Soldier Ghost, Part 3

The $537 Billion Defeat

Jews Jaws Zero Down

Shark America Ten Up

Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 217

Virgil Kret's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923

Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2008
George W. Bush Will Destroy the World

Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event (Soon, Perhaps)

Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle: The Secret Story, Soldier Ghost (3)

Today's code is "59th Day, Last Year".

Let's approach today what I call, "A Beautiful Truth".

I am 12 to 24 hours ahead of the news these days. Perhaps because I have been a news junky since I was four years old and understand the rhythm to human events.

It was expectable that George W. Bush would say something stupid, like the war is good for the economy but we built too many houses and that messed things up, while his long-suffering wife sat there thinking of what an ass she had married.

Look at the video clip, and tell me that is not what she was thinking.

It was expectable that Ralph Nader would punch a hole in the balloon of his "candidacy" for the Presidency by naming as his running mate a person no one had ever heard of.

Finally you see it; Nader likes to commit political suicide; but on the public stage.

Here at I.C. News we watch the news, reading the writing on the wall of it, waiting for the Fancy Ray Gun to hit it's mark. We expect the point of impact to be well west of the Mississippi. We expect it to stop the United States of America cold in its tracks.

These expectations are the Spirit of the Explorer; as in older days when sailing men were finding their way around the world, we at I.C. News sail The Sea of Lies which is America, looking for a breakthrough to the other side. Does this inlet lead to the Pacific through South America? Will the ocean freeze before we find the Northwest Passage? That is I.C. News.

We know the general map. We know where we get to if we get there from here...but is this the way?...but is this the way?...but is this the way?

To the explorer, steering the wrong passage is just a step in finding the right passage.

So, we know how this story ends; the death of this Earth by 2065; and the Sea of Hope to be explored is how God will prevent her death.

That is what we seek, that knowledge and understanding; and that is what we learn as we explore the Future. We learn as we go. This current flows that way; that current flows this way; we usually cannot see the currents because they are under water, but we can feel them on the hull of our ship.

The current as we know it flows to God's defeat of the United States of America.

We think we know...we think we know...we think we know; so it's "Steady as She Goes" even though we sail our ship alone.

Returning to The Secret Story, which we tell within this story of God's Space War, just as Apuleius told the story of Cupid and Psyche within the story contained in the lone surviving novel of pre-Chistrian Rome, The Golden Ass...returning to the Secret Story, Himitsu No Monogatari; today we learn more about Tea, the Soul Seeker; and how he developed the theory that would later revolutionize human thought on war and peace...how he discovered the Armies of the Dead.

In yesterday's episode we met the spirit of a Japanese soldier killed in World War Two, Preying Mantis; but we learned nothing more about Soldier Ghost, the spirit of an American soldier killed in Vietnam who had attached himself to Tea on a battlefield, introduced in the first episode.

Today we learn a little of the long, slow process of Tea's exploration into his intuitive theory that the wars in the Land of the Living continue into the Land of the Dead--that the world is round--and how this theory is confirmed by Preying Mantis.

So, let us continue our walk along the narrow line between the living and the dead.

Soldier Ghost, Part 3

Tea awoke from the heavy, brief nap, knowing he had met a most unusual ghost.

Tea was, in his ungainly way, a scientist; and like an astronomer who, through impossible calculations which make sense to every TV viewer, surmises and discovers a planet in the far, far outer darkness, Tea had surmised the existence or organized military activity among the dead.

Every child now knows he was correct, but in that mid-zone of the 20th Century it was considered a quaintly insane and stupid idea.

Later Tea came upon other confirmations of his afterlife military theory. He discovered long-dead Native Americans still at war with the United States, Knights of the Crusades still at war with Islam, a group called Providence’s Soldiers made up of American Revolution war dead desperately attempting to keep the American Revolution on course, and others, enough others to come to the understanding that such organizations existed in every culture, and influenced the Land of the Living all around the world.

This theory was rounded out in 1969, when Tea discovered the first military unit composed of souls of aborted fetuses.

The impact of what Tea was discovering in these private researches in the Sixties was not felt until the 1990s, when what became known as the Soul Wars began in earnest.

(Praying Mantis was more than an unusual ghost, he was an extremely important one. He was one of the early members of the Wasurenai-Kai, the Not-Forgetting Society, formed about a year before his death. The Not-Forgetting Society, composed of both living and dead Japanese, was to become the focal point of the forces within Japan bent on vengeance for Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

(Praying Mantis’ approaching Tea is considered the first maneuver of Earth’s space war, the initial spark off the flints in the making of the fire of it.)

That summer day in Sixty-three was a long, long way from the horrors of space war and soul war, and the young Tea returning to the company of his friends at the inn in Ama-No-Hashidate had to consciously refrain from skipping down the decorum-paved streets of the little town, and from not blurting out his discovery to his friends when he rejoined them.

Tea knew himself to be more Galileo than Edison, more punishable than praiseworthy for his discoveries.

Tea’s second contact with Praying Mantis took place in the fall of the same year, again in a controlled dream.

In the dream, entered into from deep sleep, Tea stood at a lectern in a classroom of a Japanese university, the seats for students occupied by dogs sitting as humans, holding pencils for note-taking, big, friendly dog smiles on their faces. One of these dogs stood up and changed into Praying Mantis, dressed in the dark, severe uniform of the Japanese university student.

“You speak our language well,” Praying Mantis said, the implication being the language of the Japanese soul, not the Japanese language, which Tea was then studying at the Osaka University of Foreign Studies, hence the setting of the dream.

That statement was all the dream contained, but Tea felt it was important.

The most encouraging thing to Tea was that if both contacts were real it meant Praying Mantis had traveled a considerable distance, from Ama-No-Hashidate to Osaka to find him.

Contact! It was as if Tea the archaeologist had discovered the lost city of Troy.

The third contact with Praying Mantis took place about three years later.

In the interim Tea’d left Japan and traveled to Australia, then to Africa, then to England, then to Europe, then to the California desert in the course of his research into life after death. He had no sponsorship and he had no money, but he worked his way on freighters and traveled by thumb, bus and train.

Militarily, the two most interesting zones to him were Japan and Islam.

Islam was closed to him because his spirit was too Christian. He was readily detected by Muslim dead and they tended to attempt to manipulate disaster for him.

Japan was less complex because religion there was a different animal, and passion for war danced to a slower, less erratic tune.

Tea chose to focus on Japan for a time, and Praying Mantis contacted him soon after his return.

From the moment of that third contact, in Osaka in Late 1965, Tea as certain he had a hot discovery by the tail.

Tea was working in Osaka and living in Kobe, commuting by train. He had rented a little house near the Sumiyoshi station. It was high on the hill range that squeezed the city between hills and Osaka Bay. He was a happy young man of twenty-six. His next birthday would be spent in combat in Vietnam, although his current job, copy editor for the Osaka edition of the Mainichi Daily News, did not indicate that future.

He was glad to be back in that strangely familiar foreign country where he felt so oddly at home.

Praying Mantis began visiting him frequently.

By this time, though he did not know it, Tea was becoming well known among ghosts in North America, England, Ireland, Europe, Africa and Australia.

Praying Mantis was also unaware of this fame, the Not-Forgetting Society being extremely isolated from both the Land of the Living and the Land of the Dead, both of which existed, fragmented, around the world.

Tea’s dream mechanism approach still allowed only brief visits, and the story about to be revealed to you in skeleton form was told to Tea by Praying Mantis in brief segments over several months, beginning in Osaka and continuing in Tokyo when Tea moved there a few months later to work for United Press International.

All people who live many lives have favorite lives which they like to relive with people. These stories are rarely accurate when told by a person in the Land of the Living, but they usually are accurate when they are told by a person in the Land of the Dead, unless the story teller is a liar.

As far as is known, the story Praying Mantis told Tea is true.

(To Be Continued)

Meanwhile, the USA, unaware it was about to eat the fire, passed through 59th day of its last year.

Soldier Ghost, Part 2

The $536 Billion Defeat

Jews Jaws One Down

Shark America Nine Up

Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 247

Virgil Kret's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923

Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2008
George W. Bush Will Destroy the World

Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event

Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle: The Secret Story, Soldier Ghost (2)

Today's code is "58th Day, Last Year".

We have an extra code today which my Old Pal God has asked me to record for you. The code is, "Insult Them as You Send Them to Hell"; and with this code I am asked to note what pitifully cowardly and unqualified Democrats and Republicans are running for the Presidency of the United States of America.

And now, Dear Reader, as we take our second step into The Secret Story, Himitsu No Monogatari, of how God's Space Sailors saved the Japanese race and placed it on the islands of Japan, I will tell you about something very nice that happened yesterday.

In Soldier Ghost, Part 1, I mentioned a Japanese combat photographer named Sakai Toshio, who in fact at times covered the Vietnam War with me; and I was standing beside him in the rain when he took his Pulitzer prize winning war photo, "Dreams of Better Times"...well, he stopped by to visit me yesterday and said he was very interested in Himitsu No Monogatari.

To understand how pleasant this visit was to me you should know that Sakai, one of my best foxhole friends, died of a heart attack in Kamakura, Japan, in 1999 at the age of 59.

This work I do is known of far better in The Land of the Dead than in The Land of the Living.

And now, back to our story: In Soldier Ghost, Part 1, we met Soldier Ghost, or rather came to know of his existence, when he attached himself to Tea as Tea ran past his body, fresh-dead in a meadow, during a day of battle. Today we meet the spirit of a Japanese soldier killed in World War Two, who tells Tea his soul name is and has been for many lifetimes, Praying Mantis.

Soldier Ghost, Part 2

The night Praying Mantis died the moon hung over the tropics like a sickle. It was warmer than summer, although it was winter, and the stars were all secrets to the farmers’sons of the northern hemisphere land of Nippon, whose grasp had exceeded its reach when it entered into unholy alliance with Germany and Italy.

It was 1944.

The first atomic bombing was half a year away.

Rice wine was passed around. Goodbyes were said. Bayonets were affixed. Soldiers along the line were building up their inner spirit. Men in their dozens and in their hundreds were announcing their war cry, their death cry, “Banzai! Banzai!” “Ten thousands years!”, that was what it meant. Within that cheer lie Japan’s most secret of military secrets.

