Authors Foreword: Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan

 

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Jack Heart’s New Book, the Author’s Foreword

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 Jack Heart

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January 5, 2021

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In 2012 I wrote an account of what I experienced in 1989, a testimony to my own forcible removal from the familiar surroundings of Plato’s Cave where the vast majority of the human race, live out their lives watching shadows on the wall. It’s taken eight years, and within the last year the breakdown and systemic failure of every cherished notion of what it means to be human but now maybe the last ones standing can understand the implications of what is in that book. It was published today. This is the author’s foreword.

The Human: Jack, Orage & friends. Jack Heart writings

Time has no power over the spirit and will of man

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Author’s Foreword: Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan

Like nomads we walk the earth without a home, never to love, never to feel, and never to fear death because we know our souls are older than death itself. Empathy is a strange and alien emotion to us. If you can feel it for the few then you cannot feel it for the many, not as acutely as we do. We are Allogenes, strangers in a strange land, come here for a moment, one moment of truth. Miss it and we will have lived in vain. This is the story of how we missed ours. Metaphorically this is a story of how C. G. Jung and Al Capone went out clubbing and found Aleister Crowley tending bar with the Goddess on the dance floor. But do not be deceived this is the story of the human soul…   

Author’s Foreword: Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan

By Jack Heart

I wasn’t really crazy till I found out I was sane. Back in New York they called me Crazy George. That was about ten years after the facts. It was around the turn of the twenty-first century when they tagged me with that. The Sopranos got a character; George Esposito named after me. I remember when the impetus for that occurred. Somewhere back in the early two thousands an old time “Good-fellow” named Capuluiso, the cousin of slain godfather Paul Castellano, died. I was good friends with his son George so even though I didn’t know him out of the obligatory respect I attended his funeral in Brooklyn and signed the mass card. The whole cast for the Sopranos were there, which I found tacky from the get-go. When I was invited to be introduced to them, because of that and the fact that I consider them all a walking talking racial slur to Italian Americans, I not so respectfully declined.

I remember watching the Pagans motorcycle gang and Michael Franzese on the investigative discovery channel and wondering why it wasn’t me. I know Michael from way back, I know his friends, and I know his friends friends. And they all know me. Just like I know the Pagans and was intimately acquainted with their legendary “Bubba,” a man who would have scared Jesus Christ himself. Michael was the son of Sonny Franzese, a legend in his own right. A lot of these Italian dudes will play off their father’s reputations, some will even tell you who their father is before they tell you who they are, but Michael wasn’t like that.

It was somewhere around the turn of the twenty-first century and it was a slow night at the Café Royale, one the New York City areas top three strip clubs at the time, along with Scores and Gallagher’s. Michael had come in with his whole crew and that was about it. About a dozen of them were drinking at the bar. I was standing at the door being assaulted by a bevy of scantily clad woman. Who wasn’t going to make enough money to cover the sixty-dollar house fee, who wanted to go home early, and who didn’t want to work with me because my friends scared the customers away. It was one of those nights where I would be lucky to break a hundred dollars myself. I wanted to go home early.

About a half a dozen cars pull up in the parking lot by the door filled with young Hispanic men dressed to the nines. Knowing Hispanic street gangs were not allowed in the club, outside of course some OG’s from the Latin Kings whom we treated like royalty to keep the rest of them out, one guy did all the talking. I told him we couldn’t let MS 13 in the club, and he tells me they’re not MS 13 but a rival gang at the time named neta neta. I’d heard of them and I wasn’t impressed, but he takes out a wad of cash that must have been about five thousand dollars. He tells me they got no guns, and they are there to spend this money. A couple of the girls were standing at the door watching this, so I went and talked it over with them. I had to let them in now. If no one made any money it would really be my fault. I told them they could come in and wanded them with the hand-held metal detector for guns, which true to their word they didn’t have.

I told them I didn’t want any trouble and the first sign of it they had to leave and sat down at the bar with them. If looks could kill the looks my lone bouncer that night was shooting me from the mezzanine would have killed me on the spot. At first everything went smoothly, and they were spending money faster than the barmaids could pour drinks. But they were getting loaded and dancers were trying to roll them. By then I knew what was coming. One of them gets in a heated argument with a dancer and I told them it was time to go. They weren’t having it, so I grab two of them one in a headlock in each arm and start dragging them towards the door. My bouncer came flying down from the mezzanine and does the same. The rest of them start pulling out carpet razors. I stupidly didn’t check them for knives.

That was when Michael and his crew got busy. One kid James could throw kicks like Jean-Claude Van Damme. He had a body like him too and was about six foot four. The girls used to love to ogle him. He decks about a half of them with his feet. X-ACTO’s were clanging all over the floor; I would pick up about a half dozen later on. When we got them outside Michael pulled his gun and saw to it that they drove off without further incident. Michael was a standup guy, and he didn’t need his father. But I had seen and done things a decade before that would have turned his shock of jet-black hair white and everybody knew that about me.

A year or two later I had to stop working in strip clubs when a drug dealer I was extorting broke my jaw. He cold cocked me when my back was turned, it was the first time I’d been knocked down by a punch in my life, at least when I wasn’t falling down drunk anyway. I still got up and fought him to a draw but having my jaw wired for weeks forced me to admit I was getting old. Unfortunately, children grow up; my daughters did. One became a materialistic yuppie, a card carrying Khazarian princess. The other one followed in my ex-wife’s family tradition of dedicated service in the strip club industry. When the bodies of strippers and call girls started turning up at Gilgo Beach, one or two snatched from right around the block of a club she worked at, I spent many a sleepless night.

