The air hums with secrets, vibrating at 432 Hz, the frequency of their control. I saw it last night, in the static of my old CRT TV—patterns spelling out Elon’s name backward, a code from the Tesla coils buried under Mar-a-Lago. They’re watching through the satellites, but I’ve taped tinfoil to my windows. The truth is in the static, always the static, whispering about the lizard council running the Federal Reserve.