The Invitation: Book Two of The Essential Revolution

By Michael McGinnis

The Adventure Continues ...

Dimitri, Marcus, and Zach are out of Carlton State Penitentiary, and just in time, as the world nears its most desperate state. Using psychological warfare, the "powers that be" have turned the world upside down, inadvertently pushing the masses to question what's really going on be

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lighthouse Projections
• Release date: Jun 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798988010548

Michael McGinnis

Michael McGinnis, Jr., author of The Essential Revolution series, has dedicated his life to the awakening of humanity on a global level. Through extensive self-study and first-hand experience, Mike has been gifted to serve as a channel for the words the world needs to hear at the most crucial moment in history. In his early twenties, after his first transformational experience wherein he discovered his limitations were formed through his own words of victimhood, this law-breaking high-school-dropout turned his life around and moved to Central America. He went on to succeed as an entrepreneur, big wave surfer, and champion race car driver while moonlighting as the unofficial sheriff of the small town he helped develop. Still haunted by an unfulfilled void, Mike fell into a suicidal depression, leading him to his second transformative revelation that there was no-thing that could make him happy as the fulfillment he was seeking abides within. Seven years later, after his last awakening, Mike fully surrendered to living in service while assisting others who are ready to shift towards Self-realization themselves. Currently, Mike is collaborating on a reforestation-backed crypto coin and the building of a conscious community, while readying himself to transmit book two of the series. He enjoys being in nature and loves animals as well as all life on earth.Learn more and join the revolution by going to www.michaelmcginnis.com.

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A Necessary Evil

STAN

They say that money makes the world go ’round, and it’s people like the Marklands who fuel the motor that keeps it spinning.

In my generation, growing up in the seventies, all of us boys wanted to become millionaires. As I got older, like many, I let money—or the desire for it—become my god. I worried about it, wanted it, and schemed how to get it. In my late teens, after my parents were killed in a freak car accident, I joined the military, and a few years later I was recruited by the Agency, the CIA.

The allegiance to something that was supposedly for the greater good seemed to cure my preoccupation with getting rich. What little remaining desire I had left was quickly extinguished in my forties working for Terrance Werner Markland, one of the richest men in the world.

Mega-wealthy people are the most damaged and twisted human beings on Earth, and I’ve got the stories to back it up. But in the end, who am I to judge a man like Mr. Markland? I mean, the guy’s principles are intact. He truly believes that people should live their lives as they choose, and God knows he sure has. Just look at his broken marriage with Dora, his borderline-suicidal wife, addicted to antidepressants and alcohol, all thanks to his adulterous lifestyle. Plus, a spoiled, narcissistic, fame-hungry daughter, just one step away from going postal if her content doesn’t go viral on InstaFame.

And then there was Zach: the two-time felon, his estranged son, who, just under a year prior to all this, had been released from Carlton State Penitentiary. All that is to say, if you ever want to be cured of your love of money, spend a month with a family of billionaires. You’ll be just fine with your little nine-to-five.

At that point in my life, just on the other side of fifty, I was married to the job. A job that had grown from being a detail leader of one of the four security units at Mr. Markland’s main Midwest residence to Tess’s AIC (agent in charge) in Malibu, California. I’d been assigned to Tess for some years, and I have to tell you—it wasn’t easy. A semi-famous, B-list socialite who wanted nothing more than to reach Paris or Kim status, but all the money in the world couldn’t help her humble genetics. I’d been with her through plastic surgeries, publicity stunts gone wrong, and cutthroat tactics I don’t care to mention. Tess, now in her mid-twenties, settled on going after big money. And, if the public wouldn’t give her the attention she craved, she’d do whatever it took to get it from the one person she’d never been able to connect with: her father.

Terrance had always dreamt his son Zach would someday fill his shoes as leader of the Markland empire. But Zach’s misuse of his own genius soon crushed those dreams when he applied his computational talents to hacking and shutting down an entire city’s electrical grid in the dead of winter.

To Mr. Markland’s credit, he stood by his son and managed to get him an easy stay at a minimum custody, level-one prison, or fire camp, as they’re called. But the depths of Zach’s madness wouldn’t be uncovered until he hacked his way into the prison’s system to shorten his sentence. Once discovered, the media had a field day over the manhunt for the son of one of the world’s richest men.

The pinnacle of Mr. Markland’s public humiliation came when the state marshals showed up at his grand estate with a search warrant. They found Zach hiding in the wine cellar. To this day, none of us on the security team ever found out how he made it onto the compound undetected.

So, as you can see, when you’ve been in the position I’ve been in, you know everything about these people. And I do mean everything. Of course, as a CPP (certified protection professional), I took a vow never to reveal family secrets. But with everything that’s happened in the world now, I think an exception can be made.

Now, what you’ve got to understand is that my position as the agent in charge for Tess Markland meant I not only had to see it all, I had to do it all. From zipping her up at the clothing store, to fighting off the paparazzi waiting outside, to organizing the dirty deeds she devised. If I had to tell her she looked great when she was having one of her moments, I did it. What Mr. Markland wanted most for his baby girl was for her to stay safe (sane) and happy. Believe me, easier said than done.

