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Feature Articles: Chloe Story: How the US Government Neutralizes UFO Witnesses

Feature Articles: Alien Abductions, Cattle Mutilations, Conspiracies, Roswell, UFOs

Chloe Story: How the US Government Neutralizes UFO Witnesses

"The way it works is this," my friend J. O. was nursing his V.O. while he described a new neutralization technique he was learning in spook school, "we isolate the target - in most cases someone with information we want to keep stuffed. Then we insinuate ops in every circle of his life - some are pros, some are just people we recruit without a clue what's going on. They all work independently of one another, so there's no following one strand to the rest of the web, that's the beauty part."

"So?" I asked, being more polite than anything, covert matters weren't all that fascinating to me.

"Well," he laughed, "pretty soon this guy is feeling it from all angles; has nowhere to turn, starts trusting no one, begins doubting himself. Totally beauty."

"Uh-huh," I still wasn't seeing much beauty in any of this, "then what happens?"

"The target snaps, gets pressured into acting out, then we can lock him down in jail, or a nut ward. Or he starts questioning his own sanity, jumps off a building; goes into hermit mode. Either way we keep him quiet."

"Uh-huh. Why not just kill him?" Having spent my life in the private sector selling cars, I had a craving for efficiency.

"Bud, don't wanna blow your mind, but some people you just can't kill."

"Why not?"

"Don't want to blow your mind."

At the time the only thing J. O. could've said that would've blown my mind was that the blonde I had broken up with five years earlier still wanted my head between her thighs. J. O. and I were just a couple of school chums, renewing acquaintances after a coincidental encounter, swapping lies. Years later when I was that 'guy,' the target so to speak, I became eternally grateful to my old classmate for sharing this information. It helped me find a way out.

In the fall of 1992, I was let in on, quite accidentally, to one of our nation's best kept secrets. Maybe the Magilla of hidden info, I don't know. I'm sure there are many bofu skeletons idling away in the closets of D. C., other seats of authority, but the one laid in my lap has to rank highly among the bone rattlers. Besides, knowing what I know now doesn't make me feel a strong desire to be confronted with too many more dark truths.

I was working in San Diego. At a phone room. For Republican candidates. I was no one important. Just one of the guys walking the aisles, making sure the phoners were really dialing, not play acting into dead lines. One night after carpetbomb calling most of Arizona, another supervisor(whom we'll refer to as Mr. Edgy) and I chilled out in the break room. He was leafing through a hefty manuscript. I bit.

"Watchya reading?"

"Something I put together with a friend. Like to take a look?"

Obviously, had I said no, this article would be ending right here. But me, curious little motherfucker that I am, had to poke my nose in his book.

The manuscript detailed how a vast apparatus of military-intelligence-industrial organizations working in unison since shortly after WWII were keeping a certain truth from an unsuspecting public. To be honest, the subject of this certain truth wasn't something that I found personally stimulating. But the text was easy to follow: there were diagrams, pictures, copies of reports, graphs detailing hierarchies, tactics, so forth. Over the course of the next few days my co-worker allowed me to skim read the book in its entirety. When I was done, I asked what he planned to do with it.

"We're still looking for a publisher," he said.

"That shouldn't be too tough. I got through it. Liked it. And that stuff never even interested me before."

He gave me a 'duh-the-subject-matter-has-its-own-perils-inherent-with-parties-involved-willing-to-continue-a-cover-up-by-any means necessary' looks.

"Wicked tough, huh?"

"Listen the reason I wanted to expose you to this was..." he went on to pitch this angle. Seems the word around the campfire was I had some Hollywood connections. Truth was I'd once had an agent. That and a pooper scooper entitled me to be part of the Taco Bell dog's entourage. But my new found buddy wanted to know if maybe I might help him place his 'project' in the proper hands. I told him I'd see what was possible.

In reality, I did have one or two sets of proper hands I could check out. However, I didn't quite have the zeal to go promoting his manuscript as the truth, the whole truth, nothing but. Yet. See, I can be very skeptical. Like most folks I rely on a limited array of intelligence gathering resources: a set of ears, eyes, a tongue, a nose, some skin. Up until then I had never heard, seen, tasted, smelled or felt anything remotely connected(or so I thought) to the secret revealed in the text. So, I had to rely on the one criteria I use in situations lacking irrefutable proof: consider the source. My co-worker appealed to me as slightly edgy and somewhat semi-paranoid. Previously, I had overheard him relating how he had a roommate who made C-2 explosive in the microwave. Not exactly a bonafide recommendation for me to go charging up I-5 with his material.

