The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

We recruit bad people to do bad things for good reasons: December, 1970.

When I took psychology they said there are normal socialized people, antisocial people, and asocial people. That A is for Not, not socialized that is. This A is not to be confused with the A you get on your report card, these are A’s you don’t want to get. These people are your normal everyday, run of the mill psychopaths. It’s pretty easy to separate the antisocial from the normal socialized people, just ask them and they’ll tell you. They just want to be different, just not part of the crowd. Their most common answer is they just want to be left alone. In their own peculiar way they are as socialized as everyone else too. They just follow a different drummer.

The problem comes when you try to identify the psychopaths out there, because they are human chameleons. They become aware at an early age that they don’t fit in, something in there is just missing, and they learn to camouflage themselves and blend in. They figure out fast what they’re supposed to feel, but they don’t feel it. If they’re dumb and strong they become the typical school bully. If they are smart, well at least above average intelligence, they become outwardly almost normal, ha, ha. Females hide their differences differently than males, so not only are they asocial to begin with, they are likely to be amoral too. Another A that is Not for moral. This is especially true if they are a half way pretty girl to begin with. Girls learn to use their bodies and looks earlier than boys. I guess that’s why they say that girls mature faster than boys.

Me and my physiology professor in college could both agree that almost all those gifted surgeons we read about, or had come into contact with now and then for that matter, are by definition psychopaths. Right or wrong, black or white, good or evil, they learn to make those life and death decisions without allowing any guilt or feelings to get in the way of doing the job. I once had a skilled heart surgeon describe how him and a college buddy dissected a cadaver, a dead body donated to medical science for medical school experimentation, until it was only bones in a sink with a garbage disposal unit. All this was done on a bet after watching a CSI episode on TV where a gifted surgeon disposed of his wife that way. No harder than boning a chicken he had described it to me latter. That is best case scenario, they become a well channelized socialized psychopaths. Worst case scenario is they become the bastard that puts the cyanide pill in the unopened box of aspirin on the store shelf, just to randomly anonymously kill someone. That also explains a lot of those supposed home accidents where children are involved. My job now is to detect and identify the real psychopaths out there and do one of two things with them. My group only goes after the real dangerous ones now. The ones that have the power to kill, not ten or even a hundred, but millions. Most of them we outright kill, no real proof, no trial, no appeal, just a nasty accident if we can’t arrange a disappearance. The others we recruit for my organization. The organization I work for is part of the government. Our government, believe it or not. We are just separate from it. We are trained assassins set up in much the same way as the original Hashshashin were setup so long ago. We don’t do politics, we do people in politics that have become a danger to the country. We remove people that, for one reason or another, have become above the law of this land. We like to think of it as, “we recruit bad people to do bad things for good reasons”. That’s our motto anyway, Kumukuha kami ng masasamang tao upang gumawa ng masasamang bagay para sa mabubuting dahilan, it’s engraved on the bronze plaque back at base. Maybe it should be; ang kalsada sa impiyerno ay may aspaltado na may magandang intensiyon, otherwise known as, “the road to hell is paved with good intentions”. We have some of those too, and that describes us too, I guess.

We were first set up, believe it or not, by President Johnson and latter ratified and implemented by Ulysses Grant himself just after Lincoln’s assassination back in 1860 something. Grant was a military man that took the direct approach to most things, and he saw a need for assassins at the time. Tempers were running high after the Civil War and we, well us in the Organization of Assassins anyway, that’s what we decided to call ourselves. We put out some of the dying embers of the fires that hadn’t quite put themselves out yet. Keeping those smoldering embers from blazing up again was our main job back then. Being the virtual double edged sword we were created to be, we removed as many Union Blue as Confederate Gray in our day.

Originally we received our recommendations for targets from the governors of the individual states and their attorney generals and Grant’s own Secret Service of course. We did not go after the Quantrell’s of this world, we went after the people that secretly supported the Quantrell’s, and believe me there were quite a few.