I had a friend, my best friend since I was eleven years old, probably the most feared assassin to ever stalk the underworld. Some of Johns early work with the neighbors in a house in Amityville, the next door over from the one we both grew up in, and I suspect as one of the Son of Sam shooters, is very well known. He’s dead now, so I can say it. I hadn’t seen him in twenty years and from out of the blue he called my mother’s phone early on a December morning in 2011. John left a long drawn-out message on the machine about how a friend of mine had just committed suicide and he figured that he better call me and tell me before I heard about it on the news. It turned out to be one of my wholesalers, the biggest landscape supplier on Long Island and a major player in its real estate game. Jimmy Bissett had just purchased a twelve-million-dollar home and nobody could understand why he had just blown his brains all over his car in an east end park, right before a lunch date with his best friend. I couldn’t figure out how John had known about it seemingly almost before it happened and why he had bothered calling me after all those years, on my mother’s unlisted number. I’m not that sentimental and he of all people knew that.

In the ensuing days it would come out among Long Island’s politically connected that the father, who had started the landscape supply business, a man I had known since I was eighteen, was being held by the police. The rumor was bodies or pieces of the bodies connected to Gilgo Beach were being dug up on the father’s property. The family owned chunks of Brookhaven and the good part of Riverhead, including its famous aquarium. Newsday, Long Island’s rag of a newspaper, had even printed something to the effect that the father was being questioned by police but quickly withdrew it with a disclaimer. The whole thing was covered up.

As noted on the investigative journalism show 48 Hours by the mother of Shannon Gilbert, the murdered call girl whose disappearance led to the discovery of her own and eleven other bodies around the Gilgo Beach area: Long Island is “an evil dirty place.” What she said about Oak Beach applies to most of the east end: “It’s isolated. It’s desolate. It’s a rich community. You’ve got doctors and cops and very very wealthy people who live there. No one’s ever going to think that that’s a bad dangerous area. But it is.”1 Shortly after making that statement on National TV she would be murdered by her other daughter, Shannon’s sister, who is said to be insane but appeared perfectly normal in the show. Her murder effectively ended the media investigation which Shannon’s mother had started into the blatant police cover up of her daughters and most likely the eleven other murders. (2)

When I called the number back a couple of days later that John had left on my mother’s answering machine I started to tell him what I’d heard about the suicide, which by then was major news on Long Island. He claimed he had never heard of Jimmy Bissett and he didn’t know what I was talking about. Having been through that drill before with him, I shut up immediately and never mentioned it again until now. I would find out later that the friend Jimmy Bissett was scheduled to eat lunch with was a friend of both my ex-wife Michelle and my daughter. He was a regular at the club they both worked in, if not an owner as he claimed to them. He has been very good about severing his ties with my family.

I started thinking after that about how many people had died that John may have just found offensive and how they always seemed to be found shot dead in their own cars as if their assailant had been sitting in the car with them. There were the two guys in the Pagans motorcycle gang, the stripper that got carved up in North Amityville, the wrestler at the Crazy Clown, Sleepy Joe the drug dealer who like the wrestler worked for a mob family he didn’t like, the whole thing about the Defeo’s and the “Amityville Horror” when he was only fifteen and all the urban legend whispered among the Amityville locals. Even the cops were afraid of this guy. I’d seen it myself when Michelle and I went with him to the funeral of the wrestler, who was Michelle’s boss at the time. I saw with my own eyes Suffolk County homicide, legendarily brutal cops with a 95% confession rate, stammering and groveling to John in the middle of the funeral parlor, while the widow tearfully begged him to help them. That was just what I had seen happen around me. He didn’t advertise and never ever admitted to anything. I knew how he did it; he had done it to me, right after the two incidents with Michelle that featured me being hauled off in ambulances in the summer of eighty-nine.

But sometimes in order to maintain ones roots in “the world of the living,” as Don Henley calls this, it’s necessary to compartmentalize the experiences you’ve had outside that world and lock them in the back of your brain in a neat little box labeled Do Not Open. That’s the difference between those who remain paralyzed for life from PTSD and those who have learned how to forget and are seemingly “normal” after undergoing traumatic events.

I had already been writing for a couple of years on Open Salon (OS) and people like John Blumenthal, one of the premier authors in America and editor of Playboy Magazine for a score of years, had told me I was good at it. I had been toying with the idea of writing a book but never of opening the little box. I was going to write about the strip club scene circa the turn of the twenty-first century at the Café Royale. There would be sex with stunningly beautiful woman and lots of funny stories about gangsters and celebrities. I figured I could make some money now that I knew how to type, which I had painstakingly taught myself to do on OS while being tutored in the art of writing by some of the best in the business. I had forgotten about the twentieth century. I had to if I wanted to live in the twenty-first. I had lived over twenty years in a world that I knew wasn’t real. But as Bob Dylan said in Tangled Up in Blue: “But all the while I was alone the past was close behind…”

By the end of 2011 I drank too much, ate too much and did too many drugs. I had three or four different prescriptions just to get to sleep at night, not to mention a hip that needed replacing and at least a half dozen other old wounds that gave me trouble. I made good money doing landscaping, but after thirty years there was no more future in it for me. Quiet desperation was the best I could hope for. I had forgotten all about the little box. When John dropped back into my life with his customary homicidal greeting I began to remember. I started thinking, why not write the book? Everyone else writes a book. Why not write the book?

I went to go see him at his junk yard over by Bissett’s Nursery and run the idea by him. I would never do it without his consent. His first answer was a resounding no, but when I explained to him the circumstances of our impeding old age, he lightened up. Although he still didn’t think it was a good idea. I don’t think he could get past the half dozen or so unsolved homicides he knew would come up; besides all that old stuff about the Amityville incident. But by the time I left, he had grudgingly consented.

