Henderson - Invisibility Toolkit - 100 Ways to Disappear and How to Be Anonymous From Oppressive Governments, Stalkers & Criminals

Invisibility Toolkit

Lance Henderson

Winston Churchill once said, "If you find yourself in Hell... keep going."

I can relate to that as easily as you can. But these days Hell itself seems to have taken on an altogether foreign form that's wholly different than the medieval version. These days, many 'angels of light' profess to know what's good for us better than we do ourselves - which is sheer lunacy.

We're not sheep. We all see it. We're not blind. And some of us want to act as beacons of light in a sea of darkness rather than go "Baaaaa!" like sheep to the bloody slaughter. We want to lead others away from the slaughterhouse. But to do that requires a specific set of skills that you don't learn in college.

Skills that will help us turn back the tide of Armageddon on individual sovereignty. Because let's face it, attacks on privacy have increased a thousand-fold. Every day new laws are passed that make privacy as rare as pink diamonds. In the future privacy may become as valuable as pink diamonds. Do you want to hear your grandkids ask you what it was like in the old days when people were not monitored 24/7?

Right. Didn't think so.

It's high-time we fought back and fought hard. If you've ever seen the Shawshank Redemption then you know what happens to weaklings - those that don't take action. They get raped again and again and again. Sooner or later you'll know the meaning of this phrase: "His judgment cometh and that right soon." It means war. Wouldn't you rather fight before the raping and pillaging starts? I would.

Judgment Day is already here. You cannot walk down the street without meeting a dozen street cams, and as an American-Canadian citizen there are times when I've wanted to disappear from society altogether. Vanish as though I'd slipped Frodo's elvish cloak over my neck and smoothed that runic ring right down my middle finger before flipping off the elites in power.

But first, a little story.

A story way back in 2001.

Living in close proximity to the housing projects of New Orleans, most days driving back from the University of New Orleans were uneventful. For the most part. Only Mardi Gras seemed to break the monotony along with eating soggy beignets (powdered donuts) on Bourbon Street.

Except for one day in particular while sweating in Manila-like traffic. On that day something terrifying happened. I decided to take a shortcut which turned out to be a shortcut into trouble. Before I knew it, a fourteen-year-old girl, black with ripped jeans, red sweatshirt and a nose that could put a bloodhound to shame ran in front of my beat-up Camaro while I drove 15MPH.

I slammed on the brakes and missed her hip by an inch. She slammed her fists on the hood of my car. Boom. Then she flipped me off real casual like this sort of thing happened every time it rained. I hopped out, furious, and proceeded to make sure she knew how close she'd come to a date with the grim reaper.

A cacophony of yelling ensued with every color of the rainbows. Soft swearing, hard swearing, and sweating (mostly me) as she matched every curse word with one better, more deviant, and fueled with twice the rage as though she'd been bred for no other reason than to unleash it all on me on that fiery summer day. A vampiric Lady Macbeth, this thug was. But none of that really mattered to the law. No sir, what mattered was when I grabbed her arm and stabbed a finger into her face as I shouted to be more careful. I began to walk away.

Only I wasn't going anywhere.

Her brother came running. A BIG brother wearing a dozen gold chains and carrying a chain big enough to tie a velociraptor. I swear the guy looked straight out of the A-Team. After that, her mother came screaming and what I presumed at the time was her grandmother, broom in hand (a witch?). I panicked as the big brother threw me to the ground as mama called the cops. I remember expecting a black cat to come along any minute to scratch my face to shreds. I was going down in flames though I was innocent of any abuse.

Fast-forward three weeks later and I'm having my ass handed to me by the most militant judge I'd ever laid eyes on. A real man hater whose harpy-like claws seemed to grow the more I sweat. I had only one choice: Play along. So I kissed ass like I'd never done before in my whole miserable life. At the end of her screeching rant, I ended up getting off on a technicality. The police had screwed up somewhere, it seemed.

My record was as clean as a babe's arse. Clear as crystal.

Or so I thought. Later that year, a detective came knocking. It seemed that the little girl had disappeared, and to my horror it turned out that he knew everything about me . Things that were not in the court transcript. Things I'd done were recorded by various cameras set up around the city. The entire city seemed to be turning a shade Orwellian.

"Talk to me," he said smiling with that shiny badge gleaming. I frowned. Talk to the cops? "Yeah," he replied. "Talk to me or get put on the sex offender's list for abusing that little girl."

Abuse?

I clammed up. Granted, I was naive, but not stupid. He ended up letting me go after throwing down every threat imaginable. After that I wanted to vanish even more, and as I would later learn, I wasn't the first to go through such an ordeal.

Up until that point, I'd always trusted the police, or for that matter any kind of higher authority in government. I trusted the media. I trusted newspapers. I trusted juries. About the only thing I never trusted were the palm readers who always set up shop around the French Quarter.

Well, no longer.

From that point on, I swore to myself I'd learn how to be invisible, or die trying. True, I escaped the sex offender registry by keeping my mouth shut. Others have not been so lucky. I've heard another author (Wendy McElroy) relate a similar story:

"Last summer, an Illinois man lost an appeal on his conviction as a sex offender for grabbing the arm of a 14-year-old girl. She had stepped directly in front of his car, causing him to swerve in order to avoid hitting her.

Fitzroy Barnaby was 28 years old. He jumped out his car, grabbed her arm and lectured her on how not to get killed. Nothing more occurred. Nevertheless, that one action made him guilty of the unlawful restraint of a minor, which is a sexual offense in Illinois. Both the jury and the judge believed him. Nevertheless, Barnaby went through years of legal proceedings that ended with his name on a sex offender registry, where his photograph and address were publicly available. He must report to authorities. His employment options are severely limited; he cannot live near schools or parks."

Here I was thinking I was the only guy that had experienced such a horrific day. The absurd part is not even that it happened. It's that it is never forgiven. It's never put in the past where mistakes are buried. They are broadcast forever, branded over and over into our memories. Forgiveness, that is, granting your past actions invisible to everyone but you and the Almighty, is outlawed.

Well. This book aims to reverse that trend. It aims to give you back your privacy and if you need it, invisibility .

You don't want newspaper reporters sticking mics in your face before you've had your day in court do you? This happened to me. I remember feeling like I'd killed everyone's favorite rock star.