Tess had so many people coming in and out of her home, the screening protocol was a nightmare. She’d grown up with tight security, and as an adult on her own, she figured out how to buck the system. Finding the balance of being a kiss-ass and projecting my limited authority over someone who could have me replaced on the spot proved to be challenging, to say the least. But the check still got signed at the end of every month, so we were doing alright. Her father was supposed to be out of the picture, and he was, except for my communication with AIC Jude Samuel Arnold, who we called Arno for short. Mr. Markland’s head of security, Arno always made sure his report to the boss would be, All is good with your daughter, sir.

But it wasn’t always all good. Once, after a week-long trip to Morocco, Tess brought home a possible suitor. She insisted he stay at the Malibu beach house even when I couldn’t fully vet him with my background check. There were holes that, as a trained, former Case Officer for the Agency, I knew couldn’t be ignored. Further intel suggested there was an above moderate probability he was a plant placed to infiltrate the Markland family for ill-gotten gain in favor of those who put him there. That intel moved him up to a level four, high-security threat. The relationship continued for two months until he was found hanging from a wood beam in his Beverly Hills condo. And that’s all I can say about that.

The coroner ruled it a suicide, and social media trolls strengthened the case with cruel remarks that he couldn’t handle life with Tess. She was distraught for a couple of days until, true to her nature, she found her next victim, as Arno and I referred to all her men. They weren’t really victims—most were leeches, really—all getting something out of it for themselves. It seemed only these kinds of people entered her life. All in all, Tess came across as mean and self-centered. It was difficult for anyone to really love her.

But then there was her best friend, the king of leeches—or queen, I should say—who Tess referred to as her lil’ bitch. And I have to admit, it was quite accurate. Coco didn’t like me because I was the only one in Tess’s orbit who had to drop the hammer down. Sometimes, he—or she—had to take the blow.

Coco was born Javier Alfonso Vasquez, the son of Manuel Vasquez, a Mexican-born farmworker who immigrated to the US in hopes of a better life. There, he met and married Amalia Dilag, a naturalized US citizen from the Philippines. They raised their only child in a Section 8 neighborhood of Boyle Heights in East LA. When Javier was eighteen, he left his home, legally changed his name to Coconut Spice, and set out to the Valley, where he was a quick drive through the canyon from Tess.

Coco and Tess met before she became semi-famous. It was Coco who would always tell her fame was coming her way. Actually, back then, Coco would say their way, but as time would reveal, Tess alone would steal the show, flashing her family’s wealth and outlandish lifestyle on social media.

Coco used the OV (Ocular Virus) to his advantage, forming Coco’s brand of OV-19 protection goggles against the virus. He asked Tess to promote them and just tag me, begging for a quick mention on her social media. She rarely complied, but it was clear that Coco would stick around, abuse and all, for the occasional plug.

Another freeloader was Ryan, Tess’s cameraman—most of the time. But Ryan’s true gift was in computer programming. Similar to Zach, he was named one of the top programmers in the country and received a scholarship to one of the top universities. Naturally, Ryan didn’t have to use that gift to get a job because Tess paid him an exorbitant amount of money to take pictures of her and post them online.

Next up on the roster: Starseed Bliss, formerly Eve Fischer, and the cook—vegan and organic only—for Tess. She might even be considered a real friend, at least while Zach was away on his little vacation. Zach and Star had dated years prior to his arrest. After he went away, Star found herself getting closer to Tess. She made her way from the Bible Belt out to LA, escaping the clutches of her Bible-thumping preacher father who had controlled her every move since she was young.

Ironically, Star turned spiritual. Tess was becoming one of them as well—you know the kind, with the flowy clothes, leather fanny packs, big hats, preaching the latest self-care fads. The kind Los Angelenos are easily drawn to. Tess had Star around to make sure she was keeping up with the trends. She helped Tess find the right clothes and even taught her how to speak woo-woo, the spiritual talk that was becoming so popular.

After Zach’s return, things shifted between Tess and Star. Star’s focus returned to her brother, and Tess was visibly jealous. This added to the uneasiness in the beach house, but it was nothing compared to what was coming.

Why did I choose to stick around, you may ask? Well, besides the Marklands’ very own private survival island as well as underground bunker, both boasting the finest independent food sovereignty imaginable during a looming apocalypse, there was also a damn good paycheck to boot.

And while I’d been cured of my boyhood desires to become a part of the one percent myself, leaving the Agency early and with no government benefits was an issue. So, getting a few bucks, a retirement package, and food security was my ticket to a life with some semblance of comfort and even some resources to support my somewhat expensive tastes.

» » « «

The arrival of Zach’s crew, Dimitri Cato Tanomeo and Marcus Angbo Ogabi, was the beginning of the end—or the beginning of the beginning, depending on who you asked. The Three Musketeers, as Zach would call them, were working together to change the world, using technology—and Tess’s money—to accomplish their mission.