It was a deep and purple night. The broad leaves of the island jungle, as if nothing were about to happen, were collecting dew. Bugs crawled. Snatches of silence brought the clicking of enemy bolts on enemy machineguns.

It was frontal assault. It was glorious suicide. It was romantic war. Mathematically, it was stupid.

At that very moment, on the day side of the world, on the top side of the planet according to the globes of the time, a four-year-old boy who was represented by those US Marines clicking those bolts was asking an American sailor if he had ever killed a Jap.

The sailor had never seen a Jap, but bragged, “Yes”, showing him what he claimed to be a picture of the Jap he had killed, a cameo of a Trojan soldier on his ring.

“That’s no Jap,” the little boy said; and within him the cameo triggered some long-sleeping memory, and for a second he felt the breeze of a memory of having lived before.

The boy was Tea.

Eighteen years later Tea found himself fresh out of college and in the homeland of Praying Mantis.

The world thought Praying Mantis was compost in his South Pacific island grave; but Tea ran into him on a tourist excursion to a town called Ama-No-Hashi-Date, “The Bridge to Heaven”, a famous and beautiful place on the backside of Japan where the Sun Goddess is said to have established the Japanese race.

The fateful meeting took place when Tea and three friends were staying at one of the traditional little inns of the village.

Metaphysically, it was deep penetration because Ama-No-Hashi-Date was the Jerusalem of the Japanese dead, but Tea did not know this at the time.

Tea had left the company of his friends for a private stroll through the village streets and onto the long, narrow peninsula, thick with pines, that nearly cut off the town’s little bay from the sea. It was from this exquisite peninsula, narrow enough for a child to throw a rock across, and perhaps 200 yards long, that the town got its name.

It should be noted that Tea liked living in Japan for many reasons, one of them being the density of interesting ghosts he found there. To Tea, Ama-No-Hashi-Date was a spiritual archeological dig.

Tea had been told a samurai battle had taken place on the Bridge To Heaven, and, though he had not mentioned his intention to his companions, he wanted to go there alone to see if he could sniff out any residue of the drama, or (if he were lucky) get a glimpse of a samurai who gave his life there.

The Bridge to Heaven, as it turned out, was densely populated with ghosts. The atmosphere was almost pointillistic with their presence. It was a social place among the dead, a promenade.

Then Tea felt the contact. It was a solid contact, insistent.

Tea’s most common method of transcommunication utilized shallow sleep, entered into while lying on his back in what he called his “mummy pose”.

(Years later, when the Americans attacked him on a mass, public level, he saved his life and his sanity with the mummy pose, particularly with the incorporation of the concept of the “galactic”. That infamous American enslavement was yet, however, the better part of a decade away, and Tea, though even then probably the best ghost hunter on Earth, was still primitive in his technique.)

Tea’s method went like this: Insistent ghost contact tended to make him immediately sleepy, but he could not fall asleep while lying on his back posed as a mummy; the resulting compromise took him into the shallowest of sleeps and, with practice, allowed him a barely conscious manipulation of his “dream machine”, as he called it, and with further practice allowed those spirits talking to him to manipulate the machine.

Relative to the telepathy of our times, 300 years later, it was, to be sure, like two cans and a string, but in the third quarter of the 20th Century it was state of the art.

To proceed, then, with Tea’s first meeting with Praying Mantis.

Tea had hoped to meet an ancient samurai, but instead met a young officer killed in the Second World War, who bowed to him formally in tropical combat uniform, wearing sword, side arm and billed cap.

Apparently knowing the contact could be for no more than a few minutes, the ghost began to speak without ceremony.

“When I died,” Praying Mantis said, seemingly anxious to tell his story to Tea, “I did not know I was dead.”

Tea listened to the spirit as passively as he could because the slightest activity, physical, mental or telepathic on his part could break the contact.

“When I fell I charged on, spirit leaving corpse so quickly I continued the attack, spirit sword in spirit hand, thinking only of the objective.

“I was called Nakamura Yosei then, but my soul name was and is Praying Mantis.

“My first inkling that I was dead was awareness of lack of sound. I could not hear my voice rallying my men, though I could see them charging on into the machine gun fire; nor could I hear the guns, though I could see their flashes, and the tracers.

“I leaped over the log fortification the Americans had constructed and I cut through two Marines with my sword…but it was a horror for me because they did not fall. I, instead, somehow left the field.”

The dream began to fade.

Seemingly aware of the coming loss of contact, Praying Mantis bowed from the waist, his arms straight down the hem of his khaki uniform trousers, saying, as Tea spun back toward consciousness, “You are an interesting person. Your soul shows through. Thank you for listening to my story.”

(To Be Continued)

Meanwhile, the USA, unaware it was about to eat the fire, passed through 58th day of its last year.

Soldier Ghost, Part 1

The $535 Billion Defeat

Jews Jaws Two Down

Shark America Eight Up

Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 278

Virgil Kret's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923

Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2008
George W. Bush Will Destroy the World

Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event

Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle: The Secret Story, Soldier Ghost (1)

Today's code is "57th Day, Last Year".

Don't worry about that extremely rare 4.7 earthquake in England early Wednesday; that was only a death spasm of this Earth.

Don't worry about those blackouts in Florida Tuesday, either; they were just God's hand covering the pistol grip of the Fancy Ray Gun I have told you about; God apparently preparing to give you a demonstration of its power.

And whatever you do, don't worry about the quake in England and the blackouts in Florida being connected--even though they were, but that's a later story.

If you look at Florida on a map of the United States of America, you can perhaps see it is in the shape of the grip of a handgun; and if you put the workings of the gun in Georgia and Alabama; perhaps the trigger at Mobil, or Biloxi, or New Orleans, you can perhaps see that the barrel of the Fancy Ray Gun is aimed West toward the Pacific.

We know we have had one use of the Fancy Ray Gun in Dallas, with the death of the motorcycle officer escorting Mrs. Clinton's motor-parade; one use causing one death in Australia; and going back further we assume we had four deaths to the Fancy Ray Gun in Corpus Christi.

With that little knowledge and with great anticipation, we are watching the writing on the wall of the news to see if God pulls the trigger of the Fancy Ray Gun; and if God does, where the Fancy Ray will strike.

That said, as promised we today begin to tell you The Secret Story, the story of how the Japanese race was saved by God's Space Sailors; the story is known as Himitsu No Monogatari in Japanese..

The Secret Story is concealed in my novella, The Art of Space War. It begins this way:

If we say the world is round
If we say it too soon
What are we but laughingstocks
What are we, but victims of the moon?

Tea, Circa 1978


THE ART OF SPACE WAR
Book 1: Soldier Ghost
By Virgil Kret

It seemed Tea and Soldier Ghost met on a battlefield called the Iron Triangle. That would have been in August of Sixty-seven. That would have made Soldier Ghost US First Division dead.

Tea thought he knew which body had been Soldier Ghost’s.

The Grunts were going in on Huey helicopters. The little ships looked like giant grasshoppers in formation. It was hot LZ all the way -- almost -- incoming seemed to catch the wave of copters just before Tea’s, then stop. To Tea, it was as if Hell had frozen over in seconds.

Soldier Ghost might have been in that last-hit wave. The grass in the LZ was a foot or more high. His body could not be seen until Tea’s copter’s left runner touched down four-five feet from it. It was laying full length flat on its face, left arm wound around its rifle somehow. Its uniform was first-day clean, as if Soldier Ghost had drowned in the font of his baptism of fire. Tea had had to dodge around the body in his run for the trees.

As he did so, the ghostly thing happened. Soldier Ghost attached himself to Tea like a possum to its mother, and held on to him as if for dear life. Tea saw it happen. It was a white flash of movement about one-fiftieth the brilliance of a flash bulb, and twice as quick. Tea felt it, too. It was like a tiny sob of a broken heart implanting itself into his muscle tissue.

The war was thick that day. Everywhere the air smelled of cordite and adrenalin, but the action kept slipping out of Tea’s hands. Everywhere he went, he just missed the fighting. It stopped seconds before his arrival or began seconds after his departure. Not minutes; always less than a minute. Tea felt the impact of the coincidences. It was like he was riding through the war that day in a protective bubble.

Tea was with his partner, Sakai Toshio, a photographer who that day carried with him exposed film that would win him a Pulitzer if it got through that day without being blown to smithereens. They were hopping from battlefield to battlefield, catching rides on helicopters and fixed wing transports like hoboes hopping freights. They were there to see war. They were at the crest of journalism’s ego; they were war correspondents. War was to them Satan’s Disneyland, and they had tickets to all the rides. Ostensibly they were there to cover battles; but that was just the means of getting to the Anaheim of it; for in fact they were there for the Hell of it, for the high of it, for the terror of it, for the being there of it.

To them, Soldier Ghost’s Death Place was now like a boxcar on a siding; meaning there was no shooting going on in that meadow surrounded by jungle; so they wanted to hop another ride to another fight as soon as possible.

They had been there for less than an hour when they saw a Huey revving up, flattening grass, a flurry of Grunts with orders to leave the battlefield running up to it. Tea and Sakai sprinted to it, too, and over the roar and pulsing flutter of the grasshopper’s heart and wings, got permission from the pilot to board, not knowing or caring where it was going.

It was overloaded. A scared-faced black Grunt carrying a mortar was ordered off because he represented too much weight. (Why he, a fighting man, and not Tea and Sakai, proxy onlookers for the public, is a mystery for the mystery pile.)

Airborne, the insect chugged, chugged along in a sluggish, discomforting fashion, buffeted by fists of wind and (Tea watched them) fists of dead enemy trying to bring the Huey down.

It landed on a runway somewhere. There were mounds of boxes of supplies, but no buildings. The static word was Charley was coming. The atmosphere was tight. The sky was black with roiling, twisting clouds. The air was so thick with anticipatory fear it could be rolled into little balls between the thumb and forefinger.

The field was being used as a body removal center. American KIAs were lined along the runway’s south sideline. They were side by side, stiller than stones. They numbered twenty-eight. Tea counted them. He tattooed them upon his memory’s wall. A Huey landed, bringing two more dead Grunts, its wash sending stinging grit in all directions.

