Crash Gordon and the Mysteries of Kingsburg (84 page)

“Enough!”
Lloyd shouts. “This is no laughing matter. Children are being tortured in this program.”

“They’re
what
–?” Twinker asks.

“Tortured,” Lloyd says. “Someone found out that hypnosis works better when the subject is in a state of dissociation.”

“What’s dissociation?” asks Skip.

“When you’re driving your car and you forget where you’re going and you get caught up in thinking about other things and yet
still
you arrive safely at your destination, without knowing how you did it–that’s dissociation. Everyone experiences it from time-to-time. But what I’m talking about is
extreme
dissociation–when you leave your body because you’re in unbearable pain from an accident, for instance, or when you hide away in a tiny compartment you rarely use inside your mind while, say, you’re being raped.”

Twinker goes deathly still.

“Many of the techniques now used were pioneered by Doctor Ewan Cameron, who picked them up right where the Nazis had left off. Doctor Cameron was a President of the World Psychiatric Association who lived in Albany, New York and commuted to Montreal every week on the CIA’s dime to conduct MKULTRA experiments at McGill University. He died in 1967, but he lives on in infamy for his diabolical techniques of
depatterning
and
psychic driving
. Now–are you sure you’re ready for this?” Lloyd asks Gordon, cocking a plump eyebrow.

“Fire away, Big Man,” Gordon says with a bravado he doesn’t truly feel. “We’ve been listening to your windbag wisdom for hours now. How could this be any worse?”

“If my suspicions are correct, you’ve personally experienced some of the mind control techniques I’m about to describe. Re-stimulating your repressed memories of them might induce an abreaction. In layman’s terms–as I’ve heard your friends so often say–you might ‘freak the fuck out.’”

With an dismissive wave of his hand, Gordon says, “That’s cool... I’ll just let my freak-out flag fly.” He has a ridiculous boner that he’s finding rather distracting. It feels twice its normal size.

“You’re the man, Crash!” Jimmy says, reaching over the seat to slap Gordon a high-five. “Just so you know, when I found out about this stuff I sat down and fuckin’ cried like a teeny-weeny little baby.”

“That’s just so…
pussyfied,”
says D.H., mocking him.

“Shall I begin?” Lloyd asks, sounding as if he’s about to deliver a Thanksgiving Day homily.

“You may begin,” Gordon answers, bowing his head.

“Okay, so…
depatterning
is Doctor Cameron’s term for wiping a person’s mind clean of old thought patterns–even to the point of ridding them of their basic personality and all knowledge of how to function in the world, in some cases. Ostensibly, he was doing this for the benefit of people suffering from severe mental illness who needed their minds rebuilt from the ground up. But in actual practice, his subjects often displayed symptoms no more harmful than mild anxiety or post-partum depression.”

“So how do you depattern someone?” Gordon asks, as if he doesn’t already know.

“In Cameron’s case–working in the late-fifties to mid-sixties–he used LSD and a variety of other new psychoactive drugs in combination with electroconvulsive shock therapy administered twice a day at 30 to 40 times the normal voltage.”

“Jesus,” says Skip. “Talk about a bad trip….”

“He also used a ‘sleep room’ where he put his patients into a drug-induced coma for days and sometimes weeks on end. That’s where the
psychic driving
technique came in. Cameron rigged a speaker under the comatose patient’s pillow that would play taped messages over and over in a constant loop.”

“
RFK must die, RFK must be killed–Robert F. Kennedy must be assassinated
…” D.H. mechanically intones through his cupped palms, evoking the memory of Sirhan Sirhan.

“Doctor Cameron discovered that some of his patients, thus treated, ended up creating multiple personalities, or
alters
. Those alters could then be called up or dismissed at Cameron’s will through the use of hypnosis techniques discovered by his colleague, Doctor George Estabrooks, who once bragged that he could hypnotize any man, ‘without his knowledge or consent,’ into committing acts of treason against the United States. As I’m sure you can guess by now, the CIA was quite thrilled with these findings. The agency took them and ran with them–to further serve the interests of national security,
comprenez-vous?”

“Do you always speak French when you’re being sarcastic?” Gordon asks Lloyd. He’s about to cream in his pants.

