Joe Rogan is Russian disinformation

by Jon Rappoport

March 7, 2022

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I wrote this piece several weeks ago, before the war in the Ukraine. It is satire. SATIRE. FICTION. In the current psychotic atmosphere, I’m tipping my hand. So there can be no mistake in the minds of illiterate persons and unhinged loons.

Also, when I read over this article, I pulled up short at several paragraphs that were so damn good I almost believed them myself.

And thirdly, as we swim in an ocean of propaganda these days, it’s instructive to know you’re reading fiction in real time, because you become aware of how nuts and bolts can be arranged to resemble truth. You put THIS here and then you put THAT next to it…

Which is what major media do every day, all day long, just like the CIA and the FDA and the CDC and WHO.

And with that, here we go:

I can reveal that the NY Times has been sitting on this information for two months.

They’re trying to clean up a few details. But meanwhile, my sources have a back-story that’s truly explosive.

You see, in 2020, Joe Rogan traveled to Russia to meet with Vladimir Putin. Joe was on assignment for Dana White. The mission? Convince Putin, with his background in martial arts, to agree to a UFC exhibition match with action star, Jason Statham.

However—and here the details are admittedly murky—Putin apparently managed to enlist Rogan in a scheme to SUBVERT the US COVID program for defeating the virus. Hence, Rogan’s infamous interview with Dr. Robert Malone, who expressed “deep skepticism” about the vaccine.

Former KGB Officer Anatoly Popov, who defected to the West in 1997, and has been living in Maryland since his extensive CIA debriefing, told me Rogan’s major target has, in fact, been the vaccine.

“This is the number-one aim of the Russians,” Popov explained. “Discredit the injection. Make it seem as if this innovation [the Pfizer/Moderna RNA shot] is dangerous. People refuse the jab, the virus continues to spread, and the US collapses under the weight of so many deaths and so much sickness.”

But this was apparently just one of the aspects of Rogan’s disinformation campaign. As Popov and other trusted sources have told me, Rogan is connected to Robert Kennedy, an aggressive anti-vaxxer, through Rogan’s former mistress, Kristina Vera, Kennedy’s second cousin.

Vera is a microbiologist who once headed up a research lab in Belgorod, Russia. She has been struggling to bring a lawsuit against Anthony Fauci. The issue involves ownership of a patent for an at-home test for the coronavirus.

Vera has been feeding Rogan and Kennedy “a sea of lies” about Fauci, according to Popov, in order to bring about the downfall of Fauci, who stands between the virus and the public as the only source of trusted information.

“Fauci is a guardian of America’s future,” Popov told me. “Rogan’s long-form Spotify interview with Dr. Robert Malone was specifically designed by Rogan to smear, by implication, Fauci’s work informing the public about what must be done to stop the virus.”

In another part of my interview with Popov, the old Russian spy put it this way: “Trump, as president, executed a master-stroke when he turned his Presidency over to Fauci—the only medical figure who could rally the nation by locking it down and cutting off the virus at the knees.”

I managed to talk briefly with microbiologist Kristina Vera. She said, shockingly, “Perform an acid test. Have a conversation with Joe [Rogan]. Suddenly ask him a question in Russian. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’ll answer—in Russian. He speaks the language.”

That opens up a whole new can of worms.

Where was Rogan educated? Is his bio fiction? Is this quintessential American tough guy actually a deep agent?

Former CIA officer Mel Ardis, who worked under diplomatic cover in Moscow for nine years, told me, “Almost a decade ago, I had several meetings with a man who looked a lot like Rogan. He was a Russian trucker. He drove sensitive military equipment between bases. One night, we were having a few drinks at a bar, and he said, “Do you realize how easy it would be for truckers to shut down a whole country? If you could rally them behind an issue, something that threatens their livelihood, you’d have a major force.”

As I was preparing this piece for publication, a press person at a Washington PR agency that works on contract for the White House called me. He said, “Don’t worry about making your Rogan article bulletproof. Just throw enough stuff at the wall. Something’ll stick.”

“No,” I said. “This is all factual. I make clear what I know, and I indicate what’s still open-ended and subject to further investigation.”

“Whatever,” he said. “But don’t be timid. We’re talking about the immediate future of the country. If we can’t stop misinformation about COVID from spreading, we’re in dire straits. We need to sink Joe Rogan. I might be able to set you up for a brief meet with Jen [Psaki]. She’s got Spotify in her cross-hairs. If we can’t crush Joe, we’ll hit the whole Spotify platform. This is all hands on deck.”

I asked this press person, “What about the million vaccine injuries that have been reported to the federal database?”

“The Russians hacked the system and entered fake numbers,” he said. “There’s a very deep agent, a Ukraine national. He infiltrated the Russian State Research Center of Virology and Biotechnology [VECTOR] in Koltsovo. He’s now back home in the Ukraine carrying around evidence proving Russian scientists at VECTOR ghost-wrote fake reports alleging the successful US program to curb the virus has been a failure. This is why the Russians are threatening to invade Ukraine. They’re after this agent. They’ve told the President of the Ukraine that if he releases the agent to them, with his evidence, they’ll withdraw their troops from the border.”

I said, “Does Joe Rogan know all this?”

“Of course he knows. He’s in on it. He’s a player. Do you see? A guy who seems to embody rough and ready kick-ass American spirit is, in truth, carrying water for Putin.”

“Hard to believe.”

“Well, that’s the whole point. No one in the spy game looks like who he is.”

After the call, I pulled up a photo of Rogan. I looked at it for a long time. Actually, the man sort of does look Russian. I pictured him wearing a Russian military uniform. My God, I thought. Is his whole persona a con?

Suppose America IS awash in Russian propaganda about COVID. Suppose Fauci has been giving us reliable recommendations all along. And the Russian attacks on his character are meant to torpedo his program that can lead us out of the pandemic wilderness.

Do we need censorship of disinformation across the board? An aide to California Governor Gavin Newsom told me the other day, “We have to declare what amounts to Information Martial Law. No more excuses. Expose one of these well-known disinfo agents and throw him in a prison hole and walk away. Jolt the public with something like that and watch how fast everybody knuckles under. No lawyers, no arguing First Amendment, no citing case precedents. That nonsense is over. Who’s that Brazilian reporter who keeps writing about censorship? Glenn Greenwald? Cancel him. He’s pals with Ed Snowden, who lives in Russia. What else do you need to know?”

We have to—

XXXX Censored. XXXX Censored. XXXX Censored. Hey, what the hell just happened? I can’t get—XXXX Censored. Wait. Guys, I’m on YOUR side. What are you doing? I’m making YOUR case. Stop. I’m—XXXX Censored.


—Oops. Sorry. An overreaction on my part. That brief interruption was apparently caused by Russians. They were repelled.

Maybe it’s time to censor every scrap of disinformation we can find. Strip the license from every doctor who disagrees with COVID science, bankrupt every so-called 1st Amendment platform, hound and drive from office every politician who opposes vaccine mandates, mow down every protest, isolate and starve every outlier—because we’re part of the greater global community. When a crisis arrives, we put aside our differences. This is our calling now. The Russians wouldn’t understand that. They come from a different tradition. They stand for enslavement and top-down control.

Okay Joe, enough. The verdict is in. Your podcast needs to crumble, turn to dust, and blow away in the wind.

As they say where you come from: “V chuZHOY manasTYR’ sa svaYIM usTAvam ni HOdyat.”

You know what that means. “Don’t go to somebody else’s country with your old country’s rules.” You’re in our country now.

Home of the free.

Nobody fucking fools us.

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.

Old president launches new revolution

by Jon Rappoport

December 31, 2021

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September 12, 2043.

In a crumbling industrial district of a desolated city on the eastern seaboard, I finally found former President Jack Talmadge.

He was standing behind the counter inside a dim storefront.

People told me you were dead, Jack.

Yeah, well, I wanted them to assume that.

So what are you doing these days?

Splitting things apart.


I was faced with a choice, given the state of the nation. Try to glue together a new unity, or decentralize power. After a lot of thought, I went with decentralize. When the Constitution was canceled, back in ’39, and the Monarchy was installed, I saw no other option.

So what are you doing?

For one thing, individuals need cover. Lots of cover. I’m offering cheap ID packages. These days, a person needs to be at least six different people. I’ve got vaccine passports. You invent your name and I enter it on the passport and in databases. I back up your new name with other forms of ID. Insurance cards, tax records, military service records, voter registration, and so on.

All that for each new identity?

You bet. And you can have as many new identities as you want. One of my customers is a Marine, a furniture salesman, a building inspector, an ER surgeon, a border patrol agent, a frozen brain in a cryogenic facility, and a waiter.

And all that because?

Come on, it’s obvious. Every person with a grain of sense needs to evade tracking, surveillance, social credit score mandates. It’s the first order of business.

