A Litte Boy’s Love at First Sight With Gaia

MENSAJEPARABUENASNOCHESWhen I was almost 5-years-old my parents sent me off for a Labor Day weekend with my favorite aunt Katie, who was only twenty-two.  A striking brunette full of mirth, Katie had been in her teens when she had kids.  So, in many ways, Katie felt as much like a big sister as an aunt.

Katie had a new boyfriend with kids too and we all piled into an old Chevy station wagon and  drove from St. Francis, a quaint blue-collar neighborhood in Milwaukee, for Devil’s Lake.  The way Katie lovingly dealt with her boisterous kids in the crowded station wagon, rather than beatings or harsh words my dad used to create order, was as new and wonderful to me as the alien worlds I would one day as an adult visit on the astral plane in meditation.

Some in the family thought less of the child-mother Katie than me.  Grandma Agnes, in her thick Irish brogue, would often criticize Aunt Katie,”You’re raising these kids like a damn bunch of wild Hooligans!”

Yeah, I was happy to be in this fearless new tribe from the car ride on.  It was the first time I was away from home.  Aunt Katie gave me more hugs and kisses on that 5 hour car ride as I’d had in my whole 5 year life, aside from Grandma’s.  As the Wisconsin countryside flew by the station wagon windows I even daydreamed about Aunt Katie adopting me and freeing me from my abusive father and ice-cold depressed mother.

Labor Day was passing as fast as the pine trees out the car windows, like the whole weekend had been that had seemed to pass like a single day in my stressful home.  I was doing my best to hide how deeply sad I was that this was my last day with Aunt Katie and the happy kids and cousins before returning to my raging father and the frightened mother who let my father hurt me each and every day lest she share my fate.

Every painful day for the 21 years of my home life, it seemed my father’s only joy was hurting me. Lots of therapy would be needed to overcome this tortured life my soul had chosen to strengthen me for the planetary healing work I would do 40 years later. Yes, I accept my father was doing what my soul had chosen him for. Even if he seemed to a bit too good at his job of trying to break me. Indeed, if you are ever in a jam at the end of the world, a zombie apocalypse, financial collapse, I am the calm cool character you want in your corner. I fear nothing as an adult. So as you read take heart for the brave little Ken’s suffering in this story, He’s far more than he appears. He’s an angel that lit up a dark family and no victim at all.

Sometimes, when Dad was away and I kept my mom company, her little accomplice in a conspiracy to hate my father without his catching on, Mom would see my hands trembling like a Parkinson’s victim and she then always say, “Why are your hands shaking, Kenneth?  You look sick and pale.”  I really did not know then.  Now I know the crushing stress of a crazy father was getting expressed by my body, though my mind was in total denial, both consciously and subconsciously.   To my parents, sibs, and friends, except for my tremors, I acted and appeared a happy kid.

It’s part of the reason I am a recovering hypochondriac as an adult.  One who now errors on the other side, ignoring health issues until they become life-threatening.  Right now I am undergoing a nebulizer Abuterol lung therapy for a HVAC poisoning I let get the better of my health.  I got in this 2014 health pickle by ignoring symptoms too long, hating being that sickly young kid staring out the station wagon windows.


Snuggling up to the easy-going Aunt Katie, my hands were steady, my stomach not in a knot. It was bliss for the five-year-old me.   Finally Katie’s boyfriend, Rusty for his red hair, pulled the station wagon the Devil’s Lake parking lot and the kids all piled out and ran for the water.  But I clung to Katie and helped carry what little things I could.  Finally, after this clinging went on for sometime, Katie said, “Kenny, go swim your cousins.  Um, Rusty and I have some grown-up things to talk about.”

I didn’t want to leave Aunt Katie but something in Rusty’s eye told me to go.  The cousins welcomed me into the lake with splashes and giggles.  As I played in the shallow waters of Devil’s Lake, named for steaming springs at certain times of the year, with my now forgotten cousins, I stole some looks at Katie.  She was laughing and drinking a Pabst beer on the beach with her boyfriend Rusty.  A boyfriend who tried to be friends with me, but because of my dad’s abuse I feared adult males at that time and Rusty gave up on me eventually.

Katie made out with the breast-groping Rusty with a sexy abandon I never saw between my mom and dad, who always seemed more like enemies in a truce between battles rather than lovers.  I was, I admit, more than a little jealous of her red-headed boyfriend Rusty, who sported a handlebar mustache.

Some of my cousins and the other kids who were old enough to swim wanted me to go out in the deeper water with them.  I watched in amazement how they windmilled their arms and kicked the water and swam like fish.


My only swimming lessons up to then had been from Dad in our little backyard pool.  He’d dunk me underwater and the only way he’d let me up to breathe was a deadly game of breath holding; I had to then see how many fingers Daddy dearest was holding out beneath the water’s surface and stick my arm out of the pool, while my little head was held tight under by his massive welder’s hand that wrapped around my skull like an octopus.  Then I’d anxiously wave my arm to Dad, showing how many fingers he was showing me underwater.  Only then was I allowed up from the pool to gasp for breath.  Then he’d jam me back under for more “swim lessons”.

Once my mom finally said tentatively, “Bill, you’re not teaching anything but to see underwater.  What the hell good is this without teaching him to swim?  All you are teaching Kenneth is to hate you.”  That got mom a beating.  She was less helpful after that in questioning my dad’s parenting skills.

To win Katie’s attention back, I imitated what her kids did to swim with the kicking and arm strokes and lo and behold I was swimming!  Of course, with only my father’s mean swim lessons, the first wave took me under before Aunt Katie could see how cool I was.  Swimming went from joy to terror.  I’d only swam far enough to reach the deep water and I sank like a rock.  However, my father’s dark swim lesson did allow me a great underwater view of the bottom of the lake I was sinking for.  In some crazy way my father’s lessons on holding my breath were my only hope.  I kept holding my breath on the bottom of the lake.  I could see the splashing feet and arms of my cousins above, oblivious to my sinking disappearance.  I tried an underwater shout and swallowed some water.

I felt a strange tingle in my fingers and toes.  I knew from my water torture from dad that lying still meant being able to stay under longer and live.  Soon, despite and my aqua-man tricks learned under great pain, my consciousness was fading.  I pushed off the lake bottom, but it was a sandy muck and I sank again, more out of air.  Fear started to leave me as I began to see amazing shapes and colors, like tiny angels and animals in rainbow hues dancing in the sunlight on the lake’s surface above me.

I was fully aware I was dying but no longer afraid.  I even calmly thought, “Well, at least I won’t have to suffer Dad’s beatings anymore.”

I had already run away from home a few months earlier.  Only a kindergartener, I made it just a few blocks away before Dad recaptured me along with my little bit of food wrapped in a handkerchief on a stick like I had seen done in a 50s TV show about hobos.  Dad broke that hobo stick of mine over his knee, like he tried to break my spirit, like the South Koreans he trained for combat as a US Army drill sargeant. “You little fag gook!” he would call me when enraged, forgetting I was a white kid, his kid.  Somehow, even his training by the US army could never break my spirit like his recruits.  And it frustrated him to no end to his dying day of bladder cancer in 2011.

Death lost all it’s sting.  Dad zero to my many victories.  I was ready to die, happy in that knowledge that I’d won as life left me deep beneath Devil’s Lake .


The light of the watery world grew dimmer and dimmer when a beautiful woman appeared over me, lighting up the water.  Her bronze hair shimmered with an inner golden glow as she floated majestically above me, smiling.  As I smiled back she said telepathically, “Ken, do not give up. Help is coming. Hold on, young one.”

I was filled with more love than I can describe at this beautiful face smiling down on me.  More love than I had for aunt Katie or Grandma,”Who are you,?” I said in my 5 year-old mind back to her, as though taking telepathically was a normal as Grandma’s amazing apple pies.

The beauty smiled.  Her glowing gown of green seaweed swirled as a wave passed overhead. I felt cozy now on the sandy bottom of the lake as a shocked fish darted past.  I peacefully began to close my eyes.

The lady of the lake shouted in my mind, “Gaia! I am Gaia! And you must live, little one.”

“Gaia? That’s a pretty name, pretty lady.  Thanks but my father is so mean I don’t mind dying.” I said in shame at betraying my father’s dark secret.  He beat us all in the family, from mom to me.  Beatings were the cost of living in his home where he controlled all through fear and abuse.

“Your poor sick father William knows no better. He truly does love you and the rest of the family,” Gaia said gently taking my little oxygen deprived blue hand and kissing it.  Warmth spread from Gaia’s lips through my little water chilled body when a man’s hand reached right through Gaia and pulled me through her body.  All went black…

cities_at_night_01Gaia became the earth.  I saw her from space long before the astronauts.  I saw galaxies and many of Gaia’s sister worlds. “Come home, little Kenny.” Gaia’s distant voice called to me.

I flew for Gaia’s sweet call back from the galaxies, down to earth and through the clouds.  My spirit hovering above, in the dimming Labor Day sky, I saw my little 5-year-old body slung over a tan man’s shoulder.  He ran like a Greek god for the shore through the shallow water. The young lifeguard tossed me on the sandy beach where my shocked aunt was yelling at my oldest cousin, “Kenny’s only five! You were supposed to watch over him in the water!”

The gathered crowd to watch, locked in fear of losing one so young as me.  I was telepathic to all their sweet concern and it brought me further down from the sky.   This was 1957 and they didn’t do mouth to mouth CPR back then.  The lifeguard pushed down on my abdomen so hard I felt I would explode the way my father tortured me by sitting on my chest until I screamed and often passed out.

“No.  I will not go back to that life!”  I said and my spirit turned and flew for the sun.

Gaia appeared in a cloud, blocking my flight and said this time not telepathically but out loud, “Live, little one.  Please, live.” Her words and voice were so sweet that I flew straight for the beach without a word and dove back into my body.  Water gushed from my mouth and as I choked my first breath. I was back in my 5-year-old body.


I sat up on the beach and the gathering clapped and hugged each other.  My cousins danced for joy.  I was picked up in the loving embrace of my beautiful aunt Katie. Black haired and blue-eyed like my dad, Katie showered me with kisses instead of punches like her sick brother. “Oh my god you scared us, Ken!”  Then Katie added in shame,  “Please don’t tell you father and mother about this. They’ll have my hide for almost letting you drown.”

Not knowing what a “hide” meant, I nodded agreement just the same, happy not to arouse my father’s wrath at this kind woman I loved. This I see now was my first enabling of an addict’s negligence.  Poor beautiful Aunt Katie would die just after her 40th birthday, her good looks robbed by alcohol and drug addiction.   The fate of many in my family lineage.   Katie’s loss so young, she should still be here, is one I’ve never fully recovered from.  Fighting family addictions that kill people I love is why in 2011 I donated 150 videos, a $50,000 value,  in barter for a $500 a month room for a small room in a grungy North Hollywood home, office to Bradley Quick’s beloved Cool Change Foundation.  Bradley would be the gateway to my opening to my spirit gifts.  It was the best barter I ever made despite the bad deal money-wise it was for me.

Katie was only a 20-something when I nearly drowned that fateful Labor Day and my first meeting with Gaia. Katie and Gaia seemed the same being as Katie wrapped me in beach towels and warmed me with the best hugs of my life.  My relieved cousins went back to swim in Devil’s Lake as Katie warmed me fully back to life.

“Here, Kenny boy, get some food in you,” Aunt Katie offered me fresh peanut and jelly sandwich. I gladly took a bite.  Food never tasted better before or since, despite a little bit of beach sand that had gotten into it in all the commotion.

“I saw angels,” I said innocently to Katie as I enjoyed the sandwich.  The world was more alive than I’d ever tasted or saw before or since. I can still close my eyes and see the sparkle of the sun Devil’s Lake reflected in Katie’s wide blue eyes.

“Angels?” said Katie looking very frightened in a way that frightened me.

“Yeah, Aunt Katie.  Little rainbow-colored ones and a big one named…. Uh, named, um I forget her name. But the lady in the lake was pretty like you, but with golden hair and a seaweed dress,” I said like this was a normal as the sandwich I was loving.

This made Katie look even more afraid.  “All this stays our secret. You can never, ever talk to your mom or dad about angels or you’ll get aunt Katie get in big, big trouble. Your daddy might even hit me.”

“No…,” I whispered in terror.  It was bad enough that I and my brother Fred, who got, I suspect, even worse than my beating by getting sexual abuse, at the greasy mechanics hands of my sick father, were being hurt along with Mom and Grandma.  “Not Katie.  I never wanted to bring daddy’s hitting Aunt Katie.” I thought.  What I was too young to know was this fear was already too late.  As my grandfather had died with my dad was only eleven, he had been the “man” of the family for a long time and was giving out beatings since long before I was born to Katie.  God knows what else.

“So cross you heart and hope to die the angels and the lady in the lake is our secret, Kenneth?” said Katie, tears of shame in her eyes.

I knew when she said Kenneth, something Katie never called me like my mother did when she was mad, this was serious and so I said, “Promise, aunt Katie, a secret, I promise.”


Sadly, this was a promise I was not able to keep. Not because I was broke my word and told.  The near death experience had changed me. I was seeing spirits of dead people and pets and the rainbow of angels everywhere now and talking to them all the time. My parents knew something was very wrong ever since Katie had brought me home.   I was a very different kid now.

Eventually Katie confessed her neglect herself to the family in our little living room in our modest St. Francis home. Tears still burn in my heart recalling my father towering over Katie, “You drunken, bitch! You almost killed my boy with your boozing! Now, he’s seeing freaking angels and ghosts?  Ken’s a retard now! ” My father slapped Katie so hard across the cheek her head spun.

IMG_0542“Stop, Daddy! It was all my fault!  I seen my cousins swim and thought I could too.  I, and I promise to get better. Not to see stuff.” I said getting myself between Katie and my dad.

Mom spoke up, something she seldom did when my father was hurling me around like a broken toy. Dad would break my arm a few years later tossing me across my bedroom into bed as punishment.” Leave Katie alone, Bill.  She’s sorry.”

My father’s rage swung like a spotlight of evil doom upon my mother now. He raised a hand to strike her for speaking up against him.  These family dramas went off like a spark in to firecracker warehouse and went to places no one dreamed.  My father’s rage burned in his eyes, a forest fire ready to kill us all, himself included.

A Korean War drill Sargent my father was far stronger than he knew.  My worst memory is him kicking my mother in the stomach while my mother was pregnant with my brother Fred.  Fred was age two now.  Fred cried loudly as my father kicked over a heavy coffee table like a toothpick hat was separating him from my mother.

“Please, Daddy! I promise never to talk to the angels again!” I shouted and jumped in between Dad to shield Mom from his menacing fists.

“Protecting the ladies, huh?” said my father as he backhanded me so hard I saw angels again dancing before my eyes.  Blood from my cut lip mingled with the heavy carved maroon carpet up against my nose.

“Bill!” shouted my wise Irish grandma Agnes  as she nervously puffed on a cigarette. “Enough is enough, son. I swear to make sure and teach Ken all I learned about the evils of the fairy folk.  This sometimes happens when a soul crosses over. But Kenny is back with us now.  He’s not retarded, Bill.  Your son just needs a wee bit of time and my help to forget the fairies and pixies he’s met.”

Somehow, at Grandma’s profound pledge to break me of seeing visions my father’s rage cooled like an active volcano between eruptions. The women calmed and even my kid brother Fred stopped bawling.

My beautiful mother in ice blue:)

And due to family repression  worked upon me of an epic nature, all done from Grandma Agnes’ misguided love, so I have no regrets as it allowed me to enjoy an amazing normy life before my awakening, it would take until this very day, a vision on 6.12.14, eve of a full moon in June of 2014 to remember it was Gaia under Devil’s Lake I fell in love with at first sight deep beneath Devil’s Lake.  I keep seeing more and more of mama Gaia since Antarctica 12.12.12 where I share now for the first time she knighted me.  I dedicated my life to helping her save the human species, her proudest creation, that day on the stoney shores of Antarctica.


Ken Sheetz

When he’s not meditating and doing planetary healing work Ken is a Hollywood filmmaker with PBS credits on IMDB and the owner of a socially conscious social media company.




“The notion that science and spirituality are somehow mutually exclusive does a disservice to both.”– Carl Sagan

By Ken Sheetz

Once upon an alternate universe, a wizard named Zlyph did battle with an evil green dragon who had slain his king and queen while he was on a quest to a far away land.

The master-less wizard fought the green dragon with a magical ice sword to the highest minaret of the castle.

“Why do you persist, wizard? Your king and queen are ash.  This castle is now my realm!”  bellowed the dragon, blasting a gout of green flame.

“Guilt for being far away when you made your sneak attack compels me, foul one.  Vengeance for King Ior and Queen Ilsa!” said the wizard Zylph.  But he tripped over a fallen knight’s armor and was knocked out.

The green dragon cackled as he loomed over the unconscious wizard, “Too easy! Farewell, wizard.”  The green dragon drew in a deep breath and prepared to incinerate Zylph.

But before the wicked dragon could strike a fairy queen made of ice leaped from the wizard’s sword.

“Dragon, you should be ashamed of yourself!” the ice fairy queen shouted.

The dragon reeled back a few paces and said, “Ashamed of what?”

“Ashamed of a rage and fury that has taken enough lives. Go now in peace and leave this wizard to mourn the loss of his tribe,” said the ice fairy queen.

“I, I’ve met none such as you in the worlds I travel. I sense no fear in you whatsoever. You have extinguished me rage, my flame… But I can still crush you in my jaws!” the green dragon snapped at the ice fairy queen but she simply turned to snow flakes that reformed a few feet away.

“Do not try my patience, dragon. You shall not have the wizard for he is a savior to my people. I guard him forever. Fly for your life now, or face my icy wrath!” said the ice fairy queen.

“I shall depart and leave this old fool to you. My work is done here. But before I take wing there is a price for my leave,” said the dragon.

“Ask and I will consider, dragon.”

“Your name, fairy. What is it so that I may curse your name in my exile from the castle I rightly won in combat?” said the green dragon.

“I am known as Antarcticania, queen of the Orions. But know this, dragon. Curse me and your belly will turn to ice and you will perish in an instant. Be gone. You waste my time. I must tend to the wizard Zylph, savior of my people. Fly!” said Antarcticania setting loose blizzard atop the castle.

The dragon leaped into the winter storm bellowing in rage, “You have not seen the last of me, witch!”

The wizard blinked his eyes as he awoke in the king’s bed. He rubbed the knot on the back of his head, remembering he had been knocked cold in his battle with dragon.

“How in King Ior’s name did I get in the king’s bed?” said the wizard, not expecting and answer and shocked when the ice fairy queen stepped through the door. But she wore an enchantment that made her look like a simple peasant woman, through which her inner fairy beauty shone through like the sun behind a heavy laden snow cloud.

“Please lay back on rest, brave wizard. You’ve had a nasty blow to the head and may be suffering forgetfulness of your amazing defeat of the green dragon,” said the ice fairy, taking no credit for saving the wizard.

“Last thing I remember was tripping over something and conking my thick skull,” said the wizard laying back down from dizziness.

“Perhaps, great one, you have cast a spell over yourself to cause you to battle when your wits are affected,” smiled the ice fairy.

“Where is my ice sword, fair one?” said the wizard.

“You impaled the dragon with the ice sword and he flew off in a rage of hellfire ice sword and all,” said the ice fairy, keeping the secret she and the ice sword were one from the dazed wizard.

“Hmm. I can be scrappy. I guess my instincts took over. But I would never drag myself to the royal chamber to slumber,” grumped the wizard.

“You passed out after defeating the dragon and I carried you here. I meant no disrespect to your king and queen, god rest their souls,” said the ice fairy.

“Who are you? And why are you here when all perished in the castle?” said the wizard, his suspicion growing by the second.

“I am Anna, a simple severing girl of Queen Ilsa’s. I hid deep in the castle’s secret chambers during the dragon attack, ” smiled the ice fairy queen, not revealing her royal standing.

As the ice fairy smiled, the walls of the castle melted before the shocked wizard’s eyes.  The wizard transformed into a 20-year-old college student, Kyle Rodger, sitting before computer screen where the green dragon was battling the ice fairy.

“Thanks, Mr. Rodgers, that will be all for today.  Don’t want to keep you from your classes,” said a lab tech as she removed electrodes from Kyle’s head.

End Part One


A Talk With 1991 Me

By Ken Sheetz

The bad news is time flies. The good news is you’re the pilot. ~Michael Althsuler

A talk with 1991 meIt’s 2014 as I meditate in my new Sedona home to be in contact with my 1991 self.  I see myself at age 39 working late in my 303 West Madison offices in downtown Chicago on the 19th floor.  All the staff has gone home.  I’m working harder and longer than everyone as usual.

It’s January 4, 1991.  Snow drfits past the big dual pane office windows.

I glance from the windows at an invite on my desk.  I’ve been invited to a late New Year’s Eve office party that a competitor property is throwing in the east Loop.  I’m debating on going.  Parties are not my thing in 1991 or today.  My brain hurts at parties.  I am a one on one person.

I can see 1991 me gazing nervously across the street at the under construction skyscraper I am the managing partner for, One North Franklin.  I am tense as hell because the curtain wall, the very skin of the building is badly behind schedule.  I am in danger of losing $ 8 million in guarantees if the building is late in delivery.  So 1991 me paces the office like a caged beast.

Back in 2014 I am thrilled to discover this time machine compartment of my brain.  One that’s always been there waiting for me to open the hatch and fire it up.  I easily read my 1991 mind:

“Damnit.  I wonder if the GC (general contractor) is still working?  Should I try to chew his ass out now for screwing up my building or wait to Monday?” says my angry 1991 self.

I’ve always had conversations in my mind with myself like this over important matters.  — Way before my spirit awakening in 2010 where I met ET spirits that looked like angels in Italy that put me on missions to help the planet through meditation, missions that have taken me as far as Antarctica. — So this seems like a perfect time to answer myself.  And the way this works, dear reader, is it’s done in real-time as I type, so pardon my typos.

“It won’t matter.  Nothing you do is going to save this project.  Go home to your wife and kids,” I say to my 1991 me.

1991 Ken stops cold in his pace of panic, “Where did that voice come from?”  1991 me hurries to door and looks up the empty hallway.

“I’m in your head,” I say to 1991 me.

“Gloria said I was working too hard and would go nuts.”

“Your wife is right about the working too hard part.  But you are not going nuts,” I say finishing a plate of hash.
A phone call from a client breaks my connection to 1991 Ken.  An hour later I find in his emerald-green Jaguar driving home to Lake Forest.

“I’m back.” I say in 1991 Ken’s mind almost making him swerve the car off the freeway.

“Who are you and how are you inside my head?” demands 1991 me.

“Who do I sound like?” I say.

“Dad?” 1991 me worries.

“Way off.  I’m you, Ken Sheetz 23 years in the future.” I offer gently trying not to sound like the father we both hate for playing mind games with us as a kid.

“You’re me, time traveling from the future like Dr. Who in my head?  Ha.  Prove you’re me.  Tell me something about me no one else could possibly know, ” says Ken of 1991 turning down the Jag’s radio playing the Rolling Stones.  ’91 Ken’s free to talk out loud in the privacy of his traveling the express lanes of the Kennedy.

I don’t need to think long and I offer sadly, “You and your wife had a terrible fight on your honeymoon night when she didn’t want sex.”

“Jesus, you are me.  Or maybe just me going nuts.  My own voiced aged up in my head,” says ’91 me.

“I can prove I’m real with telling you what will happen tomorrow.  Give me a sec to Google January 5, 1991 news.” I say.

“What’s Google?” says ’91 Ken.

“A company that will become to source of all factual knowledge on earth by 2014.   I am using it to research… ah, here’s something cool that’s going to happen tomorrow January 5, 1991 that you can use to tell yourself this is all very real, me contacting you telepathically from the future.  Redskins 20 – Eagles 6.  Redskins win’s final scoring drive is a field goal in the third quarter.  And in case you need more proof Randall Cunningham will pass for exactly 205 yards in the game.  Impossible to guess that stat.”

“Well, so a future stock on an oracle called Google and the score of a playoff game.  Hope this is real,” ’91 me says.

“It is real as that Jaguar you won’t be driving much longer, ” I say sadly.

