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A little wager

Hello, readers.

Note: I wrote this in November, and of course, this has not actually happened- as far as the public knows, myself included. However. I’m going to try this crystal ball thing once again and say: something involving Trump and myself is going to happen next week, on or around December 16th. Of course, it’s really impossible to tell the future- foreseeing is impossible- I am basing this on weird dreams I have had, memories of conversations held over three years ago.

A little wager I’d like to place between my strange dreams about Trump, and the world: I have a strange feeling that on Friday, December 6 someone in the Trump administration is going to try to implicate me in some sort of crime or scandal. I actually don’t know what this might be.

For the record, I’ve had no contact that I am aware of with anyone in the Trump administration, and only have had strange dreams that, back in 2016 before the election, I spoke with him or with officials in his administration on the phone. I can’t explain that.

I’m watching the unreeling of this chain of thoughts with interest and expect that they will make for a great plot, or perhaps subplot, in a work of fiction I am writing called Cloak.

Keep watching the news, folks.

To the world

I’ve been interested in hypnosis since 2003, when I started having dreams about it being used on me. I’ve been having dreams since then about this. Here is a little character diary entry from someone who has been traumatized by the overuse of brainwashing techniques and shock hypnosis (or stage hypnosis).

I’ve been remembering so much. Every time she comes up to me, she pushes me on the back, in a particular spot. Every time. And every time I freeze. I don’t know for how long, but things have definitely changed by the time I can recover, and what happens to me during the time I am frozen? I wake up- my pants are pulled down. I am in a public place. How did this happen? What else has happened?

I’m remembering being coached on the phone. “When you open the door, you’ll see someone you care about, someone you trust.” Is this how she masked her face and voice from me, for so many years? The criminal investigations which all relied on me as witness, and I told them the truth- I saw people at my doorstep that could not have physically been there, and I never saw Evelyn. I never saw her- only a few times, only when she screwed up and used the wrong information to try to program me, and those mistakes are the only reason I am alive, and able to remember.

“When you pass through a doorway, you will forget everything that happened since you first heard my voice.” And after the man was hit with a brick and lay bleeding on the sidewalk, after a baby was maimed and I had to listen on the phone, I wanted to call for help- I did not have a working phone and I needed to go elsewhere, so I tried going to work, to my laboratory where I could use the phone. And I passed through a doorway, each time, and I could not remember anything immediately after. I stood in front of the phone, looking at it, panicking. What had I been about to do? Who was I calling? Why?

It took me ever so long to dredge up the pieces of these crimes from my subconscious, because, like all criminals, Evelyn makes mistakes- she made enough mistakes, and I finally had enough data, that I could piece together all the parts of the puzzles I had been left with.

“I’ll leave you alone, but you have to tell me my name.”

Guess what? I know your name, Evelyn. I know your full name.

I remember one night in Riverside, CA- I was at my friend Maggie’s apartment, and you looked like her to me, and left leaving the door wide open, with a pile of designer bags. And you made me watch a show on the television, and I did not understand why you wanted me to see it- but I watched, and I know the show’s name and I know the face and voice and name of the man on the screen. And maybe you programmed me further- to fail to be able to see or hear him, perhaps, maybe something else. I don’t know, because I remembered all of this now in the context of what I know, and when I looked up his image online, I also saw yours.

I saw you. And I saw your name.

I know your actual face. I’ve known for some time. And when the time is right and I have been able to confirm my suspicions, I will say your full name. Only this time, not just to you.

To the world.

Character diary entry

Inspired by the impeachment hearings, I decided to write a piece in the format of a character’s diary entry. She has my name but otherwise is a fictional character who receives calls from the Trump White House that travel through time, from 2019 or so back to before the election in 2016. This piece takes inspiration also from some true events.

Begin transmission, November 13, 2019.

I’ve been thinking about Evelyn, and Trump. It was puzzling for so long, how were they connected to me? And, of course, I remember. The tie in with Trump is when she first tried to sell me to the Trumps. I remember this: I WAS raped, kidnapped off the street, drugged, and raped, and later brought to a hotel penthouse where I was supposed to be sold into sex trafficking of some kind, there was mention of “a boat” and there was a woman that in hindsight must have been Evelyn telling me to just “relax and enjoy whatever happens to you”. This was about 1997 in Vancouver. I know it was Trump and his family because (a) the hotel and (b) later when I got the series of suspicious calls from “Donny” who was “President”.

In my defense, I did not know of what, and for me this was in 2016 before the election, so Obama was POTUS and “Donny” had presented himself to me, when he asked for help, as running for “something like high school president” so I thought he was a mentally retarded adult in high school. “Donny” said something to me about how he had been introduced to me by his sons and how he thought I was “a very passionate young lady.” This was after he called himself “Mr. President”.

In any case, dear diary, that’s how Evelyn and the Trumps and I are connected. She keeps putting them in touch with me. She kept doing this when I lived in Riverside and later in North Hollywood, working full time as a scientist and making very little salary, while I was on the phone with what must have been influential and wealthy people, helping them with their problems, and not getting a penny in return, no names, no contact information, and any benefit from any of this was pocketed or claimed by Evelyn. She once taunted me that I was making her a lot of money and she owned me, I was her slave. That’s when I stopped answering my phone and refused all calls. I would not talk to anyone I could not identify and I blocked every number that came from someone I could not identify, whether I liked them as people or not. I just wanted to feel safe again. I lost contact with Seth M. this way, I lost contact with others, very valuable contacts, and the only way I re-established contact was via this odd connection we have, which can’t be tracked or traced and consists of… what? I have no idea. I think the tech handles it.

