By Ray Wilson
New York Herald Tribune, November 29, 1953.
“Scientist killed in Hotel Plunge: Frank Olson, 42, a bacteriologist for the Defence Department in Washington, was killed early yesterday in a plunge from a tenth-story room at the Hotel Statler, Seventh Ave. and 33rd Street, police reported.”
“It’s interesting about Special Operations and MKULTRA and its link to Ahenerbe, Himmler, and Crowley, don’t you reckon?” I say this, looking at my missus.
“It was exactly two years ago, on December 1, 2021, that I went into the hospital; I don’t expect anyone else made it out,” my missus replies thoughtfully. She then paused for a moment, her eyes filled with a mix of sadness and reflection. “I can’t help but wonder what secrets were hidden behind Frank Olson’s tragic death,” she added, her voice tinged with curiosity.
We had discussed MKUltra-nudge units, the 77th Brigade, and how we had attended most of the freedom marches in London, and as the year neared its end, we were both exhausted, as were many hundreds of thousands of people.
“I have been trying to work out how you got sick; based on the terrain theory, it can only be from toxins, but from where did they come from?” It’s already mid-morning, and we need to be in Lewes for lunch. My missus is meeting up with friends and doing some Christmas shopping, and I am going to walk the chalk paths with the hound. Our motorcycle gear is by the front door, and I can’t shake off this feeling of fatigue. Maybe it’s just the toll of the countless protests and demonstrations we’ve been on over the years. Regardless, I hope a refreshing walk in nature will rejuvenate us before we hit the road again. My missus is thinking of her time in the hospital exactly two years ago.
The COVID ward, it turns out, was full of fully vaccinated women, with one exception—my missus. The cat lady had left Miss Pretty in the care of neighbours while she was in the hospital. All the cat lady wanted was to go home and be with Miss Pretty, her cherished cat.
“I’ve had all my vaccinations,” she said proudly to all in earshot.
“So have I,” the dancer affirmed.
“So have I,” echoed by all in the ward.
“I haven’t had mine,” said my missus.
“Why?” “Why on earth not?” they asked in unison.
“It’s an experimental, untested gene therapy,” my missus says.
The lady who came onto the ward was missing all of her teeth; after various tests and scans, she was told it was a malignant tumour in her stomach. There was another lady who, mysteriously, was placed on the COVID ward, one presumes, after testing positive. One of her eyes had dissolved completely. She couldn’t explain it. The atmosphere in the ward grew tense as the realisation of the severity of their conditions sank in. The dancer’s words hung heavy in the air, leaving everyone pondering the potential risks and uncertainties of experimental treatments.
My missus had been on the ward when the dancer walked in high-heeled shoes and reeled off a list of the 26 prescription medications she was on.
Beside the occult side of MKUltra were the heady days of the acid tests. “It was completely out of control back in those days. We were really rough with LSD. A large dose was really rough. It could be a hell of a joke for a guy in his late 30s to suddenly come face to face with the universe that way.”
The MK Ultra programme also explored cancer and experimented with various techniques for inducing cancer. One 1954 document concerns research on methylcholanthrene, a chemical compound that the CIA claimed is now recognised as probably the most potent known carcinogen in the production of tumours of various types.
The document continues, and I quote, “If this hydrocarbon can be produced in the laboratory by chemical transformation of normal constituents of the human organism, it is possible that the substance may arise in the body through a process of abnormal metabolism and initiate cancer.”
“I have been trying to figure out how you got sick. How far would government agencies go to propagate their “virus”? I wondered.
Back in the 1950s, MKUltra and the CIA tested weapons that involved the release of psycho chemicals from hand-operated generators. These chemicals could be used to harm groups of a few people or against small groups of a dozen or less. Doctor Green was considering developing hand generators and delivery devices similar to eyeglass cases or fountain pens. Little is known about the physical characteristics of chemical agents and the possibility of modifying these characteristics to create effective toxic aerosols. This information is crucial for the development of these weapons. Dr. Swab and Frank Olson discuss the effects of toxic agents, which are almost as effective as small, solid particles. The 1950s work focuses on the travel of aerosol clouds over different terrains and the behaviour of air cells when released over populated areas. How about confined areas—cruise ships and aeroplanes?
“I can’t believe that so many of our essential services are captured,” I begin.
My missus interrupts me before I can complete the sentence. “You were one of the very first to sign up within 15 minutes of the first airing of the emergency appeal asking for first responders.”
That was the truth—in early 2020, I signed up, and within a week, Disclosure and Barring Service was completed, and I was approved and on the road.
