Your power in a decaying world

Your power in a decaying world

by Jon Rappoport

October 17, 2017

These are notes from an ongoing project, The Underground:

“Solutions to private problems and public problems require the ability to think things through, logically, and to reject what is unworkable or biased—but above and beyond that, a person needs to be able to imagine solutions that haven’t been tried before. He can’t keep asking other people to invent solutions for him. This is the hardest lesson. The habit of demanding that others come up with answers, that others find a way out of the tunnel—this habit is based on the assumption that one’s own power of imagination is grossly limited, which is a lie. You might say it is the central lie.”

“The world says defect from your own power. Never find out what it is. Assume it isn’t there. The world says all life is about the species, not about the individual.”

“When propagandists find a good thing, a message that works, they pound on it, they keep hammering away. Family, group, family, group, community. On and on. They never promote the message called The Individual with the same intensity. That would be counter-productive to what they are trying to accomplish: group identity; and amnesia about being an individual.”

“Civilization continues to erode and decay, as individual power is put on the back burner. But that doesn’t give the individual a license to surrender. If others want to give up, that’s their business. The individual, instead, finds new frontiers for his power, for his capacity to invent reality.”

“A confession of helplessness doesn’t earn you a gold star on the blackboard. There is no gold star or blackboard. There is you, there is your own power. And what is that power? It comes in two forms or venues. First, there is the ability to apply logic to events and information; to think rationally from A to B to C; to analyze. And second, there is imagination, the capacity to conceive and then invent realities that would never otherwise exist in the world.”

“Individual power doesn’t need to make rigid distinctions between what is done for self vs. what is done for others. Social engineers and propagandists make those separations. You exercise your creative power to fulfill what you deeply desire; and that process will, in fact, spill over and affect others in a positive way. It will lift them up. It will remind them that they, too, have power.”

“Logic and analysis keeps you from being sent down wrong roads, keeps you from buying official reality. Logic also reminds you that you have a mind. Logic is a road that can take you deeper and deeper into more basic fallacies that underpin organized society and its branches of knowledge. Logic tells you there are always more fundamental questions to ask and answer. There are levels of lies. The deeper you go, the more confident you become. The more powerful. Logic also lets you know when you’re projecting basic pre-judgments over a whole landscape and neglecting to look at the details.”

“Despair about the condition of society and the world is not a function of your power. It’s a moment of reflection, or it’s yet one more excuse for inaction and passivity. “What can we do about it all?” is a misdirected question. The actual target of that question is you. You’re asking yourself. And with your power, you can find an answer.”

“Passivity is a disease. It spreads and takes over. It makes strong people weak, and weak people demented. The passive life is precisely and exactly a life without power. The cure is a life lived with power.”

“In case there is any misunderstanding, the ability to help others and defend them from oppression is part and parcel of your own power. How could you help them without your power? How could you accomplish anything at all in that direction? How would denying your own power possibly result in a good outcome? And most importantly, it is through imagination that you can devise new ways to expose and reduce oppression, ways that haven’t been thought of before.”

“As society continues to decay, more and people attack individual power and place their faith in a program that reduces every human to a lowest common denominator of dependence on some controlling entity. This article of faith is surrender.”

“Some people want to say that power is a neutral object that can be used for good or evil. That isn’t true. Your deepest power is alive. It’s personal. It’s stunningly energetic and dynamic. It connects with your deepest understanding of what is true and good and right. But it never sacrifices itself on the altar of what others insist is good and true and right. It never deserts you for an abstract ideology someone else has devised. That ideology was formulated, in fact, to separate you from your power.”

“It takes great energy for a person to bury his own strength.”

Exit From the Matrix

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

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.


David vs. AI supercomputer Goliath

David vs. AI supercomputer Goliath

by Jon Rappoport

October 10, 2017

You can call this an editorial or a “think-piece.” It is about the present and near future. It is about the mightiest of information ops. It is about The Collective.

This is not an article focusing on the Vegas shooting, or on any other mass shooting. This is about how modern propaganda is done. I’m talking about the propaganda that is floated during and after major events—events that magnetize the public and elicit millions of responses online in comments sections, videos, articles, call-ins to talk shows and podcasts.

Giant modern computers have the ability to suck up every scrap of online information. They can analyze the information and then decide what people AREN’T BELIEVING AND AREN’T BUYING.

A major covert op is underway? An official scenario (an extended lie) is being presented to the people? Let’s see what the people are saying about it. Let’s analyze a zillion-zillion bits of online information and see where the propaganda isn’t working.

Then, analysts can come in and do a fix. They can construct new scenarios (lies) and float them and see how well they sell.

Here are a couple of wake-up calls in that regard, from the IBM site promoting the heavy of heavies, the super-duper computer called Watson. Watson can:

“Uncover insights from structured and unstructured data: Analyze text to extract meta-data from content such as concepts, entities, keywords, categories, relations and semantic roles.”

“Understand sentiment and emotion: Returns both overall sentiment and emotion for a document, and targeted sentiment and emotion towards keywords in the text for deeper analysis.”

This is the mission of modern artificial intelligence. Suck up, digest, analyze enormous amounts of information and imply ways of changing public perception.

In a major covert op, there is a great deal of official disinformation and contradiction. Things are not as they seem. On the whole, how is the public reacting to all the official disinfo? Call in AI. Call in the supercomputers. Ask them.

Then, when the answers appear, adjust the ongoing propaganda to fill in the holes and minimize the disbelief. Then, do another massive search and see how the new lies are selling. And so and so forth. In real time.

In the old days, an agency would mount an op, carry it out, and then do after-reports to assess the success or failure of the mission.

Part of that assessment: did our propaganda lies sell well? What were the problems, if any? What can we learn for next time?

That was horse-and-buggy stuff.

Now AI Goliath can make that assessment.

And now, independent media are working against Goliath the AI Computer and its analysis of public perception.

Goliath can defeat human opponents in chess and Jeopardy, but can it defeat independent media?

The game is afoot. The future is open.

The backers and users of Goliath believe they can increase the subtlety and nuance of AI to a point at which all the “clunky” interpretations are gone. Instead, AI will behave and think like a god who understands humans down to their fingertips.

I reject that. I believe humans will always have deeper inner-resources than machines.

No matter how well machines evaluate human responses, there is always more that cannot be anticipated.

In the ancient story, David was smarter than Goliath, who relied on his brute strength to win the day.

The father of modern PR, Edward Bernays, stated: “It is sometimes possible to change the attitudes of millions but impossible to change the attitude of one man.”

You can scoop up, ingest, and analyze data from 600 million people in the blink of an eye, but when you draw conclusions from those data, you ignore the independent individual and what he can think, investigate, discover, and infer.

He is the ace in the deck. He is where the algorithms stop. He is where the hypnotic disposition doesn’t live. He is where group-think fades out.

This is why the independent individual is all-important.

There is a new fictional TV series, The Wisdom of the Crowd. A super team with supercomputers and software and algorithms solves crimes. Part of the effort (which can obviously pay off) involves fielding reports from many people, a few of whom might have seen the perpetrator or witnesses. But the second aspect of the effort is murky: ask a question to the world online, such as, “Where is the missing child?” Then scoop up the millions of answers, apply an algorithm to these answers, “average” them out, and you’ll come up with something much closer to the truth than if you consulted just one investigator or a few investigators.

This is ludicrous. It assumes a wisdom The Group doesn’t have. It is another Goliath operation.

Goliath is an illusion. He is empty. He is either The Group or he speaks to The Group. In both cases, the individual is absent from the equation.

This remains the problem for all AI reality. It falls short. It can’t gobble up and swallow the mind and imagination of an independent individual.

In my work over the past 30 years, I have seen this “flaw” play out over and over again. The Group fails; the individual wins.

At a cost of billions (or trillions) of dollars, people are programmed to believe the opposite.

Why? Because they actually know or sense the power of the individual. That’s what they have to be “programmed out of.”

That’s called a clue.

Reality points to the pre-eminence of the individual. Massive illusion puffs up and promotes The Group.

Exit From the Matrix

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

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.

I Am the President

I Am the President

by Jon Rappoport

Copyright © 2017 by Jon Rappoport

“Today, in a Chicago courtroom, famous mob lawyer John Q broke down during the defense of his client, and as one observer put it, ‘he began speaking in tongues.’ The judge called a halt to the proceeding, and security guards hauled Q off to a local hospital for treatment…”

JOHN Q: It’s good to be here in the Oval Office, my fellow Americans. It feels like sugar. Or ice cream. Or a good shot of Irish whiskey. I’m your leader now. We’re going to do great things together. We’re going to take the game to a whole new level. The Reality we’re all used to is going away. A new one is floating in. I know that. I’ve been there. And THERE has a certain kind of beauty, like a graphic novel or a comic book. Isn’t that what we all want?

