Jake Pray was tortured to death by our own government. Maybe the reason he’s haunting us, Rose_Granny, is because he wants the truth to come out!
JakePrayTruth.org
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Warp & Weft Message Boards
Topic: Re: Jake Pray was MURDERED and gov’t is COVERING it up!
Username: SweetGreenOnions
Date: April 2, 2017 – 3:45 EST
omura did it. evidence from “not a factor”, the last song he ever wrote:
The invisible hand blasts the cradle
Spreading peace by throwing bombs
We feast beneath the master’s table
Sating growls with salvaged crumbs
Save the world? It’s just a song
she told jake to provoke a fight with those officers. the NSA paid
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Excerpt from Real Ghosts: The Warp & Weft Guide to Specters
and Revenants of the 21st Century by Dede Star Flower
(HarperPenguin, New York, 2018)
The accuracy of his revenant predictions is quite remarkable. Two days after the New York Medical Examiner saw Pray’s ghost in her office building, the Iranians kidnapped 15 UK soldiers. In 2009, a cocktail waitress sighted Pray in an alley, and that very night the US dropped the first round of tactical nuclear weapons on Iran. In 2011, Amina Okrafour was marking the anniversary of John Lennon’s death in Central Park when she saw Pray’s ghost. The next day the Chinese government shipped 1000 support troops to the Iranian front. The list goes on: 13 activists see Pray at an anti-globalization rally in Sweden; the next day India tests a nuclear bomb and the cease-fire ends in Kashmir. When San Francisco representative Linda Xiaobo reported seeing Pray during a ceremony in the Mojave desert, we all knew that the talks to bring India into NATO were a certainty. Sure enough, a few days later, the US honored its obligations under the treaty and declared itself officially at war with China and Pakistan.
As a revenant, Jake cannot stop these horrors from occurring, but he can stand witness to them. He can accuse us, like Hamlet’s father, of not doing enough.
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Written Communication from Zacharias Tibbs; Topeka, Kansas
To: Violet Omura, NYU, Department of Applied Physics
Date: November 18, 2020 – 10:44 pm, EST
[Sender: Verified]
Professor Omura:
Perhaps you have wondered why I have not yet responded to your Communication which you sent to me this past April. In fact it is because I have UNDERTAKEN to follow your kind & SAGE ADVICE and read those very ERUDITE & SCHOLARLY works by the great Einstein, Feynman & Chatterjee. I found the latter’s work on M-THEORY and the QUANTUM GRAVITY SYNTHESIS most Fascinating, though I must confess that I found a great deal of it Difficult, and indeed, sometimes quite IMPOSSIBLE to understand. GOD, it is clear, has GIFTED her with a great mind. As did HE to YOU.
It’s strange, I thought upon my completion of these works, how very CLEAR my errors in the past are to me now. Though I maintain my belief in REVENANTS & the HOLY SPIRIT, it is clear that my EQUATIONS & THEORIES, which I had thought could explain the WORLD, were not worth a Greasy Rag. I see the DEPTH of THOUGHT of those PHYSICISTS exploring the universe, and I feel a small INCHWORM in comparison. I must thank you for your most UNUSUAL & FAITHFUL correspondence over the years. Without it I fear I would never have understood my Gross Errors.
I have also Considered your Strange words to me regarding your SAD & PAINFUL feelings of guilt & regret over some mysterious Life Event. I say to you that your grief GRIEVES ME, for I know that you, too, could find solace in the LORD, if only you would open your heart to HIM. You say you Cannot, because “a scientist does not work from faith, but evidence.” This is a Worthy Philosophy, but I say that because I KNOW GOD EXISTS, the EVIDENCE for him will someday be FOUND. Cannot you SEE His HAND in Chatterjee’s Equations?
Can you not SEE that the reason your friend Jake still WALKS AMONG US is because he is a Revenant on Earth?
I await your Response with great Eagerness & Anticipation.