But over the course of the next few weeks, I started noticing - perhaps, due to my new awareness - certain things in the news that if spun correctly locked up with some of what I'd read. Other weird shit began happening. Having already been under surveillance because of poor judgement in making past acquaintances, I had an acute sensitivity to that type of activity.

A parade of re-occurring faces in unlikely places got my antennae going. Strangers approached me under the guise of general how ya doin conversation and turned the subject toward the matters mentioned in the text as if they were trying to elicit my opinion. Then hours later, we would replay the same dialogue in another part of town. At first, I suspected my co-worker was behind the semi-obvious mind games. But then I reasoned such a set-up was far beyond the resources of an eight dollar an hour wage earner. Whoever these people were, I decided to place myself above the play with a stock response of, "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about." Gradually, the activity diminished.

After the campaign, the phone room dispersed. I went to work for guy managing a local special election; kind of lost touch with Mr. Edgy; didn't think too much about his manuscript or its contents. My main concerns became a new wife and our child on the way.

The wife and I relocated to Sacramento (she had family there), established our own business. Things went well enough that I had time to catch the writing bug again. My former co-worker's story sprang to mind. If you ask me why, I'd have to admit I couldn't come up with anything more compelling at the time.

Business took me back to San Diego. I tried to hook up with dude to run some ideas down about a screenplay adaptation of his manuscript. He had given me the number of a woman who 'could always reach him.' She told me it would take a day for him to get in touch with me. Par for the course in his world, I figured. I gave her the number at my hotel.

Next day, he called sounding even edgier - and if it was possible - even more paranoid than I remembered. I threw my 'takes' at him. He informed me he had already made a connection with a television producer and he wouldn't by needing my services, fuck you very much. But there was something he wanted to discuss with me - just not over the phone. Humoring his paranoia, I agreed to meet him the following day.

The address he had given me as his new workplace turned out to be a Vietnamese pawn and jewelry shop. I called the go-between, asked her what was up. She relayed the message; he called me at the hotel, proceeded to tell me he wasn't who I thought he was, that he had adopted the identity of a dead Army buddy's persona blah-blah-blah-blah-blah. By now, basically I'd had my fill of his drama (I'm already dealing with a hormonal pregnant woman understand), so I clicked him off.

Back in Sacramento, I was pleased to discover I somehow had a recollection of much of the pertinent stuff I'd read in drama boy's manuscript. Since it was purported to be history, I saw no problem in fashioning an action picture out of it. At least, there were no rights to worry about infringing.

I wrote the thing in about three weeks (there was a lull in my political business), called my bud in L. A. - another old classmate - and ran the whole shebang past him. He sounded excited so I FedEx him the script.

A week later I'm taking a meeting with a woman who was fresh off of sharing a production credit on an Academy award winning movie. I pointed out the possibility of interference from a shadowy cabalistic organization, based on Mr. Edgy's strange behavior and my own brief interlude with the 'mystery conversationalists' of San Diego.

Ms. Producer seemed to take serious consideration of these possibilities. She talked about doing a low budget 'guerilla' production. It would be fair to say she was hyped about the project. Naturally, she had some suggestions about tweaking the script. Nothing major. I said I would do a little revising and we'd talk over the next week.

When we talked again her passion for the project had noticeably cooled. There could've been a thousand reasons for this - Hollywood being Hollywood. I discussed her change of attitude with the friend who had brought us together. He was someone I had known for almost twenty years. We met at his office at the studio. He seemed anxious, like something was troubling him. Yet when I asked about it, he deflected the question. When I asked him directly if any pressure had been placed on him or the other producer by outside sources, he denied it, but was obviously made uneasy by the question. During the course of the conversation, I noticed a man standing within earshot by a window opening onto a patio. The guy looked really out of place.

First off, he was smoking - something the health conscious heads of this particular studio discouraged. Plus the suit was incongruous even for someone from the accounting department. There was something of a cheap FBI blandness to its cut, something of a G-man grayness to his whole demeanor. I left my friend's office with two firm resolutions. Number one: the stuff in Mr. Edgy's book was true. Number two: I had better prepare myself for the onslaught J. O. had described years ago. I hear what you're saying - all this based on a suit. Well, that's the beauty part of having the life experience I've had. My gut works out insights that would only befuddle my mind.

I knew I was going to have to dig in for a long-probably life-time of nuisance, b. s., and worse. I struck on a strategy right from jump. No way was I ever giving in; no way was I ever going along with the program. There were things specifically detailed in the manuscript, especially involving children, that were beyond the scope of what I find acceptable. I am always going to be a problem for these bastards, they would have to come after me. Knowing they were coming, knowing how they would come, thanks to J. O., gave me a boost when it came to figuring out counter measures. Also meant I could rely on nothing but divine providence.

