Skip to content

My weapons shed and a 360 degree C4 minefield

Finally figured out Twitter today. Spent a good part of the evening entering a backlog of compelling, powerful Tweets that I’ve been documenting via mini tape recorder. Feeling a little fatigued from centralizing all heavy artillery into my bunker, but know this: The video on the last sd card is your last. I hear you, I smell you, and now I’ve seen you. It was brief, but your defenses are failing. You know what height and really sharp limbs doesn’t help with?

organic armor be damned

Get ready to go from cryptozoology to crypto-taxidermy, mothefuhudw9cnwqpodcnqepy9ch1-348jpx13hv4=80c10348dhj034inx0u[end9u[3be9u[13bd934fd\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Your next meal will taste great

Because you will savor it more than any other. I’m coming after you.

I don’t know how you made a video of me getting burned alive in my motel. You’re probably a really good Photoshop nerd. Well, let me show you something I didn’t photoshop. An image of the last thing you’ll ever see.

My neighbors kept calling the cops

Don’t give up now. Justin & Aaron can keep their money. I’ve found myself an adversary.

Things I already know about the dude following me:

  • Photoshop nerd
  • Very small and able to move quietly
  • Has access to private records and information
  • Probable paramilitary training comparable to my own

Scared yet? I’m dialing you in, sucker.

For the Record (pun intended)

So, not cool. Someone was in my room last night. The perimeter I had set up using my motion sensing laptop camera apparently failed me, and I woke up with a dusty record laying on my FACE.

After securing the area of my motel room, I went back to the antique store and tried to bargain another D&D game with the owner for a record player. This time he caught wise to the fact that I was a former champion dungeonmaster, and this chump charged me 20 dollar coins to buy a record player that had no return guarantee. What, a guy won’t stand behind his product?

Alright, then, I’ve been playing along, but now, whoever you are, you’ve awoken a very angry sleeping tiger, an adversary you won’t soon forget, and if you won’t stop leaving stuff for me and reveal yourself, I’ll be forced to come find you, and I’m gonna be your worst nightmare.

Dear dude that sneaks into my room at night and leaves recorded stories

I know you’re reading this. You’re tracking my movements, always watching. And you know what? I feel sorry for you. We both know the sooner you show your self the sooner you end up in a Nepalese Death Grip with a side of Brazilian Bone Knots. I have so many friends in the military you have no idea. It takes more than a Hi8 video of a guy with a gambling problem getting skinned alive to intimidate me. And the drawings of those guys robbing the bank meant nothing to me. You know what it communicated to me when all their limbs were sawed off with those blurry insect leg things and their torsos were squirming in that massive puddle of blood? It told me you’re incapable of being a man of action like myself, so you imitate my collecting prowess to spook me. Jokes on you though. Imitation is the highest form of flattery, and everyone knows snuff films have no re-sell market value.

And to the rest of you, the e-mails are getting annoying but a few of you ask good questions:

-No Jon from Oregon this is not me in the mask.
-Linda in Montana I am familiar with the HP Lovecraft short story and no I have no idea what it has to do with the mission at hand.
-“Anonymous” from “no where” why did you send me this?:

I doubt these have titanium flakes in them.

In other news, turns out the painting Dale traded me is a fake.

I want my vintage ghost pictures back.

Concerning monsters

Slow day on new information concerning the “filmmakers” found footage, but quite a day for those that delight in such things as truth and honesty. While digging up info on recent leads at my secret research facility, I found photographic evidence that I’ve been searching years for. The discerning collector of lake monster skins and Bigfoot paws will find this mundane. But to the unenlightened, enjoy the conversion, brothers and sisters:

Dover Demon: CONFIRMED

Snipe, Loch Ness Monster, All Lake Monsters: CONFIRMED

Skunk Ape of Florida: CONFIRMED, bitches.

