THE INVISIBLE CRIME
Illegal Microchip Implants and Microwave Technology
and Their Use Against Humanity
by
Michael F. Bell
Brighton Publishing LLC
501 W. Ray Road
Suite 4
Chandler, AZ 85225
www.BrightonPublishing.com
Copyright © 2011
ISBN: 978-1-936587-05-6
eBook
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to heroes everywhere.
A True Story
Although this is a true story, certain names have been changed to protect both the innocent and the guilty.
“Do nothing in haste, look well to each step, and from the beginning think what may be the end.”
—Edward WhymperBritish climber and explorer known for the first ascent of the Matterhorn in 1865.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the people who offered assistance and support throughout the entire nightmare and living hell that became my life. Without the vast amount of in-depth information available from the Internet, the Beverly Hills Library, tips and general information from private investigators, other Targeted Individual victims, declassified information and U.S. patents and documents, this book could not have been written.
I would also like to thank my friend, Sagitar and his family for helping me during my time of crisis in obtaining my first medical evidence in Madrid, Spain.
I wish to especially thank my mother and father, for allowing me to stay at their home in North Carolina, using their house as my bunker, seeking refuge during this most disturbing time, protecting myself from this bizarre, seemingly endless and ongoing crime. I am quite literally like a man without a country, nowhere to run, no place to hide.
Preface
What if someone could read your mind, manipulate your dreams, and see and hear everything that you do? What if you were followed and tracked everywhere you went? What if voices were electronically beamed into your head and you were shocked by directed or microwave energy, just as you were drifting off to sleep? What if the technology that made this all possible had actually been in existence for over fifty years and kept secret? What if you became the victim of this crime and technology and nobody believed you?
What would you do?
It’s not science fiction; it’s called psychotronic weaponry and it uses the current existing satellite and cellular phone system. It is the result of combining the two words, psychological and electronic. Perpetrators using this technology torture and murder thousands of American citizens and people around the world, most never knowing what happened. This crime leaves little or no evidence.
Recently declassified, this technology is also known as non-lethal weaponry, although it can cause instant staged heart attacks and automobile accidents, strokes, and severe and debilitating mental disorders. The constant, continuous low-level exposure of electromagnetic or microwave energy can cause cancer and tumors that can lead to a long, slow, painful death.
Surprisingly, this technology is legal and available for purchase by anyone on the Internet. It’s sold under the guise of “experimental or entertainment purposes only; should not be misused.” The manufacturer or distributor is legally bound to include a small clause within the instructions for use that “eliminates the seller of any responsibility of misuse, intentional or accidental.” This clause relinquishes the seller of all responsibility.
This technology can also incorporate the use of injected, inserted, or surgically installed microchip or biochip implants. Once implanted in an unwitting victim, these devices can be used to monitor, spy on, GPS track, torture, or kill the victim remotely. Sometimes this electronic harassment or electronic stalking can be performed from thousands of miles away from the victim, via satellite and cellular network systems.
The modern day version of this system has the capability to read a person’s mind in real time and give the victim the notion to do something, as if by command. Because this notion is perceived by the victim in the first person, the victim perceives this idea or way of thinking as a product of his own thought process. People that become the target of conditional mind control will be unable to discern and distinguish their own thoughts from those that are being projected to them.
Every human being has a signature brain wave (EEG) that is unique and different from any other person’s brain wave pattern. In this respect, the EEG can be compared to a fingerprint. An alternative method of mind control involves a process which captures a person’s unique brain wave pattern and locks onto it using the GPS satellite system. Once this brain wave frequency is grabbed by a computer, that person can be tracked anywhere in the world in real time. This system represents the most refined part of electronic stalking.
A person’s thoughts can be read and manipulated in the same ways as that of a biochip implant, without having a device covertly placed in his body. If removed, a microchip implant makes the targeted individual’s claims credible and legitimate.
The EEG, a signature brain wave method of mind control, is basically impossible to detect and use to prove that the person is even a victim of any crime.
The most difficult aspect of being a victim of this crime is convincing other people—in particular law enforcement—that the person is being victimized. The very concept that someone would follow another person, make small, but noticeable damage to personal property, and constantly, subtly harass the victim for no reason sounds absurd.
This crime is so bizarre and so illogical sounding that speaking of it cannot help but make the victim appear paranoid, delusional, schizophrenic, or suffering from dementia.
The perpetrators count on the fact that nobody will believe the victims, completely discrediting them. This makes organized stalking, electronic harassment, and mind control perfect crimes.