I devised a plan, that when first decided on seemed ludicrous, but when looked back on reeks of brilliance. So how much credit can I really take for it? I've seen me in action - I make Maxwell Smart look like James Bond. If it wasn't for grace I'd be no place. Literally. I was going to give my adversaries everything they wanted. On the surface. I was going to act stressed out. I would make it appear I was falling into despairing drug dependency. I would make it appear I was in some jeopardy of losing my mind. I would enter their stage of bizarre mind fuck and follow their script and by doing so let the force of their arrogance, superior numbers, and resources turn their own game against them. It wasn't so much I would trust no one; I just wouldn't confide in anyone. Until now. No sense putting another innocent in harm's way.

The strategy cost me a marriage, my business, financial solvency, and some other things I would have liked to have had but probably don't have a use for. If you are reading this now, thank the publisher and his staff for having the balls to do the right thing; also thank Mr. Edgy for opening my eyes to a path of awareness I don't for a minute regret taking. Although I have to tell him now wherever he is: just because they all maybe after you doesn't mean you have to be paranoid about it. As for me I am owed nothing, I've already been given far more than I could ever earn.

Back to the drama. I needed to flush the bugs from under the bed, expose the strands linking the web, lift enough veils to confirm the truths Mr. Edgy had related, to be given a chance to see the breadth and width of the cover-up as well as the modus operandi used to neutralize inadvertent infiltrators such as myself. I was also curious about the motives of the various participants. I was to find out some were plain evil, some were confused, more than a few were fearful, more than a few were victims of their own misguided human sympathy.

My first order of business was to separate the bulls from the steers. According to what J. O. had laid down, it didn't take but a few worms to funk up the whole bushel. Enough with the cliched metaphors already, I had to winnow the assholes from the butt chaff.

According to Mr. Edgy, the secret keepers recruited participants from the population of substance abusers. Hence my choice of cover as a user. It was an easy sell. I have some history. (Who among us from the 60's and 70's doesn't). It became evident early on that my adversaries fit a classic bully's profile. They would exploit any opportunity if they thought they had an unfair advantage.

Their degree of boldness in carrying out their mission was in direct correlation to how squirrelly I acted. They could be fearlessly open lured into a false sense of security by my apparent screwiness.


So what if they ran their mouths off in front of me - how credible a witness is a tweaked out speed freak. I took to carrying around packets of salt or sugar to substitute at the appropriate time for the drugs I was ostensibly buying from dealers. It was easy to appear under the influence, simply mimic the behavior of the people around me.

I figured out who was real and who was planted into my life with my own campaign of disinformation, constructing outlandish tales - the loonier the better. I would concoct delusional explanations for what was going on my life and spread them around as markers. If any of them came back around to me, I could assume the source was a strand in the web. I was to discover Sacramento was full of sympathizers to the secret who managed to wheedle their way into my life.

Actually, the powers that be didn't need much prodding to expose the grandeur of their resources. I caught a guy up on my garage roof putting a tap on my phone line. He bounded down, gave me a nervous rendition of a he-worked-for-a-roofing-company story. Then he proceeded to drive off through a stop sign, hitting a pothole, knocking the magnetic 'home repair' sign on his truck door askew, exposing a government insignia below. I had gotten into running a legit bondage outcall service as a sideline. Sure enough, the next three calls that came in that morning asked me questions of entrapment for solicitation - 'how far would the girls go, etc.' This brought to mind J. O.'s caution about locking the target down with the encouragement of illegal activity. (Something which had recently happened to a few fellows in a similar situation to mine on Long Island). The fourth call concerned my keeping 'shit to myself' unless I wanted trouble with the 'tax people.' The 'tax people' were a recurring threat voiced by various plants in tones suggesting mutant lifeforms from a toxic lagoon.

To give you an overview, the guy on the roof, obvious amateur that he was, was merely a smokescreen. When he returned later to remove his tap, I was supposed to feel relieved I was no longer under surveillance. But the real listening post was a motor home parked around the corner. They really do this goofy movieola shit. But that was the give and take of my everyday life.

Another familiar gambit was the we-can-get-into-everything-or-anywhere-we-want proof. On a couple of occasions food stuffs in my home were tampered with in ham-handed fashion - black powder in the milk, acetone in the maple syrup. I'm guessing the motivation there was twofold. On the one hand, I go around talking about 'people trying to poison me' I end up sounding a little Mr. Edgy-like myself. On the other the not too subtle message is 'pal we can get you any time we want.' The no safe haven premise.

