By Charles “Chip” Kinbote Jr.
Dear (You know who you are, and I know we’re under surveillance, so be discreet),
I have learned far more on this little voyage than even I had anticipated — and surely far more than the Disney cabal can survive. I am writing this expose on the surprisingly smooth toilet paper here in the brig of the 130,000 ton SS Disney Dream. Know then, as I do now, and be surprised, as I was, that cruise ships do indeed have brigs — and I may yet discover that the methods of the Inquisition live on below the innocent, sun-dappled decks of this decadent deception cum cruise liner
I fear that the gravity of my mission has me outpacing the history of my exploit. Evidence, logic, and clarity must mark the pathway to these revelations! Three days ago I boarded the Disney Dream in Port Canaveral, Florida, traveling as Charles Waxwing, amateur birdwatcher. My mission: to bring to light the loathsome machinations of the Disney empire, and to make freedom lovers the world over aware of the looming shadow of slavery that awaits them if the Rat is not stopped!
A network of committed Patriots, among whom I now proudly count myself, has found enough evidence to tear from our eyes, among which I count my own organs of sight, the veils of sentimentality and nostalgia wrought by King Rat, finding hard proof that Disney has subsumed both the Masons and the Illuminati in pursuit of world domination. The Sorcerer’s Apprentice was no mere entertainment, but a manifesto—I said this at the time; I was twelve—a manifesto of the alchemical capabilities pieced together by The Man Who Would Have Been Emperor, had he lived but a few years longer, when his search for the Fountain of Youth at last succeeded in dreary, tourist-poor Orlando. You may scoff, but know that I have myself held in these hands one of the numbered originals of The Protocols of the Elders of Goofy. The game is afoot, and it walks on hobnails.
Given the insights of my brotherhood, and Disney’s proven ability not only to turn lead into gold, but to turn evidence into landfill, I was instructed by my cell commander, the formidable Mamí de Miami (not her real nom de guerre), to impersonate, infiltrate, investigate, and a fourth rhyming thing that, in my unquenchable zeal, I forget, but which means “blow the lid off of” the object of the previous list of verbs. So I booked my ticket– to Samarra? To Destiny? — by way of Nassau and Castaway Cay. There, on that Disney-owned islet, I expected to bulwark my shipboard discoveries with photos of their fluoridation and brainwashing laboratories, widely reported in the Orlando Underground and other courageous, if poorly laid out, Internet sources.
Naturally enough, then, I approached this Death Star o’ The Seas with trepidation. She is daunting, this Iron Maiden, her hull bedecked with golden scrollwork–itself loudly offering mute support for a return to the Gold Standard, that can then be manipulated all too easily by the transformations of alchemy, necromancy, CGI animation, and IMAX Surround-Sound ™.
I steeled myself for the long walk up the gangplank, knowing full well that I might leave via another sort of plank, as in those movies that glorify greed, gluttony, and rum-fueled belief in imaginary beings of supernatural power. Standing there in my reverie, a rock in the rapids of embarking Believers, I saw a young towheaded boy look back at me. “Hey Mom,” quoth the miserable child. “That living statue sucks! He’s not even painted metal!”
The hulk of a housefrau attached to his little hand responded, “He’s probably not feeling well, Walter! Now come on, it’s impolite to stare!”
“But Mom, he’s staring.” And the tyke’s words seemed to stimulate a larger than life canine form to materialize at my elbow: Goofy, in all his glory.
“Well hullo there, compadre, mon ami.” The Mouse’s sergeant at arms addressed me in a way I thought rather too familiar. “Maybe ya need a little help up the gangway?” And then, suspicions aroused, “That your only baggage there, pilgrim?” And there was another link in the chain: The use of “pilgrim,” made possible by the work of John Wayne, supports the theory that Disney was pulling the strings behind the John Birch Society and other less well known extremist world domination groups in Southern California — and I was on the hairy edge of a too-watchful eye.
