Logan's Apocalypse E-Book

Héraclès Harixcalde

• Herausgeber: BoD - Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 253

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Logan, a young data analyst working for an NGO, becomes a target of the Deep State's invisible web of control. Captured and imprisoned in China, his journey spirals into a harrowing descent, one that ultimately leads him to uncover the buried truth of his lineage and its ties to Europe's exiled royal bloodlines, cast out by powerful occult forces since 1666. But what if the trap was never meant for him - but for the Leviathan itself? At the crossroads of VALIS by Philip K. Dick, The Da Vinci Code, and The Gulag Archipelago, this psychological novel - laced with humor, science fiction, and terrifying realism - tells the true story of a targeted individual. A reluctant superhero like Wolverine, or just a cosmic loser like Uladislas? It's up to the reader to decide. This book serves as both a warning and a testimony, exploring the hidden forces that shape our world, as established in Volume I: Kubrick and the Deep State. From hospitals and social services to prisons, Big Pharma, the food industry, and artificial intelligence - the war is everywhere. Welcome to a new era of low-intensity psychological warfare, where even the cosmic microwave background can be weaponized, and thought transcription is just another biotech UAT. Or perhaps it was all simply... God.

Leseprobe

"Descending into Avernus is easy: day and night, the door of dark Dis stands open. But to retrace one's steps and return to the upper air—there lies the challenge, the struggle."

Virgil, The Aeneid, Book VI

"It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends."

J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter

"A biography is something you invent!"

Louis-Ferdinand Céline

"A man who follows the rules will never produce anything absurd or utterly evil; just as one who lets himself be guided by laws and propriety will never become an intolerable neighbour or a notorious scoundrel. But all the same, any rule, whatever one may say, will stifle true feeling and its genuine expression."

Goethe, The Sorrows of Young Werther

Table des Matières

Preamble

Part I - Bad Karma

Part II – Leviathan and Golgotha

Part III – Apocalypse

Preamble

Body and Soul are deeply intimate.

They always sleep together.

In harmony and without fir trees,

Opens wide a pinecone.

I hesitated for some time before publicly sharing this very personal story — and I chose to do so in the form of a novel, to leave a shadow of doubt over my honesty and mental health. Because perhaps this entire story was merely a charade between dream and reality, and maybe, after all, life itself is made that way: a kind of half-sleep, and it would have been better to fall back asleep. As far as I’m concerned, I have slept enough, and I hold a considerable amount of evidence supporting the claims made in this book, which I will scatter here and there, out of a survival instinct and because I have no calling to become a martyr.

I offer you a story as honest as possible — which will also explain certain passages you might find as dull as I did, where I recount the banal and routine life of a data analyst working in NGOs funded by the Australian government. These moments are far from irrelevant; they are key to understanding a system that is locked from every angle. And if you’ve carefully read my previous book Kubrick and the Deep State, you’ll be able to draw the connections, identify the methods, and spot the cracks where the devil hides — the same cracks I describe from personal experience here. This is not an isolated incident; it is a mode of management. And the rising tide of “burnouts” is likely its most visible symptom.

Through mass surveillance, control of the hierarchical summits, and the electromagnetic hardware, we are at the end stage of establishing an invisible dictatorship, in which we are all sentinels, operators, and executioners. Your best friends may suddenly become your worst enemies, should you deviate from the paths carved out for you by social engineering and mesmerism. This old world order traces back to 1666, the Great Fire of London, and its reconstruction by Christopher Wren. The forces of good are now fighting their final battle — until the next one. The important thing isn’t to win, but to fight.

If the misfortunes I recount here were partly deserved, they were nonetheless orchestrated. There is an active force pulling the strings and eliminating ALL existential threats, large or small. This may explain why so many whistleblowers and key actors in organizations like Boeing, Big Pharma, and other influential entities end up suicided with two bullets to the back of their head.

What is this active force? Does it have a virtuous goal, or does it seek to enslave the world?