Mind control was crudely conceived and first developed by the Chinese during the Cold War. It was based on three basic principles: 1) sleep deprivation, 2) solitary confinement, and 3) relentless interrogation sessions. Through these extreme methods, the human mind could be changed and its basic “hard drive” altered, permanently.
Mind control can also be traced back to World War II as part of the Nazi Human Behavior and Experimentation Program. Here, Hitler and the Nazi regime, took the Chinese form of mind control one step further. This program was captured by the U.S. Military at the end of the war. German scientists were then offered to work for the United States before this information was intercepted by Russia and the rest of the world. Known as “Operation Paperclip,” now an even more advanced and further refined program would be developed by the United States government within classified, top secret military operations.
This program was first introduced to the C.I.A. in the 1950s and officially continued through the mid-1970s, known as Project MK-ULTRA. The “MK” stands for Mind Kontrol. “ULTRA” describes “breaking the code.” So, literally, this represents the breaking or conditioning of the human mind.
This program was covert, illegal human experimentation. Through a variety of techniques using drugs and various forms of behavior modification, the C.I.A. could not only put thoughts into the mind and create false memories, but also had the ability to erase specific memories and make the individual forget a certain event or even permanently change basic thought patterns.
LSD-25 was one of many drugs used on subjects in these illegal experiments. These techniques were used on unwitting subjects, American citizens, from every race, age, social and economic status, and even on its own military.
Although chloroform and ether are now considered by the criminal organization as old school drugs, they are still used to this day in abduction and kidnapping cases.
Scopolamine or Devils’ Breath, also known as hyoscine, is derived from the native Columbian burundanga tree, part of the nightshade classification of plants. It’s now recognized as the world’s most dangerous drug and is used in a large percentage of abduction case worldwide.
Rohypnol, the famed date rape drug, is another popular choice for criminals for abduction, rape, and robbery. The above mentioned drugs are usually colorless, odorless and tasteless. Because of the great strength of these drugs, very little of the poison is necessary to drug someone and achieve the desired result of amnesia. When surreptitiously mixed into food or a beverage, it’s nearly impossible for the victim to be aware that they are being drugged.
Through the direct connection to the human optic nerve, retinal implants and EEG technology allows the controller or operator to actually see through the victim’s eyes. Using the victim’s eyes as their cameras, perpetrators are able to see all the victim sees. This same electronic connection to the ear canals and human using illegal, covert cochlear ear implants and the human auditory system enables the controller to hear what the victim hears, as well as what he says, all in real time.
If this information were to leak into the hands of terrorists or criminals, the potential for catastrophic disaster is unthinkable.
That is exactly what has happened, not only in America, but globally. The U.S. Government denies the existence of this unconscionable weaponry and it is embarrassed, ashamed, and reluctant to admit that it has lost control of its own technology to organized crime and hate groups around the world.
This crime has become the world’s dirtiest little secret.
To compound the thought reading and thought inserting capabilities of implants or EEG technology, organized stalking or gang stalking, combined with electronic harassment, can make the victim’s life unbearable. By ganging-up on or bullying a target continuously, the target’s life becomes with a nightmare of terror and psychological harassment.
Isolation is the goal: to strip the person of all privacy and humiliate, mock, and taunt the victim over and over. It drives many victims to commit suicide. This organized, covert crime is carried out by sociopaths or psychopathic individuals who have no consciences. They are well-funded and highly organized, and they use all the latest technology to constantly refine, update, and revolutionize this most perfect crime.
In this account, I also refer to the Targeted Individual as the Target or the Victim.
At this point, before this isolated incident and story is presented, it is important for any Targeted Individuals reading this to know that their situation will never change, unless they make the efforts necessary to change things themselves. Very quickly, the Victims realize that no one is going to suddenly appear to rescue them.
In this book, I offer practical advice on how to be proactive. I offer countermeasure techniques and methods to help Targeted Individuals regain their health and happiness and to take back their lives. If the Targeted Individual chooses to do nothing, the harassment will most likely never go away and usually lasts for life.
At the very beginning of this story, I want the reader to know I am not schizophrenic, paranoid, or delusional. I do not suffer from dementia or any form of mental illness.
I could never figure out how the people who were stalking and harassing me always knew where I was going or what I was doing. After taking my apartment apart piece by piece, searching for covert cameras, microphones, and searching my entire vehicle for a GPS tracker, I finally realized that I was the tracking device.
The intent of this book is to expose this heinous, covert crime and make the public aware of these devices and weapons and ultimately make amendments to the constitution and the Patriot Act, to outlaw this technology completely and its use on human beings.