Ogabi’s inadequacies seemed to overshadow his entire existence, leaving little to be suspicious of. A failed police officer who had taken a job as a prison guard (which he was also let go from), he was rescued by Zach from his last job as head of Walmart security before being invited to the estate. He had a military background, but it was minimal, which indicated to me that he lacked overall discipline. His adolescent daughter, Hope, lived in a middle-class suburban neighborhood with his ex-wife, Lisa, and her soon-to-be husband, Alberto Beto Gonzalez. Was Ogabi a bottom-feeder like the others? I still wasn’t sure. What I did know was that I couldn’t consider him an asset if there was ever a crisis at the Malibu residence. Too weak.

The way Zach spoke of what they were up to made me think it could be something big. He basically lived in his research and development tech lab, which made his grand claims actually believable. Before his incarceration, Zach had rarely worked hard at anything, except for trying to prove himself while living in the shadow of his very powerful father. His high IQ and argumentative ability, with his elitist-turned-social-activist viewpoint, had made it hard for many to be around him. He was a partier, DJ, and mischief-maker who cared more about his bad-boy reputation and social status than anything. But something had changed. To be honest, it gave me hope. Not just for him but for the whole house. As I studied him, I wondered if there was a method or reason behind his newfound madness of long work hours fueled by energy drinks and vegan sandwiches. Or maybe he was just another sponger living off the teat of Terrance Markland, who, according to Arno, wasn’t the least bit happy about Zach’s stay at the beach house.

I knew I’d get the answers to my questions once I could speak to the man behind it all. I’d sent one of the men from my team to pick him up at the airport. I walked out to the beach house parking lot. That’s when I saw him for the first time.

"Hi, I’m Dimitri,’’ he said joyfully. Still dressed in the same clothes he’d been arrested in—except for his shirt, prison-issued—he’d been released early and somewhat unexpectedly due to a government pardon. His pants were blood-stained, I assumed from when he’d beaten his stepfather nearly to death with his bare hands. Yeah, I’d read the police report as well as his prison log history. It was my job to know everything about everyone who entered the Markland compound.

If you don’t mind, Dimitri, I’m going to send someone to get you some new clothes. He looked down at his pants and shoes, wiggling his big toe that was popping out. He laughed and then looked me up and down.

Sure, but I don’t have any money to pay for them right now.

You don’t have to pay for it, son. It’s handled by the estate.

You see, the Marklands were not millionaires. They were a different breed: multi-billionaires. What they had could and would be duplicated, over and over. Mr. Markland had a different way of looking at things than most men. Once guests got past the second gate, they belonged, and anything and everything, from clothes to food, was theirs to have and own. Hence all the freeloaders.

He smiled big and laughed. Well, that’s awfully nice of the estate. I don’t know my shoe size exactly, but if I had to guess …

It’s 12 wide, and we have all your other measurements. In an hour you’ll have a new wardrobe. He looked at me, confused, before nodding his head and smiling.

I know who you are. You’re Stan the Spy, or at least you used to be. Zach told me about you.

I stared at him, looking back at me like a little kid. I wasn’t there to inform him about my past, but he prodded on. So what were you, CIA? I didn’t blink. Special operations? Blue badger or green? I didn’t move, and he looked even deeper into my eyes. Or were you OGA, a Black Ops mercenary, maybe? That’s when I blinked. "Ah, so you were Black Ops. Into all that secret squirrel stuff, huh?" I couldn’t help but give a slight grin.

You have quite the imagination, don’t you, son?

He laughed. That’s exactly what a spy would say, Stan!

I furrowed my brow. Who does this smart ass think he is?

Zach told me I’d have to have ‘a little talk’ with you. Do you think we can skip the waterboarding and go to the part where I just tell you everything?

I nodded and cracked a slight smile. One of my talents as an operative was my ability to read people, but there was something about this guy that made it difficult. He was quite the character. He was honest, there was no doubt about that. Almost too honest. And funny and charming in his clumsy innocence, which somehow kept my instincts on guard. What are your plans while here at the compound?

To save the world! he exclaimed without hesitation. Then he laughed and mumbled something about how there’s not really a world to save, it’s just the game he came here to play.

I paused. I mean, what do you say to someone who says he’s here to save the world? I nodded. Zach mentioned something along those lines. Can you be more specific?

He smiled. Actually, I can’t. It’s a techie kind of thing that Zach knows more about. But it’s going to wake up the world. I can assure you of that.

At the time, I didn’t know exactly what he meant by waking up the world. Could it mean waking people up to what was really going on? About the true Owners of the world, the plans they were executing, the ocular virus? Or perhaps it meant uncovering the truth regarding the true power of the human species? A truth that had been concealed by those same Owners, as well as those before them, for millennia.

To give you some context to what I’m talking about, consider that there’s a war between two systems of thought. One system holds the belief that humans are made in the image of God and that life has sanctity when they’re living in the image of this creator God. Within that mode of thinking, human rights and sovereignty prevail. Then, there’s the other system of thought based on survival of the fittest, carrying with it a hierarchy in humanity. There are the elitists, or the ruling class, who—because of their wealth, power, and intellectual superiority—believe they get to choose who stays on the planet and what freedoms, if any, they’ll have.

