The individual against the syndicate in 2044: a short story

by Jon Rappoport

October 14, 2018

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You’re an unemployed artist.

The year is 2044. A series of bombings has rocked the Capitol in the Western White House District, which is located in the heart of Hollywood. The Eastern seaboard is now uninhabitable, owing to a mysterious Bayer-Monsanto accident, which rendered all plant life in that region poisonous…

Reality is a nasty syndicate operation. The technical side is put together by high-IQ idiots. They like to fiddle. They like the con. They like to torpedo the mind.

The syndicate is the Reality Manufacturing Company.

You buy a ticket to Disneyland, which encompasses the area from San Francisco to Tijuana, go through the big gate, and soon find out there’s no exit. At least you’re relatively safe. You book a small hotel room in Aspartame Village.

A note is taped to the back of the toilet, where you’ve been told to look. It’s unsigned. You read it while you’re preparing supper: powdered eggs, water, and a squirt of SweetHeaven:

“Greetings, GuestL28vi35. This to warn you the pillars of the community, the people who are supposed to be ‘doing good,’ are up to their necks in the operation. They’re hustling reality like porn.

“At the upper levels, we’ve even got the STE Command, peddling the space-time-energy continuum everyone is so fond of. Only one tin can and we’re all in it, biological machines ‘doing our best to get along.’

“Until recently, there was a sense that artists knew something about all this and were exposing the Company. But now, propaganda is eating into their psyches, or their work isn’t finding the light of day. Some have been conned into high-flying rhetoric about saving humanity and working together to build a better world inside the prevailing political framework. There is no better world inside the prevailing political framework.

“It’s just another hustle. Cheap salesmen on the job. ‘Here, let me try this pair of shoes on you. I think you’ll like them a lot…they’re supposed to feel tight, otherwise, the design doesn’t work.’

“The artist should be ripping away masks, exposing the Company employees. Adorning some fake religion promoted by the State, like the current MaR24tc, isn’t his job.

“But he’s promoting peace these days as if it were a little magic stone you rub. Or a gold fairy worm inside a gourd you shake.

“Overthrowing the reality-con is the work of the artist. He’s got to take to it like a duck to water. He has to like it. He has to use his weapons, all of them. He has to build bigger towers than the Company.

“Lately, have you noticed people asking you, ‘Are you coming from a place of anger or love?’ First of all, ‘coming from a place of’ is psycho-op lingo. It’s fake wisdom for the kiddies (adults whose development has been arrested in the Oprah-phase). I personally am coming from a lot of different places, including San Diego. It’s a town populated by many androids. They’ve learned to affect a pose of happiness because frankly they don’t know what else to do.

“I bring this up because it’s another Company op. Goes like this: find a place ‘to come from,’ and then make your existence an emotional bumper sticker. REDUCTION.

“That’s exactly what the syndicate wants. It opposes proliferation because it can’t profile it. The Matrix is built on the need to reduce thought. Reduction inevitably leads to whining and complaining. Then props called spiritual leaders emerge out of the woodwork and offer to solve the complaints. But they never can (even if they wanted to), because the original problem remains. REDUCTION.

“Our glorious New Age, so-called, is exactly that: THOUGHT REDUCTION. It fails, and the aftermath is ugly. People become contortionists and end up eating their own livers. They don’t even know how to season them. They take it straight.

“You might be wondering who I am. I’m from the Movable Underground Museum. You’ve probably heard of it. The Company calls us dangerous because we’ve found a way to dismantle their product.

“I can’t give you details in an open message. Keep your eyes open. We show up here and there. You’ll know. So far, we’ve laid out two new universes. They’re empty. Lots of room for adventurous souls.

“Here’s something else to keep your eye on, too. The Company’s reality is breaking down. You may see seams in odd places where there shouldn’t be any. Don’t pick at them or point them out to other people. You’ll get busted for that. A seam is usually a long thin blue line. If it pops far enough, you’ll see a different kind of space behind it. Stay calm.

“For the past two weeks, a big seam has been exposed at the corner of Sunset Boulevard and Vermont Avenue. Don’t try to go there. Crowds were gathering. The DHS came in and hosed them down with a version of Roundup. Upwards of six thousand people were arrested, and DHS has the area cordoned off with tanks.