“What?  Am I going to get into a car accident tonight?” shouts ’91 me, eyes darting at the busy Chicago traffic ahead.

“Worse.  You heading for the meltdown of your entire financial life.  You’ll be returning the Jaguar to the dealer on foot in a year,” says 2014 me sitting at my desk in Sedona feeling like shit and wondering what use it is warning my past self about all this.

“How does this all unravel so fast?”

“A wave of commercial loan failures has the banks taking properties back.  By 1994 almost every building in the Loop will have gone back to the lenders.  Your building, our building, One North Franklin, we be the pioneer, the poster child, in the banks seizing commercial properties and driving rents into sub 1970 levels.  No loan will be sustainable.  But since you are the first Barclays Bank is going to annihilate you for their losing $80 million on the project.  You’ll be hung out to dry as an example to…”  I am interrupted in 2014 by client Nick Edwards who loves calling me on weekends, holidays and evenings.  In other words on my time off.  Poor 1991 me has to wait 15 minutes for to get back to Ken ’91.

“Sorry, I have a job in social media here in the future.  My hours are nuts, ” I say.

“What the hell is social media?” 1991 me says.

“The future.  Starts after a dot-com bust of 2000.  Only invest in Amazon.com and get some Apple stock. ”

Me in 1991 has progressed to the Edens expressway on the commute home to my million dollar home in the affluent suburb of Lake Forest.   A home I will lose in the crash of ’91.

“Why am I’m not working in real estate anymore in 2014?” 1991 says, half glad I am back and half not.

“By 1992 you’re poor as a kid out of college, but brokerage keeps you afloat.  By 1995 you start becoming a filmmaker and leave for a life in Hollywood in 2002.  You never look back.  You’re happy being an artist even though the money sucks,” I say.

“Gloria would never let that happen, ” says Ken 1991.

“She dumps you in 1992 when you fall off the money wagon, with a lot of help from how depressed and angry you are about losing your ass from the skyscraper repo.  So you’re free to be the artist you went to college to be,”  I say trying to make it all sound wonderful.  But I can read the rising fear and panic in my 1991 self, a self that’s still riding high and worth about $12 million at the time.

“This is more than I can handle.  I hope it’s my overactive imagination and the Redskins lose tomorrow, ” 1991 me says sadly.

“Seriously, it’s all going to be for the best.  You are a great person.  You don’t need the Jaguar, the million dollar mansion, the skyscraper, it’s all a trap.  You are about to be set free, ” I say brightly in Ken 1991’s sad mind that seems to be filling with quicksand that’s making it hard for me to stay connected to him.

“Bullshit.  You’re not telling me all the truth, ” says 1991 me.  I forgot how tough and vicious I could be in 1991.  I was Chicago’s most ruthless real estate broker.  Number one according to the Chicago Sun Times in 1987 and soon to be 1991 developer of the year for building Oprah Winfrey’s Harpo studios while building One North Franklin.  No wonder I had no time for my wife and kids.  Yeah, I’ve forgotten how super tough I had to be to get to the top of Chicago’s real estate world.  And I was driven by showing my asshole of a drill sergeant father I was better than him.

“It won’t be easy for you.  Gloria has all the assets in her name to protect everything from the banksters, what we call the obviously fucked up hucksters of finance in 2014.  In 1992 Gloria preemptively files for divorce while you separate.  She hires the toughest divorce lawyer in Chicago.  A ruthless SOB who takes every last dime you have left after the skyscraper goes back to the lender.  Worst part of all this is that her preemptive move breaks your heart.  You’ve, um, we were sweethearts since college.  You don’t see the divorce coming even though you are a ego tripping dick and hard as hell to live with.  You end up broke as hell most of the rest of your life after the skyscraper fails, and the divorce hamstrings you, until 2009 when you start a company called BuzzBroz and get back on your feet,” I quickly tell my 1991 self.

“I won’t let any of this shit happen.” says 1991 me bitterly as he pounds the steering wheel.  He outweighs 2014 me by 20 pounds and he’s strong as a bull.  I’d forgotten how strong I was.  Once in a fit of rage I broken a wooden chair in toothpicks with my bare hands..

“You can’t change history,” I say grimly, the voice of my own doom.

“I’ve almost read every science fiction ever written.  Using what you’ve told me I simply need to take steps to do things different from you did and presto, new future, ” 91 me says.

“That would mean I wouldn’t do my film career.  Wouldn’t become spiritually in 2010 awake filming a SoulDrama workshop in Italy where I saw ET angels that gave me these powers and so I would never be able to telepathically connect to you to share what I just shared.  Paradox,” I say.

“So why tell me all this shit?” 91 me shouts.  I had a loud mouthed temper back then.  Some people think I still do.  But I am as gentle as a mouse in 2014 compared to 1991.  I am bully at home with my loud voice.  My kids trembled in fear of me though I never hit them.  My voice was force of nature. No wonder Gloria divorced 1991 me.

“What if when I change the past a new future splits off?  No paradox then.  You simply become one version of my 2014 possible selves in that scenario,” 1991 me says in excitement, voice tinged with the grace of genius.

“That’s actually quite possible!  It’s a 21st century quantum physics theory called multi-verses.   Maybe that’s why I called you.  To give one of my futures that chance to beat fate,” I say in wonder.

As my savvy 1991 self pulls onto the snowy street of my Lake Forest mansion I quickly add, “Gloria’s a good woman who listens to her mother too much.  She’ll stand with you if you’re kinder and gentler with her.  No other person you ever date or love is going to click with you like Gloria does.  Get out of the skyscraper deal before the spring.  Take whatever you can get because or you end up with less than nothing.  Get a job in corporate films.  Filmmaking in Hollywood is a closed system.  You waste ten years of your life out there before waking up spiritually in Italy with the DreamShield and eventually living in Sedona.  Staying married might save the relationship with your/my kids, who become seriously fucked up by the divorce.  One almost kills themselves as a teen and both never speak to you in 2014,” I say as 1991 me pulls into the driveway.

1991 me is crying now and says, “For the kids sake most of all, thanks for all the info, future me.  It rings true.  So I’m putting big money on the Redskins to win 20-6 tomorrow.  You better be right or I swear I’ll hire a scientist to invent a time machine , find you in 2014 and beat your ass.”

We each have a tearful laugh.  My 1991 sense of humor shows the heart is still there and he adds, “With the Redskins winnings I’ll start a small corporate film biz, always wanted to make movies.  Our psychic mom always said advertising was what I should be doing.  I’ll dump my partnership in the skyscraper to Smeltzer (not real name the guy might sue 2014 me he’s such a dick) who’s always wanted to be top dog.”

“Whoa.  Be sure you get that deal in bank first.  Don’t give up control to Smeltzer until you do.  In my timeline Zeller cannot complete the deal to me for getting out as I started too late in the fall on 1991 but Smeltzer takes over anyways without giving me a penny.  Understandable.  Smeltzer’s clever.  So he won’t be hurt, except for his pride, when the market falls.  No bad karma in unloading to Smeltzer.  Smart, you 1991 Ken.  But don’t be greedy take whatever Smelter offers you.  But cash in that bank is king, Kenny boy.  Get it from the jerk, or someone else in the partnership, and good luck.  Speaking of good luck, call your corporate film biz BuzzBroz.  That’s what I call mine in 2009.”

BuzzBroz, I like this name. Of course I would.  I think of it!  Any more stock tips or football tips for me about the future?” laughs Ken, chomping at the bit at change the future.

“You already know enough to be a billionaire ten times over.  Enough fucking greed!” I say surprised at my anger with my 1991 self.  “Greed is killing this world in 2014.  Instead use the wealth of your knowledge of the future to help find ways to stop a thing called chemtrails from happening, work on a ending poverty.  Be your childhood super hero.  BE Superman! — And I do have some better tips for you than stocks.  Get some fucking therapy for all the shit we went through as kids with mom and dad.  Especially our drill Sargent dad.  I didn’t do therapy until after the divorce when I almost killed myself from a suicidal depression.”  I say.

“Christ, I hope I can save my family or this gets grim.” 1991 says.

“Yes. Grim than I will share today, but you get through it because you are made of indestructible stuff.  Your wife and kids may not be as lucky.  One of them almost killed themselves after you got ejected from Lake Forest.  So you need that therapy help to save the marriage, to save your/our family.  Your/our father really fucked us up BIG TIME.  No shame in that.  You can be fixed with therapy!  An anger guru named Mitch Messer can clear up your anger issues in less than a year.  Make you a master of you old childhood rage.  Love yourself enough to do that for you and failing loving yourself do it for Gloria and the kids.”

“Ok, Ok, I’ll do it.  Mitch Messer.  OK.  Anger management.  I’ll do it.  Sheesh.  Guess I’m a nag by 2014,” kids 1991 me.

“Fuck you, I mean fuck me.  — And change your priorities.  Put the kids numero uno.  They need you more than you can ever know.  You are worthy of their love and Gloria’s.  Stop thinking your wife and kids are stupid to love a jerk like you.  Family first, that includes our brothers and mom.  See less of your father looking for something that ain’t there.  He’s hopeless.  Never matures to the day he dies.  He was born for one thing.  To fuck us up. —  Learn to meditate.  Live from the heart and only take on clients with heart.  Our world is dying of a lot things in 2014.  Work supporting clients looking to support a better world.  Look up a scientist named Patrick Flanagan at a company called PhiSciences and tell him Ken Sheetz of 2014 sent you.  He will believe you.  He amazing and part of my being able to reach you is from a thing he invented called the Neurophone that boosts IQ.  Not a plug.  Get one.  It will make all this easier for you.”

1991 me pulls into the driveway of my heavenly million dollar home I/we designed personally.  Ken ’91 opens the door to the huge kitchen, wondering if it’s too late to save his family life.  Gloria and our two kids, Jon and Janelle, ages 12 and 9, run to the door to greet 1991 me with hugs and kisses.  And in that very instant Ken 1991 and Ken 2014 both know that it’s  not too late.

I am in tears as I close the blog.  This really happened(s).  This is not fiction.  I save(d) a family.  My own.

And I did in time to take my daily meditation hike in Sedona.  Peace!

The Veteran’s Ball

“When our perils are past, shall our gratitude sleep?” -George Canning

By Ken Sheetz

Mosaic, Rainy Day in Central Park by artist Kate Kerringer www.katkerringer.net
Mosaic, Rainy Day in Central Park
by artist Kat Kerringer http://www.katekerringer.net

A dangerously thin young man, adorned in tattered desert combat fatigues, Roger McCalister makes his way to park bench beneath the menace of clouds that hover over Central Park. 

The condo skyscrapers of Manhattan, where unimaginable wealth resides, tower in stark contrast to Roger who has not had a shower in weeks.

Still, there’s a handsome aura and stoic humor about this young vet as he breaks out his worn guitar from the traveling home on his back.  Roger perches a sign scrabbled in crayons on cardboard on red velvet inside of his open guitar case that reads:

“Homeless vet.  Give for me to live!”

A young affluent mother walks a luxury baby buggy that could feed ten vets for a week past Roger’s humble sidewalk concert spot.

“Morning, ma’am,” Roger says, not expecting an answer and not getting one as the mother hurries on avoiding eye contact.

A light drizzle begins as Roger tunes up his guitar.  Roger is mystified he’s not getting wet.  He looks up to see an umbrella with a map of the globe on it.  Roger twists further to see a beautiful redhead is being an angel keeping him dry.

“Thanks, but I don’t mind the rain, miss.” says Roger.

“Name’s, Gaia, ” says the redhead beauty.

“Never met a Gaia before.  What kind of name’s Gaia?” says Roger with a strum of his guitar.

“Hippie name for mother earth.  Mom and dad were flower children in the 60s.” says Gaia.

“I dig the 60s.  People still gave a shit, ” says Roger playing a 60s riff on his beat up guitar.

“You’re good!” says Gaia.

“Had a lot of time on my hands in Iraq and then Afghanistan.  Picked it up from a buddy named Bradley, who bought it with an IED,” says Roger sadly.

“Must feel awful to have served all that time and end up neglected by a People you served so valiantly,” says Gaia.

“I was homeless before the service.  Just back on my regular beat.   Signed up right after 9/11.  Only sixteen.  Lied about my age.  Zero hard feeling about serving America.  I had three squares a day and a place to sleep every night,” says Roger fondly.

“Why didn’t you stay in the Army then?” says Gaia.

“I wrote a song about it.  Have time to hear?  Don’t want to keep you if you have a job to get to,” says Roger, expecting her exit.

But the beauty stays and with a nod from Gaia, Roger starts to play:

“Singed up for 9/11.

War for me was heaven.

The army kept me fed.

Gave me a clean bed.”

A small crowd of New Yorkers gather as Roger sings and plays like an angel.

“Eight years went by in a flash.

Saved me up lots of cash.

When an IED took my bud Bradley

I lost my music and way sadly.

Decided to give peace a go.

But little did I know

Sharks live on land.”

Tears well in Gaia’s eyes as Roger plays his haunting song.

“My savings turned to sand.

Never learned to hold a job.

Does that make me a slob?

No one to give me orders

Now I guitar for dollars.”

People from the crowd toss wads of cash into Roger’s guitar case as plays on.

“I signed up for 9/11.

War for me was heaven.

The army kept me fed.

Gave me a clean bed.

But now that I am out

Though I scream and shout.

No one seems to hear…

Somebody buy me a beer!”

Roger stops playing with a grin and the crowd, grown to about 100 people, erupts into thunderous applause.

Gaia kisses Roger on his bearded cheek and says, “May I have this dance?”

“There’ll be no music if I stop playing,” says Roger.

“Your teacher Bradley can take over playing,” says Gaia as she points to Bradley in the growing crowd.

Bradley, all dressed in white army fatigues, steps from the crowd and takes up Roger’s guitar while a bright smile.

“Bradley!  You’re alive, bro!” says Roger taking Bradley into a hug.

“Complicated.  Shut up and dance with Gaia, you lucky stiff.” says Roger as he strikes up a passionate flamenco.

Roger bows to Gaia and they dance to the applause of the crowd in a spotlight of sunbeam.

Gaia and Roger dance up the sunbeam.  Roger looks down on Central Park at Bradley playing guitar and sees his slumped body on the park bench.

“Ah.  I’m dead…, ” says Roger wistfully.

“Nonsense.  There’s much for you to do, soldier.  I need good men like you to save my world,” says Gaia joyously.

“I enlist!” says Roger, sprouting dazzling angel wings as he dances Gaia into the morning sun.


Hi Guys, I am on long-term assignment filming super scientist Patrick Flanagan of PhiSciences in Sedona where I’ve settled down from my world travels these past four years to recharge for a bit.  2014 will see my world travels again to exotic lands and places for our planetary meditations.  For now I take the greatest journey of all, the one within. 

Help support my work awakening the planet.  Make a donation at the PayPal link on Dreamshield.org and I promise you much magic will find its way back to you.

— Much love, Ken

Water Wand

“Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement. For even the very wise cannot see all ends”

― Wisdom of Gandalf from J.R.R. Tolkien’s, “The Two Towers”

By Ken Sheetz

I meditate this morning on putting out the raging California fires, some 56 of them.  One of which has sent San Fransisco into a state of emergency.  I use the giant 300 mile long version of a red magnetic magic wand from my childhood once again.  It’s proven a faithful effective visualization tool in my planetary meditations for water healings I’ve been doing all week.

Since I am not done with meditations for cleaning Fukushima radiation in the Pacific yet, a series of 12 meditations the guides say are needed for that mess, I will the wand down from the dream shield, powered by the collective consciousness, which hovers at the edge of space.  The dream shield is a tool of awesome positive power that I was blessed to work with ETs of the Orion star system to activate in 2010, precisely for urgent planetary emergencies like this one. The biosphere dream device can handle anything space tosses at us or we toss at ourselves.

I send the water wand plunging into the Atlantic.  The wand turns from red to blue as it magnetically draws in seawater.  The 300 miles long wand sucks in a great deal of water.  Next, I levitate the water-soaked magnetic wand from the Atlantic ocean and begin to transport it to California.  Not surprisingly, the wand is heavy and clumsy to levitate, holding many tons of water.  With concentration the wand slowly makes its way over the US for the San Fransisco area, where millions are threatened.   It is Sunday morning August 25th about 5 AM.  A galactic portal day, many are saying on Facebook.

As I slowly carry the fire fighting energy of the Atlantic to California, I think back on my asking my brother Fred to help in this DreamShield powered meditation last night.  Fred flatly turns me down, saying he is not ready to join me in planetary meditations, not now, perhaps never.  That hurt, but I respect this work is not for everyone.  Not even my brother.

Me right with Mom and Fred, circa 1950
Me right with Mom and Fred, circa 1959

Fred and I have a lot healing to do with each other from a childhood where both our parents often pitted us, brother against brother.  Fred told me last night once how, when I was senior in high school and he was a freshman, that I passed him in the hallway without saying hi.  That hurt him deeply.  I don’t recall the instance fully.  Most likely, I was just preoccupied.  I have mild ADD and I do not do well spotting people in crowds.  But Fred’s reaction tells me he is carrying guilt of some kind.

Before I can dig into what that guilt might be, my brother asks if he might visit me in Sedona for a week for my September birthday coming up soon.  Well, it was more like Fred me told me at first.  Fred can be forceful at times.  But Fred saw he was for once and apologized for being pushy.  I reassure Fred I am happy he is coming.

Next day, I make plans to house Fred at the resort in his own room.  Love my bro, but a week in same room is not my idea of fun.   I will be working in advance with angel channel Mica Monet, my beautiful Sedona spirit friend, on healing the complex relationship I have with my brother Fred.

My brother Fred tells me that he wants to come to Sedona because he is awakening to new realms and abilities that began to emerge 2 weeks ago.  He asks guidance and support from me, his closest relative aside from his son Joey and our mother.  Fred says he also hopes to have a chance to meet my friend and client inventor Patrick Flanagan.  I warn Fred I can make no promises about Patrick’s busy schedule.

A simple welder all these many years, by choice, Fred put aside college and a brilliant life as a scientist.  Why?  To follow in our bipolar father’s footsteps as a tradesman.  Nobel hands on work, but the world was cheated of much of Fred’s genius when he dropped out of college.  If Patrick is free to meet Fred it will prove an eye opener for my brother to speak with a man who has dedicated his life to inventing holistic remedies and is considered a reincarnation of Nikola Tesla.

Fred was smarter than me in school by far.  Too bright for the normal classes that I could barely get by in, Fred took all the advanced classes.  Then he turned his back on it all, just to be near dad in the trades. Fred’s reward was to be tormented by our bipolar father on the job.  One time my father, as a prank, electrified a large metal container Fred was inside of welding.  Fred was nearly electrocuted and never trusted my father again.  I distanced myself from my wild father once I grew up, while Fred held him close.

I am happy that Fred is beginning to invent things again, for the first time since we were kids.  He is working on a solar steam device and I have been lending him a little financial support, paying back some of the money he loaned me to chase my dream of being a Hollywood director.  The least I can do.

For now, however, there is a fury in my brother that radiates from him.  You can imagine it’s tough getting back on his true path at the tender age of 59.  And, just as with my 2010 awakening, many in the family feel my brother has lost his mind.  Why chase inventing versus the solid paychecks of welding as he’s been doing for nearly 40 years, they wonder?

Awakening has been overwhelming for my brother these past few weeks.  Fred experiences a wild sense of euphoria mixed with fear and calls me every few hours; compared to our normal once a week hour-long calls.  It’s been a strain on me.  A part of my recent exhaustion.  Fred’s intensely digs deep into things in ways that are hard for my active, less scientific mind to comprehend.

For 3 years the angels have been telling me one of my jobs, as an early awakened soul will be to help the new people waking up.  I just never expected that work be this personal.  My dear brother, a Gemini with a dualistic nature that has always baffled me.  It’s going to be a challenge.  But one I am up for here in Sedona with many angels both earthly and otherwise to help me.

On the phone Fred sounds like he’s drinking more than usual.  And for a few moments I hear my father’s voice within Fred’s.  An other worldly mix of anger and hope at war.  A voice I don’t like hearing as my father beat me daily.  Dad even broke my arm once by tossing me into a wall when I lashed back at his abuse with a punch to his jaw.  I was nine.

The Science of Hydration - FinalOn my 12th birthday my father nearly killed me with a belt beating.  The crime did not fit my father’s belt lashing.  I had hit my baby brother for teasing me.  I didn’t like the savings bond gift Dad had got me.  I wanted a spaceship toy.   For hitting my baby brother Bruce my father goes berserk.  Fred tells me, he is 10 at the time, that he feels so helpless as my father lashes me.  It is like witnessing firsthand the horrific scene from Gibson’s Christ in the Passion, blood flows from my back to stain my white T-shirt.  It takes both my mother and grandmother diving on my crazed father’s back to save my life.

As Fred recounts my sad birthday story from his point of view, he confesses to me for the first time that dad never even spanked him his whole life.  Whereas I was beaten badly so often I’ve lost count.  I process that revelation for an entire day and next day tell Fred he can feel free of any guilt about his free pass with Dad.  Fred took plenty of mental abuse like some sort of co-conspirator/informant.  I forgive my brother and feel his relief over the phone.  He chokes back with tears his thanks.

Despite all this, my dear brother Fred struggles now with the fact I carry no more anger about our bipolar dad, resulting from my healing work that has gone on for 20 years and concluded here in Sedona with the help of many.  Our brotherly rage fest with our father was always something we shared in common. Fred feels alone with his rage now and my breaking of wicked conspiratorial bonds he had to my dad.  Fred’s had a powerful psychic surgery from our talks.  His healing will take time.  And beautiful Sedona will help when he visits me for more pleasant birthday than my twelfth.

Fred tells me he is bringing an old family album with him on his visit to me in Sedona.  He says there is a horrific picture where my father’s “demon” was caught on film.  I tell Fred there is no such thing as demons.  Only repressed anger.  But what’s in a name?  Anger is a powerful negative force, if left untreated, a devil that wrecks all around us.  But I bravely tell Fred I will look at the album to help heal my brother carrying so much shame about not being beaten the way I was.  I already know that I will have no anger and fear looking at the photo, even if dad has horns in the photos.  Those days of fearing my dad and raging on him are past for me.  Fred and I will find a new more positive common ground in our life.

Lost in these thoughts of my brother’s rapid and sudden healing, I drop the water wand as it is passes over Arizona.  Rather than get mad at myself, as I might in the past, or even blame Fred for his painful distractions, I send the wand back to the Atlantic and start the meditation over.

dolphin fire fighters
“Dolphin Firefighters” by Ken Sheetz

At last the Atlantic waters of the wand finally reaches the fires of California raging outside San Fransisco.  A team of electric dolphins leap from the Pacific, grateful for the Fukushima meditations, join the Atlantic waters and pull a wave of the water soaring into the wall of flame.  Living redwoods join to battle the fire by diverting rivers.  It’s more epic the LTOR.  And the fire dies in a cloud of steam.

I know Patrick Flanagan, who is in California now visiting the Napa Valley, with his amazing wife Stephanie, are both somehow joining this planetary meditation.  Ha.  They thought they were taking a vacation to the wine country.  Angels work in funny ways.

Friday my brother received a gift from me of Megahydrate, an amazing health supplement of Pat’s Phisciences.com.  Fred, a heavy smoker, tells me gratefully he feels the hydration instantly in his eyes and dry mouth.  Cancer thrives in dehydration, I see in this meditation.  Patrick’s gift may then save my smoker brother’s life.  No wonder he wants to meet him so badly he is traveling all the way from Wisconsin, our family home.

Patrick’s amazing products are a prime example of how these meditations manifest in ways that our world can facilitate.  Earth is, in fact, a manifesting machine.  Our thoughts are things and we have far more power to shape this reality than we know.

The fire meditation a success,  I find myself in a dream of a rehearsal of a young black singer. He’s a homeless kid I discovered to carry on the work of Michael Jackson.  He looks a lot like the young MJ.  He sings a newly discovered Jackson song that Michael wrote before his death.  It’s angelic.  I am blessed to still hear it echo in my mind as a I write you, dear reader.  I am in tears as the young man finishes the love song called “Marlene”.  I take the homeless MJ kid into a hug.  He smells bad and it’s a grimy hug.  Waking, I realize it’s a metaphor for my healing brother Fred who will bring a new song to the world from old steam power.

