Welcome to "Time Travel: Madman Marcum, The Vatican Chronovisor, Project Stargate and MORE!" where carnival meets conspiracy, history meets mystery, and all bets are off! Join Professor Barnabas Bamboozle as he invites you to unravel the threads of time through the tales of those who dare to manipulate its fabric. This episode kicks off with the electrifying yet cautionary tale of Mike Marcum and his porch-built time machine, then shifts gears to explore the U.S. government's mind-bending endeavors in psychic spying with Sylvia Slade. We'll wrap up with a cinematic critique by Vinny Vitriol, who takes a comically scathing look at the beloved "Back to the Future" trilogy. Sponsored by cryptozootees.com, this podcast is your ticket to a thrilling ride through the anomalies of the ages.
TRANSCRIPT:
Time Travel: Madman Marcum, The Vatican Chronovisor, Project Stargate and MORE!
Professor Barnabas Bamboozle:
"Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and those teetering on the edge of reality itself! Today's show will pull back the curtain on the mysteries of time - mad inventors, secretive devices, and a trilogy of films that may have twisted more minds than any time machine ever could."
The Madman Marcum Time Machine
Mike "Madman" Marcum
On one fateful day, Marcum decided to modify a Jacob’s Ladder. A common physics experiment, the device produces arcs of climbing electricity between two conductive rods. But where most would have been satisfied with the sparks, Marcum saw an opportunity to push boundaries. Using a homemade transformer, he stepped up his household voltage from a standard 120 volts to a jaw-dropping 20,000 volts, enough power to create the dazzling arcs he sought.
When Marcum powered up his creation, something strange happened. There were no climbing arcs of electricity, no dramatic bolts of light crackling between the rods. Instead, hanging above the device was something otherworldly: a small, shimmering vortex, like the heat ripples that dance above asphalt on a sweltering summer day. It pulsed faintly, a ghostly sphere of distorted air about eight inches wide.
Marcum stared at it, a mixture of fear and fascination churning inside him. What was this thing? A doorway? A trap? A ripple in the fabric of existence? He had to know. Grabbing a sheet metal screw from the cluttered workbench, he tossed it toward the vortex. The screw disappeared, swallowed by the energy field.
Heart pounding, Marcum waited. A second passed. Then two. Suddenly, the screw clattered to the floor, rolling to a stop a few feet from the machine. Marcum blinked, his mind racing. Was this teleportation? Time travel? He repeated the experiment several times, each yielding the same result. Objects would vanish into the vortex, only to reappear moments later.
Excitement and possibility surged through him. Marcum had no idea what he’d created, but one thing was certain: he was onto something extraordinary.
The discovery consumed Marcum’s thoughts. His small, porch-bound experiment had defied the natural order, and he was determined to take it further. He dismantled the prototype, already envisioning a grander version. The new machine would be massive - eight feet tall, its vortex large enough to swallow a human. But there was a problem: power.
His homemade transformer, impressive as it was, couldn’t handle the voltage he envisioned. He needed industrial-grade transformers, the kind used on power poles, to scale up his project. Unfortunately, such equipment was far beyond his modest budget. That’s when Marcum’s obsession took a darker turn.
Near Stanberry, at a substation for the King City Power Company, six industrial transformers sat unused, rusting quietly in a yard. It seemed almost too perfect. In broad daylight, Marcum and a few friends loaded the hefty equipment onto trucks and drove away, leaving the substation conspicuously lighter. It wasn’t long before the stolen equipment found a new home in Marcum’s workshop.
With the transformers in place, the new machine began to take shape. The upgraded conductors gleamed, the towering rods poised to channel unimaginable power. When Marcum switched it on for the first time, the results were dramatic - and disastrous. The machine overloaded the local power grid, plunging not only his house but the entire town of Stanberry into darkness.
Undeterred, Marcum continued tweaking the design. Soon, he achieved stability. This time, the vortex wasn’t just a flickering eight-inch sphere. It expanded to a swirling, ominous field large enough to consume objects whole. When Marcum and his friends tested it with larger items, the results were mind-bending. A couch was pushed into the vortex, vanishing completely. No clattering reappearance. No sign it had ever existed.
