The Gospel According to Belle Eve: War is Deception.


The archangel Michael was my closest friend and partner in mischief, and we had oodles in common. We both were around since the very beginning, and we still were immortals living in the Otherworldly While I had my office with every war manual ever written, Mick divided his time being an angel in our realm, but then went to the waking world for two things: teaching underprivileged children fencing, and coming along with me to solve a war mystery.

We were in my office where many of our escapades always began as he scoured my shelves, looking for a book to challenge as it always meant an antic in the staid old waking world, and then a story when we were done.

“Looking for a mystery?” I asked as I put my feet up on my desk and relaxed in my chair.

“I was just in a bad mood because someone prayed to me that their favourite reality show contestant win a competition by devious means. Can you imagine a more wasted prayer?”

“What did you do?”

“Not answer the prayer.”

“So, you did something by not doing anything.”

“Well, I do not like to be vindictive, but if there is a queue of prayers, that person’s priority goes down the list. Angels cannot be expected to grant wishes like a genie. I protect people from harm with integrity and truth, not rig contests and rewarding deceits. So now I am looking to your books to work out what is bothering me so much.”

Mick kept looking until he nodded and took out the original copy of Sun Tzu’s book The Art of War.

“Ah, here it is,” he said cheerily, “The book that was the first to declare that war is deception.”

“No, no,” I said as I rolled my eyes, “War uses deception as a weapon, but war is fear.”

“That makes much more sense,” Mick said as he nodded, “I always said as much, but really, we need to prove our mutual theory.”

“Great idea. So, let us test how much truth is there about the game of lies, peaches,” I said as I hopped up, “And then when we’re through, I will just have to tell you a story.”

Mick jumped for joy. “I love a good story! It gives me strength. Let’s go!”


“So how will we prove it?” asked Mick as we found ourselves in Los Angeles and were walking around feeling rather groovy.

“Well, since you had the prayer to meddle in a reality show competition, we might as well find one that has players telling lots of lies to win.”

“That would be Everyone Loves a Scoundrel.”

“Not everyone loves a scoundrel.”

“There’s the first lie right there. The point of the program is for contestants to lie to their friends, neighbours, coworkers, family, and even strangers in order to get certain peculiar items in a scavenger hunt without getting caught, and the person who gets away with the most lies and items wins.”

“You watch this show?”

“No, the person who prayed thought to tell me all of the details including the biographies of all the players threatening the odds-on favourite to win.”

“How helpful, but if the person is on the show and is recording everything, then all of these people must know this person is lying to win.”

“No, it is all hidden-camera, and the faces of the unwitting victims are blurred.”

“The person praying told you this, too?”

“So that I wouldn’t accidentally protect the person who was being lied to by the scoundrel.”

“We wouldn’t want to protect innocent victims from being exploited, now would we?”

Mick roared with laughter. “And now that we are both on the case, that is exactly what we will do.”

“Let’s get to the studio to start the case.”

“I know where it is.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I was even informed in the prayer who was the executive producer.”

“That must have been a very long prayer.”

“You don’t want to know the longest one I ever received, believe me.”

“Not even a clue?”

“It involved a yo-yo, a spurtle, a sprue, seven rancid lemons, a will, and revenge on a sibling whose supposed transgression happened when they were toddlers.”

“And you say I have all the great stories.”


When we reached the studio where they filmed the show of conniving deceivers, we were immediately let in as our exotic and distinctive looks had given people the assumption that we were actors who were auditioning for very specific role, with more than one smitten employee wondering if Mick was a famous male model.

“What now?” asked Mick.

“There are four contestants left. Point them out to me one by one, and I will take care of the rest.”

Mick’s angelic tracking skills were superb and it did not take long for him to find the first who was the one the person who prayed had asked for him to help win. I walked over to her and shook her hand as I looked at her with utmost seriousness.

“What would you say if I told you that there could be a very important director looking for his next big star by watching how well you tell lies?” I asked as the woman squealed.

“I knew it! Just wait until I tell the biggest lies ever! I’m gonna be a movie star!”

As the woman ran triumphantly out of the room, Mick looked at me and shook his head. “You told a lie to her! Evie!”

“I did not tell any lies. I just asked what would she say if I told her that. She never answered me or let me finish my thoughts.”

Mick roared with laughter. “That was skirting a very fine line, Evie.”

“She heard what she wanted to hear because she has been telling so many lies, she doesn’t know how to see truths; so she doesn’t realize that she’s setting herself up to believe them, too.”

“And she is hoping for a big payoff.”

“If we asked the same question of the other three remaining contestants…”

“Our case will get solved. You are a fun detective.”

“Remember, peaches, I was originally put on this Earth to amuse you angels with my antics.”

“And you’re a natural.”


It was the final episode, and thanks to the executive producers seeing Mick and wanting to increase their ratings by writing in an attractive and strapping black man with broad shoulders and a handsome face, they decided a live finale was what the ratings doctor would prescribe. The network was excited at the last-minute prospect, and Mick insisted that I was his assistant, and that we were a package deal.

“What is your role in this finale, Mick?”

“The producers have decided they all must lie to me in order to get access to a night club where the final challenge takes place. Unbeknownst to them, I have already been informed that they are to deceive me.”

“And unbeknownst the producer, they have all met you and think you have an in with some A-list movie director. So, how did they tell you to choose who gets in?”

“They have already decided who the final two contestants will be.”

“And one of them is the prayed for woman?”


“No? What an interesting twist.”

“If she won, it would be too predictable; so they want her to lose because many viewers despise her. It was the reason she got that prayer in the first place: that viewer knows the formula of the show, and was hoping this time would be different than the last ten.”

“Are you going to listen to their advice?”

“You can do whatever you want.”

“Me? I thought you were the fake decider.”

“I never said to them I would do it. I just nodded and told them I understood them.”

“I am surprised at you.”

“They interpreted my actions as compliance. I never agreed to their terms. Let’s see how far these fibbers will go when they realize they may be lying so much that they can no longer see a truth that hits them in the nose.”

We were instructed to go stand on our marks in front of the nightclub as the program was live to air.

The first of the four contestants ran up and began to dance in a modern style, shocking and confusing the director who could not stop the camera from rolling.

“Is that good enough to be in your movie?” he asked.

“You’ll have to get in the nightclub to find out, peaches,” I said.

“I don’t have to lie to you?”

“It wouldn’t be very nice of you. How will anyone see your natural charm if you tell lies?”


The contestant ran inside just as the second one did – the devious one who had the prayers of a fellow deceiver, but not of the executive producer.

“I knew you really wanted me!” she said, “Do I get to go inside now?”

“No, the executive producer said they didn’t want you to win,” I replied.

“What? How dare he?”

The director glared at us as we waved for the camera.

“He thinks you don’t have star quality, peaches.”

“I have star quality! I was destined to be famous! Well, I’ll show him! I am going inside that club to have a date with destiny!”

“Hello, America! We’re letting in the other two contestants,” I shouted to the camera, “How boring is it if we always have to decide between two scoundrels, instead of four…”

“What are you doing?” screamed the director who marched on camera, “You’re ruining everything!”

“How so?” asked Mick, “Isn’t television supposed to be exciting and unpredictable?” Mick suddenly looked mischievously at the camera, “And to Rachel Bigelow, of Sandusky, Ohio, the one who prayed for her deceptive contestant to win, you really should use prayers for real emergencies, and not frivolous games! The next time you pray to me, make sure it is for a good reason!”

“Are you insane?” shouted the director.

“No, I am the archangel Michael, and this is Belle Eve, the original Eve from Eden who left before she had to marry Adam.”

“You are insane!”

“No, he’s telling the truth…”

Just then, the third contestant ran up, asked if he could go inside, and I nodded as I pointed to the door.

“You can’t do that, you loons!”

“We already did, and here is the last contestant…yoo hoo! The party’s inside!”

The last one ran in as the director began to swear and curse.

“I know this show is all about lying, but you shouldn’t be lying!”

“But why not?” I asked.

“Because, it’s just crazy! Losers lie and we exploit those idiots!”

Just then, the four contestants marched over to the director and surrounded him. “We heard that!” shouted one of the contestants, “How dare you lie and exploit us like that?”

“Who are you to talk? You lied to your daughter about getting her a pony if she gave you her favourite toy for you to break on the immunity challenge!”

“That was different!”

“No, it wasn’t!”

“You called us losers in front of America! I’m going to sue you!” said another contestant.

“You’re all a bunch of cowards who scheme and backstab people for five seconds of fame!” roared the directors.

“Cowards? We’ll show you who’s a coward!”

The five began to brawl as Mick and I looked at the camera.

“Well, darlings, that is the reason we should never deceive anyone or exploit them.”

Mick nodded, “And to prove how fearful they really are…”

He clapped his hands, and the sunny skies turned black as a bolt of lightning hit an inch away from the brawlers, who all screamed and ran away.

Suddenly, it was sunny once again.

“No one won today’s game,” I said, “But it is a victory for one bolt of lightning. Goodbye, and watch something more constructive next time!”

The cameraman gasped as he stopped filming. “Great special effects, guys! This is classic and the ratings will be through the roof. I don’t know how you managed to pull off that lightning gag, but I was impressed! And I loved the whole Eve and Michael angle – it serves all those cowardly fibbers right! What a bunch of babies.”

The crew left without the contestants or director as we looked at each other and went back to my office where a promised story was about to be told.


The truth about war is that it is fear and not deception!

War is deception who will hear the mindful muse time and again. War is all about lies, they decree as they tell more of them, hoping to win and conquer battles, games, and bloodbaths.

But lies are a weapon of war, for war is nothing more than fear.

For those who fear being weak and insignificant, they do all that they can to run away from their vulnerability and insignificance.

People draw all sorts of silly lines in the sand, and make enemies with children and strangers just because they are fearful.

There once was a game where scoundrels waged war on each other, all afraid of being obscure, poor, and weak.

So, they betrayed all those who loved them for fear tells you to hate those who love you, and love those who wish to exploit you.

They began to lie to themselves before they lied to others, until the day they thought they heard a truth, when it was merely an echo from their empty hearts that told them the same lie.

For to wage war on others, you must declare war on yourself first.

And those who do not love themselves will always spread their fear through war, until those with brave hearts fill it with love and truth, and end those wars with the bravery that comes from kindness!

The Gospel According to Belle Eve: Politics by Other Means


Michael may have been an archangel and the one whose sword put an immediate end to the Great Angel War that was sparked when one of the angels noticed that I had flown the coop before the great revealing of the Big Guy’s greatest show on the Great Story Machine known as Earth, at least to the waking world. My replacement was not as daring as I was, and I left Eden because when I saw Adam, his arrogant ways made me sick to my stomach. He was selfish, self-entitled, and always preening, and I was too free-spirited to put up with his antics.

So, I left paradise and eventually became a war detective, with my good friend Mick joining the fun, and when he wasn’t busy answering prayers, he took the form of a black man in the waking world, teaching underprivileged youth the art of fencing.

He was always so adorable that way.

That, and how he gets all silly and excited whenever I tell him a story.

It was one of those days when he came to visit me after his usual fencing lessons when he looked at my bookcase and marvelled at how many war manuals were written over the ages – and that I had every single original print of them all.

“It is the most extensive collection of war manuals ever gathered, but that is hardly me bragging, peaches. It is downright depressing.”

“You have texts written on stone tablets, clay, papyrus…”

“I read a silly article where a writer was complaining that psychology studies have studied only fifteen percent of the planet. I’ve studied the entire planet of every culture since the beginning of time, and not one of them got through with writing war manuals.”

“It is depressing, though most of them aren’t very well known. Do you have any other sorts of books?”

“I do have one from a female psychologist who wrote an anti-war manual in the 1940s after she and her true love escaped Europe during the Second World War. When all those war manuals get to me, I pick up her book and see there is hope for the human race yet.”

Mick picked up another book, “Her book isn’t well known, but this one is one of the best known. Clausewitz on War.”

“But unlike her book that is all right, his book is all wrong.”

“We’ve tested a few of his ideas, and every one proved to be silly.”

“There weren’t the only silly ones in there.”

“His most famous observation was that war is the continuation of politics by other means.”

“He had it backward, peaches. Politics is the continuation of war by other means.”

“That is an interesting counterargument, but how do we prove it?”

“There is always an election somewhere.”

“The United States is having one.”

“Let’s make some trouble, peaches, and when we prove Clausewitz wrong, I’ll tell you a story all about it.”

Mick clapped his hands happily, “You know no angel ever can resist your stories. What are we waiting for?”


We left my office and headed to Washington, DC, a place that loved its wars, both the literal, and the figurative ones of elections. There was crime and homelessness on the street that always made Mick sad and willing to give generously to the dispossessed as he also stopped no less than five muggings with his sword and fencing skills, while I was busy looking around for clues.

And that’s when we ran into a friendly goddess doing the same.

“Tommie!” I shouted as I ran over to give Her a hug, “What brings my favourite goddess here?”

“George and I are here to stop that ridiculous religion that proclaims to worship Me and My ways, but then does everything I would never do under any circumstances.”

Mick nodded thoughtfully, “Murphy says the same thing. It frustrates many gods.”

“Well, I am gathering information to know what I will need to do bring some sensibility to these impossible people. So, what are you two troublemakers up to here?”

“We are testing a theory,” I said, “About the correlation between politics and war.”

“Yes, Washington, DC, loves it wars in the battlefields where other people’s children are sacrificed, or on the campaign trial where people vote for their next set of exploiters. Good luck with your latest war mystery. I am off to find George before he gets himself into any more trouble.”

“Where is George, by the way?”

Tommie rolled Her eyes. “He was invited to the White House.”

Mick and I gasped in unison. “Was he invited?”

“Yes, by his number one fan. Can you believe it? I will be lucky if he doesn’t spark a new religion just as I dismantle the first one he inadvertently started when he mourned My premature passing.”

“Good luck with that,” said a sympathetic Mick, “Once new religions start, they are very hard to control.”

“As if I hadn’t had enough on my plate as it is. Good luck you, two, and if you are ever in Grimsby, Ontario, come on over.”

“I thought you were in Paris, Ontario,” I asked.

“Oh, I was, but then George caused something of a riot there, and now we are in Grimsby. I was hoping to travel somewhere out of Canada, but he has been causing Me no end of grief. First, in Selkirk, then in Paris, but I am keeping My fingers crossed that he doesn’t make trouble in Grimsby. I will see you both later.”

Tommie smiled as She waved goodbye as Mick whistled. “There is a new wrinkle. George the Edenite Sentry is friends with the president of the United States. It complicates our test.”

“Actually, as he is preoccupying the president, we can focus on a more ignored race, and then test our theory about war and politics.”

“Sounds like a very good plane. Let’s see where we can set up our laboratory to test our ideas about the lunacy of war.”


Mick sat down across from me at a diner in the heart of the Beltway as he drank his milkshake and then ate his apple pie. “So, Evie, which campaign do we start with?”

“It doesn’t matter. They are all the same.”

“Isn’t there any particular candidate you had in mind?”

“They are all the same, peaches. We pick any one, and show how they using the election to wage war on the people and lord over them.”

“Well, then that’s easy: the first candidate we see, we can follow that person and the rival, but how do we test whether that war is the continuation of politics by other means or is that politics is the continuation of war?”

“But proving that politics the war against the people.”

“The people?”

“That’s right. Politicians always wage war against the people they want to rule. If they cannot subjugate them with bombs or guns, then they will try to do it with politics.”

“Now I see what you mean. Dictators rule with over violence, but today’s leaders do it by manipulating people into thinking they want to be ruled with psychological violence.”


“No wonder you are a war detective. You see through it all.”

“Yes, and it is time to begin to show the electorate just how their leaders are waging war on them these days.”


“By getting a couple of signs and marching in the streets. What we will write will get us instant attention, peaches.”


As good as my word, we got our placards and began marching in the streets of Washington, DC as we sang protest songs of politicians oppressing the people by always waging war on them, and terrifying them from seeing how abusive they were with their psychological savagery.

It did not take long for people to snap pictures of us with their smartphones and post our antics on social media, and soon after, a television journalist came to cover our protest.

Mick and I waved at the cameras as we held up our placards: Mick’s sign read, “Ballots are bullets!”, while mine declared, “And this election is a bomb!”

A television reporter ran toward us with a camera crew as she looked at us with a smirk. “What are you two protesting?”

“We want the politicians to stop waging psychological war on their citizens with their elections,” I said passionately as Mick nodded.

“But we live in a democracy…”

Mick shook a finger as he looked stern, “If by democracy, you mean terrorizing people with threats if they do not elect the candidate, then perhaps it is time for a new definition of democracy.”

“They are both war-mongers of the worst sort,” I added.

“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

“Both candidates are having affairs with their interns, both have been taking money from wealthy tycoons to rig the laws in their favour, both uses dirty tricks, sexually harass their workers, and neither has ever done a thing for anyone but themselves; so why are all these people fighting each other over the likes of those two buffoons?” asked Mick.

“We are protesting everyone, from the politicians to the voters,” I said to the stunned reporter, “We want a real democratic process where we find the most qualified, dedicated, and kind-hearted person and ask them to run very nicely. There is no need for war, and there is every need for peace. Anyone who wants to run for office is obviously not qualified.”

“But are you suggesting a monarchy or dictatorship…?”

“That’s hardly democratic, peaches,” I replied, “A true democracy gives real choice; not having to decide between two egotistical buffoons…”

Just then, both candidates marched toward us. “We’ll sue you for maligning our good names!” shouted the candidate on the right, “How dare you say that we are anti-democratic and against free speech?”

“But you are threatening my free speech and economic freedom if you sue.”

“It’s all lies!” shouted the candidate on the left, “I am highly offended by your accusations. I will mobilize my followers on social media to put you both in your place! You two are devils!”

“Devils?” said an outraged Mick, “You are threatening a psychological stoning of people who are expressing their right to free speech?”

“Well, you started it!”

“We’ll destroy you treasonous, Russian-backed agents!”

“I thought you two were mortal enemies,” I said, “So why are you two getting together to make the same threats with the same logic as you make the same unfounded and false accusations?”

“That’s right,” said Mick, “Why are you declaring war on peaceful protestors? If you two were different, you wouldn’t be uniting and behaving and thinking identically.”

“Now there is something for voters to ponder,” I said as I smiled and waved to camera before looking at the reporter, “Now, why don’t you be a good journalist and ask them how they are different from each other?”

All three blanched before they all ran away in unison.

“See? I told you they are all alike, even the reporter. All three are war-mongers trying to make war and division instead of peace and unity.”

Mick laughed, “You were right as usual, Evie: politicians are forever declaring war on the people they want to conquer.”

“One day, the people will see that, and make their own paths. Let’s get back to my office so I can tell you a story.”

Mick put his placard in the trash before lifting me up to give me a big angel hug as he cheered.


Politics is the continuation of war!

The war strategists who always tell you that war is the continuation of politics by other means, but it is always war to politicians who use politics to create a siege of panic in the populace.

It is politics that keeps the flames of war alive as people quiver as they vote for one side thinking the war will finally end, and one day, the politicians will not raid and pillage their wallets and freedoms, but they always pillage more of both as they proclaim they are waging war in the name of peace.

There once were two political rivals who always promised the people that they were as different as night and day, meaning they had the entire earthly rotation covered.

They both made threats, told lies, and lived their double lives as they vied for the same office playing the same games, and using the same stratagems of war.

Buy with all war-mongers, what the detest the most are words of peace, and words of truth that comes from love and bravery.

And when they saw the signs that threatened their war-mongering, they banded together to try to annihilate a different way to see the spinning world – without their meddling.

But when they were revealed as war-mongers to that spinning world, they ran away like cowards, as all warlords do, and if people could remember to always speak the truth with kindness and bravery, those wars would cease, and peaceful ways of guiding the world could finally begin!

The re-launching of Chaser News, Part Thirty-One: Impossible times call for sensible measures.

Patient is a virtue.

And I am patient as well as persistent.

I make mistakes and frequently, but I work at improving myself, admitting errors, correcting them as I learn and improve, and then move on.

I don’t know everything. That is the reason I am such a rabid researcher.

I think and I muse, but I also test and experiment.

You’d think journalism would be the same way.

It’s not.

It is the reason the profession flounders. When you cannot admit your weaknesses, you lose your strengths in the bargain.

CNN’s resident clown Jim Acosta may have gotten back his hall pass, but principal Trump has new rules, and even though reporters say they will still ask follow-up questions, the problem is a briefing is a canned, event, and hence, meaningless because it is pseudo-order used to mask chaos.

Participating in it is a disingenuous act that keeps the charade going.

It isn’t just the truisms and rote habits that have the profession behaving impossibly.

BuzzFeed wants to merge with “rivals” to have even fewer voice and venues, and then have a paid subscription to their stupid quizzes and listicles filled with stupider gifs.

It is an impossible strategy that is doomed to fail.

Chaser is about sensibility, even during impossible times.

It will not follow rules, nor will it be dysfunctional.

It is based on a flexible matriarchal structure based in emotional literacy.

It doesn’t ignore content or intellectual literacy.

But it is about a multi-faceted balance.

Even in the worst of times…

The re-launching of Chaser News, Part Twenty-Six: Alchemy is the sport of detectives, magicians, authors, and victors. Bringing the lost philosophy into a new mindset.







When you have two bickering sides of the same basic entity, it is only the in-group who see their differences and think that there is a pecking order as the two fight for who will be the victor with one being decreed right and good and the other wrong and bad.

But outsiders see one big dysfunctional mess and see that the entity is is just bad and wrong — and not as morally superior as the outsider’s group.

Watching the slap fighting in the US is such a case: the Left and Right are just opposite sides of the same coin. Both tweak, both judge, and both backstab one another.

And the outsiders just wait on the sidelines hoping to take advantage of the same group for their own purposes.


It is the reason why I have always been a Radical Centrist. Fight all you want. Scheme all you want. Create narratives all you want.

I am not interested in being your hero or villain.

Or victim. Fuck that.

I have my own life and my own dreams, goals, ideas, aspirations and plans.

When I did Chaser News the first time, I wasn’t political in the traditional sense.

And in Western culture “political” is defined by running in Left circles or Right circles.

It is binary, and so boring.

As if everyone is following the same stupid script, but are just standing on one side of a line or the other.

That is not being political.

That is being a follower.

You might as well play dodgeball and get exercise instead.


Politics has always been a milquetoast version of war the way dancing is a milquetoast version of sex.

Both are thought of as two parties getting together to either create or destroy with one as the dominant and the other as the submissive.

It’s the competitive streak that always gets in the way.

Sex is Eros, but war is Thanatos.

Dancing is Eros, but politics is Thanatos.