“No, thank you, man’s BFF,” I responded in smiling trendy idiom. “I was just suddenly moved by the size and beauty of the ship, and I paused to think a bit about the good times to come! I am ready to board, sir!” I said, snapping off a smart salute, bringing a (too-!) loveable chuckle from the Big Dog.
As I found my way to the interior cabin I had booked, my mind wandered further through the subtle brain-washing techniques found in Disney films: ideas about the importance of beginning life with a dead mother. The natural order of families is often further upset, with the likes of “absent father” step-sisters and that grotesque dwarvish ménage á huit; they and “Old Yeller” want us to know that life is cheap and virtue is no guarantee of continuing to breathe in Disneyworld. I can’t even bring myself to ponder fairy dust and the Lost Boys!
I waited in my cabin, reviewing my plans, which were really very simple: Sniff out the shipboard machinations of the Mouse, in preparation for the revelations to come at Castaway Cay. Once a gentle judder suggested we were under way, I began my “recon,” as we say in the paramilitary world. I quickly found that “Staff Only” and “No Admittance” were the prevalent themes in this floating theme park, and hence my most promising guideposts to the hidden horrors of the “Magic Kingdom.” Perhaps a dozen such doors I pushed through, invariably to be greeted by starched and knife-creased uniforms, above which faces wearing the Soma-smile of the mind-slave would usher me back to carpeted corridors of control.
Frustrated in my investigations, I began moving upward in the ship, sticking to stairways, alternately sidling and scooting. Along the way, I saw much to arouse my patriotic dander: on Deck Four, outside one of many “feed the fatties” restaurants, a clutch of children surrounded that Snow White slut and one of her dwarvish swains. I ceased sidling for a moment, waiting to glimpse the passing of a baggie, a glassine envelope, or a ”doobie.” (“Why,” I thought mirthlessly, “do you think they call him Dopey?”) A Disney dad, pink legs under over-full Bermuda shorts, dropped a friendly paw on my shoulder. “Just too cute, eh?” I nodded appropriately. “Which one’s yours?” he then ventured.
“My little girl is somewhere around here,” I replied. “She’s having the time of her life, and I can’t quite seem to keep up.”
“Well, a girl won’t get into too much trouble. Boys, though . . .” He ended with a combination wink and raised eyebrows that wiggled his ears in the process. I responded in kind—yes, I can wiggle my own ears, when I so choose–and with a wave headed for the promenade.
What a sight! The deep blue sea, the deep blue sky, and blissed-out hordes of pod people: close-knit families, strung out families, nannies in hot pursuit of their soulless charges . . . This is where the Walking Dead go on vacation. Though of course their complexions were much healthier: the Mouse wants its minions in the pink! Their obvious joy was troubling — the machinations of Disney transcend religion: this is the opiate of the people, uncut and mainlined. “Look! There’s Mickey! . . . Mommy! Take my picture with Huey, Dewey and Louie! . . . EEEK! It’s Captain Hook!” My heartstrings twanged: these were good people, Americans, mostly, all under the spell of the Magic Kingdom. And pre-conditioned by the fluoride in their drinking water!
Having just sidled, I scooted into a towering atrium, where I came face-to-bill with the most brazen evidence yet of the secret history and ambitions of the Imagineers: a statue of “Admiral” Donald Duck! I was stunned. Everything about the statue confirmed what my cadre have long known: that this canard was created in tribute to Il Duce, to Mussolini himself! In fact, Donald Duck was made a Mason in a ceremony employing the same technology that allowed Bob Hoskins to interact with Roger Rabbit and his wife Jessica, on whom, in case you didn’t know, he fathered a child. Far-fetched, you say? But really now, after whom do you think a certain cartoonish candidate for President was named? Could it be (and it could) that Mr. Trump has a godfather whose initials are “Walt Disney”?
