Old School Deep Knight Adventure

[Deep Knight]

You've gotta be kidding. First of all, it was said in Russian by a Russian, so it comes out of their mouths in those funny Cyrillic letters. Second, while it's true I've had millions of lovers, the necessary brevity of each encounter has limited conversation and the sheer number overwhelmed my memory of all but the most unusual couplings. Not to mention that most of the comments were either compliments on my performance and its thoroughness or complaints that after what just happened no other man could satisfy them. I doubt anything even close to "my star" in any language came up in our conversations or orgasmic screams.

[Deep Knight]

The Return of the Mad Monk
Another Reprehensible Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Five – We Make Our Stand at Bitter Creek

It wasn’t long after Putin returned to Russia that Hillary came into my office, light on her feet as if dancing in air. I know I predicted she would be walking funny, but that was simply a literary device to let you know that repeated reciprocal ravishing was on the menu. “He’s so sweet,” she almost sang, “Did you know he crashed that Russian airplane a couple weeks ago, killing everyone aboard just to cover up my treasonous Uranium One deal?”

I didn’t ruin her fantasies by telling her that it was a different Vyacheslav Ivanov who was amongst the casualties; not the one who was CFO of Rosatom, but the younger guy who is, er, was running against a Putin surrogate in the upcoming elections. I don’t blame Vladimir for lying to her, as long as a hostile press was going to accuse him of some crime simply because he ordered it, he might as well milk as much benefit out of it as he can. Instead we chatted about Bill, the new grandchild, how the e-mail server cover up was coming along, and family stuff like that. But it was getting late, and time to go home and relax by catching some of those Olympic highlights before they ended. Hillary stopped me for one more question before I locked the door and released the Dobermans, “What we’re doing may be wrong but it’s alright, isn’t it? I mean, here I am the one that’s wallowing in treasonous collusion, not Trump, breaking the laws of man, god, and physics for my own selfish pleasure. Makes a thinking person think. The world’s such a crazy mess and the future’s so uncertain … What I mean is, if you love each other it’s alright to do ‘it,’ isn’t it? You know, supporting the FBI even though you’re a liberal?”

I assured the love-struck FLOTUS that she would never go wrong remembering that, “the enemy of my enemy is my friend, but that doesn’t mean I should trust him to give me an enema.” Then I went even further. No, not like that, anyone thinking dirty thoughts about me and Hillary will be liquidated! I mean in explaining my thought process, and through it my worldview. “I’m, no philosopher,” I postulated, “but I’ve always believed in the Epicurean maxim ‘if it feels good, do it.’ It doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you'll understand that you’re overthinking the situation and should throw caution to the wind, but we all know that in our shadow world ‘someday’ never actually comes because we, ourselves are thwarting it.” She left confused, especially by my reference to three people instead of two (that I know of), but comforted.

Imagine my lack of surprise when she returned the next day with more alarming news about her sweetie. While campaigning in some unpronounceable place in the boonies, he apparently started what would best be described as “preaching.” I tried to calm Hillary by pointing out that politicians on the stump tended to pontificate now and again, but she wasn’t having any of it.

“He was going on about forgiveness, blessed saints, god, the comfort of faith, and all that stuff we liberals mock when we’re alone. I don’t know what to think!”

“Who knows how Russian electioneering works,” I observed, “this could be a normal part of the process, like kissing babies and paying-off porn stars. I wouldn’t panic.”

“But you haven’t heard the rest of the sordid tale. After blessing the multitudes, he wandered into the crowd without his security detail and started to heal the sick. The lame were walking, the blind seeing, the deaf hearing, and the impotent doing you-know-what right there in the sub-zero cold and snow.”

“Cool,” I commented, “With the religious and exhibitionist vote sewn up, he should have no problem winning in a landslide.”

“But you don’t understand,” continued know-it-all Hillary, “This happened suddenly, as if someone flipped a switch. One moment he was droning on about some 5-year plan, then suddenly he was the Orthodox Billy Graham. That’s not all, he reverted back again just as suddenly! Vladimir had just placed his hands on some man’s private area and was reciting some prayer, when he shook his head, withdrew his hand with an apology, walked back to the podium, and picked up his prepared speech where he had left off.”

That Vladimir, ever the showman. “If you’re worried, why don’t you give him a call? Or better yet, Skype him?”

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do?” she rudely countered, but I forgave her seeing as how she was upset. “He’s not answering, and his message box is full. What do you think it all means?”

“You of all people should know how stressful a political campaign can be. So what he’s decided to go a little ‘old school’ with his public speaking? If it works in our Deep South it probably works in their more-undesirable living locations too, which I understand is the whole damned frozen country.”

Hillary didn’t make the Council of The Twelve’s weekly budget review, or the show-and-tell by R&D of their new process which not only will eliminate the need to keep boiling acid baths around for the disposal of bodies, but can be installed on your phone as an app. Ain’t modern technology amazing? Anyway, I was a little concerned because who knew when Trump might get a wild hair up his butt and decide to actually “lock her up,” so I had the satellite triangulate her chip implant, and found she was in the building in “The Cubical Coven,” which is what we call the Witches’ office area. Using my phone (another app!) I homed in on her location, which was talking to the head of surveillance and remote viewing, a disgusting crone named Sally, along with Satan’s better half Gladys! Sally was staring into a large crystal ball while rubbing it with her black-gloved hands and muttering the incantation, “Double, double, toil and trouble. Fire burn and cauldron bubble.” No doubt she sensed that Gladys and Hillary would be impressed by Shakespeare.

“I see a man in a monk’s cassock,” she moaned in that annoying sing-song voice witches use when they’re hamming it up.

“A what?” asked Gladys, with that peevish “you better answer right now or I’ll kill you” tone of hers.

“A full-length tunic of a single color worn by certain Christian clergy, members of church choirs, acolytes, and others having some particular office or role in a church. In the Russian Orthodox Church they are black, it goes with everything.”

“That can’t be Vladimir,” said Hillary, relieved, “with him it’s either a suit or shirtless, no long black dresses or robes.”

“He also has a thick beard and a black kamilavka,” revealed the deformed diviner, “one of those eraser-head hats that sacrifice style for lack of utility. Useless for keeping the rain off your face or shading your eyes from the harsh sun.”

I interrupted the conjurer’s fashion commentary to alert Hillary to my presence (you don’t want to come up on her backside unannounced, she literally has killer reflexes), I also needed to alert her to an “unbalance in the fabric of the universe” alert that had just come up on my phone (yet another app!), and the video it triggered. There, in front of a huge crowd, one even bigger than the last presidential inauguration, was Vladimir Putin in a funny black hat, long black tunic, and sporting a thick, black beard!

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Return of the Mad Monk
Another Just Plain Wrong Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Six – Murder on the Moscow Mule

Putin was reverting back to Rasputin before our eyes! Not only was he our friend, he was the lynchpin in the fluffy soufflé that was our fiendish plan to rule the world! For all of our sakes, and to meet contractual obligations, we needed to do something about this fast!

Luckily, the Slice Girls were about to leave South Korea where they had been supporting various competitors in the Biathlon, the only remaining Illuminati assassin-inspired Olympic event. Based on late-fall-to-early-spring alpine ‘wet work,’ they involve skiing in with a rifle, shooting it, and then escaping, also by ski. Originally one of many such events, with long-distance running, horseback riding, and swimming, wrestling, armored vehicles, and negotiating an obstacle course being the others. I especially like the last event, with large pipes, hurdles, balance beams, and climbing towers substituting for the sewers, fences, rooftops, and stone walls of urban assassination. Illuminati contestants (from all the good countries, not the shithole ones) dominated the sports, both because of training and judge elimination or intimidation. Unfortunately, with fame comes exposure, and when the organization decided to “lay low” in the late 50’s as a favor to you-know-who, the events we dominated were quietly eliminated except for the Biathlon. This was mostly due to its abysmally-low ratings, it was even beaten by women’s curling, but also to keep us from killing them as vengeance. So the Slice Girls were there, cheering on their sharpshooter friends and partying all night with snowboarders and freestyle skiers.

I bypassed the Illuminati Travel Office and told them to go to the airport, arrange ticket transfers face-to-sword with agents at the counter, and jet directly to Moscow. You would be amazed at how a few sharp blades shorten otherwise-lengthy airline paperwork. Just in case more was going on than was meeting our eyes, Hillary, Satan, Gladys and I decided to take the company jet to Scandinavia, sneak into Russia via Helsinki then by train to Finland Station in St. Petersburg. A tried and true method suggested by some Bolshevik friend of Satan’s. From there, we continued by commercial commuter aircraft, a YU-142 “Flying Musk Ox,” to our destination in Moscow.

I avoided the 5-star hotel Satan and I had stayed in during our last visit. It wasn’t that rude manager who tried to charge my company credit card for supposed damage caused by “overflow” from Satan’s little penthouse party, I had him and his staff liquidated last month. No, it was because when you generate the sheer volumes Satan’s tête-à-tête produced, everything gets so inundated that you never get rid of the smell. Instead, we went directly to Vladimir’s “Dacha” (Hillary had her own key) in the frozen wilderness outside of town, and waited for his return from a rally in Попки (Popki). The Big Guy and Gladys went to the kitchen to raid the fridge and Hillary paced back and forth, agitated, while I napped in front of a roaring fire.

Suddenly, with a great banging and shouting, Vladimir came through the door. He wasn’t wearing a beard or monk’s robes, but his bloodshot eyes had a wild, fugitive look that made we wonder if everything was normal. His collapsing on the floor confirmed my suspicions, and as he came to and Hillary cradled him in her arms I slapped him around and got the answers we needed to keep the story from bogging down.

“I am to having two other people living inside brain, when they are to taking over I can listen and watch but not make body do anything to stop,” the burnt-out dictator groaned. Mad monk bad enough, getting me in trouble with womens, but HE even worse!”

“Other women!” shrieked Hillary, but I calmed her down after disarming her by noting that Vladimir hadn’t been himself and that perhaps, just this once, she should be understanding. She didn’t like it, but she held her fire.

“I know all about this!” announced Gladys, “I took psychology in college, watch Doctor Phil every morning, and have seen ‘The Three Faces of Eve!’ It’s a classic case of multiple personalities, except in this case they’re all previous what-cha-ma-call-ems from his past. All we have to do is figure out which one is timid Eve White, slutty Eve Black, or well-balanced Jane, then kill both Eves and we’ll end up with the sexy bare-chested guy!”

I’m sure Gladys has made less sense in the past, but I couldn’t swear to it from personal experience. Still, insulting the boss’ wife doesn’t get you any points, so I nodded like an idiot and left it for Hillary to step it. Unfortunately, events prevented her from having the chance, as Vladimir started to shake and foam at the mouth.

“No, no, not him!” he gasped in a panicked voice, “Not Beria! No! I won’t let you!”

“Beria?” mused Satan, “I kind of remember that name, but who is he was escapes me. Was his first name Yogi, and wasn’t he a catcher for the Yankees?”

With Vladimir flailing around like a fish out context, Hillary bawling, and Gladys and Satan generally getting underfoot, I didn’t have time to explain, so I did.

“Lavrentiy Pavlovich Beria (Лавре́нтий Па́влович Бе́рия in that funny way they talk) was the longest surviving of Stalin's secret police chiefs, running what was then called the NKVD with an iron fist. At the Yalta Conference Stalin introduced him to U.S. President Franklin D. Roosevelt as ‘our Himmler’ and it's said he blushed. He was a bully, coward, responsible for the murder of millions during the ‘Great Purge’ and ‘Red Army Purge,’ the latter not being as great as the former, but still pretty good. He tried to take over along with Molotov and Malenkov after Stalin’s death, but was arrested and imprisoned by Khrushchev. He was shot by firing squad the next morning, a fate many others had met at his hands, which is no doubt why his last words were ‘It's déjà vu all over again.’”

“Molotov!” spat out Vladimir-as-Beria, who had been writhing and listening politely, waiting for me to finish, “He get cocktail named after him, I get hot lead bullets in chest. Ho boy, just to be waiting until I come to fork in road, will take it and stick in saggy Foreign Minister chest!”

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Return of the Mad Monk
Another Unwarrantable Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Seven – The Three Graces of Thieves

The story so far: Vladimir Putin, Hillary Clinton’s steady boyfriend and Russian dictator, was really Rasputin, a 149-year-old Russian mystic famous for his debauched lifestyle. For some unknowable reason, his current “Putin” personality had separated from his original “Rasputin” one, causing a surge in interest at his bipolar campaign rallies, but concern among his friends. This led to our visit, where the appearance of a third “face of Eve” personality, the head of Stalin’s Secret Police, Lavrentiy “Yogi” Beria, had resulted in our tying our psychotic friend up. Beria was not only a mass-murdering monster, you couldn’t trust him. But, with the election only days away, it was imperative that we get the “Putin” personality back so that he could win the fixed election in a believable fashion, unlike what happened last year in America. Desperately short of time, I decided to stop playing mister nice guy.

“It ain’t over till it’s over,” defiantly growled the Yogi Beria personality.

“Hello in there. I would like to talk to Vladimir, please. Are you in there Vlad? Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

Putin/Rasputin/Beria only growled more fiercely, and his eyes got unbelievably wide. In apparent homage to “The Exorcist“ his head started revolving around at a high RPM while he projectile vomited an unbelievable volume of partially-digested cabbage and potatoes all over the four of us. Political campaigns are notorious for forcing the food of the common people upon their masters. The smell was so horrible that it’s hard to describe, but anyone who’s ever been in a Boston bar at closing on St. Patrick’s Day will have some idea.

“I take it Vladimir can’t talk right now,” I observed, “but if he can wrestle control away from the guy with really bad manners now or anytime in the future, please let us know.” As gentlemen we let the ladies shower first while we wrestled “Yogi” into the laundry room to hose him off. After my shower I borrowed one of Vladimir’s robes and I was toweling my hair dry as I walked into the laundry room to watch the girls finish washing down Putin/Rasputin/Beria in the large walk-in sink. They had also finished the contents of a hip flask they had found while undressing him, and were chatting about an idea Gladys had for returning Putin to his old self.

“In your last adventure,” said Gladys, “there was a lot of talk about reversing the effects of one dose of drugs with another dose of the same drug. What if the problem actually stems from those first magic mushrooms Rasputin ate in that monastery, then another dose could maybe possibly cure him, huh?”

