Continuing
by me, Kerry Burgess, posted by me, Astro_Spook @Kerry_W_Burgess 5:19 PM Dec 24, 2020
Keep The Superstition In Christmas!
by me, Kerry Burgess, reply by me, Tgu78 @Tgu78160488 July 3, 2025
HATE!!!!
Scream it as loud as you can!
You don't even know me.
Someone comes along and has a rational, thoughtful opinion that spoils your delusions and you start screaming HATE!
Pathetic.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clarence_Ray_Carpenter
The Stand - complete edition, by Stephen King
(from internet transcript)
excerpts, Chapter 48
Hardly knowing what he was doing, letting his feet pick their own path, Trashcan turned off the Strip. His head dropped forward, his chin resting on his chest. He dozed as he walked. And when his feet tripped over the curbing, when he fell forward and gave himself a bloody nose on the pavement, when he looked up and beheld what was there, he could hardly believe it. Blood ran unnoticed from his nose to his tattered blue shirt. It was as if he was still dozing and this was his dream.
A tall white building stretched up to the desert sky, a monolith in the desert, a needle, a monument, every bit as magnificent as the Sphinx or the Great Pyramid. The windows of its eastern face gave off the fire of the rising sun like an omen. In front of this bone-white desert edifice, flanking its entranceway, were two huge gold pyramids. Over the canopy was a great bronze medallion, and carved on it in bas-relief was the snarling head of a lion.
Above this, also in bronze, the simple but mighty legend: MGM GRAND HOTEL.
But what captured his eyes was what stood on the grassy quadrangle between the parking lot and the entranceway. Trashcan stared, an orgasmic shivering consuming him so fiercely that for a moment he could only prop himself on his bloody hands, the unraveling end of the Ace bandage trailing between them, and stare at the fountain with his faded blue eyes, eyes that were halfway to being glareblind by now. A little groaning noise began to escape him.
The fountain was working. It was a gorgeous construction of stone and ivory, chased and inlaid with gold. Colored lights played over the spray, making the water purple, then yellow-orange, then red, then green. The constant ticking patter as the spray fell back into the pool was very loud.
“Cibola,” he muttered, and struggled to his feet. His nose was still dripping blood.
He began to stagger toward the fountain. His stagger became a trot. The trot became a run, the run a sprint, the sprint a mad dash. His scabbed knees rose, pistonlike, almost to his neck. A word began to fly out of his mouth, a long word like a paper streamer that rose to the sky, bringing people to the windows high above (and who saw them? God, perhaps, or the devil, but certainly not the Trashcan Man). The word grew higher and shriller, longer and longer as he approached the fountain and that word was:
“CIIIIIIIIBOLAAAAAAAA!”
The final “aahh” sound drew out and out, a sound of all the pleasures that all the people who have ever lived on the earth have ever known, and it ended only when he struck the lip of the fountain chest-high and yanked himself up and over and into a bath of incredible coolness and mercy. He could feel the pores of his body open like a million mouths and slurp the water in like a sponge. He screamed. He lowered his head, snorted in water, and blew it back out in a combined sneeze and cough that sent blood and water and snot against the side of the fountain in a splat. He lowered his head and drank like a cow.
“Cibola! Cibola!” Trash cried rapturously. “My life for you!”
He dogpaddled his way around the fountain, drank again, then climbed over the edge and fell onto the grass with an awkward thump. It had all been worth it, everything had been worth it. Water cramps struck him and he suddenly threw up with a loud grunt. Even throwing up felt grand.
He got to his feet, and holding on to the lip of the fountain with his claw hand, he drank again. This time his belly accepted the gift gratefully.
