This is me in the photograph. You know where I am here. Even if you didn’t, you could just google the street address on the gate. Town and state unnecessary. It shows up. By the time you read this, I’ll be but a memory, pavement scrapings, Purina Maggot Chow, or doing anything I can that doesn’t involve actually changing out of my pajamas. They know my identity now. They even know how much I know. It’s more than you do.
My official name within the organization and according to my birth certificate and my driver’s license is Bob Loblaw, although I have also been known more commonly among my peers as Lob Bizarre. I dare not suggest my official job title, as there is death, and then there is death, if you know what I mean, but I will offer that I am part of a reverse-engineering project focusing mainly on man lifts, forklifts, and porta-potties of known extra-terrestrial origin. It is this last category that involves you, Mr. Venturacy. I take enough of a chance as things are, going public to the extent that I do, without exacerbating the situation by revealing the methods we used to collect your stool samples during your visit to expose this organization to the world.
We call it Jesse’s Head, now.
Wonderful attempt, by the way, your exposition of these dubious dealings, if somewhat off base—that is, if you would call the seat of a purchaser of a last-minute GA ticket in Cincinnati off-base. Your driver’s quick slip into the cave area, away from prying security eyes, was as gutsy a move as one can expect to see on your showlet, and suggestive that you entered the heart of the beast—the complex under Pensmore Mountain. VERY suggestive of it. You were careful not to say that’s where you and your cameras and drivers were going or even were, like, ever, and I, too, will follow your lead. So off we go into what the Illuminated Ones call the land of OZ–or The Ark of OZ (Biblical reference intended for pat-on-back contemplation in long run) beneath the Ozarks.
As your scouts assure you, the 72,000 square foot fortress on top of the hill behind me is the headquarters for the Illuminated Ones. That, I’m afraid, is only the beginning, buddy. I am unable to divulge the means by which I obtained the attached photos as I would be putting other lives in jeopardy by doing so. Suffice it to say that not everyone on the inside of this massive operation is in full agreement with its stated goals. Especially Larry Wannamaker in marketing, or Dave Prindle in maintenance. Pulling the dart boards from our break room was all it took to set yours-truly off on this path of revenge. Just when I was pulling into the lead and had an easy fifty bucks waiting for me at tournament’s end, too. Sexist activity indeed. The caves you’ve been made aware of below the Ozark terrain are far more extensive than even the members of the highest echelons of the elite know. Only two individuals possess the cave maps, and never do those individuals take the same flight. Each flies with a board member who carries with him one half of the ingredient list to KFC, Coca Cola, Pepsi Cola, Dr. Pepper, Mr. Pibb, Pop Rocks, bunji cords that don’t fail, and The Simpsons. What you are about to see will undoubtedly be certain to astound any man who hovers near your level of brilliance in these matters, apparently where chair legs connect to supporting cross-pieces.
A vertically-hanging American flag greets all who enter the cave network, regardless of which of the many entrances are used. While drivers see a pair of blue triangles flanking the US flag, the inhabitants of the bubble, or outer security center, see green triangles, decorated with upside-down all-seeing eyes below upside-down pyramids. This symbolizes just who it is keeping their eyes on America. They tried hanging the triangles right-side up but the clips kind of looked like there was a big bushy Brezhnev-like eyebrow over the all-seeing eye. They went with white clips but those collected grime in the damp and muddy environment and they were back to the all-seeing Brezhnev. So the guys up top made up some freaky point of reasoning behind the pyramids being upside down and nobody really asks.
Below, Mr. Venturacy, is where your stool sample eventually found its home, so to speak, within a vile within a tube, within a box. The mission had been a simple one on initial inspection. You see, Mr. Venturacy, certain indicators, or tells, as we prefer to call them, are to be found within human individuals who have been—shall we say—implanted, with foreign DNA, that is, humped by an alien in their sleep. Usually. Usually asleep. Your own tells, sir, along with the length of the list has exceeded manageability, and have left us no choice but to run the tests. You were an easy lure, and an easy mark, both good things with the budget running tight this year.
What you see above, Mr. Venturacy, is true. While those in charge are being both childishly clever here, and overtly challenging, they have named their department “Alien Life Forms,” or “A.L.F.” to both amuse and make it easy to remember what their jobs are. At the time of this writing, the extent of your own infection has not been determined. I will be long gone before it is, I’m sorry to say, or I would break out the big calculator and slip you the figures, being the fan that I am.
On your feature expose, while inside the underground complex, you mentioned the train tracks and the ability to move eighteen-wheelers about inside this man-made (or is it?) hole. I believe I can help you put these truths into graspable images. This train tried to run me over when the driver saw me taking a photograph where cameras were not allowed.
I leapt away bravely at the last second!
And I must say that it’s trucks aplenty.
The problem is, however, truck drivers cannot not always be paid or threatened enough to keep secrets and it has been decided that on each delivery, the driver is to be called into an office to take an important phone call. The shipment vanishes if need be, and it’s “Hey, where’s your driver been? Hanging out at the strip clubs?” The truth is, each driver is assessed during that phone call and his life is in the balance. Many drivers keep their mouths shut and are allowed to live because of the result of the test, many are shot in the back of the head and the truck and trailer are lowered even farther underground. Here is the photo of the ALF driver “phone call” test entrance.
Should anyone get an idea there may be a limit as to how far one can travel below ground from the Ozarks Illumination Center (OZ), keep in mind that a camera’s capabilities will get you just so far in a constructed area. This applies to train tracks. The ventilation systems are far beyond Atlas Shrugged capabilities. It’s a long way across this continent underground.
The arches and posts go on forever and ever.
It can’t be easy finding the right dock, but it’s no easier taking the waiting phone call and answering the questions correctly.
What the hell. A shot of our dart area before someone filed a sensitivity suit and we all had to take classes and remove the “manly” dart games from our break time. Bruno started making dresses but was ordered to stop. Geesh.
A driver with his head in the right place, (below) getting ready to see sunlight again. I’m getting ready to pull myself up under his trailer and make a last dash out of Nightmare Mountain where animals are decapitated and a few Bohemian Grovers build bergers and rule the world with iron fistulas, considering their ages now. Bohemian Grover Cleveland. Now it begins to make sense. If I make it out alive, I didn’t go to Jesse Venturacy Theory’s. Got that? Nowhere even close.
Archives and Records (above). Yeah, you believe that? Records about aliens and stuff. Foo fighters and Velcro. Put your hand on that door knob. I dare you.
This was where I took my daily under-surveillance walks around in the ceaseless, depressing dark, thinking about positive things so I didn’t get the shackles when I got back. Good luck exposing to the world what is done at Pensmore Mountain, Jesse. None of us mole people have a clue. But you can’t beat the pay and benefit package. I just gotta have me darts.
Piensas Mas, from Fortress Pensmore.