Jamiemccarthytv

Tag: coverup

  • The Gospel According to Dr. Jolly


    the day after Ruby attempted suicide by banging his head on the walls of his jail cell.

    Gather close, children of the static.

    Tonight’s sermon is brought to you by the Un-United States Government,

    that eternal pharmacy of the damned,

    and by one Dr. Louis Jolyon West —

    Jolly, for short.

    A nickname that tells you everything and nothing, which is exactly how the good doctor liked his patients.

    Now… I’m not here to tell you whether Charles Manson was a monster or a kid who wrote bad folk songs until the nation decided to turn him into an exorcism ritual for everything it feared about itself.

    That’s not my job.

    My job is to peel the wallpaper off history and show you the termite tunnels beneath.

    Follow me.

    Picture Jolly West in his tweed jacket —

    a man who looked like he’d apologize

    before cutting your consciousness into strips.

    A man who weaponized curiosity

    and called it compassion.

    He’d inject you with questions

    before the syringe even touched your skin.

    They say he treated broken minds.

    I say he manufactured them wholesale.

    He was the kind of doctor

    who could hand you a glass of water

    and three days later

    you’d be confessing crimes you didn’t commit

    in languages you didn’t speak.

    Some say Manson spent time in his orbit.

    Some say coincidence is just God hiding the blueprints.

    Some say neither Jolly nor Charlie ever met.

    And some—

    some of us just ask the one question

    you’re not supposed to ask in America:

    Who benefits when a nation goes mad?

    Look around.

    Chaos is an industry.

    Fear is a commodity.

    And the human mind—

    well, that’s just clay for the sculptors

    who sit in the windowless rooms

    three floors below the truth.

    But tonight…

    tonight we honor Charles.

    Not the killer,

    but the songwriter he might have been

    before someone decided

    his chords needed more dissonance.

    I imagine him strumming in some halfway house,

    dreaming of fame

    while a doctor in a lab coat

    scribbled notes about “suggestibility thresholds”

    and “malleability of identity.”

    It doesn’t matter what’s true.

    It matters what’s plausible.

    And America…

    America has a way of making the plausible feel like prophecy.

    So let’s raise a glass to Jolly West —

    patron saint of pliable minds,

    architect of the quiet apocalypse,

    the smiling executioner of certainty.

    And let’s raise another

    to the kids who never asked to be born

    into a country that treats the psyche

    like a used car part

    to be swapped, tested, or discarded.

    In the end, children, remember this:

    When the devil wears tweed,

    we call him “Doctor.”

    When the angel grows wild hair

    and sings off-key,

    we call him “Manson.”

    And somewhere between the two

    is the truth.

    And the truth?

    Well…

    she’s still missing.

  • CIRCUS TRUTH

    The Program

    Circus Truth

    The television pukes in every corner bar,

    anchormen with porcelain teeth,

    their jaws, clacking wind-up dolls,

    selling fear like popcorn at the carnival.

    You don’t pick your truth anymore—

    it’s handed to you, pre-chewed,

    a soggy cigarette butt that’s passed around the alley and back.

    The left bleeds red ink,

    the right bleeds black bile,

    and the middle—

    there is no middle,

    just a beige carpet soaked with the bloody chunder of yesterday’s spin cycle.

    Every headline is a slot machine:

    pull the lever,

    watch the cherries line up to spell

    WAR, ASSASSINATION, PANIC, OUTRAGE, WOKE, UAP’S, THE SIMULATION.

    They give you “choice”

    like a prison cafeteria—

    mystery meat or a misery meet with sauce.

    And you nod,

    mouth full of microwaved narrative,

    because it’s all as good as plastic and BPA going down.

    The anchors smile,

    the podcasters scream,

    the Tik-Tokers beg to be put back in lockers.

    The news ticker scrolls like scripture,

    and the gospel is always the same:

    stay tuned, stay scared,

    stay stupid enough to buy what they’re selling.

    Meanwhile the truth—

    the real thing—

    squeezes into a clown suit,

    red nose, floppy shoes,

    juggling grenades for clicks.

    The crowd boos,

    but keeps buying tickets.

    That’s the joke, kid:

    truth doesn’t matter—

    the circus sells out anyway.

  • JUST NOD

    They sell us hope in paper cups.
    We buy it, tip the priest in the apron.

    A man curses at a parking meter.
    Another shoots drywall into his veins.

    The rats read stock tickers.
    They know more than the professors.

    God skipped town.
    Left his Bible in the Motel trash.

    Politicians grin with teeth like knives.
    We clap while they steal our shoes.

    The absurd thing is—
    we nod.
    Every damn time.

  • DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE

    They always called it a rabbit hole
    like it was some playful spiral,
    a psychedelic slide into harmless madness.
    But this hole stinks.
    Like burned paper and blood on old currency squeezed together by melting rubberbands.
    Like the back alley of a failed empire.

