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30 MIN TAKE FREESTYLE
JAN '24

GodvsDevilPhilip Arnold

00:00 / 02:44
UB14: NO God of Love
Volumes

Search this image. I was in that bed. I was supposed to be in my home alone. 

Author Note:



I was sujected to experimentation by a cult simply because I'm a reporter, have
big ideas. This story is true, condensed for clarity.

"No one can do shit," they claimed. "I can report," And I do. They have, since
2020, tried many things to silence my voice, they failed.



0135 10/21/2024



"If life didn't cost to live, if education, philanthropy didn't require wealth,
I'd produce content wanting nothing but experince gained." 

Philip Damon Arnold ♥†

DigitalSin Productions LLC



June 5, 2020,

 

12am:



“Last meal…” I’m eating chocolate cereal from a small pot. I’m drugged, chemical
inducements beyond my knowledge pushed on me by a group technological, self
described cultists, a hive-mind, takers of thought, purpose.

 

“If you smoke again I’ll kill you, sit crossed-legged, put your hands in your
lap.” A gunslide clicks. I do for a few moments, decide I’ll not listen to them,
get up, go smoke by my back door. Gun slides click with words, “Do this, that…”
Click slide click. I remember being indignant more than fearful.

 

I try to mollify these persons by playing different movies, asking about
preference. “You know what I want to see.”

I play “The VVitch.” After a moment a gun clicks, the slide racked. I don’t know
what to do. I want privacy, the invaders to leave, or fight, something besides
threaten me with weapons, stare at me.

 

“It’s good.“ I say.

 

“It’s a good movie.” Says ….

 

I turn off the movies, try to lay down, a bottle of Febreze Lavender in my hand.
I have things covering the floors around me, an attempt to hide myself from
unwanted eyesight. A male is speaking of malodor, I spray the Febreze down all
over the floor, a woman gags. I wonder how the fuck it sprayed in her mouth.

I’m not allowed to sleep, told to sit up no longer lay at all. “If I can’t sleep
no one sleeps.” My mattress is cheap, 200 dollar foam. My extremities grow numb,
me intolerant. I’m home, in a place of seclusion, a place that should provide
privacy, safety. Instead it’s become a place of confinement, my invaders telling
me I can no longer leave, go outside, “Cluck,” they call me. I wonder what the
fuck he’s talking about. “Cluck cluck,” says “a self-described circle jerker.”

 

The things I saw, heard. I posted on FB, as "FakeBook Sniper," commentors giving
me a “Get the F outta there,” consensus.

 

3a.m.

 

There's a, “Don’t smoke here.” It’s the last command I am willing to even listen
to. “I’ll shoot you if you smoke.” I light a cigarette, away from the invader,
yet not outside. A gun slide racks. I decide I’d had enough. (My roomate at the
time had already left. He kept leaving, telling me I wasn’t in danger, too
getting the hell away from them.) Immediately, outside, I turn back, “I’m a
reporter, what do you think you’re doing? I’m writing about this, things I know,
people are going to know.”

 

I have a joint lighted, my cell, a lighter. “You can call your little friend.”
His accented voice is more purr than threatening.

 

Calling the homeowner is the last thing I would do, his safety too important to
me. I’ve been lying to him already, sort of. Not telling him I know where the
invaders homes are. Not telling him I allowed one of them in, a female that told
me, in her words, “I have no home, no where to go, no food.” Things like that. I
had left, in all places—a cupboard—a wrapped pastry, a coffee, both untouched so
I ate, drank them.

 

Earlier that day, from my kitchen window, I saw one say to another person I was
having an affair (attempting to) with his wife. I wasn’t. I was however trying
many means to find out about agenda, intent. I didn’t believe the entity around
my home human. Still don’t as of 10/02/2024 6pm. I don’t think they know what
surrounds them. Surrounds anyone ill-intented. Koontz knows.

 

I’m outside, pacing back and forth, road to house, repeat. Thinking I’ll walk
the 1.5 miles to town. Leave. Go somewhere, anyplace except somewhere I’m
supposed to be safe, my home.

 

Walking toward the main road into town, Boulevard, I hear rustling through
leaves, fast footfalls. Looking over my shoulder a man runs toward the street,
not exactly toward me, yet close enough. I take off, limbs lighter than snow,
adrenaline flowing freely, my heart not yet pumping as furious as it will be
moments later.

 

I sprint up Boulevard, stopping at Waynick Dr. the corner store to my back. I’m
looking back the way I came, looking for signs of the gun toter. There isn’t
any, till… “You say the word, I’ll put one in ‘em.”

 

The words do nothing in the way of fright, no, they are the words of malice,
something I do not fear. I look at my phone, push the call icon, press 911. “He
put’s the phone to his head I’ll put one in it.” I do. I press send, hear the
dispatch answer, feel debris hit my legs, my shoes.

 

The report from the rifle is loud, I’m running down Lynn Lane, a few gunshots
ring from behind, I’m zigzagging, slowing down, speeding up. The dispatch is on
the phone the entire time, the phone screen bright, blurring, giving away my
position. I’m trying to end the call, it won’t hang up. Where I’m running is
black as pitch at night.