For Marcum, this was thrilling confirmation that he was on the verge of something monumental. For his neighbors, it was unsettling. Reports of strange noises, bright flashes, and a general air of unease spread through the small town. It wasn’t long before the authorities came knocking.
The stolen transformers, the blackouts, the increasingly strange activity - it all added up to trouble for Marcum. One afternoon, eight deputies arrived at his door with a search warrant. They found exactly what they were looking for: the pilfered equipment and a machine straight out of a mad scientist’s nightmare. Marcum was arrested, charged, and ultimately sentenced to 60 days in jail with five years of probation.
For most, this would have been the end of the story. But Marcum’s bizarre experiment had caught the attention of the press. “Kansas City Man Tries to Build Time Machine on Porch,” read the headlines, sparking a wave of public fascination. Among those intrigued was Art Bell, the legendary host of the late-night paranormal radio show *Coast to Coast AM*. Bell, known for giving a platform to the strange and unexplained, tracked Marcum down after his release and invited him onto the show.
The interview was electric. Marcum detailed his experiments, the mechanics of the machine, and the eerie results he’d witnessed. He wasn’t a polished speaker, but his passion and technical knowledge shone through, captivating millions of listeners. Donations poured in - transformers, equipment, even offers of warehouse space.
With renewed determination and resources, Marcum relocated to Overland Park, Kansas, where he constructed his most ambitious machine yet. This version featured rotating magnets and a design capable of generating a “plasma tornado” - a vortex far more powerful and controlled than its predecessors.
And it worked. Small objects sent through the vortex vanished, only to reappear minutes later at distances up to 150 yards from the machine. The pattern was consistent: every object emerged either east or west of the machine, leading Marcum to speculate about the role of the Earth’s magnetic field in his creation.
But Marcum wasn’t content with testing objects. His ultimate goal was to step through the vortex himself. When the time came, he took a deep breath and jumped into the swirling void.
The last anyone saw of Mike Marcum was the flash of light as the vortex consumed him. That is, until 2015.
Years passed, and the world assumed that Mike “Madman” Marcum had vanished into the annals of urban legend. His story lingered in the collective memory of *Coast to Coast AM* listeners, a fascinating tale of ambition and the limits of human curiosity. Many believed he had perished in his experiments, his life consumed - quite literally - by the vortex he created. Art Bell himself speculated on Marcum’s fate during subsequent broadcasts, often referring to him with a mix of admiration and apprehension.
Then, in 2015, the unthinkable happened. Marcum called back.
When Art Bell introduced him on-air once more, there was an almost audible gasp from the audience. Marcum’s voice was steady, his demeanor calm, yet the story he recounted was as incredible as ever. According to Marcum, his fateful leap into the vortex hadn’t killed him - but it had propelled him 800 miles east, and two years into the future.
Marcum described the aftermath of his jump with unsettling clarity. He awoke in the middle of a field, disoriented and with a splitting headache. He had no memory of how he’d gotten there, nor did he initially know who he was. Wandering aimlessly, he eventually found himself in Fairfield, Ohio - a suburb of Cincinnati - where he stumbled into a homeless shelter for food and shelter. There, a simple glance at a newspaper delivered a staggering revelation: the year was now 1997, two years after he’d disappeared.
Slowly, Marcum pieced his memories back together. He remembered the machine, the jump, and the fact that he needed to return to Kansas. Scraping together what little money he could, he boarded a bus to Overland Park, eager to see if his workshop - and his work - had survived.
What Marcum found when he arrived was devastating. The warehouse had been emptied. The machine, his notes, and even the footage documenting his tests were gone. Whether it had been seized by landlords, scavenged by opportunists, or taken by shadowy government forces, Marcum could only speculate. His time machine - his life’s obsession - had been erased.
Yet, his memory was not entirely lost. Marcum told Bell that he remembered the majority of the machine’s design, enough to reconstruct it if given the resources. But there were still troubling gaps, moments of technical clarity that eluded him. Without his notes or videos, the process of rebuilding would be slow and arduous.