    I didn’t fall —
    I was pushed.
    By smiling men in tailored suits,
    by ads that knew my name before I did,
    by the unblinking god-eye of surveillance wrapped in convenience.
    They called it progress.
    I called it a muzzle with a firmware update.

    The rabbit?
    He was half-rat, half-fed.
    A jittery informant with bugs stitched into his fur.
    He sold me a map in exchange for my fingerprints.
    Told me,
    “You’re not gonna like what you find,
    but you already paid the toll.”

    We passed the Mad Hatter —
    ex-Blackrock, now peddling immortality
    through neural lace and lithium smiles.
    His tea was laced with lithium, too.
    Served in a chipped mug etched with OWN NOTHING. BE HAPPY.
    Said free will was a glitch in the old system,
    and the new patch fixed it.
    “Congratulations. You’re cured of choice.”

    The Cheshire Cat was just teeth.
    Rows and rows of them —
    each one a microphone,
    a camera,
    a contract.
    He spoke in brand slogans and court settlements.
    His grin was sponsored by Pfizer.
    And Meta.
    And Lockheed.

    Deeper still:
    a hallway made of CRT TVs,
    each screen playing a different lie on loop:
    Weapons of mass destruction.
    Flatten the curve.
    Hope and change.
    Trust the science.
    God Bless the Troops.
    Epstein died alone.
    The vote was secure.
    Everything is fine.

    The Queen of Hearts ran an NGO now,
    dressed in recycled virtue-signaling and diversity hires.
    She didn’t shout off with their heads anymore —
    she just clicked shadowban
    and let the algorithm do the killing.

    I found a room.
    Locked.
    Inside:
    documents stamped TOP SECRET in 1965,
    pages soaked in oil and redacted like a priest’s confession.
    Operation Northwoods.
    COINTELPRO.
    Project Stargate.
    And something called “The Adjustment Bureau.”
    No files, just a single line:
    THEY MOVE FASTER THAN YOU CAN THINK.

    And that’s when I saw it —
    not in ink,
    but in code.

    A string of data,
    buried like a landmine:
    Jack McCarthy.
    Snapchat geolocation.
    Aron Miranda.
    Proximity trigger.
    Behavioral prediction confidence: 93.6%.
    Outcome: Fatal.
    Status: Acceptable Risk.

    I stopped breathing.
    Not out of fear,
    but because I finally understood:
    It wasn’t a coincidence.
    It was an execution.
    Sanctioned by silence,
    written by code,
    delivered by convenience.

    This isn’t a rabbit hole.
    It’s Hell’s sewer system.
    A machine that eats your sons
    and calls it a glitch.
    A system that makes you watch,
    and then tells you you’re crazy for screaming.

    I used to call it theory,
    Now I call it murder.

  • THAT WHICH CANNOT BE EXPLAINED

    The earth shrugs, and a fault line splits a city in two.

    A rock, smooth from centuries of wind and rain, decides today is the day it falls, crushing a man who never missed Sunday mass.

    A wildfire starts in the bones of a dead tree, the wind carrying its laughter across acres of homes and history.

    Somewhere in the ocean, something ancient rolls over in its sleep, and the tides rise just enough to erase a coastline.

    No explanation. No reason. Just the universe twitching in its sleep.

    And then there are the other things. The ones written in history books with footnotes that lead nowhere.

    The bodies that vanish.

    The wars that start because someone blinked at the wrong time.

    The lone gunman that wasn’t so alone.

    The flag that was still  there, an anti-gravity, star bangled banner still waving. 

    The numbers that don’t add up, the footage that disappears, the coincidences that stack too neatly to be random but too scattered to be anything else.

    We shake our fists at the sky, but the sky never bothers to look down.

    And then there’s this—the real question, the only one that matters to me. 

    Jack.

    Why Jack?

    Not the dealer, not the smug piece of shit pushing poison for profit.

    Not the ones who make money off of death while dressed in white coats.

    Not the fucking grinning death merchants in boardrooms, approving a new batch of slow, quiet execution.

    But Jack?

    Why him? Why that night?

    Why that second, that breath, that choice?

    The tectonic plates shift and ask questions but they don’t answer.

    The fire roars, but it doesn’t explain.

    The rock doesn’t whisper a reason as it falls.

    I wake up every day, expecting the answer to be written on the ceiling, in the cracks in the paint, in the coffee, in the way the wind moves the leaves.

    Anything.

    I don’t even need it to be the full answer. Just a hint. 

    But all I get is silence.

    And silence is the loudest fucking thing in the world.

    But, somehow today I am temporarily at peace, it may not be the answer, but fuck, at least it’s not another question. 