Sloshing like a filled goatskin, he staggered toward the alabaster steps which led to the doors of this fabulous place, steps that led between the golden pyramids. Halfway up the steps, a water cramp struck him and doubled him over. When it passed he lurched gamely onward. The doors were of the revolving type, and it took all his feeble strength to get one of them in motion. He pushed through into a plushy carpeted lobby that seemed miles long. The rug underfoot was thick and lush and cranberry-colored. There was a registration desk, a mail desk, a key desk, the cashiers’ windows. All empty. To his right, beyond an ornamental grilled railing, was the casino. Trashcan Man stared at it in awe—the serried ranks of slot machines like soldiers standing at parade rest, beyond them the roulette and crap tables, the marble railings enclosing the baccarat tables.
“Who’s here?” Trash croaked, but no answer came back.
He was afraid then, because this was a place of ghosts, a place where monsters might lurk, but the fear was weakened by his weariness. He stumbled down the steps and into the casino, passing the Cub Bar, where Lloyd Henreid sat silently in the deep shadows, watching him and holding a glass of Poland water.
He came to a table upholstered in green baize, the mystic legend DEALER MUST HIT 16 AND STAND ON 17 inscribed thereon. Trash climbed up on it and fell instantly asleep. Soon nearly half a dozen men stood around the sleeping ragamuffin that was the Trashcan Man.
“What do we do with him?” Ken DeMott asked.
“Let him sleep,” Lloyd answered. “Flagg wants him.”
“Yeah? Where the Christ is Flagg, anyway?” another asked. Lloyd turned to look at the man, who was balding and stood a full foot taller than Lloyd. Nonetheless, he drew back a step at Lloyd’s gaze. The stone around Lloyd’s neck was the only one that was not solid jet; in the center gleamed a small and disquieting red flaw.
“Are you that anxious to see him, Hec?” Lloyd asked.
“No,” the balding man said. “Hey, Lloyd, you know I didn’t—”
“Sure.” Lloyd looked down at the man sleeping on the blackjack table. “Flagg will be around,” he said. “He’s been waiting for this guy. This guy is something special.”
https://www.spokesman.com/stories/2023/may/17/bryan-kohberger-indicted-by-grand-jury-arraignment/
From 11/28/1905 ( ) To 12/24/2020 ( debut "Pocket Savior" s1e2 "Stephen King's The Stand" CBS streaming-video serial ) is 42030 days
42030 = 21015 + 21015
From 11/2/1965 ( my known birth date in Antlers, Oklahoma, USA, as Kerry Wayne Burgess ) To 5/17/2023 ( ) is 21015 days
From 8/25/1976 ( ) To 5/17/2023 ( ) is 17066 days
17066 = 8533 + 8533
From 11/2/1965 ( my known birth date in Antlers, Oklahoma, USA, as Kerry Wayne Burgess ) To 3/14/1989 ( ) is 8533 days
https://www.spokesman.com/stories/2023/may/17/bryan-kohberger-indicted-by-grand-jury-arraignment/
The Spokesman-Review
Spokane, Washington
Bryan Kohberger indicted by grand jury in killings of 4 UI students
May 17, 2023 Updated Wed., May 17, 2023 at 7:24 p.m.
By Emma Epperly
Judge enters not guilty plea for man accused of killing four University of Idaho students The man accused of killing four University of Idaho students last fall has been indicted by a grand jury, the Latah County Clerk’s Office confirmed Wednesday.
Bryan Kohberger, 28, will be arraigned in Latah County District Court at 9 a.m. Monday.
He has been in jail since January charged with the stabbing deaths of Maddie Mogen, Kaylee Goncalves, Ethan Chapin and Xana Kernodle at the women’s off-campus home.
The former Washington State University graduate student was scheduled for a weeklong preliminary hearing next month at which prosecutors would have to prove they had probable cause for the charges against Kohberger. The grand jury indictment, a more secretive process, replaces the need for the hearing.
A redacted version of the indictment, filed Wednesday afternoon, shows the grand jury concurred with the charges requested by prosecutors. Kohberger is charged with one count of burglary and four counts of first-degree murder.
The names of the witnesses who testified before the grand jury are sealed, according to court records.
