QAA Podcast - Premium Episode 189: James Cameron Conspiracy Theory & Xenomorphs Return (Sample)

Episode Date: November 2, 2022

The sequel to 'In Space, No One Can Hear You Marjorie Taylor Scream' is here. It's the Jake story everyone's talking about (as seen on the second leg of our tour). Plus, we explore a wild conspiracy theory tying James Cameron to the Freemasons and MK-ULTRA. Subscribe for $5 a month to get an extra episode of QAA every week + access to ongoing series like 'Manclan' and 'Trickle Down': http://www.patreon.com/QAnonAnonymous NOVEMBER LIVE DATES: Nov 12th Philadelphia @ First Unitarian Church Nov 14th Brooklyn @ The Bell House Nov 15th Washington DC @ The Howard Theater Nov 18th Toronto @ The Garrison Nov 20th Chicago @ Lincoln Hall TIX: http://tour.qanonanonymous.com Music by G-Dog. Editing by Corey Klotz. New Merch / Join the Discord Community / Find the Lost Episodes / Etc: http://qanonanonymous.com

What's up QAA listeners? The fun games have begun. I found a way to connect to the internet. I'm sorry, boy. Welcome listener to Premium Chapter 189 of the Q&ONANANANANANANIS podcast, the Cameron Conspiracies and Xenomorphs Return episode. As always, we are your host, Jake Rakatansky, Julian Fields, and Travis View. This week, we're getting treated to the sequel of In Space.

Nobody can hear you Marjorie Taylor Scream by one Jake Rockatansky. Did she survive hyperspace in the Chucky Cheese ball pit? And one of our three extremely dead podcasters, one of which was revealed as a robotoid. For those unable to attend the second leg of our tour, here's your chance to catch up on this wonderful Jake story that we were performing live with all kinds of extra bells and whistles. And if you're planning to attend our third life,

Julian, are you talking about Philadelphia on November 12th, Brooklyn on the 14th, Washington, D.C. on the 15th of November, Toronto on the 18th, and Chicago on the 20th, and Minneapolis on the 21st? Yes. And tickets are available at tour.cunanonanonymous.com. That's exactly correct, Jake. Wow. Jake is getting stuff right. Whoa. I knew the dates.

You had that just loaded up? I guess so, yeah. In your weird little brain? Yeah. Well, to deepen the Jake vibes further in this episode, he's also prepared a segment on conspiracy theories surrounding one James Cameron, director of the second alien movie, Titanic, Avatar,

and possibly your brain. It turns out Cameron may have had deep connections to the Illuminati, the Freemasons, and a host of other shadowy conspiratorial groups. So, without further ado, we present. This time, it's culture war. Blunk! That's the last of them, sir. Bannon surveyed the large underground cavern.

Crates upon crates of supplies were stacked nearly floor to ceiling. Hundreds of workers in cover-all scurried about the abandoned base, scribbling on clipboards and directing civilians to various living quarters. I can't believe it's real, sir. One of the workers remarked, marveling at the massive pillars jutting out of the solid rock walls. It's one thing to watch a couple days. dozen videos on Rumble, but to see it with my own eyes?

His voice began to break. Bannon gently patted him on the shoulder as he took in the scene. You know, in 1986, after the Confederate forces had defeated the Nazis for the second time, Hitler retreated to a base just like this one. Do you know what happened next? The worker thought for a minute. He escaped to the moon? Bannon nodded his head, proud.

That's exactly what he did, son. A voice called out to them from one of the tunnels. Uh, commander Bannon, sir, you're going to want to see this. Bannon and a handful of Turning Point USA lieutenants marched quickly down one of the tunnels, their flashlights bouncing off the glittering limestone. The beams illuminated strange hieroglyphics etched into the walls, alien crafts and faraway constellations. Lining the cave floor was a layer of mist so thick their boots disappeared beneath it. The tunnel opened up into another large cavern.

Bannon stopped dead in his tracks. What are they, sir? Bannon clicked his tongue. I don't know, son. I don't know. A couple meters in front of them were perfectly laid rows of small red cylindrical containers. There were hundreds of them. They looked like red pills, chirped Jack Posobiac.