It was a stupid idea, based on a string of unlikely events, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t work. I had this friend in New Orleans, Loop Garoo, who had done extensive research in many of the obscure hallucinogens used in voodoo and other pagan ceremonies around the world. The only problem was that the subject taking these dangerous drugs was Loop himself, which led to both a wealth of first-hand knowledge and a rather strange and volatile personality. I called him up and told him my story.

“Being Siberia, the first mushroom that comes to mind is the Amanita muscaria or Fly agaric,” commented Loop knowledgably from his office at “Reverend Zombie’s House of Voodoo” in the French Quarter, “But being as it’s an iconic bright red with white spots, I don’t think it could have been mistaken for other mushrooms by anyone, no matter how nearsighted. Too bad, its use results in a horrible, nightmarish trip that never seems to end. Really a lot of fun if you’re in that sort of mood.”

“Rats,” I concluded, “I thought we might have something there, what else could it be?”

“Well, there are numerous Psilocybin mushrooms and similar species that grow in the birch forests of Eurasia. A more subtle, but still full-bodied high, with hints of earthiness and horse manure.”

Now we were getting somewhere. “So what I need is to give Vladimir a dose of this psilocybin stuff, huh? I’ve heard of that one, it think it was in ‘Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.’”

“Only some of the mushrooms have that as an ingredient, and effects come from the other substances as well. And if it was an Amanita, it could be any number of unrelated and potentially deadly alkaloids.”

“Don’t worry, Vladimir isn’t afraid to flirting with death,” I lied, “When can you get here?”

After a half hour of arguing, I hung up disappointed and suspicious that Loop was blowing me off and didn’t still have beads and confetti to clean-up in front of his shop, no matter how many girls were out flashing the crowd from his balcony. It’s been almost two weeks since Mardi Gras, and even with Loop being unable to walk a straight line that's plenty of time. I went to talk things over with Hillary and Satan, between her stash (1) and Satan’s mother’s, I figured I had access to a pretty large selection of dangerous drugs all by myself. I ran into Hillary, dancing around completely naked in front of the fire in Vladimir’s large den. She was singing a song that had a strange melody and the lyrics “La, la, la, la, la,” and moving her limbs in undulating motions to an unheard and unsteady rhythm. Shielding my eyes, I approached cautiously.

“Damn it Hillary!” I yelled, exasperated, “This is one hell of a time to get hopped-up on god-knows-what. I might have needed those drugs! I know you’re used to doing this sort of thing at home and at your campaign rallies, but this is serious. The fate of evil in the world just might depend on the things we do in this very chapter!” It felt funny being so stern, but as the Chairman of The Council of The Twelve I had new responsibilities, and besides, what would Satan say when he found out?

I didn’t have long to wait for an answer. Gladys apparently had also discarded her clothes, and by the time I found a way to shield my eyes from seeing her, it was too late. She ran across the room and literally jumped on Satan, who had just entered by the other door. He immediately knew something was wrong as she tried to take his clothes off too; they were married, and had done “it” less than two weeks earlier. Wrapping her in one of Putin’s bear rugs (Vladimir wrestled them down himself, while bare-chested of course), he pulled her over to the den’s couch while repeating slapping away her hands. She was giggling and occasionally flashing Hillary by opening the rug, who also giggled when she did.

“What the @#$! is going on here?” asked Satan, inquisitively, “Did you and Hillary smoke some of that stuff my mom sent me from Hawaii?”

The girls laughed even more, and Hillary started “dancing” and singing again. Satan went to fix himself a drink from the bar, shaking his head in disbelief at his wife’s irresponsible behavior, while I inquisitively walked over and picked up Vladimir’s hip flask, the one I had seen the girls drinking from earlier. I carefully sniffed it, and then tasted one of the remaining drops on my tongue. It was whiskey, but something wasn’t right with the taste so I spit it out. Strange too that it wasn’t Vladimir’s beloved Vodka. Suddenly, it hit me. “Don’t drink that!” I screamed at Satan, as he knocked back a shot of Old Crow from Putin’s well-stocked bar, “I think Putin’s liquor may have been poisoned with dangerous and possibly illegal drugs!”

To be continued…

(1) Hillary was traveling with two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers... and also a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Budweiser, a pint of raw ether and two dozen amyls. Not that she needed all that for the trip, but once you get locked into a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.

[Deep Knight]

The Return of the Mad Monk
Another Indefensible Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Eight – Sweet Turd of Youth

My warning so startled Satan that he gulped down his shot of possibly-tainted whiskey before he mentally processed that I had told him NOT to do that very thing. Good, it meant I wouldn’t have to find another guinea pig to try something from the liquor cabinet to test my amazing theory. A theory I would announce after a bit of online research, specifically into a couple people’s heights. If I hurried, I could explain it to Satan before the effects of any additives to his drink hit him, as it had the two girls.

After 10 minutes (those damn troll factories take up so much of the bandwidth that Russian internet is really slow), I returned, triumphant. Hillary and Gladys were still “dancing” naked, occasionally rubbing themselves against a trussed-up Putin who as Secret Police Chief Beria was snarling at them and their non-socialist ways. His dogmatic words about “the Party” only made them giggle.

“The secret is in their heights,” I revealed, “despite what some might think, Vladimir tied up over there is only 5’7” tall.” Hillary giggled and used her hand to either make the Illuminati hand signal for “tiny penis” or indicate that he was a couple of inches taller. “No really,” I continued, “I measured myself while he was ‘out,’ he wears special shoes, what we called ‘lifts’ before the fall of the Soviet Union.”

I threw the tape measure to Hillary, who to my amazement caught it. Like the alcoholic who has learned to appear sober to the untrained eye (until he drives you off a cliff), years of Hillary partying all night while wasted hadn’t been entirely wasted. This also seemed to really impress a staring Satan, although it might have been less her dexterity and more that he was ‘coming on’ to whatever had adulterated the liquor, and starting to actively hallucinate. Knowing that if I was right I only had him for a couple more minutes, I continued, despite Hillary and Gladys comic attempt to remove Vladimir’s pants. “Rasputin was 6’4”, a full 9” taller. And, if the ladies Hillary gossips with know their way around a man’s boxer shorts, and I’m pretty sure they do, Rasputin was larger in that category too.” I paused to let the gravity of what I had just said soak in.

“Then there’s Beria, who was only 5’3” tall, and hung like a hamster. Now I’ve heard of people shrinking from the ravages of age, but not getting taller and longer again later. None of this has made any sense from the get go, so it must mean there’s an alternative answer. Such as it was all caused by hallucinogenic drugs!”

“Lurp!” commented Satan, having trouble standing upright, “Molloo woo coo-coo-catchoo?”

“The last bit of proof I needed was Satan here,” I waved to him, and grinning he waved back, almost falling over as he did, “getting zonked out of his gourd from drinking that shot of Old Crow. Someone’s been spiking Vladimir’s liquor cabinet, and almost certainly the bar on his private airplane too. Adulterating it with something so strong it made Putin open to an alternate personality, no doubt imprinted during hypnosis. Electioneering is thirsty work, which explains using liquor, and since the drug seems to have a distinctive taste, this also explains the lack of flavorless spirits such as vodka in an otherwise well-stocked bar. I mean, who drinks Old Crow these days? Finally, they picked a Rasputin personality because they had a sick sense of humor, which was the only good part of this whole annoying scheme. They forced a hypnotized Putin to write a phony letter to Hoover, leaving it in the FBI’s most secret files where Hillary was sure to find it, and added the old scar-on-the-nipple trick to seal the deal. Beria, being ‘Stalin’s Executioner’ and coach of the Houston Astros, was a boyhood idol of Vlad’s, which explains why his tortured mind when to the comfort of this personality when the conflict between alternate altered egos got too raw.”

I waited for acknowledgement, but all I heard was the girls giggling and Satan humming the chorus of “Good Morning Starshine” from the musical “Hair.” The girls had gotten Vladimir’s pants off, and were holding the tape measure at different angles over his groin, laughing louder with each variation. Suddenly, Gladys bolted over to her husband’s side, and started once again ripping HIS clothes off. I couldn’t tell if the Big Guy wanted to resist or not, being more disoriented than I had ever seen him before, but it didn’t matter. Only a fool would get in Gladys’ way when she had a snoot full. Then, once again out of the blue, Gladys jumped up and yelled, “Oh goodie, it’s snowing!” and grabbing the now-also-naked Satan, pulled him outside and onto the large balcony. Cursing the chilly sub-zero draft, I shut the doors behind them.

“Turn around very slowly, Agent Knight, and keep your hands where I can see them,” came a woman’s voice that I would recognize anywhere. “You seem to have forgotten that if we could get access to Putin’s Dacha to add drugs to his booze, we could also plant listening devices. As you American cowboys say, twenty-three skidoo.”

“Forget about it?” I sneered, “I was counting on it! You didn’t think it really took me all that time to find 2 dead guy’s heights on Google, did you?” I pushed the button on the remote actuator I had hidden up my sleeve and … nothing. Poop. Not only might I pay with my life for using Putin’s inferior KGB explosive devices, my story wouldn’t get improved by a description of something blowing up real good.

The voice laughed with more than a hint of cruelty in her chuckle. “We anticipated your plan, and neutralized your carefully placed explosives before revealing ourselves. You may not remember me …”

“I know who you are, Sorcha,” I explained, “You’ve got the most annoying whiney voice I’ve ever heard. It burned itself into my ears, like bubble gum music from the 60’s. You should be ashamed.”

Sorcha came out of the shadows, wearing an Orthodox nun’s habit and holding a sub-machine gun. Part submarine sandwich, part automatic carbine, it looked like lunch but spit a stream of delicatessen death on demand. After online rumors that cold cuts would soon be banned from firearms, sales had skyrocketed at gun shows across America. But the coldest cut would be the one done to me if she pulled the trigger, which if experience was any guide would happen shortly. Hillary was between the fireplace and her sweetie, and although still to all appearances high as a kite, was slowly removing a red hot iron poker from the fire while keeping her pantsuitless body between it and Sorcha. I decided to engage the psychotic Mother Superior in conversation, and hope Hillary’s homicidal skills hadn’t been dulled to the extent she couldn’t make her play before Sorcha fed her own thirst for vengeance.

“So this was all about you, that is to say me and your insatiable lust for revenge,” I observed, “I can respect that, but it’s Satan you want to kill, not me. I fully understand, believe me. In fact, I’ll help you.”

“I’ll be settling the score with all of you, but yours will be the first, Agent Knight,” explained Reverend Mother Faal, “I had considered waiting to kill you last, letting you bask in terror while watching your friends die horribly, one by one, knowing you too would suffer the same hideous fate. But since you’re the only one not tripping balls on my proprietary mix of plant alkaloids and poison toad toxins, you’re the only one who’s still a threat, which moves you to the front of the line.”

Hillary hadn’t been idle, but apparently hadn’t intended to use the red-hot iron as a weapon. Instead, she had moved it up against Vladimir’s ropes, I assume hoping to burn through them, thus untying him. A stupid idea from the beginning (another reason you kids should just say “no” to drugs); it also suffered from the fact the iron was hot enough to fully ignite the rope, causing an open and apparently very hot flame. Not only did this fail to free Vladimir, his rolling around screaming as he tried to smother the searing flames alerted Sorcha to the attempt. Not “Crooked” Hillary’s finest moment.

Sorcha laughed out loud at our bad luck. “I see that the one-eyed snake hasn’t yet been defanged, an oversight I will see to immediately. Happily, I can think of no reason to delay the end of your silly adventure, your sick friends, or misspent life, Agent Knight. So drop your pants and say goodbye to your miserable …”

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Return of the Mad Monk
Another Unreliable Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Nine – Hot Icy Sweaty Cocoa

Sorcha got cut off in mid-sentence as Gladys burst back in through the large double doors. As a surprisingly thick layer of fresh snow slid off her generous curves, they revealed the bluish tint of frostbite, with the total effect being somewhat like one of Rubens’ later nudes. She was apparently oblivious to the extreme cold, I assume partly due to her altered state and partly the insulating properties of, er, her voluptuousness, but skinny Satan wasn’t as lucky. He followed her in, with his teeth chattering and ice on his hooves, horns, and goat-like ears. To top off the comic wintery effect, a very-large, pointed icicle had formed on the end of this tail. Desperate to get to the warmth of the fire as quickly as possible, he apparently didn’t see the piles of snow left on the marble floor by Gladys. The combination was slicker than an olive-oiled tart on rubber sheets, and the Big Guy’s cloven hooves slipped out from under him causing an epic face plant. His tail whipped around from the fall, and in an amazing stroke of luck, flung its icicle directly at Sorcha’s heart point first, piercing her chest. Reacting instinctually, Hillary swung the hot poker at her head, but missed the strike zone and only hammered the icicle in further, piercing her heart. This caused the venting of an apparently flammable gas, which immediately ignited with spectacular results. Falling down into her now-flaming nun’s habit, the poker apparently got caught in Sorcha’s panties, causing her a significant amount of additional distress. Smoke and flames were pouring of her black and white frock faster than the ear-splitting screams coming from her mouth.

I know I should have sprung into action, after all our lives were in danger, but I just stood there, transfixed by all that was happening. Sometimes you’ve got to stop and smell the roses, and these “roses” were smelly indeed. A homicidal woman in a nun’s outfit with a spear of ice in her heart , flames spurting out her chest, and smoke pouring from, um, lower locations was doing the dance of screaming death in front of my eyes. A woman who had planned to do something similar, but I can’t imagine worse, to me. A huge grin broke out on my face, and a feeling of both enjoyment and inner peace flowed through my being.

“Fire!” shrieked Gladys gaily, as the disrobed dumpling-cheeked dowager ducked behind the bar. Coming up with a seltzer bottle, she unloaded it at the source of the flames, Sorcha’s chest. I would have stopped her, not seeing any good reason the deranged dame shouldn’t remain on fire, but like I said Gladys was naked and that would have meant having to look at her. The seltzer turned out to be a kind of coup de grâce, it seemed that an ancient curse had made her vulnerable to only one extremely-rare combination of forces; fire on the rocks with a soda chaser. Unfortunately, by “vulnerable” I don’t mean “dead.” Instead, the undesirable shape-shifter started to grow at a truly astounding rate, breaking through the roof and topping off at approximately 25 feet tall.