“If you can still pick up SubNetB8 on your mobile device, you can see pictures. The white light streaming through the gap in the seam? It’s been photoshopped in. It isn’t really there. Neither are the UFOs or the voices. That’s the Company. They’re staging a ‘virtual drill’ in the area. Lots of phony religious content. It’s a cover. They’ve built a temp church in Silver Lake to handle the overflow of new believers.

“If somebody approaches you with an offer to travel to Mexico, then sneak back into the US and apply for benefits, don’t bite. Tomorrow morning, before nine, walk to the Mickey Pavilion, turn left and keep going for about a mile. On your right, you’ll see a small shed painted green. Behind the shed is a cheap water ride. Take out a boat and row to the Secret Tunnel.

“Take it. When the little train has been in the tunnel for a minute, you’ll see a dim corridor on your left. Hop off the train and walk along the corridor. You’ll come to the back of the Clinton-Bush-Obama Mountain. At the base is a service door. It’s unlocked.

“Go through and you’ll be standing on the corner of Ashbury Street and First Avenue. A day’s walk east will take you out into the desert. The fences are broken. Get out into the desert and head toward the Nevada Hills. You’ll see it. It’s a huge white hotel about five miles in.

“A mile before the hotel, you’ll come to a wide crack in the desert floor. It’s not a crack. The Company’s Simul is breaking down there. It’s an exit. Use it if you have the courage.”

You burn the note, sit and eat your powdered eggs and watch the news. You think about what you’re going to do. Or not do.

A few sentences float in from somewhere. They were written by Philip K Dick, an ancient writer whose works have been outlawed:

“Because today we live in a society in which spurious realities are manufactured by the media, by governments, by big corporations, by religious groups, political groups…So I ask, in my writing, What is real? Because unceasingly we are bombarded with pseudo-realities manufactured by very sophisticated people using very sophisticated electronic mechanisms…And it is an astonishing power: that of creating whole universes, universes of the mind. I ought to know. I do the same thing.”

Exit From the Matrix

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Exit From The Matrix, click here.)

Jon Rappoport

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.

7 comments on “The individual against the syndicate in 2044: a short story

  1. Violet Rose Gold says:

    Haven’t heard from you in quite a while. Missed your brilliant take on today’s insanity. >

  2. Larry says:

    “Reality is a nasty syndicate operation. The technical side is put together by high-IQ idiots. They like to fiddle. They like the con. They like to torpedo the mind.”

    I thought this was supposed to be a work of fiction???

  3. Michael Burns says:

    I like your story…it made me think of this one I wrote a while ago. It longer than presented here…I have condensed it for obvious reasons. but it hasn’t hurt it. Maybe you will like, since you like stories too. It’s called…


    “There’s a hole in sun,
    and all that was given will fall back there someday.
    The life we live here is measured it seems, by the sins from some past existence.
    The closer you get to the end…
    the more you remember from the very beginning, and…just before it.
    It takes a lifetime to scratch away that veil of forgetting.”

    The walk:

    It’s 5:34 am, October 31st, 2027.
    Tonight is Halloween, and there’s a ragged chem-snow falling, as white feathers out of a busted pillow. Quiet, it falls in slowly, motion shaken out of its slip by an unseen hand. Grey toxic clouds, have us locked down, and caged in, and away from the sunlight, going on a month now. It is terrible how much you can miss the sun — the heart can ache for its light, like for a lover touch.

    They will reach a decision soon, I am sure of it, and then they will come for me. I have been feeling that for a long time now. Their little bots have been crawling all over my place. I see them move across the screen as I type this; micro-drones are getting in, under the doors; the updates on my IdentiTablet are happening on a daily basis now. I changed the settings on auto-update, but the bots got in and changed them all back again. I see the Internet flicker lights, on the little black box…the information going up and down the wire. Tiny little snitches running back…

    I can hear their frequencies.

    Sometimes it is like a dripping tap, or the trickling of water in the corner of the room. Just out of ear shot, but known enough to aggravate, to frustrate and confuse me. A soft tingling. Sometimes a whisper.