“You okay there, pardner?” It was Goofy again. Apparently, I was once more conspicuously *not* going with the flow. I turned to Offissa Pup and said, “Isn’t this just the best! Which way is the pool?” The creature just pointed up, but before he could say a word —
“Come on! We can take the elevator,” said a bright-eyed woman of perhaps 35, with two young girls and a teenage boy in her wake. She grabbed my hand and led me to a crowd queuing for an elevator considerably larger than my cabin. “You’re right,” she said, “This is the best! I’m Dre — you know, for Andrea — and these are my kids, Alec with a ‘c’ (he’s 14) and Monica, also with a ‘c’ (10) and my baby, Cherie, who just turned 7! We’re from Long Island, doing the full Disney experience, the boat then the parks, and We Are Loving It! What about you? Minnesota, maybe, working on your tan? Where are your kids? You a single dad?” And then the woman winked at me!
Shock and suspicion must have mingled in my face. She laughed and squeezed my hand harder. “Oh. You rilly need a cocktail! But hey, where’s your suit? I’d lend you one of mine, but . . .” She lifted her cover-up enough to show a burnished thigh and a skimpy simple thong. I feared I would lose control of the situation entirely.. As the elevator doors peeled back to reveal swimming pools thronged by feckless chittering children, “I must change,” I declared, stepping back into the elevator—
“You’re adorable!” piped Dre.
I assured her that I would return in my bathing suit and look for her by this very pool, and soon. One must often surrender the truth to the quest for another, larger, or at least more strategic truth. Mustn’t one?
I returned to my cabin, unprepared for what was to become an elaborate game of hide-and-seek. Every time I set out to penetrate the veils of Kingdom secrecy, somehow Dre was there, with a wave and a wink — and even, in one slow-moving buffet line, a startling jab to my ribs (“I knew you were ticklish!”). I quickly ran out of excuses. I had no wish to dispirit an innocent mother of three, striving toward some imaginary middle-class nirvana dreamed up by godless Imagineers. Stymied in my efforts to document the malevolent machinery in the bowels of this beautiful — oh, yes, beautiful but deadly — floating brain laundry, I resolved to await our arrival at Castaway Cay in my cabin. I thought about room service, but it was not impossible that “the Management” had broken my cover, and that the spaghetti and meatballs might come with grated parmesan and powdered Sarin. Fortunately, I had had the foresight to pack some Ramen noodles, which served well enough, though my cabin was not equipped with a microwave. But at least I knew what I was eating. And a Great Cause always requires Great Sacrifice.
What I didn’t know was how deep I was getting into these dangerous waters, even if the barracudas were Audioanimatronic ™. Knowing full well that the price of liberty is eternal vigilantism, and the mind of a true Patriot is never at rest, I had time to review every line in my notes, every nuance in my memory, every slight and injury accrued in the name of Liberty, Equality, Fraternities and Posteriority. Something didn’t fit, a dog in the manger, a fly in the infield, a mouse in the ointment. And slowly, like graffiti writ in lemon juice when exposed to the candle of memory and intellect, a pattern emerged.
They knew! And they had help!
Because, I realized — not too late, I could only hope — that some of these dots in the great skein of coincidence that had dogged my every sandaled step were not coincidence at all, but dots with a dark purpose, and ulterior motives, and they all had eyes on me!
At last came Day Three and debarkation at Castaway Cay! And as I made my way towards the gangplank, who should pop up but Dre and Alec and Monica and Cherie. “Well hey there, pardner,” said Dre, well and truly mind-melded with sinister Goofy’s slangy style. “You’ve been pretty scarce! You’re not cheating on me, are you? Psych! No, but really, we’re taking a cabana on the beach. Why don’t you join us? We can have a piña colada and you can peel me a grape while the kids frolic in the surf! They’ll be fine, they have lifeguards. So what do you say?”
Just as I had decrypted! A honey trap! The noose was tightening, my options were shrinking with every breath, which might be my last—a breath, I vowed, that I would not take for granted, any more than I do the rights and privileges accorded each and every American citizen by our Founding Forefathers. Adrenaline coursed through my body, flooding my extremities like the pee in a coward’s pants! I turned to her with a smile, and launched a right cross that made glancing contact with her tanned jaw – glancing, yes, but enough to knock her down.