Anyway, from all of Evelyn’s shenanigans Trump knew I was a problem solver, and when he had his election campaign he asked me for help winning it, and I thought he was just an unpleasant guy in high school and quickly grew tired. He didn’t want to win fairly, on the basis of popularity or a winning platform. He wanted to cheat. So he asked me if he could get help from “foreign students, like from St. Petersburg” and I was tired and fed up so I just told him that was fine, the school should allow it, something like that. And then the next calls I got he was “President” and he wanted me to call him “Mr. President” and I quickly got fed up with that. Frankly, he was a graceless, untalented and ineloquent twat. He called and called but for me it was all in a span of about a day or two in Guelph, ON. In 2016.

In hindsight, that was weird but as time progressed for me since 2016 and Trump’s presidency unwound and weird things kept being reported in the news, some seemed oddly familiar. I could sometimes trace them to vague memories of calls made. I remember thinking, in 2016, of the bizarre things I said he should do if he wanted “magical help”, thinking: surely, surely law enforcement will stop him. Surely the press will stop him. Surely there are checks in place. I told him about the bushes Shaun Spicer hid in, I told him about how Sicario was a real story of real events (it’s not), I told him to look at the eclipse. I told him to attack so many different groups. thinking, too many targeted groups, surely someone will see what he’s doing and stop him before he can do real damage. But, of course, no one has been able to and all the awful policies he has enacted are mostly in place, and all the laws he broke (whether actual law or simply rules of common decency) he can break with impunity. No one has been able to check him in any significant way that I am aware of. The impeachment hearings are going to be important but there is so much resistance from HALF OF CONGRESS that it’s tricky to see if it’s going to fall out for the rule of law and moral decency and justice, or if the traitors will stick to their underhanded game plan of making sure their side keeps power at any cost necessary, including the destruction of their own country’s government.

I know he is a traitor- whoever was on the phone- since I actually pretended to be a Russian and put on an accent and told him I worked for “Vlad” (I actually did not recall Putin, I was thinking of Dracula and improvising all the time) and once it became clear to me that he thought I was in the Russian government I switched and said that if he wanted Russian help he needed to “do some little things, maybe not so little things, but they will help us and you.” And then I made it clear, in multiple statements, that these things will harm America but they would be good for whoever I was talking to (I could not remember who it was). And then I pressured the person I was talking to to make a decision about whether he would betray his country for Russian help and some kind of profit quickly, and his decision was, yes, he would do it. He wanted instructions.

The man I was talking to was a traitor. And I don’t know if at that point it was Trump, or one of his henchmen. I won’t say “official” because they are mobsters, not government servants. But this person said he would do an unspecified act that was “good for Russia and for you” (meaning him, the person) “but bad for America”. That’s treason. To be clear, I’m not Russian. I’m Canadian. And I have no connections to Russia, I simply wanted to find out if the people I was talking to were traitors. I happen to like America.

I think at one point in 2016 Evelyn was in my office and she had a phone and she handed it to me asking me to talk to whoever is on the other end, and I’m accused of being a whistleblower and in government and asked all sorts of questions about events which, for me, would not happen for another 3 years. I did my best but honestly, I was so confused and my tech (that Evelyn could control, or partially control) was malfunctioning and I was unable to remember much of what I needed to tell the people I was talking to… diary, I don’t remember much at all of what I said but all I knew is that I was innocent and being framed for something, or set up for something- some criminal act, or some targeting with death threats, and I think at one point someone calls me (perhaps intending to call someone else) and asked me to arrange for a hit on “Elizabeth Bent”.

I’m Elizabeth Bent.

I said I’d do it and tried to get information on who they were but can’t now recall what they told me. This is always my curse. I just hope Steve kept the tapes. That’s the only proof I have that I’m not a traitor- that and the fact that my phone has not rung with a White House number since 2016.

This reminds me of the time Evelyn offered me money to impersonate myself. Again, I’d never have suspected her of wrongdoing if she hadn’t done that. I am so glad she did that, though, because my ability to talk to Steve at all all hinged on that day.

I don’t know what happens. I don’t know if my tech is working better now, has vanished, or if Evelyn will continue to be a problem for me by finding ways to misuse it and me. I feel like she’s been plaguing my life since I was thirteen, in 1985. I believe she knows so much about how to abuse me and all my weaknesses, physical and psychological and tech-created, like all my blackouts and inability to process certain information that is vital for me to be able to protect myself. Future tech like what I have been given is certainly a mixed blessing. I’ve managed to stay alive despite so many assassination attempts, but honestly, I wish I were allowed to know what is going on, and what has happened to me.

I wish I could finally find and talk to Steve. I worry so much that I’m imagining the tape he played a partial piece of in 2017. I worry so much that, frankly, I imagined the entire thing- the calls, the hearing or trial I found myself unwittingly in, not understanding what was going on, and Steve himself.

Time will show me if I am right, I only have to wait and keep watching.

End transmission, November 13, 2019


Hello, readers!

It’s late at night tonight and I am really looking forward to a calm Thanksgiving with family this coming weekend (in Canada, Thanksgiving is this coming Monday).

The news from the USA is just insane and it’s so hard to keep up with it all.

That being said, some of it just keeps reminding me of calls past, though I have not spoken to anyone recently. To explain, in years past I received many strange anonymous calls and those have, thankfully, stopped- including ones from a man only identifying himself as “Donny” (here and here and possibly in other posts) who sounded, in hindsight, a lot like Trump, though I did not recognize it at the time. I’ve speculated at length about what it all means. I have been wondering who called and why, and since I seem to have been asked to do various things which are impossible (psychic magic stuff, editing documents, handling correspondence and “the media”, contacting lawyers or finding new lawyers), well, I wonder exactly what has been going on. And how am I involved?