Despite the setbacks, Marcum expressed no bitterness during his second interview. Instead, he seemed determined to press on. Once again, the *Coast to Coast AM* audience rallied to his side. Callers offered donations, tools, and encouragement. Some suggested crowdfunding through platforms like GoFundMe. Others proposed writing a book to chronicle his extraordinary journey. Bell, as always, supported Marcum’s ambitions but cautioned him to proceed carefully, lest his experiments put him - or others - in harm’s way.
One particularly haunting suggestion came from a listener who mentioned a 1930s newspaper article. The story described an unidentified man who had washed up on a beach, found inside a strange metal drum. Beside his body was a small, rectangular object - something no one at the time could identify. Was it possible, the caller wondered, that the man was Marcum? Had his experiments succeeded, only for him to become a victim of his own technology?
Marcum dismissed the notion, insisting that while eerie coincidences abounded, he was still alive and committed to his work. Yet, the story became part of his legend, another thread in the tapestry of the Madman’s mythos.
Marcum continued his research with the fervor of a man destined to uncover the secrets of the universe. He refined his designs, experimenting with Faraday cages to shield metallic objects from the unpredictable effects of his vortex. The cage would also allow him to carry essentials - notes, photographs, even a cell phone - should he decide to jump again.
And he did.
One day, Marcum announced his plans on social media. This time, he would enter the vortex inside a protective metal tube. The cage would theoretically stabilize his journey, ensuring that he could not only survive the jump but also document it upon arrival.
Then, just as suddenly as he’d reappeared in the public eye, Marcum vanished again.
Art Bell later shared a chilling call from a listener who claimed to have uncovered another strange story. In the 1930s, a man had been found on a beach, inside a metal drum, with a device described as “futuristic.” The parallels were uncanny, and though Marcum himself had dismissed earlier connections, the thought lingered: had his experiments finally succeeded? Or had they doomed him to an untraceable fate in the annals of time?
Mike Marcum’s tale is one of ambition, genius, and the intoxicating allure of the unknown. Whether or not his experiments achieved true time travel, his story has become a modern myth - a testament to the lengths humans will go to chase the impossible. Even today, Marcum’s fate remains uncertain, but his name lives on in the pantheon of the extraordinary, whispered among those who dream of bending time itself.
What became of the Madman? Perhaps, as Art Bell would say, only time will tell.
Project Stargate: The Truth Is Stranger Than You Think
Sylvia Slade:
Greetings, my enlightened friends. It's Sylvia Slade, here to unearth the extraordinary tale of **Project Stargate**, the very real, very official U.S. government program that explored the limits of human consciousness. Forget the skeptics - this isn’t fiction or speculation. It's a documented chapter of history, and it worked in ways that defy what science and logic have been willing to accept.Born during the shadowy days of the Cold War, **Project Stargate** was a highly classified initiative designed to tap into humanity’s latent psychic abilities. Spearheaded by the Defense Intelligence Agency and carried out by organizations like SRI International, this program trained individuals to use **remote viewing** - a technique where trained participants could perceive information about distant locations, objects, or even events, without ever leaving their physical surroundings.
This wasn’t just a fringe experiment. Stargate produced actionable intelligence. Think maps of hidden missile silos, descriptions of secret Soviet facilities, and even successful predictions of enemy movements. It was taken seriously by top brass because the results worked - and worked often enough to fund the program for over two decades.
But here’s where Stargate graduates from extraordinary to mind-bending: the implications of remote viewing didn’t stop at geographical boundaries. Some of its most skilled operatives claimed they could bypass the constraints of linear time. Reports emerged of viewing not just distant places but **distant eras** - both past and future.
For instance:
- **The Past:** Remote viewers described ancient structures buried beneath modern cities, later confirmed through excavation.
- **The Future:** In one case, a viewer accurately predicted an incoming submarine incident *days* before it happened, giving military personnel a chance to prepare.
Could these skills open the door to practical time travel? The Stargate archives suggest that viewing across the temporal spectrum wasn’t just theoretical - it was practiced. Some whisper that this line of research wasn’t abandoned when Stargate “officially” closed in 1995; instead, it went deeper underground, evolving into today’s cutting-edge projects.
Remote viewing isn’t pseudoscience - it’s a skill, honed through disciplined training and focus. The original Stargate participants were regular people turned extraordinary through structured methods, not unlike learning to play a musical instrument. And while the government might officially declare Stargate’s closure, many believe its legacy lives on.