The streets of the UK were not full of sick people, asymptomatic or otherwise. Slowly, I began to understand the true nature of the deception. Fake PCR tests tested positive for fake viruses, and in the beginning, virtually nobody got sick. This would dramatically change, of course, and it had nothing to do with a “pandemic.” Not the pandemic people were brainwashed into believing it was—it was a pandemic of sorts—it was a virus of sorts—it was a MKULTRA mind virus.
The ticker tape on the BBC ran up giddy numbers of dead and infected people, increasing minute by minute, hour by hour, and yet I witnessed empty streets, empty hospitals, and, more importantly, empty funeral parlours. My mum died in April 2020 at home in her own bed, much to the chagrin of the authorities—not from “COVID.” I found out that every funeral director I contacted at the time was not busy and, in fact, was less busy in April and May 2020 than in the previous five years.
“It could easily have happened to you,” my missus points out. “You fell for the propaganda and lies just like the rest,” she says, and she is right.
After the first 56 hours of being on-call and not having had one call-out, I turned off my app and started on my journey.
I still receive emails and updates even though I have left the system. I thought of my neighbour’s elderly mum working tirelessly on the front lines at the “vaccination centres. It could have been me. I received many emails asking me to volunteer to jab, an offer I declined. My neighbour’s mum died suddenly a few months ago. I cannot imagine thinking of the blank vaccine vial inserts—no ingredient lists, no contraindications, just a long, thin, blank white winding sheet.
This is my nightmare—to have fallen prey to the lies sucked into the system—thinking of the batch codes, the times of administration, and the clusters of sudden and not-so-sudden deaths. Imagining being implemented in the deployment—doing something that you believed was for the greater good—devoting hours of time to getting jabs into arms only to realise the truth.
I still get a few emails from time to time, and they are along the lines of:
“We are grateful for your continued efforts and enthusiasm as volunteer responders. With new volunteer opportunities being developed to support even more people and communities across England, we thank you for being a part of this journey.”
“Together, volunteer responders have responded to more than 2.5 million requests for help, supported more than 200,000 people, and completed over 363,000 shifts at vaccination sites—a remarkable achievement.”
“I was still in the isolation room when you turned up in your hi-viz jacket and motorcycle gear,” my missus recalls.
“Well, they let me onto the ward as a first responder with an urgent delivery.” I grin. “A young doctor intercepts me and offers to take the package straight to you.” The package contained among other things a mobile phone.
“I remember the box ringing. It scared the life out of me,” my missus said in deep thought. “It was about 11 p.m. that night; they woke me up and told me I had to be moved onto the main COVID ward. The following morning, I was in bed by a window—it was a glorious, blazing red sunrise.”
“I remember they told me that they were running low on oxygen and that I might be moved to the ICU. I pointed out that would be a backwards step; I knew if I was put on a ventilator, that would be it.”
My missus tells me she was next to the dancer and that they chatted.
“She and her husband travelled around the world as professional dancers; she was devastated by COVID. From early 2020 on, they never left their house, not once, other than to get vaccinated. They had everything delivered—no friends or family were allowed to visit.”
‘How did I get COVID?’ The dancer kept on asking me,” my missus recalled, “she just wanted to watch “Strictly” on TV—she wanted to wear her gold-red Jimmy Choo dancing shoes—given to her as a special present.”
“The doctor came to her bedside and pulled the curtain around—there was no privacy. I heard every word. He told her that she had terminal lung cancer. There was a moment of silence and then floods of tears. He asked her if she would sign a DNR form; she refused. He said to her that it was not a pleasant business being resuscitated, you know.”
“I had long conversations with her; I told her about the phlebotomy nurse.” My missus pauses.
“The one who asked you if you had been pressured because of your vaccination status—she really saved you. A funny thing—I got endless phone calls from the hospital—not about you or how you were doing—no about me and how I must get vaccinated and get tested,” I recall and continue.
“I remember you going back with a boot full of gifts for the doctors, nurses, staff, and patients on the COVID ward.”
“The ward was empty—no patients or staff in the ward—and I left all the boxes there.” My missus rubs her eyes.
“Did they all get home for Christmas?” I ask
“I don’t know. I hope that was the case. I fear it wasn’t. I often think about it.”
“The cat lady and all of them, including the dancer. The dancer, who explained to her husband on her phone from her hospital bed precisely how to cook Spanish omelettes in her absence.
“Let’s hope they spent Christmas with their families.” I say.
“Let’s hope they got to watch the reruns of ‘Strictly’, at least,” my missus says as I gather up all the old government reports and shovel them to the back of the shelf before leaving. It’s time to blow away some cobwebs.
We get our motorcycle gear on, the hound jumps into the sidecar, the engine splutters into life, and the road beckons.
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