was the removal by whatever means of the rights and power of indigenous populations, and started slowly – our machines were slow – and picked up the pace as the ability to subjugate became more efficient. These wars never end precisely but fade away into the next level of technical ability. The rise of generalized artificial intelligence and its embedding with the military/industrial/corporate/entertainment/government complex, the stock for our acronym soup if you like, will mark World War 5 and the end of the need for free thinking humans.

World War 2 began with the carefully planned execution of Ferdinand in 1914 and was a consolidation period for the major arms manufacturers to sell their wares to both sides. This of course had always been happening but the scale now became epic. The introduction of fractional reserves toward the beginning of WW1, late 1600′s, made this possible.

The break of major hostilities from 1919 – 1939 enabled the build up of the technologies of mass killing to be agglomerated by both, artificially created by fractional bankers, sides. We have been suffering within a dream of the brandy snifter set in London, Washington, Moscow… and will continue to so suffer without a treaty analogous the that of the Six Nations applied on a global scale.

This started as a response to Luca Majno and rather grew. I would like to add that there is still a chance. Keeping generalized artificial intelligence, GAI, sand-boxed would be a start. Gaining control of our banking system and the de-militarization of police forces would be another. Let’s make The Wall truly symbolic.


Before I tell you of my adventures in London and return to Grannie’s, I must say that now I can completely commiserate with those that have had an encounter with Norovirus. I can’t describe the awful completeness of the debilitating nature of this bug. In my case it ran its course in 60 hours or so, and with my complicating health issues I probably should have been hospitalized. I knew what I had and that the only treatment is to stay in bed and stay as hydrated as possible. A hospital IV would have been ideal but I have had enough of those and seen quite enough of hospitals. This was my first encounter with anything but a mild food poisoning, which is like a mosquito bite compared to the scorpion sting of Norovirus. At the moment I am scared of food that is not the freshest and prepared by me, shaking hands, or shared anything, and people in general. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Norovirus I’ll get over the experience as what fun is it without people and food and “shakin’ it up baby”?


When I left you on my de-schooling journey (http://abuddhas.net/?p=130) I had snagged a decent hitch away from the the old-boy’s club of Blundells School, mastered by old boys of various stripes if you catch my meaning, and all the way into the heart of London. I was let out of the car without ceremony at a youth hostel. I had very limited funds, and had also broken the cardinal rule of never forgetting your towel, though I’m not sure I had even been taught that lesson yet.

The clerk no doubt saw dozens of young idealists without a clue every day, looking for a bed and perhaps some guidance around this huge and alien city. I believe I had five pounds (@ $12.50 at the time) and the bed was to be half a pound, $1.25, and included a bed in a dorm style arrangement just like at the school except with bunks. There was a large shower room and rows of sinks shared by gals and guys, as was the dorm, replete with the ambrosic and calming odour of hashish. This did nothing for my finances but everyone shared what altered states of consciousness they had available. Granola, trail mix, was also a shared resource but that is where the social equality ended and paranoia set in seeing as there was no hostel security. I slept with my shoes on.

A nice hot shower in the morning was co-ed but in no way prurient. Without a towel it was very much air dry and a squeak into yesterday’s clothes. That is only a minor reason to never forget your towel. You must read Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy to have a more comprehensive Knowledge of the Implications.

So I had $3.75, about 1 lb of front desk guidance booklets, and a city of unimaginable size to explore. Another night at the hostel and a fish and chips and a pint and I’d be broke. That was not going to work. The light bulb that turned on was that I was still an American citizen and surely they would help in some way, Off to the embassy I trundled admiring all in my path and entered its lobby of empire with high hopes of being a fellow well met. I drew my military dependent card and proceeded to tell my woeful tale to the attending bureaucrat. His demeanor was not welcoming in the least. I was a hippy-ish looking kid making contact with and actually asking for help from Him and all he stood for in those years of kids not much older than me enduring the slaughter of Vietnam.

A kindly middle-aged lady next to me had heard our transaction, said that there were a few nights left in her room reservation at the embassy and that I would be welcome to them. My eyes lit up with a zest that only an unjaded youth could possess and I thanked her profusely. The eyes of the man behind the desk darkened as only a hardened careerist’s could, exclaimed without any displayed affect that that would not be possible and would I please leave the embassy. And there it was.
I stood on the sweeping steps of this massive edifice, hope dashed, caught between the idealism of a new shared and happy world and the actual harsh fact of slammed doors in the face of optimism. The lady from the embassy lobby came down the stairs to me and handed me a ten pound note, and told me I really should go home but see a bit of the city first. My spirits were at first lifted, and then a deep malaise set in; my education had truly begun.

You were likely wondering when we’d get back to the primary focus of part one of the Journal of the Hermitage. I’ll make my best effort not to break any more of myself so as to be able to continue in a more unbroken fashion. As I heal in the places I physically can, much of what I relate will be a mixture of miraculous insights and broken perceptions. There is no way around it. The entirely clear-minded child open to all possibility and dazzled by the improbability of it all falls from grace. What is found is hypocrisy, cynicism, deception and the rest of the detritus of human confusion. There is joy, exuberance and lust, empathy, compassion and the rest of the manifest of human love.

Next time, the journey back to Blundells to face the music. For now how about the soundtrack of the day:

Falling 2

I’m going to slow our decent. How exactly I will accomplish this feat that has baffled the brightest minds, which I certainly am not, is a mystery even to me. But slow our various falls to a level capable of study, leading to resolution, I am determined to do. So sit back and enjoy what I suppose will be embarrassing to me and perhaps a laugh for you. Unless of course I succeed. If I do, we likely won’t know. A drone dispatched from the Keepers of the Living Light, KILL, will perform a memory wipe using electricity. Investigation in matters electrical is slated for an upcoming essay titled ‘Flow Down’.

Let’s start with gravity. Our current understanding is a potential kinetic mess, with more complications arising the nearer we get to simplicity. Gravity is built into and is heavily into itself. The ultimate partier as it is completely self-contained and self-contained completely. A dull guest at best, we’ve observed enough. Slow-ness defined.

Much more difficult to retard, and at least as exciting as Olympic hockey, was celebrated yesterday in the name of an early Christian named Valentinus. Falling into love, however one might interpret that, seems to require the felling of countless trees for cards to be quickly forgotten or disposed of in ways that are certainly not loving. Chocolates, flowers, and jewelry help the species procreate, though the exact relationship between those wildly disparate forms is studied with the deepest thoroughness by advertisers, sociologists, psychologists, and many other specialists that give not a whit about love or falling. Thus being a personal and private matter, there is nothing there for our attention. Slow, and frankly none of my business.

Falling between the cracks is the usual way of the dispossessed and is painful to watch. Sluggish, too, since we are all reluctant to fill. Pontification is low cost and gives the appearance that something is happening when nothing actually is. Slow and dirty.

There are many ways to fall. There are astronomical ways of not falling at all. We can experience, to some extent describe, but we can in no way explain. Slow, deep, unresponsive.

I’ll leave you with Connie Francis – Fallin’