Editor’s note: This is the fourth in a series of excerpts from the new e-book “The Lizard King: The Shocking Inside Account of Obama’s True Intergalactic Ambitions By An Anonymous White House Staffer,” edited and introduced by Daily Caller writers Jamie Weinstein and Will Rahn. You can buy the full book here. Seriously, buy it — it’s less than five bucks. Also, read the first, second, and third excerpts published earlier this week.
Chapter 5: Off to Pakistan
After my talk with Axelrod, I began listening to Doctor Garrett Mueller regularly so I could better understand the conspiracies that were being promulgated about the president. I even became a premium member on his website, The Fire Pit.
I also came to learn that Mueller wasn’t a doctor at all. Not that Mueller made the title up or anything. But Doctor was actually his first name. His audience largely remains in the dark about this little detail.
Mueller was actually a radio shock jock by training. For the first forty years of his life his friends couldn’t recall him saying anything political. They recall him as a shortish, perpetually unserious man who was fond of wearing his favorite FBI T-shirt for days on end. The T-shirt, mind you, didn’t stand for the Federal Bureau of Investigation—it stood for Federal Boob Inspector.
Up until his breakdown, the focus of Mueller’s career was crude radio stunts. But his fast life eventually caught up to him. After a series of arrests for Pee Wee Herman-like indecent exposure incidents at local “movie theaters” and drug-induced fights with homeless people, Mueller checked himself into rehab.
After rehab, he sobered up and reinvented himself. The corny and often grotesque radio handles he used as a DJ for small and medium-size radio markets across the United States—Doctor Demented, Doctor Demonic, Doctor Dildo—were trashed. He was a new man. A political man. A conservative’s conservative.
Though just months before he had been living anything but a conservative lifestyle and had never cracked open a book on conservative thought, Mueller was now preaching to a new audience with authority. The drug addict went to rehab, read a few books, and was suddenly William F. Buckley.
Like all conservative radio hosts, Mueller dreamed about being like Rush Limbaugh. But like the other pretenders, he didn’t have Limbaugh’s natural radio talent, his comic size. Nonetheless, his shtick attracted an audience, especially after President Obama was inaugurated.
Now, live from his bunker in the modern-day “Sodom,” as he called New York City, he was the voice of the most outlandish charges against the president. At least, Mueller’s charges seemed outlandish when I began investigating them.
There were really four main conspiracies that Mueller spewed out on a regular basis. One, President Obama was a secret Muslim. Two, President Obama was a secret Marxist. Three, President Obama was a secret homosexual. And four, President Obama was born in Kenya and therefore constitutionally ineligible to even be president.
Though most of the conservative movement rejected these theories, a sizable and passionate fringe were open to them if not entirely convinced by them. I wasn’t exactly sure why Axelrod was so concerned about them, but it was not for me to reason why. I was just supposed to thoroughly debunk them.
I began to put feelers out from Jakarta to Chicago to Mombasa to Honolulu. As a master of the black arts of opposition research, I had sources all over. And I could work a computer till it screamed—hack my way into obscure data banks, break any code. Did your third cousin once removed pay all his taxes in 1983? I could find out in ten minutes. Some of my sources were ex-CIA, some ex-FBI. But more important than my sources were the sources of my sources.
Soon after I got into high gear I received a strange call from a private number.
“Hello,” I answered.
The voice on the other end was gruff.
“Listen carefully and don’t say a word,” he said. “I heard that you are looking into the president’s past. I know a thing or two about it. I have been researching it for three years. What I know will shock you. If you are truly interested in getting to the bottom of these conspiracies, I can help you. But you need to promise me you are coming into this with an open mind. Can you promise me that?”
“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” I said.
“Just call me colonel.”
“That’s not something you need to know.”
“Okay. But you’re an army officer? Can you tell me what branch?”
He paused for a moment.
“I am a retired commander of SEAL Team Seven.”
“SEAL Team Seven? I thought it only goes up to six?”
There was a silence on the other end of the phone. Then laughter.
“You thought the pansy brigade was the highest special force unit America had?” the colonel asked rhetorically.
“Listen here, kid. Let me give you a wake-up call. SEAL Team Seven is so secret that some members of SEAL Team Seven don’t even know they’re in it. Most of the greatest achievements America has ever had are the result of us. The Miracle on Ice in 1980 when America upset the Soviet Union in hockey? That was us. Seinfeld? Our guys wrote it during downtime propping up dictators in the 1990s. More recently, how do you think Paul Krugman achieved popular success or Lincoln Chafee was elected to a position of responsibility? You think shit like that happens on its own? That’s SEAL Team Seven.”
I didn’t get it. “I’m confused,” I replied.
“I know. Trust me. SEAL Team Seven is so far above the comprehension of even the extraordinary that I don’t expect you to get it. But you have to trust me. Meet me in Peshawar in forty-eight hours.”
He hung up the phone. He sounded nuts. But his confidence had a magnetism. Could he be real? Axelrod had secured as much money as I needed to complete my task. I decided to take the risk. I was off to Pakistan.