“If it’s not one thing it’s another,” I observed and I grabbed for my coat. It was 20 below out there, and without a roof the room was bound to get chilly. Hillary, her Ninja training kicking in, grabbed the rapidly-cooling iron poker that had finally fallen out of Sorcha’s now over-stretched panties, and started beating the ill-tempered giant on her big toe. With a flick of her foot, she flung the naked former first lady across the room. Then giant Sorcha blinked a few times, looked at me with murder in her giant eyes, and gave a deafening roar. Lifting the same giant foot, she poised it over my head! Was this the end of Deep Knight? Had my number finally come up on that big bingo card in the sky?

My questions were answered by another roar, even louder, but not from Sorcha. It was Kong, coming to our rescue!

I found out later that the Slice Girls, ignoring my explicit directions, had decided to rely on the Illuminati Travel Office instead of face-to-face intimidation for their ticket change, and paid the price. I understand it was a choice between continuing to do flaming Jell-O shots or leaving early for the airport, and the former won out by a large margin. Sent to Maui instead of Moscow by those @#$!s, they decided to look up Satan’s mom, who they had partied with at the Reagan Library, and raid her liquor cabinet. When she heard that “her baby” had gone to Russia and might be in danger (the girls know how to embellish a story), she insisted that Kong and her come along. I won’t bore you with the story of how they got Kong past TSA security on onto a flight, but suffice it to say I couldn’t have been happier to see his hairy, snarling face, and also know the Slice Girls were there to mop-up the other Sisters of Sorcha Faal who almost certainly were guarding the perimeter.

When it came to individual combat, Sorcha knew every low-down, underhanded, four-flushing trick in the book, giving her an edge in that category over the more-honorable Kong. But leading her negatives were her first degree burns and pierced heart. Also aiding Kong was his last ten years on Skull Island fighting dinosaurs and giant iguanas with prostheses, when during that same time Sorcha was resting on her laurels in Siberia. Add to that the many tricks he had learned from tussling with Satan’s mom and playing violent video games with Heckle and Hyde, and all together this gave him a significant edge. But that doesn’t mean victory was easy, the action was truly exciting with the advantage seeming to go back and forth until the clever twist at the very end. I would try to describe it to you, but I confess my writing skills aren’t up to the task, so you’ll just have to use your imagination. Picture Kong beating his chest and roaring, or ripping trees from the frozen earth his bare hands in between the kung-fu-like martial arts scenes with a deranged giant nun and same-sized gorilla, and you’ll get the picture. But this “main event” wasn’t the only death and destruction, individual battles between Slice Girls and Sorcha’s nuns livened up the action. Meanwhile, Satan and Gladys were crouching behind the bar, with Hillary holding her iron poker over her head while standing over a still trussed up Putin-Beria, as if to guard him. This turned out to be a whole lot less ludicrous than it appeared once one of Sorcha’s nuns burst in and in a flurry of trash talk, announced her intention to do us harm. Hillary dispatched her with a single blow, but apparently compulsive behavior was a side effect of the drugs they were using on Putin, and she kept beating the nun’s lifeless body until the end of the battle. This kept her busy, impressed Putin’s Beria personality (I swear he got an erection), and coincidently answered the question, “what’s black and white and red all over?”

As for my contribution to the fight, I was way too busy trying to gather up clothes to cover the two couple’s nakedness to kill anyone. If you had ever seen any of them nude you wouldn’t question the priority of that task. Besides, as the new Baron Rothschild and Illuminati bigwig, it was beneath my dignity. I found some old military uniforms that fit Satan and Gladys, a suit for Vladimir, and of course Hillary had her own closet filled with pastel pantsuits. It took some coaxing, but soon we were all ready to watch the battle’s exciting conclusion without the hindrance of nudity.

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Return of the Mad Monk
Another Censurable Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Ten – Roll Me Over, We’ll Do It Again

Like the Wicked Witch of the West, Sorcha finally melted away, or rather, got melted when Kong happened upon a nearby steel mill and smelted her. A skill he honed grilling dinosaurs at the crater of Skull Island’s volcano, and had intellect to adapt to a more-industrial setting. Impressive, perhaps he was the right person, er, leader to put in charge of the Deep State in my place after all. I know that it’s sometimes hard to admit you were wrong, which is why I never do.

As my readers know, I had killed Sorcha many times in previous adventures, some in a spectacular fashion. Much to those same readers’ disappointment, she kept coming back. But I never tried alloying her with low-carbon steel before, and am hopeful that such a high-iron diet will at the least put a dent in her activities. The only problem was, being metallurgically liquidated she wasn’t around to be tortured until she blabbed her secrets. I’m not just complaining because we missed the fun; I suspected that the Orange Eminence himself, President Trump, was behind her play, and I would have liked to rub his face in it. Not that it would make any difference; the NWO, Illuminati, and Deep State are dedicated to bringing down legitimate government, regardless of reason, rhythm, or rhyme.

I was naturally concerned about seeing Satan’s mom again, not knowing how she felt about me since I had been scrupulously avoiding her after she repeatedly took advantage of my generous horn-dog nature. I naturally feared that she could react with the venom of a woman scorned, or try to take up where she left off, gaining me the ire of Kong. As it turned out she came running into the den once the “all clear” sounded, screaming that she needed to save her darling baby boy. Did Satan’s face turn red. Then she tore into still-hallucinating Gladys, starting with, “You led my son into danger, you slut!” and ended with, “I always said you were never good enough for him.” The resulting incident was, in its own way, even more violent than the Kong-Sorcha bout, and I doubt she even noticed my or Vladimir’s presence. Thankfully, between Gladys’ inebriated state and mom’s jet lag, both tended to lose focus quickly and neither went for the kill, although it did take a couple months for the big bite mark on Gladys’ ear to heal.

Before the girls returned to Moscow to boogie the night away, we needed to get some salve on Putin’s burns and have him revert to his original personality. I feared that if he came out of his drug-induced psychosis as Beria, he would be stuck in “Yogi” mode forever. Sure it was a guess, but I couldn’t risk the possibility that I was right. I noted that Hillary had tried to “lure him out” with kissing and groping, but Beria had been a notorious horn-dog in his day, and seemed to enjoy it, especially the “while being tied up” part. At any rate, it wasn’t bringing the Putin personality to the surface. I suddenly realized that only a hidden desire might coax him out, and that desire might be his, um, unhealthy and unnatural interest in me.

Those of you who know me know I neither have the inclination nor the time for such activities, but this was a crisis. Still, I wasn’t going to kiss him on the mouth, no matter if it meant the fate of the world or not. I had seen how he stuck his tongue down Hillary’s throat, and that would be indescribably yucky. Instead, in a flash of brilliant inspiration, I decided to try whispering baby talk into his ear. “Outchie coutchie widdle waddle woo,” I cooed, “Itsy bitsy teeny weenie wa-wa goo -goo.” I ended with some “kissing noises,” and then hastily withdrew my face and lips beyond his reach.

Vladimir’s face got contorted and started shaking. Suddenly, he stopped and that creepy smile of his crept back onto his face. “Deep? Is to being you? And Hillary! Is me, your Vladie-Poo! I back!” exuberantly announced the Russian dictator, as he tried in vain to reach his trussed arms out to me. “Let’s party! Just look at dancing colors! Is to being time for threesome!”

“Time for some Thorazine,” I countered, hoping Vladimir would have some of the potent anti-psychotic in his medicine cabinet. I meant for him and the others, since it would aid in their returning to normality, but given the events of the past few weeks, I could use a handful myself.

It took 3 days, a full 72 hours, for Vladimir to “come down” and then get over what he described as, “Wery big hangover make me feel like eyes bleeding.” His body tissues were no doubt saturated with Sorcha’s poisons from long-term use. A milder but otherwise identical thing happened to the three others, with Satan’s the worst, although they were all able to crawl to the bathroom by themselves in less than one day. Given the obvious danger of the drug mixture, some “hair of the dog” to ease this hangover was completely out of the question. I’m a compassionate man, but after how they made me suffer, I figured it was only fair. Besides, Satan mother had taken Putin’s liquor back with her to Maui, telling the guards her son had said it was alright. I later found she had snuck a bottle out earlier when we weren’t looking, and she and Kong thought it hit the spot. Luckily, I had snagged a liter of gin before her “raid” and sent it to Loop Garoo in New Orleans for analysis. But there was a bit of miscommunication with Loop due to his being unable to focus his eyes enough to read my e-mail, so the analysis was limited to his declaring it was “smooth” and asking where he could get more. I told you his expertise came with a price. So, I’m afraid the secret of this nasty brew died with Sorcha. Good.

Vladimir won in a landslide, wink, wink, and world was once again safe for the Illuminati to undermine. Hillary was thrilled on the surface, although I suspect that underneath it was bittersweet given her recent humiliating failure under similar circumstances. As for Gladys and Satan, the excitement and the danger seemed to ignite a new spark in their relationship also, well, until Gladys caught Satan playing kissy-face with Angela Merkel. Finally, I was happy to have gotten out of this particular adventure with my skin intact and relatively unbruised. Not always the case when you mix murder, multiple personalities, dangerous drugs, romance and indecent exposure, but loyalty to evil demands no less! I was so impressed with my fidelity I decided to award myself a prestigious medal.

But everything wasn’t blood and roses. For one there was a rumor spreading around upper management that just because I didn’t join in the slaughter at Putin’s Dacha and covered it up by awarding myself honors, I had “lost my edge.” I put this myth to rest at the next meeting of The Twelve. “You don't know until you test it,” I mused, “but I think, I really believe I'd run in there, even if I didn't have a weapon, and I think most of the people in this room would have done that too! What the heck, ostentatious medals for the entire council!" Pretty strong words, but it never hurts to pander to your audience, as long as you can do it with a straight face.

The other concern involves the hardest-to-solve mystery of this adventure, this weird thing that happened to my phone. My international plan had a huge limit on data (um, er, for streaming legitimate videos for work), but after returning from Russia I discovered I had been charged hundreds of dollars for “data overages.” Also, my phone which normally holds a charge for about 4 days was going dead in a couple hours. I had IT look into it, and it seems that Vladimir’s WiFi system (even in his altered state he remembered his password) had loaded a deadly virus of some sort into my phone, which then sent copies of itself to everyone in my personal directory, a database of who’s who in evil and literally hundreds of thousands of supermodels. This intense internet traffic was the cause of the short battery life and data usage, and luckily the virus was easily quarantined and deleted. Less easy was getting customer service to credit my phone’s account. Not only was I on hold with International Customer Service for over an hour, I had to send a squad of commandos in to kill the little shit who told me, “The contract you signed says you’re responsible for any viruses you let our network download into your phone,” before the cancellation of the charges was approved.

As horrifying as my experience with customer service was, especially due to pain caused by the music they played while on hold, it paled in comparison to what the technician who worked on my phone told me. That’s right, when you’re at the apex of an organization’s management you finally get to deal with IT face-to-face and not remotely halfway around the world. More shocking, he was both old enough to be about to retire and know ASCII, the primitive and almost-forgotten language of text encoding as 8-bit “bytes.” He said there was a “string” of these after the virus’ code ending, which he recognized as this ASCII stuff and translated to spell in all CAPS, “SURRENDER DEEP! XXXX SORCHA FAAL!!”

The End?

[Deep Knight]

The Return of the Mad Monk
Another Inexpiable Deep Knight Adventure
Epilogue – Champagne Wishes and Dog Breath Dreams

I wasn’t surprised to get a text message from Hope Hicks after her firing, er, resignation from the White House, asking for an urgent meeting. I knew she was a former model and if Illuminati statisticians can be believed, had a 97% chance of also being a former waited-in-line very-short-term lover. Not that I would remember, both because of their unbelievably large numbers and the fact all models kind of look alike anyway. To my amazement she wasn’t a broken-hearted bimbo on the rebound looking for some sexual healing, instead she was the daughter of Jimmy Hicks “from the sticks,” the five-time Illuminati craps champion, and thus “of the bloodline.” That’s right, she was “one of us” and had been undercover in the Trump organization feeding us the inside poop until you-know-what happened with you-know-who, resulting in her termination, er, resignation.

But her shocking report had nothing to do with Trumpism and everything to do with supermodels and the safety of my shapely behind. Ms. Hicks had been at a bridal shower with a group of former models when some of the girls starting talking about hip places to go on a honeymoon. When one of them mentioned “Niagara Falls,” instead of giggles about half the girls got blank looks on their faces, drew out knives and guns from their “little black dresses,” and chanted in unison, “"Slowly I turned...step by step...inch by inch...to kill Deep Knight!" Mostly they shuffled around zombie like, apparently focused on finding and killing me, although the occasionally threatened other men who strayed into the room. Anyway, after a couple hours, they came out of their trance, dropped their weapons, and started to sob. I assume at the thought of a world without Deep Knight, but I suppose I could be wrong.

Those of you in psychological warfare will recognize this as classic text-book post hypnotic suggestion, specifically as used by the Three Stooges and Abbott and Costello (all Illuminati agents) in the 40’s. The UN banned its use in warfare not long afterwards, the results being judged “too silly,” but of course the rules of civilized society never applied to either Sorcha or the New World Order.

I was stunned by the news, but no so much so that I lost my wits. I realized that this had happened right after my vanquishing of Sorcha Faal, which made the timing suspicious vis-a-vis the sent-mostly-to-models phone virus! I checked her list of pissed-off-and-armed girls against my extensive phone directory, and sure enough, my hunch was right. Not only did they match, Hope Hick’s wasn’t there. This doesn’t necessarily mean she had never been my lover, it’s standard operating procedure for all undercover agents’ names and numbers to be erased from directories in case they become compromised. I would have asked, but a surprisingly-large number of women get insulted when you don’t remember if you’ve slept with them or not. Only one of the crosses my overactive libido forces me to bear.

What this meant was clear. Before she died, Sorcha Faal had infected Putin’s home server (it’s an old one of Hillary’s that she had to get rid of), which had infected by phone via WiFi, and gotten sent out to my entire phone directory. No doubt it was one of those apps that put subliminal messages into other content or plays soothing motivational talks while you’re asleep (we Illuminati use both, why else would so many American men wear pants that look like that?). Why “Niagara Falls” was used as a trigger word became clear later that afternoon, when I received a report that a mysterious truck full of explosives was caught “shuffling off to Buffalo” on the New York State Thruway. The driver, a swarthy-looking Middle-Easterner (you know, from the Atlantic coast below New England and a above the Mason-Dixon Line), had a tourist map of the Niagara area which included the inked-in location of a little-known road that forded the river at the lip of the falls itself. An explosion there would have not only reshaped the cascade forever, it would have plastered the name “Niagara Falls” all over the broadcast news and other media, triggering an army of homicidal honeys bent on causing grievous harm or worse to Deep Knight!