In the months that followed he did a complete about face and started calling me up and telling me what else to put in it; including an all-night bar fight at the Coaches Four with the notorious Pagan Vinnie Gamblers old crew. That was his idea. I had already begun with two apocalyptic brawls involving the Pagans. I thought throwing in a quaint little getting to know you fistfight was too much, but he insisted. Now I think I know why. Vinnie and his girlfriend; Gracie the top billed stripper on the circuit in the late eighties, would have prominent parts in the narrative. I didn’t know that when I began the book. I had played the Fool through the whole thing. All I knew was I was giving an eyewitness account of the Babylon Working and I only knew that because Preston Nichols, the progenitor of the Montauk Projects, had clued me in years after the fact. But John knew, he had always known, probably since we were eleven years old…

After the Vietnam War, the Pagans –many of them combat veterans of Nam– had taken over Long Island’s underworld, if not Long Island itself. The papers were full of their exploits. The police had at one time attempted to interfere with one of their funeral processions which were always over a hundred bikes long and guaranteed to halt traffic three towns away. Two overzealous cops pulled them over resulting in a beating for every cop on the east end of Long Island dumb enough to respond to their call for backup. I don’t remember how it turned out legally for the club. I was a kid at the time, but I do remember that the two cops had to be put in the Federal Witness Protection program. Even the Hell’s Angels gave the Pagans a wide birth. The Angels had a really happening clubhouse in lower Manhattan and the run of all NYC, but no Angel would dare step foot on Long Island during the seventies and eighties. It was rumored that Mick Jagger refused to use his multimillion-dollar mansion in the Hamptons, because the Pagans considered him a Hell’s Angel. They had a clubhouse out in the Hamptons, but their capital buildings and the place from which they ran Long Island’s thriving strip club industry were two bars; Gaslight and Bogart’s right across the street from Babylon Town Hall. Various Norse occult insignias were emblazoned on the backs of their jackets, yet when I met her at the Pagans flagship clubs I didn’t get it. Like I said, the Fool, but John was with me. He had arranged the whole thing, he got it. He was German, and much later when I read Miguel Serrano a few years ago I would find out what I had lived through twenty-five years ago was the religion of the Nazis…

John’s been dead a couple of years now. Many of the main characters in the book have died since its completion. The last one was Gracie who died abruptly right after Peter Pan Meets Pyramid Head was published. All have died unexpectedly, some “overdoses,” some for no apparent reason at all. They ranged in age from late forty’s to mid-fifties.

By the end of 2012, the book was done. If you believed in what’s in it, and back then I still really didn’t, it’s the most important thing ever written. Personally, I just thought I’d written a best seller, as I’d intended from the start. Now I wanted the money. I read everything I could find on writing a query. Then I wrote a better one and sent it to all relevant publishers and literary agents in hard copy; along with a synopsis and partial manuscript, as required by individual submission policies. It cost me a few hundred dollars, but I figured after the initial expense I could sit back and sell to the highest bidder. All I got back was the self-addressed stamped envelopes requested in some submission guidelines for responses. They were stuffed with a form letter politely saying that my manuscript wasn’t for them.  I suspected there was something very wrong, what I’d written was an instant bestseller and I knew it. But when the post office left a note on my door to come down and pick up a piece of certified mail I was certain the worm had turned. What I got back was my partial manuscript, synopsis and query, certified mail at the publisher’s expense. This is unheard of in the publishing business. The publisher would go broke in a month. Unwanted manuscripts and submissions are discarded. No one takes money out of their pocket for an unsolicited submission except the party doing the submitting. In the packet was an interoffice memo from the office of literary agent Suzanne Gluck to the legal department of the Morris Agency in reference to my manuscript, stating: “I just wanted to make sure we have a record of receiving it. Please let me know if you have any questions.”

I’d used peoples real names in the book but by then I knew there were problems with the book that went far deeper than liability. They’d already started working me on the internet. I was being briefed into the fact that there is no reality, and events that occur in waking moments, at least for some, more resemble The Illuminatus! Trilogy than a John Steinbeck novel. Those events that we see, they manifest themselves in the world around us, and all the little pixels euphemistically known as people. What is implied in the book is all true and I would find out, long after writing it, when I was instructed to read master occultist Miguel Serrano by a famous Moto-Cross athlete that it is the secret religion of the Nazis.

That would explain my relationship to Preston Nichols, the progenitor of the Montauk Project in the nineties. Before Hollywood invented The Matrix, there was the Montauk Project. It is the mother of all conspiracy theories, and the name reversed was even the original title of hit TV show Stranger Things.

Among Nichols’ circle of friends his story was taken so seriously that John Ford, the president of the Long Island U.F.O. Network and three of his friends were given lengthy prison sentences after being implicated in a 1996 plot to poison then Suffolk County Republican Chairman John Powell, Suffolk Legislator Fred Towle and Brookhaven Conservative Party chief Anthony Gazzola by exposing them to radium. Nichols knew things and he said far more than he wrote. One of the people he said them too was me.

I had been away for a couple of years. When I got back in 1991 I had twin two-year-old girls and a trophy wife who was a part-time mother and a full-time gangster. Money, which had always come in piles I didn’t bother counting before I spent, was now hard to come by. I found myself working two jobs just to make ends meet. One of them was at a car wash by the intersection of Hempstead Turnpike and Route 109, probably the most heavily trafficked intersection on Long Island. The car wash was part of a parcel of buildings that included Total Health; a one-stop nutrition and occult store that was the hub of Long Island’s thriving New Age movement. From there the most avant-garde Aquarian lectures were coordinated all over the island and New York City. Marty Myers, my mother’s on again off again boyfriend till he died a few years ago, owned the whole block. He was the Jewish brains behind the “mafia” gas tax scam Michael Franzese talks about on TV.

