Crunching the Super-Narrative – the Strange Case of James Casbolt, aka Michael Prince (of Lies) - Part 2 of 2

Tonight, the part of James Casbolt’s clone will be played by a young Tim Robbins.

MICHAEL. PRINCE. IT’S A WHOLE NEW TAKE ON ‘BAD.’ [PART 2 OF 2]

To the best of my knowledge – and in the gap of 5-or-so years between his first two interviews with Miles Johnston – James Casbolt,  who at some point along the way had started to do some more radio interviews and was becoming known by his other name Michael Prince, became ‘discredited’ in certain online conspiracy circles. Given that he had never provided any genuine concrete proof or evidence of anything in the first place, one can only wonder exactly how such a thing could happen.

Back in early 2007 (I am basing my dates here according to comments on an old Above Top Secret forum discussing this matter) Casbolt posted a number of images on his now-defunct website, which he offered as evidence of his claims with regards to alien contact and cover-ups. Some of these images started to circulate around the usual fringe ends of the internet. I don’t personally recall seeing all of these images, but according to Miles Johnston and other online commenters  (who are often the anonymous experts on these occasions), most of them were very quickly debunked as either pre-existing UFO pics – some of these, I believe being from the super-credible Meier/Adamski canon – or screen grabs from episodes of The X-Files and other sci-fi shows. According to a commenter on the ATS forum, Casbolt’s supposedly real photos of the interior of Dulce Base – which had apparently been passed on to him by high-up secret government sources – were swiftly identified as being from a perfectly innocuous underground subway in Stockholm, Sweden. Casbolt had either been very gullible in trusting his sources – as he later claims in the video interviews – or extremely  disingenuous in posting the pictures in the first instance.

Another image attributed to Casbolt – of an allegedly Annunaki being named ‘Lord Enlil’ – was soon identified as being a slightly altered image of Zbigniew Brzezinski, the former United States National Security Advisor to Jimmy Carter. What was so terrifyingly alien about the image? Brzezinski’s eyes had been digitally slanted and shrunk down, to make them look weird and creepy. One has to wonder how this image fooled the keen assassin’s eye of Casbolt himself.

“First The Project For The New American Century gets out and now this.”

A far more interesting – though similarly debunked – image shows a profile shot of a peculiarly-hued woman who has either green or bright white skin color depending on the image you happen to have stumbled across. For some reason (no, I know the reason – it’s a reason called ‘the internet’) the image seems frequently to be tagged as being that of an Annunaki-reptilian hybrid – despite the text box attached to the image describing the species as a ‘Nordic’ or ‘Tall White’ – in other words, the typical humanoid-looking and vaguely Scandinavian-in-appearance contactee-loving space people of yore. Looking beyond the flattened catlike nose, Hitler hairdo and eerily menacing glare of this alien woman, one is struck by a strange impression: she looks like one of those blank-eyed, bony-featured supermodels you can see images of online, wearing peculiar outfits seemingly not designed for humans. Indeed, an ATS forum on this image quickly ID’d this extraterrestrial visitor as a likely Photoshopping of a Polish model named Anja Rubik. There’s every possibility a great many catwalk models are actually Nordic Tall Whites… but I suspect that’s a heated discussion to be left for another day.

When super models go vegan.

Both of these images came with textual references to an organization going by the acronym SAALM. This, we are led to believe, stands for ‘Supreme Annunaki Alliance of Lord Marduk.’ despite some nonsensical detail about it online – which Casbolt was also unsurprisingly associated with – needless to say, no such organization exists. (Unless it actually does. In which case, I will obviously wind up looking like a right proper fool one day.)

So. At some point after his general debunking at the cynical hands of the internet – or at least in the eyes of anyone who was paying his story any cursory attention – Casbolt appeared to disappear from the conspiracy sphere of the online world. As someone who had found his wild tales mildly diverting, I assumed he was done with whatever wool he was pulling and had retired from his parapolitical prankery for good.

But then, in 2011, Casbolt made his return. His story remained largely intact, but had now taken on a number of new dimensions. Let’s look at some more aspects of how this epic has developed, as laid out by Casbolt in his Bases 9 interview – which was released in mid-2011 – and the far lengthier and more in-depth Bases 23, conducted between England and America via Skype, which hit the intrawebs a few weeks ago. The 2011 interview sees some of Casbolt’s more racially-fixated ideas begin to leak out which would be fully laid out in the recent session: as he refers to ‘The Odinist Fellowship,’ whose plan for the human race is to perpetuate endless warfare via Nazi brainwashing and assassination. More on this in a moment. But first, another brain-boggling claim from the Casbolt interviews….

It’s Lawrence of Arabia–I mean Supriem Rockefeller.

Apparently, there’s another guy out there who looks exactly like James Casbolt. Or, more precisely, someone who is an actual clone of him. This Casbolt doppelganger is Supriem Rockefeller – the alleged son of banker David Rockefeller. A man who, like Casbolt, has supposedly made some elaborate claims about being the antichrist who is set to soon usher in the End Times. Some cursory internet investigation suggests that this younger Rockefeller-cum-Lucifer Casbolt refers to is not related to that well-known family in any way and is actually a conman and smalltime crook from Louisiana called Kris Raynes. A number of photographs online that are purportedly of ‘Supriem’ appear to show one of either two things: that Raynes/Rockefeller bears a quite uncanny resemblance to Casbolt/Prince – or that these pictures of Raynes/Rockefeller are simply staged photos of Casbolt/Prince purporting to be Supriem – a further two aliases for Casbolt to add to his list.

Is one a creation of the other? And if so, which of these four identities is real, and which are fake? Believe it or not, two book-length texts exist online about this Supriem character alone – neither of which appear to make any reference to his resemblance to Casbolt or their corresponding talk of occult bloodlines and antichrist claims. This whole twist in Casbolt’s tale seems designed to create further cognitive dissonance – and throw up more unanswerable questions in the mind of anyone (such as myself) foolish enough to attempt to delve into it.

I really can‘t go into everything that’s in these videos. You could always watch them yourself. Bases 23 itself comprises four parts, and is nearly four hours in length. Watching the most recent 4-hour session, it appears Casbolt’s relocation to the United States and time in the army has brought about some changes for him. Once slight in figure, he has bulked up considerably and now has the look of a bodybuilder, or nightclub bouncer. He also has a frequent and pronounced smirk as he speaks, which marks a noticeable change from his previous interviews, where he was almost completely emotionless in his delivery.