The remedy was simple, send our own phone virus-app out to my phone’s entire directory which implanted the counter suggestion that upon hearing “Niagara Falls” the listener would have the irresistible urge to find a place to take a long nap, effectively neutralizing them as effective assassins. You might wonder why we didn’t just have them immediately fall asleep, the answer being that we had tried this once before, and gotten in trouble with Hell’s insurance division (as you know, all insurance companies are run by the Devil). In my defense I can only say we never knew a lot of the recipients were truck drivers who specialized in hauling hazardous loads through residential neighborhoods. But whatever the case, I knew that I had neutralized Sorcha's last attempt on my life, and would never have to deal with her ever again!

Stay tuned for the next Deep Knight Adventure, “Revenge from Beyond the Grave”

[Deep Knight]

Weathering the Storm
Another Excoriated Deep Knight Adventure
Prologue - Revenge from Beyond the Grave

The midnight oil was burning late in the chafing dishes at the White House, it being already well-past most sensible politicians’ bedtimes. But the business of the American people (“our deplorables” in Executive Branch slang) took precedence over keeping good hours, good sleep habits, or even good sense. And tonight was special, in a few moments the write-up of “the plan” as presented to them by the President would be finished!

“It’s quite simple,” he told them, “we would never get an investigation of Hillary and Obama by the Deep State, so we’ll ‘fire’ our ally Comey at the FBI as if he’s got something on us and Russia, pissing them off, then have our guy put Mueller in as special counsel to calm them. It will be like wrapping a burning flag around him, the liberals will become his biggest supporters and protectors. Especially if we make noise every few months about firing him. This support and protection will keep double-agent Mueller free from Deep State interference, their zeal to destroy me will only water the seeds of their own destruction. Meanwhile, the special counsel be doing the necessary work to send those two clowns to Gitmo along with their supporters. Especially those on the Supreme Court. I call it ‘The Storm.’”

“Brilliant sir!” was the all-around conclusion of the weary-yet-elated troops. It has been many years in coming, but finally the New World Order and its minions would suffer a setback that would truly set them back. But Trump’s most loyal lieutenant, Jared, was the best at spreading it on thick, so they let him voice their praise for them. “’The Storm’ is magnificent, like your hair. The plan is beyond three dimensional chess, it’s more-than-three dimensional!”

“Fifth dimensional, actually,” elucidated the Chief Executive, “I skipped right by the fourth to keep them off the scent. Ironic, when you consider how our adversaries are the very people who have been thwarting ascension into 5D all these years, along with the announcement of NESARA, the RV and global currency reset, and of course the Prosperity packages. But as long as the wait has been it’s about to be over, and the many years of them smugly thinking they had us licked will make revenge even sweeter. Especially when we lock you-know-who up.”

“Hillary will be the first to be given a one-way ticket to Guantanamo, I’ll see to it myself!”

“No not her, or Obama either, but that treasonous snake in the grass, Deep Knight! He’s calling himself ‘Baron Rothschild’ now to try and confuse us, but it only worked on Junior. The first priority of ‘The Storm’ has got to be the arrest and immediate execution of Deep Knight, otherwise the entire plan is at risk. And the rate at which he can process supermodels makes him one hard nut to crack.”

“I have just the person in mind for the job,” said the SILOTPOTUS, “whose identity is so secret, I won’t even say it, but you know who I mean.” He led a masked man into the President’s presence. He was carrying a bag, filled with two huge cheeseburgers and orders of chili-fries, which he offered to the Chief Executive.

“I see,” said President Trump as he saw who it was from a signature scar, “he would never suspect you, or have seen you coming when you come. An excellent choice, Jared.”

“It was Ivanka’s idea,” admitted the henpecked husband, “She knew first-hand what a little shit that big turd is, and that to combat his scatological fixation we needed a man who could go toe to toe, nose to nose, and codpiece to codpiece with Deep Knight and win!”

“I only have one request,” said he-who-they-weren’t-naming, “I’m worried that our loyal troops will become discouraged by The Storm’s cover story, and want to post obscure hints about our real plan online to cheer them up, if you don’t mind.”

“Are you crazy?” fumed Trump,” Secrecy is everything! Like those new adult diapers, we must avoid any leakage!”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be anonymous, so nobody on the left will pay any attention to me, thinking I’m some idiot in his parents’ basement living a sick fantasy online. All I need as a name.”

“How about ‘Q?’” asked Trump, “It’s got a nice ring to it.”

“Naw, people will think it means ‘queer.’”

“Better yet, you’re so macho that nobody would associate you with anything limp wristed,” concluded the clever President, “So ‘Q’ it is, Q.”

“How about signing my stuff ‘Q’ but having everybody call me ‘QAnon?’ Nobody could possibly think that sounds gay,” Q, or is that QAnon, requested.

The man obviously didn’t get out to the right kind of clubs much, but then again neither did our strictly-heterosexual POTUS. So it was agreed, and from that moment on a new force had come into the world to lead “The Storm,” the arrest or simple elimination of the leaders of The New World Order, Illuminati, Clinton Foundation, Deep State, and American Square Dance Association.

To Be Continued…

[Deep Knight]

Weathering the Storm
Another Excoriated Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 1 – The Ins and Outs of the Ol’ Ball Game

Deep Knight, now installed as the last in a long line of Baron Rothschilds, was rich, powerful, speaking of himself in the third person, and oblivious to the oncoming “storm.” His recent promotion to what was in effect the “chairman of the board of evil” was a tribute to his anti-social skills and choice of friends. As strange as it sounds, he and his wife Velna had been the first humans to befriend our evil Reptilian overlords by treating them like normal guys, showing them a good time, and getting them drunk and laid. It turns out that their primal reptilian brains were very much like those of college frat boys, easily molded by cold brews and big-breasted blonde babes. Add my “unique” friendship with new power couple Hillary and Vladimir (who won the Russian presidency with a little over three quarters of the vote, he took my advice and brought it down from 97% which would have looked bad – unfortunately I couldn’t convince Abdel Fattah el-Sisi of Egypt of the same thing), and I was back as the narrator.

But fat and happy is no way to go through life, even though the only fat I have is just enough on my behind to fill out a pair of jeans well and get wolf whistles from women construction workers as I walk away. Daily work outs fighting off assassins and such like keep me in shape, don’t cha know. But for some reason I don’t think President Trump had my well-being in mind when he put a target on that killer behind by issuing wanted posters and hunting permits with my picture on them. To add insult to that injury, he listed the offense as “Child Sex Trafficking and Cheese Pizza,” the latter having the initials CP which is of course code speech for “See Pee.” You don’t want to know the details, but after I force you to read them you’ll realize the wisdom of getting at least one topping (avoid pepperoni, where the initials are PP or “Pee Pee”) on delivery orders.

But if you know anything about me, you know I’m used to having people try to kill me, especially at the beginnings and endings of adventures. Take this morning, for example. I had to battle belligerents during breakfast, combat commandos while commuting, and play punching bag to a posse of pugilists before parking. Keeps you on your toes. But, having a price put on my head by a rogue billionaire president was a new one for me, and annoyed me to the point of vexation. He knew better to imply that I had abused and degraded children, for one thing I’m too busy abusing and degrading more-than-willing supermodels. How do I know they’re past the age of consent? Don’t be silly, there’s plenty of time to “vet” them while they wait for hours in line! And the idiot knows this, licensing my automated system for his Miss Universe Pageant and reality TV show, “The Apprentice!” Enough to make my blood boil!

Luckily, a little anger gave me just the edge I needed when the next attack came from the mercenaries who muscled into my morning meeting with murder on their minds. Bursting through the cathedral ceiling, they would have been more of a hazard if they hadn’t been trained to shoot parallel to the ground while descending by rope, putting the bullets well above my head and on trajectories that only impacted other commandos. Soon they were dropping like flies; bloody, moaning, easy to trip over flies; who I delighted in interrogating using the old “pointed wingtip oxford in the open wound” technique.

“Give,” I suggested as I probed their leader’s mangled midsection, trying to discern one internal organ from another. Not as simple as you might suppose from those charts in anatomy class, but it was important to get it done quickly before blood loss naturally numbed his feeling and susceptibility to pain. My bloody footwear was rewarded with information about the inflated price on my head, and even larger price on the other organ that dominates my behavior! Not that anyone who knew him would expect Trump to actually pay such sums, but the mere fact he was offering them knocked this whole affair up another notch. It was time to hit the President back, and make this blow both harder and more suggestive than Trump had ever had it before!

I wiped my shoe off on the screaming leader’s face as I mused finishing him off with a bullet to the head. But as long as he was in agony I decided to leave nature to take its course, and torment some of his other still-alive comrades instead. After all, it’s important to vent your anger in order to keep the stress of being an upper level manager at bay. All work and no play and such, you know.

Satan demanded an immediate report over cocktails, which I was more than happy to give him. Four attacks before lunch was not only excessive, the information I had gleaned in the last one hinted at a conspiracy, code named “The Storm,” that was designed to put people like me in jail. In fact, apparently target number one was so much like me it actually WAS me, and jail was a fallback position in case dismemberment by explosive failed. We analyzed the situation over cucumber and mint martinis.

“I don’t care what anyone says, I’m not going back to Gitmo,” I clarified. “The food was terrible, and the camp was filled with foreigners who smelled funny and looked worse. I know that Trump is planning on taking care of the foreigner part by incarcerating US citizens, but they probably won’t smell or look any better. Speaking of that, how can anyone call a sweet drink with this flavor a ‘martini?’”

“Don’t worry,” clarified Satan, “we’re no longer at peace with the present administration so I can take the gloves off. I had legal go over the treaty that ended last year’s Deep State war, and Trump signed it ‘David Dennison.’”

I would have let Satan know that that was apparently a legal alias that he had somehow registered, but let it pass because I wanted to mix it up with The Donald in the worst sort of way. Imagine my surprise when I found that Satan had something else in mind, turning tail and running!

“I suggest you leave Washington DC for a while, traveling by an inconspicuous route by train. Since it’s ten times as expensive as flying and takes twelve times as long, no one in their right mind would think a hip jet-setter like you would travel that way. The more I think about it, the better I like it. You can name you next adventure, ‘Murder on the Occidental Express…”

I left him spinning bad literary ideas and packed my overnight bag for a dreary 3-day trip. There are 4 Amtrak routes to the West Coast from Washington: Through New Orleans and El Paso; through Chicago and Albuquerque; through Chicago and Denver, and finally through Chicago and Fargo. The last of these was the most historic and romantic (who could escape the allure of Fargo?), but it was still snowy and cold up there. No, the best route would be by the Capitol Limited to Chicago, and from there the California Zephyr to San Francisco, which is actually Emeryville. If everything was on time, it would take 4 minutes more than 3 days, unless you counted the bus from Emeryville which takes another hour and a half to get you to Fisherman’s Wharf if the traffic is good. Which it never is, and the hotels on the wharf itself are a poor choice of lodging, so add on even more travel time. I’m immune to fear, but am terrified by boredom, and it looked like I was in for a horrifying train ride. Little did I know how wrong I was, not yet being so callous that I was bored by wanton MURDER!

To Be Continued…

[Deep Knight]

Weathering the Storm
Another Excoriated Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 2 – Unlimited Profits on the Capitol Limited

Who hasn’t heard of the Capitol Limited? Not only does it rate highly in the "romance of the rails" catagory, it goes from Washington DC to Chicago through the US’s most alluring cities, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, and Toledo. But I wasn’t on this train for fun or for my health, I was fleeing the seat of government for the “left” coast, where the weather was warm and Trump supporters scarce.

The first-class coach was fully booked, and contained a wide variety of travelers: Hercule Poirot, supposedly a retired Belgian police official who spoke English like a literal translation of bad schoolbook French; Dr. Constantine, Poirot’s sidekick; Mrs. Hubbard, who was really famed stage actress Linda Arden; Colonel Arbuthnot, recently of her majesty’s forces in India; Princess Dragomiroff, a decrepitly-old Russian princess; Hildegarde Schmidt , her maid; Mr. Ratchett, a hard-assed, soft-bottomed billionaire businessman from America; Hector McQueen, Ratchett's personal secretary; Edward Henry Masterman, Ratchett's valet; Count and Countess Andrenyi, two worthless barfly aristocrats; Mary Debenham, a governess; Cyrus Hardman, a Pinkerton detective; Antonio Foscanelli, a chauffeur; Greta Ohlsson, a meek missionary; and Pierre Michel, the first class conductor. Our occupants and sleeper-compartment car were going all the way through to Chicago, so we could sleep the night away without be rousted by armed guards at the Ohio-Indiana border (things had been tense since last-year’s National Guard incursions around Fort Wayne - apparently Governor Kasich believed he could gain by conquest what he lost in the Republican presidential primaries).

M. Poirot took me aside and revealed what he was doing on the train. “I zee zat you are zee famous John Q. Smith of Anystown USA, and zee little grey cells tell me you might be interested in, how you say it, a high-yield investment opportunity.” Strangely, the bad accent dropped more than a bit at the end of his sentence. Not knowing what was going on, and knowledgeable that this might be a clever Trump trap, one of those 5D chess things, so I casually nodded “yes.” Poirot smiled and invited me into the dining car, where over glasses of Pernod he explained.

“Et iz called zee ‘Airplane Game’ and iz zee easy way to get zee 800% return on your investment in only a couple of weeks!” he explained breathlessly, as much from his excitement as the effect of the nauseatingly-sweet anise-flavored liqueur. “You have 1 captain, zen 2 copilots, 4 flight crews, and 8 ground crews. You join as a ground crew, giving $1 million each to the captain, who retires and everybody moves up a position, splitting the crew in two because the 2 copilots are now captains. You are to understanding, my friend?”

I understood only too well. It was your typical pyramid scheme, only with a limited number of people and for extremely-high stakes. I nodded, and let the phony Frenchie go on.

