The Octopus was the name Casolaro gave his conspiracy. A multi-tentacled conspiracy involving the highest and deepest levels of government and enterprise. BCCI, October Surprise, Iran Contra, Mossad, Pan-Am 103, Wackenhut, British Intelligence, Inslaw. Covert intelligence operatives, high powered intrusive computer software, money and power. It started a decade or so before, but that may have just been a surfacing period: the framework is probably decades old, reaching back to Watergate, JFK, RFK, MLK, Area 51, the Nazis; maybe even centuries old.
It was a monster that lived in the vast oceans. Every now and then, he found, it would surface, reek havoc, then disappear again, draw in some unsuspecting victims it would drown and feast on. Like most deep sea monsters, it left mostly anecdotal not empirical evidence of its existence, mostly bloodied corpses of victims washed up on shore. It was difficult to get on photograph, the clues it left were cryptic.
I’m going to be the one who gets that photograph, he said, I’m the one who’s going to expose it to the world. Right now, it’s surfacing, but soon it will disappear, probably for a long time. This is the time to get it. While it’s above the water.
Casolaro didn’t see the Octopus was merely using him. His notes and files weren’t words and ideas but mere ink stains secreted by the creature itself, regurgitated scribbles that had been told countless times, a colossal wreck shattered so finely that its facts could never be reassembled.