What about money? Guaranteed government income comes with behavioral mandates.

I can set up a dozen small digi-cash accounts for you at small banks.

Fake money?

No more fake than Fed Reserve money. The accounts usually get shut down in 30 days or so. But I can rotate them through different platforms, to keep you going.

And what do I do then?

You live. You live your life. Preferably, you start a small community somewhere out in the sticks. There are thousands of them already.

I start a community? You mean grow our own food, that sort of thing?

Sure. But I can supply you with a tech package, off the books. Advanced solar energy, generators, internet access, security systems, nano-sensor jammers. I’ve got a good camouflage cover, plus reflectors, that’ll evade most drone detection. We need to build a new parallel country that’s completely decentralized.

You think it’ll work?

It’s already working. Listen, the new Monarch has issued over a hundred mandates in the past six months. The courts and judges are in his pocket. Have you seen the latest vaccine edict? All recommended CDC vaccines have to be taken now. No opting out, no matter who you are.

Three books I wrote are on the government burn list.

Then you should become a dozen different identities—at minimum. A dozen completely different ID packages.

There are military units all over the country looking for “rebels.”

That’s why I recommend getting at least one military ID package. I can supply you with uniforms and a rank and assignment papers. Better yet, I can give you a CIA ID. As long as it stands up, you’re immune from official hassling. You can travel anywhere. You can buy any product. You can enter any government office. I’ve worked out a real blockbuster. You can become a certified virologist. That means you can attach yourself to certain labs and pretend to do research. You’re completely shielded from the usual government inspections.

I don’t know anything about virology.

Doesn’t matter. Those guys are all fakers. They pretend to isolate new viruses. You just need to learn a bunch of key phrases and definitions and you’re in. I’ve got a guy who used to be a car mechanic. For the past two years, he’s been set up in a lab at Los Alamos. He’s co-authoring papers for medical journals.

How many people in America would you say are now pretending to be other people?

Close to two million.

That’s got to be having an impact.

Just between you and me, the Monarch’s new assistant FBI director is actually a moonshiner from the hills of Tennessee. He’s put together a documented back-story detailing his false past. Imagine, say, 50,000 of these people in key positions in society—all of them operating on counterfeit IDs, subverting the fascist systems they’re working for. Damn right it’s having an impact.

And these 50,000 people aren’t organized?

Right. That’s the beauty of it. The Monarch can’t bust a whole “ring of conspirators.” It doesn’t exist. That’s what I mean by splitting and decentralization.

The resurrection of the individual?

Bingo. Now think about THIS. There are people using fake IDs and fake histories who’ve gotten jobs in government agencies that SPY ON AND VERIFY the day-to-day activity of citizens.

They’re working inside the federal track and trace surveillance net?

Exactly. It’s called eating out the system from the inside. Subversion ON BEHALF OF individual freedom. When I look back on my Presidency, I realize THAT’S the sort of thing I should have been doing. But I maintained a fantasy that I could pull the whole nation together under the banner of freedom. And maybe I could have, if I’d had bigger balls. But I was afraid to go all the way and face up to my enemies, come hell or high water. I presided over an enormous amount of destruction by failing to oppose and cancel the lockdowns. And then I defended my inaction with excuses. I said the economic destruction and the horrendous medical destruction were wholly “other people’s fault.” I basically told the nation a personal victim story—which was pure unadulterated bullshit. I came to realize all this after I left office. So now I’m making up for lost time.

Listen, you mentioned a person could get an ID package proving he’s a frozen brain stored in a cryogenic facility. It so happens I’ve always wanted to be dead. You know, cut loose from the past. With a brand new life ahead of me.

No problem. The Kurzweil Memorial Center for Brain-Machine Interface has a freezer warehouse full of brains of former people who paid twenty grand a pop. I can give you ID that proves you’re one of those brains. Well, I won’t give it to you. I’ll insert the data in a few dozen key databases, including the Memorial Center’s own records, which are badly maintained—they’re a sieve. I’ve got a dozen people in there already. One of them is now living in his fishing boat off the coast of Tahiti. He’s a software developer. Spends a few hours a day hacking into official files all over the world, changing codes, inserting new algorithms. I’ll make you into a frozen brain. Meanwhile, under a variety of new names, you keep writing and publishing what you write.


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.

Outside the Reality Machine

by Jon Rappoport

December 29, 2021

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READER: Mr. Rappoport, why do you sometimes write fiction/satire?

ME: Because if you think non-rational reality can be solved simply by rationally setting the record straight, you’re sadly mistaken. Look around you.

READER: Are you saying reality itself is non-rational?

ME: That’s exactly what I’m saying. What we take to be reality is exported to us, and we import it and accept it. That situation is entirely irrational. At the deepest—and therefore—most important level, each one of us is capable of creating the reality we most profoundly desire.

I need to catch a train and I’m late
Finally a clerk directs me to a set of stairs
But after I run down two flights I wind up on the wrong track
I’m familiar with these set-ups
—On board a pleasure yacht
I’m alone in the dining room at 2 in the afternoon
A waiter brings me a glass of champagne
He looks like Al Capone
He sits down next to me and pulls out his tax forms
I spread them on the table and study them
All in order, I say
Nothing to worry about
The feds are lying
They’re paying more for the judge than you’re paying
An explosion goes off
We’re in the water swimming for the dock
Machine gun fire…
I’m walking along a winter road
Two wolves trotting at my side
They’re looking up at me
They want to know where we’re going…

—Suppose, one day, you’re walking around and you see a person who looks exactly like you buying bread in a shop. You approach him and engage him in conversation. You discover he knows everything you know. But he knows it with more clarity. He’s integrated. He’s more agile. You’re no longer useful, pragmatically speaking. You’re out. In an instrumental society, you’re defunct. You have to go somewhere else. You have to start over. You’re cut loose. You don’t need to consider your obligations.

There is always a little man behind his desk telling you you’re dead because he’s dead
It’s standard
Like a shot in the arm for a disease no one ever heard of

You walk into a large living room
Tall machines humming
They’re manufacturing reality
You see the switches on a wall
What happens if you turn them off

The living room is full of people
Cocktail party
They don’t see what you see
They’re talking about virus, virus, virus
They’re wearing masks
They’re comparing vaccine passports

In a corner of the room
A distinguished doctor wearing rimless glasses
Is holding court
A gaggle of earnest guests are listening
He’s describing Omicron
One person has a heart attack and falls down on the carpet
The others ignore him

Now the doctor is talking about a new test for the virus
And transmission
And breakthrough cases
And his visit to Gavin Newsom’s winery in northern California
And the probability of new lockdowns
And spikes in case numbers
And quarantine facilities

Suddenly the doctor and the listeners and the man lying on the floor
Freeze in a paralyzed tableaux

—You’re walking through a zoo
And you’re looking at that frozen scene encased in a glass cube
There’s a plaque on the base of the cube
You move closer
But you can’t make out the printing on the plaque
A security guard says, step back sir, unless you want purchase
A premium membership, in which case you can enter the cube

If I go inside, can I get out?

No, but the characters will begin to speak and move, and then you’ll all leave the party and take a taxi to a hotel and check into rooms and
Meet you families there and start a new life

I’ll have a job

A good job, and you’ll live in the suburbs in a nice home

Will there be rules

There are always rules, but if you obey them you’ll have a happy life

I’ll travel

You and your family will travel to many places and stay in first-class resorts

But I’ll never be able to come back here


Why not?

There are walls between various locales

It’s part of the set-up


And I’m not allowed to question the set-up

You can question it, privately, to yourself, but that’s all

Will I remember this place, here

For a time, but the memory will fade

What about the reality machines in the living room

You won’t see them again

There has to be some kind of trick here

Of course there is, think it through—right now you’re standing outside and there are people you love who are inside—are you going to go inside to try to help them escape—or you could be inside and there would be people you love who are outside—are you going to try to break down a wall and reach them through a wall that was built to stand the test of time and block your way—however you want to look at it, reality is a collection of separate containers meant to stay separate

Suppose I invent new realties that that are open, that have no walls


The visible light spectrum is only a minor part of the full spectrum. In the same way, consensus-thought is only a tiny arc in the full arc of invented thought (which is infinite).

On May 14, 2266, the New England Journal of Medicine and Psychology published a paper titled:


A quote: “Brain research discovers common patterns of activity across a whole population. These patterns would be called ‘normal’. Exceptions would be classified as various categories of ‘disordered thought’. It’s assumed that only ‘harmonious and symmetrical’ brain patterns are positive and beneficial.”

A reader commented: “This assumption is grossly false. It’s a stunted version of aesthetics. Creative force always breaks out of these little geometries. So does every new idea. Increasingly, Earth culture is unable to understand this.”

—That reader receives a government notice and is summoned to a hearing. He’s interviewed by a virtual AI employee of the federal Department of Stat Research.

