Table Of Content

THE ILLUMINATI KID CAN SAVE YOU THE ILLUMINATI KID CAN SAVE YOU © 2012 by Graham Carroll All rights reserved Photo by Michael Richert, RGBStock.com Cartoonish, maybe, but deadly serious . . . CONTENTS THE TYRANNY OF BOMBER HARRIS WARREN JAMES, THE KID SICK FUCK UNCLE BRUCE FREAKS DEATH BY GOVERNMENT MIGHTY SCHOOLBOY NEMESIS THE ILLUMINATI DIG AND YOU SHALL FIND DUMB, DAZED SHEEP THE SERPENTS TO BE BORN IS TO BE SCREWED UP INFINITE, DEATHLESS BEING WAR THE INEVITABILITY OF GRADUALNESS BLACK MAGICK THE SANATORIUM WHEN HE DID Y HE GOT X THE GOLDFISH BOWL INSTRUCTION MANUAL FOR THE MIND CONTRADICTIONS AND CONVICTIONS INTERLUDE REVENGE SALVIA DIVINORUM THE STORY OF NOTHING AND EVERYTHING I THE STORY OF NOTHING AND EVERYTHING II SYLVIA NINJAS AND BELGIUM HELL JIMI HENDRIX AND THE DEATH OF THE KID THE EXIT THE WALKWAY HAD BEEN CONSUMED This is a recording . . . THE TYRANNY OF BOMBER HARRIS H: —there’s absolutely no way. You’ve been wallowing in your own muck, asleep, messed with while you’ve been dreaming, dribbling—sit there, kid— and now it’s time to fight, wake and live. It’s time for reality, not this, not the bloody matrix, the damned game, the one you’re getting completely fucking annihilated in, which you’re oblivious to, and so you’re here, for your own good. Like it, and sit back. Right, Ballard, if that’s your real name, too late if it is, Phillip fucking Ballard, my new best friend, have you pressed record? B: Yes, yes. H: Good, good, and so you’re ready to do some hardcore listening, even harder imbibing—all manner of imbibing—I take it, yes? B: No, no, Bomber, not really, no. Like I said, man— H: No, like you said, man?—right, right. Well, hey, you are now, kid, and you really have fuck all choice in the matter, so sit the fuck back and get this into you. I insist, come on now. Here. No choice. Take it. Take, Ballard. This is your last chance. You’re in a fucking dictatorship here, boy, and I’m the fucking dictator and I fucking insist. I insist that you get loaded, you got me? B: Uh-huh. H: It’s all part of the experience, Ballard. And be happy, you lucky prick, because at least you know where you are in a dictatorship, it’s all out in the open, and this one’s giving you free fucking drugs, for fuck’s sake. So smile, listen to me, do what you’re told, and everything will be alright, right? B: Right. H: Right, you’ve got it. I’m here to help you, kid. That’s it, good boy, take it down. You know the fucking score, don’t you, Ballard, hey? And don’t you worry—hold it down, longer, longer—because I won’t be telling your mum or anything, honest I won’t, you can trust the Bomber—and don’t you fucking dare let any of it out, not just yet, hold it, fucking hold it down, Ballard—and don’t let a little thing like this here big bastard knife make you think any different, okay? However much I fucking wave it at you, you dumb shit, don’t worry. Just relax, sit back and listen. And exhale. Yes? Is that better, kid? So you’re raring to go now, huh, my ignorant little caterpillar of a captive, you Ballard?—hello? B: I suppose so, yes. What is this stuff? H: You suppose, do you? Well, that’s just bloody great. That’s how you talk to your dictator. That’s how you greet the truly fucking golden opportunity to save yourself. Well done you, really, give yourself another big fucking drag. Go on, Ballard, now, and bigger this time, you fuck. That’s it. And in the meanwhile, while you’re getting high and freaked and terrifyingly fucking paranoid, I’ll tell you the story of the Kid, the Illuminati Kid. So strap in and listen damned hard or else you’ll suffer and die at the hands of the psychotic, satanic and paedophilic elite. Got that? B: What? H: I presume you’ve heard of the Illuminati Kid? B: No. H: No? What the fuck, Ballard? Are you seriously telling me that you haven’t heard of the Illuminati Kid? Haven’t noticed the iron fist of tyranny that’s hovering above you right now, messing with you, fucking you up, wanting you dead, diseased, a fucking zombie slave? No, you dick? It’s almost ready to smash down on your dumb little crown, and you’ll never get up from it when it does. It’ll be the end of you, the end of everything, so you need to know about the Kid, you got me? Do you want to live? Do you want to be free, to be happy? Well?—yes?—no? B: Yes, yes. H: Yes. Then you need to know about the Kid, kid, and the terrorising sickness of evil he was fighting against. Every last one of you dumb, smiling depressives sleepwalking towards the grim endgame need to know about this yesterday, decades ago, tens of thousands of fucking years ago. You’re fucked and totally oblivious, aren’t you, you fucking dimwit? You’re one of the masses, the doomed fucking slumber party, part of the problem, and you can’t see anything. You’re not conspiratorially aware, are you? Not realising that you’ve been conned to the core, Ballard, conned to your fucking core. B: I’m really not getting you, Bomber. H: No, what am I thinking? Of course you aren’t. You’re an eager young student, too full of potential, angst and self-loathing to want to be bogged down by all this shit, aren’t you? You’ve got enough shit of your own—look at you—haven’t you? You don’t want to know that the world’s controlled by paedophiles, by bloody Satanists, do you? You don’t want to hear the gory facts, be made to realise, really fucking realise, kid, that everything’s screwed and scripted and upside down, back to front, diseased and designed by psychotic scum. No way, dude, you’re far too fucking busy itching to be unleashed into that sick world, see if you can be a success and avoid being a fuck-up, make your mother proud, sort your head out, make a name for yourself, yes? Is that it? B: Ah, yep. H: So what are you studying? B: It’ll be social sciences. H: It’ll be social sciences—brilliant. Wake the fuck up. It’s not going to be pretty, kid. You’re going to die, suffer and fucking die, unless you embrace all that the late great Kid stood for and hold it tighter than a drowning man holds in mind only what’s fucking essential and fights, Ballard, fucking fights, harder and harder, until all the usual dumb distractions that stand in our way are destroyed in that awesome single-minded verve and bang—then you go and crush the fuckers that intend to break you. Know thyself, kid— it’s ancient, ancient advice—and keep going, effortless now, divine and empty, just as you are, just be, and don’t stop, never stop following the way, the Kid’s way, all the way back to the nothingness, the unfathomable fucking bliss, Ballard, of complete and utter fucking nothingness, or else you’ll be enslaved by the Satanic elite and experience death by psycho, which isn’t a good way to go, trust me on that. B: Sorry, Bomber, I— H: Sorry? Sorry? Fucking hell yes, you’ll be sorry, damned fucking right you will, but there’s still time, oh yes, there is still time, just not that much. They’re out to get you, kid, and the Kid was out to get them, so whose side are you on? That’s all that matters right now. Yeah, damn it, Ballard, whose side are you on? A good-looking, bright young thing like you shouldn’t be sitting here smoking grass with a strange one like me late at night. You’re just their type. Are you one of them? Have you been touched, brain-washed and fucked by them? Well? Come on, kid, have you? B: No, no. I haven’t. H: No, shit, look at your little face, of course you haven’t. But you need to know about the Kid, about the war. You shouldn’t be here. You should be sitting around every fucking campfire you can find in order to share his legend, and you should be able to tell it more fluently than your own tedious and no doubt dirty little tale. The life and times of the Kid, that’s what needs