Soldier Ghost, Part 10
The $559 Billion Defeat
Jews Jaws Eight Down
Shark America Two Up
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 191
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 (10)
Today's code is "73nd Day, Last Year".
"...their names would be mud, like chumps playing stud, if they lost that old ace down in the hole." Old Song.
The ace down in the hole of all the millions of Americans who persecute me for being God's One True Telepath is the national agreement to bear false witness about the existence of my audible mental telepathy and about the persecution of me for having it.
The suggestion of this work is that this is a satanic agreement, that it is an illegal ace in the hole which God is going to punish them for having.
It is the further suggestion of this work that my singular truth will win out over the mass lie held to so obediently by the people of United States of America.
There seems to be the potential of that taking place soon. We Space Sailors expect it by July 15.
My Old Pal God intends to sit in on this poker game, and as God's first bet God has asked me to point to the city of Anaheim, California, soon to be punished by God for the Anaheim Police Department's support of near-fatal torture of me there.
That's about all I have been asked to say about this; except that this punishment by God of the city of Anaheim, home of Disneyland, will be part of the long-running God's Space War action called "Operation Queer".
It should be noted that as far as I know there have been no homosexual males hurt or killed in this operation; and in fact God has killed only one American thus far in Operation Queer, a movie actor who played the part of a homosexual cowboy.
This is very important intelligence, because it means that in God's eyes you do not have to be homosexual to be 'queer'; and as we shall see that falsely claiming ignorance of America's torture-enslavement of God's One True Telepath, no matter how clever the rationalization, is in God's Eyes queer.
Understand, Operation Queer has nothing at all to do with what a man does with his pee-pee; and a homosexual male in Operation Queer is not a queer unless he participates in America's torture enslavement of me.
The reason Anaheim will be picked out for punishment--by an act of God, not by an act of man--is not because Anaheim tortured me any more than any other American city I have attempted to live in in, but because the Anaheim Police Department officially allowed it.
I refer to my experience working as a live-in manager at a halfway house for men on probation for various crimes, men who were drug and alcohol addicted.
As the standard torture of me evolved in that situation, led by the house homosexual, I was put in a position of either letting the torturers kill me with torture or moving out.
Because the men torturing me were all convicted criminals on probation it seemed reasonable to me that the terms of their probation would not allow them to torture the house manager; and their probation officer, Mr. James Pinck, of the Orange County Probation Department, assured me he would help me with this problem, but he never did, nor did the Anaheim Police Department after I carefully followed all the procedures for filing a complaint.
I suggest that in God's Eyes this was a clear example of official legalization of the torture of God's One True Telepath.
Me, I am as far away from Disneyland as I can get, living in the foothills of the Sierras, currently walking eight miles a day, not bad for 68, getting in shape for my July-August backpacking trip, which I plan to take after what we Space Sailors call "Sweet Victory" takes place by July 15.
Sweet Victory will take place when the tens of millions of psycho-queer Americans have been convinced that Telepath torture is a damnable sin.
Enough of this for now, now let's return to the story of Soldier Ghost.
In our last installment, Tea had just found a way to rid himself of the souls of dead American soldiers clinging to him; by learning they would leave him if he was around wounded American soldiers; by learning they would attach themselves to those soldiers and go back home with them.
After what he thought had been the last of the dead American soldiers had left him,Tea thought his troubles were over; but as we see in today's installment, they were just beginning.
Soldier Ghost, Part 10
Late that night Tea returned to his duplex thinking it was all over.
He lit the gas burner which heated his bath and climbed into the wooden tub when the temperature of the water approached his pain threshold, planning to leave the heater on for another ten minutes so his threshold expanded as the water grew hotter.
He sipped at a large Suntory whiskey, being careful not to let himself doze off with the gas burner still on, having seen a Japanese news story of a man boiling himself to death in that way.
Relaxing for the first time since his return from Vietnam, he was thinking to himself what an interesting adventure the American ghosts had been.
The whiskey found his blood, and kissed it.
Rationalization was already seeping in. The experience was probably a symptom of shell shock, a dream within the subconscious, a predilection to the fanciful...then that odd Union Two voice spoke.
"I not Marine," it said. "I not American. You know me. You good man. You no look me. I dead. You know. Officer hold belt up. Star buckle. Much thick blood. Now must hurry. Japan dead take me home. Thank you. Best your soldiers die better. They cry too much."
Tea snapped out of his doze. He reached over to the heater and turned off the gas. The water was churning from the heat. He was pink from the neck down. He climbed out of the tub and covered it with its wooden lid. His apartment was cold and he steamed as he left the bathroom naked to pour another whiskey.
So, the Union Two voice was that of a dead NVA soldier.