This crime is nothing short of diabolical. All covert technology and devices mentioned in this book are real. Mind control and Operation MK-ULTRA have been used and kept secret since the Second World War. V2K—or voice-to-skull technology—has been in existence since 1974. The target becomes a real life voodoo doll at the mercy of the criminals.
This technology is used on its victims without their knowledge or consent, and in and of itself, is one of the most evil things man has done to mankind.
Chapter One
How It All Started: A Brief Background
My name is Michael Fitzhugh Bell. I was born on October 27, 1961, in Greenwich, Connecticut. I am the oldest of three children, with two younger sisters.
In retrospect, I was different from other children in many ways. I am left-handed when writing and using a utensil such as a fork; but in sports, I’m ambidextrous. I have a photographic memory and a strong intuition or sixth sense about people, places, things, and events. I was also fortunate enough to have been born with what others consider to be a good sense of humor. I also possess a vivid, creative imagination. These inherent qualities are part of my life and who I am. Although I would never discuss these gifts with others, people would often notice them and make me aware of my own integrity. I didn’t know it then, but these gifts would come to help me later in life and assist other people close to me.
I went to boarding school or prep school in New England at the age of twelve. I attended Eaglebrook School in Deerfield, Massachusetts, and Brooks School in North Andover, Massachusetts. I attended two colleges: Eckerd College in St. Petersburg, Florida, and Occidental College in Eagle Rock, California. To be honest, I never really enjoyed school or the college curriculum, except for English and writing. Writing was the only area where I felt comfortable expressing my ideas, views, and imagination.
I was a typical American teenager growing up, interested in sports—mainly soccer and ice hockey. Like my grandfather and father before me, I was a New York Rangers hockey fan, always hoping for that elusive Stanley Cup. This dream was later realized for me and other Rangers fans with a Stanley Cup win in 1994, the first Championship win for the New York Rangers in fifty-three years.
I left Occidental after the beginning of my senior year. I returned to my hometown and bounced around Greenwich, Connecticut, taking low-end jobs such as mail clerk at a market research firm and office gopher at a prestigious local law firm.
I was a directionless dreamer who lived by himself in a small apartment in town. I had a natural ability to cook and create and decided to apply for a position in the kitchen of a famous yacht club in Greenwich. In cooking, I found something in which I could excel while still being challenged, which led to a great sense of accomplishment. Over a five-year period, I cooked at several different local country clubs that provided free room and board. In those days, I would party my money away, never saving for the future, living in the moment. This lifestyle caused a degree of shame and embarrassment for my family, who had hoped that I would become focused and make something of myself, like so many of their friends’ children had.
I attended the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, New York, and graduated with honors in 1992.
In 1994, my sister married a famous America’s Cup skipper, a living legend in the world of sailing. He offered me a job as a cook for his sailing team in the 1995 America’s Cup Campaign in San Diego, California. That job lasted nine months from beginning to end.
After the America’s Cup, I chose to stay and live in California, working at high-end restaurants and hotels in the kitchen position of garde manger, chef de partie, or roundsman in San Diego, Coronado, Point Loma, and LaJolla, California.
After a weekend outing with a girlfriend in Palm Springs, California, I became enchanted with the desert’s beauty and serenity. Palm Springs, for those who have not been there, is a town nestled at the base of Mount San Jacinto; a nearly 11,000 foot mountain. Upon seeing it for the first time, I was blown away by its idyllic setting. I decided to move there. I became interested in mountain climbing and climbed Mount San Jacinto and other neighboring mountains. I would often spend an entire day exploring and hiking in either Taquitz or Palm Canyons, both within walking distance of my apartment.
After seeing Good Will Hunting, I became inspired to write again and I wanted to write a screenplay of my own. I entered my first screenplay, entitled The Devil’s Canyon, in Matt Damon and Ben Affleck’s first screenwriting contest in 2001—Project Greenlight. Out of nearly twenty-thousand applicants, my screenplay advanced as a finalist. Although I did not win the contest, it was a great, positive reinforcement for my writing. I knew I was on the right track.
It was also at this time I began writing articles for Palm Springs Life Magazine. This was my first official published writing. Thanks to then chief editor Stewart Weiner, I got my big break to write and become a published author.
Chapter Two
Creating a Slave
After five years of writing and working as a chef in Palm Springs and Palm Desert, California, I knew if I wanted to sell any of my work, I would have to live closer to the source—Hollywood, just a two hour drive from my Palm Springs apartment.
In 2001, I moved to a tiny, sparse, single apartment building on Chula Vista Way in Hollywood, California. It had barely enough room to hold all my belongings and furniture. The good thing was that this apartment was in a great location and only cost $500 per month.