Big Bird from Texas that I sold to private collector in 2003: CONFIRMED


So the “filmmakers” sent me to the Nepalese Himalayans because some communist monk claimed to have a mini DV tape with some footage of Michael and his wife on it. Did I mention it’s dangerously cold here? Look, I was a rescue volunteer on Mt. Everest for most of my late teens, I know the ins and outs of all weather gear. But it’s way colder here than the Himalayan Tourist associations web site gave for the seasonal average, and I’m really starting to doubt the effectiveness of the titanium flakes in my micro fleece. Anyhow, this morning I was looking for an internet signal and I’m pretty sure i saw a Yeti. Here’s the picture I took:

He had these huge red eyes but unfortunately he blinked.

You may noticed the non-stop blizzard makes photography impossible. So I have to wonder how my camera got 17 photos of a dead bobcat on it. Later in the morning the “filmmakers” put me in contact with Michael’s wife from the footage to verify the recorded events actually happened. She seemed really into me. When I suggested we meet up for a cup of coffee when I get back to civilization to discuss the situation further, she became reluctant. I wasn’t surprised. Women’s interest in me gives way to fear when they get a better idea of how dangerous and high stakes what I do actually is. I don’t blame her one bit. I made sure to let her know that if she needs any help through the grieving process that I’m here. I explained how many people I’ve had disappear on me, and how she should always think about ways to be better to people so that they don’t abandon her. She was so grateful she started crying and accidently hung up the phone. I went to a museum to gather my thoughts on the matter:

Yeti scalp. These don't do as well as you'd think in the online selling market.

It’s the thought that doesn’t count

Keeping poor theories at arms length instead of taking them at their face value.

There’s something about the quiet of rural Bulgaria and 19 shots of Rakia that really makes you think. My main problem with the filmmakers’ theory is where is this person? Someone would have seen this guy by now, or at least caught him in a reflection. I like the ambitious attempt, but thank God I’m here to keep this mission focused. Did you know Bulgarian hotels report you to the passport department upon arrival? Did you know all countries in the EU share a criminal database? Then you may also know that it is extremely illegal to date women from Ukrainian bars. Luckily jail is one of the few places that takes Visa in Bulgaria and I brought my titanium coated camping mat.

If you keep drinking it seems safe.

There’s a very tall, pale man with sword arms staring at me from the shore of the Black Sea. Is Rakia supposed to be bright green?


One of the things I trained for early on in my career as a collector is the hurdles of living internationally. Language barriers are an obvious problem, especially in the world of hard bargains. Romancing a 3rd world Spanish seller to cut you a deal on that rare tea kettle can be a struggle when some people still refuse to speak English. Hence the reason I learned Esperanto, the renowned international language. I have yet to meet anyone else that speaks it, but I have found that for the most part people have a profound respect for my attempt at international unity. But when things like the below letter get taped to my hostel bunk while I’m sleeping, it really makes me question all that. Seriously people, I’m not Dan Brown. For the love of God use English. I’m pretty sure it’s from the cute Norwegian girl that was in the hostel bar last night, but a small part of me suspects it could be something else entirely. You develop an intuition in this business, and there’s this little voice telling me it could be part of something much bigger.

There is something familiar about this... I've checked everywhere for the Norwegian girl but it appears she took my focus on the mission as indifference.

soldiering on.

Pale men in black suits with big ass red eyes have been trailing me through the desert since I touched down. By “touched down” I mean paid off the border guard in Syria. Initially I tried to take a boat from Cyprus to Iraq, but I wouldn’t recommend this route as it turns out Iraq is not located on the coast of the Mediterranean. The men in the black suits are of course either the men in black referenced in John Keel’s seminal work, or Halburton contractors monitoring my skills for potential recruitment. I lean towards the latter, but I am sort of curious as to why a major corporation only puts sick albinos on security. It’s really a sad day in America when not even special ops for corporate imperialism is merit based.

In other news, haven’t felt a woman’s touch in several years, but apparently my sleeping bag is a wonderful mating ground for other species:

Fortunately the bites numbed the bison attack injuries.