The easiest and simplest explanation is that I’ve dreamt up all these phone conversations (and the ample coverage of Trump scandals in the past 3 years has given most people aware of US news plenty to think about). I do keep thinking, though, that I will be “thrown under the bus” as it were, and blamed for some kind of bad conduct or a bad decision on the part of the Trump White House (like their abandonment of the Kurds, which is absolutely shameful). So just in the very, very slight chance that my name is tossed out in the maelstrom of Trump impeachment news, and people find my blog because of this, I thought I would say: I’m not an operative of any government, and if Trump has been calling me in times long past, I would like to know (a) how he got my number, and (b) why me?

I’m not a politician, I don’t know any politicians other than my husband’s uncle who is retired, I’m not a lawyer, I’m not a “fixer”- I’m a Canadian scientist who has been spending a lot of time visiting her husband in Dayton and writing fiction. If you want to know more about me, my consulting site is here, and my personal science project page is here. I also have published stories on Smashwords and I have written articles for The Conversation, and one is currently in progress.

In the past 3 years I have been debilitated by what are possibly simply dreams, delusions brought about perhaps by poor sleep or some kind of stress (though I take great care to manage stress adequately), from my being bipolar, or actual fragments (distorted, or not) of real memories relating to real traumas. I have hinted at or described some of these in my writing on this blog and am currently working on a number of short stories and novels that pull from these dreams/ideas/memories. I have so many story ideas, in fact, that I stopped being able to afford to register them all with WGA West and I have been keeping them to myself (there are now about 60).

As far as I remember, I lost my temper a number of times and resorted to pranking and/or sarcastic “advice” while on the phone with “Donny”, but as far as I can tell this happened a while ago- before the 2016 election. I’ve often joked that I’m a part of the Deep State, so deeply in the Deep State that I am not even aware of it, but as I type this, I wonder- who was “Donny”, why did he call me multiple times, and since I can’t clearly recall much of our conversations (see the above links about conversations with a possible Trump for details of what I do recall), well…. what happened, exactly?

I had another memory, a very clear one, that in 2017 someone played me a part of a recording from one of these calls- it was very memorable- so I’m sure that somewhere in the world, someone was listening in and recording the conversations I had had with “Donny”, and I for one am agog to find out- is this real? Was there someone in the room with me, or someone listening in on the call, or both- and is there audio? Video? How long before that person releases it? Who was this person, exactly?

Aside from Cloak, which is a fantasy story about spies, and its planned sequel, I have thought up a quasi-autobiographical work which I’m calling The Accidental Spy, which basically will untangle the many ideas I’ve had about who has been calling me, why I was selected for calls in particular, how I might have been put in contact with Trump, and essentially, my side of this whole weird (and possibly delusional) story. I would absolutely love empirical evidence of any real-world actual connections, conversations, or financial transactions linking me to Trump (for the record, I have never received money- but I believe in the late 1990s, when I lived in Vancouver, BC, someone in a hotel was trying to “buy” me from a woman I didn’t know, and I had no idea what was going on). I would love to, as has been said, “turn this log over and see what crawls out”.

I realize that the most likely explanation for all my dreams is illness, in which case The Accidental Spy will simply be a fantasy story, like Cloak.

However, journalists and government agents of the USA, if Trump releases my name or claims I am his representative, agent, or subordinate, or that I have influenced him in any way, well… start digging, please. I would like to know the truth.

October 6th

This is [Edit: the beginning of] a rough draft of a short story which I plan to turn into a novella. I liked the bones of this story enough to share it, though I admit the writing is a little sparse. I hope you enjoy it. [I am taking out everything but the very beginning because I want to work on this a little more before sharing, but I am having a lot of fun with this one. It is based on true events.]


Every October 6th, starting when I was about twenty or so, something odd would happen to me. Let me give you an example.

On the Santa Monica pier, October 6th, 2005. A woman walked up to me and said she wanted to take my photograph. I demurred, she insisted. She snapped a photograph with me saying she wanted me to wave to her family, and feeling put upon, I did so.

“I’m done with you now,” she said, and pushed me, hard, toward an oncoming couple.

I stumbled but did not lose my footing, nor hit the couple. They stared at me. I turned around.

“What the fuck, lady?” I yelled, and the strange woman looked at me, smirked, then her face crumpled theatrically and she went to her family, pointing at me, clearly aggrieved.

For about a week afterward, everywhere I went, different women would follow me, walk up to me, tell me that restaurants or parking lots were closed, tell me that I had to go with them (I never did), tell me they needed my signature on petitions, they needed my address, they needed to see my ID.

Another October 6th, I was attempting to see a pageant in Laguna Beach, a display of tableaux of old masterwork paintings put on by live models. A woman claiming to represent the play gave me a free glass of lemonade. I drank it, sat down on my picnic blanket, prepared to enjoy the pageant. I woke up on my picnic blanket, the pageant finished, I had a headache, I was groggy, people were leaving or had left. The woman was there and said she would see me to my car, then when we were alone, she took my things, put them next to a trash bin, and said I needed to take off my clothes.

I objected. I was weak, I pushed her away but she was stronger, and my cries for help were weakened. I blacked out and woke up with my pants removed by the entrance to the men’s bathroom in a local bar.

Sometimes it was a woman. Sometimes it was a man. Sometimes it was someone I thought I knew asking me “Do you know who I am? Who am I to you?” who did not seem to know basic facts about our relationship. Sometimes it was merely a phone call. But it happened, like clockwork, on or around October 6th, each year, and each year toward the end of September I’d wonder what would happen this time.

