by Robin Graves (writing in 2012 as Justin Case)
In March 2012, I was a nobody posting at midnight on Before It’s News under a mandrill avatar and the name Justin Case. Fourteen years later, I opened those files again, and they read like a warning I’d sealed in a bottle.
THE NIGHT THE MILITIA CAME TO MY DOOR
Around the turn of the millennium, members of the Michigan Militia handed me a document. It was written by a police officer named Jack McLamb and titled Operation Vampire Killer 2000. Its whole message to cops and soldiers and nurses was simple: you don’t have to fire on your own people. First Responders.
Y2K had everyone scared. My family stocked medical supplies, canned food, barrels of water, and guard dogs. We weren’t crazy, we were ready, Justin Case.
Then, before New Year’s Eve, men I believed were federal agents tried to walk my household into a crime. They brought the gear and the bait. We said no. When I wrote that story in 2012, roughly 50,000 people read it.
THE OTHER VAMPIRES
Two weeks before that, I’d written about a different kind of vampire. These weren’t the hunters but the temples. The trail ran from the Temple of the Vampire back to the Temple of Set, and from there to Lt. Col. Michael Aquino, an Army intelligence officer and Church of Satan member. In 1989 he sat on Geraldo next to a former FBI agent who couldn’t keep his own story straight.
Following that trail was exhausting. Every clue opened a can of worms, and every worm opened another can. The language they used stuck with me: victims called “butterflies,” and the ones who got free called “broken butterflies.”
WHY I’M TELLING YOU NOW
Back then, nobody put me on the home page. My pieces climbed the charts anyway, from the back rooms.
The ancient Egyptians had a god for people like me. His name was Thoth, the baboon-headed scribe, keeper of the record. The kings could burn the libraries, but somebody always wrote it down first.
I am the scribe of my drive.
These files are just the start. There’s a boy named Nicholas I still owe a proper telling, a 2012 warning about who really controls Facebook, and a box of prison stories the FBI hauled away. They’re all coming, one receipt at a time.
I am the scribe of my tribe.
For entertainment and historical purposes. These are personal accounts and opinions, not legal or factual claims about any living person.
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