As I write to you, dear reader, I am having an open eye vision that makes it hard to see what I type.  It’s a double-exposure where I walk the moist charred fire baked floor of the California forest.  Steam mist rises into the air.  The fires are out.  San Fransisco lies safe in the distance. I again find myself hoping, as I have for three years now, that one day my brother Fred will join me in these amazing, if exhausting, meditations.

And then the ET angel Ohom of the Orion star system asks me to get out of bed and walk to the window of my Sedona area room here in Cottonwood at a cozy B&B called the Desert Rose.  It’s time for some confirmation my meditations are real Ohom kids me, knowing I still harbor some doubts.  I throw open the little bedroom window.  I laugh at what the water wand dropped here from the Atlantic.  It is raining in the desert.  The first morning rain in my six month stay.  Rain soon to visit California.

Enjoy my meditation video about healing fire with the amazing singer/actor Lynda Valliche.  It worked here in Arizona, it will work for California.


“O Helena, goddess, nymph, perfect, divine! 
To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne?
Crystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show
Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow!”
– William Shakespeare, “Midsummer Nights Dream”

By Ken Sheetz

Sunday morning meditation 8.18.13. Sedona Arizona area.

I lay tucked in bed in my cozy room at the Desert Rose B&B, up for the day and doing my daily morning meditation.  I have no idea I am about to have the biggest vision since the launch of DreamShield in 2010 when I saw 7 foot tall blue skinned ET angels.

FirefoxScreenSnapz087I feel called off world and I astral project myself from the resort in Sedona and quickly rocket into space.  In no time at all I am past the moon.  I will myself to greater speed.  Faster than I have ever traveled before in meditation or dreams, I break all laws of physics.  I zip past galaxies faster than any human has ever traveled, an impossible one billion times the speed of light.

I come to stop and hover outside the universe(s).  It’s a gorgeous vast tangle of galaxies, resembling the human brain’s trillions of neurons, majestically spread before me to infinity.

Now the galaxies shift into a pattern of symbols.  A mega “download”.  — A somewhat annoying New Age slang term for compressed wisdom transmitted from the spirit world of the ETs.  One day we’ll have a better word than the robotic sounding download for these amazing transmissions of so much loving knowledge that takes up so little human drive space in our brains.

What I witness in this epic download is a mixture of Reiki symbols and new alien symbols never seen before by human eyes.  I make a mental note to use hypnosis to recall them at a later date.  Recording them using the pen and paper on my nightstand would end the vision before I could copy down more than a few of the 77 dazzling symbols made of trillions of galaxies floating before me.

All for later to recall this and share it.  Or perhaps not at all as this may be a simple relay job for me.   Much of my vision work is like that.  Another reason not to disturb the vision by jotting down the amazing symbols formed of all the galaxies.  I see now, like our Gaia, galaxies are living creatures.  The galaxies have flown into these patterns, like a flock of birds, for me to see this message that will transform me and our world in ways we cannot even imagine.  For now, laying peacefully in my bed, at my Sedona base of operations for DreamShield meditations and the incredible day job of filming THE FLANAGAN EXPERIMENTS, this cosmic majesty is more than enough.



I reflect on the night before, where I took the stars of the new hit web series with over 25 million views, Patrick Flanagan and his wife Stephanie, as my guests on the Verde Valley train ride.  It rains the whole train trip, from heavy to light.  I tell the amazing couple I am sorry for the rain blocking out the stars and moon.  But as long-time residents of the desert, both are happy for the rain.

While the rain and rocks of the Verde river fly the windows, Patrick is lost in his virtual lab. An inner sanctuary where he perfects his inventions before bringing them out to share in this world.  Stephanie and he have a passionate relationship I have been lucky to catch on film.  Neither pulls any punches debating the Shift and their roles in it.  And a little wine and champagne sets off another of their brush fire talks.

As always, I am amazed these two can argue so heatedly like this and be hugging and kissing five minutes later.  It’s something I would enjoy to a smaller degree in my next relationship.   They purge and a process oceans of male and female energies like nothing I have ever witnessed.

_DSC2902A big part of the train ride is spent coaching Stephanie on dealing with the criticisms of friends and strangers about her part in THE FLANAGAN EXPERIMENTS. These superb videos have been her first direct public exposure before the camera.  I teach her that many people have hidden agendas and petty jealousies when they make comments.  Extreme caution must be taken when listening to feedback.  Truly honest and tasteful feedback people are a rare commodity.

Frankly, when Patrick told me he wanted to share the spotlight his wife Stephanie, who had never been on camera before, I was against it.  But I listen to genius, one of my exceptions, and so I filmed Steph.  I was blown away with her deep knowledge of the ancient Mayan calendar and how its’ still very much alive.  I’ve learned from her the Mayan calendar didn’t really end on 12.21.12 like we all thought.  Kind of embarrassing for a guy basing his whole life preparing for that date for three years.  Click here to see Stephanie’s brilliant interview on the new Vimeo channel I am building for Patrick.

Patrick wants to stay in the first-class indoor car to keep working on his new invention.  He literally creates electrical diagrams in his mind first before placing pencil to paper.  Stephanie ‘s disappointed her husband is lost in thought and I escort her out of the train car into the rain.   We have the outdoor viewing car mostly to ourselves, except for a worried old tour guide from the east coast who frets about us slipping on the wet deck.  Stephanie and I grab a spot out of the direct rain under the awnings, normally meant for shade from the hot Arizona sun.

Here in the freshest damp air I’ve ever breathed, I teach Stephanie a bit about the Hollywood School of Hard Knocks skills on how to listen, sift what may be useful from viewer comments and move on.  This hard-won skill took me years to develop.  So I advise Steph to be patient with herself as she grows a thicker skin for her vital work as a new web celeb.

As the train winds through the rain-soaked desert, the smell of wet sage fills my lungs.  It’s then I realize helping Stephanie overcome this negativity and other negativity that bombards her sensitive soul, is one of the reasons I’ve been brought here to Sedona.

DreamShield is uniquely positive in its mission.  Wildly positive in the face of epic negativity.  All will be well in the end no matter how bad things may look is its simple yet potent message of hope.  I see in Stephanie’s face a lifting of the veil of the negative forces keeping her down.  My heart soars as we sip our champagnes while the rain-soaked train steams past ancient Hopi ruins carved in the rock mountains.

The rain lets up and I coax Patrick to take a break, from inventing god only knows what, to venture out of the luxury train car onto the open air platforms where all the majesty of the desert surrounds us.  Light rain pelts me and I now get why the dynamic couple are happy about the rain.  Patrick rejoins his wife of eighteen years with hugs and kisses.  No residue of their little argument remains.

Patrick, who has been in the public eye since the 1960s when LIFE MAGAZINE featured him as one of the top ten scientists to watch in the world, reinforces what I am teaching Stephanie about ignoring and filtering harsh comments of strangers and loved ones.  I realize this new stress of being exposed on the web is Stephanie’s the source of physical pain in her leg that she complained of as our train pulled out of Clarkdale.

With her permission and Pat’s support, I give Steph a train ride Reiki treatment.  I picture a globe of water energy soothing her cramped leg and send all tension down into the train tracks to be crushed.  Soon as I finish the healing, Stephanie hops from the bench and starts dancing on the train car deck as PEACE TRAIN plays on the PA.  I say to Patrick, “Wow.  My best Reiki healing ever.”  I only do these healings for friends, even though I constantly get heat from my Reiki teacher Dorothy Donahue in LA to hang up a shingle.

Patrick looks worried Stephanie is hopping around on the hurt leg so soon on the slippery wet train deck.  I simply shrug in amazement.

As the train ride nears its end, we pass through an old slag heap from when this scenic train line used to carry copper, not sight-seers.  The train track cuts through the heart of the slag heap.  And the old train conductor explains, with his thick east coast accent, that the slag is has just been bought by a mining company to sift gold, silver and other raw minerals from it.   Bought for 1.5 million dollars.  Not bad for an old slag heap from 1911 when this train line was first built.

I hold forth my hand at the slag heap as the trains passes through the carved channel.  I will the slag heap to send a healing surge into all aboard this train, pulled by an eagle painted engine car.  A sign for yours truly who has an eagle pattern as a natural tattoo in his head from seeing angels in Italy.  I see the sparkles of gold float into all of us.  Another download.


Back to the next morning meditation where I travel beyond the universe: The moist desert air from the train ride with Pat and Steph has done me good.  I woke rested from my best sleep so far in Sedona.  Usually, the dry desert air and my sinuses issue are a serious problem I battle here in Sedona all night long.  Guess I am adapted to a lifetime the humid climates of Lake Michigan and the Pacific.

FirefoxScreenSnapz086I record the epic sight of the universe(s) condensed to code with a mental snapshot to review later in hypnosis.  I turn from the strange new symbols formed from galaxies to find myself standing at the front entrance of a small shop.  I look up at the sign and it says “Golden Age Curiosities”.

A shop bell chimes as I enter the magical little store.  The golden light of the shop is something you can feel as well as see.

A young goddess with sandy red hair looks up from her golden cash register. “Welcome to our little shop at the end of the universes.  What reality can I help with you, Mr Sheetz?” she says gesturing to golden shelves filled with various realities held suspended in crystal globes.

“Cool,” I say, “I’m looking for something peaceful for Earth but not boring.”

“We don’t do boring, ” says the goddess shopkeeper, taking me by the arm.  She guides me a few paces from her counter to browse new realities contained in beautiful globes lining her store’s golden shelves.

“May I suggest our Grecian Reboot model?” the goddess says with a dazzling smile. “Perfect thing for worlds like yours that need major overhaul.”

I am a power shopper in real life and I know when I’ve found the right thing, so I say, “Sold!  What’s your name, miss?”

The graceful goddess lifts the Grecian Reboot globe from the shelf as she says, “Helena.”

“Wow.  As in Helena of Troy?” I wonder.

“Just Helena,” she giggles, casually boxing my purchase of new reality for earth.  Just another day’s work for this goddess.

Pardon my brief detour from recounting the meditation vision of Helena’s store.  But as I write this I blog I just researched on Google, our modern Oracle, and I see why Helena giggles at me here in the re-telling of the epic vision.  #1 it’s Helen of Troy. #2 Helena is a daughter of Zeus.  Some references cite Helena, not as daughter but as a consort to Zeus.  Yahoo says Helena was not a goddess of any particular thing.  Not anymore.

I also just found the Shakespeare quote top of the blog, all found post-vision and note how amazing it is that it’s from “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” here during midsummer in Sedona!  All these clues are meant to show me and you, dear reader, to take these vision as real on another plane of reality.  This globe of change is real that sweet Helena has gifted us.

FirefoxScreenSnapz088I peer into the Grecian Reboot globe and see the Parthenon of Greece, restored to full glory, operating in energetic lockstep with a mock Parthenon in Nashville.  A fit to all my recent visions of a Greece that never fell.  A lost timeline of a Golden Age that never ended that we are rejoining .

“Will this really do the trick for my messed up world, Helena?”

“We guarantee all our new realities, Mr. Sheetz.” Helena says with a smile that fills my heart with golden light.

The dazzling vision of Helena’s shop fades.  I lay contented in bed at the resort in meditation a while longer, awaiting more wonders.  Then I realize I am being greedy.  How the heck do you top a meditation about a golden globe given to you by the goddess Helena at the end of the universe for rebooting your home planet?

Eat your heart out, Hollywood.  No wonder I don’t bother with TV or movies much anymore.  Why with the wonders that lie within… free and easy to access?  Just a little good breathing, some concentration and, zoom, your off the stars!

I chuckle at my old Matrix greed that lingers and hop from bed a freer man.  Time for a bike ride in the desert and then coffee to blog about this while all is fresh in my mind.

Here’s my video about rain in the desert from 2005.


“A dream ain’t over ’til I say so.” – Ken Sheetz AKA Agent Smith

I dream this morning that I am in a training camp for psychic warriors of the Shift.  I swim in the left lane bedside three other students in a roped off area of the Pacific Ocean near Hawaii.  Logs block the path of our swim lanes.  All four of we swimmers of spirit easily manage to turn the logs to open our lanes with our minds.  We all keep swimming steadily forward through the intricate oceanic obstacle course.  Dolphins cheer us on doing stunts and squeak calls.

Sub Levitation
See more of my vision art at DreamShield.org

A submarine surfaces, blocking my swim lane. “Part of the test?” I wonder to the other swimmers.

“I don’t think so.”  says a young woman about my age.  I’m seventeen in this dream.  The age I train and become life guard in Milwaukee, where I save 17 kids in real life.

The sub turret guns spin for us.  I realize the enemy is out to kill we young psychic warriors before we can complete our training.  I hold forth a hand from the ocean and will the sub to lift from the sea.  “It’s huge.  Bigger than I can lift!” I shout to the other three students.

“You can do it, Ken!  Raise it from the sea and crush it like a clam shell,” shouts the young beauty with hair as red as the rocks of Sedona.

I strain with all my might but I am only able to lift the bow of the sub from the sea.  “Too big!”  I shout, happy now at least the sub’s guns can’t target us.  But I am not sure how long I can keep us safe from the malevolent nuclear sub.


I awake from the dream in Sedona in a light sweat.  I realize it’s not a dream.  It’s a repressed memory coming to the surface.  I close my eyes and I see Morpheus smile at me.  “Welcome back to Sedona, Agent Smith,” the gap toothed Morpheus congratulates me.

THE FALANAGAN EXPERIMENTS stars Stephanie Sutton and super scientist Patrick Flanagan

Morpheus is referring to a dinner I had yesterday in Sedona, after a lovely tour, where I was photographer for Patrick Flanagan and his wife Stephanie Sutton,of PhiSciences, whose newlywed niece was visiting with her Italian husband and best man from Italy. I explain over salad I used to be so deep in the Matrix before leaving Chicago real estate to be a Hollywood filmmaker, that the character I most related to from the film trilogy, THE MATRIX, was Agent Smith.  Stephanie and Patrick are both shocked I was such a super asshole in my real estate mogul days in the 80s and 90s.  We all get a big laugh of joy about my transformation to an enlightened filmmaker.

My escape from the Matrix accelerated to light speed after witnessing ET angelic like beings build the DreamShield for human ascension and protection in Italy in May of 2010.  The Dreamshield is a profound instrument made of a combination of Gaia’s energies and our collective consciousness as her children, then ignited by ETs.  This elevated earth from a slave planet to a protected world under Galactic Treaty commencing 1.1.11.

My adult kids are still freaked out by the amazing story of the DreamShield and have not spoken to me in over two years since I shared seeing 7 foot tall blue ET angels in Italy.  Stephanie explains my wonderful son and daughter are deep in the Matrix and their reaction of brain shut-down is typical.  Steph gives me hope that none of my kids’ distancing is really personal.

I am honored to be one of many custodians of the DreamShield, under its many names and guises.  No ego.  No high priests allowed.  After the exhausting meditation event of 12.12.12. in Antarctica, still #1 on Google search for “coolest meditation ever”, 2013 has been a year of profound healing for me in Sedona with Patrick and Stephanie.

What more wonders await me and the DreamShield, which I recently learned is the same name Navajo shamans give to their shield on which the project their visions to share with the tribe.  Sounds a lot like what I’ve done for the past 18 years; a Hollywood filmmaker sharing my visions on movie, TV and computer screens with my tribe, you.

Meeting my Inner Morpheus


My inner Morpheus is a very real, like all imaginary characters we come to love.  He’s a paradoxical guide born of one of my favorite movies.  “Use what you learned from the Shaman in LA, finish the dream of the sub,” Morpheus advises me.

I concentrate on returning to the dream, only now I am the master I am today at 60, not a 17-year-old in training.  With ease and grace I levitate the sub from the ocean into the air.  “Gotta save the crew before I wreck the sub,” I say to the young swimmer who is now a mature beauty.

“Nice,” she says as I life the sub over to the beach and twist it onto its side. “Everyone off the ship who wants to live.”

Sailors leap and fall into the sandy beach from the sub.  I will the floating sub to shake a few times and the last sailors run off into the jungle realizing they are no match for these four masters.

I toss the sub into the sky.  I fly from the ocean after it.  The sub’s hull burns red-hot from the air friction.  Then, exiting earth’s atmosphere, the sub cools.  I see a debris field being brought for earth by rogue aliens breaking the Galactic Treaty that made earth a protected world on December 31, 2010.  These stubborn forces of the dark energy have not given up.

At dinner yesterday Stephanie Sutton spoke of a dark cloud of debris from that would create three days of darkness and death upon our world.  I realize in this meditation my mission is to wipe out that illegal spaceship towing the debris for our world.  The creepy ship’s sensor’s pick me and the sub up. They feel safe behind the debris field.  A mistake.

I form a force field about the nuclear sub and hurl it like a missile through the debris field of tiny asteroids.  I am too fast.  The hostile alien ship explodes and its tractor beam with it.  With a blast of super breath I send the debris sailing for the sun.

Mission accomplished I return to my body in Sedona and fall back to sleep.


Agent Sheetz/Smith

I awake from the DreamShield meditation inside a dream.  I sit up in bed surrounded by fellow prisoners.  I am Agent Smith, but I retain all my memories of this life as Ken Sheetz.  I calmly check myself over.  I am in a black prison outfit and I know this is “The Matrix” prison for our minds.

The prison is vast and high-tech.  Rather than bars, our cells are all clear plexiglass.  I walk to the balcony and watch as guards herd the zombie like prisoners to breakfast.

I step off the 3 story high balcony and fall for the prison floor like a rock.  I feel no fear.  I know my power.  I am here to free minds.  Just before I reach the prison floor my momentum stops on a dime.

A shocked guard raises a weapon. “Agent Smith?  Stand down!”

With a slight curl of my palm the guard’s Uzi flies from his grip to mine.  Mercilessly, unlike the me in mediation that spared the sub crew, I toss his body like a toothpick across the vast hall.  He falls screaming to his death.

Agent Smith has no mercy.  Guard after guard meet their Matrix makers as I stride through the vast prison floor, a one man chaos field of death and destruction.

Mr. Sheetz I presume?

An advanced SWAT guard to my left gets a drop on me and fires.  Too slow.  I hold out a hand and his bullets turn to harmless gold water.  I fire my Uzi and it sprays high-powered water that knock him out.

At last I reach the clear foot thick walls of the prison.  An army of prisoners are behind me, anxious for freedom.  I will the vast clear vault door to slide open when a Redline subway train chatters up to the prison platform, full of new prisoners for brainwashing.

Train guards spot the prison riot and take up firing positions.  A guard yanks a female hostage from the train.  I stop opening the prison door as he tosses the young woman into the prison through the small opening I have made.  I see the young lady is my daughter.

“Janelle?” I say as she runs to my arms.

“Yes, Dad.  You have to stop.  You’re hurting a lot of people.”

As I hold my daughter she is shifting in age, a teen, 30, a baby.

“Sweetie, that’s the Matrix talking.  I am freeing people not hurting.” I say feeling the wind going out of my psychic sails.

“Look at all the dead guards,” says my age shifting daughter, her forms of her whole life flashing in rapid succession.

I see mothers with young kids on picnic blankets who look at me like a killer.  My daughter’s tears make me cry too.


I awake in deep frustration.  The Matrix is a bitch to escape, even for Agent Smith.  But I head for breakfast feeling hopeful I at least found my daughter.

I will continue this dream later as I was taught in 2011 by a powerful Hollywood shaman.  It’s the best thing I’ve ever learned about managing bad dreams.  Dreams ain’t over until we say.  I will free my daughter and the world from the Matrix just the way I wiped out a hostile alien ship last night.

FirefoxScreenSnapz073I love protecting my world and the fact few believe I do.  Heck, I don’t need a secret identity to be a super hero!  Genius these ETs who guide my missions.  Please, enjoy this as simple fiction writing if you wish.  It’s cool camouflage for me if you think that all this is.  Pay no attention this “Agent Smith” gone good behind the curtain.

I have so many more cosmic adventures ahead!  The ETs say I must live another 48 years guarding the earth for the Shift to take hold. Earth manifests new reality planet wide at the speed of the growing tree, about 50 years I was told in 2012.  Today I just found the time to research what kind of trees mature at that rate.  Answer according to Google, our modern oracle?  Pine tress.  I have adored pines all my life.  I have even written a 2002 screenplay called THE LAST PINE about Xmas from the POV of pine trees.  And the symbol for the pineal glade and sacred symbol is the pine tree.  Confirmation!

I am being literally rebuilt in Sedona to last at least another 50 years by Patrick Flanagan’s life enhancing PhIScience‘s longevity products.  None of this was planned by me or Patrick.  It’s divine synchronicity at full power.  And Patrick’s reward is that the ETs of DreamShield are downloading him nightly with new discoveries that I am told will lead to human immortality.  How cool it that?

Maintaining the DreamShield is sacred.  I am on the case like an Agent Smith of the light, keeping it cool to free your mind.

Pay Attention to That Man Behind the Green Screen!

Note the golden medallion like shape of the wizard’s work spot?

A heart is not judged by how much you love; but by how much you are loved by others. – Wizard from “The Wizard Oz”

By Ken Sheetz

“The Wizard of Oz” is my all time favorite movie.  Last night I had a dream/vision of getting caught like the Wizard behind the curtain.  In the dream a vast green screen is a spread across a valley I stand above atop a vast mesa.  I am the media Gandalf for an army light workers resting between battles.

A warrior princess I am serving spots the fact I use the illusion of the green screen and shouts,”Trickery?!”

“Yes, and no, fair warrior.  The green screen is a portal for those on the web to travel and share in your battles for change.”  I say handing her my camera with a graceful bow, “Please, if you’d be so kind as to snap a picture of me stepping from behind the curtain I would be deeply honored.  It’s time for me to be seen.”

The warrior princess takes my camera with a wry smiles and says, “I would be honored to capture your magic behind my magic, Wizard.”

“Don’t be alarmed.  Flying is quite easy for me.” I say as I step into thin air and float gracefully downward into the valley to a spot to have my photo taken by the warrior princess.

But as I drift to the green screen I find myself teleported aboard a train in the Wild West of the 1800s.  I sit down with a grizzled sheriff as the Sedona rocks speed by out the train window.

The Science of Hydration - Final
Real-life Wizard Patrick Flanagan

“Welcome aboard, Wizard.  How come you can time travel and levitate, and I can’t do squat except shoot people?” the sheriff says, spitting into a spittoon.

“Make no comparisons, sir.  You are right where you need to be.  You have greater powers than you know.  We are all connected, sheriff.”


I awake feeling better than I have in weeks.  I’ve been getting out from behind my desk and out of my head.  DreamShield’s mission has become less in spirit and more in connection to those around us.

Feeling guided to be stronger in form, I’ve joined a health club and bought a pass for hiking the canyons as the weather here in Sedona cools.

Patrick Flanagan has been advising me on lowering my blood pressure by releasing anger with my father.  He’s enjoying the blog about my progress. Over lunch the other day I tell him, “Yeah, my issue is not giving love but letting people love me.”

“No.  You don’t do love well either giving or receiving, Ken.  Until you release your anger with your father no love will flow.” the scientist says sipping his iced coffee in the 111 degree heat of August in Arizona.

That stings.  I feel like I have been giving great love with the videos I make for Patrick.  But when I look at it hard, that’s just excellent performance on my part.  I do love the genius.  But the videos are mostly me performing with the little love I can squeeze out of my closed heart.


My father 6 months before his passing. He loved the story of the DreamShield I told him in 2010. My kids are another story. They were shocked I saw 7 foot tall blue angels in Italy.

So this past weekend I finally did let of my anger with my father in a personal DreamShield meditation in Phoenix at the dazzling Botanical gardens.  It was interesting how sad I was about the idea of releasing that father anger. A sure sign I was truly letting go.  After I finished the short ceremony among the cactus in bloom I see how clearly I was holding my father, who passed in 2011, to this world.  I freed a soul 30 months in limbo and myself in Phoenix where the new me begins to rise.  I ask my father as I finish releasing us both of old rage, “Any last words, Dad?  Before you leave?”