PSYCHIATRIST: All right, John Q. I know who you are. Do you understand? Follow me here. You’re a well-known attorney who defends major traffickers. You win most, you lose a few. So what could the problem be? Sounds like you’re doing well.

JOHN Q: I have a parallel life.


JOHN Q: For instance, right now, I’m the President, and I’m talking to another shrink about my problems.

PSYCHIATRIST: Interesting. Tell me about this other shrink…

(cut to)

SHRINK: You actually claim you’re the President.

JOHN Q: We’re sitting here in the Oval Office, aren’t we?

SHRINK: You are. I’m somewhere else.

JOHN Q: I didn’t ask for this. I’m a victim.

SHRINK: Maybe you’re a machine.

JOHN Q: A piece of artificial intelligence.


JOHN Q: I’m not feeling that.

SHRINK: Tell me a story, John Q. Any story. Let’s try to unravel this mess.

JOHN Q: Let’s see.

He went all the way out, floating above thousands of tiny mirrors in an ocean of surveillance.

He plunged into deeper layers where avid machinery was spinning. Squeaky fingers slid along him, and he grew cold in the submarine depths.


What did the Design want with him?

The chill passed.

“Better,” he thought, luxuriating in a) dark baronial calm, b) uterine perfection, c) summer childhood bedroom closet.

He was suddenly in the cabin of a private jet. On a table, he saw a team of small glass angels, a China cup worn yellow, and a framed photo of Al Capone sitting on the toilet in his Palm Springs suite.

And then identity shattered into a thousand pieces. The lights of an enormous city loomed up under him, pulling the fragments down into liquor stores, newspaper racks, dark alleys, hotel rooms.

A news screen stood out in the black sky. A local anchor, her eyes bright with contempt, relayed the story of a man who had just died falling from an escarpment above the Chicago Loop while attempting to set up a sniper’s nest and kill shoppers in the indoor-outdoor Langland Mall.

A boyish blonde field reporter, standing in front of a McDonald’s, was interviewing a witness, an old man who was sitting in a wheelchair and foaming at the mouth and spitting. He doubled over and a siren went off. A security guard appeared with a riot baton and sent a fork of electricity into his crotch, quieting him.

The news screen disappeared.


Identity now a quiet snowstorm in a deserted wood, falling, falling, falling on the hard earth. Relief.

He was back in the cabin of the jet. Comfort of burnished yellow-brown lights set high in the cabin walls.

A flight attendant entered with a drink.

She was six feet tall and blonde. That made her a target.

Wealthy and powerful men would seek her out.

Her body was sleek. He examined her left leg from wizardly articulated ankle to thigh, through the slit of her sheath skirt. She strode in heels, one foot placed precisely in front of the other.

She set down the drink on the arm of his chair and looked at her watch.

“We can’t have sex now,” she said. “We’re east of the Rockies.”

“I didn’t realize they had a law,” he said.

“Two hours from now,” she said, “we can negotiate a price.”

“I’m an attorney,” he said.

She pulled a half-sheet out of her jacket pocket and handed it to him.

“Standard,” she said. “Read and sign.”

It stated: “…I am not attempting to elicit information pursuant to an investigation, case, or sentencing option…

He signed.

“Just out of curiosity,” he said, “how much protection do you have?”

“Well,” she said, “the LA Mayor has a local contract. He supplies private soldiers when I’m in the city.”

“Have they ever had to go on attack?”

“A Belivar prince once tried to have his men kidnap me between the airport and my hotel. The mercs burned them to the ground on Century Boulevard.”


“You’re John Q,” she said. “I know. I’m Carol.”

She held out her hand. He looked at her long fingers. Her nails were short. No polish. He shook her hand. It was cool. It immediately became warm, as if she could make it happen.

She sat down next to him on the arm of his chair.

“Defendant in a federal trafficking case,” she said. “He claims his cartel, Zuma, struck an immunity deal with the CIA. No prosecutions, clean truck routes from Mexico up through LA, all the way to a central distribution hub in Chicago.”

“In return for what?”

“Actionable intell on other Mexican cartels.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Stored documents granting that immunity.”

“Documents? You think they put that kind of thing in writing?”


He closed his eyes.

Now, Bobby Thoms came to him. The Swan, a bar in the Loop.

The place was jammed with lawyers eating breakfast and waiting for the shape-up in the parking lot. Minor cases were assigned by a clerk at the Farofax processing facility.

Q grabbed a stool at the end of the counter and ordered coffee. The bartender poured him a cup and set it down in front of him.

Bobby Thoms. Sitting next to him. In dark soiled clothes, as if he’d stripped them from a corpse in an alley. Pinched face, sunken cheeks. A lawyer’s runner, go-between. Supplier of information.

Bobby moved in close.

“I can get you in to see Sal today. His appointment secretary’ll bump the city treasurer for you.”

Q reached into his pocket and pulled out a tight roll of hundreds. Bobby fielded it and slipped it into his pocket.

“What’s up?” Q said.

Bobby nodded. “There are national security implications in this case, John Q. If the shit hits the fan, the president’s administration in Mexico could go down.”

A grinding roar from a long way off.

“Sorry,” Q said. “I can’t help you.”

Bobby frowned. “Why not?”

“Somebody’s coming.”


The roar accelerated. The bar sped down to the size of a dot of blood on a handkerchief.

“Get me to Mosca’s office,” John Q shouted.

Sal Mosca conducted his business in a warehouse in Evanston, a few blocks away from the Registrar-DHS complex.

In the center of the lobby, there was a single desk. Video cameras on the walls caught the action from a dozen angles.

John Q waited in line, and when his turn came, he handed the security guard a copy of his cert card and said he had an appointment with Mr. Mosca.

The guard looked down at his pad, nodded, and handed Q a red slip. Q stuck it to his jacket, walked over to the elevator bank, and waited.

A door opened. A tall slam in a dark suit stood against the back wall. He was holding a blade down at his side. He nodded. Q got in. The guard peeled off the red slip.

They rode up to the 7th floor. The door opened, and two more guards in dark suits stood there. Q stepped out.

One of them frisked him. The other one backed away and watched.

They sandwiched Q and walked him down a seashell curving carpeted hallway to a mesh gate. It slid open and they passed through into a small room. Mosca’s secretary, Jenny, sat behind a table.

“Hello, John Q,” she said.


Q knew her from the county courts, the early days. Cases adjudicated in offices, fines pieced off among the sharers. During the heavy shortages, lawyers took dinners as bribes.

Jenny made a fist and rapped her knuckles once on the table. Q took an envelope out of his inside jacket pocket and placed it in front of her. She picked it up, looked inside, counted the bills, and nodded.

The two security men guided Q across the room to a door. One of them opened it and moved ahead, into Mosca’s office.

Q followed. The other guard shut the door and stood in front of it.

The office was large with no windows. The walls were dull dented metal. The only pieces of furniture were a long white couch and two scarred wooden folding chairs. Bull’s-head Mosca, dressed in his tan suit, sat on the couch. Q stayed standing.

Mosca. Big chest, big belly, cheap shoes. Tired face, but tight skin. He’d been swaddled in the bullrushes of Lake Michigan. Dirty feet running on stones, foster homes, small-time collector/protection money, law school at night, muscled his way into city government as a private conduit for defense lawyers on major felonies.

Mosca frowned. “This case has tricks.”

“Immunity,” Q said.

“Because,” Mosca said, “if it turns out Zuma has a deal with the feds to ship big weight up through Los Angeles into Chicago, and it’s exposed, that torpedoes everybody.”

“But do confirming documents exist?”

“What happened to you?” Mosca said.

“Let’s talk about immunity at a higher level, Sal. Who is immune? Is God?”

Sal leaned back and grinned.

“Well, Q, understand I’m only a low man on the totem pole. I don’t have many details.”

Then Mosca was standing next to me. He took my arm and walked me to the right, into a kitchen that hadn’t been there before. We exited from a side door and climbed a short flight of steps. He opened another door on to the roof.

“The shed,” he said.

In the middle of the roof was a wooden structure.

