Kevin Wikse vs The Men in Black "Over 2 MILLION Reads" Special Edition by Kevin Wikse
9/30/2025 Update
Originally written in 2017, my experimental writing piece of semi-fictionalized “American Horror,” Kevin Wikse vs. The Men in Black, has reached over 2 MILLION reads! My story is based on a personal encounter I had with what I believe to be Men in Black somewhere between Idaho and California, which I believe arose from my association with Ufologist Phil Schneider, certain circumstances I might have known surrounding his death (murder), and a project that I had been invited to take part in.
While the violence of the real situation and my semi-fictionalized event was undoubtedly embellished, there remain solid elements of fact which did occur, forever changing me. As far as I know, I am the only human to have ever laid hands on a M.I.B.—let alone live to tell his story—even if it was a semi-fictionalized one.
As this is the “2 MILLION Reads” Special Edition of my experimental writing piece, I have taken the opportunity to further clean up, refine, and restructure my ever-developing writing style, while leaving my previous work still available to read as a record of my evolution as a writer. While the majority of other so-called writers get on their knees and suck "their" written content out of A.I., I pull out of their mom and spray the crowd through my own hard-won efforts.
-Kevin Wikse, 2025
3/22/24 Update
Written in 2017, my encounter with what I believe to be Men in Black—or something very much like them—remains my most popular and enduring piece in the genre of American horror, what I call semi-fictionalized fiction.
As a lifelong experiencer and abductee, armed with top-tier clairvoyant and mediumship skills, I have walked the hard road between psychism, remote viewing, occultism and intelligence work. Whose intelligence exactly, I still can’t say. This wasn’t the first time I’d been approached by strange, mostly human entities, but it stands out as one of the most unforgettable.
To everyone who has come forward and shared their own M.I.B. stories—thank you. The testimonies are now a cairn of stones in the desert. A long-standing project can finally begin.
—Kevin Wikse, 2024
Relevant Context
Around 1993 or 1994, I met Phil Schneider, a ufologist, after his presentation in Idaho Falls, Idaho. His death in 1996 was ruled suicide. Many, myself included, call it murder. Phil warned he wouldn’t live long because of what he was revealing. People said he meant his terminal cancer. I doubt it.
I helped build and run a UFO and conspiracy website in the late 1990s and early 2000s, much of it centered on Schneider’s information and death. If memory serves, it was on GeoCities. The site vanished around 2006 after a string of violent threats and what today we’d call doxxing. When this experience happened, the website was gone. I was on my way to Los Angeles to meet a friend about a new Phil Schneider/UFO project.
I’d like to connect with others who’ve had M.I.B. encounters. The trauma isn’t easily overcome. Writing and speaking about it is a way to heal. I recapitulate this event often. It reminds me that if I could survive it, I can survive anything.
This experience cemented the importance of regular strength training. It also opened new interests: the eye-gazing of Hindu Trataka meditation and the “fascination” of French Mesmerism.
The sensations I felt before my encounter matched descriptions of directed-energy or sonic weapons used on T.I.s—Targeted Individuals—inducing wild mood swings and overwhelming anxiety.
Nevada, August: It all started on a lonely stretch of highway...
The Nevada desert lay wide open. I was southbound on the I-15, running from Idaho toward California, the August sun blistering the hood. Somewhere after the state line the dread began, slow as dusk, mile by mile, until it filled the cab like dust. The road unrolled ahead, endless and empty, and with each mile the creeping weight grew until it was the only thing left to think about.
A sudden wave of panic struck like a vehicle impact. I white-knuckled the wheel, stomped the brakes. The open desert became a soul-crushing wasteland. Sweat trickled down my forehead as I sat frozen. Something chased me, but nothing was there—just empty road. After a few minutes of slow breathing, the panic eased enough for me to roll forward again.
Inside me, another debate began: keep driving or pull over? Logic said stay on course. Despair whispered otherwise. Images of suicide flickered in my mind, dangerous and persistent. Then I realized I wasn’t driving at all. I was idling on the shoulder. How long had I been like this? I didn’t know, only that something was wrong.
A flash of white-hot anger exploded in my skull—survival instinct. I gunned it, pedal to the floor, tearing down the road toward California. Relief washed over me. Then blue lights flashed in the mirror. A black sedan with visor lights dominated the rearview.
I muttered an honest “what the fuck” as I eased to the side. Minutes passed. No one approached. The sedan had no front plate. Its windshield was tinted black. When the driver’s door opened, an imposing figure emerged—six-six, maybe six-seven, lanky and wrong. He looked like a Dick Tracy villain in a black trench coat and fedora. But the violence in his face was no joke.