Some of our targets were even personal friends of Grant’s too. Things got a little strained after World War I and during the Prohibition Era prior to World War II. Some of the Italian Mafia like Lucky Luciano were far more patriotic than some of our supposed blue blooded heroes like Lucky Lindy, and posed more of a real and present danger to our nation we found out the hard way. To fund our Organization we were given the Right to rob the robbers so to speak. This has worked out rather well for my Organization over time, not so good for some of the bean counters in the Treasury and the Pentagon. Oh, don’t get me wrong, we don’t kill them, heaven no. Have you ever heard the joke about killing a cockroach? Well the joke is, kill one and a hundred come to his funeral, well it’s true. Kill one of those pencil pushing geeks and they will bury you in paper, just knowing there’s a conspiracy afoot. No they just get transferred to some place where they can’t get into anymore trouble when they bug us about the missing money after one of our raids on legitimate organized crime. Yes there has always been, and for that matter will always be, legitimate organized crime. Crimes like prostitution, bootlegging, drugs, gambling and insurance fraud, among other less known crimes will always exist. They go on with the full knowledge and cooperation of state and local law enforcement. Those are the people, well organizations anyway, that we choose to rob mainly because they are protected. Well protected from everybody but us that is.

The real criminals you’ll find usually work for the state. We had one scum bag, lets call him D.S. in Alabama that started out as a lowly Assistant County District Attorney, he said send me to Montgomery, their capital, as your Attorney General and I’ll put the criminals I can’t touch now in jail. Then he moved up to State Attorney General and still couldn’t do anything about the criminals. He then moved up the food chain to Secretary of State, but still couldn’t do anything. Oh did I mention he practically invented the Drug Stamp while he was Secretary of State.

Oh you wonder what a Drug Stamp is? Well if you sell illegal drugs and the feds catch you and prosecute you they get to keep all the money and other assets they seize and confiscate. If on the other hand you had bought all your Drug Stamps from the Alabama Secretary of State you got to keep all your money and other assets. As Alabama Secretary of State, one of the good old boys, D.S. got to personally know all the major criminals in Alabama, the South East, and foreign cartels for that matter.

Finally he ran on a law and order platform for Governor and won. According to him he now knew all the criminals and he would put them all in jail as Governor. In reality he started out refusing to prosecute the drug lords, then protecting them and their illicite cash by selling them Dope Stamps and finally wound up offering them sanctuary from federal prosecution. Finally he became too much of an embarrassment even for the feds and they finally put him away. I mean what do you expect when Alabama’s next door neighbor Mississippi had remained a dry state for decades even though they paid more Federal Liquor Tax than Alabama who was wet for years. They only went wet because the feds finally enforced the law and threatened to indict and convict the Governor. By the way all of this can be linked back to old D.S. by a convicted Mafia Don doing time in a Florida federal prison. He reached out and touched somebody, old not obsolete, ha, ha.

The original Old Man Of The Mountain, who created the Hashshashin of old, turned out zealots. Men willing to give up their lives on their leader’s command for the cause, because they were assured of a wonderful afterlife. Drugs, like the magic mushroom, and hypnosis, along with other mind control techniques, like fasting and sensory deprivation, were used in their brainwashing. Techniques that are far far older than we like to even think about. Techniques that were used by every extremist cult and major established religion in the world even way back then. It seems that with recorded history came established religion and those techniques and drugs are still being used by them today.

Hypnosis has limits, the basic rule is you cannot get a good person to do bad things. Of course that is one of those generalization rules. Survival is still paramount to the person’s well being, and yes you can trick the person’s dulled mind into doing bad things by using that motivation. You can even create multiple personalities, and get the mind to betray itself, but there is a price to pay eventually. The duality created in their mind makes both personalities unstable, and sooner or latter they’re going to suffer a traumatic psychotic break for real. Applying Murphy’s Law to our case, “if it can go wrong it will, if it can’t go wrong it will anyway”. Naturally the mind will choose the worst possible moment in time to break. The original good person knows something is wrong deep down and on some level it rebels and finally unravels. Some people just don’t like the cool aid.

