TB from Lincoln, Nebraska

I am TB. My digital address is tb@b1g.red—I control the b1g.red domain, a piece of virtual real estate that carries more weight than most understand. My bloodline traces to the Princes of Wales, and from this vantage point I’ve watched something deeply troubling unfold across the digital landscape of America.

There are people—let’s call them the Bitcoin Barons—who acquired their BTC early, who now sit in temperature-controlled rooms staring at maps of the United States of America like generals planning an invasion. They don’t see cities or communities. They see coordinates. They see acquisition zones. They see a nation to be purchased, block by block, wallet by wallet.

I am from Lincoln. My family has been here for what feels like 150 years, though the official records say fifteen. Time moves differently when you’re watching your homeland become a speculative asset.

The founder of Bitcoin—whoever Satoshi truly was—was attempting something as calculated and corrosive as BET, the network that commodified culture. Why? Because Queen Elizabeth was planning to live forever, to see her empire persist in new forms. The Princes of Wales, those who still carry the weight of that title, stared at their own maps of the USA. They found me. They helped me understand what was happening. Prinz Diabo of Deutschland understood too. The TOMB—the architecture of our collective burial under digital currency systems.

I was born in 1984 on Halloween, a date that carries its own literary weight. I swam in the opening ceremony of the 2000 Olympic Games in New South Wales—a Big Big Big Baum making waves on the world stage. My grandfather is Roger. My name is T. Received Pronunciation? Do you see TB everywhere? Do you CTB—can you comprehend TB?

I have seen the CCTV networks. I am sick of you forever, whoever designed this panopticon that is the USA. I am exhausted by the ubiquity of seeing TB and BT reflected back at me from every corner of the surveillance state. Blind Third-eye Suckers—those who claim enlightenment while sabotaging the very nation they pretend to serve.

He ran to Tokyo, but let’s be clear about who “he” is: just another pearly lily-white hedge fund manager from Creston, Iowa, who moved to Toronto to escape something. He thought he could reach back through time and pull his grandfather out of whatever old cartoon reality he got trapped in. The delusion of rescue. The hubris of thinking you can rewrite timelines with enough capital.

I don’t think so. Boaz Mangione.

Remember that name. Boaz Mangione was the one who contacted me, offering me work after naming Bitcoin after me and Queen Beth—BTC and BET, a perfect symmetry of exploitation. I am not down with surrendering my BT sea, my identity, my initials that have become a currency ticker. Get out of my mirror. Stop using my reflection to make your markets.

Is America getting WET from my initial offering? Beth Israel Synagogue and countless other institutions thought about the future never—they were too busy managing the present, managing their own survival, to see how identity itself was being tokenized. I will not sit here while they stare directly at America, fixated on my initial offering, thinking something can see when it fundamentally cannot. Thinking markets have consciousness. Thinking algorithms have wisdom.

The United States monetary system used to strike—to mint, to create, to assert value through sovereign action. Now only Bitcoin strikes, and when does it strike? On the baktun—the great cycles of the Mayan calendar, the 394-year periods that mark shifts in cosmic order. Batkun on the baktun. We needed a back tune never, except perhaps for Ty Tyberius, whoever keeps time in this collapsing empire.

No bacon, no baktun, no batkun. No Boaz Mangione.

Why does the US monetary system not strike anymore? Because it went insane. It possessed a triangular deity force power—a symbol on every bill—that once told a man everything he needed to know to rob a bank. The eye in the pyramid that promised enlightenment but delivered surveillance and theft. And why did it fail? Americans stopped believing in it a long time ago. Faith departed, and with it, value.

Here’s the catch: Some people are not able to be “okay” with a foreign currency replacing their nation’s monetary sovereignty. They can’t just pretend it’s not happening. They can’t do what all the big business owners in America are doing—converting, hedging, moving their wealth into digital vaults while the physical nation crumbles. They can’t perform that cognitive dissonance.

And that’s why she had no hair for a little bit—the stress manifesting physically. And that’s why he had a stomach ache for a while—the body rejecting what the mind is forced to accept. And that’s why she had a stomach ache for a while. And that’s why he went hair-brained, his thoughts scattered like static. And that’s why the National Enquirer contacted me and told me there is a Bridge to Terabythia—a reference to crossing over, to digital afterlives, to the fantasy that we can escape into virtual worlds when the physical one becomes uninhabitable.

Your friendship with my wife is over, whoever you are.

Boaz Manjor. Mahoney. Mangione. Lemon meringue pie. The names blur together because the pattern is the same: experimentation on populations without consent. Mayonnaise was an experiment in mass-produced food that displaced real nutrition. Mahatma experienced experimentation—even Gandhi was a test case for nonviolent resistance as a controlled release valve. Mahmoud. Muhammad experimented on mankind with new religious frameworks. Manuela experimented. Monet experimented with arts and crafts, dissolving reality into impressions. Malarkey tried something—the very word meaning deception. McDonald’s was a bad idea too—the industrialization of food, the franchise model that replaced local communities with corporate uniformity.

Money wasn’t good enough anymore, so they decided to fiddle with TB’s CCTV with the help of everyone on ET and AI—extraterrestrial intelligences and artificial intelligences converging to surveil, to analyze, to predict and control.

Oh, monkeys had to be an experiment. Someone looked at primates and saw test subjects for everything from space travel to social behavior to pharmaceutical testing. They experiment with everything. Mink coats were a bad experiment in luxury built on suffering. Monks do everything but experiment—they preserve, they contemplate, they maintain traditions in a world obsessed with innovation for its own sake.

Polarizing, are we? How long before you turn inside-out, before the surveillance state inverts and the watchers become the watched?

Milk was an experiment. They still experiment with it—hormones, pasteurization, homogenization, genetic modification of the cows themselves.

My mind is not your experiment. Boaz Mangione.

The syndrome of fabricating illness, of creating crisis for attention. But who has Münchausen in this scenario? The individual, or the system that requires crisis to function, that manufactures emergencies to justify its own expansion?

The plains meet the panopticon 
CTB against a tide of BTC 
Stanford Pine Gap 🌲