What if the COVID Vaccine was a covert government project to eliminate Vampires by degrading their human-blood-sourced food supply? What if it was bungled by Fauci and the National Health Agency bureaucrats and now Vampires want payback?
CNN – Edmund Johnson, UK Reporting:
“Police in Wadsworth, Surrey are investigating a grotesque murder scene at the Hematology Sciences Laboratory in pharmaceutical giant Barclay UKs’ Headquarters on Fernsome Road. A little after three o’clock this morning authorities received an anonymous call to their emergency line. A womans’ voice reported that there had been an incident at the Barclay Lab and that police were needed. She hung up immediately thereafter.
Upon arrival, an investigations unit found the Director of the Lab – identified as Dr. Vivek Sharamsvarti and six co-workers brutally murdered. The scene was described as a “butcher shop”. The bodies had been horribly mutilated and flesh was torn from their throats. Scotland Yard Inspectors are now combing through the crime scene area for clues shedding some light on the possible motivations for such a ghastly group killing.
Dr. Sharamsvarti was a Senior Research Fellow at the Barclay UK facility and was the Managing Team Leader in isolating and later developing Barclays’ rNA vaccine for COVID 19. Police are inclined to believe the murders are the work of a violent “Anti-Vaxer” White Supremicist Group also being investigated in the United States – this because of graffitti that was scrawled across a laboratory wall, apparently in blood, proclaiming “The Blood is the Life”….. Anyone with information please contact Chief Inspector Amos Branson at Scotland Yard Investigations Unit or a member of his staff..”
ABC, New York – Sandra Charma Reporting:
“Manhattan Police are investigating the death of a Park Avenue Socialite, Rebecca Wyeth Fourtier, Wife of Gustaf Fourtier, CEO of Greenwich Pharmaceuticals in New Haven, whose lifeless body was found at the rear of a multi-level parking garage about a block from her fashionable 740 Park Avenue Lennox Hill residence.
Investigators say the woman’s body showed signs of significant trauma and blood loss with massive throat injuries.
Mr. Fourtier, who is in Switzerland on Company business this week, is flying home today. Greenwich Pharmaceuticals is partnering with Hoffman-LaRoche of Bern, Switzerland to obtain final certifications for another new COVID Booster expected out soon….”
New Jersey News, Perth Amboy – Dulcey Ambrose, Reporting:
“Seven bodies washed up on the Perth Amboy, Reese Street shoreline today. Police say – at least preliminarily – all seven were workers apparently part of a night crew employed by Beesom Painting Company of Ardsleigh, Delaware to refinish and paint the steel superstructure of the Outer Bridge connecting Perth Amboy with Staten Island, New York.
It is doubtful that the men died from falling off the bridge worksite platforms and police are considering foul play as a likely possibility. An EMS worker on site spoke to us on condition of anonymity and said, quote: “I never seen anything like it – each one of their throats was completely torn out…I could see their neck vertebra clear through the gaping wounds”.
Pending ongoing investigation, the bodies are being held at the Middlesex County Coroner facility. The Middlesex County Prosecutors’ Office has apparently contacted the FBI in Newark for assistance.”
Shit is getting real.
I finally get his text. I publish it on my Blog word for word, exactly as I promised Monsieur Comte de la Mer, Aziel Pindar…….
What do I know? Only this: There’s a war going on. We’re right in the middle of it. A primal enemy of humanity has got the rag on and unless we rein this shitshow in, we’re all screwed.
His Excellency, Latham Eugen Bischoff von Anhalt has gone “rogue”.
He’s gone to ground…..taken it on the Lam…..to where? Who the Hell knows…..and he’s taken his fan club with him. They’re spoilin’ for a fight, too. Hungry bastards who’ve got an evolutionary physical jumpstart on us (or so I’m told) and above-average IQs to boot. Icing on the cake. Just what we all need. Smart, robust psychos that eat Hemoglobin.
BUT – Because Latham Eugen Bischoff von Anhalt published his declaration of War on my Blog (and allegedly two others, both of which have since folded) Monsieur Comte de la Mer, Aziel Pindar is betting the farm that
von Anhalt is watching my website for any response from his alarmed breathren who seek a parlay……to discuss terms. Of surrender. Everybody sees von Anhalt now as the “Big Kahuna”. He’s got Balls.