Suddenly, the ghostly thing happened again. Tea saw three or four of those white flashes coming out of bodies and rushing at him as if they iron shavings and he a magnet. His mind reeled. The sky now looked like gray and black of a North Pacific storm. The clouds were scudding fast enough to make a sailor dizzy. The poncho under one of the bodies was whipping in the wind and slapping the body’s dead face. A black body in the row bore a strange wound. It was the thinnest, roundest shaving of black skin just above the right wrist, revealing a milk-white under layer. The white wound first slapped Tea’s eyes and then his brain in quick succession. “Remember me,” it said. The wound might have been a watch or a silver dollar, it was so perfectly round, so perfectly white and bloodless. Tea wondered what flying thing of metal might have taken such a wafer of skin.

That day careened on. Both Tea and Sakai passed through the fire unburned. Sakai’s film survived, too, and won for him his Pulitzer. Soldier Ghost survived too, to fight again as it turned out, although he ran into a remarkable zone of danger after he rode Tea, like a tick in a mule’s hide, to Tokyo a month later.

That zone of danger was to reveal the most unbelievable true story in the history of human journalism and the legacy of human war.

(To be continued)

Meanwhile, the USA, unaware it was about to eat the fire, passed through 57th day of its last year.

The $534 Billion Defeat

Jews Jaws Three Down

Shark America Seven Up

Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 276

Virgil Kret's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923

Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2008

George W. Bush Will Destroy the World

Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event

Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle: Tell Them the Secret Story

Today's code is "56th Day, Last Year".

Just as I was thinking up a nice peace plan to present to the American people--a kind of amnesty or forgiveness based on the words said to have been said by Jesus, "Sin no more"--just as I was about to do that my Old Pal God gave me a glimpse into some American hearts.

(When it comes to the American heart, beauty is truly skin deep; but that's another story.)

I have been asked by God to tell you quite an old story, of an event three thousand, four thousand five thousand years ago, I am not sure any more because I have more dings on my brain than a '53 Chevy on its body after Destruction Derby Day.

This story was originally written in Japanese for the Japanese by God's Space Sailors. It is called "Himitsu No Monogatari" in Japanese; in English it is called "The Secret Story".

The Secret Story tells about the origin of the Japanese race and the very, very old relationship between the Japanese and God's Space Sailors.

In fact the space vessel that deposited the Japanese on what is now Japan between two and five thousand years ago was the same vessel that transported me to this Earth some 57 thousand years ago--but I am getting ahead of myself; and you may not know the Japanese myth of their having been placed on Japan by the Sun Goddess, Amaterasu.

The Secret Story tells the same story as the Japanese myth, but as seen through the eyes of the God's Space Sailors who deposited the Japanese in Japan. It is a story...how can I say this?...It is a story of intentional preservation.

This is hard to explain because we Space Sailors are not scientists and we are not running experiments with the human race; we are rambling wrecks from Interplanetary Tech, and we are damn good Space Engineers, and our focus for the last 100 thousand human lifetimes has been to prevent this Earth from dying just one human lifetime from now.

Let me take another run at this. This is the Real Olympics, after all, and I have three tries to clear the bar before I am disqualified.

There is a great engineering problem we Space Sailors have faced for some 57 thousand years; that problem being how to keep this Earth from dying in late 2064; a death we could see because we projected into that future on what you might call an inspection trip.

(That inspection trip is the story behind such events like "UFO" sightings, but if I talk about space ships you are going to think sci-fi, and if I talk about "UFOs" you are going to think Little Green Men, and if I talk about God's Space Sailors trying for 57 thousand years to save this dying globe you are going think blasphemy..

Yet that is all we Space Sailors do for a living. We save--or attempt to save--dying populated planets.

You can understand how 57 thousand years on the job site amounts to a whole truckload of stories to be told when our elbows are resting on damp bartops and there are babes all about like ripe plums for the picking and our dreams about them are ripe bananas too long at womenless sea--and one of those stories isThe Secret Story, Himitsu No Monogatari, the story of the Sun Goddess, Amaterasu, and how she set aside the Japanese to preserve their blood line.

Who was Amaterasu, or what was Amaterasu? I suggest to you Amaterasu was and is the great city sized space ship I today call "Peacemaker" and back in those days was called, "Heaven's Terrace".

Let me explain this along more prosaic lines, if anything about God's Space Sailors can be called prosaic; in the course of exploring this Earth and the many life forms she has created--they being the scent she sends out to attract her husband, God--we had dealings with every race and tribe and clan of human beings, and those dealings can be found in all myths and all ancient histories.

In the Judeo-Christian culture there is a belief that God put all God's eggs in one basket, the basket of the Jews, and that later God needed to patch a hole in that basket with Jesus; but that idea holds sway only because Western culture has exclusively bought into that particular cultural history, the Bible.

This is not to say God did not interact with the Jews; it is to say God interacted with the entire human race--and the entire animal and plant world--in the course of attempting to save the life of this beautiful Earth.

Now I am going to have to take a run at this again, make one more try to get over this bar of suspended disbelief.

You see, what we did those thousands of years ago sounds unscientific today. Did we meddle with the natural course of things? Did we mess with Nature? Did we preserve something which Nature Herself would not have preserved--could not have preserved?

Things were different in those days; such judgments were not floating around then; and we came upon a tribe of human beings doomed to extinction, and decided to save them, to preserve them.

The ancestors of the Japanese, you see, were in what we Space Sailors call "An Impossible Pocket". They were a tribe surrounded by other tribes; but that does not say it all because in those days different tribes of humans were so different they might have been different beings, so different they might have been different species.

Let me express this concept in black and yellow for you.

Say we came upon the Japanese race occupying an Impossible Pocket. Say they were a Yellow race in Black Africa five thousand years before the UN could come to their rescue..

The Impossible Pocket was that they were tens of thousands of miles from other Asian races--and how they got there is another story in itself but that is not what The Secret Story is about--and they were surrounded by Black tribes. Sooner or later the Yellows would have been wiped out by the Blacks. That was life then; that is life now; but it was more 3D then.

Understand, I am not saying the Yellow human beings would have ceased to exist five thousand years ago--not a chance, they were the most thriving human beings on this Earth; but I am saying that those who are now called Japanese would have disappeared from the face and memory of this Earth--in a sense because their adventuresome spirit had placed them in an Impossible Pocket.

(This is why, if you look closely, you can today still find scratchings of those early Japanese in Egypt , and learn why the Egyptians wrote of space vessels traveling light-years to get to this Earth, but, dangit, that, too, is another story. Clearly we have more stories to tell than time to tell them.)

So, we Space Sailors came upon the Japanese, whom we even then called "The Secret People", while involving ourselves in the construction of the Egyptian pyramids for purposes of our own.

"Purposes of our own", by that I mean we wanted to signal that we were still alive and functioning after some 50 thousand years marooned, and such an engineering undertaking, visible to patrolling vessels would announce that to the relief of our loved ones back home.

This revelation of hidden Egyptian history would naturally take me to my favorite story, my story about God's Space Sailors and how we survived and succeeded during 57 thousand years marooned on this Earth, which I call The Great Space Story; however, my Old Pal God did not ask me to tell you The Great Space Story at this time; no, my Old Pal God asked me to tell you The Secret Story, Himitsu No Monogatari.

This presents me with something of a problem in that I always felt I wanted to tell this story while living in Japan; perhaps because Japan gave me more love in five years of residence than the United States of America did in a lifetime; perhaps I just wanted to smell the residue of the story around me as I wrote it.

If I had my druthers I would write this story on the Nihonkai, the side of Honshu facing mainland Asia, perhaps at a little inn I stayed at a long time ago located a little bit north of Ama No Hashi Date, the Bridge to Heaven; but I am America's torture-slave and I rarely get my druthers.

So, unless bigger news breaks, tomorrow I will begin the serialized story I call, The Secret Story, Himitsu No Monogatari.

Yes, I am going to put day-to-day news down for a while; no money in it; and you are going to let the Republican American Fascists enslave you no matter what I report.

Don't worry, you will appreciate the right to live in slavery under Republican American Fascism. Better slaves than in your graves; yes, Americans?.

Meanwhile, the USA, unaware it was about to eat the fire, passed through 56th day of its last year.

The $533 Billion Defeat

Jews Jaws Four Down

Shark America Six Up

Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 276

Virgil Kret's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923

Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2008
George W. Bush Will Destroy the World

Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event

Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle: Disturb their Peace

Today's code is "56th Day, Last Year".

It seems to me I have made my current point; no use hammering that nail into America's coffin again today.

Today I will run a favorite story published some time ago. It is called, "The Disturbed Peace of Mr. Hu". It goes this way:

For some fifteen years I made my living serving as a designated driver for the communities of Morro Bay and Cayucos, California.

There was no taxi service, and there were very strict and not always fair enforcement of drunk driving and drunk in public laws, so I performed a valuable public service. I kept people from driving drunk, thereby keeping them out of jail, and over those fifteen years perhaps saving a life or two.

The Morro Bay police always liked me for running this service; but the San Luis Obispo County Sheriff's Department did not, and harassed me extensively; and finally, in the end, the Sheriff framed me on a false drunk driving charge and put me out of business.

My passengers to a large extent were commercial fishermen, hard drinking and hard working, so we got along just fine.

I would often ask drag fishermen, those who worked on boats that dragged a net along the ocean bottom, if they had ever pulled up interesting things. Some told me of bringing up large ancient Chinese pottery jugs, which had apparently been used as food or water containers on Chinese ships that visited the West Coast long before the first Spanish ships came.

It was one of these fishermen who told me the story of The Disturbed Peace of Mr. Hu.

He said he was fishing aboard a boat called the Eleanor Gay, out of Moss Landing, California, and they were working off the coast of Oregon.

One day their net brought up a coffin, not an ancient coffin but a new coffin of shiny polished metal, an event that sent a chill through the four-man crew.

The skipper of the Eleanor Gay radioed the Coast Guard about the coffin and was told to check to see if there was a seal on it, which would identify it as a legal burial at sea. The skipper checked and found there was. Then the Coast Guard told him to just drop the coffin overboard.

Now, the crew of the Eleanor Gay should have done that but after some discussion and hemming and hawing they broke the seal and opened the coffin; and there they saw the perfectly preserved, perfectly dry body of an elderly Chinese man.

Curiosity satisfied; an act of group impetuosity immediately regretted; a chill passed through all four men because they had all, after all, violated a grave.