There exists in science a form of illusionism — that’s not my claim, it’s Goethe’s — and we lend science far too much authority in explaining the world. In his Theory of Colours, Goethe outlines a vision of reality very different from Newton and modern physics. Everything is in metamorphosis, and neither Ovid nor Woody Allen (see: Zelig) would say otherwise — especially since mass mRNA vaccinations. You yourself experience these metamorphoses daily, adapting your language and gestures depending on where you are, expressions of your nervous system's subtle intelligence. In everyday life, we are constantly adjusting to the changes that present themselves — and at worst, a visit to a friend in Guatemala will expose you (albeit briefly) to Mayan culture and local nuances. Or perhaps you will travel from London to Edinburgh — and even if accents and language differ slightly, behaviors remain similar, and you have some time on your hand to adapt.

But once in your life, perhaps, you will be thrown into a far more sudden and unpredictable immersion. Adapting to such an environment can be terrifying. And given the physiological effects of fear, the lack of scientific knowledge or prior experience in such situations leaves us ill-equipped. What are the real consequences? Could distress activate unknown mechanisms within us? Could a shockwave ripple out into the environment, bending reality according to our thoughts? Or is this world merely an elaborate simulation, like The Matrix, a hyperreal virtual environment run by a wizard behind the curtain — where true freedom only comes through overcoming fear and mastering the self in order to reshape one's world? Is that not the story of the Buddha?

Perhaps you will recognize the Wizard of Oz in this tale — and he may sometimes appear as a good devil, even as he tempts you relentlessly. It seems I was initiated into some of universe’s little secrets — an initiation which, according to Rudolf Steiner, occurs through the experience of symbolic death, where the dying initiate meets divinity and transitions from an unconscious to a conscious divine connection. This symbolic death, I believe, is the one Christianity sought to share broadly through the crucifixion of Christ and the rites of self-sacrifice like Lent. Symbols that the Church has tried to revive periodically through apparitions of the Virgin Mary, recounting stories of individuals in deep suffering, such as Bernadette Soubirous.

But celebrating Easter and gazing upon Jesus on the cross no longer carries the psychological weight of real, lived experience — and that is the problem. I remember the confusion in my youth, sitting in church pews, staring at those morbid symbols that meant nothing to me — or to my classmates, for that matter. I’m not saying we should all experience death, of course — but perhaps the tales of Christ and Golgotha have lost their freshness. They are rooted in lands that have changed profoundly and a context that is now thoroughly technological. Perhaps resurrection was needed once again.

I’m still alive. I can spend my time writing. And now I know who I am. That’s already something.

Maybe in the end, this was the purpose of the initiation: to descend into the Avernus of dark Dis, and emerge again into the higher breezes — to derail the old world order, and establish a more magnificent one by serving as bait for the Leviathan.

And maybe my story will have no impact at all, which would give me a bit of peace. Still, I carried a small burden, and I understood a few little things that might be useful to you. Do with them what you will, and enjoy the read.

Note: any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental.

Part I

Bad Karma

Look at these intoxicated beings, stupefied and dulled by alcohol, which they are allowed to consume without limit — a right granted to the goyim along with their so-called freedom. We cannot allow our own to fall to such a level. The goyim peoples are dulled by alcohol; their youth is deranged by classical studies and early debauchery encouraged by our agents, tutors, servants, governesses in wealthy households, our clerks elsewhere — and by our women. Among them, I count those voluntary imitators of debauchery and lust — the ones they call “women of the world.”

1st Session

1

“I know I'm paranoid, but that doesn’t mean they’re not all out to get me.”

Pierre Desproges

Hong Kong, July 2023

On a bench in Kau U Fong Park in Central Hong Kong, around noon under the scorching sun, I was struggling to peel the grapefruit I had just bought from a poor street vendor nearby, after swallowing two raw eggs — one fresh, which I gulped down, and the other rotten, which I spat out in disgust. That’s when I noticed the first Indian man, arriving on a scooter — probably an Uber Eats delivery guy, judging by the large, insulated box strapped to the back. He placed a lunchbox at the foot of the bench facing mine before heading to the restrooms. With a tacit gesture, after taking a sip from his flask, he seemed to offer me a deal: a nod to the quality of his water, which I could access — in exchange for the computer. Except I wasn’t carrying it with me. It was well hidden in a safe place.

