Kevin Wikse vs. The Men in Black or M.I.B Outmatched by Kevin WIkse.
3/22/24 Update: Written in 2017, my encounter with what I believe to be Men In Black or M.I.B has become my most popular and beloved work in my genre of American Horror and of what I term semi-fictionalized fiction. As a lifelong experiencer and abductee, I believe due in part to my top-tier clairvoyant and mediumship skills (I am the ONLY psychic, medium and occult to have predicted EVERYTHING about COVID-19, the Border Crisis, the 2020 Election etc, starting in 2014 read all about it in my evidentiary proof claim HERE), I have been involved, in part, some stages of my life more, other times less, with Psychism, Remote Viewing, the Occult and Intelligence, however whose Intelligence exactly, I still don't know, for over 40 years. This was not the first time I have been approached by strange, mostly human, entities, but it certainly stands out as among my most memorable.
I thank everyone who has come forward and shared with me their own MIB experiences. I believe I have collected a solid amount of experience testimonies and a certain long standing project can now commence.
-Kevin Wikse 2024
Relevant information for purposes of context.
Circa 1993 or 1994, I became acquainted with a Ufologist named Phil Schnieder, whom I met after his presentation in Idaho Falls, Idaho. His death in 1996 was ruled a suicide. However, I and many others point to murder. Phil said that he probably would not be alive much longer because of what he was revealing. I have been told he was referring to his terminal cancer, but I suspect differently.
This experience cemented in me the vital importance of regular strength training. It also opened up new interests, such as the dedicated study and practice of Eye Gazing found within Hindu Trataka meditation and the eye fascination of French Mesmerism.
I helped build and run a U.F.O. and conspiracy website in the late 90s and early 2000s, much of it focusing on Phil Schnieder’s information and death. If memory serves, the website was through Geo-Cities. The website disappeared around 2006 after a long string of threats of violence and what we know today as doxing. When this experience happened, the website was gone, and I was on my way to meet a friend in Los Angeles, CA, to discuss a new Phil Schnieder and U.F.O. project.
I would also like to connect with and discuss with others who have had M.I.B. encounters. The trauma is not easily overcome. Writing and talking about it is a great way to heal and express. I recapitulate this event often. It reminds me that if I can survive, I can handle anything.
My experience leading up to the M.I.B. encounter matches the descriptions of directed energy or sonic weapons used on T.I. or Targeted Individuals. These weapons reportedly induce wild shifts in mood and cause overwhelming anxiety in their targets.
My Documentation of Experience.
I was driving from Idaho to California when I entered Nevada. It was a sunny August day on the I-15, and I was making good time. As I crossed the Nevada state line, I focused on this stretch of interstate’s more eerie qualities. This realization came over me like a creeping sense of dread. Little by little, mile after mile, it consumed my thoughts.
A sudden wave of panic hit me so hard that I thought I was blindsided by a vehicle. I white-knuckled the steering wheel and stomped the brakes. The once wide open and beautiful desert fast became a vast wasteland of soul-crushing isolation.
I took a few moments to collect myself. Sweat trickled down my forehead as I sat frozen in fear. I felt like something was chasing me, but there was nothing, just an empty road ahead and behind me. After a few minutes of controlled breathing, the panic dissipated enough for me to tentatively step on the gas.
After I got rolling, another internal conflict started to stir inside me. My inner chatter began debating whether I should continue driving to California, or at least Las Vegas (less than an hour away), or pull over and wait until these feelings passed. From every logical perspective, pulling over was a foolish idea. However, I could not shake the feeling of despair and near panic. Soon, I caught myself vividly imagining how someone might commit suicide in the desert. The urge to wallow in these dangerous thoughts was so persistent it was becoming difficult to remember where I was going.
A chill went through me. I wasn’t driving at all but idling on the side of the road. How long had I been like this? I did not know, but I knew something was wrong. Was I going to die here? My immediate answer was no. A flash of white-hot anger exploded in my brain for reasons born out of pure survival instinct. I gunned it, pedal to the metal. I tore down the road, entirely determined to escape this nightmare and go to California.