“Zo, as zee new flight crew you need to recruit 2 new members of zee ground crew, which iz what I am doing now. Zen, I will be a co-pilot, and in only one more step ze captain, getting $8 million! Iz et not like zee magic?”

“So,” I countered, fully aware of the nature of the scam, “You’re looking for 2 new members on an Amtrak train? Kinda strange…”

“But no! You are misunderstanding. I have zee 2 new ground crews but one iz, how you say it, not fully committed and when push comes to shove I’m concerned that they might bow out, so I need a ready and willing substitute.”

He should have shown me some respect and used the term “sucker” instead. But, curious as to how this would play out, especially since there didn’t seem to be enough people in our coach to pull off the scam in its classical fashion. The key is to have a few people get cold feet at the last minute, then have a group of “substitutes” clamor to be “let in.” But, and always for some inexplicable reason, you have one shot at the last of these spaces, but have to act right now to get it… Sometimes it’s all a scam from the word “go,” other times people try and fill out subsequent pyramids until a geographical area runs out of pigeons and the thing falls apart, always before you get paid off by the way.

Sure enough, the big dog and pony show was staged right after dinner (I had the mutton, if you ever ride on the Capitol Limited, don’t). The “airplane” captain, Princess Dragomiroff who I had previously described as looking like she had “been through the mill more than once,” ran the meeting and was present to receive her payout. She also announced that she was an alternate for a new ground crew position, and that her maid Hilda, was interested in being an alternate too. But, it turns out that all the only other alternate spot was coincidentally the one for M. Poirot he had offered me, he stated loudly that it was “already filled.”

6 of the 8 new ground-crew members almost fell over themselves getting the valise cases full of cash to the “Princess.” But one, Greta Ohlsson, was incredibly meek and nervous, crying a lot, and she finally decided not to take advantage of this “investment.” Princess Dragomiroff loudly announced that she would be taking this ground crew position herself, but Poirot objected. “Greta was recruited by me, and so according to the rules I get the first chance to fill the open position. So I’m offering it to my good friend, Mr. Smith here.”

The place erupted, with other alternates trying to get the attention of the group to make additional claims. Poirot turned to me and whispered, “I can’t hold this open for more than a few seconds, if you want it, you’ll have to say so right now or let it pass! This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, it would be a shame to miss out.” I looked at me pleadingly as fights started to break out around the room as greed overcame decorum.

“Sorry guys, I’ll have to pass,” I said laughing. “My name isn’t really John Q. Smith, and I’m so far in debt after buying this train ticket I couldn’t scrape together $1 thousand much less $1 million.” With my announcement, the one other “joiner” person who was holding back, Mr. Ratchett, started shaking his head “no” and gave an obviously heavy valise to his valet, who accompanied him and his secretary out of the room. I went to my compartment and prepared for bed, knowing that my presence would have only put a damper the scams progress by dampening it. It was a quiet night, with the click-clack of the rails softened by the fact that we weren’t moving. I found out later that we had been stopped by an avalanche that buried one of the many tunnels built to muscle through Ohio’s rugged Toledoan Alps. The only sound I heard that night was a call of, “Un cauchemar!” from Mr. Ratchett’s adjacent compartment. This is “Nightmare” in French, which is strange because he didn’t speak that language. Still, nothing to be concerned about.

Imagine my surprise when the next morning everyone else on our coach, with the exception of M. Poirot, had been murdered!

To Be Continued…

[Deep Knight]

Weathering the Storm
Another Excoriated Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 3 – Snow Jobs and Doughboys

Unfortunately, the train had been stopped before we reached the border, making our mass murder Buckeye bloodshed and not Hoosier homicide. Not that I’m prejudiced, but Indiana has strange laws and customs which would stymie a murder investigation, and of course the people are inferior too. Not that Ohio is that much better, but when murder is on the table, it’s best to have knives and forks you’re familiar with to carve it up. Some State Police skied in from a nearby alpine hamlet, and set up the dining car as a sort of investigations headquarters. Illuminati hand signals let them know who I was, and in deference to my high position in the New World Order, they invited me to take part in the investigation. Because the coach had been locked from the inside when I discovered the bodies, our one and only suspect was “Inspector” Poirot. I was satisfied and suggested we shoot him and stage it to look like suicide, thus saving the state the cost of an expensive and lurid trial. However, my proposed victim had other ideas.

“Gentlemens,” he began, “I zink eef you do ze investigation, you will find zat Ratchett’s real name was Cassetti, the famous criminal who kidnapped and murdered the young Daisy Armstrong for money a few years ago but escaped justice. It was in all the papers. But what you might not remember was that Daisy’s mother Sonia died upon hearing the news, that her father shot himself due to grief soon afterwards, and her nurse-maid Susanne also committed suicide due to also being in the same pictures that caused him that grief. If you look further, you’ll find that Mrs. Hubbard who was really Linda Arden was even-more-really Daisy Armstrong’s grandmother, Countess Andrenyi her aunt, and Colonel Arbuthnot her father’s gay lover when they served together in India. All the other passengers, with the exception of Cassetti’s valet, Masterman, were also somehow connected to the murdered girl or the others who tragically lost their lives because of it, and wanted the kidnapper dead. Hector McQueen, his secretary, gave him a sleeping draught when he went to bed, and the conspirators all gathered in his room to stab him. But the twelfth plunge of the knife woke him up, he grabbed it, and before he expired had sent the rest of them to their doom in revenge.” The funny-looking little twerp curled his mustache in obvious satisfaction. “Eez, how you say et, all wrapped up?”

“Only one small problem,” I pointed out, “that doesn’t explain why Masterman was killed, or for that matter how they weren’t stabbed but shot, Ratchett twelve times. Now, he might of gotten his revenge on the rest of them with one or two bullets in him, but a dozen? And in vital locations like his head, no less?”

Poirot looked kind of sheepish and shrugged his shoulders. I motioned for him to be handcuffed (a complex series of gestures, but useful to learn), and explained to the detectives and readers how it was done. “M. Poirot’s explanation was interesting, but contained many key mistakes. For one, Col. Armstrong wasn’t gay, it was just that his wife was a transvestite. For another, Cassetti was released from jail because he was innocent; it was ‘yellow journalism’ by supermarket tabloids and prejudice against guys without first names that made the public think it was due to a legal loophole. As it turns out the girl ‘Daisy’ never really existed, she was invented by her parents, both of whom had a terminal case of Munchausen’s-by-fictional-proxy syndrome.”

“Zen, how do you explain zee red kimono in my luggage or the conductor’s key in the pocket of the uniform withs zee missing button?” argued Poirot. These were difficult points to counter, so I ignored them.

“The killings were actually all due to a pyramid scheme gone bad. When they put pressure on me to join but I bowed out, Mr. Ratchett got cold feet too and withdrew his money. All the rest of the players were just that, con artists hired fleece a single rich guy out of $1 million. Unfortunately, they tried to double down on me, but I’m a man who doesn’t swing that way, and instead became a fly in the whole illusion’s ointment. With no payoff, they turned on the man who hired them, M. Poirot here, who naturally shot them all. Then he shot Ratchett and his staff, just because, putting twelve bullets in him and dumping the other corpses in his room to confuse you. An open and shut case.”

“Ees, how you zay eet, all poo-poo!” retorted Poirot, condescendingly, “Zer eez no zuch zyndrom!”

“Oh yeah?” I reasoned, knowing this argument would rhetorically paint him into a corner.

“My little grey cells zay ‘Up yours!’” he offered, no doubt hoping he could make up what he lacked in logic with the force of his convictions.

“I’m rubber and you’re glue,” I postulated, knowing I didn’t need to finish this classic syllogism, it being both featured in Plato’s dialogues and often alluded to in popular literature.

Poirot continued to protest loudly, but to no avail. And even if he had avail he didn’t have Illuminati hand signals and I did. It wasn’t long until they hauled him off, handcuffed to a dogsled, nor long after that that the snowplow broke through and we got moving again. We were a day late arriving in Chicago, but I found out later that that wasn’t unusual, even in good weather. Say what you want about Mussolini, when he was in charge he kept Chicago’s trains running on time and the pasta from being overcooked.

In truth, the murders had been committed by me! And not because of any penny ante pyramid scheme, but to get a good night’s sleep! Not only did most of my fellow passengers snore, the, um, bathroom facility’s venting was ancient and probably blocked by snow. I mean, I’ve heard that old people like the Princess Dragomiroff have poor digestions, but what had she been eating, dog food? Anyway, they say that a good, solid 8 hours of sleep is important for your well-being, compared to that what was a little homicide? You gotta get your priorities straight. I only let Poirot live because he was neither snoring nor using the facilities, and I needed a “fall guy.”

As it was, I was perfectly refreshed as I stepped out into Chicago’s wind and rain. It was off to the South Side of the “Toddlin’ Town” for some good BBQ and even better music.

To Be Continued…

[Deep Knight]

Weathering the Storm
Another Excoriated Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 4 – Too Many Cooks Spoil the Slaughter

Chicago used to have a great blues scene, but times and tastes have changed. Now it seems like the clubs have music for the tourists, much like New Orleans. I remember a small south-side greasy spoon where the owner and fry cook would play a Silvertone (made for Sears) electric guitar in front of his place to attract customers when business was slow. While still wearing his greasy, once-white, bib apron. His playing wasn’t so much good as bold and uninhibited, and I sort of started to like it. Sadly, the same thing didn’t happen with the food. The place I was at had better drinks and cuisine, but the music seemed almost “canned” and played without feeling. Obviously a cry for help from the poor and downtrodden for less aid and comfort, then they’ll REALLY be able to play the blues!

The other nice thing about Chicago is the HUGE crime and murder rate. You literally have to watch where you’re walking so you don’t trip over dead bodies. At one time this was because the Obamas lived and “hunted” here, but since they moved away 10 years ago the NWO has been taking up the slack. Some might think this would be a hindrance, but to me it was a great way to sharpen my reflexes. This was the reason I had asked the Slice Girls to join me here, they’re always up for a bit of rest, relaxation, and rubbing-out random reprobates. Strange that they were late, usually they show up early when a chance to participate in mindless homicide comes up.

I was finishing my rack of ribs when a waitress with an even-more impressive rack on her ribs informed me I had a phone call “in the back.” I was naturally suspicious, for one nobody knew I was there, and for another, nobody had been calling restaurants looking for people since cell phones had become common. But it isn’t walking into a trap if you know it’s a trap, and besides, did I mention the waitress who bid me to follow her had really HUGE boobs? Let’s just say I wasn’t surprised when they surprised me with an ambush where I was not only captured, but stuffed into a large black bag and transported to another secret location. The bright lights blinded me at first, leaving me in the dark, but then I realized I was in a television studio that looked like a giant industrial kitchen.

Even though the New World Order had its grimy hands all over the mainstream media, we had neglected those stations that were low-profit and frankly boring, like the Dog Show Channel and Live Miniature Golf. This also included the various cooking show networks, in my opinion a significant oversight. Anyone who knows American culture knows a large portion of its evil takes place in the kitchen, especially when preparing processed food. I mean, have you ever eaten a cheap frozen pizza? As it was, these networks changed over the years, moving from cooking instruction shows to cooking contests. In most of these chefs would make improvised-but-trendy dishes using some “secret” and unusual ingredient in competition with other chefs. Not all that applicable to the home kitchen, I mean Velna has never been called upon to cook giant sea slug, but I suppose exciting if you’re into that sort of thing. These days, the cooking “battles” are largely scripted, with an emphasis on trash talk and personal vendettas. The food judges are notoriously hard to please; and fountains of nitpicking criticisms. No doubt they took pages from American Idol, the Kardashian reality TV shows, and professional wrestling.

I realized I was in the Food Cooking Channel’s Kitchen Arena, where the famous “Golden Chef” program is filmed. This was less from having ever seen the show (you’ve got to be kidding) than the giant banner announcing this that was hanging over the stage. I was later to find out they had located it in Chicago to be near the stockyards for their signature epic meat battles where the secret ingredient is live and “on the hoof.” For example, a “whole beef battle” where steers were killed, butchered, the meat aged, and made into an appetizer, main course, and desert, all within a 60 minute time limit! I assumed something similar was on the menu for me, being trussed up on the top of a large stainless steel that smelled of garlic. Suddenly a voice pierced the well-lit darkness.

“Welcome to Kitchen Arena and a special edition of Golden Chef! Tonight’s secret ingredient, Deep Knight!”

“QAnon, I presume,” I presumed. “Show yourself, or are you too much of a coward?”

“No, I’m you announcer, Howard “Eggs” Ackley,” the voice announced, “Q is back in Washington, busy tweeting, but will be watching highlights of you dying live on his smart phone!”

“Filthy coward,” I grumbled, “What’s the problem, no guts?”

“You’ll soon be the one without guts,” said the announcer in a humorous tone, “or as we say in Kitchen Arena, giblets and organ meat!” He continued in the same whimsical fashion. “As you know, cannibalism is a big part of the Satanic human sacrifices done by the New World Order. So, in recognition and revenge, tonight’s challenge is to harvest body parts and internal organs, starting with his tongue and ‘prairie oysters,’ and then prepare them using these five different cooking techniques: Boiling, grilling, braising, deep frying, and sautéing. To add to the challenge, you have to harvest these ingredients from Deep Knight without killing him or causing him to loose consciousness, so he can writhe in pain as he watches the proceedings and judging by our special guest panel, the Slice Girls!”

The lights came on stage left to reveal 5 Slice Girls tied up, gagged, and sitting around a set dining table. They were unsuccessfully struggling against their bonds, but our adversary chefs seemed to not only be good at trussing chickens, but lady assassins too. Things didn’t look good, in fact they looked downright bleak, so I decided to swallow my pride and negotiate.

“Do you expect me to talk?” I asked, figuring if it was good enough for James Bond it was good enough for me. After all, I had plenty of secrets I could probably trade for my life, and sometimes you just have to bite down and do what needs to be done to weasel out of sticky situations.

“No, Mr. Knight! I expect you to be very tasty covered in a béarnaise sauce!” Eggs retorted, chuckling. “There is nothing you can talk to me about that I don't already know.”

“Well, you're forgetting one thing. If I fail to report, Roger Moore replaces me.”

“I trust he will be more successful.”

“Well, he knows what I know,” I bluffed.