Think about it: if you had a tool that could access critical intelligence across time and space, would you give it up? Or would you take it off the books, where prying eyes couldn’t find it? The secrecy surrounding Stargate suggests we’ve only scratched the surface of its true potential.
If Stargate is still in play - and many insiders suggest it is - it redefines what humanity is capable of. No longer are we limited by the constraints of our physical bodies or even our linear perception of time. Remote viewing isn’t just about spying on enemies; it’s about exploring the edges of reality itself.
So, my dear listeners, the next time you feel a strange sense of knowing or dream of a place you’ve never been, don’t dismiss it. Perhaps you’re tapping into the same extraordinary ability that Stargate’s participants honed. The human mind is more powerful than we’ve ever dared to imagine.
Until next time, keep your minds open, your skepticism healthy, and your psychic antenna tuned. This is Sylvia Slade, reminding you: the truth is out there, and sometimes, it’s hiding in plain sight.
The Vatican's Chronovisor: A Window to the Past
Photo of Jesus Christ supposedly taken by the Chronovisor
In his book, *The Vatican’s New Mystery*, Father Brune later recounted how their casual conversation turned to topics of shared interest - language, theology, and the challenges of interpreting scripture. Brune expressed his frustration with modern exegetical trends, which sought to demystify miracles and view gospel accounts as mere metaphors. To Brune’s surprise, Ernetti not only agreed but hinted at a solution that defied comprehension.
“There wouldn’t be any reason to doubt the Bible,” Ernetti remarked cryptically, “if we could see the events ourselves.” Before Brune could press him further, Ernetti invited him to visit the monastery the following day.
Intrigued, Brune accepted. That decision would alter his life forever.
The next day, Brune arrived at the San Giorgio Maggiore monastery, where Ernetti welcomed him into his quarters. After hours of polite conversation, Brune, eager to learn more about the mysterious device hinted at the previous day, broached the subject directly. Ernetti’s demeanor changed. His voice grew grave as he described an invention that could peer into the past - a time-viewing device capable of capturing sound and images of historical events. The Vatican, he explained, had commissioned the device in the 1950s, hoping to confirm Biblical events and secure the Church’s authority.
Ernetti explained the principles behind the machine. Dubbed the *Chronovisor*, the device functioned by detecting residual electromagnetic waves left behind by sound and light. These waves, Ernetti claimed, contained the “record” of everything that had ever occurred. Using a sophisticated array of antennas, a selector to fine-tune the desired time and place, and a viewing screen, the *Chronovisor* could reconstruct these waves into moving images and sound. It was not time travel but time observation - an invention that blended quantum theory, theology, and alchemical philosophy.
The *Chronovisor* team, Ernetti revealed, included some of the brightest minds of the 20th century. Among them were Enrico Fermi, a Nobel laureate physicist, and Wernher von Braun, the famed aerospace engineer. Together, this secretive group succeeded in building the device. Ernetti even claimed to have used it to witness events such as the Crucifixion of Christ, speeches by Napoleon and Mussolini, and a lost Roman tragedy, *Thyestes*.
Yet, the device was not without its perils. Ernetti explained that the Vatican had ultimately dismantled the *Chronovisor* and hidden its components in fear of its potential misuse. “With such a device,” Ernetti warned, “there would be no secrets. It could destroy personal privacy, state security, and free will itself.”
Despite the secrecy surrounding the *Chronovisor*, Ernetti’s claims inevitably leaked to the public. In 1972, the Italian magazine *La Domenica del Corriere* published an article featuring a photograph allegedly taken with the *Chronovisor*. It depicted Christ on the cross, his face contorted in agony. The image caused a sensation but was soon debunked. Skeptics discovered that the “photograph” was nearly identical to a devotional postcard sold in Italy, depicting a wooden sculpture by Lorenzo Coullaut Valera. Accusations of fraud followed, tarnishing Ernetti’s credibility.
Ernetti maintained his innocence, claiming that the image was not a direct product of the *Chronovisor* but merely a representation of what he had witnessed. He insisted the actual recordings and blueprints for the device had been confiscated by the Vatican. Still, the damage to his reputation was done.