The answer is simple and heartfelt in my father’s voice, “I am sorry.”  My tears dry fast in the 112 August Phoenix heat and Dad is gone.

The next day I feel lighter in the private dance lessons I am taking from Mica Monet, a healer here in Sedona.  She’s a great teacher for this Wizard too often stuck behind a computer and in his head.  She also is the first client friend to turn the camera on me like the warrior princess in the dream, though there was no physical resemblance.  Her photo of me has become the banner art for my social media company BuzzBroz.com.

The other night after salsa class we had dinner at Enchanted Village, it’s set deep in the rocks of Sedona.  I shared that Patrick had out me over the top on her father forgiveness advice.  Then I listened to Mica, when I could stop myself from interrupting, an issue I am working on, as the angelic one shared her plans for more dance classes, art, fashion and more.  This confirmed my feeling we all need to be doing more in form.  The mental part of the shift is passed.  It’s time to get real.


After a sumptuous meal, Mica and I do a two person Dreamshield mediation about accepting love personally under the stars and the rocks of the Enchanted Village.  I’m happy to have her expertise on the emotion of love with me as I place my hand to the wet lawn of the freshly watered crochet field.  Mica has had a rough childhood, like most light workers who choose this in our life contract to make us spirit warriors and wizards.  And so she shares the same issues in feminine form as I do.

“Let the love of Gaia flow into you through the earth, Ken.” she says sweetly. “Trust.”

“I’m trying… but my love is still all going outward to Gaia. I can’t feel her love,” I say sadly.

“You are a man.  That’s giving energy.  Accepting love is harder for males.  Don’t lose hope,” Mica says.

Desperate to accept Mother Earth’s love I get down on my hands and knees and bow my forehead to touch the wet lawn. “I only feel a trickle from the flood of love Gaia is sending me.”

“Good start,” says Mica.

“Shit I forgot your leftovers!”  I say and run back to the restaurant.  Funny way to end a mediation, we both laugh as I run off.

“Meet you back at the car,” Mica shouts after, alone beneath the stars with Gaia.  Maybe Gaia wanted some one on one time with Ms. Monet.


It’s such fun hanging with such great wizards in Sedona.  Even Connie Miller, who been working on helping me forgive me father since 2010 when I first saw angels in Italy, miraculously showed up here for a weeklong SoulDrama workshop in May.  Accident?  Nah.  That’s the magic of the DreamShield I am honored to be custodian to!  I am sure she’ll be happy to hear I finally managed the job and took her insights onto my new quantum physics theory of bipolar disorder that just might earn me a Nobel prize one day.

No easy task, as my father made childhood a living hell for me.  A sentence of 18 years of daily insanity.  I can’t express my gratitude to her, Patrick, his wife Stephanie Sutton, who worked on getting me focused on why I chose such a bipolar father before birth and sweet Mica, all three for helping me heal the biggest wound of my life.  It’s been that hard for me.  A team of three people working on me daily for six months.

Patrick Flanagan’s 14K Gold Platted Sensor V Medallion

Most of the 44 completed videos for THE FLANAGAN EXPERIMENTS have been filmed on green screen.  But like the dream I have stepped from behind the green curtain for this stellar video about Patrick Flanagan’s portable portal, as I fondly call his Sensor V medallion.

Since I began wearing the doctor’s medallion the flow of wealth and abundance has increased.  This allows me to do work on my teeth and eyes that need some repair from a 2008 recession that’s never really ended.  Man does not live by meditation alone.

BTW, Patrick is also a huge Oz fan.  He’s brought the Emerald City to life at Burning Man.  No accidents in all this work.  I am honored to be the media wizard bringing you his real life wizardry via my magical green screen.

Enjoy this teaser video about the amazing Sensor V medallion.  Martian inspired jewelry that’s out of this world.

Special thanks to Somas for inspiring me to get a new lens to capture the wizardry of Patrick’s medallion.


At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet.  – Plato

By Ken Sheetz

The world ends at midnight today, July 25, 2013.  At least according the Mayans per expert Stephanie Sutton, wife of scientist Patrick Flanagan who I am filming here in Sedona for THE FLANAGAN EXPERIMENTS.

This makes today a once in a many lifetimes day to wax nostalgic and share past lives this past 5,125 years. Which was your favorite past life?  Please post your favorite past life below!

Ah.  I am happy just thinking back over so many amazing past lives I connect to in meditation.

FirefoxScreenSnapz022One as Samuel Warner where I founded Warner Broz. (typo intentional) and saw the birth of Hollywood.  A life cut short when I died at 40 of a sinus infection.  I battle sinus infections in this life too, one almost took my life 5 years ago.  My bum nose is my kryptonite.

FirefoxScreenSnapz015I’ve had an incredible life as a Native America shaman named Laughing Skies. I lived here on the Sedona area in the 1800s .  My people were all slain by the white man as I did a vision quest gathering dreams on my dream shield.

I’ve learned just this week, as the old world winds down, that dream shields unlike dream catchers were not used to block dreams but used by shamans, like I was, as projection screens to share visions with the tribe.

I truly had no idea how aptly I named the Big Bang of my visions in Italy of ET building a dream shield about the earth for our aid in evolution.  And so I could not resist Facebooking my producer friend Barnet Bain, who made the amazing WHAT DREAMS MAY COME, starring Robin Williams.

You see, when I first began DreamShield in 2010, I talked to Barnet about it as I thought I might be losing my marbles.  Barnet encouraged me to share my visions, but he passed on getting aboard with DreamShield.org as he did not like the name.  Barnet said DreamShield seemed fearful, this warding off of dreams.  As good pals in film, he on the silver screen with epic films and me modestly on PBS and YouTube with much smaller budgets, we both get a chuckle that a dream shield is actually for sharing dreams in groups and a precursor to our modern-day dream shield of sharing dreams with crowds on the movie screens of all shapes and sizes from the movie theaters to cell phones.  All of them dream shield’s of we modern-day film shamans.

Laughing Skies spirit visits me often as a guide to me in this life on how to heal the white man to be more like the Native Americans, more at one with the mother earth and father sky.  A shocking fact considering the white man killed all his people and family.  I vividly remember when I was Laughing Skies tossing all my dead tribe, wife, son, daughter and mother, on a funeral pyre and then diving into the flames to join them.

But of all the past lives I have so far gotten in touch with, my favorite is when I was the warrior-mayor of ancient Athens.  Time travel with me to ancient Greece when Athens flourished as the flower of mankind.


FirefoxScreenSnapz020One, cool for August, summer day I ride from Athens for the beach atop my horse Pegasus, named for the steed of Greek legend.  My real-life Pegasus, white also but without wings, and I have won many battles together.  We ride as warrior brothers.

I tether Pegasus to a cypress tree and make my way down to the port of Piraeus to inspect new fortifications.

Afterwards I stroll the white beach, loyal Pegasus, following behind at a respectful distance as I ponder matters of state.  Rain threatens.  The sea air is fresh.  A seagull cries out overhead and I say to Pegasus, whose ears perk with understanding, “I thank Zeus for all this beauty!  We are blessed, Pegasus!”

As the youngest general ever of Greece, who saved the city of Athens from raiders, my skills with sword and shied are second to none.  I am named warrior-mayor before the age of thirty.  I am a fierce berserk er style warrior, who will never taste defeat in combat or contest.

I love the beach to keep my fighting skills sharp and go through sword lunges that have ended the lives of many an enemy of Athens.

FirefoxScreenSnapz021A dazzling Oriental mermaid leaps from the sea and perches herself on an outcropping of rocks.  Pegasus rears and whinnies in terror.  I laugh grabbing his reins, “Ha!  Brave Pegasus who has ridden into Hades with me, you fear mermaids!”

The mermaid laughs as I finally calm Pegasus, “Hail, great warrior-mayor Turkos!  I Hato, Mermaid Queen of the East, swam far to seek you out.”

I bow and say, “And for what purpose do you seek of me, fair Mermaid Queen of the East?

“You are called by the god Poseidon to a quest, great Turkos.”

“A quest.  What does the mighty Poseidon ask of me?” I say.

“Your excellence with sword and shield.  Great Poseidon asks you slay an evil dragon plaguing the coastal cities of the Orient!”

My answer comes swift and sure. “I am honored by Poseidon’s request to aid you in your hour of need, beautiful mermaid queen,” I say offering a sword salute from my to my heart to Hato’s and add, “However, my wife Penelope, my three young children and Athens would be left defenseless against the dragons of the north.  So I must refuse.

“You dare decline Poseidon, a wrathful god?” says Hato in shock, her tail flapping nervously on the rocks.

“Yes, Mermaid Queen.  I respectfully decline and ask Poseidon seek another to slay the evil dragon attacking the Orient.  My quest is here in Athens, protecting those I love.”

Hato ponders for a long time, shocked at my refusal to come to her aid.  Obviously, this is the first time anyone has ever said no to the gorgeous siren.

Whinnies from Pegasus break the hypnosis of the waves and Hato says, “I offer you my protection against Poseidon’s wrath.  For he is sure to be sorely vexed with you.”

I am touched Hato is more worried for me than disappointed at my decline to the quest.  I bow to her and say, “Thank you, Hato, queen of the mermaids.  I am sure your beauty will protect us all in Athens from Poseidon’s rage at my selfishness.”

‘”Selfishness?  No, fair warrior!  Sweet Athens and your family are blessed by your love and talents.  I honor your decision made from a pure heart of love,” says Hato.  She bows graciously with a loving smile that pierces my soul.  Hato dives back into the azure Mediterranean waters.

I live out my long life as Turkos the warrior-mayor of Athens with honor and love.  I never regret declining Hato the merimaid queen’s call to action as I will save many citizens and loved ones before hanging up my sword and shield. But I always felt bad I could not be in two places at once and help Hato the mermaid queen.

One day, as a very old man in his 80s, my battles far behind me, most of my family gone of old age, I sit in mediation on the beach. Hato leaps from the sea onto the very same rock some 50 years earlier.  Though I am old and gray, Hato is as young and dazzling as ever.

“Hato! Thank you for all your protection from Poseidan’s wrath all these years!”

“Hail, Turkos.  Your life has been long and honorable,” says Hato.

“What brings you back to my shores?  My Pegasus is gone and I am old, certainly not another quest?” I exclaim.

“You are passing to the next world soon, great Turkos.  I want to free you of doubt in your choice as a young man.” says Hato as she transforms her fins into legs and walks to me and sits down at my side in the white sand.

“Ah, yes.  Seldom has a day passed with my wondering if you found a replacement to slay the dragon.”

Hato places her hand on my forehead.  Her touch is as cool as the sea. “You made the right decision.  I found another warrior to slay the dragon plaguing my seas. The world is filled with warriors.”

“I am so glad you and your people were saved, Hato,” I say, tears of gratitude welling.

“Be at peace, Tukos, and listen.  For though I found a warrior to take your place with sword and shield, I’ve never found a man who loved his own kind so deeply as to risk the wrath of a god.”

My eyes close and I pass happily into death to the gentle sound of the ocean waves and the cool feel of Hato the mermaid queen’s hand on my fevered brow.


Shama Viola of Damanhur Italy with our past life clay work. That’s me as Maya in the foreground

When I share some of this story with the amazing Shama Viola, much of it has come to me more fully in meditations over the past year, the light worker from Damanhur of Italy smiles at first.

I am with a group of seven other students, in Shama’s past life workshop.  We are in a teepee at Great Spirits ranch in Malibu.  It’s summer 2012 and the fan is not keeping the teepee cool.  I am covered in a sheen of sweat when my turn comes to tell the class the past life of Turkos.

I am always teacher’s pet as a bright, if rambunctious student, and I await Shama’s praise of me as the ace past life traveler right out of the box.

Shama instead scolds me,”No, Ken! No!  Turkos is a wonderful past life, Ken, but not the past life our Damanhur oracles in our underground temples have chosen for you to study today!”

“But it’s a great life.  I was so happy!” I say in shock at Shama’s scolding.

“Look deeper. You have led thousands of lives. Tune to the life we have chosen for you to study,” says Shama.

Shama moves onto all the other students and I am the only one who has not tuned into the right past life!

Besides feeling like class dunce instead of my usual ace role, I am frustrated beyond measure and think, ” I want to know more of Turkos and his amazing life.  Now I have to find another life?  Why?  Turkos is the first past life I ever know about.  Ha! And Shama is displeased as though I can just can dial-up another past live like an Iphone?  The nerve of these Damanhurs! ”

My ego is deeply inflamed and I remain stuck on the Turkos life the entire first day of the Damanhur workshop.  I fall behind all the other students, some of whom have come from as far away as the east coast.  Finally, on day two, breaking a sweat in meditation I find the past life Shama wants me to study.

I am shocked I was a woman.  My name was Maya, a powerful female shaman who lived in the rain forests of Brazil on the banks of a great river.  After a lifetime of healing thousands, Maya transforms into an eagle feather as she passes from this world.  Now Shama is happy and I quickly catch up to the other students as Maya’s life pours into me.

It’s a profound experience I highly recommend.  Shama’s Damanhur Past life workshop travels about the world and is not to be missed.

But I still shudder thinking of the dress Shama made me wear in role-playing as Maya!  220 pound me, 6′ tall me and a 6’4″ tall buddy named Marvin, whose past life was a slave girl from Egypt.  Not a pretty sight we two men in drag on a spirit dude ranch in Malibu.

Wonderful as Shama and the Damanhur are in getting me in touch with Maya and the healing powers Maya passed onto me for ongoing work dor freeing people from the Matrix via my social mind over media work at BuzzBroz.com, I still wish we had been able to also work on my life as the mayor of Greece.  A man who knew how to love so well.  A skill I struggle with in this life, as I am great at giving love, but feeble at receiving love.

Stay tuned to the blog as I travel in the fall the Italy and visit the eco-city of Damanhur itself in search of the answers.  My next life the Damanhur want me to study is that of a 19th century Russian physicist.  Fortunately, you get clues of who you were after your first class.  So Turkos I know is not my next life.  My five most important past lives to this one have all been determined.  I hope one of them is the brave lover Turkos.


It’s also my hope and dream that tomorrow, the first official day of new Golden Age, that I, and the many like me who cannot accept love easily, will be able to fully open our hearts like Turkos.  I am filled with excitement and hope here in the red rocks of Sedona toiling with Patrick Flanagan of PhiSciences, a master of past life study, to bring you videos that will change the world.

Enjoy this video I made of Patrick sharing his life as Nikola Tesla.  This remarkable story that will be the opening of the movie I am writing about Patrick’s amazing life.


“Top of the world, Ma!”  James Cagney in WHITE HEAT

White+HEATLOVE MONSTER wasn’t written, the words flew onto my Mac!  Ninety action packed pages worth, like a flock of doves on a mission to spread the word that love is NOT the answer.

Here, in blog-rough-draft style, typos and all, more refined each passing day, presented in fluid form, like an oil painting that never dries and where perfectionism can be put off indefinitely, I invite you, dear reader, to check back once and while to watch this tale of a love’s powerful dark side wreaking havoc on our world evolve into a highly polished novel and screenplay.

Writing has always been a form of meditation for me.  LOVE MONSTER, then, is my darkest and most powerful meditation so far.

WARNING to sensitive souls and young ones under 18; LOVE MONSTER is a dark raunchy R-rated story filled with sex, profanity and violence and not for you!  Stop reading here!

Still with me, age 18 and overs that like a salty tale for release?  Buckle up for a rollicking roller coaster ride of how love can be as destructive as Cagney’s crazy relationship to his Ma in WHITE HEAT.

Love Monster Poster heart


By Ken Sheetz

Once upon a time, in the fair city of Baltimore, there lived a mother who loved her son to death…

A dark tree-lined street smack in middle of Baltimore can hide lots of secrets.  A love monster hangs her hat here.  Her name’s Millie Magoo.  Millie loves her kid Billie.  Loves him so much it hurts.  Loves the spoiled little shit to death.

Millie’s a grossly overweight closet lush who takes solace in romance novels, the Bee Gees and a collection of vibrators she hides under the bed in a hat box.

Millie Magoo is famed in Baltimore for spouting to unsuspecting SUV owners at red lights, “My poor Jake was God damn war hero who gave his young life to fill your fucking gas guzzler’s mother fucking tank!”

But before writing Mildred off as just another angry fat boozy American lost in our over consuming consumer society that’s consuming our planet like a black hole running in slow motion, let’s look back on how Millie Magoo got to be a love monster.


Millie’s sweet 16 birthday party winds down and her school chum girlfriends file out of the Magoo home, giggling and wearing party hats.  But young Millie’s nowhere in sight.  Turns out, Millie left her own party early, sneaking off to a private party in her bedroom to show her favorite uncle her Bee Gees collection.

Uncle Peter, only 5 handsome years older than Millie, holds out a hand and they dance in the little room.  Millie’s shocked as Peter presses himself against the hot looking young Millie, who bears no resemblance to the ruined Millie of the tale’s opener.

“Ain’t the Bee Gees divine?” says Millie nervously.

“How about a sweet sixteen kiss?” say Peter.  Not waiting for an answer he kisses young Millie deeply.

Millie enjoys the kiss, her head swimming as the Bee Gees croon “How Deep is Your Love.”  Millie’s had a crush on Peter her whole young life.  She is into the kiss but now Peter makes another un-uncle-ish move as he squeezes his niece’s tits.

“Uncle Peter!” says Millie slapping Peter tit grubbing hands away.

“You want this, bitch.  You ain’t no a kid anymore.” again Peter kisses Millie deeply, tongue against hers.  Her passion kindles.

Uncle Peter tosses Millie onto the bed and growls, “Let’s get you out of that thong that’s been taunting my dick all day”

“No!  Stop!  Please Uncle Peter!”

Peter whips out his pecker and proceeds to pop his niece. “Tease.  Drop the virgin.  No one can have tits like yours and no —

Millie slaps Peter as she loses her virginity in a gush of blood.  Panicked she shouts, “Help!  Dad!  HELP!”

Heavy footsteps thunder up the hall.

“Stupid little bitch.  Now you did it!” says Peter as he falls in the floor, pants around his ankles.

Mr. Magoo, her bad-ass father, Peter’s much older brother who raised him like a son, bursts in the door and roars, “What is the fuck is going on in here?  Peter?  What you –”

“Millie lured me here like some five dollar hooker!” shouts Pete, pulling his pants up and eying his escape route.

Old man Magoo, sags and glowers at his daughter’s bleeding pussy saying, “That true, Mildred?”

“All I wanted was to listen to the Bees Gees!” Millie sobs.

“Bees Gees?  That old disco shit?  Perve music for queers, queens and niggers!” says Mr. Magoo kicking over the record player.

“Big bro, your hot little Millie got me hot under the collar.  Look at the tits she’s flaunting.  But still I resisted.  Then she drags me up to in her room. First thing she pulls my fucking pants down!” shouts Uncle Peter to big brother Mr. Magoo.

Mr. Magoo buys it hook, line and leather beat.  The enraged father/brother proceeds to almost beat his daughter to death as he bellows,”This is for your own good, Mildred.  I love you too much to see you become God damn whore!”

Peter uses his brother’s father-daughter moment of “tough love” to slither off scot-free back to the rock he lives under when not busy raping nieces.


Still bleeding from her uncle’s rape and father’s beating, her trust in men gone on the snowflakes tugging on her skirt, Millie Magoo sneaks from the back door of the kitchen into the grimy alley.  Tucked in her tattered pink My Little Pony suitcase are all her worldly possessions for starting her new life; leftover birthday cake, a few clothes and her Bee Gees collection of love songs.

Where does a girl with only $89 of sweet sixteen birthday money, no family and ashamed to turn to her friends go?

Millie takes shelter from the freakishly heavy snow storm at the Greyhound Bus station.  Afraid to sleep in the empty station at this late hour, she buys a Red Bull from the vending machine, spending $5 of her precious cash.  She slips on her worn secondhand Koss headphones and cranks up the Bee Gees who sing “More Than Woman”.

Young Millie is whisked away on a cloud of disco euphoria.  She dances solo in the empty bus station.  Disco lights set Millie aglow and now she dances with Andy Gibb while he croons “More than a woman” to her.  Millie is free!

A handsome young soldier in crisp Desert Storm fatigues applauds.  Millie’s disco illusion evaporates.  She blushes and sits down so fast she misses the bench, falling on her butt.  The soldier helps her up.  “Too bad you stopped. I was digging it.”

“Oh no, I suck,” sighs Millie.

“Tip for you, never use the word ‘suck’ with a horny soldier,” the movie star handsome soldier offers with a winning grin.

“Millie Magoo,” she says sweetly offering her little hand to his big mitt for a shake.

“Name’s Jake Biggs.  Where you heading, Miss Magoo?” he says his handshake swallowing her delicate hand.

“Millie, silly.  Heading for New York next.  Just got in from Florida, ” Millie lies not so convincingly.

“Um.  How’d you like to be my stunt girlfriend for a visit to my mom’s?” says Jake timidly.

“Well, I guess New York can wait.” smiles Millie.  “I love being free as a bird.  This is how I do things.  Spur of the moment Millie!”

As they ride through the snowy streets in the taxi Millie can see Jake is nervous about visiting his mom and offers, “My family stinks too.”

Jake is stunned he’s so obvious and says, “Joined the army when I turned seventeen.  Lied about my age just to get the fuck outta my home.  Never thought I’d end up in combat.  But you know what?”

“What?” smiles Millie, trying to hide how much in love with this kindred soul she already is, trying and failing not to come on too fast.

“I’ll take bullets over my head over my nuts family any day.  I should let you out here at the all night Mickey D’s.  Pick you up after.  Such a wimp dragging a stranger into my mess,” says Jake sadly as he stare out the taxi windows.

Millie pats Jake’s trembling hand, “You’re stuck with this strange stranger.  Maybe for life.”

“I’d dig that.” says Jake like he means it, taking Millie’s tiny hand into his.

Millie’s heart soars as the Taxi, with the stone-silent driver, passes the old Catholic church.  A silent prayer of thanks pops into her mind she offers to the statue of the Virgin Mary, “Thank you, Mother Mary, for this miracle of meeting sweet Jake and redeeming my 16th birthday.”

The taxi arrives outside the scary looking Biggs family home.  “Last chance to bail on this,” says Jake.

Millie playfully shoves Jake out the taxi door.  But as soon as she steps into the chilled night air, one look at the strange house almost makes Millie bolt.

Millie sits alone in the dusty living room.  The traumatized teen, who thought her night from hell was over, listens in terror to Jake and his mother argue loudly in the kitchen up the dark dank hall.  There’s a tone of menace is Jake’s mother’s voice that’s demonic.  Millie is sadly learning there are worse parents out in the world than her own.

“I don’t see you for two years, Jake, and you bring some tramp whore off the street into my home?” shouts Mrs. Biggs loud enough to be sure Millie can hear her from the living room.

“Fuck this,” mutters Millie to herself and stomps to the kitchen.  Jake sits head in hands at the table.  His mother sobs, back turned to her son at the sink washing dishes in an OCD fury.  Something softens in Millie at the sad sight of these two fighting.  An all too familiar scene.

She’d been prepared to hoof it back to the bus station, instead Millie offers sweetly, “Need help with the dishes, Mrs. Biggs?”

Jake’s mother slowly spins from the sink, a butcher knife in her hand. “Get out of my house, tramp.”

“Fuck you, Mom! I ain’t nobody’s tramp!” shouts Millie, shocked at her deep rage at this strange lady she just called mom.

Mrs. Biggs races screaming for Millie, the huge knife gleaming.  Jake leaps between the crazed women. “Ugh…”

Both women scream in unison at the knife sticking from Jake’s gut.  The light’s go out in Jake’s eyes before he can even mutter a bad death line.


The next weeks are a blur for Millie of police stations and abusive foster homes she escapes from over and over again. Millie finds a cozy spot over a warm sewer to pitch a tent she steals from another homeless chick.

Despite a parade of endless offers, the hot young Millie refuses to turn tricks.  She prefers the deep dignity of a break she scores with a lecherous old strip club owner scouting runway talent on the streets.  Millie gets a strange kick, dolled up each night as a sexy cocktail waitress in a red light strip club, tormenting horny men like her Uncle who want more, just doing blow jobs while huge bodyguards keep greedy pervs at bay.