They took me about a year ago, last October 6th. I thought I’d be returned home within a week or two, but I’ve been here almost a full year, here on this Campus, and I have no clear idea of where I am or why they took me.

[What’s been happening to our protagonist? Where are they? What is the purpose of the Campus? Answers to these questions and more in the finished version, expected in November if writing goes as planned. Depending on length I may make the work available on Smashwords instead of here.]


Never trust a genie, especially if it’s angry about having been kept as a slave in a bottle.

Some news: I am currently working on a novella about psychological manipulation, and also am unearthing a couple of novels, one partially written. I may have mentioned Diamond and Cloak before. I’m replotting Diamond to add in some scenes analogous to what happened to me in Vancouver in the late 1990s (these are difficult scenes to write, since they involve rape by powerful people and being trafficked by someone I trusted, a woman I am calling Evelyn), and to fix a few plot holes. Diamond, in case I didn’t already mention it, is the story of how an abused woman survives and then thrives with the help of both human allies and goddess figures.

Cloak is much different: a fantasy spy novel about the fall of a corrupt White House administration. I’m actually watching current news with great interest, as this will inform the ending of Cloak.

Both of these stories are fantasy, but draw from events in my life.


Everything was at stake.

The voice on the phone spoke with a Russian accent. The man from the hotel listened.

“I can help you,” the voice said. “I can make all your problems go away. But I need you to do something for me.”

“What’s that? I’ll do anything.”

“I need you to carry out… a particular task. We will tell you what to do when the time comes.”

“Who is ‘we’?”

There was a pause.

“I am in touch with Vlad,” is all the Russian voice said.

There was another pause.

“Will you do this for us?”

“I don’t know… I don’t know.”

“There is a lot at stake. We can help you. We can make it all go away. But you need to do what we say.”

“All right. All right, I’ll do it.”

A smile.

“Good, good. Now, just so you know, what we ask, it is not so good for the United States. Good for you, yes, but not so good for America. Are you still going to do what we tell you?”

A pause.

“Well? Yes or no.”

“I’ll have to call you back.”

Some time later, there was a return call.

“Yes. Yes, I’ll do it.”

“We will be in touch.”

I smiled grimly. I didn’t know why the man in the hotel had me on the line- perhaps because he thought I could help him, as I have helped so many others. I closed my eyes.

Evelyn knocked on the door. At the time, I did not recognize her. She spoke to me and I could feel my memories slipping away, as they always did after she manipulated me.

I may not be able to recount exactly what passed between the man in the hotel and I. My memory is terrible and has been manipulated extensively.

However, there are tapes. There are tapes of all of it, tapes of this and all the other conversations. It is only a matter of time before they are released. There is also another witness, who will be revealed in due time.

Tick, tock.

The Smartest Woman in the World

“You think you’re smart? I’m smarter than you. I own you.”

I looked at the cell phone in my hand. Who was this? For years I had endured strange calls. The ones from this voice were abusive. I was told I was making a lot of money for someone, that I was stupid, that my ideas were worthless, that they owned me, that I was their slave.

At the time, this was almost true.

I also shared phone calls with persons unknown about projects they were working on. Books, films, TV shows, personal problems that the anonymous people I could never identify wanted help with. I never heard back from any of them and I was never paid for any of the advice I gave- rather, I was never paid. I am sure that the anonymous abuser of mine, the woman I later identified as Evelyn, and her co-conspirators profited handsomely. I continued working quietly as a scientist, making very little in my academic job, wondering who was calling.

I was stalked, I was harassed and asked for my opinion of celebrities I was not familiar with, I was threatened, and I noticed problems with my paper mail, my voicemails, my emails, my social media messages, even my ability to access certain websites on the internet. I literally could not see some billboards or posters, or news articles. I literally could not hear some voices. I was being manipulated and abused in so many ways, and stolen from, mind-raped with brutal and abusive stage hypnosis, completely. This, after years of half-remembered actual rapes which stopped once I showed enough physical strength to defend myself, and enough presence of mind to be able to report some attacks. To this day I am not 100% certain all of them occurred, though I do know that I have endured real rapes which have given me traumatic nightmares, and I have figured out that some or all of these were arranged by Evelyn. She sold me to the man in the hotel in Vancouver, she sold me to random strangers invading my home, she manipulated my mind and what information I received so I never could identify her, and she stole, or tried to steal, almost everything I owned which had any value to me.

It has taken me about three years to finally remember her, to put her name to the face from my memories, to figure out how she manipulated, not just me, but her famous TV husband and everyone around us. And that was only because I became curious about his career, looked up his body of work, looked up his image- and there she was, next to him. I remembered her Tasering me. I remember her holding a brick and walking down some stairs after a man who said he wanted to help me, and I remember seeing that man in a pool of blood, face down, and asking passersby to call police (I had no cell phone then). I remembered her confessing to crimes, knowing I would not be able to remember, because that’s how I had been programmed. I remembered her coming up to me in public and asking me to pose for photos with her, which later became “evidence” of a friendly relationship.

Her stage hypnosis tricks were effective on me and I had no way to tell who she was, so much of the time, which allowed her to gain access to my keys, my homes, my workplaces, my computers, my phones, my mail… my entire life. She destroyed so many relationships of mine by pretending to be other people.

I see it now, I see her greatest work, which has been the attempted ruin of my life. I see her attempt to humiliate me by forcing me to talk about subjects I was unfamiliar with (TV, film, acting) with experts in the field, and to market me as “The Smartest Woman In The World”. It was her initial hope that people would seek me out and she could prove how ignorant I was of the profession she marketed me as an “expert” in. When I proved to actually have useful advice, she claimed credit, stole money or influence that should have been mine, and abused me.

