August 6, 2022

by Michael Knight

Maybe you remember crying as a child.

I don't.

Not even through the many times I was given a hiding. Whipped, would be a better word. With leather belts, long-handled wooden spoons, electric kettle cords and thorny sticks from an elaeagnus hedge.

Then later in life I would send her a card every year, on my birthday, to thank her for bringing me back into this world and another life. To my father too.

I have only cried twice that I remember, and my memory is very good.

The first that I remember was 40 years ago.

Alone, having escaped to the mountains, I was feeling very sorry for myself and I found myself weeping under a star-studded sky. The UFO that parked above me sent me solace - and that's another untold story.

Two weeks ago I turned 77.

Today, I cried, and wept, and sobbed with gasping breaths.

The tears cascaded down my cheeks, across my chin and fell onto my T-shirt. Through my misted eyes I saw the spots. But could not stop.

I cried.

And groaned.

And wept some more.

But not for myself.

It was for the children.

The missing ones.

Not the runaways so much, for I was once a childhood runaway myself - but not for long - and I have assumed (till recently) that most of them return home.

No, I was weeping for the ones I began to learn about in late 2017 when President Trump signed an Executive Order. That was the best part of five years ago. It was aimed at those involved in human trafficking.

Since then I have done many hours of research, written innumerable articles and made countless videos on the subject.

I have written about the Clintons and their involvement in "rescuing" children after the Haiti earthquake. They used a woman claiming connections to a certain church to do their dirty work.

My videos have included personal testimony from survivors of that trafficking process.

One in particular spoke of tunnels and underground trains that travel at high speed from coast to coast - so she could be taken from tunnels under the Getty Museum on the West Coast to the White House for use and abuse by the likes of Obama and Biden.

For 60 years, despite having worked in many unrelated fields during that time, I have seen myself, essentially, as a professional reporter, a writer, an author. Honest. Unbiased. Objective. Accurate.

As for my personal life, for the present that remains another untold story.

Suffice to say, with no further explanation, that I never laid a hand on my children. But I left when they were young, and I know the agony of those who have lost their beloved little ones.

In the years since Trump signed that Executive Order I have diligently scoured the Internet - as many people do these days - in order to get information beyond what is available on the mainstream media.

YouTube, TikTok, Twitter, Rumble, Bitchute, Brighteon, Vimeo, Gab, Telegram, Facebook and many more have been my hunting ground. Websites throughout the world have been available at the tap of a key.

But in very very few places do we find any mention of missing children.

Yes, since that EO was signed, there has been an uptick in the targeting and arresting of pedophiles, and that is a very good thing. Nevertheless, we hear little to nothing about their trials and sentences.

And we hear nothing at all about the children they have used and abused.

We hear and see and read about the likes of Jeffrey Epstein and Ghislaine Maxwell and their pedo island where Bill Clinton and Prince Andrew and Mark Zuckerberg and Kevin Spacey all went for sex parties with what we are told were underage girls. Teenagers. Not children. Teenagers. Young women, we might assume - some of whom became finders and participants themselves.

I learned also that Maxwell worked at Disney for many years - that she was a licensed civilian submarine pilot - that Disney cruises would anchor in the vicinity of the Epstein island - and we can draw many conclusions from that.

Yet, and I'll say it again for emphasis, we were told nothing about the children. And I mean young children. Very young.

Those are the ones I wept for today.

I wept because those professionally bottled up feelings, the ones I thought were so objective, so capable of just reporting what I have seen or learned from what others have written reported or made videos about, those bottled up feelings suddenly caught me totally by surprise.

Long ago I had schooled myself to put my emotions in the freezer, such as when as a news cameraman I was filming a reporter interviewing a prostitute who spoke about the weirdness of a client with a fetish related to body wastes. My stomach churned until I consigned my feelings to the freezer.

Though I have done my share of reporting in articles and videos on the subject of missing children and human trafficking, many others are doing similar work.

It is from them that I have learned about underground cities and world-wide tunnels and the breeding of children who will never see daylight.

I have seen the images captured from that Weiner laptop of Hillary Clinton in the most horrific of vampire modes.

Unlike the 12 New York cops who saw it, I did not throw up. Nor did I later commit "suicide" as we're told was the way 9 of those 12 cops ended their lives.

I have seen pictures of captured sex-slave teenage women, arms amputated at the elbow, legs cut off at the knee, still bandaged yet otherwise naked and supporting themselves upon those stumps, defenseless targets awaiting their next experience of hideous abuse.

A bubbling of anger, righteous anger, gathered in my stomach. I switched to another tab.

I carried on.

I wrote less about the seedy side of life and more about the enemies within and without.

I wrote and made videos about Gates and Fauci and Schwab and Zelensky and the Great Reset and Covid and Biden's hairy legs and sniffing habits.

I recoiled from information about the children.