“
Oui, monsieur.
There’s a nationwide network of such doctors now, tucked away out on military bases and in black-budget-funded medical clinics. Their methods have become harsher, their drugs have become more targeted and effective, and the unwilling subjects of their infernal ministrations have become younger–
much
younger. They start out on toddlers now.”

“Why?” Gordon asks. He can barely get the word out.

“Because toddlers can’t explain in any sort of coherent way what’s been done to them–especially if what’s been done is so horrifying that it nearly beggars belief. Young minds are also more malleable, less apt to crack under the strain of severe mind control programming. Many of the older subjects just can’t hold up under the pressure–their wits dissolve and they become useless vegetables. The dissociative states these doctors are aiming for require the infliction of severe trauma. Sometimes they’re lucky enough to find their subjects coming into a hospital emergency room seeking treatment for a bad accident or a life-threatening illness. At other times, the trauma is inflicted
deliberately
in staged settings. Often, they’ll simulate an alien abduction, using back-engineered extraterrestrial technology–then they’ll reinforce the subject’s belief in the reality of the abduction with post-hypnotic suggestions. Under special circumstances, they’ll conduct a Black Mass and force the subject to participate in the sacrifice of a child to Satan.”

“
No way!
I can’t believe that!” Skip groans, raising his hands in front of his face in disgust.

“I’ve seen it happen,” says Jimmy matter-of-factly. “I even killed a kid myself once… or at least they made me think I did.”

“Satanic Ritual Abuse, they call it,” says Lloyd. “It’s quite effective. What they especially like about it is that no one would ever believe the story, should one of the subjects ever be unfortunate enough to remember it.”

“I
still
can’t believe it,” Skip says.

“If you’ll recall what I told you about the Process Church and the Four Pi cult in this context, and I think you’ll find it’s a little easier.”

“Oh, hell… you’re right. I think I’m gonna barf now.”

“I did that, too,” Jimmy admits.

“
Puss-sy-fied…
” D.H. sings in a stage-whisper, needling him.

Twinker is still being weirdly quiet, sitting rigidly in Skip’s lap.

Jimmy slugs D.H. on the knee. “
Ow!
” D.H. yelps. “Why’d you do
that?”

“I just found out today that I got abused by a bunch of fake Satanists–including
my mom
–and you’re making fun of me,” Jimmy complains.

“Those Satanists aren’t fake,” Lloyd says. “They actually believe in what they’re doing. They’re like the magicians, priests, and shamans of antiquity who understood that a victim’s response to trauma could invoke a mystical experience. And it’s true–so far as we know that trauma alters brain chemistry and changes our perceptions of reality. Nowadays that particular response is labeled
dissociation
, but the mystical experience might still be there for the taking. In that regard, the creation of programmable alters could be considered a high sacrament, like the ego-death–or ‘Crossing of the Chorozon’–that Aleister Crowley and others of his ilk considered as a prerequisite before they could practice the highest magic.”

“More like the
blackest
magic,” grumbles Gordon. “They’re probably just sucking up peoples’ orgone, like those demons Mark David Chapman worked for. You know… food for the Moon.”

“Well, there’s that possibility, too,” Lloyd acknowledges. “But that wouldn’t explain quite as well why so many of the people involved in running Project MONARCH have been submitting their own children to it.”

At that moment, with a shriek, Twinker tries to hurl herself out of the moving car.

Skip grabs hold of her legs as she scrambles across the Bentley’s trunk, looking like Jackie Kennedy in the Dallas motorcade just moments after her husband’s brains were blown out. “Let go of me!” Twinker screams, scratching at Skip’s face. Skip hangs onto her and drags her back down into the backseat.

A Ford Econoline van whooshes past the Bentley on their left, heading in the opposite direction. There’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that it would have run Twinker over if she’d managed to launch herself from the trunk. Skip wraps his arms around her and hugs her tight so she can’t do any more harm. Twinker goes limp then, muttering through the hair covering her face, “I just wanna die….” Then she passes out.

Ignoring the panicky gabble in the backseat that follows, Lloyd calmly turns to Gordon and inquires: “Did you know that Twinker had an alter personality programmed to self-destruct if she recalled her involvement in Project MONARCH?”

“I didn’t know it was called Project MONARCH, but yeah… I knew the rest,” Gordon admits.