Six minutes into this interview you find out he’s actually the chosen vessel for Lucifer. Or at least, some people think he is, if they’re not thinking it’s Supriem Rockefeller. Jesus, Lucifer, and Thor are all one and the same person – the Illuminati messiah – and Casbolt is one of the elite 42 individuals selected by the evil powers-that-be to become the antichrist spoken of in ancient religious texts.

Fourth Reich Nazis are attacking the ‘racial melting pot’ of the United States, and there is a forthcoming nuclear strike planned for the American Midwest. Casbolt has chased an alien wolf in Malaysia, rogue werewolves in South America and hunted an ‘octoform’ in England. He has an ET-tech gun which he calls ’Drago’ and uses this to assassinate cyborgs. It fires bullets which ‘are blessed by something to do with the Vatican.’

While training with the US Army (of which he claims to have been a member throughout 2012, although there appears to be no actual evidence of this) he used the Spear of Destiny to levitate. He also clarifies that the Forth Reich are ancient Reptilian cyborgs with cloned human skin. Oh – and there are several time-traveling cyborg clones of him. And he has a photograph taken recently of his military buddies standing with a man who might be Albert Einstein. There’s psychics opening jump gates to travel through time and space. He has cybernetic enhancements which relate to his Odinist bloodline, which are made out of a cold fusion alloy mined on Iapetus, one of Saturn’s moons. Casbolt was sent there to find this alloy, which is where he came into direct conflict with giant diamond spiders, which are what you might expect them to be from that description. Cybernetic reptilian limbs are sent through time by Knights Templar in 1812, to be grafted onto human super soldiers in either the present day, or the future of 2212. All of this adds up to the overall Nazi plot to depopulate the Earth, ship all the non-Aryan people off-world to some other place, and create a paradise planet where everyone walks around naked having orgies all the time. Yep, that’s actually what’s going to happen. Hitler surely would have approved. Oh – but then, he will probably drop by to see this glorious new Reich for himself once it‘s been fully implemented. Seeing as how he’s still alive and living somewhere near Aldebaran in the Taurus constellation. (That is probably one of the least mad factoids Casbolt comes out with.)

Casbolt’s bloodline is massively important to this whole saga. He explains that he can trace his ancestry back to  the Spartans, the earliest Freemasons, the tribes of Dan, the Merovingians and Atlantis. The Illuminati, as Casbolt delineates it, is comprised of two warring bloodlines: the Jewish Zionists descended from King David and Jesus, and the Fourth Reich Aryans who are white Aryans descended from Odin.

As to what side of the fence he’s on with regards to the two sides of ‘the war’… well, that seems a mite tricky to pin down. In his first interview from 2006, he alludes to Jewish ancestry and wears the Star of David. Only now, explicitly discussing the agenda of the Fourth Reich Aryan Odinist Nazis (to give them their full title) Casbolt seems now to be aligned with whoever these modern far-right occultists are. Here’s a brief quote from him – or, at least, someone alleging to be him – from his participation on a forum discussing his claims on David Icke’s website: “But the Jew always thrives off the back of another person’s work like a parasite.”

Yup. This poster professing to be Casbolt was recently suspended from the forum due to his persistent and offensive racist diatribes. I guess you know you’re making a mark on the conspiracy scene if even David Icke’s people think you’re a bit extreme.

Casbolt goes on to better explain the Jewish Zionist agenda on film – and I quote him now, from Bases 23, part one:  “The Jew wanted to give the Black in America prestige, like in the areas of sports and entertainment and that was purposefully socially engineered so the Black could get prestige and interbreed with White women and the plan was to submerge White blood by mixing the races.”

He then goes on to refer to ‘Vril power in the blood’ and claims the Jewish plot to bring about apocalyptic race war is laid out in the protocols of the elders of Zion – not stopping for a second to acknowledge the fact that this notorious anti-Semitic document was proven to be a racist hoax which was picked up on and used as propaganda by the Nazi party during World War II.

A lot of Casbolt’s ideas at this point seem to be very heavily derived from the writings of Helena Blavatsky, particularly with regards to her ideas about ‘root races.’ A word of warning – theosophy is probably not the best place to go if you want to learn about racial politics.

A month or so ago, I was alerted to the fact that Casbolt had an account on Facebook. Taking a look at his wall and postings, there didn’t seem to be anything unusual to note – there was very little reference made to his video claims and most of the posting seemed more to do with his recently completed tour of duty in the US army. Checking back a few days later though, I noticed post after post presumably written by Casbolt himself (or, perhaps, one of his mind-controlled ‘alter’ personalities) containing screeds of absolutely blatant, inflammatory, extremist-Neo-Nazi-type commentary. For all Casbolt usually seems to remain more or less impartial with regards to his take on ‘the race issue,’  there was little ambiguity to be worked through in these Facebook comments. Perhaps fortuitously to my cause – and as I was already compiling notes for this article – I cropped some of his declarations for posterity. According to these statements on his Facebook wall, any person who wasn’t White should bow down and serve him. Women were inferior to men and should only exist ‘to pleasure their husbands in the bedroom.’ He also went on to call all Black people ‘jungle bunnies’ and ‘a genetic accident due to interbreeding with monkeys.’

A few days after these postings, Casbolt’s Facebook account had been shut down. I have no knowledge of why.

The issue of culturally available scripts needs to be addressed again. Casbolt’s whole story reads like a cobbled-together collage of any number of fictional sci-fi narratives. If some talented writers were to reassemble the super soldier material and the drama of the Illuminati bloodline war, then they’d be on to a smash hit in whatever medium the narrative was disseminated. But then – isn’t that exactly what’s happening here?

Given his professed Norse heritage, mightn’t Loki the trickster-god perhaps be working through Casbolt, helping to accelerate the novelty? Are we witnessing the birthing of a new mythology here? One that will swallow up occult Nazism, global lizard takeover, grey alien abduction and every other twist and turn of conspiracy lore?

Or has Casbolt been fed contradicting timelines and philosophies, with no one taking the time to explain to him that they when crashed together, these narratives wouldn’t all pan out and gel coherently together, like real stuff in real life? Is he a patsy, now compromised by the conspiracy, another Bill Cooper, Paul Bennewitz, or Bob Lazar figure? Are anonymous parties taking advantage of Casbolt’s possible mental illness, and providing him with ‘exclusive’ information that props up, justifies, and reinforces his warped worldview? Maybe he was loony before he started releasing his ‘life story’ – but now he’s even loonier in a different fashion.