And in the centre of these peculiar dynamics, is a radical centre that sees the rigs of both.

Because both are just a pretext to control the other half of the equation as if one side is more right than the other.

And they are equal.

What is on the left of the equal sign is another way of expressing what is on the right of it.

If I seem as if I am speaking in Gibberish, I am.

But I am not talking nonsense.

Just the language of the birds.



Chaser News played around with the concepts of alchemy, and heavily so.

A Dangerous Woman Story Studio came from it, right after I did a peculiar website called Monsters and Queens that was storytelling told in a pure alchemical tradition.

But had my previous bluechrome not gone under, that would have been my follow up book to Consumer-isms in 12 Easy Steps.

Monsters and Queens had no overt narrative online, but the book did and an outrageous one, but they were told in short vignettes and musings.

But after bluechrome was gone, there would be no publisher who could possibly take it one. It was too exotic.

So I started playing around with the outré elements.

As alchemy sees everything as having a soul, Truth become Alena Love, and Love became Vivian Love.

And so, A Dangerous Woman Story Studio came to be.

And is still going on. It is a quiet little venture with zero publicity, but I have regular readers and consistent ones.

But I never abandoned Chaser.

I just wasn’t in the place in my life where I could relaunch it.

Technically, it’s still not, but who the fuck cares?

I have been given enough lead to last an eternity.

And I prefer turning it into gold.

That’s what journalism used to proclaim to do: turn lead into gold.

Find problems and then when the lead is exposed, it turns into solutions.


Journalists turned the problems into facts.

Lead into gold.

That’s alchemy.

What they have done know is turn lead into cyanide.

Definitely in the wrong direction.

They are making problems into the fodder for war.


And that’s not journalism, but propaganda.

But they got poisoned by the lead and cannot tell the difference.

But I still can.

The Radical Centre is the centre of alchemy.

You don’t move lead from the Left and have gold from the Right or vice versa.

You do not reduce things into simplistic or binary quantities.

You expand, not constrict.

As alchemy’s Axiom of Maria states:

One becomes two, two becomes three, and out of the third comes the one as the fourth.

Psychologist Carl Jung was fascinated by it as I was, but our interpretations of it greatly differ.

But they do not conflict.

He merely sees one application, and I another.

Chaser is slowly coming back to life.

Slow heat.

And when it does finally arrive, it will not be the same as it was the first time.

Yet the alchemy will still be there, but in a more subtle and sophisticated way.

Start small, and move on to something bigger without getting lost in the translation.

As above, so below.

No propaganda.

That’s not alchemic.

And propaganda has no place in Edenic equations.

Because the goal of all alchemists is to die and go to Eden.

Not Heaven.

You aim higher, or settle for more.

Alchemy is not well understood by the emotionally illiterate, but for those of us whose hearts and souls are naked for the world to see and are brave, we get it.

It is the noble art of taking your broken pieces and fusing it with the gold of wisdom.

And it makes Kintsugi a form of alchemy.

But it is not the only one.

If journalism was once a form of alchemy, then its alternative is a better version of it because it didn’t stumble blindly.

It crawled before it learned to walk and then soar.

It understands the four stages: nigredo, albedo, citrinitas, and rubedo.

Blackness, whitness, yellowness, and redness.

It is also the four colours of the Four Horses of the Apocalypse.

But it all depends if you understand the direction alchemy is supposed to take you.

Higher than you thought you could reach, against all impossible odds where nothing and no one can either stop you or move you.

You cannot be intimidated, nor can you be manipulated.

You are the core. You are in a radical centre.

You are the atom of truth and reality.

Even in dreams.

And when you become unleashed, you can alter outcomes because you have the combination of facts that actually get people to take notice.

Journalism lost that sense.

And it is why they died.

But for those of us who resurrected ourselves, we learned from our mistakes and o the mistakes of others, and like the Phoenix, we are reborn from lead and allow ourselves to make gold no matter how strongly those who do not understand our ways try to stop us from doing what comes naturally to us.

We don’t take sides. We see both sides and bring them together.

With the glue of gold.

And not even broken pieces deject us or stop us from working from our own little worlds.

It is not about left or right.

But expanding a core that has no use for artificial boundaries and linear divides.

It is about truth.

And creating life where there are nothing but omens of violence, despair, and death…

♛The Sport of Queens♛ Part Three: The Madness of Queens

In this instalment of The Sport of Queens, Joan the Mad unleashes her insanity for the sanest of reasons…

Cleopatra looked at the Mighty Queen Nzinga and shook her head. “You just had to tweak Joan the Mad’s nose again, didn’t you?”

“This force blocking our path is made from the madness of those who have lost their sanity in the waking world. Joan is the only one here who understands that mind’s fragmented language.”

“But what if she breaks and we cannot get her back to us?”

“Then I will jump that wall and join her as my penance. However, I do believe she can converse with that wall and come out of it in one piece.”

“But why is there a wall?” asked Victoria, “To block us?”

“Perhaps,” said Nzinga, “But after I had been drenched in that sporkle, I had wished to find the solution to our dilemma, and then Joan came to me, and she never does. I believe this substance is the essence of stars that compels it to make wishes come true. It is a spore with sparkle.”

“Sporkle,” sighed Mary.

“Joanie!” Queen Maria shouted as her sister in arms began to walk unsteadily toward the Vortex of Living Insanity, “Be careful! It is not worth losing your essence to a wicked beast.”

“It is not a beast,” said Joan she reached the outer layer and went on her hands and knees to examine it, “It is my mind on the outside.”

“It’s a trap! Be careful!” shouted a distressed Grace O’Malley, “Joanie! It’s not your madness! It causes madness to those in the waking world! It is a virus that feeds on the souls of those who become infected.”

“It is my mind. It is my own mind…”

Just as Joan the Mad touched the vortex to caress it lovingly, it nipped her finger.

“Traitor!” she howled with rage, “I gave you love and you gave me hate!”

“Oh no,” said Catherine the Great as she pushed herself to the front, “What has she done? Joanie, come back here before it devours you!”

Queen Joan began to scream as her words suddenly became visible, but unintelligible – each was frozen and shattered into razor-sharp shards that caused the vortex to bleed.

“Joanie!” screamed Cleopatra as she ran toward her, “Come back!”

But Joanie began to laugh, grabbed one of the shards of her broken words, and tore open the vortex as a sea of blood surrounded her before it became a wall separating her from her companions.

Then the wall became a thunderous cloud and shattered, leaving nothing but a laughing vortex in its wake, causing the queens to feel its madness as if it were their own and Queen Victoria grabbed the queens as she pushed them aside to safety until she got them all safely away from the vibrations of madness.

Himiko held her head as she looked around. “I have been in the Otherworldly for many moons, and never I felt something so wrong and overpowering.”

“That’s madness for you,” said a grim Grace O’Malley, “It knows our wavelengths and it tried to take us, too.”

“Nina,” said Vikki to Queen Nzinga, “That madness just devoured Joanie.”

“I had not anticipated that.”

“Because it feasts on insanity, and now it has a queenly version of it. We are now without a queen and with an enemy that can unbalance us at any time.”

“What can we do?” asked Queen Elizabeth the First.

“Wait,” said Mary, “Juana la Loca is a queen regnant.”

“So?” asked Cleopatra.

“Now it knows the ways of a queen regnant, but there is another sort of queen – a queen consort. We replace Joanie with a consort until we figure out how to reverse this nonsense.”

“A different kind of queen, meaning a different set of rules.”

“Any particular queen consort in mind?” asked Catherine.

“There is Queen Draga of Serbia, who was slaughtered. She already knows the ways of being devoured by an army.”

“Her husband was smitten with her against his mother’s wishes, and he exiled his own parent,” said Grace, “The people never liked her, and when rumours circulated that her brother would be made heir to the throne, the army was sent in to kill them both rather gorily, stabbing them to death in their pajamas and then throwing their bodies over a balcony right into a dung heap. She isn’t an Edenite, and I doubt we’d find her in Heaven.”

“I don’t think she’d be in Hell for what it’s worth because it’s not a sin in the Sport of Queens,” replied Maria, “But where would we find her?”

Nina smirked as she raised an eyebrow. “She was murdered.

Himiko gasped. “Of course, one of the Women of Orchid would know. They give orchids to the Fallen and Draga would qualify.”

“Draga would seek them out,” added Vikki pensively, “She’d want everyone to know of the injustice of her waking world fate.”

“Where are the Orchids these days?” asked Lizzie, “I hear the male companion has flown the coop to go back to the waking world to cause a ruckus.”

“There are three of them hanging about, and my best guess is if we post one of us at the Sorting Station, we’ll run into one of them,” said Mary.

Catherine nodded. “Some of us will have to deal with that Vortex. If this sporkle that Nina found has any wish-granting powers, perhaps we can wish for Joanie to come back to us unharmed.”

“Agreed,” said Maria, “But one of us does have to pick up a replacement queen first.”

“I’ll do it,” said Nina, “After all, it was my idea to send Juana la Luna to reconnoiter that mass of insanity in the first place. If I speak to their leader, she will tell me.”

“And if she doesn’t” asked Vikki.

“I am certain I can decollate her even in the Otherworldly and use her head as a reminder that no one defies the command of a Queen.”

“I pray for her sake, that she is the accommodating sort,” said Himiko.

Nina nodded regally and walked toward the Sorting Station as she used her own will to create a mighty sword that looked as sharp and fierce as the queen holding it.

The Mighty Queen Nzinga sighed as she looked regally bored at the groups of recently arrived at the Sorting Station. Some were the sort to immediately get whisked away to Heaven, while others were the sort to wind up in Hell. None would be queens, and their lack of good breeding showed. She waited patiently until a beautiful black woman came to console a group of children who were murdered by their mother and pinned orchids of their shirts. The woman had one blue eye and one brown eye.

That was the leader of the anarchist activists known as the Women of Orchid.

Queen Nzinga sauntered over. “You are the leader I wish to seek.”

Belinda Markey looked up. “Who are you? I can tell that you weren’t murdered.”

“I lived to a ripe old age and died peacefully. I am Queen Nzinga of Ndongo and Matamba and I have come to speak with you.”

“With a sword?”

“It has its own message should my first fall on deaf ears.”

Belinda looked angry. “A threat to my essence? What kind of nonsense is that? I had a murderer kill me because things like that wouldn’t persuade me! Now if you want something, put down the toy and speak your peace, Your Majesty.”

Queen Nzinga looked impressed. “You are a sister in arms. I have heard much about your valour and bravery.”

“They couldn’t put me in Hell or stop me.”

Queen Nzinga made the sword vanish. “I am looking for a Queen consort that may be among your ranks. Queen Draga of Serbia.”

“What about her?”

“There is horrific imbalance in the universe and ten Queens have been dispatched to stop it, though one of our rank has fallen into a sentient vortex of living madness, and now it knows the sport of queens regnant, but not of queens consort…”

“And Draga is a queen consort.”

“She managed to exiled her mother-in-law and nearly got her brother to be heir to the throne when her mother-in-law’s army slaughtered her and her husband.”

“The son who exiled her.”

“Yes, her mindset is cunning enough for the job. We need to speak with her immediately. The fate of existence rests in finding a replacement to Juana la Luna.”

“Juana la Luna?”

“Joan the Mad.”

“She wears an orchid, I can tell you that much. I can relay the message, but it is up to her to decide if she wishes to join you – or if you can trust her.”

“She is not an Edenite. We must do our best given the horrific turn of events. Joanie was our friend and we all loved her despite her sorrowful disposition.”

Belinda looked sympathetic as she nodded. “I will do my best, your majesty. If the Orchids can do anything more…”

“We will let you know.”

Queen Nzinga walked away and vanished to rejoin her fellow Queens as the clock begin to tick louder and the air felt darker and colder around them…

To be continued…

The Goddish: All Good Authors Love Detectives

Author’s Note: This is not a regular Story Studio offering. It is a Shibboleth for those familiar with other Dangerous Woman stories, and if you don’t know anything, it will make no sense. This is literal alchemical Gibberish — the language of the birds. This is under the “Everything!” banner, and it is a meta-story with nudges, winks, nods, and in-house humour. You have been warned…




“Verity? Verity! Is that really you?”

“Yes, darling. Are you all right?”

“We’re back on Viking Island, aren’t we, Sweetness?”

“It seems that way. Beloved Holly? Are you here?”

“Sure am, big sister. Eli?”

“He’s not here…”

“But I am…”

“Wait a minute, I know that voice…”

“It’s me, Vendel Langston…”



“Vendel? How did you end up on the edge of Viking Island?”

“I left the Otherworldly to help you all to inspire that soldier Holly’s great-granddaughter…”

“I thought that was you. You’ve really changed…”

“Well, I was stuck in Hell for several decades before winning my freedom on a game show.”

“You’re kidding. They have game shows in Hell?”

“Only one, but it is the one that counts. I left and joined the Women of Orchid who find those who were murdered to bring them together. We stumbled upon something important and I took it upon myself to find you all to warn you.”

“It was very good of you that you did.”

“Which reminds me…”

“What are you doing?”

“Pinning an orchid on your lapel as well as Verity.”

“That would suggest that were had been murdered.”

“The both of you were the first time.”

“What? Murder? I thought I died of a heart attack in my sleep.”

“It was murder. I have a sense for those things. Verity’s marking pens were poisoned. You both were going to Africa and that would have exposed the truth of who was behind all of your town’s problems. They thought if Verity was distracted by your death, she’d retreat. She was heart-broken, but then decided to find the missing Beverly Stoney, and she would have stumbled upon the truth. They couldn’t allow it.”

“My sister was murdered?”


“But why did they kill us when we did nothing to them?”

“To keep secrets hidden. The same people who killed me killed the both of you.”

“I am absolutely devastated. Why didn’t I see it? That’s my sister!”

“No one could have seen it. That was the way they operated for centuries. Since I started pinning orchids on the Fallen, I had to pin many flowers on the victims of that wicked cabal. I am sorry to tell you something so distressing, Holly.”

“Where are they now so I can unleash my righteousness of them?”

Verity, it is thanks to your ideas that the Otherworldly and a Goddess are dealing with them all as we speak. Your job is done, and it is the reason you all were brought back here. And I am truly sorry.”

“For what, Vendel?”

“For not being friends with any of you when we were all still alive. I was in madly in love with Holly, and admired Verity and I never said a word. I owe you a world of apology, Norton, for standing by and allowing others to abuse you as I was very envious of you. Please forgive me.”

“Of course, Vendel. We were all different people back then.”

“I am relieved that you are out of Hell, but if you are here on Viking Island with us, it means your words are sincere and we happily accept you as one of our own.”



“Beloved Holly, what is the matter?”

“Verity, someone killed you and I died of a stroke before I ever had the chance to…”

“You knew Holly. Deep down, the moment you sensed it, it killed you before you had a chance to act. It is not your fault your body was given a fatal blow.”

“Beloved Holly, do not be distressed. We are back home, and together. Time and space could not tear apart the Lake Sisters. Never forget it.”

“I have to go find Eli. I have a lot to think about right now.”


“Where’s Eli?” Holly asked her grandmother Alena Love who smiled.

“You still haven’t found him?”

“I second I was thrown back here, I find out Verity and Norton were murdered.”

“You do not know how outraged I am…”

“Well, so am I. How dare they? They are the two nicest, sweetest, kindest, gentlest people you could ever get to know and love, and to kill them? It’s disgusting. I want to unleash more than just my righteousness.” Holly folded her arms and looked agitated. “What am I going to do now?”

“Your husband said it’s been dealt with…”

“Eli didn’t say anything. I still can’t find him…”

“He’s not your husband here, Holly.”

“What are you saying? Vendel can’t be my husband! Can he?”

“Something has changed between the time you left and the moment you came back.”

“But what made you call him my husband, Nana?”

“I just did.”

“And you’re always right. But how did that happen?”

“A glitch!” a young man’s voice chirped brightly as Holly and Alena turned around.

“Kirkland! You’re back!”

Kirkland Hughes hugged Holly and then Alena who both greeted him warmly.

“I am, and I just spoke to the Goddess’s Messenger, and he said when you all went back to the waking world to right wrongs so you could bring your friend Jane Carrington here, you fixed quite a few glitches, but not all of them.”

“So a switch in husbands was a glitch?”

“Reality is made up of many layers and sometimes they get tangled and snarled. So, for Jane to have been able to come without a glitch the first time, you and Vendel would have fallen in love, and he would have gotten divorced and left with you to go to Queen’s Heights, giving up being a professor and become a victims’ rights activist. Verity and Norton would have still gotten married, and with the four of you all going back, Jane would have gone back because her house would have accidentally exploded…”

“Exploded?” Holly and Alena gasped at the same time.

“Right. She was too attached her home in Ottawa and that’s why she didn’t come back, but Vendel and Norton would have been bickering all the time if they were related by marriage, with Vendel trying to prove he was better than Norton because he would have felt inferior because he was married before, and Norton would have come out of his shell for the first time to stand up to Vendel because he would be emboldened by Verity after they worked it out when he confessed he used to be a cat burglar, and when Jane would have thrown a farewell party in her house, Vendel and Norton would have accidentally caused it to explode, and Jane would have seen it as a divine sign and come to Queen’s Heights with you. Nifty, huh?”

“Shocking is what it is,” said Holly, “And how could Vendel just up and go when he had children…”

“Oh no, his wife was having an affair with some poor musician, and those were all his kids. She actually loved the musician, but her parents made her marry Vendel because his parents always thought he was gay because he was really sensitive, and her parents owed his parents a lot of money. Vendel doesn’t remember her at all, but someone in the Otherworldly keeps records. She was a nice young lady whose meddlesome parents really ruined her life by selling her to decrepit people, and made her really crazy and bitter, not that you can blame her. I hear she and her kids reunited with that musician in the Orchid’s garden, and are doing great now. Vendel was even the one who pinned an orchid on them a long time ago, and he never knew who it was, and neither did she or the kids.”

Alena raised an eyebrow. “You are certainly up to the Otherworldly gossip young man.”

“I come from a small town; what else was there to do back then? But isn’t that neat? They can take an alternative reality’s outcome and bring it over here as if that is what happened all along. That’s why it’s official that Norton is now my actual brother…”

Both women gasped anew.

“I know. Mom had to bring him into the family as Hammond Hughes, but there was another glitch and Norton was actually supposed to be the eldest Hughes Brother, but his essence got mixed up with some other one, and he ended up a Dunlop, which was flagged as being a place that was deemed unsafe for him, but there was a clerical mix up somewhere. He wasn’t supposed to be born so early, but all that red tape can cause a lot of screw ups. If he was the first born, he would have talked mom into moving to Queen’s Heights, and he would have married Verity much sooner and the two would have had a daughter, but still ended up as novelists.”

“Patrice must be thrilled,” said Alena.

“That’s why she told me to find everyone to throw a party. My other three brothers are moving here permanently, so it will be the first time where all five of the Hughes Brothers are together.”

“Do you know where Eli is?” asked Holly.

“He’s with my mom right now and she’s scolding him as usual.”

“Does he know what happened?”

“Sure, and he’s fine with it. Your daughter will still be your daughter and his; and that’s a glitch, but it’s like you both were never married and got divorced at the same time. That’s why the Otherworldly can be so confusing. Oh, and Jane’s here with her son Douglas. Verity and Norton are welcoming her right now. Are you two coming?”

Holly nodded, but she never felt so lost or devastated before. The shock of her sister’s murder was a blow, but that a single turn in the Otherworldly altered her marital state was an equal blow. Somehow, she had to sort things out for herself.


When Holly was alive and she had problems to work though, she would sit under her grandmother Alena’s birch tree and doodle. The birch tree was still growing strong in the waking world, and though Viking Island was filled with beautiful trees, none of them were the tree.

She frowned as she looked at all of the beauty and remembered this was the same way Verity behaved when she first came to Viking Island. Trouble was outside of paradise and Verity knew it. Their dear friend Jane Carrington wanted to come, but the Otherworldly said it was impossible, and that unleashed Verity’s righteousness and she left to inspire people in the waking world to wake up.

It worked, and the Otherworldly relented, and Jane was now officially here along with her grown son Douglas.

Jane was even given the title of Matriarch, and that meant she was their advocate and guardian.

Everyone was overjoyed, and Holly was happy that was resolved.

But something was not sitting right with her.

And she was certain she could find it. Verity always had a knack for finding presents, and when she went back, she found the gift they all needed: truth.

But Holly had a knack for finding lost things, and she knew it wasn’t in Hell or below it, and it wasn’t on Earth or Heaven.

It wasn’t in Eden or else Holly would know where to look.

There was only one other place to look and she look up, raised her eyebrow, and snapped her fingers.

No one ever thought to look in Eden’s attic.

The sky could be the limit, and she wondered if there was something above the cloud up there that would hold some sort of answer.

The question was how to get up there, until she saw Florence Tenney who was co-owner of Queen’s Heights’ hardware emporium Weavers and Tenney.

She walked up to her old friend and told her what she needed.

Florence nodded. “You need a ladder.”

“Do they even have ladders on Viking Island?”

“Are you kidding? This is part of Eden now, and how could this place be paradise for me if there aren’t any ladders?”

“Good point.”

“Why do you need a ladder?”

“I want to examine that cloud. I think it is hiding something.”

“Trouble in paradise?”

“Or hanging over our heads.”

Florence went to get a ladder and she returned with an opulent one made of gold. Holly climbed up to reach the cloud, and gasped before coming quickly down.

“It is an attic! And there are two very shocking things.”

“Do not keep friends in suspense.”

“There is a Hell above us if you open the latch.”

“There’s a latch in a cloud?”


“And there is a Hell?”

“They were all having some sort of cocktail party, and if you die in the Otherworldly, there is a level above.”

“And if you were bad in the afterlife…”

“You go to a different Hell. It’s still for the bad, but for the not-as-wicked. It is very strange. They thought I was some hayseed beneath them.”

“My word, Holly, you do find some strange things. But you said there are two things you found.”

“I found glitches.”



When Holly told Verity of her findings, they immediately climbed up the ladder to examine the cloud that was an attic-warehouse filled with them.

Verity examined them with interested as Holly animatedly explained her findings.

“When Kirkland said there were glitches, I thought he meant in the hypothetical sense,” said Verity pensively, “But these little orbs are peculiar, and remind me of a snow globe.”

“Everyone in the Otherworldly talks about them, but they stick them all up in that cloud not to litter the place with them. It is bad enough that there are so many ducks in Heaven that poor people keep stepping on.” She picked one up. “I can feel its essence and it is familiar to me.”

“They are in different states of evolution. They all vibrate on different frequencies, and they have a soul, too, and they keep chattering about needing to be repaired. I don’t like them.”

“Why not?”

