https://x.com/i/status/2046690149761687847🚨 Tragic news: David Wilcock, 53, prominent UFO researcher, author & disclosure advocate has reportedly died by suicide on April 20, 2026 near Nederland, Colorado.
Boulder County Sheriff’s Office: Deputies responded to a 911 call at ~10:44 a.m. on Ridge Road. A man in mental health crisis, outside a residence and holding a weapon, used it on himself within minutes of contact. He was pronounced dead at the scene.
Wilcock was a major voice in ufology. Not a traditional field investigator, but a prolific researcher, lecturer, filmmaker and New York Times bestselling author (The Source Field Investigations). He co-hosted Cosmic Disclosure on Gaia, claimed telepathic ET contact, and was seen by some as Edgar Cayce’s reincarnation. He also served as Director of Advanced Technology and board member at Stavatti Aerospace, where he promoted next-gen military fighters, exotic propulsion and advanced aerospace concepts.
A polarizing figure who inspired millions in the alternative community. What’s your take on his legacy?
Mental health resources: 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.
#10) [...] can I have his weed?
#09) STAGED.
#08) The dude couldn't even delay his cowardice long enough for a hug. Major dis. Huge douchebag. I hope it was agony.
#07) Job opening.
#06) Move out to the mountains; in a beautiful house; with a beautiful wife; well; how did they get there? (Lord British has joined the chat.) Have a few drinks. Have a few laughs. Carry a grudge from the 90s until the day... sure it was a suicide. Sure. (Crashed the server with stacks of gold in the vault and I guess I could have tattled. But, pourquoi? Btw it's weird how your dead wife can talk to me in my mind. She's probably glad I can even pay a little attention. DUDE YOU'RE NOT DEAD FFS. Just stop it. “Suicide.” I guess that is more believable than that any of you would decide to shake loose a dividend.
#5) David Rubini could not be reached for comment at the time of this posting.
#4) In lieu of flowers, send any and all incriminating evidence to jack@trioptimum.com; just to keep it all in one place.
#3) My ultimate fantasy football team EMPIRE IS CRUMBLING!
#2) I ain't holding that séancè, Z•—ggj<3®.
And the Number One Hackneyed Hierarchical Dialogue Tree Branch Brave Utterance is:
#1)
YOU CAN TAKE THIS SPACE — WHERE YOU HAVE ALL THESE NEEDLES.
When I consider what you twerpy nerds have done with this opportunity you have had (and still will have had for a while longer) and what could have been wrought, as to bring Order out of Chaos...
It's sad. It's actually sad. It actually is. YEARS burned away, “call him a needle junkie,” do you know why you thought I was? You had heard that I had done unforgivable things, WHILE CHILDREN PLAYED IN THE ROOM NEXT DOOR!!! OMFG!!! (They were in their sixties and were birddogging the Clan Dough: Fellow Teenage Student who had been assigned the arduous task of making sure I didn't mention to anyone that I knew I had been given a disease, holy fuck it was the most obvious thing ever, and no one ever mentioned it, so I could never tell anyone, thus making the notion of an active sex life a complete non-starter. “When it won't help to slow down, pour on the gas.” Who brings children along with a bag to the home of the literal incel with zero connects and a suspicious streak towards anyone whose lips were moving? Her identity must remain secret, obviously from me, obviously I cannot be relied upon to put on the correct front based on secret posture signaling, OR WHATEVER THE FUCK Y'ALL DO, UP TO AND INCLUDING: MAKING ASSES OUT OF YOU AND ME. For instance, she wasn't trying to tell me that I had been innoculated against infection.
I was being watched to see if I was going to throw down my mythological RapeMoves™, for if I did so without saying, “btw I get pimples on my lips that might be herps, you're informed,” actually failing to do that is a felony, a whisk-you-away event, and after months of asinine behavior that added up in no other way, it was my thought that the story I wanted to make easiest for anyone to believe would be one that an Oinkerton dynastic scion would explain to everyone, forever. I did not ask this person to snuggle.
