Kitler's back. She was returned to me last week by a very friendly girl from the local animal shelter. They found her in the backyard of an abandoned ground floor flat from which there was no exit. Hungry and alone, she'd apparently kept the neighbours awake all night with her constant whining. Eventually one of them phoned animal rescue.
Nowadays, when they find a cat they routinely scan it for an RFID chip, which all domestic animals must have implanted. Anyway, this is how she was returned to me, by virtue of a radioactive metal cylinder the size of a grain of rice.
Loath as I am to admit it, I'm really happy to have Kitler back, but in no way am I about to celebrate the coming age of RFID. I remember the interview with Aaron Russo when he talks about his friendship with Nick Rockefeller. They'd meet for dinner and Rockefeller would speak of Globalist plans to have every human being chipped and connected to a huge supercomputer. In his vision of the future, there is to be no cash. Every transaction will be made via the chip and disobedient citizens will be punished by having their chip switched off at the server - instantly turning them into "un-people".
According to Russo, they plan to bring this about through a programme of incremental conditioning: We're going to be brainwashed into thinking that this roadmap to technocratic slavery is positive. Thus, the pet chipping, the police chipping and the VIP chipping.
And now they want to get the next generation used to it, so they've started chipping kids in schools. Frightening really.
Kitler's return
When we opened the door of the transport cage, Kitler stepped out into the sunlight, dazed and disorientated. Her fur was matted down, unusually unkempt. The girl pointed to the deep wound across her shoulder. 'She's been in the wars', she said with concern.
In response, I tried to give Kitler a friendly tickle under the chin, but before I could touch her she backed off and ran into the spare room. She always goes there when she's angry with me. The room's so full of junk that only a cat can get in there. It's Kitler's fotress.
At first, I was a little peeved that Kitler had so publicly rejected me in front of an animal worker. I wondered if the girl was thinking that I was the reason that Kitler had run away in the first place.
'Typical of her to embarrass me in front of guests' I joked.
'Don't worry. She's in shock. She needs rest and darkness. Just leave her alone for a few days.'
'Gladly', I replied, to which the girl -not getting my attempt at humour- looked puzzled.
Maybe it's hard for anyone on the outside to understand the complex relationship I have with Kitler. She is after all an unwanted pet, an uninvited guest that I inherited with the flat, in which she prances around as if she owns the place. I have to clean up after her,feed her and give her attention (when I should be working). Plus, she does take the piss sometimes. Especially at four in the morning when she leaps on my bed and lets out a scream loud enough to wake me up, and then runs the length of the apartment mewling and attacking invisible foe. Why does she do that? Surely conspiracy analysts need their sleep, too?
However, from Kitler's perspective, she does own the place. She was here first. This is her territory and I'm the invader who conquered and occupied her owner's flat. The least I can do is look after her.
So, at its roots, the relationship is one of antagonism, misunderstanding and resentment, but somehow - like with a lot of marriages - it works.
Solutions # 17: Read deeply, hone your debating skills, work your memory: Your power to use words is your power in this world.