Casbolt appears now to draw every little snippet of his script from UFO and alien conspiracy hyperbole, far-right extremist rhetoric, religious, mystical and occult lore, pop culture undercurrents and multifarious fringe ideologies all stemming from the last few hundred years of human history and just ties it all up… and puts a big bow on top.

So. Where’s the root truth? Maybe some of what Casbolt, Stanga, and others say is true, I hear you wonder. But how can we separate fact from fiction, truth from lies? I think that’s the key problem. You can’t. There’s simply too much of this to parse. Any actual potential nuggets of truth get lost in the layers of mental illness, thinly-veiled bigotry, made-up stuff and sucked-up cultural disinfo.

Indeed, the immense epic Casbolt presents sees him suggesting at one point in the most recent interview that the Marvel superhero movies of the last few years were in fact based on the government programs that were designed years before to turn him into a cyborg super spy. Alas, Casbolt may perhaps be genuinely unaware of the fact that the super-powered likes of the X-Men and their ilk have been around in comics since the 60’s. Similarly, when Miles Johnston raises the perhaps obvious synchronicity of the number 42 figuring in the elite’s plans being a number that is used for great comic effect in Douglas Adams’s Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy – Casbolt claims to have never heard of the joke that ‘42’ is the answer to life, the universe and everything. Which came first, the chicken or… the story about the chicken?

But – to Devil’s Advocate this up again – assuming every word is true – what can any of us do about it all? Casbolt offers no solutions to this saga of terror, other than warning that we’ve got roughly 20 years left till the full plan comes to fruition. Prince of Clowns or Prince of Lies, Prince Casbolt shrugs his way out of it, consistently using phrases like ‘I think,’ ‘I believe so,’ and ‘I believe’ (although given that there’s less discussion of bases here, he seems no longer to be so ‘basically’ minded)  – as if even he’s not really sure of how all the puzzle pieces in this lumbering timeline of Draconian deeds and ubermensch Sturm un Drang fit together. We merely follow him, plunging ever further into this primal, Jungian Shadow-side of the alien phenomenon, awaiting apocalypse or worse.

You can take into account certain factors relating to the solidification of this super-narrative. It seems likely that it has in some way been squashed into a more coherent shape in recent years by the ever-advancing algorithms of the internet and the proliferation of such extensive testimony of unverified – and unverifiable – eyewitnesses to high strangeness – both credible and incredible. Eventually, the online linking and clicking of the worried and dispossessed draw the conflicting and contradictory threads and tangents of the stories closer together; until the point when they begin to knit, intersect and become almost indistinguishable from one another, like a beautiful but mad patchwork quilt threaded together from a million different types of material.

And this is where we stand now with the problem of ufology: right in the middle of a world where Nordic space sisters, baby-eating Reptiloids, time-traveling space Nazis, cyborg super soldiers, cloned Grey MILABs,  9/11, JFK and religious cover-ups are all part of the same epic, Ragnarokian, comic book End Times crossover.

We must protect ourselves from the assimilating evil of the super-narrative. It would be wise to find our own answers and try to keep them simple and true.

But if you ever find yourself battling giant spiders on one of Saturn’s moons, don’t worry. That is just a dream.

Right?

__________

Colin Reid is a writer with a long-held interest in paranormal, fringe and ufological topics. He does various things in the world and he might have a novel coming out this year. He will also soon be video-blogging his own actual thoughts out into the wider world of the internet. He can be contacted via Facebook where he uses his mind-controlled alter-personality name of Colin Spiderboris Reid.

(Credit is due to Project Psycube and the members of the Altered-Soldier Facebook group for invaluable research assistance and support during the writing of this article.)

Crunching the Super-Narrative – the Strange Case of James Casbolt, aka Michael Prince (of Lies) - Part 1 of 2

(new intro)

Combining bits of every conspiracy theory ever told into one “true story” of which you are the star? BAD IDEA.

THE ARTIST FORMERLY KNOWN AS MICHAEL PRINCE SINGS A FAMILIAR SONG. OR TWO. OR EIGHTEEN. [PART 1 OF 2]

Let me tell you a story. A really big, complicated story.

There’s this guy called James Casbolt. Originally from London but now living in San Antonio, Texas, Casbolt – who nowadays prefers to be known by his birth name, Michael Prince – is a seemingly mild-mannered, softly-spoken fellow who first emerged onto the online conspiracy scene back in 2005, when he began posting chapters of what later became his ‘autobiography’ on his now-defunct website and in a variety of other places. This text, either titled ‘Michael Casbolt MI6 Buried Alive’  or, to give it its catchier moniker, ‘Agent Buried Alive’ was a short but lurid volume which is still available online in certain corners of the internet, or as a free downloadable PDF book. In his 2006 account, Casbolt details the circumstances of his younger years spent as a mind-controlled and brainwashed agent of various sinister worldwide intelligence agencies.

The central thread of Casbolt’s claim is that he was trained and eventually used by these aforementioned agencies as a genetically, cybernetically, and psychically enhanced sleeper assassin – essentially, some real-life fusion of Wolverine and James Bond – who was tasked with taking out security threats to his masters’ enemies and killing drug dealers and terrorists while he was at it.

 “You can trust me: I kinda look like that dude from ‘Lost.'”

Although I had read Casbolt’s accounts in detail myself a good few years ago, upon revisiting ‘Agent Buried Alive’ – in light of watching a recent series of video interviews with Casbolt – I was initially surprised to realize that I had failed to notice this was the same guy who had come out with the same dense, multilayered conspiracy narrative I had read about several years before. For me, the original roots of these narratives had blurred in my remembering of them to form part of a vast, over-arcing super-narrative the ufological world seems to have gotten itself into of late.

And it seems this blurring of narratives isn’t just going on in the my head as a follower of these stories. It seems the oracles have gotten their facts mixed up in the fiction too. Before you judge me for making what sounds like a potentially brain-bending story even more brain-bending than it  needs to be… well, ultimately we have James Casbolt to blame for that. As you’ll come to understand, fact-checking any element of the Casbolt/Prince accounts – or indeed keeping track of his distinctly loopy timeline – is a tricky and slippery business to pursue.