“It’s like everything is so tenuous, and less certain. Who’s to say someone else doesn’t fix a glitch and then you’re not my sister anymore.”

“I will always be your sister, Beloved Holly. These glitches to affect what transpired in the waking world. It merely removes the barriers of alternate outcomes and merges them together to get the best of all worlds.”

“But if Norton was born a Hughes, you never would have had your three boys.”

“Perhaps, but I do have them no matter how many glitches a corrected. Norton and I would have been together no matter what. We were together based on impossible odds in the waking world. There are two other possibilities and we managed to be together for both. When we went back to the waking world to inspire others, we reunited and found one another.”

“But I didn’t stay married to Eli. We were very happily married.”

“But you would have been happy with Vendel.”

“But you and Norton are soul mates.”

“As you were with Eli. The only difference is you would have been with another had circumstances been different. You have always been grounded, and you followed your dreams wherever they took you. You should be grateful that your life is one with many happy outcomes.”

“Except not finding Beverly Stoney…”

“We inspired two others to find her. We did find her in a different way…”

“But the matter of your murder…”

“Again, we went back to inspire those same two women, and we prevailed. One does not need to be confined by a few decades of a lifetime when there is eternity. Your fateful painting turned our town’s fortunes around. There is much to celebrate.”

“Except that orchid on your blouse. You have one, and I don’t. It’s like a huge dividing line.”

“How so? This flower represents how you were wronged as much as I was. Your death was triggered by mine, and you were no less a casualty.”

“It’s just not what I expected when we came back. I am just shaken, Verity.”

“As you were when Norton came to Queen’s Heights to propose to me, and then you embraced his survival and his inclusion in our lives and it was many years of joy that blessed us. Jane is here with us as is Douglas. The entire Hughes clan is here, and Norton is formally recognized as being part of the family he cherished and loved with reverence and gratitude. Eli is safe and happy, and no worse for it. He will find love again as he deserves it. Vendel is out of Hell, and here where he always longed to be as he has triumphed over every one of his demons and your essence inspired him to do it. Besides, everyone who left Viking Island is back, and we even have a Goddess as our guardian as Her parcel of Eden has merged with our own.”

“I didn’t hear about it.”

“She came to congratulate us along with Her companion and Messenger. Thomasina is a lovely woman who is as kind as She is brave. Her companion is quite an endearing sentimental oddball, and he adores Her. We should go back and inform the others of these glitches. Perhaps if we sort through them, listen to them, and repair them, there will be less trouble in the universe, and it can finally begin to heal. You did well, Beloved Holly. You effortlessly found the source of many vexing troubles, and we may soon be on the way infinite solutions.”

Verity gave her sister a reassuring hug as Holly closed her eyes and was grateful that she always had her big sister to guide her and calm her, but now she had someone else she had to speak to before she could begin to feel at ease.


Vendel held Holly tightly as he swayed with her the moment she came to speak with him. He longed to hold her ever since he first met her, and now she no longer seemed upset by the fantastical turn of events.

When she explained why they were never together in the waking world, he was shocked.

“So these glitches are real entities?”

“Very much so.”

He sighed. “They may be a buffer between Eden and the upper level Hell you saw.”

“They are not the most pleasant neighbors around.”

“The Hell below it was even worse, though I suppose Eden is their Place Below Hell.” He chuckled in amusement. “What is up is down and what is down is up. It is a spiral staircase where you encounter all of the same problems as before, but only a story higher.”

“You think it can help your friends find their loved ones?”

“If some of these glitches are responsible, then it is a matter of finding them. Belinda and Sharon was be thrilled if that happens to be the case, but to think one of these glitches kept us apart is heart-wrenching. I always thought there was no way you could love, or would have considered a divorced man with children. It pains me to think how shallow I was, but that I no longer remember them is no less painful.”

“No memory at all?”

“I could not tell you how many, their names or genders, and not even how old they were and what they looked like. I know I was married with children because when I was sent to Hell, the reason was how I treated my family.”

“What about your parents?”

“I used to remember them at first, but when I left Hell, they began to fade from memory. They brought me nothing but sorrow, but when I forgave them and let go of the pain they brought me and the consequences that plagued my tortured life, they no longer were in my memories, but that is far less unsettling than forgetting about your offspring, even if they turned out not to be mine.”

“It would have to be. You did raise them. There are attachments and bonds, and I never would have stood in the way of your relationship with your children, Vendel, even if they weren’t your flesh and blood. There is nothing wrong with being attached to children you raised and nothing wrong with being a stepmother.”

“I must have made them all profoundly unhappy in the waking world, and when they found the man my wife truly loved, they bonded with him. It’s as if everything that I had done wrong in the waking world corrected itself here. There are no more bad memories of me to plague them, and it is just as well.”

“What about your friends the Orchids? Do they have memory gaps?”

“Sharon still recalls her husband, but only because he murdered her. Belinda recalls her father abusing her. It was the traumas they brought that keep those memories alive, but neither has seen either tormentor. I think they keep those memories alive to fuel their drive in bringing attention to the Fallen. Jenna has no one in her life that brought her misery, and she remembers her family vividly, but she is no less passionate an advocate.”

“They sound like fighters with grit.”

“They are three wonderful women and you will like them very much when you meet them. I still need to help them, and I will always be an Orchid myself, but now that Viking Island is my home, it will be a place where I spend much of my time.” Vendel looked at the orchid on his lapel and sighed.

“It’s hard to see that flower now. I see it on Verity and it shakes me to the core.”

“It is a symbol. We are those who are the Fallen, Holly. We were ordinary, extraordinary, and yet have that one thing in common. We serve as a reminder of how cruel we are to one another. They hide it in the waking world, but not here. Once the Orchids began to draw attention to it, things here began to change, and glitches were exposed because life would have taken very different turns had we lived. Your sister did the right thing in going back to inspire. She retained all of her memories and she could guide those in the waking world. Belinda does it with her detective friend through dreams, and when she was in a coma, met her here, but even then, she had forgotten everything she wanted to warn her about because the chords of time work differently here.”

“Maybe the glitches hold a key.”

“They must. When my friends come her for a visit, I will have to show them that cloud.”

“We can invite over for dinner.”

Vendel looked surprised at Holly, and suddenly felt his soul expand with joy as he pulled her in for a long and loving kiss. Glitches may have kept them apart, but they were now doing their penance and seemed to be working overtime to bring them together the way it was always intended.


Verity was busy talking with Jane when she saw Holly running toward her just as Thomasina’s messenger summoned her to come over and the women went their separate ways, but not before promising to have a feast of manna later on.

“What is it, Beloved Holly?”

“Verity, have you had any revelations in the Otherworldly?”

“None at all.”

Holly looked at her and smiled. “I think it’s the glitches that gave them to you.”

“How so?”

“Because these cosmic mistakes that get all thrown into the same pile, and then it all is supposed to work themselves out.”

“The is the very definition of chaos.”

“This is the reason you had revelations, Verity. You kept stumbling on these glitches. I just don’t know if they were meant to distract you or warn you.”

“I saw them, and I worked them out, improving on things already in existence. Perhaps some of us are given a few of them in order to work out their equations. They are a very peculiar notion, and difficult to see.”

“But I can see them, big sister. Vendel was never supposed to be born outside of Queen’s Heights. He’s one of us. Norton was supposed to move here as a teenager from Somerset along with Patrice and her four sons. There are so many things that should have been, but weren’t. Kirkland wasn’t supposed to die young, and you, Norton, and Vendel weren’t supposed to be murdered. It’s as if the glitches are some sort of interference. It’s not as if we never have problems, but these are major shifts and upheavals. Vendel and I have been examining those glitches, and that’s how we know.”

“It is utterly fascinating, but have you had any revelations about their essence?”

“Yes. Glitches do get corrected, that’s why people who were obscure in the past become icons a century after they die. The glitch in the Otherworldly gets flagged and corrected, and eventually, the waking world gets wind of it. Norton was never supposed to become a cat burglar, let alone get arrested and held a hostage where he got abused. You found him in the nick of time because that glitch got discovered because your watch broke open and you saw his message. The glitch would have killed him, but it got straightened out.”

“You always had the gift of finding lost things, Beloved Holly.”

Holly smiled. “And you always had the gift of finding presents before you were supposed to get them.”

“Perhaps finding revelations was a form of me finding presents.” Verity paused. “You seem deep in thought.”

“There is a mystery here, but I was thinking about something you said to me when I was down thinking about everything I found out since we got back to Viking Island.”


“I was shaken that Eli and I weren’t considered married anymore.”

“He is still with us, and neither of you forgot one another.”

“I thought about that, and it’s just strange seeing Vendel like that.”

“Happy? Easy-going? Modest?”

“Gentle and strong at the same time. If he had been like that from the beginning…”

“He would have never wished to be a professor and you two would have most likely met each other at some protest or another as you became in love while you were both unleashing your righteousness.”

Holly chuckled. “That’s why he doesn’t remember big chunks of his life.”

“They weren’t supposed to be there, and the Otherworldly corrected it.”

“It just got me thinking about free will and fate.”

“There is plenty of free will, even if there were no glitches. There are infinite possibilities. The glitches occur when we just think we our intellect and forget to think with our hearts with equal measure.”

“It explains a lot, and of course you would know so much about them. You kept stumbling on them in the waking world and they gave you revelations.”

“That I no longer have, Beloved Holly.”

“Because here they are right in front of us in that cloud.”

“They are peculiar.”

“If you touch one, you can feel the possibilities that glitch stymied. It is like a story with many threads, but one big knot tangled it and prevented it from weaving.”

“They are inspiring little mysteries and they have inspired me to become a detective here.”

Holly looked at Verity. “A detective?”

She smiled. “Why not? You were one when we were in the waking world, and you a brilliant one.”

“I never thought you’d want to do it.”

“I had many responsibilities back then. First my career, and then when I married Norton, he had been physically weakened by the horrid abuse his captors had done to his body. He had been traumatized, but determined never to hold me back, and then we had our boys and our novels. We joined you on your little mysteries frequently, and we enjoyed them, but we also had to guard our own from predators, and we had to guide the Heights to make it strong and prepared. Now that we are free from those responsibilities, we can indulge any way we wish. Jane has her Matriarchal duties. Nana has returned to look after Viking Island. Vendel is still chronicling the Fallen. You have glitches to explore. I need my own purpose, Beloved Holly, and it is to be a detective of the Otherworldly.”

Just then, Norton came over, placed his arm around his wife’s waist and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “What’s going on?”

“I have decided to become a detective in this realm.”

“Whatever for?”

“To amuse myself.”

“Mind if I join you?”

“I’d love nothing more.”

“I think I may have a mystery for you to solve already.”

“Yes, darling?”

“My chest feels funny.”


“It hasn’t stopped tickling me since we came back.”

“Have you been thinking of something humorous?”

“The idea of Vendel and I being related by marriage is quite strange…”

Verity watched as Norton suddenly made a comical face of surprised and looked around.

“Is there a problem?”

“No, but I’ll be back, Verity.”

“What is it, darling?”

“I have to jump over this roman numeral because I think I have stumbled on to something important.”


“Excuse me? You, the one typing.”

“What is it, Norton?”

“You’re the Author of this story, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“Can you hear me?”

“I can read your words as I type them.”

“What was the meaning of having me lose my left leg? That wasn’t very nice.”

“I hadn’t thought of going to that extreme, but when I was writing Dr. Verity Lake’s Journey of a Thousand Revelations, my own grandmother had her own leg amputated, and then I dealt with her loss that way, and the story made more sense.”

“That’s still a rotten thing to do.”

“Listen, I gave your leg back to you; besides, it was a rotten thing to have happened to a nice lady like her.”

“So, what now?”

“What do you mean what now?”

“What bad thing is going to happen to me now? I became a cat burglar, got arrested, tortured, nearly killed, went through a war zone, was murdered…”

“And you’re still a living figment whom I adore. What happens to you in paradise is going to be surreal and fun. Besides, you have the love of your life by your side, and Verity loves you. What more do you want?”

“I wish I could meet you to see what you’re like. Are you more like Verity or Holly?”

“Everyone says I am just like Holly.”

“Interesting. How did you come up with her?”



“She came to me in a dream, and so did Verity in another dream, but they weren’t presented to me as sisters. When I started writing, Verity was never supposed to be present in my stories, but then I changed my mind. Holly and Eli would talk about her, but she would not be a character.”

“I suppose it’s a good thing because then I wouldn’t be mentioned in those stories.”

“You would have as Hammond Hughes.”

“What about Norton Dunlop?”

“That was another character separate from the Hammond Hughes stories. Norton was supposed to go to jail and die. The end.”


“I took two different characters and then merged them: villain and a hero. That’s how you got a second reprieve.”

“What do you mean second?”

“After I wrote the Turning Leaves, I thought you had another story in you; so I wrote one more where you didn’t die after all, but would have after a botched assignment, and then realized I was too hard on you, and then saw what you had in common with Hammond Hughes and inspiration struck.”

“The man divided?”


“So the Turning Leaves is the story where I began?”

“Yes, and then the Man with the Broken Stick, but then I was inspired to write a novel called Dr. Verity Lake’s Journey of a Thousand Revelations where your heart and soul spoke to me, and I learned to appreciate you. Then came the novella The Future According to Hammond Hughes, and all those stories based on your three sons.”

“I am in shock.”

“It was your sweet disposition from both your halves that told me there was more to you than being a mere thief.”

“So, you write the way I wrote. My characters did the same thing with me.”

“We have that in common, and from that, a bond.”

“I understand it completely. It’s the same way I feel about Pillar Rivers. So, if I have a need to talk to you, will you be there for me?”

“Of course, Norton. As long as I am alive.”

“Please be kind to my boys and my wife.”

“Of course.”

“And don’t do something to tear us apart.”

“Your marriage is safe, Norton. I know it means the world to you and Verity.”

“I didn’t like that whole part where I was coming on to Holly in that story where I stole a book, the Turning Leaves. That was so shameful.”

“All right, Norton.”

“That was also very cruel and disrespectful, and I wasn’t even in love with her. I knew it was just not like me in the slightest.”

“I got the memo.”

“And marrying me to some very mean woman was just horrible.”

“Do you even remember her?”

“No, but I know it happened, and that was just not the kind of dramatic plot twist I would have ever signed up for. I am a very romantic fellow, you know, and a bad marriage is just not in the cards for a passionate man like me.”

“Point taken.”

“I mean, I love Verity with all my heart.”

“I was there when you proposed to her, Norton.”

“Were you there on our wedding night?”

“I wrote about it…”

“Oh, why?”

“Because it was part of the story.”

“Look, just because you’re the author, it doesn’t mean that we don’t need ground rules: no writing about our love lives. It’s too…too…”


“Don’t say it!”

“For a figment, you are very bossy. I have cats for that.”

“I am lobbying for our rights, you know.”

“You ought to go over to the stories of the Dream Detective. Her friend Atticus the Soulfinder is an advocate for figments. I am going to bed, Norton. It is past two o’clock in the morning, and besides house hunting, I have homework to finish from Harvard University. I will write the last scene of you and Verity dancing together in paradise. All right?”

“Then, I’m off to the last segment of this story.”

“See you on the other side of the roman numeral, my friend.”



“I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Alexandra Kitty.”

“That is a very nice sounding name, Alexandra.”

“Thank you.”

“So why did you give me a name like Norton Dunlop?”

“It was symbolic. Norton means a farm to the north. Dunlop means a muddy hill.”


“Anything else?”

“No, I want to dance with my wife in paradise as we bask in our love and good fortune. It’s what every good-hearted man could ever ask for, and you gave to me. Thank you, and good night and pleasant dreams!”

“Is that supposed to be a sly reference to one of my other stories?”

“What other story? The one about the dream detective?”

“We’ll talk about that some other time. Your sweetness awaits you!”


Verity chuckled as Norton told her of his exchange with their Creator as they danced in the home on Viking Island.

“It is a she?” Verity asked they waltzed effortlessly across the floor.

“And her name is Alexandra.”

“It is a lovely name.”

“I thought so.”

“It must have been quite the exchange.”

“I didn’t know someone could just go and do that – talk to the one who created you, and then they talked right back, and had nice things to say about you. I am starting to enjoy our second spell in the Otherworldly.”

“As am I, darling.”

“We all seem to have new things to occupy our time. Holly has her glitches, Vendel is back chronicling the Fallen, Jane is our Matriarch, I have made a major discovery in how we came to be, and you have a new job as a detective.”

Verity kissed Norton on the lips. “As thrilling as our new escapades shall be, I would rather be dancing with you here. I always knew you were a strong and capable dancer.”

“I used to enjoy it as I wasted it on those I never loved, and when we finally got together, my cane got in the way. Now, where were, Sweetness?”

“In paradise, my darling. In paradise.”

And the two danced as they laughed and swayed to the rhythm of their hearts and souls as the Author smiled as she felt those figments’ kindness and love.

But just as Verity touched Norton’s chest, she jolted her head back.

“Norton, I do believe I have solved the mystery of why your chest feels funny.”

Norton stopped dancing. “Don’t keep loving and devoted husbands in suspense.”

“I do believe there is a small child in there.”

“A small child?” Norton gasped with a comical expression of shock on his face, “Now how could there be a…”

Just then, a beam of light flew out of Norton’s chest and when the light vanished, a small boy appeared before them. Verity looked surprised, but Norton gasped and began to weep as he crouched down and held the boy tightly.

“Billy!” he shouted as the boy cried, “How did you get in there?”

“When I hung myself, I saw myself there, and when I was floating to go away forever, you came into my room and tried to save me, and I jumped in your heart and stayed there.”

Verity crouched down and caressed the boy’s head as she looked at her husband. “This is the young orphan you were asked to study, but could not find an adoptive home after his parents were murdered.”

Norton nodded he kissed the boy and continued to hold him. “You’ve no idea how happy you have made me just now, Billy. I never forgot you. I always mourned you, and my last novel when I was alive, I wrote about a little boy named Billy because it was the light I could light to keep you alive in the world.”

“You did that?” asked Billy who nuzzled in.

“I wish I was a braver man back then. I was just a psychology student who stole from people, and if I had the courage back then I would have fought to adopt you.”

“You can adopt me now, can’t you?”

“What about your parents?” asked Verity, “We would love nothing more, but your parents would long to see you again.”

“I don’t remember who they are anymore. It’s been too long.”

Verity and Norton looked at each other and smiled as they nodded in unison.

“Well then, Billy,” Norton said brightly as he lifted the boy up as he sprang to his feet, “You’re our son now.”

Billy looked at Verity. “Is she your wife?”

“My wife, my best friend, my hero, my partner in mischief, my everything.”

“Do you have any kids.”

“Three grown boys still in the waking world,” said Verity, “Winslow, Malcolm, and Rufus.”

“Can I call you daddy and mommy?”

“That’s what sons do best,” said Norton.

“You used to tell me the best stories in the world,” said Billy.

“We both can tell you all the stories you like, but we can also be in stories together, Billy.

“What kind of stories?”

“Well, Verity has decided to become a detective.”

Billy’s face lit up. “Wow, that’s exciting.”

“It is quite thrilling, but perhaps the mystery we should solve is finding out who you are and what you wish to be now that you are here with us. There is always an escapade on Viking Island, and many people who would love to get to know you.”

“Viking Island? Is it dangerous here?”

“It may be the strangest place of them all,” said Norton as he looked up and winked as he smirked, “But I have an in with the Author, and She promises never to make our adventures here dreadful ones.”

Billy sighed in relief as he held Norton tighter, relieved that his biggest wish had come true as Norton sighed dreamily as he looked lovingly at his wife. Their lives were always eccentric in the waking world, and yet it would be their afterlife that took all of those eccentricities to a whole new level – and Norton could hardly wait…


=3The Beginning0=

The re-launching of Chaser News, Part Twenty-Five: Journalism never got out of the Stone Age. Neither did j-schools.

Journalism is still a very misogynistic industry.

The managanda from the National Post is obnoxious, and the fact that they pay women to spew self-loathing propaganda doesn’t make it okay.

The structure is still Patriarchal. The assumptions are still skewed and rigged to favour those who oppress others. You can pretend to be politically correct all you want, but if you have a system that shames people for thinking differently than you do, then you are not a free or democratic society.

And sexist it remains. We see articles on white male doctors who have breakthroughs, but I doubt you know Person #23 on the List of People Everyone should know.

Dr. Jane C. Wright.


You may have heard of her breakthrough treatment from the 1940s.


That’s right, for those of you who fought against cancer and won thanks to that treatment, that’s the African-American woman who saved your life.

Yet do we talk about her at all? Do you know who we are discussing?


Not at all.

The whitebread folks never do.

Women have a lot to contribute, but when they do, they are not appreciated.

And it takes years for them to be able to see their plans through.

I have been fighting that fight for over a quarter of a century.

Try getting j-schools to listen to a radical new approach to journalism.

I am white, but female, and the road is no easier for me.

And yet, Google sees me as a person of note.

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Twitter won’t give me a blue check mark, but the biggest search engine does.

And so does Bing.

Screen Shot 2018-11-14 at 2.52.32 PM.png

McMaster University recognized me with their Arch Award — and I was the first female to receive it.

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I am referenced in academic articles. I am referenced in serious scholarly books. I have students from Ivy League schools interview me for their own scholarly work. I give talks, as I did to one lovely book club yesterday. I gave interviews.

And yet, I am shut out. Repeatedly.

My work is sound. My research goes beyond thorough — one of the members of yesterday’s book club marvelled at me having 61 pages of references.

Nice catch: I did have 61 pages of references; almost 14% of the book contains references I used.

That is thorough research.

I was as thorough with Chaser News, just as I was that thorough as an author, journalist, and academic student.

I use references from multiple countries and multiple languages. I use references from the distant past to the present. I have used interviews, studies, legislation, transcripts, you name it.

And I am certain many of you have stumbled upon my site, and have to click on the Who Is She? page to figure out who is this fiery woman who keeps saying journalism is dead?

How would she know?

I know because I am the creator of Method Research. I know because I have no trouble doing the legwork and seeing things up close for myself.

I work tirelessly on this problem and have done so for many years. I have had comments that I should be creating programs at the university level to change journalism’s ways.

And as I have said, I have.

Read When Journalism was a Thing, and see how much I have crafted the blueprints for such a thing. Read Don’t Believe It!: How lies become news because that is a textbook for information verification for journalists.

But I am routinely ignored.

I do not stop trying.

And I am still actively working on it. Chaser as well A Dangerous Woman Story Studio figure into F.R.E.E.D. and Matriarchal Storytelling and prominently so, and both have been around for a while now.

But unfortunately, too much of the toiling could be entirely avoided and placed where it should be placed: at creating something innovative and new — not having to create the space to make it.

