​Paangelini's Realm . . .


Spring, 2013

     My wife and I drove over a knoll on a country lane that led to our very private home.  Private no more.  Over the roof of the house hovered a large black helicopter (the kind we thought were just in fictional movies).  It hovered there, looking as if it might be ready to land on the roof!

     The huge machine remained over the house until we rounded the curve of the long tree-lined drive to the house.  The pilot must have spotted us then because the machine suddenly rose over the tree tops behind the house and swooped in the direction of the neighbor's cow pasture.

     We pulled into the carport and sat speechless for a few moments.  Finally, we hazarded a few guesses as to what the machine was doing there:  looking for a lost child or a criminal or a marijuana farm or . . . .  Nothing made sense.  It had been hovering just over our roof!  (Little did we realize at the time that the downdraft of the rotors had seriously loosened a sizable number of roof shingles and even blown a few completely off.)  After a few days, we forgot about the incident.  Stranger things had happened, we thought.

     Many weeks later, I was working in the yard when an identical helicopter roared slowly over the house.  It circled and clattered over again.  Then, it circled our  three acre lot several  times, not those of the neighbors!  I choked, quit working, and went inside.  What was going on?  Had we done something and didn't even know it?  Was this some perverted form of terrorism by air?  Aerial intimidation?

     The house sat, invisible and "private" behind hedges and thick tree growth in the rural boondocks.  Maybe we needed to research what "fly by" and hovering copters might be doing.  Should we call the local police?  In the past, our experience with them had been positive.  Still, large black helicopters didn't seem like anything the local police would be involved with.  We would wait.  We had been to a few peace rallies and anti-nuclear  meetings.  Probably, we were on "somebody's" list, just like all the real activists.

        Sliding into bed a week or so  later, we noticed spots, quarter

and half dollar sized pink and red circles on my legs that grew

brighter red and larger during the next few weeks.  What caused

the spots?  Quick initial internet research revealed that children

living in the Fukushima area developed eczema as a result of

intense radiation.  When we looked at the pictures, it was if

someone had taken photos of my legs.  Fukushima children had also suffered from dizziness and confusion, just as I had for the past few weeks.  Could we have conceivably been nuked by a big black helicopter? 

     A 2004 book, Homeland Security, edited by Norris Smith and Lynn Messina, explained that inspectors at ports use cesium to produce a powerful gamma ray to scan the contents of steel-walled containers arriving at the ports of Los Angeles and Long Beach, CA.  Other ports use x-rays.  Could such technology be used to scan the homes of private citizens?  If so, who would be authorized to do the scanning and for what purpose?  How would such scanning be accomplished?  By helicopter?  

     The implications were unnerving, and I was furious that my wife and I had probably been the victims of some sick joke.  "I'll sue ____________________ for $1.2 billion and give it to organizations that fight for our civil liberties," I blustered to my wife in the privacy of our kitchen.

     A few hours later, I was in a nearby town where we owned property to collect a few items to take to New England with me the next day.  I left our house and went by my mom's house to check the mail as she was currently in a therapy unit at the nursing home.  I was surprised when I returned  to see that a neighbor's house that had been on the market for several years was burning.   

     The next ten days were nerve wracking.  It was as if I had a law enforcement escort wherever I went--from the South to New England and back again.     Never in my fifty-five years of driving had I observed so many state troopers, sheriff's vehicles, local police vehicles--behind me on the highway, in front of me, parked on the side of the road, pulling into rest stops, gas stations, or fast food stops the same moment I did.  It was eerie.  I wondered if some criminal had rented my rental car prior to me, and law enforcement had been alerted to watch the vehicle and its driver.

     While in New England, I talked with several social activists about the state of society.  Most of them were concerned about the proliferation of drones--especially those in the hands of local law enforcement.  I mentioned the helicopter passes and the ensuing maladies, to someone about my own age, and he instantly said it was probably "hop waves."

     "Hop waves?  I'm not sure what that is," I told him.

     "Hop waves are microwaves.  They can induce extreme paranoia that can lead to violence.  Hop.  H-A-A-R-P," he spelled it out.

     "Oh, HAARP!  I know a bit about that, but I didn't know about the paranoia," I said, realizing that "hop waves" is how the word would be pronounced at this latitude.

    "The HAARP signature has been found on many of the irrational violence perpetrators--like that fellow in Washington.  You heard about that last week?"

     I said I hadn't heard.  "But what about x-rays?  How powerful can they get?" I pressed.

     "Over a decade ago, a pilot told me that he could see every move a family made--through the house roof, even though he was a mile high in the sky.  Over ten years ago." 

     HAARP!  That could explain a lot:  the paranoia, the irritability, the outbursts; an inexplicable change in personality during the last few years.  Almost nothing remotely similar before then.  Now common. 