I looked Dimitri up and down curiously, remembering a secret prophecy Arno had once told me about. He had special clearance at Langley, which gave him first-hand intel about what was really happening behind the curtain of Oz. According to Arno, the Owners, who followed the second system of thought, believed their plan—fixing the world by reducing the population their way—was benevolent in nature.

First on their list was dismantling unity throughout mankind. They would use someone in political office to trigger the egos and unhealed traumas of the masses, inciting division and strife between everyday citizens. Then they’d fan the fire using Hollywood and the media—both social and mainstream—to strengthen that division. The collective’s beliefs, principles, and morals would soon be turned upside down in the phase of the prophecy that would be known as the Inversion.

But it wouldn’t end there. The Owners would implement psychological warfare on humanity by causing global psychosis led by an exaggerated narrative that would be pushed by that same media. They knew that creating chronic, fear-based anxiety, combined with forced physical isolation, would cause a vast amount of the population to psychologically decompensate and become vulnerable, gullible, and easily manipulable.

Then, PRS: the Owners’ most winning formula of problem, reaction, solution, which would ultimately trigger the greatest seizure of human consciousness to date. The problem, unknown to us at the time, would strike the desired reaction in the population: fear of death. They’d come forward with the solution: a short-term measure to relieve their anxiety, which the trembling masses would gobble up without question, never seeing the true objective behind it all.

A plan that would work strictly through emotion rather than reason; even intellectuals would fall into the trap and grow belligerent if their narrative was challenged. Because the last thing they’d want would be to return to that dreadful state of anxiety, terrified by the thought of death.

Now, the prophecy included much more—war, famine, AI technology that ultimately led toward transhumanism, an endgame that ushered in a pod-bound reality for the upcoming generations.

It was right in line with what the conspiracy theorists believed, but their theory assumed it was all for evil. For us, it was a necessary evil, not unlike many actions the Agency carried out.

To be clear, for us—Arno, myself, and a few others working in the intelligence field—what the Owners called the Great Reset was just that: great. A betterment of all mankind. It’s what needed to happen for the survival of the human species. Those of us who’d honed the craft were very accustomed to entering foreign countries and eliminating threats to democracy. It was the kind of thing that just had to be done to save humanity.

This prophecy, part of the fourth-century Nag Hammadi Scriptures unearthed in 1945, was additionally cryptic and vague due to the fact that in 1947 one of the books had been removed from the original set of fourteen by an agent just before they were translated. According to Arno, who I liked to call the Scholar because he seemed to know more than anyone else, the Owners had ordered the Agency to tightly guard the missing text. With contents capable of causing great disruption, it remained hidden from the population as well as those who had power and plans to implement it.

The texts foretold of a significant enemy, who would enter the scene to stop the Great Reset and push for something called the Great Awakening. This individual would advance into what the prophecy referred to as activation mode, gathering or activating others, leading to a global event mysteriously known as the Summoning. Extensive research suggested this person would enter the game just after the middle of the second decade of the twenty-first century. To many, this enemy would be hailed a hero. For us in the Agency, it would solely be known as the Disruptor, a cancer to be eradicated. What remained a mystery was who this Disruptor would be.

Ultimately, it would be a numbers game: the Owners were very few, but they had the guns, the money, and the power. The Disruptor’s only hope would be to gather many together to battle, but the fight would not be a physical one. Strange as it may sound, their weapon of choice would be energy.

Arno shared more vague intel on how this person would come into power. Translation of the missing scriptures hinted at a death and subsequent rebirth. The writings clearly pointed to control of a vast amount of wealth and resources due to the activation of one very affluent individual, simply referred to as the Backer. But the details were so paranormal in nature, we didn’t pay them much attention. We had no idea what it all really meant.

Of course, it was the beginning of the decade, not the middle. And he was so uneducated, almost childlike, which made him seem a bit off. But, I have to tell you, as I stood in front of this young man, knowing what I knew about his background, hearing him speak with a rare authority about waking up others, it made me wonder. Could he be the One? I shook my head and came to my senses. Highly improbable.

Either way, I knew: whatever he was up to, there was always a possibility of danger, as with many people who have entered Tess’s sphere. I had him registered at level two—a moderate-to-low security threat—but as protocol would have it, my job would be to drop him down to a level one. So I figured the best way to assess the situation was just to ask him. I cleared my throat.

So, what is it exactly you’re going to wake the world up to?

He looked me directly in the eyes, and, with all the severity a person could possess, he answered: All of it, Stan. All of it.

Level three, mid-high security threat.

Killing in the Name

ZACH

I had made it out of Carlton State Penitentiary and freed myself from the confines of my mind just to be locked up in the newest facility: Prison Planet Earth. What a wild ride it had been up till that point. And with the current state of the world, I could see it would only be getting crazier.

In truth, it looked like we were fucked. Everything D had predicted had come true. The whole woke thing was out of control and getting worse every day. It seemed like the whole world had moved deeper into a collective state of victimhood and separation. From gender politics to race issues, all the way to the look at me doing my part with my goggles performance. These dead-asleep zombies were telling people what to do, how to think, who to hate. And, unfortunately, it was white men like me.