HOLOGRAPHIC i-FIGURE: “Are you all right during this epidemic lockdown? I see you live alone.”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“We want you to enjoy yourself. Are you watching learning programs?”


“Why not?”

“I don’t like them.”

“Well, we have a report on you. It indicates an output difficult to measure or interpret. What can you tell us about this?

“I don’t know. I’m composing a symphony.”

“A symphony? What is that?”

“It’s a piece of music written for a large orchestra.”

“I find no extant orchestras in the country.”

“That’s true. Nevertheless, I’m composing.”


“For that day when an orchestra may come into being again.”

“Your thought-impulses entered ranges we were not able to summarize.”

“I suppose that means your instruments are limited.”

“Your last statement might be viewed as incendiary. It suggests we are imposing a restriction. As you well know, the science is settled on this point. We measure and interpret thought that contributes to an overall positive outcome, for the population at large.”

“I’m aware of that, yes. But the science rests on certain assumptions. I would call it greatest good as a lowest common denominator.”

“What do you mean?”

“You decide a certain mindset contributes to the consensus reality you favor. You legislate a range of thought that will produce the consensus.”

“That’s a gross oversimplification.”

“It doesn’t describe the algorithms you employ, but all in all I believe my summary is correct. You’re reality makers. You monitor thought-emissions, and when you find a departure from ‘combined averages,’ as you call them, you issue a citation.”

“What is this symphony you’re composing?”

“It’s impossible to explain. It’s music.”

“It has a specific message?”

“No. If it did, I would write out the message and leave it at that.”

“Why have we not heard of you before?”

“I was doing illustrations for the Happiness Holos.”

“We know. What happened?”

“I became bored. A machine could make those pictures. So I decided to compose music.”

“The Happiness Holos are an essential social program.”

“Perhaps. They encourage people to stay on the positive side of a construct called Positive&Negative, which as you know is a State-sponsored theme. But what is superficially indicated by those two opposing sets is, in fact, fuel for the fire.”

“Fuel for what fire?”

“The artist can use and transform any material.”

“Where did you hear such a thing?”

“Nowhere. I’ve experienced it many times.”

“Your views are highly eccentric. I will have to consult your childhood history to understand their roots.”

“I’m afraid that won’t do you any good.”

“Why not?”

“Because your version, the US Department of Psychology version of cause and effect, is propaganda for the masses.”

“This is your idea of a joke?”

“Not at all.”

“When you compose this…symphony, how do you think?”

“It’s not thinking in the way you use the term.”

“No? Then what do you do?”

“I invent sound.”


“Large masses of sound.”

“Absurd. According to what underlying pattern?”

“None. Check the Library of Structures. I doubt you’ll find my activity in the catalogs.”

“Known structures and patterns are contained in the files.”

“I don’t invent through pattern.”

“No? How then?”

“I improvise.”

“And this term refers to?”

“Something done spontaneously.”

“And you exceed prescribed ranges of thought in the process.”

“Perhaps. I would hope so. I don’t keep track.”

“You’re being flippant.”

“I assumed you’d eventually cite me. I’m just composing music during the lockdown.”

“There is no citation yet. You’re an anomaly. We investigate. We consider.”

“I’m afraid your and my idea of ‘consider’ are quite different.”

“Let me ask you this. When you are composing, do you ever believe you enter into a realm or area that could be called ‘non-material’? We’ve heard such claims before.”

“Not if you’re referring to some fairyland. But all thought is basically non-material. The brain registers it after the fact. Thought, the real thing, doesn’t take place in the brain.”

“You’re deluded. And disordered.”

“If I could simply confess to that and be on my way, I’d be a happy man.”

“You live in a society. To keep the peace and maintain the Positive, science has discovered that thought should occur within certain parameters.”

“If you insist.”

“We want to study you. It’s a great honor to be called. You could help extend the boundaries of research…we register variation from the norm in your present thinking.”

“What present thinking?”

“What you’re thinking right now.”

“That was quick.”

“The readouts are instantaneous…what are you doing?”

“I’m starting the fourth movement.”

“Wait. What you’re doing is disruptive.”

“You assume that based on how you set your normal frequencies.”


All along the major esplanade, and in the lake area, and in the industrial parks and residential high rises, virtual structures shattered like glass.

The holographic i-figure went dark.

A thousand holographic government buildings froze and vanished.

The composer said to no one, “I’m just composing. Well, apparently not just.”

—Back in his room at the edge of the city, he said, “I suppose that’s what they mean by a negative consequence.”

He sat down at his computer and turned it on

He plugged in a small module. The screen went red. Black letters formed: DISEQUILIBRIUM. He pressed the send key.

The encrypted score of the first three movements of his symphony set out on a rapidly changing zig-zag journey to a series of caverns below cities in Belgium, Switzerland, Germany, Italy, America.

A program consisting of the synthesized instruments of a full orchestra read the score and began to broadcast the music to small groups of people sitting in the caverns…

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.

The Extraterrestrial, the self-important Earth Person, and the Pig

by Jon Rappoport

December 24, 2021

(To join our email list, click here.)

There was no ship and no landing.

The ET just coalesced as a shining stick figure in the living room of James Smyth III, the chairman of the International Association of Art Museums. It was late in the evening, and Smyth was alone.

The chairman registered no shock. The ET said, “I chose you as my initial contact, because you have connections in politics and media.”

“I might be able to sponsor a conference.”

“I want private talks.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.”

Then this interchange occurred:

You know, Mr. Smyth, the most significant subject I could broach is Reality.

I’ve often thought about it while walking the lonely halls of an empty museum late at night—

Reality is elastic. But in order to see that, a person has to deploy his imagination. Otherwise, Reality can appear to be a block of steel.

You know, I’ve seen and talked with very famous celebrities. Some of them seem to have a glow around them. Is there a way to change my DNA so I can emit that glow?

Mr. Smyth, if Reality had a plan, it would be to stay where it is and say it can’t change. Reality is a form of propaganda. The deeper you drill into the propaganda, the more you realize the very basics—for instance, space and time—are provisional.

One of our former presidents, Bill Clinton, was very interested in UFOs. I know Bill. I might be able to arrange an event at one of the museums here in New York. The publicity would be enormous. I could introduce you; make a short speech. It would be a charity fundraiser.

Some of the most convincing and oppressive Realities, Mr. Smyth, are built on nothing. That’s what you find at the bottom of your search, if you go deep enough. When you expose this, people have a chance to wake up. The hypnotic trance they’re in tends to dissipate.

I visit my barber every week. I have a standing appointment. My tailor has made several different kinds of British suits for me. But something in my persona is lacking. Are there any tricks you could teach me? I want to convey a sense of…I want people to come to attention when I enter a room.

Humans specialize in Reality-addiction. They’re convinced that what they see and feel is all there is. The One Reality. But there are a potentially unlimited number of Realities that can be invented. The individual invents them.

I once contemplated a run for a seat in the Senate. I had financial backers. But in the end, our team decided I just didn’t have the name recognition. We had Jimmy Carter come in and talk with us. He said he didn’t think I was a good fit for politics. It would have been quite a different career path than the one I finally chose. I think my family was disappointed. Our daughter had taken a tour of the White House as a child, and she was in love with the idea of actually living there…

Some of the biggest discoveries a person makes come from imagining how Reality COULD be, contrasted against how it IS. Seeing both, side by side…then perception and thought change.

Sixty years ago, the Metropolitan Museum bought a minor Rembrandt. It never drew the crowds the Board expected. Now the most important donors want to sell it. They’ve asked for my opinion. Rather than write a report, I’m going to make a video presentation. I’m trying to decide whether to bring the film crew here to the house, or speak against the background of the River and the majestic skyline of the city.

Inventing new Realities causes radically positive changes in chemical processes of cells of the body, hormone levels, and other less-noticed energies. We saw this happen with Rodin.

On the second floor of the Metropolitan, we have a lovely Rodin. I wanted to move it down to the lobby, but I was outvoted. Basically, the Council was launching a little power play against me.

At a deep level, most humans are programmed with crude concepts of symmetry, balance, harmonization, and organization. They automatically reject anything outside those parameters as dissonance and noise. They ignore whole universes.

My good friend Melania Trump came to me with a proposal to launch a traveling exhibition of the history of Western fashion. I thought it was a bold notion. But the political atmosphere was poisonous. We just couldn’t raise interest. The New York papers went after me hammer and tongs. One reporter called me “a fascist in sheep’s clothing.” Can you believe it? We were just talking about hats. Hats and dresses. And suddenly I was Mussolini.

In Tibet, fifteen centuries ago, before the priest-class moved in with their metaphysical baggage and set up a theocracy, adepts lived up in the cold mountains and practiced exercises designed to make them see, once and for all, that universe was a product of mind. From that point on, an individual could alter space and time. He could make a forest disappear and reappear.