We, well the Organization of Assassins actually, have always known and recognized that limitation in the process we employee, so we have always started off our process with a true “tried and true killer”, a true asocial psychopath. We start off with a bad girl who doesn’t object to doing any of these bad things we are asking her to do. We even encourage them to think of it as a talent that God has blessed them with, but their talent is only to be used in our service. We become their conscience for them. We then overlay a good girl persona on top of that to limit and hold her in check, hell it even tattles on her. Psychopaths don’t have a conscious so we create one for them. Down deep where it counts she knows she’s missing something that everyone else has, hell they were born with it. She’s bad to the bone and is only play acting a part in life. She’s been a chameleon her entire life, this is just a new game to her at this point. Yes, for the operative part of our teams we use females, females that are bonded to their team leader who is a male, but he is THEIR male. What we try to instill in our assassins, the bad girl part, is a deep sense of loyalty to their leader and the Organization which is going to protect and nurture them. We know what they really are and love them anyway. Of course being a true psychopath she will never be absolutely loyal to anything or anyone, not even to herself in certain ways. We have found that they leave clues, even in their betrayals they leave clues, because deep down they want to get caught. They do know they are broken.

On the other hand what we create in the good girl, her split personality side, is a loyalty to the Organization, a loyalty that runs so deep that she will betray her bad self for the love of her Master. Yes, you heard me right, her Master. The man that she has agreed to sell her soul to, but also the man that has given up everything to devout himself to her and her sisters. Yes, when first created the bad side is the dominate personality, but on some primal level we have found that the bad girl actually wants the good girl side to win and become the dominate personality. She becomes her own worst enemy to herself. In her imagination she wants the Fairy Tale of Sleeping Beauty to be real for her. She has always wanted to be the Princess in her own Fairy Tale. She want’s what she thinks every normal little girl is born with, and what she has always longed for herself. Well I guess I should say that after we hypnotize her she realizes that she has always longed for it anyway. She knows she has always wanted Fairy Tale Princess True Love. She knows now that she wants, even needs, to be hypnotized and woken up as the Enchanted Princess from her own personal Fairy Tale. Her as the Enchanted Princess deeply in love with her Prince Charming, her true Master, who will always love and cherish her. Who will always be there for her and her sisters. Yes she knows she has other sisters too.

The only drawback of our system we’ve found over time, a system which I must add has been around for well over a hundred and fifty plus years now, is that if anything goes wrong with the Master, his Agents go rogue and/or insane, which is really the same thing. Most of the time, after a Master dies, or is lost in some manner, the Agents complete their assignment, cleans up their mess, and then go on a little search and destroy mission all their very own. A mission to take out everyone they even think was responsible, or involved for that matter, in his death. Then mission completed she or they, depending on how many are left after their mission, commits their form of suicide. They become despondent, depressed and quit eating, finally lapsing into a coma and finally death.

There are tales from the beginning of our Organization that say it wasn’t always this way, that some of the girls were saved by some of the stronger Masters, but that has not occurred in my memory. With our new programing techniques that we’ve added over time some say it’s impossible. We’ve only lost two Masters recently to my knowledge and all the girls suicided shortly thereafter. I guess I should say they were allowed to commit suicide because nobody interfered. Now we have one Master and four bonded female Agents, and we never refer to them as sex slaves or even slaves for that matter.

They are trained Agents, he is their Chief Agent and Controller. They are a life bonded team in love with each other, and their Master. Agents who will do anything to protect their Master, their other teammates, and the Organization they all work for in that order of priority. We have not lost many Agents in the field, but we are constantly looking for girls that fit our profile as replacements for the casualties we do suffer in the field. Believe it or not every pretty girl, seventeen to twenty three, who just happens to be a psychopath is not adaptable to our process. We do have a profile we stick to, even with our new programing tools.

No we have never encouraged a suicide mission, but losses do occur from time to time. Trust me when I say that every loss is felt deeply by the whole Organization not just the team itself. One of the reasons we are five, is the people we target can and often do, make individuals disappear with impunity. That is just a risk we take, well to be honest it’s a risk the girls mainly take, after all they are the bate in the trap most of the time, and not the point of the spear. They are the bate that draws our target out of their lair, or more likely they are who has to go in after them. Of course we are not the only ones to come up with this team concept system.

The Russian’s also have something similar to our Agents Program going. Our paths sometimes even cross, but we seldom have any conflicts with them. Sometimes it is necessary for us to pursue our targets into their territory or more likely territory controlled by them, so we report to them that we are there and they do the same for us as a professional curtesy. Believe it or not we get along with everybody but the Germans. It’s sort of a mutual coexistence thing with us and them, and we do exchange information with them on a regular basis. My girls look down on their Agents and noticeably bristle in their presence. I get the distinct impression, through our implants now, that what my girls really want to do is piss on them to mark their territory, ha, ha.

