Society, Part 1
The $561 Billion Defeat
Jews Jaws Six Down
Shark America Four Up
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 221
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, Society (1)
Today's code is "75th Day, Last Year".
My nose for news tells me I have big news for you. Settle in on this, it may take a day or two to learn where the smell is coming from.
If you go into a butcher shop to buy some meat and the butcher hands you meat that doesn't smell right you don't by it. At least I hope you don't.
At I.C. News we are that way with the what the media weasel news-butchers hand us. If it doesn't smell right we don't buy it; and the story about New York Governor Eliot Spitzer's resignation just does not smell right.
The Spitzer story reeks with political assassination, not political suicide.
I know Spitzer has admitted fault, but, Dear Reader, put the right gun to your head and you would admit to murdering Little Red Riding Hood.
Let's follow the rotten smell and see if it leads us to rotten meat; let's do what no other news service in the world has the brains and the balls to do, let's look at the incongruities of this story.
First of all, I do not believe there is a Jewish man on the face of this Earth stupid enough to pay $5,000 for a piece of ass.
Second, Spitzer was a pivotal Democrat in a pivotal state in which the Democrats and the Republicans are neck and neck in power.
Third, Spitzer was said to be within reach of becoming the first Jewish President of the United States of America.
Fourth, Spitzer is hated by Republican American Fascism, and in addition hated by conservative Republicans, and hated by pro-abortion forces, and hated by forces opposed to illegal immigration.
(Here we come to that great and terrible failure of American journalism; it does not report on Republican American Fascism, and instead refers to it as the "neo-cons", but in fact Republican American Fascism is playing the same iron-fisted politics the Nazis played in Germany in the Thirties, only the uniforms are off and the swastika has been contorted into a cross.)
Fifth, the on-going iron-fisted coup of Republican American Fascism has murdered in the past and is ready and willing to murder again, and every opposition politician knows this. This is why both Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton pussyfoot around the subject.
Sixth, I say again, I do not believe there is a Jewish man on the face of this Earth stupid enough to pay $5,000 for a piece of ass.
If I am right about this, the political assassination of Spitzer was the first punch of a one-two punch; and that means the state of New York--at least the state of New York--will very quickly be punched again.
(This second punch may be the plan to assassinate Hillary Clinton I have reported on a couple times during this campaign season...I don't know yet, I am just going by sense of smell at this point.)
Let me suggest another scenario to the Spitzer story.
The Republican American Fascists in some way put a gun to Spitzer's head, or to the head of his wife, or to the heads of all his children and all those he loves, giving him the option of resigning in ludicrous disgrace or being at rest with his loved ones under an eternal flame.
I am not saying that is the right scenario; but I am saying there seems to be a hidden scenario, a frame-job, a threat...I don't know...and this was just too juicy a news story for the news media to have passed it over in two news cycles; and with no investigative reporting, just the whole gaggle of reporters running pall mall like greyhounds after the ready made news rabbit.
And again, there is not a Jewish man on the face of this Earth stupid enough to pay $5,000 for a piece of ass; nor a politician naive enough to risk a great career for an hour on a hard whore.
Something is smelly about the Eliot Spitzer story; but I'm sitting here in my torture chamber in California and I cannot get out and dog it; but if I were a free American newsman, and if I.C. News were a free American news service, the underbelly of the Spitzer story is the story I would be digging at today.
Despite being chained to a wall of poverty, enslavement and abuse, there is an approach I am can make to to the Sptzer story--through what I know about God's Space War.
(No, I am not saying Spitzer was not targeted by God; au contraire my dear, au contraire, Spitzer is targeted by evil politicians.
Whatever the truth of the story is, we at I.C. News recognize that this event fits into God's Space War codes of long ago. How can I explain it? It's something like prophesy.
Examining the God's Space War story is like following directions given by a farmer as you drive down a country road, "When you reach the red barn, turn left until you see an old white horse..."
The Spitzer story is to us that red barn, and the expected second punch is the old white horse; and the directional code, the code established tens of centuries ago is, "When they blind you they will rob you blind'. I have published variations of this code in the past.
So, when the State of New York is metaphorically blinded--its blind lieutenant governor taking over the governorship--we look for New York--at least New York--to be robbed blind.
This code is a Time Travel Marker. It not only tells us what time it is relative to the death of this Earth, but that we have not yet "boxed in the glacier".
Boxing the glacier...I have never told you about that, have I? It's the basic God's Space Sailor plan to prevent the death of this Earth, this Earth's death almost certain to take place in late December, 2064.