Kohberger will likely enter a plea on the charges Monday.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Stand_(2020_miniseries)
The Stand (2020 miniseries)
"Pocket Savior" December 24, 2020
In a largely-abandoned New York City, musician Larry Underwood meets fellow survivor Rita Blakemoor in Central Park, and they begin a relationship. Once they realize there will be millions of dead bodies rotting in the summer sun, the pair decide to leave New York. They encounter a small group of marauders who want to gang-rape Rita, but the pair escapes by traveling through the sewers. A few days later, overwhelmed by grief and depression, Rita dies by suicide by overdosing on pills. Meanwhile, career criminal Lloyd Henreid is trapped in prison in Arizona when Captain Trips kills the entire prison staff and all of the other inmates. Weak from starvation, Lloyd resorts to eating rats and cannibalism by eating part of the leg of his dead cellmate. After several days, he is visited by Flagg and swears loyalty to him in exchange for his release.
https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0002907/bio/
IMDb
Alexander Skarsgård
Biography
Born August 25, 1976 Stockholm, Stockholms län, Sweden
Birth name Alexander Johan Hjalmar Skarsgård
excerpts, Credits
Stephen King's "The Stand" (2020-2021) as Randall Flagg, aka The Dark Man
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Omar_Knedlik
https://web.archive.org/web/20000606221304/http://www.time.com/time/time100/builder/profile/bechtel.html
The Stand - complete edition, by Stephen King
(from internet transcript)
excerpts, Chapter 59
“All right,” Stu whispered to Glen. “You’re on.”
Glen approached the podium without introduction and gripped it familiarly. “We’ve discussed everything but the dark man,” he said.
That mutter again. Several men and women instinctively made the sign of the cross. An elderly woman on the lefthand aisle placed her hands rapidly across her eyes, mouth, and ears in an eerie imitation of Nick Andros before refolding them over the bulky black purse in her lap.
“We’ve discussed him to some degree in closed committee meetings,” Glen went on, his tone calm and conversational, “and the question came up in private as to whether or not we should bring the question up in public. The point was made that no one in the Zone really seemed to want to talk about it, not after the funhouse dreams we all had on the way here. That perhaps a period of recuperation was needed. Now, I think, is the time to bring the subject up. To drag him out into the light, as it were. In police work, they have a handy gadget called an Ident-i-Kit, which a police-artist uses to create the face of a criminal from various witnesses’ recollections of him. In our case we have no face, but we do have a series of recollections that form at least an outline of our Antagonist. I’ve talked to quite a few people about this and I would like to present you with my own Ident-i-Kit sketch.
“This man’s name seems to be Randall Flagg, although some people have associated the names Richard Frye, Robert Freemont, and Richard Freemantle with him. The initials R.F. may have some significance, but if so, none of us on the Free Zone Committee know what it is. His presence—at least in dreams—produces feelings of dread, disquiet, terror, horror. In case after case, the physical feeling associated with him is one of coldness.”
Heads were nodding, and that excited hum of conversation broke out again. Stu thought they sounded like boys who had just discovered sex, were comparing notes, and were excited to find that all reports put the receptacle in approximately the same place. He covered a slight grin with his hand, and reminded himself to save that one for Fran later on.
“This Flagg is in the West,” Glen continued. “Equal numbers of people have ‘seen’ him in Las Vegas, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Portland. Some people—Mother Abagail was among them—claim that Flagg is crucifying people who step out of line. All of them seem to believe that there is a confrontation shaping up between this man and ourselves, and that Flagg will stick at nothing to bring us down. And sticking at nothing includes quite a lot. Armored force. Nuclear weapons. Perhaps… plague.”
“I’d like to catch hold of that dirty bastard!” Rich Moffat called shrilly. “I’d give him a dose of the everfucking plague!”
