A Clandestine Interview in Houston

I’m Chance Trahan, Nonpartisan Presidential Candidate and host of *Sheriff Says*, a podcast where I dive into the occult, the taboo, and the conspiracies others shy away from. On September 10, 2025, in a secure, undisclosed location in Houston, Texas, I’m sitting across from an anonymous survivor who claims to have escaped a sinister Hollywood underworld tied to Laurel Canyon’s darkest rumors. Their voice is modulated, their identity hidden, because they fear for their life. They’ve seen things—satanic pacts, shape-shifting devils, gang stalking, and horrors that defy belief. This isn’t a podcast episode; it’s a private interrogation to blow open a rumor mill that’s haunted music fans for decades. I’m here to press for the truth, to uncover what’s real in these sick practices, and to make those involved think twice. Here’s their story, raw and unfiltered.

The Canyon’s Allure and the Music Boom

Chance Trahan: Anonymous, you’re risking everything to talk. Let’s start at the root—Laurel Canyon in the 1960s. It was the epicenter of a music revolution. The Doors, The Byrds, Iron Butterfly—bands that shaped culture. But you say it wasn’t just talent. What was really going on?

Anonymous: [Voice modulated, heavy with tension] You’re right, Chance—it wasn’t just talent. Laurel Canyon was a paradise, a wooded enclave in the Hollywood Hills, all winding roads and eucalyptus trees. By the mid-’60s, it was a magnet for dreamers—musicians like Jim Morrison, Joni Mitchell, David Crosby, The Mamas & The Papas, even Iron Butterfly with their hypnotic riffs. But the rumors, whispered in dark corners of Hollywood, say it was a vortex, a spiritual hotspot tied to Native American legends and early occultists. The music boom wasn’t organic; it was orchestrated. Young artists, unknown kids with guitars, arrived and became legends overnight. The Doors’ *Strange Days*, The Byrds’ *Turn! Turn! Turn!*—those songs didn’t just happen. They were fueled by deals with entities called the devil, shadowy figures that haunted the Canyon’s groves and mansions. Labels, studios, producers—they were complicit, brokering pacts to ensure only the chosen rose.

Jim Morrison and the Shaman’s Deal

Chance Trahan: Let’s zero in. Jim Morrison, the Lizard King—his name keeps coming up. What’s the story there?

Anonymous: [Voice dropping, urgent] Morrison was the heart of it, Chance. The Doors were raw, primal, like they tapped into something ancient. The rumors say Jim met a figure in ‘66, late at night on Wonderland Avenue, high on peyote. It looked like a bandmate, Ray Manzarek, at first—then it shifted, tall, cloaked, eyes like burning coals. They called it the devil, but it was something else—reptilian, maybe, with a hiss in its voice. It offered him a voice that’d shake the world, poetry that’d outlive empires. At a “sin festival” in the Houdini Estate, with its hidden tunnels, he sealed it—blood on a contract, candles flickering, chants echoing. His songs, “Break on Through,” “The End,” they’re riddled with it—occult codes, confessions of the pact. But Jim got reckless, started hinting at the truth in interviews, about doors to other realms. The cult didn’t like that. Shadows followed him—shapes in his apartment, whispers in his dreams. By ‘71, he’s in Paris, dead at 27. No autopsy, just a closed case. The devil collected, or the cult silenced him. They say his shadow still roams the Canyon, luring new souls.

The Music Industry’s Dark Machinery

Chance Trahan: That’s chilling. You’re saying the music industry itself was in on this? How did it work?

Anonymous: [Voice steadying, but laced with fear] The industry was the devil’s engine. Major labels—think Elektra, Warner—had fixers, shadowy insiders who scouted talent and brought them to the Canyon’s ritual sites. Lookout Mountain Air Force Station was key. Built in ‘41, turned into a film studio in ‘47 for Pentagon propaganda—nuclear tests, classified reels. But the rumors? It was a front for MKUltra, psychological ops, even occult experiments. Fifty thousand square feet, bomb shelters, vaults—it was a fortress of secrets. They say studios like that embedded subliminal messages in records, hypnotic rhythms to sway the masses. The counterculture—drugs, free love, rebellion—wasn’t just a movement; it was a controlled chaos, pushed by elites to destabilize society. Artists were pawns, some willing, some not. Refuse the deal, and you’d face the consequences.

