The Forecast

Black Pearl

Blaq Roc Forecast Chronicles Vol. I:

Spectrum Wave publishing

Copyright@2026

So you see, Marcus… My worst days were a layered hell.

To face the enemy’s fire was one thing.

To face the contempt of your own command, another.

But to come home and be hunted by your own government—to have your service erased, your activism smeared as treason, your very love criminalized—that was a special kind of warfare.

They wanted us to be silent. They wanted us gone.

But here I am. And here you are.

In this room, with these records, with this truth.

I survived the trenches, the silence, the Red Scare, and the Lavender Scare.

And I left it all for you—not as a burden, but as a weapon.

Knowledge, son. Knowledge of the game.

Because all money, all power, flows from the same fields.

And if you understand the field… you can learn how to grow something new in it.

Let this be your forecast:

The storm never really ends.

But you can learn to read the clouds.

And you can build a shelter strong enough to weather whatever comes next.

I was your mentor.

Now you are the keeper of the chronicle.

See clearly.

Speak truly.

And never let them make you feel you don’t belong.

---

Tape Confession

Black Pearl

Blaq Roc Forecast Chronicles Vol. I:

Spectrum Wave publishing

Copyright@2026

“They called me a social liberal. A progressive. A ‘race man.’ But before any of that… I was just a Black boy with Brazilian blood, trying to understand why the world saw me as a problem.”

Marcus leaned forward in the velvet couch, the weight of the legacy settling onto his shoulders.

“They didn’t just come for me during the Red Scare. They came when I testified before Congress for veterans’ benefits. They came when I wrote about housing discrimination. They came when I spoke of Pan-Africanism as family, not threat. Each time, they whispered: ‘He’s not one of us. He’s different. He’s dangerous.’”

The voice on the tape grew softer, closer.

“This is the dark side of the story, son. The side they don’t put in the history books. Where being a war hero doesn’t save you. Where having a mind of your own makes you an enemy of the state. Where love itself is used as evidence against you.”

A pause, filled only with the faint hiss of tape.

“This… is the Blaq Roc Forecast. A chronicle of storms weathered, and storms still coming.”

The McCarthy Project

Black Pearl

Blaq Roc Forecast Chronicles Vol. I:

Spectrum Wave publishing

Copyright@2026

But the real persecution came dressed in a suit and tie.

They elected Senator Joseph McCarthy in 1946. By 1950, he didn’t just hunt communists—he weaponized fear. For Black men like me, the Red Scare was a tactic to kill the Civil Rights movement in its cradle. If you spoke against lynching, you were a subversive. If you demanded voting rights, you were sowing communist unrest.

And McCarthy was thorough. He launched the Lavender Scare—a purge of homosexuals from public life.

That’s when they came for me, Marcus. Not just as a Black veteran, but as a man.

I had been engaged to a woman once—a façade for the world. But behind closed doors, I lived my truth. McCarthy’s agents dug into my private life. They called me a “security risk,” a “queer social liberal.” They used my love as a weapon to silence my testimony, to bury my advocacy under shame.

In me, McCarthy saw his perfect target: a Black man who wouldn’t forget, and a homosexual who wouldn’t hide.

---

The War Within

the War

Black Pearl

Blaq Roc Forecast Chronicles Vol. I:

Spectrum Wave publishing

Copyright@2026

I was born in Brazil. Afro-Brazilian American—a triple inheritance of displacement. Fair skin that confused, an accent that didn’t belong. In America, I was too Black to be white, too foreign to be just another Negro.

I lied about my age to join the Army in 1912. They turned a blind eye—another Black body for the front lines. In World War I, we fought a war on two fronts: one against the enemy overseas, another against the ruthless racism of our own military. We were segregated, given the worst equipment, paid half what white soldiers earned. We slept in tents while they slept in barracks.

When the war ended, the gratitude vanished. The GI Bill that built a white middle class was a maze of red tape for us. They called us heroes but treated us like ghosts.

In 1932, desperate veterans marched on Washington for the bonuses we were promised. They were met with army tanks and bayonets. That was our reward.