Yet I rejoiced to see a Florida sheriff and his team had arrested 178 pedophiles - and more to come; but again wondered, briefly, "what about the children?" - and moved on.

I reported dispassionately about Roe v Wade being overturned, and watched from a distance the aftermath of that. I marveled at women who got so angry that from now on they would not be able to go to the nearest clinic and kill the child they had conceived.

I rejoiced at the fact that Planned Parenthood could no longer profit from the sale of fetuses and still-warm body parts from those aborted still-forming little ones.

I recalled being present at the birth of my youngest daughter, marveling at the fortitude of her mother, smiling like a looney as the first coughing gurgling squawk signaled the arrival of the butterfly from the chrysalis in which she had been so lovingly nurtured; the cocoon, her mother's womb in which our daughter's immortal soul and spirit had observed the atoms of her eventual physical being recombining the genes of her parents, creating what would be her new body in this next new life.

I recalled that moment and found myself thinking once again about Life.

And children.

I went back to doing research, dispassionately, objectively, the freezer always there to keep me safely distanced.

I saw what was said to be a quote from Mad Max film star Mel Gibson saying Hollywood is full of adrenochrome junkies - stars who drink adrenochrome, derived from the blood of terrified children.

Yeah! Right!

No way!!

But I did my research. That's what I do. And then I think, and write. And research some more.

I found a clip on Bitchute of Angelina Jollie talking about a ritual she went through to join the Illuminati. I have known about the Illuminati for at least 30 years. They are snake worshipers - worse yet, Satan devotees. Her clip is at https://www.bitchute.com/video/Y08H4UpwrfxG/

I then checked out Brad Pitt.

He too says he "made a pact" with Satan, and it has "worked out well."

https://www.bitchute.com/video/2zy5OXEomjkE/

I then believed Mel Gibson.

He had told the truth.

These "stars" follow the Devil.

I found a clip on TikTok.

It showed two women at a stainless steel table, something like a square shallow working bench with raised siges at the end of which stood a man with a sprinkler in his hand.

The women were working a production line.

The commodity was aborted babies, baby parts and flesh.

The associated text said it was an underground baby farm.

Breeding women - women used as breeders - women who conceived, and at a certain point in their pregnancy, the baby was aborted, parted out, sold, or eaten.

I did some searching on cannibalism, and found The Cannibal Club https://www.cannibalclub.org/

It's front page still says, "Our exclusive clientele includes noted filmmakers, intellectuals, and celebrities who have embraced the Enlightenment ideals of free expression and rationalism. On event nights, avant-garde performance artists, celebrated literary figures, and ground-breaking musicians entertain our guests."

I remembered Oprah Winfrey and her championing of a guy from South America known as John of God. He too had a breeding farm - impregnating captured women, selling the babies at whatever age the market demanded, then killing their mothers when they were no longer required.

I saw pictures of Obama and another one of Pelosi's son, both accompanied by images of trussed up children.

In 2017 Sean Hannity on FOX ran a story in which Wikileaks revealed that "Obama Ran Pedophile Ring Out Of White House."

Another image I found has Obama and George Clooney seated in the back of a power boat. Maybe the pic was taken by one of the Paparazzi following Obama in a different boat but using a long lens to get the shot. It shows a young Asian girl kneeling between Obama's legs while Clooney is clearly adjusting his belt, or his zip.

I stayed aloof, objective, but the fire of righteous anger began to burn higher in my stomach.

It almost touched my heart. I put it in the freezer.

More recent headlines and videos in the "alternative" media, produced by those General Flynn has called "digital soldiers" began to get my attention.

Untouched, undoctored footage reveals the presence of huge tunnels, some lined with bunks, others with shackles embedded in the walls. Maps reveal a network of tunnels used by "maglev" trains that travel at high speed not only from coast to coast in America, but from continent to continent.

I don't know how they figure out the numbers, but I've seen individuals who are personally involved in the undercover work against these traffickers saying that the trade sees literally millions of children disappearing every year to prop up a multi-billion-dollar business.

Within that trade, "stars" pay enormous amounts of money to assuage their thirst for adrenochrome. It is the most expensive drug on Earth. Every day it is being garnered from the blood of tortured children - children tortured and often raped to death.

Today, I learned something new.

Something worse than I had ever conceived of being possible.

I learned that those children's bodies are parted out for what organs can be sold.

And the flesh is also a commodity.

It too has a price, and there are those who are willing to pay.

And then?

And then it finds its way into hamburgers.

And chicken feed, and chicken flesh.

And we eat that.

Forget the freezer and the fires of righteous anger and my sense of impotent rage.

Suddenly, for the second time in my life, I was crying.

I let it rip.

It wasn't an uncontrollable crying.

I had no desire to control it.

I just wanted to weep and weep and gasp a thousand breaths.

I wept.

I sobbed.

I cried a million tears.

For the children.