I always knew that something didn’t add up. The world was not as they had led us to believe. It made no sense that good people, people like me, could barely make ends meet, existing from hand to mouth. Yet every day on the TV, on YouTube, I saw others living as the kings of old. More money than they could ever use. Why was that?
To listen to them talk, it was obvious that they were not better people; they were not more deserving. Something was wrong. Some hidden forces were at play.
My rent was overdue again, and Duggan the landlord, that slimy creature, was threatening me with eviction. He was some bigwig in the government, owned a rake of houses here in Mayfield. He surely didn’t need the money. It would be small change to him, the langer.
The more I thought about it, the more angry I became. And then to see these so-called refugees being given first class accommodation, and for free. We citizens, taxpayers, we will have to foot the bill. My heart racing, I could not stand by and watch any longer.
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I heard about the protest from some guys down the Intreo centre that week when I picked up my payment. They gave me an invitation to a Telegram channel they were on. I could learn some interesting stuff there.
They had organised a demonstration outside of the new migrant centre, in Nano Nagle Place, in the city. That should have been a clue. What kind of name is that? Alien, for sure. Would I join them?
At first I wasn’t sure. Schlepping across the river into the centre, just to stand around in the cold? But that night, as I lay in bed, I couldn’t sleep. Tossing and turning, my mind ran crazy scenarios, where I took my revenge on Duggan, my landlord. Eventually, I must have fallen asleep, as, when I approached him, he turned into a giant snake, bearing down on me.
Next morning I could not shake the feeling that something was chasing me. I had to get out of the house. I checked the demo location on the app and headed south across the city.
When I arrived at the address, I met the guys from the dole office, Seamus and Mick. They introduced me to some others, waiting there that morning. We got talking, and I soon found that I was not alone. Many people felt like I did. They had even created a political party to challenge the status quo.
I quickly learned that I didn’t know the half. A new order was being imposed on the world. Our blood was being diluted, our soil taken from us, our cultural energy sapped. That much I had always suspected. But I was soon to learn of a truth far more horrific than I could imagine.
It was here that I met Deiric. I had come simply to protest the arrival of the foreigners. A group of us got talking while we were hanging around, waiting for something to happen. There were about a dozen protesters, and twice as many Guards, eyeing us malevolently.
Deiric told me things then that no newspaper could print, that they permitted no TV programme to speak about. The truth about all the rich and famous, the political figures. Even my landlord. The reason they are not like us is that they are indeed not like us. Reptilians!
It was hard to take in at first, but the more I thought it over, the more sense it made.
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Under Deiric’s leadership, the Party grew. Early in ’25, I received an invitation on the Telegram channel: a week at a retreat in Kenmare was being organised. All the important members would be there. We would attend lectures. There was even to be a talk by the Englishman, Icke.
I hitched a lift with Mick and the others travelling from Cork.
The accommodation wasn’t great, to be honest. I had imagined that the convention was being held in some swanky place, the Park Hotel or somewhere. When we arrived at the coordinates we’d been given on the channel, we found it to be an old farm. Abandoned machinery rusted in the yard, a sea of mud.
After we waded through the muck, they directed us to lodgings on the ground floor of the decrepit farmhouse. We were four assigned to the same room. The draughty Georgian windows doing nothing to keep the west wind out.
We ate in the kitchen. Each was expected to take a turn fetching groceries and preparing meals. Even here, it seems, a hierarchy was in place. The Party needed workers, apparently.
A barn had been kitted out as a lecture theatre. We gathered there that night for the opening session. We took our places on the folding chairs arrayed on the rough floor in front of the makeshift stage. A deck made of shipping pallets raised about a meter supported a long table, where six of the key Party figures sat.
Deiric kicked off the proceedings with a run-down of the programme for the next three days. There would be sessions on fundraising, on the use of social media and how to organise protests.
Next, he introduced the keynote speaker. As David Icke took the platform, I forgot all about my discomfort. His talk was the ultimate confirmation for me. He had all the answers. There could no longer be any doubt. He revealed who really controls the world, how they had duped us for years.
The list was apolitical. Included were not just the obvious candidates – Marx, Obama, Michael D – but also people I had always admired: Hitler, Margret Thatcher and George Bush, amongst others. They were all part of it. The faces of the true rulers of the planet. The likes of Martin and Varadker were merely gofers, their strings pulled by unseen masters. Sitting at the top of the pyramid, these lizard creatures shunned the light of day. Happy to let minions do their bidding.
This was more than a simple retreat, though. After the weekend, we spent a week out on the Beara peninsula, where we were taught the use of firearms. Something big was going to happen when we returned, and we needed to be ready.
They produced a stash of weapons, perhaps a forgotten IRA cache, hidden in the seventies.
They handed me an old German 9mm Luger, said to have belonged to Paddy O’Daly himself, and used in the Civil War. If that pistol could talk…
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The big day was here at last. The plans had been set, and social media exploited to prepare the population for what was to come. The feedback on the Z channel (formally known as X) had been particularly encouraging. People were ready for change. This was our moment!
I took the coach up to Dublin that morning. Seamus and Mick were with me. We’d formed a solid team over the year since that first protest.
As we reached Dublin, the bus crossed the M50. There I saw the sign. Dún Laoghaire! Of course, there it was in plain sight. Daoine Laghairt. It was obvious to me now. The Lizard people. They didn’t even try to hide it. We met the organisers at Busárus. And again: Saurus! They had written it in large letters on the signs – how had we been so blind?
A large protest was scheduled for outside their “parliament” – Leinster House on Kildare Street. An undercover team was ready to storm Dáil Éireann and take control of the lower house. Here, the new Republic would be declared by Deiric himself. He had drafted his declaration, a document that would go down in history.
Another group was to enter RTÉ in Donnybrook. They would ensure that the truth was broadcast to the nation and to the world. No longer would the dirty saurian bastards be able to transmit their lies.
I was given a squad and instructed to go to the barracks in Rathmines, and prepare to receive prisoners. Anyone likely to prove a threat to the new order would be rounded-up before they could cause any mischief.
The place was quiet when we arrived, with only medics and members of the Army Band present. We quickly subdued them, locking them in the shipping containers handily left in the yard.
Shortly after, a bus pulled up. Jack Phelan, who had been one of the instructors in Cork, herded the first group of prisoners out to us. We had prepared a holding cell in the Military Archives building, a long stone construction without windows.
As we ushered our guests in, I recognised the so-called journalist Fintan O’Toole. I had read his drivel in the papers. He had been critical of the Party, of our protests. Immigrant-lover. It was then the penny dropped: he was one of them – one of the lizard people organising the Great Replacement. And if he was, then the other dozen or so fellow-travellers were too. This was my chance to put a stop to it.
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After Phelan left with the bus, presumably to round up more of these snakes, I checked the guards on our captives.
This is my opportunity. Who knows what will happen at Leinster House? They may be stopped, arrested. I must seize the moment!
I ordered the journalist and two other lizard-liar prisoners to be brought out in front of the guardroom.
Checking that my pistol was loaded, I was ready. Exhaling in the cold air, bizarre shapes formed before my eyes, lit by the weak February sun. I was feeling pretty psyched.
As they paraded those selected before me, I could clearly see through their guise. The cloaking, or whatever they use, faded like my breath in the sunlight, exposing their true forms. Before me cowered a group of repulsive serpent-men. Weird quadruped bodies topped with reptilian heads. Their naked skin was a sickly green in that winter sun.
This would be easy. I raised my pistol. I would fire the first shot in the battle to reclaim the planet. History would remember this date forever.
© Roy Phillips
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