The Ninth Fire: A Tale of Struggle

With all the wrong in the world, I often wonder how we could let it become this way. We're we too nice, too silent, too cooperative in the installation of the NWO? Maybe it's time we all said something, shared our stories. If the people within the deepstate actually took a stand and exposed the sick secrets they are paid to hold, the world might get better. I was told this story, long ago.

Deep

She was only nine the first time the monster molested her. It continued on for years afterwards.

It was easy for the monster to do so. She was, after all, its little cousin's friend that lived next door. It had already been doing it to its own prima for a length of time, so the monster told her to convince this neighbor girl to join in the loss of innocence.

Time past, the abuse slowly stopped. The little girl turned into a knowledgeable teen, and, when she saw that same look she used to have on her friends little sister’s face, she knew that the monster had gotten to her too.

It had to stop.

Her friend, the older cousin had had enough too. They convinced the monster into a three-way, just like the younger times, they told it. Some intravenous drugs to enhance the effects.

The monster “accidentally” overdosed. Fatally. 

She held to her end of the story. Her friend did not. The cops understood why she had done it, but the law is the law.

Unless you’re the adopted daughter of an Air Force officer, then the law can turn a murder into a suicide.

Now when she graduated High School, she wanted so badly to be an astronaut. She enrolled into the Air Force, the same as her dad. She was so excited for her future, with the grades to back it up.

Yet the past can define the future, and an “agency” discovered what she had done to a monster a few years ago. They like people with records showing what they can do without training.

“You want to be an astronaut, right? Well this program is the fastest way to do that!”

She spent two years in intensive training, learning the skills needed to glean information, make connections, remember details, and, most important, not get caught.

Some people call them spies. Others call women like her honeypots, as she soon found out what the term was and meant.

Six months she spent, the arm-candy of some officer, some politician, in God-forsaken Eastern European countries.

She didn’t like it.

“Okay, we'll reassign, but you have to go back into High School”.

She re-enrolled in a high school across the nation from her original, three years ahead of her peers.

It was easy to be the cool kid the second time around. It was also easy to find out most anything. The drug dealers always come to you, the most popular girl in your entire High School.

Didn’t make prom queen the second time around, only homecoming queen.

The dealers’ sources were found, teachers and administrators were caught, and her re-entry into High School was a resounding success for her agency, the basis of which would be copied for decades to come.

She had done them a huge favor, and the agency operates on two things: Money and favors.

She got out, she wanted to go to college. She realized that they were never going to train her to be an astronaut. She had become a target, they couldn’t allow her to get famous on their dime.

But she could never get away. Once you’re in their pocket, you’re in their pocket.

Every few years they would ask her for a favor, a task on a person, a group. 

"Find out as much as you can, testify in court if needed."

The agency would always return the favors in kind, whether it was bureaucratic or monetary.

As she got older, she had a family, she had children. She did not ever want to put them in danger for any reason. She wanted to put her energy into something real.

But the agency doesn’t care about your peace or your safety. They care about your usefulness. If they can’t get you to volunteer, they’ll get you to beg them for help.

The Highway Patrol would stop any vehicle registered to her.

“Taillight's out. You were swaying back there. How much have had to drink?”, and so on, never getting anything to stick.

One night, something did.

She called him, asking him to come pick her up at the Highway Patrol station.

Odd, they usually don’t catch and release a DUI without processing through the county jail.

She had to do one more. And another. Always one more job, one more piece of information, one more testimony.

She was tired, she wanted to spend her energy on her life, her family. But she was theirs, and she knew she could not escape, nor disobey.

She finally broke down and sliced open her lie, dissecting each piece for him so that it all made sense.

They shared something that few do in those moments.

He knew he would have to tell the world, he knew that her story must be told.

But when? And how?

"You'll know the right time," she told him. 

"You'll know when to share my tale."