There was a tension-relieving burst of laughter, and Rich got a hand. Glen grinned easily. He had given Rich his cue and his line half an hour before the meeting, and Rich had delivered admirably. Old baldy had been right as rain about one thing, Stu was discovering: a background in sociology often came in handy at large meetings.
https://www.cnn.com/2025/07/23/us/family-impact-statements-idaho-murders-trial
CNN
Families of Idaho murder victims address Bryan Kohberger at sentencing
By Eric Levenson, Dakin Andone, Maureen Chowdhury, Antoinette Radford
She dismissed him as a sociopath, a psychopath and a delusional and pathetic loser. He is “as dumb as they come,” she said, adding that “no one thinks that you are important.”
“The truth is, you’re basic,” she said.
“Let me be very clear: Don’t ever try to convince yourself you matter just because someone finally said your name out loud. I see through you,” she said.
Steve Goncalves, the victim’s father, turned the lectern to directly face Kohberger in his impact statement.
“The world’s watching because of the kids, not because of you. Nobody cares about you. … In time, you will be nothing but two initials, forgotten to the wind,” he said.
He called Kohberger a “joke” and described how easy it was to track him down.
“Police officers tell us within minutes they had your DNA. Like a calling card. You were that careless. That foolish. That stupid. Masters degree? You’re a joke. Complete joke,” he said.
The Stand - complete edition, by Stephen King
(from internet transcript)
excerpts, Chapter 39
“I’m going to make you my righthand man, Lloyd. Going to put you right up there with Saint Peter. When I open this door, I’m going to slip the keys to the kingdom right into your hand. What a deal, right?”
“Yeah,” Lloyd whispered, growing frightened again. It was almost full dark now. Flagg was little more than a dark shape, but his eyes were still perfectly visible. They seemed to glow in the dark like the eyes of a lynx, one to the left of the bar that ended in the lockbox, one to the right. Lloyd felt terror, but something else as well: a kind of religious ecstasy. A pleasure. The pleasure of being chosen. The feeling that he had somehow won through… to something.
“You’d like to get even with the people who left you here, isn’t that right?”
“Boy, that sure is,” Lloyd said, forgetting his terror momentarily. It was swallowed up by a starving, sinewy anger.
“Not just those people, but everyone who would do a thing like that,” Flagg suggested. “It’s a type of person, isn’t it? To a certain type of person, a man like you is nothing but garbage. Because they are high up. They don’t think a person like you has a right to live.”
“That’s just right,” Lloyd said. His great hunger had suddenly been changed into a different kind of hunger. It had changed just as surely as the black stone had changed into the silver key. This man had expressed all the complex things he had felt in just a handful of sentences. It wasn’t just the gate-guard he wanted to get even with—why, here’s the wise-ass pusbag, what’s the story, pusbag, got anything smart to say? —because the gate-guard wasn’t the one. The gate-guard had had THE KEY, all right, but the gate-guard had not made THE KEY. Someone had given it to him. The warden, Lloyd supposed, but the warden hadn’t made THE KEY, either. Lloyd wanted to find the makers and forgers. They would be immune to the flu, and he had business with them. Oh yes, and it was good business.
“You know what the Bible says about people like that?” Flagg asked quietly. “It says the exalted shall be abased and the mighty shall be brought low and the stiffnecked shall be broken. And you know what it says about people like you, Lloyd? It says blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. And it says blessed are the poor in spirit, for they shall see God.”
Lloyd was nodding. Nodding and crying. For a moment it seemed that a blazing corona had formed around Flagg’s head, a light so bright that if Lloyd looked at it for long it would burn his eyes to cinders. Then it was gone… if it had ever been there at all, and it must not have been, because Lloyd had not even lost his night vision.
“Now you aren’t very bright,” Flagg said, “but you are the first. And I have the feeling you might be very loyal. You and I, Lloyd, we’re going to go far. It’s a good time for people like us. Everything is starting up for us. All I need is your word.”
“W-word?”