Speaking of white men, there was Stan, or Dapper Stan, as I’d sometimes call him. He was an enigma of sorts. He’d been Tess’s personal guard and head of security at the beach house for years. He, like Arno—his former boss and Terrance’s version of him—had come from a very suspicious background, to say the least. Both were ex-CIA, and, according to Terrance, knew the secrets of the world and the way it really worked.

Stan reminded me of Liam Neeson’s character in Taken. He even looked a little like him, only a few years younger and better dressed. Besides their looks, what they both had in common was a very particular set of skills. But Stan’s were real-life, deadly ones. He’d always been cool with me, but I could tell he trusted almost no one. Understandable, when your job is literally to trust no one. With him in the house, you always felt like you were being watched.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, we had Coco. With her wit and attitude, she was hilarious. The only thing was—post-prison experience, post-D—we no longer saw eye to eye on political and social issues, yet it somehow didn’t matter. Tess and I had known her for years, and even though Tess referred to her as lil’ bitch, she was family, and, yes, I use her preferred pronoun. It doesn’t hurt me to do that, and it keeps the drama in the house down.

I’ve gotta say, Tess’s Malibu beach house was definitely over the top. Twelve thousand square feet of construction done right. To start, a hand-carved wooden entrance led to perfectly glossed teakwood flooring, and open walls looked out onto the vast ocean. There was a saltwater pool, full sauna, and 20-seat entertainment room, even jade green roof shingles Terrance had imported from Thailand, which now draped over the second-story balcony like teardrops. When he handed it over to my sister, it was valued at just under one hundred million dollars, the most expensive house in Malibu.

D dropped right into living the life of the rich and famous. He couldn’t get enough of it. He was often swimming, playing pool, running on the beach, or trying to play tennis—fucking comical. But where he spent most of his time was in the Markland beach house entertainment center, or media room, which boasted what was maybe the largest collection of music, live concerts, and movies in the world. Coming from East Borough, the Pit, and the deep level of poverty that went with that, he never experienced much recreational entertainment. Maybe he was making up for lost time.

For D, music was a religious experience. I remember he once told me, Just like with any great song, Zach, each instrument individually does its own thing, with its layered composition of patterns that ultimately unite into a single vision of perfect harmony. I see music as a mirror for what wants to happen throughout all of humankind, as we co-create a structure for self-governance that leads us toward a similar harmonic vision. I tell you, amigo—humanity, though it might not look like it, is in the process of composing the greatest symphony ever heard.

No one loved the arts more than D.

I once walked in on him dancing by himself. Turning around on one of his spins, he caught sight of me and dropped onto the couch, his shoulders stiffening with shame. He quickly grabbed the remote to mute the music video in a casual attempt to conceal his performance. Hey, Zach. I was just listening to this cool song I found.

I can see that, buddy. I glanced at the screen. ‘Revolution.’ I laughed. Fitting. You didn’t have to turn it off. You’ve got some moves there, dontcha? He shook his head in embarrassment, a state I’d never seen him in. He looked like a little kid who had been caught doing something wrong.

Dude, oh my God, you’re embarrassed! Why?

He looked at me, just as confused as I was. I’m not sure. I can’t remember ever feeling this before. I laughed again.

You can’t be embarrassed! You’re Dimitri Tanomeo!

He furrowed his eyebrows. "Well, I’m pretty sure I can because I just was. And what the heck does me being me have to do with whether I’m able to experience embarrassment?"

It was a good question.

It’s just, I guess I thought you were … I didn’t want to finish my sentence, so he finished it for me.

Perfect. Is that what you were going to say?

I was, but I know how lame that sounds.

He laughed. Yeah, lame for sure. But you know why?

No, but I have a funny feeling you’re going to tell me.

The paradox is that within our imperfection lies perfection. My imperfection of being embarrassed is actually perfect. It’s there to push me to open up or at least find out why I’m blocked in that way. It’s just another step to my journey back home.

I nodded. He’d use terms like home and promised land, which I didn’t always get, but I thought it sounded cool. It was a trip, living with this guy outside of prison. He was more open to talking about things like this. Being free in the world really gave him more opportunities to experience it, I guess.

Still, maybe you could knock next time. He smiled and winked.

Dude, you never would’ve heard it. You had that shit cranked up! Who was that guy anyway?

His mood shifted, and he rubbed his hands together real fast like he did when he was excited about something. Ah, just another guy on the team, spreading the good news.

D often referred to others who were on the team, people he’d never met but recognized as Agents of Change. They usually stood for personal sovereignty or spiritual awakening.

This guy’s been touched by the Highest and allows it to speak through him—or sing, in this case. His name is Kirk Franklin, and he’s asking a very important question. One that I plan to ask every person in the world.

Yeah, what’s that?

He put his hands together again and whispered, Are you ready for a revolution? He laughed, pushing play and cranking it up before falling back onto the couch. He closed his eyes, nodding his head to the beat, which made me do the same.

Damn, that’s fire. D’s enthusiasm always left me feeling high.