“The Filmmakers” claim they received an anonymous tip about a cache of beta video cassettes with the same digital artifacts as the glitches in the primary hard drive footage, albeit with footage that is part of a completely unrelated story. All I have is GPS coordinates and a brief description of an abandoned palace. Justin says there’s no room in the budget for armored vehicle rental, but claims my $20.00 per diem will allow me to live like a prince. Turns out they use a different currency here but there was no way he could have known that.

Appreciates neither liberation nor $20.00

Buddhism, Communism and other isms

Went to Nakoshi Saki’s place this morning. A little old man handed me this and walked away.

"ashes", I get it.

The “filmmakers” are idiots.

No Viva Croatia!

Just figured out why the Croatian Film Commission is so hard to reach. They’re all dead, no doubt the result of the 3rd world conditions most Europeans live in.

Europe: Young death a way of life.

The “filmmakers” are clearly victims of an elaborate fraud. Off to China to find Nakoshi Saki, owner of the notorious “…fucking hard drive in China”.

Sh*tty Carl and the Zen of Second Hand Salesmanship

Departed The Arctic Circle last night to track down a lead that Aaron found in El Cajon, CA. Apparently there is a direct mention of this guy on one of the primary hard drives. So I get to this dude’s duplex and he’s like, “are you Doug with the rocket launchers?”, and I’m like “I’m Jesse from the e-mail, are you Shitty Carl?”. He got all angry because I guess the only guy that calls him that is that guy Chris from the primary hard drive. He said he doesn’t even re-sell electronics anymore because the stuff Chris sold him was broken. I asked him what was wrong with it and he said the computer and camera hard drives were full of footage of Chris and every time he tried to delete it it would re-appear.

I tried to calm him down by letting him know my credentials as a reputable seller on E-Bay, but apparently this guy lives in the stone age. He only deals to some nearby antique store and second hand sporting goods shops. He then called Chris a “low life tweaker” and tried to get me to tell him Chris’ whereabouts to get his money back. I of course told him that I had no idea, and then gave him all of the “filmmakers” contact details, with the caveat of course that I haven’t seen a penny from these dudes so good luck. I asked him about the AR-16 assault rifle on his coffee table, and then he finally figured out that I’m a kindred spirit. He took me into his garage and even allowed me to snap some pictures of his collection.

Bonding with Carl.

Thanks for a wonderful evening Carl!

Discovering a System: The Arcadian’s Modus Operandi?

The French journal makes reference to code name “The Arcadian”, with these diagrams. The Arcadian is clearly some sort of organization that specializes in preserving antique media. Though when I used Google Translate to decode the French mysterious language, it provided the loose translation “inter-dimensional monster”. Inspired by the diagram below, I suggested to the filmmakers that they call their “documentary” RESOLUTION. They said it was a stupid idea and that I should “just do my job”.

Happy Valentines Day!

Hope none of you get home from making citizen arrests of marijuana smokers to find this picture pinned to your hostel door with what appears to be a sharpened human femur.

Vintage Necrophilia


In other news, I found a neighborhood here in Amsterdam where they LOVE men like me. Heading back out that way tonight to meet up with some gentlemen who swore to me they’d introduce me to some of these ladies. Looks like things might turn out alright for Jesse this year.

A lot of people complain about people who are bad listeners. I’m always afraid I’ve discovered a good watcher.

Found these on my hostel door this morning. It either means go to Vietnam or stop drinking so much. Thailand is humid and I can’t tell which ones are girls.

Running low on percocet.

Charity is not dead, I don’t care what my old pastor said. Outside my hostel in Liege, some kind soul left me the greatest gift of all, the gift of knowledge. Thanks for the book, whoever you are. This is a real gem.

I swear I've seen this happen before.

With a newfound smile on my face, I set out into the countryside to nab up a beta cassette I found on Craigslist that allegedly had footage of the two men from the film reels arguing over beans or something (Google Translate doesn’t have Belgian, so I had to guess). After spending two hours stumbling my way through the insane Belgian language to negotiate with that inbred clown, I was able to get the cassette.