This is a very interesting story, if you are interested in extraterrestrial contact with this Earth over the last 57 thousand years; and the smelly Spitzer story is a good lead-in to that space story.
I'll let this story cook for a day and serve it up tomorrow if it is ready; if it is not ready tomorrow I'll let it cook for another day.
Now let's turn to the second of our three stories leading to The Secret Story, the story of how God's Space Sailors saved the Japanese race in approximately 660 BC. The race at that time numbered at most in the thousands, but more likely the hundreds.
This story is called, "The Not-Forgetting Society". Let us begin.
Society, Part 1
Tea awoke face down in his own bed in his duplex in the Bunkyoku ward of Tokyo, lost for a time as to where he might be, feeling oddly askew, nearly at a right angle to the floor, and somehow, like a fly, adhered to his wrinkled sheet.
He was hung over and his eyes itched, and they were pink. He knew this without looking into a mirror. His mouth was awful and his nose burned from too many cigarettes.
Recovering his sense of location, Tea groped, eyes closed, with his straightened right arm along the floor beside his bed for his rumpled pile of clothes, and finding them, eyes still closed, ransacked them for smokes.
Finding a Hope ten-box, he shook it and was relieved, deeply relieved, to feel little tubes bouncing inside. With further blind searching he found a little box of wooden matches. It rattled when shook. Some days everything went right.
Tea started to turn over on his back, eyes still blessedly closed, when he felt something lying across his lower back which hindered the move. Despite this, he rolled over on his back and the impediment moved along to lay across his lower stomach.
He opened his eyes as narrowly as possible, so that he peered through his eyelashes like a sniper through foliage. The impediment was a foot. He stared at it blankly. He read the whorls of its print pattern, stupidly trying to determine its owner.
Dully, it occurred to Tea to follow the leg past ankle, past knee, past muff...to her face.
It was Mitsi, the Sweetheart whose ass had stayed him from returning to Vietnam. Thank goodness it was someone he knew.
Had he been drinking harder than usual since Vietnam? It was hard to tell. Tea had a pal in booze.
Still prone, he eased himself off the side of the bed, the heel of Mitisi's foot sliding back across his belly and plopping behind him with a flat silences onto the sheet. Reaching for the floor with his outstretched left arm, he followed it with his body, ass first, until he sat, naked, knees near his chin, on the pile of rags which was his gray corduroy suit.
"Courage. Courage. Courage," he mumbled aloud to himself, and with utmost slow motion opened his eyes. took a match from the box and a Hope from the packet, determined which end of the cigarette the filter was on, made a decision to put that end between his lips, struck the match, lit the Hope, drew deeply, exhaled.
He ran a chemical analysis of the pain in his head. Mostly it was Suntory whiskey and a touch of sake'.
That would mean Mitsi's bar in Akasaka. But why was Los Angeles on his mind? Oh. Yes. He's flown in yesterday. Oh, yes, he had flown in and stopped at her bar on the way home from the airport.
Meaningful pain of awareness suddenly struck him. Today was a work day.
As if the demon spirits of a misspent youth in progress were goading him with that thought, the telephone began ringing downstairs. That would be the overnight man's wake-up call.
"Courage. Courage. Maybe it will be a slow news day."
Cigarette dangling from the middle of his mouth, smoke wafting up his nose, a nasty blacksmith forming hindsights in his brain, he made his naked way to his bedroom door and, eyes closed, eyes open, eyes closed, eyes open, eyes closed, open, closed, open, closed down the stairs to the cruel phone in the living room.
"Tea!", a cheery male voice said, "Welcome back! How was the good o'l U.S. of A.?"
"Is this a dream?", Tea asked the voice.
"No, Tea, home leave is a thing of the past. There was a plane crash in Singapore; there's a press conference at the Foreign Ministry,,,"
"Don't tell me anymore; every word is pain. Tell what's-his-name I'll be in a bit late..."
"What's-his-name?"
"Don't ask too much of me this morning. Tell him it's jet lag."
Tea was standing by the glass sliding doors opening onto his small Japanese garden. It was Spring. He had been gone three months, having taken his accrued home leave.
He was utterly changed. He knew that.
He should not have gone to Arlington National Cemetery looking for Soldier Ghost.
He should have gotten out of this when Soldier Ghost left him on the Fourteenth Street Bridge.
Shit, life used to be so simple.
The rainy season would be starting. There were blossoms on his plum tree. It was a nice morning. He must not forget his umbrella.
