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The Monsanto nightmare is a

flower of poison

A Short Story by Jon Rappoport | nomorefakenews.com

Image by Paulo Uccello, 1456 [PD] | Remix by Ed. | nworeporter.com

They were the men, nameless, who really pulled the strings when strings needed to be pulled.

They approved the very biggest bribes to politicians. They vetted Presidential candidates and made sure both parties were nominating friends of the corporation.

They liaised with the NSA when blackmailing opponents was the order of the day, when surveillance data made that blackmail possible.

They gave the orders that initiated full-bore campaigns to turn recalcitrant nations into Monsanto allies.

They oversaw the operation called Gene Drift, whose objective was to make genetically engineered food a fait accompli, a universal reality for Planet Earth, no matter what laws were passed, no matter what restrictions were placed on the growing of GM crops.

Gene Drift—the contamination of all plants in the world. As the winds blow, so travel the genes.

They tracked the spread of their poisonous herbicide, Roundup. The goal was to circle the Earth in a mantle of this noxious compound.

But today, the Committee of Three had a different agenda. An employee of the company had somehow placed, on all Monsanto work computers, a story. A horrible story. No one could identify the traitor or calculate how he had wormed his way past corporate security systems.

Committee Member 1: “The man is obviously deranged. He’s mentally ill. He’s dangerous. But clever.”

Committee Member #2: “It’s a science fiction story. That’s what he’s written. It barely makes sense. It’s a story told by a psycho. Are we really going to turn this company upside down looking for him?”

Committee Member #3: “Damn right we are. If he were challenging our science and exposing it as fraud, we would know what to do. We’d discredit him and publish a dozen new fake studies that prove he’s wrong. We’re experts when it comes to that. But you see, what he’s done is more devious. His story is vague and suggestive. It’s metaphorical, allegorical. It covertly leaks ideas into the brain. It plants its own seeds.”

Committee Member #1: “I agree. This is a new kind of threat. And coming from the inside, it’s all the more ominous. It could take hold like a contagious germ, a slow germ that infects the brain cell by cell.”

Committee Member #2: “I see your point. Yes. But how do we find out who this marauder is, so we can deal with him? So far, he’s managed to hide.”

_______________________________________________________________________

On the conference table lay a typed copy of the story that had suddenly appeared on every Monsanto computer in the world:

—-Lf was the oldest man among them. He wrestled with fear. He tried to invent a new plan but he failed time and time again. He was in thrall. Psychologically trapped.

He knew he had to kill the enemy, but he couldn’t. A force held him back. At night, he wept against the sleeping body of his wife.

One thought occurred to him in his twilight hours. If enough of his own people were on his side, they might give him the strength to carry out the act. If they stopped fearing and venerating the dragon, they might spring the lock on his own mind and, then, he would be able to carry out the deed.

Why was the fate of the dragon in his hands alone? Why couldn’t others free themselves and commit the act?

Another thought came to him. What about…a law? In his society, there were few of them. Wasn’t a law supposed to be a congealing of public will and determination? Wasn’t it a principle everyone saw as true? Wasn’t it a protection against evil? Suppose his people gave voice to a principle? Wouldn’t that lead to the conviction of the dragon? In this way, couldn’t they all act together? Wouldn’t their combined force be enough?

The war went on.

The women gathered around the flame, while the men took the city. The rain makers looked down. They let the forests remain dry; therefore they burned down.

(“Hey, baby, I’m the dragon. My name’s Mons. Have a piece of fruit. It’s delicious. Quite up to date with the latest inserted genes. Come on. Try it.”)

The weapons keepers opened their storehouses, and the weak and feeble of the huge tribe took the devices to the soldiers on the front lines and retrieved the hot and broken ones and lugged them to makers for repair and rebuilding.

The children worked in the fields, capturing the harvest, transporting it to the sheds, where they cooked the meals and carried the immense pots to the soldiers in the rear of the lines.

(“Baby, you’re beautiful. And you’re married to that old bozo? What’s wrong with you? He’s ancient. Have some fruit and you’ll stay young forever. It has a special chemical on it. It protects you and keeps you healthy.”)

There were no doctors. The men fought and lived or fought and died. Later, much later, the wounds would heal, or not.

No one counted numbers. No one wrote history. The war was enveloping.

The few priests had long ago been captured. In their pens, they were permitted to make animal sacrifices and conduct ceremonies for victory. They had no books, no tablets, and the gods whose appeasement was marked through calendars of blood had no official names.

A few soldiers remembered an old line of kings, but the lineage had been destroyed in the distant past.

There were families. They were without names or titles.

Farmers, a distant breed apart, kept the animals and slaughtered them and sent their parts to the food makers.

(“Listen, sweetheart, I know you’re old doddering husband wants to kill me, but he’s just jealous. Look at my rippling muscles. Look at his wrinkled skin. I have my tree. It bears gorgeous fruit. Eat a piece and you’ll know who I am. You’ll leave that senile fool and live with me. We’ll have children who’ll be invincible.”)

Through the use of giant lenses, whose history was lost, fires were set, and with columns of the weak and infirm dragging corpses, dolls, and statues from old sackings, shadows of chimera troops were created and cast to confuse and distract. The shadow makers were revered.

They possessed secret knowledge. They planned attacks designed to use up resources of the enemy.