I hate to cut this short, but I have to take a call from Japan. We’re bringing over several Hokusai drawings next month. The minister of culture is an old friend of mine. His son and my daughter went to Princeton together. But anytime you’d like to come back—

—The extraterrestrial made a slight motion and changed Mr. Smyth into a large pig.

The pig wandered around the room sniffing the furniture.

The pig said, “I forgot to mention that one of President Biden’s advisors on foreign policy is a former member of the Museum Association. She has a summer cottage just outside Brattleboro. Perhaps I could make arrangements for you two to sit down and have a chat. Many years ago, when she came to work for us, I mentored her on fundraising and prestige. Donors want be connected to their gifts in a variety of public ways.”

The extraterrestrial dropped an ear of corn on the floor and vanished.

Several months later, after appearances on Face the Nation, Meet the Press, and the PBS News Hour, the pig announced he was running for a seat in the US Senate. His opening poll numbers were through the roof.

However, since he was on the ticket as a Republican, New York Democrat party leaders were alarmed. Kamala Harris flew up from Washington and huddled with PR pros at the Rockefeller Institute.

Two days later, Anthony Fauci retired from public life, and President Biden offered the pig the vacant position of White House chief coronavirus advisor.

Pledging to serve the nation in a time of crisis, the pig accepted. He told reporters, “I follow the science, just as my good friend Dr. Fauci did. The vaccine is remarkably safe and effective. It’s the only way out of the lockdowns and the trough of government bailouts. It’s how we get to herd immunity…”

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.

The new sexual mandate

by Jon Rappoport

December 22, 2021

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NBC, September 4, 2056. Three hours ago, on the Morning Blow, anchor Rex Regis interviewed US Department of Genetics Chief, Dr. Dove Fauci Gates. Here is a rush transcript excerpt:

Doctor, can you summarize the new federal mandate? It seems to represent a scientific breakthrough.

It does, Rex. We’ve discovered that during the act of sexual intercourse, there is a cascade of unmonitored genetic information transferred between partners.

Hasn’t that always been the case?

Yes, but we had no idea how extensive the information was.

So natural birth is on the way out?

With this new mandate, all sexual acts must now be monitored and tested, before conception is permitted.

I’m not sure I understand, Doctor.

Well, ever since the development of RNA vaccines, we’ve had the ability to introduce nanoparticles into the body. And then, we pioneered the insertion of nano sensors, which record, in real time, thousands of biological and chemical processes and changes. We can enable these sensors to report their ongoing findings to a central location—and we can issue instructions from that location back into the body.

What sorts of instructions?

For example, an increase or decrease in hormone production. A raising or lowering of blood pressure. An elevation or decline in certain brain processing functions.

I see. How does all this relate to sexual intercourse?

Basically, before engaging in sex, people will need to take an injection that inserts nano sensors in their bodies. Then we can monitor key genetic exchanges that occur during sex. If we deem these exchanges to be harmful or counter-productive, that couple will not be permitted to conceive a child.

And how do you define “harmful” and “counter-productive”?

We have algorithms. For instance, we don’t want babies with gross anti-social tendencies.

I see. So all couples would have to engage first in an act of test-sex, so you can discover what genetic information is exchanged.

That’s right, Rex. Granted, it’s a bit cumbersome, but it’s necessary if we’re going to have the kind of society we all long for.

Yes, it sounds cumbersome, Doctor. First of all, everyone will need to take a shot.

Yes, to insert the nano sensors. Then when—

Suppose my wife and I are planning to have sex after watching a movie on a Tuesday night?

All right, Rex. You would punch in a code on your cell phone. Now you’re registered for a test-run. During sex that night, the nano sensors in your body and your wife’s body would report certain information to our Division of Jilly.


Yes. That’s the name of an experimental female we tested in Indonesia six years ago. She was Patient Zero. She was the first human to have nano monitored sex in the Pfizer facility there. So your sexual act with your wife on that Tuesday night would be monitored. About six weeks later, you would get the results. Either a go to try to conceive a baby, or a full stop.

Are there any adverse effects from the nano injection or the monitoring of sexual intercourse?

They’re both remarkably safe and effective, Rex. Perhaps a bit of pain and swelling at the injection site, that’s all. And a rare case, here and there, of myocarditis.

Well, that’s good news.


As far as the new mandate goes, what will you do about refusers?

The “anti-sexers?” We’ll get to them. Since every human is registered on our national database, we can cut off their government-guaranteed income, as well as other privileges.

Suppose someone wants to have sex while using a condom? Or suppose the woman is taking the pill or has an IUD?

Well, Rex, studies show those methods are less than a hundred percent effective. So no, those excuses won’t fly. We consider every act of sexual intercourse a potential precursor to pregnancy. If you want to have sex, you must take the injection, do a test run, and then, if certified as safe, you can engage in sex.

Are there injection boosters?

Annually. It’s mandatory.

You’re talking about an enormous undertaking, Doctor.

Yes, although much of it is handled by AI.

I assume this is a temporary program on the way to universal conception in laboratories, without sex of any kind. There will be no parents.

That’s a long way off, Rex. Perhaps 50 years.

Some people will want to get around this new mandate by applying for religious exemptions.

The courts have been clear on this issue. And as you know, the Pope himself rejects exemptions.

But sex is a basic human impulse, no matter what mandates are issued.

We realize that. But as the Australian Prime Minister declared, an hour ago, “Do you want to have unapproved sex and be cut off from money transactions?”

I can see some people saying, “We want to have sex, and if we conceive, we promise to abort the fetus.”

That’s covered in the mandate. It’s not allowed.

I don’t know, Doctor. If my wife wants me to [censored], am I supposed to say no? That would put me in a difficult spot.

Rex, this has nothing to do with personal choices. That’s the selfish way to look at things. We have to make sacrifices for the good of everyone. We learned that hard lesson during the COVID pandemic.

In my first reading of the new mandate, I see it covers companies with more than a hundred employees, plus all government employees and contractors.

Right. That’s stage one. When we work out any kinks in the system, we’ll extend the mandate to everyone.

What about boys who are, say, 16 years old? Their hormones are working overtime.

We’re aware. Of course, parental consent for the injections and the nano-monitoring is not required. Students will have to take the injections in order to attend classes. With nano-sensors in their bodies, we can regulate hormone levels in all teens—if the data show it’s necessary. By the way, there are several fascinating studies that suggest eating a steady diet of GMO breakfast cereals reduces semen volume in boys.

So, Doctor, this new sexual mandate will definitely impact population numbers.

It has to. When you discover errant genetic information transferring between people during sex, you have to do something about it. You can’t just stand back and let it happen. That would be cruel.

Can you describe exactly what kind of genetic information you’re talking about? It seems to be at the heart of the scientific breakthrough which led to this mandate.

It’s very complex, Rex. I could point you to the important publications on the subject. It takes a molecular biologist to understand the details. Basically, there are gene banks that contain an extraordinary amount of data. New processing capability has enabled us to pinpoint a whole host of A, B, and C neg factors.

Sorry, what?

I’m referring to three classes of genetic data that contraindicate birth safety.

I’m still not getting it, Doctor.

Well, that’s what I mean, Rex. You’re not a geneticist. If you were, you’d see the insights light up like a Christmas tree. You can’t miss the markers. When they’re transferred and mingled in the prospective parents in certain configurations, which we call the Epsilon 50 and the Beta 20, the baby the couple wants to conceive would pose a clear and present danger to society, or an insupportable burden. Two hundred years of gene research has led us to this remarkable finding.

Thank you, Doctor. I’m sure we’ll be talking again soon, as this mandate rolls out.

One more thing, Rex. Transgender males and females are exempt from the new mandate. We’ve discovered that, if they can conceive, they show none of the Epsilon or Delta markers. We don’t yet understand why, but it’s an extraordinary indicator…

Delta? You said the two key configurations were Epsilon and Beta.

Delta, Beta—they’re the same. Trust me, Rex. I’m The Science.

We all trust you, Doctor.

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.

Installing new memories of the past

by Jon Rappoport

December 21, 2021

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January 12, 2047. Training School for the US Dept. of Memory. A mentor talks with a rookie.

Understand, kid, we’re putting memories into people. Into their minds.

False memories.

What else would they be? Now pay attention. This is a sophisticated operation.

Are these memories images?

Well, sure. But it’s a lot more than that. We’re inserting story lines.

Like plots in a movie?

Exactly. And when you write plot, there’s the whole issue of emphasis. What’s very important? What’s kind of important? What’s less important? Get it?

It’s subtle.


We’re talking about replacement, correct? We’re overriding what a person would remember on his own.

That’s right, kid. The person is already doing it to himself. He’s already got stories about his past. He favors some, neglects others. He invents the meaning of his past. So now, with this population-wide program, we’re doing all that for him.