Watched it tonight. Yep, it was porn. Again. A soldier marches on.

Amelie lied.

So I recovered from whatever it was I smoked with that French dude in his trailer. More on that later. Has anyone ever seen red marijuana before? What exactly does embalming fluid smell like? Hit me up.

People should tell you what you're smoking.

Flew out to the French cave referenced in his dirty papers. Around the time I stopped seeing bat people, I was boarding a train at Gare du Nord. Was trying to get to a little town called Ardeche, wound up in the Parisian version of Compton crossed with Mogadishu. Got jumped by what I’m pretty sure was a terrorist cell. Have no idea what al-Qaeda would want with my watch, but this wouldn’t be the first time I was mistaken for CIA.

Thanks for nothing, Jeunet.

Found the right train finally. You know that American myth about farmer’s daughter’s? Well maliciously propagated lies apparently know no global borders. Still haven’t seen a woman in months, and I’m pretty sure the entire town is plotting against me. They all stare with this eerie stoicism, or perhaps envy because I’m American. Or perhaps they’ve been recruited by a competitive online seller with an unsettled score. Civilians have no idea how cut throat the online seller business actually is.

The dairy farmer I’m renting a room from insisted I drink milk straight from a goat utter. I’m pretty there was a swastika on his overalls, there’s very little milk here, and he looks really similar to his wife. Or perhaps I’m just tired. I went to bed early but a goat wandered in my room and gave birth.

Caveman stories lack proper structure.

Got to Chauvet Cave by sunrise. A man yelled at me something that wasn’t Esperanto and pointed to a sign to purchase a tour. I scored a headset for only a couple more Euro. Talked him down from three. The French have an usual way of showing admiration. Anyhow, despite being the only tour member asking good questions, I stayed focused enough on my mission to find a flash drive in the dirt below yet another crappy Upper Paleolithic painting:

I do have some vague idea of what this is but I am not at liberty to share upon request of the “filmmakers”. I’m more worried about the bloody pentagram in the kitchen, the size of the boiling pots, and how upset these goats get around knives.

Point taken.

A girl who appeared to be either schizophrenic or on a lot of acid handed this this picture to me this morning. This is how my day starts: An e-mail from Justin saying there might be some tapes in an Afghan village, massive spiders on the wall in the shower, and an escaped mental patient with green and yellow teeth chasing me with a piece of paper. After she handed it to me some woman wearing power crystals and t-shirt with magical wolves on it grabbed her hand and led her back into the woods.

“The filmmakers” just told me this is how all movies are made and that pain is temporary and celluloid is forever, and e-mailed me a Quicktime. It’s a video of the same girl looking into a cabin window at night. I’m leaving now.

Nothing Looks Like Film

You’d be surprised how much stuff you find like this in abandoned buildings in the California boonies. The worth on E-Bay is substantially more than its modern day video counterparts, and you don’t have to go all the way to former Soviet satellite countries to find them.

Did this little 8mm transfer with my T2i. The old projector started a small fire but luckily I was a volunteer fire fighter in Phoenix for a few years. My reflexes are as sharp as my bargaining skills but I hope that inbred dude doesn’t want the film back. I’m trying to figure out a way to get out of here without passing his barn. Sort of reminds me of this girl I used to date in Cincinnati. The fastest way to get to my mixed martial arts class was passed her house and she couldn’t accept I can’t be tamed. Trying to control me is like to trying to beat me in a shooting competition without several decades of tactical firearms training. But control is a selfish act on both sides. The controller, that’s obvious. The person being controlled, though. Often they enjoy the control because it relieves them of responsibility. They just have to pretend to act out against it in order to preserve their human dignity. If they truly didn’t want it, they would find a way. Sometimes I do wish this kind of life permitted a woman at my side, but this mission is already sketchy enough. So, I’m a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride.

