by Jon Rappoport
March 13, 2017
In the Copper District, he walked through narrow alleys. He sniffed a cascade of fear.
He turned a corner and saw a large man kneeling on the cobblestones. Lying on her back, an old woman was trying to scream but she couldn’t. The large man raised his arm to strike her.
He approached the large man and grabbed his head. He twisted it sharply. The large man fell backwards, looked up at his attacker and then was gone from the world.
He said to himself: I killed a man but I’m not a killer.
He sat in his furnished room in the city.
He spoke: “Citizens, who delivers justice? Only the State? Am I now a fugitive? How many cameras captured what I did?”
Some people in the city heard his voice. They didn’t know who he was or where he was.
In his room, he walked over to an old gas stove. He lifted a square grate from a burner. He twisted it into two pieces his hands. He dropped the pieces on the floor.
He twisted the air of the room into a vortex. It began to spin. The light fixture in the ceiling tore loose and fell into the whirlwind and disappeared.
This is new, he thought.
He walked into the bathroom and took a shower and went to bed.
The next morning, as he was getting dressed, a group of policemen dressed in black burst through his door. They were holding shields and automatic weapons. They screamed at him to get down on the floor.
He felt calm. He kneeled on the floor. Two men cuffed him and chained his ankles together.
Later, he was led from his jail cell to an assembly hall filled with people.
He was frog-marched to a chair under a spotlight in the middle of the hall and he sat down and allowed his captors to tie him to the back of the chair.
He looked around the room. He saw anger and resentment and fear in people’s eyes.
An amplified modulated voice said:
“This is a man who has committed a grave transgression. He has asserted himself beyond the needs of the group. He has left the human community. Is there anyone here who would seek to forgive him?”
The voice continued: “He has tried to override the public voice. He has made himself his own Law. He has tried to be more than human. He must pay.”
Murmurs throughout the audience.
The voice, again: “We are all victims of oppression. Every citizen of Earth is a victim of oppression. That is our heritage. That is what binds us. From this, we gain collective strength. We gain mutual love. But this man chooses to be different. By what right?”
Then, as if a signal had been transmitted, the audience rose and said: “Kill him.”
“Kill him. Kill him.”
The man stretched his arms and broke his ropes and his cuffs. He spread his legs and broke his chains. He stood up.
He rose up into the air above the crowd and said: “What do you want?”
A golden radiance filled the hall.
“Do you want healing?”
The radiance entered their bodies.
“Do you want justice? You’ll first have to separate yourselves from each other and live your own lives? Do you understand?”
The people now stared blankly at nothing, as if they had been drugged.
He rose higher in the hall and flew back and forth just under the ceiling.
“Do you think what I’m doing is evil?” he said.
The next day, the people who had been in the hall went about their business. They seemed not to notice they had been healed. They remembered nothing about what had happened.
Was this the first time they had forgotten?
Or had this occurred many times before?
One man who had been in the hall went on to write a book. It was called False Hope. It rose to become a massive best seller.
In it, he argued that any individual who stands outside the “body politic” is, by his very nature, a messenger of destruction. Such an individual seems to offer a way out of the human condition…but this is a grand deception.
“No,” he wrote. “We are all in this together. We have always been together. Any other assertion is a cruel delusion.”
He lived in a large house overlooking a town. Every day he went into the town with a camera and filmed the residents—and then at night he would sit in his kitchen and watch the footage.
He didn’t know why. He only knew it gave him comfort to see people doing the same thing every day, speaking more or less the same words every day.
This was vital. This was the glue that kept people connected.
As he watched the footage every night, he would reach for his bottle of pills. The pills would calm him down.
Sedated, he would often see himself as a fish swimming far below the surface of a lake. Smoothly moving along, he would eat smaller fish.
When he had eaten several dozen fish, he would be able to go to bed and sleep.
On this night as the famous author slept, he dreamed he was a captain of law enforcement. Dressed in black, he was leading his squad through back alleys searching for an enemy. He tried to recall who the enemy was. He strained, but he couldn’t bring back the memory.
No matter, he thought. Someone knows. Someone has given the order.
He turned a corner and saw an old woman fleeing in the distance.
Closer, there was a familiar figure kneeling over a large man, who was dead. The figure lifted the large man and put him on his feet, twisted his neck, and with a snapping sound the large man came back to the world.
The two stood close to each other.