But then: let’s skip straight to the facts of this tricky and slippery business. James Casbolt has been conducting this series of extensive video interviews with Miles Johnston who is a UK-based investigator into a variety of fringe topics and one of the founders of the organization AMMACH (an acronym for ‘Anomalous Mind Management and Contactee Helpline’). One of Casbolt’s most remarkable claims sees him casually confessing on camera that, while he was under the control of his personality-altering mental programming, he believes he killed roughly 200 people. If we can set aside the deeply problematic issue of this man calmly admitting to murder for a second… we’ll discover that his Bondian hijinks are only the tip of the iceberg.

Because of his all-important familial and racial lineage, Casbolt was selected prior to his birth to become part of the semi-mythical ‘Project Mannequin’ under the directions of factions of MI6 and the CIA. This project, supposedly run by the NSA, is to quote Casbolt, a “mind control and genetic manipulation program,” which is centered around the AL/499 facility, an alleged secret underground base located somewhere roughly beneath the village of Peasemore in Berkshire, England. According to Casbolt (and some other corroborating accounts which we’ll come to in due course) the Peasemore base is a dark haven of MK-ULTRA brainwashing where “programmable generated life forms” – essentially, the Greys – are created in genetic labs. This base is also where abducted children and adults are tortured, programmed, conditioned, and killed.

Essentially then, Peasemore base is the British equivalent of the notorious Dulce base in New Mexico – and shares many of the same horror show accounts of child sacrifice, alien experiments, and attendant Reptilian overlords. That is… if we are to believe these accounts, or indeed, if we are to believe that such bases even exist.

And here begins the epic crossover. Casbolt’s accounts of occult Nazi-derived, CIA-patented mind-control programs specifically echo the accounts of Fritz Springmeier, Arizona Wilder and Cathy O’Brien among others. Stories of fringe figures who have alleged dark deeds done to them by Illuminati agents in order to slowly bring about the evil agenda of the New World Order.

This isn’t just a story about an underground base, though. The dizzying width and breadth of Casbolt’s first written account takes in references to all of the following: the Illuminati and childhood sexual abuse; teenage drug trafficking; the Kabbala, occult freemasonry, and the Nephilim; hypnotic triggers, mind-wipes and his ability to see radio waves; getting buried in a coffin filled with snakes as an 8-year old, later teenage violence, juvenile delinquency and his time in a young offenders’ institution… all of this leading up to Casbolt carrying out his first assassination, at a mere 16 years of age.

But beyond this confounding grab bag of paranoiac scenarios, what immediately becomes suspicious about Casbolt’s account? Possibly it’s the fact that his story has changed and mutated from that of an account told by an innocent brainwashed victim of these nefarious mind control programs, as laid out in his 2006 book (which he concludes by speaking of his benevolent relationship with the ‘good’ Pleadian aliens), to that of an elistist controller of information and a disseminator of confused but clearly racist propaganda, where Casbolt shows his true colors by repeatedly using a number of public forums to blame “The Jew” and all nonwhite people for most of humanity’s ills.

Miles Johnston, Casbolt’s interviewer during the so-called ‘Bases’ videos – who presents his interviewees’ often shockingly dark and/or insane-sounding tales not as pure fact but more as fragmented pieces of a wider puzzle – has suggested in at least one other online presentation that he believes Casbolt may have plagiarized his tales of the Peasemore base directly from Johnston’s own first Bases interview, originally recorded way back in 1995 and re-released online in 2010. In the first Bases interview, Barry King – who claims to have worked as a security officer at the base for several years during the 70s and early 80s – recounts information almost identical to Casbolt’s initial testimony. King and Casbolt both seem to concur that Peasemore – and similar other installations – are controlled by a hidden Nazi presence.

National Socialism figures heavily into and forms one of the central threads of Casbolt’s endlessly baffling saga. And a saga it is – going all the way back to King David, Norse Gods, and Jesus.

Already I can sense you prickling with suspicion and intrigue at all this thrilling and disturbing information. I’m sure you’re thinking, Hang on… What do you mean… and similar frantic, unfinished questions… Well, hang on a little longer – the rabbit hole has hardly even been fully dived down yet. Plus we haven’t even got to the bit where Casbolt fights giant spiders on one of Saturn’s moons. Or the part with the time-travelling cyborg Nazi Reptilians. Or the werewolves. Believe me, it gets very complicated.

***

Casbolt’s first video interview was recorded on the fly at a UFO conference held at a college in Truro, Cornwall in 2005. In the interview – which appears to have been largely unplanned and is recorded in a hallway with some amount of background chatter going on nearby – Casbolt further elaborates on his accounts – calmly explaining the grim bleakness of his dark life in a measured and fairly emotionless tone. Here, we might observe Casbolt’s demeanor a little, as it will turn out to contain several clues. He wears a Star of David around his neck. With one hand he incessantly clutches a bottle of water; with the other, he gestures as he speaks – seemingly performing subliminal Nazi salutes. Miles Johnston made this observation with regards to the salutes elsewhere online – and unbelievably, both of these seemingly random and perhaps preposterous elements do factor into the wider story.

That reminds me: before we non sequitur our way to the diamond spiders from Saturn (David Bowie would be proud), here’s a potentially interesting linguistic thread to derail the saga….

Upon slogging through the hellish punishment of this and later video interviews with Casbolt, I began to notice that he makes repeated use of a particular lexical filler. Put simply, this is a word, sound, or generic phrase most of us will use in conversation as a mechanically-rattled-off placeholder, which unconsciously slips out when we’re temporarily lost for words. We frequently use such an expression  as an emphatic utterance to reemphasize our point of view. It is spat out to try and keep the audience hooked onto our voice so those we are communicating with don’t lose connection to our communication, as we battle like animals to re-stake our claim to agency onto the world.

The word Casbolt frequently repeats is ‘Basically.’

So, indeed, you might feel inclined to inquire at this point… ‘basically…’ what’s so significant about that generally meaningless spoken word used here by Casbolt? What on Earth could the word ‘BASE-ically’ have to do with secret underground… BASEs?

Okay. So Casbolt repeats the word ‘base’ all the time. Even when he’s not actually talking about bases… in a series of video interviews called… Bases.