After just two weeks of living there, a former catering/cooking friend offered me a job cooking on Mark Barrnet’s reality show, Combat Missions. Principle filming only lasted six weeks, but it put me in touch with other motion picture caterers in and around the Hollywood area. Chefs can make as much as six to seven hundred dollars a day working on a TV series or motion picture doing location catering, but they are usually sixteen-hour days, six days a week, cooking on a truck in a mobile kitchen; and, with a great deal of pressure and stress. Taking home an average of $2,000 per week and traveling around the country, cooking for movie casts and crews and talent, was not only exciting, but monetarily rewarding.
Between working as a chef on site for movies, commercials, and TV series’, I would get a chance to do my screenwriting. For a new writer, selling a script in Hollywood is like selling sand at the beach. It’s hard to find an agency willing to read an unsolicited, submitted query letter— let alone a script.
In 2003, I was driving on Sunset Boulevard, returning to my apartment from a Starbucks coffee run, when I was rear-ended by a tow truck carrying another vehicle, severely injuring my neck, back, and left knee. This was the beginning of a dark pattern of events that would come to haunt and ruin my life. It was also on that same day that I met a neighbor who lived across the street from my apartment building. This fateful meeting would later become a moment of great regret.
Brian Eastfall was a twenty-seven year old hippie artist who dressed in black, homemade clothing. He sported long dreadlocks and had several distinct, dark tattoos and symbols on his arms. He seemed to have permanent paint and stains on his hands from constant drawing and painting spills and exposure to charcoal and colored pencils. He was unemployed and lived with his thirty-sever year old Japanese girlfriend, Kimza. She was quiet, attractive, and seemingly the opposite of her boyfriend.
I remember Brian proudly showing me his artwork, a collection of primitive drawings, sketches, and paintings, each with some kind of demonic undertone. He had created a website on which he would sell his artwork for unusually high prices. Most of his subject matter consisted of strange creatures. Black was the dominant color, with only the minimum of bright colors used. If a psychologist were to try to interpret this art as classic Rorschach ink-blot images, he could only draw one logical conclusion: that the artist was deeply depressed, delusional, angry, and psychotic.
When Brian asked me what I thought of his creations, I answered, unsure, “Wow, that’s…really unique.”
This day would later become a day of remorse, for soon afterwards, a string of bad luck and harassment began. A new tenant moved into the apartment below mine and would stay up all night, partying and playing loud music. Every night was a party with a new group of friends. It was the beginning of what would be described as a noise campaign. The once quiet neighborhood and apartment building soon became increasingly loud and disruptive during my usual morning, serene writing time.
Every night, just as I was going to sleep, I would hear slamming doors, banging, and hammering on walls. Continuous flushing of toilets in adjacent apartments and the sound of running water in the next door sink or bathtub awakened me and left me sleep deprived and stressed. The intermittent honking of horns from the garage beneath my building, firecrackers exploding in the middle of the night, yelling, and loud laughter and constant foot traffic of tenants coming and going made this once-perfect writer’s pad into an ongoing den of noise and endless frustration. Even after repeated complaints to the building’s management and many police reports filed concerning the tenant living directly below me, the noise campaign continued.
At this time, I also noticed that my pride and joy, a small, black Mercedes-Benz C230 Kompressor sports car, was constantly getting vandalized. I tried to keep the car perfect, but I would notice small scratches appearing in places only I would notice. The driver’s door handle was scratched, a small key-job was evident on the door, and a huge scratch suddenly appeared by the gas cap. Living in a big city like Los Angeles with all the traffic and tight parking, it’s hard to keep a car from getting tarnished, but when small damage becomes noticeable on a daily basis, it didn’t take long to figure out that this damage was no accident or coincidence.
I also noticed damage inside my apartment, such as gouges in the walls, stains, and scratches on the kitchen floor where there hadn’t been any before. The venetian blinds covering my porch and sliding door leading out to the small balcony were always getting broken and left on the floor. Small things like coasters on tables and even pieces of furniture were moved to other areas around my apartment.
I suspected that someone was getting into my apartment while I was out. When I informed the property manager about my suspicions, he would look at me in disbelief and say that it just did not sound possible.
Months later, after finally convincing him that I was telling the truth, it was the manager of my particular building who came to bat for me. He stuck up for me and confided in me what other tenants in the building were saying about me behind my back. Evidently, a malicious rumor campaign had been started, saying things about me that weren’t true. Those things included: I was a criminal, or that I was gay, or a pedophile—or —I was a spy trying to undermine the United States government. I was shocked and angry to have anything untrue said about me—especially behind my back.