Of course the Ivan’s treatment relies heavily on their countryman’s Pavlovian Conditioned Reflex teachings. In their system, their volunteers, well the females we’ve come across anyway, are put into a state of constant sexual arousal and not allowed to sleep for several days. Then they prime their volunteer’s libido with visual images and auditory stimuli that are projected straight into their defenseless drugged brains via their version of the Helmet arrangement’s wraparound LCD visor screen and headphones. In other words they are made to watch dirty movies and listen to sexually explicit audio. Sometimes I’m reminded that’s just late night TV now. The Helmet they use has insertable needles that actually penetrate the bone of their volunteer Agent’s skull at certain points. Points that they have discovered through rough trial and error experimentation, on many questionable volunteered bodies.

Well technically a drill is used first to drill through the skull bone, and then the needle is inserted into the soft tissue of the brain itself. These needles, well electrodes anyway, feed in precise programed micro bursts of electricity that stimulate pieces of chemically coded long term memory that have been prerecorded and inserted through those same needles directly into their brains for their training. It’s not like they can close their eyes to avoid any of it either. To the person undergoing their process it’s more like a dream they’re having. Of course to the person experiencing it, it’s the same dreams, over, and over again. Hundreds and hundreds of rapid repetitions of the same dream, or nightmare, according to how you want to look at it. All this accomplished in mere minutes of real time, but the process is continued for days, all to make sure that the desired behavior is deeply imprinted directly on their defenseless brain. Those dreams reinforce the pleasure of the visual images that are impressed on their volunteer’s captive mind through the audio and video inputs of the Helmet’s wraparound visor screen and headphones.

At the same time this is going on the Trainers close down all their volunteer’s cognitive functions so that those images are the only stimuli their defenseless mind gets to react to. Any time they see left-brain activity through the EEG or EKG sensors...and now we hear they have added fMRI, to their Helmet ... evidence that the person in there is still trying to rationally think for themselves they get jolted with very unpleasant pain stimuli, good old fashion, always reliable pain. Eventually the brain learns the as old as time itself trick of how to short-circuit its own thoughts of defiance or resistance. At that point it’s more like the central cortex takes over it’s own programing itself and it won’t even allow itself to even think of resistance. NLP? Neurolinguistic Programming?, or Pavlovian Conditioned Reflex? Whatever you want to call it, it’s neuroscience applied to human programing in it’s simplest most basic form. By the way volunteer seems to have a whole different meaning in Russia and Germany, ha, ha. Well our girls are offered a choice, well technically it’s a choice anyway!

After awhile, the brain itself learns, not so much ‘not to resist’, but as ‘not to even think of resisting’. The very thought of resistance literally disappears from their brainwashed mind in the end. After that the person’s own central cortex itself takes over it’s own programing for you, and the person only needs to be gently reminded of their control periodically. Of course the downside is the person it is done to is no longer normal in any manner and becomes addicted to the pain, pleasure, and other stimuli used to train them. Their brain becomes rewired, so to speak, and to them pain becomes pleasure, and pleasure becomes...well more pleasant, ha, ha. Believe it or not this does have a down side.

Yes, we know how the Ruskee’s make their Agents, we’ve even recovered a few after a operation went sideways on them a few years ago. After a brief try at turning, or at least freeing them from their conditioning, we had to finally return them to the Russians if we wanted them to live. I’m not proud to admit we added a few new toys of our own to their already screwed up brains before we gave them back. Our implants tattle to us what they are doing. Their process destroys any real initiative or creativity their agents might have had. Yes, they will kill for Mother Russia. Yes, they are extremely loyal to Mother Russia, but they are less than human anymore, and nobody will ever mistake them for normal. Some of the Agents have started a project on their own to study if the Russian Process can be reversed. Let’s just say I’m hopeful, but as I understand it the brains actual structure has been changed by their process.

Our Agents and their Agents don’t play well together either. Our Agents do not consider themselves to be expendable property owned by the man, no make that men, they are given to, not a man they are bonded to. To my knowledge no Organization Agent has ever been used as a suicide bomber, whereas those we recovered were. They were sent in on a hard mission and written off by their Russian handlers as LIA. LIA stands for Lost In Action, and means they were left for dead or worse.

