UK paper ‘The Week’ released it’s World’s Top Ten Secret Plots, citing everything from Obama’s birthplace (there’s a given, with all the coverage about it, though I disagree about it’s inclusion in such a list), to MKUltra (a legitimate inclusion if ever there was one!). Then it slides back to silliness with by putting Elvis is Alive as #6. See, there’s the problem with conspiracies; you start lumping the ridiculous with the actual, factual truth, and the entire category is brought down until it is unbelievable.
Well, see for yourself and let me know which ones you think are real, and which should NOT have made the cut!
For another blog on MKUltra, check this out.
For an in-depth look at what MKUltra programming might do to a person, read my 4.5 star-rated Amazon Kindle eBook:
Here’s a free sample:
Fifty-two cards on the ground, face down. Card backs, photos of the movie star, River Flinch.
I am Nobody.
River Flinch is dying on the cards, photos of his dying face. He’s flat on his back on a concrete floor, the same floor Adam was sitting on now.
Blood on Flinch’s forehead, dripping into the right eye, pooling and also sticking to that amazing hair.
The time span represented by the pictures was thirty minutes; that’s what they’d said. From the first to final frame, half an hour it took him to die. They’d taped a watch to the floor by Flinch’s head. No reason to believe it wasn’t accurate. No reason to believe it was.
In the last card, Flinch was dead.
“Put the cards in chronological order,” said Randall, the Doctor’s assistant and enforcer. “Take your time. You have until noon tomorrow.”
He looked at the watch taped to the floor of his cell. Same watch.
“You can leave this room when you’re done.”
“Told me that last time,” Adam said. He hadn’t eaten in two days.
“Screwed it up last time. It must be perfect. You know how Doc feels about this. If you make a mistake this time–”
“I know.” Adam hugged his bare arms, rubbing the crossed M-16 rifles tattooed on his left bicep.
“What we’ll do this time–”
“I said I know.”
“Loook, it isn’t me, right? I work here, that’s it.” Randall sniffed then left.
Adam took his time, standing once to pee in the corner floor drain since the cell had no toilet. They gave him plenty of water, eight glasses a day. The water always had a lime tang to it.
When done with the cards he pressed the buzzer. It had been three hours. Many of the photos were very similar, taking within seconds of each other, and in some, Flinch’s hand covered the watch. So Adam had to scrutinize the wrinkles, the trickle of blood, the shadows, the eyelids. The open mouth. But once finished he didn’t reexamine the cards, didn’t double check his work. It was perfect.
He almost pressed the buzzer again, but knew better. He was on camera, so they knew he was finished. Twenty minutes more then Randall came in, wiping crumbs from his mouth with his pinky.
“Are you sure?”
Adam looked down at the top card. Was there something obviously wrong? The card showed Flinch with no visible marks on his head, no blood, though his hand was raised, partially blocking his head. He was alive, but scared. He had good reason to be. The picture didn’t show what Flinch was looking at off-camera, what his hand was warding off…but in the next card, he had a puncture in his head.
“Unless the game is rigged.”
Randall took the cards, tossing them across the cell as three more heavies burst in with taped clubs. They took their time, beating him for thirty minutes, doing it in waves, casual in their viciousness. Careful not to break or rupture or kill.
“Game is always rigged,” Randall said somewhere in the midst of the violence. “That’s what you’re failing to learn.”