With no reaction or response from me other than a raised eyebrow of suspicion, he swiftly packed up his lunch and left without eating.

Immediately after came a second character, very similar. He gave me the slightest nod upon entering the park. He wore a turban reminiscent of New York City Sikh taxi drivers, although upon closer inspection, his features leaned more Middle Eastern. This false Indian behaved exactly the same way: he placed his bag in full view, took a sip of water, went to the bathroom, and then left on his Honda scooter — but this time, with a threatening demeanor.

I realized then that the notes I had typed into my Huawei notepad had had some kind of impact: I had jotted down my admiration for Brahmins and Sikhs, and now here they were — or at least, that’s what they wanted me to believe. Smoke and mirrors.

At that point, I was clearly dehydrated, underfed, and sleep-deprived from the two days prior, but my panic had stabilized. I was able to observe reality with some level of calm, managing my fears, as if the effects of the drugs that had been slipped to me were beginning to wear off. At the very least, I had stopped hearing voices.

Then came a third character, whose Middle Eastern features were even more obvious. No turban this time. I identified him immediately as Israeli, dressed like a Parisian suburban thug — white tracksuit, Nike TNs on his feet. He sat not far from me, on the stone seat next to the park’s chess table. His presence was immediately threatening and provocative. He spit with aggressive flair, oozing a vibe of violence and chaos, the aura of a fighter — or a killer. From his bag, he pulled a grinder to crush a nug of weed and lit a joint.

Then he grabbed his side pouch and went to the restroom. Minutes later, he came back without the pouch, resumed his seat, and kept smoking — staring straight at me, menacingly.

There are some energies, some auras, that don’t lie. Facial expressions, eye contact, posture, body language — they all give away a person’s soma, their state of mind. These were wild, animal presences. The kind of energy dogs pick up on from afar when another alpha male is encroaching on their territory. These three figures were escalating the threat level. Give up the laptop — once, twice, three times — and on the fourth...

I wondered whether that man might have left something for me in the restroom — a message, a clue, anything that could help make sense of the unbelievable and incomprehensible situation I was experiencing. So I headed to the public toilets, taking care to avoid the air vents which, I had come to realize, emitted a metallic, foul-smelling gas that triggered panic attacks in me.

When I reached the stall, I was suddenly hit with the sight of walls completely smeared with feces — by hand — and my entry was accompanied by a shrill, demonic sound, like a horror-movie organ blast straight out of a bad ‘90s B-movie. My heart rate spiked instantly, and I became convinced that the nightmare wasn’t over. They were clearly still after the laptop I had hidden elsewhere. The behavior of the various characters I had just encountered was no coincidence. They were being directed — somehow — from a distance, as part of a very specific mission.

When I returned to my bench with my shoulder bag and a troubled look, the Israeli man stood up from his seat and exited the park, casting a look of pure, seething violence that said something like, “You’re dead, you piece of shit.”

Seconds later, I felt the panic spike again — that sudden, unbearable need to flee, even though I was in a calm, quiet place. But everything around me — the long wall of air conditioners blowing heat in my direction, the Uber drivers, the stoners who looked like terrorists, the bathroom, the food I’d eaten, the accumulated fatigue — it all seemed to trigger this escape response. A reaction well-theorized by Henri Laborit and perfectly captured in the film My American Uncle.

That’s what my nervous system now “decided” for me: grab the bag, walk away fast, find a more crowded place. I kept glancing behind me to make sure I wasn’t being followed.

Eventually I reached the square near Cosco Tower, and sat by the edge of a fountain in the bustle of the lunch hour. Immediately, a short, stocky Westerner in business clothes approached me with a sarcastic smile and a “How are you, mate?” — in an Australian phrase, but with an American accent. Naturally, I identified him as a CIA agent.

That’s when I noticed a strong, chemical smell — vaguely familiar — which seemed to trigger or at least amplify the panic attacks I’d been experiencing ever since I left Sydney. Once again feeling unsafe in this now-too-populated place, I entered Cosco Tower and took an elevator down to the parking garage.