To describe our Organization or group I would say we are the ultimate Daisy Chain. First a Master and his four Agents make up a Daisy which is attached to other Daisies of our Organization. Originally there were ten Daisies or cells, a total of fifty people, ten males and forty females, and their cover was a fancy bordello, well whore house really that Grant established in Washington D.C..

To setup the first Daisy a White Russian mystic from the Caucasian Mountains region of Russia was hired. Well truth to be told, which is another tale altogether, he approached Grant with an offer he couldn’t refused, ha, ha. After slipping past Grant’s bodyguards in the middle of the day, not the night, to prove his credentials as an assassin, he applied for the job of organizing and training Grant’s new assassins. How he even found out about the plan is open to speculation. It was rumored that he had studied in the Orient and had met the last of the Hashshashin in India. I personally believe the rumors.

All we ever really knew about him was the title of Sensei or Teacher. He said it was, “the one who comes before”. According to him his name or title was derived from two of those chicken scratch Eastern Mystic characters, symbols things, your always seeing on the pack of firecrackers you bought, or seeing on display on some hot chicks ass now. The characters themselves are in dispute as to their true origins, but their meaning now is pretty much agreed upon as “born before”, or one who teaches based upon what his age and experience has taught him. Our history doesn’t record his real name or even a picture of him for that matter. All we really know is he disappeared one night after a wild poker party with Grant and some of his cohorts at the whore house. Some say he returned to Mother Russia, and some say China or the Orient. Some say he was involved with Rasputin and the latter revolution in Russia. Some even say that he stayed here and was involved with Smith and the Mormons. We do not know or really care since it doesn’t effect us one way or the other.

Sensei wanted to organize our group of assassins around a strong male leader relying on females as his arms and legs for action. It was his belief that the reason the original Hashshashin failed was their steadfast religious belief that women were inferior to men and unclean. He on the other hand believed that in their own way women were far superior to men in certain ways. They clearly worked better together as a unit than men and were able to form loyal family attachments that men couldn’t. Also most men refused to even consider a pretty woman as a serious threat until it was too late, it’s a “macho thing”. He wanted to capitalize on those facts to make his Units. That was the start of the Units.

Just to recap on how the country has changed, in 1974 they made a movie named The Terminal Man, with George Segal as the main character. The plot was that George Segal is suffering these violent seizures, so the surgeons install these electrodes in his pleasure center to stop them. A very simple operation really. The bottom line is his brain learns how to override the controls and the electrodes keeps getting him higher and higher. He becomes a serial killer, because the human brain is adaptable and can rewire itself. At that time most of us didn’t want to be easily identified by Big Brother, or be chipped, tattooed or marked in any way. Today I figure the present generation would fight to be the first on their block to get one if they could, as to tattoos it is ‘res ipsa loquitur’, the thing speaks for itself, just look around stupid.

Sensei made the first Daisy which was tasked with recruiting another Prime Agent and her choosing a Chief Agent/Master and training him to form a new Daisy. This went on until they had the ten original Daisy and he disappeared. The Prime Agent, the first female recruited, job is to choose a Master and see if he’s got what it takes. His qualifications for the job are quite different from the female operatives under him. Each Master is different, there is no one size fits all. First the four girls of the original Daisy, lets call it a Unit, choose a new girl. Ideally this woman will be from seventeen to twenty three. She has to be a tried and true killer, and will be the core of the operative side of the new Unit. The Mother Confessor of the Unit so to speak. There is no shortage of material to chose from today, our juvenile justice system has already identified some of the worst, or the best, according to how you want to look at it. They are just waiting for us to pick over them. After reviewing all the material available Sherry’s Unit chose Joan as the first girl of my future Unit.

Joan had actually done three murders, but they couldn’t be actually proven or successfully persecuted, so she was framed by Sherry’s unit for a particularly gruesome murder and convicted. She received the death sentence, imposed by the trial judge over the jury’s recommendation, which was latter commuted to life plus three hundred years by the State of Virginia’s first female Governor. Since death was taken off the table there was no chance of the Supreme Court of the United States ever hearing it or it being reversed for that matter.