And don’t think I am expecting a statue, building, or huzzahs for this work.

Dr. Wright invented chemotherapy, and you all still don’t even know her name…

Karma is a switch: why content of thought no longer matters. It is the structure that counts.



It is the Age of Propaganda where lies are believed and truths are feared.

The middle class — the soft layer who neither have to find where the path must go as the wealthy classes do, nor have to do the heavy labour of paving them as the poor do — are having meltdowns.

Once upon a time, the crib sheets for the soft layer came form journalism.

They had the façade of being authorities who knew what the fuck they were babbling about.

I learned as a teenager that it was pure bullshit, and I suddenly found myself no longer being of the same mindset of the rest of the middle class.

I had to find paths, and I had to make them.

My mother’s maiden name is Puharich — hard to pronounce unless you know the trick of saying it:

Poor are rich.

Then it’s a breeze.

Meaning I became an army of one woman. I was the general and the foot soldier and my method of combat was Method Research.

But I could think outside the box because I was Eastern European, which is another universe from Western European.

When arrogant morons talk about something being “Eurocentric”, they, in fact, are confessing to being culturally-illiterate trash who don’t know what the fuck they are are spewing.

What they mean is “Western Eurocentric”, because Western Europe sees Eastern Europeans as being lesser humans to them.

Yes, it’s true.

Fuck you.

East and West have nothing in common. Zero.

And if you say “I don’t" care”, what you are actually saying is that you are an ignorant dumb fuck who makes up your mind without any facts, sensitivity, intelligence, feelings, or basic logic or research skills.

Which is fine, you know how stupid you are. I am not going to argue with the level of your incompetence.

But do not expect me to have a grain of respect for you, either.

Deal with it.

But I do like facts and logic as well as emotionality.

Free will gives me superpowers.

And I see that the West has placed itself in a corner, and is once again eying fucking around with Serbia to get themselves out of their jam.

Except it is a different world.

It is not the 1990s where the Internet wasn’t entrenched in every day life as it is now.

And the tables are turning rapidly.


The usual suspects are not having an easy time these days.

And neither are journalists.


I have never lived a conventional life. I am Bohemian and eccentric.

But also extremely ambitious and logical.

I have always been a radical centrist: the best of both worlds for me.

And I am stubborner than the average Serb, making me somewhat a freak of nature.

Meaning I have had always to struggle more than what one would expect of someone who skipped multiple grades and excelled at being experimental and creative.

If I came from wealth, I’d have no trouble, but I am from a middle class social caste.

But I never resented fighting. Not once. My grandmother survived the Second World War where her entire family got slaughtered by fascists; so this isn’t as big of a deal.

Yet journalism is struggling to stay relevant. Watching Jim Acosta making a jackass of himself at that fateful briefing reminded me of my grade schools classes where you had some dumb, unruly boy not be civilized and thinks tweaking the teacher and not sitting in his seat is going to lead to him taking over the class and winning.

You know where it is going to end.

In grade school, the brat would be in trouble. Journalists got away with it for decades.

And now they don’t.

They lose their jobs and see their fortunes crumble even if they are inciting the masses with propaganda.

Something is happening in the world that is beyond anyone’s control, rich, poor, or middle class: things are turning on people in unlikely ways.

Social media is in the doghouse. Their influence is rapidly declining.

Journalism is an inert profession.

Some say karma is a bitch, but not quite.

Karma is a switch. Up is down and down is up.

Left is Right and Right is Left.


Because everyone is so focused on the content of their messages and thoughts, thinking they are different from their perceived rivals and enemies, but that’s bullshit.

Their structures are the same, meaning they are no different.

Rich is poor and poor is rich.

Left is Right and Right is Left.

And then there is the ambitious Bohemian in the Radical Centre.


I am still doing A Dangerous Woman Story Studio. I am resurrecting Chaser. I am doing other things, but the lone maverick Eastern European female is still in the middle of a war zone.

But she has other ideas now.

She is not going to fight battles.

She is about to dismantle wars.

And the way to do it is alchemy.

It took me years to develop an alternative to Patriarchal, they propagandist’s choice of structure.

And I did with Matriarchal.

Because until the structure of thought is confronted, there will be a never-ending war.

And fuck that shit.

I have turned on a switch, so to speak.

I made a vow a long time ago that I would see my purpose through, and I kept it.

The fact that I kept it through 2018 is no short of a miracle. I have proven that my word is my bond and that bond is made with gold.

And 2019 will be the year I breakthrough with both.

Because both challenge the propagandistic structures of patriarchal narratives.

I am not looking for applause, but improvements, innovations, and fortunes.

Journalism is still in the midst of the five stages of grief.

Denial has now turned to anger. We are in stage two almost in stage three of bargaining, where we have a few weasels thinking they can get some well-heeled propaganda-seekers into funding their garbage.

We still have depression and acceptance.

If you want to stick around for those downer things.

Not me. It is time for a switch.

It is time more levity, even as the world throws big hissies because all of the scripts they were bamboozled into following turned out to be bullshit.

You were played, middle class.

And are still being played as we speak.

So snap the fuck out of it. It’s making you look like nerds and goobers who don’t realize that scripts do not play in the real world.

But I play in the real world, and that’s all right by me…


The Women of Orchid: A Deific Pollination.


When she was still among the living, Belinda Markey was a famous Hollywood movie star. She was stunningly beautiful and had real talent as a thespian. She had a sweet smile and women around the world envied her glamourous lifestyle. Some called her the most beautiful woman in the world and it was not a stretch to see that she was.

They all thought she had it easy.

What the world didn’t know was that she was a lesbian who had been brutalized at the hands of her stepfather and his brothers, but her older brother was her guardian who protected her and then they ran away together. They were on the streets, but he sold himself and forbade Belinda from doing the same.

They were without protectors, and then he tried to ensure she had the beautiful and glamourous life as an actress because he thought that would bring her the happiest and most beautiful life in the world.

It never worked out that way. They both changed their names from Gordon and Janna Vine to Rod Hardstone and Belinda Markey. He toiled in adult movies, and never allowed her to tell anyone they were related.

He was murdered and she was forced to watch it, and then when she tried to avenge his death as she fought for her survival, she was murdered.

But the shock of being on the edge of Hell where she was to spend her eternal afterlife along with her brother who had already resigned to such a fate was catastrophic.

Until her soul felt a loving presence of a detective who was dispatched to solve Belinda’s murder and the kind-hearted sleuth saw Belinda as a benevolent soul.

And she broke away before she walked into the portal to Hell.

The love and admiration of a stranger gave her more than just willpower: it gave her purpose and inspired her.

That detective trying to solve her murder touched her soul, tearing down every fortress in time and space and Belinda’s heart became forever connected with a woman she never knew.

The detective was honest, dignified, clever, and brave, and was everything Belinda wasn’t, yet to the detective, Belinda was someone to cherish and celebrate for her essence. It was not to pity or judge; the detective somehow bonded to Belinda and now there was a link between the two women. The detective showed her that she was also honest, dignified, clever, and brave, but it manifested itself in its own ways and the detective admired her and vowed to do all she could to keep Belinda’s spirit alive.

It was Belinda’s awakening: the world was big and cold, but time and space could be brought together at a single point where two people could connect despite it all. She then took another look at the portal to Hell, laughed at those trying to drag her in by means of deceptions and empty threats, and promptly looked to make an afterlife for herself elsewhere. More specifically, one that used her talents and her heart to create meaning to others to give them the peace she never had. She had developed a link with the detective and the two seemed to subtly guide each other.

The link flowed strongly to this day: the detective inspired Belinda just as Belinda continued to inspire the detective. Their hearts never stopped chattering as they somehow got their hearts together and the detective decided it was far better to come on the scene before there was murder and help those stuck in abusive situations to get out.

It was Belinda Markey’s greatest magic act and her proudest achievement. Whatever her afterlife took her, she knew she had a friend who championed her as much as Belinda returned the favour.

But by then, she ran into another woman who was also mulling the future of her own afterlife.

Her name was Sharon Hedley and she was pregnant when she was murdered. The two had something else in common: the same gentle detective solved their murders, and did so with a perspective that opened their eyes to see themselves as being stronger and better than they ever saw themselves in their lives. While Belinda rejected the notion of spending her eternity in Hell, Sharon rejected the notion of spending her eternity in Heaven as Belinda was denied entry and she walked away in solidarity. They decided to strike out on their own together, bonded as friends, and found out they had many more things in common: they both wanted to find loved ones stuck in Hell and Heaven as Sharon’s unborn child died before she did, and they shared the orchid as their favourite flower.

They got to talking and it was then the two got ambitious: perhaps good and evil weren’t the designations the Otherworldly should focus on, but look at every person who were murdered.

And so, the Women of Orchid was born.

Their new activist job had a simple purpose: find every murder victim and bring them to another place in the Otherworldly: their own little garden they created themselves. For some, they could spend the rest of eternity here with those who shared their same final fate, but for others, it became a meeting place where they could use their essence to protect others from being taken down before their time.

To their absolute astonishment, no one had ever done it before, and the two women caused a shock and a scandal.

Now, the Otherworldly’s configuration was beginning to change in a short span of time. There were so many people who died at the hands of another that bringing them together was proving just how treacherous life could be at the hands of another human being. It showed the rich and the poor that when it came right down to it, they were vulnerable prey.

When those who aligned with their race or ethnicity were suddenly brought together by the Fallen, those lines in the sand suddenly erased.

Young, old, male, female, none of it mattered.

The were all the Fallen.

And they had an orchid pinned to their shirts to reveal the truth.

Those killed in a terrorist attack wore the same orchids as those starved by their parents or shot by a robber or spouse.

There may have been a thousand ways to be murdered, but the orchid spoke of a single outrage.

The Orchid became the symbol of all those who died by murder.

The Fallen began to make their home in the tiny garden where Belinda and Sharon planted their own spiritual roots: once they came to the garden, the person could leave, but most chose to stay because it was a message to the gods of their broken hearts and unanswered prayers.

Belinda and Sharon had two others who joined them on their quest: a murdered man by the name of Vendel Langston, a troubled professor who lived in Ottawa in the 1930s who was murdered and sent to Hell before he won his freedom on the outside, and Jenna Shaw, a young photojournalist from London who was given breast cancer by a secretive cabal as her own investigative story was close to revealing their existence and died from the disease in her late thirties. She left Heaven after sensing that Vendel was looking for someone to join their fight.

Both Vendel and Jenna were friends and invaluable Orchids who both knew about the injustices of the world, and while both had dedicated their waking lives to fighting in different ways, neither had ever expected they would be felled by the very injustice that moved them.

And though Vendel spent a spell in Hell and Jenna in Heaven, both were allies as they had the one thing in common that changed everything.

The Orchid.

Belinda looked around her and sighed sadly. There was too much to be done and four Orchids to fight a battle with pacifism. Violence ended their lives while each one was on the cusp of a breakthrough.

Belinda was about to break away from a brutal cabal that had enslaved her for her entire adult life as she made the decision to flee to a small city-state the cabal despised for protection.

Sharon was pregnant and decided to divorce her abusive and wealthy husband.

Vendel was about to walk away from drugs and the university that he felt was a sham and, ironically, make his way to the same city-state where the women he truly loved lived.

Jenna had begun to stumble on a peculiar story that would have exposed another cabal that controlled too much of the world, one that had an unnatural interest in her husband and his small family.

Just as each reach the same crossroads, they were destroyed.

And yet, it marked their beginning even as it marked their end.


If there was one pair of Orchids who mutually worshipped the other as a near deity, it was Belinda and Vendel. Vendel adored Belinda with deific passion as she was the one who inspired him to fight to get out of Hell. She became his goddess and the one he revered the most.

Belinda, on the other hand, loved Vendel and had wondered how differently her life in the waking world would have been if Vendel was her and Gordie’s father.

It was a peculiar thought, but the second she saw him, she felt it. She felt a familial connection. He understood her more than anyone else ever did, and she could see it all very clearly in front of her how both of them would have thrived with the other had the circumstances been different.

It was not to be in the waking world, and yet their peculiar bond thrived in the Otherworldly.

She did not like being away from him, but today, she had her job, and he had his: he was determined to create a tunnel where they could get into the layer of Hell where her brother Gordie refused to leave to rescue him, and then go to Heaven where they could find Sharon’s unborn child. Most times, unborn children would be returned for another chance on earth to be conceived by someone else, but there were exceptions, and Sharon’s final memory was of her infant kicking, and it was that kick that made her convinced this one refused to go back to some other family.

So far, he had managed to find materials to build it. It was not hard as the Otherworldly was filled with peculiar materials lying around unused as many deities were stripped of their powers of the Goditor, and their peculiar materials were no longer needed.

Vendel merely went to the Deific Junkyard, took as much as he could, and then began to build something.

Not a wall, but a tunnel.

But today, he felt as if he was missing the mark as he sat on the ground and tried to put the pieces together with Jenna helping him.

“What’s the matter, mate?” asked Jenna in her sprightly British accent.

Vendel looked around as he frowned. “We have hit a brick wall. We have truly gone as far as we can.”

“How so? This contraption of yours is sturdy…”

“But I have no idea where to put it or how it will go through either Heaven or Hell. The demons don’t like us because we don’t fear them. The gods fear us after the Monster of Unanswered Prayers devoured a slew of them.”

Jenna looked puzzled, “The Monster of Unanswered Prayers?”

“Thomasina Darlington’s pet puppy-like creature.”

That’s a monster? He is so sweet and friendly!”

“She tamed it.”

“That’s a goddess for you.”

“I wish She could go to rescue Belinda’s brother.”

“Maybe it’s not for Her to do it.”

“I keep hoping it will be one of us who does. Belinda is distressed about it, and I do not blame her. Hell is not a pleasant place to be. I’ve been there for decades, and if it weren’t for Belinda, Sharon, and Suki, I wouldn’t have pushed myself out.”

“So why doesn’t Gordie want to leave? He loves his sister, and if she is longing for him, he has to feel it. That should be the incentive to get out of that place. You didn’t have anyone on the outside, but you did it. If Belinda’s kindness stirred you, then why not Gordie?”

Vendel looked lost and shook his head. “There has to be more to it. There is something he’s not telling her – or us. There could be some sort of threat made, and he is protecting her.”

“She stood up to Hell and she stands up to gods. What’s bigger than defying them both?”

“I don’t know, Jenna. I was a JNE – Just Naughty Enough. I wasn’t in deeper layers, which concerns me.”

“You think he may have done something bad that Belinda doesn’t know about or could face.”

“She idolizes him. She knows him better than anyone else, and he is in a deeper layer of Hell, and he doesn’t push for a ticket out of there.”

“Could there be some sort of pull that compels people to stay and not walk out?”

“Anything at this point is possible. If I knew then what I know now, I would have been conducting research there and found truths. When I was alive, I was a professor who conducted studies. I wasn’t very good at it because my doctorate was in philosophy, but then when a visiting professor and her sister came for a year, I picked up her methods, and my abilities vastly improved. When I died, I thought all of that knowledge was for nothing, and didn’t apply myself.”

“But you could apply yourself now.”

“The problem is I can no longer go back to visit. If I could somehow conduct an experiment, I could gather truths, even in that den of lies.”

“You could teach someone the way that professor taught you.”

“They’d have to be on their way to Hell, and they wouldn’t be likely to be truthful or helpful.”

“What did you study, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Not at all. I was studying the authoritative and tyrannical nature of police during protests. I observed and recorded actual demonstrations, and I…I…”

“You what?”

“Have stumbled upon a way to get Hell to open up its secrets to me.”


Belinda stared at Vendel as they sat in his clear spherical office. “You think we can get people to start a riot in Hell?”

“There are people who are always marching in there with some bee in their bonnet ready to prove they are mightier than the Devil himself. They are humbled within moments with an unpaid internship, but if there are enough of them, we could always speak to them before they enter. They won’t listen to reason or think of rejecting of entering as you did…”

“But if we can light a fire in Hell, we can start smoking out a few truths.”

“We need to start challenging various authorities in an indirect way in order to study how they rig their battlegrounds to maintain dominance. I used to study that as a professor, and once the department I taught was scuttled and I was shipped back to philosophy, I couldn’t do that anymore.”

“You talked about the strange department, but what was it?”

“It was called Philosology.”

“I never heard the word.”

“Most people didn’t. It was a peculiar mix of psychology and philosophy, which was a ridiculous notion as psychology had its roots in philosophy, so having an empirically-based philosophy was psychology. It was doomed from the beginning, but it was the only way a philosophy professor was going to get the chance to do that kind of research; so I took advantage of it.”

“And now you get to apply it in the Otherworldly.”

Vendel smiled. “It is almost as if it was meant to be this way, Belinda.”

“It’s a lot of work for the four of us, and it’s maddening. You’d think gods wouldn’t care or at least help us along. They all know what we went through and wanting no one else to go through it is not a bad or selfish thing. What a bunch of meddlers.”

“They have blacklisted us, and have decided to have nothing to do with us because we haven’t been playing by their autocratic rules and decrees, knowing full well all four of us were murdered by rule, decree, or both.”

Sharon came into Vendel’s office and sat down with her friends as she sighed.

“Tell me about it. Our problem is that we are not going to get any further unless we have a deity who sees the merit in our work. Vendel’s right: most of them don’t want to have anything to do with us after that whole god-eating episode, but there has to be one who is willing to help us.”

Vendel made a face. “But who? They all have their agendas, and see us as irritants who should retreat as we give up our hopes, dreams, and free will.”

Belinda thought for a moment before snapping her fingers and smiled. “Thomasina will join our cause.”

Sharon’s eyes widened, “The One they call Una et Dilectos? How can you be so sure? She’s a goddess who does Her own thing. I mean, She walks around in jeans and a t‑shirt!”

“Because She is a friend to demgels, and She was murdered when She was a mortal.”

Sharon nodded. “You’re right. She knows.”

“And She understands,” added Vendel.

“She also tamed that god-eating monster.”

“Thomasina has the right mindset.”

“You have some good ideas, sweetie.”

Belinda blushed as she looked proud. “Vendel can start a Hell riot, and find out some truths for us with Jenna. You and I can talk to Tommie Darlington to see if She wouldn’t mind having a few allies who need answers.”


Sharon and Belinda looked at Thomasina seemed in deep thought before She smiled and nodded. “I do understand your situation. When I was murdered, I waited for Clementine to come right after Me as I didn’t think she’d survive that attack, but George and his brothers protected her and saved her life. I finally met her when she died of a ripe old age, but had she gone to Heaven or Hell, it would have been agonizing for Me. So yes, of course I will help you four any way that I can, though I must warn you that I am also splitting My time between Earth and the Otherworldly trying to dismantle that very religion that was loosely based on My teachings. I may lose My powers, and that may make Me of limited value to you.”

Belinda nodded. “We are fine with that, believe us. We haven’t been around as long as You, but this is our first alliance with a god. We always thought we’d have to go this one alone, Thomasina.”

“Please, call me Tommie.”

“Thank you, Tommie. All we are looking for is my brother and Sharon’s baby. Vendel is building a drill that is attached to a tunnel so we can find Gordie and Sharon’s child in Hell and Heaven.”

“That is an ambitious undertaking.”

Sharon smiled. “And he is also trying to start a riot in Hell.”

“A riot? Gracious, whatever for?”

“To study how Hell reacts. If we had some notion of their strategies, then we can account for them and come up with our own counterstrategies.”

“You four are ambitious. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you,” said Belinda, “We truly owe You, and if there is anything we can do for You, give us the word.”

“I’ll have my Messenger Denny Garber give you ladies messages as I am rarely on this side of the realm these days. Your friend Jenna was familiar with him, as I am sure you two are aware, and he would be thrilled to come visit you, considering he was murdered the same way all of Us were when We were alive in the waking world.”


Jenna squealed in delight as she jumped and clapped her hands. “Denny’s going to be here? That’s fantastic news!”

Within seconds, Denny showed up at Vendel’s office as his old friend looked overjoyed at the sight.

“Denny!” Jenna shouted she ran up to hug her own friend who returned the embrace. “I am so happy to see you!”

“I’m happy to see you, too,” he said warmly as Jenna introduced him to Belinda and Sharon. He whistled when he saw Belinda.

“Man, I used to have a serious crush on you when you were an actress. You are even more gorgeous in person. You must have had a lot of men at your feet.”

Belinda smirked. “And not one of them got any further than that.”

Denny’s eyes widened. “You’re gay?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Destroy my teenaged fantasies, why don’t you? Is Sharon your girlfriend?”

“No. She’s not gay.”

“So, you two are just friends?”

“Best friends.”

“You two seem very different…”

“We were both murdered, Denny,” said Sharon, “Whatever differences we had in life were gone once we came to the Otherworldly. It’s funny how everything becomes meaningless when they served as no barrier to someone who wants to see you dead.”

“We have more in common than not,” said Belinda, “We were both murdered, we both lost loved ones over here, we both defied our eternal fates, we both love orchids, and our murders were solved by the same detective…”

Sharon looked at Denny before turning to Belinda, “He’s murder was solved by her, too.”

Belinda jolted as she looked intense. “It was.” She became excited, “Jenna knew her, and you did, too.”

Denny looked surprised before he laughed. “Hey, that’s right. I had no idea, and then when you said it, it’s like I always knew it.”

“It’s a funny trick in this realm,” said Sharon, “You begin to develop a sense for some things without knowing them before, but other things are an enigma.”

Belinda look deep in thought. “It’s funny how so many of our connections have to do with that detective. Our murders were solved by her. Jenna was related to her by marriage, but she doesn’t realize Jenna was murdered just yet. She worked with Denny, and solved his death, and Vendel’s colleague was her great-grandmother, and yet, she doesn’t know who actually murdered him.”

“And Tommie is her ancestor,” said Denny, causing all three women to gasped as they shouted, “What?”

“It’s true,” said Denny, “But that detective – as you call her – doesn’t know of Her at all. She doesn’t know that religion has some sort of obsession with her family. Tommie figured it out when She came back to the waking world, but even She doesn’t understand all of it just yet.”

“That explains why She was willing to help us,” said Sharon, “It’s the same connection. Tommie’s one thread, and all of us are another.”

Jenna sighed. “That means I was related to one of her ancestors by marriage. All this time I had a huge perk, and I never even knew it.”

Belinda winked. “She’s our ally. She knows we like a couple of her descendants: our detective, Vendel’s unrequited crush, and we had no clue until now. We’ve always been orphans in this realm, and this changes everything. We just have to make the most of it, and hope we can help Tommie any way we can.” She turned to Denny. “That’s our message to Her, new friend.”

“Cool. I’ll let Her know when She comes in to check Her messages.”