I stopped responding to the anonymous calls and threats. I tried to warn people who called me that I was being abused and that the woman who had set me up for it was not to be trusted. Too often, I would hear her talk to me and then lie, skewing what I said, and years later I would see projects come out and flop, and I knew that if my actual advice had been followed, they would have had a better chance. I do not know if anyone heard me, any of the times I attempted warning.

I don’t know what happened to this image, this puppet, “The Smartest Woman In The World”, but I want you to know that I am the woman who used to be asleep- answering the phone, speaking, but asleep- behind her.

I am awake now.

The man from the hotel phoned me up more recently and asked to speak to “The Woman”. I reminded him about Vancouver, the attack I endured there when Evelyn trafficked me. He said I was “a very passionate young lady.” I did not need to know who he was to know he was a terrible man.

I see him. And I see you now, too, Evelyn.

Tick, tock.

Sneak peek at Anagama

Dear readers, I’m 99% of the way finished with Anagama– just one last pass, and then I can feel secure in it, and start the process of finding an agent to represent it. I have thought about self-publishing and if finding an agent proves to be impossible, I’ll go that route. I already have a few short stories on Smashwords (here, at bottom of page), some of which I am very fond of, that are self-published, as well as a novel (here). The main reason I don’t want to go this route again is that I am not fond of marketing my work and no one will see it unless I do, or unless I hand that off to someone else (the publisher, for the most part, though I know if I do get a contract I will have to promote my book as best as I can).

Here is a sneak peek at the first chapter. If you like it, send me a note at

Chapter One

She ducked out of her lab for a moment to take a sip of coffee from her travel mug, since food and drink were forbidden inside the lab. In order to do this she had to first take off her protective gloves, safety glasses, mask, and lab coat. Under all the protective gear she was just another middle-aged woman, long dark hair streaked with silver and twisted up into a bun, slightly overweight and soft from spending long hours sitting in front of a computer or laminar flow hood.

Two armed, helmeted figures in black security gear rounded a corner at the end of the hall, one on each end of a white stretcher. A slender figure lay trussed up on the stretcher, barely conscious, moaning. She noticed blood on his—his? It was difficult to tell, but the lines of his ashen face she thought the figure might be male—temple, under short dark hair, more blood coming from the neck. The towels put on his neck to stop the bleeding were soaked in blood.  The rest of him was hidden under cords and a pale blue sheet.  From his bare shoulders, she surmised he was naked—perhaps stolen from bed.

The stretcher moved past and Beatrice, standing in the hall with her coffee, pretended not to be interested in the figure on the stretcher.

She closed her eyes and pushed.

Are you there? She asked, silently, listening intently as the guards and the figure moved down the hall. Can you hear me? Think your name.

I’m cold, was all she heard, indistinctly; she took a sip of coffee, and then—


Beatrice started and nearly dropped her coffee; she slammed her mental gates shut just as a loud, screeching wail emanated from down the hall, in the direction the guards had taken.


There was a crash, sounds of a scuffle, wordless cries, and finally, a thud.

Beatrice set her coffee down on the small table by the lab door that was situated there just for that purpose. Her hands shook slightly.


She turned, saw her supervisor. He wore suit pants, a pressed shirt, a black and white tie which, when examined closely, was a repeating tiled pattern of the Zurvan Corporation’s black octopus logo. Beatrice had looked closely at it hundreds of times.

“How’s the run doing? Specimen 5-15?”

Beatrice blinked.

“The run will be ready in one hour,” she lied. The run would be ready in fifteen minutes. However, her customized script which she had set to alter the run statistics would take forty-five minutes. “I can send you statistics after that.”

“Good, good,” Phil Knight said, stuffing his hands into his pockets and jingling some change. He looked toward a wall.

That one may be particularly valuable, she heard him think.

“I don’t need to tell you that the more mutants we uncover, the better it is for Zurvan, and for the stability of your job?”

Beatrice smiled back at him. “The run says what the run says. I don’t alter the data,” she lied, and thought back to the boy they called Specimen 5-15.

She remembered drawing blood specimens from him. His eyes had been bloodshot and he had been able to hear her.  Luckily, he had not given this away.

Where am I? he had asked. Where is my family? What do they want with me?

She had collected his blood into a vial and put a cotton ball on the wound, then a bandage.

They don’t think you’re human, she told him, and his eyes had widened.

Shhh, she said. Don’t react. I will make sure the data shows you are human. They will give you back to your family. But move, after—make sure you move, and make sure no one knows you can heal so quickly. Try to keep it a secret. 

He had simply looked at her. Why are there people locked up here? What did we do?

You didn’t do anything, she said, taking an inordinate amount of time to write the boy’s specimen number on her labels. It’s your DNA. They think you have DNA different enough to make you not-human.

The boy started to cry. Beatrice put down her blood sample vials, reached instinctively toward him to give comfort.

The black barrel of a tranquilizer gun appeared between them.

“What are you doing, Dr. Holloway?” The guard’s voice was female. She still wore her helmet here, inside this room they had caged the boy in, as was regulation.  “You know the rules.”

Beatrice smoothed over a scowl and an angry reply, and instead reached for a box of tissues from her medical kit, handed one to the boy. He took it, did not look at her.

I will make sure they let you go, she said. I promise.

My stomach hurts, the boy said. I’m hungry.

I will make sure they feed you, she said.

“How long has it been since he’s been fed?” she asked.

The guard shrugged.

“He’s young, make sure he gets enough food and rest,” she said. “After all, we don’t know that he isn’t human yet. We could have a lawsuit on our hands. Bad publicity.”