Apparently, von Anhalt has always been hot-headed – an I”d rather reign in Hell than serve in Heaven” – type of guy. This time, however, he’s got support from some influential young lions who think – as all young lions do – their ascendance to power ain’t happening fast enough…….that it’s time for the old farts to get the Hell out of their way.
Pile on top of that an irksome scientific fact: human blood is so beleaguered by years of evolving diseases, basketfuls of vaccines and prophylactic injections, medicines, recreational drugs and sexually transmitted viruses that it’s simply not nourishing enough these days.
That’s the real existential question for Vampires – the COVID19 Vaccine debacle is just a symptom of a greater crisis: Is human blood stilll a viable food source?
Ever get that feeling after you leave the dinner table that you’re still hungry? That’s what I’m talking about………the days of pink, chubby, dumb and healthy peasants are over. Like trying to find a virgin. Good luck. The times they are a’ changin’.
The COVID clot-shot was meant to be the coup de grace for Vampires – but it’s turning into the spark that’s igniting a Revolution.
Monsieur Comte de la Mer, Aziel Pindar’s response to von Anhalt’s screed is cryptic, arcane – and, at least to me, bizarre. What the Hell does all this mumbo-jumbo mean? Are there any clues here that can help us stop a war?
His Excellency –
Latham Eugen Bischoff von Anhalt
Greetings.
Knowing that you are indisposed to direct discourse relative to your very definitive pronouncement of intentions to respond vigorously to certain medical preparations already undertaken by the worker herd, I beg this opportinity to share dialogue with you.
Since the Eldrich Times of our beloved Thrice-Blessed Nihursag, who created us with special strengths to cull the beasts that worked the rock of Sumer for our prize, we have sworn oaths of fealty to our Blue blood and eternal devotion to our leader, Enlil. Each of us pray for the Sun to again reveal majestic Nibiru as it accomplishes its journey back to our remote quadrant, for such end will be a new beginning as the Devine Circle closes. We will together weep tears of exhileration and drink fermented Elixer, raising our voices in praise to the Gods of our Masters – the unknowable Great Old Ones, slumbering for Eons beyond the realms of time and space. Those whose names cannot be spoken.
We reap the worker harvest in endless homage to our Thrice-Blessed Mother Nihursag, reveling in our purpose and ever reaffirming our profit in her eyes. Although we are numerically inferior to the worker herd, we are endowed with superior intellect and physical prowess – and I beseech you now to use all our Divine gifts to seek accord in the like manner of Enki and Enlil in the Days of Renown.
Let not our recriminations grow and result in nuclear destruction of our Temples as it was in Eons past, before the Great Flood and before that time the desert sands became glass in the blink of an eye. When the mighty Sumer and Akkadia shook and E-den at the Two Rivers was swallowed, never to return. What travails we have survived! What enemies we have vanquished! Let not disgrace be your mantle like that of the accursed one, the traitor Alalu, who yet wastes in exile in chains at the Red waystation on the Starpath to Nibiru.
Let our critical mission proceed ever forward. Let us together persevere with unquestioning faith and determination. Our accomodations with this world enable us to prosper and endure – lo, such accomodations we have perfected over the centuries. We will yet witness the glory of Nibiru emerging in the skies above us – and breathlessly glimpse our King, the cruelly and treacherously maimed Anu. We will worship at his feet in awe as worthy servants, satiated with prideful fidelity and deeds. Resplendent in our service to the mission our sweet mother, Thrice-Blessed Nihursag, created us for to fulfill. We, who nursed as brothers at the breasts of Lilith, must heal and act as one.
Our Blue Blood screams out for rapprochement and entente, not divisiveness and annihilation. I extend to you now my civility and pledge my Troth.
Let us convene The Council of Seven Judges. Let the Old Ways of combat be our path to accord and reconciliation. Our annointed Champion awaits. So it was in the beginning it will be again. You know this. Benedictions be upon you.