The padlock was open and hanging from a chain. We stepped inside and Mosca turned on a light. I shut the door. Tools were arranged on shelves. An open cabinet was stacked with brooms and shovels and an old shotgun. We sat down on two rickety chairs.

“John Q,” he said, “immunity is an Atlas holding up the world. And now he’s watching and spying, to make sure it stays intact.”

A canyon opened up under me. Another Earth, like this one. I caught a glimpse and it shut down, closed its mouth.

“Q,” Mosca said, “I’m a bit player. I move a few crumbs here, a few crumbs there…”

“Sal, I appreciate your honesty. I’m appointing you to head up the FBI.”

“Morris Gold’s office,” I said.

I stepped out of a car. Bobby Thoms, who was driving, also got out. He handed the keys to a parking robot and strolled off toward the American Airlines sports book. I crossed the sidewalk and stopped in front of a cast-iron door. I rang the bell. I was standing under a video camera.

A voice said, “Name, please.”

I held up my cert card.

“Packing any weapons?” the voice said.


“Just a minute.”

They were running a body scan. I waited.

“What case does this pertain to?” the voice said.

“Not a case.”


“Here for a consult.”

The door buzzed. I opened it and walked in.

I was in a pitch-black space.

As my eyes adjusted, the lights slowly rose to dim. I was inside a wire cage.

The same disembodied voice said, “Where did you attend law school?”

“University of Michigan.”

“Your thesis adviser’s name?”

“Professor Morris Gold.”

“And the title of the thesis?”

Currents in Pre-Trial Hearings.”

The grid in front of me clicked and moved from left to right. I stepped through.

I was standing in a foyer. The carpet under my shoes was thick.

A tall heavy-set man appeared from my right. “Go,” he said. He opened a door and we were facing an open elevator. He motioned and I stepped in ahead of him. He followed and the door closed. We ascended silently for a few seconds. The elevator came to a smooth stop. The door opened. A short man in a very expensive dark suit stood there. His head was clean shaven and he wore a pair of sunglasses high on his forehead.

“They’re for the light,” Morris said. “I have a condition.” He stuck out a meaty paw and I shook it. He smiled.

I walked with him down a hallway into a corner office.

Floor-to-ceiling windows. His two-ton oak desk sat in the center of the room. There were hunting prints and paintings of horses and cottages on blue walls.

He didn’t offer me a seat. I stood. He stood.

“John Q,” he said. “Are you trying to stir up trouble because you’re in transit? Because you were scooped up? Nothing worse than a sore loser. What can I do for you after all this time?”

His eyes were cold.

I framed my question. “Is a deity in on the fix?” I said.

“You want to know the upper limit on immunity?” he said. “I’ve worked cases where the issue was raised. The courts have always blurred distinctions.”

“You have wide experience in these cases?” I said.

Gold walked back behind his desk and sat down.

“You tell people,” he said, “they’re committing heresy, they buy it, depending who’s doing public relations for you.”

“But what is immunity actually?” I said.

“Listen,” Gold said. “You were a smart boy in law school. Now you’re


“It’s probably a fetish on my part. A little tour of old friends.”

He laughed. “Sentimental journey, right? Did you know the configuration of the Surveillance State is an Atlas holding up the world? When you really see the whole architecture? And the documents you’re looking for are probably hidden, along with at least a million other docs, inside a bead of sweat on Atlas’ forehead.”

“Then I guess I want him,” I said. “Morris, you’re going to be my Attorney General.”

A sheet of slow lightning swam up my legs and infiltrated my spine. It nuzzled and burned, on the way up, each bone.

At the top of the channel, I reached out and removed the top of Morris’ skull. It came away clean and out rolled a small creek of dusty tears.

I was standing in a courtroom open to the sky. I was behind the prosecution table.

And there was a giant standing before me.

I was facing him in the dock. His head was barely visible, an imprint behind a cloudbank. He was radiating nothing. He was a no one.

I was already searching for my opening.

Translating incomprehensible text into silent sounds, rehearsing them.

I began talking, suddenly believing every syllable would break open a wound in his cartilage and penetrate to organs.

Every case I’d ever tried had been a symptom, and every verdict a palliative. This one was the kernel.

I spoke and I heard a sound of upper crashing, at long, long distance.

A slow fall.

There was a crowd in the courtroom.

Could I wake up in my office on Michigan Avenue and realize I was still handling cases in superior court, that I was late for an arraignment, that I was defending a Zuma trafficker out of Mexico City…

I waited. I stood and waited.

The silent depersonalized giant standing before me…the exemplar of no-dream.

Nobody. Nobody at all. Just a clock on the wall wound up to eat time. Perhaps he was Google.

I heard the long faraway crashing sound again.

…I was back in the cabin of the jet. With Carol.

She was still sitting on the edge of the chair.

“So, John Q,” she said. “Are you in transit because you died, or are you dreaming?”

“This is what I did on my summer vacation,” I said.

She smiled.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s negotiate a price.”

“Who won the election?” I said.

“I’m your wife,” she said. “We’re on Air Force One.”

I looked out the window. We were passing over Washington. The Monument and the Capitol Dome and the White House were lit up.

“How long can I play this out?” I said.

She shrugged. “Hard to say. God and his cartel people just moved into the White House. They’re shipping big weight out of the Rose Garden. No more cover stories.”

SHRINK: I see. So you’re the President, John Q.

JOHN Q: It appears so.

SHRINK: That’s it?

JOHN Q: No. I’m talking to another psychiatrist at the moment. Hold on.

PSYCHIATRIST: Are you finished with the other shrink?

JOHN Q: For the moment.

PSYCHIATRIST: I have an idea. Suppose I did everything in my power to make you the actual President. You’re a perfect psychotic. Maybe we need a man like that in the White House. It’s a long shot, but perhaps you could take the whole country to another level. A departure from the usual kind of corruption. Assuming you believe in parallel worlds, try to convince the people they’re all living in a complete illusion. They could be ready for that. Don’t you sense the population is worn out and worn down to a nub? Don’t try to restore their sanity. Go the other way. Drive them over the edge. Into utter madness, because who knows what lies on the other side of that? Do you see?

JOHN Q: How would you help make me President?

PSYCHIATRIST: I build up that other world of yours to a much higher pitch, a much higher degree of surety in your own mind, so you can go out there and sell it to the masses.

JOHN Q: And they’ll elect me?

PSYCHIATRIST: Think of all the incredible fairy tales they’ve bought. Why should they reject what you have to say? And maybe you’re right. Maybe this other world exists, and we can all go there. Wouldn’t that be fantastic?

JOHN Q: You’re crazier than I am.

PSYCHIATRIST: Let’s just say I’m plucking you out of the morass of your own story. I’m an opportunist. In my view, opportunism is sanity. That’s all sanity is. This is what we’ve come to.

JOHN Q: And what would you want in return?

PSYCHIATRIST: I run as your Vice-Presidential candidate. I’m your seal of approval. A bona fide professional who backs you up. Together, we push the trend of everyone going insane and take it to its natural conclusion. And you and that sex bot of yours get to live in the White House.

JOHN Q: You think she’s an AI?

PSYCHIATRIST: Who knows? You’ll have fun finding out.

JOHN Q: Maybe she’s the most wonderful woman I’ve ever met.

PSYCHIATRIST: Whatever floats your boat.

JOHN Q: Perhaps I’ll become the first inter-dimensional president of the United States.

PSYCHIATRIST: Perhaps you won’t be the first.

power outside the matrix

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

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.

Are you known or unknown?

Are you known or unknown?

by Jon Rappoport

September 3, 2017

This is the story of someone I knew a long time ago.

Perhaps you know someone who has the same story.

He was exceptionally bright. He spent hours and days in the library, searching sources for information about how the world really operates and who is behind the curtain.

He discovered secrets, and he remembered everything he discovered. He was able to assemble large amounts of data and organize them into connected wholes.

With all of this research, he did…nothing.

Every few months he would come to see me, and we would talk about paths he could take.

Finally, I asked him, “Do you want to be known or unknown?”

It was a question he couldn’t answer.

He would deflect the question and talk about other people. He would talk about history. He would talk about powerful elites. He would talk about civilizations that had risen and fallen.

But he never made up his mind about the question.

The last time I saw him, he was working for a think-tank as an outside consultant. He wasn’t happy. He was using a very small amount of his knowledge and skill to do his job.

The idea of stepping out of the shadows into the light was too much. For him, putting his knowledge into the world was fraught with mystery. He didn’t know how to take the first steps.