Then, as if in eerie confirmation of the chilling feeling, a sudden rogue wave, not a monster but big enough, broke over the port rail of the Eleanor Gay and soaked the four fishermen and the corpse of the Chinese; then, omen upon omen, four curious gulls landed atop the pilot house, not uncommon but oddly foreboding under the weird circumstances, and looked down at the scene on the deck, the four men looking into a coffin, peeping toms in queer violation being caught in the act.

"Who do you think he is?", one asked all but no one is particular.

"Who? Who? I don't give a damn," said the skipper, "Let's close it up and put it over the side."

Suddenly they were all very nervous, and grave robber-pall bearers that they were they closed the coffin and carried it to the starboard rail and dropped it with a splash into the Pacific, and horrified but not knowing why they were so horrified, they watched the coffin turn over and sink upside down.

The Eleanor Gay was never the same again.

Over the coming months one man fell overboard and nearly drowned; and then the skipper, high on cocaine, got wrapped up in the net as it was being wound up on the huge iron spool at the stern, and was crushed to death; and after a time the Eleanor Gay had such a bad reputation only desperate drunks and unknowing kids would sign on.

It got so no one even wanted their boats tied up along side the Eleanor Gay, thinking the curse might transfer from deck to deck, and in the Golden Bear bar where the fishermen drank she was talked about like she was a whore in a nunnery.

Finally the Eleanor Gay ran up on some rocks south of Big Sur and sank; and up north in Moss Landing there was sadness that the crew had been lost (but they should have known better than to go out on a cursed boat) and as for the Eleanor Gay, the general mood was good riddance.

Meanwhile, the USA, unaware it was about to eat the fire, passed through 56th day of its last year.

The $532 Billion Defeat

Jews Jaws Five Down

Shark America Five Up

Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 237

Virgil Kret's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923

Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2008
George W. Bush Will Destroy the World

Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event

Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle: Hit Them Harder

Today's code is "55th Day, Last Year".

Pardon me, Boy, is this the God's Space War poo-poo? Yea, yea; it's the end of the line.

We are looking for the expected second use on America of the secret weapon of God's Space War, the Fancy Ray Gun; and we are expecting a sudden end to America's torture-enslavement of me; or perhaps a sudden end to America itself.

Saying that, we may have had a second use of the Fancy Ray Gun, but in the Southern Hemisphere, reminding us that God's War to Save this Earth from the Human Being is everywhere,

This continuation of the attack pattern in the Southern Hemisphere, however, does not give me impetus I feel I need.

The same one-two punch pattern that took place in the USA and involved the death of the motorcycle officer in Hillary Clinton's Dallas motorcade in Dallas took place in and near Australia.

I did not explain this one-two punch pattern fully when it happened in Dallas and elsewhere because it involves the secret weapon I have been telling you about, the Fancy Ray Gun, and I need at least one more American use of that weapon before I begin to describe it.

If that happens we can follow that one-two punch pattern like watching the Invisible Man leaving footprints in the snow.

Here is what is on my news desk today:

When I look at the big tableau I see what seems to be a perfect storm of war coming down on the United States of America between now and the middle of July..

There are in that perfect storm three distinct military forces attacking the United States of America.

One, the militant edge of Islam.

Two, the militant edge of God.

Three, that home-grown American viper, Republican American Fascism--which is determined to overthrow the Constitution of the United States of America before August and simultaneously turn the American people into serfs; and of course do away with those pesky elections.

When you look at the current American political scene you should see three major political parties, not two. The three are the Democrats, the Republicans, and the Republican American Fascists, the Republcan American Fascists' roots go back at least to the Civil War, roots stained with the blood of John F. Kennedy, Abraham Lincoln, and many, many others.

This would include your son's blood or your daughter's blood, if either were killed in Republican American Fascism's cunningly wicked invasion of Iraq.

I don't think many Americans are up to speed on the fact that a Republican American Fascist coup took pace in Florida in 2000. You Americans, you are rubes to the carnies--or the neo-conies. A goddamn nation of suckers, you Americans; an American is sucker born every 30 seconds despite birth control.

The crooked election of 2000 was not a Republican tactic; it was a Republican American Fascist tactic, a carefully orchestrated coup that was decades and perhaps tens of decades in the planning.

The next planned stage of that maneuver involves whipping the American people into submission.

Let's look at that squirrel of truth again; and let it crawl up on your shoulder and whisper truth into your ear.

The next planned stage of that maneuver involves whipping the American people into submission.

My guess is there will be a rush on kneepads at the hardware stores as Americans drop to their knees in sucking servitude of Republican American Fascism, attempting to stay that whip. It is a hard-cracking whip, the sound of which is fearful to those not, at the moment, being whipped.

Brace yourselves, Dear Readers, while I tell you what your enemies, George W. Bush and the Republican American Fascists, have in store for you.

Forewarned is forearmed.

The Republican American Fascists plan to do something which we God's Space Sailors called "The Atlas Shrugged Maneuver", named after the Ayn Rand novel which contained the germ of the current idea.

That is, the Republican American Fascists plan to have their master, Big Money, go on strike.

Not on the attack, no; not at this stage; but on strike, refusing to function, refusing to operate its businesses and its factories, rapidly taking away jobs, fuel and food.

Food.

Food.

Food.

Imagine for a moment that the thin vale of civility with which Americans mask their mean and spiteful hearts depends totally on supermarkets being open and well stocked.

Imagine it. Consider it.

Take away that food and within days if not hours you would have Mob America running amuck, and people taking candy from babies everywhere you looked--that is, the strong taking from the weak.

That is the next stage of the Republican American Fascist plan to conquer the citizens of the United States of America; the previous stage having been the declaration of endless war on Islam; the stage previous to that having been the Florida theft of the 2000 election,

Now, look at the next stage of the Republican American Fascist coup as Big Money has it planned:

Big Money, by withholding food and destroying money, causes civil unrest; and that is when the soldiers are brought in; and that is when all those mercenary companies called "Contractors" come in; martial law, no new president, just dictator for life, putting anyone he wants into prisons and into graves and into torture chambers; maybe even you, Dear Reader, for reading these words.

Yet, there is something else I can see when I shine my headlights onto the future six months away; and I find it very interesting to see that future has me able to do something I could not be doing if the Republican American Fascist scheme were to have worked.

That is, it seems to me the Republicans American Fascists will have been defeated once and for all by the middle of July.

What I see is the possibility that I will be able to take one of my month-long backpacking trips this July-August.

As it stands, even now when the Republican American Fascists still have their Aces up their sleeves, the Republican American Fascists will not allow me to go backing because they know it restores my health and gives me a clear channel for some one-on-one time with my Old Pal God.

The last several times I have attempted to go backpacking the Republican American Fascists have pursued me, even to the point of twice seeking me out with unmarked helicopters; and when locating me sending government pigs in to harass me day and night.

So, normally I would not be planning a backpacking trip for this summer because I know if the Republican American Fascists--or their bitches, the psycho-fascists--are still in power in July-August )the optimum backpacking period) attempting to backpack would be a useless exercise.

I will try to make this a little more clear. My most tuned genius is my ability to project into the future, to see this Earth dead, to see the human being extinct; and when I project just six months into the future I see me free and Republican American Fascism--and its bitch psycho-fascism--utterly and totally defeated.

So I have to ask, what happens between now and then; how does Republican American Fascism come to be defeated by mid-July?

That is, the view of the future my headlights are showing me is that by July-August Republican American Fascism will have been defeated; and I can backpack to my hearts content; I can talk to horses, spar with bears, sing telepathically with birds, and swap jokes with my Old Pal God--without government pigs or citizen volunteers harassing me.

How can that be? The government pigs certainly don't see it that way. They have had total fascist control over me since 1967, and they don't see any possibility of their losing it or giving it up.

The question I am puzzling over today is who will defeat Republican American Fascism by mid-July?

The American people? One would hope they still have it in them; but when it comes to the American people I have learned hope is for dopes; they have settled into a subtle stupidity, a smooth cowardice.

The World? Dear Reader, all the nations in the world know the United States of America has gone fascist; it is only the American people who do not know; but I wonder if the World is up to going toe-to-toe with Ultimate Nazism.

So, in the scenario I am trying to piece together like a bridge between knowledge of the present and knowledge of the future--the future I see just half a year away and the present I see today--that intriguing future is a future we apparently can't get to from here.

I am saying this: Things are seemingly impossibly good in July-August; and I am asking myself how do we get from this pile of Bushit to that pasture of Peace and Freedom? I am wondering, how is Republican American Fascism defeated between now and then?

To have that future would need a miracle, Dear Reader.

One of the intriguing things about what I am and what I do--intriguing to me and my shadow only perhaps--is that I see the future and then watch it unfold, like a movie based on a favorite book; changed a little, but going to the same Point B from the same Point A.

So, I can see that some force defeats Republican American Fascism before July 15,

Will the Muslims defeat Republican American Fascism?

On one level the Republican American Fascists do not mind the endless war with Islam going badly for the United States of America; there is more profit in defeat than in victory. To Big Money, war is profit, win or lose. Once you understand that you understand the Republican American Fascist game plan.

The profit is in making and destroying the weapons; making and firing the bullets; making the uniforms and burying them with the dead. War is big money for Big Money, Stupid.

War with Islam was the long-range plan of Republican American Fascism, bringing into one cauldron the religious zeal of Judaism, Christianity and Islam; and with a little bit of luck they can declare themselves the Knights of the Second Coming.

(No such luck, but that's another story.)

So, somehow the Republican American Fascists fail before July 15. They have a plan for a 15 million year Reich based on power of rich over poor and enslavement of poor by rich. They have worked it out so well; they have all the dominoes are lined up...yet they fail?

Does Islam come up with some brilliant tactic no politically correct, patriotically correct American can foresee?

If it is not the American people who defeat Republican American Fascism; if it is not the World's people who defeat Republican American Fascism; if it is not Islam which defeats Republican American Fascism; who is the victor?

That brings me back to the subject of my Old Pal God, and God's current military move, called Operation Queer; and the death of the motorcycle cop in Mrs. Clinton's Dallas motorcade.

That death was a very important event in God's Space War against the United States of America.

Sure, to be sure, God killed that Dallas cop, Dear Reader, and you should see that cop's story as part of a message to you as written by God in blue ink on the wall of the news.

Being killed by God isn't all that bad; God killed Jesus, after all.

So, it seems to me God will defeat Republican American Fascism--and with it its bitch psycho-fascism--by mid-July. That's my guess. That's my educated guess.

