How I Became Persona Non Grata to the Deep State, by G Squared

A personal account

by G Squared 12/12/19

I was present when what became known as The Age Tapes were taken by NSW Police Intel (Remington Bldg. across to The Deputy Commissioner at College St. HQ. He also had THE Intel phone on his desk, which I had cause to access on other occasions. Before I became Persona Non Grata to Australian Deep State, and rapidly run through its cohort MSM, causing an extraction problem. I should have remained in London and Athens. 

Returning to The Age Tapes; my elevator suggestion that the matter be left to Intel to resolve was ignored, with unfounded implicit trust being exhibited in a deeply flawed system that would act to protect itself. As it did. 

The effects of professional, career long, unwavering denial, moral trust and belief, in that which deserved nothing. As The political mafia dross of the day, and its handler, ensconced in his bunker in lower Macquarie St. rapidly took the matter in hand and destroyed its substance and reality. Not to be seen again. 

I had visited the lower Macquarie St. bunker on occasions, with regard to other concerns. The Enhanced One was not conducive, or even amenable to rapprochement. Unfounded bluster, arrogance and self-relevance exuded. 

His Intel file was heavy with corruptions and personal improprieties. The protected conduit to The Crown. Albeit such matters had not bothered Intel in the past, and he was not under Garter protection. He was an unattached free-spirited floater, careful to bow and scrape as required. But fooled no one of consequence. 

We were never friends. He played in his fiefdom, beyond which he had no relevance or input. In fact he had made himself an enemy. I was transferred to London. 

From Deep State at The Strand, I was signalled as returning to Australia. I was slipped a hand-written note at the airport in London, and took appropriate action concerning the PCMCIA Card in my shirt pocket and destroyed The HP200LX I had, in a toilet. But I had to carry the Card and knew I was followed by a Deep State enthusiast from The Strand. 

When the enlightened ones on my arrest in Sydney could not read The PCMCIA Card, they so cleverly found; I was also unable to make it read. And didn’t know what was on it. I was an innocent courier between two unknown ops. In fact I thought that The Card was for delivery to AFP Intel behind the  Remington Bldg. Where I was taken after my arrest. How should I know? 

I was advised some years later that AFP Intel, after considerable frustrations had actually sent the Card to my associates to read, without knowing. Well, nothing happened there, did it? 

Then a dark alley for Australian Deep State began. One of their leakers had sold a fiction to MSM, while I was being detained. I was arrested by about twenty at Sydney Airport. I knew that was the stage, as soon as I put down the customs card to be ticked. Experience, you know. After I eventually managed to get a coded phone call out from AFP Intel HQ, the circus began at Central Local Court, packed, at about 10:30 am on a Saturday morning. 

From nothing by AFP, I was run through NSW at the Goulburn St. Compound. I had them get me Maccas, as I was hypoglycemic and could die in custody, after all the hoopla they created on the day of arrest. And with no charges. NSW also had a problem with a grab bag from the old Crimes Act. 

In a mad rush they sent someone down from AFP to type some crap into The NSW computer to be printed for court. The circus played through with a large team at the prosecution side of the room, making it up as they flew. The room was packed with a crowd standing around the back. 

I had shifted three lawyers from their planned weekend slumber to my side. There were familiar faces I could not acknowledge, standing at the back to my right. Scribes were in full bloom, and on my left front, was a table with media sketch artists. No doubt the mission being to have me appear mournful and with remorse. But for what, had not yet been delivered by The Deep State Stormtroopers in attendance. 

Inanities flowed in breathless spasms. Eventually the Magistrate asked me, how do I plead? My lead solicitor immediately stood, turned back to me and said; “Do not speak!”. Loud enough for all to hear. The whole affair was already in theory land anyway. And nothing was going to change at this stage. After a brief silent chat at the defence table, where three others materialized, who were standing nearby at the side, my solicitor stood, conducted a brief quiet chat with The Magistrate, with two of the Prosecution Table leaning forward to listen. The Magistrate declared Bail had been granted, with immediate release, and left the scene. My solicitor came back to me and advised that I would be released, with no further details. And of course I knew not to speak to anyone about anything. 

The crew knew where I was, so I didn’t think beyond that. Instead of being released, I spent that Saturday night to Monday afternoon in a wing at Silverwater. I was held in a ‘dry cell’, with twenty-four hour lighting, A German Shepherd and three guards at a table outside the cell. I’ve seen all this stupidity before. I had five lengthy interrogation interviews with various hoons, in another section of the prison. The entourage processions were comic. I sat there and never spoke, as copious notes were written. About what, who knows, and who cares? They could not be matched with any video footage. 

On late Monday afternoon I was shackled and trucked back to the Central Magistrates Court. The crowds had diminished upstairs. My solicitor and one other were there, and an op. I knew later appeared at the registry office. 

The Enemy, also represented by two, were there but did not speak beyond advising they were present. My solicitor delivered a quiet one minute speech, and nodded to me. I was taken straight to the registry office where my solicitor and his associate and an op. appeared. I signed some documents that my solicitor put in front of me. I was taken back down to the underground cell area, and released through the back door into the courtyard area. I walked across to the car blocking the courtyard entrance. Another was blocking the lane entrance at the top. There being a police station attached to the back of the court house with the usual activity; there had to be some agreed authority concerning at least the two standing beside the back vehicle blocking the lane. I was driven to a safe house, where I was met, given keys, a mobile, and the usual arrangements for food, money and clothing was organised. 

A contact would visit me on a daily basis for what I needed. Deep State with its stupid MSM flooding, had created a massive problem for itself that would splash back to me. I would need to keep it from migrating further. I wore it for over a decade. Certain legal and policing characters were removed from office, but The Enhanced One kept deceiving unabated. He must have shown remorse, agreed to be a good boy, and did not a have a bad attitude towards the decisions. A remarkable parallel between this character and John McCain III. 

The massive coordinated circus began at Sydney Airport, very early one Saturday morning, when I arrived. I lived through it, as one does, for a decade. With the Enemy Within having wasted in the vicinity of fifteen million dollars for a grand pyrrhic victory of meaningless proportions. 

Incessant deals were offered, it being unknown or forgotten by the roll call of unwashed amateurs with which I was confronted, that I was three generations in The Craft. True theatre had to be constructed for Deep State to extricate itself from the bog it invented; knee deep and rapidly sinking. A mad rush through the court system was orchestrated with hand picked on one side and blackmailed on the other.