“You know nothing, Mr. Knight, your sauces are weak, your plate presentation horrible, and your dishes lack a certain ‘Jenna say wha.’”

“Do you mean, ‘Je ne sais quoi?’”

“Whatever! Chefs, take your marks and ready your knives! Food Cooking battle Deep Knight begins, NOW!”

To Be Continued…

[Deep Knight]

Weathering the Storm
Another Excoriated Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 5 – Too Many Chefs and Not Enough Indians

I was tied up on a stainless steel table about to be the subject of a culinary vivisection by some bon viveur. It would be more than the end of Deep Knight, it would be downright embarrassing. Who wouldn’t snicker when they told the story of the family jewels being sliced into sushi for some moody foodie? To add insult to injury, my last moments on this earth would be watching a boring food channel cooking show live! Even though it seemed impossible, I swore I would find a way to escape with my nuts intact.

Luckily, they hadn’t found most of my contingent of hidden spy gadgets, which I always keep on and, ahem, in my person. The only one I could get to, tied up and spread eagle on the table, was a tube of lipstick that was really an industrial laser, able to cut through a sheet of gold half an inch thick. I had gotten it out during “Eggs” boring announcement, aimed it at the back of Baby Slice’s chair and with a little skill and more luck was able to cut the ropes holding her torso and hands. In a flash she was free and running across the top of the “judges’ table” towards the stage.

QAnon had brought in the two “Golden Chefs” he thought would both deal me the most gruesome death and use crowd-pleasing culinary techniques to make the results into gourmet dishes. The one chef’s specialty was butchering large fish and unusual seafood with a backhanded over-and-under technique, the others rapidly chopping meat with a four knives held in two hands. The common theme was the use of large cutting implements, a mistake when you put them in close conjunction with a freed-from-her-bonds-but-still-pissed-about-it Slice Girl!

The chefs got to the knives first, but Baby Slice got to them best, jumping over a counter top with its knife storage block and plucking two large ones out while in midair without losing momentum. She landed on the balls of her feet in front of two Golden Chefs and before they could raise their weapons in defense, with a flash of steel their heads were rolling across the kitchen. I know that Baby looks sweet and innocent, but amongst the Slice Girls she’s acknowledged as the most blood thirsty and eager to join the battle. Don’t’ let the giggle and pouty smile fool you, even Psychotic Slice she’s the most kill-crazy of the bunch. Of course, I would have made a bad pun of their deaths by cutting off an alternate appendage and renaming them the ”Gelded Chefs,” but Baby Slice wasn’t in a humorous mood, nor given our still-precarious position one to waste time. Before the crew and staff had time to react, she circled back to free me and the rest of the girls, who grabbed kitchen knives of their own and carried the fight across the stage and into the wings. Having more time, and no doubt being inspired by the location, they used several fileting and butchering techniques they had learned on this very channel to slay them. Poetic justice, don’t you think? Slutty Slice, no doubt taking as her inspiration the Taoist maxim that an enlightened cook can butcher an ox with a paring knife and carve a radish rose with a sword, completely disjointed and deboned a cameraman with a serrated steak knife. Finally, there was only Eggs Ackley, a cowering, cowardly cur of a man who begged for his worthless life. It was a futile gesture, I already had my eye on a cryogenic bottle of liquid nitrogen, used by modern chefs to make instant frozen desserts, at the edge of the stage. Once again using illuminati hand signals so Eggs wouldn’t know his horrible fate in advance, I instructed them to give him a liquid nitrogen enema! The details are way to grotesque to get by my editor, but once we found a fitting to adapt the nozzle to the tank’s plumbing, it worked like a charm. Soon his behind was so far below zero that it was frosty, brittle and quite fragile. Then with the tiniest of kicks, I sent him off the edge of the stage to a rather hard and literally shattering landing in the orchestra pit. As I wrote in my report, we busted his ass.

I assumed QAnon was watching us via the video feed, so we dropped our drawers and mooned the now-unmanned cameras before turning them off. Some of the girls also used kitchen implements such as box graters, pastry cutters, and turkey basters in somewhat-obscene manners and poses to further show their contempt, and get some pictures for their Facebook pages. Then we quickly searched the place, knowing it might contain a clue to QAnon’s real identity. Sure enough, next to the ashtray by Eggs microphone was a matchbook from the trendy Downtown Chicago restaurant, Mickey Dee’s. Inside was written the time and number of the train I had used to travel to Chicago, and the restaurant I had visited for dinner! Grabbing a quick snack (the kitchen was wonderfully stocked and I had been kidnapped from the restaurant made hours before), we made reservations at Mickey Dee’s under an assumed names and waited for the eatery to open.

Most of you are aware that the New World Order runs “La Cosa Nostra” or the Sicilian Mafia. Originally known as just “The Mafia” the ruling Dons foolishly let the trademark lapse and everybody started to use this name, e.g. “The Memphis Mafia,” “The Russian Mafia,” and “The Saturday-Night-Bingo Mafia.” Mickey Dee’s was run by the McMafia, which many people mistakenly think is the Scottish Mafia, but is really run by the Five Fast Food Families. The restaurant was the brain child of “Ron the Don” McDonald, who realized that the profits from gambling, liquor and prostitution were nothing compared to those from burgers and fries, and moved ruthlessly to stake his claim. Since then, felonious fast-food franchises had become the foundation of organized crime’s many family fortunes. Many have tried to “go legit,” by opening legitimate or health food restaurants, but sooner or later the obscene profits lure them back to grills, deep fryers, and drive-thru windows.

The girls and I wandered in one at a time, and we seated ourselves near the exits in case we had been expected. I ordered a “McNuggets” appetizer with a selection of sauces (I went for “buffalo,” which I have to admit actually did taste a lot like buffalo smell), and I noticed that some of the girls went for the “Big Mac,” their signature dish that made innovative use of a double-sliced sesame-seed bun and featured a special sauce. Other tables were occupied by iron-faced men in pinstriped suites and fedoras, chomping on cigars and sipping on super-sized Diet Cokes. I decided to join a particularly ugly pair at their table, to see what I could learn.

“Yo!” I offered in greeting, “Wazz-up?”

“Fuggetabadit,” replied the ugliest of the pair, “if you know what’s good fer ya.”

“I don’t see that on the menu,” I observed, “Have either of you ever tried the Happy Meal?”

I took the old-style 38-special revolver shoved into my face as a “no,” and smiling tried to retreat back to my table. Unfortunately, I was blocked by two more pin-striped-suit-wearing thugs with murder in their eyes. I saw the girls fingering the handles of their cleverly camouflaged swords (they find carrying them in the open draws way too much attention) and realized that I needed to consider my next move carefully if I wanted to get any useful information from the guys before the inevitable bloodletting.

“Let me put my cards on the table,” I suggested, “I’m here because I’m looking for the guy in charge of the Golden Chef program. I assume he didn’t come here for the food, so this place must be a front from some illegal activity. I can respect that, but I still need you to blab, then I’ll leave you guys alone to do whatever it is you do here. Capisce?”

The room became suddenly silent, as the rest of the patrons slowly stood up and drew guns. I also heard the unmistakable sound of steel swords being drawn from their sheaths. But, as much as my readers would have enjoyed another gory fight scene, I knew that dead men tell no tales, and needed to dial the level of conflict back a notch. I decided to try telling a joke.

“How many Mafia hitmen does it take to change a lightbulb? Three. One to screw it in, one to watch, and one to shoot the witness.”

The men’s faces only became grimmer, although some of the girls cracked a smile. Not content with only a single failure, I tried again. “Do you know what innuendo is? A brand of Italian suppositories!”

Sometimes you just know when you’ve crossed the line, and this was one of those times. I just hoped I had time to duck before the room exploded.

To Be Continued…

[Deep Knight]

Weathering the Storm
Another Excoriated Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 6 – Operation Grand Slam

“Agent-ta Knight,” said the one pin-striped-suited man who had remained sitting, but was getting up to his feet as he said it, “You deserve-va a break-ka today-ya, an arm-ma or a leg-ga if you don’t stop writing my dialog with a ludicrously bad and insulting accent. Your new ‘titolo’ of Barone Rothschild makes-sa you worthy of respect! But watch it about the accent, and no more puns!” The man was older, chewing on the end of a lit cigar, and his pants had cuffs, sure signs of authority in the Fast Food Mafia. That and he wasn’t wearing an apron. The accent was distinct but not nearly as bad or fun as I wrote it, and sounded more Neapolitan than Sicilian. That is, his voice contained Southern strawberry and chocolate flavors on top of plain-vanilla Italian, with some whipped vowels on top. These clues could be “data mined” to make my plan more devious and clever, but what the heck, I just winged it as always.

“Good, we understand each other,” I stated, not understanding him at all, “as long as you remember that I don’t have the ‘titolos,’ the Slice Girls do, and you have to ask permission first. Damn ‘Me Too’ movement.”

The man nodded in solemn agreement. “Let me introduce myself, Barone. I’m Ray Kroc, the CEO of this organization, but you can call me ‘Godfather.’ What can I do for you, my dear Lord Rothschilld?”

“Let’s dispense with formalities, although if you feel compelled I prefer to be called, ‘your Grace.’ What I need is quite simple, the announcer for the Golden Chef cable TV program was found with a matchbook from this restaurant on him. We dropped by to have dinner and see what we could find out. I would consider it,” I added, pausing for dramatic effect, “a personal favor if you looked into this for ‘The Big Guy’ and me.”

“The announcer for the Golden Chef,” repeated the “Drive-Thru Don” like a parrot, “you mean Mr. Eggs Ackley.”

“Exactly!” I confirmed, “He may have met someone here in the last day of so, getting information which he wrote in one of your matchbook’s inside cover.”

“A man with a scar on his scrotum?” asked the Godfather of Grease, with a knowing look on his face.

“Could be…” I replied, tentatively, having no idea as to the sex of the person I was looking for, much less the integrity of his nutsack if he was a man.

“No, I haven’t seen anybody like that,” he replied, “but it’s strange about the matchbook. We haven’t distributed matches at our restaurant since 1994 when smoking was banned, ten years after I died.”

Yet another zombie CEO! This trend in both cable science fiction shows and corporate leadership was getting old! But of more concern was the 24-year-old matchbook, for which there was only one explanation!

“I suggest we all duck,” I suggested, “because I just realized that the matchbook was a plant, which means the forces of good know we’re here, and are likely to strike any second. I hope your boys are armed with more than those foul-smelling cigars.”

They all followed my suggesting with amazing rapidity once the room exploded due to the flash grenades. Luckily, the Slice Girls were lifting drinks from behind the bar while the rest of the room’s attention was on me and “Mac Daddy,” and its heavy mahogany structure blocked the blast so they were neither stunned nor blinded. Had they know this, our assailants would have almost certainly chosen an entrance other than the drive-thru window, especially given how they dove in, one after another, head first. Decapitating them was like shooting fish in a barrel (something I have never done, and actually doesn’t sound all that easy if you think about it). It was soon over, with the girls only breaking a sweat when they ran down the assault-team’s driver to bring him back for questioning.

Having a deep fat fryer may be bad for your patron’s hearts, but it works wonders when they need to interrogate a prisoner. I found that you didn’t have to actually French-fry anything other than a few potato sticks, this sound added to the stress of having the family jewels dangling over hot oil was enough of a psychological torture that we got the information we needed. Unfortunately, when I fulfilled my promise to cut him loose, I neglected to either move him to the side or let the oil cool first.

This turned out to be a mixed blessing. On the negative side, when added to my previous liquid-nitrogen enema execution, it started rumors that I had become some sort of perverted butt-obsessed freak. Normally this would be OK, but my own Council of Twelve had decreed that all agents focus on promoting the International child sex trade in preference to all other sexual deviations. The famous “Cheese pizza” e-mail, don’t cha know. On the plus side, the nerve-shattering screams of agony broke one of Godfather Kroc’s pinstripe-clad minions. Not only did he stain his suit, he blurted out that their attack wasn’t by accident, that Ray was playing both sides against the sesame-seed bun slice in the middle, and we please shouldn’t fry him. It was pathetic to see a man break and ruin a good pair of pants like that, but I was grateful for the information and applied my foot to Mr. Kroc’s throat in a manner that provided further details.

“He buys so much of our fast food, I couldn’t say ‘no!’” he lied, “Some months whether he super-sizes or not makes the difference between the entire corporation’s profit and loss.”

“If that’s true, it would be no big deal for you to add a few deadly toxins to that food and be done with him, once and for all. Oh yeah, you need to poison Pence too, and come to think of it everyone in the chain of succession down to the Secretary of Leaks, Waste and Fraud, who’s the only one left there who’s ‘one of us.’”

“That’s impossible,” agreed ‘The Godfather,’ “and you know it. They all know the score, and make a point never to eat the same thing as the President. You live in a fool’s paradise if you think you’re the only person who wants him dead, or for that matter the only one who’s asked me to poison him. And I’m talking this week!”

“I’ll settle for just Trump,” I concluded, drawing back from a strategic plan to focus on simple revenge, “Whack him with a Big Mac and be done with it. We’ll pay the delivery charges.”

To Be Continued…

[Deep Knight]

Weathering the Storm
Another Excoriated Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 7 – Hey Mickey, You’re So Fine

My plan to burger Trump to death was an inspiration that showcased the breadth and depth of my genius. It's not my fault it didn't work.

Ray Kroc looked at me with his puppy-dog eyes and sighed. “You’ll just have to kill me, because this company is part of me and I can’t make its food poison, well, any more than it usually is. Go ahead, I’m ready to die for the honor of the Golden Arches.”

His dramatic gesture would have impressed me a whole lot more if he wasn’t already dead, being the CEZ (Chief Executive Zombie) of his multi-trillion dollar multinational corporation. You can get away with anything, including making burgers from kangaroo meat and still running a company after you’ve died, if you have enough money. OK for a while, but once tissue deterioration sets in the annual stockholder meetings become a real challenge. Still, it would have been satisfying to blow his undead head into tiny little pieces, but headless dead men tell no tales.

“You can trade your useless and lifeless life for some information, that is, if you come clean with the truth or a close facsimile thereof. Earlier you spoke about a man with a ‘scar on his scrotum.’ Although I don’t go in for looking at those sorts of things, and frankly don’t care how many scabs a man has on his sugar-sack, for some reason it intrigues me.”