Millie makes enough on blow jobs and tips from overly generous drunk strip club customers to get a shitty apartment in a Mexican neighborhood.  Lousy as her apartment looks, its hers!  Milie revels, dancing to the blaring Bee Gees to drown out the Mexican polka music besieging her on all sides.

One day, as she happily does her thrift store dishes to the beat of “Dancing Queen”, Millie becomes dizzy and falls to the floor.

Later puking into the toilet, Millie examines the pregnancy stick that confirms her worst fear: The dirty dishes dancing queen is pregnant with Uncle Peter’s child.

But as a good little devout Catholic, Millie is going to have the child, incest or no incenst.  She decides her new bundle joy’s name will be Billie or Jillie. Names the child-mother-to-be childishly likes as they rhyme with Millie.

Jake Biggs becomes the father in her stories she tells to the girls at the strip club who mercilessly tease about her pregnancy.  But Jake the soldier won’t have died on his mother’s kitchen floor.  No way.  Nope.

Millie’s wants this story to stick and so she weaves it carefully from what she reads at the library about Bush 1’s war to free Kuwait, which will leads Bush 2’s war to kill Saddam, which will lead to Bush 1’s/Obama’s war kill Osama and on and on to wars to kill guys no one’s ever heard of before. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.  These are the Desert Storm days of the 90s when America is falling back in love with war after a nasty love affair with that jerk of date we called Vietnam.

One night, in the middle of a blow job, Millie unveils the tale of “Jake the War Hero Killed by Friendly Fire” and gets the biggest tip of her life; $500.  Now Millie tells the tragic death tale, worthy of Shakespeare, to all who will listen so often that she believes it herself.

Thereby tuning out the horrible rape by Uncle Peter forever.  But in the process of numbing her pain with fantasy Millie as lost touch with something precious, a thing called reality.

But Millie’s still enough in touch with reality to launch a desperate search for a stepfather for her unborn kid, using a used computer a strip club regular gives her for a blow job.  Millie’s becomes a whiz with computer dating.  She desperately fishes the cyber waters for a sap.  Though her face pic is hot enough for lots of nibbles, once the long line of horny guys on the line meet her and see some other guy’s bun is in her oven, all run.

This goes on for months.  No dice with dating saps to find Mr. Free Ride, though she does score enough blow jobs to make rent.

But soon there will be another mouth to feed.  Millie is on her own with no family to help.  Millie freaks out to “Freak’ by the disco late comers Chic, crying alone in her shoebox of an apartment, “How can I take care of a baby when I can barely take care of my fucking self?”

Deep into her third trimester, Millie meets a drifter in the Safeway parking lot who gallantly helps the prego Millie carry groceries to her car.  He bows like a court jester and he introduces himself, “Desmond Starseed, Vegan extraordinaire, ET walk-in, at your service.”  Millie giggles as Desmond scopes out Millie’s grocery bags he loads in her trunk.  “This junk food is going to kill you and your baby, who looks like they might be here any minute.”

Now, most people might get pissed off when a total stranger starts critiquing their diet.  But Millie is intrigued for her unborn baby.  “You got the receipt for this crap food?” says Desmond Starseed.  Millie nods coyly.  “Good!  Tell you what…?”

“Millie,” she offers to his charming pause.

“Tell you what, Millie.  Today you are blessed.  You buy me a salad and I’ll teach you how to eat Vegan!” Desmond says with the passion of a convert.

“No, I love my Twinkees too much to ever go veg.  But you show me how to do healthy for my kid,” she says patting her belly, “And you got your salad… and some desert.”

Desmond grins a charismatic smile that gets Millie’s wet in right there in the Kroger parking lot.  She takes Desmond by his bony arm and gets a lesson on Vegan healthy eating at the Safeway and that night he gets the blow job of a lifetime.  Work at the strip club had made Millie a virtuoso BJ queen.

The honeymoon doesn’t last long for this parking lot romance.  Desmond proves to be a judgmental jerk.  One day as Millie sadly complains about her fucked up life, Desmond arrogantly tells Millie that she is “Negative Manifesting”, accusing her of subconsciously ruining her own life.

The “Starseed”, not really a Starseed, just a schtick the criminal drifter picked up as cover story from the One Love Fest in Ojai while scouring trash cans for chow, can barely pay for gas for his beat to hell van he lives in.  And here the fucker is, telling poor Millie again she’s a bad manifester while she blows him.  “Fuck his smarmy ass,” she thinks.  But still she sees Desmond and sucks him silly when he shows up sponging gas dough.  Yep.  “Half a man is better than none for my baby, ” she rationalizes.

One night the cops run Desmond, the Master Manifester of nothing but thin air, off the Safeway parking lot along with his shitty van.  Millie never hears from the New Age wonder again.  “Good riddance to bad Starseeds,” she thinks and means it.


One rainy spring day, while she’s emptying cum tissue wads from the strip club waste cans, Millie’s water breaks.  Tina Turnover the stripper comes to Millie’s rescue by dumping her on the doorstep of a luxury Baltimore hospital before hightailing it back to the strip club.  Thus, besides her beloved Billie, is born a $30,0000 ER hospital bill Millie will never be able to handle.

Millie’s eventual bankruptcy, triggered by the expensive emergency baby delivery job, becomes the heart of the reason Millie votes for Obama when ’08 elections roll around.  Even later, when Obama Care comes out of the oven as mandatory health insurance premiums paid to giant corporations, Millie fantasizes about changing Mr. Hope and Change’s life into something shorter.

Millie got her masters degree in hating her father and a fetus of hate for Obama takes the place of her boy Billie in her womb.  A hate that deepens in her heart with each betrayal of her love for his campaign facade, as Obama swings further to the right than Bush 2 each year.

Baby Billie asleep in her little nylon papoose, Millie lights candles to the Virgin Mary and makes her way into the confessional.  The little confessional door slides open and though she cannot see him except in silhouette, Millie recognizes from his thick Irish she is speaking to the handsome new priest Father O’Hara.

“Forgive me, Father.  My last confession was last week and I have sinned,” says Millie.

“Go on, child,” says Father O’Hara, not much older than Millie, but loving his role as priest.

“I gave oral sex for money,” says Millie.

“How many times, child?” ask Father O’Hara, his voice revealing relief at finally hearing an interesting confession.  This parish was getting to be a drag.

“Twelve or thirteen.  I lose count,” says Millie sadly.  Baby Billie starts to cry.  Millie silences her baby by offering her ample breast for feeding.  Billie’s sucking on her nipples gives Millie deep orgasmic pleasure, but this is something she’s too ashamed to confess.

“The church and social services are a better solution than giving oral sex for money, child, ” offers Father O’Hara.

“I want to show my family I can stand on my own!” says Millie surprised at her angry reasoning. “I have a newborn child and bills to pay.  Father Flanagan usually just listens, forgives me and we move on.  So can we get this over with?”

“This is the holy confessional not a the proper forum for debate. Have you any other sins to confess?” says Father O’Hara, his brogue getting thicker as he becomes more agitated.

“Well, there’s this new hot young Irish priest that just joined the parish who I’ve been fantasizing about fucking silly.  Is that a sin?” says Millie mockingly.

Flummoxed, Father O’Hara is briefly lost for a response, but manages to blurt,  “Yes, child, you have committed a sin indeed of demonic proportion.  Say 500 Hail Mary’s as penance and I will pray for your soul.  Priests married, dear one, to the church.  Any other sins to confess?”

Angry silence answers the righteous Father O’Hara.

“Hello?” says Father O’Hara, satisfied he has crushed the spirit of this brash woman.

“It was a fucking joke.  Maybe not a funny, one, Father O’ Hara, ”  Millie says in mocking Irish brogue.  “Yeah, I know who you are sitting behind your little screen door.  You made me your enemy today.  Chew on this, while you live on my donations, you pious prick.  I am a single teen mother fighting for my survival and my new baby’s life because fuckers like you in Rome make it a sin to have an abortion.  I smell you, Father O’Hara.  And you stink like a rat who hates women.  So I’m watching you like a hawk eyes fucking dinner.  One altar boy gets touched and I will nail you to the cross you hide behind, you smarmy Mick.”  Millie slams the confessional door and storms from the church, baby Billie bawling.

A year later Father O’Hara, despite his best Irish charm efforts, has not managed to mend the fence with Millie.  He may as well give up because all her deep anger with men has found a holy target.  Millie even goes so far as to convince a detective who is a regular BJ customer to run a background check.  But the detective is unable to penetrate the secrecy of the church.

One day Millie sits in the confessional and tells Father Flanagan of her intuitive hunch saying, “Fatjer O’Hara is a pervert, Father Flanagan.  I feel it down to my bones.”

“My child, Father O’Hara, has become an obsession for you.  I assure you he is a good man, with impeccable credentials.” says the elder priest.

“Father Flanagan, I love you.  You’ve been my priest my whole life.  You know what I went through with my uncle and father. Bad as it’s all been it’s given me a sixth sense about evil men.  And I know, beyond question, O’Hara is a bad apple.  No, that’s not strong enough.  He’s a poison apple that might destroy your parish if he molests our kids,” Millie says with all her heart.

“Millie, you need to forget hunches, have faith in me as head of this flock, focus on getting a real job.  Your baby is soon going to grown.  You can be forgiven each week for your way of supporting the both of you.  But you owe it to your Billie boy to find legitimate income.,” says Father Flanagan gravely.

“I love my Billie so much but it’s hard.  I never finished high school and most jobs today want college degrees,” says Millie.

“Love is how you find your way out of the trap.  To find the new way to earn a living you must stop giving oral sex to strange men.  Stop out of love.  Turn all that wasted energy into love for Billie.  Love is the answer.  Put your faith and love in Lord Jesus and Mother Mary.  Love will find the way.” says Father Flanagan.

Millie takes Father Flanagan at his word she quits the strip club.  Millie is truly surprised when Tina Turnover and the gang of strippers all throw Millie a good-bye BJs party.

“How you gonna make it, girlfriend?” Tina ask as the party winds down.

“Love is the answer.  I am going on faith,” says Millie, terror in her voice.

“Well, fuck faith.  If you get in a jam you come running back.  One thing about blow jobs.  They never go outta style!” Tina laughs as she hugs the wary Millie.

“You know, I know old Bob doesn’t really own this joint.  He’s your front right?” says Millie.

“You are one smart cookie, kid.  If anyone can go legit you’re it!” says Tina playfully booting Millie for the door.

Weeks pass and Millie’s meager savings dwindle.  She’s about to give Tina a call when a miracle comes the 18-year-old mama’s way when Billie, who never seems to stop crying, and she are about to be evicted from her studio apartment.  The miracle occurs eviction eve, also Xmas Eve and her fated birthday, at 3 AM while she is desperately surfing Match.com for a man, any man with a decent job, when a blind pop up ad pops up.  She hates pop up ads, until this one, promising she can make $3,000 a month sitting at home on her sweet little ass.

And, lo and behold, a few clicks later teen mama Millie transforms into a spammer for an Asian porn site, making a big push into the US market. With a porn power advance wired to her bank from Hong Kong she beats the clock on eviction.

It’s that crazy one in million lotto ticket of a work at home gig.  Now she can love up Billie proper, like the handsome priest told her!  The joy is short-lived when Millie learns she can be carted off to jail in the middle of the night.  You see, this was not just porn… but Asian kiddie porn.

Millie has officially joined the vampires of this world that feed off the weakest of humankind.  Much of the light goes out of her bright eyes forever.

The big issue as far as loving her Billie, is that Millie believes she has no love examples in life to draw on, except beatings from her “This horse beating is for your own damn good!” dad.

Desmond had once said, in one of his better moments as she blew him in the back of his shitty van, “Relax, Silly Millie, you’ll know how to love your baby.  You are made of love.  Love’s not something you learn from anyone, babe. — Now, that’s some seriously sage shit I just gave you gratis.  Can you spot me a fifty for that gem of wisdom I picked up from Osho?”

But Millie dismisses all the messed up Starseed tried to teach her while cumming on her face.  Nope, a slightly used video collection of 60s TV shows she picks up at a WalMart parking lot sale for two bucks comes to the rescue as Millie’s role model of “family love”.

She wants to be the next Mrs. Cleaver, the next Mrs. Brady and Aunt Bea all rolled into one loving mama.  Millie studies THE DICK VAN DYKE show like it’s Tolstoy.  She roars with laughter at the bad ass way Alice stands up the loud mouthed bullying Ralph, who resembles Papa Magoo.

But Lucy is her “I love” favorite.  She revels in Lucy’s amazing comedic dance to always outsmart the bossy anger-fest that is the ranting Ricky.  Millie has no idea the real life version of the Desilu production was a bitter off-screen divorce that left Lucille Ball heartbroken.

The fake Brady Bunch parade of old sitcoms gives Millie about as much emotional nutrition as the Twinkees she’s become addicted to, along with the other GMO hopped up junk foods, that daily erode her figure and beauty.

Such waste of her time these cultural dinosaurs.  Just as the homeless Desmond predicted, while spraying his Starseed in her face, Millie is a natural-born good mother.   Breast feeding is an orgasmic joy for  her.  She loves spoiling Billie with top line Carter baby clothes and pricey Fisher-Price toys.  She loves taking Billie for long walks in the park where she shares her story of Billie’s fallen hero father Jake with other young mothers she meets.

It is the high point of her life, even without a man for sex, and her corrupt career of spreading web filth for a living.  Life is good, at least the best ever for this escapee from an abusive family.


Though she might fool the world about her dirty job, Millie cannot fool herself.  Her endless love for poor kid Billie becomes an act of contrition for her spreading kid porn.  Humans are way smarter than we let ourselves know, especially little humans.  Little Billie smells her excessive love for him really has nothing to do with him.  So Billie’s shields go up around his heart and he never truly accepts his mother’s tainted love.  Millie feels the pain of Billie’s primal rejection at her core like battery acid, leading to her addiction to Prozac.

Rather than get down and dirty to the dirty root cause of this dis-ease between Millie and son, she doubles her mission of loving Billie in one-way fashion.  Her one-way love affair with her son only creates more and more ego in little Billie.  Billie’s ego becomes a vampire that drinks the blood of Millie’s desperate love efforts.


One night Millie cuddles up with Billie on the couch with a huge bowl of heavily buttered popcorn to watch old her TV show love examples.  She roars with laughter at Lucy stuffing her face with chocolates racing down the assembly line.

Billie, now a five-year-old tyrant, blurts in disgust, “What’s so funny about watching this stupid old lady stick food in her mouth like you, mommy?”

Millie bolts up on the couch just as surely as if her father had just whipped her with his studded belt and slaps Billie across the cheek.  Instantly, she regrets her blunder seeing the hate in Billie’s ego-filled gaze.  “Billie!  Oh, God!  Billie, mommy is so sorry!”

“I’m going to report you to the police!” shouts Billie in his mother’s face, then runs off to his overly decorated bedroom.

Terrified about a police visit that may unravel her kiddie porn career and send her off to prison, Millie dashes for her boy’s room.  Billie is on his Iphone dialing 911 when Millie kicks the door open.  By the way, Billie wasn’t then only kindergartener to have one in his new class to have an Iphone.  He hates school, disobeys the teacher and fights with classmates.  None of the little slobs treat Billie like the king he is at home.

Millie grabs the Iphone from Billie just as the 911 operator says, “911.  Please state your emergency.”

“Nothing.  My little boy, uh, was playing with his new Iphone.  Ha ha.  Kids. — Billie shame on you!  — Sorry ma’am!” says Millie disconnecting the call.

“You want to see what happens to little boys who abuse their Iphones?” screams Millie throwing the Iphone out the window.  Broken glass flies everywhere in slow motion.

Millie is having one hell of an out-of-body experience.  She watches herself yank Billie from his bed and throw the terrified kid over her knees, pull his pants down and spank Billie so hard that his little ass turns red as a tomato.

“I am doing this because I love you, Billie boy!  I won’t have my son grow about to be a…”

Millie stops herself short of the word “whore’ but keeps beating the screaming boy, watching helplessly from above the ceiling fan as her unchained bitch-self beats her little boy’s ass to a bleeding pulp.  She fights with all her will to get back into her body and make this child abuse stop, but all she can do is pray for a divine intervention to save her Billie.

“I’ll be good, mama!  I’ll watch your old TV shows!” bawls Billie.

Millie has never before raised her voice to Billie, let alone this crazy shit.  Her kid is in total shock and ego deflation.  At that sad ego-less moment, Millie is finally able to get back in her body’s own drivers seat.  She takes her sobbing boy into her arms and cries with him.  If she could see the deepened hatred that burns in Billie’s eyes over her shoulder, she’d be out of her body again.

Though Billie never tries the 911 routine again, things only become steadily worse between Millie and Billie.   Her over-generous acts to get back in her boy’s good graces, after her repeated maniacal outbursts, only make Billie’s ego stretch bigger.  Soon Billie’s ego is a monster-sized reflection of Millie’s monster love.


Billie is busy in class learning how to never study any faith but the Holy and true Roman Catholic faith, when Millie gets a call from the Catholic school principal Father Flanagan, “Mrs Magoo.  Can you drop whatever you’re doing and come right over to my office now?  We have to discuss a grave matter concerning your son, Billie.”

“Um, sure.  I will be there in 5 minutes.  What is the matter?” says Millie.

“It’s of a sensitive nature best not discussed over the phone, Mrs. Magoo,” says the principal.

“I’m on my way, Father!” says Millie, already double locking her attic office door.

All the drive over in her green Prius Millie is in tears, terrified of her whole life unraveling as she pep talks herself, “Oh my God. Billie’s ratted on me for the beatings.  Well, let’s see how the little rat fink likes life in foster homes when child services carts him off.”

Mille hurries into the rectory building and runs smack into Father O’Hara, knocking a stack of magazines he carries flying.  Millie is shocked to the mags are kiddie porn of little Asian boys.  Porn Father O’Hara whacks off to regularly, but he cleverly says,  “Oh, Millie you, you startled me, lass.  Apologies for your seeing this filth.  I, ah, I am tracking down an Asian porn ring, operating over the web and sending this smut all over America.”

“I, I don’t have time to chat.  Billie’s in some trouble and I, I am seeing the principal,” she says, fearing the police are waiting for her in said principal’s office to bust her for spreading the filth like the Father has latched onto, but in reality would never want to stop the free flow of.

Relieved Millie bought his lie that strangely comes close to the truth, Father O’Hara says,”Just be calm and obedient, love, and you’ll be fine.  Do whatever the old control freak asks of you, even if the old perv asks for sexual favors.  OK?” Father O’Hara wink an Millie patting her hand.

Too shocked and frightened to speak or return his sly wink, Millie yanks her hand from O’Hara and runs off in a cold sweat.

Father O’Hara mutters to himself angrily as he stuffs the smut into his tunic, “Fucking ungrateful fat cunt.”

Millie shifts nervously in her seat as she waits for the principal in his office.  She spots a picture on the wall of Father Flanagan shaking hands with Senator Obama at a Washington dinner party.

Principal Father Flanagan enters reverently, as if still in prayer.  He silently takes his big leather seat behind his oak desk.  He gazes down thick glasses at Millie and says grimly, “Your Billie is a holy terror.”

“I know, I know.  I do my best.  If he’s said something about my spankings.  Well –”

With a raise of his hand Father Flanagan silences the tearful Millie and says, “Your son has been diagnosed as ADD by the school nurse.”

“What’s that?  Is he sick?  Oh my God!”

Father Flanagan clucks, “Ninety percent of the little dears in this school have ADD.”

“ADD… Add?” says Millie playing it stupid as she learned men love in her strip club days.

“Stands for ‘Attention Deficit Disorder’.  When I was your age we called these wild children ‘hyper, ‘” says Father Flanagan, like a genius educating a moron mommy.

Millie sags in a mixture of relief.  She’s off the hook as a child abusing mom.  Society’s lowest of the low.

Now, Millie walks right into the system of collaboration between the big pharmaceuticals, as huge dollar donors of schools in return for drugging our kids into zombies, by asking Father Flanagan, “What can I do, Father Flanagan?”

The priest smiles wickedly, another win for he and the school and kindly offers, “Here’s the name of a fine doctor who will prescribe Ritalin for your dear Billie.”

Millie grabs the note from Father Flanagan like a life-preserver on a stormy sea.

Billie is changed on the outside by the rampant ADD drug turning our society’s kids’ brain to mush.  He’s strangely calmer.  Less prone to emotional outbursts.

The co-conspirator pharma/school system doctor explains calmly to Millie that each year they will examine Billie to see if her boy can be taken off the Ritalin.  But Billie boy will use the drug, a form of speed, and many more drugs to come from the “good” doctor, his entire life.


To compensate for her guilt over drugging her little boy, Millie tells her “little man”, as she calls Billie often, how amazing he is every hour without fail.  She accomplishes this feat of compulsive love giving with a reminder she sets on her Iphone that sends forth a harp tone on the 12s.  This gives her an excuse to get off the “damn computer” as she calls it and love Billie up with hugs and kisses, then back to kiddie porn spamming.

Billie often hides from Millie when he hears the angelic harp tone.  She is smothering the kid and she knows it but pretends to herself not.  Billie seeks escape in the basement, light off, hiding from the love monster behind the rusting old water heater.

Millie makes Billie special foods, fatty unhealthy GMO foods like she loves to overeat on, like a love pig getting ready for a love harvest that will never come.  Billie eventually becomes overweight too, but Millie reassures him, “It’s only baby fat, baby boy.”  When Millie and Billie shop the Wal-Mart, people giggle at the chubby pair behind their fat butts.


One afternoon, while Billie is at school learning to be a good little Zombie, hopped up on sugar and dumbed down by Ritalin, Millie decides after 5 years off the market it’s time to date again.

She tries on many of her old dresses… but somehow they’ve all shrunk.  So she settles for a set of designer Juicy sweats she wears as she slaves, hunched over the computer each day spreading kiddie porn.  She hurries off with the excitement of a school girl for her first blind date ever with a doctor!

The Match.com meet-up is at local Greek coffee shop that’s seen better days.  Starbucks has wiped out every other coffee shop, but the stubborn Greek owner keeps his coffee shop going out of spite alone.

The holistic doctor date is hunkered down in a huge window booth.  He does not recognize her as she waves to him.  Millie walks over as he tries to avoid eye contact.

“Bob?” she says timidly.

“Are you one of my patients?” Bob says.

“I’m Millie.  Millie your blind date?”

“What is it with you web broads?” Bob grouches as Millie takes the booth seat opposite, uninvited.

“Huh?” is all Millie can offer.

“How old is the picture you sent me?” Bob sighs into his green tea.

“Um.  I dunno.  Recent.”

“So you’ve recently swallowed a baby elephant?” Bob chuckles.

“You are rude.”

“And you, my dumpy dear, are a fat fatty, who, if you don’t get your act together will be diabetic by 35.”

Millie is stone silent.  She looks at her flabby reflection in the coffee shop front widow as the asshole doctor smugly sips his green tea.

“Wake up call!”  Bob says  watching Millie touch her fat cheeks, like someone must have pulled a fat mask over her beautiful face.  Until this horrible instant, Millie honestly had no idea how ugly 30 pounds of GMO generated lard makes her look.   Millie’s gorgeous looks had always been the one thing she loved about herself.   Now it seems gone in an instant.

The holistic doc offers, “I look like my damn picture. Whereas you, my fine fat ass –”

Millie projectile vomits her pea soup in the doc’s smug face.

“Linda Blair cunt!  This suit is brand new fucking Armani!” the holistic doctor, not so holistically shouts, pea soup dripping off his long crooked nose.

Embarrassed beyond words, if oddly pleased with herself for shutting up the Holistic terror,  Millie silently excuses herself to clean up in the bathroom of the seedy coffee shop.

The holistic prick skips on the check while Millie is busy crying her heart out.  She’s relieved when she exits the ladies’ can that her blind date from hell is gone.

The youngest son of the owner, a handsome young Greek, smiles at her, “You’re better off that dude’s gone, ma’am.”

“How about a quickie…, Aros?” Millie offers, reading his name tag.

“Uh… Thanks but I have a, um, girlfriend.” Aros says, mopping up Millie’s green vomit.