 

I’ve watched many programs on survival, the techniques needed during times of
strife, when someone is shooting at you, the night is old, you haven’t slept,
and pursuit is mortal peril defined, those things are forgotten. At least at
first. +

 

“Help me!" I’m cutting through lawns, running up to doors, pounding, fearing
owners, gunfire more.

 

“There’s no one that can help you," his voice, soft, purring, comes from places
man shouldn’t go, perhaps a place far from normality, surely behind me, his body
not far.

 

Off Lynn, there’s Level Lane, turning right. Immediately left there’s a fenced
home, the property three times as long-backward, as wide. I cut in front of the
home, perhaps to stay near the street, my phone still glowing, 911 dispatch
listening, the gun reports have stalled momentarily. I dash into a fence, bounce
back, the fence waist high, made of some type of wire. I’m not harmed, stunned
but not harmed. I can’t get the cell-screen to cut, nor does the phone
disconnect when I press end. I drop it, turn left, run the length of the
property, looking right, looking for an opening. Its back, beside a covered
building, small, the opening visible, I scamper through, dashing besides trees,
sometimes almost bouncing off.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As I’m cutting through the wood, my thoughts, mistaken, repeat, “I’m going to
die.” I pray to any God, Entity, “Hear me, Help.” A light glares to life behind
me, my pursuers putting a spotlight in a tree. I pause, slow, look back, the
light shines on my cheek. A blast of gunfire silences life in that place, shot
wizzing the air. I stumble away, low, trying to stay from the light. For hours,
one side I find water, fear swamp, the other briars find my shoes, face, legs,
hold me from escape, I run in a circle, repeatedly they fire at me, later
telling other’s if I had been faster I’d have taken “one.” A hospital attendent
once overheard one such statement, say’s to another, “We need to call the
police, they’re bragging they tried to kill him.” Say’s another, “It’s Meth
talking.”

 

(Even then, before I became able of using technologies to remove technologies,
they used a type of mindcontrol on people, their perceived senses false. I know
now, as perhaps no one else does, the things are small compared to the “hidden
agenda.”) (It's 0152 a.m., Helena FF Mariott, I'm trying to write this, they're
trying to stop me.)



I’m bruised up and down my legs, my hair, long then, has been caught by low
hanging trees, it partly pulled out. A woman wearing a technological mask keeps
stepping out in front of me, her arms out to the side, cutting my path, turning
me back in, away from leaving the wood. I run into briars, water, nearly her, a
smallish woman, blond haired, probably 30 years old, the person I except that
told me she had no where to go, no help. My hair gets caught in a branch, I’m
trying to pull it free, a group approached me, surrounds me. They begin using a
chemical on my head, I see lights, perhaps 40, maybe 100.

 

“The fucker won’t go down she says.” I want to kill her. Instead, I think, “you
wouldn’t either,” stammer “stop shooting me.” The lights in my head, I can see
from inside me, them flowing top to bottom. I eventually, turn away, stumbling
into the underbrush.



Something clicks, I have studied many hours of survival technique. I stop moving
immediately. Go to ground. Just listen. I only move when they move, gound crack
for crack. I’m on my belly, them every so often firing weapons in the air,
perhaps hoping for a “shitshot” hit, perhaps hoping I’ll flee again. I won’t.

 

 

I crawl back toward them. Hoping they spread out. They did. Whistle their
movements, calling back and forth, like hunters, forming a grid search. I crawl
to a puddles edge, look at the water, it’s clear, it happened to have just
rained. I’d been running so long I’m wanting nothing more than sleep, fluids,
rest. I drink the puddle, firstly using a lined flannel for filter. It’s
impermeable, won’t allow me to drink deep enough.

 

I’m thinking they are using smell to follow me, them the type. I crawl into the
puddle as far as I can. They pass by within meters. Head away.

 

 

After they pass, I push out the puddle, use handtips, feet to sort of glide
above the ground, see a log. Crawl on it. Cover my head, listening to them call
to each other, circling around. I go to sleep.







Unpolished excerpt from UB14 above. A true-crime experience.





“She wants your mind “inside” a younger man's body.”

Those words are all it took for me to understand many things about the persons I
had been “trained" for. To think about it, I wept. For them, for me.

To hear today, Oct. 20, 2am, “Do you think God can/will protect you from me,”
and feel something attempt a chemical attack on me, me having fought them for
almost ten years now, “I don't need Him to, do I?” I pull hard, pull the things
created from all around, pop them, turn them to dust, blow them away.

I'm walking into my office after, thinking about May of 2020, “You think you
could take my mind, use a boy to take over things, the world, using a BOY? HE'S
A BOY. The things you said, jokes you made while doing the things I witnessed?
He's a MANBOY.”

As an aside, I'm using Sudowrite to organize, my Asus A17 open, ready to publish
this on DigitalSin.net, me typing this, unpolished, on my S9 Fe (soon upgraded),
there's no lag seeing the app update on both simultaneously. Neat I guess.



