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Normally I wouldn't give reading directions to anyone but maybe a three year old, and even then, I'm not really sure I'm qualified. But this story is based on someone's version of reality who actually thinks along these lines. Follow the directions below faithfully and speak this story out loud with an urgent sense of confident desperation. I learned this small slice of a clothing color conspiracy from someone who practically told me this and more in little more than one breath.
1) drink a gallon of water and don't pee for like 2 hours. 2) get all out of breath by running up stairs 3) read the story out loud almost as fast as you can read it while still out of breath and full of pee.
"Brush up against me again and I will kill you." I think this. I dare not say this. Saying it has landed me in places where needles and pins poke me day and night and there is no sleep.
A man in a tweed suit and London fog overcoat brushes against me dismissively. Every single person on this street is dismissing me. Dismissing me because they know who I am. They see my clothes, my skin. They see my posture. They see me in gray and know that I am on to them. I have all their numbers. They may have a thick, numerically coded file on me, but I have their numbers. Yes I do.
I know the code.
I see the man's overcoat part, noting the red tie with blue diagonal stripes. It's the blue stripes that tell me all I need to know. Blue stripes on a red tie. Yep. I know all right. I cannot be fooled. They see the gray and think that I am unthinking. They see the gray and think that gray means I'm outside the loop—unknowing. They look at me and they think sheep.
This man, this blue striped, tie wearing man, he is an upper echelon member of the Illuminati's servant class. If his tie were red only, he would be a minion of lesser importance. I know all the colors. I know all the rules. I figured out the hierarchy when last they locked me in the needles and pins place and took away my color, making me white. Head to toe, white. They do that before assigning you a color. They make you white.
I was white for a short time in there; white like the noise inside my head when I close my eyes and clap my hands over my ears. I was white like the floors, the walls, even the furniture. I was white like the nurses and the orderlies. White, white, white—all the same without identity, without voice. They gagged me and the noise in my head went whiter, if that's possible. But now I am out and I'm gray and this man with the blue, striped tie has rubbed against me for some reason.
He is a controller. He is dangerous, this man with the tie and the overcoat and tweed suit. I don't need a name badge and title pinned on his jacket to know that. I know it. I just do. Controller, him. Dangerous, him.
Like the guy outside the Circle K down on Western Boulevard, I wear gray. Everything is gray in my duffel bag. Like the woman who hangs out on the corner near the capital, I wear gray. We wear gray.
No color, no tell tale signs. No affiliation. I am nobody in this world of controllers, minions, leaders, consignors and slaves. I've dyed my underwear gray and my socks. No one sells gray socks for a reason. No one sells purely gray underwear for a reason. It's just not done.
I look at a woman wearing a green suit coat and green shoes. She's walking casually down my street with a man. Not with him, behind him. She is a happy slave to her leading man who walks ahead of her wearing a blue blazer and yellow tie. Yellow is the color of the leader when combined with blue. A yellow wearing man is always, always, always with someone in green. A slave. A slave to the powerful.
This powerful man nods at tweed suit and striped tie man and commerce is witnessed by me. The commerce of silent submission. The yellow tie wearer is more powerful and his status trumps that of tweed suit man. An exchange of respect has taken place and one man's power has been reinforced right here on the street. He is Illuminati. He has gotten stronger here today. Silently. Silent to the rest of the world but me. To me the noise of the exchange blends into the sound in my head. To me the noise of power changing hands—of respect changing hands—sounds like glass breaking.