Marty and my mother were very close friends with Dr. J. J. Hurtak the man who was covertly calling the shots, on behalf of NASA and the NSA, on the Giza plateau for the last twenty-five years of the twentieth century. I think it was through him I met Richard Hoagland; NASA’s pyramids on Mars guy. When I wasn’t wrestling dirt bags for a full share of the tips in the car wash I was in the store rubbing elbows with just about everybody who was anybody in the New Age movement. I think it was Deepak Chopra that I once told that he reminded me of the swami from a Frank Zappa song…

With what I’d seen and done I was hardly impressed, especially with Hurtak, his pigeon Hebrew and his “coming beings of pure light.” Which he assured them all would be arriving momentarily to take over the planet and guide the human race to a new and greater destiny. They were all attending study classes on his book; The Keys of Enoch. I remember when my mother gave me a copy. I smiled and thanked her; feigned fascination, took it home and threw it in the garbage. It was a very expensive book, but it reminded me too much of my copy of Aleister Crowley’s Holy Books which had nearly killed me a few years back. The covers were almost identical. Besides, it was payback for an English translation of the Gospel of Aradia that I had managed to obtain while I was away and sent home. Somehow my mother had got her hands on the extremely rare at the time witches bible while it was at my house and thrown it away; claiming it was evil.

Into this circus of the strange, seemingly… bumbled Preston Nichols. When I saw him in the store I immediately recognized him, having seen him once a few years ago in the strip clubs. Back then as he was now Preston was morbidly obese and dressed like he was trying to define the word nerd. Yet the night he walked into the Bogart’s club is etched in my brain. He was arguing with a skinny guy about the same age as himself over rock bands. He stopped in front of me and pronounced U2 to the skinny guy like something had been decided.

He was like that, what he said, in spite of a comical almost disgusting appearance and an unassuming voice, stuck in people’s heads like a traumatic life-defining event. He had them snake charmed in Total Health before he walked out the door on the first day. A week later I was given his book by my mother or Marty and told I just had to read it.

First thing I noticed was Nichols story revolved around Camp Hero where my father had been stationed during the Korean War. My father was 101est Airborne; Screaming Eagles, a golden gloves semi-finalist, captain of crazy Joe Gallo’s Brooklyn kiddy gang the Gremlins and about as gung-ho as John Wayne. All his friends from boot camp and he had a lot of them, had seen active combat. I had always wondered why, if the army wouldn’t parachute him in, he hadn’t swum to Korea on his own. When I asked him, he was always a little vague, but it turned out he was one of the best shots in the army. Even then if he couldn’t centre a bullseye at 300 yards “the scope needed adjusting.” He would adjust all his friends’ scopes for them when he was a hunting guide. So, what he told me, that he had been kept in Montauk to shoot for the 101est in military competitions seemed plausible.

Fleeing the Brooklyn heroin epidemic during the Vietnam War he had moved out to Long Island when I was eleven years old. I didn’t like killing animals much, but fish didn’t bother me in the least, so he quickly acquired a captain’s license to run up to ninety-ton charter boats. I spent a lot of time as a teenager out in Montauk working on those boats. The sound of the wind whistling through outriggers and water lapping boats at dockside late at night is even now vivid in my mind. There had been a very strange incident involving the abandoned base on the fourth of July when I was turning eighteen but other than that I had never noticed anything unusual about Montauk except its physical beauty. Life itself gets no better than trolling for stripers at night in the Tournament of the Full Moon, the inky darkness pierced by the lighthouse above and water roiling with phosphorescence below.

The giant radar dish my father used to help operate was to the west of the lighthouse. My father had always been adamant that there could be no such things as flying saucers because they never picked a single UFO up on that dish during all the flying saucer hullabaloo of the early fifties. But my father had also always insisted that people made stuff up about dreams. He said he had never had a dream in his life…

In one of those funny little coincidences that aren’t coincidences, I had met Michelle’s grandfather about the same time I met Preston Nichols. Her father, his son, had never been right in the head and was practically a ward of the VA. He had seen something that had to do with UFO’s when he was stationed in Iceland in the early sixties. By the time he blew his brains out in the late nineties because they had amputated his legs for medical reasons he swore he could see the mothership waiting for him in the night sky over Patchogue. Michelle’s whole family on her father’s side was military.

The grandfather was the patriarch and he specialized in setting up radio towers, had one in his back yard for his ham radio. I had only gotten to meet him because stomach cancer had gotten the better of him in Southeast Asia and finally he had to come home to die. He thought his son was a blithering idiot, but he couldn’t wait to see his great granddaughters. When he got stateside he immediately commissioned me to relandscape his North Babylon home while he and his wife watched the kids for me. I winced watching three-year old’s frolic on his stomach and moved to restrain the girls, but he just wouldn’t have it. The man never even showed signs of pain as he sat there dying yet grinning approval at his fourth-generation progeny using his disease-racked body for a trampoline.

Nichols had been talking a lot about microwaves and oscillating frequency’s and my wife had let slip that her grandfather did a lot of top-secret work with radio signals for the military, but he didn’t talk to anyone about it. At the time I knew nothing about quantum physics and even less about radio waves and frequencies so the only part of Nichols’ story that made any sense to me was the part about Einstein and the Philadelphia experiment. We were spending a lot of time over there, so I brought Nichols book over his house and asked him naively whether any of the stuff in it was possible. He told me to leave the book with him so he could read it.

When I saw him a day or two later the book was by his side and I asked him could any of it be true. He said nothing, he didn’t have too the way he looked at me and handed me the book back like he had just touched something that he shouldn’t have. He never said another word about that book. When he finally died his funeral procession closed 231, the main road North and South for central Long Island and jammed it with hundreds of fire trucks and police cars. I have never seen anything like it; it was as if the president had died.

I was always looking for explanations for what I’d seen back in eighty-nine. I’d run the gamut from aliens to Magick but had always kept Marty, my mother and Hurtak’s Team Tinkerbelle at arm’s length. I began paying much closer attention to Preston Nichols. When he came out with his second and third books which put Aleister Crowley at the centre of it all, I knew I was being set up. Crowley was at the bottom of my rabbit hole too. Besides when I first met Nichols, my ex and I lived in a place called La Bonne Vie in East Patchogue. It was an upscale apartment complex filled with mostly young married people and singles. Some of the wives there had told her they had a neat way of making fifty dollars cash for an hour’s time spent listening to music in what is now the Hampton Inn in Brookhaven, about five minutes away from La Bonne Vie. All they had to do is sit in the auditorium and listen to different music as it was played over headphones and press a response button whether they liked it or not. Since she used to go up there with about a half dozen other woman from around our courtyard I never questioned it. She was always back home within an hour or two.