“That’s because of Hitler’s lost testicle, um, er … er,” blurted out the Burger & Fries Big-Wig, whose ending stammer let me know I should put more pressure on him. Which I did by throwing the guy who had ratted on Kroc earlier into the deep fat fryer, head first. I don’t care if you’re a zombie, Nazi or kamikaze, the horrendous sound and burning-hair smell of a face and scalp getting the tempura treatment will unnerve even the nerviest man. And Kroc was no different.

“Much like the Illuminati or Skull and Bones, we have a fast food secret society in addition to a mafia. It’s so secret, we don’t even have a name, which makes it even harder to talk about us. For reasons too silly and lengthy to go into, we worship the graven image of a goat. But not just any goat, the mounted and stuffed one that bit Adolf Hitler in the nutsack when he was visiting his Grandmother’s farm after his father died. It left him with only one testicle, which became Nazi Germany’s greatest military secret of WWII. Imagine the effect on the common soldier’s moral if they had known. There was a History Channel series with an episode about it, you can watch it ‘On Demand.’ Being a secret society we collect secrets, and not only is the goat a gnarly image, we even had a song that goes along with it, to the tune of the ‘Colonel Bogey March.’(1)”

“Hitler, has only got one ball,
Goering, has two but they are small,
Himmler, is somewhat similar,
But Goebbels, has no balls, at all.”

Having a pair myself, I inadvertently winced at the thought, but because we’re talking about that horrible man who deserved everything he got, I also had to laugh. I wasn’t around for WWII, but when Satan is in his cups he tells stories, how he not only broke treaties, but the Big Guy’s sister’s heart. They say the Scarlet Whore of Babylon never even got a note or phone call explaining why, or for that matter a response to her paternity lawsuit. But what did that have to do with the price of coffee in Cairo or a lead to QAnon through Food Cooking Channel host Eggs Ackley? Not that you would know, but the Godfather of Grease just might, so I asked him too.

“Not that I’ve seen it myself, but the boys who watch the security cameras in the women’s bathroom told me about it,” admitted the privacy-challenged fast foodie. “She was here the same time ‘Eggs’ was, and they left together.”

“She?” I inquired inquisitively. Sure, I knew about the whole transgender thing, but was a bit confused about women with things that weren’t the right thing part, if you know what I mean.

“I can’t explain it, but that’s what I heard,” confessed Kroc, whose sweat betrayed his terror at having to witness the last tormented moments of his minions life, as the automatic times on the frying basket lifted his head out for one last, unforgettable scream. Annoying, actually, and not something I would want to go through again, although Psychotic Slice seemed to like it. But then again, she also liked “La-La Land.”

“What you’ve told me is interesting, but nothing that helps me find QAnon. So I’m afraid unless you’ve something to add, your luck has run out. Girls?”

“Wait!” Kroc screamed, obviously not quite as unafraid of death as you might expect an already-expired zombie to be, “I have the car model and a license plate! A white Nissan Juke with an Illinois WTZ9753 ‘Land of Lincoln’ tag. We keep video surveillance in the parking lot as well as the ladies’ stalls, just in case we need to take care of a customer service problem by, um, making it disappear.”

“But why would you, the Big Cheeseburger, know such an unimportant detail?” I asked suspiciously. And it wasn’t just how I asked the question, you gotta admit that someone having a license plate number on the tip of their tongue was usually unusual.

“I was thinking of giving her a call and asking her out myself,” said the French-Fry Fuhrer sheepishly, “The one ball thing has always intrigued me, especially given the fact she self-identified as a woman, not to mention I always got turned on by the catchy song.”

Sounded reasonable. And a quick use of the license-tracing app on my phone led me to 725 5th Ave. in New York, a Midtown Manhattan address. In fact, it sounded familiar, and strangely swanky for the gender-bending patron of a second-rate Chicago bistro. This was indeed valuable information, and something I could legitimately trade for his life, ending this incident honorably. But where’s the fun in that?

The girls had done enough artistic and gourmet slicing and dicing, so despite my suggestion that they give our victims the McNuggets treatment, they countered with a true “fast food” challenge, to kill them all within a minute. Given that there were over a hundred of them, and only 5 Slice Girls, one would think this would be impossible, especially since they were mostly beefy “stud muffins” with abnormally thick necks, making separating heads from the associated bodies serious work. But the girls had been training hard (their homicidal nature makes it difficult to for them to keep relationships together and they’ve been working out to ease the sexual frustration) and the fact that some of the pin-striped suited minions reminded them of old boyfriends only added to their zeal. I was amazed at the power of Serial Killer Slice’s samurai sword swings, easily going clean through two bodies and impaling another. And it wasn’t just showing off, she made every second count, and with her sisters together “mowed the human lawn” until only Ray Kroc was left. I had been threatening to pistol whip him with his own pistol (the guys who kidnapped me had taken mine, a custom Walther PPK that shoots 44 magnums, which sounds like overkill, and it is), but ceased to give him the choice of how he would like to die. He could get grilled from the feet up, or be eviscerated using a high-speed shake machine (you might note neither had to do with butts). He chose the second, so I had the girls do both to him, and despite my strict instructions, also give him a special sauce enema using the squirt bottle. Luckily, the copious amounts of blood hid the results of their whimsical addition, and his screams the sound, so I didn’t actually know about it until afterwards. As an added benefit, it was never known to a wider circle either, so it never contributed to the rumors of you-know-what.

To Be Continued…

(1) The Colonel Bogey March

[Deep Knight]

Weathering the Storm
Another Excoriated Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 8 – A Snitch in the Ditch

Now we were getting somewhere, and I don’t mean on the national news due to our murder spree (in Chicago it was a mere “blip” on the crime charts). 725 5th Ave. in Midtown Manhattan was none other than Trump Tower! What kind of sick individual could both rent from Trump and remain loyal to him? I had heard about his tenants’ complaints (who hadn’t?), and of course his unbroken record of winning the “worst landlord in NYC” award. And this isn’t just some meaningless title, in The Big Apple being the “worst” is really saying something. This case was getting stranger and stranger by the chapter.

But suddenly, and without warning, “it” came. It started in the Far East, running west from the International Date Line like a tsunami destroying everything in its path. Savvy investors saw the blip in the markets in Tokyo, Manilla, Shanghai, and Singapore first, then Bombay and Moscow. By the time the wave hit Frankfort, London and Monte Carlo it was a full-scale feeding frenzy as shares in Illuminati stocks reached record high levels of trading as prices firmed up and then soared due to the huge volumes. As de facto “Chairman of the Board” of the shadow corporation that controls New World Order’s extensive holdings, I was notified late in the day, and after a sleepless night playing nursemaid to our New York office’s ticker-tape machine (I keep telling them they have to modernize), I waited to see what the opening of the NYSE would hold. When it came, it wasn’t pretty.

The story was now clear to anyone who had the ability to look ahead in the story because it was on his computer; the New World Order was in the midst of a hostile take-over! And I didn’t need two guesses to know who was behind this nefarious scheme, Donald Trump and his strangely-named Trump Organization! Rushing back to lluminati Headquarters with the Slice Girls in tow as financial advisors and bodyguards, I found things in a panic. Even our burly security guards were openly weeping at the thought that the world’s most evil organization could soon be under new management. Management which took orders directly from Mar-a-Lago and had a new mission statement; Make America great instead of destroying it from within. Needless to say, both my boss Satan and I would be looking for new jobs.

To understand more fully, you need to know a little of the secret history of the New World Order. The Illuminati trace their origins back thousands of years to the conception of “The Bloodlines” which came about as a result of the genetic inbreeding between numerous extraterrestrial races and humanity. Originally twelve “families” in number, we are now thirteen for reasons too complicated to go into here. OK, it’s because some puffed up Johnny-come-lately is always making claims of alien ancestry, and demanding a seat on the council. How else do you think Hillary got on, well, besides the fact the other members feared for their lives? Fast forwarding, our modern origins can be traced back to the 1760s and Adam Weishaupt, who, financed by the International Bankers, incorporated the Illluminati as a limited liability corporation in Bavaria. This was for two reasons, the first being that Bavaria had the lowest incorporation fees in the latter half of the 18th century, sort of like the State of Delaware in the 70’s. The other was the ready availability of good beer. It’s not for nothing that “Illuminati” means “The Lit-Up Ones.” Since then our top goal has been to achieve a “one world government,” subjugate all religions and governments in the process, and show a decent rate of return to our investors. For example, all wars since the French Revolution have been fomented by us in pursuit of these goals and to “pump and dump” the markets. The official incorporation date was May 1, 1776. Tradition says that this is why May Day is celebrated, although no one can explain why it was also celebrated hundreds of years earlier and recorded by writers such as Shakespeare.

With incorporation came an issuance of stock followed by going public. Sure, the old guard didn’t like modern concepts of corporate funding, but with a few bribes and some well-publicized assassinations, even the surliest family head came around to the Finance Department’s way of thinking. It’s not a coincidence that their plush offices are located in the 7th level of Hell (physically lowest, featuring the most agonizing punishments and least-maintained bathrooms). Public funding has been one of the hallmarks of the New World Order ever since, and it has resulted in a revolution in ordinary, everyday evil. Our stock is traded internationally and on all exchanges, with Hedge Funds, Teachers Unions and anonymous proxies of minor oligarchs, major owners. Multiple listings are allowed (as if we cared) by the fact we trade under multiple names, all of them identifiable by the letters “ILL” for “Illuminati” or “LUC” for “Luciferian” in their name, e.g. Illinois Valve & Fitting or Lucille’s Louisiana Lunchwagons.

In the 1780s, the Bavarian Government found out about the Illuminati’s subversive activities and HUGE unpaid bar tabs (some things never change), forcing the Illuminati to go underground, becoming the well-known secret organization it is today. While international, our Bavarian branch has certain unique traditions not used elsewhere, such as using eggs and gelatin for thickening like Bavarian Cream. Currently we’re trying to bring down the legally-elected American government using our Deep State subsidiary and planning a Third World War, which is to be fought between the political Zionists and the leaders of the Moslem world, which will drain the international community to the extent that they will have no choice but to form a one world government. Everything was on track until the 2016 elections, which of course we fixed for the highest bidder. You better believe Crooked Hillary kicked herself (and Bill’s behind) for not being more free-spending, but you can imagine how tight her budget is. For example, it’s incredibly expensive just keeping the old crimes covered up is, not to mention those her “itchy trigger finger” add almost daily. It’s the same old story, the more money you have the more people you have to kill, and you end up spending most of that money to keep out of jail.

But now we were faced with a person who both had enough money to finance such a scheme, and a desire to stop our wicked reign of terror. Chaps my hide something fierce. Well, I wasn’t going to take this sitting down, and neither would millions of our brutally enslaved employees. If it was stock market war Trump wanted, it was stock market war Trump would get! I typed a memo Satan, boldly stating our defiance in dramatic terms, and ended by taunting Trump in a somewhat-insulting fashion. Then I hit, “Copy all” and “Send.” It was on!

To Be Continued…

[Deep Knight]

Weathering the Storm
Another Excoriated Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 9 – The Weasel of Wall Street

The Council of The Twelve met in emergency session with cadre of useful minions brought in and seated using folding chairs. An ability to think clearly and quickly was the one criterion for inclusion, well, other than being my bodyguard. Needless to say, Gladys was the only one from Satan’s allowed in, she not only had ruthless ideas it saved Satan running down to get her OK for anything major. I had also “neglected” in include anyone from the Finance Dept. or Accounting. We needed a tiger team, not nerds that counted beans. After firing-up the altar and doing the short-form incantations, but skipping the apt-to-be-lengthy human sacrifice, we got down to business. Besides, since the rite was to gain the favor of Satan, providing donuts and pastries was both cheaper and faster. Faces were grim all around as we got an update from Hillary on our stock ownership and control position.

“Over 20% of our stock has changed hands in the past 16 hours, hundreds of billions worth. I only have an estimate at this time, our outdated software doesn’t go up that high. Yet another price we pay for tormenting accountants. Prices keep going up but a group of mystery buyers who talk about ‘The Orange Don’ have been spending cash on our stock like there’s no tomorrow. It’s obvious that they’re vying to get a controlling interest before May’s stockholder meeting!”

“Just as I feared,” said Satan gravely, “I told that Weishaupt guy to keep stock ownership private, but would he listen? Remind me to look him up and see that he’s getting severely tormented wherever he is in Hell.”

“Not a problem,” said Hillary, pulling out a pad and pencil, “All we have to do is buy a block of stock big enough to block their takeover strategy. Let’s see, with Satan owning 35% and the rest of his family 10%, another 6% will…”

“Um, you might want to update those figures,” said Satan sheepishly, “they could be kind of old.”

“They’re from last week’s audit,” said Hillary, getting that stern “first wife at the divorce hearing” look on her face as she stared Satan down. Knowing Satan as I did I wasn’t surprised that he had done something stupid, and waited with bated breath to find out what it was.

“Then, perhaps they need to be a tiny bit more accurate,” said the Prince of Darkness in an uncharacteristic soft tone, “I might have, um, given the accountants estimates that were, um, a bit off.”

The way he said this made me understand before he said anymore. I banged my forehead against the top of the council table as our plight dawned on me. Satan had been selling his stocks to cover his cover-ups, out-of-court settlements, poor investment choices, and extended funding of non-disclosure contracts (for a range of dalliances that would stun anyone with the stomach to go through them). No doubt Gladys had caught wind of this, blabbed to her daughters, and the whole family followed suit. After all, why be financially responsible when you can lie, cheat, and steal instead? I grimaced and swallowed hard, but then calmed as I realized with a little luck we could still be OK.

“Well, at least we have the money Hillary just gave you from the Clinton Foundation,” I said in a relieved tone due to the relief I felt. “With that and some arm twisting to get proxies from our institutional investors, we should still be able to nip this takeover in the bud.”

“Um, er,” stammered Satan, “That money might not be exactly available right this instant … not that it’s not, mind you … it’s just that it isn’t.”

Hillary jumped up out of her chair and onto the top of the table. Standing over him, staring down with daggers seemingly coming out of her eyes, I could tell she had come to realize what I had known for so long about “Satan” and “being able to trust.” “WHAT DID YOU DO?” she demanded at a volume so intense using all CAPS was no exaggeration.

