Secret Agent

Secret Agent

by Jon Rappoport

May 10, 2016

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Exit From The Matrix, click here.)

I always start out by looking. This time, I’m at the corner of a balcony three floors up in a washed out apartment building, eyeing a woman sitting at a table in a sidewalk café. It’s a misty afternoon. Cold. There are willow trees on both sides of the street. As usual, I can’t remember why I’m here or who she’s supposed to be. But she’s involved. She knows something I want to know, or she’s about to do something I want to watch. There are magnetics in play. I’m outside the field but I can walk into it if I want to. I’m a member of the scene. I’m supposed to be here. There are extras who can’t sense the apparatus. They’re almost props. But they’re essential. Without them, the passing moments would lose shape and I’d be floating off the balcony or sitting in the café in the wrong chair. It’s edge. Everyone I see is infused with the edge of what’s about to take place. If the key event were not about to happen, there would be no scene at all. The betting parlor across the street from the café would vanish. The restaurant behind the high stone walls and the valets parking cars would turn into something else from a different time stream. The mist would blow away. It would rain, or the day would be much hotter. I’d be walking into an office looking for a stranger I’d recognize in a second. A baseball stadium would occur. The night manager of a motel would hand me a slip of paper, a note from a contact. The President would float by in his open car. A tiger would pad along the asphalt path to the park.

The sun comes out. I know the sun or it knows me. The clouds are moving off. Spring afternoon. At a gas station, a man is standing next to his car. He’s gone. He wasn’t supposed to be there. He was less. The gas station is now several colors liquidly floating. The liquefying could spread.

But it doesn’t. The scene holds.

The wing intercedes. It often does. Whether it’s a department, a section, an agency group, it spreads a net of threat. It’s a warning signal. I wait for personnel. None come in yet.

The woman sitting in the café is wearing a tight gray suit. Long wavy blonde hair. She appears to be tall. She’s reading a newspaper. A cup of coffee is sitting in front of her. She’s reading absently, off-handedly. Almost as if by accident. Short fingernails, no polish. The front page headline is: Secret Nuclear Storage Facility.

I’m aware of the story. Hollowed out caverns in the Everglades. Buried canisters shipped from several power plants around the country. Might be a limited hangout. There might be a much larger operation under the desert where they dump the spent fuel rods.

She folds up the newspaper, places it on the chair next to her, takes a sip of her coffee. She puts on a pair of sunglasses.

Suddenly, she’s standing next to me on the roof. She smiles.

“Forget the message,” she says. “Just concentrate on the context. Reality two is intersecting with Reality one, the one you know every day. That’s the point. Where we are now is two. It’s invisible most of the time. But it’s far more powerful than the place where you live. What you do with that knowledge is up to you. No one can advise you.”

I wake up.

Time to make coffee and take a shower.

“That’s right,” she says. “Just get into your day. I’m doing the same thing here. From where you are, your day is much more important. Ditto for me, where I am. It’s pretty much a stand-off, wouldn’t you say? Not sure what to do about that. Maybe nothing. But I think neither of us is entirely happy with that nothing. We’d prefer a crossover. Stay in touch.”


Exit From the Matrix


In the shower, it occurs to me that maybe I should start an interdimensional PR agency. PR or news? How would that work?

“Our dedicated team reports from both sides. Keep up with the latest happenings from Reality one and two. Our people definitely play favorites, depending on where they’re stationed. But that’s to be expected. Are we competing or collaborating? Which side wields more power? Hopefully, answers to these questions will be forthcoming. One thing is clear. Don’t be a bystander, a drone, an android, a neutral know-nothing, a clueless doofus. Get involved. Wouldn’t you like to be more than scenery? If you’re mere background, you could disappear. Then where would you go? Into a vacuum, a void? We think you should be part of the Show. It’s a ticket to more fun, more excitement. Move out on to the cutting edge. That’s where the action is. Nothing is final. Don’t you want a new beginning? Of course you do. Drop your old tired fixed ideas. They keep you bored, walking around in the same place.”

While I’m eating breakfast, I make one decision. This isn’t going to become a Church. I won’t let that happen. No hardening of principles. No doctrine. No bosses.

Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t work that angle. There’s too much unknown material.

That’s the whole point, isn’t it?

Take a ride outside the system, where edge keeps making more edge.

Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free NoMoreFakeNews emails here or his free OutsideTheRealityMachine emails here.

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One comment on “Secret Agent

  1. Its was one of those, afternoons. Sitting at a café, light diffused, not quite there, surreal. Light waiting to happen. On the edge of waiting to happen…ready.
    Perhaps waiting for something, a trigger, so that it might play and create further the mood necessary for the unfolding of a greater drama. A simple prop in the gamut of this reality.

    Leaves jumped of willow branches like small children going for a ride, and rode the breeze like ashes to the ground. And then scurried away. Giggling.