One night she was overdue and since I didn’t have the kids I took a ride up there. When I got there the auditorium was just clearing out and she was getting up to leave with her friends. Preston Nichols was sitting at the podium in the front; obviously, the man from the Brookhaven Lab giving the tests. I said nothing, but when I saw him a few days later, he claimed he didn’t remember, and that kind of stuff was always happening with him. It was what originally inspired him to write the Montauk Projects. I never trusted him after that. The same thing was always happening to me too…

As far as I knew I had been in prison for two years, but there was something about my memories that just weren’t right. When I got home the first thing I did was have sex with my trophy wife. When we finally got done we were both lying in the bed naked and drenched in sweat. She suddenly got up and started rummaging through the closet for something. She came back to the bed holding a lightweight camouflage jacket and threw it at me. I asked her “what’s this?” She told me a customer who had been in the gulf war had given it to her because he had been so disgusted with the army. Curious, I examined it and could see it was full of discolored spots on the fabric where the patches and insignias had all been carefully removed as if by razor so as not to rip the jacket. I thought that was a lot of trouble to go through for a guy who was disgusted with something. So, I asked her about it. She just shrugged and said, “I don’t know, maybe he didn’t want anybody to know who he was, I haven’t seen him in a while and I never got his name.” She could do that, tell you the most outlandish lie imaginable and then never budge from that lie despite all evidence to the contrary. I didn’t bother asking her anything else, I knew that would be futile, but I did keep the jacket, mostly because she hated it and hated it even more when I wore it.

Around the beginning of 1995 we moved into a condo in West Patchogue right off of Waverly Avenue. If things had been a little strange at La Bonne Vie and they were, this place made it look like Mayberry.

About a week after we moved out of the place, two years later, we sat at the bar of Kabuki, Babylon’s best Sushi joint at the time. We started talking to this other young couple and when they found out we had just moved out of there they couldn’t wait to relate their own experiences when they lived there.

The place was three stories, with the attic supposedly off limits. But the couple was constantly disturbed by loud noises coming from their ceiling. They lived on the second floor as we did. When he went up there to investigate he found three kids growing pot up there that threatened him to keep his mouth shut. Deeply disturbed by this encounter they broke their lease and moved out.

I suspect that is an implanted memory. While living there I was attacked by globules of light in my sleep which were driven off. I found out from Preston Nichols that there had been a UFO crash that same night at the nearby park to the east, of course covered up by Brookhaven Lab. I went there and saw the downed trees for myself. My Rottweiler would frequently stand at the top of the stairs and growl down into the empty darkness below. I was just sitting on the couch one day when an ashtray on the cocktail table went flying across the room smashing violently in the next room. No one touched it, no one was even near it. Unmarked black helicopters periodically hovered at no more than a couple of hundred feet over the buildings, sometimes for fifteen minutes at a time. The noise was deafening but nobody ever seemed to notice or care.

Guys from the Long Island Lighting Company or LILCO, practically a subsidiary of the Brookhaven Lab and Long Island’s notoriously shady power suppliers at the time, prowled the grounds non-stop with hand held devices that looked to be detection meters for underground power leaks. A feeling of general uneasiness permeated the place like something wasn’t right in the atmosphere; a feeling in the air itself that usually occurs as the aftermath of a very powerful electric storm.

The courtyard was dominated by five couples, my wife and I being one of them. We were all in our early thirties and late twenties and there was an attractive woman, the same age as us that lived alone. Her I never talked too even though my kids ran in and out of her condo at will, which was encouraged by her. I was told she had a very important job with the government involving security by the other couples but with me she always kept her distance. We were the only ones with kids, and everybody partied very hard. Nobody even bothered locking their doors and we all walked in and out of each other’s condos, most of the time without even knocking. It was like a commune only everybody had money, and nobody ever seemed to work much for it, if at all, including me. Of course, my wife was making a lot of money.

There were all night keg parties in the courtyard and on sultry summer day’s family outings to Cory beach in Blue Point. Preston once told me how he liked to go to Cory beach at night and test out his homemade Orgone energy weapons by shooting down UFO’s…. He told me they were commonly seen at night over it, but I never saw one in the daytime which was the only time I went down there.

I remember a scorching summer day we spent there that is still vivid in my mind. It was one of those days where the heat actually turned the air hazy and the bayside beach was packed with young married couples accompanied by their rug rats and dragging along anything that would float.

As we passed by the concession there was a very strange looking older man by the tables who was talking real loud to no one in particular. You could hear him all the way down by the beach as he gave an historical recount of all America’s presidential administrations since Kennedy, finally concluding that HW Bush was the only one that was any good and how HW was the greatest American who ever lived. At the time I agreed with him. I think everybody on that beach did. Couples were making love right in the water with their kids building sand castles on the beach. It was like something right out of Woodstock. Michelle and I waded out to chest deep water and went at it next to a very attractive blond and her husband doing the same thing a few feet away. I think we all climaxed at the same time, but nobody ever spoke a word to anybody but their own spouse. The act itself was almost mechanical but intensely pleasurable.

We had two neighbors named Joe. One was married to a girl who was partially paralyzed from cerebral palsy. He was a military man who had been shot in the head during a training exercise, leaving him with a golf ball sized crater in his skull and a full disability pension. One night we were all sitting around drinking beer, neither military Joe nor his wife did cocaine. We were watching TV as the biggest forest fire Long Island had ever seen engulfed the Pine Barrens around the Brookhaven Lab, threatening to take out the lab itself. Miles upon miles of scrub pine were burning out of control and every fireman available on Long Island & in New York City was already there. The local news stations were asking for volunteers among able-bodied men, and we guessed we were their guys since neither one of us had to work.