Jenna waved to the group. “I’ve got to go help Vendel with his experiment. We’ll let you all know how it goes.”


Vendel and Jenna watched the scene near the Portal to Hell from the Sorting Station where the recently arrived came to find their eternal resting place. They pinned orchids on the murdered, but this time, whenever someone was making a beeline for Hell, the two Orchids would implore the person to turn around and fight to stay on the outside.

Between the shock of being murdered and the indignance of being warned not to go to Hell because Hell had no parties or debauchery, just gruelling and boring unpaid internships, the new arrivals refused to listen to the repeated heartfelt warnings.

It was predictable on one level, but when those who wished to party in Hell were given tomes of paperwork to fill to apply for unpaid internships, they were enraged.

Usually, they were broken and crushed, but that a former bookish professor and an equally intelligent former photojournalist who both looked like naïve goody two shoes were more street smart than the mobsters and killers, that was an absolutely humiliating blow.

Hell had been the goal for many, and now they had to be marked with some girly flower in on their lapels as they toiled filing papers and taking dictation. There was no having cool demons as pets. There was no promiscuous women to torture and bed. There was only unpaid internships in miserable positions.

And those two straight-laced flower people knew it all along.

Worse, one of the future residents in Hell flat-out asked Vendel what would he know about Hell, to which he coolly replied that he had spent decades in there before winning his freedom.

That meant he was not the rube they had believed him to be.

It became an ugly scene where the newest arrivals began to scream and throw fits as they were being dragged in by bored demons who were vexed at the tantrums.

It was loud and distressing, but somehow, the protests did not seem to produce any usual data. The demons were as stony-faced as ever and had no trouble dragging in their latest residents.

Jenna frowned. “Well, that didn’t go to plan.”

Vendel raised an eyebrow. “We could talk to the JNEs at the edge, or at least, observe them. That was the way Belinda and Sharon talked to me, and how you talked to Denny.”

The two made their way to have a peak in Hell, but the usual small gatherings of JNEs were no longer there.

“That’s odd,” said Jenna, “I wonder if they were removed.”

“You go to the edge because the inside is soul-crushingly boring.”

“So something else is happening in there.”

“Something that deviates from the norm.”

“The problem is that we aren’t privy to any of it.”

“But we’ll hear about it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because the loudest ones were wearing our orchids, and they are going to claim victimhood and use those flowers as proof that they do not belong in there. Hell will be livid at us, and let us know. We have to be careful…”

“We don’t want Gordie to become a bargaining chip in all of this mess.”

“But if we play our cards right, he will see those orchids and know Belinda is not going to rest until he is out there.”

“It’s like we’re pollinating Hell with those flowers.”

“It is a deific pollination. We can do the same thing for those going to Heaven. If we start getting to them both in a more confrontational way, they will begin to feel threatened that our strain of defiance is getting deeper into their layers.”

“We are making serious trouble.”

“It is the only kind worth making. My only regret is that I didn’t make serious trouble when I was still alive.”

“Ah, you have an eternity to catch up.”

Vendel leaned on Jenna and kissed her check as she leaned on him and patted his arm.


Sharon sighed. “I have to admit, Belinda, there hasn’t been a dull moment since I ran into you. You are a clever one.”

“I survived on the streets, Sharon. What’s making our way through the universe in comparison? Once I realized that death isn’t the end, I stopped being afraid.”

“Vendel and Jenna weren’t afraid today.”

Belinda smirked. “What did our favourite human thesaurus call it?”

“A deific pollination.”

“We have demgels, and now who knows what our orchids will flower in those places.”

“Hopefully the two people we want in our lives.”

“Heaven and Hell are going to get mad at us.”

“At least we have Tommie in our corner.”

“We’ll owe Her.”

“I’m okay with it.”

“Me, too. I’m glad I met you, though. Pulling something like this on my own would have been terrifying to me when I was alive, but with you, it’s an escapade. You really are the best friend I ever had. You’re up for anything.”

“And you’re the best friend I ever had. I mean it, sweetie. You’re the sister I always wanted.”

Belinda beamed with pride, “And you’re my best friend and sister, too. I never thought in a million years I’d have one ounce of peace, and you’ve given me the serenity I never had.” She gave Sharon a kiss on the cheek. “Let’s go see if we can help Vendel with his strange tunnel. We have another orchid to plant in our garden, and my detective friend on the other side is going to bed soon, and we always have a nice little chat in her dreams.”

“You enjoy that.”

“She always listens to me, and she doesn’t even have to see me to do it.”

“I wish she had some ideas about springing our family. I am so worried I’ll never see my child. That would be a victory for that horrible man I married.”

“We’ll find that kid. If Tommie and her daughter reunited, you and your child will, too.”

“What about your brother? Do you think he’ll ever get out of Hell and join us?”

“He will, just as I know your daughter will sneak out of Heaven and find her way to you.”

Sharon sighed. “She went in without realizing I wasn’t going there. I just wish I knew before she had the chance to get inside.”

“Gordie was murdered in front of me, and I lived a long time after that. I had no way of knowing or saying to him not to go to Hell. Never in a million years did I think he deserved to go there after everything he did to protect me.”

 The two women looked at each other sadly, and embraced. They were a family in their own right, but longed to make it a bigger one with those they loved in the waking world. They knew in their hearts they were making progress, but it was slow going and it pained their hearts all the same.


The Wink scurried over to his master who was busy studying military plans on his wall. The other thirty-nine Winks were all terrified of their ruler, but this Wink seemed to be the bravest of the cowardly lot.

“Sir,” the Wink said, “The Orchids have made an alliance with The Frightful One.”

General Rem cursed. “That cursed flame-haired witch retreated into Eden and I thought she’d stay there forever. Now that she’s awakened, she is ruining everything. Those Orchids are nothing but Trouble – the lone male in the group is close friends with the Dream Detective, and I’ve a feeling he is seeking ways to repay her for her kindness. If the Sparrow and her former flame get back together, it ruins everything.”

“I thought you said your nightmare elixir’s effects were permanent.”

“So long as no deity is made aware of it. The Orchids are far shrewder than they look, particular their leader. She was supposed to be an obedient sister and follow her brother into Hell. I knew then she’d be nothing but trouble.”

“And her blonde companion?”

“She is just as feral as her friend. They’re sisters-in-arms and they have disrupted the Otherworldly with their insolence. Worse, they brought those other two rabble-rousers to cause more anarchy. The Otherworldly is supposed to slumber in pleasant enigmas, not become enraged and devoured everything in its wake. If they figured out the Otherworldly is a spirit and not a place…”

“Then what?”

“Reality alters, and then my plans to take it as my slave are jeopardized for good. We have to sow seeds of discord between the Frightful One and the Orchids, particularly the one with the one blue eye and the one brown eye. Her I would relish to destroy for her insolence. There is no other way to rid myself of them all.”


Clementine Darlington sat on the edge of Eden to have a good, long think. She was the daughter of the Goddess Thomasina, and it was still a sad life to grow up never knowing the mother who was murdered protecting her. Clementine grew up with seven schizophrenic brothers whom her Mother protected as She hid them, and they raised her with devotion, love, and appalling permissiveness.

She learned seven languages by the time she was five. They doted on her education and spiritual guidance. For a group of insane men who spent their entire lives being disfigured and tortured in a dungeon by their rapist father and mother’s kidnapper and captor, they were very wise and loving fathers to her.

They let her get away with appalling antics because she was their only connection to her beloved Mother. Clementine couldn’t complain, and when she finally joined her Mother in Eden, they hit it off immediately.

Now they were separated and the idea saddened her once again.

Her Mother did pop in to visit. She now had a very attractive black man named Denison who worked as Her Messenger, though he seemed to have ideas of his own, and exercised them frequently, and it was always an escapade with him.

But Clementine had been a keeper of a secret that she had told no one before, and now she wished she told her Mother before the business of stopping that religion became a priority.

That the Otherworldly wasn’t so much a place, but a person. A spirit.

Clementine knew as she was an alchemist, and alchemists knew that everything had a spirit; so it stood to reason so did the Otherworldly. Her first experiment was a resounding successful.

But it was a very strange spirit to say the least.

It had an unproducible name, and a very peculiar personality, and considering that Clementine was raised by seven schizophrenic men who had delusions of being her Mother’s monks, it was saying something about the eccentricity of the Otherworldly.

For one, it talked. A lot. It had a peculiar sense of humour, and always liked stories, magic shows, and flowers.

It also had a crush on some man named Vendel Langston.

It fell in love with the man who came all the way from Hell to be manly and yet be known as an Orchid, as he openly worshipped its leader as his own personal goddess whom he revered.

That apparently, was the sign of a perfect soul.

But the Otherworldly also knew he was in love with someone else, and realized human-realm relationships weren’t logistically feasible, and no hard feelings.

But the Otherworldly had all sorts of questions to Clementine, who, despite being very clever, didn’t know the answers.

She had to consider her options before she could start answering some very silly questions from the most uninhibited place ever created.

She wished she could ask her Mother because if anyone had the answer, it was Her…

The re-launching of Chaser News, Part Twenty-One: The eye of the storm is the Rosetta Key. If you want to understand how the Left and Right troll the world, look at what they did to Serbia.



When in doubt, go bold, and see what patterns emerge from your bravery.

You have to shake the fabric to see how sturdy it is, but it is the patterns that tell you the code any time or place rolls by.

I learned this as a teenager when I dared challenged the Western media on the vile coverage of the the Civil War in the former Yugoslavia.

If DC Comics’ Wonder Woman mythos is based on the Second World War, mine is based in that Civil War.

Because that was the needle that popped my bubble and jolted me awake.

And I don’t need a lasso of truth to gather facts. I am honed to find them, even if I do not want to know it.

But the civil war there proved to me that the West’s Left-wing players were as corrupt as the ones on the Right.

President Bill Clinton has the blood of Serbs on his hands, but there were too many deals to be made, and Serbs, being stubborn and recalcitrant were an easy target to demonize. They are exotic, non-Western and enigmatic.

Easy to slap a villain label on them and then bomb them back to the Stone Age for being different and unashamed for it.

But the Left in the 1990s were very, very naughty. They made all sorts of dark deals with extremists, and stayed in power for two terms because Americans roll that way with presidents.

Clinton was the exception because H. Ross Perot was a spoiler and fucked up George 41’s second-term coronation.

But Clinton reaped the benefits. The Democrats rolled the way the extremists wanted them to roll for the most part. Serbia is a strategic country. It’s ideas for a united Europe predate the European Union, for instance, and Europe reaped the rewards of that nation, even as they stomped on Serbs and stole their ideas inspired by others like Alexander the Great.

But then the Republicans took over and as they had no deals with the previous extremists who parachuted in the Yugoslavia and caused the most carnage, those extremists got angry, and September 11 was a form of punishment.

They pushed back, and had their own deals with different players, but that was very tense, and then the Democrats crawled back with Barak Obama, and smoothed things over with those irate players, doing what governments do best: do shady things and sell it as middle class friendly morality.

And the Democrats got cocky and thought they could go against the Two Terms Per President Rule, and pushed Hillary Clinton, a member of the regime who caused much pain and suffering to Serbs.

You can tell it was going to be a repeat as NATO — right out of the blue, told Serbs they had unfinished business with them and that they had to be bombed for their own good. Those who want to steal Kosovo were behaving as if it were a done deal, as other members of the Clinton clique, such as former Secretary of State Madeline Albright had very capitalist interests in those wanting to conquer a part of a foreign country, in this case, Serbia.

But then Hillary Clinton was always the fuck up, and Donald Trump wiped the floor with her face.

That meant all of the shenanigans the US Left were planning got fucked up beyond all recognition.

But Trump isn’t a Republican, either.

He is an outsider and a spoiler.

He is bold and unpredictable, and that made problems for both the Left and the Right.

Because he shook their core and proved their arrogance didn’t translate into cunning, he revealed their patterns.

And it was the same pattern in two different colours. One red and one blue.

The problem is Trump’s boldness has destroyed the plans of those in the West who wanted to go back to pillage Serbia again.

Those such as Germany’s Angela Merkel got cut off at the knees because the predictable compliance they hinged their schemes on was thrown out the window because Trump was not the factor they took into their calculations.

And now it is a Chaos Narrative.

Saudi Arabia tried to take advantage of it, but the neophyte got clumsy, and now the US is in a bind.

It is the reason why suddenly, all sorts of things about that fateful civil war are starting to come out.

Those secrets were supposed to be under lock and key.

Like how Serbia was supposed to be sacrificed because who the fuck cares about the Serbs.

We survived concentrations camps in the Second World War, you psychopathic assholes.


Those are Serbian bodies left up to hang by the Croatian Usashi.

Where were you fuckers then?

Where were you when these Serbs were slaughtered during the Civil War?


Oh, I remember, telling me so what?

Where are you now when scores of Serbs have gone missing in Kosovo?


And the Toronto Star has the nerve to pretend to outline Donald Trump’s lies?

What about the Toronto Star’s endless lies?

Fuck you, Daniel Dale for your pathetic gambit at misdirection.

What about the Star’s every false claim about that civil war, and all the press releases you liars used pretending it was an organically discovered fact?

That politics is a shady and filthy business, there is no doubt. Every single one made it there by spewing bullshit stories. Let us not use a confirmation bias to prove a lie.

But journalists were always complicit. They see those mistresses politicians bed and then give patronage appointments to in order to get rid of them. They see the drunken messes. They see the sexual harassment and abuse of power.

They have seen it all for decades and played along, keeping it quiet.

Until someone make a bold movement and destroys the rigged pattern.

Then all hell breaks loose.

Journalism lost its power the day Trump won, and it is the reason you know see moneyed Democrats pour money into partisan outlets to spew propaganda.

That is a pattern of panic.

They have real cash money riding on deals based on a status quo. They have sold their children’s souls to the devil and do not want those things ever coming out.

But all it takes is one disrupter. Trump broke the pattern and we are now in uncharted territory.

The mid-terms mean nothing as they have their own patterns that will no longer work because the machine got broken in November 2016.

Chaser is the chronicler of the fallout of that disruption.

There will be the cowardly old middle class biddies of all ages cowering in the corner screaming so what! so what! like squawking parrots, and they, too, will be fair game to expose.

It is a sucker circus in the West, my friends, and one where the fun comes from making bold moves to turn over the rules to show just how fragile they really are.

It helps that I have Serbian roots and Canadian leaves.

But it is a sucker circus and it is time to show the comedy of it, and just what shit the West has settled for when the world could have truly flourished.

Fuck that shit.

And soon, the show will begin…


Alexandra Kitty,

Author, Artist, Actrivist, Matriarchal Storyteller, and unrepentant angelic hellraiser…

Center for Media and Democracy: How a partisan group tries to pass itself off as non-partisan, as it goes after its ideological rivals.


I am a Radical Centrist.

What that means is simple: fuck the Right and fuck the Left.

There is no little hack, rule, mask, or script that you can steal and use to find The One Rule That Explains Everything.


So what is a radical centrist?

Someone who has two eyes and uses both of them at the same time.

And what is an ideologue?

Someone who gouges out the Left or Right eye of someone else, and then tell them whatever they ever saw with that eye is wrong, anyway; so the person should be grateful the gouger took out that pesky eye in the first place.

This is how barbaric the West has become.

We have losers telling the little people that is a great and glorious thing to be a propagandist, which is of course, an ideological eye gouger.

Your right eye is not superior to the left, and the left eye is not superior to the right.

It is optimal when you have both, and that is reality.

To be focussed, balanced, and informed about your surroundings, you use both your left and your right.

The radical centrist is not going to gouge out your eyes.

They are not going to tell you to gouge out your own eye, either.

They will dope slap you and call you a fucking gullible and lazy worthless moron if you start looking with one eye instead of two, and they will call you out on your bullshit when you point out all the things you see with one eye that they have already studied with both of their own eyes and they don’t applaud you and point out everything you missed because you closed one eye to look.

Because half a truth is not a whole truth, and do not try to play manipulative games with someone who sees the whole picture.

You cannot hide a lie behind a truth, let alone half a truth.

You are still dishonest.

And don’t try to twist logic to pretend your half truth is the whole truth and nothing but the truth, because then it is a lie and you become a fucking liar.

So don’t go there.

Because while a centrist sits on a fence and hedges their bets, the radical centrist tears down the fence and hovers above the rigged board and sees the big picture.

They see the players and the pawns. They look for the playbooks and the manuals.

They walk back in time to the past and remember the old games, and then they observe the ones in the present to compare and contrast them because moving ahead to the future to test their hypothesis, modifying their theories as they get facts that confirm or refute their initial theories.

This sort of active and critical thinking is frowned upon in the West because it is based on a Patriarchal model of only allowing one side to be the Good Guy who is the Winner and winner takes all.

The rig is to hoard the spoils.

It is a competitive model of human interaction and relationships where there must be a leader who is the player, and a flock of followers who are the pawns.

It is an incredibly simple endgame and it is elegant and effective, but the dynamics of manipulation to ensure this simple and simplistic structure stays dominate is tangled and complex, and is so by design.

But it is also intuitive.

You do not need a vast and diabolical global conspiracy. You need one domineering control freak to set the tone, and rather than it just being a game of chess or go, it is also a game of dominos where one taunt or move triggers everyone to fall into place.

Get people to run on a hamster wheel, and they will die on it, refusing to get off of it.

You see it with spouses.

You have a husband or wife who plays games with their mate: they make demands, set the bar for happiness at something that is high, unnatural, and most importantly, not a goal the one spouse needs or actually wants. Then they forever remind the person of their fake inadequacies as the person is drawn into the game and is fighting a losing battle. The goal posts are always moved, and the pigeon always loses because the game is designed with a narrative that the manipulator is superior and is The One Who Must Always Win By Domination.

Because their feelings, values, decrees, and beliefs, and ideas are innately superior to their mark’s.

The abused spouse wins by calling the manipulator out as a manipulator, decrees their standards to be garbage, are inferior to every one else in the universe because if they were all that, they would have already obtained all of it by themselves, and then laugh and walk away from the person, admitting to the world they made a huge error in judgment, and now have moved on.

And then spend the rest of eternity ignoring their taunts to pull them back in and moving on with their lives.

But there is no need for a conspiracy: you can have that game with only two people.

Or you can do the same thing with 7.4 billion.

There will be conspiracies and collusions, but manipulators will backstab their allies just as easily as their targets.

The world can be a schoolyard where bullies push around the empty-headed cowards who don’t walk away and tell the bullies to fuck off and get a life.

You do not have to be liked by everyone, and, in fact, it is advantageous to be hated by people who are morally bankrupt and exploitative.

I learned this lesson when I was a child. I learned the slight inconvenience feeling of being isolated and ostracized for doing what I wanted and needed to do was far better than caving in and compromising to fall in line to what a bully decreed I should be doing and saying.

The bullies didn’t care if I was happy and thriving; they wanted me to be miserable and fail so they would feel superior to me. They wanted to feast on my soul, but my soul wasn’t up for sale, and I still have it all intact.

So I am going to what? Give in to peer pressure so I can fit in with people who do not have my best interests at heart?

Fuck that.

But Western Patriarchal goes out of its way to have people allow themselves to be bullied and compromise, all while pretending that is not what they are doing.


In order to get mass compliance, you have to find ways of legitimizing both sacrifice and derision.

And controlling the flow of information is a biggie.

Journalists are the bullies who give tiny snippets of information, but as they are not the generous sort, they package it in spin and narrative to try to force people to interpret that information in a specific way, and to see it any other way must be ridiculed. You cannot allow original thought that evolves over time. It must be static and never-changing.

Us Versus Them, with Us naturally being the superior tribe, of course.

But not everyone is going to buy this bullshit story. Sometimes the person just happens to be independently minded and has sharp critical thinking skills and can smell bullshit a mile away.

Sometimes the person is just contrarian by nature and will always take the opposite side to stand out.

And other times, the person just so happens to be a designated Them who happens to walk among Us.

With me, it was all three at the same time. I am an active critical thinker by nature. I questioned my own family when I was barely two years old, perkily telling my mother who had a bad day and yelled at me that it was all right, she could say the same thing nicely, and I’d do it anyway.

To both of us, it was a watershed moment in very different ways.

I didn’t take her anger as a sign of me being in the wrong, nor did I see her as being bad. I just offered a helpful suggestion, and let her know exactly how I felt.

So much of me is made to question authority.

But I am not a follower, either. I will go against the grain because stagnation brings in more than unnatural routines and habits, but also a distorted sense of reality.

You take the wrong things for granted and assume that reality can never change.

For example, some people are only nice to you when you do everything they want, and if you always stay on their good side, you may come to believe that person is a friend who cares about you.

But when the chips are down, and you seek their kindness, you find out too late that it doesn’t actually exist.

They were merely using pseudo-kindness to manipulate you into being an effective tool for them. Once you become a liability, they ignore you.

Stand up for yourself early on by not going with the flow, and you gain valuable insight to your surroundings.

Many a promising romantic relationship were scuttled because the guy I had a date with got upset at me because I was one minute late.

I did it on purpose. I was respectful of a person’s time, but I was not going to break my neck being there early.

Let’s see how you behave when I am not the first one there.

It was never, “Are you okay?” or even not mentioning my insignificant lateness.

The first words were, “You’re late.” More than once.

And that probe told me everything that I needed to know about this person. It was always going to be a fight, and if my coming a couple of minutes later was going to be an issue, then what about my numerous eccentricities and idiosyncrasies?

Would they be bugging me because I read comic books or played the Theremin or boxed or blared out the Hives or wore mismatched shoes of the same style but different colours or go to a Secret Theatre at the Shaw to see some obscure avant-garde play?

Would they understand my need to go out spontaneously to a restaurant in another city because the idea popped into my head? Or that I wanted to just go to Chicago and take a nice long stroll down Michigan Avenue to contemplate the deepest truths of the universe?

I am not a good little girl. I am woman.

When you do not compromise, nor expect someone else to compromise for you, many people get angry with you because (a) you are not going to transform into something unnatural for them, and (b) you have now given someone permission to be themselves, and they have been compromising for so long, they do not know who they are anymore, and they are angry that your easy-going ways have drawn attention to it.

So that’s another layer I know.

But then there is the matter of me being of Eastern European heritage in a Western society, and when the civil war in Yugoslavia broke out, those in the West made it clear that my people were to be seen as a barbaric and demonic faceless enemy.

And you never get over that decree. It is truly traumatizing.

Back in 1995, the CIA had a bullshit report decreeing that Serbs were “responsible” for “90%" of war crimes”, which would be very interesting as I had seen countless footage of Serbs getting slaughtered by the other warring sides.

But this was in the days where the US and Saudi Arabia were allies.