Millie staggers from the restaurant.  No one has ever rejected her before.  She’s the hot lady always in charge.  Now, back to back she’s been shunned.  Shunned hard.  The ride home is a haze of lights and noise.


Millie finds herself lighting candles at the golden Virgin Statue in the Catholic Church that is her sanctuary.  She’s been debating for months about confessing her spamming kiddie porn across America.

Millie rehearses her confession, “Father, forgive me.  I am dying inside.  My evil work is killing me.  I have a drugged up out of control little boy and no one else to support us.  I had to take the job, but I hate myself and it’s all making me so fat and ugly!”

But every time she gets to the part where the Irish priest would ask, “And what work is so evil that it’s killing you, angel?”  Words fail her.  Her shame is so deep that she’s not sure she can be forgiven or if the seal of confessional would protect her from jail.

The horrors of young Asian girls being fucked up the ass by beefy old men in leather masks plays on the movie screen of the inside of her eyelids and she weeps in the confessional. Millie curses herself under breath, her knees hurting on the prayer pew board at her excess weight.  Praying is harder when you’re fat.


As Millie waits her turn to confess her sins, she recalls painfully that she resigned last week.  The reason?  A big-ticket kiddie snuff film the Hong Kong office was telling her to push.  She watched the video in horror as a homeless bearded man that strangely resembles Desmond Starseed strangles the life from a 16-year-old Asian girl.  After sending off her resignation to Hong Kong with a defiant click she remembers how quickly her heart filled with angelic light, burning away the crude kiddie porn’s dark vines tying her up heart.  But before she can celebrate sweet redemption, the kiddie porn site’s owners in Hong Kong send her a personal email:

Dear Mrs. Magoo:

You fine American woman.   I respectfully would not accept resignation.  Can assure that all you saw of dead choking girl was actor acting and special effects, my Baltimore friend.  No different than you see in video games or American movies.  Take it easy.  Life is joy.

Your work is super goodness and now I happy to offer you big time surprise.  Stay on the job and $50,000 bonus is in your bank tomorrow and we double your pay per click! 

You deserve this happy time bonus!  Your dead husband Jake would this for you and Billie.  Be smart.

Much loves,

Mr. Kim Yung Ho

Director of Marketing, North America

Of course she’s back in the kiddie porn biz, held like a fly in an amber of easy money.


Millie hears Father O’Hara wrapping up a scratchy voiced cancer victim confessor in the opposite chamber and she bolts from the confessional.  Her flight from Catholic penance knocks an elderly man on his ass.

Millie races straight home to Billie in her Prius, dismisses the babysitter, and swears off dating and confessions for life.  She uses the kiddie porn bonus to fulfill a secret passion to fix up classic cars.  A passion she had always hoped to share with a man, she shares instead with little Billie.  A ’57 Chevy becomes her pride and joy and for a time she loses herself in her new hobby.

But falling behind on her bills for pampering Billie with the latest of everything, she soon resumes her crazy 24/7 work schedule that leaves Billie needy.  She consoles herself seeing Billie crying in his loneliness that her boy is better off with her brief love on the 12s than getting her beatings.  She only breaks from work with Thomas Edison like naps and Red Bull to keep her typing away endlessly night and day.

Mille sells the ’57 Chevy that’s been gathering dust at a heavy loss.  She gets even busier on her computer, surprised that’s possible.

Millie’s a one-woman army of a smut spreader, possessed by her growing pile of Madison Avenue must-haves filling the house to bursting.  She’s a salve to her master the computer to generate the dough to buy the endless wish list of things Billie sees on TV that he MUST have to be happy.

Ah.  But it’s her genuine two-way love that can still free Billie.  A sliver of hope remains for Billie that get smaller each day Millie does her automated love monster thing on the twelves.


One day one, on her five minute breaks she takes on the twelves to shower Billie with love, her growing boy asks, “What do you do all day and night in the locked attic room on the computer, Mommy?

Millie, the queen of fantasy, has been preparing for this moment since she first answered the pop ad.  The lies pour from her mouth with the ring of truth that would win her an Oscar, “Oh, I can’t lie to you sweetie.  Mommy is part of super secret CIA operation called OPERATION LOVE MONSTER.”

“Love Monster why the CIA call it that?” puzzles Billie eating a Chee-toh Millie feeds him like some junk food baby bird.  He swallows the Chee-toh and Millie’s lie both whole.

“I’d say sweetie, but it’s top secret.  That’s why mommy has to lock the door and poor you has to be out here all alone most of the day,” says Millie.

Billie’s satisfied and feels better about his loneliness.  “Can you tell me what you do for Operation Love Monster, mommy?”

“Well, if you cross your heart and promise to never tell a soul,” says Millie in a whisper, like the kitchen might be bugged.

Billie crosses his heart as he says happily, “Cross my heart and promise not to tell a soul!”

“Your Mommy is cyber warrior!” says Millie proudly, because in her heart she is a warrior giving her Billie all she can earn.  Her life savings are meager like most over-consuming Americans.

“Wow. What’s cyber warriors do, Mommy?”

“Well, I trust you, Billie boy.  Mommy is fighting a cyber war with Chinese hackers who keep trying to get into our defense systems!” say Millie, giggling at her boy’s wide eyes at her tale.

“Wow!  What the bad Chinese hackers trying to do to America, Mommy?!”

“The bastards want to blow up America with our own nuclear weapons,” says Millie hatefully.

“Wow!  Oh, Mommy! Do you know Kung Fu?!”

“Of course!  In fact, your bad ass mama knows a martial arts even better than Kung Fu, Billie.  Part of my basic cyber wars training, ” grins Millie to her boy.

“Teach me!  Teach me!  I wanna beat the crap out of the bully Jack Steward!” says Billie.

“Well, that might not be such a good idea, honey boy.”

“Why not?” demands Billie.

“Um, well, I can’t share the reason why.  Sorry, baby,”  says Millie, worrying she is out of believable lies.

To her sudden silence Billie says, “Would you have to kill me if you taught me Kung Fu?”

Millie nods “Yes!” with a relieved conspiratorial giggle.

“I love you, Mommy!” Billie says, his little heart full of love. He hops from his chair and hugs Millie with all his loving might.

Her fantasy of her boy finally being affectionate with her has come true.  But oddly, this makes Millie very uncomfortable.  She carries Billie back to his chair and pulls him off her, “Um, uh.  Mommy has to get back to the cyber wars.  You, you have all the snacks and videos until my next 5 minute break on the twelves?”

Billie nods sadly.  He feels once again his mother’s inability to accept love,  Millie is all one-way going out.  His one and only attempt of giving love will be his last for the rest of his life.  The sliver of hope is gone forever from Billie’s heart.  As an adult he will never truly know true love.  Sex will be what he mistakes for love.


Millie packs on more weight as the years glued to the computer spreading porn as cyber warrior fly by, eventually needing bigger and bigger desk chairs for her growing ass.  Millie stops going to the park to exercise where all the other mothers are losing their figures too.  America is getting fatter while most of the rest of planet is starving.

Eventually, as she works herself steadily towards an early diabetic grave, in an economy where the dollar steadily buys less security, Millie’s entire social life centers around Billie’s pathetic athletic skills.

One spring day Coach Simmons spots Billie playing his new Gameboy on the soccer team bench, “That tears it!  I am not running a fat farm, here, Billie boy.  I need bench kids who can move!  Now grab your little Gamebooy and go back to your Mommy in the stands.”

Billie teammates laugh as Billie runs bawling for the stands to Millie.

A few minutes later Millie taps Coach Simmons on the shoulder.  As the big jerk turns to face her he spouts, “I don’t care what sob story you have to sell me about taking you fat kid –”

Millie knees Coach Simmons to the balls.  But nothing happens.

“Crouch protector, bitch, ” says Coach Simmons, hamming to his team who applaud him.

Millie lashes out with martial arts blow to the asshole coach’s throat.  Windpipe crushed, Coach Simmons goes down like a ton bricks.

A short time later in the principal’s office, Father Flanagan scowls down as his thick glasses at Millie to the sound of an ambulance racing off the soccer field, “If only they had Ritalin for parents!”

On the way home, over a celebration dinner of Big Macs, fries and malts, Billie worries to his mother, “You Kung Fued Coach Simmons good, mommy. Aren’t you afraid the CIA will find out?”

To back up her lie to Billie about her Operation Love Monster fantasy, Millie has manged to squeeze in some martial arts classes which have only, up until now, made her secret beatings of Billie worse.  She had planned to surprise Billie with some secret cyber agent lessons and now its all turned into this mess.  But Millie says bravely, “If anyone ever hurts you, Billie, that’s a risk I am willing to take.”

Beneath  the fiberglass statue of Ronald McDonald, Millie waits for that special hug again.  After all, she may face jail time for taking the asshole coach down.  But Billie’s heart closed for biz from her rejection and abuses where love on the 12s means the opposite many times.  Billie just smiles and nod his thanks as wolfs into his Big Mac number two.


Despite all her twisted love, Billie’s never happy.  He’s a miserable zit faced fat fuck with zero friends.  No friends for Billie, only tormentors, because no one else treats him like a king the way mom does. He fucking hates all his classmates with a searing passion.

One day, hiding from Millie the love monster’s hugs and beatings in the basement, Billie finds, hidden in a damp box of old dusty dildos, a snub nosed 38-revolver from Millie’s dangerous strip club days.  As the fat kid searches for bullets he fantasizes…

Billie strides the school soccer field, dressed in black leather head to toe like a chubby mini-Neo. The soccer kids and all the kids in the stadium stands all laugh.

Coach Simmons spots Billie and roars, “You little fat fuck!  I thought I told you –“

Billie whips twin Uzis from his black leather trench coat.  The first bullets make a dancing puppet of blood of the big coach.  In sick slow motion, soccer kids run for their soccer moms.  All are mowed down by Billie’s rage and a blaze of bullets and blood.

Millie is a fat cheerleader shaking pom poms and shouting, “Billie!  Billie!  He’s our man!  If Billie can’t kill ’em no one can!”

Father Flanagan and six nuns bite the AstroTurf.

Millie’s cheerleader shouts of, “Billie!  Billie!” become the real Millie’s real shouts at the top of the basement stairs.  She spots her boy with her gun, and worse, her dildos. “No, Billie!”

Millie races down the stairs for Billie. He raises the gun to Millie and shouts,”Stay back!”

“Why… What?  I am your mother and that’s my damn gun!” Millie shouts.  “Give me –”

Billie cocks back the revolver.  “One more step I’ll shoot!” shouts Billie, so loud Millie feels it like a slap in the face.

“Billie!” says Millie starts to cry, wondering if she left any bullets in the gun when she hid it with her dildos.  She takes another step and Billie pulls the trigger.  Millie flinches expecting a gunshot.  “Click!”  Nothing.

“I said stop!” shouts Billie cocking back the trigger for another try at this mother/son game of Russian roulette.

Something takes over Millie’s mind as she sees in sick slow motion there is now a bullet in the chamber as Billie clicks back the trigger again. Amazingly light on her feet for such an overweight woman, Millie soars into the air and knocks the gun from Billie’s hand as the gun fires. BANG!

Billie yelps in pain.

Time freezes as Millie watches her little boy’s angry face twisted in pain. “Oh my God!  Oh, my God!  Did the gun shoot you, honey?”

“You broke my hand!” Billie holds up his right hand that is blowing up like a balloon.

In the Prius, racing to the hospital, Millie squirms in her driver’s seat, still in shock her boy almost killed her.  She had no idea the depth of his hate until this instant.

But they need a cover story and there’s no time to feel sorry for herself.  And Millie, a master of lies, says, breaking heavy the silence, “It’s my fault leaving a loaded gun in basement.  You’re just a little kid.  Mommy apologizes, Billie.”

Millie has become expert in dealing with the Narcissist ego monster she’s made of Billie.  The hate goes out of his eyes as he gets a huge dose of what the shrinks call Narcissistic Supply.  Billie offers a guilt trip to Millie, not an apology, as he says, like a junkie who just got fix of Millie self-deprecation, “I thought the gun was empty.  Bad Mommy!”

Overjoyed her Billie is lording this over her, Millie almost swerves the Prius off the road as she kisses Billie’s head. She says joyfully, “OK.  We need a cover story.  Just like mommy has for Operation Love Monster.  Ha ha!  People think I sell sports magazines!”  Note how deftly Millie slips her occupational lie into Billie’s brain.  She dreads the thought of her son ever discovering the smut she spreads for a living as a fate worse than death. “We need an airtight alibi.”

“I got my hand stuck on a bear trap? ” says Billie as winces in pain.

“Sorry Mommy kicked you so hard.  My cyber spy training got the better of me, ” says Millie, reenforcing her gathering doll reality of lies on lies.

“You should be sorry! Ouch!  You’re a lethal weapon!” cries Billie.

“Only five minutes to the hospital, Billie.  Hold on!” says Millie, cutting off a school bus full of screaming kids.

“What should I say to the doctor?  Ouch!  What, Mommy?’

“Got it!   What happened was, you say to the doctor, you and Mommy were trying to swat a big rat in the basement.  And silly mommy stomped on your hand by mistake,” demands Millie. “Say it back to me!”

“Father O’hara taught him lying was a sin and I’ll go to hell,” says Billie timidly.

“Fuck Father O’Hara!  The church is built on lies.  But it’s all we got.  Say it. ‘Mommy and me were chasing a rat and when she tried to stomp it my hand got in the way.'”

“Mommy and me were chasing a rat and when she tried to stomp it my hand got in the way,” says Billie, terrified of the fire in his mother’s eyes.

“No, Billie!  Say it like it’s true, honey.  In Hollywood it’s called acting.  Say it like a secret cyber agent like your mommy.  Say it again, like it’s true.  Like our lives both depend on everyone believing you.”

“”Mommy and me were chasing a rat and when she tried to stomp it my hand got in the way!” says Billie convincingly.

“Yes!  Oh, honey.  Mommy is so proud.  Say it again like it’s real!”

Mother and son will have their lie perfectly rehearsed by the time they reach the hospital.  Over the months Billie wears his cast, with no autographs at school from his classmates who all hate him, Millie and Billie will both tell the lie of rat chasing over one thousand times.  So many times, in fact,  they both will almost come to believe the lie to be true.  The incident with Billie pulling a gun on Millie is somehow never spoken of again.

With this tangled web she weaves about her boy, Millie now adds “liar” to the twisting of Billie’s emotional DNA.  Graduation.  Billie’s now a perfect Narcissist, casually manipulating truth at the drop of a hat to feed his bottomless ego.  Billie Magoo forever lives in a virtual reality of his own making, without a care for the real world unless it is serves Billie’s World.


Father O’Hara sits in the tattered booth at the Greek coffee shop, nervously eying the front door.

The burly father of the young Greek Millie once made a pass on, Aros Sr., “Ever gonna order something or you just take up my space, padre?”

“Um, I’ll take one of those Geerohs.” says Father O’Hara.

“Gyros!  You can pay?” says Aros Sr.

“Of course,” says Father O’Hara flashing his stuffed wallet.

Agent Smith enters the coffee shop.  This Smith grew a trim mustache after getting teased often about his resemblance to the famed Agent Smith from the film THE MATRIX.  He spots Father O’Hara and takes a seat.

Aros Sr. says to the agent, “What can I get you, sir?”

“Gyros and privacy, ” says Agent Smith flashing a chilling smile that sends Aros Sr. off in a hurry. “Forgive me father for dragging you out of your church.  I enjoy Greek cooking.  What have you got for me?”

Father O’Hara slides a thick envelope across the coffee table with a deep sigh,  “Please open it later.  The sight these poor Asian boys getting raped is saddens me deeply.”

Agent Smith pushes the envelope back across the table to the priest, “I need names not smut.”

“As I have told you, sir, the seal of confessional prevents me –”

“Cut the fake accent.  I know how you came by this porn.  I want to use your unique position to find the big fish behind all this yellow journalism.  We’ve narrowed the search to this area of a web genius.  Unless I get some fast results you’re going down.  And I don’t mean on altar boys, ” says Agent Smith wolfing into his gyros.

Father O’Hara has lost his appetite and pushes his plate away.

“If you’re not going eat your gyros, can I make it to go?” says Agent Smith.

“Be my guest. – What should I be looking for?” says Father O’Hara.

“Someone who works on the web for a living.  That’s all I need to track this,” says the agent.

“I don’t generally ask people what they do for living in my line of work.”

“You do now.” says Agent Smith.


At twelve, Billie tries out for a position requiring no athletic skill; altar boy.  Billie’s the perfect lamb to Father O’Hara’s predatory flattery.  Finally, Billie has found in Father O’Hara another being like his mother, who thinks he can do no wrong.  But one who is gentle never beats him.

“Jesus, himself would weep tears of blood at the grace with which you hand me his holy chalice!” Father O’Hara says one day taking Billie into a manly hug.

As Billie gazes up the padre, tears in his young eyes, Father O’Hara seizes the moment and kisses Billie squarely on the lips.  Billie is swept up with passion and holy rapture and the devil priest slips him some tongue.  And the fun does not stop there.

One day on the twelves as Millie hugs her little Billie, the truth of his rape by the not so saintly priest pours out.  Millie’s first thought is,”God is punishing my fat ass for not confessing my sins as spreader of yellow kiddie filth!”

Soon, though, her red hot guilt cools to form an ice shield of hate over her heart.  Her rage is so intense she does not care if she is caught.

“The child fucker must die!” she says  heading to the new safe she’d put her gun into in her attic.  But as she’s dialing her safe combo, a better plan to rid the earth of Father O’Hara for violating her one love fully formed.  It stuns her that her mind computed this without conscious effort.

That dark November night, dressed in black as a plump Juicy ninja, Millie squeezes herself underneath Father O’Hara’s, overly ostentatious for a priest’s, wheels, a Lexus SUV.  Millie’s faded auto preservation hobby gives her the needed skills to quickly locate the brake lines and a few quick snips with a wire cutter pliers later, the job is done.

The next unseasonably warm sunny day, Father O’Hara takes a frumpy looking young woman named Marsha’s cash donation that she pays him for his expert advice on the Byzantine procedure of annulment.  “You’ll soon be free as bird. It will be as though you and the cheating scoundrel Martin never met.  Soon, Marsha, you’ll be ready to remarry your new love Oscar in the church like a virgin!” the Father tells the divorcing mother of three, sounding like more like a salesman than a priest.

And with good reason,  annulment fees, where you pay to have you marriage disappear since divorce is a sin, have become a huge revenue source for the Holy Roman Church.  Not that this sweet lady’s money will ever reach the hands of Rome’s bureaucracy.  You see, Father O’Hara keeps his stolen dough in an offshore Caman islands account.

As soon as the session with the annulment scam is done — “Sniveling cunt,” he mutters to himself waving good-bye to her from the parish window — the Father heads for his Lexus and his safety deposit bank box.  Father Flanagan looks the other way on this fine young priest’s Lexus auto Father O’Hara drives, not standard priestly wheels by any means, as the two are lovers.

A busy highway has grown up around the weed choked old Catholic church, and as Father O’Hara rolls to the edge of the driveway leading onto the road… his foot on the brake finds it strangely unresponsive.  The ill-gotten Lexus rolls straight onward into heavy oncoming traffic.  Father O’Hara only has time to scream, “Forgive me for all my wicked ways, Dear –”  He’s cut off on his self-last rites as a 16 ton Mack truck plows into his pearl white beautiful SUV.  BOOM!

A bystander captures the resulting ball of flame on his handy Android phone.  Father O’Hara’s tragic death becomes YouTube gold. 1 million views a day of the priest’s awesome demise makes the bystander a new YouTube celeb.

A Vatican investigation into potential foul play in young Father O’Hara’s untimely death comes to an abrupt end when the true identity of “O’Hara”, in fact a Polish priest named Rand Yabloanski, with 10 counts of child molestation to his name, is uncovered.  It’s swept under the mat as a “problem solved” case.

The fates of justice have smiled on Millie and she has committed the perfect crime on the perfectly evil victim.  No bad karma points for erasing this slime ball priest.  Millie proudly shares her secret with Billie.  Her terrified kid gains not love, but fearful new respect for his crazy killer mother.


The drunken sailor’s genes unexpectedly make Billie a brain at school.  He may not be athletic, but Billie’s a super nerd.

Millie busts her kiddie porn spreading ass to put Billie through Ohio State’s law school.  The law professors spot a supremely confident man in Billie.  A man without love or compassion.  A man born to lie and lie well.   A man born to be a lawyer.  Billie has a bright future serving corporate America.

After a sweltering graduation ceremony where he barely speaks to Millie, preferring the company of his fellow future sharks, Billie moves, not back to Baltimore to be near his love monster mom in Baltimore, but to Chicago to work for a big five law firm.

On the kudos from his law professors, Billie is put on the Monsanto account as a grunt, suing independent farmers.  Will, as he now prefers to be called,  becomes a serious fucker of farmers and quickly gains the nick name “The Grim Reaper”.  Billie’s heartless demolition of the lives of innocent farmers, whose crops became infected with Monsanto GMO seeds, makes him a very successful young shark.

Barely squeezing in 5 minutes once a week to answer Millie’s daily calls, Billie lives like a prince, renting a Chicago high-rise and buying BMW on his flawless young credit as a rising star in the big law firm.

Billie goes vegan, joins the East Bank Club and loses his GMO bulges.  The ugly high school duckling is replaced by a slim shark lawyer.

One Saturday on the busy East Bank club running track, a Jewish princess named Mago Stein spots Billie and decides to cut this one from the herd.  Mago trots her great ass carefully just ahead of Billie’s watchful eye.  Mago takes a dive on the track and Billie tumbles over her.

Mago, a dazzling brunette with deep chestnut eyes, laughs as she untangles herself from Billie, knowing all the right places to rub her ample breasts all over Billie boy.  “Sorry.  Clumsy me.  These tits.  Never can see I what trip over” says Mago pointing a a towel she dropped for this show.

“‘Clumsy me’ falling over you, ” says Billie as a big guy runs by who it so happens as had this same deal done to him my Mago.

The big guy tips his ball cap to Mago and chuckles to himself as he runs on, “Better have your A game on, buddy, Mago’s amazing in the sack.  Call me Mago when this whimp falls on his limp dick.”

“Fuck of, Mark!’ says Mago playfully with a sexy laugh.

“Let me buy you a OJ?” says Billie.

“Ojs!  And we can talk BJs?’ purrs Mago.

At talk over OJs and BJs Mago brags, “Why Sexaholoics Anonymous?  Duh.  Great place to hook up, silly Billie!”

“Don’t call me that,” says Billie.

“Call you what?” says Mago.

“Silly Billie.  My mother used to call me that.  Hate that name.  I’m Will.” says Billie, worried he’s blowing his potential first score.

“Well, Will.  Have some mommy issues do we?” teases Mago.

“No.  I just like being call, Will.  No biggie,” lies Billie.

Mago smiles, seeing right through him and says seductively,”I can fuck your mommy junk away, Will.”

“Nothing to fuck away.  I have no mommy junk.  But, you have my attention.  Go on,” says Will taking the bait.

“I’m expert in Tantric sex.”

Having trouble hiding a killer boner he has in his flimsy running shorts, Billie asks, “What’s Tantric sex?  Sounds Titanic.”

“Where’s you place?” says Millie downing her juice, ready for action.

“FAnswer my question.  What’s Tantric sex?”

“My question was my answer.  Let’s fuck at your place if it’s nearby.  I will fuck you silly, Billie.”

“Right now?”

“Oh my god.”


“You poor thing.  You’re a virgin aren’t you?” giggles Mago.

“Ha.  You wish.” says Billie almost believing himself.

“No I don’t wish.  Nothing’s worse than breaking in a man in the sack.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about.  Come to my place and I’ll show you.” says Billie signing for the tab.

“Don’t mess with me, Will.  Fucking is my national pass time. Fuck the Cubs.  I like to fuck all night.  You up for my ‘fuck you silly action‘, Silly Billie?” says Mago, fire in her eyes.

All the way to his swank bachelor pad Billie’s nervous as a virgin, because technically he still is a virgin.

But Billie the virgin pulls off a miracle to match the one of his childhood faith.  Mago and Billie fuck like rabbits the rest of that Saturday and most of Sunday.  No love from either of these “lovers” from the heart.  Billie and Mago’s are love energy twins.  It’s all down low, including eating pussy to keep Mago purring, as she swats him with her little horse whip in never-ending rapture.  She’s found her sex slave mate and he his master.