Marcus, on the other hand, was a real fish out of water, even after all this time with us. I could see how this life was kind of mind-blowing for him, considering where he came from. For me, it was kind of a mindfuck, the whole prisoner/guard dynamic suddenly gone. He had helped me and D out hugely at Carlton, eventually sacrificing his job. Now, he and his cat just walked around the house, looking at everything. When he started wearing the goggles in the house, it only got weirder.

I tried to show compassion, but it was usually hard to find any. It was just so easy to rip on him. Because of his background, he believed the story that the powers that be told the world, and he, therefore, made it his truth.

One day as D and I sat on the beach, he reminded me once again to try to stand in Marcus’s shoes, to imagine living in a conditioned state of fear.

"Your experience, Zach, is much different. Your father—being who he is, knowing what he probably knows about the Dark Owners—raised you to be smarter than that. He taught you not to take blind orders from those in authority. Marcus was programmed differently—by his parents, GNN News, school, the military, his job as a police officer. Like most people, actually, although that is about to change. This I know." He patted me on the back and winked.

"But he’s with us, D. How can he not see this shit like we can? I saw him the other night—outside, alone, by the beach, with his fucking goggles on. How can you tell me this is normal? Yeah, yeah, D, I get it. ‘Normal’ is just a setting on a washing machine. But it’s still weird as fuck."

"Remember the three words, Zach. It’s his experience. I nodded, knowing he had a point. By the way, how ‘normal’ is it to point and laugh at people wearing the goggles while they’re driving? You were doing that the other day on PCH when you were dropping me off in Venice. You didn’t think I noticed, did you?"

Shit. D, I just couldn’t help myself. It’s actually painful for me to witness. What can I do?

You can start by asking yourself, of all those involved, who really has the problem with goggle-wearing? Even when it may not be necessary?

May not?

Who has the problem?! They do, D! As I said it, I knew it wasn’t completely true.

D sighed. "Now, Zach, I know a part of you already knows this, but they’re fine with their goggles on, ‘full suction’ and all. You, on the other hand, are this close to being involved in a road rage incident."

He laughed and went on. You know, I saw that elderly woman in goggles give you the finger after you directed your best zombie imitation at her. You need to be more careful, Zach. You don’t want to get your butt kicked by a senior citizen on her way to bingo, do you?

Funny, D.

"Not really. What is funny, though: all this time with me, and you aren’t any quicker to see when it’s actually you with the problem all along. Notice that, as your teacher, if that’s what we’re going to call me, I don’t take offense that you’re not getting this basic principle. As sovereign individuals, each person is afforded a unique experience, as ridiculous as it may seem to you." There was a long silence.

Ugh! D, I want my world back! I buried my face in my hands, feeling tears rise up. I want things to be the way they were before I went off to prison! I looked up at him. "It’s different for you, dude! You had a shitty life before you died and came back to life in the hospital. Then you went off to prison, which you fucking loved! He shrugged and grinned as I continued. I had this epic life as a DJ with all the freedom in the world. Now, I’ve got power-tripping cashiers at Whole Foods ordering me to ‘push for suction.’

It’s not funny, D, I demanded. Every time I see someone with their goggles on, especially when it’s not even mandated, it’s a reminder of this new fucked-up world, which feels more and more like Carlton each day.

And you being angry at people like Marcus, who wear their goggles on the beach when they’re alone, is going to bring back ‘your world’? Zach, I know that, deep down, you know that world will never return. You’re in resistance to what is. I understand.

I remained silent and dropped my head in shame. I can’t believe I’m still in resistance after all this time working with him.

"The way I see it, Zach, you can stay angry and create more misery and division for yourself and others, which is exactly what they want, or you can do this." He clapped his hands once and rubbed them together in that way of his and then turned and walked away without another word.

I knew what he meant. It was his way of telling me to step into my role to create a better world, one like we’ve never known. Utopia.

I nodded to myself. The global cult with their dystopian agenda could only be quelled by a massive counteraction of worldwide awakening, the very thing our technology could bring about. He’d said it many times before: The world will never be as it was. It’s going to get worse, actually, a lot worse, until the collective wakes up and does something about it.

I thought about Marcus and how he couldn’t see something that we could, just as there were things I couldn’t see that he could. I remembered what D said in prison when I’d get frustrated with inmates who weren’t ready to do the work. It’s just their experience, Zach. Allowing things beyond your control to be as they are will dictate the level of peace you experience in your own life. Easier said than done.

After a few days, I decided to give it up to ho’oponopono, our go-to fix-it-all.

Yo, Marcus, I’m sorry, please forgive me, thank you, and I love you, man! I yelled from the kitchen window to him by the pool. Oh no, he’s coming in, I thought as he moved toward the house.

What was that for, Zach? he asked, his goggles still on. So creepy.

Could you just …? I motioned for him to lower them so I could at least see him as I bared my soul. He ignored my request, giving them a suction push for better protection and just staring at me, I think. I continued on telling him everything. After I finished, I admit, I felt better.

Of course, I have no idea how he felt because I couldn’t see his eyes. He just nodded and pointed to an apple in the basket on the table, whispering, Do you think I could have one of those?