But, and this is the big butt that is going to itch bad if you don't put some salve on it soon, there are some hard times between now and mid-July and you can live through them or die in them; you can sink down to monster-dom or rise to greatness over the next six months.

Those are the choices that lie before you.

So, I am thinking that at least equal in importance to my day-to-day reporting on God's Space War against the United States of America, that for the immediate future we should have at least the brains of a squirrel and start putting enough food and warmth away for this Winter of War we are just about to enter.

In that way, we should emulate the Mormons, who save emergency food, and the Boy Scouts, who say, "Be Prepared".

More on survival next time, unless bigger news breaks; how to collect food and warmth and save it for a cold and hungry day.

Meanwhile, back in the USA, America unaware it had been damned by God, passed through the 55th day of its last year.

The $531 Billion Defeat

Jews Jaws Six Down

Shark America Four Up

Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 237

Virgil Kret's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923

Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2008
George W. Bush Will Destroy the World

Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event

Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle: Hit Them Again, Harder

Today's code is "54th Day, Last Year".

Today my desk is groaning with the weight of the news piled up on it over the past three days; most of which I throw out because there is no market for it--God's Space War stuff; defeat of the United States of America by God stuff--stuff not fit to print in the New York Times.

If it were up to the New York Times there would be no news at all.

There is one story, however, that just might have legs; that is that the plot to assassinate Hillary Clinton, which I reported on about two months ago and then reported that it had gone quiet, has become active again.

Hmmm? I have never been wrong about an American assassination story. I am four for four: Ford, Ford, Reagan and Lennon. Four accurate warnings...abused each time for my efforts...no profit or fun in that.

I will poll my Dear Readers.

Dear Readers, are you interested in knowing George W. Bush and the Republican American Fascists are planning to murder Hillary Clinton soon? If so, please let me know.

Meanwhile, the United States of America, basking in its licence to be cruel, unaware of God's furious anger at it, finished the 54th day of its last year.

The $530 Billion Defeat

Jews Jaws Seven Down

Shark America Three Up

Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 232

Virgil Kret's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923

Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2008

George W. Bush Will Destroy the World

Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event

Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle: Give Them a One-Two Punch

Today's code is "53rd Day, Last Year".

Short and sweet, Dear Reader; tonight we write short and sweet.

We have had two very interesting God's Space War hits on the United States of America in the last two days.

One was the erroneously assumed to be accidental death of a police motorcycle officer serving as part of Mrs. Clinton's motorcade in Dallas, Texas.

That was an Act of God's Space War against the United States of America.

Proof is available if it can be demonstrated by me in the established public media, as a reporter, not as an interviewee.

The other of the two God' Space War news events must for today remain secret because the event may have constituted the first use of the secret weapon I have been telling you about for several days, the Fancy Ray Gun; the first use of it in God's Space War Against the United States of America, that is.

I have confirmation on a non-publishable level that the news event was in fact the first use of the Fancy Ray Gun, but that is not enough for this news outfit to run with; so for now I am just watching to see if I see a second use of the Fancy Ray Gun take place. That would move confirmation to the publishable level.

I.C. News needs two uses of the Fancy Ray Gun to establish the hypothesis of the story; and we need three to confirm we have a story. That is how I.C. News judges the validity of God's Space War information..

Said another way, that it happened once is not news; if it were to happen twice it would be big news here at I.C. News; if it were to happen three times, Dear Reader, God will have won God's war against the United States of America.

I have been in this news racket since I was 17 year old cub writing dog track news and professional wrestling for the Pensacola (Florida) Journal, and I have had scoops the like of which you could not bring yourself to believe; and this Fancy Ray Gun story, Dear Reader, is a scooper's scoop.

Meanwhile, the United States of America, basking in its licence to be cruel, unaware of God's furious anger at it, finished the 53rd day of its last year,

The $529 Billion Defeat

Jews Jaws Eight Down

Shark America Two Up

Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 201

Virgil Kret's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923

Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2008
George W. Bush Will Destroy the World

Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event

Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle: Allude to the Fancy Ray Gun

Today's code is "52nd Day, Last Year".

It's a slow news day. Except for the signs and wonders pointing to the collapse and defeat of the United States of America this year, and the tipping point of nuclear war over the Kosovo declaration of independence, and the approaching death of this Earth by 2065, there is almost nothing at all to report.

Oh, well; ho hum; I will take a look around.

It seems the psycho-fascist Americans don't believe there is a secret weapon called The Fancy Ray Gun. Perhaps it is better that way; better they do not know; better they die in an unaware state of mind and their livers be not ruined for the eating by fear-produced toxins.

I scan the news, looking for the approach of The Psycho-Fascist American Blues. My toes are tapping and my hands are clapping in anticipation.

(Here come them Blues, coming down the track;,don't worry about that light 'n sound behind you, Jack; no, no, don't look back; just keep on like you are keeping on, keep on walking down that Doom's Day Railroad Track. Lord, Lord, Lord, keep on a'walkin' down that track, White man.)

Hmmmm? Nice little 6.3 quake in Nevada; but apparently not close to any big Nevada cities. Pleasant reading with my morning coffee; God's enslaved and tortured Space Sailor likes a good jolt early in the morning; it feels like victory.

Elsewhere in the news there are two related stories, although they would not seem to the naked mind to be related. One, a nice eclipse of the moon; and the other the U.S. Navy says it destroyed the wayward spy satellite by using a missile designed to intercept incoming ICBMs.

It's too bad we can't believe the US government at all anymore; it would be nice to know if that satellite story were true,

If a true blue Yank like myself can't believe what the American government says about the satellite is it any wonder the Russians and the Chinese can't believe it either; and that they think the whole story is somehow a concealed act of war?

It's an old joke come tragically true. How do you know an American is lying? The American's lips are moving.

I know psycho-fascist Americans laugh at how seriously I take Truth; after all they have created what in an illusionary sense is the strongest nation in the world based entirely on a culture of lying and theft; but like a house built out-of-true by a goo-goo-googly eyed carpenter, it is collapsing.

If you apply the Ten Commandments to the United States of America, what do you see?

Theft is legal, if it is the rich stealing from the poor.

False witness is legal for just about everyone.

Murder is legal if America murders people of other nations, or if America murders only poor Americans through the murder weapon of poverty.

Taking God's name in vain is so commonplace it is broadly used by children and actors in TV citcoms.

("Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!". Satan's way of cheapening the concept.)

That's only four of the Ten Commandments. No need to go on. That's enough holes in America's hull to sink the bitch.

If the Ten Commandments are in fact a four thousand year old message from God, and if God is real and not an invention of primitive minds seeking to find meaning in the movement of stars and planets in the night sky...or seeking authority for evil deeds...if God is real...the United States of America is in a shitload of trouble.

I look to the Kosovo and Pakistan news stories. They are covered less than the Little League World Series in the Fall; which indicates to me there is a damper on both because they are not going the way Republican American Fascism wants them to go. Or, of course, it could also mean American journalism is too stupid to cover them.

You, Dear Reader, are sitting on the brink of nuclear war over Kosovo; one would think that would be in the news--if the American news media were in fact free; if the American news media had any balls at all.

And what's this? They are rioting in Belgrade? Attacking the US Embassy in Belgrade? I wonder if this the same Belgrade America's blow job president, Bill Clinton, bombed between orgasms in the Nineties. I bet it is, and I bet this is a line drawn in the sand, a line which implies don't step over me if you know what's good for you.

The point I am making is that here in psycho-fascist America this Kosovo story is just a sidebar under a Frau Clinton ad and above a laxative add way, way back near the sports page; but in Russia...in Russia...in Russia it is headline news.

We are approaching the culmination of our first year into the Battle of Smallville, the little battle that grew out of five acres of ground in Northern California into the global conflict called Armageddon.

We who study God's Space War find it interesting that Armageddon began in the United States of America, not the Middle East as is near-universally expected among Christians; and that it began just as the USA and Israel are plotting to falsely create Armageddon in the MIddle East, to falsely fulfill the biblical prophesies about it.

How diabolical are the two hands of Satan, the United States of America and Israel.

I see the Israelis have made of the Gaza Strip a big Warsaw Ghetto, where they do unto the Palestinians what the Nazis did unto them a long, long time ago. That is the Wheel of Fire into which this Earth falls.

The Israelis can do this without remorse or understanding that they created and perpetuate the Palestine fight. They can do this because guiltless guilt is the gift the Jews have given themselves and given the world through the false religion of psycho-fascism; and guiltless guilt is why with all their vaunted brains the Jews cannot see how they again and again create their own Hell.

Of course, in the end Israel's copout is the same as so many murderers being "cured" by psycho-fascism in nuthouses, "God told me to do it".

In the news, some elected American politician somewhere declared himself to be a queer. That news doesn't make a ripple, but the suggestion that Grandpa POW, Senator John McCain, might be having extramarital sex with a lady lobbyist is hot buzz news.

One sin, sodomy, is legal in the United States of America; another sin, adultery is not; but perhaps this is because the public's mental picture of heterosexual sin is sweeter than its mental picture of two men giving it to each other in the ass.

"We love them queers, but we don't want to think about their dicks smelling like shit; but John McCain's dick smelling like lobbyist pussy, yea, give us more news on that."

These Americans, they so love to sniff one another.

(Call me crazy, call me insensitive, but I hate being served in a restaurant by a queer waiter whose hand has been up another queer waiter's colon during their coffee break.)

I haven't mentioned it for a while, but as you can plainly see we are still in the God's Space War action called "Operation Queer".

Wouldn't it be funny if it turns out that God does in fact hate queers, even though America loves them?

Wouldn't it be funny if it turns out that God does in fact hate the United States of American, even though America so loves itself?

The central code of the Battle of Smallville has from the start been, "Two Birds, One Stone", and I keep expecting that code to manifest itself in some great Act of God, perhaps in Operation Queer, using the Fancy Ray Gun.

(Jews and queers, are they the two birds? And what about Kosovo and Pakistan? Are they the two birds? God's Space War is so exciting.)

That is why I look which such interest at Kosovo and Pakistan, and the concurrent introduction to me by God of the secret weapon, the Fancy Ray Gun, just as those two kettles of fission are boiling over.

Of course the BIG story is the economy, Stupid. Once again Big Money is sodomizing the American people...not that the American people don't deserve to be sodomized by Big Money...they are kissing the ass of Big Money all the time, and the one is bound to lead to the other.

