WHAT THEY DON’T WANT YOU TO REMEMBER: A VALENTINE TO THE VOID

By ConBoi, The Nigh End Times – February 15th, 2025

Well, folks, if you’re reading this, congrats—you still got the internet. And more importantly, you still got me. Now listen, I was all set to spend my Valentine’s Day cracking open a can of Vienna sausages and watching Close Encounters for the 17th time, when what do I see splashed across my telegram feed? Boom. Drone strike. Russia. Big one. Loud. Real loud.

Love is in the air, they say. And sometimes so is a drone. But maybe—just maybe—that ain’t all that’s up there.

Now folks, I don’t mean to get all riled up on a day meant for chocolate and fake roses, but we got ourselves a real mess of a mystery, and I can’t sleep with it rattling around my head like a marble in a coffee can. February 14th, 2025. Russia. Kaboom. Big ol’ drone strike, American-made, just so happens to take out a “military-industrial facility” near Taganrog, close to the Sea of Azov. Conveniently timed. Real tidy. They called it precision, I call it a cover-up with sprinkles on top.

Now I’m just a guy askin’ questions, sittin’ in a garage with more thermoses than sense, but let me lay it out like I see it. We got a hit, we got silence from Moscow, and we got a green flash in the clouds caught by a dude livestreamin’ with a cracked Galaxy 8. That green flash, let me tell you, don’t come from no combustion engine I ever seen, and I’ve been to two monster truck rallies and a rodeo riot.

So what gives? What was in that building? And why did that airspace go silent faster than a liberal arts major at a gun show?

Now here’s where your ol’ pal C. Boi starts diggin’. I remember readin’ something weird—buried like a dog’s bone in the CIA’s own digital litterbox. A declassified document from the ’80s, back when men were men, aliens were grey, and the Soviets still had a proper boogeyman vibe. This particular doc? It ain’t no bedtime story. It’s about a UFO shootdown in 1989. Not fiction. Not Reddit. CIA.gov. Doc number 0005517761. Go ahead, look it up if you got the bandwidth.

Let me break it down: some Ukrainian soldiers (Soviets at the time) spotted a low-flying unidentified object. Round. Glowing. Not a bird, not a plane, not Superman unless Clark Kent suddenly upgraded to anti-gravity propulsion. So what do the Reds do? They blast it outta the sky. ‘Cause that’s what governments do—shoot first, lie about it later.

The wreckage? Non-human. The passengers? Five entities, humanoid but not quite. Here’s the kicker: when approached, they disintegrated. Like straight-up turned into light and vanished, like something outta the Book of Ezekiel if the cherubim had tech support.

One account even claimed they merged into a single sphere of energy before shootin’ up into the sky and disappearing. Now I’m not sayin’ that was the last we saw of ’em, but I am sayin’ the Soviets locked that report up tighter than a doomsday prepper’s ammo shed. And when the USSR fell? Boom—Americans got a sniff, and wouldn’t you know it, suddenly it’s in the CIA’s digital archive like a dead fly in a jar of honey.

So fast-forward 35 years. Why now? Why Taganrog? Why on Valentine’s Day, when nobody’s watchin’ the news ’cause they’re all fightin’ over overpriced steak dinners and cheap red wine?

Because, folks, they’re cleaning up. They’re sanitizing. They’re burying the bodies again. And this time, it ain’t just the U.S. and Russia. It’s all of ‘em. NATO, China, the UN, probably even Luxembourg for all I know. It’s global.

Y’all ever heard of Project Blue Book? Good ol’ fashioned Air Force psy-op. Said they were investigatin’ UFOs? What they were really doing was learnin’ how to talk around the truth. Swamp gas. Temperature inversions. Flares. Always flares. You ever seen flares move in formation and split apart like synchronized swimmers on acid? I have. It was over New Mexico in ’03, and my cousin Randy still don’t talk about it unless he’s drunk and holdin’ a Bible.

Let me hit you with another one: Project Serpo. Supposed exchange program with aliens. That’s right—a dozen Americans supposedly sent to another planet in the Zeta Reticuli system in 1965. Most didn’t come back. The ones who did? Real quiet. Real twitchy. You ever wonder why we suddenly got fiber optics, night vision, and microchips in the ’70s? That wasn’t Bell Labs. That was back-engineered tech, baby.

And it all ties back. You think Russia ain’t got pieces of the pie? Think again. In fact, I’d bet good money they had one of the biggest slices. Stalin had a UFO task force in the ’50s. There’s rumors—deep ones—that Roswell wasn’t the only crash. That another ship came down in Siberia in ’52. That we traded bodies. Not prisoners. Specimens.

And here’s the truth no one’s willing to say out loud: There ain’t no Cold War when it comes to aliens. We pretend to hate each other, sure, but when a spacecraft falls outta the sky, suddenly the hotline between D.C. and Moscow lights up like Christmas. Because they ain’t protectin’ us from each other—they’re protectin’ them from us.

Or maybe the other way around.

You ever notice how every time the world gets a little too interested in the stars, we get distracted? TikTok. Inflation. Balloon panic. Oh you remember that balloon hysteria from 2023? They told us they shot down a Chinese spy balloon. Then they said it was a weather balloon. Then it was three more balloons. Then silence. You don’t go shootin’ down stuff with $400,000 Sidewinders just to tell folks it was a Mylar party favor.

And don’t even get me started on Antarctica. You know that treaty where nobody’s allowed to own it or drill or build permanent settlements? Yeah, that ain’t about penguins. That’s about what’s buried under the ice. Ancient tech. Alien architecture. Pyramid structures mapped by LIDAR and then quickly scrubbed from Google Earth. I screenshotted one in 2016 and my laptop exploded the next week. Coincidence? You know how I feel about coincidences.

So what do I think happened on Feb 14th, 2025? I think someone—somewhere in the upper tiers of military command—got wind that something was still humming in that Russian facility. Maybe it was the wreckage from ’89. Maybe it was something still alive. Maybe a vault cracked open in the thaw and they heard a signal. Maybe that green flash was a recall beacon. A rescue.

And rather than risk it falling into the wrong hands—or worse, out of human hands entirely—they wiped it out. No warning. No admission. Just a “strike.”

We are being played like a fiddle with broken strings. And I ain’t sayin’ I’m a hero or a prophet or even sober most weekends, but I am sayin’ this:

If they can shoot down an alien in 1989, and drone bomb its grave in 2025, you better believe they’re not done yet.

Watch the skies. Trust your gut. And if you hear a hum you can’t explain, or see a light in the woods that moves like it’s thinkin’ for itself?

Don’t run. Don’t scream.

Listen.

They might not be comin’ for us.

They might be comin’ to warn us.

And if that scares you more than the government? Then congratulations. You’re wakin’ up

ConBoi, out.