“I suspected as much. She’ll be fine now,” Lloyd says, looking grim. “There’s a post-hypnotic suggestion always built-in to that program that sends her into an artificial coma if her suicide attempt is thwarted–a fail-safe method to prevent her from talking. We’ll be able to wake her once we get her back to Esalen. But you should have told me. We could have avoided that little incident.”

“I’m sorry,” Gordon says, sensing how betrayed Lloyd must feel.

“Had I known, I wouldn’t have allowed Twinker to make the decision that’s put us out here on the road at night, when it’s not safe. We should head back now. Let’s start looking for a turn-out.”

“Look–I know you’re mad at me,” says Gordon, desperate to apologize, “but I wasn’t sure I could trust you.”
That’s not entirely true.
“I mean, I trusted you enough for me, but I thought I’d better be a hundred percent sure before I trusted you with Twinker. Besides, how did you know that
my
self-destruct programming wouldn’t kick in once you started explaining Project MONARCH?”

Lloyd’s shoulders relax as he grins in forgiveness. “I noticed that frisky tent-pole in your pants right after Jimmy mentioned the code-name MONARCH for the first time. That’s a distinctive programming flaw of the incompetent Doctor Smiley, who happens to be a pedophile–or didn’t you know that?”

“I had no idea,” Gordon says.
But that would explain a lot,
he thinks.

“When Jimmy came to me after the shooting incident, I gave him a post-hypnotic suggestion to tide him over until we got to Esalen, so I knew he’d be all right. My friend Doctor Lemingeller has taught me a number of tricks over the years…. Initially, I was
extremely
concerned about you–especially after hearing what Jimmy had to say–but then, after I discerned that Doctor Smiley had been your programmer, I knew you’d be fine. A spastic fit of masturbation was likely to be the worst outcome.”

“I never touch myself there. That’s
dirty
,” Gordon jokes.

“Has it occurred to you that your narcolepsy episodes might also be the result of Doctor Smiley’s less-than-stellar mind control programming?” Lloyd asks him. “The old fail-safe coma response could be kicking in whenever you get overly excited. It’s just a thought…. You really need to have Doctor Felix give you a thorough going-over so you can get all that
merde
out of your system.”

“How come you know so much about all this stuff?” Gordon asks him.

“As I’ve told you before, I’m not only the insurance man for the remote viewing program at SRI International, I’m also a client. Actually, I’m sort of the bagman for a lot of these so-called ‘black budget’ programs. Millions of dollars pass through my company each month on their way to clandestine operations–compliments of my bogus insurance pay-offs. At least 30
billion
U.S. dollars gets passed around that way every year through people like me. I skim a bit off the top, then I make a hobby out of watching where the rest of my money goes–even though it’s not really mine.”

“But it’s taxpayers’ money, right?”

“Right. My thinking exactly…” says Lloyd. “I’m just a concerned citizen who wants to know how his tax dollars are spent.”

“That money gets spent in some really weird ways.”

“Tell me about it, brother.”

There’s a full moon rising out over the ocean, casting its broken reflection in a jittery path of light across the dark water, hundreds of feet below. Lloyd spies a turnout and pulls in, making a gravel-crunching U-turn. They sit for a moment with the Bentley’s motor warmly purring, listening to the distant crash of the surf and looking up through the almost infinitely vast and cold distances of outer space to gape at the winking stars.

The world seems hushed until Skip asks, almost in a whisper: “Lloyd, do you think Twinker will be okay?”

“She’ll be fine,” Lloyd says, engaging the Bentley’s transmission. He pulls onto the empty highway slinging gravel, headed back through the bracing redwood-scented darkness toward Esalen. “She’s a champion, that girl of yours… a true world-beater. Whatever she’s been through, she’ll come out of it on the Other Side stronger and more loving than ever. Don’t you worry.”

“Hey, Gordon… I guess I kind of owe you an apology,” Jimmy says ruefully. “I just remembered: after I stuck a knife in that kid at the Black Mass, they tried to get me to go after you, too.”

“Was that when you almost broke my neck by dropping me out of your damn tree house?”

Jimmy hunches his shoulders. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“No biggie.”

Lloyd interjects: “It’s more likely they just wanted Gordon maimed, so Doctor Smiley could get another crack at doing some deep programming.”