That’s all you have to say?! I caught myself and lowered my voice. All good; it’s just your experience, Marcus. I get it. He continued to stare. Oh yeah, and hey, just as I’ve told you time and time again, yes, you can have anything you want from this house, anytime you want.

Jesus, can you at least get that into your experience?

My saving grace was that my queen, Star, was in my corner. I’ve called her that since she let most of her victim shit go after being straightened out by D. I could still feel trace remnants of it in her, though, primarily with her maintaining her place in the victimhood triad, as D called it. She’d been indoctrinated in the university. The programming was so deep, it took several sessions with D to get it out of her. It was rare, but, still, I’d sometimes catch her using the words privileged or oppressed. I was just glad she didn’t mind being called out on it.

D once told us, "Seeing the sickness within you as it arises, not identifying it as your own, is the fastest way out, or, better said, through. The cockroaches scurry when the light comes on. It’s the same with this disease, or mind virus. As a couple, if you are in agreement, lovingly call each other out on your own caca and go from there. This is how a relationship can become a helpful tool in your awakening, which is really what it’s there for in the first place." And sex.

We both took his words to heart, and it made us stronger, taking the bond we had way beyond what it was before. We knew our purpose in the world now, and nothing could keep us from it. While creating our app, AWKN, I was sometimes stuck in my tech lab for 18 hours at a time, and she’d support me by bringing in food and checking in with the beta users’ chat so I didn’t have to. But where she helped most was in piecing together the information from the illegal photos smuggled out of Carlton State Penitentiary, captured with the smuggled-in mini-cam and four memory cards, all courtesy of the great Officer O. Many notebooks full of tons of logged information about each prisoner case, along with their issues as well as the solutions and practices D had suggested to support them while in their process of the Early Release Program, ERP.

Star transcribed the handwritten text from all of those photos. Afterwards, I’d modify the data and install it into the app. I had close to a dozen remote programmers working with me to create the backend while I worked with another team on the function and design.

So, check this out, babe, I said to Star as I pointed to the screen. First, the users create a profile. Then, the system prompts them, in quiz form, to answer several personal inquiries concerning various aspects of their life. Some of those inquiries are centered around religious beliefs, spiritual preferences, goals, desires, habits, addictions, challenges, likes, dislikes, passions, fears, relationships, as well as accomplishments and perceived failures. He or she is then prompted to take a series of brief tests. All of this will help AWKN know where the user is, so to speak, in their evolutionary path towards inner transformation while placing them in a multi-tier structure between levels one and five.

Levels? she asked.

"Yeah, as an example, a level one user is someone I’d consider ‘dead asleep,’ completely unaware, steeped only in the physicality of their life experience. They’re firmly identified with their occupational, financial, marital, educational, political, and physical status. Level ones are living almost completely outside of the present moment. They likely are unaware that such a concept even exists and have never consciously experienced life beyond the physical. They seem to be constantly waiting for some future occurrence, be it positive or negative. On the other side of the same coin, their ‘inner dialogue,’ as D calls it, delves through the past, and thoughts of ‘how great or horrible it was back then’ take center stage.

"The level one user is likely to be involved in some type of abusive cycle. On the victim side of it, another thing—family member, partner, business associate, political figure, event, illness, governmental system, or just a cruel world—has ‘done’ something to them. The abuser is the one performing the supposedly cruel act. With level one users, whether they’re performing the act of abuse or living in victimhood is one and the same. In general, they have a difficult life experience, as their unconscious mindset wreaks havoc and causes deep, ongoing personal suffering. I should know—before I met D, I was a level one. There’s no doubt about that."

I agree with that assessment, she joked. I shook my finger, knowing I could say the same about her but not doing so.

I went on. "On the other end of the spectrum, level fives are fully aware of what they truly are, which means also knowing what they aren’t. To them, identification with the physical realm is minimal, as they recognize it to be illusory in nature. They rarely experience lack and, even less so, a scarcity mindset because they know all they need has been and will be provided for them. This wisdom reveals lightness and joy in these users’ everyday experiences, and they’re able to ‘play’ within the realm of physicality while not becoming attached to it. They stand in the here and now, keeping but a foot in the Matrix when necessary.

Kindness overall, and living in the absolute state of service, is commonplace for those who have attained this level. Their fervent desire to share with others trumps all other activity in their life experience. Basically— She put up her hand to interrupt me.

Come on, Zach. You can’t BS me. That whole description you just gave me sounded more like you-know-who’s words. I stared at her for a few seconds. Out with it! she demanded.

Yeah, I kinda asked him about that last part, I admitted.

No, you kinda memorized his words verbatim, didn’t you?

I rolled my eyes. Yes, Star, I grumbled. I knew I needed to speak to the whole ‘level five’ thing, so yeah, I recorded him and played it back so I could get it down pat.

She cracked up. Do you think a level fiver like him would ever use the app anyway?

Actually, he said he might use it here and there. He mentioned something about still being in a human body, which meant there was still work to be done.

She nodded and whispered. Respect. I nodded back.

"So, let me get back to what I was saying. After all the users’ data is gathered and the system has privately identified their current level, they can talk to it about their issues and the many challenges in their life. Then the system uses the stored data from the many prisoners D and the others helped, to give them the answers verbally—real-time, valid solutions.