Even in that quiet space, I had the creeping feeling I was still being followed. Cameras everywhere were tracking me. The few cars that arrived and departed were surely agents, all part of the system. I took the emergency stairs back up, just to be safe, and found myself again in the building’s main hall. That’s when I noticed a small trace of powder on my shoulder — the likely source of the smell. I quickly brushed it off, scattering particles into the air.

On my bag, I saw a large patch of white-grayish substance, one I had never seen before. It reeked — a mix of acetone and metal — and I traced its origin to the park. Most likely, when the “Israeli” passed behind me, he had thrown some of it on me. I didn’t know what it was or what it did, but it had massively intensified my panic state. Not surprising, as this wasn’t the first time I’d experienced targeted chemical attacks since arriving in Hong Kong.

Was this a new generation weapon? Made of microparticles or nanobots? One of those non-lethal systems designed to neutralize a person through neurobiological alchemy? A kind of olfactory weapon? Or was it just my imagination?

Having abandoned a second bag — this time without the laptop — and now walking quickly, the outer edges of my stiff feet scraping the pavement, I reached the bay. My panic had now given way to a kind of despair, the result of being unable to face a force that felt almost supernatural — something that demanded submission. I was haunted by images of a future in a wheelchair, stripped of control over my own body.

And for what? For trying to blow the whistle on some fraud? For standing up to the wrong manager? For refusing to play the game? Or maybe it was divine punishment for past negligence.

Once again, threatening figures appeared, watching me — another Indian man, this one filming me with his phone.

Where I stood, the pier bent at a sharp angle. At that corner, a stairway descended into the water, allowing boats to dock and unload passengers. On the railing opposite me stood three Chinese men, silently observing the scene.

My limbs were growing increasingly rigid, my panic peaking — but surrender or resignation was not in my nature. I thought suddenly of Felicia Nelson, my colleague and a descendant of Admiral Nelson. She had once told me, “Don’t change,” as if to show support in my spiritual battle against invisible forces, despite the professional tensions we’d had in the past. She had proven her grit by winning the Sydney to Hobart yacht race multiple times — impressive for a woman over fifty — a worthy heir to her ancestor, whose tomb is on display like a pharaoh’s in the crypt of St Paul’s Cathedral in London.

The whole thing felt like a charade — the kind of story where you are the hero, or perhaps the anti-hero, caught in something larger than yourself. And the worst part, apart from the laptop they so clearly wanted me to get rid of, was that I had no proof of what I was experiencing…

Did proof even exist? Nothing had happened directly. Everything had been twisted, indirect — a series of suggestions that took shape only through my own perception. Maybe these characters didn’t even know they were part of something. Maybe they were being controlled by a higher, omniscient matrix that orchestrated negative synchronicities focused solely on me — designed to make me choose the worst possible options until I ended up in a hospital, a prison, or a coffin.

Had I been fooled? Was it all my imagination?

As these questions spiraled in my mind, a more immediate concern came back to me: I had to deal with the paralysis. I remembered the days I had taken Belinda and Phil — a young paraplegic man — to the pool, or even earlier, when I was young, bathing paralyzed patients in Lourdes with holy water. That amniotic liquid, that sacred element, had always seemed to calm spasms, ease pain, and momentarily soothe suffering.

Those memories pushed me to strip down and wade into the waters of Hong Kong Bay in my underwear, under the indifferent gaze of the Chinese bystanders and the Indian man holding his phone.

As I entered the water, my limbs began to loosen slightly. I paddled for a few moments, until a small fishing boat — empty, save for its driver — approached the stairway and quickly dumped a flood of chemical-tainted water into the bay before taking off again.

Desperate but still unwilling to give up, I found the breaststroke invigorating enough to try swimming toward the opposite shore — roughly 400 meters away — aiming for the forest-covered hills that bordered what I mistakenly believed was mainland China.

Halfway there, in the tepid water, large empty passenger boats began approaching me. They honked loudly and crossed directly into my path, dumping more of the chemical, foul-smelling liquid right into the water I was swimming through.