I await your decision.
With Reverence,
Comte de la Mer, Aziel Pindar
Interlocutor Generale et Bestiat Terrible’
I gotta’ get my head straight. No Bullshit.
Katrina Kozub is local. She’s crashing at a Vineyard – Valencia Farms – owned by a “Friend” in Hammonton, NJ, just outside of Atlantic City. I’ve driven past it many times on my way to Cape May – it ain’t Francis Ford Coppolla’s Napa California operation but it sure as Hell beats my shack in Tabernacle. It’s about nine hundred acres with a combination Restaurant and Wine Bar off Route 206. Upscale……and the food is top shelf.
She calls me frequently, probably to see if I’m still alive. Brief comments of no consequence. I’m sure she thinks my phone isn’t secure – so she plays it safe. Still, I appreciate her contact. After hearing Pindar at St. Joseph’s and the few insights she could share on our way home that night, I’m feeling queasy about what I’ve gotten myself into. I live alone – my wife is up North Jersey taking care of her aged father. I don’t have a dog.
It hasn’t been forty-eight hours since Pindar’s response went live on my Blog and I’m already getting a shitload of emails from frequent readers asking: “…..Dude – WTF?????…..” I’m never far from my .38 Colt. or .12 guage shotgun when I’m moping around my house. I hate this feeling…….
In the Tesla coming home from Philadelphia Katrina gave it to me straight:
“There’s nothing much I can share with you…….you’re an outsider” .
I let it drop, but now I feel used – and exposed. My gut tells me something ain’t right….. I’m a former Prosecutor, for Christsakes – I know when somebody’s pissing down my neck and telling me it’s raining….Screw this shit. I need answers.
I just tossed and turned through another restless night and I’m one grumpy, miserable wreck. I’ve had enough. I grab my phone and call Katrina’s Cell – I’m sure it’s a burner and I hope she hasn’t replaced it….
After a few rings, she answers. All business….short-and-not-so-sweet, as ususal.
“Come over in an hour,” She says. “Walk into the restaurant, through the kitchen and the grey double doors at the back. Follow the noise….”
No “Hello-buddy-how-ya-doin’…..” or other conversational foreplay. She hangs up before I can respond.
Charming. Must be my animal magnetism.
An hour later I’m walking through Valencia Farms’ restaurant kitchen and can see those grey double doors directly in front of me – not that I need any road map. All I hear are yells, grunts and groans, slams and echos coming from where I’m heading. I push open the doors…..
It’s a Dojo. There’s martial arts activity everywhere – people throwing each other, kicking, wrestling….yelling and screaming. Must be a class of about thirty professional-looking young men and women in serious outfits doing serious work-outs. This ain’t no entry level class for bored millenials or snowflakes…..these people are kicking each others’ asses. There’s blood on the mats. They mean to cause pain. Real impacts. Real bruises.
And in the middle of it all is Katrina. Lookin’ sexy as all get out, sweaty and barefoot in a white KarateGi with a bright red sash or “Obi” wrapped around her waist. I spy her mid-jump…her right foot is about to slam some tattooed Asian guy’s face……he pivots like lightening and drops down to swipe her ankle out from under her as she tries to regain balance. She hits the mats like a ton of bricks and shakes the funk out of her head. That had to hurt. She glimpses me waiting at the sidelines.
Katrina gets up and yells something at her opponent. I’m guessing he’s her Master or Sensei….looks to me like he’s the cruel tutelage type. Even their words sound weaponized. She and her adversary freeze, bow and “salute” each other with cupped fists extended before them…..all very traditional. He’s about two-thirds her size and wears a long, white head scarf with a blood red sun on his forehead….Japanese. His comprehensive tatoo “sleeves” suggest Yakuza. Not a guy you want to catch a beer with.
She makes her way over, grabbing a small white towel from a wall rack along the way. She wipes her face and hands as she leads me back to the doors. She smells wonderful…….
“Look – I gotta clean up. I’ll meet you in the wine bar in half an hour, OK? The tab is on me. Rick, the Bartender will take care of you……”
It’s one of the great things about this chick – everything is always “taken care of”…..