Daybreak we headed east on Sunrise highway both wearing our camouflage jackets. On the 20-mile drive there I saw sections of pine bordering the highway suddenly just burst into flames a hundred feet high. The radio was explaining that this was because the pines were so dry that when an ember hit them they were like kindling but I have never seen anything like it before or since.

Somehow and I really don’t remember, we ended up in the middle of a very large open field with the woods burning around it. Smoke made it impossible to see much further than a hundred feet. Above us was a blue and white helicopter which I at first took to be a police helicopter but it was too big. It looked to be one of those luxury models. It wasn’t moving and just hovered about five hundred feet above us, the backwash from its propeller clearing my field of vision to it. A white Bronco driven by a very hard looking man about the same age as us pulls up from out of the haze and the guy, with an exasperated look on his face, starts talking to me like he knows me. He gestures with his chin up at the helicopter and says, “that’s Pataki up there in the helicopter.” Then he drove off looking disgusted. George Pataki was the governor of New York at the time.

A figure emerged from out of the swirling smoke wearing what looked to be a long flowing kimono like they wore in ancient China. He was oriental and looked to be a hundred years old. He got to about forty or fifty feet away and our eyes met briefly. I could see in his eyes a look of disappointment like I had betrayed him. Then he looked down again. The helicopter was still overhead, and the smoke abruptly lifted so I could see for a couple of hundred yards.

At the outer perimeter of my field of vision about half a dozen more figures, also wearing flowing gowns were slowly making their way toward the oriental Methuselah in front of me. The helicopter took off and so did Joe and I making are way back to the car which must have been a mile away. I don’t recall us ever having done any work or even how we knew where the car was, but it all seemed normal. On the drive back we never even discussed the oriental people dressed up like they were from the eighteenth century. When I did finally think about it when I got home, I told myself a Chinese restaurant must have been caught in the fire. Even though I knew there were no Chinese restaurants in the middle of the Pine Barrens…

It all came to an abrupt ending in the summer of ninety-six. It was the weekend, and it was my birthday. We were with Joe and his wife Laurie. We had taken their camping trailer out on the beach at Smiths Point. Laurie’s Joe was friends with the government security lady. He had the keys to her condo, which he spent a lot of time in when she was away. He was very different from military Joe and although he wasn’t a big man; right beneath his warm and friendly veneer there was something menacing about him, much like myself at the time but with Joe there was an undertone of malice.  He was the only one who would answer me back.

One night in the courtyard round about the second or third keg I was accusing them all of being aliens, haranguing all of them for being strange, Michelle too. None of it was unusual. I didn’t keep my mouth shut about what I saw and heard; leastways not to the perpetrators. As if he had been waiting for it Joe says to me “you’re always accusing everybody else of being an alien. Haven’t you figured it out yet? You’re the alien.” Then military Joe immediately jumps to my defense denying for everything he’s worth that I’m an alien and aggressively admonishing Joe for saying such a thing to me. There were about a dozen other people out there listening to this bizarre exchange intently. Afterwards no one said a thing for the rest of the night.

Joe and Laurie had a three-foot Iguana that had the run of their place and Michelle, and I had a three-foot Savannah Monitor named Gizmo that I had bought as a hatchling before I went away in 1990. Gizmo lived under the couch; usually. Joe and Laurie also shared our appetite for cocaine and sex which both were very much fueling the two-day party at Smiths Point that July weekend. The night on the beach was one of the strangest of the many strange nights I have known. But to quote Jim Morrison from Strange Days:

“Strange days have found us
And through their strange hours
We linger alone
Bodies confused
Memories misused
As we run from the day
To a strange night of stone”

Around sundown a couple of unmarked black helicopters passed over, going from west to east along the surf line, which was about half the length of a football field down from the camper. No sooner had I remarked to Joe about how low they were flying than another appears in the west heading east along the beach no higher than a couple of hundred feet. Joe stepped out from the camper and walked down a ways toward the beach, so his silhouette was clear in the light of the setting sun and started signaling toward it like he was hailing a cab. By then I could see it was a brand-new Apache gunship painted gun metal black with no markings. It veered up the beach straight at us and settled over our camper so close that the sand from its prop wash was stinging my face. All the while Joe was acting like it was a joke. He continued to signal the pilot who if he could roll down the window was by now close enough to spit on him. After about thirty seconds of this, the gunship rose to about four hundred feet and took off to the east.

I don’t remember it getting dark, but I was probably in the camper doing something obscene with Michelle. When we came out there was a firework display on the bay side of the island and a lot of boats had come in close on the ocean side to watch. The barrier beach is less than a thousand feet wide at Smiths Point, so they had front row seats, along with us and everybody else who had a camper on the beach.

About a quarter mile offshore, all lit up, was a boat that was close to three hundred foot long. It dwarfed the eighty to hundred- and twenty-foot party boats that were out there. The water is no more than twenty to twenty-five feet deep where it was. I have never seen a boat that size that close to a Long Island beach. I could not see what kind of boat it was. But it was there and then it was gone, I didn’t see it coming in or going back out. When the display was over, we went inside the camper. When we came back out there was nobody, not a single soul on the beach and the campers around us looked eerily deserted; in fact, they looked like the tombstones in a graveyard.

The darkness seemed perceptibly tinged with a blue haze and the beach shimmered with a pale white glow. The only sound was the sound of the surf. All the boats were gone except for the three hundred-footer.  It was now a good three miles off the beach where it would stay for the rest of the night. It was the only other sign of life that night except for the light display that was taking place high in the eastern sky over the ocean. There were so many lights coming and going it could only have been a military exercise, but Joe started insisting they were UFO’s.