Tomorrow I follow a lead to Iceland. Like the rest of the world, they don’t have the same freedoms we have here, but with great sacrifice comes great rewards.

Ho in a Haystack

Got a e-mail yesterday from the “filmmakers” asking me to track down the prostitute that Chris refers to on the 35mm reel.

Some things we should keep to ourselves.

Apparently David found this in the burnt remains of the cabin:

Chris' decision process revealed

When I spoke with “Carla” she insisted that I meet her at the corner of El Cajon Blvd. and 42nd street. I waited for hours, almost having to defend myself on several ocassions. Finally I asked a nearby woman if she knew Carla. She said that she new a lot of Carla’s and that if I didn’t get off her corner she’d “bitch slap me with her dick hand”. I politely informed her of my status as a volunteer police officer in Denver and continued asking the other girls about Carla. That’s when she pepper sprayed me, tried to push me in front of a bus and reached in my pockets.

Pretty sure this person has my wallet.

So, I crossed the street. One of the things that makes me such a renowned collector is that I never give up. Once again my steadfast pursuit paid off. As my vision hadn’t quite cleared of that psychopath’s noxious weapon, I heard a voice proclaim from a departing car, “Thanks Carla!”. My vision having not returned to me entirely, I approached Carla about the Chris issue. She said that she would only speak to me in private and that she knew a nearby motel room that would be perfect for our clandestine business. I couldn’t quite see her face but she had an honest voice. I followed her to the motel.

I could of swore the front desk clerk said the room was $20.00 an hour, but Carla said she needed the entire $100.00 I had left in my pocket. She then asked me if I had anymore money for something else I can’t quite remember, so I explained how the “filmmakers” haven’t paid me yet. Finally in the room, I immediately asked her to tell me about her experience with Chris. I could tell she was hoping for more, but I could feel the clock gears of the mission turning. If I followed every temptation presented to me in my travels I’d still be selling pirated software on Craigslist. Again, nothing happened between me and this woman. Anyhow, before she could supply any useful information about Chris some police officers broke down the door. Apparently they thought I was trying to solicit a prostitute. I tried to explain to them my mission and they had a great laugh at my expense. When I told them about my temporary blindness, I heard them use my camera phone to take a picture of “Carla”. Still giggling, the officers let us both go. They probably had some sense of my law enforcement experience. When my vision finally returned I found this photograph in my phone:

This is a different Carla.

El Pozolero del Teo!

Another day at the office

The “filmmakers” said the drug dealers from the primary hard drives probably got what they sold from Mexico, most likely Tijuana. I figured since I was in San Diego I owed it to the mission to investigate. Tracking down a meth dealer in Tijuana would be frightening for some people, but it’s really just one of those times where I’m really thankful for my volunteer DEA work. I made sure to tell every person I met down there about my work with the American drug enforcement agencies, which I can imagine went a long way towards keeping people from messing with me. I don’t tell a lot of people this, but the infamous “Soup-Maker” hit man was caught after an anonymous tip I made to authorities. I told as many Mexicans about that as I could. Most seemed shocked by my law enforcement prowess, but really I just wanted to make them feel safer having an American crime fighter among them. I never did find Billy and Micah’s dealer, but I did find even more evidence of chupacabras, and the most amazing zebra:


It’s funny who you bump into when you walk around wearing a kevlar vest on the outside, “hero style” as we called it in the National Guard. I was gonna leave town later on today, but as I was enjoying an Irish coffee downtown, I was accosted about my uniform by a transient named Robin Rodes (who I last saw comfortably in his habitation as I walked away and called my mother, so yes, I CAN account for my whereabouts).  Robin told me a devastatingly sad story about his need for only a couple bucks to get across town — I knew better, he was gonna use it on booze, so I called his bluff and offered him a lift back to his place.

