by philbern
Truth is surely the first casualty in this ongoing war between misinformation and disinformation. As independent journalists, the public trusts us to report the real live facts on the ground that the lamestream media buries in its cavalcade of lies they call the “truth.” Only the Water Tower is committed to telling it as it is, as it was, and as it should be. As the sheeple keep their heads buried in the sand, true Catamounts roar freedom from the cliffs overlooking North Beach. This story has been rejected from every other outlet. I fear for my life. But the world needs to know. I saw Jeffrey Epstein at Bolton Potholes.
Preliminarily: Around 4PM, Saturday, August 6th, 2022. Temperature was somewhere in the high 80s, possibly even the low 90s; UV index was somewhere in the high singles. I had driven Southeast down 89 to Bolton Potholes with my roommate in order to drink up the remaining days of summer before the Vermont sun disappears for what will be more than an eternity. We were bumping New Order on the 40 minute drive over. I told my roommate that Joy Division was pretty good and that it was in no way a good thing that Ian Curtis died, but goddamn if New Order didn’t blaze their own path afterwards. After passing the destination multiple times, eventually we tuned into the right frequency and located a spot, right off the access road, down the path from the broken sign that reads “Dog In Ya.” Opening the passenger side, I am confronted with my first paralyzing decision: Do I take the risk and leap out the passenger side over the big muddy puddle surrounding us, or do I just step through it in crocs because, fuck it, I’m gonna put my feet in the water anyway so what difference does it make? I clear the obstacle and the pressure is on.
What sticks out most in my mind before the encounter was how burning hot the rock was on the soles of my feet. The aforementioned crocs – blue and white with a Captain America Jibbitz- gracefully slid off my feet next to my belongings. I couldn’t keep them on much longer. Sport mode was too constricting, comfort mode too ungrounded- I would have to rawdog it for the sake of my psychic health. The only thing between the sun scorched earth and my precious toes, toes which took so long to grow, was the delicate flesh now cooking on the face of the rock.
For the present time, a full accounting of the recreational interlude is unnecessary.
Suffice to say, I did do some pretty sick jumps from the top of that rock thing into the little basin. No, not the crazy one that’s at the top on the left that has like 3 square feet of clearance. But flip was achieved, although backflip remained elusive. Suffice to say, I was in a pretty good mood, and left the lukewarm crystal clear Vermont water to grab a lukewarm 16 oz. Pabst Blue Ribbon.
I would never make it there intact.
It was only a millisecond, but I swear we locked eyes. Even if no one else there recognized him, I saw in his eyes a look- a look of recognition that he knew that I knew. Panic. I thought he was dead. Everyone thought he was dead. The case was pretty solid for murder. They’re just fucking with you at this point if you believe he succumbed to his struggle with depression and hung himself Shawshank Redemption style. Hyoid bones don’t just fracture like that. But for him to be alive? Not just alive but alive and summering in Chittenden County, Vermont? How could that be? Would our government lie to us? I don’t know the answer to that. All I knew was what was staring me right in the face, seeing with my own eyes.
It was only for a millisecond. But I knew. And he knew I knew. And I knew he knew I knew. And he knew I knew he knew I knew. But I guess I don’t know. Because then he was gone, in the flash of a blue towel. I thought it must have been my mind playing tricks on me. But later in bed, laying on my side facing the wall I came to the conclusion that between my mind and my government, I trusted my mind a hell of a lot more. It just wasn’t plausible that I could have been wrong- my eyes have never failed me whereas the CIA have assassinated leaders and overthrown governments in Iran, Guatemala, Venezuela, Congo, Chile, and literally dozens more. Not to mention Iraq. If they could do that, why on Earth couldn’t they have relocated valuable asset Jeffrey Epstein to the Champlain Valley to peruse down Church Street and party with the brothers at the fraternities? He’d probably get along real well in those. Me? I’m gonna watch my back. And next time, make sure you think twice about just who could be under that Rally Cat mask.
Categories: bemmy, front page, phil bern, September 27, side bar, vol 26, wt staff