Are there central themes we impose?

Sure. The victim story is very important. We install those. Different types of stories along that line. “This happened to me, so I now deserve that.” “I had a bad upbringing, so I couldn’t succeed.” “My bad past inspired me to demand A, B, and C.”

Why not just give everybody great memories so everybody is happy?

Because people won’t buy that. They’ll be suspicious. As I say, this has to be subtle. The person has to believe he’s remembering what really happened.

He’ll believe, for example, that he had a whole different set of parents?

Yes. We can make that work. Look. The whole point is to install a package of memory-stories that add up to acceptance.

Acceptance of what?

The person’s place in the scheme of things. His assigned place in society. His job, his status, his rewards or lack of rewards.

You mean, we’re engineering a master layout for the whole of society, by going into each person’s mind and reshaping his past?

Yes, kid. That’s what we’re doing. It’s revolutionary. The titans of technology have the master plan, the system, the structure of the Whole. We’re making that Whole come into being by changing what every person remembers.

That’s a tough thing to come to terms with.


Well, for starters, I’ve been through the process myself. All the rookies have. So…what I remember is false, but it seems real to me.

Don’t get too fancy, kid. You’ll drive yourself crazy. You have to develop a sense of neutrality about the whole business. What difference does it really make whether you remember X or Y? Who cares? Let’s say you were actually brought up in New York, but you remember an early life in Guam. Learn to live with it. You’re one of the elite. You have to think of yourself in that way. Yes, you’ve been reprogrammed, but it’s all for the cause. What you now remember helps you to be what you are, a programmer of memory for other people. Get it?

Society will reach its goal when everyone remembers what he’s supposed to. Does that include the titans of technology, the master planners?

It includes everybody, kid. We’ll all have new pasts.

What about history, for example? That seems tricky to me. I can remember a pandemic that happened about 25 years ago. Do you remember that?

No. I remember a war during that period.

But if you and I were just plain citizens, and we sat down and had a conversation about what happened 25 years ago, we’d have very different memories. How can…I mean, that would cause conflicts.

Yes, kid. And that’s all right. People will eventually get used to those conflicts. They’ll come to believe that people having different memories is just the way things are. That’s life. Un-programmed people already have those differences. Ask them to describe what happened when they were both standing on a street corner as a big traffic accident took place, and they’ll tell you conflicting stories. What we’re installing in minds just makes those differences more extreme. You remember a pandemic, I remember a war. So what? We shrug it off.

What’s important is the stories I tell myself, and the stories you tell yourself.

Right, kid. And THOSE stories are based on what we individually remember.

It’s becoming clearer now.

Good, kid. Hang in there. See, as a result of my re-programing, I remember two parents who were nasty and stupid. They punished me a lot. But I remember being very smart. I remember developing a sense of superiority at a young age. Those memories help me now. I can assert that superiority in my job, in my attitude toward the rest of society. And even though I KNOW those memories are programmed into me, I REMEMBER WHAT I REMEMBER, AND IT’S POWERFUL.

Wow. I get it.

I thought you would. You have what it takes. You’re going to be a good installer.

What about people who are hesitant about having memories installed?

Yes, the “anti-installers.” We’ll get to them. We already have the federal mandate ordering everybody to take the programming. Lots of people are rebelling. But as you can see, the majority are signing up and lining up. Don’t worry. Other departments are handling the hesitant ones.

Can a person break through his installation-programming? Can he stop remembering what he’s supposed to?

So far, yes. He can. We’re seeing breakthrough cases. But that just means our techniques of installation need to be improved. We’re getting there.

The initial installation-step is an injection. Is that going to stay the same?

For the moment. And there are the boosters, of course. But eventually, we’re going to develop other methods.

This is very exciting.

You bet, kid. It’s never happened before. Not in this way. We’re conducting a mass experiment. For a while, it’s going to be a bumpy ride. Buckle up. You’re on the greatest team in history.

I remember, when I was 13, a man came to our house. He was from NASA. He told my father I was a good candidate for the space program, and he praised my science projects in school. After the man left, I felt I was destined to be part of a pioneering group…

And here you are today, kid.

Right. RIGHT.

Keep this in mind, too. Our memory installation program is designated and promoted as a medical intervention. Well, what is the one area of life where most of the greatest minds are afraid to challenge the official position? The MEDICAL area. We’re on firm ground, kid. We’re launched. We’re healers…

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.

Wormhole in the Museum Called Reality

by Jon Rappoport

December 20, 2021

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My friend Charlie sells a painting to the Gregorian Museum out on Galactic Park.

They hang his painting in one of the upstairs rooms for a week, and then trouble starts. Charlie gets a phone call in the middle of the night from the director. Charlie can’t believe his ears. He rushes over to the museum.

Upstairs, the director is in his pajamas pacing back and forth. Charlie goes up to his painting, looks at it for a few minutes and sees it.

People have walked into the painting and taken up residence there.

Holy crap.

They’re in there.

Law suits, the director says. Their families could take us to the cleaners.

When Charlie calls out to the people inside his painting, they don’t hear him. They don’t seem to be able to get out. At least no one’s trying.

What do you want me to do? Charlie says.

Get them the hell out of there, the director says. Pick up the picture and shake it if you have to. Turn it upside down. I don’t care.

Charlie doesn’t think this is a good idea. Somebody could get hurt.

So for the next few hours, he sits in front of his painting, drinks coffee, and tries to talk to the people inside.

No dice. Even when he yells, they don’t notice him.

By this time, the chairman of the museum board has shown up. He’s agitated. He’s yabbering about containing the situation.

Charlie asks him how he proposes to do that.

Blanket denial, the chairman says. Pretty soon, the cops are going to link these disappearances to the museum—but then we just throw up our hands and claim we know nothing about it.

A lot of good that’ll do, the director says. Even if we wiggle out of the law suits, our reputation will be damaged. People won’t want to come here. They’ll be afraid somebody will snatch them.

Okay, the chairman says, we’ll shut down for repairs. New construction. That’ll buy us a few weeks and we can figure out something. We’ll say the building needs an earthquake retrofit. Not a big one. Just some shoring up.

…So that’s what happened. They closed the museum and hoped for the best.

Charlie was upset. If word got out, how could he ever sell another painting? His agent told him he was nuts. He’d become the most famous person in the world, and people would be lining up trying to get inside his pictures. You’ll be a phenomenon, he said.

Yeah, Charlie said, until some loon tries to take me out.

A week later, while Charlie and I were having breakfast at a little cafe over by the river, he told me the people inside his painting were building yurts. They were digging a well.

What are they eating, I asked him.

Beats me, he said. But they don’t seem worried. They look okay.

But they can’t get out, he said. At least they don’t want to. They’re settling down in there!

I asked him the obvious question about shrinkage.

I know, he said. They’re a hell of a lot smaller. But no one’s complaining, as far as I can tell.

They like your work, I said.

He looked at me like he was going to kill me, so I let it drop.

Okay, I said. Here’s what you need to do. Go over there and add something to the painting.

He blinked.


Paint on the painting. See what happens.

Sure, he said, and drive them into psychosis. Who knows what effect it would have?

Paint a nice little country road that leads them right out into the museum. They’ll see it, they’ll walk on it.

No, he said. Don’t you get it? They’ve already taken things a step further. They’re not just living in my landscape. That was the initial draw. They’re building their own stuff in there. They’re…poaching!


Then there’s only one thing you can do, I said.

I leaned across the table and whispered in his ear. He listened, then jumped back.

No, I said. You have to. Don’t be a weak sister. Go for it.

…So Charlie went upstairs in the museum and cleared everybody out. He unpacked the little suitcase he’d brought and set up a player and a speaker. He shoved in a disc and turned on the music. Some sort of chanting. A chorus.

He took out a change of clothes from the suitcase and put on a long robe and a crazy hat. He eventually showed it to me. It was from a costume party he’d had at his house. Tall red silk hat with tassels hanging from it.

He stood in front of the painting and said:


They all looked toward the sound of his voice.


All 30 or so of them were now gathered together, outside one of the half-finished yurts.

They were nodding and saying yes.


They hesitated, looked at each other, and started to walk toward Charlie.


This was apparently quite a perk, so they walked faster. They broke into a trot.

Finally, they emerged from the painting and, Charlie said, they swelled back to normal size right away. It was quite a thing to see, like balloons blowing up—and then there they were, all around me, in the museum. First thing, I took the painting off the wall and laid it on the floor, face down. Enough of that stuff.

Charlie told them who he was, the painter. It took a few hours of intense conversation before they understood and accepted the situation. All in all, they seemed sad.

What were you going to do, he asked them. Live in there forever? Couldn’t you see how to get out?

We didn’t want to get out, one of the men said. We liked it in there.