The guard shrugged again. Both of them knew no one who wound up in these cells came from financial wealth able to take on Zurvan Corporation.

The captive boy, sitting on his thinly padded cot, seemed to shrink in on himself, and Beatrice felt him withdraw. 

She bit her lip, then collected her things, and stood, blood sample vial in hand.

“Feed him,” she said, trying to not seem very interested in whether they did or not, and hoped for the best.

She would spend the next few hours preparing the blood sample for sequencing and running it through the sequencer, and the data through her custom scripts—scripts she had quietly set in advance to make the percentage similarity of the boy’s DNA to standard human DNA rise above the cherished 99.5% cutoff. She could do this for the normal-looking mutants they brought in without raising too much suspicion.

Coming back to herself in the hallway, she watched her supervisor’s smooth, handsome face, listened without moving a muscle.

“You’re always in the lab, Bea,” he said, jovially. “Maybe we should hire you an assistant.”

God, woman, you look like shit.

Beatrice smiled.  She hated being called Bea.

“It’s just that I love my job,” she replied. “The workload is not that much. I’d prefer to be the one doing this work, and I like to work alone.”

Suit yourself.

“That’s the spirit,” Knight said. He clapped her on the shoulder.

Does the work of three people, for one salary. Cost too much to replace her, she heard him say to himself. What a chump.

“Keep up the good work,” he said, tossing the words over his shoulder as he sauntered down the hall, no doubt to look at Zurvan’s latest acquisition.

Beatrice ducked her head so the cameras couldn’t see her expression, then ducked back into her laboratory, pulled on her protective gear. It was as much there to protect her equipment and reagents from her own DNA as it was to protect her from harm.

Beatrice thought of her own DNA. Her DNA that was only 99.2% similar to human normal—DNA which, if she hadn’t altered her own sequence data files, would peg her as nonhuman, with the same lack of rights as the poor souls kidnapped and locked up by Zurvan, just down the hall.

She checked that the sequencer was running, checked that her software was encrypting the raw data files as each was written. She checked that the files being uploaded to company cloud storage were the faked ones which would give Specimen 5-15 freedom again. Beatrice hated that she hadn’t asked him his name.  She checked that her own private cache of files on Zurvan was there, and that her scripts were adding to this pile as they were supposed to, without interference.  Every other day she synced this cache with the one on a data cube she kept on her person. Someday, she hoped, the files would be useful in bringing Zurvan to its knees.

Beyond the heavy door to her laboratory, she thought she heard someone screaming again.

Beatrice walked over to the lab computer, set it to play soothing jazz music. She started tidying up her lab bench, moving boxes of pipet tips to one side, closing boxes of microcentrifuge tubes, wiping down the bench surface with 70% ethanol to clean it. She knew it was only a matter of time before blood from this new acquisition wound up on her lab bench—and she would be ready for it, she would be waiting. It meant another evening spent in the laboratory instead of at home, but she didn’t mind.

What was waiting for her at home, anyway? An empty apartment, seeming to echo with the ticking of the grandfather clock she had inherited from her parents; the small comforts of a glass of wine and a book with dinner. But no other living soul, no pets, not even a potted plant. She needed to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. She lived with a packed bag ready to go in her closet, her account information carried with her on data cubes she kept concealed in a keyring, she had her personal cloud storage encrypted.

Her lab computer pinged. She walked over to it.

The new one’s retroviral, the screen read. Give me the run reports on 5-15 tomorrow morning. If the new one makes it through the night, you might have to get ready to sequence once the infection clears. It’s already showing signs of great strength and altered musculature—I think we have a winner here!

Beatrice pursed her lips. There was no way she could save him if he were undergoing genetic change after a retroviral infection. Even if he had been human prior to the infection, afterward he was almost guaranteed, with the bad viruses, to have experienced enough mutation to make him either nonhuman-looking or dead. Or both.

She thought of walking down to Specimen 5-15’s cell and trying to speak to him one more time, but expressing too much interest in the acquisitions would bring too much attention to herself, and might lead to the uncovering of her work. Best to leave him be, and hope someone had fed him, at least.

As for the new specimen, Beatrice felt with a sinking heart that he was doomed—most retroviral infections led to abnormalities that were fatal. It would be fine for Zurvan—they could learn things from the genes that could lead to medical breakthroughs and new therapies—but not so fine for the poor man they had picked up somewhere.

As she stripped off her protective gear on her way out of the lab, she silently pushed toward Specimen 5-15 and the new man they had just brought in, so new he did not yet have a specimen label.

Please be at peace, she thought, pushing out as hard as she could.

Nothing in response.

Beatrice made her way to her locker, collected her coat and purse, made her way out the staff entrance side door. Every doorway she passed through required her to swipe her keycard, white with the black Zurvan logo on it. Every doorway she passed through, getting closer to the outside world, felt like the lifting of a noose from around her neck. She finally drove her small electric car away from the Zurvan parking lot, finally was out of reach of the cameras for good. Her keyring, nestled in her jeans pocket, pressed into her thigh. It was innocuous, featuring cartoon characters popular in the 2000s (a white dog carrying a martini glass, a baby with a football-shaped head).

She drove silently. The news story on the radio was about the Humane Treatment Party, a fringe element with no resources and the best of intentions. They wanted to change the global legislation that made it legal for Zurvan to kidnap and incarcerate humanoids with a less than 99.5% genomic DNA match to human normal, basing this on legislation commonly found on some the outlying planetary colonies. Beatrice actually agreed with them, but did not do a thing to support them in her personal life because she knew if this were discovered, she would be investigated.