Actually it wasn’t such a miracle.  Just a few months ago Billie made a trip to Thailand for a sex-cation.  There, under the tutoring of a 16-year-old pro of Thai hooker he met before he even left the Bannock airport, Billlie technically lost his virginity.  Mago will never learn in their entire sex crazed relationship the truth of Billie’s sexpertise.


Dirty shame that Mago is a total egocentric hard-hearted bitch.  This ego match draws Billie to Mago like a magnet more than the great sex. All he’s done is trade a Millie the love monster for Mago the sex monster.  Mago loves Billie as much as she loves an ATM.  Sex for her is a way to shut off her noisy brain, nothing more.

Ironically, Mago is a Bee Gees nut like Mille.  Mago digs the sexy beat and, lo, Billie learns to love the disco he hated when his mom flooded the Baltimore house with night and day.  Dancing with him to beat, a flabby jiggling dancing queen way past 16.

After a few weeks of unmarried bliss, Mago is getting sick of Billie’s constant complaining about his mother. During the sweaty after glow of a goof fuck is the one time Billie heart door creaks open a sliver.  Mago begins playfully pointing this out habit, “I want to fuck not talk about how your mommy fucked you up, Will!”

But Billie, ego monster that he is, hears only, “I want to fuck” from Mago’s declaration of war on talk of Millie and says,”Once I called 911 to report her beating –”

“Shhh. Millie the love monster’s not here.  It’s all in the past, Silly Billie.  You’re with Mago the fuck monster.  Fuck me up the ass.  That will take your mind off that ancient shit and get you present!” says Mago, who has been studying on being a sex therapist.  Billie accepts the challenge and has his first anal sex and does indeed forget Millie as ramps for an epic cum.

After he’s pulled out of Mago’s ass at last minute and exploded all over her soft tight butt cheeks Billie says, “Man, I have a craving for Chee-tohs. What the hell?  Ah, the love monster used to force feed —  Fuck caught myself!  Sorry, Mago.”

“Yeah!  Catch the past and shove it back in the drawer where it belongs.  Now get down and suck my pussy as penance, Catholic boy!’ kids Mago, all to hide how miffed she is about all this mommy fixation shit that’s bringing her sex high down.  As Billie eats Mago out like his Vegas hooker taught him, but instead heading for sexual Nirvana Mago finds herself reliving Billie’s stories of Millie’s beatings. “Change the fucking channel,” she pep talks herself.

“Huh?” says Billie not taking his mouth off Millie’s bikini waxed pussy.

“Suck and shut up!”

Mago waits for an orgasm to shut up the chatter box that is her mother Ellens pesky voice: “This one will never do.  He’s too much of mama’s boy and a goy to boot!  Oye!”

Mago, is another breed of ego monster from the light end of the spectrum.  She’s blessed has two adoring Kosher as hell parents.  She has no clue or sympathy with Billie’s dark and sick childhood but she knows money machine when she sees one on Billie and the boy is bottomless pit of sex drive.

“Fuck off, mommy!” Mago says to get her mother out of her head.

Billie think Mago is empathizing with him and pulls his tongue out of her and says,”Right!  My fucking Love Monster of mother had this harp tone she’d set on the phone of hers on the twelves.  It used to strike terror into –”

“Oh, shut the fuck up!” Mago screams, shoving Billie away.

“I, I, I want -”

“Just fucking listen to, Silly Billie! I am sick to fucking death hearing you rag about your dear old Love Monster mom!  Rag!  Rag! You sound like a god damn queer!” Mago says turning her back on Billie in the California king-size bed where they always fuck like there’s no tomorrow.

“Queer?  Some thanks for spraining my tongue on your twat.  Never eating you out again,” says Billie turning his back to Mago back.

Mago offers up the olive branch to theri first lover’s spat and turns to press his hard nipples into Billie’s back and says, “You need to cut that wicked woman out of your life.  Millie Maggo in a tumor.  A cancer eating away at our love!”  Mago is surprised to find herself crying.

Billie sighs as gently turn to her and wipes tears from Mago’s cheeks, “You’re right, baby.  I promise you’ll never hear a thing about the “LM” again.

Mago hops onto Billie and beams.  The super turned on brunette, who loves to fight and fuck up, has never looked more gorgeous to Billie with the blazing Chicago night skyline as her backdrop.  She yanks Billie by his strawberry blonde hair to a swollen nipple. “Who’s your mama, now, Silly Billie?” commands Mago.

Billie says between sucks of her amazing tits, “You, Mago.  You!”

“Millie Magoo’s not invited to our wedding, Silly Billie, is the Love Monster?!”  Mago says in full command of this new sex addict where she is the drug.

“You know when you call me, Silly Billie, I kinda like it, sweet tits,” laughs Billie.

“Answer me, Silly Billie!” says Mago, grabbing a small baton she lightly bats Billie on the head with. “Say it.  ‘The Love Monster is not invited to our wedding!’  SAY IT!”

“‘The Love Monster is not invited to our wedding!’ Clean break.” Billie says, getting hard as steel.

“How clean are you willing to clean break this thing off with your crazy bee-yotch mother?” Mago says mounting Billie.

“Clean as fucking farmer’s bank account after I Monsantoize his rube ass.  I’ll never speak or talk to or about the fat fuck Love Monster ever again!” says Billie in rapture as Mago rides him like the Thai pro who coached him ten days in the sack for this epic fuck to end all fucks with the fuck of his life, Mago.


Over the next few months Billie prepare for wedding like one his flawless legal traps he lays for Monsanto violators, as he calls the innocent farmers he fucks up the ass harder than he pounds Mago .  And true to his word, and happy to accommodate Mago, Billie breaks all ties with his mother Millie.  Not by telling Millie that’s what he’s doing.  That would require love.  Billie can only take not give love.  No, Billie simply stops taking Millie’s calls with a block.

“He’s blocked my calls!” Millie realizes one sad day, “Like his mother is nothing more than god damn telemarketer!”  For a few weeks returns Millie’s panicked text message with max four word texts like, “”Too busy blame Monsanto.” Then it’s just smiley faces “:)” to her two page angst filled texts and emails, The one day Millie realize as she weeps alone Billie has dropped her like a hot rock.

Billie studies the Torah and converts to Judaism.  Giving up on Catholicism is not exactly hard, given his dark past.

One day Mago’s mother Ellen and Mago are mailing out invites.  Ellen puzzles to Mago, “Mago, why are there no Magoo’s on the invitation list?”

“Billie has no family.” says Mago, sensing an Ellen the shrink lectures coming on.

“Honey, you’ve bent my ear a at least a dozen times about Billie’s mother troubles.  Not inviting her to the wedding is no way to solve that.”

“Mom. Don’t bring me down.  Billie and I make the guest list.  Not you,” says Mago firmly.

“The more we push our pain down the more it comes back to haunt us.  And it’s you my daughter who will pay the price with a loveless marriage,” Ellen runs a successful shrink practice.  One Mago thinks she love more than her.

Mago gets migraines over Ellen’s endless psychoanalysis.  Desperate, she throws Millie, a woman she’s never met, under the bus, “Millie beat the hell Billie from the time he was five, maybe before.  To top that off she neglected him daily while she locked herself in her home office doing god knows what on her computer.”

“Angel, why are you marrying into this mess?  How many times have I told you,  ‘We don’t just marry the man we marry his whole family history.’ You’ve grown up in a peaceful family.  You’e no idea what a can of worms you –”

“Stop!  You’re giving me one your headaches.  I’ve made my mind up!  I am marrying Will Magoo.  Just lick the stamps and leave me alone,” sobs Mago.

“Mago, Mago.  I love you.  I’m just saying it’s not too late to call off the wedding.  Your father –”

Mago’s father Lee sticks his head in the kitchen, “Ellen, please.  Millie’s 26, she can run her own life.”

Mago runs to Lee and hugs him.  Ellen sighs, “As usual; father and daughter against mommy the evil shrink.  But, Lee, I swear to god when Mago gets her heart broken by this distubed young man, too stuck in the goo of a past to invite his own mother to the wedding. Well, there’s no wedding bouquet for any of us in this disaster waiting to happen.”

After many behind the scenes moments any reality show producer would kill for as the closer the wedding date gets the more manic Mago gets and the more worried Ellen gets.  Billie and Mago are a united front, high on the marriage system of America that’s become Xmas and the 4th of July out of what used to be a simple pledge between two consenting adults.

At last the wedding day arrives.  Mago has talked her father into springing for a sheik Lake Geneva Wisconsin resort they book out for Mago’s giant family from all across North America.  Billie’s wedding guests are all his pals from the law offices.  His best man is a guy he’s known for a few months who thinks Billie is a dick.  But his own inflated ego digs the best man role.

The overly lux reception kicks off.  A lame Jewish wedding/bar mitzvah band badly plays the Bee Gees “How Deep is You Love” as the wedding song.  Billie protests, “Aw, Mago.  Find someone else older from your family.  You know I can’t disco, baby.”

“Just try, Silly Billie,” says Mago pulling the shy Billie onto the floor past her father Lee, a great disco dancer.

“Will, don’t take guff, even from my loving daughter Mago, on your wedding day!” say Lee joking as he downs a champagne to laughs of the wedding crowd. “Give her to me.  I can still disco!”

Mago shoves her father back into his seat and tugs Billie for the dance floor. The handsome groom looks like he has two left feet.

The real surviving Bees Gees take over from  the lame band and hit the chorus “How deep is your love?  How deep is love?'” and suddenly Billie is out dancing Travolta.  He tosses Mago spinning into the air.  The wedding crowd goes nuts and cheer the wedding couple on as disco light erupt.

Even though its the Bee Gees, his mom’s favorite band from the disco era she was not part of but loves, not even for a spit-second, during this wedding dance that Mago forced Billie to take lessons for, does Billie experience a single regret his mother is not being at his wedding.  In the wedding pictures Billie looks wildly happy.  It is in fact the happiest moment of his life.  He’s ready to start a new life but too clueless to realize he’s about dump all his unresolved mommy stuff onto his new bitch of a bride.

As if reading Billie’s mother-devoid mind, Ellen leans to whisper in the father of the bride’s ear, “Will’s mother should have been invited her to this wedding.”

“From what Mago tells me about the Love Monster of Baltimore, no big losss!” says Lee loudly, drunk on champagne.  Lee motions to cut in on the dance with Billie but Mago shakes her head NO! with a defiant laugh.

Ellen leans to whisper in her man’s ear again, “Mago’s made a perfect ass of you, Lee.  Hope you’re happy for spoiling your little angel.”


Right in the middle of Billie’s and Mago’s wedding dance, back in Baltimore, poor Millie’s is of course heartbroken.  She also listening to the Bees Gees HOW DEEP IS YOUR LOVE as she leafs through a picture book of Billie growing up and fatter.

She weeps at a picture of him just around that last time he ever tried to show her love with the hug she rejected.

“How could this happen?” Millie ponders, still missing the boat on all this being a mess she created in making Billie into a ego monster..

MIlie’s drinking worsens after the kiddie porn company can’t compete with all the free amateur kid porn flooding the web and her income flow stops.

She’d be happy to retire except life savings have just been snatched by the hospital ER Billie was born in.  All thanks to a new Obama bill that finally passes two years after Obama has left office.  The draconian law repeals all bankruptcies for individuals in favor of the big corporations and Millie’s old $30,000 debt comes back from the dead to haunt her with 15 years penalty interest.  Bam!  Just like that, Millie is flat broke and out work.

Corporations can still bankrupt, of course, and this is how Millie loses all her 401K plan, the last of her safety cushion.  So Millie, who has gotten away with murder, renews her fantasy to kill former President Obama, now on a million dollar book tour and soon to visit Baltimore.

Millie has only one family person to turn to.  But Billie does not even return a single call, Skype or email. Not one.

One day as she searches for jobs on Monster.com she stumbles across Desmond Starseed’s blog.  The fake Starseed, bald now, his long hair gone, grins a toothy insincere smile at her that makes Millie giggle.  Desmond is a surprisingly good writer, and though his heart is as closed as Monsanto executive, he does have the rap of spirit down as cold an insurance salesman out to fuck the farmer’s daughter..

Desmond’s overblown blog, peppered with sexy aliens and Starseed images he’s ripped off without license, makes a damn good front for his real job, secretly working for Homeland Security.  The fake Starseed paycheck now comes from Uncle Sam, who now makes Orwell’s Big Brother look like Mr. Rogers. Desmond’s daily mission is find stupid subversives that answer his blog post one day with their passionate:”Fuck the good ‘ol USAs!” one night and find themselves on their one-way flight to Gitmo the next morning before Corn Flakes.

Desmond writes floridly on his blog, “Beloved Starseeds!  Please comment!  Once you get you negative into your PC, darkness no long be festering inside you, my dear ones of the cosmos!  Please share any negative feelings you have against our wicked government that daily robs us of dignity and our heritage is the second coming!”

Fortunately for her, Millie does not share her dream of making sure Obama can’t fulfill his dream if being the first president ever to serve more that two terms since FDR. She fed up with computers.  They are poison to her now.  So instead taking Desmond’s NSA bait, Millie writes with pen and paper.  She always had great marks in school for penmanship before she dropped out of high school, never finishing her senior years.

As she listens to the Bee Gees sing “How Deep is Your Love” MIllie pours her heart to her Billie boy, writing at the kitchen table where they once shared a passion for junk food as their only bond.

Dear Bille:

Little man, I had so much hope you would be the answer that would change my life.  I grew up in a home without love.  And so all my love went to putting you where you are today, top of the world.  But having reached your high destination you’ve forgotten those in the basement who put you where you are today.

Worst of all you’ve become a slave to the corporations destroying our world.  Evil Monsanto is your master now.  How could someone raised as a liberal eco lover turn out to be such conservative planet killing monster?   You have broken my heart, Billie.

As for the future?  You can —

Millie can’t write anymore.   This writing has only made the pain worse. She feels the knife in her back from Billie’s betrayal.  She stuffs the the half finished note into her purse as she bawls her heart out.  She tries to stuff down her tears with Doritos made with GMO Monsanto corn.


We are all connected and in this crazy world, and though her half finished letter has not made Millie feel any better, it sends a shock wave through the Morphic fiel, all the way from Baltimore to Chicago.

Billie is in on the phone in his new junior partner 10’x15′ office, feet up on his fake mahogany plastic laminate desk, berating a farmer.  “Fuck you back at you, sir.  You have two options to save your farm.  You can –” Billie chokes up in mid sentence with the same words as where Millie letter to him stopped.

“I can what, asshole?” Shouts the defiant farmer, who has been refusing to pay damages to Monsanto for the soy bean seeds whose pollen as infected his crop that’s been in his family 40 years.

“You can –”  the words catch again in Billie throat and he goes into a coughing spree.

“Ha!  Choke to death, mother fucker!  Choke!”  the farmer shouts on the speaker phone.

Billie disconnects the call.  “What the hell is this?”  He says choking and gasping for air.  A harp tone rings on his phone that makes him jump up from his chair.  Millie’s haggard fat-faced photo appears on his Iphone.

Billie ponders between coughs and harp rings.  “I thought I blocked her fucking calls?!  Could this cough attack be guilt driven?  Would answering Mom’s call save me?”  Note, he cares only for how he feels.

But more afraid to offend his Mago to break his mother’s heart more he lets the call go to voice mail.  Afraid that Mago somehow will know he broke his word to her in talking to his mother.  And there would go his marriage and sex life.  Can’t have that!  He coughs of a little blood and spits it into the waste can and worries to himself, “What the fuck?  Blood!”

Managing partner to the rescue, Mr. Shiff, enters with a bottle of pills and a glass of water.  “Relax, Will, you’re having a killer heartburn attack.  Here try one my prescription antacids.  Gotta get you back on the job.”

Billie gratefully accepts and down the pills.  He’ll soon add these antacids to his Ritalin and other meds he pops each day.

“Career liability.  Stressful taking down these thick-headed rubes.  You do it well, young man.  A little heartburn is a small price we must pay.”

The pills work fast.  Billie catches his wind.  “Thank you, Mr. Shiff!” he says as the harp tone ring starts again.

“Need to take the call?”

“Uh, no.  Just my mother,” offer Billie apologetically.  “I tell her never to call during business hours, but she’s, well, a little crazy.”

“No one’s a little crazy, Will.  You may have to be the Grim Reaper like you’ve been on the Monsanto account with your mother.  Tough as that is, we’re your family now.”

“Thank you, sir!”

“My door is always open.  Take care.” Says Mr. Shiff shaking Will’s hand confidently, an angel of tough mercy.  “I’ll leave you to it, Grim Reaper.” and the silver-haired legal eagle flies off.

Will turns off his new Iphone8, silencing Millie’s harp tone ring.  He makes a mental note to change said ring tone to the Bee Gees, her favorite group as that harp tones sends him back to the Baltimore basement hiding from the love monster, Millie.  Better still he makes some quick adjustments and blocks her damn calls for sure this time.  Problem solved.

Feeling great about himself, his budding ulcer under control, Billie happily returns to the job of protecting Monsanto Corporation from the evil farmers by fucking them up the ass legally.


FBI agent Smith addresses a cramped dingy meeting room full of FBI stiffs, “Ladies and gents, Asian kiddie porn is flooding our great nation.  For example.”

A series of disgusting kiddie porn still flash across the presentation screen.  One more disgusting than the next.

“Sorry to offend the weak stomachs among but our new President Benton is already thinking reelection 2020, and the last thing he wants is Obama to beat him for the Republican nomination in his bid to be the first president to serve a third term since FDR.  And so, boys and girls, busting this Asian porn ring that’s been loose on soil for twenty some years has been made our top priority.”

A photo of Millie’s Baltimore Catholic church pops up with Father O’Hara looking angelic and he smiles at Billie in his altar boy outftit.
“The best lead we had in 2002 an informant, one Father O’Hara, who met a not so accidental death.  But the killer left no clues and eventually the Vatican dropped the case.  We are going to begin our investigation in Baltimore where our cyber leads strangely get cut off by the most impenetrable fire wall the FBI has ever run into.  So we are doing this one old school,” says agent Smith to the groans of the agents.

Agents Smith passes out the NSA files of every parishioner.  A young Agent who gets the Ms admires a old photo of Millie when she was a hot teen.


Millie squeezes herself into the center seat of American Airlines flight 312 to Chicago.  She complains to a slim elderly couple who are kind about Millie’s girth squishing them in their seats.  The elderly husband on the aisle volunteers, “If you’d like my seat the aisle will give you more room, ma’am.”

“Why thank you, kind sir.  And that way you’ll be able to sit next to your wife,” Millie says squeezing out of the seat and doing a dance with the elderly man to exchange seats.

“Oh, we’re not married, ma’am,” says the old man with a wink.

The old woman giggles as she offers, “We’re living in sin.  Our first vacation together.  What takes you to Chicago, dear?”

Millie briefly considers the truth of her visit to her Billie who has broken off all contact.  But she says instead with a brave smile, “Seeing my son and his new bride”

“How nice for you.  Neither of us ever had kids.  Too selfish.” says the old man.

Millie opens a magazine with the cover of former president Obama on the cover, posed with his new book “THE NEW RIGHT.”

“Ah, you could have knocked me over with a feather that Obama would turn out more conservative the Ronald Regan.” chuckles the old man.

“Did you vote for him?” asks Millie.

“First term no.  Second term, yeah.  He was showing so much promise killing Osama and keeping Gitmo going. I signed the petition that will allow him to have third term.  How about you?”

“Obama’s a fucking traitor to the liberals,” says Millie, menace in her voice.

The elderly couple never speak to Millie again for the rest of the flight to Chicago.


Millie arrives at the 208 South LaSalle Street building.  The historic landmark building looks like Al Capone could walk out the door any minute.  Millie struggles in the lobby with her carry on bag.  Fearing Billie won’t admit her showing up unannounced, she’s not booked a room.

The receptionist slyly eyes Millie Magoo, mother of the Grim Reaper.  Millie learned her fashion from her strip club days and it shows.

“Has my son said if he has time to see me?  This was an impulse visit and I’d be happy to come back if my Billie, I mean Will is –” Millie  jumps as the phone rings.

The receptionist answers and listens then calmly says, “Mr. Magoo says he can squeeze in 5 minutes.  He’s due in court at 10.”

“Oh… I can come back this afternoon if –”

“Will is booked solid all week.  You’re in luck getting this little slice of his time.  Just head to the right once you are past reception and down the marble hall.  He’s about halfway.  Name plate on the door: Will K. Magoo.” says the receptionist pointing the way.

Millie swallows her pride, happy for even just five minutes with her Billie.  She hurries down the long morgue like hall, flats clacking on the white Italian marble floor.  She checks her watch, “It’s taking so long to get up this fucking hall.  I hope this doesn’t count against my five minutes!” she worries to herself loudly.

Billie pokes his head out of office about 10 yards ahead. “Keep it down, Mom.  This is a law office.”

“BILLIE!” shouts Millie as the runs, shoes clapping up the hall.  Now a few lawyers poke their heads out of their offices and Billie puts on a show opening his arms to his mother.  She starts to bawl and picks Billie off his feet in a bear hug.  “Billie, my Billie boy!”

Billie shushes Millie and says, “It’s Will now, mother.”

“Oh, sorry… Will!  So professional, my boy is now!  Mama is so happy to see –”

Will yanks Millie into his office and offers her a chair. “We don’t have much time.  Have to leave in three minutes for court.  Sit!”

Millie obeys likes a trained dog on command and takes a seat.

Billie walks around to the his executive swivel, the desk full of Monsanto papers between he and his nervous mother and says, “You didn’t say you were coming or I might have had Mago join us to meet you.”

“Can’t we still do that after you are done with work?” says Millie hopefully.

“Let’s drop the crap shall we, Mom?  What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I came to see my Billie boy.  The love of –”

“Fuck!  I was clear on the phone, clarity is what I do for living, that I never wanted to see your fat ass again.  Now you show up here dressed like a hooker who just rolled off Rush Street, un-fucking-announced!  How much?” shouts Billie.


“How fucking much money do you need now that your Asian kiddie porn gig is up?”

“My what?” says Millie, feeling like the whole world is melting.  Mrs. Magoo feels stuck in goo.

“You think I didn’t know about the filth you spread for a living?  You’re disgusting!”

“I was a single mother with mouth to feed.  I did it for  –”

Billie pounds his fist in the desk and shouts, “Don’t say it!  There were a million other ways you could have earned a living besides spamming people with filth!”

Millie is speechless.  Billie may as well have shot his mother with her own .38 revolver.  The last shreds of her self-respect fly out the window and into the cloudy Chicago sky.  “How much you need?”

“I, I didn’t come here for money, Billie, WILL!  You can’t just write a check and get me out of your life.  I’m your mother, god damn you! I washed your ass!  I cleaned!  I cooked for -”

“You ruined my childhood with your fucking fake fatty cooking!  Know what the kids called me at school?  Porky.  Porky the fucking pig!  Well, your the pig now, Love Monster!”

Millie dives over the desk swinging at Billie.  She manages to grab him by his silk tie and the two go crashing to the floor.

Billie is buff and been taking martial arts.  He flips Millie onto her back in the flash and rears back ready to throw death blow.

“Do it you fucking, pussy.  Kill me and put me out of my fucking misery!” says Millie defiantly.

Billie sucks in a breath, fist trembles readying for strike, “I’ll get off on self-defense, you fat cunt!”

The managing partner rushes through the door and dives on Billie. “What in hell’s name is going on in my offices?”

Millie comes up swinging. “Leave my Billie, alone, asshole!”  Millie lands right cross that sends the managing partner flying through the plate glass window partition.  Blood and glass fly.


A few hours later, her hair bird’s nest of a mess, Millie stares at bar of her jail cell from her cot.  An Asian hooker smiles down at Millie from the upper. “What you looking at, lady?”

The Asian hooker laughs her ass off.  ”

What the hell is so funny, lady?”says Miller.

“You!  You calling me “lady, fat hooker,” laughs the beat up looking Asian hooker.