But, now. That’s really not that interesting, right? Surely we’re clutching at straws here, by hinting at some NLP-style subliminal programming? Am I just guilty of noticing some accidental pareidolia here? The recognition of seeming patterns and hitherto-unexplored possible connections between things that might not actually exist? Is this synchronicity, or mere pattern recognition? More on this in a moment.



"it's not mental illness if they believe it"

Stepping sideways for a moment away from Casbolt and his self-reflecting meta-saga – which has barely got going at this point yet has far-reaching consequences – let’s take a look at another interviewee of the Bases series of videos who first appeared online at the beginning of 2012. Sarah Stanga is a youngish British citizen who, like Casbolt, makes wild claims of being taken to secret underground bases at various locations around the world as a child and tortured as part of Illuminati mind-control programs to create potential super soldiers. Her accounts also bring in a heavy dose of Satanic and ritual black magic, as well as the use of ancient alien stargates to summon dark, demonic beings into this human realm.
Retelling both Stanga’s and Casbolt’s accounts at length – as well as attempting to take into account all of the other base visitors who have gone on record in recent years – would take all year and far too much of your no-doubt valuable time. Suffice it to say that both of their accounts – and those of several other AMMACH interviewees, not all of whom are based in the UK – cross over and share a notable number of synchronous details.
In her AMMACH interview Bases 10 – The Sarah Stanga Blogs, Stanga tells her extraordinary story of how her life was all-but destroyed by gangstalking and gaslighting – these being specific terms for organized stalking and coordinated harassment – carried out by Illuminati witches, negative astral entities, Draco reptilians, and a seemingly endless parade of elements related to alien interference, Monarch mind control and Satanic ritual abuse. Watching Stanga’s interview and any portion of her blogs, one can’t help but be struck by a number of things. Firstly – and by her own admission – Stanga clearly has certain mental health issues and has in the past had issues with drug and alcohol abuse. Indeed, unlike the reserved yet coolly confident Casbolt. everything about Stanga’s mannerisms, speech patterns, and body language scream out the pain of someone who is still desperately mentally unwell – or at the very least, still deeply troubled by a number of psychological problems. As Stanga records her thoughts in the blogs, she frequently mentions or alludes to unseen entities around her in the room, which we are told are attempting to psychically attack her.
Oh – and the other tellingly weird thing about Stanga, which brings us back around to Casbolt, who she name-checks as a victim of the same clandestine military programs she suffered under?
Drumroll please…
She says ‘basically.’ A hell of a lot.
So much so that, after a fashion, it starts to sound like a sort of Tourette’s on her part. And yes – she does talk about bases. But not as much as she repeats that word. Basically.
So what’s my ‘basic’ point here? Are these ‘baseless’ allegations? Watching a number of the interviews carried out by the AMMACH folks in the last few years (and yes, there is a great number of them, done at great length – but don’t worry, dear reader, I watched them so you don’t have to…) several things become apparent which I feel I should draw attention to.
More than a few of the interviewees constantly repeat the word ‘basically’ (though none with as much frequency as Stanga). This may mean absolutely nothing, but I find it strangely suggestive of some weird trickster element sneaking into the mix: the playful messing of some buried intelligence, attempting to rise to the surface to pass comment on the bleak supernatural weirdnesses these troubled characters allude to.
Disregard these ‘baseless’ observations for a moment. Let’s vector in on the personally subjective psychology of these individuals. And for the time being, I’m going to go absolutely crazy and extend this once-in-a-lifetime offer to ALL UFO/alien/spirit/channeled intelligence contactees and experiencers. That’s it… dontcha feel special right now? I’ve singled you all out!
IF we assume SOME of these people are not ALL completely crazy (an issue I’ll touch on properly in a second) then what does this odd subliminal affirmation of the ‘basic’ ‘existence’ of bases mean? Have some of these individuals truly been through psyops-related experiments into perception management? Is this why they appear – to those who choose to notice anyway – to have been seemingly conditioned to constantly reaffirm their personal truth to themselves and others… ‘Basically?’ Might Casbolt and Stanga be confused, troubled individuals who have genuinely seen strange goings-on in relation to classified military experiments, but have then had their memories altered, causing them to recount partially or entirely untrue fairy tales, built out of the fantastically assembled fragments of culturally available scripts?
Here, we can easily flash back to any number of classic contact cases to examine the context of those who have possibly been compromised by the powers-that-be….
See: Whitley Strieber – with his history of military connections… his professional life as a horror fantasist; and then, his communion with the alien unknown.
See, also: Barney and Betty Hill. As with Casbolt, there is a buried secret military Nazi-psyops undercurrent to their seemingly random, yet weirdly famous encounter.
See, also: The Rendle-SHAM Forest incident of December 1980. (nb. – accidental capitalization may be intentional.) Observe. Time-travel? Psyops? MIB interrogation? Creepy US government goings-on on foreign soil? Check, check and check again.
But these are just some ‘Devil’s Advocate’ examples. I’ve designed them to support a vague and largely implacable consistency in contact accounts – that of unforgivable interference in the ‘pure’ ‘alien’ encounter by government agencies – these agencies being agencies unknown and not fully understood by the good ordinary peoples of the world.
Let’s swing back to that guy Casbolt for a second….
Here’s a further theory as we continue to plummet into the rabbit hole. This might seem evident when taking into account Casbolt’s strangely calm and subdued manner when recounting such disturbing and plain bizarre tales. Might he, in actuality, be a hired gun of some implacable higher intelligence agency? An actor of sorts, tasked with disseminating targeted disinformation, designed to discredit or smear those investigating parties who attempt to report or retell his accounts?
Some of the individuals involved might very possibly be schizotypal or suffering from other medically diagnosable personality or mood disorders. So many of Sarah Stanga’s symptoms, for example her hearing voices taunting her and seeing menacing, dark shadow figures all around – along with her perceiving everyone as watching her, or literally, ‘ganging up’ to plot against her – certainly suggest mild to high levels of mania coupled with a degree of delusional or paranoid thinking – maybe even a drug-induced psychotic break.
Of course one of the oldest skeptical arguments against extreme claims of alien and/or government conspiracy is the simple summing-up that anyone making such claims is automatically a confused, psychotic nut job… and should of course be immediately discounted.
But then in attempting to counter the skeptical argument – which I‘d suggest isn’t entirely warranted in looking at some of these ‘paranoid’ cases – I feel it might be pertinent to consider the words of that other troubled fellow, Kurt Cobain, who once so sagely snarled, “Just because you’re paranoid don’t mean they’re not after you.”
We all know governments lie and make shit up. Was MK-ULTRA a real thing? Was there a Project Paperclip? Are there secret underground military installations the public knows very little about the exact location and purpose of, the world over? Have individuals who are seemingly perfectly sane in every other way had encounters with apparently nonhuman entities and suffered confused mental states and altered perceptions as a consequence of such perceived encounters?
I’ll assume we concur in the answer to all of the questions posed above. But before you run away screaming, trying to escape the encroaching associated madness before it consumes you… no: I’m not about to conclude that just because all this corresponding talk of alien lairs and satanic shenanigans seems to add up and hang together as a coherent narrative, then that makes it all true. Personally, I find both Casbolt and Stanga’s accounts highly suspect for a number of reasons.
What this in fact does lead up is the key problem of this developing super-narrative: a huge, ever-pulsating and semi-fictionalized amalgamation of nigh-on every conspiracy theory known to humankind (and beyond) that nowadays works like a gigantic snowball rolling down a very big hill, picking up all the little pieces of worrisome weirdness that fall into its inexorable path. This is the super-narrative that has been emerging in these accounts of Casbolt, Stanga and so many UFO conspiracy ‘whistleblowers’ who have emerged in recent years.
To be continued…