“Look at me,” the figure said. The large man looked at him. “I gave you justice once,” the figure said, “and I can do it again. Do you understand?”
The large man nodded.
“Go away now,” the figure said. “Consider your life.”
The dreamer wanted his camera, so he could record this event, so he could alert his bosses that a crime had been committed. A man had brought another man back to life.
Surely, that act was punishable by death.
Behind him, the captain heard his men chanting quietly, “All same. All same. We all same.”
He thought: where are my pills. I need sustenance. I need help.
He stood paralyzed for a long time.
He came to realize he was dreaming.
But he couldn’t exit the dream.
He thought: I’ll be here forever.
Panic rose in him like a great wave.
And then he heard a voice say, “You’ll be all right.”
He woke up in his bed and saw the figure in the alley walking out of the room.
The press reported: “Today, in midtown, a bizarre event. The author of a famous best seller was arrested for breaking into a warehouse where copies of his book were stored and burning down the building. Fire fighters responded quickly to an alarm, and no one was injured. A police spokesman told reporters the author claimed he was despondent because his brother recently died after a long illness. But a search of records shows no such brother exists…”
(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Power Outside The Matrix, click here.)
The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free NoMoreFakeNews emails here or his free OutsideTheRealityMachine emails here.
Jon, this left me speechless…other than in the language of imagination and my heart…with tears in my eyes….
She screamed my name like never before and I came running. ‘A scorpion, a scorpion was in my shoe when I put it on; it burns and hurts so much’. What color was it I asked? ‘I don’t know she said between sobs’. I grabbed the dropper and applied one drop. She looked stunned and it was obvious the pain was already subsiding. The venom was neutralized and within a day there was not even a trace of the puncture let alone the pain.
One day my friend, Jack, calls on the phone. He tells me his wife, Rebecca, is in the hospital, diagnosed with rabies, too late to treat, she is in a coma, they have given her 6 hours to live, will I go and see her?
Yes, I tell him, of course.
With no idea what to do I take two books off the shelf. Consult the index and then the references. I reach for two small vials and leave.
Rebecca is lying in the bed, unconscious, just barely breathing.
Placing the open vials beneath her nose I watch her chest rise barely, then again to inhale deeply. I say a prayer to the universal power and leave.
Two days later she was released to go home with no sign of rabies.
Rebecca lived another 7 years before dying, from an opiate overdose, and during those years she never had another petit mal seizure which had plagued her entire life.
One morning I awoke at 5 to tremendous banging on my ceiling; bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang…over and over again like a machine; what the fuck? I ran up the stairs of our two story condo and burst into the room of my mate, Ed. He had fallen from his bed and lay prone on the floor. His left side was paralyzed and his right side enveloped in violent tremors; I said one word and Ed, eyes wide, nodded.
Racing back down the stairs to the kitchen I grabbed a small jar from the cupboard and then back upstairs to Ed. Showing him my index finger and my tongue, then pointing to the bottle and then him, Ed nodded again. I placed my wet finger on the powder in the bottle and then on his tongue and immediately the tremors subsided to nothing and Ed’s eyes closed.
I called his friends, then 911, made Ed comfortable for his ride. Ed is still alive and doing much better; thank you.
My wife and I sat quietly watching the movie along with 1,000 others. Suddenly, she gripped my arm so hard I felt her pain. For whatever reason, maybe sitting improperly, she had pinched her sciatic nerve. I knew she was stifling a scream for appearance sake. There was nothing to do other than pick her up in my arms and walk out. A hundred yards, then two to our trailer and car. We got her seated, I shut things down in the camp and we drove home. Carrying my love into the house as she sobbed quietly from the sharp, slicing pain, I hurt too in empathy. Pain like an abscessed tooth but in the whole body it seemed. I knew that myself twice before; I knew it well. I laid her out in a makeshift bed. There was no way to get her up to the loft. Two herbs made the tea she drank and then she left through till dawn. For a day she could get up only to pee and had to fast. Just tea and water. After two days she was up and at her routine with no pain or evidence of her plight before.
These few stories are true. I am inexperienced in these things but I continue live and learn. I know you understand these words I have written, Jon, very well.
Keep writing, Jon, words are medicine too; even for the author.
A man had brought another man back to life.
Surely, that act was punishable by death.
This is how the guardians and the inmates of our current healthcare system act when told there is a simple cure for something they have been treating for 50 yrs.