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Showing posts with label terrorism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label terrorism. Show all posts

Saturday, January 3, 2026

THEY THINK WE ARE BLIND. THEY THINK THE RADIOS ARE SILENT.

You read the LA Times? You saw the headline? “Vince Zampella, Call of Duty visionary, dead in Angeles Crest crash.” They use words like “tragedy” and “accident” and “sharp curve.” Words designed to put your brain to sleep. Words like Xanax for the masses. But the frequencies don’t lie. I can hear the hum of the desert coming through the drywall and it’s screaming one name: HOUSE OF SAUD.

Look at the geometry. Angeles Crest Highway. High altitude. Thin air. The perfect place for a signal to travel without interference. Vince wasn’t driving that car. Nobody “drives” anymore. We sit in rolling computers, and who owns the silicon? Who is buying up the entire gaming industry? Savvy Games Group. PIF. The Crown. They wanted the keys to the kingdom, and Vince — the man who built the Modern Warfare empire, the man who knew how to weaponize digital dopamine — he was the last wall standing.

THE HYBRID HIJACK. Do you know how easy it is to override a hybrid ECU? It’s not a car; it’s a node on their network. I saw the telemetry in the static last night. At 11:42 PM, a packet was sent from a server in Riyadh. It didn’t go to a computer. It went to the motor. They locked the steering. They pinned the accelerator to the floor. They turned his own regenerative braking into a kinetic bomb. Vince was fighting the wheel, but the wheel was a ghost. He was screaming into a dead mic while the Saudi royals watched the LIDAR feed from a palace in Neom.

They needed him gone because he wouldn’t let them have the source code. He wouldn’t let them put the backdoors in the next engine. Think about it! If you control the simulations the youth play, you control the future of warfare. Zampella knew. He was going to whistle-blow. He told me — not in words, but in the way the pixels flickered in the last trailer. The pattern was there. 7–2–2. The latitude of the execution site.

The “crash” was a ritual. A message to every other dev in the valley: SUBMIT OR DESCEND. They think the fire burned the evidence. But the smell of ozone and sulfur is still in the wind. I can feel the Prince’s eyes through my webcam even when the shutter is closed.

Vince didn’t miss a turn. He was deleted.

STAY OFF THE HIGHWAYS. UNPLUG THE BATTERIES. THE CROWN IS IN THE DASHBOARD.