Tea had declined an invitation to walk the thirty yards or so to see the body of the machinegunner who had been firing on his position most of the night. The invitation was extended by an officer who was carrying the dead soldier's belt, which he had removed from the body as a trophy.
The dead Vietnamese had said the Japanese dead would see him home. Were the Japanese dead so organized?
American dead cry too much. Was that true? Could such a difference in preparation exist between the American and the Asian soldier?
Was something basic known and not known?
Then the doubts crept back into his mind. Was he hallucinating? Was he insane? He stood steaming at the sliding glass doors that led out to his back yard, looking at his Japanese garden in the night. Above, bright enough to overcome Tokyo's bouquet of lights and continue on to its destiny, a shooting star passed by.
Then Praying Mantis showed up like the Ghost of Christmas Past.
Tea was sipping his fourth whiskey. He had left off standing by the sliding glass doors and was sitting, now robed, in an armchair in the semi-dark of his living room.
A light snow had begun, and Tea was slipping into sleep while watching the snowflakes gently falling.
It was late, maybe two a.m.
A shimmering form made of some silky white substance slowly developed just inside the living room in front of the glass doors; then it solidified into a black and white image of a young World War Two Japanese army officer.
The image was as clear as an old movie, though it seemed to fade out and come back as if it were a state difficult for the ghost to maintain.
Tea was getting an uneasy feeling. He was wondering if things were not moving too quickly. He wondered if he was now in a dream state and only dreaming he was awake; but then he was certain he was awake and stopped further internal speculations so Praying Mantis could speak before whatever physics was involved forced him to leave.
Tea felt this was an important visit, an urgent visit, and hallucination or not, utter madness or not, he would hear what this dead Japanese soldier had to say.
Praying Mantis moved his lips, but only in synch with the telepathy he was sending into Tea's mind. Years later Tea would learn the physics of this process, but in December of '67 he barely understood it.
"Tea," Praying Mantis was saying, "we are wondering who you are and if you are dangerous to us; but the important thing now is that you get the last of your dead soldiers out of Japan as quickly as possible."
Praying Mantis read Tea's question before Tea could ask it.
"No, we don't mean the Vietnamese. We mean the one you call Soldier Ghost. He has clearly died a soldier a number of times and he bleeds into our consciousness. That means he is capable of gathering intelligence..."
"Intelligence?" Tea's question was involuntary. Praying Mantis passed over it.
"...we think he might be lying to you about his craziness. We think he might be more aware and less uncomfortable than he represents himself to be; but in any case he could have left you with the others but chose not to."
The ghost smell was strong, though not foul. Later, when Tea understood ghosts better, he estimated there must have been at least 20 dead Japanese soldiers in his living room that night.
"Soldier Ghost is here now," Praying Mantis continued. "He is listening, and we think perhaps he is learning things he should not be learning; and he must become aware that we can do him serious damage. He is quite advanced. We feel he is probably a member of one of the Western military soul orders. Believe me, Tea, this is more important than our long friendship. You must take this perfidious spirit out of Asia."
Tea felt a cold, hard hand on his right shoulder as emphasis. It was not Praying Mantis' hand, but that of one of the invisibles. He felt cold static at his right ear, as if the ghostly lips that went with the cold hand were there, saying these words:
"We are trying to trace you, Tea. If you are at all like Soldier Ghost we will have to invite you to our house."
The words were like radio waves turned to ice.
Tea looked to Praying Mantis. There was an unsympathetic blankness to his face. Tea knew "invite" meant "murder".
"We shall kill you and imprison your soul," the cold, invisible lips said in confirmation. Tea did not know if such soul imprisonment was possible, but he felt certain these ghosts could see to his death.
The cold voice went on.
"You are too intuitive about us. We think if you are not a misplaced reincarnation of one of us you might be a most interesting spy."
Tea started to protest. He was about to say he believed himself to be simply a man with a knack; but then the word "spy" sunk into him like a harpoon.
Spy? Intelligence? Was he that, after all, after everything, after the loves and the terrors, after the kisses and the smacks and buzzings of bullets, was he, on some layer of the onion of himself he had not yet unraveled, a spy? Did these dead Japanese know more about him than he knew himself?
The warning given, Praying Mantis faded away and the smell of the invisibles departed with him, leaving Tea change forever, like an algebraic equation suddenly infused with an alphabet of new unknowns.
In Tea's mind, realities were dominoes tumbling in a racing row.
Tea breathed a deep sigh, and took a long, pensive sip of whiskey.
Outside the sliding glass doors snowflakes picked up the light of a neighbor's lamp, reflecting it like tiny meteors in space reflecting a distant sun.
(To Be Continued)
Meanwhile, the USA, unaware it was about to eat the fire, passed through the 73nd day of its last year.
