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Ground Xero: Live from L.A.
Exploring the Illuminati: Reptiles one, Humans zero

By Xanadu Xero

“Oh no — my foxy Davey’s gained weight!” Tricks whined. “But the hair is better, if not optimal.” He growled like Austin Powers, “and look at those lips!” Tricks is my gay Goth friend who hides his brains nicely. We had just blitzed in from feral sun to the cool ooze of a theatre’s darkness.


We could see nothing but David Icke onstage and the omni-pierced usher beside us who sniggered, “Do you believe this shit?”

Onstage, David was surfing a tube: “Osama bin Laden was a ‘prime suspect’ for 9/11 just two days after it happened.” he crooned. “I’m not even sure if Bush had finished reading to that second grade about the goat!” The audience laughed.

Dave walked a line of potted plants with a charismatic smile. “Your government reached that conclusion after — quote — ‘looking at the terrorist organizations that have the capacity to conduct such actions.’”

He paused here with perfect timing. Mock astonished: “Like the CIA and the Pentagon?”

Big laughs, and applause.

David Icke is a classic English charmer. He’s an alpha male, with the voice and moves of Dudley Moore in an aging rock star package. He’s got that ‘thing’ Clinton has, a kind of erotic multi-tasking, seducing the ear with agile ideas and wordplay while his eyes say I Could Fuck You For Days With No Mercy.

A prophet, an opportunist, a danger, a kook — Icke is one or a combo of these, depending whose dogma is barking. He is earth’s most credible voice touting earth’s most incredible theories. For instance:

‘The Illuminati,’ an elite cabal, controls all of humanity and the direction of the world. They are descended from a few, interbred families — hybrids of humans and Reptilians, an alien race that lives in the fourth dimension. The Reptilians easily puppeteer these space-time mulattos, as they are ‘vibrationally compatible.’

They work through secret societies, like the Masons. Yale’s Skull and Bones is a ‘feeder’ group, one of many examples. Members are chosen after research confirms the right bloodlines.

Our country is in senseless, endless decline because the Reptilians are setting the U.S. up to destroy itself. The goal is to erode humans’ power and will, castrate the Superpowers, install a World Government and dominate all.

“You know those Reptiles are, like, Alien trailer trash,” Tricks stage-whispered as we found our seats. The theatre was packed, at least a couple of thousand. “They’ve basically hijacked the earth. The other Aliens can’t bear them, and neither can God, the Force — whatever. They’re ashamed of the whole damn mess.”

A cheerless Women’s Studies major type turned to glare, but aborted the plan when she saw Tricks’ black, spiked cheesecloth cape, African earlobe extenders, and headband embroidered with ‘Namaste, Dickhead.’

“And the Illuminati,” Tricks continued, “They’re like those hairy hillbillies where the brother marries the sister. I mean, look at Dubya’s filmy little crossed eyes.”

We went outside at a break to inspect the crowd, passing an ad-hoc boutique of Icke munitions — books, videotapes, audiotapes, even posters and t-shirts. The prices were more ‘I want a private plane’ than ‘I’m here to save the world.’ People swarmed the tables of wares like drunk Bar Mitzvah guests at the smoked fish buffet.

Sunlight revealed that the Icke aficionados were a hash of old hippies, new hippies, scenesters bored of Kaballah, chicks who only do anal for guys with Ferraris, a dose of (seemingly) true seekers, nutballs and a few hot men with poetic scowls who, if they play their cards right, could parlay Dave’s vision into lucrative careers as ‘gurus’ for rich, unhappy wives.

“You know, that intense, ‘I’m Dangerous’ glare thing really works for me,” said Tricks, eyes super-glued to a dreadlocked Adonis. “And if a man can fuck up the planet, it’s even hotter.” He dropped his voice. “I mean, I know I’m not alone in thinking that Osama was dope sexy in those nasty ‘Die American Dogs’ videos. I’m just brave enough to say it.”

“Not just brave,” I exhaled, “Heroic. Hmm — was Jeffrey Dahmer sexy too?”

“Don’t be a stooge,” Tricks replied. “Who wants to kiss a guy with, like, toes on his breath?”

Icke was back onstage when we re-entered the sanctum. Images of our Commander-in-Chief and Fashion Don’t poster girl Queen Elizabeth popped onscreen. Both photos were cyber-patched with reptile skin and some lizardy features. The audience found this hilarious.

“We are all told that the United States is the most powerful country in the world,” Dave said when the chuckles died down. “But the U.S. has always been controlled from London, and still is. The Bush and Windsor clans are, in fact, related. They share ancestors that go back to the Egyptian Pharoahs, including Ramses II.”

How piquant that the glorious Ramses is now best known as a condom brand, and that the name of his temple, the Luxor, brings to most minds the slimy image of the Vegas hotel.

David Icke started out as a pro soccer player, but arthritis felled his career. He became a journalist, then scored big as a BBC sportscaster. He left that job because either (a) it bored him or (b) he was canned when, suddenly, he would only wear turquoise and declared himself the Son of God.

Dave went on to become Britain’s Green Party spokesman. He left that job because either (a) he found them corrupt or (b) he was canned when, suddenly, he would only wear turquoise, declared himself the Son of God and knocked up his personal assistant (wife not happy), in order to ‘heal Earth’s energy spots.’

Accounts vary.

Tucked into those years were several transforming hallucinogenic experiences. Ultimately, Icke was pulled, by some instinct, to Peru’s Lake Titicaca, where he received the sacred transmission of knowledge that really revved up his jets.

I have zero problem with Dave’s past, or path. I will even admit a certain enthusiasm for his theories, especially the one that describes how your brain can be invaded/re-programmed to suit the Reptilian Agenda without your knowledge or will.

Clearly, that’s what happened to David Icke.

If the earth is under siege, if we have devolved into automatons, if our way of life is dying, if our future holds scant hope … why the FUCK is this ‘Prophet’ big pimpin’, living the glam life, charging fifty plus bucks to do vaudeville in chic cities for rich fans who use his schtick at art openings to try and get laid?

Why ain’t ol’ Chosen Dave in the streets every second, minute, day enlightening us oppressed chumps, haunted by his purpose, preaching for free, brawling with skeptics, world-wide, selflessly, constantly?

This ‘Son of God’ should really steal the moves of his more famous ‘brother’ if he’s no shill… because if Icke doesn’t care enough about earth’s doom to lie his life down for our souls — why should we?


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