False Flags: Analyzing the 2017 Las Vegas Massacre

This article could be called "The Fun Time My Husband Bought an AR-15 Rifle in the Wake of the Las Vegas Massacre." Bought, not brought. If I was writing for a mainstream publication, that might be the title. As long as I was A: Absolutely anti gun and B: Absolutely agreed that Stephen Paddock somehow killed 58 and wounded 400 in a lone gun fish in a barrel style.

All of the recent churn on the skeptical side about false flags had me thinking about my own in my (adopted) home city of Las Vegas. Supposedly, as the official story goes, a lone gunman opened fire on a crowd from his Mandalay Bay hotel window, killing 58 and wounding over 400 more on the Route 91 Country Music Harvest Festival Below. I wrote something in 2017 about it, near the time when it happened. By the way, the Health Ranger Mike Adams had the.most epic takedown of this official story. For me, as God usually does, he points me in the right direction. By sheer coincidence my husband Oh was applying for a background check for an AR-15. This is a sniper rifle, a .308 caliber, and the type of thing that can supposedly kill something a mile away. It's the same kind (among others) that was supposedly used, with a bump stock, to kill near 60 people and injure over 400 others in the Las Vegas massacre. That happened the night before my husband's FBI background check came in clean for his gun.

It's funny because I looked up on Facebook my original post and they had oddly taken out the first part of it, about the marked safe warnings and the several friends messaging me about whether I was okay. No I was not at the Route 91 Harvest Festival. I was 10 miles away, sleeping at home with my family. I also see they took out things about the massive size of Las Vegas casinos and how far Paddock would have actually been aiming from.

This story of the greatest mass lone gunman shooting in United States history got buried quick, don't you think? I have good reason to suspect why. My neighbor (Hispanic) over the fence said she was working the Strip that night and some operative types were roaming the floor. She was less than one kilometer away from the mass shooting. Another Hispanic friend told me a similar story.

Now maybe the mass panic that night caused people working on the Strip or near it to see chaos everywhere. I don't think so. A lot of Latinos have seen it at any rate and will throw down. So will a bunch of PTSD US military veterans. Actually that's the precise problem with trying such shit in Law Vegas: a new "Terror on the Strip" style performance (and who the heck were they going to blame it on in 2017: Islamic Terrorists? Domestic White Supremacists? Trumptards? Russians?) just wouldn't work. I've sat there watching videos out of Shanghai and I can't help but thinking damn, you just need one or two dudes to go full sniper John Wick on the biohazard storm troopers strangling your Corgi, and you'd have a real interesting show on your hands. But they need mass genocide over there, high deaths high births or something. A Mandate from Heaven, I don't know. I never wanted to live in China. "You couldn't pay me enough!" As my pilot friend told me. I concur.

My feeling about the Las Vegas Strip massacre was that it was a mixed bag of nuts and aborted. By that I mean that they had a big thing planned with crisis actors, real operatives, and a lot of ground control and media in the bag. It was supposed to go down different than it did, but they had a plan B, and thus it disappeared into lone gun nut oblivion.

Here's what I wrote about it in late 2017. This is an orphan post, never really fitting into any of my books. Here's what's left of it:

We didn’t need to call about Oh’s gun. They called him just a few minutes after he asked me. “Is Surin Phorkwang there?” A person from Bass Pro Shops said. She badly mangled and mispronounced his name, of course. I handed the phone over to Oh.

“About your gun.” I said to him. I didn’t hear their side, but could tell from my husband’s body language something was off.

“So cannot? Why cannot?” I heard Oh say. Perhaps they’d decided to do a more thorough review due to the massacre on the Strip, or thought it wasn’t politically correct to hand someone the same type of gun as would later be attributed to some of these deaths, without the bump stock of course, the next morning. Disclaimer: My husband was not the man on the grassy knoll. There’s no grass in Las Vegas unless you water it.

“Okay. Okay.” Oh hung up. “They say cannot.” He said to me.

“Why cannot?” It didn’t make sense from a purely legal perspective. Oh had background checked for two guns in Las Vegas already, and the Ruger revolver he still had. He was looked at oddly by the mostly white often former military men that went to these places, but he had his green card and no criminal record. He was allowed to legally possess a firearm in Nevada. Now personally I hadn’t wanted this rifle at all. It was expensive and useless in my mind I had no intention of bringing down a Bull Elephant from one mile away or anything. I was never into guns, but at first I treated Oh’s obsession as I did other guy things I’d seen men into over the years, from ATVs to motorcross. Whatever floats your boat.

But Oh was becoming more bombastic and carried away with his gun sometimes. I really didn’t want another around. From a practical perspective I'd considered that a long heavy rifle would make a better tool as a bludgeon like a baseball bat than to actually shoot anyone at close range. The week before while we swam at the pool Pete took Oh to Bass Pro Shops and my husband laid his new credit card on the line for the purchase of this gun. There was really nothing I could do about it.

Oh was getting more upset as he thought about this rejection. “Gen! We go now! New shop! Buy the gun!”