Had he done anything stupid last night?
"What time is it, Jack?"
"This is Harry."
"Sorry, Harry."
"It's seven-thirty. Did you do anything stupid last night?"
"That's scary, Harry."
"You don't know?"
"No, but if I remember I'll leave a note in your box."
In the background, behind Harry's voice could be heard the clicka-clicka-clicka of the teletype machines. Tea could see them in his mind. The New China News Agency would be sending out ten thousand-word stories on Old Shih, the Night Soil Collector; North Vietnam would be saying the two-thousand-and-sixty-fourth U.S. helicopter had been shot down, and that captured American pilots were condemning American aggression on the peace-loving people of Vietnam; UPI New York would be sending in news copy for its Asia clients, and messages for the bureau, usually in code, concerning what the opposition had or company business, or praises or condemnations for stories grabbed and missed. The outgoing wire would be relaying stories from Saigon, Singapore, Djakarta and Seoul, repeating them again and again because the atmospherics would be breaking up the transmissions.
"Do I have any messages, Harry?"
"Sure, dozens. You've been away for a long time."
"Anything fresh and hot?"
A sparrow flew down and hovered near the window. Tea and the bird had eye contact briefly. When the rare Tokyo snows fell Tea put out bread, and the birds tended to remain loyal to him when there was plenty. "Welcome back," the sparrow said with its eyes, wings and mind. To Tea, who understood animal telepathy, a bird's brain was as big as a basketball.
"There was one call last night," Harry was saying. "Sounded like one of your cryptic sources."
Tea could hear Harry rummaging through the litter of papers, empty Koka-Kora bottles, paper coffee cups and cigar ashes that reigned when he ran the overnight desk.
"Here it is," Harry was saying.
"A Japanese guy called. He spoke pretty good English. He said he was friend of a Mr. Mantis..."
Tea stiffened. He have never mentioned Praying Mantis to anyone; but now a living Japanese man was mentioning the soul name name of that dead Japanese soldier, that dead Japanese soldier over 20 years dead.,,using his soul name...not even Praying Mantis' mother would have known that.
(To Be Continued)
Meanwhile, the USA, unaware it was about to eat the fire, passed through the 75th day of its last year.
Jews Jaws Six Down
Shark America Four Up
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 221
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, Society (1)
Today's code is "75th Day, Last Year".
My nose for news tells me I have big news for you. Settle in on this, it may take a day or two to learn where the smell is coming from.
If you go into a butcher shop to buy some meat and the butcher hands you meat that doesn't smell right you don't by it. At least I hope you don't.
At I.C. News we are that way with the what the media weasel news-butchers hand us. If it doesn't smell right we don't buy it; and the story about New York Governor Eliot Spitzer's resignation just does not smell right.
The Spitzer story reeks with political assassination, not political suicide.
I know Spitzer has admitted fault, but, Dear Reader, put the right gun to your head and you would admit to murdering Little Red Riding Hood.
Let's follow the rotten smell and see if it leads us to rotten meat; let's do what no other news service in the world has the brains and the balls to do, let's look at the incongruities of this story.
First of all, I do not believe there is a Jewish man on the face of this Earth stupid enough to pay $5,000 for a piece of ass.
Second, Spitzer was a pivotal Democrat in a pivotal state in which the Democrats and the Republicans are neck and neck in power.
Third, Spitzer was said to be within reach of becoming the first Jewish President of the United States of America.
Fourth, Spitzer is hated by Republican American Fascism, and in addition hated by conservative Republicans, and hated by pro-abortion forces, and hated by forces opposed to illegal immigration.
(Here we come to that great and terrible failure of American journalism; it does not report on Republican American Fascism, and instead refers to it as the "neo-cons", but in fact Republican American Fascism is playing the same iron-fisted politics the Nazis played in Germany in the Thirties, only the uniforms are off and the swastika has been contorted into a cross.)
Fifth, the on-going iron-fisted coup of Republican American Fascism has murdered in the past and is ready and willing to murder again, and every opposition politician knows this. This is why both Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton pussyfoot around the subject.
Sixth, I say again, I do not believe there is a Jewish man on the face of this Earth stupid enough to pay $5,000 for a piece of ass.
If I am right about this, the political assassination of Spitzer was the first punch of a one-two punch; and that means the state of New York--at least the state of New York--will very quickly be punched again.
(This second punch may be the plan to assassinate Hillary Clinton I have reported on a couple times during this campaign season...I don't know yet, I am just going by sense of smell at this point.)