Zach Tibbs
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Excerpt from “Changing the Score: My Life with Jake Pray”
By Violet Omura
Vanity Fair, May 2025
Before I say anything else, before I tell my story, or what little I’m privileged to know of Jake’s, let me make this perfectly clear:
I loved Jake Pray. For a certain period of time he, and the anti-war movement, were my entire life. When he died, that life fell apart so completely that for the first and only time I considered suicide. In some ways, on some nights, that pain has never left me. I could never have harmed Jake. Those who suggest otherwise reveal a lack of understanding about our relationship so profound I can only pity them. To those whose critical faculties have not been addled by baseless conspiracy-mongering, I offer my story.
I first saw him at The West End, in December of 2003. I was a senior at Columbia, a physics major so obsessed with quantum mechanical particle interactions and Feynman diagrams that I had only dimly registered our country’s illegal invasion of a sovereign state. (Such ignorance was possible, then; over a certain income level, foreign wars didn’t touch your daily life). I gleaned my news from articles my sister sent me, or my suitemates’ overheard conversations. I felt the appropriate outrage, and promptly forgot about it. What, after all, does outrage look like at the Planck scale?
Later, while drunk, I would amend that rhetorical question: what does it sound like? The bar was packed that night. Some were the typical Friday-night crowd of loud freshmen and bored frat brothers, but others had heard Jake at the big rally in February and were excited to see him again. He didn’t even perform “What We Sing,” the song that was already turning into an anthem. It didn’t matter. Jake had a voice that stuck you to your chair and forced you to listen. Almost gentle, with an ironic bite. “Like fresh ginger,” a simile-inclined local reviewer once called it (and Jake and I laughed until we had to stop to breathe. We ate in Chinatown that night; he bought me ginger beer). His falsetto was eerie; his bass rough. Sometimes his vibrato wavered so wildly you thought he might lose the note, but he never did. His lyrics were passionate and only sometimes political. He had thick, wavy brown hair; a high forehead; wide eyes with camel’s lashes; and a chin that dimpled when he smiled. He was young, talented, and beautiful. I was twenty-two and I felt as though I’d just crawled from Plato’s cave.
I introduced myself after the set. He bought me a drink. We talked, I don’t remember about what. For all I know I babbled about brane-theory and quantum gravity all night. I had never been very good at talking to people. But he didn’t seem to mind me. He told me a little about himself. He had graduated from NYU that year as a film major, but he didn’t want to make movies. And the usual: he was appalled by the Iraq war, President Bush, our foreign policies. He quoted Chomsky, which was familiar, and Said, which surprised me. He said he had met Edward Said as a child, when his parents had first moved to the States from Palestine. I asked him if he was Muslim; he said he was a “closet atheist.” He asked me if I was religious; I said I was a physicist.
He took me back to my dorm that night; my philosophy of alcohol consumption at the time did not include moderation. He kissed me as he pressed the call button for the elevator, as though I might not notice if he were doing something else.
“Do I get your number?” he asked.
What odd syntax, I thought, many years later. Like it was a game show and my number was the all-expense-paid trip to the Bahamas.
My good friend Billy Davis, who died last year, spent his life advocating for a full inquiry into Jake’s death. I find it ironic that even now, in the midst of our global war with China and Iran, the relatively insignificant Iraq War has so much cultural relevance. Perhaps because it is the first moment when our generation, collectively, began to realize that something had gone terribly wrong in our political and social system. Jake’s deat
h symbolized too much of that moment for us to ever let it go.
They took us to Pier 57, that detention center turned toxic waste dump where they liked to herd activists during overcrowded demonstrations. Jake was furious that day, on a manic high. He was no stranger to racism—was any Arab living in New York City after 9-11?—but the arresting officer that day reveled in a particularly nasty brand of invective. “Raghead” was the least of it (and if Jimmy Sullivan can even tell the difference between his mouth and his lower orifice, I’ve yet to see the evidence). After they arrested us, Jake could hardly sit still. The floor was covered in an unidentifiable sludge that slid beneath our shoes and smelled like decomposing tires. We were all chilly and desperate to get out. Jake went to ask the officers when they would release us. I never heard what they said to him, and I never got to ask. Jake started yelling and shouting. His hands trembled as he gesticulated, like a junkie coming off a high, though I knew that he hadn’t had any more than half a joint. I remember being terrified, afraid that they would shoot him. When they set off the Taser, he dropped to the floor like a marionette loosed of its strings. He groaned, but he couldn’t even seem to speak. The police officers laughed, I remember.