Jews Jaws Eight Down
Shark America Two Up
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 191
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 (10)
Today's code is "73nd Day, Last Year".
"...their names would be mud, like chumps playing stud, if they lost that old ace down in the hole." Old Song.
The ace down in the hole of all the millions of Americans who persecute me for being God's One True Telepath is the national agreement to bear false witness about the existence of my audible mental telepathy and about the persecution of me for having it.
The suggestion of this work is that this is a satanic agreement, that it is an illegal ace in the hole which God is going to punish them for having.
It is the further suggestion of this work that my singular truth will win out over the mass lie held to so obediently by the people of United States of America.
There seems to be the potential of that taking place soon. We Space Sailors expect it by July 15.
My Old Pal God intends to sit in on this poker game, and as God's first bet God has asked me to point to the city of Anaheim, California, soon to be punished by God for the Anaheim Police Department's support of near-fatal torture of me there.
That's about all I have been asked to say about this; except that this punishment by God of the city of Anaheim, home of Disneyland, will be part of the long-running God's Space War action called "Operation Queer".
It should be noted that as far as I know there have been no homosexual males hurt or killed in this operation; and in fact God has killed only one American thus far in Operation Queer, a movie actor who played the part of a homosexual cowboy.
This is very important intelligence, because it means that in God's eyes you do not have to be homosexual to be 'queer'; and as we shall see that falsely claiming ignorance of America's torture-enslavement of God's One True Telepath, no matter how clever the rationalization, is in God's Eyes queer.
Understand, Operation Queer has nothing at all to do with what a man does with his pee-pee; and a homosexual male in Operation Queer is not a queer unless he participates in America's torture enslavement of me.
The reason Anaheim will be picked out for punishment--by an act of God, not by an act of man--is not because Anaheim tortured me any more than any other American city I have attempted to live in in, but because the Anaheim Police Department officially allowed it.
I refer to my experience working as a live-in manager at a halfway house for men on probation for various crimes, men who were drug and alcohol addicted.
As the standard torture of me evolved in that situation, led by the house homosexual, I was put in a position of either letting the torturers kill me with torture or moving out.
Because the men torturing me were all convicted criminals on probation it seemed reasonable to me that the terms of their probation would not allow them to torture the house manager; and their probation officer, Mr. James Pinck, of the Orange County Probation Department, assured me he would help me with this problem, but he never did, nor did the Anaheim Police Department after I carefully followed all the procedures for filing a complaint.
I suggest that in God's Eyes this was a clear example of official legalization of the torture of God's One True Telepath.
Me, I am as far away from Disneyland as I can get, living in the foothills of the Sierras, currently walking eight miles a day, not bad for 68, getting in shape for my July-August backpacking trip, which I plan to take after what we Space Sailors call "Sweet Victory" takes place by July 15.
Sweet Victory will take place when the tens of millions of psycho-queer Americans have been convinced that Telepath torture is a damnable sin.
Enough of this for now, now let's return to the story of Soldier Ghost.
In our last installment, Tea had just found a way to rid himself of the souls of dead American soldiers clinging to him; by learning they would leave him if he was around wounded American soldiers; by learning they would attach themselves to those soldiers and go back home with them.
After what he thought had been the last of the dead American soldiers had left him,Tea thought his troubles were over; but as we see in today's installment, they were just beginning.
Soldier Ghost, Part 10
Late that night Tea returned to his duplex thinking it was all over.
He lit the gas burner which heated his bath and climbed into the wooden tub when the temperature of the water approached his pain threshold, planning to leave the heater on for another ten minutes so his threshold expanded as the water grew hotter.
He sipped at a large Suntory whiskey, being careful not to let himself doze off with the gas burner still on, having seen a Japanese news story of a man boiling himself to death in that way.
Relaxing for the first time since his return from Vietnam, he was thinking to himself what an interesting adventure the American ghosts had been.
The whiskey found his blood, and kissed it.
Rationalization was already seeping in. The experience was probably a symptom of shell shock, a dream within the subconscious, a predilection to the fanciful...then that odd Union Two voice spoke.
"I not Marine," it said. "I not American. You know me. You good man. You no look me. I dead. You know. Officer hold belt up. Star buckle. Much thick blood. Now must hurry. Japan dead take me home. Thank you. Best your soldiers die better. They cry too much."
Tea snapped out of his doze. He reached over to the heater and turned off the gas. The water was churning from the heat. He was pink from the neck down. He climbed out of the tub and covered it with its wooden lid. His apartment was cold and he steamed as he left the bathroom naked to pour another whiskey.
So, the Union Two voice was that of a dead NVA soldier.