Fast forward to 2018 where there is now a rift with a prince who didn’t roll the way his predecessors have for decades, and now the US is very, very angry.

And with that rift, suddenly we discover that, lo and behold, that same CIA was deliberately hiding all of the times the Serbs were the victims of war crimes, and that 90% number was a lie.

But back in 1995, CIA stenographers the New York Times were gleefully appealing to authority instead of doing actual research.

I knew it was a lie from the start. I knew it because no eighteen-year-old should have to get her hands on video footage filmed by psychopathic soldiers and mercenaries torturing Serbs to death on camera as they were smiling for those cameras.

And no, those torturers were not Serbs.

And when I had telephone fights with Western news producers, flat out telling them what I had and that I could give it to them, they said, “So what?”

They didn’t want it. They didn’t care.

And you never get over a cold, psychopathic comment like that, either.

So, as a teenager, I knew the score. I knew that Western journalism was a sham. If they are fucking Serbs, they are fucking other people, too.

The only reason these things are getting out at all is thanks to a miscalculation by a Saudi prince who thought he knew how to play the game.

He disrupted the rigged board. He went against what was sanctioned, and slowly, the Serbs are becoming the beneficiaries of that tiny little crack: it all depends on how they take advantage of a rare opportunity.


As I was reading about this latest discovery, I came across this article. The way I research is to find every direct, indirect, and tangent reference to the issue and its players in the press first.

Not everything you read will end up being accurate, of course. I separate facts into various categories and then keep refining it. The end result will not mirror the original take or spin. It never does.

You can have all the right facts, but, for example, the spin on them is wrong, or those facts need other facts to place it in the right context. This is a laborious and thankless process.

But the article makes mention of a source that I decided to google to see what is their background, and what is their point of view because you can have the correct facts, but those speaking for or against it may not be the best ones to do it.

A website called Source Watch made the decree as they do with others, telling the little people who they are allowed to trust and who they must shut their brains and either ignore or belittle.

And does Source Watch have qualifications to make decrees?

No, it is not some sort of official governing agency.

But they are from a group that I do not consider credible, either.

The Centre for Media and Democracy.

They decreed said source of the above article was a horrible person. That may be the case, but the Centre are horrible themselves, and they are dishonest from the get-go.

They have their own “PR Watch” and the aforementioned Source Watch, which give themselves a glorious seal of dishonest approval:

The Center for Media and Democracy (CMD) is a non-partisan progressive watchdog group


No, no, you are very partisan. Nice try on the wiggle words, assholes.

Looking at Source Watch alone tells me just how partisan they are: they give approvals to Left-wing sources, and not Right-wing ones; so the claims of being “non-partisan” are bullshit, and as the center’s credibility hinges on being balanced — their profound lack of balance voids their self-proclaimed status.

And yet empty-heads see nothing wrong with their parsing words, and doublespeak is a huge red flag that they are not honest:

The Center for Media and Democracy (CMD) is a non-profit watchdog organization dedicated to exposing PR “spin.” Though the group is officially nonpartisan, it labels itself as “progressive” and avoids criticism of liberal organizations in its publications. 

Memo to Activist Facts: when someone tries to say they are progressive non-partisan, they are partisan. You cannot be both. They cannot avoid the criticism because their description is an admission of ideological bias. Do not start off not questioning their gambit and then expect people to read further or process the information of their wealthy Left-wing donors in the way they need to do so.

When the same people who fund partisan propaganda outlets also fund you, you are not to be trusted.

It is not as if the ones funded by ideological rivals can be trusted by default.

A radical centrist knows trust must be earned.

We are in an Age of Propaganda and we have people constantly bombarding us with propaganda, hoping you will completely discount the monsters on the other side as you pledge allegiance to the monsters on their side.

Let the monsters get off their arrogant and lazy manipulative asses and do the work themselves. Fuck them.

But propaganda requires more and more layers to seem credible. You have PR firms spewing shit, and then you have journalists parroting it, and then you have fake watchdog groups telling you that the other side are spewing, but their side will do all the thinking for you so you never make a mistake, be wrong, or be humiliated in public for being wrong.

It’s garbage.

You haven’t lived a life unless you have learned to walk against the grains of your own in-group.

You haven’t contributed to society unless you learn to walk among the out-group to understand what it is like to be the outsider.

You haven’t faced reality unless you break away from the propagandistic messages used to distract you from seeing that you are running on that hamster wheel in the first place, get off it, and then knock it down so no other empty-head runs on it, either, usually your own children.

Because you haven’t lived a moral life focussed on the future if you teach your children to seek refuge on that fucking wheel.

Because you have never learned to be brave in a world that is made of uncertainty.

What is safe? Nothing.

What is bravery? Everything.

The West has become domesticated caged animals who no longer know what it is like to be free from cages. They fear the beauty and the adventure of the outside, thinking living in deaden cages is the truth.

It’s a lie.

And just because your Authority captors tell you it is a good thing, along with their mouthpieces and their enablers, it doesn’t make it any less a lie…


The re-launching of Chaser News, Part Twenty: Vladimir Posner wrote about parting with illusions. The West have yet to part with their delusions.

I am upgrading my teaching skills through Harvard University’s short course at the moment, and it is, not surprisingly, extremely expensive, labour intensive, complex, and fascinating. It is mostly psychology, and it is a program geared at professors who teach.

But I am enjoying it immensely.

A lot of the things I knew from my undergraduate training in psychology, but of course, there is always something new to learn, and this week, I learned something about how students test.

If female subjects were given a plain math test, their scores were the same as their male counterparts.

But if they were told the test was to measure gender differences, suddenly, women did far worse on the same test.

Drawing attention to gender did something very bad.

African-American students were in the same boat: if they were to just write a test, their scores were no different than white students…

But if they were asked to write their race on the paper, they fared far worse on their scores.

So we know that drawing attention to race and gender alone can negatively impact people when they need to be tested, meaning the scores do not actually reflect ability when that irrelevant factor is brought into the equation.

And yet the Left does nothing but draw attention to it.

If we want equality, the solution is not to divide, but multiply and unify, allowing for the differences to be left alone and be a normal part of a fabric’s pattern.

One plus on equals a bigger one.

And all equations equal infinity.

The Western Left is bent on divide and conquer.

And selling delusions.

Vladimir Posner had a very interesting book called Parting with Illusions.

But the West has yet to part with their delusions.

In this case, but drawing attention to perceived differences that are skin deep, the Left is actively creating tribes, and with its competitive rig, ones who must compete with each other to be the ones who get the most pity and attention.

But in order to get attention, the tribe must submit to being helpless.


You must be a victim.

You need the safety of your in-group, and never be an individual who can stand alone.

You must be herded like sheep, and take but a single path with the Left as your shepherd.


I will choose my own adventure, thank you very much.

But the Western Left do a very good job at erasing history to present themselves as the only enlightened ones, drawing attention to race and gender, knowing full well that people begin to falter when their innate trait is being called out.

But the Right have not been as backwards or as villainous as the Left like to pretend.

Let’s take alleged progressive country Canada for instance.

Justin Trudeau’s narrative is that he is progressive, but what progressive things has he done to date?

When you start looking for tangible evidence, you soon come up with the truth: Canada has no leadership, and Trudeau is no prime minister, he just plays one on selfies.

It is one thing if you are progressive and not make a big deal, but his cabinet has many females, and none have done very much.

Chrystia Freeland has bungled her portfolio badly. Someone with extensive negotiating skills had to be placed there, and she is out of her league, and it shows.

We didn’t need to blink on USMCA or fall for the oldest trick in the book:


Make noise in the East, but strike in the West.

A basic ruse undetected because we have a regime convinced it knows something.

But they know the little people back homes also know shit about it.

Parting with delusions is the first step to sensibility.

And Leftist bigoted stereotypes that they alone know something about equal opportunity.

In Canada, Lincoln Alexander was the first black man to be a member of Parliament, and then the fist black cabinet minister in 1979.

He was not a member of the Liberal Party.

No, not the NDP.

But the Conservative Party.

So despite everything about the Grits, they weren’t the ones who were about racial equality, but they will certainly pretend they are the only ones, even if they are doing nothing but paying lip service.

Alexander had an illustrious career and is Person #21 of the List of People Everyone Should Know. He broke many firsts in Canada.

The Left no longer acknowledge that other people aside from the Left create progress. They have spun of narrative of having god-like powers and anyone else who does not worship them is a devil.

Delusions of grandeur, and dying your hair blue or getting a tat doesn’t cover up your helmet-haired blue rinse mindset.

It is one of the numerous reasons I lost respect for the Left entirely. Pontifical prickery doesn’t do anything but serve as a mask to hide the inner hatred and prejudice from that neck of the ideological woods.

So, it is the reason I am in the Radical Centre.

A bird needs two wings to fly: a left one and a right one.

I soar by trade; so I am not going to cut off one wing to prove some bullshit point.

I keep centred and balanced: I see the weaknesses of both and do not allow one side to dominate the other.

Because both sides are corrupt by nature and designed, with rigs that ensure no one questions their true motives.

But there are empirical ways to uncover it.

Chaser uses the methods to reveal rigs and stratagems. It is a road map showing how manipulators try to the public.

I don’t expect most to have the courage to do it. I have had my fill of Left-wing bigots, but I know they do their best to mask their prejudice, from pretending to be interested in accents as they are othering you, to explaining away why African-Americans used to vote en masse for Republican candidates pre-JFK (“because they just followed their masters” some white liberal moron recently told me in all seriousness, trying to explain that these were a people without their own mind, free will, or intelligence until the Left started to do their thinking for them. I had my fill of the White Man’s Burden narrative exactly one millisecond after the first time I encountered it).

I never assumed I was to meddle in the lives of other people: I was to get out of their way for them to thrive, and they didn’t meddle to interfere in my life. I wasn’t suppose to swoop in and assume I knew better how to live another’s life just as they were not supposed to do the same to me.

No rigs. No propaganda. No othering. No bullshit stories. No excuses.

No exceptions.

Chaser didn’t play political favourites, and it won’t now. It is about truth and reality, not delusions and propaganda.

The truth is we don’t actually have a political party that has understood the notion of citizen freedom. We have never had one that codified the rights and responsibilities of both the government and its populace.

We never had a government that forbade the middle class from parroting scripts and devoted its energies teaching them the difference between a lie and a truth, and a perception and reality.

And journalists were never any help. They can virtue-signal like psychopaths like to do, but when it comes to truly understanding empathy, they will block the handicap spots at a polling station and not move when someone with a disability needs it because their own egos are more important than covering the reality they are supposed to see and comprehend.

It is all a scam.

Not everyone will appreciate Chaser. I don’t care. It is about the truth — and building a foundation from there…

The re-launching of Chaser News, Part Eighteen: Journalists are neither saints nor martyrs. They have hidden too many sins.

Journalists have no reasoning skills whatsoever. Overprecise and overconfident, their ability to see reality has always been nonexistent because they have no formal training in it and it shows.

But they sure as hell love to tell the little people how moral and superior they are.

We died for you! they shout as if they were Jesus.

Dear Globe and Mail: foreign journalists have gotten themselves killed. Fuck your moral masturbation, and worse, hitching your ride on someone else’s murder.

Which is the complete fault of the profession because like everything else, they have devised a sum total of zero strategies and zero standards.

You ride a motorcycle without a helmet and drive it off a cliff, and you then complain about the hazard?

And it is a drop in the bucket to the number of First Nations women in Canada who get slaughtered so again, fuck you.

No one at the Globe can ever claim to be of the moral ilk of Chauncey Bailey, Daniel Pearl, or Dickey Chapelle (Person #15, Person #16, and Person #17 of the List of People Everyone Should Know) who were going against the grain of their profession, and it was their employers who failed to give them the adequate protection they needed. Blame corporate incompetence and negligence for their deaths. They were all rare gems in a profession that would rather speculate about celebrity boobies than do real work.

This is a profession that has no common sense.

Take a look at this propaganda piece, filed under “Midterms”:

Restoring The Moral Compass

You mean, Make America Great Again?

Memo to News and Guts: you not only are cowards, you are plagiarists ripping off Donald Trump.

And here is another memo: there never was a moral compass; so you have nothing to restore.

The Hill Times wonders why the federal Tories don’t like journalism.

Answer: because you spew liberal propaganda because you always gravitate toward whatever political party at the time pretends to be holier than thou so that you can hide your sins and act indignant should anyone call you out for your lies.


That issue of Time was a turning point for me. Not only did that issue imply that mass Serbian graves were Muslim, they ran that cover without ever mentioning to their readers that a German reporter noticed that the wire was on the wrong side; and that those people in the picture weren’t fenced in, giving a completely different context. (I had interviewed that reporter for a story I tried to do, but was axed at the last second because the editor was frightened off when the worst offending PR firm thumped its chest and he caved).

I wrote to Time outlining every lie and contradiction in a four page letter; they violated my moral rights, publishing a one paragraph and highly-altered version without my permission.

The late Pearl was one of the few journalists covering the war who did not fall for the PR firm bullshit stories against Serbs. The others did, and it should be no surprise that the one who was rational and objective was killed in another war, and the other stenographers all got cushy jobs as talking babblers.

I had said from the beginning of the Civil War in the former Yugoslavia that journalists lied, and knew they were lying.

And now they are starting to admit to their deceptions in a very interesting way, and thank the mess Saudi Arabia has gotten itself into for the slip.

This BBC series on the House of Saud says it all: the war was not started by Serbs but by radicalized Sauds. They parachuted in, caused bloodshed, lived in Bosnia — the land they stole from the very Serbs they maligned, and then did damage on 9-11 in New York City.

And journalists knew this tidbit all along.

They are changing their tune because they are exploiting the dead and hacked up body of Jamal Khashoggi, a partisan and dubious “reporter” with questionable ties to various groups: but they are remaking him as a saintly crusading reporter who died as a journalistic crusader…

But to make this lie seem as if it were a truth, they are now having to demonize the Saudis as they are forced to admit to certain truths about the former Yugoslavia in the divine passive, trying to hide the fact the (a) they kept this crucial piece of information back as they were making glorious careers for themselves and selling newspapers, and (b) they were complicit in war crimes and war propaganda.

Most Western journalists covering that war should be rotting in The Hague.

The number of journalists getting killed pales in comparison to the number of people who were slaughtered thanks to their ignorant propaganda.

If you believe a word a reporter says, you are a fucking moron who settles for shit.

This is a profession without instinct or insight. They have no empiricism or innovation. They spew garbage as they virtue-signal and plagiarize the same playbook as the Catholic church.

You’re not gods, you miserable assholes.

Chaser News was created to create a humbler and saner vehicle for information.

Chaser is coming back, but it is going to be different in many ways.

It will provide news about propaganda. It will be news about reality. It is not going to tell you what to think or how to think, but it will make you question your own thinking.

Like Harry Houdini and James Randi, it will show precisely how journalists have scammed and continue to scam the public. It is not like Project Veritas, however. They have the wrong mindset in dealing with those narcissistic knuckle-draggers.

It will first build a scaffolding. It will be serious for a short time.

And then it will be unleashed as halos are revealed to be nothing more than a tin-foil hat…

Marvellous Suki‑Chan’s Most Epic Hellescape!: Take A Hint, Baby! We’re All Rooting For You!


Suki was sitting up in her bed that was shaped as a bouquet of roses with the sign “No pricks allowed!” as part of her headboard. She thought it was funny. She was a demgel and as such, she wasn’t a female per se, though she had a form of a drop dead gorgeous one. She didn’t have the parts and also didn’t have romantic drives as they were completely unnecessary for a being not made to procreate. The first man who she rejected on the account that demgels didn’t have sex or anything like that screamed of course this had to be Hell when the woman of his dreams turned out not to be a woman at all. She thought he was being melodramatic, but people in Hell tended to be very whiny to their own detriment.

Suki was not whiny. She was perky, and a happy and helpful demgel. She loved to help weirdoes in need in Hell in order for the Just Naughty Enoughs to get rehabilitated and out of here so they could do something else with the rest of their afterlife than be an unpaid intern in Hell.

All jobs in Hell were unpaid internships. There was always a promise to find a real position, but that was just a flat-out lie. There never were any full-time positions in Hell. Everyone was precariously employed and an unpaid intern at the same time, and people always needed multiple unpaid internships just to make ends meet.

And that was a real thing in Hell.

No one would dare quit all of their unpaid internships.

Suki was not an unpaid intern. She had a real job and the hippest job in Hell.

She was the hostess of a game show called The Marvellous Suki-Chan’s Most Epic Hellescape! Where the winner got a ticket out of Hell. Three contestants would vie for the prize through an obstacle course, and the one who weighed less than the Anubis feather would be sent back into the tumbler called Earth to be reborn.

There were no return customers, but only one decided not to be reborn as he became an advocate for those who were murdered in the waking world in the Otherworldly. Vendel was epically weird, but became such a good man that he was renowned in the afterlife as a beloved patriarchal of the Fallen, and Suki was proud of him.

Today she hoped that the lucky winner would finally get himself out of his epically sad funk. He was a good man in the waking world, but when he tried to infiltrate a street gang to expose them as he was a newspaper journalist, they got him hooked on drugs and he could never break his addiction, alienating his closest friends, never getting with his true love, and then getting murdered just as he realized how far he had gone, but then he was in Hell as a JNE, and he became dejected ever since.

But even in Hell, he had people in the Otherworldly root for him. One of his friends who had also died young, left heaven to join Vendel as part of the Women of Orchid, and she talked to him at the border of Hell, and began to inspire him.

He became strong enough to try as a contestant, and Suki rooted for him, but could never rig the game for him to win it.

He had to win it by genuine means, and the incentive for winning was suggested to Suki by no other than Vendel himself.

There was a Goddess in town called Tommie and She had lived in Eden, not wanting to be a goddess until the religion She inspired got epically mean, and She was mad. She decided to take the religion by the dogma, and that meant leaving Eden to start being an official goddess.

That meant She would need a Messenger.

When Suki heard about it, she thought perhaps a reformed JNE would be appropriate: they knew what Hell was like. They’d know the tricks it used to interfere with deific messages, and if they could get out of here, they’d also know how to counter them or prevent them from sabotaging them in the first place.

Suki wouldn’t rig the results and had two other equally worthy contestants who could also do the job, but her heart rooted for one more than the others, but she could be wrong, and she’d let the future decide what was best.

In the meantime, she had a visitor to greet ad she was excited to do it.


Suki danced around the room when her guest finally arrived. “Tom‑Tom! I am so epically happy to see You, baby!” she said as she ran with her arms open and gave her good friend an epically big hug.

The Tom-Tom in question was Thomasina Darlington, the Goddess in need of a Messenger. Tom-Tom was a casual deity, in plain blue jeans and a t-shirt, though She looked like a runway model with Her good looks, poise, and confidence.

“Thank you so much for suggesting this idea, Suki,” said Tommie as Suki invited her to sit down in her sunflower-themed living room where both the chairs and table looked like giant sunflowers where a sunflower-shaped tray had sunflower-themed cupcakes, “I am new to exercising My deific powers…”

“No, problem. You need an epically fun weirdo to get your message out. With all those normal people in the waking world getting offended over nonsense, they need someone to wake up their hearts before they all get themselves killed and wind up as unpaid interns here. They won’t be lucky to be labelled JNE, but TSTBG.”


“Too Stupid To Be Good. That is, like, one step above the Place Below Hell, and that is really, really, really…really bad.”

“Suki, just how many designations are there in Hell?”


“Of course.”

“9,946,258,13,666,901,472,199,631 and All That Jazz.”

“All That Jazz?”

“It’s the catchall designation for evil people who thought being a jazz snob made them immune to an eternity in Hell, where all jazz is just off-key disco.”

“I see. But there are that many designations?”

“Yeah, and I know them all in order, too.”

“You are to be commended for your extraordinary ability to retain so much information.”

“It used to three times that, but the demgels have been working hard to lower that number as we help people become less evil here.”

“Well, if I can help get another person out of here, I will be more than happy to bring another soul another chance.”

Suki giggled as she pounced Tom-Tom to hug Her because when it came to epically eccentric and trail-blazing benevolent weirdoes, Suki always loved them the besterest. Tom-Tom giggled as She returned the hug and the kindest vote of confidence one could give. Hell may have been a grim and gloomy place, but Suki’s brave goodness made sure the darkness stood no chance to her light.


Hell sucked, thought Denny Garber as he looked at the edge of Hell, waiting for his old friend Jenna Shaw to come to the edge to talk to him. She was one of the Women of Orchid, and though she also died young, she went to heaven until something compelled her to leave, where she found her calling consoling and helping people who died as a result of murder.

It was the reason she sought him out: both of them were murdered in different ways. He was given a lethal line of cocaine, a habit he could never kick, and the reason he ended up in Hell as a JNE.

That, and holding a grudge against one of his closest friends who did not tell him of her secret plans of infiltrating a wicked cabal in order to expose them.

She couldn’t divulge it, and Denny knew it. He knew exactly why she kept quiet, and what she was doing, but Denny just lashed out at her, isolated her, and then tried to bully her other close friend to do the same thing.

That’s what got him into Hell, and the worst thing was that he damn well knew, she’d forgive him, and fight for his release. She didn’t hold a grudge.

She loved him enough to repeatedly encourage him to date her widowed mother, even though there was both a racial and an age difference.

And Denny pushed away his dream life, and was now stuck in an eternal nightmare.

Jenna was given a deliberate cancer to kill her, but Heaven wasn’t doing it for her, and she decided to console the Fallen with her new friends, yet still encouraged Denny to break out, but she didn’t understand why he was frozen in place.

He was obsessed with the citizens here with him. He watched them break and crumble as they at first thought they were wronged, and then came to the realization why they were in essence evil. One man was sent to Hell because he refused to talk to journalists who were covering his wife in a negative way even though she was being smeared by her wealthier rivals. He said he was trying to protect her, but he wanted her harmed and traumatized so he could control her and prevent her from being more successful than he was.

Once upon a time, Denny was a journalist. He would have seen through the man’s ruse, and exposed him.

The man deserved to be in Hell.

But he deserved it, so did Denny.

Jenna would chastise him, and she consoled him. She made the effort to come to the edge to stand in solidarity with him.

She never abandoned him.

Worse, the woman he wronged mourned his loss, and he felt it.

And that hurt more than anything else: he wronged her, turned his back on her, caused her distress that could have made her vulnerable, and spoke ill of her, and yet she mourned his death and avenged it.

He looked down and frowned.

Hell was Hell for a reason.

But Jenna came with news for him: he was selected to be a contestant on Hell’s game show where the winner got a ticket out of here. Usually, the prize was reincarnation, but this episode, the prize was to be the official messenger to a awakened Goddess who was in the market for a brass and creative messenger who wasn’t afraid to tell it like it is.

