A Multi-Dimensional War on Humanity Is Enabled by Corrupt Governments

By Ray Wilson


Flaming June is far from boiling; there is no hint of fiery red flames on the horizon.

After walking the lake paths, I started coughing. Geoengineering has once again turned the early blue skies into a tepid grey. The chemicals in the air are aggravating my respiratory system. My hound looks around and licks my hand. Slowly, the coughing subsides, and I take a deep breath of tainted air and locate the footpath that leads to the off grid location. I have a rendezvous with my missus at Frohike’s, aka my brother-in-law, at the camper.

According to the tin foil hat wearing brigade, a shadowy cabal of elites had engineered a virus, a modern-day plague designed not just to thin the population but to drive the masses into the welcoming arms of a hastily developed vaccine.

But this was no ordinary vaccine. The theorists claimed it contained a hidden third strand of DNA, a sinister modification that would transform humanity into mindless drones, stripped of their ability to think, reason, or even believe independently. Millinery of the tin foil variety has seen exponential growth in popularity in recent months. Yesterday’s conspiracy theory has become today’s reality.

This is a B-roll movie—if only we could laugh at the sheer lunacy of it all.

“A DNA-manipulating vaccine? Hybrid humans turned into slaves?

Jumping the shark—experimenting with immune systems and biological terrorism operations—now that’s a far-fetched plot if I’ve ever heard one.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, looking for glimpses of lucidity in Fohike’s eyes.

“Are you hungry?” my missus asks him.

“No, I’m okay—perhaps later,” Fohike replies.

“Here we are, mate. Try a spoonful while it’s hot; your sister cooked it especially for you,” I say, handing him the plastic container.

Gingerly , Fohike takes the spoon, begins to eat, and starts to fidget around with his trousers.

It is too late; a dark patch appears, engulfing the entire fabric. We are getting used to having to wash him and his clothes. We exchange knowing glances, silently acknowledging the challenges of caring for Fohike as his condition progresses. Despite the difficulties, we find moments of connection and love in these simple gestures of care.

Its our new routine—the hound and I call in about each morning around 6 a.m., and again, in the afternoon, me and the missus return with supplies for him.

So this has become reality, and the next stage of the new normal for many in highly vaccinated countries begins. The ones lucky enough to still have their health have many new tasks, including caring for the injured and wounded. The jabbatoir has killed—it has killed so many—many are mortally injured, and many are maimed, requiring 24 hour care. The spiritual war machine trundles on, oblivious to the destruction; its aim is to kill, distract, and remove dissenters. A multi dimensional war on humanity is enabled by corrupt governments; those governments do not love you.

They do not offer to help or even acknowledge you; they gaslight and deceive you, trying to convince you, “It’s all in your silly little mind.”

The truth seekers engage with the community, ask probing questions, point out inconsistencies, and subtly mock the more outrageous claims. But instead of being met with hostility, they are welcomed as fellow sceptics on the path to enlightenment. The corrupt MSM helps muddy the waters by adding subtle changes to history and redefining a few crucial definitions. It’s all about damage limitation; little can be proven, and by the time it is, well, there will no longer be a problem. History shows us it will be at least 30 years before even a small fraction of the true enormity of the situation is fully understood and acknowledged. As with thalidomide, carcinogenic talcum powder, factor 8, and glyphosate, the list is endless. This cycle of manipulation and deceit continues, leaving many in the dark about the reality of the situation. There is no profit in a peaceful world; there is little money in healthy populations that have no need to rely on medicines. The powers that be have a vested interest in maintaining the status quo, even if it means sacrificing the well-being of the masses.

“It looks like you might make the medical history books,” I say.

“What do you mean?” asks Frohike, perplexed.

“The endocrinologist cannot find any published studies anywhere that record anything near your levels; you are stratospherically off the charts.”

“Once we get you sorted out, perhaps we could build a bit of decking outside—an awning—what do you say?”

“Sounds like a plan.” Frohike begins, “With a barbecue?”
I detect a flicker of interest.

“You can get the guitar and amp going— we could have a little party out there,” I suggest. Frohike’s eyes light up with excitement. “Do we get to invite Yves?” Frohike asks with a mischievous grin.

The hound curls up in the corner of the camper next to the pilot’s chair, feigning sleep, her ears twitching.

“He’s going to be on medication for the rest of his life if he survives, isn’t he?” the missus whispers as we leave.

“He might be, but we can always explore alternative treatments and options,” I reply.

The architect looks at the truth-seeker. “You seem to know a lot. Care to test your theories in the real world?”

Is this another distraction? Burgers and chips—doughnuts and ice cream dainties—can I tempt you? It’s a little scratchy, ouch! Now it’s all over and done—well, until it’s time for your booster. You have done your bit—saved Granny—saved your vulnerable girlfriend—saved the world—maybe won the lottery—you hero.

Was this a prank? A threat? “Meet me at the old warehouse on Elm Street tomorrow at midnight. All will be revealed.”

Against our collective better judgement, we are lured into real-world adventure, coupled with the chance to debunk the conspiracy theories once and for all, which is too tempting to resist. Into the fray, we go armed with flashlights, notebooks, and a healthy dose of scepticism. Our belief in our governments is strong; after all, we have all been indoctrinated from the moment of our creation.

The warehouse was as cliché as they come—a dilapidated building bathed in moonlight with broken windows and graffiti-covered walls. Inside was a hooded figure who introduced himself as The Architect.

“Welcome, truth seekers. You wanted to know the truth. Here it is.” The architect holds a small vial filled with a glowing blue liquid between his puffy fingers.

“This is the vaccine. The real one. It contains the third strand of DNA.”

“You’re kidding, right? This can’t be real.”

The architect’s eyes glinted in the dim light. “Oh, it’s very real. But it’s not what you think. Take a closer look.”

“Uncap the vial and sniff it. It smells like… blueberries? Confused? Dip your finger into the liquid and taste it. “Is this… blueberry juice?”

The architect threw back his hood, revealing a broad grin. “Gotcha! Welcome all to the annual Jokers’ Society initiation. You’ve just been fooled again!”

As laughter echoed through the warehouse, you felt al a mix of relief and embarrassment. We were all so engrossed in the conspiracy that we momentarily lost our grip on reality, but now we can relax, join in the laughter, and appreciate the elaborate ruse.

No, that is what “they” want—they want you zombified, comatose, and peacefully sleeping.

Not opening your eyes to hybrid humans and DNA-manipulating vaccines—not noticing the toxic skies—the toxic people struggling to walk, to talk, and to think.

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