Science Fiction Author D. Colin Palmer

The Thirteenth Hour is an intense exploration of time as both a scientific and philosophical construct—perhaps nonlinear, perhaps recursive, perhaps an eternal return. Through a Nietzschean lens, quantum mechanics, and the paradoxes of relativity, we confront the possibility that time is not a straight arrow but a fractured mirror in which past, present, and future entangle. After this monologue, I reflect candidly on the reasons I was banned from YouTube—why certain truths and perspectives cannot find room in their algorithmic cathedral. The episode closes with an original song by Johnny Slade, from the upcoming album Getting High at The Church of Science Fiction Fantasy Theater. This is a journey through philosophy, science, memory, and rebellion.

G Gangsta Liddy returns with Mandate of Risk—a psychedelic cipher carved in smoke and static, pulled straight from the backroom of a Chinese laundromat where quantum mechanics meets the Tao. Featuring Leroy Aristotle Harper locked, loaded, and listening, this track unspools Oriental mysticism, multiversal risk theory, and Celtics point spreads into a beat-driven sermon on fate, chance, and metaphysical understanding. This single is the first drop from the upcoming concept album, Getting High at the Church of Science Fiction Fantasy Theater —a mind-bending tour through interdimensional philosophy, neon-soaked street wisdom, and late-night metaphysics. The voice of the street meets the voice of the stars. If you’ve ever wondered what it would sound like if Ghostface Killah got trapped in a Wong Kar-wai film scored by Sun Ra, this is it. You’re not just hearing the song—you’re folding space between the chorus and the turn card.

In this episode, Science Fiction Author D. Colin Palmer reflects on the importance of self-care. Drawing on Buddhist teachings, the wisdom of famous female authors, and the science of the body on a cellular level, he explores why recovery is not weakness but essential discipline. From magnesium and creatine to meditation and deep sleep, this monologue is both practical and poetic—an invitation to care for yourself so your art, your family, and your future can endure.

This monologue examines why many now place Charlie Kirk in the civil-rights frame—not as a matter of partisanship, but as a recognition of what rights are for and how they harden under pressure. A civil right is the protected ability to speak, assemble, worship, petition, and participate in public life without violence or intimidation. When a man continues to exercise those rights amid credible danger, the moral weight of his words changes: courage makes a claim testable, and the test elevates the claim. His death shifts the argument from preference to principle, because a movement that loses someone for using lawful freedoms confronts the core civil question—who is allowed in the public square, and on what terms. In the aftermath, witnesses become stewards; memory organizes itself into duty; opponents inherit the burden of condemning violence without qualification or be seen as excusing it. Families and communities often respond by building institutions—scholarships, forums, voter drives—that keep the rights in motion rather than embalmed. Over time, anniversaries, quotations, and small rituals form the durable architecture of a civic legacy, the way history teaches the living which lines must not be crossed again. In that sense, the case for calling Charlie Kirk a civil-rights figure rests on four pillars: he publicly asserted core freedoms; he did so under threat; he paid the highest price; and his loss now galvanizes others to secure those same freedoms for everyone. The result is not just sentiment—it is a tightening of norms against political violence and a renewed insistence that equal access to the public square is non-negotiable.

Under the Fifth Sun the ground trembles, and the story of our time is written in Freud’s three voices, the Aztec prophecy of endings, and the raw law of Darwin. This is not a lecture—it is a warning, a vision, and a promise. Humanity is separating into different kinds, shaped by attention, courage, and the speed of technology. Some will inherit what comes next. Others will be left behind. Filmed with surreal dream imagery and set to the Rustic Cowboy voice, this piece blends ancient prophecy with today’s rapid acceleration. It is both nightmare and map, a story of decline and of the fire we still carry. If this struck you, subscribe to help keep the flame alive.

A reverent memoriam for a man who fought with words and conviction. “Charlie Kirk In Heaven” is a tribute song—written to honor a life poured into the defense of free expression and the courage it demands. This is for his family, his friends, and for everyone who believes that ideas should meet in daylight and that conscience should never be silenced. May this piece carry a little of the light he held up for others. If it reaches you, share it with someone who needs hope, and keep the conversation brave and kind. #CharlieKirk #Tribute #InMemoriam #FreeSpeech #FirstAmendment #TurningPointUSA #America #Faith #Patriot #NeverForget