The death of a shadow maker was mourned in moments when battles waned. They were wrapped in skins glued together with marrow and clay, weighted with stones, and dropped into the river where their memories would flow into the great machine docks and keep the motors running, for the ships that came from the stars.

Those long-distance travelers executed their secret business in undersea caverns, stayed as long as they stayed, and then returned to their unknown worlds.

The war itself was fought to accumulate memories in every man, woman, and child, and were then harvested by the travelers from sleeping dreams. Everyone knew and accepted this state of affairs. War was, therefore, a high calling.

Memories could be translated into scrolls of silk that went on endlessly. Scrolls had been glimpsed now and then on the mountains. They were the traditional evidence of purpose.

Everyone remembered his or her own life in great detail. It was a point of pride. The discipline enhanced dreams.

Lf, who had been alive far longer than any of the people of the war, remembered days of rain, flood, the washing away of hills, the collapsing of canyons, the drowning of whole clans, the first arrival of the ships from space, the contract for dream harvest.

He lived deep in the forest with a wife. Her name endured: Chromogene. She kept a walking dragon in a tree. He ate the silk fruit and exuded spores that filled the whole territory. The spores infiltrated all plants and animals and changed them.

Eating the plants and animals, the people wanted to make war and they wanted to dream. That was the effect of their food.

Lf remembered when this was not so. The star travelers had brought the dragon to their lands.

Lf dreamed that with great effort, incurring wounds, he killed the dragon with an ax. He threw the bloody parts in the river.

A great voice came to him in the dream. It told him he had committed a heinous crime and would be exiled to the deserts with his wife.

The shadow makers came to him. They ordered him to stay. They would concoct a play of shapes and figures that would make it appear he and his wife had departed.

In the days to come, the whole tribe would gather and determine one dream. When they slept, they would spool out the same story of destruction of stars. They would bring down the heavens and make it impossible for the travelers to come back to the undersea caverns.

They would divert the river directly into the space docks and flood them.

They would enact revenge for the exile of their oldest man, Lf, and his wife.

As the war receded in memory, and became a story, they would realize, in fits and starts, that there had been no enemy. All the death and destruction had been incurred in fighting and killing among themselves.

With the star travelers gone, and their dragon killed, the growing fields and the food would return to their former state.

The people would no longer want to make war. They would no longer dream for the sake of their masters.

Lf woke from this dream. He wondered how he could assemble all his people and make them believe one central idea that would take them to victory.

(“My lovely, your husband is crazy. He’s been crazy for a long time. He lives in his own world. I’m exciting. I have power. I can change life. I can make life over into any shape I desire. I can help you. I can make you happy again. Eat this fruit.”)

_______________________________________________________________________

Committee Member #2: “That’s it? That’s the story?”

Committee Member #3: “Obviously, it’s unfinished. Our people think the traitor was afraid he might be discovered, so he stopped loading it in mid-stream.”

Committee Member #2: “It’s crazy. It makes no sense. This tribe, or whatever they are? They just keep making war? Who are they?”

Committee Member #1: “Maybe they represent us, the corporation. Maybe they represent the people, the whole population of the planet.”

Committee Member #3: “No, we’re the dragon. We’re the snake in the Garden of Eden.”

Committee Member #2: “What? What garden? There’s no garden in the story.”

Committee Member #1: “Metaphor. Allegory. NSA people tried to figure out how one of our employees could have evaded security protection. So far, they’ve come up with nothing.”

Committee Member #2: “Forget the whole thing. Let’s just move on. It’s a piece of nonsense. We’ve got bigger fish to fry. Africa, South America. We’re running into stiff opposition.”

Committee Member #3: “We have to step up our timetable. Operation Gene Drift has to accelerate. Once every plant on the planet contains our genes, what can anyone do? We creating a new world. Let’s not dilly-dally. We want to supersede the natural world and make a synthetic world, right? The way to overcome our enemies, all of them, is to win decisively. Let’s not forget, we’re part of a larger plan. Ultimately, we can control the food supply and decide who eats and who doesn’t. Not only that, but because our genes get into humans, and because brain research is leading to ways of making over brain function, we’re well on the way to inventing a new species of human. This is what we’re shooting for. The human as a technological artifact. A programmed artifact. We and our allies are the body snatchers.”

Committee Member #1: “Agreed. But you know, last night I had a brief dream. I was in that diabolical story myself. It was a very unpleasant feeling. The whole population was waking up. They were seeing us as dragons. They were distracting us with shadows. They were cutting off our business connections and communication channels. It stirred up memories I didn’t even know I had. Memories of some earlier time when events were played out on a mythic level, when there was good and evil. When forces were alive that could destroy evil.”

Committee Member #2: “Fortunately, that time has passed. There is no more good or evil. There’s just business. And we have every right to gain an edge, because if we don’t, someone else will. Keep the focus, gentlemen. We live in the age of selling and buying. There are no rules for how you sell or buy. You do whatever it takes. There are still myths, but they’re scientific. Our myth is genes. We tell our own tales about them. We give them extraordinary healing power. Whether that healing is real or imaginary is immaterial. We tell a story so we can sell. The consequences are other people’s concerns. This is our model. It works. Business IS a god. Without it, the world would collapse. Therefore, we have a duty to make our company bloom. Maybe we’re the shadow makers, staging a shadow play, pretending to a science that doesn’t exist. If so, it makes no difference. All speed ahead!”

***

​(The Monsanto Nightmare is a Flower of Poison reprinted here with permission of the author.)

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