“I can’t imagine it,” he said.

We talked about limitations, because he saw himself beset with them. That was the theme of his ongoing story. He told it well. He made a convincing case. Not to me. To himself.

All in all, he was starring in his own myth about remaining unknown.

He saw that my patience was running out. But he was convinced his myth was so complicated and had so many parts, he had to divulge all of it.

I could see, though, that the story would never end. He would keep manufacturing it as long as he needed to—whatever it took, so he could remain unknown.

In that sense, he was quite creative. He could imagine many, many things, as long as they didn’t involve him launching some enterprise in the world that would make him visible.

This wasn’t the tale of Sisyphus pushing a great rock up the hill, only to have it come back down again, forcing him to start over. This was an eternal musing that would keep him from away from the rock and the hill altogether.

The thing was—and I caught an occasional glimpse while he was talking—he knew that once he began to push the rock, it wouldn’t come back down. He could see himself reaching the summit. That was troubling to him. That was too much.

That would cut him off from the postponement which had become so familiar and comfortable.

He was an artist of postponement. It was his forte.

I’m sure his colleagues didn’t see him this way at all. As far as they were concerned, he was a bright hard-working consultant. He turned in good reports. He gave good advice. He understood their questions and problems, and he had solutions.

But in his own thoughts, in his private world, he kept spinning out a story that had no end.

His myth of eternal indecision was his most prized possession.

He had two lives. In one he was entirely acceptable to the people he knew. In the other, he could see events of the world inscribed and painted on a curtain that was hiding the truth behind it.

How many people exist in this fashion? And what would happen if they stepped forward and made some part of that truth known?

Muscle and bone truth, blood truth, brain truth, knowledge truth, soul truth, creative truth.

I’ll finish this with two short excerpts from a work-in-progress, The Magician Awakes:

“You had a dream. Last night, while you were sleeping, the world was the same, but you were joined with yourself. You were enacting a vast plan. You could only glimpse it, but you knew it would stand. It was a sunlit and moonlit thing. It would let people know they could become known. They could be more than the world. There would be no more trouble about that. That question would be gone.”

“All the men with their medals and citations eventually begin to fade. The past is no longer known. The thought of resting on their laurels is less appealing to them. What about now? What about stepping out of the wilderness of memories and testing the voice, to see what it can do? If it wobbles a bit at the beginning, pay no attention. The voice never goes away. It breaks through the envelope of amnesia and inherits a space it was made for. A space larger than time. Then all bets are off.”

Exit From the Matrix

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

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.

Translating a twenty-second dream

Translating a twenty-second dream

by Jon Rappoport

August 23, 2017

There are quick dreams, quick and full and rich and vivid.  You believe you can recall and recount them when you wake up, but you can’t.  They slip through your fingers.

But you can characterize them.

Here is one:

The Alpha Weekly, page 4, section 2.  Entertainment.  Stare at the page.  Keep staring.  As you do, you go down a few levels.  That’s the way it works.  Their world becomes your world.  Down on this level, below the news, across the Western sky, I’m driving a wagon hitched to billboards and signs in purple stone and giant walking letters of a sandpapered alphabet.  The rain is light, the fleecy craniums of old nagging generals clack on strings behind me, shrunken unto death.  Ruby bells.  Every sky-street has another language.  On one they talk in gem and fur, with sidebar radiant nightclubs for announcements of bankruptcy.  There is the animal blood alphabet, the evening-clothes orchestra language, the cave hollow tongue.  Whole cosmologies.  Now curving out to another road, a tusk meadow of dead winter where ancestors are buried, and giant brown leaves fall on the roofs of wet houses.  Rain, a ferry comes across a foggy river.  I’m turning left out by a billboard of peeled hair oil on to a street that runs straight to an old drive-in theater.  The twenty percent skim they put in a cloth bag, and a runner takes it to a cottage behind the hot dog stand and hands it to a man in a cheap sports jacket. They stand and watch the movie, an epic of the slow South—Guernsey eyes, string ties, twisted cigars.

power outside the matrix

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

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.

The cosmic bathroom

The cosmic bathroom

by Jon Rappoport

August 20, 2017

The author of a fragment of a novel was finally located in a boarding house in Landsville, Massachusetts.

The federal search had been underway for almost a year.

The author was brought to the US Court of Metaphors for a bench trial before an anonymous Judge.

The first order of business was a reading of the fragment, which had originally been found in a public bathroom in a Zesty, Arizona, gas station:

“I’m waiting for B in the men’s room off the main lobby at Grand Central, wondering whether he’ll show and if he does whether anything will get done, because we have a deal and money is supposed to change hands, so meanwhile I’m standing in front of the mirror at the sink alongside several characters who suddenly look to me like cops in disguise, you know, they’d usually wear cheap suits but today they’ve got on T-shirt, sweatshirt, hood, gloves, canvas work pants, boots, and the whole deal feels like a pinch, I’m just the go-between with a phone number and a name, but all of a sudden I could be in the middle of something else, has that ever happened to you, you started out with a simple job and before you knew it the mob or some lunatic was getting his hands into the grease and you’re standing there and you’re visible and the people around you did their business and they’re gone and then the heels rolled in and picked you up because that’s all they had, and you’re down, you can’t figure your way out, you’re in the shitter, you see the outlines but it’s too late, I’m sweating there in front of the mirror and I can’t see my face anymore, I’m just a blank, a non-entity, and the house is going to come down on my head…

“There he is. B is standing just inside the door. He’s looking around. He walks up next to me at the sink counter. He looks at my reflection in the mirror. He waits. He looks at his watch. Why? Is he waiting for an explosion? He says, ‘I have the details. Well, these details will rip some new holes in the FABRIC. You know what I mean?’

“I don’t know what he means.

“’This,’ he says, looking around the bathroom, ‘is all a prop.’

“I’ve been here before. Somebody said this was a prop and then I disappeared into another life and lived it up to this point, and now here is somebody else saying the same thing, and I’m disappearing, bit by bit.

“I walked under the great arch of the Vrimes Building and counted my lucky stars that I’d come this far: Aies, Capt, Lun, Brei, Fan, Si…

“Inside the lobby, crowds surged. A voice through a speaker announced:

“’Here is the latest news release from the New York Vrimes. The Russian president, Donald Trump, has been accused of interfering in the US election and aiding now-US president, Vlad Putin, in his victory over Elizabeth Warren Clinton. According to the Federal Bureau of Central Intelligence, the hacked emails from the Democratic National Committee were passed on to Julian Snowden, who published them online. These emails referred to DNC efforts to defeat Democratic candidate Colonel Karl Sanders in the Primaries. Twelve US Senators, members of the Antifa Caucus, state that US President Putin must be impeached or otherwise taken from office and replaced with Elizabeth Clinton, a full-fledged Cherokee Indian.’

“I walked into the office of a Vrimes editor and laid a folder of documents on his desk.

“’These are records of a clandestine group called American Chaos,’ I said. ‘They’ve been promoting violent political revolution for the past ten years. You’ll notice, in the membership list, reference to Gorge Sores, a billionaire. He now owns a seven percent stake in your newspaper.’

“A small fat man, the editor shrugged and nodded. ‘That’s all old news,’ he said. ‘We’ve covered it, I’m sure. Not interested. You’ve been here before. Don’t you remember? Why do you keep trying to peddle your interdimensional nonsense? We’ve checked you out. You’re a forty-two-year-old indigent ex-electrician. You live on a government subsidy. You reside in a small room in a house on Staten Island. You’ve been there for twenty years.’

“I looked out his window and saw the sun setting. Where was the hologram of the giant Lieutenant in the sky, the beloved protector? Where was our Cop?

“The editor smirked. ‘He’s on vacation. It’s a test run. What happens when the soul is naked?’

“’I’ll tell you what happens. Crime in the streets. Political anarchy. It happened five years ago for two days. They had to bring in shock troops.’

“’Yes, but maybe this time it’ll be different. The conditioning is cumulative. At least, that’s the theory.’

“Back in my room on Staten Island, I did my exercises as I watched small gangs of kids run down the street and smash car windows. I did the turnarounds and the projections and the field crackings. Pretty soon, the gangs dissipated. Silence returned. I brought in night clouds, and it rained hard.

“In the morning, I put on my god robes and walked out to the street and waited. Slowly, people emerged from their apartments and came toward me, walking and crawling. A few of them were weeping. They dropped money in my iron box. I mumbled a few random incantations, picked up the box, and hopped on a bus to the ferry.