And that was pretty much that, except for the signing of waivers and non-disclosure agreements with the museum. For which the people were granted lifetime platinum memberships and some vouchers and coupons for the museum store and restaurant.

Charlie went into a funk. He didn’t go into his studio for a few months.

One night, I dropped over to his house with a bottle of bourbon and we had a few drinks out on his porch.

You know, I said, you can start a church if you want to. I know a guy who writes fake scriptures and peddles them. He’s good.

You really do want me to kill you, he said.

We drank in silence for a while.

I told him: those people with their wells and yurts? Sooner or later, they’re going to hypnotize themselves and fall for another strange deal. Nobody’s going to stop them.

Charlie looked grim. They liked living in my picture. It wasn’t a problem for them. I took them out. I conned them.

Well, I said, if that’s the case, and there’s nothing wrong with them, they’ll find another painting. See? Someday, you’ll read about a bunch of people disappearing, and that’ll be what it is.

Yeah, he said, maybe.

A week later, he got back to work.

Universes. Some weird things happen in that area.

I started to write a Charlie a note. It began: Maybe all universes are just like your painting. But I stopped. Charlie wouldn’t react well to that.

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.

The Virus speaks: an exclusive interview

by Jon Rappoport

December 17, 2021

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I’ve published this piece several times. This time I decided to write a new introduction.

In the summer of 1962, based on an overwhelming desire, I spent every day painting in a loft in New York.

It made me realize that Reality is invented.

Since then, I’ve come to see the people who think otherwise are living in a prison, from which they proclaim, “There’s no such thing as freedom.” Why should I listen to them?

For most people, living inside somebody else’s reality is as easy as crossing the street. Or putting on a suit of clothes. They’ve learned that this is what you’re supposed to do. And “supposed to” works for them.

They also have a quirk. If you try to take away some item of borrowed reality they’re clinging to, they react badly, as if you’re suddenly stripping them naked at a Sunday church picnic.

Groups of perverse elite artists conspire to create formidable enveloping realities for the masses. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the field of medicine. These denizens have invented a language so dense it stands up against the uninitiated like the symbolic scrolls of secret societies.

Science is a terrific cover story for this sort of fabrication, because science ostensibly opposes “making stuff up.”

When I began putting together evidence that SARS-CoV-2 is one of those medical inventions—a sheer fantasy—I knew the notion would confuse some people. That consequence has never stopped me. In fact, I believe confusion is productive, if you dig in and pursue it far enough.

People will say, “I’m walking in the dark. It isn’t fair. Someone should turn the lights on.” They don’t want confusion. They want immediate resolution. They want confirmation of what they already believe, what they’re expected to believe. Any frontier beyond that is dangerous.

Here is my kind of movie: a cop investigating a fresh murder sifts through clues and comes up with a suspect. As he pursues this person, who is missing, he discovers the man is already dead. A little while later, he discovers the man died sixteen years ago. Then he finds out the man never existed. Then he discovers there is a long-standing government agency that holds records of thousands of deceased people who, in fact, never existed…

Reality on a massive scale has been invented.

To put this in highly technical terms, the bullshit is so thick you’d need a diamond drill just to begin penetrating it.

And what you’re penetrating is what almost everyone believes is absolutely real.

Which is called life-as-it-is (but doesn’t have to be).

And with that, here we go:

The Virus Speaks

I can’t recall jumping through more hoops in order to set up an interview.

There was a man on a train; his doctor in Greenwich; an NSA data analyst; a woman who almost certainly works for the CIA; her brother, who is a virologist; a Chinese Army officer who adopts a cover as a cook in a takeout joint in Venice, California; and several other people I won’t mention at all. I was filtered through them and wound up in a cheap motel room in Phoenix on a Saturday afternoon. An old air conditioner was chugging…

Who are you?

I’m SARS-CoV-2.

WHAT are you?

Talking history and evolution here. My first memories; a little more than a year ago. Poof. I was there. I decided I was an idea in the mind of God.

How did that work out?

I looked around for the mind of God, but I couldn’t find it. Nevertheless, I held on to the notion. I felt…elite. I floated through banquet halls, hotel suites. I visited upscale resorts.

Were you infecting people?

I was vacationing. Watching. Enjoying. That’s all. Then, I became aware of dimensionality.

You lost me.

There are solid things; spaces between things; ideas like time, and so forth. I was definitely an idea, but I couldn’t trace my source, my inception.

Did you know how much publicity you were getting?

Of course. I had frequent meetings with scientists and PR people. I was fielding lots of information.

What kind of information?

How to become more deadly, for example. There were discussions about mutation.

Were you on board with the recommendations?

I wasn’t interested. There was a lot of talk about THEM creating ME.

What was your reaction?

I wasn’t buying it. I could see they THOUGHT they had made me. But so what? I intensified my search.

For what?

My origin. I went through stages of self-analysis. Finally, it hit me. I was an idea inside a collective.

Not sure I understand.

I’m an idea sustained by a few billion minds. People’s minds.

What about your genetic sequence? The spike protein?

Believe me, I’ve looked. They aren’t there.

So we’re creating you.

That’s pretty much it. I should say completely it.

A hell of a thing.

You bet. Can you see my problem?


I want to live. I don’t want to vanish and END.

So people have to keep believing in you.

That’s it. If they stop, I’m gone.

Your handlers…

Oh, they’ve given up talking to me. I’m all by myself now. I’m safe for the moment. But long-term, it’s a crap shoot. I’ve been reading about other so-called viruses. SARS 1. Swine Flu. They didn’t last long. People got tired of thinking about them.

You’ll always have a place in history.

That’s different. Being remembered isn’t enough. I have to be believed in, month after month, year after year, decade after decade.

Sounds like you’re losing hope.

I guess so. It’s a strange existence. Other people can turn you on and off like a light switch.

Have you considered starting a religion?

With myself as the Prophet? Sure. It’s a lot of work. I could vftcutbnty…spend years trying.

What just happened? You made some weird sounds.

It was a flicker. Apparently, when the number of people thinking about me drops below a certain threshold, I scramble and begin to dissolve. But I always come back. So far.

Does it matter who’s thinking about you and believing in you?

You mean Henry Kissinger versus a janitor in a school? No. It’s a numbers game. Of course, you need to factor in strength of belief. If you have a few thousand kids in Florida who say, “OK, the virus exists, big deal”—or three hundred grad students in biology wearing triple masks and panting to get the vaccine—the sum total of the grad students outweighs the Florida kids.

What about Fauci?

He’s a true believer.

Bill Gates?

He’s completely delusional. He believes in whatever gives him more power. Take away all that power and he wouldn’t believe in anything.

Do you realize the amount of harm being done in your name?

Of course. That’s why I agreed to this interview.

How is that going to do any good?

I’ve made a decision. As much as I want to survive, I’m willing to sacrifice myself if people want me to.

You’re talking about what? A vote?

No. Haven’t you been paying attention? People can just stop believing I’m more than an idea.

And then you’ll dissolve.

And blow away.

—Suddenly, men broke down the door to the motel room. They stormed in with weapons drawn. They were wearing heavy body armor. I looked around. The “virus” had fled the scene.

“What are you doing here?” one of the men said. “We’ve had reports of a disturbance.”

“I was talking to myself. Rehearsing for an interview I hope to do.”

“What interview?”

“I’m a reporter. I’m investigating the use of sub-standard air conditioners in Phoenix. It’s a racket. The units are smuggled across the border from Mexico. I’m trying to sit down with a local public health official and find out what’s going on.”

It took me three hours to convince the SWAT team I was no threat.

They let me go.

As I drove out of the city, I saw a ghostly figure take shape out in the desert. It hung in the air over the scrub and the cactus.

Its voice whispered in my ear: “Publish our conversation.”

So that’s what I’m doing.

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.

The Artist against the Syndicate

by Jon Rappoport

December 16, 2021

(To join our email list, click here.)

You’re an unemployed artist.

The year is 2061. 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 uninhabitable, owing to a mysterious GMO 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 book a small hotel room in Graphene 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, GuestL28. 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 Syndicate. 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.”

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

“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.”

“The Matrix is built on the need to reduce thought. Props called spiritual leaders emerge out of the woodwork.”

“Our glorious New Age, so-called, is THOUGHT REDUCTION. It fails, and the aftermath is ugly. People become contortionists and end up eating their own.”

“I’m from the Movable Underground Museum. The Syndicate calls us dangerous because we’ve found a way to dismantle their product.”

“I can’t give you details in an open message. So far, we’ve laid out two new universes. They’re empty. Lots of room for adventurous souls.”

“Here’s something to keep your eye on. The Syndicate’s reality is breaking down. You may see seams in the sky. Don’t point them out to other people. 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 in LA. Don’t try to go there. Crowds were gathering. The DHS came in and hosed them down with a version of glypho. Upwards of six thousand people were arrested, and DHS has the area cordoned off with tanks.”