Jenna even played dirty, by telling him she knew that the woman he wronged would want it.

He tried to imply the woman was just some sort of Mary Sue virtue-signaller, but then remembered there was no way she could possibly know where Denny was, and wasn’t particularly religious, either. She wouldn’t think about a Goddess’s messenger needs, or that Hell had a game show where you could escape it.

And if she were to proffer a theory about Denny’s afterlife whereabouts, she’d surmise that he was in Heaven.

She was hurt, not angry, and not vindictive.

But Jenna’s dirty trick did the job: he was going to go for it, even if he thought it was an exercise in futility.


The audience cheered as Suki-Chan and Madame Coccinelle came on the stage.

“Are we ready for an epically good time, baby?”

“Yay!” cheered the demons in the crowd.

“Good, because this a special edition: the winner gets to become a messenger for very nice Goddess!”

“Ooo!” shouted the crowd.

“Now, here are our three contestants: Desmond Ashcraft, Rhys Crowley, and Denison Garber!”

“Woo woo!” yelled the crowd.

“Why don’t our contestants introduce themselves?”

The first British man spoke first. “My name is Desmond Ashcraft and when I was alive, I was the head of a ruthless cartel and tried to kill a female psychologist and her male amputee companion repeatedly during the Second World War because my grandfather hated her grandmother. I died when that cartel blew up my airplane, and I realized I wasted my entire life because I believed a senile old man.”

“Yay!” shouted the crowd.

The second British man introduced himself. “My name is Rhys Crowley and I was a thug who happened to be in the same cartel around the same time, and when I was younger, I killed an undercover agent, and then stole ideas as I became a ruthless tycoon in Toronto. I had every intention of killing the secret son of the police officer just as I kept right on killing people who got in my way, but then an undercover agent infiltrated my company, posing as the new secretary and I was so madly in love with her, I was willing to leave it all behind, but then even though she confronted me, I became in more in love with her, but unfortunately, I plunged to my death before I could declare my love and tell her I never took her act against her.”


Denny frowned. He was a black man of modest origins and not some fancy rich British white man. Worse, his death was far less glamourous than the other two, and he wasn’t ever in any cartel. Even in the afterlife, rich white men had all the advantages.

He sighed as he spoke dejectedly, feeling inadequate. “My name is Denison Garber and I was a newspaper reporter in Canada, and I got hooked on drugs trying to infiltrate a street gang because I wanted to do an exposé on them. I became mean to my friends, and died when I overdosed on cocaine in a motel room. I’m real sorry that I disappointed my folks, was mean to nice people, and never apologized for any of it.”

“Yay!” cheered the crowd.

“You know how this game goes,” said Suki, “We have an obstacle course all three contestants go through, and at the end of the game, we weigh them on the Scale of Anubis with the feather, and whoever weighs the same or less than the feather wins!”
Madame Coccinelle swanned on the stage holding the feather in her revealing black and red outfit.

“Ooo!” shouted the crowd.

“Are you ready?” asked Suki-chan.

When everyone cheered, a large tub of goo was wheeled into the centre of the stage by Madame Coccinelle.

“Here’s the deal,” Suki said to the contestants, “You will all jump into this vat of goo where there are three sleeping demons. You have to find the demon, and bring him back up to the surface.”

The three contestants made faces of disgust, but as the reward was a ticket out of Hell, no one refused the peculiar request.

The three men climbed up three colourful ladders that had steps that were shaped in the letters of their first names.

They all jumped in at the count of three and began to swim in the goo that was very ticklish.

“Stop! Stop!” laughed Rhys, “This is too much!”

“I never knew I was this ticklish,” chortled Desmond, “It is a confounded inconvenience!”

Denny would have laughed except he was too sad to do so. He bumped into Rhys, and suddenly, Rhys looked serious.

“Your touch makes it stop.”

Desmond swam over and held on to Denny. “You’re right, he does have that calming effect.”

Denny nodded, “Since none of us are ticklish when we touch each other, we can help each other by swimming together to the bottom, getting a demon one at a time.”

“Isn’t the point of the competition who gets their demon first?” asked Desmond.

“Suki never said that,” said Denny, “All she said was we all had to find a demon and awaken it. She said nothing about time or order.”

“Yay!” cheered the crowd.

The three men took turns swimming to the bottom, and bringing the three tiny demons to the surface where they awoke, giggled, and flew away, dazzling the crowd.

“And the first point goes to Denny who helped his teammates with their task!”

Denny’s eyes widened. He did not think he would be getting any points, let alone the first one.

But there were two more tasks up ahead.

When all three got out of the vat, Madame Coccinelle removed the tub and came back pushing a large trampoline.

“The next task is to jump to the top and give the three demons a bubble bath in the upside down tub on the ceiling!”

The three contestants stared blankly at each other. They sighed as the all climbed onto the trampoline and began to bounce, but none of the men could reach the top.

“This is frustrating!” said Desmond.

“I am getting tuckered out,” said Rhys.

Denny looked at the trampoline before he spoke. “It isn’t very elastic.” He thought for a minute before taking some of the goo stuck to him and rubbed it on the trampoline. “Maybe if we all coat this with the giggle goo, it will get bouncier.”

“What a strange idea,” said Desmond as he and Rhys followed the directions, and soon all three jumped to the top, got a demon and bathed them in the

Upside down tub until the demons were all clean and giggly.

“Woo hoo!” chanted the crowd.

“Denny gets a point in this round for thinking that cooperation would solve the problem!”

Denny seemed nervous. He won two tasks in a row, and he didn’t want to be resented for it. He wanted his chance to get out of Hell, but so did the other contestants. There was only one more task, and then the weighing.

“Suki,” Denny said, “I would like to sit out the last round.”

The crowd gasped.

“Why?” asked a shocked Suki.

“Because it isn’t fair that these two men are being left out of the points system. They weren’t mean, and they cooperated with me. Just because I thought of it…”

“It’s all right,” said Desmond, “You earned it. Even though two of us will lose today, we are allowed back on the show for another chance.”

“We have been in Hell longer than you, son,” said Rhys, “And we did far worse things, such as murder. We had to work our way up through countless designations over the decades, and in all fairness, you should be the one who gets out first. You have a fighting chance. So, if we miss the mark, it is our first time here, and there is a light at the end of the tunnel for us. A second or even third chance is a blessing, not a curse, especially in a horrible place like this one. To be frank with you, Denison, both of us have been rooting for you all along.”

The audience wept at the touching scene.

“Well,” said Suki, “The last point goes to all three contestants who are rooting for each other instead of competing!”

“Hurrah!” roared the happy crowd.

Madame Coccinelle then brought out the scale of Anubis as the crowd gasped.

“Time to see who gets on the scales!”

Desmond went first and he weighed as much as the feather, shocking everyone.

“Yay!” said the crowd.

“Rhys went on scale, and he too, weighed as much as the feather.

“Woo hoo!” shouted the crowd.

It was Denny’s turn, and he was lighter than the feather.

“The winner is Denison Garber!” cheered an overjoyed Suki, “But since our other two contestants weighed as much as the feather, for the first time in the show’s history, all three are released!”

The crowd gave a standing ovation as all three mean wear teary-eyed and overjoyed.

“But the big prize still goes to Denny!” said Suki as she clapped her hands with the audience applauding along with her.

Denison Garber gasped as he looked at Suki and Madame Coccinelle. “I won?”

Suki danced around as she squealed in delight. “Yes, baby! How epically exciting!”

“I won!” Denny cheered as he jumped up and pumped a fist in the air. “I am getting out of Hell and feeling better than ever!” He turned to Suki. “Now what?”

She jumped up to hug him before turning around and pointed to a beautiful red-haired woman wearing a t-shirt and blue jeans. “Your new boss, baby! She is an epically cool Goddess in need of a messenger!”

“Woo woo!” cheered the audience as the Goddess came over to shake Denny’s hand. “Congratulations for winning, Denison. My name is Thomasina Darlington, but everyone calls Me Tommie.”

“So I am your new Messenger.”

“Well,” said Tommie, “You are also My first and only one. We’ll be winging it.”

“I’m cool with that.”

“The original idea was for you to take a job as My personal messenger, but if you have anything you wish to say, do not be afraid to say it…”

As the two walked off stage, Denny shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know what I’d want to say at this point. I don’t have previous experience of being an Otherworldly messenger.”

Tommie shrugged. “Neither do I. The longest job I ever had as a mortal was working as a knight. I was never a messenger.”

“A knight?”

“I lived in the early 1400s in England where I was a governess, then a knight, and then the wife of an English lord before I was widowed, and became a painter before I was murdered protecting My infant daughter and seven brothers who I took in to protect them. I did originally intend to become a governess, but with all the violence around Me, I was compelled to change the course of My life. I became an artist as I had to weigh my options.”

“That’s interesting.”

“I was painting the battleground; so to speak, and did not want to draw attention to it. Unfortunately, I was killed before I had a chance to refine My original plans.”

“And You became a Goddess.”

“Against My will. I am warning you now that the game plan is to dismantle that religion devoted to Me so I can return to My parcel of Eden and do whatever I wish with My loved ones. Do not worry, your place there is secure no matter what.”

“Thank you. Is Your daughter in Eden?”

“Yes, and the brothers I looked after in the waking world. We are a small and informal group of free spirits, and We embrace free will.”
Denison looked thoughtful and nodded. “I’m game for whatever happens. I’m Your man.”

Tommie smiled. “I am glad. I will meet you on the other side when you are ready to go. You’ll adore George when you meet him.”

“Who’s George?”

“My closest friend who loves Me, and took everything I ever said to him to heart, and when I breathed My last in the waking word, was the one who held Me as he declared his undying love for me, and it was his kindness and goodness that got that horrid religion started in the first place. He is as anxious as I am to put an end to their distortions and lies. They had no right to misuse Me, just as they had no right to take his love and twist in so cruelly. I’ll wait for you on the other side, Denison.”

Before Denny could reply, She was gone.

Tommie was not what Denny would have thought was Goddess material. She was easy-going, and wasn’t speaking in tongues. She was informal and seemed to do most of the heavy-lifting Herself. He could see why this George person mourned Her to the point of wanting Her legacy to live on. Denny only knew of Her for a few fleeting moments, but when She left, he felt his heart longing to see Her again. She was a living lesson and an enigma, but with lessons from the heart. Her story must have been fascinating, and Denny wanted to know more.

As he looked around, he saw he was no longer in Hell. For the first time since he died, he was looking at the other side of that dividing line.

He then saw a familiar, beaming face running toward him.

“Congratulations are in order,” Jenna Shaw said happily as she pinned an orchid on his lapel. She paused as she then gave an impish grin. “I always knew you didn’t belong there. About time you came back to join us.”

“What’s this?” he asked.

“As you know, I am from The Women of Orchid. We find anyone who was murdered and we pin a flower on all those whose lives were stolen from them. As you were assassinated pursuing a story, you qualify in our little club.”

“Until I met you, I always thought I overdosed. So, it’s official. I was murdered.”

“The man who knew of your cocaine habit gave you a lethal dosage. You thought he was in danger and you were trying to warn him, not knowing he was setting you up to isolate you and kill you because he was doing horrible things and thought that’s why you were after him.”

Denny looked at the flower and sighed sadly. He was out of Hell, but now he had a constant reminder of how he got there in the first place. Yet he received a reprieve and was the official messenger to a goddess who was very nice and eccentric, and her looks and ways suddenly reminded him of a friend he knew when he was alive, and then realized why Suki-chan wanted him to win. Being a deity may have been the ultimate Establishment position, yet this one was a rebel and ultimate outsider whose ways Denny would be immediately familiar with. He could never make amends to his friend, but he could start again with the Goddess whom Suki referred to as Tom-Tom.

He smiled. This was someone’s benevolent wish from the waking world, and it was finally granted.

It was a happy new start, and he was ready to embrace it.

But best of all, he knew Jenna when they were still alive in the waking world. She rooted for him and was the one who pushed for his freedom. She didn’t have to do it. She could have just as easily seen him as unredeemable and make a beeline in the opposite direction.

That was a powerful message, and one that would be Denny’s starting point in his new afterlife. He walked side by side next to Jenna as the one known as Thomasina Darlington walked toward them, ready to greet him and help him learn to speak from the heart once again, without fear and without hatred that had once consumed his soul for no good reason at all.

The re-launching of Chaser News, Part Sixteen: A war changed my life. I didn't have to be in the tangible one. The intangible one opened my eyes, and I became an author of manuals.

I am Serbian by heritage and Canadian by birth, and because I am both, I am neither.


I was so traumatized by Western journalists, that it completely changed me.


When a collective can walk over one set of bodies as if they were garbage, and then demonize those people they walked over, you lose more than just faith in that group.

You lose all respect for them.

It was then that I realized journalism was a sham. The worst thing was that it took me very little time to find out where they were really getting their information.

From a cabal of PR firms. Not the war zone.

It was traumatizing, but liberating.


It was then that I became an alchemist.

Alchemy begins after a spiritual death, and the old Alexandra died when she realized everything she believed about her government and her media was a lie.

But as it was the Left who demonized the Serbs the most, it also meant my original political ideology was also a sham, too.

I was crushed to death by a cabal of Establishment liars. This isn’t my opinion. I kept hoping I was wrong, the way Harry Houdini kept hoping he was wrong about his skepticism of the mystical and kept challenging people. He exposed them all, when deep down, he was hoping to find the one who was real and he could reconnect with his dead mother.

I know that pain because it was too horrifying for a teenaged girl to face.

But I faced it. That war changed my life. It wasn’t the tangible war that had any impact on me, but the intangible one of war propaganda.

So the old Alexandra suffered a spiritual death, and like the phoenix, a new one awoke.

She was surrounded by the same lead that killed her predecessor.

Alchemy is the noble art of turning lead into gold.

And the gold in my case, was writing war manuals: how to see the manipulations of journalism and counter them.

It became a calling, but also my own alchemy. I keep right on target.

The Target symbol Serbs wore was nearly identical to the alchemical symbol for gold.

It just has one circle too many inside. I had no idea at the time, but I eventually saw it.

We all have talents. Mine is to see through mental manipulations. Over time, I began devising systems to counter them both reactively — but as time went on, proactively.

It is the reason I refined Matriarchal Storytelling, and created an alternative to journalism called F.R.E.E.D.

A Dangerous Woman Story Studio is the manual for overcoming the manipulations of patriarchal fiction writing.

Chaser News is the manual for overcoming the manipulations of nonfiction narratives.

Education, when it is not used to indoctrinate people, expands thought.

When it is misused to condition people into thinking a set way, constricts thought.

If you are not coming up with new ideas, theories, and experiments in a class or course, that is a sign that your thoughts are being confined, not expanded.

If you keep insisting that everyone who doesn’t think just like you is evil, you absolutely know that what you believe is a lie, and now you are trying to cover it up by suppressing other people’s ideas as you force everyone into thinking like you so that you are never challenged.

It is a sign that somewhere along the way, you were miseducated, but in the words of Anna Freud:

Creative minds have always been known to survive any kind of bad training.

It means you have to let go of the lead, and then learn to turn that lead into gold.

In other words, there is no excuse for being miseducated. You rise above it.

But it is much easier if you have the methods of education. In journalism. In fiction.

We learn how to learn in school, but those are habits we take with us as we inform our minds reading nonfiction, and also our hearts with fiction.

Chaser News is a school of sorts, just as is A Dangerous Woman Story Studio: it is the intangible school of learning how not to agree to be placed in an intellectual and emotional confine.

I became woke because of a war.

But I can also make dreams come true in peace.

War and peace do not stop me.

I learn and grow. I still create manuals and come up with new theories to test every single day.

It is an adventure. I survived a spiritual death, and came up with Method Research.

But life is to be lived, and shouldn’t always be alchemic.

Alchemy is the ultimate act of rebellion and defiance: you are not going to let anything or anyone prevent you from living.

Or creating.

With goodness, kindness, and altruism, even in anarchy...

The re-launching of Chaser News, Part Fifteen: Maverick? How dare you be a maverick?

The Daily Caller pointed out something I have been saying as well: we have people do racist things and are still bankable and employed, but should someone talk about it, they get fired.

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It is the reason the US cannot have any more good ideas.

You have a populace trained in throwing temper tantrums in a bid to seem moral and intelligent.

It is a stupid strategy.

People spew scripted propaganda as they demand everything be their own way and any discomfort must be punished.

This is a shortsighted stupid strategy.

But I do not agree on the Hollywood Reporter’s take on the Kelly Affair.

The only reason why Megyn Kelly didn’t work out had nothing to do with anything else save for the fact that she has a mind of her own.

She isn’t some Stepford Democrat. She isn’t some Stepford Republican. She isn’t trying to appease everyone by being some ideological maid or servant.

After all, her autobiography is called Settle for More. (A nod to Dr. Phil McGraw’s philosophy, I know, but it is still true).

She dared to settle for more, and as a woman, you are supposed to eat shit and smile as you are grateful and feel blessed and lucky to be a shit eater.

Democrats and Republicans alike like their women to be little, not mavericks or visionaries who are eccentric, enigmatic, controversial, and outrageous.

She continues to settle for more, even as she is being cast as a villain for demanding what she is owed. She wants monies owed to her, and she should get it. She doesn’t want to be silenced with a NDA, and good on her for it.

The notion that the Left have anything to do with feminism is absurd: feminists know what it is like to be bullied, maligned, isolated and repressed for not following a rigged script — so there is no way a true feminist is going to do the same to another woman who doesn’t march to a rigged script.

I have also said that feminists failed by not pushing their way into conservative parties. You don’t put all your damn ovaries in the same basket. You don’t make yourself dependent on a single source as you allow other venues to go unchallenged.

But feminism was hijacked and co-opted by Corporate America and they allowed their message to become sexist propaganda that paints women as victims and damsels having to shake in their boots in case abortion rights are taken away.

That’s a passive and weak strategy.

Stop wearing those fucking little girl pussy hats, put down the placards, stop watching The Handmaid’s Bullshit Story, and grow up.

What is the plan?

What is the goal?

What is your map for making it happen?

Expecting the whole world to just agree with you is not going to happen. You either begin moving into conservative parties, or you denounce them both and start a new political party.

You have to be active and not be confined by a public-service mindset of committees, consensus, and any other life-sink used to ensure that you never actually reach the goal, always postponing, diluting, bickering, nagging, virtue-signalling, and philosophizing.

Kelly defied that mindset and that’s why she is being raked over the coals.

For the record, I am not a fan of Kelly, or her remarks. I am no fan of the Fox News Channel, either.

And I am no fan of NBC News.

But I am confident enough not be threatened by someone who has her own mind.

And I have been around long enough to know when people are using a contrived moral excuse to hide their more baser and more abusive motives for attacking her.

Had it been about racism, then Jimmy Fallon would have gotten the boot, but no one demanded his head on a platter for doing far worse things on his program than Kelly did on hers.

And boy, did #MeToo suddenly turn silent after it had its first major failure with failing to stop Brett Kavanaugh.

Ladies, there are no hacks for a 100% guarantee in anything. Take the movement back from the DNC, and modify your strategies, up the goals, and settle for more.

And stop dissing Kelly. It sounds petty.

Which brings me to Chaser.

When I worked on it the first time, I decided it was going to have a feminist bent.

I also decided I was going to be blunt and honest, and be me completely.

I am outspoken, eccentric, and I make no apologies for my unconventional life, career, and beliefs.

Take it or leave it, but you are not going to shame me into retreating.

Manipulating, bullying, threatening, slandering, arguing, belittling, patronizing, and all the other feints and ruses will not work because I am who I am, and that’s all there is to it.

If you haven’t read my manifesto, now is the good time to do it.

I am not buying your bullshit strategies. Fuck you, asshole.

I was woke long before it was a thing.

And I knew the trajectory when I started it the first time. People ignore you, then they “correct” you with fake praise and negging, and then comes the insults, putdowns, threats, and then the melodrama.

Been there, done that, didn’t buy into the scripted propaganda the first time.

Then life took a very prolonged catastrophic turn for me, and I absolutely had to put everything on hiatus to navigate out of a series of unrelated crises that came out of the blue and could not possibly be prevented. No one could have prepared for it, and I am a person who thrives in chaos.

In the middle of it all, I started A Dangerous Woman, and even a series of cataclysms didn’t stop me. They slowed me down, yes, but somehow, I still managed to produce work, teach art, and get a book published based on the material incubated through my experimental writing venture.

I am still not out of that vortex. Soon, I find out whether I am out of it, or not.

Regardless, I march forwards and upwards, demanding for more, not less.

I am not settling. I am not retreating. I am not walking away.

Every god and every demon in the universe can gang up on me, I know who I am, the content of my character, and my worth, and I don’t back down.

And if the mortals on this planet have a problem with that, fuck them. I don’t care.

I have started my preliminary interviews for two of the three stories I wish to pursue, all while writing the latest edition of A Dangerous Woman.

Life is too short not to follow your dreams or not listen to your heart. I am not destructive. I am a creator by nature, and I am in a good place with it.

Ignore me, insult me, that’s your loss, not mine.

Never mine…

A couple of updates: A Dangerous Woman and Chaser Investigative News.

More on these points later. My schedule is going to be hectic until the New Year, but I am actively working on a few things. It depends on whether I write another book for a traditional publisher how much time I will have along with one very critical factor, but this where this site is going:

  1. A Dangerous Woman will have at least one more publication out by the end of the year that I am actively working on.


I have not put out A Dangerous Woman magazine since the 1 Becomes 2 edition. These are all from the Otherworldly line with one Within Fable. The spotlight is on Thomasina Darlington, a Goddess who figures prominently in these line of stories. I am hoping to wrap this up soon, but as I am upgrading my teaching skills until the end of the year, my last six stories shouldn’t take more than a couple of weeks to complete.

2. I want to get Chaser slowly off the ground. This is more labour and resource intensive, but I want to start slow. There are three stories that I wish to explore: one is global. One has to do with the US. One has its origins in Canada. It may be that I may decide to do one, two, or all three, and when I am certain where I am going with it, I will give real details. Suffice to say I am not going to do any like traditional stories. They are not quite in the F.R.E.E.D. style I keep alluding to, but they will be serious and informative, but presented in a more eccentric style than the usual fare. It is not satire like the Onion. The vehicle has been done to death. These are just in the crude planning stages with preliminary research and rough experimentation, but I do not want long, epic stories to start with: just three small stories with a very specific focus.

I will keep writing my usual fare here, as well, but as I have said before, 2018 has taken particular pleasure in trying to derail me, and I have not gave in the slightest, but it has slowed me down…

A Goddess Among Us: The End is Just the Beginning.