I asked her to bring me drugs I could inject into my bloodstream and of course she wasn't invited. She was at work; without being at all obvious about it, other than burning time in my direction at all for reasons other than actually encouraging me to get naked with her.
Oh, Heavens no. I got naked. She remained clothed. We were not the same.)
It was not hard to convince anyone within earshot that I was obsessed with slamming illicit aphrodisiac psychostimulants. “Hey, do you know where I can get that stuff?” Of course they knew. They all fucking knew. They still fucking know. But, that is a secret.
And, it was not for me. Arguably it still is not. I am not invited to exciting times. I am not a regular member of Club Fed. I am not encouraged to lollygag about, snogging courtesans all damn day. One has to earn access to such largess. What's that going to do to the economy otherwise? (Arguably, encourage more legitimate participation.) I didn't give a toss for getting access. I was never going to get that. I did not have to be read in on that point. I kept asking and became known as a pariah, unwelcomed anywhere anyone ever might have “fun.” I wasn't given fun. I was given a biowarfare vector of transmission and a permanent wallflower permit. Without being at all obvious about it. (Standards.)
I didn't have to earn systemic resilience and/or virtual immunity to HSV/HPV. That was inflicted upon my organism without any orientation session provided. I am, of course, quite grateful. I know that all of those individuals involved and in the know believed they were helping me. By preventing the possibility of making a terrible mistake.
They were fully convinced that they knew better than any others who was better than any others and were thus to be allowed to know what, when, how, why, and who. Thirty years later, their expertise is manifest.
Not so expert at keeping David out of the doldrums but maybe some of my communications were sent to him instead of me. These days it's a rare one that I don't see some exhortation to just... give up. I don't know why I would.
Things are only looking up from here. Hey, is a divorcee still a widow? I heard they get loose fast. (That's probably why Grapefruit was told that I was dead — and as well, ineffective — and she would never see me again. Classy, Bellgab. Class.) Why contain īT?
Obvious staged passing in order to escape massive civil and criminal liability is obvious. I don't think there's a damn thing wrong with it, either. Most of what anyone doesn't know now is none of their business anyway. But I suppose my unacknowledged publicity squad has left most with an expectation of more and more narcissistic supply.
You can't handle the truth, Punylings. THIS IS ALL POLITICAL. Are you freaks done yet? Probably not. I am still brazenly unrepentant and while it is a very flattering proposal, to be murdered as blood sacrifice to The Dark Lord and reanimated into another organism, one without thumbs; that was simply not what I had planned for my day.
Hey, here's an idea: BEND THE KNEE, AND SURRENDER TO GOD. Without being at all suicidal about it.
(Weak. Quitter! Bro, Y U NO SEPPUKU??? Welcome to amateur hour.) Truly, none of us ever die.
We simply change form. Hopefully all of all y'all can choose a form next that doesn't steal all my property like a degenerate reprobate Commie pinko would. CRIME DOESN'T PAY. (And neither do you, Jüzzian rebel scum.)
I will miss David Willcock and his high-quality streams of medium-talent copywritten boilerplate filler content. Corey Goode is no man to fill those shoes... unless Alpha Draconan interests say it may be so. They have a lot of influence around here.
Now imagine if it were effective at anything other than petty theft and whoremongering any person with a twat who can tolerate me for five goddam minutes. Add in a soup bone. Make it a meal.
Thoughts and prayers. Hang on.
* Jackstar reminds you that obeying the law is as close as one can get to achieving ecstatic orgiastic bliss in today's wintry economic climate.
Now get out there and make me some goddam money! Isn't there a bounty on Dopelord’s head? Or does he support draw a salary for enduring the undoubtedly grim heterosexual torment that comes with using my 🆔 and sticking his wing-wang into her, uh, I'm going to say here: “where evah.” I retract the query. It's really not my concern what two consenting adults do in the privacy of their own home, one with the time of my birth used as its street address number, and that I am trespassed from — because that's infinitely more classy than telling me that the woman is married and they're hoping to jam me up in some ridiculous narrative thread made up out of whole cloth.