“That we’re going to stick together, you and me. No denials. No falling asleep on guard duty. There will be others very soon—they’re on their way west already—but for now, there’s just us. I’ll give you the key if you give me your promise.”
“I… promise,” Lloyd said, and the words seemed to hang in the air, vibrating strangely. He listened to that vibration, his head cocked to one side, and he could almost see those two words, glowing as darkly as the aurora borealis reflected in a dead man’s eye.
Then he forgot about them as the tumblers made their half-turns inside the lockbox. The next moment the lockbox fell at Flagg’s feet, tendrils of smoke seeping from it.
“You’re free, Lloyd. Come on out.”
Unbelieving, Lloyd touched the bars hesitantly, as if they might burn him; and indeed, they did seem warm. But when he pushed, the door slid back easily and soundlessly. He stared at his savior, those burning eyes.
Something was placed in his hand. The key.
“It’s yours now, Lloyd.”
“Mine?”
Flagg grabbed Lloyd’s fingers and closed them around it… and Lloyd felt it move in his hand, felt it change. He uttered a hoarse cry and his fingers sprang open. The key was gone and in its place was the black stone with the red flaw. He held it up, wondering, and turned it this way and that. Now the red flaw looked like a key, now like a skull, now like a bloody, half-closed eye again.
“Mine,” Lloyd answered himself. This time he closed his hand with no help, holding the stone savagely tight.
“Shall we get some dinner?” Flagg asked. “We’ve got a lot of driving to do tonight.”
“Dinner,” Lloyd said. “All right.”
“There’s such a lot to do,” Flagg said happily. “And we’re going to move very fast.” They walked toward the stairs together, past the dead men in their cells. When Lloyd stumbled in weakness, Flagg seized his arm above the elbow and bore him up. Lloyd turned and looked into that grinning face with something more than gratitude. He looked at Flagg with something like love.
https://www.imdb.com/name/nm3009232/bio/
Rainbow Six (1998) - Tom Clancy
(from internet transcript)
excerpts, Chapter 19
All manner of signals came into Fort Meade, from all over the world, and one such source included GCHQ, Britain's General Communications Headquarters at Cheltenham, NSA's sister service in England. The British knew what phones were whose in the Russian Embassy-they hadn't changed the numbers, even with the demise of the USSR-and this one was on the desk of the rezident. The sound quality wasn't good enough for a voice-print, since the Russian version of the STU system digitized signals less efficiently than the American version, but once the encryption was defeated, the words were easily recognizable. The decrypted signal was cross-loaded to yet another computer, which translated the Russian conversation to English with a fair degree of reliability. Since the signal was from the London rezident to Moscow, it was placed on the top of the electronic pile, and cracked, translated, and printed less than an hour after it had been made. That done, it was transmitted to Cheltenham immediately, and at Fort Meade routed to a signals officer whose job it was to send intercepts to the people interested in the content. In this case, it was routed straight to the Director of Central Intelligence and, because it evidently discussed the identity of a field spook, to the Deputy Director (Operations), since all the field spooks worked for her. The former was a busier person than the latter, but that didn't matter, since the latter was married to the former.
"Ed?" his wife's voice said.
"Yeah, honey?" Foley replied. "Somebody's trying to ID John Clark over in U.K."
Ed Foley's eyes went fully open at that news. "Really? Who?"
"The station chief in London talked with his desk officer in Moscow, and we intercepted it. The message ought to be in your IN pile, Eddie."
"Okay." Foley lifted the pile and leafed through it. "Got it. Hmmm," he said over the phone. "The guy who wants the information, Dmitriy Arkadeyevich Popov, former Colonel in a terrorism guy, eh? I thought they were all RIF'd Okay, they were, at least he was."
"Yeah, Eddie, a terrorism guy is interested in Rainbow Six. Isn't that interesting?"
- by me, Kerry Wayne Burgess, posted by me: 11:04 AM Pacific-timezone USA Wednesday 07/30/2025
