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"The individual against the syndicate in 2044: a short story"


by Jon Rappoport

August 22, 2013

You’re an unemployed artist.

The year is 2044. A series of bombings has rocked the Capitol in the Western White House District, which is located in the heart of Hollywood. The Eastern seaboard is now uninhabitable, owing to a mysterious Monsanto accident, which rendered all plant life in that region poisonous…

Reality is a nasty syndicate operation. The technical side is put together by high-IQ idiots. They like to fiddle. They like the con. They like to torpedo the mind.

The syndicate is the Reality Manufacturing Company.

You buy a ticket to Disneyland, which encompasses the area from San Francisco to Tijuana, go through the big gate, and soon find out there’s no exit. At least you’re relatively safe. You book a small hotel room in Aspartame Village.

A note is taped to the back of the toilet, where you’ve been told to look. It’s unsigned. You read it while you’re preparing supper: powdered eggs, water, and a squirt of SweetHeaven:

“Greetings, GuestL28vi35. This to warn you the pillars of the community, the people who are supposed to be ‘doing good,’ are up to their necks in the operation. They’re hustling reality like porn.

“At the upper levels, we’ve even got the STE Command, peddling the space-time-energy continuum everyone is so fond of. Only one tin can and we’re all in it, biological machines ‘doing our best to get along.’

“Until recently, there was a sense that artists knew something about all this and were exposing the Company. But now, propaganda is eating into their psyches, or their work isn’t finding the light of day Some have been conned into high-flying rhetoric about saving humanity and working together to build a better world inside the prevailing political framework. There is no better world inside the prevailing political framework.

“It’s just another hustle. Cheap salesmen on the job. ‘Here, let me try this pair of shoes on you. I think you’ll like them a lot…they’re supposed to feel tight, otherwise, the design doesn’t work.’

“The artist should be ripping away masks, exposing the Company employees. Adorning some fake religion promoted by the State, like the current MaR24tc, isn’t his job.

“But he’s promoting peace these days as if it were a little magic stone you rub. Or a gold fairy worm inside a gourd you shake.

“Overthrowing the reality-con is the work of the artist. He’s got to take to it like a duck to water. He has to like it. He has to use his weapons, all of them. He has to build bigger towers than the Company.

“Lately, have you noticed people asking you, ‘Are you coming from a place of anger or love?’ First of all, ‘coming from a place of’ is psycho-op lingo. It’s fake wisdom for the kiddies (adults whose development has been arrested in the Oprah-phase). I personally am coming from a lot of different places, including San Diego. It’s a town populated by many androids. They’ve learned to affect a pose of happiness because frankly they don’t know what else to do.

“I bring this up because it’s another Company op. Goes like this: find a place ‘to come from,’ and then make your existence an emotional bumper sticker. REDUCTION.

“That’s exactly what the syndicate wants. It opposes proliferation because it can’t profile it. The Matrix is built on the need to reduce thought. Reduction inevitably leads to whining and complaining. Then props called spiritual leaders emerge out of the woodwork and offer to solve the complaints. But they never can (even if they wanted to), because the original problem remains. REDUCTION.

“Our glorious New Age, so-called, is exactly that: THOUGHT REDUCTION. It fails, and the aftermath is ugly. People become contortionists and end up eating their own livers. They don’t even know how to season them. They take it straight.

“You might be wondering who I am. I’m from the Movable Underground Museum. You’ve probably heard of it. The Company calls us dangerous because we’ve found a way to dismantle their product.

“I can’t give you details in an open message. Keep your eyes open. We show up here and there. You’ll know. So far, we’ve laid out two new universes. They’re empty. Lots of room for adventurous souls.

“Here’s something else to keep your eye on, too. The Company’s reality is breaking down. You may see seams in odd places where there shouldn’t be any. Don’t pick at them or point them out to other people. You’ll get busted for that. A seam is usually a long thin blue line. If it pops far enough, you’ll see a different kind of space behind it. Stay calm.

“For the past two weeks, a big seam has been exposed at the corner of Sunset Boulevard and Vermont Avenue. Don’t try to go there. Crowds were gathering. The DHS came in and hosed them down with a version of Roundup. Upwards of six thousand people were arrested, and DHS has the area cordoned off with tanks.

“If you can still pick up SubNetB8 on your mobile device, you can see pictures. The white light streaming through the gap in the seam? It’s been photoshopped in. It isn’t really there. Neither are the UFOs or the voices. That’s the Company. They’re staging a ‘virtual drill’ in the area. Lots of phony religious content. It’s a cover. They’ve built a temp church in Silver Lake to handle the overflow of new believers.

“If somebody approaches you with an offer to travel to Mexico, then sneak back into the US and apply for benefits, don’t bite. Tomorrow morning, before nine, walk to the Mickey Pavilion, turn left and keep going for about a mile. On your right, you’ll see a small shed painted green. Behind the shed is a cheap water ride. Take out a boat and row to the Secret Tunnel.

“Take it. When the little train has been in the tunnel for a minute, you’ll see a dim corridor on your left. Hop off the train and walk along the corridor. You’ll come to the back of the Clinton-Bush-Obama Mountain. At the base is a service door. It’s unlocked.

“Go through and you’ll be standing on the corner of Ashbury Street and First Avenue. A day’s walk east will take you out into the desert. The fences are broken. Get out into the desert and head toward the Nevada Hills. You’ll see it. It’s a huge white hotel about five miles in.

“A mile before the hotel, you’ll come to a wide crack in the desert floor. It’s not a crack. The Company’s Simul is breaking down there. It’s an exit. Use it if you have the courage.”

You burn the note, sit and eat your powdered eggs and watch the news. You think about what you’re going to do. Or not do.

A few sentences float in from somewhere. They were written by Philip K Dick, an ancient writer whose works have been outlawed:

“Because today we live in a society in which spurious realities are manufactured by the media, by governments, by big corporations, by religious groups, political groups…So I ask, in my writing, What is real? Because unceasingly we are bombarded with pseudo-realities manufactured by very sophisticated people using very sophisticated electronic mechanisms…And it is an astonishing power: that of creating whole universes, universes of the mind. I ought to know. I do the same thing.”
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