And that’s when it hit me — slowly, painfully — that in a supermarket megalopolis like Hong Kong, operating like a hive, there was no escape. The entire system of interconnected IoT devices was functioning perfectly, orders relayed from some central command I could never identify. Perhaps it had already been hacked from somewhere else — or maybe it was an advanced AI issuing instructions to its network of low-level operatives: Uber drivers, taxis, ferry crews, police, and street dealers, all willing to do dirty work for a cut.

If my limbs were slightly less stiff, and if I could feel the effect of the stretching from swimming, I was still fully aware of the chemical’s continued influence — the one that had induced this partial paralysis — and that whatever had just been dumped in the water certainly wasn’t going to make things any better.

After three passes, the last boat threw me a life buoy and ordered me to get out of the water. I did my best to explain my situation: that I had been poisoned, that I was partially paralysed — which was obvious just by looking at my hands and feet — and that I was swimming to try to improve my condition.

But of course, this story, told by a white man swimming across Hong Kong Bay, made no sense to the Cantonese ferry crew. They simply handed me over to the police once I reached land, under a storage hangar for the large boats — straight out of a John Woo thriller.

In the typically efficient Chinese way, they had already retrieved the clothes I’d left on the pier and gone through my pockets. In my wallet: an Australian driver’s license and an RFID card from a love hotel. That was all the police needed to sketch out the story: I was an Australian tourist who had done too many drugs after a night with a prostitute.

They offered to let me go after signing a statement.

But as my despair deepened, and the possibility of long-term disability loomed larger, I decided to ask for a doctor and requested to be taken to the emergency room. The police winced — kindly — and said, “That’s a bad idea.”

The ambulance parked nearby was quick to respond — and in hindsight, I realized there had been an ambulance never far from me for the past three days, always there, ready to lend a hand to the poor soul caught in his “paranoid breakdown” — had I only been willing to ask for help.

This was the conclusion of the system I was up against: calibrated to ensure that my final destination would be a hospital — a place where I could be more easily reprogrammed, if needed.

And so it was that Queen Mary Hospital became the site of my initiation. That decision — as we shall see — was a grave mistake.

But first, let’s take the time to understand how your humble, naïve, and wicked narrator came to uncover the reign of digital terror — and how these events, and those that would follow, were in fact a large-scale trial run. Or as they say in IT project management: a User Acceptance Test before full deployment.

UAT successfully completed. Elegant architecture. Brilliant orchestration. And if it wasn’t that… Then, at the age of 33, I had just become aware of the existence of God.

2

“The Sage speaks through his heart and keeps silence with his mouth. You, human, listen to the path of wisdom, listen to the path of Light. The mysteries emerging from the Cosmos illuminate the world with their light.”

Hermes Trismegistus, The Emerald Tablet

Madrid, May 2010

Let’s begin the story here — after all, you have to choose a place to start a story this strange.

It was a hot, stifling summer day in Madrid, the kind of heat Madrileños know well — the kind that drives the youth to drink in the parks and the elderly to their siestas. We were in one such park, famous for botellón, not far from Plaza Real, the same park that holds the monument gifted by Nasser to Franco as a token of gratitude for his support: the Temple of Debod. It’s a temple dedicated to Isis and Amun, and I didn’t realize it at the time, but it’s one of the very few places in the world where you can stand inside an Egyptian temple — outside of Egypt.

I was with an old classmate from business school who had come to visit. I was there on Erasmus; it was 2010, and I had landed an internship at Natixis Bank. The subprime crisis had just swept through the world economy, and the city was buzzing — protests in the streets, football matches on every screen.

My friend had just smoked a joint, I had downed a can of beer, and I was flipping through The Flowers of Evil by Baudelaire, which I always kept in my back pocket.

I had ended up in a decent business school, one that had landed me in debt, and without much enthusiasm after a well-executed preparatory program whose content had, in retrospect, proven far more useful than the school’s technical and behavioural training. The school mostly taught us how to hold our rank and serve our masters — in exchange for a nice salary. Still, it gave me the opportunity to see the world.