Let me suggest another scenario to the Spitzer story.
The Republican American Fascists in some way put a gun to Spitzer's head, or to the head of his wife, or to the heads of all his children and all those he loves, giving him the option of resigning in ludicrous disgrace or being at rest with his loved ones under an eternal flame.
I am not saying that is the right scenario; but I am saying there seems to be a hidden scenario, a frame-job, a threat...I don't know...and this was just too juicy a news story for the news media to have passed it over in two news cycles; and with no investigative reporting, just the whole gaggle of reporters running pall mall like greyhounds after the ready made news rabbit.
And again, there is not a Jewish man on the face of this Earth stupid enough to pay $5,000 for a piece of ass; nor a politician naive enough to risk a great career for an hour on a hard whore.
Something is smelly about the Eliot Spitzer story; but I'm sitting here in my torture chamber in California and I cannot get out and dog it; but if I were a free American newsman, and if I.C. News were a free American news service, the underbelly of the Spitzer story is the story I would be digging at today.
Despite being chained to a wall of poverty, enslavement and abuse, there is an approach I am can make to to the Sptzer story--through what I know about God's Space War.
(No, I am not saying Spitzer was not targeted by God; au contraire my dear, au contraire, Spitzer is targeted by evil politicians.
Whatever the truth of the story is, we at I.C. News recognize that this event fits into God's Space War codes of long ago. How can I explain it? It's something like prophesy.
Examining the God's Space War story is like following directions given by a farmer as you drive down a country road, "When you reach the red barn, turn left until you see an old white horse..."
The Spitzer story is to us that red barn, and the expected second punch is the old white horse; and the directional code, the code established tens of centuries ago is, "When they blind you they will rob you blind'. I have published variations of this code in the past.
So, when the State of New York is metaphorically blinded--its blind lieutenant governor taking over the governorship--we look for New York--at least New York--to be robbed blind.
This code is a Time Travel Marker. It not only tells us what time it is relative to the death of this Earth, but that we have not yet "boxed in the glacier".
Boxing the glacier...I have never told you about that, have I? It's the basic God's Space Sailor plan to prevent the death of this Earth, this Earth's death almost certain to take place in late December, 2064.
This is a very interesting story, if you are interested in extraterrestrial contact with this Earth over the last 57 thousand years; and the smelly Spitzer story is a good lead-in to that space story.
I'll let this story cook for a day and serve it up tomorrow if it is ready; if it is not ready tomorrow I'll let it cook for another day.
Now let's turn to the second of our three stories leading to The Secret Story, the story of how God's Space Sailors saved the Japanese race in approximately 660 BC. The race at that time numbered at most in the thousands, but more likely the hundreds.
This story is called, "The Not-Forgetting Society". Let us begin.
Society, Part 1
Tea awoke face down in his own bed in his duplex in the Bunkyoku ward of Tokyo, lost for a time as to where he might be, feeling oddly askew, nearly at a right angle to the floor, and somehow, like a fly, adhered to his wrinkled sheet.
He was hung over and his eyes itched, and they were pink. He knew this without looking into a mirror. His mouth was awful and his nose burned from too many cigarettes.
Recovering his sense of location, Tea groped, eyes closed, with his straightened right arm along the floor beside his bed for his rumpled pile of clothes, and finding them, eyes still closed, ransacked them for smokes.
Finding a Hope ten-box, he shook it and was relieved, deeply relieved, to feel little tubes bouncing inside. With further blind searching he found a little box of wooden matches. It rattled when shook. Some days everything went right.
Tea started to turn over on his back, eyes still blessedly closed, when he felt something lying across his lower back which hindered the move. Despite this, he rolled over on his back and the impediment moved along to lay across his lower stomach.
He opened his eyes as narrowly as possible, so that he peered through his eyelashes like a sniper through foliage. The impediment was a foot. He stared at it blankly. He read the whorls of its print pattern, stupidly trying to determine its owner.
Dully, it occurred to Tea to follow the leg past ankle, past knee, past muff...to her face.
It was Mitsi, the Sweetheart whose ass had stayed him from returning to Vietnam. Thank goodness it was someone he knew.
Had he been drinking harder than usual since Vietnam? It was hard to tell. Tea had a pal in booze.
Still prone, he eased himself off the side of the bed, the heel of Mitisi's foot sliding back across his belly and plopping behind him with a flat silences onto the sheet. Reaching for the floor with his outstretched left arm, he followed it with his body, ass first, until he sat, naked, knees near his chin, on the pile of rags which was his gray corduroy suit.