     But why would someone be using weapons like HAARP or even x-rays to debilitate and destroy me? I wondered. 

     The day before,  I had talked to people in a nearby town about a documentary called "The War on Whistleblowers" that was being shown that evening.  Whistleblowers!!   Maybe that was the answer.

     In the early 90's, I had run for and won the election for school superintendent in the small, rural southern county where I had taught for almost twenty-five years.  Still, I was an outsider, and the power brokers were aghast that I had actually won.  A neighbor had told me that they'd have me out of office in two weeks, and indeed, a great number of unprecedented "emergency" scenarios did take place during my first month in office, but it became increasingly evident that I was quite capable of handling the situations.   A colleague had begged me not to run, saying, "You don't know them, Doc.  They'll kill you.  They'll get your family too."   I ignored her warning as mere theatrics. 

     Midway during my term, it became quite clear that our system was not in compliance with federal mandates for integration.  When children entered kindergarten, they were placed into classes based on racial, social, and economic backgrounds rather than on any objective criteria.  With few exceptions, those classes remained the same throughout their school careers.   When I proposed establishing objective criteria for kindergarten placement, a certain faction of the population became very angry, and all kinds of things began to happen to me--poison ivy on the back office door handle that one of my secretaries and I used, car tires flattened by knife jabs, telephone calls threatening my life and that of my family, fake riot threats.  The list goes on.  National as well as local news media learned what was happening and exposed the situation.  One reporter even referred to me as a whistleblower, even though I had never really thought of myself in that capacity.  I was simply doing what voters had entrusted me to do--make the school system more equitable for their children.     

     Beginning in September, 2013, I was positive that somebody was spying on us.  Before that time, I had often had the feeling that we were being watched, but it was just a feeling--nothing really concrete. But because of the unusual "coincidences" that kept occurring wherever we went, I grew more and more certain that someone had devised a way to know our every move.  I wasn't quite sure how-- maybe parabolic microphones, hidden cameras, bugs in our vehicles, but even with meters, it was impossible to find where they might be hidden.  Our conversation was minimal, and what conversation we had was in whispers.  I rarely used the telephone and did not use the internet at all.  

     From September through February we felt as if we had been relegated to some type of repressive, autocratic society.   Police escorts continued, but they were joined by hordes of ambulances and fire trucks.  We wondered where the money was coming from for all of this municipal movement for the vehicles seemed to be just cruising around with no particular destination.  During that period we had several highly questionable plumbing incidents, a broken gas line on one of our vehicles and a cut brake line on another, a dead raccoon thrown in the yard, a near fatal accident because someone suddenly and  inexplicably veered in front of our vehicle--too much for coincidence.  Plus, I felt my health was being seriously compromised.  Stomach pains that had begun shortly after the helicopter barrage had grown almost intolerable.  Breathing often seemed constricted.  Heart palpitations.  Lack of sleep.  The stinging sensations that felt like bites of chiggers on steroids.  None of these symptoms could bode well.  The zaps bothered me as I had read somewhere that they could be electronically activated, so I ordered a microwave reading meter.

     That was a Friday.   As I was trying to get out of bed the next day, some type of force kept propelling me back against the pillow.  Three times this happened.  When I finally got out of the bed, I went into the kitchen where my wife was preparing breakfast and told her.  We both wondered what was happening, but  because I felt fairly normal after breakfast, we attributed the incident to lack of energy from lack of adequate sleep.  But that night, as I was preparing to lie down in the bed, I was again hurled back against the pillows.  This time. the force was far greater than that of the morning.  In fact, it was so great, I could hardly breathe.  My chest felt constricted for ten or fifteen minutes afterward, and I could barely see my hand in front of my eyes for at least that long.

     That did it.  I went back on the internet and typed in my symptoms.  Up came a world I couldn't believe existed here in America.  The world of Predatory Gang Stalking, Organized Stalking, or just Gang Stalking.  This was not the world of teenage gangs, out to make a name for themselves.  This was a covert world of operatives using, among other tactics, state of the art  (often secret) technology for surveillance, harassment, and murder of people referred to as Targeted Individuals.  No touch tactics that were deniable.   Whistleblowers were at the top of the targeted list.  

     I slept very little that night, and the next morning we were on the road to what we thought would be a less traumatic environment.  We didn't get much escort during the trip, but perhaps that was because we had disabled our cell phones.

     The first night in New England, I slept well.  No stings.  No scary dreams.  No thrashing my wife--all of which had been typical during the last few years.  But the second day--a day on which we had contacted several political offices and several newspapers--the microwave zaps started again, more intense this time, even in a mostly underground basement.  I was appalled.  I needed to think about this new development.