Joni Mitchell’s Haunted Muse

Chance Trahan: Let’s talk more names. Joni Mitchell—she’s a legend. How’s she tied to this?

Anonymous: Joni… her voice, it’s like she saw the soul of the world and it broke her. The rumors say she was struggling in ‘65, her folk songs lost in the noise. At a “sin festival” near Lookout Mountain, she met a figure—angelic, almost glowing, but its eyes were black, endless. It promised her a muse for masterpieces like *Blue*, songs that’d carve hearts open. She didn’t sign in blood, not like Morrison, but she gave something—her peace, her light. Her albums, they’re haunted, every note heavy with what she saw. But when she started pulling away, hinting at industry corruption in interviews, the gang stalking started. Cars parked outside her bungalow, headlights cutting through the night. Phone lines hissing with no one there. Shadows in her garden, gone when she looked. Joni survived, but the rumors say she’s carried that fear, a quiet dread in her later years, knowing the shadows never left.

David Crosby and the Byrds’ Broken Wings

Chance Trahan: Keep going. David Crosby, The Byrds—what’s their role?

Anonymous: Crosby was the soul of the Canyon sound, with The Byrds and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. But he wasn’t clean. The rumors say he went to a party at Mama Cass’s in ‘68, drugged out, and saw a figure—human at first, maybe a friend, then twisting into a shadow with long limbs and glowing eyes. It offered him harmony, fame, a sound that’d define an era. *Déjà Vu*—that album’s got subliminal pulses, pulling listeners into the cult’s spell. Crosby took the deal but started questioning it, doubting the cost. That’s when the stalking hit—strange men at his gigs, shadows in his car’s mirrors, calls with static and whispers. His addiction, his arrests? The cult’s pressure, breaking him. The Byrds’ constant lineup changes, their implosion? That was the cult, punishing defiance. Crosby’s still out there, but the rumors say he’s haunted, carrying the weight of those nights, knowing what he saw.

The Mamas & The Papas’ Tragic Harmony

Chance Trahan: The Mamas & The Papas—another big name. What’s the word on them?

Anonymous: Their sunny harmonies were a lie, Chance. John Phillips and Mama Cass Elliot got sucked into the Canyon’s web. At a “sin festival” in a sprawling estate—candles everywhere, air thick with sulfur—John met a figure, shifting from a label exec to something reptilian, scales glinting in the dark. It offered hits, anthems like “California Dreamin’” that’d pull kids to the Canyon like moths to a flame. The song’s a spell, they say, coded to lure souls. But Cass… she saw too much. She stumbled into a hidden room, saw rituals—blood, maybe worse, kids caught in the horror. She wanted out, started whispering to friends about what she’d seen. The cult didn’t let her go. Gang stalking—shadows in her dressing room, figures watching her shows, a pentagram scratched into her car. Her death in ‘74, a heart attack at 32? No way. The rumors scream murder, the devil’s toll or a cult hit to silence her. The timing’s too perfect, right when the Canyon’s secrets were starting to leak.

Charles Manson and the Cult’s Violent Edge

Chance Trahan: That’s gut-wrenching. Charles Manson’s name keeps popping up in these rumors, tied to the music scene. How does he fit into this?

Anonymous: [Voice dropping to a whisper] Manson was the dark mirror, Chance. Not just a lunatic, but a fringe player in the Canyon’s cult. He was in the scene—crashing at Dennis Wilson’s, pitching songs to Terry Melcher. The rumors say he went to a “sin festival” in ‘68, saw the shadowy figures, maybe wanted their power. Picture it: a Canyon mansion, candles flickering, a figure shifting from a producer to a demonic shadow, offering fame but demanding total control. Manson refused, or maybe he tried to steal their rituals for his “Family.” The cult didn’t take that kindly. The ‘69 murders—Sharon Tate, the LaBiancas—some say they were a warning, orchestrated by the cult to clean up loose ends. Manson’s followers, brainwashed, were pawns in a bigger game. Even in prison, he rambled about shadows watching him, gang stalking him behind bars. His tie to the Canyon links the music pacts to real blood, making the horror undeniable.