He marched to my door, leaned in close. His gaze was cruel, the pink tint of albinism. Whatever he was, he wasn’t a cop.
I kept breaking eye contact. He noticed.
“Just what the fuck do you think you’ll see back there?” he said, high-pitched, distorted.
“Well, aren’t there usually two of you clowns?” I shot back.
His eyes flared. He had no brows, no lashes. His wax-yellow face was hairless, his lips thin, his nose a vertical ridge.
“What do you mean there are usually two of us clowns?” he snapped, glancing at the sedan.
“I’m not sure what type of clown you are, or who else might come out of that car,” I said, matching his tone, reaching for my keys, “but I know you’re no cop, and I’m under no legal obligation to stay here.”
“You’re not sure of anything, are you, Kevin?” he said, emphasizing my name, his eyes widening. “Not for a while now. You don’t know how you feel. You don’t know what you’re doing. And you sure as hell don’t know where you’re going.”
Then he growled: “Your erratic driving will get you killed. But what will get you killed is the crazy person shit you post online. Aliens and UFOs. That’s lunatic talk. Someone ought to have you committed.” He stretched thin lips to reveal tiny, sharp teeth like a piranha.
I felt the gravitas of my situation. But defiance flared hotter.
“I make you two promises, you aberrant fish-faced mutant fuck,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere with you, and I will post this online.”
“Well,” he roared, “looks like we’re about to have another missing person,” and lunged.
The Fight: Blood on the Asphalt.
He slammed his body into the truck, hand on my throat, trying for the keys. Years of crushing heavy grippers, ripping monster kettlebells off the ground, swinging maces till my forearms swelled—everything came to bear.
I pinned his left wrist against the wheel, peeled his thumb off my throat, jabbing short punches into his waxy face, then drove my elbow home. He answered with a barrage of rights. I formed a meat-shield with my forearm and shoulder, protecting my head from knockout blows.
My survival hinged on keeping his left hand pinned. He had me cornered, but a cornered lion is still a lion. My shoulder cramped, my tricep burned. I drove my left thumb into his earhole, pinched the ear in a vice grip, yanked him into the cab.
Face-to-face now, off balance, his lower body dangling out the window. I spotted a screwdriver behind the passenger seat. I tried to half-nelson him, reach for it. He clawed for my eyes. I defended instead. He twisted to escape.
I lassoed him in a side headlock, forced his left arm down, and trapped it between my knees. At last, I had him.
It was now or never.
I grabbed the screwdriver like Excalibur from stone and drove it into his face and skull, perforating his head like a block of Swiss cheese. His blood was red. I wasn’t expecting that.
If he’d been strong before, now he was a hurricane. He thrashed out the window, fell prone on the asphalt, covering his face, writhing and screaming. I was tempted to finish him. Instead, survival trumped trophies. I fired up the truck and peeled out, leaving him—and whoever else was in that sedan—in my dust.
My paranoia didn’t ease until Los Angeles. Days passed before I stopped looking over my shoulder. If by chance my special M.I.B. friend ever reads this, know this: I’ve kept my promises. I’m ready to finish it whenever you are
-Kevin Wikse

Thank you for visiting my page. I am Kevin Wikse, the ONLY medium, remote viewer, and occultist who, with frightening and stunning accuracy, foresaw the COVID-19 pandemic/hoax and its sinister connections to China. Masks, weaponized and experimental vaccines, mandatory compliance, medical tracking on smartphones, the debacle of the 2020 election, the border crisis, the ILLEGAL migrant and CCP invasion, the specter of World War III, and the looming Magnetic Pole Reversal Global Cataclysm—I predicted it all. VAIDS (Vaccine Acquired Immunological Deficiency Syndrome) and even Dr. Fauci himself, all in my sights as early as 2014. Don’t believe it? See the complete, time-stamped, and documented evidence HERE.
Additionally, I accurately predicted BOTH President Trump’s assassination attempt and that Joe Biden would not run again in 2024 for re-election in his “Merry Crisis and a Happy New Fear” 2024 post on 1/1/24. HERE
And that’s not all. My occult and remote influencing work played a pivotal role in the downfall of Jeffrey Epstein, the billionaire pedophile and human trafficker. This too is time-stamped and documented. Witness a true and authentic act of Solomonic conjuration from the Lesser Key, Ars Goetia. HERE.
Please visit my Official Site HERE.
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