The old sailors of the North did not speak of math, they spoke of the world tree and many lands, and that is how I will speak to you now. In seven‑card poker we live on that tree. Each path of cards is a branch, each card turned is a step on the bark, and our job is to steer the longship through all those possible paths with a clear mind. We do not need hard words to do this. We count the worlds. We ask simple questions: How many ways can my foe hold a strong hand, how many ways can they miss, how many ways can the river bring the tide to me. Counting is our sail. Vision is our helm. And when we count the worlds, we start to see the sea for what it is: wide, cold, honest, and fair. So we begin with the easy truths that guide the ship. A pocket pair has six ways to appear. A suited hand has four ways. The same ranks not suited have twelve ways. Hold that in your chest like a warm stone. Then look at the table: when a card lies on the board, it cuts paths. A king on the board cuts the ways to pocket kings from six down to three. If the board shows a king and a queen, the suited king‑queen drops from four to two or three, and the not‑suited ones drop as well. Your own cards are runes that bend fate. Hold an ace, and your foe has fewer ace‑king hands. Hold the key spade on a three‑spade board, and many of their best calls vanish like mist. This is not hard. It is only seeing which doors are still open and which doors are now shut. From there we name the shape of a fight without numbers on a chalkboard. Picture a tight foe who raised early. The flop comes king, seven, two, all different suits. Ask the quiet question: how often does that foe have top pair or better right now. When you count the paths that remain after the flop cards and your own cards press down on the deck, you find they have the made hand only some of the time, about three in ten. The rest is underpairs, ace‑high, or empty air. That means a small bet will often slide through like a ship with the wind. And if you get called, you already have a map for the turn: which cards help you, which cards help them, and which cards change nothing at all. The board will pair by the river often enough that you should respect that story, yet not fear it like a child in a storm. You do not need signs and symbols to feel the odds. A flush draw on the flop will land by the river about one time in three. With one card to come, it lands about one time in five. The tiny “back door” flush that needs help on both turn and river shows up about one time in twenty. A pocket pair will flop a set about one time in nine and will grow into at least a set by the river about one time in five. These are not walls of figures; they are sea states. They tell you when to sail hard, when to wait for a kinder wave, and when to let go. And when you pick bluffs, choose hands that carry good runes: the ace of the suit on a three‑flush board, the queen that blocks the top straight, the card that makes their best call less common while leaving their folds untouched. A good bluff holds a key in one hand and a shadow in the other. On the river, your bet size decides how many bluffs your story can carry without cracking. This too is simple. If you bet half the pot, for every two value hands you may bring one bluff. If you bet the full pot, you may bring one bluff for each value hand. If you bet twice the pot, you may carry two bluffs for each value hand. You do not need to carve these rules into bone; just remember the rhythm. First count your value hands that would bet even if the sea were still. Then add the right number of bluffs that hold strong blockers. Now your range is clean, and your foe feels it in their ribs even if they cannot say why. It is the same feeling a helmsman gets when the sail is trimmed and the keel bites true. In seven‑card stud the snow tells stories in plain sight. Face‑up cards on the table are dead paths. When you chase a heart flush and you can already see many hearts in the open, the road is thin. When you see none, the road is wide. Counting here is not a trick; it is respect. You adjust your hope to what the snow shows you. The Vikings would have liked this game, I think, because it rewards clear eyes and a steady breath. You watch the cards as if you were watching the coast line for reefs. You lean when the water deepens, and you straighten when it grows shallow. You pay attention to what is seen and what is unseen. And now we step out of the hall and look at the sky. The Northmen told of many lands on the world tree, and in poker we live in many lands at once, because at each moment there are many true futures. Every unseen card is a door to another shore. Each deal is a small world. All deals together are a great field of worlds. When we count them and choose, we are not just playing a game; we are learning how to live inside a sea of branches. Existence itself works this way. It flows like water over rocks. It spills, it pools, it splits, it joins, it keeps going. And the name I use for the whole of it, for every small piece and for the still space between pieces, is God. God is the sum of all subatomic particles and the quiet in between. God is the cards and the gaps. God is the stars and the dark sky that holds them. When we count with care, we honor both the sparks and the silence. So let this be the craft. Before the flop, think of the hands they can bring, and count the ways. On the flop and turn, remove what is now known, and count again. On the river, choose bet size and bluff count like a captain chooses sail. Favor bluffs that hold good runes, and value hands that stand in bright light. In stud, watch the open cards like ravens over ice. In hold’em, feel the wind of the turn and the pull of the river. In all of it, remember the lesson of the North: many worlds, one sea, and a ship that moves through them by simple acts done well. Keep your eyes on the path, your hands on the wheel, and your heart open to the truth that the little things and the empty spaces together make the whole. When you play this way, you do not fight the storm. You ride it. You do not fear the branches. You count them, you choose, and you pass through.

Science Fiction Author D. Colin Palmer takes you on a dry but razor-sharp walk through Walmart in search of new poker chairs—only to bump into a former classmate whose health problems are explained not by mystery but by laziness and overeating. From there, the commentary turns toward the current social climate: is our world living under the shadow of a parallel renaissance happening in another reality? Through the lenses of Machiavelli, quantum mechanics, theoretical physics—and why Taylor Swift should stay out of politics—Palmer connects poker theory, appetite, and social decay into a startling conclusion: humanity’s crisis is not intelligence or technology, but coordination. Opinion only. Intellectual and artistic exploration, not advice.

What if the works of William Shakespeare were more than timeless drama? This clip explores Shakespeare as a possible vessel for the prophetic visions of Nostradamus—layering history, literature, and mystery into a single lens. From coded imagery to uncanny parallels, we ask whether the Bard’s words were not only art but also prophecy. A journey into the intersections of theater, fate, and foresight.