The feeling of progressing forward was exhilarating, and I breathed sighs of relief. I was in the process of filing away the ordeal when flashing blue lights grabbed my attention. An honest “what the fuck” moment as a black sedan with its visor lights on full blast dominated my rearview mirror. All my prior psychodrama completely vanished at the arrival of one all-encompassing thought, “Where the fuck did that pig come from?!”. In disbelief, I eased off the gas and veered to the side of the road. I mused the vehicle might pass me by; maybe it was en route to an emergency. But my vain hope evaporated when the black sedan decreased speed and slowly crept in behind me.
Retrieving my license and registration, I readied myself to provide one-worded answers to the crafted questions from an asshole with both a badge and a quota. Minutes passed, but the black sedan just sat there. I recognized the mind games, and I would not be rattled. Waiting for an officer to exit allowed me to make two notable observations concerning the vehicle. First, it was minus a front license plate; second, the windshield was tinted. Neither implication sat well with me.
When the driver’s side door finally opened, an imposing creature appeared. At 6’6 or 6’7, he was lanky and a bit gangly. He resembled a Dick Tracy villain in his black trench coat and fedora. But…no matter how cartoonish this skinny ogre looked, the violence he carried in his face was no laughing matter.
He didn’t walk but instead marched towards me. He stopped abruptly, maybe a foot from my driver’s side door. Stooping down and leaning in a little to meet me face-to-face. We eyed each other, but neither of us spoke. His gaze was cruel. His eyes had the tint of albinism pink. I knew, whatever he was, he wasn’t a cop or an F.B.I. agent, at least not the “on books” kind.
As vicious as it was, his unblinking glare possessed a fascinating quality. Intuitively, I knew I ran the risk of becoming hypnotized by it. I kept breaking eye contact with them and checked my rearview mirror. He noticed this and spoke.
“Just what the fuck do you think you will see back there?” he said, breaking the silence in an odd, maybe purposely distorted, high-pitched voice.
“Well, aren’t there usually two of you clowns?” I replied, toggling my attention between his stare and my rearview mirror.
His eyes flared at my question. I finally noticed he had no eyebrows or eyelashes. His face reminded me of a burn victim’s. His skin did not seem real. Waxy-yellow in color. His face was hairless, with ultra-thin lips and a small vertical ridge for a nose.
The pitchiness of his voice grew sterner, “What do you mean there are usually two of us clowns?!” he questioned, unhitching his fixed gaze on me and looking back to the black sedan.
“I am not exactly sure what type of clown you are or who else might come piling out of your clown car, but I know you are no cop, and I am under no legal obligation to stay here,” I replied, matching his sterner tone and reaching for my keys.
“You are not sure of anything, are you, Kevin? And not for a while now. You don’t know how you feel, you don’t know what you are doing in that shit show you call your life, and certainly, you don’t know where you are going, not now or in general”, he retorted, emphasizing my name and widening his eyes as he re-trained his stare at me.
He likely sensed mild distress in me after dropping my name and eluding to the high strangeness I recently experienced.
“You are not going anywhere. Your erratic and unsafe driving will probably get you killed. But what will get you killed is the “crazy person” shit you post online. You sound like a real goddamn fucking lunatic on your website. That is some real loony bin material you are cranking out. Aliens and U.F.O.s, that is crazy talk! Someone ought to have you committed somewhere. You need some fucking help, Kevin.” He growled and showed his teeth, stretching his thin lips to reveal tiny, sharp-looking teeth like a piranha’s.
The gravitas of my situation was not lost on me. The idea of being “disappeared” by this entity ignited a secondary explosion of white-hot defiance in my brain.
“I make you two promises, you aberrant fish-faced mutant fuck! I am not going anywhere with you, and I will post this online!” I growled back and went to fire up my truck.
“Well, looks like we are about to have another missing person,” he roared and lunged at me.
His speed was surprising, but the force with which he slammed his elongated body into the side of my truck startled me. He was astonishingly strong. He seized my throat with his right hand, and I could barely prevent being wholly manhandled by him. His long-fingered and slender left hand swatted my right hand away from the keys, still in the ignition, and clamped down on my wrist with unexpected authority. He wanted those keys, and we both knew I was fucked if he got them.
The years of crushing closed heavy hand grippers till blood dribbled out from underneath my fingernails, ripping giant monster-class kettlebells off the ground to overhead till the skin on my hands tore open, and swinging large clubs and maces till my forearm muscles swelled so much I couldn’t make a fist, were all being called into action.