George looked at his best who was no less a goddess and held her hand as they walked on a river bank of Gihon in Eden, where they made their home for centuries, “You know, Thomasina, though I have known you for centuries, I never thought to ask You about the life You had before my brothers and I came barging in madness and without clothes on as we escaped our father’s tortuous dungeon.”

Thomasina blushed as She gave him a kiss on the cheek, “It still breaks My heart whenever I think of the hell you had been though.”

“It is over and done now. As far as we are concerned, our lives began the moment You ushered us inside into the warmth of Your castle, but You had a life before that.”

“Oh, I had a life before I was a wife of an English lord. I was a knight.”

“I know You were a knight, though I never would have imagined it. But how did that come about?”

“Well, it wasn’t My intention. I was very good at art, math, science, and languages, so I thought I would be a governess. Teach children and nurture their hearts as much as their minds, but then there was violence and invasions all around Me. I thought I could just sit around and wait until some madmen slaughter Me, or I could learn a new skill, be effective in defending Me and those around Me and do something about it.”

“And You did.”
“I disguised Myself as a young man and worked My way up.”

“Let me guess: Thomas Darlington?”

“Darlington was My married name. My maiden name is Cholmondeley.”

“An unusual surname for an unusual knight.”

Tommie smiled mischievously. “It worked like a charm, although they all laughed at Me until I proved My worth in battle time and again.”

“Didn’t they suspect that You were a woman, given Your, well, very womanly physique?”

“Who was asking questions when the castle is under siege? You take what you can get. Besides, I was the best of them all, and had a mind for combat and strategy, and even I never would have guessed that an artist and writer had the soul of a warrior all along.”

“And You fought off hostile forces to guard the castle the you eventually called home.”

“It was how I met My husband.”

“And he realized You were a woman.”

“It was a vicious battle, but I won it, and he wished to thank Me in person, and walked in on me while I was tending My wounds.”

“He took the surprise well.”

“We fell in love and we married. I didn’t retire from that life right away, but then he got rather sulky. Men were not as enlightened back in those days. I was pregnant with Clementine when he passed away, and for the life of me, I cannot remember who he was…”

“Because you fell out of love with him.”

“Nothing takes the shine out of romance faster than a nag with a penchant for martial engineering. He didn’t mind Me singing and painting, but he thought those adventurous days ought to be behind Me because I was married and with child.”

“Fat lot he knew.”

“It cost him his life as I knew combat better than he did, but insisted he would take care of things.”

“And he took care of them straight into a grave.”

Tommie sighed. “Shortly after that, you are your brothers came wondering in the middle of the night without a stitch of clothing, shivering and weeping. What else could I do? You all were so traumatized and gentle; that it broke my heart.”

“You took us in, Tommie.”

“And I never regretted it for one second, George. I am happy you have decided not to stand on the edge of Eden to guard it, and have finally come here to see everything you have guarded for centuries.”

“I failed You once when we had to rescue Clementine from those brutes…”

“You didn’t fail me. There were fifty of them and eight of Us, not including Clementine who was just a baby. We were outnumbered. That I was the only casualty that night is a miracle.”

George began to cry as Tommie consoled him by holding his face in Her hands. “Don’t cry, George. We reunited and I am so very happy you are here with Me.”

“But You are thinking of going away from here, and it break my heart.”

“How will I know if I don’t walk among people first? It has been a long while since I lived in the waking world, and that was centuries ago. Many things have changed. For example, when I was alive, human rights were not a topic of the common man, and today they enjoy far more freedoms than I ever did. I fought battles back then that are obsolete now.”

“But, You will be alone in that horrible world that took Your good deeds and turned it into a religion with killers…”

“I am not going alone.”

“Who are You taking?”

“You, of course. I wouldn’t dream of doing this without you.”

George suddenly beamed as he looked giddy. “It would be the greatest of honours, Tommie! I have never been so happy in my entire existence!”

He held Her tightly as She silently chuckled. George was the kindest soul She had ever known, and She never would have walked away from Her closest and dearest friend. They walked back to their home to tell the others of the news.


Clementine was a raven-haired beauty who looked much like her flame-haired Mother. She also had an exciting life in the waking world and was overjoyed to finally meet the Mother she never knew as Tommie was murdered protecting Her family when Clementine was an infant. The idea of her Mother going back to the waking world to right a wrong upset her as she never wanted to be separated from Her ever again.

“Gracious, mother, do You really have to go to the waking world?”

“Yes, Clementine. That religion is out of hand and they’ve no right to do all these unspeakable things in My name…”

“But You have powers to stop it here…”

“I have tried and it is not working because I need to understand those people before I can know how to end these games…”

“It’s too dangerous…”

“Clementine, please…”

“Don’t ‘Clementine, please’ me!”

Tommie turned to a smirking George. “See? I am not only her Mother, but a Goddess, and that is the cheeky and impudent way she talks to Me.”

“We did our best raising her, Tommie, but we had no previous experience in raising willful and headstrong girls…”

“Come on!” shouted Clementine as she rolled her eyes, “I am serious! There are dangers there! Who is to say that other gods and demons aren’t walking there, ready to strike at you?”

“I am not a weakling, Clementine. The worst that can happen is that they kill Me, and I return Eden.”

“That’s not the point…”

“What would you have Me do? Sit on my backside and allowed people to desecrate My good name manipulating and controlling desperate people?”

“They don’t even know who You are – don’t they all call You Una et Dilectos, anyway…”

“See? I don’t approve of that,” interjected George, “That is what I called your Mommy when I first saw Her. Not Una et Dilectos – but our one and beloved because nothing else mattered to us after that night. Just the most beautiful, brave, and kind woman the world ever knew came to love us and care for us despite our madness and disfigurements.”

Tommie rubbed George’s arm. “We shouldn’t be there too long, and We’ll keep in touch with you and your uncles.”

“Who are all weeping in despair that You are leaving Eden…”

“To make those misusing My image and name be held accountable for their horrid ways. You will be in charge of this parcel of Eden until We get back.”

“Bah! There are nothing but foul-mouthed ruffians there, and I am certain many of the male variety will be throwing themselves at Your feet…”

“And what? I will be so blindsided by their mortal charms that I will fall madly in love with them and never come home to My only child and My closest friends whom I see as My family?”

George looked defensive, “Tommie doesn’t need those shallow mortals, Clementine. She has worthier options…”

“All right! You two go to that sewer hole and set those people straight. What are You planning to do when You get into a world that is vastly different than the one You knew in the 1400s.”

“I will walk among them, getting to know them all, and then formulate a plan. I will see how they behave and think. I will interact with the ones who are not part of this religion first, before I then meet the ones who are, and compare and contrast them. There is a method to My research, Clementine. When I see what needs to be done, I will do it, and then come home.”

She went to Clementine, and gave her a hug and kiss. “You have your own research to do here in Eden, and with My dispatches, you will have more to ponder about the ways of people.”

“Fair enough, but be careful – the both of You. I love You both, and I dread not seeing either of You.”

“Don’t worry,” said a proud George, “We love you, too.”

“You know I love you, Clementine,” said Tommie, “I do not want these misguided people to do something that will bring harm to Us. We’ll have a small feast tonight, and then George and I will be off in the morning.”


“So, Tommie, how do We get to Earth from here? Aren’t We ghosts to the waking world?”

“No, George. I am a goddess, and I do have deific powers galore, such as making up two regular people in that realm, well, with some modifications.”

“Such as?”

“We do not require the same bodily functions. We can retain our strength, knowledge of the past and this realm, not require sleep, and not get injured.”

“I just hope I do not revert to my disfigured form or have madness.”

“Of course not. Our old bodies have long turned to dust.”

“How will We fit in?”

“The way We would in the Otherworldly. Our essence prevents those in the waking world from asking Us questions about Our past. I will still be a Goddess with all of My powers.”

“So no haunting anyone.”

“George! Why would I want Us to haunt mortals?”

“Because mortals killed You.”

“I am not vindictive; besides, why would We waste time haunting people when the point is to see how they act and behave before trying to figure why there is a religion that proclaims to worship Me, but then does everything I fought against in My life, like killing people.”

“But You were a knight…”

“I did not kill anyone. I incapacitated them, and made them know they weren’t going to get the best of Me. Besides, none of them wanted to die. Some despot paid them to do the dirty work, and they did it.”

“I am surprised You didn’t give them a good talking to…”

“And they hear My voice? They’d know I was a woman, just as I cannot divulge that I am Goddess among them.”

“It is a pity. I bet You could frighten people into behaving.”

“I do not want to frighten people. I want them to be sensible and not resort to impossible measures.”

“Will You bring Your crumhorn, rebec, psaltery, or Your hurdy-gurdy?”

“I am not certain those would be a common instrument in the present.”

“Drat, I love when you play the hurdy-gurdy.”

“I can always learn a new instrument to play, George. Even a Goddess can benefit from never-ending education. That is why We are going to the waking world.”

“How does that happen?”

“Like this,” Tommie said as She clapped Her hands twice, sending Them both to a small city-state sandwiched between the United States and Canada.


When the two arrived, George whistled. “What a different world this is.”

“Don’t worry, We will be able to immediately understand the ways of this time and place.”

George furrowed his brow as he nodded. “Yes, those moving metal boxes are called cars. It is how one transports yourself from one place to another. Far better than riding on a flatulent horse that leaves a trail of dung behind it.”

“I agree. It is quite clever and liberating.”

“Look at the clothes people are wearing. Much smarter than what We had to wear.”


“So why did We come here?”

“I’ve no idea. I just clapped My hands, and We ended up here.”

“I wonder why.”

Tommie considered. “Because this place is at the centre of that religion. They do not own this area and do not have a foothold here, but they want this place more than any other on Earth. It all ends here. That’s the prize and their final battle, but We must start at the beginning.”

“But why would a religion that began in England in the 1400s covet a tiny region so far away? We never knew of this place, and Clementine didn’t, either.”

“That is a mystery I…I…” Tommie stared intensely at two women walking down the street laughing and chatting. George immediately saw them and gasped.

“Tommie, they…they…”

“Yes, I know, George. They both look very much like Me in different ways.”


“What else? We will have to find out precisely when this religion started to have an unnatural interest in this place.”

“You don’t have to keep calling it this religion. It is called the Mutus.”

“I am not giving it a name, George. For a religion that was inspired by Me, it has no resemblance to My heart or soul. I do not recognize their ways at all. It would never recognize Me, either, and would most likely shun Me or try to do Me harm.”

“Do We stay here?”

“No, We have merely come to see what the endgame of this group is, and now We know that they absolutely have kept a track of my bloodline for centuries, and yet, they have no presence here.”

“Meaning, these two women have no idea.”

“One of them does have an idea.”
“You can tell?”

“I am a Goddess, and I have a connection to them both, though a weak one. One of them is the guardian who knows the threat and has made a series of strategic moves to get herself here in order to protect this castle. The other one has no idea.”

“But why is one keeping the other in the dark when they look as if they are close friends?”

“She is protecting her as I once protected you and your brothers, George. If they are close and one is not warning the other…”

“Then this religion is far more dangerous than even We surmised.”

“That means they have ways of keeping tabs on people.”

“Now what?”

“We start at the beginning. We travel and meet people who are not affiliated with that group and understand them before we begin to study this Mutus.”

“Will You be infiltrating?”

“Not in an overt way. I don’t have to show myself directly, and if this group knows of these women are related to Me, then they have my portraits, and why unsettle them at the risk of bringing harm to those women. I can inspire them both in different ways because at the end of it, it will be the two of them united against the threat that began when their long-forgotten ancestor was killed trying to protect Her love ones from certain death. Let’s go; I do not want either of them to know of our presence.”

As they left the town by foot, they noticed a small farmhouse with a wooden sign that read The Path to Paradise.

“It is a beautiful place, Tommie. What an ironic name of a farmhouse named after Our own home.”

“There are those who want to take that paradise away from them, and I won’t let that happen, just as I won’t let anyone use My name for wickedness.”

George held Tommie’s hand as She smiled and leaned on him, and as They walked, they vanished from the future battleground to begin Their most unusual adventure together as one.

The re-launching of Chaser News, Part Fourteen: I am Feminista. You will hear me whisper as you hear me roar.

There is a lot of pseudo-feminism going on these days. You have ambitious women who think they are feminists by default, and they are not.

Feminism is not a sneaky way to deflect criticism when you are behaving like an asshole or a troll, and it is not about getting a position of power just because you are a woman.

You asshole have to earn it just like everybody else.

The toiling part doesn’t go away. What changes is that the goalposts stay the same for you and are in the same place as the men, and you both start on an even keel with no rigs favouring one sex or the other.

For example, how can Waterloo justify not giving Nobel-prize winner Donna Strickland a full professor position until she won the award?

She was obviously doing Nobel-prize quality work for years in order to get the prize.

That is a misogynistic oversight if there ever was one, and here is a newspaper article, all happy that she got it.

How many men in the history of that institution had to have a Nobel prize to get promoted to a full professor?

That is sexism. She obviously is very good at her job, and it took the entire world looking for the university to do right.

But there is a narrative that “women today” are somehow more liberated than the ones in the past, and that is not the case.

Women have regressed and have done so because pseudo-feminists have tainted the movement by using it as a mask.

The Brett Kavanaugh Affair showed just how much the #MeToo movement had been hijacked by rich white men. From being their own shining knights to being damsels in distress who needed a political party to save them, a single movement became a sexist stereotype that was no different than any action film where the woman is there to be saved.

And yet, there is silence instead of outrage.

It is, however, not surprising in the least.

#MeToo has become a Trojan Horse.

Because we have a society that lives in the perpetual Now, they have fewer role models to retrieve from their collective memories to compare themselves to in order to see how far off course they have veered.

Pseudo-feminism is very revisionist as it panders to those living in the present: Your foremothers were useless victims…not like you, you strong women!

It’s bullshit. Women throughout history have been rulers, warriors, thinkers, and players, and we should have great respect for them all.

People such as Flora Sandes, which I am certain, most people reading this entry will stare blankly, going who?

Well, for starters, she is Person #13 on the List of People everyone should know. She was a British nurse who suddenly became an Officer in the Serbian Army during the First World War.


She became a soldier in a foreign army, and made it up to Captain and was awarded the Order of Karađorđe's Star, the nation’s highest military and civilian honour.

And she was the only female Brit to be a soldier in the Great War.

Flora did not wait for the middle class to be woke to fight.

She reminds me a lot of my late grandmother Stanka Puharich, who is Person #14 on the List of People Everyone Should Know.


You are not going to find that eccentric savant and firebrand in any textbook.

She lost her entire family to the Ustashi in the Second World War. She would have died along with them if she had stayed in Bosnia instead of become a nurse on a medical train who also had to perform surgeries on wounded soldiers and take up arms and fight like a soldier when under attack.

She was beyond a liberated feminist.

She bearded for a gay pilot to protect him. She was never a bigot. She embraced all races and cultures, and was a flaming liberal until the end, voting for the Liberal Party from her hospital bed as she was dying by degrees.

She was a polyglot. She built her own ship, always won at poker, could cook like a chef, sew like a fashion designer, and could built a house and wire it herself.

She was artistic, mechanical, and had a Grade Three education because one moment her family were obscenely wealthy, and the next, she was working as a child servant. She could sing, crochet, fix motors, fish, and do anything she set her mind to with ease.

She was the Leonardo Da Vinci of her time, but no one actually could see it, and she was intellectually lonely because no one understood her and her Bohemian-feminist ways.

But I always could.

She was eccentric, daring, outrageous, and always had a wicked sense of humour. She had her idiosyncrasies, deliberately asking impudent questions to shock street thugs. She started swearing in multiple languages in her mid-forties, but dressed to the nines as she was also a very at playing Super Mario Brothers on my Nintendo as she picked up the controls and pretty much figured out figured herself, cheering “Yippie!” when she cleared a hurdle, and groused, “Oh shit!” when she got tagged.

She was huge Michael Jackson, Billy Blanks, and Wayne Brady fan, and nobody could ever say a bad word about them, although she thought both Bill and Hillary Clinton were stoka.

And boy, if you wanted to hear the most shocking swear words, just say Clinton in front of her.

She was a feminista.

She was also a dish and men always swooned in her presence, though she had no use for it.

She fought terminal cancer in her early forties, was given a couple of months to live, but got cured and lived another forty-plus years.

She was sweet, but had no trouble flying her freak flag sky high.

I modelled my character Alena Love after her (and her gay friend was the basis for the character Brock Logan the Third in Dr. Verity Lake’s Journey of a Thousand Revelations).

She always fought. She always had plans for twenty years ahead. She refused to know how old she was. She was blunt, and she was loving, and very good at jigsaw puzzles.

Since she died, I make it a point of taking something of hers for a spell. First, I shucked my smartphone for her old flip phone.

Now, I have decided to swear a lot.

I have the big things: the eccentricity, the liberated views of people, the persistence, but there are times where I want to take something small and have my heart travel with it for a while as well.

We both have a lot in common.

But despite all of her triumphs and adventures, you don’t know that once upon a time, there was a woman named Stanka Puharich who was decades ahead of her time.

We see easy to forget viral videos on Facebook or doodles on Google, but those are disposable and fleeting. They give no context, and neither does Wikipedia.

Chaser is not going to tell you about celebrities. Fuck them and their raging egos.

It will be about other people who do not mug for cameras.

This isn’t a gossip site that cheerleads people. It will be something far more useful than that.

Because feminism isn’t about roaring how great you are. It is also about hearing whispers, and understanding the nuances of people and what makes them tick.

Because the world ignores the women like Flora Sandes and Stanka Puharich; so it can spins lies that women do not have a rich and colourful history filled with great accomplishments.

I am not going to ignore those women or pretend women today are superior because they are not.

They have a lot of catching up to do and much to apologize for by thinking it makes a difference when you were born or where…

The re-launching of Chaser News, Part Thirteen: Journalism was always Patriarchal. Time for the Matriarchal way of opening minds.

Journalism has brainwashed the masses with the silly notion that you can have just one Good Guy, a whole warehouse of Victims, and some nefarious Bad Guys who do not applaud the hero’s every boneheaded idea.

Why the Left are as garbage as the Right is they cannot get their minds around the notion that they are not superior to people who see who they really are and vice versa.

People can be petty little shits who are still holding childhood baggage of sibling rivalry.

As an only child, I am not saddled with those bullshit issues; so I see it very clearly.

I have seen ninety year old still hold grudges against their siblings for no good reason at all, and everything else in their life has to do with the Patriarchal narrative that they are the Hero and their sibling is the Villain, with clueless mom and dad who were the duped Victims.

Their bedtime stories told them so, and then journalism reinforced that notion of Us Versus Them.

No, it is always, always, always, Us Versus Us.

We needed to be told stories that showed us our flaws, too, as well as the positive traits of those we disagree with and even clash. We should negotiate, not dominate as we try to destroy people who think you’re a nerd, which the label alone is Middle Class Kryptonite.

The Patriarchal failed the middle class as it served the interests of the wealthy who use it as a perpetual misdirection to keep the little people little and in perpetual anxiety, fear, anger, hatred, nervousness, and slap fights with strangers on the Internet as if that weren’t a nerdy thing to do.

Twitter is a Troll Scroll for those control freak people with unresolved sibling issues.

When I decided to start A Dangerous Woman Story Studio, I decided that I wasn’t going to play that rigged game, and it dawned on me that we need a better way to tell stories in such a way that people cannot get away with using the Patriarchal as some sort of justification for being petty assholes.

I identified it as Matriarchal, studied its nuances, and even refined it through experimentation, modification, and practice, but I by no means invented it.

Comics books and soap operas do things the Matriarchal way: they focus on more than just One. We have heroes who can be villains or supporting players. It is a revolving door, where we are introduced to new worlds through each door open.

But almost no novels had this kind of epic refinement, except for one.

A Confederacy of Dunces, which, along with The Hound of the Baskervilles, The Color Purple, and Watership Down, are the four novels that never left my heart, soul, or mind.

But ACOD had the biggest impact on me, for numerous reasons.

It was a purely Matriarchal book that had a protagonist who was a jerk, but it was the supporting characters who all had equal time with their own storylines and personal development.

It was written by John Kennedy Toole, who is Person #12 on the List of People Everyone Should Know, and his book is absolute genius and proved that Matriarchal is the stronger storytelling tool.


Sadly, he could not get this book published, and he became so despondent, that he committed suicide. His mother toiled for years, found a champion who got it published, and then it won a Pulitzer, years after a man who knew he had a first-rate book became broken by repeated rejections.

But I find something very interesting: people who are narrow-minded and memorize scripts absolutely despise this book. They cannot get into it because they lack empathy and do not have a natural feel for making their own judgments on people: they are binary in nature: Us, Them. Good, Bad. Black, White.

Because they were indoctrinated and trained to be that way and cannot grasp the idea that their thinking has been too constricted to the point of being unable to open their hearts and minds to different people and different perspectives.

People with empathy love the book. They can read a story with an asshole protagonist, and still root for him. They can feel sympathy for his limited mother, cheer for both the meek cop and the salty survivor African American as much as they can bond with the ditzy blonde stripper and the over-educated radical New York girlfriend of the main character or the spineless factory owner who is shackled by both nepotism and his obnoxious wife.

They are all flawed. They would have been all villainized in the Patriarchal.

And yet here, they are fleshed out, and even though they come from all walks of life, they are worthy.

They are worthy of being heroes — and they are all heroes in different ways.

There are villains, too, but we can see why they are as they consistently exploit and abuse multiple characters. The supporting characters aren’t there to cheer the hero or wait for him to rescue them. They are all heroes of their own fate.

And the hero is not some gorgeous guy: he is fat, dowdy, judgemental, self-indulgent, manipulative, and a coward.

And yet he is a riveting character and is as colourful as the rest of the characters who stand out, hero or villain alike.

And yet, it took until the early 1980s for the West to be able to even consider a Matriarchal novel.

These are the kinds of stories children need: the ones that do not let them get away with being selfish and self-centred, always framing narrative to manipulate and rig interpretations that they are superior and without flaw.

And journalism should have always done the same thing.

Be a balance, not pick sides. They should have had people understand those they deem outsiders and rivals, and have respect for multiple points of view.

Chaser has the Matriarchal in mind and at heart: it is emotionally literate as it is intellectually literate: it understands the world is a mosaic.

It is not about enabling delusions or sticking to binary scripts.

I have been writing the Matriarchal since 2013 when I began A Dangerous Woman Story Studio, long before Ariana Grande’s song of the same name.

She was never a dangerous woman. She panders as she sings beautifully.

A Dangerous Woman was always about radical centrism: the experimenter’s perspective.

We look at different parts in order to see the whole.

Not decree this broken piece is better than the others…