I rolled my eyes. This was the worst thing he could do, have one gun shop tell him he didn’t background check or they needed to put him through additional checks or something and then for him to show up somewhere else incoherently demanding a firearm right now. These Second Amendment types take their gun rights seriously the worst thing you can do is show up in anything less than a clean, sober, controlled manner, least of all if you’re already a person of color. Hell if Oh showed up at a gun shop drunk demanding a gun on the spot they might even call the police. Good luck ever legally owning a gun after that.

I played for time. “What did they say? About your gun before?” They say no cannot, or they say waiting, or…”

“They say something wrong! Maybe FBI checking!” Oh shouted back. FBI? What or how would they have anything to do with this? Something was wrong there’d just been this massacre the night before across the highway from where Oh had purchased his rifle that was supposedly carried out by a gun nut who included amongst his arsenal something just like my husband was trying to buy. This wasn’t a day even the most avid gun freaks were going to be saluting with rifles on the Strip.

“I just think you need to wait!” I said back. As if on cue, Bass Pro Sports called us back then, wanting to speak to Surin Phorkwang. I put them on speakerphone this time. The woman on the phone explained that there had been some sort of mix up in files, and that Oh had cleared background checks. I found this fascinating as I am positive my husband was the only Surin Phorkwang on Earth and because he was such an odd case all around. Most overseas internationals I’d met showed a complete aversion to the American obsession with owning firearms, and they were illegal for civilians in Thailand. Whose file did they confuse him with? “Your gun is ready.” She said to him.

Ugh. “Gen.” Oh looked at me as soon as the phone was clicked off. “Let’s go.” I suppose I could have called Pete or Oh would have, but I had a reason I was interested this time.

“Eliza me and your daddy are going on a food delivery.” I said to our daughter. Mom didn’t like the gun Oh already had I didn’t feel like announcing a new one, which I hadn’t really approved directly either. Too late for that now.

“I don’t want to go! I stay here with grandma!” My then four year old shouted. Good instinct kid I was positive the first thing Oh would want to do with his new weapon was shoot it. Oh had already bought ammunition for both guns and had packed up his Ruger revolver for the ride.

Bass Pro Shops in Las Vegas is next to Silverton Casino, readily visible from Interstate 15 at the farthest south end of the Las Vegas strip before you begin to get into the desert open range headed towards California. I looked at the hulking tower of Mandalay Bay from across Interstate 15 as we came to our stop. From a distance it looked normal, but there was an eerie stillness, an aura surrounding it of calm unease. On this Monday almost afternoon, the gun section of the sporting goods store was surprisingly uncrowded. Sometimes these mass shootings lead to a gun rush as Second Amendment types become scared that the U.S. government is going to start adding more restrictions soon, but they had been a lot less jittery about that since President Trump came into office. Or perhaps the fact that we were literally sitting in the shadow of where the massacre occurred 14 hours before had the Las Vegas gun enthusiasts in a more reverent mood. Oh was the only one in there who wasn’t staff.

The woman we had talked to on the phone brought out a long cardboard box the .308 sniper rifle was in. An older gentleman with white hair double checked Oh’s green card, credit card and Nevada ID card, making sure he was who he said he was, before he finalized the transaction. Oh had bought the gun Wednesday night I had called Saturday to inquire about his three day background check but it hadn’t cleared yet. The man made friendly small talk as he finalized Oh’s purchase, having him sign this and that. Absolutely nothing was said about the 58 people supposedly killed the night before across the highway.

My husband pushed it as the man handed him his gun. “Excuse me sir? What you thinking? About the man he shooting everybody last night?”

The older gentleman seemed to think about how to word it. “I think a very thorough investigation needs to happen into this whole matter. That Sheriff Lombardo needs to get on the case. You folks have a nice day.” He tipped his hat to us, western style.

“Gen? We go shooting the gun.” Oh said as we walked out of Bass Pro Shops. I knew that was coming he was taking his new rifle out of the box in our Chevy Suburban, trying to get an idea of what was what.

“I’d prefer you put that back in the box.” I said as we pulled out. I was planning to drive across the I-15 overpass to Las Vegas Boulevard, right under Mandalay Bay casino where the shooting had occurred. I was expecting a police presence in the area. I thought Oh playing with a sniper rifle in the passenger’s seat might look a little incriminating today. Or any other day.

They had the road blocked heading North on Las Vegas, but it was nothing excessive. A single security guard stood near some cones, looking more bored than anything. Oh wanted to ask him something. I was horrified but at least he had put the guns away.

“Excuse me sir!” My husband said, waving the security staff to the side of the Suburban. “This where the man, he shooting?”

The guard had sunglasses on it was hard to read his mind. “Well it happened a little farther up here, but you can’t go that way right now. You can take Las Vegas South or Blue Diamond east.”

“Thank you.” I said, rolling up my window. The cleanup effort was well underway somewhere inside. Being this close something felt off but I couldn’t put my finger on what. But driving past the massacre site wasn’t really where I was going anyways. Just south of Las Vegas, following the main drag until it turns into nothing but scrub brush there is an open range area. And being an open range, it is legal to fire guns down there.