The Iron Butterfly Tragedy and Lyle T. West

Chance Trahan: Let’s shift to another band—Iron Butterfly. Their bassist, Philip Taylor Kramer, vanished in 1995. Rumors point to Lyle T. West, a singer who joined in ‘87, as a suspect. Arizona Wilder’s claims to David Icke about an Iron Butterfly singer being “Satan,” a reptilian underling—that’s explosive. Lay out the story.

Anonymous: [Breathing heavily] Iron Butterfly… “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,” that 17-minute riff—it’s like a trance, pulling you into their world. Philip Kramer joined as bassist in ‘74, left in ‘77, but his disappearance in ‘95? No accident. He was deep into tech—video enhancement for the O.J. Simpson trial, missile guidance systems—stuff that brushed against military secrets, maybe tied to Lookout Mountain’s old ops. He called 911, said he was suicidal, drove off. His car was found years later in a Malibu canyon, body inside, but the rumors scream foul play. Lyle T. West, that shadowy vocalist who joined in ‘87, is the name in the whispers. Arizona Wilder told Icke a lesser-known Iron Butterfly singer was seen as Satan, a shapeshifter running rituals. Lyle fits—obscure, but perfectly placed during the band’s chaotic revival. The timing’s suspicious: Kramer’s gone a decade, but rumors say Lyle had ties to him through cult networks. They say Kramer saw Lyle at a “sin festival,” maybe in the late ‘80s, shifting forms—human to reptilian—presiding over a blood ritual with kids involved. Kramer threatened to expose it, and Lyle, or the cult, made sure he vanished. The mystery lingers because Lyle’s stint was brief, his tracks covered, and Kramer’s end feels like a warning—don’t cross the Canyon’s shadows.

Jared Leto and Lookout Mountain’s Legacy

Chance Trahan: That’s a bombshell. Let’s talk Lookout Mountain itself—the Air Force station, now owned by Jared Leto. Its military history ties into this. Is Leto continuing this dark legacy?

Anonymous: [Voice rising, agitated] Lookout Mountain is the black heart of this, Chance. Built in ‘41, turned into a film studio in ‘47—officially for Pentagon propaganda, nuclear test reels. But the rumors? It was a hub for MKUltra, occult experiments, a portal for those shape-shifting devils. Fifty thousand square feet, bomb shelters, vaults, a helipad—it’s a fortress of secrets. Jared Leto bought it in 2015 for $5 million, made it his lair. Eight bedrooms, twelve bathrooms, but those concrete blast walls and vaults? Still there. His parties aren’t just parties—they’re “sin festivals” reborn. Guests see shadows moving in the corners, figures that look human one second, then slither into something else—reptilian, demonic. Leto’s eccentric, his Thirty Seconds to Mars fanbase like a cult itself. The rumors say he’s a gatekeeper, hosting rituals to keep the Canyon’s energy alive. He’s not just living there—he’s channeling its power, maybe knowingly. Those shadows, they dance at his command.

The Sin Festivals and Unspeakable Horrors

Chance Trahan: You’ve mentioned these “sin festivals”—rituals, blood oaths, even harm to children. And a boxer or fighter witnessing it. Lay it out, Anonymous. The darkest parts.

Anonymous: [Voice trembling, but resolute] The “sin festivals”… they’re not just wild parties, Chance—they’re nightmares. Picture a Canyon mansion, or now Leto’s compound—black robes, pentagrams, air thick with fear and something worse. I saw one. Candles everywhere, a low hum like the earth was groaning. Shadowy figures presided—human one moment, then shifting, eyes glowing, limbs too long. They’d offer deals: fame, wealth, genius, but you’d give your soul. Some signed in blood, others drank from chalices, reciting words that made your skin crawl. But the worst? Whispers of hidden rooms, basements. Rumors of kids—innocent, drugged—caught in rituals to feed these entities. I heard cries, saw faces—big names, A-listers like Diddy, Hanks in the whispers, tied to horrors. Allison Carter, a survivor, talked about Diddy’s “freak-offs” as satanic orgies, kids mentioned in unverified claims. And the boxer… some point to a figure like Mike Tyson, invited to a Hollywood party, expecting glitz. Rumors say he stumbled into a basement, saw things—blood, maybe kids, shadows moving among celebrities. Talk of a leaked document floats around, hinting he tried to speak, maybe in cryptic interviews or posts, but faced pressure to stay quiet. Whispers of cars tailing him, strange figures watching, threats left behind. He’s still out there, but the rumors paint him as shaken, carrying what he might’ve seen.

