“They have known since 1945 that the American “Petro-Dollar” Empire would fade.
He- or She- or They- Pauses.
Must fade, as all stars expand and shrink to the unimaginable. The size of an orange with the mass, weighing in your metaphorical hand, of a trillion trillion tonnes”.
Lola has a funny way of beginning conversations.
Conversations that are easier to begin than to end. Lola is in the bar at Browns- you know it if you know Denver. (Note to FBI checkers. Don’t waste your lunchtime checking the CCTV, even in the elevator).
But for that matter, it could be Berne. Or Dublin. You can decide.
I am confused. Like many and most. I tell Lola I want to see the whole picture. The Big Picture. He or she, or “It” is not a tease Lola says. Not like in the movie, the pronoun called “Lola” tells me. No flash of a dainty turned ankle or underwear. Lola goes straight to the “Hidden Superpower”.
“I don’t know what the future will be. But I do know it will speak in a Swiss-German accent. You’ve heard about Schwab. Klaus Schwab?”.
I nod. “Santa Klaus”. I see what Lola’s smile is like for the first time. We don’t do Zoom. We don’t talk about Bruno. Nor about Disney.
Lola talks of The CEO of a “supra-national” government. About people no one ever heard of, waiting in the wings. The UN. The 365 agencies. The Timeline. A United States of China. The Division of the spoils.
“They have been clever. Perhaps time will prove, too clever by half. They think in decades. We in election cycles and what’s for dinner. We have to, she explains. They do not.
“They?”…
It’s why Lola is “Coming out” now. Lolas always talks like that, “Artusi”, Our Man in… reassures me later, after “the meet”. (He had been go-between. Can I trust him- or is it another set-up within a set-up? Paranoia sets in like a frost). The are the Sphynx inside New York. And Sphynx may only talk in riddles. In half-sentences. He asks me to forgive him to forgive Lola. I do. She’s taking a bigger risk than even she realises. “Switching on the light in the closet”, he adds, oddly reflecting Lola’s same choice of analogy.
Does Lola like sailing? Something to say. Converation, the interview is a bit like a yacht, I always find. First tacking this way then that, skipping over waves of things I ought to know. How 96 out of the 100 top media outlets are owned and controlled by just six multinationals. Think Bezos, Washington Post. “I could go on”, Lola rubs a finger in the water ring under the glass. (See, we are somewhere hot, humid, or it could be Helsinki in Summer and there’s just no air-con). A media supermarket with the illusion of all these different brands and choice, but really there’s no choice at all. The public gets what the public wants, what the public gets. That’s entertainment… Lola obviously likes English groups. Just label it “Conspiracy Theory” and you can get away with murder, literally.
“We were talking in the office just before, about how someone who knew someone, had likely had a word with the lawyer of the Giuffre woman- and others. She thought she was safe in Australia. It’s where everyone used to go when there was nowhere else to go, you know, “this world, the next- or Australia”. But if they got to Epstein in hi-security, and pulled the wire on the CCTV while they knotted the bed-sheet, what chance any mere “fall-girls”. They compromise you anyway, as insurance. Future-proofed silence. Can’t say I blame them, with kids and all. Who wants to spend the rest of lives having to remember to look both ways before crossing the road. Who wants to remember all their lives”.
Look at the maps. Get the manifests, before they are erased. Before the past no longer exists. Epstein’s private Eden. Or Concentration Camp. “Lies Set You Free”. “Welcome to Paradise”, as he used to have written in the sand. Little St James. With its “Temple of the Elders” for former Statesmen. The Gods. The Great and The Good. The pillars may be gone- they ended up in a garden centre in Miami or somewhere- but the power remains. You are always “President” in the US. For some reason I tell Lola, no I didn’t know that, even though I did. Even after you retire and do good works and have a library named after you, and finally get to read bed-time stores to your grandchildren. Next to Branson’s Necker Island.
When I hear that song, “You’re So Vain”, I always think of Epstein. And how The Lie has to be big enough, just big enough. But like Goldilocks, not so big it becomes believable. It’s the same with the Covid Bioweapon. “One-world Government”. The silent, global coup d'état, for that is what we are are in right now. Schwabe and The Circle always know, people don’t want to have to think. Keep them busy with paying taxes. Distracted by the smoke as mirrors. As the Catholic church, the blue-print after all for the New Order, has done so well. Except for the last five years out of a thousand, Lola admits. Get them hooked without knowing on the opiates of sex and reality TV. An alt-Reality that has nothing to do with them.
The Truth is what I say it is, as Lola’s boss keeps telling them. Tell them what they want to hear. That’s not cynical. It’s Public Service. And that’s what the United Nations stands for. Honesty, oh, that’s simply the bidet of life.
Lola gets up. We’re done. She talks “American”, but isn’t. Nor is she, a she. “It ‘aint necessarily so”, would be playing on the bar piano, if we were in a bar. “This one” is over, as note-less I try to remember all they have- and have not said.
“See, You can fool all the people all the time. Even God”.