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Sibelsnaat by Dan Dial


SIBELSNAAT by DAN DIAL

Dan Dial’s synopsis of October 2015.
How can anything so huge as a world in crisis be summarized? We can break it down into small pieces. The Minke whale and The Tohono O’odham Indians, for example. We can seek justice for both, or we can just sit back and watch them, and a million other causes, flounder in the tsunami of human ‘progress’. I chose not to sit back, using the gift of enmezzlement (defined in the book) to do everything within my power to iron out the creases of this crazy, wrinkled world of ours. Fear, anger and frustration have driven me to extreme progressions of action, beginning in the early sixties and leading up to today. Like tiny doses of arsenic administered over decades, these negative, toxic emotions have taken me now to the point of no return. What happens next year could be, for you, a life-stopping moment. Literally. Please do what you can to make sure it doesn’t happen. - Dan Dial

BACK COVER BLURB
This small book is my parting gift to you all. The generous gift of a longer life. A last chance to save yourself and to live beyond next year.
I’m not asking for thanks.
I’m asking for compliance.
- Dan Dial

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The above is the first edition back cover blurb written over a year ago by the as yet unidentified author of this book. Whether real or imagined, the threats made in this manuscript could not be ignored. Over a twelve month period, Interpol, the CIA and MI6 attempted without success to locate and, if necessary, neutralize Dan Dial. In the end, he located himself.

Subsequent events, as revealed at the conclusion of this second edition, have elevated these pages from flight of delusion to crashing reality.

FIRST CHAPTER

Consider this an open book. Like an open letter, but longer.

You’re not reading someone else’s private mail. It’s got your name on it. I’ll have no problems getting them to publish it.

And my name? Just a nom de plume – an anagram of my role in this process. My real name isn’t relevant and hasn’t been used in fifty years. Your only clues to my identity are in these pages, in the 30-year-old passport photograph on the cover, and the fact there’s something odd about me. I don’t wear this idiosyncrasy on my sleeve, so if you pass me in the street and can avoid conversation and eye contact, you’ll remain intact.

For my sins, the worst of which I have yet to commit, I was born with the most extraordinary and lethal power a person can have outside the realms of fiction – namely, the ability to transfer intent from my brain directly into yours through a combination of intrusive, almost surgical, eye contact, augmented by choice words, charm, cajolery, and God knows what else. A light squeeze on the forearm; the arch of an eyebrow; a key expression cleverly fashioned to unlock your inner psyche... On a good day I can be inside you before you know what’s happening.

There’s nothing magical or paranormal about it – it’s just a knack. And there’s no name for it, so I ‘ve coined one: Enmezzlement. Verb, to enmezzle = inveigle; coax; manipulate; maneuver; persuade; entrap; lure; seduce – all with the best or the worst intentions, depending on how I’m feeling. In minutes, I’ll have embezzled your intent and replaced it with my own. No, it’s not hypnotism. Hypnosis is the poor man’s enmezzlement. It takes longer to get into a subject’s mind through the back door of hypnotism than to enter through the front door of enmezzlement. The hypnotist’s scope and success rate are no match for my own.

Disarm… charm… sow… harvest. That’s the drill.

I’ve never attempted to analyze my technique for fear of uncovering the subconscious source of it and thereby risking losing it. So, since I first noticed its vague outline over sixty years ago, I’ve kept the veil firmly in place.
You can conjecture ‘til the cows come home as to the source of this unusual faculty, but you’d be wasting your time. It’s the warhead that’s important here, not the delivery system. What’s crucial for you to remember is I can and will deliver.

Why this book? Because you won’t give me credence, follow my instructions, or understand my current position and fatal intent unless I start from the beginning and lead you through to today. I need to explain why I’m where I am, and why I’m giving you one last chance to save yourselves before I take my leave of this earth-hell.
Here’s what happens: If, after twelve months, I find no numerical evidence that you’re following the entreaty I make to you later in this book, then many millions of you will die by my hand. In mitigation, I’ve been driven here by you and your kind. I refuse to take all the blame for what might happen.

Sibelsnaat. What does that word mean? Well, it’s more of a name than a word – a sobriquet I invented for you, my reader. The Sibel half is an anagram of Eblis, the most powerful of genies in Islamic mythology. Ergo, the act of writing this book is me, Dan Dial, rubbing your bottle – summoning you to carry out my wish to rectify the design flaw God made when He, She, or It created homo sapiens.

Sibel is also a beautiful Turkish word meaning ‘a raindrop which hasn’t hit the surface yet’. Imagine having a word for that. It carries a measure of expectancy and certainty, doesn’t it? Like the Chinese water torture. And when this raindrop hits the surface, the whole world will feel it.

The Snaat half is an anagram of who you have inadvertently become. Work it out now if you’re so inclined, or read on…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Nothing is known about Dan Dial other than what is in these pages. Mrs. H, Dial’s 3rd grade teacher in Tucson, Arizona, has not been located and is presumed deceased, as are others, like Carlene Cobb and Bobby Nix. Grace Huddson-Lacy, who dated Dial in the 70s and early 80s (his alias at that time was Steve Hale-Shaw), refuses to be drawn on the relationship, although others who knew him by that name are beginning to come forward. An anonymous Hong Kong trader, who took part in Dial’s ‘Rogues to Riches’ scheme in 1987, knew him by the name Peterson Aragonnae. The proprietors of Bubu Hideaway on Pitcairn Island, remember a blind ‘Ben Watkins’ staying in one of their chalets for several months in 2014.


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