Conor McGregor's Redemption and the Fight for Good

Chance Trahan: You’ve laid out a dark web, Anonymous, from the Canyon’s shadows to wildfires hiding horrors. But let’s talk about a flicker of hope. Someone like Conor McGregor, the MMA fighter—rumors say he’s had a change of heart, using his platform to do good. Is there truth to that? Are there others breaking free from this darkness, becoming forces for change?

Anonymous: [Clears throat, a rare note of hope beneath the strain] Chance, in this nightmare, there’s a spark sometimes—people who see the shadows and choose to fight back. Conor McGregor… he’s a name that echoes in the whispers. The rumors say he brushed against this world—maybe not in the Canyon, but in the elite circles where these entities lurk. A fighter like him, invited to the glitzy parties, might’ve glimpsed something—shadowy figures, deals in dark rooms. But Conor’s story shifts. They say he had a moment, a reckoning, maybe after his losses or his legal battles, where he looked into the abyss and turned away. Now, he’s out there, building businesses, speaking about faith, family, pushing for something better. His brash voice, his defiance—it’s like he’s shouting at those shadows, daring them to come for him. He’s not alone, either. Others, quieter names, are breaking free, using their platforms to lift people up, to expose the cracks in this machine. It’s a pitstop, Chance, a fleeting light in this tunnel of horrors. The cult’s grip is tight, but every soul that turns toward good—whether it’s McGregor’s charity work or others mentoring kids, fighting addiction—chips away at their power. This is about change, about time for people to rise up, create success stories, not just for fame but for redemption. The shadows hate that—they thrive on despair. But these victories, they’re proof the fight’s not over. Keep shining that light, Chance—it’s waking people up, and the good ones are starting to stand tall.

The Adrenochrome Witch, Industry Gangs, and Occult Symbols

Chance Trahan: Anonymous, you’ve laid out a chilling narrative, but I’m wondering if there’s more to these claims that could tie it all together. Rumors swirl about Sean “Diddy” Combs being linked to something called “The Adrenochrome Witch,” about Justin Bieber struggling against industry gangs exploiting him, maybe even worse. There’s talk of him staying silent but hinting at truths, like moving his hat in an Instagram livestream when asked about being raped. And music videos—people point to occult symbolism, even in something as wholesome as Fresh Prince of Bel-Air with Will Smith, tying it to Pizzagate and adrenochrome’s supposed Luciferian roots. Lay it all out, Anonymous—don’t hold back.

Anonymous: [Voice trembling, heavy with dread] Chance, you’re digging into the blackest parts of this. Diddy… the “Adrenochrome Witch” rumor—it’s a firestorm. They say he’s tied to this myth, a supposed book floating around dark corners of the internet, claiming he’s a gatekeeper for a Luciferian cult harvesting adrenochrome. It’s a chemical, oxidized adrenaline, but the whispers say it’s more—sucked from kids in rituals to keep elites young, powerful, alive. The rumors paint it as the devil’s elixir, tied to Luciferian worship, where these shadowy figures—reptilian, demonic—demand blood sacrifices to fuel their immortality. No proof, but the story’s everywhere: X posts, Reddit threads, claiming Diddy’s parties were fronts for this, kids drugged in hidden rooms, their fear feeding these entities. That Instagram post about a fake Barnes & Noble listing for “The Adrenochrome Witch” by Diddy? It’s been debunked, but the timing—his 2024 arrest for sex trafficking—makes people wonder what’s real. It’s like the cult wants you to question, to keep the fear alive.