I shifted my body as best I could to better square up with him. I snaked my right hand under and over his left wrist and cleverly outwrestled his wrist grab, now pinning his left side against the steering wheel with my right, securing it with as much strength and body weight as I could marshal. Reaching up with my free hand, I grasped his right thumb and curtly peeled it back and away from my throat, feeling his thumb either break or dislocate inside my grip.
This maneuver cleared away his right arm enough so I could pepper his fishy face with a few short-range jabs. However, they lacked the sting I felt he deserved, so I forced fed his mouth and strange nose my elbow instead. Those seemed like they hurt. Unfortunately for me, he was just getting warmed up. He answered by raining down a barrage of retaliatory rights with scary force. I brought my thickly muscled forearm and shoulder together, clasping the back of my head, forming a meat shield to bear the brunt of his assault. I shudder when I think about the fate that would’ve awaited me had punches got through and knocked me unconscious.
My survival lay in keeping his left hand pinned against the wheel. This simple tactic prevented him from grabbing my keys, re-establishing distance, achieving better positioning, pulling a weapon, or other possibilities that could quickly spell out my doom.
He had me like a cornered animal. Thankfully, that animal was a lion. I knew I could not keep his hand pinned forever. I the cornered lion and him the tiger I had by his tail. Being inside the truck also limited his actions against me and restricted my options. I was being crushed between a rock and a hard place. Having reached this harsh stalemate, we continued to tear at each other. If not for self-preservation, then out of sheer frustration.
He was really tenderizing my left arm with his punches. My shoulder and tricep were starting to cramp, and soon, my meat shield would be breached. I had to make a move. I transformed my left thumb into a vengeful spike and drove it hard and deep into his earhole. I redirected his focus through sudden and unexpected pain and quickly latched onto his ear with a vice-tight pinch grip. I sacrificed the pin I had over his left hand for a wrist grab, and by his ear and wrist, I yanked him into the truck.
He was now genuinely face-to-face with me but so close and off-balance he couldn’t leverage his strength to injure me. Bent over and sideways, he was high-cented over my truck’s window. His lower body dangling out the side.
I would make my play. During our grapple, I noticed a screwdriver tucked into a utility pouch behind the passenger’s seat, and I desperately needed a weapon. I attempted to serpentine my left arm, under his left arm, around the back of his neck. A half-nelson hold barring and securing him. I hoped I could quickly reach for the screwdriver with my right hand. He felt his opening when he let go of his wrist and immediately clawed at my eyes. Knowing how strong he was and how vulnerable my vision would be to him, I had no choice but to defend my eyes instead of going for the screwdriver. He tried to escape. Twisting onto his belly, he almost slithered back out the window.
His establishing distance meant almost certain death for me. Again, I brought my years of hoisting heavy iron and club swinging to bear against him. I lassoed him in a side headlock with my left and extremely battered arm, then, inch by agonizing inch, ratcheted him back in. With my right arm, I forced his left arm downward and trapped it between my knees. At last, I had him secured.
It was now or never.
I grabbed the screwdriver and pulled it from the utility pouch like Excalibur from the stone. Employing the screwdriver as an ice pick, I savagely perforated his face and the top of his skull, rendering his head a block of Swiss cheese. I was shocked to see that his blood was red. I was not expecting that.
If I thought he was strong before, I hadn’t seen anything yet. He must have had a white-hot explosion of his own (inspired in the way only a screwdriver to the face can) as he thrashed about with such rage I lost total control of him. He launched himself back out the window. He fell prone onto the asphalt with his large mutant hands covering his face, writhing and screaming. I was tempted to get out of my truck to finish him off and perhaps claim a piece of him. However, survival tactics trumped trophy hunting, and I fired up my truck instead. I peeled out from the side of the road, leaving him and whoever else might have been in that black sedan in the dust.
My paranoia didn’t subside until I reached Los Angeles. It would be days later before I wasn’t routinely checking over my shoulder, more than usual. If, by chance, my special M.I.B friend should ever read this, it's clear I’ve kept my promises to you.
I am ready to finish it whenever you are.
-Kevin Wikse
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