PLAN B: FAKE ALIEN INVASION — ET OBJECT SCREAMS IN FROM DEEP SPACE AS BREAKAWAY CIVILIZATION PLOTS ITS FINAL THEATRE + [COVID WAS A TEST RUN]
“Don’t Believe, Don’t Disbelieve”: Dunwich Beach Cafe Encounter Reveals Oumuamua, Drones, And A Coming Cosmic Psyop
Out on Dunwich beach, in a café that hasn’t changed since 1967, I met an ordinary old man who wasn’t ordinary at all.
He talked Lakenheath airbase, pirate Radio Caroline, and then dropped the real payload: a breakaway civilization born of Paperclip Nazis, OSS fascist undercurrents, black budget drug gold, and non-human contact stretching back 150 years.
He told me the drones of autumn 2024 were a rehearsal, the interstellar visitor ʻOumuamua a message, and the new ET object hurtling toward Earth may be PLAN B: a staged alien invasion for planetary control.
Or worse—something not staged at all.
This isn’t disclosure. It’s initiation. And once you hear the broadcast, the code runs in you.
Dunwich Caff: Fish & Chips + Fake Alien Invasion
The café smelt of salt, vinegar, fried cod. Formica tables that had survived since Harold Wilson, nicotine-stained clock ticking off-balance. Dunwich Beach through the window — endless stones, old drowned town under the sea.
That’s when he leaned across. Ordinary bloke. Seventies. Wire glasses, pale shirt, off-the-rack slacks. But the kind of stillness you only get after chaos. Said he’d worked at Lakenheath Airbase back in the day, and DJ’d for Radio Caroline when it still sailed the North Sea like a floating pirate skull. I looked at him — didn’t fit. He should’ve been one thing or the other. Airbase man or rebel. But he’d been both. That was the tell.
“You heard about the object,” he said.
“You mean the one streaking in from outside?”
He nodded. “They’ll tell you it’s a comet. Maybe it is. But it’s also a signal. Same way last year’s drone swarm was a signal. Warning. Or rehearsal.”
He wiped a chip across the plate, dragged it through ketchup like it was blood. Then looked at me. His eyes didn’t blink right. “There’s a breakaway civilization. Been there since the forties. Black budgets siphoned through drug gold, CIA’s covert pipelines. Nazis into NASA, Japan looting Asia, Argentina ratlines. Alan Dulles running the whole fascist continuity program. They merged into one long grey bureaucracy with rockets under the table. That’s who runs the hidden show.”
He leaned back, casual, like he was just talking football.
“They’ve been in touch with others. Call them non-human intelligences. Some benevolent, some not. But you need to understand, this object in the news? It could be Plan D. The old playbook. Fake alien invasion. Global lockdown under the mask of an existential threat.”
I said, “Sounds like a pulpy B-movie, mate.”
“Covid was the pilot run,” he said flatly. “Test case for obedience. Fake invasion would’ve been Plan A back in the 80s. But now? That might be Plan B. Plan A…” He shook his head. “Harder to see. Be wary. Believe nothing. Believe no one.”
I laughed, but it came out wrong. “Why should I believe you then?”
He smiled like a priest with a coffin lid joke. “Don’t. I don’t care. I’m not selling anything. Just telling you the coordinates. What you’ve already glimpsed yourself — the plasma light streamers, the poltergeist spasms, the bright spheres of daylight, the ghosts that flicker like broken holograms. You know. You’ve been cataloguing them.”
My fork froze halfway to my mouth. “How do you know this?”
“Because nothing is as it seems.” He said it softly, like a sedative. “The so-called ghost — she speaks from before recorded time. She’s spoken to you, hasn’t she? That’s the bleed-through. Some factions want to drag Earth bipeds into the new aeon, get you past the Word, the parasite of language. Out from under the script. Upgrade the consciousness. Once you get past that, you’ll see. You’ll see what Oumuamua really was. You’ll see what this current object really is. You’ll see what the drone swarm really was.”
We left the café, walked the stones of Dunwich Beach, North Sea rolling heavy and dull. He stared out at the horizon like he was listening for coded transmissions in the waves.
Then he said, low and final:
“Everything is camouflage. The only real message is in the glitches. Don’t get hypnotised by the narrative. The invasion — if it comes — fake or otherwise — will be theatre. The real operation’s already underway.”
Dunwich Beach: Initiation
We left the café, the smell of fried oil clinging to my coat. Stones shifting underfoot, the grey North Sea pulsing in endless slabs. The stranger walked beside me, hands loose at his sides, eyes on the horizon like he was measuring some invisible countdown.