What did he yell? “Pigs,” certainly. But Jake hated few things more than he hated the ongoing Palestinian/Israeli conflict, and he would have never used the despicable anti-Semitic tripe certain opportunistic faux-rock musicians attribute to him. We had been unlawfully detained and verbally abused. Did Jake’s behavior represent a failure to turn the other cheek? Of course. But he never meant to be a martyr.
I went to the Tombs late that night, after they released us from the Pier and arrested him. His lawyer said the police insisted on detaining him for questioning and were charging him with “disorderly conduct.” Jake was happy to see me. The police had confiscated his guitar and one of the officers conducting the interrogation was a real (to put it more genteelly than Jake) ignorant racist. I asked Jake if he was okay. He said he was, but he couldn’t wait to get out of there. There was no rope in the cell that I can recall.
He was acting a little more restless than normal. Tapping his fingers against the bars and rocking back on his heels like a smoker with the DTs. It didn’t seem remarkable at the time, and it might be that I am merely creating false positives, searching for a clue where none exists.
He held my hand before I left and kissed my palm. He liked romantic gestures.
“There’s something happening here,” he sang softly. Buffalo Springfield.
I kissed him. “I’ll get Neil Young and the gang down here tomorrow.”
“I’ll see you, Angel.”
It was the last thing he ever said to me.
But he had never called me “Angel” before.
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Written Communication from Violet Omura,
NYU, Department of Applied Physics
To: Zacharias Tibbs; Topeka, Kansas
Date: December 25, 2025 – 1:05 am, EST
[Sender: Verified]
I woke up twenty minutes ago and couldn’t fall asleep. Chaterjee has posted a new paper on the public archives. Did you see it?
It’s been a while. Hope you’re doing okay.
Merry (godless) Christmas, Zach.
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Written Communication from Zacharias Tibbs; Topeka, Kansas
To: Violet Omura, General Communications Inbox,
Columbia University Physics Department
Date: March 18, 2027 – 6:01 pm, EST
[Hi! This message has been approved by your filters, but contains some questionable material. Would you like to proceed?]
[Okay! Message below.]
Professor Omura:
Though I know you have not heard from me these past two years, I hope you do remember our long correspondence and will still read my messages despite your new Tenured Position at the venerable Columbia University.
I have not Written due to increased Problems with my Health and also, perhaps more importantly, a crisis with my Faith. You might think that facing Death & the Great Beyond, as I am (a persistent Cancer, which no medicine can treat) would drive one in to the Bosom of their Lord, but I find myself instead Contemplating the letters you have sent me over the twelve years of our correspondence.
You have presented to me a mind steeped in rationality, who does not even let deep grief over personal loss sway her to the side of a comfort that she does not feel has a basis in reason. Is Faith a Good Thing, I ask myself? As a child, I loved mathematics. At the library, I read books about Pythagoras and Newton and Einstein. But in the end I preferred Money to Knowledge, as any Ignorant eighteen-year-old might. I passed over my chance at College. My Father got me a good job as an auto mechanic in his Cousin’s shop. Last year, I retired. I had worked there for Sixty Five Years. I had kept my Faith and raised children. I had read the Bible and tried to use Math to Prove the Beauty of it.
I have wondered why I still Wrote to you, Professor, when you so Clearly held my Views in Disdain. I think now that I Respected the Knowledge you held. The Mathematics that I had loved in Childhood are your Life’s Work. I thought if I could Convince you of the Truth of my Faith then it would not be Faith any longer but Reason.
And now, I think I have failed. I face death without the solace of Christ and I think it is not as Hard as I imagined in my youth, but hard enough.
With My Thanks and Respect,
Zacharias Tibbs
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Written Communication from Violet Omura; Brooklyn, New York
To: Zacharias Tibbs; Topeka, Kansas
Date: March 19, 2027 – 3:20 am, EST
Zach,
Call me Violet. Would you like to meet for lunch sometime soon? I know of a great fondue place on Flatbush Avenue (that’s in Brooklyn, where I live).