The best news in the news is that the cops busted some Paparazzi Nazis who were hounding Britney Spears. That should have happened years ago. it is those shutterbug sadists who drive Britney over the edge while the real media people cheer them on.

Being able to drive a woman crazy so you can photograph her craziness is the same as being able to murder a woman so you can photograph her dead, naked body. One is protected by the Constitution and the other is not, you say? I do not agree; both are prohibited.

Yes, it is another slow news day at I.C. News. I think I'll grab my pole and go fission. (You take a line and I'll take a pole, and we'll go down to the Crawford Hole.).

So, we wait for a demonstration of the Fancy Ray Gun. Or will God just Hiroshima America with no warning demonstration?

I know to you, Dear Reader, the USA is all sugar and spice and everything nice and Republican American Fascism is just the sprit of patriotism folded into a fist of fire and ice; but to me America is a grotesque combination of stupidity, cruelty and vanity.

Wouldn't it be funny if God agrees with me, and not with you?

Meanwhile, the United States of America, unaware of God's furious anger at it, finished the 52nd day of its last year; and America was still unwittingly approaching flabbergastation.

The $528 Billion Defeat

Jews Jaws Nine Down

Shark America One Up

Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 183

Virgil Kret's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923

Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2008
George W. Bush Will Destroy the World

Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event

Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle: Tell Them the Sacred Secret

Today's code is "51st Day, Last Year".

I have been holding in the Secret God gave me a few days ago like a kid holding his breath, his cheeks puffed out and his eyes crossed; now I am told I can at last tell it.

Whew!

Perhaps you guessed it? My clue was perhaps too obvious? Nancy Reagan for "Fancy Ray Gun"?

The Secret, of course, is a secret weapon. The question, of course, is it mine or yours?

The Secret Weapon is now focused on two potential battlefields, Kosovo and Pakistan. It is on one of those two battlefields Satan plans on winning the day. That is, that is where Evil is planting its egg.

Meanwhile, the United States of America, unaware of God's furious anger at it, finished the 51st day of its last year; and America was approaching flabbergastation.

The $527 Billion Defeat

Jews Jaws Ten Up

Shark America Zero Down

Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 187

Virgil Kret's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923

Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2008
George W. Bush Will Destroy the World

Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event

Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle: Give Them a Reason to Live

Today's code is "50th Day, Last Year".

The General wrote this letter before the battle:

The momentary passage of thoughts and events seem for passworthy if I contain myself and behave with quality. The war now is deeply engaged, but not so that it might be if it were to continue longer still. Time is passed in pain and contemplation, calculation of forces and supplies. Incoming lessens. We pamper the horses.

We find ourselves relaxing as outgoing takes form. The canon seem well sighted. The enemy is pompous and brutal, though, and for now disdains our bracketing rounds. We brace ourselves. We sharpen our bayonets. We sing songs rarely now. Our tea-fires warm us. We are in pre-battle meditation.

If the enemy could see us it not pose to fight; if it could see the starlight on our armor...but quiet we are...we want this. We are in that good soldier state where every battlefield is Valhalla. The Hellfire feels good. Death is impossible. The enemy is wicked and unprepared.

That's all he wrote, Dear Reader, but it brings to mind two questions.. Do you want to live? Do you want Sweet Victory?

Turn your back on psycho-fascism. Rejoin into one tip your forked-tipped tongues. You don't want this General coming down on you, taking fork-tipped tongues and making of them fork-tipped tongue stews. You don't want to sing those blues with severed tongues.

So it has come to that, has it? I have become the Tokyo Rose of God's Space War, telling Satan's legions to surrender.

Scuttlebutt up and down the line is that the big fight is about to start. It is easy for the wicked to start wars on this Earth; all nations are but boys saying, "Don't cross that line if you know what's good for you.", so a wicked fool like George W. Bush need only sacrifice a few American grunts by ordering them to cross the line, and then he can invade in outraged vengeance.

The Secret God told me holds fast; the God's Space War military maneuver it conceals remains in motion.

Meanwhile, back at the Valley Forge of God's Space War, the morning campfires are lit and a friendly smokey haze fills the camp; coffee is brewing; some of the men are urinating on their rifles to thaw the workings; frozen bolts send no bullets zinging.

Being Cosmic Time Reader for this outfit, I turn the levers and twist the knobs on my Time Machine Contraption to get a look at the future.

Up Periscope!

I shine my headlights onto the Future. It is standing there like a doe in te middle of a country road blinded by the onrushing headlights, and wondering, "Is that God coming for me?"

That's your future I am shining my headlights on.

I check my earthquake count. The earthquake count is the barometer of Time weather conditions, of subatomic fabric ripples.

As I make these notes it is at 187 for the past seven days. It has been dropping rapidly over the past several days. It was at 308 on February 13. It rose a bit during the day today; it was down to 168 at one point.

When it gets close to 120--perhaps this time, perhaps another in the breathing pattern of this Earth--we can expect a major earthquake.

There is a Time-echo reference to the extreme possibility of nuclear war on this Earth within the next three days; but it seems God's Secret trumps it.

So we have three readings of the future, therefor we can triangulate. One is the subatomic fabric, today using the earthquake count; and, two, is the news, worsening Russia-USA and Pakistan-USA developments; and three, our reading from God remains Top Secret, but you had the first clue yesterday, Nancy Reagan.

What do we see? George W. Bush is up to no good; but we knew that without looking, didn't we?

Meanwhile, the United States of America, unaware of God's furious anger at it, finished the 50th day of its last year.

The $526 Billion Defeat

Jews Jaws nine Up

Shark America One Down

Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 209

Virgil Kret's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923

Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2008
George W. Bush Will Destroy the World

Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event

Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle: Give Them a Reading Lesson

Today's code is "49th Day, Last Year".

You said if I ever need help to send you a wire. It is possible We might lose this planet; if so, please assist in the evacuation. The people are too unruly for peaceful persuasion. Otherwise the war goes well. My regards to Ever and the Children. If I die, except for you, I die for Ever.

The secret that has been gnawing at me, demanding to be told for the past two days, can almost be told today--well, not told but described so that when the approaching event it concerns and conceals takes place i will be able to show you a line of evidence going back to the secret--the secret I am keeping as secret as I can.

There is a clue to the secret in the second-to-last paragraph today's report. I assume you are smart enough not to read the end at the beginning and therefore miss all the fun in between..

As many Dear Readers know, I am attempting in this work to teach you how to read the writing on the wall of the news; how you can tell when coincidences are "thickening", and can know in what direction world events are moving.

Today I will talk about three "hands" appearing constantly in the handwriting on the wall of the news. I will show you how one them is easy to read; and how the other two intensely more difficult.

Let's take the difficult two first, because if we take the easy one first you will think you know it all and won't try to learn the other two. It's broccoli and spinach first, then the apple pie if you want to grow up to be smart enough to win and survive.

The first hand is the Hand of God; and while everyone who has been born more than once thinks they can read God's writing on the wall; in fact very few can. What they read is writing about God's writing; written by people as imperfect but as well meaning as they.

You humans, you are exactly the same as you were 5,000 years ago; but for the ensuing culture shock and language differences you could be moved back and forth in Time and you would fit in perfectly anywhere you were placed..

In fact, it seems to me the human being has felt it reached a state of perfection for some 20,000 years ago; and has not evolved a bit since then.

Go figure.

The secret I am currently struggling against blabbing to you is a secret based on God's writing on the wall, the one I think you most want to learn to read, so hopefully I will put some depth and substance to this report for you as the telling of this secret unfolds.

(Second to last paragraph, but don't look!)

For now, see the first two invisible writing hands as invisible basketball players, totally transparent Michael Jordans and Goose Tatums, both moving down the court and each dribbling a ball. You can see the balls bounce but not the ball-bouncers; and you can watch the bouncing balls as they head for the score.

Think of the old Invisible Man movies. In our movie there are two different invisible basketball players moving the news down the court in a predictable path.

Stepping back from metaphor to fact, one invisible basketball player is God; but even if God the Coach-Player is sitting on the bench and is not in the game, this predictability of the news can still be observed using the second of the two basketball players; and we Space Sailors call this basketball player, "the subatomic fabric of human existence".

Perhaps more difficult to understand than God's bouncing the ball of the news; the subatomic fabric which encompasses the whole tableau of human events also bounces the ball of the news,

You get a glimpse of this subatomic actions-reactions resulting in such myths as that airline crashes come in threes; and sometimes you can get a glimpse in their creating myths right before our eyes; such as the existence of the mythical "copycat" killer.

For example, at the time John Hinckley was moving--or better said being moved--by the subatomic fabric toward his attempt on the life of Ronald Reagan, there was another person from roughly Hinckley's part of the country also moving--or better said being moved--toward the same action.

He was later arrested and treated as copycat.

Yet we see the second potential assassin was not a copycat of the first because they were both, unknown to one other, being guided near-simultaneously toward the same goal; like two people tapping their toes to the same music being heard over radios in two different communities.

That "music" is the fabric of the subatomic physics of which I speak; and it is this music which depending on its volume and its tune creates the "thickening of coincidence".

It is that thickening of coincidence that the reader of the writing on the wall should look for when using this second method, the subatomic fabric method..

Keep in mind you are getting this information from a raggedy assed old newsman and not Albert Einstein.

Stated as a raggedy assed old newsman would state it, this invisible fabric of subatomic physics I am attempting to make conceptually visible to you is what C.J. Jung called Synchronisty; and God's One True Telepath, Virgil, your raggedy assed old newsman, calls Time Poetry; and what the Eastern religions call Karma.

So, if I am watching the news and see a series of metaphorically similar events--say, two Congressmen getting in separate car accidents events over a period of days--I think of the accidents as potentially parts of the same subatomic fabric ripple taking place, like two lighting strikes out of the same cloud.

They might not be that, but I figure they are worth checking out.

Projecting into the Future using the subatomic fabric is in many ways similar to reading the weather, forecasting the weather.

Once I decide that two related subatomic fabric events might have taken place I watch for more; and if more come I attempt to analyze their direction--like a tornado watcher wondering if Omaha is in the path of some granddaddy of all tornadoes--and if no more show up I drop the study and move to another part of the map, and look for more ripples in the subatomic fabric.