    It was cool…

    I looked up and there he was, watching me, staring. He had what looked like a coffee cup at his right…yes…it was, and he picked it up in the man’s way and drank from it and proceeded to stare out and then down at me again.
    Tipped his black hat back of his forehead.  And then, he began typing on what looked like one of those ancient, clunky old-fashioned Coronas. You know…the ones that war correspondents carried around all over battlefield Europe during the Second World War. I should know, that is where I cut my teeth so many moons ago; battlefield Europe.

    My eyes left his two fingers pounding on that makeshift piano without a sound, and turned towards a voice. An inner voice, and then…

    “Madame, voulez-vous donc plus de café.”

    I looked up and into his eyes; the waitor was so young, a child really. A glance and suddenly, I felt so very, very old. I didn’t like that, his youthful presence made me feel, so used up and full of memory. I became embarrassed for myself having that thought. And pulled in for moment, as if being caught naked and exposed, I said, “Non merci…je l’ai eu assez. Mon chèque s’il vous plaît.”

    The young man walked back into the café.

    Leaves danced down the street and strangers passed.The scene kept changing, forever changing. Men walking in and out of a door to building across the street, large sums of money in hand;  Colors and smell of perfume, and then wet flowers and a single dog with three legs, stopped at my table and looked up at me.

    The sun broke through the mist like an intruder into a house, and then left again in the same kind of manner, and the mist started to rise and envelop everything in that strange wonderful light again.

    I looked up at my observer and there he was dark, typing, violently onto that machine. And the words came out from the top of his typewriter and took shape… form, color and texture. And they became the air and the shape of things, and the buildings around. Like a dream forming the very bricks under my feet. And the leaves flying in the breeze. He was writing reality.

    I watched on and saw him look back to me occasionally, stop and think for a moment then begin his playing upon the keys again. His music was without sound.

    And then music started, and I looked to my right side. There sat, my date, a very young man, and I was young listening to the orchestra in a large hall. He looked so handsome in his black tails; the symbols crashed and the roar of the orchestra rose to it’s intro. I lean into the side of his head, and paused for a second waiting for him to listen, and said softly in his ear ” I will return shortly, I promise.” He turned his head on swivel and smiled and I rose from the balcony chair and exited the door behind us. Walking along in a stride, the red plush carpet under my shoes, walking on ice cream, past enamelled walls and period french art, and massive vases of many flowers…the smell of wet flowers.

    The bottom of my evening gown swishing secuined to my step, setting a tempo, glittering and the music behind and to the back of me.

    I stop for moment, and made sure I was alone, and looked back and front, and back again. I must do this.
    I opened my little clutch purse, and removed the little ivory-handled two shot pistol. I checked it’s contents…and there they were the brass shells snug in their holes. I closed its little breach and cocked the pistol once for each bullet. Then I put it back in my little place.  And advanced my walk to the time.

    I strode down a long flight of stairs to the ground floor,  and enter the grand entrance to the great hall.  A narrower hallway just to my left, invited me to step in and go beyond into the blackness. The scene changing flowing out in front of me like paint. Without a change in my step I moved forward and along, glancing at numbers on the doors of the private ground floor galleries. 126…127… 128….and…129; I stop and turned and wait a moment. The sound of the orchestra rose to a crescendo, crashing Wagner, symbols, music fuging loudly…and I looked both ways, and  turned the knob of the door and entered the room. The loudness of the music rose upon my entrance.

    A small alcove with a thick dark curtain in front of me.  Low light and the smell of heavy fabric, and wet flowers. Closing the door quietly behind me, I stop and take a long deep quiet breath. I removed my long gloves… open the purse and grasped the little gun in my right hand. I walked slowly through the curtain and saw them sitting there, backs to me, so very close together. Him fondling in the dark above and separate from the main hall seating. The lights and loudness of the music, crashing. The blackness back in here.  They could’nt hear me. No one could hear me, or see me. Their chairs barely apart; the staccato of the old Obergruppenführer and a child barely fifteen, dressed in a gown like a woman of thirty.

    I walked up to him swiftly, and placed the gun at his left temple and fired, a crack and he slumped forward in the large chair. She looked at me in shock, an innocent in the wrong place. Youth shining against the stage light, her and I caught in the that for just second. I hesitated… and knew her fate if I didn’t kill her, and then placed the little gun on her forehead. She knew as well as I, and bowed her head gently as if a swan. The music, submissive, knowing. And in the deafening crash of the music, I fired once again and her release from this dreadful part.

    I looked up and there he was, staring again at me. Then typing again.

    I move in my chair to adjust the skirt of my grey suit, on my body, it was pinching me in places. Taking a drink of my Americano and picking up the new folded newspaper to the side, I opened it and read the headline: Secret Nuclear Storage Facility.
    I place the paper beside me on a chair, and took a drink of my coffee. I pick up my sunglasses and put them on my face and look up to my observer. Suddenly I am standing beside him, and I say…“Forget the message, just concentrate on the context. Reality two is intersecting with Reality one, the one you know every day. That’s the point. Where we are now is two. It’s invisible most of the time. But it’s far more powerful than the place where you live. What you do with that knowledge is up to you. No one can advise you.”

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