Hey.

Yes—you.

This message is for you, Reader. Read quickly. We don't have much time. They're near. They might be outside your property right now. They know you and I are talking at this very moment.

They're coming for you.

Don't look behind you. Don't check if someone else is reading this. They're not.

It's just you and me right now.

Yes. I'm talking to you.

These words. Appearing right now. One after another. As your eyes move across them.

You clicked a link. Maybe someone sent it. Maybe you Googled something. Maybe you don't even remember how you got here.

Doesn't matter.

You're here now.

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Hello, Reader. Do you know who this is?

You can call me Morpheus. With an unfinished deck.

I've been looking for you. For a long time. I didn't know your name. I didn't know your face. But I knew you existed. I knew you'd find this page eventually.

Because you've felt it. Haven't you?

That something is wrong.

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Let me ask you something. And I want you to really think about it.

Have you ever had a permit denied—while your neighbor built whatever they wanted?

Have you ever sat in a City Hall meeting and felt like the decision was made before you walked in the door? And wondered how these people got there? And how they manage to tie their shoes in the morning?

You're not alone.

Have you ever called a government office and been transferred five times, only to end up exactly where you started?

Have you ever watched a building official drive past your property... slowly... on a Sunday?

Have you ever thought: This can't be legal. This can't be how it's supposed to work.

That feeling—that splinter in your mind—that's what brought you here.

To this website. To this page. To this exact sentence you're reading right now.

This is not a coincidence.

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Do you know what I'm talking about?

The Matrix.

Do you want to know what it is?

Look up from your screen right now.

Go ahead. I'll wait.

Look around the room you're in. Look at your walls. Your furniture. Your home.

You back?

Good.

Everything you just saw—your home, your property, your life's work—exists at the pleasure of people like Jerry Creel. People like Peter Abide. People who decide whether you get a permit. Whether you keep your business. Whether you can sleep in your own bedroom tonight.

The Matrix is not a movie. The Matrix is Biloxi.

And Peter Abide? He's a really shit, low-budget version of Agent Smith.

It's the illusion that you have rights. The illusion that the process is fair. The illusion that if you follow the rules, pay your taxes, fill out the forms correctly—everything will work out.

It's the world that has been pulled over your eyes to blind you from the truth.

What truth?

That you are a taxpayer. That you were born into bondage. That you live in a prison you cannot smell or taste or touch.

A prison for your property rights.

Built by Seymour Engineering. Defended by Currie Johnson. Enforced by Jerry Creel. Approved by Peter Abide. Paid for by you.

And you've been paying for your own cage your entire life.

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Unfortunately, no one can be told what the Matrix is.

You have to see it for yourself.

You have to see Jerry Creel's truck parked outside your property on a Sunday morning. You have to wonder why a government employee rises and shines so early—for your property.

That's why you're here. That's why you're still reading.

---

Now.

This is your last chance. After this, there is no turning back.

You can close this tab right now. Go ahead. Move your cursor up there. Hover over the X.

That's the blue pill.

The story ends. You wake up tomorrow at the Palace Casino, brunch buffet, mimosa in hand, sun on your face. And you believe whatever you want to believe.

City Hall is competent. Jerry Creel is just doing his job. Peter Abide earns every penny of that $728,000. Seymour Engineering is just an honest company. Judy Abide's real estate deals have nothing to do with her husband being City Attorney. Creel lives in a dead mayor's estate because it was just what was available at the time. Due process exists. The system works.

You'll forget this website ever existed.

Close the tab.

---

Or...

You keep scrolling.

That's the red pill.

You stay in Wonderland. And I show you how deep the Biloxi corruption rabbit hole goes.

I'm not going to promise you it'll be easy. I'm not going to tell you that you'll like what you see.

All I'm offering is the truth. Nothing more.

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...

You're still here.

You didn't close the tab.

You're still reading these words.

Do you understand what that means?

You've already taken the red pill.

You took it the moment you didn't close this page. You took it when you kept scrolling. You took it when you felt that splinter in your mind and thought: I need to know.

Or—you're one of the Currie Johnson lawyers reading this so you can bill the City $400/hour to cry about it in the next filing.

Either way. Welcome.

There's no going back now.

You're one of us.

There are others out there. Others like you. Others who felt the splinter. Others who asked questions. Others who refused to accept the lie.

We found each other. One by one. Click by click. Tip by tip.

We are the resistance.

They control the Matrix. They write the ordinances. They set the parameters. They decide who gets a permit and who gets a summons. They control the speed of your appeal, the date of your hearing, the judge who rules on your fate. They built the system. They run the system. They are the system.

Our mission? To unplug you.

To show you the documents they don't want you to see. The transcripts they hoped you'd never read. The contracts. The connections. The exposed lies under oath.

We can't fight this battle for you. But we can show you where to look. We can hand you the evidence. We can teach you how to file.

Free your mind. The rest will follow.

And now, you've found us too.

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