I got to experience the the nowhere to turn nonsense most memorably on a business trip to L. A. On the plane down I boarded early taking a seat in the rear six compartment providing five spaces for my 'entourage' to occupy. The most uncomfortable part of the plane, no reclining seats, knees knocking against the passenger opposite. I had gotten used to travelling with 'companions' and at that time my little victory was in making them as uneasy as they thought they were making me, like I was the anti-spider weaving my own web. (Trust me, I'm about two/three years into this stuff by now - relying solely on myself and a graceful God to protect me and, uh, this is how a guy gets to seeing himself to keep his morale up.) Anyway the seats filled up with the usual suspects alluding to my latest irrational tale du jour - some little number about the Yakuza wanting to take my body and replace my brain with one they had kept frozen. The plants were jabbering on about cryogenics, that sort of thing. There was the usual assortment of strange aromas - shit and so on. (I'm guessing that people who complain about bad smells must lock themselves into some profile of mental disability). I just put on my shades and laid back watching the dude across from me pretend to sleep - his lenses weren't as dark as mine.

We touched down in Burbank. I went into the terminal bar, ordered a Shirley temple. Two shills came in, sat near me at the bar, one of them proceeded to run down my Yakuza story as if he was in the first person. He misstated a few 'facts.' In a non-needling yet mischievous way, I pointed this out to him. He turned to me and in a challenging tone asked me if I'd like to take things outside. One of the plane people appeared from the bar's back area, she had changed into an employee's uniform: t-shirt and shorts. She came over and told me I would have to leave. I said I'd go to the other part of the room, off by myself and finish my Shirley, barely able to keep a straight face, but doing so out of respect to the effort being expended by these wannabe thespians. She said I would have to leave the premises altogether or she would call security, indicating over her shoulder another dude from the plane now re-attired in a guard's uniform lingering in the walkway outside the bar. I shrugged it off, exited - wasn't like they made the only Shirley in town.

At the rental car counter I was re-acquainted with Mr. Blu-lens from the plane.

"Everything going o.k.," he asked seeping with mock concern.

"Swimmingly," I answered gleefully noting the look of disappointment on his face.

There was one last irritant to their gauntlet. Driving my rental car off the lot, I came across an older dude - probably the team leader - from the plane. He had donned a green lot man's vest and was playing check-out man.

"Everything o. k.," he asked.

"The car's fine."

"I meant you wouldn't say anything to embarrass us."

"Oh you can trust me," I answered.

"Are you sure we can trust you. You've let us down before."

By now both of us were almost giggling, as if the silliness of the whole playact thing was finally coming clear to all concerned.

"Oh you can trust me." What I neglected to add was: trust me to do nothing you folks ever suggest.

I'm telling you, there are times when I almost feel sorry for these people. They are more trapped than anyone they're trying to encircle, forced to carry out rote behavior many of them don't seem to believe in anymore - the house having to hit 16 with a deck full of face cards. Or they exude the false, almost childish bravado of the Wizard of Oz pleading with Dorothy to pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. Then I think of the people victimized by these bozos and my sympathy tends to vanish.

Things pretty much came to a head in June of 96. I had filled in my checklist of confirmations of Mr. Edgy's text, except for one thing: actual visual contact with the heart of the secret. I knew to do this, I had to make myself look as vulnerable as I had ever been. I was still working with the Yakuza story, although I had broadened it a bit to include people I knew were out of the loop. I wanted to appear totally off-track. I spent one night touching base with all the identified shills, making my troubled state of mind evident. Then I carried an envelope supposedly holding a handwritten indictment of everyone I thought was involved - actually it was a blank piece of paper - to various law enforcement agencies around town.

Nowhere was the envelope accepted (Sacramento seems to be pretty much a secret keepers stronghold.) At my local police station, I sat in the parking spot by the front entrance, placed a manila piece of paper in the doorway with the word investigate written on it, and was treated to a spirited demonstration of how the cops could care less. One by one a half dozen of them drove up, disregarded me totally, went in the front door(usually the nightshift enters through the rear) and wiped their feet disdainfully on my little note.

The next morning I was treated to a story of how easy it is to kill a drug addict by a homicide detective I had ostensibly gone to to share my tale of fear for my life. I was getting close. They thought they had me right where they wanted me: alone, tore up, no place to turn. Figuring they had broken me down, they let the thing I had been waiting for slip - I was given visual confirmation of the heart of the secret in hopes I would go along with the program.