When I was out of town and working on a movie, I would return to my apartment to find lights I had left turned on earlier, were later turned off—and closet doors were open, when I had left them closed. I also noticed small chips in china plates and cracked glasses, especially with my photographic memory. I could clearly see things were different and that someone was getting into my apartment and leaving behind small, but obvious, evidence of illegal entry.
After months of continuous noise harassment, impeding my ability to write—and more importantly causing severe sleep deprivation—there were also odd electronic disturbances, such as flickering and browning of my lights at night. My computer would often turn itself off by itself. I decided to move.
My parents had visited once in the five years I lived in that apartment and they could not understand how anyone could live in such a small place. Clearly, I could afford to live somewhere much nicer.
I also traded in my car and got a brand new, black Mercedes-Benz E350. I would spend hours washing, polishing, and maintaining its clean and perfect appearance, and then stand back and admire it. It was the only luxury in my life.
As an aspiring screenwriter, determined to sell a script in the movie capital of the world, I decided to stay in Los Angeles and moved across town to a beautiful apartment on the prestigious row of upscale housing on Burton Way.
Two weeks after I moved in with all new furniture, the noise campaign began again and small damage to my car and scratches on the newly painted white walls began appearing again. New sheets were ripped. Holes and puncture marks showed up on my brand new pillow cases. Upon close inspection, I found small dents and nicks in the brand new paint on my car. Sometimes, even when the car sat for days or weeks without being used, it would end up with flat tires and deep scratches in the alloy wheels, which would upset me to no end. As soon as I had this damage repaired, similar damage would happen to another wheel.
It was also at this time, that I noticed that a Japanese tenant living down the hall from me would mysteriously leave his apartment at the exact same time I left mine. At first I thought it was just a strange coincidence, but my neighbor would exit his apartment just as I was locking my door behind me—every day, even if I changed my schedule. As we walked down the hall together towards the stairs, I would say, “Good morning.” He would never reply—instead, he would give me a hard, angry stare. After a while, I gave up saying hello to this jerk and walked down the hall ahead of him and down the stairs by myself.
Random cars would park outside my apartment in the alley behind the building and the drivers would just sit there chatting loudly on their cellphones or blast the music on their stereo systems. These cars always had their high-beam headlights on, even in the middle of the day.
My father had sent me a cellphone jammer for fun and entertainment purposes only. With this device, I would block the cellphone conversation of anyone within one hundred feet of my apartment, through walls and closed windows. I could now instantly end an unwanted, intrusive, nearby conversation. I had to use this device covertly, because the use of a cellphone blocker is against the law in California.
As soon as my one-year lease was up, I wanted to move again. In addition to all the regular continuous noises associated with living in an urban environment and the continuous noise campaign, there was also a city bus depot across the street from my apartment. The thunderous sounds and deep rumbling and vibrations of the buses coming and going were inescapable—even with earplugs.
I moved again in spring of 2007 to another apartment building half a mile away on the Beverly Hills border line, in a quieter, slightly less trafficked area. The first month was a dream: good writing, quiet, with excellent sleeping and no stress.
As if on cue, the familiar disruptive noises and property damage began appearing. This time, my clothing—most of it brand new—started to show signs of wear and tear in exactly the same places. The right armpits and sides of all my shirts were ripped, and all had big holes beneath the bottom front button. All of my shorts and blue jeans had small holes in the crotch, in places where no one would feel comfortable having an opening.
An air conditioner in the apartment above mine was partially broken and would make a deep hum and vibrate throughout each night, making it impossible to sleep. Despite appealing to management to fix the air conditioner, it remained unrepaired.
I started to feel nauseous and began getting terrible headaches. From somewhere, a gas or some chemical with a distinct acidic smell would permeate throughout my apartment. I finally traced this leakage to the drains in the bathroom sink and bathroom sink and shower/tub drains. A terrible, strong sulfur stench would also fill the air in my apartment during the day.
Other things were occurring to make me feel as if I had lost my mind. A full bottle of shampoo would be empty the next day except for one small drop. The same thing would happen to a new tube of toothpaste. Full jars of vitamins would have only one vitamin left in them. Not only was this occurrence frustrating, it became expensive to replace empty bottles of body lotion or bars of soap every few days. Whenever I opened a new product, I would have to mark the date down on the calendar to prove to myself that it was not just my imagination that they were being used up so quickly.