He wrapped himself in a beach blanket to look like an Old Testament prophet. He already had the long staff which he had carved from a piece of bamboo earlier. He climbed to the top of the highest dune, about thirty feet and began a sermon about how if we wanted to leave all we had to do is want them too and they would come and get us. Uncannily, one of the lights broke off as if on cue and started heading towards us. It seemed like it took forever to get to us and as it did the light on it grew brighter and brighter. When it finally got close enough to see, it turned out to be a helicopter with a search light. Joe still standing on the sand dune in his Jeremiah outfit solemnly pronounced that one of us didn’t want to see it so that’s why we all saw it as a helicopter. If everyone had really wanted to see it, it would have remained a UFO, which was really what it was. Everyone laughed uneasily.

There was nobody around, not one of the thousands of people camped out at Smiths Point beach that night was to be seen, not a soul, and we knew there wasn’t going to be any either. Feeling sensual in a very dark kind of way, Michelle and I went over the dunes to explore the bay side of the island, among other things. I don’t remember when we took our cloths off, but I remember skinny dipping in the bay. When we came out, we sat on a blanket she had set up on a dune. Suddenly, I felt what I thought was a hypodermic needle being pushed into my shoulder. I swatted at it and saw her do the same to her arm. After it happened a couple of more times to each of us, I did end up mashing what appeared to be a very large mosquito on my forearm, but she and I were just looking at each other. I lived on the water all my life and I’ve been bitten by thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of mosquitoes, never like this. We grabbed up our stuff and ran full speed back to the camper not bothering to put our clothes back on. When we broke into the path between the dunes that led to the camper, I stopped short and so did she. Right in front of us was a ditch big enough to bury the camper in. It wouldn’t be there in the morning, but that night we had to go around it to get back. We both saw it, nearly ran right into it.

Somehow I had pulled my shorts on by the time we found Joe and Laurie detaching their Bronco from the camper. Joe was making a joke out of it and saying he wanted to take a ride down to the inlet to see if there were any people left in this world, but he was really going and wanted us to come. Michelle suddenly became panic stricken, insisting that I should go but she had to stay there. As we drove the mile or so east down the deserted surf line to Moriches inlet, I rode in the front with Joe while Laurie sat in the back. I can’t recall whether the light show in the eastern sky was still going on, but I remember seeing the lights of the inlet reflected on its black water. I don’t remember anything after that till daybreak, when I was tending a bonfire in front of the camper and trying to make out what kind of boat the three-hundred-foot enigma still out there was. I never was able to identify that boat, even in light of morning. A few nights later, Michelle and I were bouncing around the bars on Park Avenue in Babylon with my cousin and his fiancé when we first heard the news. TWA Flight 800 out of Kennedy Airport, scheduled to stop in Paris and Rome, had just gone down about a dozen miles off the beach east of Moriches Inlet. Two hundred and thirty people were killed including a bunch of teenage girls who were going to see Paris for their summer vacation. The plane had gone down exactly where we had seen the light show a few nights before.

I was horrified. I actually moved out of the condo and back into my old room at my mothers. When Michelle came over with the kids I didn’t say what I suspected. I just told her I couldn’t live with the drug dealing and nonstop partying anymore. She stayed that night and early in the morning there was a knock at the door. When she answered it was the police and they had a warrant for her arrest. My sister came in my room and told me. When I went out to the living room to ask questions; I too was arrested. When they took us to booking in Yaphank in the Southwest corner of Brookhaven Township, there were about eighty people in handcuffs. I knew them all and almost all of them were involved with Long Island’s strip club industry. It was one of the biggest narcotics investigations ever in Suffolk County and our phones had been tapped for years. It may have made the front page for the day, but just like all the other news on Long Island that summer it would be brushed aside by the Flight 800 investigation in the days that followed. The cops, many of them in black hoods to cover their faces, weren’t even talking about their big bust, except for maybe the asses on some of the strippers they now had in handcuffs. All they were talking about was Flight 800. I knew I had nothing to do with their drug ring, in fact I hadn’t even known it existed. They didn’t even know what they were charging me with, I wasn’t worried. They certainly didn’t have me on a wiretap, I never sold any coke. Because of what I had seen on the beach days before Flight 800 went down I listened intently to their chatter.

The consensus among the cops was it had been terrorists and it was being covered up to avoid an international incident. Many of them had been the first responders out of Yaphank; the precinct that covers Smiths Point and Moriches Inlet. I heard them saying that a speed boat had come in from offshore and picked up something at Moriches Inlet then made its way back offshore in a hurry and shot the plane down with a hand-held anti-aircraft missile from about seven miles off the beach. They had it all on radar. The speed boat then simply vanished from the radar screen. The cops were speculating that it may have been picked up by a submarine. They had been told not to talk about it by the FBI but a couple of them seemed to be going out of their way to talk about it, in front of me.

Michelle had been charged with two high felonies and she had been bailed out the same day by her father. I was charged with purchasing forty dollars’ worth of cocaine on the phone; an E felony only to a cop with a vivid imagination and a district attorney fresh out of law school. It would eventually be plea bargained down to a fifty-dollar fine, but in the meantime nobody bailed me out, and I had to spend the weekend in the Riverhead correctional facility. It all got just too weird when they put me on the tier with John Ford; the guy who had tried to poison Suffolk County’s political bosses with radium. When I found out who he was, I told him I knew Preston Nichols and he looked like I had just kicked him in the nuts. His whole body sagged, and he turned a “whiter shade of pale” as they say in the song. He said nothing to me for the rest of the weekend. Indeed, he would not come out of his cell after that. I was bailed out Monday morning by my sister.

I was troubled a day later when I attended a lecture above Total Health. I didn’t even know who was giving it, I just needed to get away. It was a small crowd, maybe two or three dozen people. The classrooms above Total Health didn’t fit much more. Preston Nichols just strolling into one as he did that night was pretty much the equivalent of Paul McCartney popping into the local pub.