I really don’t like the first few dirt road turnoffs once we come to the open range area. They are so heavily used and crowded that they scare me, with expended shell casings littering the ground everywhere at the nearest high bluffs, and gunshots ricocheting off the canyon walls in all directions during popular times. The old military saying is that you never hear the shot that kills you, but I’ve seen quite enough to not terribly enjoy the sound of gunshots coming from unknown directions, period. It puts me on edge.

There is a civility that is often employed out here of course, with people firing away from traffic on I -15 and generally pointing towards the dirt bluffs to the East. But once you have a fierce combination of agitated, possibly inebriated locals, Chinese tourists anxious for a picture of them with a gun, wannabe Midwestern gangstas with submachine guns and young blood Vegas Latino roamers looking for practice, it starts to look a little bit dicey. I prefer the drive in deep where we’re all alone.

“Gen! Can stop!” Oh said as I passed the second turnoff for the open range. It was odd I neither saw nor heard a single person practicing on these bluffs. The weather was really perfect that day for early October in Las Vegas. It was slightly hot in the 90’s, sunny and with no wind. But the unbearable heat of the summer was gone, the winds hadn’t kicked in yet, and there was not a cloud in the sky. It should have been a day that had people ricocheting gunshots all over the desert mountain walls. But apparently the massacre had affected them we were only 10 miles maybe 16 kilometers from the site of the 91 Harvest Country Festival by that point.

I turned off at the third turnoff we hadn’t been to this one before. Oh shot first with the rifle he was excited to try it out. I took video he always wanted his friends back in Thailand to see stuff like this. And then he shot with the Ruger revolver, trying to hit some target not too far away. I had fired Oh’s guns before, but I frequently didn’t. I have no need to I would never use it on another, I always figured, and I’m not into hunting either. If a true life and death situation came up again, I can go in close mortal combat style. A gun is near useless in that scenario but it already is on the basis that somebody attacked you physically first. Its a better bludgeoning tool than anything else, if you happen to have one on hand. Theres no keeping a gun loaded either I don’t need my kids shooting themselves thank you very much. In the times I’ve had a gun pointed at me I’ve never had time to assess whether it’s loaded and if you need to point a gun at someone for true self-defense they won’t either. And I’m not into Russian roulette I had a friend die from it back in the day in Toledo. It sounds dangerous because it is.

After Oh shot I heard some gun nut shooting farther east. We weren’t alone. I was hoping he wasn’t aiming for us but he sounded like he was on the other side of the ridge, thus a one in 100,000 chance of hitting us even if he was inexplicably shooting high into the air and in our direction. “You! Do!” Oh pushed me to shoot the guns. It was uncharacteristic of him but the last two times I’d come to this area Eliza was with me and I pretty much sat in the SUV with her. After that I told Oh to have Pete or Ricky take him they actually were into guns and might enjoy it. I had shot Oh’s Ruger a few times and his Smith and Wesson he’d had before once. I almost always shot low right into the ground, which was odd since most people statistically shoot high.

I took the sniper rifle. Oh bolted the single shot brass into place. I found a distinctive patch of rocks and a few trees, perhaps 400 yards out. “Shoot!” Oh screamed. I shot.

I was wearing earplugs I hate loud noise but the bang was nowhere as hard as I thought it would be. Actually if I daresay the Ruger was louder. This was long insulated and powerful, but surprisingly not a blast. Whether the shot ended up low or high into the ridge or hit the target area I have no idea. What I do know is after the shot, the rifle kicked back with enough force, that I couldn’t see my target in my scope.

Where was the unique stand of rock and trees on the hillside? I looked in my scope for what seemed like forever at first it was looking up into the sky. “What you doing? Why you waiting? You can load again!” Oh said, agitated.

“Give me a minute!” I said back. I was getting frustrated trying to find my old spot through the scope Oh was rushing me, thinking I didn’t know how to bolt and reload following the expended shell casing. My husband came up to me then, frustrated.

“I show you before! Like this!” Oh said as he locked another .308 caliber in place. “Now shoot! Again!”

Oh was pushing me too fast I was still looking for that stand of rocks and trees that had been my target before. I scanned the hill with my eyes and found the spot again. Oh had taken out the phone he wanted to take video of me to post on Facebook.

“Shoot!” he said to me. I shot again, the sound echoing off the canyon walls. This time I really concentrated on keeping the rifle straight and fixed on the target stand of trees after the shot. I tried to watch in the scope this time I did indeed shoot low. Once again the rifle had kicked into the air above the ridge following the shot. Oh took more video of me shooting, but I had already learned all I needed to know.

“This no good.” My husband said shaking his head sadly as he watched the videos of me shooting. “You shooting the gun you look like somebody rape you.”

“I don’t like guns.” I said back. Too loud and dangerous for me. But I’d learned what I needed to. The official narrative of the Las Vegas massacre that had happened the night before was complete and utter bullshit. I was sure of it.