Tea had declined an invitation to walk the thirty yards or so to see the body of the machinegunner who had been firing on his position most of the night. The invitation was extended by an officer who was carrying the dead soldier's belt, which he had removed from the body as a trophy.
The dead Vietnamese had said the Japanese dead would see him home. Were the Japanese dead so organized?
American dead cry too much. Was that true? Could such a difference in preparation exist between the American and the Asian soldier?
Was something basic known and not known?
Then the doubts crept back into his mind. Was he hallucinating? Was he insane? He stood steaming at the sliding glass doors that led out to his back yard, looking at his Japanese garden in the night. Above, bright enough to overcome Tokyo's bouquet of lights and continue on to its destiny, a shooting star passed by.
Then Praying Mantis showed up like the Ghost of Christmas Past.
Tea was sipping his fourth whiskey. He had left off standing by the sliding glass doors and was sitting, now robed, in an armchair in the semi-dark of his living room.
A light snow had begun, and Tea was slipping into sleep while watching the snowflakes gently falling.
It was late, maybe two a.m.
A shimmering form made of some silky white substance slowly developed just inside the living room in front of the glass doors; then it solidified into a black and white image of a young World War Two Japanese army officer.
The image was as clear as an old movie, though it seemed to fade out and come back as if it were a state difficult for the ghost to maintain.
Tea was getting an uneasy feeling. He was wondering if things were not moving too quickly. He wondered if he was now in a dream state and only dreaming he was awake; but then he was certain he was awake and stopped further internal speculations so Praying Mantis could speak before whatever physics was involved forced him to leave.
Tea felt this was an important visit, an urgent visit, and hallucination or not, utter madness or not, he would hear what this dead Japanese soldier had to say.
Praying Mantis moved his lips, but only in synch with the telepathy he was sending into Tea's mind. Years later Tea would learn the physics of this process, but in December of '67 he barely understood it.
"Tea," Praying Mantis was saying, "we are wondering who you are and if you are dangerous to us; but the important thing now is that you get the last of your dead soldiers out of Japan as quickly as possible."
Praying Mantis read Tea's question before Tea could ask it.
"No, we don't mean the Vietnamese. We mean the one you call Soldier Ghost. He has clearly died a soldier a number of times and he bleeds into our consciousness. That means he is capable of gathering intelligence..."
"Intelligence?" Tea's question was involuntary. Praying Mantis passed over it.
"...we think he might be lying to you about his craziness. We think he might be more aware and less uncomfortable than he represents himself to be; but in any case he could have left you with the others but chose not to."
The ghost smell was strong, though not foul. Later, when Tea understood ghosts better, he estimated there must have been at least 20 dead Japanese soldiers in his living room that night.
"Soldier Ghost is here now," Praying Mantis continued. "He is listening, and we think perhaps he is learning things he should not be learning; and he must become aware that we can do him serious damage. He is quite advanced. We feel he is probably a member of one of the Western military soul orders. Believe me, Tea, this is more important than our long friendship. You must take this perfidious spirit out of Asia."
Tea felt a cold, hard hand on his right shoulder as emphasis. It was not Praying Mantis' hand, but that of one of the invisibles. He felt cold static at his right ear, as if the ghostly lips that went with the cold hand were there, saying these words:
"We are trying to trace you, Tea. If you are at all like Soldier Ghost we will have to invite you to our house."
The words were like radio waves turned to ice.
Tea looked to Praying Mantis. There was an unsympathetic blankness to his face. Tea knew "invite" meant "murder".
"We shall kill you and imprison your soul," the cold, invisible lips said in confirmation. Tea did not know if such soul imprisonment was possible, but he felt certain these ghosts could see to his death.
The cold voice went on.
"You are too intuitive about us. We think if you are not a misplaced reincarnation of one of us you might be a most interesting spy."
Tea started to protest. He was about to say he believed himself to be simply a man with a knack; but then the word "spy" sunk into him like a harpoon.
Spy? Intelligence? Was he that, after all, after everything, after the loves and the terrors, after the kisses and the smacks and buzzings of bullets, was he, on some layer of the onion of himself he had not yet unraveled, a spy? Did these dead Japanese know more about him than he knew himself?
The warning given, Praying Mantis faded away and the smell of the invisibles departed with him, leaving Tea change forever, like an algebraic equation suddenly infused with an alphabet of new unknowns.
In Tea's mind, realities were dominoes tumbling in a racing row.
Tea breathed a deep sigh, and took a long, pensive sip of whiskey.
Outside the sliding glass doors snowflakes picked up the light of a neighbor's lamp, reflecting it like tiny meteors in space reflecting a distant sun.
(To Be Continued)
Meanwhile, the USA, unaware it was about to eat the fire, passed through the 73nd day of its last year.
posted by Virgil Kret at 8:04 PM
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