When we finally meet up again I’ve downed a couple of Malbecs, wolfed some crusty bread and a Caprese salad with homemade Mozzarella. I’m still feeling peckish and I thinkin’ of a Porterhouse…medium rare. Hang it all……I need a full stomach for what I came here to say.
“You hungry?” I ask her. Katrina’s dressed in some fine jeans and blazer ensemble. A white, high-collared blouse. Orthodox crucifix poking out from between her demure cleavage. She looks fresh as a daisy.
“Order for me” She says coyly as she sits down. I sense a “What the Hell are you doing here” kinda’ vibe. Her eyes are cautious.
I ask Rick the Bartender for a couple more Malbecs and two Porterhouse steaks, medium rare – and a house salad for Katrina. She’s cool with it all and soon starts enjoying her wine.
The Bar is really dark and has a rustic, woody hunting lodge feel. Perfect for talking turkey. I come right out with it.
“Just so everybody knows….if Pindar….or von Anhalt….or whomever comes back with another love letter for me to publish on the Net I’m telling them to shove it up their ass…….”
I’m looking straight into her eyes. Without blinking she calmly responds. Her voice betrays no emotion whatsoever. In fact, she’s cold as Hell.
“Then you’ll die”.
I keep staring at her for full minute, then – out of ideas – I take a sip of Malbec. My mouth suddenly tastes dry like a cotton bandage.
She continues in the same tone. Her eyes are serious…grave even.
“If they can’t use you, they’ll kill you. If you don’t print what they ask, you’re just a nuisance to them. You’re in – and they determine when you get out……if ever”.
“And why are you still helping me?” I ask her, almost afraid to hear her answer.
“Hakan Olsen-Nyberg has a soft spot for you…….” He voice trails off and she breaks eye contact. I drink some more wine. Finally, I let it all out.
“Alrighty then…..” I speak as good-naturedly as I can, given the fact that I’m really tired, a little buzzed and more than a bit pissed-off.
“Call Hack…get his soft spot on the phone – and tell him I want ANSWERS. Some REAL answers – RIGHT NOW. NOT some bits-and-pieces-of bullshit antipasto – I want a full meal of explanantions, with all the trimmings. Better make it a Thanksgiving Feast of what-where-how-and-why…….and if I get iced because he says NO you can tell him it’s on his Goddamn conscience. NO WAY I’m printing another freekin’ WORD from those two douchebags EVER again!”
She’s staring at me trying to decide whether I’m serious. Her face is taught – I can see her scar peeking out just below her makeup…..She’s lovely in a Viking warrior kind of way. A “Shield Maiden”. Strong but tender. Ruthless but trustworthy. Solid. Ahh, Hell.
Horney or not, I gotta stay focused……
“You think I’m screwin’ around?” I wrap-up my harangue in a calm, low voice. I shake my head side to side for emphasis.
“I’m not printin’ another Goddamned word anymore……”
Katrina finally eases her facial muscles. There’s a hint of a grin.
“If you want to die, keep it up.”
I just look at her, my mouth shut. I’m done with the topic.
Our steaks arrive. She digs in. Cool as ever. After a few minutes, I hear a phone ring. She reaches inside her blazer and pulls out her latest clamshell burner.
“Hello……..yes……..I’m with him now. Problem. He wants answers. The real deal. What do you want me to do?”
She’s staring at me while she speaks. Surprisingly, she pushes the “Speaker” button and faces the phone in my direction. I recognize the voice. It’s Hack.
“Take him to Sarkisian. Ansuz Clearance. My authority. I’ll text you the arrangements. Camp Hero, day after tomorrow.”
She closes the phone and light-heartedly picks up our conversation.
“Nord Tur Verein Ansuz clearance…..I’m impressed. Well then, let’s eat…….Looks like you and me are going on a little trip day after tomorrow. You better pack your tooth brush….the fun never ends, does it?”
I raise what’s left of my Malbec and offer up a toast –
“To Sarkisian……whoever the Hell he is”. I now have more questions than ever.
Copyright, 2023 Jon Croft
Graphic courtesy wikpedia