Afraid of being called crazy for reporting this ongoing strange set of coincidence patterns, I decided to investigate on the Internet, searching things like moved furniture, property damage, vehicle damage, constant noise patterns. Two phrases kept appearing: ‘organized stalking’ and ‘gang stalking.’
I had never heard of such a crime, but all of the information on the websites I visited described in detail exactly the same weird things that were happening to me—including the strange smells, slamming doors, and loud music. There were other things mentioned which I had not noticed before—things such as garbage left in front of my door and finding my apartment door open when I knew I had locked it when leaving. Now all these things that I had read about, were all happening to me—but why?
I had never been to the art shows held by my old neighborhood acquaintance, Brian, although he always would send me an email invitation. However, in late September of 2007, I decided to get away from the “cursed and seemingly haunted apartment” and attend one of his shows.
Brian and his Japanese girlfriend, Kimza, greeted me when I arrived at 7:00 p.m. I immediately noticed that everyone there—except for me, Brian, and some of his friends that perform together in an alternative music band—was Japanese. Brian speaks and writes Japanese fluently. Other than Kimza, I didn’t know any Japanese people.
Nothing unusual took place at this event. I stuck around for about three hours. I had taken a taxi cab to this art show, because if I had any wine or beer, I didn’t want to drive home. Brian and Kimza quickly volunteered to drive me back home. They dropped me off outside my latest apartment complex. Before this particular night, I hadn’t disclosed to them my new address.
Three months later, I sat in an apartment alone and became increasingly aware something was wrong with this situation. My neighbors and other tenants would leave the building whenever I exited. These same people would magically appear just as I returned to the building. It is a technique known as enter/exit, a stalking method designed to annoy and confuse the Targeted Individual: me. This method, over time, will make the victims paranoid and appear delusional should they try to explain it to another person.
The more I read about Organized Stalking by proxy, the more aware and sensitized I became to my situation. I read about being potentially drugged, and I became very proactive. Drugging the victims or poisoning them were other popular tactics used by Perpetrators. No longer could I risk leaving half-finished food or open containers in the refrigerator. I had to “one-time” everything. That means I would have to buy prepared food and consume it all at one time, one meal at a time. Anything left over would have to be thrown out to avoid drugging potential.
I discovered and suffered all of this by myself, because there was no one to whom I could explain this bizarre crime. Who would believe me? It was just too strange.
Out of nowhere, I started to get terrible headaches and stomach aches. Normally, I was unusually healthy, with few or no physical complaints. Even the pain from my car accident, three years earlier, had diminished to a point where it was not bothering me.
I had read that a popular tactic by perpetrators is to dismantle a microwave in the victim’s apartment, then reassemble it so that it functions, but now leaks deadly microwave energy. Without spending money on a microwave leak detector, here is an easy and effective method for testing any microwave oven for leakage. While the oven is off, place a cellphone inside and shut the door. Do not turn the oven on. Then, either using a hardline phone or another cellphone, try to call the one that is inside the microwave oven. If the cellphone inside the oven does not ring, that means the microwave is sealed properly. If the cellphone does ring, either repair or replace the microwave oven.
Starting on January 1, 2008, I began feeling very weird. I had a terrible fear in the pit of my stomach, and my eyesight and vision had changed. As I sat at my desk writing, the periphery of my vision was distorted. Out of the corner of my eye, I would perceive a fixed object like a lamp, to move slightly and return to its original position. My eyes became very sensitive to sunlight.
I had been drugged with LSD-25. Drugging individuals with this substance is accomplished by putting it in their toothpaste, shampoo, hand lotion, or any toiletries. This drug can be applied to a door handle or directly on a toothbrush, and can be absorbed into the system via these covert methods. Even items such as toilet paper or tissue paper, pillows, and sheets can all be tainted with drugs. So what I could not wash or clean, I threw out.
Because I was unable to determine the exact source of my drugging, whenever I left my apartment, I had to bring all of my toiletries and open containers with me in a small backpack. That way, I knew for sure that these items were still pristine and untainted. I also had to go through other precautionary steps like constantly using products like Windex to wipe down all doorknobs and cabinet door knobs. Nothing was out of the realm of possibility. Even things like clean silverware and utensils had to be washed again before using them.
I even went to an optometrist to see if there was something wrong with my vision just to eliminate that possibility. My eye exam was normal. When I went to my regular doctor complaining about headaches and occasional nausea, he simply said that it was most likely a flu or a cold, as it was cold season that time of the year.
One night, I decided to watch some cable TV and have a beer. After one sip of beer, I felt immediately tired and fell asleep on top of my bed still fully dressed. I didn’t know it at the time, but I had been drugged with a powerful drug and hallucinogen called Scopolamine. Even though the bottle of beer I was drinking from was unopened, the top end of the bottle, from which one can drink, was evidently painted with this drug.