Inheritance

Black Pearl

Blaq Roc Forecast Chronicles Vol. I:

Spectrum Wave publishing

Copyright@2026

The brownstone on Lincoln Park was quieter now. It held his absence like a held breath. Marcus stood in the hidden office beneath the garden—the one with the mahogany-trimmed windows and twelve crystal lustres catching the afternoon light. Dr. Hage had left him everything: the deeds, the hard drives, the color-coded binders full of history.

But it was the tapes that called to him tonight.

Marcus slid a disc into the stereo. The hum of old machinery filled the room. Then, a voice—calm, weathered, unmistakably his mentor’s—began to speak.

“If you’re hearing this, Marcus… then you’ve found the bunker. And you’re ready to hear the parts of my story that don’t fit in a biography.”

---

The Mentor

Black Pearl

Blaq Roc Forecast Chronicles Vol. I:

Spectrum Wave publishing

Copyright@2026

If this world was mine…..,

If these were my last days living on this earth…

I would like to thank my ancestors. My parents. Especially my mother.

But I would also need to speak the truth of my days—the worst of them—so that you, Marcus, might understand the world that shaped me, and the one that tried to break me.

My name is Dr. Frederick Van Hage. And this… is my testimony.

---

BLAQ ROC FORECAST VOL. I

Tyrant’s Covenant:

Tiberius Island

Black Pearl

Blaq Roc Forecast

Spectrum Wave publishing

Copyright@2026

Blac Roc Forecast Vol. 1 trailer portrays a haunting monologue that reveals the traumatic childhood of a retired ,U.S. Navy SEAL,veteran who, under hypnosis, uncovers buried horrors from his past. Adopted into an apparently idyllic middle-class family in 1979, his life behind the picket-fence facade was actually a front for hidden abuse and psychological terror.

The narrative centers on "Tiberius Island," where his adoptive family vacationed—a place that became the origin of recurring nightmares. The story connects his personal trauma to a broader, historical pattern of tyranny, drawing direct parallels to the cruel excesses of Roman emperors like Tiberius and Caligula. It suggests that the cycles of abuse, power, and hidden violence have been repeated throughout history and continue in modern elite circles.

The monologue blends personal confession with historical allegory, exposing how psychological wounds fester across generations and how structures of power often hide dark, exploitative rituals.

—

Credit: Published by Spectrum |

Writer: Black Pearl

Blaq Roc Forcast Vol. I

Dark Seed Hebrew:

Children of the chosen ones.

Black Pearl

Spectrum Wave Publishing

Copyright@2026

Lost sheep,

Black men,

women,

children

Kindly pick up

Your head and

Your Hebrew feet.

As you walk to

The Creator’s throne,

Bow down before Him.

It is time to

Claim your lineage.

The ones

who were once fooled

With the material,

The tangibles—

That left you in shambles.

Go take a spiritual bath.

Goo head,

Get your mind right, by

Cleansing yourself from your

head down to your toes

, including to purify your soul.

Put your princely robes on.

Let your hair and your skin be natural.

Come in one accord.

It is time to pay homage to the Lord.

It is time to understand

Who you are /

know your wealth

You are the Hebrew

Children of Lion of Juda

You were never a gentile

The Star of David

Son (king Solomon)

Seal of wisdom

We’re drawn from

The sand while we

Held with the sun

at the palm of our hands

The moon landed beneath our

Feet

The creator gave birth

to us in the water.

We are the true chosen ones.

We are the Hebrews.

We were once called Negroes, a name draped over us like a foreign shroud,

Yet we have always been indigenous to the soil of our own spirits.

Now, as we stretch out our tents—

As we pull the pegs from the past and let the canopy catch the new wind—

We no longer stare into the dark pools of Babylon’s nightmare.

We no longer turn our skin inside out, searching for the horrors they tattooed there.

Babylon’s camp is a fading echo, a ghost-tent collapsing in our rearview.

We shake the desert dust from our hems,

And the wind carries it back to the captors’ mouths.