He kneeled down next to a row of canisters. They were sweating a dark, oily substance. Some small text was printed across the side. Property of Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. Jack Red, a tinge of anxiety in his voice. He traced his hand gently across the lid of one of the canisters. A sticky black substance rubbed off on his fingers. Bannon moved to stop him.

Be careful. That stuff could make you gay. But it was too late. Pesobic's entire arm was melting off of his body. The black goo was coursing through his veins, disassembling his DNA one strand at a time. Marjorie Taylor Green startled awake. She shielded her eyes from the bright fluorescent lights above her head. There was a soft, steady chirping sound.

Marjorie sat up and smacked her forehead on a large glass shield covering the futuristic-looking bed. As Marjorie grimaced and rubbed her forehead, a mechanical hum and the sounds of tiny gears turning commanded her attention. The dome on top of the medical bed began to collapse into itself, and as Marjorie's vision began to return, a blurry image of a person in a white space suit came into focus. Marjorie, can you hear me? Marjorie squinted her eyes. She rubbed her temples. Where am I? She began to thrash around, but quickly stopped as the nausea began to overwhelm her. The doctor placed a steady hand on her shoulder. Take it easy. Your body's still feeling the effects of such a long hyper sleep.

Marjorie's head was reeling. Can you please just tell me where I am? The doctor nodded. You're on the B.H. Obama, one of our premier capital ships. You're lucky we found you. Otherwise, you might have been floating out there forever. Marjorie did a double take. B.H. Obama? Capital ship. She began to scan the room. Her eyes were drawn to a large banner hanging on the wall of the infirmary.

On it were photographs of a diverse group of faces with the text, A Galaxy We All Belonging in. Marjorie's stomach dropped. An instant feeling of uneasiness took over her. Her eyes darted around like a cornered animal. She locked onto another poster hanging next to her medical bed. It was a picture of two men holding hands, smiling and laughing on a beautiful beach.

The text at the bottom in large blue letters read, Affordable health care for him and them. A shooting pain course through Marjorie's bones. She zeroed in on the doctor standing next to her. Their hair had brilliant streaks of bright purple. Their gender wasn't immediately apparent. Marjorie began to panic. How long have I been gone?

The doctor calmly placed a comforting hand on Marjorie's ankle. I'm sorry to tell you this, Mrs. Green. But you've been out here for almost 60 years. Marjorie's head was spinning 60 years. It was impossible. Her friends, her family, all the Christmases, all the podcasters she'd blocked. Gone in an instant. She looked up almost pleading with the doctor.

Tell me, is my husband? Is he still alive? The doctor nodded. Yes. But I'm afraid he filed for divorce decades ago. Marjorie slumped back onto the bed. The doctor handed her a two and a half milligram edible. Here, take this.

Get some sleep. You'll debrief with the board at 0,900 hours tomorrow morning, and you'll want to be well rested. Good night. Marjorie stood in the center of a large boardroom, staring forlornly as the telegram profiles of her former crew flashed across a large iPad mounted to one of the walls. Sebastian Gorka.

Bill Mitchell. Dan Crenshaw. Marjorie's face twisted up a little as Crenshaw's picture. picture lingered on the screen. Sitting around a large circular table were a group of DNC company suits, casually sifting through papers and photographs, puffing on zero Nick Jules. One of them tossed a stack of papers back down on the table and looked up at Marjorie, incredulous. So you're telling me that you survived the Yellowstone eruption in 2023? Marjorie nodded, yes. And that the... He glanced down at his notes. Chuckie cheese you were in was catapulted into space. Yes.

And you and your crew survived this despite having no outer space training whatsoever or even a viable spacecraft. Marjorie clenched her eyes shut in frustration. Yes. The man continued. And that a mutated version of George W. Bush, the last great conservative president, was able to kill an entire ship full of gun-wielding traitorous domestic terrorists. Marjorie was growing impatient. Yes, like I've told you over and over. The guy shrugged.

I'm sorry, Marjorie, but our recovery team found no trace of anything resembling a creature like that on your escape pod. The only thing out of the ordinary were the remains of an early T-series Android prototype. Is it possible you confused it for the monster you're describing? He gestured over to a large trash bag with disembodied pieces of Travis View inside. Marjorie threw up her hands. You know, I appreciate your time. I really do. But I believe my mag of friends are in grave danger.