People like Nichols, Hurtak and Hoagland were booked in the lecture hall around the corner where they would lecture to over a hundred people. But nobody had seen him in a while, and everybody wanted to know what he’d been up too so the podium was immediately yielded to him. He was wearing a cast on his arm and began with a yarn about how they had tried to assassinate him with a pulse beam weapon causing him to crash his car. He seamlessly shifted to the fire, all the while looking at me while he was talking about it; saying much of the underground beneath the Brookhaven lab had been taken out in a military action by the United States, which had declared war on the rest of the world.

After the lecture, I pulled him aside and told him what had happened. It was the first time I ever really talked to him in private. He told me that he had always suspected that I was part of the Montauk Projects and that he thought he knew me, but it was useless to try to remember what you had done on another timeline because the laws of physics made it impossible. After that, we started to talk in earnest.

In which timeline did the United States silently declare war on the world? Does anybody really know what time it is?

He started to come around Total Health far more often after that. Above the classrooms on the third floor were offices that we would hang out in. One-night Michelle was up there with us while he and I discussed what really could only be described as a paranormal storm. With Amityville, what I had seen in East Islip twelve years earlier in 1983, what I had taken part in eighty-nine and now flight 800 and the great fire of ninety-six I pretty much had figured out by then that I was in the eye.

I asked him, the guy who claimed he was shooting down UFO’s off Cory Beach at night, whether he thought there was anything we could do about it. He starts talking about some Orgone machine he had built based on the orgasmic energy concepts of Wilhelm Reich and looking at my wife and I like this is what he had been waiting for. Then he says, “you two can close the portals with it but I will have to be in the room to operate it while you have sex.” She suddenly sprang out of her chair at him screaming in his face “you fat fucking pervert!” Then she bolted out the door, down three flights of stairs and out into the middle of traffic where I had to chase her and carry her back to the sidewalk.

Considering whom my wife was, it was a completely over the top reaction. She was a second-generation strip club entrepreneur. Her mother had started as a barmaid in a Babylon strip club and ended up owning her own club in Miami. I had seen Michelle manufacture cups of urine in the bathroom and sell them to patrons for a hundred dollars to be greedily consumed at the bar. Her response was particularly inappropriate since her and I had been practicing sexual Magick since the first time we slept together. Michelle was also by her own admission, at the very least, a second-generation Witch, not a Wiccan either.

During that year alone in the Condo we had opened up portals repeatedly, paranormal phenomena so real I had ejaculated blood. Another time the condo shook so bad we had to call up my mother to come get the girls out of there. It went on for hours; like a train shakes a subway platform but without the noise except for the rattling of household items. When my mother got there, we sat on the couch for a while and watched the cat chase weasel like shadows around the room. My mother who had never seen anything like it before saw that neither Michelle nor I was alarmed, other than me wanting my daughters out of there. She kept asking me whether the source of the disturbance was me or the house. I didn’t answer her.

Michelle and I had opened a portal one night which illuminated the far side of the darkened room in a deep purple hue. We were both overcome with ecstasy in its presence and I wanted to go into it and see what was on the other side. But Michelle ran in the bathroom, turned on the light and started gauging her arms with a nail file so that I had to physically stop her. Afterward she claimed to remember only the part about opening the purple portal and the intense euphoria emanating from it. But her arms were scarred for weeks.

Ingo Swann, artistic vision

Many times, I had stopped Michelle from dragging various characters into our bedroom. The fact that Preston Nichols had even brought something like that up to us, of all people, was enough to sell me on the idea of trying it but for reasons that became apparent only much later, years after I had written the book, Michelle wanted no part of it.

John would die suddenly and later in 2016 at Jacksonville the woman I was staying with from the DoD, Ingo Swan’s successor in the military application of remote viewing, would insinuate that the leader of the Gilgo Beach serial killer cult had collapsed and died in his driveway. She accused him of being a stupid brute but her and her friends were yet to be put in their place and besides, I had often thought the same thing about her.

The murdered call girl Shannon Gilbert’s Asian driver had taunted her while she was on the phone with police and cowering behind a couch sobbing that they were going to kill her. He asked her if she had ever watched Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. The movie is based on a book by Hunter Thompson. It references the harvesting of Adrenochrome from dead babies and its use as an agent to contact interdimensional entities. It’s all right there on the twenty plus minute long 911 recording, a confession from right out of the mouth of their paid coolie as to just how far elitism has been carried in the twenty-first century. But maybe that’s why the police are withholding the recording.

Long Island is an evil dirty place.

“It’s desolate. It’s a rich community. You’ve got doctors and cops and very very wealthy people who live there. No one’s ever going to think that that’s a bad dangerous area. But it is…”

John had been urging me before he died to self-publish. John Blumenthal told me the same thing. He told me that with the effect the internet has had on the publishing industry that was now the best way to go, you retain all the rights. That’s what he had just done with his latest novel Three and a Half Virgins. But I wasn’t a famous writer like him, and I had no intention of peddling my own book.

I started writing on the internet and my first serious piece; Behind the Bush: Aleister Crowley, Yeats, the Anti-Christ & Armageddon, went viral. By the end of the summer of 2013 assorted gremlins and spooks had begun to tumble out of every window I opened on the internet. From the things I saw them doing, manipulating Facebook like it was some kind of video game and indeed the internet itself, they were professionals of the highest caliber.

As time went on, they showed me other things, things calculated to let me know they were masters of this reality and the news was just stuff they invented to give the “Untermensch their daily dose of opium.” What is in the book is their bible and they are not about to let their farm animals read it.

They have dogged me for seven years now, but I am one of the two main characters in the book and I say there are plenty of Dogs left out in the yard to take it and run with it. As Jim Morrison said “Calling on the Dogs, calling on the Gods…”

Citations

1- “The Long Island Serial Killer – Uncaught Psychopath Terrorizing NY (Crime Documentary) (0:16).” http://www.cbsnews.com/news/48-hours-uncovers-missing-escort-shannan-gilberts-final-minutes/.

2– Ibid: whole episode.