A letter I received from Jeff Boss:
“As I write this, I am in a tent on my bed to avoid the cameras that are all over my apartment. I have been chased around the world. I have survived over 1,000 attempts on my life.”
“It is Saturday morning, April 19, 2012. I currently have an NSA husband and wife crew living above me. All of the apartments on my floor have been filled with NSA agents. Mel in 24-C and his friend in 24-D have been recruited by the NSA. Also, Elaina the real estate broker, who owned the pug type dog, is NSA. All employees of the Galaxy Apartment building and its management team have been recruited by the NSA.”
“My microwave cannot be used because it is giving off microwaves outside of the oven. My cell phone is also giving off microwaves same as the oven. My computer and TV are also giving off these waves, along with my electric shaver. This frequency was used in the 1991 Gulf War to put so much fear in the Iraqi troop’s minds that over 100,000 surrendered.”
“I have a GPS chip in my tooth, credit card, and driver’s license. Whenever I go out I am tracked and followed by the NSA. I know you are thinking, why have I survived? Why haven’t they killed me yet? The reason is, I discovered the secret identity codes and use them nonstop to avoid being killed. The NSA has a secret identity sign to alert other agents that you are one of them. This is how I survive…”
I have known Jeff for a year now, trading letters back and forth throughout his Presidential campaign, Senate bid, and his current run for Mayor of New York. Most people would never dream of aspiring to these high offices, but Jeff proceeds with total confidence and enthusiasm. I have come to admire the vivid adventure of his life. In some ways, it seems a more poignant and purposeful existence than most of us will ever know. His world is a frightening one—but without danger, courage is impossible. Without tragedy, there can be no heroes.
Jeff was wallpapering Times Square with big photocopied broadsides when I first met him. He was clutching one that read: “JEFF BOSS WITNESSED THE NSA ARRANGE 911.”
He saw me watching him. “Do you work for the NSA?” he asked. I told him I didn’t. “It’s OK if you do,” he continued. “The NSA is a great organization. The people in the NSA are great people. But there are a few people who control the computer in the NSA, who are moles, actually. Khrushchev said he was going to destroy America without firing a shot. I’m not saying it’s Russia—it could be the Chinese—it could be someone who’s gone mad in America - I don’t know…”
Jeff was stocky but elfin. He was a man in his 40s with an unwrinkled, untroubled face, and the big blue eyes of a calf. He was talking like a sugared-up kid, words leap-frogging.
“Why would the NSA arrange 9/11?” I asked.
“When you create fear in the people,” he said, “you can get them to give up their rights. The Patriot Act was presented to Congress and the Senate… It took away our civil liberties, our privacy. Now they don’t need a warrant to listen to every phone call, so now they listen to Wall Street and buy and sell in every stock, and now they have unlimited budget, unlimited power. They can monitor anyone, kill anyone.”
“Anyone that speaks up better not go to any restaurants,” he continued. “The NSA calls the chef who puts poison oil in your meal—looks like a heart attack. The oil is toxic but it tastes fantastic.”
It was Jeff’s sister-in-law, Cathy who had orchestrated the September 11th attacks. Six months prior, Cathy had gotten drunk at her own wedding and blabbed about plans to crash planes into buildings. She mentioned the name Khalid Shaikh Mohammed. She claimed to be NSA. “I didn’t believe her at the time,” Jeff said, “but the NSA must have been watching because after that, everything changed. Cars started blowing up, child services would show up, people tried to break into our house to kill us every night. I mean, every night someone was trying to come through our windows or our doors. At first I thought it was the repo-man. I had everything barricaded, booby-trapped. My wife, Valerie could not understand. She got nervous. Things were just going haywire. She took the kids and went back to her mother’s. It was a good thing they left ‘cause they could’ve gotten killed.”
“That was the last time I saw my wife. I heard her voice on the phone, but it wasn’t her. The NSA can imitate anyone’s voice. I believe that they either replaced her or were using some kind of brainwashing on her. I have affidavits that my wife’s blood type and foot sizes have changed. The experts tell me that they grab the original people, lock them up in a facility like Area 51, and force them to transmit answers to a body double wearing an earpiece. The body doubles - they put a mask on ‘em, like a Halloween mask, or do plastic surgery to make ‘em look the same. Nano-technology voice-box makes their voice sound the same.”
“So after all of that,” I asked, “what did you do?”
“The only thing I could do,” Jeff said. “I decided to run for president. I am determined to let the world know what really happened on 9/11 and to get my family back if they are still alive. If you spread the word about me, I’ll make you my press secretary.”
“I’m pretty sure you work for the agency,” he continued, “but if you don’t work for the agency, they’re going to approach you in a little while and give you money to keep quiet, okay? If you take the money, enjoy it. Find a girl, buy her a nice ring, take her on a cruise, take her to Paris. They’ve got EPCOT there, they’ve got Disney World there, good dining, beautiful surroundings, and it’s nice—if the agency will give you time off.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but I really don’t work for the agency.”
“Well,” he said, “you will soon. Tell your friends, OK? Nice meeting you. Be safe.”
With that, presidential candidate Jeff Boss grabbed his rolling suitcase and sauntered off towards 42nd Street, all the while pausing to smile and shake the hands of his supporters.