“C was waiting at the dock in Manhattan. He slipped a roll of bills into my robe pocket. On Manhattan, I was just a dressed up freak. We had breakfast in a small diner and he filled me in on last night’s activities. Aside from numerous small incidents, the only real disruption was a fire in the Tammany Hotel on Broadway. A dozen or so guests and staff died.

“We took the subway up to the Metropolitan. The main exhibit was the old Reality Machine. To me it was just a giant typewriter. Turns out pages. I can’t remember how many novels I’ve written. The next one, I’m told, is the best one. But that’s all just a front for making money. You pick a pseudonym, you go into a closet, you come out with a story. People can swallow it. They forget you wrote it before.

“In the ancient Egypt cellar, we picked up a tail. She was young and naked for a second, and then she was wearing a pale gray suit.”

After the reading of the fragment, the Judge said to the author, “Did you mean those words literally? Were you trying to make a point?”

The author said, “I meant them literally and I didn’t mean them literally, Your Honor. They’re real and not real. That makes the words super-real.”

The Judge shook his head. “What kind of garbage is that? Either you intended a factual account, in which case you were deluded, and we will sentence you to rehabilitative treatment, or you meant the words as metaphor, in which case you’ve violated Section 12 of the Author’s Act, which prohibits the use of one group of words to refer to another group of words: metaphor. In that case, we would sentence you to hard labor as re-education in the physical facts of life.”

The author shrugged.

“Have it any way you want to, sir. I don’t make these distinctions.”

“Well,” the Judge said, “do you believe you’re an interdimensional traveler?”

“I change my beliefs like socks. Depends on the day, the time, the situation.”

“No,” the Judge said. “That’s obfuscation. This court doesn’t accept that. It’s A or B. Never both.”

“Again, have it your way, Your Honor.”

“Let me ask you a question. Do you do conjuring? Do you practice magic?”

“All the time. I imagine what I want to be real. Imagining makes it real. Then I make it real and not real.”

“More nonsense. I’m hereby diagnosing you with Globular Metaphor Syndrome. Two years hard labor at the Federal Superfund Site in Mexico Los Angeles.”

“Okay. But I have one request. I assume my case will be reported in the New York Times. I would like to offer a quote for the story.”

“Well, yes. I’m an associate editor at the Times. Give me your quote and I’ll see what I can do.”

“The only thing that isn’t a metaphor is the State. It’s a collection of people who gave away their capacity to think in non-prescribed ways. They come together to form a society based on that surrender. They give up, and then they rule. That’s the formula. They’re machines. Machine isn’t metaphor. It’s literal. The machine is for people who don’t understand language.”

The Judge frowned.

“We don’t print that kind of idiocy. We stick to facts. Case closed.”

The author vanished. Again.

power outside the matrix

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

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.

The agent of magic, part 2

The agent of magic, part two

by Jon Rappoport

August 4, 2017

Another excerpt from my novel, The Magic Agent, about a breach in space and time, a private eye, and the CIA…

June 6

“There are the infamous photo files.  It’s said there is enough blackmail evidence in that secret cache to indict half the membership of the US Congress.  While this is, of course, a wild exaggeration… 

We could dismiss such speculation as complete nonsense, if it were not for the protracted closed session of the House Intelligence Committee in the spring of 1993.  The meeting erupted into a frantic battle. Representative Larry Bernstein accused the CIA counter-intelligence director of waging a private war against the legislative branch.  Bernstein waved around a photograph of a sexual act taken at the moment of orgasm, featuring a former Congressman and a prostitute in a Portland, Oregon, hotel room.”

Forgotten Legends of the CIA,
Arthur Meriden

I had a feeling I’d met this guy Ralph Renari before.  Or maybe he was just an illustration of the distasteful and the disgusting—qualities which I usually work with, but I could hear him in my head prattling on: “Breach in continuum…playing one side off against another opening up a hole in space, the Agency is aware of this…maybe they’re causing it…”

I was sitting in the cafeteria in the basement of Beth Israel Hospital, in Santa Monica.  Bright fluorescents, no shadows in the room.  Vending machines, a short cafeteria line, a few blank faces.

A doctor walked in.  He stopped and looked around.

He came to the table and sat down across from me.  His name badge read Dr. Martin Kelly/Cardiology.

“Mr. Palmer?” he said.


“Ralph called me.  He’s an old friend.”

His voice was nasal, dry.  He was about forty, slender, had black hair cut short, a receding hairline.  White coat over a gray suit.

He put his hand on his chin.

“Who are you?” he said.

“An investigator working on spec so far.”

He looked pampered, and occupationally tired.

He rubbed his hand through his hair.  “What’s the goddamn drug?” he said.

“It was called Y-103, by Allison-Bowles.  For bipolar.”

“I know the company,” he said.  “I wasn’t aware they were doing that kind of clinical trial.”  He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Ralph said you knew about the study.”

He shrugged.  “I don’t know who you are.”  He looked at his hands.  “I’m a cardiologist.”

“So what?”

“I’m not used to talking to people about sensitive matters when I don’t know them.”

“Heart specialists have higher standards?” I said.

“You might want to discredit a drug company.  I can’t be part of that.  I told Ralph I’d do him a favor.  But now I think I made a mistake.”

“Or you just like saying no to people.”

“I read you as some kind of thug.”

“Why do you say that?”

He wiped his hands on his white coat.

He stood up.  So I stood up.

He walked away and I followed him out of the cafeteria.  He kept walking toward a door in the corridor.  I stood there and waited until he walked through it.

Where do these fucking people come from?


When I got back to my office, I called Jerry Nevins.

His machine picked up.  He had no message recorded.  A few seconds of silence and then the beep.

“Me,” I said.  “I’m in gear and I need you for a day or two.  I’ll be here for a few hours.  If you’re broke, come over.”


An hour later, Jerry, wearing tan shorts and a blue short-sleeved button-down shirt, walked in.  He’s 5-6, wiry, goes about 150.  His head is a prop.  Bent nose, long brown hair almost to his shoulders.  He affects a stupid blank look.  It’s a front.

He pulled out a little notebook with a pen clipped to it, and sat down in an easy chair next to the file cabinet.

He looked up at the ceiling.  “What time is it?” he said.

“About three.”

“Okay,” he said.  “Lay out the shit.”

He looked at me and his eyes, a frightening pale blue, were very clear.

I told him the story of Ralph, as I understood it so far, and he wrote it down.

Jerry claims to have a poor memory.  This is false.  He knows the habits of every green at Torrey Pines in all weather.  Nine years ago, he finished in a tie for sixth at the Open there, after ending up in a trap at 15 and taking three strokes to get out.  Booze eventually began to claim him.  A few years after his Open outing, he was off the tour and in AA.  He stayed dry for six months.  He’s been on and off ever since.

He said, “Maybe we should go over to Alison-Bowles and ask around.”

“I’d rather collect a few facts first.”


“Why don’t you drive to Beverly Hills and talk to Ralph’s ex-wife?”

“Find out if Ralph’s a believable human being?”


“I don’t have her name.”

“Maybe she’s still using Renari.”

He looked out the window.  “I could be swimming on a nice day like this.”

“A hundred a day, plus expenses.  Just as a gesture.”

“Jesus,” he said.  “I could make that hanging out by the liquor store and begging for quarters.”

“I know.”

“I have a gig in a couple of weeks, playing a few rounds with some businessmen from Dallas.  At Lace Creek.  Bellamy’s bringing out a new line of irons.  They’re having in people to try them out.  They need a ringer to lay bets and take these guys’ money.  Make them feel at home.”

“I’m sure we’ll be done by then.”

“Lace Creek.  I shot a 68 there last month.”

“Ralph’s ex-wife has money.”

“I rolled in a putt from the front lip of the 17th.  Over the hill and down.”

“Call me.”

He nodded, stood up, and walked out.

I called my second friend, Doc Lieber.  I have two friends, Jerry and Doc.  Doc was at home.  He told me to come over.

I walked around the garden at the front of the Hancock Park Tudor and along the path by the side of the house.  Doc was sitting on the edge of a large trampoline on the deck of his pool.  He was rubbing his neck with a white towel.  Black bathing suit, no shirt.  Perennial tan.

For a man in his late sixties, he was in good shape.  He shaved his head to avoid comb-over temptations, and he wore a tightly clipped white beard, like an artist who teaches people on TV how to paint landscapes.   His stomach was almost flat.