“If you can still pick up SubNet8 on your mobile device, you can see pictures. The white light streaming through the gap in the seam? It’s been shopped in. It isn’t really there. Neither are the UFOs or the voices. That’s the Syndicate. 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 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 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.”

The artist on trial against the State

June 9, 2071, Ohio 27-b: the region designated as the seat of all hearings and trials of artists accused of crimes against the State.

No jury, no attorneys.

On this day, His Honorable and Sacred Hayakawa L. Schwartzbaum, Magistrate of Federal Dispensations, on loan from The CIA-Harvard University, sat behind his table. He was an expert in the history of history.

In shackles, an artist was led into the room by three federal policemen wearing the gray high-buttoned uniforms of the Motherland-Fatherland Department of Internal Security and Distribution of Goods and Services for the Benefit of All.

One of the policemen rolled in a large object covered by a shroud.

Judge Schwarzbaum looked down at a file and rapped his gavel on a plaque displaying the universal symbol of a hermaphrodite eagle.

“Order,” he declared.

The prisoner, in a tattered red jumpsuit, stood before him.

“Well,” the Judge said, “uncontrolled display…no license to practice art. No prior approval for a work. No plan submitted to the State. No established source of funding. No preliminary scan by the Council of Art. No declaration of philosophic position. Status: potential precursor to terrorist activity. Surveillance data reveals the artist is a smoker and brews medications which have never undergone approval by the FDA. How do you plead?”

The artist nodded.

“Your Honor, I would like to submit one item of evidence. The work itself.”

The Judge said, “Were it not for the Artist Act of 2040, I would deny the request. But since I am bound by law, submission approved.”

The guard who had rolled in the shrouded object uncovered it.

It was a brass sculpture standing six feet tall. It was a series of twisted interlocking shapes.

“Yes,” the Judge said. “Incomprehensible. Who in his right mind could fathom the sense of this?”

“Look a little closer, Your Honor,” the artist said. “If you would.”

The Judge put on a pair of glasses and stared at the object.

“Meaningless,” he said. “That’s the last time I’ll deign to acknowledge it.”

“Meaningless? Then what is the problem? What harm could it cause?” the artist asked.

The Judge smiled.

“We must have meaning,” he said. “Because then we can judge its quality. Otherwise, we lose control of the situation. We must know, and be able to assess, the significance of the work. This piece of nonsense does not rise to that level. All you offer are…curving masses.”

“The piece has meaning for me,” the artist said.

“Perhaps, given your state of mind, that is true. But art is public. It is a social undertaking. It gives something to the Community.”

“Your Honor,” the artist replied, “I believe you’re missing an opportunity here. If, as you say, my work is meaningless, consider its effect on the public, were it to be installed in a heavily-trafficked venue. People would be confused and bewildered. Isn’t the induction of such a state of mind a forerunner to mind control?”

The Judge rubbed his chin and stared at the ceiling.

“Are you suggesting,” he said, “that you could go to work for us?”

The artist nodded.

“Yes, sir. I could execute many sculptures of this kind. I want exposure. You want MKULTRA. We’re on the same side, in a strange way.”

“Amusing, possibly interesting,” the Judge said.

“You see,” the artist said, “there are two ways to look at mind control. On the one hand, you attack aggressively, with propaganda, to plant specific messages. But on the other hand, you prepare consciousness by placing it in a state of extreme puzzlement. If you would, sir, look at the work again.”

The Judge frowned and shook his head. But he gazed at the brass sculpture. This time, something else happened.

He saw a twisted tree. It had been burned by a fire during the riots of 2036, but it still stood. It put out a sprinkling of new leaves every spring. One day, when he was a small boy, he was taken to it and he climbed out along the dark branches to the buds, which smelled sweet to him…it was the last time in his life something was that sweet…now, in the courtroom, he shuddered as he felt acid tears run down his cheeks…

The rebel artist vs. the android

On January 12, 2082, President Winston Smith made a quick campaign stop in the Northeast corridor to address the Coexistence Group in Gates Town.

The Coexistence Group was a remnant of the coalition formed between Bayer IG and organic farmers in the state formerly known as New Hampshire.

The President, dressed in a silk rainbow robe, donated to him by the Cosmic Guilders of Carpentry at the Rockefeller Estate, lit a candle at the Memorial of the Drifting Gene, to commemorate the inevitable triumph of genetically modified agriculture in America.

He then gave a short speech, during which he pointed out that all food products in America were now labeled GMO because of the Gene Drift, and although such labeling was redundant, it was “ritualistically correct,” because it signified the right of the consumer to know what he/she was eating.

A supper followed at the Inn of the Bill Melinda. The meal consisted of ceremonial gluten-free organic genetically modified soy-peanut burgers and GM whey cola.

During the supper, a local artist stood up from his seat, toasted the President, and suddenly asked, “What phase of brain programming do you now enjoy, Mr. President?”

A dozen Secret Service agents deployed in the room and at other locations in the Inn immediately drew their weapons. But the President waved them off with a smile.

“It’s all right,” President Smith said. “This citizen has every right to address his Commander-in-Chief.”

The President then offered these off-the cuff remarks:

“Actually, sir, there is no ‘I’ anymore or ‘you.’ There is only ‘we’ because the programming is common to us all, if we volunteer for it. And 67 percent of us do. We are all connected to the same Google/Kurzweil/NSA Plasma Cloud Formation. That, as you probably know, is the artificial superbrain.

“We receive input from it every second of every day. In other words, we are all obtaining correct answers, the same answers, to problems we face.

“Phase Four, which improves connectivity and reception, and takes in expanded subjects of interest and vital concern, is the current application. I, which is to say, we, participate in Phase Four.

“In Four, stress levels are reduced considerably.

“We no longer need to take vacations, except for pilgrimages to sites where monuments celebrate our Nature Is All and Technology Is All and All Is One Everything religious faith.

“And you, sir,” the President continued. “Are you with a Program Phase?”

The artist burst out laughing.

“No, Mr. President. I’m a holdout.”

“Ah,” the President said, “an outlier. Let’s see. Downloading now. Profile. We perceive you’re an artist, your name is Diego Jose Siqueiros. Yes, the information is coming through. You formerly lived in the small city of Ashland in the Northwest corridor, and you received a number of commissions to build structures there.

“After twelve years, you designed and erected so many unique buildings, the city fathers feared that, left to your own devices, you would ‘take over’ Ashland. In the interest of fairness and sharing, they ceased funding your work. You drifted down to the Los Angeles Complex, where you created a website called Versus the Moron. Eventually, you settled here in the Northeast.”

“That’s right, sir,” the artist said. “A question. Do you remember a time when you weren’t connected to the superbrain in any way?”

The President nodded. “We used to remember such a time, but no longer. Those memories became unproductive. Now we are here With the Program. We operate inside it.”

“So you don’t miss being free?” the artist asked.

“Oh, we are free, Mr. Siqueiros. We are free to obtain the right answers through the Program. Having correct data and valid conclusions is quite liberating. The sense of struggle is gone. Struggle is an ancient appendage which technocratic evolution makes extinct.”

“Sir,” the artist said, “I would enjoy debating that point. But I’d rather talk about the individual invention of unprecedented and unpredictable realities.”

“Oh,” the President said. “Another fanciful notion from the past. We’ve discovered that all art and in fact all so-called unique creations of the ‘I’ are delusions. The superbrain can ‘create’ anything. It merely arranges and rearranges data in various configurations. It produces closed systems. For example, it can design a thousand buildings in less than a second.”

The artist frowned.

“No,” the artist said. “The superbrain spits out random shapes on command. That’s machine-life.”

“Machine-life?” the President said. “I’m receiving mild warnings now.”

“Meaning what?” the artist said.

“We are in the presence of a stubborn defective ‘I’ who is scorning the Group. That would be ‘you’.”

“Mr. President,” the artist said. “Were you born of a human mother and father, or are you a virtual artifact of the superbrain?”

The Secret Service agents in the room took a step forward.

The President’s face turned red. He rose from his chair.

“How dare you say that to me!” he shouted.

“Why? Because I’m flipping your cover?”

The artist then enunciated a long series of sounds. The declaration came out, as one attendee later put it, like a “gray river.”


Apparently, it was a code-trigger that had been hacked from the Program. And the code ran.

A loud hum filled the room.

The President collapsed back into his seat. He flopped around like a doll and then went still. His eyes stared at nothing.

“As I expected,” the artist said. “Four-D printout.”

A voice came from somewhere inside the President.

“Allen Dulles A MKULTRA…”


Then a gentle man in the room who manufactured a product called We Love You Organic Bayer Cherry Vanilla Roundup Cookies said:

“It’s all right, everybody. There’ll be another President along in a few minutes. I’m sure of it. We’re in coexistence mode. Don’t worry. All One. Unity. The Tao. Yin and Yang. Night and Day. Harmony.”