Another piece of evidence offered by Ernetti was his transcription of the lost Roman tragedy, *Thyestes*. He claimed to have recorded the play using the *Chronovisor* and painstakingly transcribed it in Latin. The text, published in fragments, was criticized for containing linguistic inconsistencies and anachronisms. However, even its harshest critics admitted it demonstrated a surprising level of literary skill.
Ernetti’s silence in the face of public skepticism fueled speculation. Some believed he had been silenced by the Vatican. Others dismissed him as a fraud. Yet, a few, including Father Brune, continued to vouch for his integrity, arguing that Ernetti’s character and intellect made his claims difficult to dismiss outright.
In his later years, Ernetti withdrew from public life. In one of his final interviews, he hinted at the pressure he faced from Church authorities, stating that he was forbidden to discuss the *Chronovisor*. On his deathbed in 1994, Ernetti reportedly confessed to fabricating the photograph of Christ and forging the *Thyestes* transcript. However, he insisted the *Chronovisor* itself was real.
In a bizarre twist, an anonymous document surfaced years after his death, claiming to contain Ernetti’s full confession. It described the *Chronovisor* as a device far more advanced than previously disclosed, capable of not only viewing the past but accessing metaphysical dimensions, including the Akashic Records. The document also claimed Ernetti had been guided by the spirit of Nostradamus in a previous life to develop the machine.
While the *Chronovisor* remains an enigma, its legend endures - a testament to the human fascination with time, faith, and the boundaries of science. Whether a brilliant invention suppressed by the Vatican or a masterful fabrication, the *Chronovisor* raises profound questions about history, technology, and the intersection of belief and reality.
Back to the Future Trilogy Review
Vinny Vitriol:
Hey folks, it’s Vinnie Vitriol here. Today, we’re diving into the wild world of time travel. And let’s be real - no discussion about time travel is complete without mentioning Marty McFly. That’s right, we’re talking about the so-called masterpiece that is the Back to the Future trilogy. Buckle up, because this DeLorean is about to skid straight into a wall of hard truths.Starting with the first installment: It's 1985, and our hero Marty McFly accidentally gets zapped to 1955. His brilliant solution to fix the space-time continuum? Playing matchmaker at a high school dance. Because obviously, the best way to ensure your existence is to get your teenage mom to stop crushing on you and fall for your awkward dad instead. Talk about a therapy goldmine.
And let's discuss Dr. Emmett "Doc" Brown, shall we? Here's a supposed genius who thought it was perfectly reasonable to build a time machine out of a car that couldn't even make it through a normal commute without breaking down. Even better, he decides to power it with stolen plutonium from terrorists. Outstanding judgment there, Doc. I'm sure that'll look great on your scientific legacy application.
Moving on to *Part II*, where the writers apparently threw darts at a board labeled "future stuff" and ran with whatever stuck. Flying cars that look like they were designed by a five-year-old with a crayon box? Check. Self-lacing shoes that would bankrupt anyone who actually needed new laces? You bet. And the central plot revolves around a sports almanac, because apparently, the most creative use of time travel they could think of was rigging betting odds. Pure cinema, folks.
The real cherry on top is *Part III*, where someone decided what this sci-fi series really needed was... cowboys. Because when you've got a time machine that can go anywhere in history, clearly the best destination is the Old West. Watch as our heroes trade hover technology for horse manure, and Doc Brown discovers love faster than he discovered the flux capacitor. Nothing says "satisfying trilogy conclusion" like steam engines and saloon brawls.
The franchise's internal logic is shakier than a DeLorean hitting 87mph. One minute they're worried about disrupting the timeline if someone sees the time machine, the next they're practically taking out ads in the 1885 Hill Valley Gazette. And don't get me started on the paradoxes – this series creates more plot holes than a teenager creates excuses for missing curfew.
If time travel actually existed, I'd go back and convince Hollywood to stop after... actually, no. I'd go back and suggest they just make a movie about a kid learning to skateboard in the '80s. At least that would've been more grounded than this temporal disaster trilogy.
And for everyone who says "but it's just meant to be fun" – so is a root canal if you use enough laughing gas. Doesn't make it good.