For example, two recent events, the universty shooting and the slashing murder of a psycho-fascist psychoanalyst in New York City, were lighting bolts from the same subatomic storm.

Here at I.C. News we had a common code leading up to both events, "It just might be a lunatic you are looking for" Like a farmer dumping out milk he cannot sell an a worthy price, I frequently dumb such codes, or just keep them for personal reference, because there is no market for them.

If you want to read more than the top half of the front page, you have to by the newspaper.

I will pursue this "lunatic" line to see if it continues; and I will try to be careful not to let ego or emotional involvement contaminate it.

One must be careful not to rearrange the furniture of the event to make it more pleasing to one's eye; and you can see a bit of that in my describing the victim of the slashing as a 'psycho-fascist psychoanalyst"; but in the reality of my life, perhaps not yours and certainly not her's, she was in fact a psycho-fascist psychoanalyst, as all the priests and ministers and nuns and brothers of America's state religion, psychiatry, are.

The art now as far as this artist is concerned is not not much involved with breaking through to the dull, vain, stupid mind of psycho-fascism. We are past that time. The art now is watching you all fall through the thin ice, and doing a top notch play-by-play for I.C. News.

So, thus far today I have introduced you to the two most difficult ways to read the writing on the wall of the new:.

One, a clear series of steps by God.

Two, the natural human-event-rippled subatomic fabric.

Within this subatomic phenomenon, we Space Sailors call the ripples "storms" and have found that storms produce more storms, and good weather produces more good weather.

(The "good weather" is a positive ripple in the subatomic fabric, but let's not bite off more than we can chew today.)

This storm vs good weather element presents a subatomic reason for In general doing the right thing rather than the wrong thing; such as murder creates a storm of murder, false witness creates a storm of false witness; and on the other side of the proverbial coin, acts of kindness create acts of kindness and kisses bring more kisses.

Bear in mind, this fabric of subatomic physics is "in the air" and this phenomenon would take place even if there were no international and domestic news systems or the Internet with which to follow them; and it would be inter-related all around the world.

Referring this subatomic fabric phenomenon back to our current God's Space War movement, "Operation Queer"; when you have a high density queer area such as San Francisco you have a paranormal queer cloud over, or a paranormal queer fog enveloping, the area.

I once met a very moral young man who found himself caught up in this queer fog for about a week; and he told me later, "There must be something in the air" because he was revolted by queerness even though he fell into it; and falling into it he immediately climbed out. He was absolutely right. Queerness is as thick in the air of San Francisco as a fart in an elevator.

Finally now we get to the third method by which to read the writing on the wall of the news, That is in being aware of the integrity or lack of integrity of the news-makers, and the balls and brains, or lack of balls and brains, of the news reporters.

This is the easiest method of the three to project into the future by reading the news. It should not be used alone, however, but that, too, is another story.

For example, you can project the future you are approaching by what you have observed George W. Bush to be; because that is the future George W. Bush has through stupidity and skullduggery hascreated for you..

What should you have learned by now? George W. Bush will always be the same. He will lie far more often than he will tell the truth; and he will make bad decisions far more often than he will make good decisions; and he will always...always...always serve the interests of International Big Money over the interests of the American people.

So, when my Old Pal God tells me--and I in turn attempt to tell you--that George W. Bush will destroy the world that conclusion can be reached independently by sensible projection of where Bush's stupidity and dishonesty and servitude to Big Money will lead you..

You can see what George W. Bush will do by what he has done. As Jesus would say, your can know George W. Bush by his works.

In the context of the nature of George W. Bush and what you expect from him (a world lost from under your feet is what you can expect of him) he Katrina-New Orleans debacle was and is exactly the same as he Iraq-Iran-Afghanistan-Pakistan debacle was and is.

One was and is a stupid, perfidious, Big Money-serving response to a hurricane disaster; the other was and is a stupid, perfidious Big Money-serving response the constantly occurring storm of human events taking place in that part of the world.

You can always get into a war in the Middle East; just go there; every sandbox general can tell you that.

To repeat, this is the easiest form of reading the writing on the wall of the news: know the source and know the quality of the reportage.

No kidding, during the Vietnam War, which started when I was a wet-behind-the-ears college graduate and went on until I was a raggedy assed, wild and wooley, combat-dinged newsman married to shrew-dingbat Jewish American Princess--through that entire war, from the time there were 14 Americans dead there, I knew the course that war would run.

How did I know this? I know my country and I look at it straight in the eye, and I shun both political correctness and patriotic correctness.

When I look to the future and project what I think it will be, I bear in mind that the American government always lies to itself and to the American people, and it believes its own lies, as do the people; and Jesus taught me that a house that lies to itself cannot stand; and I know America will make decisions based on lies after decisions based on lies after decisions based on lies; resulting in calamity after calamity after calamity..

So, the disastrous outcome of the Vietnam War was as clear at the nose on Albert Einstein's face when there were but 14 Americans dead there, because the whole concept of the war was based on self-told lies and stupidity. All who died after those 14 were thrown away because the 14 had died.

What kills this Earth? Liars singing liars' songs. Period. That is the whole goddamn story in a nutshell.

So, George W. Bush will always be stupid about the world, and he will always lie to you, and he will always turn everything he touches into chaos, and he will always serve International Big Money.

You do the math. Add up all those alwayes and see if they don't total a bad eternity.

Once you understand that the perfidy and stupidity of George W. Bush is driving the events you are forced to ride along with, you can either accept it or act to head off the calamities he will without doubt create.

George W. Bush will create those calamities, Dear Reader, as if he were the Sorcerer's Apprentice of the Satan School of Magic; the fool will destroy the world from under your feet no matter if Mr. Alabama, or Frau Clinton, or Grandpa POW, or Huckleberry Finn--or anyone but me--wins the presidency.

The deed is done. The fuse is lit. It is a fait accompli. .

Now back to the secret my Old Pal God told me that has been driving me crazy with its demands that it be told. I can today give you a link in the chain of evidence that will trace back to the secret itself; and which will trace forward to the fulfillment of the secret.

That link is Nancy Reagan.

Meanwhile, the United States of America, unaware of God's furious anger at it, finished the 49th day of its last year.

The $525 Billion Defeat

Jews Jaws Eight Up

Shark America Two Down

Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 242

Virgil Kret's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923

Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2008
George W. Bush Will Destroy the World

Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event

Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle: Run a Riff

Today's code is "48th Day, Last Year".

Yesterday I revealed I had received a Secret Message from God; and today that secret has been gnawing at me like a beaver in my belly trying to get out; because I do not keep secrets well.

Usually I prefer to write early in the morning, when my mind is fresh, but I dared not this morning because there that secret sat on my computer looking at me, saying, "Spill the beans! Spill the beans! Spill the beans!"

So what'll I do? So what'll I do? Every word I write seems to be making a beeline toward that secret.

My Old Pal God suggested I run a riff; just start writing; and tell you old some stories, stories about events that took place long before I knew this gnawing secret.

Here goes:

When I was a boy I loved to climb trees; as did all my friends. We were Kitsap Peninsula boys in the Puget Sound area of Washington; so what would you expect with all those beautiful evergreen trees standing all around us; trees that would put intoxicating sap on our hands, the smell of which we would relish until our mothers compelled us to wash up for supper?

There were two great evergreens very close together, so close together they had lived their long lives in each other's arms, and we boys called them "Two Trees"; and when we would reach one of those boyhood points where we had nothing to do, and we would ask one another, "What do you want to do?" and more frequently than not the vote would be, "Let's go climb Two Trees."

Let me see, how old were we? About nine, some older, some younger, and we didn't weigh much so we could climb up to the very tips of Two Trees so that the tips leaned over just a little from our weight, and it was a great thrill to be first in the line of boys climbing Two Trees and to ride the bending tips like two angels atop two Christmas trees, seeing the view of our part of Bremerton below us.

Often I went first, that was my nature; but once in a while we would let the younger brother of one of our gang go first; and we did this at least three times; and why we did it more than once I cannot fathom, because every time, almost to the top of the tree, all us six or seven boys climbing below him, he would need to urinate, and we all would all get peed on.

This same little brother had an ingenius way of discovering who it was who had farted in our tent when no one would admit to it; he would go from butt to butt, sniffing; and he always found me out.

Then and there I swore that some day I would have a tree of my own to climb with no one above me; and the freedom to fart without being sniffed; but I have never attained such riches.

Damn! That secret is still gnawing at me, trying to get out.

I was sitting aft on the deck of the bulk carrier Polarglimt a few hours after we had sailed out of Aden; where the Arabs had come aboard to peddle things; but where we could not go ashore; better for us, probably, we being Nordic seaman in a Muslim town, looking for booze and babes in a land where buying neither was legal, and being as white as albinos living their lives in caves our skin not all that welcome.

On another voyage around the world aboard another ship we had not taken the Suez Canal as we did on that trip; we'd pulled into Durban, South Africa, and were warned by our captain not to mess with the Zulu girls because there was public flogging for that; but warning or no warning we weren't even allowed ashore in Aden due to the trouble we would undoubtedly have gotten ourselves into.

Anyway, one of the Arab peddlers who came aboard had in stealth hidden among his carpets and trinkets some bottles of cheap brandy for sale; and I was suffering from the morning-after curse of that brandy as I sat there at the stern; and I looked over the starboard rail what did I see swimming in the Red Sea next to the Polaraglimt but a huge sea monster with a dark gray back, twenty feet wide and specked with big white dots; and I swore right then and there I would never again buy cheap brandy from an Arab, and I never did.

Damn, that secret is still gnawing at me, trying to get out.

This is a story of something that happened to me, what...about ten thousand years ago.

Having volunteered to be marooned on this Earth some 57,000 years ago to see if I could discover what would cause her death far into the future--just about 60 years from now, in fact--I had lived a series of lives as everything I could, from trees, to flowers, to ants and to bees, to buffaloes and bears; and I was living a life on a kangaroo at the time these events took place--some ten thousand years ago.

I had not yet lived as a human being, but had lived lives of most of the plants and animals over the some 47,000 years since the marooning.

Thinking back, I think perhaps I avoided learning about the humans because I suspected it was they who would eventually murder this Earth; and they were so charming and so beautiful that I was hoping my suspicions were wrong; and so perhaps I purposely kept avoiding becoming one of them so I might not come to know the bad news if in fact there was bad news to be known.