Halfway home, she stopped at a red light. She exhaled. The news was now about stock prices. Zurvan stock was up thanks to its invention of a genetic therapy for treating Parkinson’s.  Beatrice remembered hearing gossip about this in the cafeteria—the gene therapy idea had been sparked by a mutation found in a retroviral victim. Someone had died, incarcerated, and Zurvan had turned this into profit.

“Fuckers,” she spat. Then she grinned, toothily.

“One day you will slip up, and I will get you. Fuckers.”

The light turned green, and, smoothing her expression, Beatrice continued her drive home.

A little Tek Jansen fan fiction

I discovered Tek Jansen in 2018. I was sad that the entire novel Stephen Colbert had been working on was not posted on the Tek Jansen website, but maybe someday he will publish it. I did buy and read the graphic novel, and so most of the information I gleaned about this character came from either the novel segments I came across, or the graphic novel. I had an issue with how Tek treated his robotic chimp sidekick C.A.S.E.Y., so I addressed that in this story, and I basically made up the rest. Clarisse Diamond is the name of a protagonist of a novel-in-progress I have set aside for the moment, but plan to get back to.

I actually am fairly certain I met Stephen at some point in my past, but it’s really quite impossible for me to contact him to ask. I did send this little story to his work address, hoping someone would read it and show it to him. In my past, if I saw him I never recognized him, and have no selfies to prove this was the case, so it’s still a matter of debate for whether I saw him or merely someone that looked like him. In any case, I recall talking to someone that looked like him on my doorstep in California, a long time ago, and I recall us talking about Jabberwocky. I added that tidbit in, too.

I hope you enjoy this little foray into fan fiction.

Spy Vs. Spy: A Tek Jansen Adventure

It was a sunny morning on the planet Califzona, and Clarisse Diamond angled her telephoto lens toward the hotel that the galaxy’s greatest hero, Tek Jansen, was currently asleep in. She aimed the lens toward the window of the penthouse suite. Her contact was in the window, a willowy green creature with leafy hair, photosynthesizing. She was not holding a cup of fertilizer. This was the signal- if Tek Jansen was with her, she would appear alone in the window, nothing in her hands.

Clarisse packed her equipment back in her tactical backpack and made her way down the rough scree of the slope she had been perched on. Only one thing to do. She had to use Tek Jansen’s notorious libido against him, gain his trust, and ferret out the secrets she needed to save her doomed home world from destruction. Tek’s government had set up robotic fracking sites on 90% of the small moon Ontington’s surface, sucking up its mineral wealth but destroying Ontington’s ecosystems and fragile tectonic crusts in the process- the only way to stop the machines was to gain access to codes that only Tek knew.

Could she rely on Tek’s better nature? Clarisse considered this as she made her way down to the doors of the Hotel Elegante, where Tek Jansen was staying. She didn’t know. She couldn’t take the chance.

The Hotel Elegante was hosting a pet show. Clarisse would find him and seduce him there.

She was booked into a room one floor below Tek’s suite, and carried her tactical backpack with its quantum-dimensional interior pockets, one of which contained a selection of evening gowns. The backpack was pretty heavy as a result, even though it only appeared to be a cubic foot in size. She placed it on the bed and the bed sagged somewhat.

Clarisse was about to take a shower when there was a knock on the door. She eyeballed the door with suspicion. Her contact was supposed to find Tek and then let her know what room he was in- she was supposed to leave after that. Who could this be? A maid?

Clarisse belted her hotel robe around her more tightly and answered the door.

“It’s this one, just go right in,” grated a gravelly voice. Clarisse blinked. At her door was a tall, muscular figure, fully dressed in a tight Spandex uniform complete with cape and epaulets, his dark hair curling down slightly over his forehead. Tek Jansen held up a glass container in which an ugly dark substance swirled.

“It’s right here,” said the substance.

“Meangar, I don’t think that this is the spa,” replied Tek.

“It’s not,” said Clarisse, slightly breathlessly. Tek, in person, was almost overwhelming.

Get the codes, girl, she told herself, sternly. She had a mission, the entire population of her native moon was depending on her.

“Sorry to have bothered you,” said Tek, and was about to turn away when Clarisse touched his arm.

“No, it’s fine. Is this your pet?” She gestured toward the swirling blackness in the glass jar.

“You’re an ugly loser and you’ll die alone,” grated the blackness.

“Isn’t it cute? This is Meangar,” replied Tek, patting the jar fondly.

“It’s something,” replied Clarisse.

“Say, haven’t we met before?” Tek squinted at her.

Clarisse blinked. Had they met before?

Remember the mission, she thought, looking at Tek’s kind dark eyes.

“Can I buy you a drink?” she blurted, all her seduction lessons, which she had uploaded via neural hyperlink on the trip to Califzona, forgotten.

Meangar said an expletive. Tek chuckled and tucked it under one arm.

“Where are you from?” asked Tek.

“I’m from… all over,” Clarisse replied. She started to play with her shoulder-length black hair. He really was quite handsome.

“I’m Tek,” he said, and Clarisse smiled at him. He held out his hand and Clarisse took it to shake it, and he brushed a kiss across her knuckles.

“I’m Clarisse,” she replied. She was acutely aware of having just finished a hike outside in the hot sun with a heavy pack on her back.

“I’ll buy you that drink,” Tek said.

“I’ll kill you first,” Meangar snarled.

Clarisse looked at Tek.

“You get used to it,” Tek said, patting the jar.

“I’ll meet you down in the lobby at seven?” Clarisse replied. Her heart was pounding. Normally she was a lot more composed about her assignments, but this was… this was Tek Jansen.

She found herself grinning stupidly.

“’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves,” she said.