    My sleep can be sporadic, and I am aware of the forced dreaming when I do sleep. And their attempt at placing thought. I quickly wake up from it, usually in an exhausted panic. Something of a night terror, as they try to slip quietly into my head. Like a cat in the godam bulrushes. And change me from within…change me. Change me into what?

    The morning headaches, the ache and lethargy in my bones and muscles. The metallic taste, always at the back of my mouth, as the nanos are in food. What they call thems..oh yeah, flavour buds, or cleaning beads if there in my shampoo.

    Feels sometimes like I am pissing, ground glass — as my body tries to shed itself of all their little tiny corruptions. And in that, I walk over and pick up the plastic bottle on the table, and take one of Advillenol Super Nanogels for my headache. I choke it down. I hear it click, and feel the tiny buzz as it activates.

    Everyone in this town is dark, with heads down and depressed; I see them on my way to the store. They talk of the weather, as if they know… I try to get them to remember clouds, the different types of clouds. The different shapes and the heights that they would form at, and they look at me strangely, and I laugh to myself. And then I feel bad about laughing.

    The older ones once knew, but can’t remember any longer, everybody short-term memory is shot from the widely available, and free of charge, Cannabiscuits. Always offered, when you enter a public place — usually with a cup of coffee. So fucking nice of them. 

    I feel like throwing up, the Nano-gel is working its wonders, headache gone, but know my gut hurts.

    I fade on past, bid them well, leaving them in their ignorance of how and why all this happens.  I won’t stop writing! I won’t stop thinking. And why such great power wasted on one thing, one human, one man..because; they can waste such resources, and because they unseen can reach across and touch and tear me down. And I know it, and they have me know that they know it. I play this game; and I have never, nor will I ever see their faces.

    I have taken to backing up my writings in paper, and it is very difficult to find. I sit for hours with paper and pencil and duplicate the day’s work. I have it on the backs of old envelopes and brown paper bags. Old books I can find and white wash out the print. And then write in them.

    The incessant changing of my words, what is rewritten by their technology. The subtle shifts of meaning — I am being gaslighted. Slowly Alzheimered like the rest. They steal the notebooks, and re-write them, and I start over again. It a slow process and they are very good at it, and so very patient at it…

    I take a lot of walks, and I found a kind of, dead zone about ten miles out-of-town. No bots, no nineG, no EMF, a hole in the InterWorld. I walk out-of-town about three miles, to an old bicycle I have stashed in scrub bush and grasses, and then ride swiftly to that little sacred place. 

    Its snowing today though…

    I think they are out of range there, besides it’s no place — maybe it is an area on the far corner of the broadcast, and the many overlapping signals, a tiny place otherwise unnoticeable. I have never seen anyone there — I generally do not see many people walking like me. People don’t walk anymore. I don’t know what they do.

    It a piece of wasteland, it has no particular value, old corrupted land. No large trees or exceptional foliage. I am usually sore when I get there, aching and a bit tired…but it’s a miracle every time to arrive there and feel it. Sometimes I wonder if it really is accidental. I have become so paranoid. I am not sure if they know — there are times when I am low that I feel they have allowed this place because they wish to use it, in some way against me.

    I enter the place as if… I have gone through an invisible door in reality, a crack opens and I pass through into a peaceful calm that falls on me instantly. As though, someone threw a warm soft blanket around my shoulders upon arriving from the bitter cold.

    And that cold outside, snowy world is a wall that surrounds the little place. But cannot penetrate it. You can feel it, it is just, there, at the end of my arms — the invisible wall. Just out of reach, felt, but yet not quite.

    I am lighter here in this little place, I weigh less, I am sure of it and I float on my feet. I feel strength in my body and legs again. The air is different, sweet in each inhalation.
    My blood stops pounding through my head. The constant headache eases.

    I have to sit down on the ground for a moment as soon as I enter that place. It’s not that I am tire from the ride, I am use to it now.
    I have never felt so relaxed like that, entering into that place, so content. I am sure this is how I would feel all the time, if left alone with the natural world.