Millie rises to feet to meet the cold gaze of the Asian hooker. “Keep your slant-eyed cunt mouth shut if you want to keep your teeth… lady.”

A female jailer walks up to the cell and unlocks it, “Your son Will, a hottie, got you off on all charges.  You’re free to go, hon.”

Millie gathers her things and flips the Asian hooker the finger.

“You be back, crazy tough guy.” says Asian hooker with a Chessar cat-like grin.

Millie slaps the grin off the hookers face.  The jailer laughs, “You coming?”

As they head though the county jail past lowlifes of every kind and color, Millie asks the jailer, “Is he, my son Billie, Will, is he still here?”

“Nope.”  As Millie starts to tear up the jailer adds, “But his wife, your daughter-in-law, Mago is though.  Says she has a check for you.  Must be your lucky day.  She looks like a total JAP.  Don’t get frisky or you’ll be back in a cell with Ms. Vietnam.”


Mago and Millie sit in the filthy waiting room beneath a one-way mirror that shows a warped reflection of the pair, as if things were not twisted enough.  Mago is elegantly dressed in black with pearls for a dinner party, in great contrast to Millie’s torn up hooker-like dress of clown colors.

“Not how I hoped we’d meet,” offers Mago to break the silence.  But Millie only looks away. “I have a check for you.  It’s all our wedding gift money.”

“Yeah, thank for inviting me.” says Millie.

Mago arrogantly waves a check in the air and says,”$10,000, all our wedding gift money, but you only get in on one condition.  And I am sure you know what that condition is… Love Monster.”

“Love what?” says Millie.

“Monster.  Love Monster is Will’s pet name for you.  Ha.  I thought you knew,” grins Mago.

Millie breaks down into tears, to Mago’s pleasure.

“Keep your damn wedding money.  You’re going to need it for plastic surgery after I rip that smile off your kike face,” glowers Millie.

“There’s a guard watching.  Try anything more like the 30 stitches you gave Mr. Shiff, and he will press charges.  Will too.” says Mago defiantly.

“You think I care about prison, you stupid bitch?  You stole my son’s love, fucker!”

Mago motions to the one-way mirror and jailer enters, billy club in hand, “Let keep it civil, ladies.”

“You never even met me.  Why turn my son against me?” offers Millie sadly..

“All I had to hear from Will, as he endlessly bitched about what shit mother you are, was how you made a living, with, you know, the, uh, kids?  That was e-fucking-nough for me.  Take this check or I will tell the fine officer here a little story about your fine work with children, Mrs. Magoo.”

Millie slumps and says softly,”Ah, well, OK.  Keep your lousy check then.  My wedding gift.  I’ll stay out of your lives.  No charge.” says Millie. “Aw what the fuck I am saying.  Give me the damn, check.  A girl’s gotta eat.”

As she reaches for the check Mago snatches it away with a mean giggle. “And you eat big,  Deal, you stay out of our lives, Will’s and mine forever?”

“Gladly.  You two are made for each other.  My Billie died a long time ago.  You’re welcome to, WILL,” says Millie, her voice ash as she takes the check.


As soon as Millie’s back in the Baltimore airport she spot a TV flat screen where Fox News announces that the surprising hero of the conservatives in his last term, former President Obama himself, is coming to Baltimore.  In the blink of her bloodshot eyes, all Millie’s rage with Billie and Mago turns on Obama.  She vows in her mind, “I will end this fucking traitor or die trying.”

Millie rushes home and digs out .38 snub nosed revolver.  She wolves down six Swanson chicken & gravy TV dinners and heads straight for her old refuge, the Catholic church.  For it is here that Obama will be appearing next morning.

Millie waits all night in the gathering crowd of conservatives who love this miracle man with a passion.  She waits for Obama, the Regan of the 21st century, as Bill O’Reily, has crowned him, to show up so she can crown his with the gun in her purse.

“Millie Magoo!” shouts a voice in the crowd.  Millie turns to see Desmond Starseed grinning at her.  Desmond in is wearing an “Obama III Term” hat to hide his bald head.  He gives Millie a big hug,

“Oh!  There’s so much more of you to love, Millie Magoo!” says Desmond warmly.

“Desmond fucking Starseed!  How did you recognize me?  25 years changes a gal.” smiles Millie genuinely happy to see Desmond.

Desmond has secretly been spying on Millie online for the NSA, because when drunk in bars Millie loves to spout to whoever will listen, “My dead war hero husband would be rolling over in his grave if he saw how this fucker Obama turned out to be a traitor to the liberals!”

But Desmond has a stock line ready for such cases, “Found your name on Facebook, silly Millie.  So tell me, Mills.  What bring you to rally for Obama’s thirds term run.  Are you a fan of our man, Barrack?”

“Hate the traitor’s guts.  Just turning out for the freak show that’s come to my church,” says Millie.

“Millie, you shouldn’t talk like this.  It’s not 2013 anymore.  You could be arrested,” offers Desmond like he’s talking slow like Millie’s a moron.

“Wow.  You’re an even bigger fucking pussie than I remember, Des.” says Mille and walks off.

Desmond shouts after Millie, “You’ll be regret saying that, Millie Magoo!”

Millie spins and flashes both FU fingers at Desmond and vanishes in the gathering crowd.

“Fucking bitch.  You’ll be in jail by this time tomorrow or my name isn’t Desmond Starseed!’ shouts Desmond gathering looks from people in the crowd. “What the fuck as you sheeple looking at?” says Desmond heading for the Homeland Security van he’s based in.  He slips inside when no one is paying attention.


An FBI agent, agent Smith, who looks a lot like the famed agent Smith from the Martix except, he sports a trim little mustache, gazes up from the camera counsel as Desmond enters. Smith quickly gets back to watching the monitors, “Mr. Starseed, I thought told you to work the crowd?”

“I have.  I’m here to report an assassination suspect,” says Desmond acting saintly.

“Listening,” says agent Smith not taking his eyes off the monitors where Obama’s motorcade is being covered with a helicopter shot as he arrives on the grounds.

“Listen then, ” Desmond plays the recording he just took of Millie.

“So tell me, Mills.  What bring you to rally for Obama’s thirds term run.  Are you a fan of our man, Barrack?””

“Hate the traitor’s guts.  Just turning out for the freak show that’s come to my church,” says Millie.

“Why didn’t you arrest her on the spot?” says agent Smith turning to glare at Desmond.

“And blow my cover?”

“Mr. Starseed… Or should I say Mr. Martin?  You are an operative with a duty to arrest all haters of the American Presidency, past or present.  Now get your worthless butt over here and find this Mills woman.”

“Mills is a pet name I gave her.  25 years ago when she was a hot teen she gave the best BJ I can –”

“Spare me details of your pot head sex life.  I need her precise name and current physical description,” says agent Smith calmly.

“Millie Maggoo.  Brunette, some gray, age 42, about 240 pounds now, greasy complexion from bad food.  Shouldn’t be hard to spot, ” says Desmond scanning monitors.

“You are aware that 90% of American’s a grossly obese these days, or his your head still back in the 90s getting a blow job, Mr. Martin?  Find Ms. Magoo or you’ll be in jail for your back taxes by the time Obama third term finishes his pitch speech.  That is if he’s not assassinated by this decenter thanks to you,” says Mr. Smith dryly.

Sweat beads on Desmond’s forehead as she searched the monitors in vain, “You’re right she blends in with this crowd of hogs!  Fuck me!  ”

“Fuck you indeed, Mr Martin, “says agent Smith as he types: Millie Magoo into his computer.  Millie’s Match.com profile pops up, still sporting a pic of her from the 90s when she was a hot teen. “This can’t be her.”

“That’s her, from 1996!  What a hottie. ” Desmond says dreamily.  Losing focus on his crowd search momentarily.

Agent Smith punches in some more commands and Millie current driver’s license pops on the screen and then:



“What the fuck?” says Desmond.

“You never saw that info screen that, Mr. Martin, are we clear?” says agent Smith touching his gun holster.

“What screen?  I, I was so busy looking for the Millie in the crowd that -” Desmond interrupts himself and shouts. “There she is!” The fake Starseed beams at Smith.

“Good!” Agent Smith hits a button and the image move to the main screen in X-ray view.  “That’s a loaded .38 I see in the purse.  But what is that other object.  Small explosive device?”

“Dildo.  I’d say.  Millie used to do herself while she blew me.” say Desmond dreamily.

“Sick.  OK, get you sicko bullshit butt out there!  Take three of my men and get to the fucking church!  Go!”

Desmond dashes out the van’s back door.  Agent Smith bolts the door behind him.  Smith darts to blank wall of the van and places his eye over a peep hole.  “Agent Smith confirmed,” a computer voice sounds and secret control panel swings into position. Words appears on screen:


Agent Smith dons a high tech helmet that cover his entire head making him look like a big silver, well, dildo.

Inside the helmet Agent Smith is inside a live virtual model of the church grounds.  He floats like a ghost over the heads of the milling fatties that look like hogs ready for slaughter.  “Locate Operation Love Monster subject Millie Magoo.  Give me full background info Security clearance ‘Fuck Buddy’,” says agent Smith.

“Complying.  Subject Millie Magoo recruited in 1996 for Operation Love Monster under cooperation with South Korea kiddie porn front.   Single pregnant mother with partitioned personality from abusive childhood was deemed ideal subject for indoctrination.  Subject located.  Instructions, agent Smith,” the AI computer says as Smith is brought floating to earth beside Millie.

Obama is only 100 yards from Millie’s positions.  “Snipers 1,2 and 3.  Do you have the angle on subject Millie Magoo?”

“Sniper 1 responding, sire.  I have the best angle.  Shall I take the shot?” Smith hears via the Millie’s voice.

“Hold for my command.  I am going to try something to save this fat fuck’s life.  Millie’s been a valuable servant in the cyber wars for 25 years.  We owe her that much…” Agent Smith dives into the statue of the Virgin Mary.


Millie looks thrilled Obama is heading right for her, only 70 yards.  Nearly firing range!

The freshly painted smiles Virgin Mary statue, spiffed up like the rest if the church for form President Obama’s visit, blinks it eyes and smiles at Millie.   Millie gasps in shock.

“Morning, Millie, ” the Virgin Mary’s voice says in Millie’s head.

Millie almost faints and think in her mind, “Mary?!” as she gazes into the Virgin Mary’s deep glowing blue eyes.

“Yes, Millie,” says the Virgin Mary, “I am speaking in your mind so the we may chat privately in this loving crowd.  Millie, surrender your weapon.”

“Obama has taken everything from me.  He must die,” says Millie silently.

“Hate does not belong in my Son’s house.  Turn away from sin, Millie,” says agent smith as Mary.

“This is wrongl!  You’re not, the Virgin Mary. — I see it all now.  I was, I was never spreading Asian porn!  You used me!  Stole my beauty!  Made me fat stuffing my face with you GMOs while used my life as a hacker! ” screams Millie out loud, drawing stares from the crowd.

“You’ve always had such an overactive imagination, child,” says the Virgin Mary statue. “What would your Billie think if his mother becomes an assassin?  You’ll break his heart, dear one, ” says agent Smith as the Virgin.

“My son was lost to me when I fought day and night with no, rest not a single day off, for 25 years ,against the fucking Chinese!  He’s a lost cause as am I.  You killed us both, whoever is running this hologam!”

The Virgin Mary tosses pink rose petals into the air and the crowd freezes.  Millie giggles seeing a frozen Desmond bald head poking from the crowd.  Angelic harp music plays from cupid like angels floating in the air.  Dazzled out of righteous rage over her stolen life she whsipers, “Heaven on earth….”

“Yes, Millie,  And President Obama is making it happen.  You don’t want to kill our savior,” says the Virgin Mary as beam of light breaks from the clouds to shine on Obama walking for her, looking as holy he looked to her in 2008.

“Barrack…” says Millie nearly swooning from love for Obama.

The Virgin Mary steps from her statue podium and takes the trembling Millie into a loving hug, “Millie.  You love your Barrack. Take the gun from your purse give it to Desmond.”

“Ha, ha,  He’s frozen.”

“Behold!” Agent Smith as the Virgin Mary waves an arm and Desmond transforms back to his youthful self, free of the frozen spell.

“Desmond… You’re young again!” giggles Millie, losing herself in the illusion that have enslaved her for a quarter of century.

“So are you, Mills,” beams young Desmond.

“Desmond is right.  Look at yourself in my mirror, Millie,” The Virgin Mary says as she hold up a golden mirror.  “Your beloved Uncle Sam has taken nothing from you.”

Millie gazes in wonder.  The fat of  25 years as government slave has vanished and she says in wonder, “I seventeen and gorgeous once again! Thank you Mother Mary!”

Desmond holds out his hand. “Give me the gun from you purse, Millie then let’s pick up where we left off with BJ for old time’s sake.”

“BJ?  It’s time you went down on me, mother fucker!,” shouts Mary

The Virgin Mary turns angrily to Desmond. “You stupid son of bitch.  I almost had her!”

Millie slams her hands to her head, “Get out of my fucking head, you mind controlling cunt!”  Millie takes a swing but her fist passes harmlessly through the smiling Virgin Mary’s head.

“I’m sorry, Millie, ” says agent Smith, meaning it as steps, from the Virgin Mary Statue. “Fire!”

Millie’s head explodes from the sniper bullet that passes right though her and through Desmond’s heart.  The illusion explodes and the crowd is pandemonium.

Secret Service men dive on Obama, only 10 feet from the bloody corpses of Millie and Desmond.


Upon hearing the sensational news on Fox News, Will Maggo Esq., Billie boy, feels vindicated for his shunning Millie.  He elects to skip Millie’s funeral on Monday.  Will and Mago fuck for the entire weekend in secluded orgasmic celebration of Millie’s death to avoid the press.

Monday at work, his fellow lawyers are not quite sure how to handle Billie’s new fame.  Not a single lawyer or clerk return his shark smiles as Billie struggles his way up the long marble hall, past one rejection after another.

“Well, Mr. Shiff backed me ejecting Mille from my life.  The fuckers  juniorsI work with will all come around.  For the golden rule is: He who has the gold makes the fucking rules, baby!”Billie thinks to himself as he pops his head into the managing partner’s huge office.

Mr. Shiff, bandages still fresh on his 3o stitches is on the phone.  When Mr. Shiff spots Billie’s “hello” the silver eagle silently swivels his chair to face his back to Billie and goes on with call like Billie is invisible.

Mystified at Mr. Shiff’s rejection and hoping this is all just his imagination getting the better of him on Monday.  Billie saunter up the hallway to grab a coffee to shake off the Monday blues.  He smiles at the passing receptionist who has had plans to fuck  him at the office Christmas party in a few weeks. “Morning, Gabby!” says Billie brightly.

But the receptionist pretends to get a cell call and breezes past the stunned Billie.

Billie feels the shift of attitude toward, like a boulder on his back, as he finally reaches the sanctuary of his newly repaired office.  He closes the door behind himself, out of breath by the gantlet of stolen dirty looks he just ran.

“What the fuck was about?” Billie asks to his reflection in the repaired glass partition.  “Work.  Yeah.  Fucking some farmers over will clear my head,” says the Grim Reaper says, giving his reflection a pep talk.  Feeling back in control, Billie hits the phone’s speed dial.

“I got nothing new for you, shark.” says the farmer, reading his caller ID and getting the jump on Billie.

“Morning, Mr. Johnson.  Will Magoo here.  Have you reconsidered Monsanto’s kind offer?”

“Jesus wept.  You’re working?  Thought you’d be at your mother’s funeral today.  What the fuck is the matter with you, son?  Your mama’s a god damn war hero!” growls, Mr. Johnson.

“War hero?” says Billie in shock.

“Where you been all weekend?  Under a fucking rock?” laughs the farmer.

“My wife Mago and I have been in mourning and -” says Billie

“Spare me the crap.  Only people with a heart mourn,” says the farmer.

“Fuck you, Mr. Johnson.  I loved my mother, until I found out she turned to crime as a spreader of Asian fucking kiddie porn.”

“You are clueless.  That kiddie porn thing was bull.  The news broke on China state TV.  The Chinks celebrated the death of the American cyber warrior Millie Magoo.  They were fucking dancing in the streets now that your mother’s defensive hacking in gone,” says the farmer.

“What?  That’s just shit she talked to me about!  Fantasy!” shouts Billie.

“I saw this on Fox News.  The entire covert opp Love Monster is blown.”

“Covert what?  Ha ha!  Love Monster was my name for my smothering pig mother,” laughs Billie. “She was a crook who made a living spreading kiddie —

” Your the smothering pig of  a worthless son!  I told you the Asian kiddie porn thing never happened, idiot.  You beloved mother was kept secret even from herself of own great mission.  Hey, maybe you’re really a great guy yourself and just brainwashed like your mother was into not knowing her own greatestness,” laughs the farmer.

“‘Greatness?’  My mother’s fat ass was the only thing great about her.  You smoking the hemp you grow, Mr. Johnson?  You high?” says Billie and laughs at his great jokes.

“Stop wasting my life!   Turn on your fucking TV and learn what hero your mother really was, you ungrateful pup, before I drive my ass to Chicago and — Ah you’re not worth my anger.  You ain’t worth spit, Billie boy.  And soon the world will know like I do.  Peace.”

The farmer hangs up on the stunned Billie.  Billie remotes on his TV.  There on Fox News Bille conservative hero, old Bill O’ Reily himself, is thrilled to be back in the saddle demolishing former President Obama as in the old days.

“This will sounds more like a science fiction plot of a new Speilberg film, but it’s real, folks.  Deep cover CIA mind-control experiments begun in the 1960s, kicked into high gear under former President Obama.

Man, and we thought Obama’s NSA scandal, one that ultimately made him a darling of we duped conservatives, was huge.  And consider me the biggest pinhead ever for Obama, dubbing him the “New Regan” when I should have called him the “New Nixon” by a power of ten!

Millie Magoo, was an orphan teen selected as an experiment, dubbed Operation Love Monster by an undercover CIA operator in a Baltimore strip club, where the orphan was struggling to survive after escaping a violent father and being raped by her uncle which drove her to the streets.  It’s a sad story worthy of Le Miz.

The CIA operative, disguised as a drunken sailor on leave, got Millie to his van after drugging her drinks.  The fated teen was taken a a black opps center in DC where her mind, already partitioned from her abusive childhood, was taught cyber hacking, given another personality and fake memories about a bogus job as a Asian Kiddie Porn Spammer.  Wonder who came up with that twisted cover identity.  I mean how low can our government sink, people?  If you’re going to keep someone’s good deeds a secret from themsleves, at least give them an identity that does not make them live in false shame each day!

But, that vile fake life aside, where Millie thought her nearly 24 hour a day work pattern, with only short naps was stealing her youth and beauty, the poor thing was chained to her computer thinking she was spreading filth when she was a tireless cyber warrior, wow, for once one of governments mind control experiments worked.

Big Brother eat your heart out.  Obama, if the leak proves as accurate as Millie Magoo’s story, took her extraordicary success as unconscious serverant of the people and create, get this 50,000 other robotic human servants with fake memories just like her.  In other words, 50,000 people scattered across America out there need to be deprogrammed and brought in before they go off like emotional time bombs like poor Millie Magoo.

Former President Obama took a forgotten 60s CIA wet works project in poor Millie Magoo and set off 50,000 time bombs ticking all across the great nation.  I’ll let that sink in.”

O’Rielly pauses for effect.

Former President Obama you make Big Brother look like a weak sister!  Already, public reaction has been swift, with protest marches dogging Obama across the planet.  So let’s thank Millie Magoo, people, that Obama stands zero chance of a third term bid.  Thank this sleep walking guardian angel of love as many as calling Millie Magoo, as we switch you live now to her funeral where a 21 gun salute of cannon’s is about to take place.”

Not wanting to hear the cannon fire honoring his mother, Billie mutes the TV where a young photo Millie beams a him from the flat screen, where he is 5 years old sitting on her lap in the kitchen as she feeds him Doritos.  Billie has an out of body experience and fly from his office through the flat TV screen.  He lands beside his mother’s coffin, a ghost that none of the 400 some funeral guests can see.  He stands in shock. watching the weeping crowd.

Father Flanagan straightens his tunic, hamming for the cameras, his words are nonetheless sincere as he says, “Poor Millie Magoo was a hero unaware of her daily battles against the dark forces of China.  A yellow peril out to launch our own missiles against us.  During 24 years of almost 24 hour a day service that aged her beyond her years, this mother to us all loved her son Billie as best she could.  Loved him through a fog of illusion, spells of endless obedience to Uncle Sam.

Millie Magoo did her best by setting her phone as reminder to escape the cyber world for brief few minutes to give her boy Billie as much as she could before the program returned her slave at the computer, protecting us all with one part of her mind, secret to even herself and only discovered by the Chinese, who hated the mystery savior of America, upon her death.  How the Chinese managed this feat after falling to find the master hacker for 24 years and countless failures, so that we’d know to honor this poor fallen solider with honor, is truly a sign of a kind merciful God.

Surely, the operation that stole her life, code named Operation Love Monster, though a success that should terrify each of us into waking up to the dangers of an American government without a soul, missed the mark on that name!  Operation Love Angel would  have been a far more appropriate a title for this hero of the cyber world who watched over 400 million Americans for 24 long years.  A guardian angel sent from heaven to protect us all from nuclear war!”

Billie is stunned my the long cheer that rises up from the funeral gathering.  Father Flanagan basks in the glory of this moment that will make him Pope in time and finally motions the crowd

“As proof of this love angel’s amazing soul I want to read you half finished love letter to her precious son, strangely absent from today ceremonies,”offers Father Flanagan.

“I’m right here!” shouts Billie.  But no hears the ghost son.

Father Flanagan open the blood stained letter and reads:

Dear Bille:

Little man, I had so much hope you would be the answer that would change my life.  I grew up in a home without love.  And so all my love went to putting you where you are today, top of the world.  But having reached your high destination you’ve forgotten those in the basement who put you where you are today.

Worst of all you’ve become a slave to the corporations destroying our world.  Evil Monsanto is your master now.  How could someone raised as a liberal eco lover turn out to be such conservative planet killing monster?   You have broken my heart, Billie.

As for the future?  You can —

“The letter stops here.  Never finished, never delivered to her boy.  I hope in whatever rat hole this ingrate of son has himself holed up his is somehow seeing this,”  Father Flanagan nods to a soldier.

Billie nearly jumps out of virtual skin as a 21 gun cannon salute shakes the hills.

“Now hold up you phones and let’s honor the Love Angel.  Set forth the harps!” shouts Father Flanagan as the thrusts his cell phone to the cloudy sky.

The 400 funeral guests all set their cell phones ringing Millie harp tone.  Billie falls to his knees in the virtual snow slams his hands over his ears but the piercing harp tone of Millie the love angel is relentless.

Meanwhile, deep in a hidden bunker agent, location unknown, Smith watches Billie writhing on the law offices floor on his big computer monitor, as he sips a coffee.  A wry smile on his face agent smith says, “For you, Mildred Magoo.”


Love Monster Poster heartCopyright © 2013 Ken Sheetz

WGA Registration

LOVE MONSTER by Ken Sheetz

Registration Number: 1665277

Roll Credits to the tune of the Bee Gees HOW DEEP IS YOUR LOVE

I know your eyes in the morning sun
I feel you touch me in the pouring rain
And the moment that you wander far from me
I wanna feel you in my arms againAnd you come to me on a summer breeze
Keep me warm in your love and then softly leave
And it’s me you need to show
How deep is your love
I really need to learn
Cause were living in a world of fools
Breaking us down
When they all should let us be
We belong to you and me I believe in you
You know the door to my very soul
You’re the light in my deepest darkest hour
You’re my saviour when I fall
And you may not think
I care for you
When you know down inside
That I really do
And it’s me you need to show
How deep is your love
I really need to learn
Cause were living in a world of fools
Breaking us down
When they all should let us be
We belong to you and me I believe in you
You know the door to my very soul
That’s a wrap.  To read behind the scenes about how one of Patrick’s inventions, the Nuerophone, that boosts intelligence as measured by written IQ tests, helped make me smart enough for the complex LOVE MONSTER to be a breeze to write, click on this link: I WAS A TEENAGE LOVE MONSTER AND HOW I GOT CURED IN SEDONA