A Clean Break

So we’re all at the party and everyone’s having a right laugh. Gus has drank all of the beer, which is no surprise. So Tahir breaks out the whisky. I don’t even drink whisky. So of course, like a normal person, I decide to have a little bit of whisky.

It’s about now that I start to wonder what I’m doing in the ambulance. They’re taking me somewhere, right? Are we going back to Stirling? We must be - surely. That’s what I told them. We can’t still be in Edinburgh. That would be ridiculous.

There’s all these posters on the walls saying stuff about your health and how you should look out for it. Diagrams and cross-sections of bodies. Parties are bad for you. It’s strangely upsetting. The main one I notice seems all alive, like some three-dimensional hologram. A baby in the womb. I think it was kind of cartoony - like, this baby’s happy about the fact it hasn’t been born yet. In my confused state, I’m saying all these things to whoever’s wheeling me along the corridor: stuff about how sad it is for the baby that it has to be born at all. I’m just talking at this stage. My mind feels divorced from my body. Like someone else is talking through me, trying to rationalize what’s going on. I’m probably in shock. Is that what happens when you’re in shock? I thought maybe you went all quiet. Well, anyway. I was doing the opposite.

The weird thing about hospitals, I find, is how dark they are. I think it’s to do with the strip-lighting? They’ve got, like, millions of lights but there’s these strange shadows everywhere. In all the corners. Maybe that’s just at night though.

So they keep telling me to relax: everything’s fine. They sound like police. I just keep apologizing. I’m sorry for wasting everyone’s time, they must have tons more important stuff to do tonight, sorry for being an idiot. I was just leaving the party - and next thing you know, I’m at the bottom of the stairwell! So I must’ve fallen and tried to get back up again - and the leg wasn’t working so I fell down again! I must’ve been trying to find my way out of the stairwell and someone found me. So I’m saying sorry for all that. Sorry for the baby. I must’ve sounded like a complete fucking lunatic.

A nurse is x-raying my ankle. Actually, she does both ‘cos I don’t think I’ve managed to make it clear which one of them I think I’ve broken. They do that weird thing where they half step out of the room holding onto the button, so they don’t get killed by radiation. The baby.

So, yeah, it was a crazy night all right. Luckily it was a clean break. They put the plaster on: a little work of art. But you know all about that.

After all the drinking. After the crash. The baby.

Swim

We went as far as the car would take us.

By the time we had walked up to the cliff top it was approaching dusk. It’s a nice spot for picnics, I’m told. You can see all the way to Europe. When we used to go there as a child, I would always go down to the beach and swim. One time, I recall my parents being in an awful panic because they thought they’d lost me. I’d been out of their line of sight.

The cliff top was bare and featureless. Beyond it, just the vast black shape of the sea. One of them was there, as expected, to meet us.

It looked like a woman at first. As we stepped closer, we observed that it seemed to be clad in tattered, dirty-looking garments that hung closely about its person, like drapes. Its face was covered almost entirely with some sort of shawl. Its features weren’t visible. They prefer to hide.

Perhaps it was male. Perhaps intersex. You can never quite tell. It made motions with its hand.

Oh yes - before I forget. I’d like to take a moment to thank [REDACTED] for letting us speak this evening. I must say, I’m very pleased with the turnout. I’m glad so many of you could find it in your no-doubt busy schedule to come out tonight. It’s pleasing to see so many well-respected individuals and researchers in the crowd.

But now. I want to tell you what it told me. I have here the piece of paper. A message. This was left in my sister’s house.

One day they came to her door. The children. Asking to be let in. She was kind, my sister - and did. They ran into her house. Ran to where the water was - then disappeared. Their eyes were a deep watery black. Now they were inside. My sister found the note in the bathroom. There was nothing on it.

That evening on the hill, a deal was brokered. Like so many deals. If you swim, your water is theirs. Your blood is theirs. And we heard the voices from below, calling us. Calling for our kin.

That skeptic professor speaking earlier tonight, you may recall? He mentioned Capgras delusion - a condition where sufferers believe friends and relatives have been replaced by strange impostors? He classified it as a mental aberration.

Well. I was never replaced. It is not replacement. More… repurposing. It doesn’t matter if you die. If bones are broken, they can be reshaped.  During the fall. Once they take your corpse beneath, the reshaping begins.

138 people in this room tonight. You have all swam in those waters. For your complicity, you will each lose kin. Where your loved ones are, we are now too.

Tonight, you can all go home. You are safe; all spared. But when the call comes, the call to drive to the sea, you will go. For we must all return. To swim.

Rich

I’m rich. Rich, you see. It’s quite funny, really.

That’s the card. The magic card. I was just leaving my flat. It was about ten in the morning and I was going to pick up the medication for Patti. And there it was lying just outside my door at the edge of the pavement. Someone could easily not have seen it and just kicked it into the gutter. It could have wound up going down the nearest drain. Been lost.

It’s been a hard year, you see. I was unemployed for quite a long time. That sort of thing of thing can really bring you down when you’re applying for jobs - going to those long stressful interviews when they’re all quizzing you about how you respond in various situations. And you think you’ve done really well and then you never even get the job. A nightmare.