Whatever that thing was, we picked it up. On earth, we need to go back before it takes the lives of more innocent people. The man smiled. He folded his hands and leaned back in his boardroom chair. Well, innocent is a relative term, I suppose. They were all convicted of boasting crimes in 2025. Thing is, Mrs. Green, after Chelsea Clinton won the election in 2024, many of our secret bases were abandoned. With the overwhelming support for the military, there was no longer a need to keep them hidden from the public.

Any maggots that were left over, well, they exiled themselves into the abandoned facilities, or dums, as you used to call them. Thought the world was going to end. The man took a long drag off of his jewel. Point is, Marjorie, your people are safe. Sure, they're surviving on budlimes and mole child meat, but I can assure you, they're fine. How do you know? asked Marjorie. Guy shrugged.

Well, because we've been closely monitoring them for over 50 years. That night, Marjorie Taylor Green was paid. pacing around her quarters. She had survived such a horrifying event, only to wake up 60 years later to a world transformed. The Liberals had won. Anything resembling her culture was banished into a volcano or driven underground. She looked with disdain at the small flat screen mounted on her wall. It was now displaying a scrolling montage of Jeff Chedric Jr. tweets. Ah, turn it off, turn it off, she yelled, reaching for a small remote sitting on her bedside table. She aimed it at the screen and randomly clicked one of the buttons. The display shifted a

abruptly to an episode of Pond Stars, New Vegas. Oh, that's better, she sighed. Her chamber door slid open without warning, and two young white men with short, clean haircuts, carried in several large pieces of workout equipment. Congresswoman, where do you want all this CrossFit stuff? Marjorie was confused. Um, I guess, um, over there in the corner, she mumbled softly.

The guys placed the equipment down, took off their shirts, and began doing pull-ups and sit-ups right there in front of her. Come on, Miss G. You're going to spot us or not? not. The guy smiled cheekily and continued to knock out reps. We're both straight, by the way. Marjorie relaxed a little. Perhaps the communists running the ship had taken pity on her, and were attempting to make her feel more at home. She walked over to the one on the floor, grabbed onto his tennis shoes, and began counting out his reps. 15, 16, 17. All of a sudden, a shooting pain erupted in Marjorie's side. She clutched her abdomen and doubled over. Her vision

began to blur. The room started to spin. She stumbled forward, knocking. over a rack of dumbbells. Strap her down! One of the CrossFit guys yelled as they carried Green over to her medbed. She's going into cardiac arrest! The other one shouted. Marjorie watched in panic as the two men fastened her wrists with the cloth straps. The pain in her stomach was unbearable.

A pool of blood began to form. Turning the white sheets, a crimson red. No, no. Marjorie cried. Just then, a serpent-like George W. Bush burst from her chest, hissing and screeching, sending blood everywhere. With her last ounce of strength, Marjorie looked up at the two CrossFit guys. They were furiously making out at the foot of her bed.

No, Marjorie pleaded. Marjorie awoke in a cold sweat clutching her chest. Her room was dark, and she was alone. A small video screen next to her bed bliped to life. Marjorie, Marjorie, are you there? It was one of the men from the boardroom, someone from the corporation. We've lost surveillance on the Maga Colony at Dulce Base. They've been radio silent for over 48 hours now.

Me and some of the other company members are worried that maybe one of your creatures got to them. Marjorie massaged your head. Well, yeah. So what do you want me to do about it? Guy shrugged. Well, if it is what you've described, as far as we know, you're the only person to ever encounter such a creature. Your experience and input could be useful to our anti-colonialism Marines. You want to take it back to Earth?

Here it is. Marjorie thought for a beat. She clicked the speaker button. Tell me this. You're going down there to save them, right? Not to exterminate them. Not to study them. Man nodded his head.

That's the plan, kiddo. Marjorie considered this for a beat, and then she made a decision. I'm in. You have been listening to a sample of a premium episode of QAnon Anonymous. We don't run any advertising on the show, and we'd like to keep it that way.

For five bucks a month, you'll get access to this. episode, a new one each week, and our entire library of premium episodes. So head on over to patreon.com slash QAnonanonymous and subscribe. Thank you. Thanks. I love you. Jake loves you.