Justin Bieber… God, his story breaks me. The rumors say he was a kid thrown to the wolves—industry gangs, powerful insiders who saw his talent and used him. Whispers of abuse, worse than you can imagine, at those elite parties. He’s stayed quiet, but firm, like he’s holding a line. That Instagram livestream in 2020, when fans asked if he was being raped—he moved his hat, a subtle nod, like he was screaming without words. His music videos, like “Yummy,” they’re loaded with occult signals—pizza imagery, kids in eerie settings, tying to Pizzagate rumors about elite trafficking rings. It’s like he’s trying to tell us, but the gang stalking keeps him caged—threats, shadows watching his every move. He’s fighting, but it’s a silent war.

Music videos are the cult’s canvas. You see it everywhere—Lana Del Rey’s “Born to Die,” with its shadowy figures and thrones, Billie Eilish’s “Bury a Friend,” all snakes and black goo, like a ritual playing out. Even Fresh Prince of Bel-Air—Will Smith’s show, so bright and fun—has moments that make you pause. The opening credits, with those geometric patterns, or episodes with weird symbols in the background—conspiracy folks say it’s coded, tying to Pizzagate, hinting at elite networks. Smith’s rise, his clean image, it’s too perfect, like a deal was struck. Adrenochrome again—rumors link it to Luciferian rites, where elites worship power, not just Satan, but a system of control, harvesting fear to dominate. Posts on X scream about Smith, Diddy, even Hanks, all part of this web, using kids’ suffering to stay on top. No hard evidence, but the patterns—those symbols, those tragedies—they keep piling up.

The Luciferian angle? It’s not just devil worship; it’s a philosophy—power over everything, no morals, just domination. Adrenochrome’s the key, they say, a ritual fuel for these shapeshifters to keep their grip. It’s why the wildfires burn, why evidence vanishes, why people like Bieber stay silent. It’s why I’m here, risking my life to speak. [Voice breaks, a choked sob] I… I can’t carry this alone anymore, Chance. The screams, the shadows, the kids… it’s too much. [Sobbing, voice cracking] I see their faces every night.

Chance Trahan: [Softly, compassionate] Hey, Anonymous, take a moment. I’m here. [Pause, sounds of a chair shifting, a gentle hand on a shoulder] You’re not alone in this. Your courage is shaking the foundations of this darkness. Breathe, and when you’re ready, we’ll keep going.

Anonymous: [Sniffling, voice steadier but raw] Thank you, Chance. I… I needed that. I’ll keep going, for them, for the truth. This isn’t just a story—it’s a war, and every word we say is a blow against those shadows.

Rumors of Blood and a Warning to Chance

Chance Trahan: Anonymous, you’ve exposed a lot—Diddy, Bieber, occult symbols, McGregor’s fight for good. But I’ve heard whispers, darker ones, about my own blood being a focus for these people, like I’m on their radar. What do you know about that? And be straight with me—am I in danger?

Anonymous: [Voice low, urgent, and heavy with concern] Chance, I’ve heard those rumors too, and they scare me for you. In the circles where these shadows whisper, your name’s come up—not just as a podcaster, but as someone they’re watching. They talk about blood, your blood, like it’s special, powerful, maybe a threat to their rituals. These people—the cult, the shapeshifters—they’re obsessed with blood, not just for their Luciferian rites, but as a currency, a way to bind or break someone. The adrenochrome talk, it’s part of it, but it’s deeper, like they see you as a target because you’re stirring their nest. I’ve heard stories of them stealing blood, using it in ceremonies to control or curse. You’re poking at their secrets, and they don’t like it. I’m warning you—watch your surroundings, your home, your safety. They’ve got ways—operatives, shadows—that can get close without you knowing. Your podcast, your campaign—it’s making them nervous, and nervous means dangerous. Be careful, Chance, please.