  • Silence is the killer when you look the other way. (How virtuous)

    the newsreaders smirk behind the desk,

    their teeth polished white,

    their words unpolished and dull.

    the world’s on fire,

    but no one wants to say where the match came from.

    they shuffle papers,

    nod solemnly at the camera,

    and move on.

    next story.

    young girls with broken eyes walk streets that don’t care for them,

    their stories—

    torn, gutted, and stitched with silence.

    a thousand screams swallowed by a fear

    greater than justice,

    greater than truth—

    the fear of being called a name.

    racist. islamophobe.

    Or phrases like Resident Alien.

    they weigh heavier than the suffering of the small,

    the forgotten,

    the torn apart.

    the rapists walk free because the culture has grown soft,

    too soft to call evil by its name.

    and isn’t that convenient?

    for them, I mean.

    they know the game.

    play your cards right—

    and the good people will look the other way.

    good people.

    they don’t want to seem bad,

    don’t want to upset the order,

    don’t want to be labeled.

    better to let the girl bleed in a corner

    than risk being impolite.

    virtue signaling is the new religion.

    you wave the right flag,

    tweet the right slogan,

    kneel at the right altar—

    and you’re forgiven.

    it doesn’t matter what’s behind it:

    indifference,

    ignorance,

    or worse.

    the mask is enough.

    but what about the girls?

    the ones they pretend to care about?

    their bodies are battlegrounds

    for a war no one wants to admit is happening.

    the press won’t write it,

    the cops won’t fight it,

    and the priests of tolerance preach

    their sermons of silence.

    it’s a goddamn joke.

    we scream about progress,

    about justice,

    but only in the ways that won’t cost us anything.

    and the victims pile up in the shadows.

    this world isn’t just ass-backwards—

    it’s in full throttle reverse

    marching proudly backwards into oblivion

    while the banners of virtue flap overhead.

    but you can’t eat banners.

    you can’t heal wounds with hashtags.

    and you sure as hell can’t hide the blood forever.

    eventually,

    the truth crawls out of the dark.

    it always does.

    the question is:

    will anyone be left to give a damn when it does?

    (Remember when the U.K stood for something?)

  • Junkyard Ghosts Looking for a Fight

    it started one night

    when the moon sulked behind the clouds,

    and the air buzzed with the sound of something unnatural.

    not birds, not planes.

    just cold, unfeeling machines

    drifting against the wind’s will,

    junkyard ghosts looking for a fight.

    no one knew where they came from,

    but the bastards were ours.

    man’s great pride and inevitable mistake:

    to build what he doesn’t understand,

    to send it soaring into the sky

    and call it progress. 

    then came the orbs.

    smooth as polished emeralds 

    gleaming like they’d been forged

    in some black star’s furnace.

    no rivets, no seams, no blinking lights—

    just quiet, humming judgment

    from an enormous void we thought was empty.

    our junkyard ghosts looked fragile, 

    wings bent, rotors spinning like drunk spiders.

    they moved in straight lines, predictable,

    while the orbs curved through the sky

    moving like whispers of a language

    older than time itself.

    and when they clashed,

    it wasn’t a war,

    it was a slaughter.

    men in suits argued on screens,

    pointing fingers at each other

    while their creations were crushed like ants.

    “defense budgets,” they said.

    “countermeasures.”

    as if the sky gave a damn

    about our bureaucratic bullshit.

    and all the while,

    down below,

    we drank ourselves blind

    under the flickering glow of bar signs.

    some prayed to gods

    they didn’t believe in.

    others wrote poetry no one would read.

    but most just stared at the sky,

    watching our junkyard ghosts looking for a fight

    and losing.

    they fell one by one,

    burning bright as they tumbled.

    our man-made birds and blades,

    our drones and flying dreams—

    reduced to ash

    against the cold, calculated cruelty

    of their orbiting gods.

    but here’s the rub:

    the orbs didn’t care about us.

    we weren’t the target,

    just collateral damage.

    they were here for our toys,

    our arrogance,

    our need to scrape at the stars

    like desperate whores.

    one by one, the orbs descended.

    more silent than death,

    merciless, cosmic executioners—

    the kind who don’t bother with last words,

    just the unrelenting swing

    of the reapers scythe. 

    and when the last of our machines fell,

    the sky went dark.

    we should’ve learned then,

    but we didn’t.

    we kept building,

    sending new junkyard ghosts

    into a sky that didn’t want them,

    still looking for a fight we couldn’t win.

    and somewhere,

    in the cold reaches of hell and beyond,

    the orbs are still watching,

    waiting,

    ready to remind us

    that we’re nothing more

    than ants on the edge of the abyss.

    so pour another drink.

    raise your glass to the ghosts,

    to the machines we built

    and the arrogance that made us think

    we could conquer the stars.