As she fell, so did all pretense of touristical normalcy. “Freeze!” she shouted, fumbling in her purse for what I had to assume was a gun. I wasn’t waiting around to hear what I had to assume was her next line, “Reach for the sky” or some other ridiculous Orlando chestnut. I turned on my heel and ran, deftly dodging families laden with beach gear, bright fluoridated smiles turning upside down as I beast-moded through them, making no excuses: if a solid stiff-arm shook them out of their trance, I was doing them a favor.
I took whichever pathways led away from the beach — the Weapons of Mass Delusion were surely secreted at sites other than the tourist areas — though you can be sure that there was a little chemical gift in every over-priced soda, soft-serve, and sandwich on offer along the azure-ringed, sun-baked promenade. Once clear of the biggest throngs, I slowed to assess my situation. I quickly saw that a pair of large Disney Cadets were, well, chasing me. No time to waste. I dove headlong into the jungle, razor-edged plants tearing at my legs, palm trees threatening to drop one of their coconuts on mine, and, as if from nowhere, a cloud of insects or, more likely, micro-drones, flying into my eyes, into my mouth and ears, filling my nostrils, intent on stopping me from reaching their labs and reprogramming classrooms.
And they almost succeeded, but for an effort on my part. I freely own that the effort was heroic, if not the man. I am but a lover of liberty, committed to its preservation, and to the eradication of High-Fructose Corn Syrup. Lungs afire, driven by the need to confirm the infernal designs of the Disney cabal, I managed to gain some ground from my pursuers, enough to reach to crest of a small knoll — where my eyes and brain requested immediate cessation of motion in order to process what they beheld, which request came too late for my feet, which failed to compensate for my headlong momentum, sending me ass over patriotic heart down the slope.
For there, below me, was a stockade of bamboo-shrouded chain link, framing what might have been a fake swimming pool, ringed by recumbent figures of every race creed and color — or many of them, at any rate — all staring dreamily at an IV bag connected to the left arm of each. I leapt to my feet, pulled my camera from my pocket, and managed to snap off a few photos before my “escorts” caught up to me. I couldn’t post them. I sought WiFi in vain.
I started to run again, with the Disney Dogs nipping at my heels, but at that inopportune moment, my flip-flops went rogue on me. My heroic stride became a slow stumble of shame, and the brown shirts were on me in a matter of seconds. They stood me up and offered me “water.” I was having none of that, of course, and, with a nifty head fake, again made for the jungle. At which point I believe I was Tased, and carted back to the ship, to this cel. (sic)
I have had a few visitors here. There were nurses, forcing me to “hydrate,” poking me with needles — “Oh, it’s just a saline solution” — playing the role to the hilt. Uniformed minions have sat me down and made their recitations: “Blah blah blah subject to the jurisdiction of the United States of blah blah blah violation of Federal blah blah BLAH blah blah.” Dre stopped by, wearing a laminated Homeland Security ID, asking all kinds of questions about my “beliefs,” probing supposed connections with militia this and Minuteman that, saying she ought to pop me a good one for taking that swing at her, but she was a pro. I played dumb.
They tell me I will be turned over to the “authorities” on our return to Florida, but they have allowed me to send an e-mail to my Mami (A secure and anonymous mailbox, of course. My turn to wink!), telling her that I had hurt my head, but had some great snapshots to share — she would understand, if in fact my Corporate Keepers ever allowed it to go out. Though the fact is my head doesn’t hurt anymore, and this brig is actually quite comfortable. I have managed to craft this missive in the brief moments I have left to me, using the light from the porthole — when I return, I will spend a bit more to upgrade, I think. And as I hear footsteps and the rustle of keycards in the hallway now, I must make haste to hide these two-ply sheets. I think they are bringing lunch. It says brisket on my schedule.
