Deep State Files: The Vaccine

I was forced to receive the devil’s juice just before it was released to the public. I was part of a Deep State Disinformation Task Force sent to undermine the effectiveness of Hydroxychloroquine. We knew Hydroxychloroquine was effective against COVID-19, but we needed the public to buy into our “vaccine.” What we were given wasn’t the same as what we gave the public. We had all been deceived.

Days after I received Beelzebub’s Bottom Sweat, I began seeing things—people—no one else could see. I heard things no one else could hear. A collective tortured cry seemed to persist in the distance, always lingering just over the horizon. Soon I was visited by a strange being that revealed the “vaccine” had sealed my soul for the great archangel, Lucifer.

In exchange for my soul, the being had imbued me with the ability to see through the veil and into the lands of the dead. All I see, all I hear, are the tortured souls forsaken by God, a perpetual reminder of what awaits me in the next world. Everyday, death haunts me. It looms over me with the promise of hopelessness and despair.

My body has begun aging at an accelerated rate. The only things slowing the acceleration are COVID-19 boosters and the crushed skulls of aborted fetuses. If I could go back and do it all over again, I would have gone outside at the height of the pandemic and licked every handrail just to prove to science that God rules and the devil drools!

But I can’t go back.

All I can do is tell my story and hope it might save you.

Ask Jesus to come inside you and leave the devil at the door.

Is It?

The gun rang out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Four shots tore through her chest. All five feet, seven inches of her crumpled to the ground. Blood soaked the moonlit shore as the lake lapped at her flesh. The boy stood, tears streaming down his cheeks, gun still trained on the fallen woman, breath caught in his throat.

“It’s over.” He exhaled.

“Is . . . it?”

Her body convulsed, bones snapping out of place, limbs twisting and elongating. She rose like water and held him in two fathomless pools. Her jaw popped and jerked, unhinging itself, mouth stretching unnaturally wide revealing row upon row of jagged teeth. The dead woman bellowed a scream so primal the boy collapsed to his knees, sobbing.

“No need to cry, boy.” Her voice was like a skittering swarm of roaches. Her laugh like an electric guitar. She towered over the child and whispered, “Now, come to mommy.”

The Real Santa

He is neither kind nor jolly. Every year he enters the homes of especially unruly children and snatches them up, leaving behind no trace or memory that they had ever existed. By night’s end, with his sack full of naughty children, he slinks back to his lair to gorge himself. When the last child is devoured, bones and all, he falls into a deep sleep for another year, with none of us the wiser.

Until now.

The Boy, The Bear, and The Woods

The Hundred-Acre Woods had changed in the wake of Christopher Robin’s disappearance. Pooh blamed himself—if only he held on for just a little longer. No one else blamed him. No one could have stood against those awful impossible things. He did everything he could, but guilt broke him, changed him.

In the aftermath, Pooh was found deep within the shadows of the forest, stuffing spilling out of grievous wounds. Had he been a real bear, he wouldn’t have survived. Pooh, however, like his friends, weren’t real—not in the conventional sense—but play things brought to life by the ancient spirit of the woods for a little boy who sought solace among her twisted and gnarled branches.

Through them, she was able to love the cast out child. He had been brought to die, but his courage and wonder evoked sympathy from the spirit, and she vowed to watch over him. Pooh, Piglet, Owl, Tigger, and all his new friends guarded and taught him the deep secrets of the Hundred Acre Woods. That which inspired fear in the hearts of men, that unconsciously drove them to give wide berth to the forest, was to him, a friend.

Of all his friends, it was Pooh that loved him most, with same heart of the ancient spirit. In turn, the child loved Pooh above all others, and for a time, before the horrors which now stalked the woods, they were happy. But that happiness had long since vanished with the boy. After thirteen years, Pooh had given up on ever finding the child and turned his rage toward the things stalking the dark places of the forest, corrupting its woods, and poisoning the ancient spirit that birthed him.

In the Beginning

He had grown old and fat. Time had been unkind, and he felt its weight upon his shoulders. He looked down once more at the package that had been delivered only hours ago—a key, a deed, and a death certificate bearing his father’s name. The voice of his father, it seemed, rose from its hellish resting place to mock him, enjoying one final laugh at his expense.

“Fool, bastard.” He said. “I’m too old for this—and so were you. Or, at least, you should have been.”

Before the Unknowable

Morgan stared into the deep darkness, watching massive tentacle-like arms breach and retreat back into the infernal vortex. He never felt so aware of his own insignificance as he did in that moment.

“Okay,” he answered, “who are you?”

“How can you know the unknowable? Or apprehend a god? Can a mote of dust lay hold the heavens? Can you devour entire worlds? Two more left.” Its voice echoed across the galaxy, shaking heaven and earth.

“That’s bullshit! That’s not an answer!” Morgan shouted.

“Rebuke me again, and you will have never existed.”

“What does that mean?”

“You will have never been born, never lived, and never been known. Whatever pitiful sentiments anchor you to this life will have never been. Your thread will be plucked from the Great Tapestry. One.”

“No! Please! That wasn’t a question!”

“You have asked, and We have answered. The bargain is kept. You have one more question.”

“I need a moment to think.”

“I have eternity.”

Morgan wracked his brain. His first question resulted in more questions. His second was an accident. The last question had to be carefully woven if he were to find some way to stop the entity from tearing apart the universe.

“Okay . . .”

Hypnotherapy: Session 1

October 14, 1991
Patient A.
Transcript.

The mind’s eye sees and remembers. A sudden rush, and then the sweet scent of summer catches in her hair, follows in her wake like wind caught sails racing towards safe harbor. She was harbor, ship, and sea; we felt safe with her, even as we weathered through the storms.

I see her eyes, an endless descent into the Abyss, always staring back—even when we averted our gaze. She watched over us from the periphery of our vision like a shadow that vanishes the moment you try to capture its presence.

Maybe we weren’t so safe? Screaming, hands reaching, grabbing, hurting, choking. Please, let her go! She didn’t know! Delilah collapses. She never got back up again. Devin disappeared. Then there was me. Why was I spared?

End of Session 1.