September 2, 1999. Lord Litton's Twilight Grotto. A Seance.
It was this muck-a-muck, Illuminati, Builderberg: all these Lizard Peoples. As a tv presenter, I was there, and not dressed a popular evening girl from film, but not completely outside the diaspora, just sort of floating in an indeterminate state of mind, not being a paid promoter of things, nor a particular "passionato" for whatever.
But I had to make my point.
So I was lead away, shouting contrarian, to the old thought young, to the young thought old, to the white a black man, to the black man a negro, neck not red enough, but too red for the city.
Hands behind my back, Stone Cold troublemaker grin, "heroes" to take me into charge, and me telling them all what I thought they were; indeed, were it true, they wouldn't care, but their outrage--and mark it--because, perhaps, I was just a little off base, at least as much as I thought they were off base, escorted from government property, to the waiting riot van. It was, shields of gold-plating versus one obnoxious shield of truth; it was the system having a go and one from the outer-rim.
I could hear Elvis Costello picking up his second verse as I was shoved along beneath the transom, then beyond, away from ceremony, and all.