Victims of most date rape drugs will be able to recall what happened to them under hypnosis. This is not possible with Scopolamine, because the memory is completely blocked and never formed. Therefore, it’s nearly impossible to have a victim remember, that which was never recorded by the brain’s formation of a particular memory.
I woke up in what at first I thought was a dream. I was being escorted down a long underground tunnel or hallway to a room at the end. My vision was cloudy and blurry, and I was hallucinating both in my hearing and my vision. I felt like I was slightly drunk, but I had only taken one sip of the beer before going to sleep.
Two individuals dressed in long black robes and wearing strange, full-face masks held me on either side by my arms. They were silently walking and guiding me closer to the room at the end of the hall. The room was dimly lit by amber colored candles that cast eerie shadows on the walls.
Approximately twelve to fifteen people, all wearing the same kind of black robes and carnival masks, sat Indian-style in a circle. The carnival masks were held in place by an elastic band. They only covered part of the person’s face, the area surrounding the eyes, and part of the nose. Although all of these people wore masks, it was still easy for me to see that these people were Asian; enough of their facial features were visible to make this distinction. However, I noticed the exception was that one masked man was not Asian; and his face was somewhat familiar. Then, I noticed something I will never forget: a familiar tattoo on the top of his left hand—it was Brian.
I was led to the middle of the circle and gestured to sit down. In the background, there were the awful sounds of people screaming and crying.
Scopolamine is often used in abduction cases especially in its homeland of Columbia in South America. The unwitting victim of a small dose of this powerful drug will act and speak normally, without any trace of being intoxicated, but they will remember little or none of this experience.
Fifty percent of all Targeted Individuals or abduction victims that are drugged with Scopolamine die. Proper weight and size ratios must be calculated perfectly for the victim to survive. The effects of Scopolamine do not last long, and the person being drugged develops a quick tolerance to the drug’s effects. Therefore, to keep a victim under its influence, they must be constantly re-drugged, approximately every eight to twelve hours, with an ever-increasing, higher dosage to achieve the same effect.
This is the world’s most dangerous drug. Burundanga or boracherra, as it is known in Columbia, loosely translates to “get you drunk.” It’s a favorite drug in the criminal underworld and very accessible, as easy to obtain as heroin or cocaine; but, there is nothing recreational about Scopolamine. It has only criminal elements to it, mostly for abduction, sex and or robbery. The victim suffers nearly complete amnesia, and is only barely able to remember the few moments between druggings. This was where my gifts had helped me; my intuition and my photographic memory—although challenged—prevailed.
I remember while sitting in the center of the circle of people wearing strange masks, looking at who I knew was my neighbor, Brian. I spoke out loud, “Dude, why are you letting this happen to me?” There was no answer.
The leader, sitting at one side of the circle, was the only person who spoke. I looked at him; his face appeared slightly blurred and seemingly half melted. He looked at me and said, “Michael, do you know what is going to happen tonight?”
I looked at him and replied, “No.”
He said that his name was “Queenie”—and he told me matter-of-factly, “Tonight, you are going to die.”
On top of being held in the vice-like grip of this terrible drug, and being in a strange and scary place, the thought of being killed was overwhelming. I started to cry and asked, “What? Why? No, no, no, why?”
The leader looked long and hard at me, examining how this terrible news had affected me. He asked, “Do you have anything you would like to say—before you leave this world?”
I started talking, going on and on as if I were in some sort of filibuster, thinking perhaps if I talked long enough or said the right thing, maybe I could make them change their minds.
There was a stone altar located directly behind the leader with a lit candle sitting in the center of it. I thought to myself, nobody knows I’m down here. Now they are going to sacrifice me to the Devil, and when they’re done with me, they’ll take my body and bury it out in the desert, and that will be the end of me. I also remember thinking at this point, as horrible as it was that I would die, no one would ever see me again. I would just disappear, and my poor family would never know the truth. They would know most likely, that something very bad has happened to me, but, I would just be lost…forever.
There was just enough movement in the air to make the candle flicker, and on the wall behind the altar, I began to see hallucinations. The shadows looked like a fierce and angry dragon. The shadows kept changing and switching the way the image appeared, making it look alive and then making it disappear. From somewhere, I could still hear the lonely, pitiful screams of agony and despair.
Despite being in this situation, my intuition took over. I could see these were simply people hiding behind strange looking masks.