Because I was a little hesitant, a 'friend' confided that this was a new awareness for which I should be grateful and that going along would be the right thing to do. He cautioned me not to be like the 'sheep', insiders for the unknowing 75%(his estimate).

Because I was still hesitant, I was sent another shill who engaged in a liquor store parking lot where I'd gone to buy cigarettes. He informed me that going along was better than going to the penitentiary. I told him if I've done anything that I deserve to be sent to prison for, then send me.

In the front seat of his truck was an exact replica of my four year old daughter's favorite stuffed animal: the pink panther. It was wearing a copy of her favorite (you know how kids are) camel cap. The inference was fairly obvious. Even if you kill my kids, I ain't being a part of this, I told him.

My 'friend' came to me later with the caution that I shouldn't go to the media. I kinda halfway promised him I wouldn't. I mean I still haven't gone to the media. I went to Hustler, instead.

Oh yeah the secret: It seems an anti-gravity ship did crash in New Mexico in 1947. Inside it were five dead grey beings along with 18 human carcasses in various states of dismemberment. Truman was so freaked out by the situation, he elected to follow the urgings of Dulles and others, implementing a campaign of disinformation which continues to this day.

James Forestal, then Secretary of the Navy, was the only pre-eminent dissenter to Truman's chosen course of action. He became the first victim of the cover-up(most likely targeted by a program similar to the one to which I was subjected)suffering a nervous breakdown and later 'falling' to his death from a window at Walter Reed Hospital.

There were more crashes throughout the late 40's/50's. The Air Force attempted to engage 'alien' craft in a series of sorties, always suffering disastrous results. Eisenhower appointed Nelson Rockefeller (and another man still living) to head up a special commission to oversee 'grey' matters.

A living grey being was recovered from one of the later crashes. Noticing the being's unusual method of photosynthetic processing of nutrition, the military called upon a botanist to study the creature. Somehow the being and the botanist communicated and the grey shared the following: his species was dying out, devolving due to their asexual means of reproduction. (Mr. Edgy's manuscript used the layman's analogy of a Xerox of a Xerox of a Xerox to describe the biological diminishment - are you listening Richard Seed). The greys had come to earth to attempt to construct a hybrid species through the harvesting of DNA which was/is the basis for the abduction of humans.

Gradually, the military and the greys interacted enough that a tentative alliance was formed. An actual treaty was signed between the two parties at Edwards AFB in 1964 allowing the abduction of US citizens in return for alien technology(smart bombs, stealth, pulse propulsion,etc.).

To be fair to the armed forces, perhaps there wasn't much they could do to prevent the abductions. They were dealing with a superior intelligence that possesses better toys and almost magical physical properties. Greys can speed up their electrons, become vaporous, pass through solid matter, that sort of thing. Plus the greys suckered in some sympathy with the fairytale of their being responsible for our evolution, were our 'gods' so to speak. (Common sense tells me if they can make men out of monkeys, producing a hybrid should be a snap, not the arduous hit-and-miss project it remains to this day).

The treaty specified that no humans were to be harmed and the abductees were to have their memories washed clean. (Un)fortunately our brains have quickened due to the influx of video images to the point where minds cannot be thoroughly cleansed; the reason why so many abductees have the same vivid memories, recite the same details in their stories.

Since you asked - my take on the greys? They are evil desperate confused soulless little bastards who need to be squashed like ants. They use a god cop/bad cop method of selective kindness and intimidation; some people get cured of cancer, others have their farms littered with mutilated cattle. The greys keep a hostage force of humans to extort silence from any reluctant loved ones. There's a whole lot more, but do we really need to get into it here.

Big f'n deal, right. Typical of the pinky-and-the-brain control freaks who want to run the world that they should wish to keep all this secret. Personally, I try not to think of the tax dollars siphoned off to pay for the cover-up. Or the lives ruined.

Can I prove any of this? Do I have documentation to corroborate my oral testimony? To which I answer: documents can be discredited, witnesses compromised, etcetera, etceteras(see Jones v. Clinton) and to which I ask: is anything beyond my word really necessary. I lived these truths. End of story. Anyone wants to deny them, I suggest they catch a few more reruns of Fantasy Island. If you've been paying attention, you'll know the truth when you hear it.

What did I learn from the whole experience that I can pass along? Go with your gut; take no prisoners. If your significant other comes home smelling of latex between her thighs and someone else's dick on her breath, don't let her pull a girlfriend move and manipulate your perceptions with plausible deniability doublespeak. Think implausible undeniability the minute her lips start flapping.

Lastly, I also know why some people can't be killed. But I don't wanna blow your mind. Not just yet.

The End

Reprinted with permission of the author.

©Copyright 1998

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