On and off for the last two years, Doc had mentioned his missing brother.  It wasn’t a job, because he wouldn’t give it to me.  He just brought it up now and then.  Maybe he didn’t really want to find him.

Once in a while, I got the feeling I was a stand-in for the brother.

He stood up, came over to me and pointed to the little white metal table under a green umbrella.  We pulled out chairs and sat down.  He had two bottles of Sam Adams waiting under a checkered dishcloth.  He took away the cloth and we drank.

“So,” he said. “what defecating mess is it this time?”

“A drug trial conducted by Allison-Bowles.  Bipolar med.  They called it Y-103.  A volunteer beat his wife after the trial was over.  My new client’s sister was also in the trial.  She thinks this guy is coming after her now.”

He reached into his bathing suit pocket and took out a hard blue rubber ball.  He began squeezing it.  “I never thought much of Allison-Bowles.  Biotech smoke and mirrors.  They mostly raise money from investors and do studies.  Nothing comes of it.  Hard to imagine they’d be running a trial of a bipolar med.”

A black and white border collie came running out through the open French doors at the back of the house.  The dog was followed by a slender woman who looked about 30.  She was wearing a tiny red bikini.  Her black hair was pulled together on top of her head with a few white ribbons.

“This is June,” the Doc said.

She nodded to me and walked to the pool, sat down, and stuck one foot in the water.

The dog took up a position sitting at the Doc’s feet and waited, looking at the ball.  The Doc tossed it a few feet.  The dog rushed away and brought it back and set it down gently on the concrete.  She sat again and stared at it.

“Ginger,” Doc said.  “I’m talking.  No ball playing.”

The dog ignored him.  She kept staring at the ball.

Doc snapped his fingers.  Ginger looked up at him.

“Cell phone.”

The dog raced back into the house.  In half a minute she came back out with a cell phone in her mouth.  The Doc took it and patted the dog on the head.  The dog was not interested in the pat.  She sat down and looked at the ball.

“I could have trained her to hand me instruments when I was taking out bullets in the old days,” he said.  “I swear, she would have been correct.  She needs a field and a herd of sheep.  I’m a bastard for keeping her here in the yard.”

“I don’t think I’d want to look up from an operating table and see a dog with a scalpel in her mouth.  When did you get her?”

“Month ago.”

He punched in some numbers and waited.

“Marty, this is Lieber.  Get back to me.  I’m trying to find out about an experimental bipolar drug called Y-103.  Allison-Bowles.  They did a clinical trial.  Possibly aborted.  See what you can do.”

He put the phone down on the table.

“Marty Raskel.  He has a boat in the Bay.  Used to do open heart at Scripps.  He knows everybody.”

“I’ve got Jerry on this, “I said.  He’s going to Beverly Hills to talk to the client’s ex-wife.  She owns an art gallery.”

“How’s his game these days?” Lieber said.

“Shot a 68 at Lace Creek.  I hear he’s got a new swing.  Winds the fucking club around his neck and then brings it down in a perfect arc.  Pisses everybody off.”

Lieber smiled.  “He boozing?”

“Right now, as of today, I don’t think so.”

The woman stood up at the edge of the pool and took off her top and bottom.  She stretched and then dove into the water.  Very little splash.  I turned to Lieber.

“She lives in a big house in Rancho Santa Fe,” he said.  “Her husband was forced to give it to her in the divorce.”

“She boarding here?” I said.

“A few days a week she stays over.”

“You’re handling it okay?”

He snorted.  “Without Viagra, baby.  Twenty years as a cutter, I wasn’t going to go to seed after I retired.  That would have been cruel and unusual punishment.”

“You know a guy named Ralph Renari?” I said.  “He’s my client.  He teaches psychology at Santa Monica College.”


“Anything new on your brother?”

He shook his head.  “Ted’s changed his name three or four times.  Some people say he’s out of the country.  I’ve pretty much given up.”

“Listen, what the fuck do they want him for, anyway?  You seem unusually sensitive about it.  Embezzlement?  Bank fraud?  Raping a Congressman?”

“Sensitive?  You’ve got the wrong guy.  He hasn’t done anything really bad.  Multiple breaches of National Security.  That’s all.”

“You want help?”

“No.  Just go your merry way, Frank.  It’s old news.  Family burdens are a trap.  You think you can fix it, but it’s not supposed to be fixed.  That’s my personal contribution to the Freudian lexicon.”

This was a side of Doc that made no sense to me.  I could accept it, but I knew there were shadows around the man.  It was as if he was cultivating them, to prove that things were much less in some way.  I had once watched him carve away, with a Swiss Army knife, the remains of a smashed and bleeding finger from a passenger in a car wreck off the 10 Freeway.  He had looked hard at the face of the man as he was cutting.

I stood up and waved to June, who was standing in the shallow end of the pool.  She nodded at me.  I walked away.  Doc picked up the ball and threw it in the pool.  The dog ran right off the edge and jumped in, swam over, and looked around for it.  It had sunk out of sight.  I didn’t see the rest.


June 7

“Another photograph showed Mississippi Congressman Allen Taurent sitting naked in his backyard with two unknown women. The Congressman died in 2001.”

Forgotten Legends of the CIA,
Arthur Meriden


A little after midnight, Doc called.  I was watching Big Love on HBO in my office.  It’s not TV, it’s Insanity.  I clicked it off.

“Here it is, “he said.  “Marty told me they finished the trial.  Eight weeks.  They didn’t like the outcome.  The FDA was not impressed, either.  The drug was basically an antidepressant.  Probably a tranquilizer thrown in.  Pretty amateur stuff.  Something to show the investors they were busy boys.  ”

I told him about my brief meeting with the cardiologist, hung up, turned off the TV and the light in my office, went downstairs, and strolled up La Brea to my ground-floor apartment on 2nd Street.  There was a cool breeze.

A new VW was parked next to my building.  The nineteen-year-old woman was sitting behind the wheel reading a magazine.

I walked in, went to the kitchen, turned on the light, and found a bottle of Dane’s in the fridge and drank it.

I brushed my teeth and went to bed.

In the morning, I drove downtown to the gym and punched the heavy bag and worked out on the old Nautilus.  Shelly Rogers wasn’t there.

At my office, I found an envelope on the floor below the mail slot, inside my door.  There was a check in it, for two thousand dollars.  Ralph had signed it.  I called his bank and confirmed he had the money in his account.

I walked down to my bank and deposited it.

As I came out of the bank, I saw a tall guy wearing a black leather jacket standing in front of the cleaners next store.  He was looking in the window.  I walked down the alley by the bank and into the parking lot.  He followed me.

I wandered up and down two aisles of parked cars.  At the end of the second aisle, he was waiting for me.  He was leaning up against a red Pontiac.

“You need something?” I said.  I stopped ten feet from him.

“Yeah,” he said.  He was about my height, 6-2.  He was wearing jeans and cowboy boots.  He had a buzz cut and a black moustache.  His hands were large and bony.

“What is it?”

He nodded.  “I hear you’re interested in Marci Renari.”

“Interested how?” I said.  “You mean I want to take her out?”

“Who gives a fuck,” he said.  He came up off the car and got into some kind of vague martial arts pose.  His hands were out in front of him.  I walked up to him and stomped down hard on his instep with my heel.  He screamed.  I grabbed the collar of his jacket and swung him around into the Pontiac.  He went over across the hood.  I clubbed him on the back of his neck with the side of my fist.  He collapsed on the hood.

I waited.  In a minute, he started to move.  He tried to turn around.  I put my hands around his neck and squeezed hard.  I kicked his legs out from under him and he fell and hit his head on the fender of the car and slid off and rolled on to the concrete.  He was on his back.  His eyes were open and unfocused.

I stepped back.  I waited.

He started looking around.  His head wasn’t moving, but his eyes were.

“What’s your name?” I said.

After a long pause, he said, “Carroll Montgomery.”  His voice was raspy.

“You beat your wife.”

He shook his head.  It was a reflex.

“That’s what I hear,” I said.

“So what?” he whispered.

“You’re after Marci.”

He cleared his throat.  “I made a mistake.”

“You won’t make the mistake again.”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s where we started,” I said.  I bent down and drove the palm of my fist into the point of his nose.  I heard it snap.  Blood spurted out of his nostrils.  He screamed.  He kept screaming, to cover up the shock and the pain.  He covered his nose with his hands.

His screaming gradually went down to whimpering.

I stood up.  “I don’t deal with cops,” I said.  “If you go to them, I’ll hurt you a lot worse.  If you go near Marci, I’ll wreck your knees.”