Above: 2023. Me studying art,  knowing they had failed. Knowing, seeing me,
here, my offfice. Writing, owning companies, creating art.

I'm perhaps 5, “It’s not real, it can’t be.”

 

I knew there were things wrong with what I saw, felt. I wouldn’t, couldn’t stand
the fact that the world was being tampered with. That there was a “they” and
they couldn’t leave people alone.

My youth was filled with dissociation caused by information overload, many
nights I spent trying to hide from them. When I slept, I was always battling
things, before I slept, there was an influx of information. A feeling of an
“outside” myself, of ethereal weightlessness.

 

I’m in my youth, the times of a child’s fears have passed. I do not speak to her
yet, I do not seek my higher-self. I do not try. I know I can “see” by this
point, I combat the temptation to look.

 

0334, 10/20/2024. I still 30 years later do not, can not, will not, abuse the
gift He has graced me with. This moment, there are the opposite of “they” in
this town, Helena, Montana. The persons ‘they’ prepared me for.

I’m in the bathroom, discussing a trail of persons following me, them breaking
onto various properties, using ladders I’ve personally seen on trucks, and those
persons that risked a peek into the fold of “between floors.” Witness statements
about "left hardware evidence." Ten thousand miles I've seen them perhaps.
During an interview the person questioned says they use "teams," "switch them up
depending on responsibilities prior."

After Loris I had had enough. They had shot at me, followed me for perhaps a
thousand miles across South Carolina, destroyed property, threatened me enough.
I had already set aflame stuff and gave the other stuff to my then Friend and
associate Jimmy. I had asked my sister if I could stay in her apartment long
enough to find a room to rent. I thought I was done with persons trying to
silence me, control my actions.

 

“I’m on the way to the airport.” I am excited, too watching through the rear
window of a vehicle taking me to the Columbia International Airport. She didn’t
sound very sure that I was doing the right thing. I knew I was, and no one at
that time, beyond a hand full of Facebook encounters, some people I met along
the way, and the police in Manning, Sumter, and Loris knew I was under duress.

I told a few people that things were happening that needed reporting but not
many. My older brother, upon hearing that I had always admired him, him not
knowing I had expected to die around the time I was trying to reconnect with
family so they would know I loved them, said I had never shown much in that
regard. He was right, I hadn’t gone out of my way to connect, yet as I type this
I recall Bremerton when he was stationed near, me telling him I wanted to be
around him, him telling me he didn’t have time.

 

It takes them nearly a month to set up in Billings. A month of my life
remembered as free of slavery, sex trafficking, drug pushers and gangsters using
chemical inducers. The Billing’s men’s shelter is a place of growth,
accountability and spirit rebuilding. I loved October 2020.

It’s nearly November before they begin showing up at the thrift store, at the
shelter moving in actuality, my sister sending the Billing’s sheriffs department
to help me. Every day I listen to persons tell me they are going to shoot me,
body shame me, saying many things racist. They send into the thrift store a
blond haired woman while I’m in the basement hanging coats on racks. I know it’s
near time to move along again.

When they came to my sister’s house on International Ave. in Billing’s and was
spraying chemicals under the door with words “I can’t wait to murder him,” I try
texting the police and they don’t accept texts yet. I call them and they believe
drug use is evident. I was sober. At this point I am referred to as “Cluck,
White Niggar, White Monkey” and other things. Most of them I laugh at. I am not
racist and find the abuse absurd as the source is the type to think constant
belittling is a thing powerful. It is not.

They guy staying with my sister, my sister herself think we should satnd against
them, I do not. I hear them sliding something above my head between the floors
in the heater duct. I know I’m leaving.

I call my parents later, they fear I’m not telling things truthfully, they are
wrong and right at the same time. The whole story is absurd ludicrous. A coup in
America? Yeah sure, bring my tinfoil hat. It’s true though.

8:54 pm 10/22/2024

May, 2022:I’m in a cell alone. Pretty much locked down 24 hours a day. A group
of cultists uses technology, chemical inducements, to begin a three day attempt
at brainwashing me. I laugh at them, berate their intelligent quotient. They, at
this time, had been harrassing me five years, thousands of miles followed me.
Thety speak of ritual, becoming machine, using technology to hop bodies, we
fight in sleep, I laugh.It wasn't funny. The person I have been fighting a "will
over will," his he tried to put over everyone, is here in Helena, still soft
tongued, still the person I called "snake."



Feb. 2020:
The room is dark and frigid, the absence of heat palpable. I can feel a presence
nearby, almost tangible, watching me. The orange flickering glow of the tiny
Amish fireplace causes shadow to dance, it puffs barely warm air as it struggles
to heat the 30-degree tent. Despite the eerie atmosphere, I am not afraid—only
curious. What could anyone find interesting about me, tented inside a storage
unit in Sumter, South Carolina?


DigitalSin Productions LLC

philiparnold@digitalsin.net

4065945431

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https://www.instagram.com/digitalsin1/

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