On June 5, 2017, I broke the news that Keith Raniere and Allison Mack were involved in a secret sorority called DOS where women were branded. That story was entitled: Part 1: Branded Slaves and Master Raniere; Sources: Human branding part of Raniere-inspired women’s group
Featured image on the story Branded Slaves and Master Raniere, Part 1.
Within one week, I published nine more stories in the series:
– June 7: Part 2:Branded slaves and Master Raniere; More details of secretive master-slave ‘branding’ revealed
– June 9: Part 4 Branded Slaves and Master Raniere: Branding is slipped on like a noose and by surprise
– June 10: Part 6: Branded Slaves and Master Raniere: Allison Mack Left Acting to Brand Women
– June 10: Part 8: Branded Slaves and Master Raniere: Rules of the harem conform with DOS Rules of obedience
– June 11: Part 10: Branded Slaves and Master Raniere: Collateral must be sufficient to destroy
The stories had an instantaneous effect on Nxivm, Keith Raniere, Allison Mack, and DOS.
People in Nxivm started leaving because of the shock and repulsion they felt upon learning what Raniere and Mack had cooked up.
Numerous DOS slaves also quit. DOS stopped branding and recruiting.
No one else was reporting on DOS or Allison Mack and Keith Raniere’s role in it. [The New York Times was not to publish their branding story until October 17, 2017, more than four months later.]
I started my second series on June 13: Part 1 The Slave Women of DOS – Revealed.
On the same day, [and just a week after I began writing about DOS], Allison Mack published her sad and eerily prophetic poem, “SHE FEELS CRAMPED IN A CLOSET” on allisonmack.com
Here is her poem:
By Allison Mack
Cold sweats. Constantly.
The anxiety of being caught makes my heart thrum like a hummingbird. Someday I will be discovered. I will be found out! I peak [sic] through the crack in the door of the closet I have shoved myself. It’s stuffy and I can barely breath [sic].How long will I stay inside? It seems like it has been a lifetime in here already.And in truth, it has.
It’s been so long that I can’t even remember the first time I stepped into the closet of self loathing to hide from the world.
I send out my best representative, the “Allison-bot”, who knows what to say, is always funny and never has armpit stains.
The part of me that smells, bleeds and says the wrong thing hangs out in the closet trembling while she peaks through the cracks in the door.
Why am I so nervous?
Because I am a fugitive on the run from intimacy and the fear of showing those pit stains and blood.
I anticipate rejection and so I reject sentencing myself to a life squished in a closet filled with all the things i feel most ashamed of.
What would happen if i threw open the door and jumped to the foreground?
Naked. Raw. Cellulite jiggling. Moles exposed.
My leg is cramping and I feel myself outgrowing this hiding spot. I am tired of being a voyeur.
I want to live my life.
I feel the rush of adrenaline.
Am I willing to be brave and jump out from behind the door and test the hypothesized destruction?
Wait for it…
…Maybe tomorrow.
***
Allison Mack outside federal court with her attorneys.
Tomorrow was to come for Allison Mack some ten months later, on April 20, 2018, when she was arrested by the FBI in Brooklyn NY. It is not surprising that back in June 2017 when she wrote her poem, Allison felt cold sweats and anxiety about being caught.
People often have premonitions about their future.
In those early days, when word was percolating out on Frank Report, Mack, even then, must have been worried that she would be found out. She speaks of self-loathing and hiding from the world. This is a poem about being afraid. It is a truthful poem and prescient. She was to embark upon a journey from these days forward that would lead to worldwide notoriety and horrid calumny and the end of her days of freedom.
She asks in her poem why she is nervous. She knows the answer in part and in part the ensuring months would reveal more.
She was with Raniere when he was apprehended in Mexico. And never again would they be alone together or even speak alone.
When she wrote her poem back on June 13, 2017, it was in the early days of being found out. A secret sorority that she knew [but did not tell the women she recruited] was headed by a man, her master, fueled by blackmail material, and topped off by branding women on, or near, their pubic area with his initials, was now no longer a secret.
Allison might have thought that the DOS ideals were good, that they would help develop tough, strong women. And the slavery and the discipline were necessary and would yield results – ending the far worse slavery of female weakness.
But she knew already, perhaps by the way I spun it on Frank Report, and because so many of her longtime friends were bolting from her charms and away from her master, Raniere, that DOS would not play well to the masses.
“I anticipate rejection,” she wrote, “and so I reject sentencing myself to a life squished in a closet.”
It was not hers to reject. She will be sentenced by a judge, most likely, almost certainly, to a prison term and a prison cell is like a closet.
When she wrote this poem, she knew she was headed to doom. It was apparent, inevitable. She speaks of the hypothesized destruction. It was only hypothesized then. They must have known among them – Raniere perhaps the first to understand – that destruction was imminent.
And it came, wave after wave after wave.
At her plea hearing in April 2019, two years and 10 months after she wrote her poem, Allison was to denounce her master, the man that fueled the events that brought her to her fate.
It has been almost two years since she took her plea deal. She waits for her next curtain call. Sometime in the next month or two, she will be before the judge again, this time to hear his sentence. She is 38 and when she speaks before the judge and asks for leniency, she will denounce Raniere again. By so doing, she may not spend much or most, perhaps none of her forties in prison.
If she is eloquent and sincere or sounds sincere enough in her damnation of the man that held her in the palm of his hand for a dozen years, and to whom she vowed to be a slave forever, she may yet be spared years cramped in the closet.
At the end of the hearing, after she speaks, she will learn her fate. It will be prison, no doubt, and the possible remand to prison, into handcuffs and shackles, off to a cell and a new life. [Perhaps the judge will kindly let her report to her assigned prison].
And then tomorrow has come.