Tek frowned.

“Jabberwocky?” he said.

“Jabberwocky,” she replied. “There are Jabberwocks on my home world.” A stray curl of hair escaped from his forehead and she smoothed it back.

He smiled.

“You both smell like Limburger!” yelled Meangar.

“I’ll enter it in the pet contest before we meet,” said Tek, patting the jar, and Clarisse smiled, suddenly shy.

“Seven, in the lobby,” she replied, and Tek smiled down at her. She blushed.

“I’ll see you then,” he said, and turned away, walking down the hotel hall corridor as Meangar started screaming about kidneys and piñatas.

That evening, Clarisse patted her carefully coiffed hair (in which a number of recording devices and weapons were placed), and wriggled her toes in her specialty pumps (which had a vial of sleeping potion located in the heel, and when activated, could eject four-inch steel spikes from the toe). She had let the charms of the dashing Tek Jansen get to her head before, but now she would be all business. It was time for her to get those codes.

She made her way, slinking as seductively as she could, to the bar in the hotel lobby, and looked around for Tek.

He hadn’t arrived yet. In the distance, she heard Meangar screaming something about its eternal revenge and how much it hoped to kill everyone in earshot someday. Ah, apparently it was being entered into the pet contest.

She walked up to the bar and seated herself at one end. Behind the bar, a glowing green metallic chimp shook a cocktail shaker.

“Hi,” it said. “What can I get for you?”

“Hi,” replied Clarisse. “I’m waiting for a friend.”

“It wouldn’t happen to be Tek Jansen, would it?”

Clarisse started. Was she that transparent?

Behind the bar, the robotic chimp took out a cloth and started polishing the counter.

“Well… well, yes. I was hoping to talk to Mr. Jansen.”

The chimp straightened his little black bow tie.

“I know him,” he said. “Before I got this job, I worked with him on his spacecraft. I was loyal. He was not.”

Clarisse hesitated. “Oh?” she replied.

“He left me in a space void, circling a black hole,” said the robotic chimp. “I’m C.A.S.E.Y.”

Clarisse switched on her recording devices. Maybe she could use this story to blackmail Tek into giving her the codes to stop the machinery on her home world.

For the next fifteen minutes, C.A.S.E.Y. told her a story of sadness- of a robotic chimp unappreciated and abandoned, and Clarisse felt her heart hardening against the charming and handsome Tek Jansen. How could he abandon his loyal robotic friend? How many scrapes had they been in together, how many times had C.A.S.E.Y helped Tek, only to be left in a cold void in space, awaiting rescue, which came quite a long time after Tek had left promising to be back soon?

“He doesn’t know I’m here,” said C.A.S.E.Y. “I plan on confronting him once and for all, here in this bar.”

Clarisse patted the robotic chimp’s arm.

“I had no idea he was so cruel,” she said. “This puts him in a whole new light for me.”

C.A.S.E.Y. looked over at her, dispassionately.

“Everyone loves him,” he said. “You will too, no doubt, once he’s here.”

“Clarisse?” said a familiar baritone. Clarisse turned and saw Tek.

He had changed into his dress uniform and looked even more handsome than she had remembered him. His brown eyes crinkled behind his glasses as he smiled at her. She swallowed.

“Hello,” she said, and remembered C.A.S.E.Y. Her expression hardened.

“Remember this robot?” she asked, gesturing at the chimp.

Tek looked and an expression of delighted surprise swept across his chiseled features.

“C.A.S.E.Y.! I thought I had lost you forever in that space void. Meangar told me you had gotten a ride with the rest of Alpha Squad Seven, and it wasn’t until I had gotten it drunk on chlorofugue gas fumes that it confessed to me that it had lied about you. Are you okay?”

Clarisse and C.A.S.E.Y. both froze for a second, then the chimp broke down, sobbing.

“I thought you had abandoned me!”

“Abandon you? You are one of my most loyal followers! What would I do without you? I have missed you since I lost you,” said Tek. He reached across the bar and patted C.A.S.E.Y.’s glowing green shoulders.

Clarisse bit her lip. She couldn’t really blackmail Tek for something that had been the fault of his obnoxious little pet.

She waited until the robot stopped crying and then cleared her throat. Her seduction lessons were coming back.

“So,” she said, putting a hand on Tek’s arm, “tell me about yourself, Tek.”

She led him over to a small secluded table. Over the next few hours, she practiced dumping space champagne in the mouth of a Califzonian pitcher plant instead of drinking it, while Tek drank most of two bottles, supplied by a grateful C.A.S.E.Y. on the house. She had to start taking sips once the pitcher plant had started to hiccup.

He was an entertaining speaker and even when somewhat inebriated, he was charming and graceful. One sip of the heady space champagne after another, and Clarisse found herself telling him about her childhood on Ontington, and the Jabberwocks, and finally, the widespread scourge of the fracking machines.

“If only there were some way to stop them,” she said, tearfully, touching his muscular arm.

Tek leaned in toward her.

“Stick with me, baby doll,” he said. “If it would stop you from crying I’d shut each one down myself.”

Clarisse looked over at him. Her large eyes were shining.

“Really? You’d help me? But- but your government-”

Tek flashed a huge and perfect grin.

“They don’t tell me what to do,” he said. “C’mon. Let’s grab C.A.S.E.Y and get into my NinjaBlaster 9000 scout ship, and save those Jabberwocks.”

Clarisse knew there would be complications. It couldn’t quite be this simple, could it?

“If you gave me the codes to shut down the equipment, I could relay them to the Ontingonian secret service and we could just stay here,” she said.

Tek reached up and smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Where’s the fun in that?” he said, and kissed her.