This article is taken from testimony presented before Alaska State Judge Anna von Reitz. Over 27 internet-certified investigators from the International Common Law Court of Justice are examining eyewitness accounts of kidnapping, sodomy and ritual animal sacrifice. These criminal acts were allegedly done by members of the Foundation for Reason and Science, an underground Militant Atheist network. Numerous high-ranking public figures have already been named as participants in these disturbing events.
I’ve never told anyone this story before because the experience was so intense it left me broken. Now, after several years of ministry, I am trying to put the shame behind me. I only pray that my confession can help others.
In 2007, I was a sophomore at an Ivy League college in Rhode Island. From all outward appearances I was a normal student. I lived in an important fraternity and had embarked on my lifelong dream of majoring in geology.
But that expensive education did nothing to feed my eternal spirit. Inside, I was empty.
My Seismology professor was a peculiar man. I’d heard rumors that he ran a “salon” of radical freethinkers at his home, but I never thought the Cult of Atheism would come calling for me.
Then, on a grey night in November, they sent me an engraved invitation.
Professor [X] asked me if I’d like to make some extra money. He was having a party and one of his regular waiters had gone missing. I’d be among a handful of graduate students serving a crowd of VIPs in town for a conference on climate “change.”
X lived in an intimidating Victorian mansion on the grimy outskirts of Providence. The house was rumored to have been a stop on the Underground Railroad, full of hidden rooms and secret tunnels.
I came in through the back door and was met by an extraordinarily attractive older woman. She introduced herself coldly as Professor X’s wife.
There were several dogs yapping in the next room, but I was so taken by this woman’s heaving bosoms, that lustrous long, curly hair, and the dazzling jewels around her neck, that I didn’t think anything of the sorrowful animals at the time.
“You’ll need to wear this uniform,” she said in a brisk Continental accent, handing me an enormous cat head mask and a golden tabby costume. She made no move to leave as I began to undress, instead watching me peel away my clothes with a dry smile. I later learned these sorts of outfits are big in the “furry” scene.
My job was to keep the appetizers circulating, but the truth is, despite their enormous appetite for the souls of the faithful, these nihilists didn’t eat much.
The house was a catacomb of moody spaces stuffed to the ceiling with banned books and antique bric-a-brac. Everyone was dressed in wild costumes. Aliens, unicorns, sheep, dinosaurs… There was some sort of theme here that I didn’t quite grasp.
Eavesdropping a bit, it dawned on me that these guests were a little odd. They used words like “Pindar” and “chemtrails,” which didn’t make any sense to me at the time. They debated the fate of the CIA and vaguely alluded to “the coming financial collapse.”
And then suddenly there was Richard Dawkins, the enfant terrible of International Atheism. I recognized him from a slideshow I had seen back home with my Praise & Worship team. He had just flown in from London on Stephen Fry’s private jet, he announced, and then grimaced at my platter of mini weenies. “You Americans are just atrocious…” he muttered.
Later, I met “science guy” Bill Nye. He lifted up his unicorn snout to nosh on the pineapple ham empanadas I was offering. He winked at me while two women dressed as sexy velociraptors stroked his sparkly horn.
X’s wife, who was now made up as Gorn from that famous Star Trek episode, approached me with a wine glass and forced me to take a big chug. I didn’t know it was dosed with the love drug “Molly.” That certainly explains the events that followed.
On my next pass through the party, the crowd had thinned out considerably. Near the fondue station there was a large pile of costumes. But no masks.
Then Gorn was snapping her fingers aggressively in my direction. There was a box of sippy straws in the kitchen that she needed, tout suite!
With the box in hand, I followed her into the library where she pressed open a hidden door between twin portraits of Adolph Hitler and Charles Darwin. We crept down a precarious flight of stairs to a murky passage.
Gorn unclasped my costume and it fell to the cold stone floor. She spread hot oils all over my body and then wrote a giant “A” across my muscled chest in dark chocolate. I found myself beginning to stiffen.
We traversed the torch-lit way to a grand underground chamber. There were silver balloons scattered about, like some cheap Rotary Club wedding. Everyone from the party was here, nude except for their masks.
They stood in a ritual circle and at the center was a massive limestone altar that looked hundreds of years old. It was intricately carved with row upon row of upside-down crosses. At the center of the design was the Atheist symbol surrounded by a pentagram.
I began to turn back, but Gorn gripped my bare buttocks with both hands.
A man with a sheep’s head stood before everyone. He held a Labradoodle puppy aloft and read verses from Leviticus backwards. The rest of the cult chanted along with him. When he was finished, he grabbed a golden dagger and slit the throat of the small animal. The crowd collectively released a deep sexual moan. Then everyone moved in close with their platinum goblets to catch the fluids spraying out from that limp body.
I finally understood why they needed me there with all the bendy straws. I passed them around so everyone could drink through the mouth holes of their masks.
As the cult imbibed, the high priest carved into the carcass and removed the still beating heart. When he lifted his mask to bite into that purple organ, I realized it was none other than Stephen Fry himself.
High on their canine sacrifice, the atheists moved off to another chamber decorated in bearskin rugs and velvet couches. The orgy had begun.
Maybe it was the drugs, maybe it was the rush of all that celebrity, or maybe it was the dark arts at work, but a tide of lust rushed over me. I threw myself into the center of that raunchy garden of Atheist delights.
Janeane Garofalo whispered in my ear that she could get me a job in the liberal media. We could work together to infect Christian families with the Atheist Agenda, she groaned, and I felt Gorn sandwiching me. The idea really turned the group on. Their stamina was astonishing.
Chris Hitchens was particularly voracious, though Ricky Gervais flagged quickly and returned to the altar for puppy organs more than once. I still remember seeing Unicorn Nye rise to the peak of the sex pile. He pumped his fists in the air and then gave a loud, horsey neigh! in the most barbaric way imaginable.
I later found out that this is a regular occurrence at secret Atheist parties. They operate a huge network all across America and their appetite for animal sacrifice, voting Democrat and sodomy is insatiable.
As you can imagine, I became Mrs. X’s lover. She indoctrinated me into the tantric sex secrets of the Radical Atheist Elite. We swore oaths to our innumerable passions in abandoned Moroccan castles. We swapped decency for Satanism in gang-infested ghetto high rises. We recruited on college campuses of all stripes, from small, private institutions to Division I universities, from fraternity row to graduate seminars on socialist gender studies. Everywhere, the young were just too eager for that first prick of the Atheist needle.
Ultimately, addiction took its toll. Two years later, I dropped out of college to move in with friends in Austin who were putting together a band.
One rainy night, Mrs. X wife showed up at my door with a chilled bottle of Jagermeister and a young Chihuahua. I have no idea how she found me and I can’t yet bring myself to admit what followed.
The next morning I awoke to find a personally inscribed copy of Sam Harris’ “Waking Up” on my bedside table. In it, the lusty and loquacious Luciferian wrote, “I find your lack of faith arousing!”
When I finally shook off that Dawkinsian nightmare, I didn’t believe I could be human again. My old Praise & Worship team never lost faith in me, however. They exorcised the darks arts of Radical Atheism from my soul and I began to rebuild.
I never saw the professor’s wife again. A few months ago, however, I did read that she had taken a very high level position at the Clinton Foundation.
Would it surprise you to learn that Hillary Clinton herself attended Mrs. X’s celebration at the very exclusive, very private institution known as the Washington Kennel Club?