Then this odd man joined us. He wore a simple white tunic and had a long white beard. Over his shoulder hung a small leather pouch filled with raspberries. He looked like a yogi — angular, wiry features and piercing, intelligent eyes.

He had taken a vow of silence and used every other means at his disposal to communicate. I remembered seeing him before, sitting on a bench in the Retiro Gardens, trying to convince passersby of this or that by writing messages in the dust with a stick. His appearance was nothing short of unusual.

He carried under his arm a copy of the Financial Times (or maybe it was The New York Times — I can’t be sure anymore, not that it matters — they’re essentially the same paper). He would cut out sections to express himself in writing, or sometimes he’d simply point to headlines or excerpts to fuel our conversations.

In this particular case, he opened the paper to an article on MBS — Mortgage-Backed Securities — which, he believed (and I agreed), had led to the collectivization of financial losses during the crisis and would be the vector of future societal collapse. The banks were too big to fail, and they knew it.

He claimed to have staged various “happenings,” where he would appear dressed like this in front of political leaders, attempting to give them what he called the “petrifying stare.” He said he had done so outside the Bank of Spain when the Minister of the Economy walked out. And while it likely had no immediate impact, maybe, just maybe, it stirred some subliminal guilt in a man otherwise chained to an inescapable system.

He asked each of us to write down our three core values — the principles that guided our actions. I don’t remember exactly how he communicated that without speaking, but through expressive gestures and sharp miming, he got the message across.

I wrote down three words: Understand, Change, Love. He noted them, then handed the paper back to me for safekeeping — which, of course, I lost shortly after. But I remember his eyes lighting up when he read my answer. That little spark of enthusiasm seemed to prompt him to invite us over for dinner.

My friend and I — open to the unknown, driven by the hunger for experiences that comes with youth — decided to follow him.

He had been lent a small ground-floor apartment opening onto an inner courtyard full of plants, not far from Plaza del Sol — and he showed it off with pride, brushing the leaves with his hands as he passed to release and share their fruity scents. I imagined someone must have found this man’s daily struggle valuable enough to the community to have offered him that space, giving him the stability he needed — as he made clear to us. It was a gesture that proved money doesn’t necessarily buy happiness or material comfort.

Someone had left a basket of fruits and vegetables at his door — he clearly had a fan club. Once inside, he joyfully set about preparing a vegetarian curry with whatever he had on hand, including mangoes.

When the curry was ready, he invited us to sit around a low table on the floor to share the meal in the living room. Around us were shelves packed with rows of identical black notebooks. After observing us for a moment, he stood up and selected one — packed with his handwriting in various coloured inks. He used these to document his daily encounters: names, impressions, the values people shared with him.

He had chosen this particular notebook because he remembered an entry that, he said, might be useful to us — and he asked us to read it aloud. That was how he told stories: vivid, living snapshots from his mind recorded daily in these books, all carefully arranged on the shelves. His memory lived there, fresh and intact.

He confided that he had spent many years in India — and had been imprisoned and tortured there, as his many scars made clear. He had not given up. Perhaps this was his way of redeeming his soul. He demonstrated his knowledge of languages — he spoke French and could quote obscure Baudelaire verses from memory on command. He knew German, Latin, and many others.

He tried to convince me to become his disciple. A young German, he said, had once spent a year learning at his side. He also warned me that women had always distracted him from his true self and his higher function — and that one should be wary of them.

I was in a relationship at the time. He advised me never to spill my seed — and confided that when he masturbated, he would always reabsorb his semen if, by misfortune, it escaped.

I wasn’t sure what to make of that. But being young, impressionable, and open — like a Cancer — I hesitated. Troubled and stunned, I actually considered it seriously. But burdened with commitments and debts elsewhere, I declined his offer — professionally.

After all, each of us must redeem our soul in our own way. And I didn’t yet have much to redeem, yet.

I looked for that man many times afterward in Madrid, but I never found him again. That little scrap of paper — Understand, Change, Love — was gone.

Later, I would pray to Zeus-Amun.

3

“The soul is an eyelidless eye.”

Victor Hugo

Sydney, August 2018