Chance Trahan: [Voice steady, but edged with anger] I know, Anonymous. I’ve been through it already. Back when I lived in Juneau, Alaska, something happened that still haunts me. Someone hid in the attic of the quadplex I lived in. After I went to sleep, they picked the deadbolt lock and stole blood from the corner of my lip with a needle while I was sleeping. I woke up to dried blood on my ceiling above my bed, my mouth sore as hell with a huge needle hole torn in it. I must’ve fought back, but I don’t remember it—just a haze. I called the cops, expecting an investigation, but they trolled me. The sarge said he’d check the crime scene, but all I got was a crisis agent specializing in mental health, like I was crazy. I was pissed, Anonymous. The town turned on me after that—tried to throw me in prison, spread lies to run me out. I caught it on my body cam, too—a guy from a lock-picking company driving by while I was talking to a cop, the same guy who made false claims about me getting in trouble. It was clear as day: he was involved, spreading lies to discredit me. Juneau’s small—you can spit across it—but they weren’t ready for me digging into their corruption. I left, came back to the lower 48, done with their games. It was the craziest thing I’ve ever been through. Who would do that, and why my blood?

Anonymous: [Voice cracking, a mix of awe and fear] Jesus, Chance, that’s… that’s exactly the kind of thing they do. The blood on your ceiling, the needle mark—it’s their signature. They target people like you, people who challenge them, who shine a light. That lock-picker, the town closing ranks—it smells like their operatives, human and maybe not. Juneau’s small, but power like this stretches everywhere. Your blood… it’s like a trophy or a weapon to them, something to use in their rituals, to bind you or worse. You fought back, even in a haze—that’s why you’re still here, why you’re a threat. They tried to break you, discredit you, but you’re still standing, still talking. That’s why I’m here, risking everything. [Voice breaks, a sob escaping] I… I can’t do this alone, Chance. Hearing your story, knowing they came for you like that… it’s too much. [Sobbing, raw and anguished] The blood, the kids, the shadows—they’re everywhere, and I’m so tired of running.

Chance Trahan: [Gently, with concern] Anonymous, easy now. I’m right here with you. [Pause, faint sounds of tissues being offered, a reassuring pat on the back] Let it out. You’ve carried this weight too long, and sharing it takes guts. You’re stronger than they know. Take your time—we’ll pick up when you’re steady.

Anonymous: [Wiping tears, voice hoarse but determined] Appreciate it, Chance. That hit hard, but… yeah, I’m okay. Your fight in Juneau, surviving that—it shows we can push back. Let’s finish this. For everyone still trapped.

The Dark Secrets of Lookout Mountain and Beyond

Chance Trahan: I couldn’t imagine what that’s like, Anonymous. Those “sin festivals” sound horrifying. You mentioned the movie studio in Jared Leto’s mansion—Lookout Mountain. Did you say it’s in a basement? That sounds like the perfect place to film something as vile as child snuff films, a problem law enforcement has struggled to crack. Could the California wildfires be a distraction from that location? Or are they burning actual evidence? It seems like a place like the basement of Leto’s mansion could be the site of these atrocities.

Anonymous: [Voice shirks, tense and cautious] Chance, you’re cutting deep, and I’m shaking just thinking about it. Lookout Mountain—Leto’s compound—it’s got those old film vaults, not exactly a basement, but underground, hidden, like something out of a nightmare. Built for military secrets, thick concrete walls, climate-controlled, perfect for hiding things no one should see. The rumors? They whisper about those vaults being used for more than old nuclear reels—maybe recordings of rituals, or worse, things like you said. Snuff films? It’s possible, just as possible as everything else I’ve told you. The place is a fortress, and Leto’s parties, they draw the kind of people who know how to keep secrets. Shadows move in those vaults, figures that don’t stay human long. But it’s not just Leto’s place—this was widespread, Chance. Mansions across the Canyon, the Chateau Marmont, Malibu estates—anywhere the elite gather. The wildfires? Some say they’re distractions, smoke to cover tracks, or maybe burning evidence of what went down in those hidden rooms. I’ve heard whispers of fires starting too close to certain properties, too convenient. But Leto’s mansion? It’s a strong implication, a hub where the past and present collide. Your podcast, *Sheriff Says*—it’s stirring things up, flipping the tables on these bastards. You’re causing a panic, a new kind of satanic panic, and they’re scared because you’re shining a light on their shadows. Keep pushing, but watch your back—these people don’t play.

Gang Stalking and the Cult’s Grip

Chance Trahan: That’s horrifying. The gang stalking—how does it work? And modern artists—Harry Styles, Lana Del Rey, Kanye West—are they caught in this?