Unfortunately, it appeared that he did indeed need to get back to his place, so I drove him all the way out there, right next to the cabin from the film reels.  I could clearly sense that this was a great lead, especially when a black SUV high-tailed it out of there as soon as it saw me. I’m onto them. When Robin showed me his place at 12:17 PM, I decided to keep pressing, I ain’t not getting paid to ignore a good lead.

Believe it or not, it's crappy on the inside too.

His house had a rolled up rug that he wouldn’t allow me to investigate, a lot of yarn, and his dog Philip (which looked suspiciously like a taxidermied hyena). I accepted his offer for coffee, which he did indeed have in a french press [sic decapitalization, God bless America].

I asked him about my main directive, and he told me he had a story for me, which I had him start over when I began recording it with my Tascam. His last wish was to have me use a voice modulator to protect his identity:

Afterwards I had no choice but to use force to defend myself. I am also nearly certain that the sugar in my coffee was indeed crack cocaine.

I left him alive and well, I specifically recall him saying “thank you for everything, Jesse, although there is a possibility I might off myself tonight” and, after calling my mother (12:37 PM), bumped into the friendly gentlemen from before and got another pamphlet. This time the fat one waded across the river to give it to me. If you or the authorities talk to them they will definitely mention how normal and unshaken I was. This was at 12:43 PM, by the way, which puts me alone with Robin for no more than 15 minutes. The gentlemen will corroborate my story, I’m sure, but I’m sure Robin is doing just fine, I wouldn’t know anything about that.

Of skeletal remains and mortgages

Today I dug up what appeared to be a relatively fresh grave. It was behind the burnt remains of what is probably the cabin featured in most of the found footage. I originally came across it a few days ago and the filmmakers seemed pretty convinced that I should check what’s buried. Though the soil is clearly composed of some sort of ultra-dense clay making it nearly impossible to exhume without extensive archeology skills, I found this after only a few minutes of excavation:

My muscles are sore.

At first assuming it was a sabretooth tiger, or possibly a pterodactyl, the bones were not fossilized so I deducted the only other obvious possibility:

The Montauk Monster washed up on the shores of New York in 2008. Could it be that I had now located the only known second set of remains? Had this godforsaken gig brought me to the holy grail of modern day cryptozoology? I dug further. Literally.

Pretty sure I pulled a muscle despite my rigorous training regime.

My mind spun at the possibility of two Montauk Monsters, or perhaps even a baby brontosuarus, as this skeleton was clearly much older. And just then a man approached. I believe he said his name was Ted.

Used car salesman smile and thrift store suit, he asked me why I was digging up dead dogs. Then with a warm chuckle he proceeded to explain to me that he would actually sell me one of the nearby grave plots at a discounted rate if I were to provide him a small upfront fee. I told him that I didn’t have any money because the filmmakers haven’t paid me anything yet, but I would get back to him. Then I asked him why there were no markers in his graveyard. He gave me this long spiel on the semantics of the words “ownership” and “cemetery”. I was pretty lost but the cool thing was he said that if I were to get back to him in the next week we could work out a payment plan. I made a joke about paying a mortgage on a grave plot which he thought was hilarious. Anyhow, nice guy and the first normal person I’ve met in weeks. Would of grabbed a beer with him but the day’s mission was still afoot. I continued digging until my shovel again struck something just slightly more solid than the steel-like clay soil:

Speciality items are usually worth more on E-Bay than Craigslist.

Seems like you can just dig a whole anywhere out here and find something. I don’t think I’ll be buying that plot from Ted.

Shaman, stoners and succubi: what the F’ did that French man make me smoke?

The day started with a dead cat right outside my tent. When I say dead I mean missing all of its limbs and its rib cage. Still less disturbing than another goddamn hard drive. I notice it has a collar with some tags, so I wipe some of the blood away and check the address. If there’s one thing I can depend on in this mission is consistency. For example, there’s no women, ever, and one thing always leads to the next. Whether a carefully orchestrated scheme by the “filmmakers”, or something more sinister, there is a pattern. So I go to the address.

Someone knows their three L's of real estate.