“With all the new laws and stuff, I had to launder it before we could use it,” he began, “so naturally I looked for the best deal on the secret open market. Saved us some money, that’s all.”

“WHAT DID YOU DO?” repeated Hillary, if anything at an even-more intense volume.

“Deutsche Bank had this money laundering deal using Manhattan real estate that I jumped on,” he continued, “How was I to know they were Trump properties and he would stall when the time to transfer the sanitized money came due.”

I felt like I had been slapped by a slug from a 45 or pummeled by the backhand of a big-boned blonde I had berated. The Prince of Cluelessness had laundered the money he had gotten from the Clinton Foundation through Trump, who in turn was using it to fund a hostile takeover of the New World Order through a raid on our stocks. Oh, the bitter irony! Not to mention the even-more-bitter stupidity.

“We need to let the people know he’s doing this!” screamed Hillary, still standing on the table, but now marching back and forth instead of glaring over Satan. “Have our minions in the Main Stream Media make it look like money laundering to buy controlling interest in the Illuminati is somehow ‘wrong’ and not exactly, ‘draining the swamp.’ The true believers will give him a pass, but if we can convince certain key blocks of swing voters, especially independent women…”

“First you need to wait a second because you’re the third person in this adventure to suggest we use the fourth estate as a fifth column,” I cautioned, using my sixth sense for such things. Hillary mumbled something about how I must be in seventh heaven, but I cut her short, not wanting to get behind the eighth ball by pushing the ordinal number thing so far that common sayings suffer.

“I suppose you have a better idea,” she sneered, marching over to my seat at the head of the council table, scattering papers, pencils, pens, and coffee mugs because she had yet to get down off its top. It was one of the few times I was glad that Illuminati coffee was so bad people rarely got any.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” I conceded, “Call your boyfriend Vladimir and sweet talk him out of a loan. The last time I checked, he was the world’s richest despot, with vast hidden assets. And if you can’t pry any of his funds away from him, there are always his oligarch friends, who owe their wealth to him and can be persuaded to open their purses if reminded of their obligations and prodded with Moscow-hotel-peeing-prostitute videos.”

Hillary was on the phone before I finished my statement. Not only is she fast on the uptake, she’ll jump at any chance to talk to her sweetie, even if it’s in front of the ruling body of the world’s most evil organization. Starting with baby talk and then Russian slang for certain body parts and characteristics of their overuse, she finally got to the crux of our matter. I could hear Vladimir’s distinctive voice on the other end, I couldn’t make out the words but they were excited and rapid. And the look on Hillary’s face defied description, so I won’t describe it other than to say it was extremely intense.

Hillary put down her phone carefully, as if it was made from glass and extremely fragile (which they actually are). “It’s worse than I thought,” she began, a quiver in her voice. “Let me put Vladdie-Boy on speaker, and he’ll explain.”

To Be Continued…

[Deep Knight]

Weathering the Storm
Another Excoriated Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 10 – Leapin’ Lizards that’s Sandy!

Vladimir Putin, Russian dictator, lethal Lothario, and all-around fun guy startled us with his financial report. Sometimes raw numbers can do that to you. Not very often, but sometimes.

“Amerikanski sanctions are to being pain in ass,” he explained, “All Russian friends are needed to launder moneys or no more luxury imports. And, couple of weeks ago, we are to getting wonderful discount deal with Moscow branch of Deutsche Bank. Are to investing in expensive Manhattan real estate.”

The rest of the story read out like you would expect. It was your classic “one bank takes dirty cash as collateral on loan from another branch that buys expensive real estate which gets sold later at a loss but for clean cash” scheme. Add to this that “Manhattan real estate” is code speech for “the Trump Organization,” and you’ll see how screwed we were. Not only were we financing our own demise, we couldn’t look to Putin for relief because he was coincidently also financing his. A brilliant and clever plan, which I naturally had trouble ascribing to the Donald Trump I knew.

“This is crazy,” I complained, “We’re talking about Trump playing 12-dimensional chess when anyone who has spent 5 minutes with him would doubt he could play 2-dimensional checkers! There’s obviously someone else behind this, and I think that the fact this mole popped up just as we were about to pursue a clue that led directly to Trump Tower was NO coincidence.”

“You mean,” said Hillary, with a look on her face as if a light bulb had just gone off in her panties, “the real brains behind this caper is Q?”

“A prefer QAnon,” I clarified, “It keeps the James Bond and Star Trek Next Generation people from suing us.”

“Is that with the ‘A’ capitalized or lower case?” asked Hillary, taking notes.

“At this point, what difference does it make?” I lied, “What we need to know is what needs to be done, how to do it to get it done, and how to finally be done with it. Anything else and you can cancel those cases of Champagne, because there’s not a lot of cork popping goes on at Gitmo.”

My change of tone changed the meeting’s tone dramatically, and seriousness dripped off the walls like fresh vomit in a freshman dorm’s bathroom during fraternity rush. Making a decision that meant the difference between life and death tends to do that, or at least it has for me in the last few minutes. Breaking the silence Hillary spoke up.

“How do we even know the Qanon or QAnon is real?” she asked. “You gotta admit, it’s a funny name, even funnier than ‘Huma.’”

“Are you kidding?” I blurted out, “Just last week QAnon posted about the ‘White Hats’ and the next day Melania wore a white hat with a cute little white pantsuit! What more do you want?”

“How about that level of respect when I wore a pantsuit?” blurted out an obviously bitter former first lady, “And just who are the ‘White Hats’ anyway?”

“You probably remember them as the ‘White Knights,’” I explained, “A secret organization within the government that did good while the rest of Washington were evil appointees of either your husband Bill or Obama who were working for us.”

“And exactly how do they differ from the ‘Deep State?’” asked Hillary, obviously confused.

“Because they’re a secret organization within the government doing evil under the noses of the good appointees made by Trump!” I fumed. “It’s exactly opposite!”

“Just a second,” blurted out Satan’s wife Gladys, “I think Crooked Hillary has a point there. These two organizations seem a lot alike, except for their loyalties. How do we know they’re not the same, and playing both sides against the middle?”

“That’s insane,” Satan objected, “Someone would have noticed something like that by now! What do you think, that everyone in our records and accounting departments are idiots?”

Suddenly it was like a light went on inside of my brain and the brains of most of the people in our meeting. Our minions were just as evil and almost as devious as Gladys, so it made sense that this would have occurred to them also. One of the problems with an organization like ours. Regardless, it was something I could easily check. I quickly brought up the spreadsheets for suspected White Knight agents in government, and our Deep State payroll. To my amazement, we had a 97% match.

“I had suspected something was wrong,” mused Lord Rockefeller from his chair on the council, “I keep getting complaints from our agents at Quatloos that they’ve never gotten their obscenely-large payoff checks, either from us or George Soros. I always figured it was just because we were being cheap, but now one has to wonder if those payments were intercepted by the same people we were trusting to betray their oaths of office.”

“Of course!” I blurted out, “And then there was that house detective who swore up and down he could only take cash! What a fool I was!”

The room was ominously silent as we each stared at the visage of our likely demise in its face. Mine was particularly ugly, and looked kind of like that guy who played the “You’re in a heap o' trouble, boy!” State Patrolman on those 1970 car ads. Hillary was smiling, I supposed the face she saw looked like “rushin’ hands” Putin’s. But I was wrong, her crooked-yet-devious mind had come up with a desperate but viable solution. It would take a set of brass balls bigger than basketballs to bring it off, but the former FLOTUS had ones that were up to the task, and I could tell from her rapidly-spreading grin she was about to take them out for a spin.

To Be Continued…

[Deep Knight]

Weathering the Storm
Another Excoriated Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 11 – White-Knight-Gate

It all started with the Dove of Oneness, the #$@&!, who with the help of A&A (Lord Rama and Lady Tara, but they have many names) revealed what is known as the Real NESARA Law to the public. This secret law was signed by President Clinton in 1993 and was to be announced by Alan Greenspan on Sept. 11, 2001 at 10:00 a.m. at the World Trade Center. You know how that turned out. What’s important here are the people who forced Clinton to sign then struggled for over 8 years to get it darn close to announced, the White Knights. But who were they really? And what do we need to know about them, besides the fact that they are better at forcing than announcing?

In early 1993, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled on charges by the Farmers' Union that banks in the U.S. were fraudulently foreclosing on farm mortgages for the laughable reason that they were years behind in their payments. But as strange as it sounds, getting these loans forgiven or the money back wasn’t their aim, having everybody else’s loans forgiven was. Were they nice guys or what? But, as powerful forces like we Illuminati are against justice (it’s our thing) the problem was how to implement their ruling. The Justices built coalitions of support and assistance with thousands of “loyal” government employees, many high-ranking military officers or Rambo-like bureaucrats. These people working to bring the world NESARA were named "White Knights” by the Dove of Oneness, a term borrowed from the world of big business when a vulnerable company is "rescued from a hostile takeover" by a White Knight corporation or wealthy benefactor. Like their corporate analogs, Dove implied that they would get a commission on their work, after of course she got her cut. This should have been a warning, but to be brutally honest, Dove was too greedy to listen or care.

Many of the White Knights in the military were members of Special Forces, Delta Force, the Navy Seals, or all three. Squads of these were sent to Europe, where with the help of Interpol (a group of Poles who meet on the Internet), they returned America’s stolen gold to Fort Knox. This was necessary because NESARA mandated gold-backed currency, and for that you needed the gold the corrupt government had given away over the years, most of it on silly whims. Action loaded commando raids such as this were the sort of things they were good at, making a simple announcement not so much. Of course, a lot of the credit goes to the Illuminati and specifically yours truly. I leveraged my name into an inside position at their headquarters, reported my finding here at Quatloos, and it led to a high-level position doing the dirty work of higher-ups in our corrupt organization. The good ol’ days. We would thwart the announcement and any acts that might lead to prosperity, such as getting our gold back. As fast as it came in it went back out, only one of the advantages of running Fort Knox.

Because they were so inept, most people simply thought the White Knights died of embarrassment or went away. Nonsense, they just changed their name to “The White Hats.” If you wonder about the reason for this, you’ve never been sued by the Klan. Not only do these lawsuits drag on and on in the courts, your neighbors start to give you dirty looks after “the boys” burn crosses on your lawns to the accompaniment of rebel yells. But even though Dove was gone and their story told by patriots named things like “Drake” and “Cobra” (their parents must have been hippies), and their existence went on through the darks days of the Obama administration, but they never were able to arrest him for that phony birth certificate.

One would think this cadre of right-thinking Americans would have celebrated Trump’s victory and be his (and QAnon’s) biggest supporters and allies, but you would be both right and wrong. Instead, as just discovered during an open-ended discussion at Illuminati Headquarters, they were not only the White Knights/Hats but also our similar-but-opposite Deep State! One organization, but two names, each no-doubt with two sets of books! It wasn’t that they switched sides, they were always both sides. The only side they were ever "on" was their own. Loyal to neither, they were playing “good” against “evil,” “right” against “left,” “hip” against “passé.” Look at the in-and-out gold deal, they took a 10% finder’s fee every time they schlepped over to Europe to get it. Then they let it "leak back" across the big pond, it which led to another trip to go get it and yet another 10%. Devilishly clever, no wonder Satan was beside himself in anger. That was HIS yard those kids were playing in!

I had broken the case wide open when Hillary realized the Deep State and White Knights/Hats had the exact same MO, only on different sides depending on the tendencies of the present administration. I had gotten to my computer first and found our Deep State payroll matched our old of “marked for death” list of White Knights. Moreover, further research showed that over 800 of the wealthiest 1000 people in the world were upper-mid-level US Government employees (the rest were Illuminati and a scattering of neo-fascist dictators). Strange that none of us had noticed their lavish lifestyles, but we Illuminati higher-ups shun contact with underlings unless it’s to sexually harass or kill them, activities that rarely take us to their homes.

But now that we knew what was going on, we could come up with an effective counter strategy. Hillary, actually blurted out my brilliant plan before I could think of it, and you know how pushy “those kinds of” women can be. The key was that Trump had planned for us to be financially hamstrung by the “good faith money” and “substantial penalties for early withdrawal” built into the money laundering deal Satan had signed. But they hadn’t counted on my lack of concern for other people losing money, or Hillary’s devious mind.

“According to this contract,” began the former FLOTUS, “Trump Tower is now owned by the Illuminati and Vlad’s holding company, ‘Despots R Us.’ If it’s money we need, we should simply sell it.”

“You don’t understand how this deal is structured,” complained the Prince of Darkness, “Penalties and fees will eat us alive if we start messing with the agreed-upon dates.”

“As opposed to Trump getting control of our stock and cleaning house at the stockholder’s meeting?” asked Hillary naively.

“Of course not,” retorted Satan angrily, “What I’m looking for is a third option.”

“And I have it!” I exclaimed, excitedly. “We don’t have to actually sell anything thus incurring those expenses, we only have to appear that we were in the process of doing it, flushing out QAnon and his minions!”

“What good does that do us, besides satisfying your sick urge for revenge?” interjected Satan, “QAnon is a footnote to this story and too minor to be concerned about.”

“I disagree,” countered Hillary, “Something hasn’t been right in Washington since the beginning of the Trump administration, and I’m starting to think it’s not Trump, but someone behind the scenes pulling his strings!”

Sure, Hillary was still bitter about her loss in 2016, but that didn’t mean she didn’t realize that there had to be someone more clever than the President behind all this. Don’t get me wrong, the fact that Trump could become rich given his lowly birth proved his high IQ, but whoever was behind this had to be an order of magnitude smarter and more devious. I had suspected Steve Spicer, but you know what happened there, even if they successfully covered it up as far as the general public is concerned. How he got it down that drainpipe without scratching the sides still baffles me.

“All we have to do is put up a listing, then those online real estate sites like “Zwillow” and “Trulia” and “Property Pimp” will latch onto it and we’ll get a real buzz going!” chortled Hillary happily, “If we’re lucky it will get picked up by Fox News, and we’ll be sure it gets onto Trump’s radar.”

“Give me and the Slice Girls a few hours to get inside Trump Tower,” I asked. “We can pretend we’ve been sent by the new owners to look things over. When they see our intent to sell and panic hits, we can be on the scene to exploit it, but in the process of doing so get caught. Then, after QAnon shows his true identity and reveals his plans when gloating over our soon-to-be-dead butts, we escape and bring the information back here!

To Be Continued…