THE FOLLOWING IS PROPERTY OF
"RED 2000"

ALL EVIDENCE IS TOP SECRET

The following are the salvaged excerpts of #2435, the evidence turned in. Answering questions that of which will never know, what has been hidden in our establishment today; the journal is under custody and its contents, never to be revealed. Dear readers, if you are easily offended I would advise not to read the following evidence.
I do not own the Batman franchise nor do I understand it. This is simply my take on a character's life, written in a different style, inspired by today's events.

EVIDENCE#2-12.
Pages 1-5-7.

I was seventeen when it began. Urges, lack of rational time, stress put on by the pressure of college and finding a girlfriend was all my parents cared for. I admit my childhood was nothing out of the ordinary, as one would quite suspect. I was born to Michael and Janet Christian in the year 1980. Day dreams, visions of stars, and the human mind was all that clouded my thoughts as a teenager. Most my age just worried about college applications, finding jobs and a date to the prom. It seemed pointless. The classes, useless. Parents, ignorant. I learned at a very early age that wealth meant nothing to me, despite the fat wad of money leading my family's life. Money. Pointless.

And it is the single most, simple cause of crisis today. I was not brainwashed by the everyday propaganda, the government's hope of turning people on each other like players in a cock fight, also disguising all of the evidence that had once been revealed. They were the worst of them all.

It became obsession. The daily newspaper littered my room in clippings, signs made of cardboard began to catch my eye.

I came to one conclusion: We are stuck in the vortex of hell, and the government is feeding it everyday.

My journal, locked away in the bottom floorboard under my carpet, in the closet. If you are reading this, then yes you have found it. What I am about to share with you is neither fiction nor truth. For it simply holds ideas of what may come, but the facts tell me otherwise. Clues, warnings swarm together in this storm only stoppable by its own creator. Man.

Assuming that you are reading these words, I am no longer here anymore, or am much older than when writing these passages for you.

The leaders of a once "free" nation do not merit the right to call ourselves "free" anymore. Prisoners in their own cynical game. With a roll of dice, you could be an accident, everything you ever knew, gone. In the summer of 1999, a man I find myself to possibly relate to is Mark Orrin Barton, the man responsible for killing twelve, injuring 13 before shooting himself in Georgia. The same happened at a high school, its name might ring a bell. Columbine, two seniors killing twelve students and one teacher.

But we'll get into that later.

I graduated high school that year, following friends into Mexico as a graduation present. But the thoughts never failed to leave my mind. What makes someone willing to do so much? What forces a person so over the edge that they fall, unable to grasp reality and its hard truth at coincidental times?

I soon learned; only few can.

And I questioned it myself.

The ideas behind the Kennedy assassination, various celebrity deaths having been in the Illuminati, and the reasons for our wars. As the stock market took another dive, people became agitated with the system. The chaos would be an easy fix, but as we are placed, we are simply puppets.

I wonder when the day comes that we are micro chipped like dogs, falling into the black hole created by ourselves.

Riots broke out, protestors littered our streets to overthrow the rule of our American government. There was one night after I turned 19 in the year 2000. I decided to participate, instead of standing in the crowd helpless. I understood their opinions and messages, conspiracies against our rule. An officer ignorantly maced half of us, only singeing my arm in the process...

The rage.

It consumed me; the next thing I remembered was waking up face down in the concrete, a wet puddle tickling my lips. I was flipped over on my chest, my wrists being yanked behind my back. The sole of the officer's shoe leaving marks on my face. I tasted blood.

After an angry phone call, my parents retrieved me from the station, a torn bottom lip from the cops upper hook, slamming me into the pavement after I struggled to force the mace from his hand. Being the ignorant, most deaf people I ever knew, they suspected my actions as a phase into adulthood. I couldn't believe it.

I warned them about it all, showing them all the proof I had. They brushed it off, pretending as if I were reading something out of a novel. My father would listen to my words, but his close-minded ego would get the better of him. Before my mother fell ill, she called me crazy, laughing...

I continued to live in an "imaginary world" as she always said, referring me to a psychiatrist.

I still remember the last thing I said to her.

I told her to fuck off, and that... "There will be a day when you shake your head, and I'll be able to say 'I told you so.' Until then, I would be very afraid."

Taking my parents money, I moved to Chicago where I began to start my own life. I began classes at the Chicago Institute for Psychoanalysis. Two years in with a blonde, bombshell girlfriend by the name of Sarah, I was twenty-one when another protest broke out, all of them reminding us the world would end under our own hands, and that everything would be imprisoned. It ultimately terrified me.

I returned home to retrieve my journal, finding my father at my mother's bedside.

She was unrecognizable, falling ill with a rare form of cancer. Her body was sunken, eye sockets hollow and lips chapped. Her brown hair was gone, leaving only a white corpse-something I never accepted as my parent. Michael refused to acknowledge my presence.

I knew the government was planning something. They had everything, they could just get away with it all. We were just the ignorant rulers of our own universe. It made me sick. March 2001, I knew... predicting their moves to terrorize our people, instigate a terrible event that would shape the history of our world. But the words kept repeating their cycle in my head, and began to hear them slither from everyone's lips.

"Crazy". "Insane". What am I anymore?

In my blindness, I was determined to prove myself around the people, make them believe it as well.

I was right. And I was sure of it.

I told myself it would happen in only days time. I reminded my colleagues, friends, each now glued to the news stations and websites as much as I. IT WOULD HAPPEN. Weeks passed. It was June.

...I was wrong.

Reminded everyday from the same people whom I had faith in, it was simply an "obsession" and the reality of it all was now turned against each other. I struggled with the thought of my own sanity. Was I really insane to believe all of this? That I had brainwashed myself with conspiracy and the corrupt? I could hear my parents saying, "I told you so." Stubborn, I waited longer.

They laughed in my face. Bonds, broken. Friends alienated me as if I were the terror.

I weeped for myself and the people, understand their words. I was no longer any greater of a person than anyone else.

I admitted myself into an asylum, pleading insanity. The reality were the nightmares, keeping myself awake for over a week at a time. It disturbed me. I began to hear it calling my name and telling me I was still right. Battling with my own conscience I became a patient, given a dose of zyprexa each night to calm myself from manic episodes. I tore at the walls in my prison, thrashing and losing my sanity in solitary confinement.

Early in September, I heard it through the hallway. I had not heard the radio in months, since admitted. The word that snapped me out of my own trance was the singular word we all feared.

"Terrorist."

September 11, 2001, three planes were hijacked, two of which pummeled into the World Trade Centers in New York City. The event killed over thousands, the third hitting the Pentagon. I requested the newspaper; the reality sunk in like an anvil on my chest. The words 'missel' and 'Afghanistan' ran through my mind like a teleprompter.

...I was right.

A month later, my mother died. My father followed her soon after upon his own terms, weak from the idea that his son had become a brainwashed paranoid schizophrenic, leaving his dying mother and father in the safety of a mental institution. They disappeared from my life as did everything else.

My girlfriend, gone.

My friends, never heard from again.

My name, history.

My excitement and rebirth created something you may describe as evil, corrupt. NO. In fact, I am the most aware of every as I write here in 2002. I will keep you updated, but children... it is only the beginning.

The evidence provided is under strict surveillance and shall not be recorded or copied in any way. To do so will result in punishment by the law.
[The writing style of this work of FICTION belongs to the incredible author Steve Alten, who has inspired me to expel my thoughts through those of
a character we all know.] R&R, I would like to see if anyone is interested in this story that will soon unfold...