There was the holiday I was wanting to go on. Was going to take Patti if she was well enough. Haven’t had a break in ages. Then of course there was Jared’s wedding I was supposed to be paying for. That was all arranged.

So I picked it up. Just out of concern you know. Mainly because I assumed someone had dropped it and lost it. And it was my name written on the card.

But it wasn’t any card I had lost. Not my bank. It looked like a proper bank card. My friend Janet’s with that bank, I’ve seen her card, I mean, it looks identical - with the little hologram and everything.

So I thought I’d just test it. Make sure I wasn’t forgetting. So I took it to the cash point in the high street, the one I usually go to. Put in my usual four-digit PIN code.

It’s quite simple really. You go to any cash point or into any bank. Insert your card into the machine. Most of them have a 200 pound limit. Some are 300, though. Nice little windfall, I found myself saying to Patti. We’ll certainly be able to afford the break now.

So really I’ve been able to live quite comfortably for the last few months. There was no limit on it. No limit at all. It always just said ten grand.

It was that just that one time I went to a clothes shop. Cos I’ve really been meaning to get some new gear for a while now. For the trip. And the wedding, of course. And the medicine isn’t cheap.

So I was at the checkout and the girl was adding everything up. As I recall it about 180 quid. Not that much really. So I hand the cash over - cos I only pay in cash.

Then she said… this isn’t real money.

I looked at the notes. Dated, stamped… dirty and crumpled - some torn, taped back up in the middle. Official signatures. Proper money! This country! Legal tender!

I didn’t know it wasn’t real money all along. 

18th Birthday Diary

Got my 6^th year dissertation handed in, on my birthday of all days. The only person who said happy birthday to me was the new English teacher, Miss (Deleted). She’s really young and also seriously sexy. We don’t get her for English but Stevie said he had her once and she was talking about how much she was into the Smiths! Also - she wears these really low-cut tops. There was one day last year I was off -Christopher Guthrie said he dropped his pencil on purpose and she bent down to pick it up for him and she wasn’t wearing a bra and he SAW EVERYTHING. I cannot believe I was off that day.

Christopher is a bit of a weirdo though. He used to sit in History class scratching out ‘Satan stars’ on the desktop - even though what he was actually drawing was the Jewish star of David. And that certainly doesn’t have anything to do with the occult.

Went to the common room where I chatted for a bit with Simon. I don’t know how he managed to get off with Naomi who is actually sort of okay. Nothing he says is ever actually all that funny, although he does have alright taste in music. Today we were swapping Kula Shaker singles.

I’ve decided Cara is weird. We usually walk home together now, cos she lives just down the street from me. I don’t know why but she laughs hysterically at everything I say. Sure, I am really funny (unlike Simon). But no one’s that funny. She reminds me a bit of Stacey with the scar on her cheek who disappeared and no one knows where she is now. She also used to laugh hysterically. Especially that one time she tricked me into going carol-singing.

Gavin is also weird. We were walking home again and he came up to me and whispered: “Do you think you’re something special? Well, let me tell you this - you’re not. You are nothing! you are… a piece of SHIT!” Then he ran off at great speed. He says he has to get home so he can watch the snooker. I’ve never been interested in snooker.

Printed out the 12 poems I wrote yesterday. Plus, the novel’s really coming along. Hopefully by the time I’m about 21, I’ll be a famous published writer and making a living out of it, so I won’t have to keep applying for terrible jobs. And there’s university to look forwards to.

It’s looking like Labour might get into power in May. Tony Blair is definitely going to be a good prime minister. He’s actually kind of young, compared to most politicians. Plus, apparently if he gets elected, I might have a better chance of getting a job. Result!

I think my brother is still a witch. Gavin said he saw him up the woods drinking beer and wearing a dog collar. Even worse than that - he’s still listening to Bjork. I HATE Bjork.

Aesthar: Dream of Mad Gods (Part 2 of 2)

‘There’s only one thing for it.’ Aesthar concluded as the cascading bug-bombs she had just unleashed brilliantly desecrated the glowing infrastructure that stood as the last defence of the higher city’s upper echelons. ‘I’m going to have to blow up the Scottish Parliament.’

‘Wait.’ McPuck hesitated in her ear. ‘Has anybody voted on this? Aesthar, this is not in the mission log! Repeat -’

‘This is not in the mission log,’ Aesthar repeated. ‘I know.’ Tearing down through the troposphere, Aesthar set her coordinates for the crazy-pavement citadel far below that called itself Parliament. Like good astral bodyguards, her trusty memshards spun around her, negging and scattering only the most critical of wildlife. ‘If I can get inside I can find the Problem. We know it’s located in the central hub of the building. Radical explosives might be the only option.’

She drop-kicked a caterzilla that had swung too close by. The creature’s head exploded, leaving its many-segmented body to writhe wildly around her. Like a shoal of piranhas, the memshards swirled back into her vicinity and rapidly consumed the unfortunate entity’s remains, filtering its essence safely back into the unrealms. The ‘shards didn’t always have their eye on the ball; too easily distracted by the swirling lights below. Aesthar was going to have to try to keep them on a tighter leash.

‘If you can get inside.’ Now McPuck was exasperated. This would reflect badly on him if the mission went kaput. ‘How exactly do you intend to get in? The memshards dissipate at ground level. You’ll be on your own! How on Earth do you intend to breach the building’s defences? The Problem is heavily guarded!’

‘We’re not on Earth anymore,’ Aesthar countered; regrettably aware that they were, after a fashion. ‘Toto,’ she added, knowing that McPuck would almost certainly not get the reference.

‘Fucking Wizard of Oz, very fucking clever!’ You don’t get one over on me, Mistress Smarty-Pants.’

The line had failed to go over his head. Aesthar was momentarily disappointed by her wit.

An itinerant jellycloud filled her field of vision. After having to make a last-minute, split-second landing calculation, Aesthar was forced to punch the beast in the head - or at least, in what she thought probably had to be the head. Jellyclouds had no fixed form that could be easily defined - generally they were placid and docile but if unexpectedly cornered, they were quick to encircle their opponent in a rubbery grasp that often led to eventual digestion in wherever the creature’s digestive areas were.  If it was necessary to pacify them, by and large it was best to go for the beak. If you could find which area of a jellycloud contained that.