Blood was oozing out between his fingers.

He started to cry.  He curled up into a ball.

I bent down and searched his pockets.  His wallet was in the pants pocket turned toward me.  I took it and walked away.

I looked around the lot.  A few people were getting into and out of cars.  They hadn’t registered what happened.  Most people don’t pay attention.  They don’t want to.

I looked through the wallet.  His driver’s license said he lived on Roscomare Road in Bel Air.  He had an American Express and a Visa card.  No photos.  A few hundred in cash.  Other store cards.  A script for Lithium from a doctor in Beverly Hills.

I took the driver’s license and dropped the wallet on the ground.


I went to a hardware store and bought three big cans of red spray-paint.

I took the 10 to the 405 North, and got off at Mulholland.  I swung up the hill and turned right on Roscomare.  Down a mile, I found the address.  It was a yellow cottage framed with squat palm trees.

I parked.  The garage door was closed.  There were no cars in the driveway.

I took the paper bag and walked up to the front door and rang the bell.  I waited and then rang it again.

A woman opened the door.  She was a petite brunette.  She had sunglasses on.  She was wearing a light-blue quilted robe.  There was a red bruise on her right cheek.

She looked at me and didn’t say anything.

“Mrs. Montgomery?” I said.

She just stood there.

“I’m not going to tell you my name,” I said.  “I want you to get dressed and leave the house.  I know your husband.  He beats you up, and you hang around.  That shit stops now.  Don’t pack anything.  Just get dressed, take whatever cash you’ve got in the house, your credit cards, your checkbook, and drive away.  You have a car, don’t you?  It’s in the garage?”

She didn’t move.

“Go somewhere where he won’t find you.  I’m going to do a few things here.  You don’t want to be around.  Pull yourself together.”

“Who are you?” she said.  Her voice was clear.  That was good.

“I’m giving you five minutes,” I said.  “I’ll wait in my car.  If you’re not gone in five minutes, I’m going to call the station.  They’ll come and I’ll tell them he’s been beating you up.  You’ll have a case on your hands.  You’ll be in court.  Everyone will know.  It’ll get ugly.”

She frowned.  “What the hell is this?” she said.

“I’m counting.  You’ve got five minutes.  I’m a police detective, Mrs. Montgomery.  I live down the street.  I’ve seen what’s been happening.”

She still didn’t move.

I took a spray can out of the bag.  I forced my way into a thick hedge in front of the house, and started spraying on the façade.  She watched me.


I moved over to the right and started spraying the words again.  In larger and thicker letters.  It would be quite visible from the road.

She was planted where she stood.

I finished the second round.  BEATS HIS WIFE.

I moved further to the right, took a new can out of the bag, and sprayed the name CARROLL MONTGOMERY on the façade.  I was on BEATS when she turned back into the house.

I finished the sentence, looked over my work, and walked back to my car.  I got in.

Five minutes went by.


The garage door opened.

A white Jaguar backed out fast.  She stopped at the end of the driveway, craned her neck to look for traffic.  There was none.  She backed out into the street and drove down the hill toward Sunset.

I went the other way, up to Mulholland.

A few blocks from my apartment, I threw the spray cans into a dumpster.

Back at my place, I took a long shower and put on shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers.

I jogged down La Brea all the way to Pico, and back.  I took another shower, made a sandwich and drank a beer.  I sat down on my couch and watched a few innings of a College World Series game.

I called Ralph Renari and left a message for him.  I told him to take his sister and check her into a hotel for a few days.

Jerry called.  “I’m in Beverly Hills,” he said.  “She still uses Renari.  It’s the name of her gallery.  She’s taking me on a tour, as we speak.”  He hung up.


June 8

“I have always had a prurient interest in private discussions.  Looking through the loophole.  To see what is going on, to hear what people are saying, to know what they are really thinking, this is a reward in itself.  You can throw away the veil in your mind.  You can admit what life is all about.”

Alexander Markov, Soviet defector, to Arthur Meriden,
Hidden Legends of the CIA 


A little after dawn, I woke up to the sound of a click and a laugh in my living room.  I walked out there in my underpants and Jerry was putting balls at a glass on the rug.  He was mumbling to himself and giggling.

“What about the ex-wife?” I said.

“Back at my place.”


“I was shocked.  As soon as I walked into the gallery, she practically attacked me.”

“You’re drunk,” I said.

“Could be.  I bought a few bottles of champagne.  She has a body of a pampered star.  Not too hard and not too soft.  Smooth skin.  Very white.  Moist. There’s the illusion the skin has a layer of oil underneath the surface.”

“You want coffee?”

“In a few minutes.”

“What did she say?”

Jerry had balls lined up side by side.  He putted a few.  Missed the glass.

I went into the kitchen and made coffee, brought him a large cup of black.  He took it from me and tested it with his finger.  He sipped it.  Smacked his lips.

He laid the putter on the rug and walked to the wall and leaned on it.  “She’s a failed painter, according to her.  The gallery is Renari Silvan.  Her name is Kate.  I never asked who Silvan is.  The work on the walls is mostly geometric.  Large rooms in the gallery.  I’m guessing twenty grand a month minimum rent, unless she owns the building.”

“Who did you tell her you were?”

“I mentioned your name.  You know, just to say something.  Said Ralph was trying to look into his sister’s problem.  I explained the problem.  She seemed to accept that, though she hadn’t heard anything about it.  She’s a pretty cool customer.  Course, she was already sizing me up.  She showed me a flowery journal article Ralph wrote.”

Jerry took a gulp of coffee.

He said, “October 15, 1999.  New Science Journal.  The Ghost in the Machine Revisited.  Ralph Renari.  ‘If soul is not merely an antiquated notion but is instead a metaphor for psychic capabilities shared by all human beings, then the positive results of fifty years of well-designed laboratory studies on paranormal abilities is a doorway into a belated understanding of ourselves’”

Jerry could do that.  Alcohol allowed him to do it a little better.  His faculty advisor at Stanford, in the early 1990s, told him he was wasting his time playing golf.  Instead, he said, Jerry should go on for his PhD in American literature and teach.  He had a memory gift that could make him an outstanding academic.  Jerry said a career at a university would age him prematurely.

We sat out on the back balcony.  Jerry finished his coffee.  I brought him another cup.

“Since I’m with the ex-wife for the moment, I think I’ll stay in the game.”

“You like her?” I said.

“Relative term.  I’m probably doing unconscious tantra.  Extracting energy from the ether.”  He chuckled.

“The ether in this case is an art dealer from Beverly Hills.”

“She drives a tan Lexus.  She wants to fly to Amsterdam and look at Van Goghs.  She is not a vegetarian.”

“I sent you up there to ask about her ex-husband.”

“Best way to find out.  Share bodily fluids.  Talk, share, talk.  She says he’s a flake and not to be trusted.  She says he plays games with people.  He’s a weasel and a liar and a drug addict.”

“I guess that covers it.”


Over breakfast at Denny’s, Jerry sobered up.  I told him about my adventure with Carroll Montgomery and the forced eviction of his wife.

“Broken nose and red spray paint,” he said.  “Nice piece of work, right out of the blocks.”

“Montgomery had no way of knowing who I was or where I was.  I guess Ralph or Marci told him.  Betrayal is a nasty thing.”

“Like dropping a Titleist down your pants into the weeds.”

“Golf being your only metaphor for life.”

“So what about you?” Jerry said.  “What’s keeping your hand in now?  Sounds like you’re done.”

“You know,” I said.  “I’m about tag ends.  I find one, I pull on it.”

“A scrap merchant.”

Just to annoy me, Jerry gently put his hands together in a golf grip.  “First time I ever hit an iron to a green, I was nine.  My father took me to Rancho Park.  On the first hole I hit a high seven-iron, got the divot just right, the ball landed on the back edge and checked eight feet from the pin.  I was hooked.  Years later, I thought sex was better, but it really wasn’t.  A terrible admission.”

“You’ve told me that story many, many times.”

“So what?  I’m in process.  It’s a psychological phenomenon.  You’re probably not aware of it.  You wouldn’t be.  You just break shit.”

“So in heaven they really do play golf.”

He picked up a napkin and wiped a ring of coffee off the table.   “I’m counting on it.  Fairways and greens.”

Several years back, Jerry had taken me for drinks to the old Rancho Santa Fe Inn.  We chatted with Billy Mason, a legendary local pro the PGA tour guys seek out when their swings go south.  Billy told me Jerry had one of the sweetest natural swings he’d ever seen.  That took in a lot of territory.