    My breath enters and leaves my lungs as it should, effortlessly. Not laboured. As if it breathed for the first time. The ringing stops and everything is quiet, so very quiet, like sleep with my eyes open.

    It’s not much of a place there, it’s not even that beautiful. I remember nature from when I was young and I saw some beautiful places
    woody places were life thrived forever separated from the harm of us. I have wondered if those places of youth still exist.

    There is odd bits of ancient trash hanging on the edges of the trees, and the ground is full of super-weeds — trying to pull life from that precious little piece of ground.
    The trees are average trees, they seem like natural trees, poplar and tamarack. But, even they, are…relaxed. Quietly, still as if looking, watching and content. The shapes of the leaves and the way they hang, they like that — the branches reaching for the light, so natural. I swear the trees are happy. Not twisted and tormented like those growing things around the town.

    There is a smell of freshness, real freshness, not the artificial kind. A humus smell reaches up to me, a fresh rotting smell of grasses and leaves and goodness, reaches up from life in the natural. It has an odor from long ago, I remember it long ago, nostalgic of the beginning of this world. I have been here a long, long time on this world.

    I saw a bird there once — I didn’t know what to do at first, I was so excited and stood so still and would not move, dare I spook the little thing. I was shocked, and that excitement filled me for hours — I could not stop smiling, I was afraid someone might guess, when I went back, or know what I saw and I wanted to tell them all. I really did. I wanted to tell every single person. I wanted to yell it all the way back home…

    I thought for a moment, it was a hallucination. I thought, I have become light-headed, the ride has shorten my oxygen, and I am seeing things. But I am not seeing things — I thought they were all extinct…every single one of them. I love birds.
    I remember them as a child, they were everywhere one looked. Flying everywhere; living in trees and the sky, flying and singing and chirping and mating. The memory is so far back, at the edges of what I consider real.

    Birds have been gone for a number of years now, viruses and diseases, they say; a fading dream of an old fresh world. There are not many left alive that remember birds. Maybe they have been gone longer than I think. Maybe I am not remembering correctly. Maybe I am older than I think.

    Off course they have them in the government zoos. Or they are those factory farm bred chicken for food, genetically modified, featherless, unable to walk. But no wild birds exist anymore. In fact, there are no insects or frogs, or little small creatures at all. I wonder what that bird eats? 

    I watched that bird… It was one of those little junco’s. A tiny fellow with light-colored beak and charcoal coat of fluffy feathers. He was a bit chubby and very quick. I enjoyed watching birds as a child. I use to know all their names, and their habitats…he wasn’t afraid of me. He would bounce onto the ground pick something up, a seed or something, and then bounce back up into the trees. He seemed healthy enough.
    Time slowed as I watched him, I think it stopped, stopped dead and I felt as if years were falling off me, and the bird and the quiet, and a slow heartbeat, and no wind and the cool…and my warm blanket around my shoulders. The little place. This is clear…this is clarity, and pure. And so very, very slow.

    I can usually only stay there about twenty minutes and then I have to leave. I have a notebook and pencil there that I love to write in, and leave it hidden behind a tree, at the base in a plastic bag. I write my clear thoughts, observations, and try to sketch them. I take my long ride back, and gradually the grey curtain grows in intensity as I gain distance, closing to town. It is a hard leaving it…I force myself to leave.

    All the crap flows back inside of me, like my visit has acted as a dam inside my head, holding back all that crazy. I start to worry if they know. I am walking there so many times a week. I fear they are watching, and have been since I left the re-orientation complex six months ago. Will they find this little place and destroy it, do they already know about it, and so are waiting to use it at the right time against me. I shake these thoughts loose, and persevere on I go into the town. Lost in a fretting for while, home-sickness jumps me as I arrive into town. Not wanting to enter that place, or to live there…lost. Completely lost.

    One day, I am going to go that place, enter that crack in reality, my little place and stay there..stay there for a while.

    • TkA says:

      Good writing. Don’t stop. Don’t ever listen to anybody about your writing after you have read this sentence.

  4. Norman Kangas says:

    Michael, that was way too wordy.
    Excellent effort from Jon as always.

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