Violet
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AUDIO-VISUAL TRANSCRIPT OF U.S. INTERNAL INVESTIGATIONS FILES
Originally archived on the diffuse-network, proprietary GlobalNet, intercepted and transcribed by Chinese Intelligence
Subject: Omura, Violet; U.S. Scientific Authority and Academic;
Status: Dissident
Date: September 12, 2027 – 2:22 am, EST
The subject’s apartment is dark. She walks to the window overlooking the street. She removes her shoes and stockings (a run in the back: 4.2 cm). The subject’s hair is styled in an elaborate bun. She removes several bobby pins and tosses them to the floor. The subject empties a small, gold purse onto her coffee table.
Contents:
One (1) funeral program. The cover reads: Zacharias Tibbs: He was Right with Our Lord
One (1) small rolled marijuana cigarette.
The subject lights the cigarette with a match. Upon completing half the joint, she extinguishes it on the windowsill.
OMURA: [Soft laughter]
OMURA: [Inaudible]
The subject turns from the window. She abruptly ceases almost all movement. Her breathing resumes after 2.4 seconds. It is at this point that the subject begins to behave very erratically. Her eyes are fixed at a point in the room, as though she is interacting with a person, though motion sensors and audio bots indicate she is alone. The subject has no known history of mental illness. [NOTE: However, our own psychiatrist has stated that her behavior here strongly indicates a psychotic break possibly triggered by the marijuana usage. Hearing voices is common in such incidences.]
OMURA: What . . . Jesus Christ. Jesus Fucking Christ, what’s going on?
The subject pauses. Her body relaxes and her head movements are consistent with someone listening to someone else in conversation.
OMURA: Jake? Holy fuck, what was in that pot?
The subject takes two steps forward. [NOTE: The consulting psychiatrist has determined that the person to whom she believes she is addressing herself is standing between the coffee table and her couch.]
OMURA: What do ghosts look like at the Planck scale . . .
[20 second pause.]
&nb
sp; OMURA: Zack did this?
[3 second pause. She shakes her head.]
OMURA: Maybe. Yes. In a strange way. He could have changed the world. But he fixed other people’s cars.
[The subject begins to cry. Her hands have a pronounced tremble.]
OMURA: Jake, oh fuck. Fucking God, why are you . . . why now? I never believed, not once, and fuck do you know how much I wanted to? I could kill you! Christ Jake, 30 nanograms of pot and not a fucking drop of lithium!
[12 second pause. A siren is heard in the background.]
OMURA: I knew that. You think it makes me feel better? I should have known! The DTs, I said. Like you were manic. I saw it all then. I’ve known it all for years. 30 nanograms of pot, 2 milligrams of Tylenol. 0 nanograms of your fucking life.
[The subject steps closer.]
OMURA: Then why did you? Oh, you came back from the grave for me? God, my maudlin subconscious.
[11 second pause.]
OMURA: Like Hamlet’s father? Did the ghost love?
[2 second pause.]
OMURA: Like me. Jake . . . if you’re real and not my own degenerating brain . . . I’m sorry I asked you— No, listen, I should have known what you were going through. I shouldn’t have put you in that position. Not with those trigger-happy assholes. Engineer a conflict? Get it on the news? What a fucking cunt I was.
[The subject is silent for nearly one minute and thirty (1:30) seconds. Halfway through this period, she closes her eyes and shudders. NOTE: From the heat patterns in her body, it appears as though she is having a sexual reaction.]
OMURA: The last thing you said to me, what did it mean? Why did you call me Angel?
[The subject opens her eyes and looks around. Apparently, the room now appears empty to her. She staggers backwards and sits on the couch. After a minute (1:00) she begins to cry with audible sobs.]
OMURA: I don’t know either.
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Associated Press
War Desk: For Immediate Release
September 14, 2027 (SEOUL): Accounts of Chinese warships equipped with long-range nuclear warheads heading into the Hawaiian archipelago have been confirmed, and evacuations of major targets on the United States West coast will begin within the hour.
Ghosts: Recent Hauntings Page 55