This wonderful Frenchman opens the door, and I’m thinking, “finally, a person that takes pride in their wardrobe.” I tell him about his cat, and he reacts like this is the hundredth pet he’s lost to the circle of life. When he invited me in for tea I was elated to be in the presence of another sophisticated soul for the first time since I’ve been on this awful job.

When he said that he is a bit of a collector himself and offered me the joint, I was almost in disbelief at my good fortune. That first hit was the intital hint of danger. It tasted like gasoline and poison oak. I looked to the contents of his drug satchel scattered about the small table.

A partial list.

Noticing my concern, he said the joint was something similar to salvia divinorum, but many of the psychoactive plants he had collected during his travels are a mystery to him. I took another hit to be polite. The trailer was starting to look like a steam room, and it became real clear real fast that this guy is one of those people that gets a little high and all of a sudden he thinks he’s Socrates. I’m trying to ignore the giant cockroach dancing on my arm while this guy is rattling on about metaphysics and inter-dimensional travel.

Suddenly the man pauses and asks me if I ever collect trash. I told him trash is relative. Like most people he found this perspective refreshing and clever, so he smiled and handed me a piece of yellowed, crumpled paper. He then stared intensely at something right behind me, as I pondered if what he handed to me could be defined as anything but garbage. Then the panic kicked in, and I couldn’t tell you exactly why I believed the stuff he gave me would help with anxiety, but I’m a guest in this gentlemen’s home and I’m doing my best to be cordial. A vortex of smoke, giant cockroaches and something about South American witch doctors encompasses me.

The Frenchman's drug dealer?

Time passes. I really couldn’t tell you how much, but at some point the French man couldn’t see me anymore and would only talk to the invisible thing sitting next to him. They seemed to be having a wonderful conversation when I fell out of the trailer, stumbled to the edge of a dark forest, where an ethereal woman emerged. Without saying a word, she gestured for me to follow her into the trees. At first hesitant, I turned around and there were several massive cockroaches converging on me. I followed the woman into the forest. We talked about our ambivelence for Paypal and how unrealistic most weapons handling in movies is, for what seemed like hours. Then we emerged at a majestic lake. She disrobed from her cloak and walked slowly into the water, gesturing for me to join her. I had no choice but to follow. Suddenly, she dissapeared into thin air, and I began to drown. Though I was a junior volunteer in Nave Seals for several years, time spent on land missions had caused my swimming abilities to atrophy. Death was imminent. And then suddenly my flailing arm struck something: a paddle boat. A jet ski narrowly missed me as I mustered all my strength and climbed the pink plastic of my savior. I noticed something in my clenched fist. Wet but legible, it was the old paper that French man handed to me. It had writing in another language, as well. I deducted that it was French.

My last text from Justin: “Workman’s comp doesn’t cover recreational drug use:)”. Still no word on payment but I’ve heard this is how the movie business works.


A fellow collector called me up today!  Unfortunately he was calling to collect on my mounting debt. Thought it was time for a little zen break back where my phone won’t work in that little east coast village or whatever. Thanks to daddy government, I’ve got frequent flier miles up the arse and I used it to get myself from Marrakesh to here, but Continental caught wise and now I’m stuck with most of my liquid money in dollar coins that I carry around in a cool leather pouch.

Did I make this awesome sack with my own two hands, or did I cleverly trade my palm pilot for it on Craigslist? You decide.

I always pay my debts, so I thought I’d make some quick cash in the antique store in Julian. I found an animal-shaped voodoo doll that’ll fetch a pretty penny, but got into a fight with a guy holding a soldering iron over a giant 1912 Bentsworth mirror that woulda netted me at least fifty bucks.  I lost because I was distracted by a reflection of photo of myself sitting on the shelf. Afterward, the shop owner gave me the voodoo doll and that photo in exchange for me playing a game of D&D with him and his deformed son. We watched several disturbing internet videos before I took off to my motel room and plugged in my Dell and cracked a Tecate.