Billy said if Jerry wanted to, he could screw himself in on sand at the beach, in six inches of water, and hit a ball bobbing and moving on the low tide.  He’d pick up about a cup of water with it, and give you pure backspin.  Nothing right or left.  Just straight.

Jerry had smiled and picked up his glass of scotch and raised it to his eyes, looking over at Billy.


After breakfast, we walked along Sunset.  Jerry nodded at me.  “Your instincts are good.  I believe there’s going to be some more shit in this trolley car.”

“Could be.  We’ll see.”

“A stranger walks into your office, you listen.  What a fool you are to be in that kind of business.”

Upside, downside, blind side.


Jerry went off to talk to the people at the Bellamy company about his upcoming game with the businessmen from Dallas, and I walked to my office.

I had a message from Doc Lieber.  “Marty Raskel pulled a few strings.  Go back to the hospital.  That guy you spoke with?  He’ll talk to you now.”

I called Jerry’s place.  Ralph’s ex-wife Kate didn’t pick up.  So I drove over to the hospital for another go-around with the cardiologist.

This time I sat on a small chair at a cloudy glass table, in a little garden full of well-watered ferns and small palm trees set in buckets.  There was a fountain going.

Dr. Kelly came walking through a glass door with serious intent.  He plopped himself down in a chair next to me and said, “I’ve known Marty Raskel for almost ten years.”

“Isn’t that wonderful.”

He started to crack his knuckles and stopped.  “I know people at Allison –Bowles,” he said.  “It’s a ticky-tack outfit.  Their clinical trial was a minor disaster.  They thought of throwing away the last two weeks of data and just using the first six.  But even that was unimpressive.  So they never published the results.  The drug was an SSRI antidepressant.  Like Prozac or Zoloft.  A spin-off.  They added something.  A compound that was supposed to level out the manic phase of the bipolar.  The antidepressant would kick out the depression and this other thing would put a ceiling on the highs.  No one knows why it didn’t work.  Maybe they got the proportions wrong.  These trials can by a crapshoot.”

“And if something bad happened to one of the volunteers?” I said.

“What bad?”

“Violent behavior.”

He spread his hands.  “I don’t know anything about that.”

“What about the guys who run the company?”

He shook his head.  “Only because of Marty I’m telling you this.  The honchos are jerks.  They’re basically hustlers.  But the one you’d want to go after, if something went bad, would be Scott Bestler.  He almost had his license yanked a few years back for screwing up plastic surgeries.”

He looked around and stood up.  “So who the hell are you anyway?”

“You don’t really want to know,” I said.  “I have a client.  He wants to find out about the clinical trial.”

“That’s all I’m getting?”

“It’s better that way.”

“Jesus,” he said.  He shook his head.

“No,” I said.  “Actually, you’re lucky.”


“Because I have a lucid urge.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“To break your hand.”

He stared at me, and then he walked away.


When I got back to my office, Ralph and a woman with expensively cut short blonde hair were waiting in the hall.  We went inside and sat down.

She was wearing a gray silk suit jacket and faded jeans with a crease.  She pulled at the collar of a white shirt.  She looked at me and grinned.  Her hands were strong.  Nails cut short.  No polish.  She was wearing open-toed low black heels and her feet were bare.  The toenails were painted light pink.  She had the face of an ex-cheerleader.


I sat down behind the desk, picked up my cell and called Jerry.  He answered.  “Come on over,” I said.  “Bring your friend.”  I hung up.

Ralph said, “This is my sister Marci.”

“Good,” I said.  “Are you staying at a hotel?”

She nodded quickly.  “Yes.”

“I’ve taken care of the matter.  You’re okay now.”

“Really?” she said.  “What did you do?”  Ralph leaned forward in his chair.  His eyes were bloodshot.

“Montgomery came after me.  Which was interesting.  I put him down.  I broke his nose and gave him a few other aches and pains.  I believe his wife has moved out of their house.”

Ralph laughed.  “Goddamn!  You work quick!  You broke his nose?”


“Good for you!  How did he react?”

“He was in the fetal position in a parking lot when I left him.”

Ralph stood up and then sat back down again.  “I wish I could do something like that,” he said.

“So we’re even,” I said.  “You paid me and I banked your check.”

“Of course,” he said.  “Even.”

“There are a couple of other things. Marci, you were probably given a bad drug in the clinical trial.  I’m told Allison Bowles isn’t a reputable company.  If you wanted to, you could pursue that.  Talk to a lawyer about civil litigation.”

“I don’t think so,” she said.  “I just want to be left alone.”

“The other thing, Ralph,” I said, “is that you told Montgomery about me.  He picked me up at my bank.  Why did you do that?”

Ralph closed his eyes.  I thought he might be meditating.  I waited.  He said, “Of course I told him.  I wanted him to find you, so you could take care of the problem.”

“Then you knew where he was.  Why didn’t you give me that chunk of information?”

“I only have his cell number.  I don’t know where he lives.  I assume he’s been moving around.”

“That’s quite a lie,” I said.  “But we’ll move on.  How did you convince Montgomery you were on his side?”

“I didn’t try.  I just said I had information he needed.  I threw in a gratuitous remark about Marci.  I said she was prone to exaggeration, and I didn’t believe she was in danger from him.  I guess it worked.”

“You know how to be vague,” I said.  “I’ll give you that.”

Marci looked at him.  She smiled a little and shook her head.

“So we’re done,” I said.

“Not quite,” he said.

“Dropping another shoe?”

He looked up at the ceiling.  “Carroll has something on us.  On Marci and me.  I don’t want him to use it.”

“And what would that be?”

“Well,” he said, looking at Marci, “my sister and I are related by adoption.  My birth parents are her adopted parents.  Marci and I have a sexual relationship.”

Marci didn’t seem upset.  She looked at me and shrugged.

“And how long has this been going on?” I said.

“Since we were adolescents,” Ralph said.

“I was seventeen,” Marci said.  “Ralph was twenty.”  She was calm.

“And Montgomery knows this,” I said.

Ralph nodded.

“How?” I said.

“I told him,” Marci said.  “Obviously, it was mistake.  That was the only effect of the drug I noticed.  It made me talkative.  But not in the usual way.  I felt a compulsion to share.”

“I assume he felt the same compulsion.”

“What do you mean?” she said.

“He told you he was beating his wife.”

“He didn’t come right out and say it.  He intimated it.  He was trying to find out whether I liked pain.”

“And you said no?”

“I definitely said no.”

“Which didn’t deter him, because he kept calling you on the phone.”

“We spoke four or five times.  He said he liked administering punishment to women.”

“He doesn’t seem like the type who would volunteer for a drug study,” I said.

“He told me he was having trouble sleeping,” she said.  “His doctor sent him to a psychiatrist.  He was diagnosed bipolar.  But the regular medication didn’t help.”

“You two have a facility for bullshitting as you go along,” I said.  “Some people work it out beforehand.  Anyway, you might have to talk to your ex-wife,” I said to Ralph.

He was startled.  “Why?”

“Because my partner, who works with me, Jerry, is having a sudden fling with her.”

Ralph looked at his sister, then back at me.  “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I sent him up to Beverly Hills to talk to her.  I wanted to check up on you.  I guess they hit it off.  She’s at his place in West LA.”

“Check up on me?  What kind of bullshit is this?”

Marci put her hand on his.

“I don’t know you,” I said to Ralph.

“And what the fuck did Katie tell your friend?”

“That you were a flake and a liar.”

“I don’t fucking like this,” he said.  He looked down at the floor.  “Goddamn bullshit.  Who are you to go to my ex and ask her about me?”

“I don’t blame you for being upset.  But that’s the way it turned out.”

Marci suddenly said, “Carroll tried to rape me.”

Ralph looked at her.  “You didn’t tell me that.”

“It happened.”

“Where,” he said.

“In my apartment.”

“You said he was just threatening you.”

“I was lying,” she said.  “I wanted to protect you.”

“Protect me?” Ralph said.  “From what?”

“Bad news,” she said.  “After we had lunch one day, he drove me home.  I had taken a cab because my car was in the shop.  He dropped me off, asked me for a date, I said no.  The next day, about five in the afternoon, he came to my place.  I let him in.  He tried to take off my clothes.  I kicked him in the face when I was on the bed.  He decided not to rape me.”

power outside the matrix

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

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.