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When I locate the Vad Bunker house, it looks so suburban it feels like a memory. A middle-aged man answers the door, and I greet him with, “You must be David.” This immediately sounds rather creepy both to him and me.

Or was he just another obsessive gun-stroke, an American eccentric who wrote for obscure websites, who shrouded himself with lawyers and abused people’s love of mystery and desire to feel important as he seductively spread fear – a sociopath who enriched his life using his very human powers of manipulation? I’m betting he may have heard a story like this before. The idea that the government or secret forces might be responsible becomes a legit possibility to them.

When I started my investigation a few weeks after his death, the body of the deceased was listed in the coroner’s office as a John Doe. This would obviously be easier to do with a John Doe. Shouldn’t the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives (ATF) be all over the mysterious death of a man who had a small arsenal in his L. When you consider all the questions this man’s story raises, you wind up with an investigation into what we believe, what we want to believe, and how others will try to control what we believe for their benefit. One created here on Earth by his father’s sex change pioneering boss. He and his listeners have been speculating about whether the deaths of microbiologists are meant to reduce our chances of creating an antidote. Noory also mentions that natural medicine doctors have been dying in suspicious ways.

You may be wondering: did you just say his 1,200 guns are worth million dollars? This story says more about us than it will ever reveal about the dead man at the center of it. There is truth to be found inside the swirl of this bizarre mystery. —Mark Twain “A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court” There’s one man who might be able to help me make sense of all the alien oddness of this story: George Noory. They’ve been reporting on that story for the last three weeks.

She trusted that his super-secret black ops agency would find and dispose of his body. Nebron-Gorin’s lawyer warned the world: “He could have been working for anyone.” It was soon reported the dead man might have had multiple storage units around Los Angeles.

The next day, the Fourth of July, she and her personal assistant blended into the holiday traffic and got the hell out of town. She was not a well-trained CIA agent like her dead fiancé had claimed he was, but she did have a personal mantra to motivate her. The bulletin went national: “Woman missing under suspicious circumstances.” Four days later, a deputy from an Oregon sheriff department found her car and located her at a hotel. Twenty minutes later the woman’s mother, Laura, awoke to a phone call and learned that her daughter was no longer missing. The next day, Catherine Nebron-Gorin left her personal assistant, Dawn Marie, and traveled to Los Angeles alone. No one knows for sure how many, but they were thought to contain more guns, along with survivalist toys like amphibious assault vehicles and modified SUVS with bulletproof glass. He told news reporters the dead man obsessively ate at the same restaurant, Casa Nostra, with a regular and reliable pattern. The dead man believed it was important to eat a diet rich in bloody cuts of meat.

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