Brothers in arms, flight

Was strolling down the river enjoying the sunset when I ran into that church group again. I don’t know if it was the the sincere gaze of the one in the turtleneck, or the steadfast attitude we clearly share, but I finally gave their pamphlet a look. And you know what? It actually makes some really good points. For example, these are some of the few folks I’ve met outside my paramilitary chat network that know how close the apocalypse actually is. So when these peaceful warriors invited me to their dinner I was like ‘absolutely.’

Who knew one sheet of paper could hold so much truth

I have a profound appreciation for all religions. Thus I found the chanting, singing, dancing and weapons firing extremely spiritual. That common thread of music, self-defense, and majestic beings from the heavens is something that transcends our trivial differences. A won’t lie, there were some tears in that sweat when I was on the bongo drums and a man with two missing arms testified about the offerings to the being with the sharp arms. Whatever that is. The part of the night where the snakes get passed around was a little unnerving though. Mostly because they were Diamondback Rattlesnakes.

Good times, brothers.

And when the man appeared in that amazingly realistic giant snake suit I was especially confused on the mythology. I don’t think anyone else could see the giant snake, but apparently they all saw a UFO pick up that old woman with the snake bite. I hope someone took her to the hospital when whatever was in that juice wore off. And that mystery meat was fantastic. I guess it was some bird or something I’ve never heard of called ‘Aaron’. Regardless, thanks for dinner guys!

Keep fighting the good fight, gentlemen.


This morning some Bigfoot researchers pulled shotguns on me. True story. Also, ran into the Millennial UFO cult again. Gave me my 3rd pamphlet and these:

Wiggle Your Big Toe

Wow, three weeks flies right by when you’re in a coma.

As my funds have been frozen due to “suspicious purchases,” (c’mon, I travel a lot!) I had only a small amount of my cash per diem left, so I decided to use my skills as a card counter to up the odds. The “Rain Man of Little Rock,” someone once yelled at me. I hit up the Indian gaming casino in the middle of nowhere.

Well, I lost my memory beyond that thanks to brain trauma, but their falsified statement on the police report says I was “not gambling, and getting tanked on free drinks until I tried to use a gogo dancer as a guitar.”

The security guard who assaulted me was a large Native American. I had the wherewithal to snap a hasty photo of him as he bludgeoned my head with his rock-like fists, but it didn’t turn out well. I used my CIA connections to run it through photoshop forensic enhancement so we can get a look at the perp. He owed me a favor after my quick thinking saved him from getting his cover blown in Crete.

The miracles of modern technology

I’ll be seeing you in court, man.

I found a backpack by a burnt down cabin today.

I think there maybe a pattern developing.

My Life Feels Like it’s Co-written by David Lynch and Ted Nugent.

The same Tesla document referenced on the 3rd hard drive? Apparently this an illustration of Tesla's "thought photography machine". Dear hillbilly who is leaving things from those videos on my doorstep, good luck with the tripwire next time.



Apparently you can't find fucked up recordings in Hawaii

Last week I was in the Romanian Alps, today I’m in East County San Diego, in a few days I’ll be in the Himalayans. A lot of time by myself? Yes. Do I meet very many people with stellar teeth? No. But I’m an international collector, and sometimes that requires you spend August in Death Valley because E-Bay shoppers don’t pay top dollar for the prosaic.

The thing I like about Justin and Aaron is they respect my profession. What I don’t appreciate is people rushing me. Anonymity has become a requirement for self-preservation, so things take a bit more time now. I don’t see anyone else on this project fielding terrified e-mails and phone calls from people that don’t speak English. Nor do I expect them to. I assume I’ve been brought into this for my formative paramilitary skills, as well as my tracking abilities. As flattered as I am, these dudes need to understand how unnerving it is finding hard drives at your motel doorstep every morning.

A picture of me typing this just appeared as a JPEG on my desktop. Assholes.

This has nothing to do with this entry but it is extremely important to me that you see it.