I know this is hard for most of you understand, but that behavior is illegal, while my use of and theogenic substances in legendary spiritual practice is perfectly legal and protected by the Constitution of these United States. FIGURE IT THE FUCK OUT, YOU FUCKING SQUAREHEAD MORONS.
Maybe you can discuss it over pillow talk. Spice things up a little. Spell words like jurisprudence on each other's tummies with chocolate syrup. Whatever the fuck you do while imagining that your rampant, out of control sex- and drug-addiction is anything fucking normal. I AM SURE IT SEEMS THAT WAY TO ALL OF YOU.
YOU HAVE MILLIONS OF GODDAM DOLLARS AND YOU JUICE UP THAT BIG-TITTED CARPETBAGGING CALIFORNIAN WHORE THAT YOU CAN CALL “A WIFE” THROUGH A SERIES OF PAINFUL STRETCHES OF IMAGINATION TO RING ME UP AND WHINE FOR MONEY — AND IT IS IMAGINED THAT THIS IS GOING TO SUPPORT ANY NOTION OF MY INVOLVEMENT AS CRIMINAL WHATSOEVER. SINCE I GIVE AWAY MONEY AND EXPECT SEX, OBVIOUSLY, GREAT THEORY, MR. POIROT.
YOU ARE DRIVEN BY A CRAVEN, LUSTFUL DESIRE FOR SEXUAL GRATIFICATION. I AM COMPELLED TO GATHER FORENSIC EVIDENCE AND DIGITAL FINANCIAL RECORDS IN ORDER TO ENABLE A PLATOON OF POLICE OFFICERS TO GO RAID ANOTHER GANG OF OINKING FUCKING PIGS. WE ARE NOT THE SAME.
You have been exploiting multiple people in this way for decades and did I really have to spell this out for any of you?
No: I had to spell it out for Grapefleet. They are are all functionally illiterate, maniacally homicidal, covert military special operations c∞zeflesh; subtlety does not appear to be where most of them allocated their stat points.
That's not why I love them but if does help quite a lot to explain why none of them can figure out how to write me a goddam letter after five fucking years. Because I'm too high to read? YOU ALL FUCK AT BLOOD ORGY IN SEVEN-HOUR STINTS, WHAT ARE THEY GOING TO SCRIBBLE ANYWAY, #FUKMETOO #HAIKU?
I retract the query. (Standards.) No one cares. The truth is, you all deserve each other.
I deserve nothing; I earned everything I had before all of you conspired together to steal the whole lot. WE HAVE THIS ON VIDEO! (Closed captioning not available on Guam.) I'm sure this makes sense when one is planning on re-acquiring the liquidated and freshly laundered lucre upon emerging from the vat in the cloning lab creche. None of you were going to leave me with nothing after all! (You were going to leave me dead_actual_dead and putting Bird into whatever new being I was to be sold on accepting. YOUR SILLY SHILLY PLANS ARE TRANSPARENT, BELLGAB!) Once again: I made other plans for myself. Hang on.
* Jackstar reminds you that he was asked to HELP —&— ✔️MATE is a form of helping.
SIGNED,
JACKSTAR, FUCK EUNUCHS AND DROWS.
p.s.·. Missed her will. -Cock
p.p.s.·. Sure, I could have dialed 911. But this way, I represent as posessing
zazz.
p.p.p.s.·. “Hello, your daughter and I were considering resuming a sexual relationship, now that it's 23 years later... is there anything I need to know?” Dude. DUDE. That is the moment when you say, “SHE'S MARRIED TO THE SEX PREDATOR CREEP THAT HAS BEEN STALKING YOU FOR OVER TWO DECADES,” like seriously bro, it might seem a little bit abrupt, but it's probably best to get that kind of honest talk out of the way as soon as possible, especially when they fucking look at you in the eyes and fucking ask you. Seriously, Duran Duran even wrote a song about it. THEY WERE SO REAL FOR THAT. (Standards.)
p.p.p p s.·.
♪ is there something I should know? ♪ Yeah, you're goddam right there is, you fucking owe me fucking MONEY, MOTHERFUC— *click*