To this day I wish it were the serpent who murdered this Earth, not the human being.

But back to my story about when I was a kangaroo some ten thousand years ago. I was hopping along without a care in the world, when I came upon the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, a little Native Australian girl playing in the dust.

Well, I fell in love with her right then and there; and you might think this love was doomed because I was a kangaroo and she a human being; but I was actually a Space Sailor temporarily being a kangaroo, so I devised a plan of how I might marry this little girl when she grew up.

I learned where the little girl lived; and I learned how many people lived in her village...and I learned...sorry to have been so invasive...I learned one married woman in the village was about to ovulate; and a beautiful plan came to my mind.

The next day when a hunting party came out from that village I did not bound away as usual, but I let the hunters kill me; and in my Sprit Form I followed the hunters back to their village as they carried the dead kangaroo; and I waited...and I waited..and I waited until the moment of conception and entered the woman's womb; and nine months later I was born a human being, and about 13 years later I married the little Native Australian girl.

That was my first human life; that was my first human wife; and there is a side story to this which you might find interesting,

Over the ten centuries that were to follow, throughout my two or three lives as a human being in each century, I saved the souls of all my wives; and today they form my personal bodyguard; and, by the way, they hate those people who torture me...as you shall see...as you shall see.

Well, the Secret seems to have gone to sleep for now; it is not crying to be told.

Meanwhile, the United States of America, unaware of God's furious anger at it, finished the 48th day of its last year.

The $524 Billion Defeat

Jews Jaws Seven Up

Shark America Three Down

Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 285

Virgil Kret's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923

Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2008

George W. Bush Will Destroy the World

Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event

Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle: Describe Action Poetry

Today's code is "47th Day, Last Year".

"Operation Queer" seems to be making me decidedly unpopular. Oh, gee, what'll I do? Well, I think it is queer to be liked by the people who torture me, anyway.

Being 68 is a difficult age. A man's erotic thoughts move from Miss Piggy to Jane Fonda; and with Miss Piggy there was always the illusion of the possibility of consummation.

I always liked Jane Fonda. Guts, brains and beauty; what was there not to like?

I always felt we had something,.like she was the mare to my Attila the Hun. To understand this reference read my February 14 report.

This was not a fan mag thing, rather a metaphysical/philosophical feeling; like we both were soldiers on the same battlefield, and every battle was Nirvana.

She, of course, lived on the morning side of the mountain and I, of course, lived on the twilight side of the hill, so, of course, there was no chance, and so I stayed with Miss Piggy for the sake of the children.

I am thinking about Jane Fonda today because of the uproar about her having said the "C-word" on television. You can see it is a slow news day at I.C. News; but apparently it was a slow news day yesterday all around America because the C-word got top billing.

Watching the clip and reading the journalistic reports on the incident reveals just how gramatically sloppy current American journalism is. One report said she used a "slur"; but the C-word is only a slur when one calls someone a C-word, and that was not how Ms. Fonda used the word.

If she had said, "George W. Bush is a C-word" that would have been a slur. One should never call an intellectual pussy a C-word, even if he is one.

The interview in which the C-word showed its smiling face was about the play, The Vagina Monologues, and Fonda was asked why she did not like the play at first. She said that was not the case, but that she had been offered a play called "Cunt" and she did not want to get involved because she already had enough problems.

To hear the news media tell it she had gone on a vulgar rampage. As usual, the media made a mountain out of a Mound of Venus. What is this, junior high school?

Since it seems to be a slow news day, and since everything I know about the near-blanket damnation of queers is unpopular reading, I thought I would tell you about the time I did a love "Action Poem" for Jane Fonda.

Before your mental graphics get too outrageous I will tell you what an Action Poem is.

An Action Poem is something I developed and used a lot in the early years of America's psycho-fascistic torture-enslavement of me. It was a kind of street theater, probably growing out of my love for Charley Chaplin's character, "The Tramp"; and it involved a telepathic narrative combined with silent, low-key action.

The Action Poem was first developed in an attempt to show there was merit and artistic beauty within my audible mental telepathy. Fat chance, sure, fat chance; but I still had faith in the American people then.

One Action Poem in San Francisco, for example, involved lessons on safety for children, combined with much telepathically broadcasted singing. Children loved it; and I felt that perhaps such action poems might lead to an acceptable use of my telepathy.

(To this day I still think I could have used my telepathy to find children lost in forests, but that's another story.)

This Action Poetry was presented, of course, before the American people became so mean to me. After a while my life became too painful for the telepathic broadcasting of anything but pain and anger and accurate anticipations of death and doom.

As the twig is bent so grows the tree.

Another Action Poem, also in San Francisco and at the same time as "The Children's Song", was called "Putting on the Ritz", in which I stayed at the Mark Hopkins Hotel; and at the famous Top of the Mark restaurant I had a very nice dinner while doing a quiet, beautiful tribute to US Navy carrier pilots of World War Two, large numbers of who frequented the Top of the Mark before sailing for combat against the Japanese.

(This Action Poem also recorded the first openly cruel perfidy of the American people toward me; which, as I have explained earlier in this work, led to the assassination of San Francisco mayor George Moscone many years later.)

Even then God was watching; and America was digging its own grave.

Another Action Poem was delivered to the people of France when I was in Paris about a year after America's torture-enslavemnt of me began.

I was in Paris in the course of traveling around the world in a vain attempt to find a true friend or a welcoming country; and also with the quiet purpose of working out things with God.

By "working out things with God" I mean getting my balance and coming to understand why God had given me the gift of audible mental telepathy..

I was rather hippie-like in those days, with a broad-brimmed blue leather hat and hair down to my shoulders, and wore a bluish trench coat, and carried a very ornate one-of-a kind walking stick.

(The walking stick was later taken from me by a US Marine at the American Embassy in Singapore when the American government was railroading me into prison there; and the Marine danced around with it in the Embassy lobby as if it was a Samurai sword taken off a Jap on Saipan.

(As I have explained earlier in this work, this cowardly, smirky action by that US Marine led to the deaths of hundreds of Marines further down the road.)

Even then God was watching, and America was digging its own grave.

Dressed as I was in Paris at that time, I might have been a variation of a character painted by the French Impressionist Talouse Latrec.

My custom in all cities I visited on that round-the-world fruitless search for an honest human being--honest relative to me, I mean--was to just walk around and take in the sights.

I had little money and for six weeks I lived on milk and sugar cubes, so I was unable to sample the food of Europe; but I enjoyed walking around and seeing famous places and buildings and works of art, and staying in cheap hotel rooms; and the people of France, as I have mentioned off and on in this work, were the kindest people I came upon in the course of that journey; and the Italians took a close second.

(The Brits were bastards, but that's another story.)

As I walked around Paris I would now and then collect a pigeon feather from the street and tie it to one of the two blue leather strands that fell down the back of my wide-brimmed blue leather hat.

As I said, I was rather hippie in those days.

True to my art of Action Poetry, while on that journey I would do long and I think somewhat beautiful poetic telepathic narrations on different subjects; in Rome on Dante's Inferno and the beauty of the Roman Catholic Church; in Jerusalem on Jesus Christ; and as I walked the streets of Paris (being abused by absolutely no one, if you psycho-fascist Americans can imagine that) I did a long narration about the greatness of France relative to the concept of Liberty, relative to the very introduction of the concept of Liberty to humankind; and as I approached the Arc de Triomphe I was telepathically talking about the greatness of the French soldier, including the greatness of the French Resistance during World War Two and the slaughter of French soldiers in World War One due largely to bad generalmanship.

There is within the Arc de Triomphe the Tomb of France's Unknown Soldier, where you sometimes see news clips of foreign dignitaries placing wreaths near the eternal flame with much ceremony.

Being what will come to be understood an extraterrestrial visiting dignitary myself, as I walked into the Arc De Triomphe I was telapathically saying something to the effect that I would protect the French War Dead forever in thanks for the kindness France has shown me; and I walked up to the Tomb and with quiet ceremony put one of the feathers from my cap next to the eternal flame, then I walked a figure eight within the Arc around the tomb, the sign of infinity.

That Action Poem was observed and appreciated by the French people who were following it.

So, now back to New York City, where people were more shitty; I had begun a repeating Action Poem in which every night I would walk up the middle of Central Park from about 75th Street to across 110th Street, and have a beer in a Harlem bar there, mine being the only White face around.

The meaning of this Action Poem, which the Blacks of Harlem clearly understood and appreciated, was, one, I was not afraid to walk through Central Park at night--which almost all New Yorkers were at that time--and that I trusted the Blacks with my life, and respected them.

Of course I was broadcasting telepathically throughout all this, in general doing a long tribute to the Black American experience.

So, enter Jane Fond into this story.

I heard Ms. Fonda would be speaking at Columbia University, which borders the southwest part of Harlem, and I decided to give her an Action Poem as tribute for her anti-Vietnam War work. This is what I meant when I said we were both soldiers on the same battlefield; we both spoke and acted against that war.

So I walked up the middle of Central Park in the dark of night, as usual, and went to the bar at 110th Street, as usual, drank a beer, as usual, tipped the waitress, as usual, and walked west down a dark Harlem residential street to the steps that lead up to Columbia University, which was not usual; and went to the hall where she was to be speaking, and took a seat.

Now I do not know if Jane Fonda knew of this Action Poem in her honor; but unbeknownst to me I had been followed on this walk, perhaps from the bar, by a Black man who took the seat in front of me; and he turned and saluted me with his eyes. He had observed, heard and liked the Action Poem.

After all, in those days a White man walking in Harlem at night was putting his life on the line; therefore the ink with which wrote that Action Poem was my blood.

In the whole course of these some 35 years of Americans torturing me day and night, day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year, and decade after decade, a torture in which literally hundreds of thousands of Americans took part, less than ten Blacks participated.

Consider how remarkable that is. Consider how meaningful and telling of the Black soul that is.

The suggestion in this work, which says God's Judgment Day began on the day I became audibly telepthatic, is that the Blacks saved their souls in this way, as well as in other ways; and those hundreds of thousands of American Telepath torturers lost that souls in that way, as well as in other ways.

In closing I will note that I received a Secret Message from my Old Pal God last night. I can't, of course, tell you what it was because it was a secret; but as this story plays out I expect to be able to show you how important it was.

Meanwhile, the United States of America, unaware of God's furious anger at it, finished the 47th day of its last year.