It gets better. The user can then prompt the system to go deeper to strengthen their experience, helping them grow internally and subsequently raising their level of teaching. They can also revert it to a less advanced one, making sure they are getting the point.

Very interesting, Zach. But this whole ‘levels’ thing … aren’t you afraid people will latch on to that, bringing them right back into ego identification?

I pointed at her. Great point, babe. But categorizing these levels—or stages, as D likes to call them—is an internal systematic function; its existence is invisible to the public as well as the user. All info from users will be completely private. It won’t be sold or used outside of this platform in any way. Furthermore, the system is not hierarchical. As you and I both know, we’re always learning, so the levels of teaching will shift for everyone depending on where they are at with each new challenge in their lives.

Okay, I get it. I guess no matter how you look at it, AWKN has something for everyone, no matter where they are on this unseen, invented spectrum you just described.

Star got it right off the bat. Sure, it was complex, writing code at this level. But I liked complexity. As a youth, I was labeled a mathematical genius, a prerequisite for a tech maven. And I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention my schooling, the major contributor to my unique skill set, the thing that made AWKN even possible: Carnegie Mellon.

I had a love/hate relationship with tech. I hated what it was being utilized for, the dumbing down of our world. From childhood, wasted on gaming and hooked on rapid-fire stimulation, to the crooked tactics behind the addictive engagement of social media all the way to the corrupt, real-time indoctrination of its users.

After meeting D, it became clear that this, along with all the other bullshit going on in the world, was being done by design. There was an elaborate, sinister plan behind the push for tech addiction. All of it led to the endgame of nothing less than a sort of global, AI-transhumanistic slavery with the up-and-coming digital passports and currency all run by the one-world government, there to subjugate the consciousness of the masses. The whole thing disgusted me until I realized I could use the master’s tools to dismantle the master’s castle. And this is what I loved about tech.

We could use it to reverse their plan. You see, the AWKN app was one thing—epic, of course—but what I had planned for the future was something else. I decided to keep it to myself for the moment because I didn’t want to overload my partners with information they wouldn’t understand anyways.

D and I were both in agreement that we needed to get this app launched as soon as humanly possible. The world was falling apart fast. The dark forces ramped up their game on a weekly basis with some new rule about goggle usage, and it never quite made any sense. At first, they told us wearing them wouldn’t help. Then they said it did. Eventually, they recommended a face shield to go on top of the goggles. They spoke of rampant, airborne contamination, which made no sense to many of the doctors outside Dr. Fauzi’s cabal. If the virus was a threat, according to the data, it seemed it wasn’t as big as they were making it out to be.

You see, I preferred to live my life freely. I guess what made that possible was knowing that when I die, I don’t really die; I just perfectly transition into a different experience. I’d say I got that first from D, but the peyote journey at Carlton was what drove it home.

Now, to be honest, I’d been labeled a conspiracy theorist before, and I have to admit I’d gone deep down the rabbit hole more than once, so my opinion was definitely skewed. But, as far as I was concerned, they were all programmed zombies doing what the deciders decided they must do. I couldn’t believe I was once on their side, under that spell.

D’s view was different from mine when we spoke about it. "It’s not that black and white, Zach. There are a thousand shades of gray in between. There are people on the other ‘side,’ if you want to call it that, who don’t want this madness to continue. And there are people on this side, your new side, who are also experiencing ‘death phobia’ and want everyone to wear goggles."

I see your point, D, but you can’t deny that the other side is pushing this narrative. This upcoming ‘squirt’ cure has their name written all over it.

All of this is by design, amigo, including the population taking sides like you’re doing. And when people begin to question what’s really going on, whoever is running the show will bring in more distractions, like new strains of the virus, food shortages—even a war. As always, ‘killing in the name of’ this or that.

He put his hand on my shoulder. So, Zach, in the meantime you just keep doing what you’re doing and maybe take it easy on the whole ‘sides’ thing. Remember, everyone’s doing the best they can with what they have in their toolbox, for, ultimately, we are literally in this thing together. Having said that, the app is essential. It will support our work and provide pushback against the dark agenda that’s being played out by these actors. Then, we’ll be able to get back to the real task of waking up the world even though there’s really no world to wake up.

I knew what he said was true because I felt the same about it all. Hearing it from someone smart and centered like him made it all the more real. I have to admit, that scared the shit out of me. He could see it on my face.

He chuckled, I tell you, Zach, there’s more to this than meets the eye. There’s always a method to Love’s madness. That’s with a capital L, Zach.

What’s love got to do with it?

He laughed again. I’m going to leave that for you guys to figure out. Whoever’s first will win the grand prize.

It’s a New World

MARCUS

It had been almost eight months since I’d rushed back home to the other side of the US to get the rest of my things before the ocular virus brought airline travel to a halt. And, let me tell you, the state of the world was nothing but a giant mess.

Everyone hated everyone. When they weren’t arguing about race or gender, they were screaming at each other for not sufficiently protecting themselves and others against the virus. Chastising each other for wearing their goggles up on their