The jellycloud made a foosh of disagreement and liquefied away. Pointing herself in the opposite direction from a nearby kindle of cat-things, Aesthar readjusted her decline and sped on to her destination.

Upside-down buildings hurtled past her as she descended. Sometimes it felt as if it was the whole universe that was moving while she was fixed unmoving to the firmament - immobile. A fleck on a windowpane.

Aesthar remembered the chair: the dark room. The last time she had been fixed. The inquisitor leaning over her with the electrodes in hand. What did she know about the bombings? What did she know about the protest?

She had forgotten most of what followed after. That had been another life; a life tied up, shut down and ordered around. There would be no more of that now. Now, there was only her rules; her mission.

Now she was on street level. cityghosts dashed about, secretive and transitory. None of them appeared to be paying her much attention.

The Memshards were gone. McPuck continued to rant in her earpiece.

In front of her stood the Parliament; a confluence of weird grey edges and strange windows that seemed to stretch all around her for ever. The building made for an impressive sight up close.

‘It’s not like it is in the real world.’ Aesthar announced to McPuck, when he had finally ran out of ranting steam. ‘You can hardly even see the top. You got my visual? This is the front bit, right?

‘I can’t… dammit…’ McPuck tutted and hammered some keys. ‘It’s in defence mode. Constantly rearranging itself and recalibrating. I can’t tell.’

Aesthar watched as several high-up windows of the edifice rotated, jutted out, transformed and became turrets, which gave birth to more of the familiar gunshapes. Other protrusions that looked like further armaments were emerging from the rocky heights of the building and inclining themselves to point down at street-level. Aesthar didn’t think any of the gunshapes were specifically singling her out for attention. She was not paranoid - at least, not so far today.

McPuck was still battering away on the keys: trying to blue-sky a solution to this new smaller problem of access. ‘You’re right, though. About the appearance. That’s security architecture. The version build is like nothing I’ve ever seen before… There’s no way I can break through it on my end. I’m going to assume at this point that you have a strategy? ie, one that doesn’t involve a clusterfuck of conflict, friendly fire, and you getting permanently disincorporated on this level?’

‘Pfft. Of course. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.’ Aesthar set her appearance parameters to Tourist. Immediately she was swathed in a combination of sunglasses, ginger hair, plastic rain-mac and inappropriate tartan. Approaching one of the entrances and joining one of the queues would now be extremely easy.

She breezed past the SecuriTigers. They prowled mechanically but didn’t register her approach and passing. Other approaching entities swirled towards an emergent entrance node. She noted one of the tigers decoding a nosy spiritoid - the results were not glamorous. It reminded Aesthar of the electrodes.

Ahead of her was a vast arch emerging from a node, that resembled a doorway of some import. Above a neon sign confidently strobed the legend, ‘ACCESS TO DREAM OF MAD GODS.’

‘Okay, so I have to admit, that was not something I would have done,’ McPuck growled.

Two govstolen metalloids were monitoring the archway node. Aesthar’s mind crawled with ideas. ‘You remember that sim I was running the other day?’

She heard the sound of McPuck upending a beverage of some sort, possibly all over some important piece of communications equipment. ‘What? NO, Aesthar! You cannot run the sim! It hasn’t been tested!’

‘C’mon. Now’s as good a time as any.’

‘But… It might… it might start a WAR!’ McPuck hissed.

The metalloids of the node were scanning the code of every visiting spiritoid; checking for inflammatory ideas or insurrectionist thinking. Aesthar advanced closer to the entrance.

‘Remember your training, Aesthar, dammit! There are no such things as wars! THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A WAR!’

Aesthar reached the front of the queue. The metalloids rotated to face her. Their protuberances were all a-quiver, ready to scan.

‘WELCOME TO PARLIAMENT.’ the metalloids both droned in unison. ‘PLEASE HAVE YOUR REASONS FOR ATTENDANCE FOREMOST IN YOUR BRAINSPHERE. SCAN WILL BEGIN. THANK YOU IN ADVANCE FOR YOUR CONTINUED ADHERENCE TO OUR NON-TERRORISM-BASED POLICY OF ATTENDANCE.’

Ignoring McPuck’s frantic screaming in her ear about beta version testing, Aesthar activated the first of her three planned simulations. Almost immediately, the external structure of the parliament building began to shift and break up into confusing shapes that began to float away into the sky.

‘Hello.’ Aesthar politely said to the metalloids: who by now had a look of extreme confusion drifting across their normally-inexpressive grilles. ‘I appear to be lost. Can you direct me to the Problem please?’

‘ALARUM. A POLITICAL FLASHPOINT EVENT HAS BEEN TRACED TO YOU. PLEASE EXPLAIN FLOATING-AWAY OF PARLIAMENT BUILDING BEFORE WE DISINHERIT YOU.’

‘Oh,’ Aesthar said, as surprising numbers of tartan-clad spiritoids began to appear and jostle up alongside her - quickly beginning to overload the metalloids’ motion-detection sensors. ‘That’s just a little program I like to call Reverse Tetriscide? It completely unlocks and reverses access to politically-sensitive astral edifices. Appears to be working perfectly, don’t you think?’

‘EXPLAIN,’ the metalloids stated, sounding faintly distressed. ‘EXPLAIN UNEXPECTED PROFLIGACY OF SPIRITOIDS OR BE DISINHERITED.’ 

‘That would be something else I like to call The August Offensive,’ Aesthar grinned at the baffled robots. ‘I sourced it from this town’s real-world equivalent? It’s designed to simulate the potential overpopulation and overloading of any given built-up astral environment - It’s based on an arts festival, but you wouldn’t know what one of them was. Soon an infinitely-increasing number of foreign spiritoids will overrun the area, destroy your parliament and release the Problem. It was the Problem I came for, if you want to note that on your records? There’s not really anything you can do about it. Sorry.’

‘YOU WILL BE… PREVENTED. FROM DOING THIS,’ one of the metalloids declared, before being knocked down and trampled underfoot by a number of paper-distributing and singing spiritoids.

Aesthar felt the world begin to tremble. She produced some pieces of holocard from her hypothetical pocket and offered them to further newly-arrived and panicking metalloids, who were already getting dragged away by ghostly revellers.

‘Would you like a flyer for my show? She asked: more to irritate McPuck than for any other reason. ‘It’s called, “Blow up the outside world.” It’s just starting now! You’d better prepare yourself. The reviews say it’s an explosive experience.’