“Camouflage,” he said again, almost to himself. “The only way they survive is by cloaking their operations inside ordinary events. That’s why you’ll never convince anyone. And why you shouldn’t try.”
The wind blew sharp. The sky bent low. And then —
the beach tilted.
Not physically, but perceptually. The shingle glistened, metallic. The stones were coded glyphs, each one buzzing with an alphabet not made for human larynx. My ears filled with a sound like a dial-up modem dragged across whale-song.
He didn’t react. Just kept walking, like this was normal.
“Now you see it,” he murmured.
The sea darkened into a screen. Across it rolled the Oumuamua cigar, vast, matte black, impossible geometry shifting along its hull. Behind it, the drone swarm of 2024 replayed in fast-forward, a cloud of steel insects circling, weaving sigils in the troposphere. And above them, the current comet - object—3I/ATLAS — burned not like ice or rock but like a plasma filament pulled straight from some extradimensional loom.
I blinked. Tried to steady myself. “This isn’t — this isn’t happening.”
“It’s happening enough,” he said. “The Word’s parasite is loosening. This is the slipstream. Initiation doesn’t ask for permission.”
On the horizon, the drowned bells of old Dunwich tolled, though I knew no bells had rung there for centuries. Shapes rose from the sea — half-human, half-aquatic, old as folklore. USOs, he’d called them. They saluted the interstellar trespasser like it was a returning monarch.
“You think this is illusion?” he said. His voice doubled, trebled, echoing in dimensions I couldn’t track. “It’s initiation. Hallucination is simply the training wheels of perception. We break you through the glass, then let you walk it.”
I tried to breathe. The cold air was hot. My hands were smoke. “Why me?”
He stopped, finally turned to me, face dissolving like a badly tuned broadcast. For a moment he was seventy, glasses, slacks. The next moment he was radio static, pirate signal, wartime photo of a pilot, skull under a hood, god of drowned cities.
“Because you already asked the question,” he said.
“That’s always the trigger.”
The horizon cracked. Light — white and corrosive — spilled through. Inside it: Oumuamua, the drones, the new object—all the same thing, all masks of a presence that wanted attention.
“Plan A, Plan B,” he whispered. “All human words. The real plan isn’t theirs. It’s the intelligence itself. You don’t defeat it. You surf it. That’s the only way to survive.”
Then the beach was just beach again. Stones underfoot. Sea rolling dumb and grey. The stranger was gone. Only gulls overhead.
But the sound remained, low in my skull: the hiss of a pirate broadcast on a dead frequency. And the taste of salt that wasn’t from the sea.
Background Program
I walked back from Dunwich beach, shoes full of pebbles. North Sea wind pushing at my back like it wanted me gone. The café was still there behind me, clock still ticking, chips still frying. Consensus reality intact.
But the overlay stayed.
The horizon kept fracturing in the corner of my eye. Every gull wheeling overhead stuttered like bad CGI, frames missing. And inside my skull, a low-grade hum, like someone left a pirate broadcast running behind the wallpaper.
I reached the car — black Mercedes, dusted with salt mist. Opened the door. Sat there. Tried to breathe normal. But the dashboard instruments flickered. Odometer blinked 000000. Then scrolled through coordinates I didn’t recognize.
The voice of the stranger leaked back in, radio-wave thin:
“Initiation doesn’t switch off. Once you’ve seen the code, the code runs you.”
I slammed the radio dial — BBC, static, Radio 4. But the hum didn’t stop. It wasn’t in the car, it was in me. Background process chewing up memory.
I thought about Oumuamua, about 3I/ATLAS, about drones in the autumn sky. Natural? Psyop? Breakaway civilization? Non-humans? Didn’t matter. The important part wasn’t what they were. It was that they were signatures — fragments of the same intelligence writing itself into our airspace, our telescopes, our gossip.
Out of the windscreen, Dunwich village looked like Dunwich always did — flint church, sagging roofs, tourists with cameras. But the stone walls shimmered in outline, like I was seeing blueprints underneath the brick.
I muttered to myself, “This is bleed-through. This is the parasite Word breaking down.”
And then the dashboard clock ticked wrong, just once. A second too long, then too short. A loop.
The hum sharpened.
A phrase appeared in my head like graffiti scrawled across grey matter:
DON’T BELIEVE. DON’T DISBELIEVE. SURF.
I laughed out loud, raw and cracked. Started the engine.
Consensus revved, exhaust puffed.
But the background program kept running, quiet as a ghost, patient as the sea.
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The "not normal " man was no doubt NEO-ELITE