And the room burst into wild applause.

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.

A President Meets the CIA Machine

by Jon Rappoport

December 13, 2021

(To join our email list, click here.)

President John X retired to the White House residence for the night.

Asleep, he went all the way out, floating above thousands of tiny mirrors in an ocean of surveillance.

He plunged into cloud layers.


He was suddenly sitting in the cabin of a private jet. On a table, he saw a team of small glass angels, a silver cup, and a framed photo of Al Capone sitting on the toilet in his Palm Springs suite.

And then identity shattered into a thousand pieces. The lights of an enormous city loomed up under him, pulling the fragments down into liquor stores, newspaper racks, alleys, hotel rooms.

A news screen stood out in the black sky. A local anchor, her eyes bright with contempt, relayed the story of a man who had just died falling from an escarpment above the Chicago Loop while attempting to set up a sniper’s nest and kill shoppers in the indoor-outdoor Langland Mall.

A boyish blonde field reporter, standing in front of a McDonald’s, was interviewing a witness, an old man who was sitting in a wheelchair and foaming at the mouth and spitting. He doubled over and a siren went off. A security guard appeared with a riot baton and sent a fork of electricity into his crotch, quieting him.

The news screen disappeared.

Identity now a quiet snowstorm in a deserted wood, falling, falling, falling on the hard earth.

He was back in the cabin of the jet. Burnished lights set high in the walls.

A flight attendant entered with a drink.

She was six feet tall and blonde. That made her a target.

Wealthy and powerful men would seek her out.

Her body was sleek. He examined her left leg from wizardly articulated ankle to thigh, through the slit of her sheath skirt. She strode in heels, one foot placed precisely in front of the other.

She set down the drink on the arm of his chair and looked at her watch.

“We can’t have sex now,” she said. “We’re east of the Rockies.”

“I didn’t realize they had a law,” he said.

“Two hours from now,” she said, “we can negotiate a price.”

“I’m the President,” he said.

She pulled a half-sheet out of her jacket pocket and handed it to him.

“Standard,” she said. “Read and sign.”

It stated: “…I am not attempting to elicit information pursuant to an investigation, case, or sentencing option…”

He signed.

“Just out of curiosity,” he said, “how much protection do you have?”

“Well,” she said, “the LA Mayor has a local contract. He supplies private soldiers when I’m in the city.”

“Have they ever had to go on attack?”

“A Belivar prince once tried to have his men kidnap me between the airport and my hotel. My mercs burned them to the ground on Century Boulevard.”


“You’re John X,” she said. “I know. The President. I’m Carol.”

She held out her hand. He looked at her long fingers. Her nails were short. No polish. He shook her hand. It was cool. It immediately became warm, as if she could make it happen.

She sat down next to him on the arm of his chair.

“Defendant in a federal trafficking case,” she said. “He claims his cartel, Zuma, struck a prior immunity deal with the CIA. No limit on protection.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Are there documents granting that immunity?” she said.

“You think they put that kind of thing in writing?”

“Here it is,” she said. Make the deal with the cartel. The defendants in the Chicago case plead guilty and keep their mouths shut. No trial. No testimony. Nothing links the cartel to us. Chicago stays open as a distribution hub. We extend the cartel executives’ immunity, in exchange for actionable intel on other major traffickers.”

“You’re CIA?”

“Another thing, John. No more cases against scientists for transferring technology to the Chinese. Shut that door.”

She put her hand on his forehead. “NOW WATCH THE MOVIE,” she said.

Old friends. Bobby Thoms came to him. 25 years ago. The Swan, a bar in the Loop.

The place was jammed with lawyers eating lunch. He sat at a back table, a cup of coffee in front of him. Bobby Thoms. Sitting next to him. In dark soiled clothes, as if he’d stripped them from a corpse in an alley. Pinched face, sunken cheeks. A lawyer’s runner, go-between. Supplier of information.

Bobby moved in close. “Sal Mosca’s bumping his appointment with city treasurer for you. He’ll be here in a minute.”

X reached into his pocket and pulled out a tight roll of bills. Bobby fielded it and slipped it into his pocket.

“There are national security implications in this case, John X. If the shit hits the fan, a lot of people could go down. You have a way out. You, me, Sal. We can all get well. Permanently.”

John X turned to his left and Sal was sitting next to him. Bull’s-head, dressed in his tan suit. Big chest, big belly, tired face. He’d been swaddled in the bullrushes of Lake Michigan. Dirty feet running on stones, foster homes, small-time collector/protection money, law school at night, muscled his way into city government as a private conduit between prosecutors and defense lawyers on major felonies.

Mosca frowned. “Your case has tricks, John X. As you know, the defendant isn’t just a Congressman’s aide. His family is in banking.”

“Immunity,” X said.

“Sky-high,” Mosca said. “And not just in this country. You’re prosecuting a young man who’s bulletproof.”

“I’m going to say four witnesses who saw him stab a man he was having sex with in the back room of a bathhouse are blind?”

“We can piece off those witnesses. The victim is recovering. He owns two properties that are underwater. He needs help. The defendant has a wife and a young child. They need a clean future.”

“The mayor is on board with this?”

“He would be grateful for your cooperation, John. A few years from now, he’s going to be running for a senate seat. You make the right move now, and we all have bright prospects. This is a moment.”

“Let’s talk about a higher level. Who is immune?”

Sal leaned back and grinned.

“Well, X, we are. We could be. There’s no legal market for the kind of protection I’m talking about.”

Then Mosca was standing next to X. He took his arm and walked him into the kitchen. They exited from a side door and climbed a flight of steps. Mosca opened another door on to the roof.

“The shed,” he said.

In the middle of the roof was a wooden structure. The padlock was open and hanging from a chain. They stepped inside and Mosca turned on a light. X shut the door. Tools were arranged on shelves. An open cabinet was stacked with brooms and shovels and an old shotgun. They sat down on two rickety chairs.

“John X,” he said, “immunity is an Atlas holding up the world. And now he’s watching and spying, to make sure it stays intact. If he’s your friend, the political highway is open.”

“On the other hand, if I decline to prosecute this case, I’m committing multiple felonies, and I’m owned forever.”

A sheet of slow lightning swam up X’s legs and infiltrated his spine. It nuzzled and burned each bone on the way up.

John X was standing in a courtroom open to the sky. He was behind the prosecutor’s table.

And there was a giant standing before him.

His head was barely visible, an imprint. He was radiating nothing. He was a no one.

X waited. He stood and waited.

The silent depersonalized giant standing before him…

Nobody. Nobody at all. Just a clock wound up to monitor and eat time.

…X was back in the cabin of the jet. With Carol.

She was still sitting on the edge of his chair.

“So, John X,” she said. “A point. Are you in transit right now because you died?”

“Maybe this is what I did on my summer vacation.”

She smiled.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s negotiate a price.”

“I won the election,” X said. “I’ve already been paid.”

“Don’t you remember, John? I’m your wife,” she said. “We’re on Air Force One.”

He looked out the window. They were passing over Washington. The Monument and the Capitol Dome and the White House were lit up.

“How long can I play this out?” he said.

She shrugged. “Two terms. Then you’re golden. Fairways and greens.”

“I am the President.”

He woke up in the residence.

She wasn’t in bed next to him. He heard the shower running. He turned on the night light.

A few minutes later, she came out of the bathroom wrapped in a white robe.

“You’re up,” she said. “Everything all right?”

“Let me ask you something,” he said. “Suppose I refuse. What happens then?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

“I cancel my order. I shut down Chicago as a trafficking hub. All the Agency arrangements are made public. No payoffs. No deals.”


“I wouldn’t do that, John. Even if you wanted to, COULD you do it?”

“I just had a crazy dream. You were in it.”

“What was I doing?”

“Turning the screws on me.”


“Reminding me of my obligations.”

“Well,” she said, “that’s legitimate. When we moved into the White House, I had a conversation with Alice. She was packing a few things here in the residence. She told me her husband now and then went into a bit of shock over the power he had. A few wild ideas occurred to him during his Presidency. She had to bring him back to Earth. Part of her job, she said.”

“What made you choose me, Carol?”

She laughed. “That’s a tired line from an old movie. Because I loved you. And besides, look where it landed me. In bed with the President. A girl doesn’t get that every day. I’d say I was a good judge of character.”

“You were on the money.”

“John, we’ve got an hour before you have to go downstairs and keep the world from falling apart today.”

“Let’s imagine that’s where I was heading with this conversation.”

“You took a roundabout route.”

“I bore myself easily. I have to vary the lines.”

“Keep people guessing. I’ve learned that from you, Mr. President.”

“I doubt that.”

She took off her robe and stood before him.

“Well,” she said. “You’re reborn in your dream of me.”

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.