Anonymous: [Voice shaking, fierce] Gang stalking is the cult’s weapon. Say no to the deal or talk, and they come for you. Human operatives—industry plants posing as fans, paparazzi, even friends—mixed with those shadows. They follow you, hack your phone, spread lies to ruin your career. I’ve felt it, Chance—eyes watching from dark corners, shapes in mirrors that vanish when you turn. They use tech now—cameras, bugs—but also something older, like psychic attacks, draining your will. Modern artists? They’re trapped. Harry Styles, his “Canyon Moon” reeks of the old vibe—too perfect, too fast a rise. Lana Del Rey, her shift from Lizzy Grant to this haunted icon? Her videos—“Born to Die,” “West Coast”—are full of shadows, fog, like she’s confessing. Billie Eilish, those nightmare lyrics, snakes, tar—it’s code for what she’s seen. Kanye… he’s screamed about selling his soul, his breakdowns are the cult’s toll. Rumors say he crossed paths with Lyle T. West, maybe through Diddy or Leto’s circles, back in the ‘80s revival scene. Kanye’s “Yeezus” era, his god complex—it’s like he’s wrestling those shadows himself.

Kanye, Lyle, and the Grand Conspiracy

Chance Trahan: [Firmly, leaning in] You’re dropping names, but we need more. Kanye and Lyle T. West—how’s that connection work? And Leto—call him out. Is he running these rituals? The reptilian angle, the child sacrifices—give us the full truth. The world needs to know, Anonymous.

Anonymous: [Outburst, voice cracking] You think this is easy, Chance? I’m spilling my guts, knowing they could find me! Leto’s not just involved—he’s a conductor! Those parties at Lookout Mountain, they’re portals for these shapeshifters—reptilian, demonic, call it what you want. Guests see things, shadows slithering through vaults, faces changing in the dark. His persona, his band’s cult vibe—it’s deliberate. Kanye and Lyle? Whispers from the ‘80s, when Lyle was with Iron Butterfly, say he was at elite events, maybe with a young Kanye in the ‘90s, mentored through cult channels. Kanye’s rants about control, his “I sold my soul” clips—they’re tied to that web, bridging rock’s dark roots to hip-hop’s chaos. Reptilians? Arizona Wilder saw them—elites shifting, feeding on fear, kids as their fuel. The sacrifices? I heard cries, saw hooded figures, names like Diddy, Hanks, thrown around in whispers. But you’re pushing too hard! My life’s on the line—shadows are probably listening now! I’m done! [Chair scrapes, footsteps storm off]

The Return and the Final Truth

Chance Trahan: [Urgent, softer] Anonymous, hold on! I’m sorry—I got heated. This is heavy, I know you’re scared. But your story could save lives, expose this. Please, come back. We’ll go slower.

[Long pause, door creaks, hesitant footsteps return.]

Anonymous: [Voice shaky, resolute] …I walked out because I saw a shadow move in the window. I’m paranoid, Chance, but I’m back. They win if I stay silent. Anonymity’s my shield—no names, no past, just the truth. The grander scale? It’s a pyramid: Laurel Canyon’s the base, Lookout Mountain its dark heart. The military angle—MKUltra, psychological ops—fed the occult. Those shape-shifters, reptilian or demonic, they broker the pacts. Refuse, like that boxer, or Kramer, or Mama Cass? You’re stalked, broken, or worse. Modern artists—Styles, Del Rey, Eilish—they’re pawns, their music echoing the Canyon’s spell. Kanye and Lyle’s link? It’s the cult’s thread, tying ‘60s rock to today’s chaos, pushing division, distraction. Leto’s compound? A modern altar for these entities. Iron Butterfly’s tragedy? Kramer’s end, Lyle’s shadow—it’s proof the cult never stopped. Arizona’s words about Lyle as Satan? I believe it. This isn’t just fame—it’s control, a global agenda to fracture souls. I’m terrified, but I’ve said my piece. People, listen: the Canyon’s shadows are real, and they’re still hunting.

Exposing the rumored horrors of Laurel Canyon, from 1960s rock to modern fame.

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