My heart was racing, and I was sweating profusely. I knew that they had given me some kind of powerful drug, and I knew if I could keep talking and telling stories about my life, at least I was still alive. I talked about a favorite dog my family had when I was growing up—Lilly White, and how much I loved her. I talked about my travels, my favorite TV shows, and how much I liked certain shows, and how I really enjoyed the music from certain sitcoms. It was like I was being given my last rights. Nobody stopped me from talking, so I kept on, hoping to keep my life a little longer.
At one point, the drug overpowered me, and I collapsed backwards, feeling very drowsy, onto the stone floor. Then, everything went black.
The next thing I can remember is lying on a flat, cold stainless steel table, in a small, dark room with no windows. There were two men standing over me wearing white surgical masks, light green surgeon’s shirts, and had latex gloves on their hands. There was a very bright light shining directly into my eyes. I could barely see and had to squint. Light sensitivity is one of many side effects of the drug, Scopolamine. I could hear instruments sliding and being moved on a small table next to one of the masked men standing over me.
I was so frightened, I could not even speak. Out of the corner of my eye, another man held a syringe. I remember this because it was a real medical syringe with a stainless steel handle and a loop where the finger would go through to press down on the lever to release whatever its contents were, through the needle. The man standing over me looked over at the other man and silently nodded.
Then I was sent into blackness with one last memory. Fully anesthetized, I fell into a deep sleep.
Chapter Three
Something Is Horribly, Terribly Wrong
“Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because fiction is obligated to stick to possibilities; truth isn’t.”—Mark Twain
I woke up in a strange room, much like a guest room in a very nice house. I lay on a large bed with nice sheets, blankets, and a pillow. Some of my clothing was still on me, including my pants and boxer shorts, but my shirt was off and my shoes and socks were on the floor. A pile of assorted coats and jackets was stacked on a chair on one side of the room. I was in an extra room that had been used as a coat room, in the way people do for their guests at dinner parties.
I remember very well seeing a digital clock on a nearby table with red numerals; it read 1:33 p.m. I looked around the room, and saw one window behind me. It was a bright, sunny day outside. In the background, I could see hills and houses on these hills. It seemed as if I was on the second floor of the house, as I had a commanding view looking down on a small lawn and a lovely garden below the window.
The Scopolamine was wearing off at this point, and I remember how bright the sun was. I still had to squint, as this bright light hurt my eyes. I could see a very nice mansion next door with tall palm trees and beautiful landscaping surrounding it.
This is one of my strongest memories during this abduction. Even now, I can remember thinking that it was a large mansion in the Beverly Hills or Bel Air area. The hills in the background looked familiar. I had seen them from another angle while hiking in Runyon Canyon and in Bronson Park, looking down on these hills from my favorite hike up above the famed Hollywood Sign.
The effects of the Scopolamine were diminishing to the point that I was able to get dressed, so I put on my shirt, socks, and shoes. I stood up and felt a little dizzy.
Although my vision was slightly blurry, I could see a single door across the room. I knew I had to try to escape from this terrible nightmare, get outside, and try to get back to my apartment somehow so I could tell someone what had happened to me.
As I approached the door, what looked like two decorative knights standing on either side of the door wearing black robes, suddenly came to life, and blocked the door. They were two sentry guards that had been standing perfectly still, wearing masks, left to watch me. They silently stood between me and the door and I knew it was hopeless and went back and sat on the edge of the bed.
I was so disoriented from the Scopolamine that I had not even noticed that they were there until they moved. I was aware that something was horribly, terribly wrong. As I sat there, I felt more and more of the drug leaving my system, leaving me more aware of my situation.
These people were holding me against my will, without my permission. How could this be happening? I felt like I was the central character in a real-life horror film, not knowing my fate or what would happen next. I repeatedly tried to stand up and headed for the door, but each time I did, the guards would stand in front of the door, preventing me from leaving. I was weak and still partially drugged and definitely in no position to try over power them. I went back to the bed and fell asleep.
I next awoke in mid-stride, being walked through the now-open door down a hallway lined with various sized indoor palm and ficus trees. I walked across a polished, marble, checkerboard, black and white floor, through an empty, upscale living room with several chairs and a sofa. This was a super-wealthy residence, filled with both classic and modern artwork hanging on the walls and several sculptures. They were made from wood and bronze, all primitive Giacometti-type tall, thin sculptures.
Even though I could never really see the Perpetrator’s faces completely, I could tell they were young; most seemed to be between the ages of twenty-one and thirty-five and wore Carnival masks, although the guards and a few others wore full-faced masks. All of these masks were identical, with glowing red eyes that were most likely tiny light bulbs powered by batteries.