"Courage. Courage. Courage," he mumbled aloud to himself, and with utmost slow motion opened his eyes. took a match from the box and a Hope from the packet, determined which end of the cigarette the filter was on, made a decision to put that end between his lips, struck the match, lit the Hope, drew deeply, exhaled.
He ran a chemical analysis of the pain in his head. Mostly it was Suntory whiskey and a touch of sake'.
That would mean Mitsi's bar in Akasaka. But why was Los Angeles on his mind? Oh. Yes. He's flown in yesterday. Oh, yes, he had flown in and stopped at her bar on the way home from the airport.
Meaningful pain of awareness suddenly struck him. Today was a work day.
As if the demon spirits of a misspent youth in progress were goading him with that thought, the telephone began ringing downstairs. That would be the overnight man's wake-up call.
"Courage. Courage. Maybe it will be a slow news day."
Cigarette dangling from the middle of his mouth, smoke wafting up his nose, a nasty blacksmith forming hindsights in his brain, he made his naked way to his bedroom door and, eyes closed, eyes open, eyes closed, eyes open, eyes closed, open, closed, open, closed down the stairs to the cruel phone in the living room.
"Tea!", a cheery male voice said, "Welcome back! How was the good o'l U.S. of A.?"
"Is this a dream?", Tea asked the voice.
"No, Tea, home leave is a thing of the past. There was a plane crash in Singapore; there's a press conference at the Foreign Ministry,,,"
"Don't tell me anymore; every word is pain. Tell what's-his-name I'll be in a bit late..."
"What's-his-name?"
"Don't ask too much of me this morning. Tell him it's jet lag."
Tea was standing by the glass sliding doors opening onto his small Japanese garden. It was Spring. He had been gone three months, having taken his accrued home leave.
He was utterly changed. He knew that.
He should not have gone to Arlington National Cemetery looking for Soldier Ghost.
He should have gotten out of this when Soldier Ghost left him on the Fourteenth Street Bridge.
Shit, life used to be so simple.
The rainy season would be starting. There were blossoms on his plum tree. It was a nice morning. He must not forget his umbrella.
Had he done anything stupid last night?
"What time is it, Jack?"
"This is Harry."
"Sorry, Harry."
"It's seven-thirty. Did you do anything stupid last night?"
"That's scary, Harry."
"You don't know?"
"No, but if I remember I'll leave a note in your box."
In the background, behind Harry's voice could be heard the clicka-clicka-clicka of the teletype machines. Tea could see them in his mind. The New China News Agency would be sending out ten thousand-word stories on Old Shih, the Night Soil Collector; North Vietnam would be saying the two-thousand-and-sixty-fourth U.S. helicopter had been shot down, and that captured American pilots were condemning American aggression on the peace-loving people of Vietnam; UPI New York would be sending in news copy for its Asia clients, and messages for the bureau, usually in code, concerning what the opposition had or company business, or praises or condemnations for stories grabbed and missed. The outgoing wire would be relaying stories from Saigon, Singapore, Djakarta and Seoul, repeating them again and again because the atmospherics would be breaking up the transmissions.
"Do I have any messages, Harry?"
"Sure, dozens. You've been away for a long time."
"Anything fresh and hot?"
A sparrow flew down and hovered near the window. Tea and the bird had eye contact briefly. When the rare Tokyo snows fell Tea put out bread, and the birds tended to remain loyal to him when there was plenty. "Welcome back," the sparrow said with its eyes, wings and mind. To Tea, who understood animal telepathy, a bird's brain was as big as a basketball.
"There was one call last night," Harry was saying. "Sounded like one of your cryptic sources."
Tea could hear Harry rummaging through the litter of papers, empty Koka-Kora bottles, paper coffee cups and cigar ashes that reigned when he ran the overnight desk.
"Here it is," Harry was saying.
"A Japanese guy called. He spoke pretty good English. He said he was friend of a Mr. Mantis..."
Tea stiffened. He have never mentioned Praying Mantis to anyone; but now a living Japanese man was mentioning the soul name name of that dead Japanese soldier, that dead Japanese soldier over 20 years dead.,,using his soul name...not even Praying Mantis' mother would have known that.
(To Be Continued)
Meanwhile, the USA, unaware it was about to eat the fire, passed through the 75th day of its last year.
posted by Virgil Kret at 10:53 AM
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