This was when Joan was seventeen, two years latter Sherry visited Joan in the high security women’s prison Sherry was at. She was posing as an pro bono appeals lawyer. By this time Joan’s appeals were all exhausted and she knew she was going to rot in her hell hole of a prison forever. Sherry frankly told her that she was responsible for her being in prison now. As expected Joan launched herself across the bolted down table and bench, intending to kill Sherry. As expected Joan wound up semi conscience on the table herself. When the guards, who were monitoring the visit on CCTV, saw the action on their monitor and rushed in, they found Sherry standing over Joan’s prone body. Joan laying semiconscious on the table herself. It was Sherry who invoked lawyer client privilege to the consternation of the guards and ordered them to leave the public area again. After pausing to confer, it was obvious that the lawyer wasn’t in any danger, so they left. After they left Joan was offered a choice. Stay here and rot, or join the Organization and get out. It was almost comical to watch the thoughts racing around in Joan’s pretty little head, just spinning around and around up there like a provable rat in the maze. Predictably the first words out of Joan’s mouth were.

“What’s preventing me from telling everybody you framed me, and about this Organization of Assassins of yours bitch.” To which Sherry just laughed and asked her who would believe her story. Upon reflection Joan had to agree it was a wild improbable tale. Joan was then given a week to make up her mind and Sherry left. After the week Joan agreed, and her first life ended in her death at the hands of an unknown inmate, her body being cremated, and all records of her deleted from all systems. The next day she was reborn as the A is for Alice of Joan/Alice, Number One Girl, of Unit 60 of the Organization of Assassins. There were now two hundred forty members of the operational side of the Organization that didn’t appear on any governmental organizational chart. The Units themselves were the only people now that really knew what they were or what they really did anymore. The FBI thought we were part of the CIA’s Black Opps Department, illegally working in-country. It didn’t hurt that everybody still remembered the “The Bay of Pigs” and Kennedy, even after all these years. The CIA thought that Justice had finally grown some balls and had co-opted some Black Opps of their own. The DEA, the most corrupt of all the federal agencies, just winked when we met. The old concept of “plausible deniability” was taken to new heights where we were concerned by all the other alphabet agencies in turn. Since we funded ourselves we were never audited or investigated by Capital Hill. Sometimes we did raise a few eyebrows when we represented ourselves as some obscure state or federal department or agency at a crime scene.

I was chosen right out of Marine boot camp at Camp Giger. I wasn’t particularly close to my living family, didn’t like my home town that much, or the state I was proverbially born and raised in for that manner. My name is Robert Elroy Lee, yes Robert E. Lee, my single mother insisted on the name before she died and her brother who raised me followed her last wish. Me, I never knew my mother, but more importantly I had a chip on my shoulder and wanted to prove something to the only person that mattered, to myself. I considered myself to be like Robert E. Lee Prewitt from the 1953 movie From Here to Eternity. I’m a Marine hardhead, not a jarhead, that makes decisions and sticks with them no matter what. I don’t make friends easily, but when I do I stick with them, and they have never betrayed that trust yet. I have my own code and I live by it. I think that says something about my decision making ability, or should I say my instinct to choose the right friends.

At the moment I’m also a reluctant virgin. I say reluctant because fate seems to conspire against me to keep me that way. Take my latest try. I was home on leave, I had the car, my 56 Chevy 265 v8 Bel Air with an automatic transmission. I had the girl, Mary a soon to be senior this year, one year behind my graduating class. I got her to Drive-In Number One Movie Theater out on US Highway 78. The movie was the Vampire Lovers an R Rated vampire chick flick. I got her warmed up and got her comfortable on the bench front seat. We petted awhile and I got to first base under her sweater and bra. Things were progressing well with one hand under the cup of her bra tweaking a nipple and the other hand rubbing her crotch while she made these cute little moaning noises. I was surreptitiously checking again on the status of the rubber in my pocket, trying to work up the nerve to try pulling down her panties, when the freaking deacon from her church, well my church too though I hadn’t been in a while, walks by on the way to the concession stand and says hello. Hello? I mean God give me a break already. Hello?!!

“Good to see you home Robert,” he innocently says to me, needless to say I go by Bob not Robert, only my grandmother gets away with calling me Robert anymore.

“Nice to be home Mister Jones,” I mumble as I straighten up and try to fumble everything back into my pants and Mary is busy with her blouse and skirt covering everything up too.

“Oh hi Mary, are you coming to Bible study on Saturday?” he puts in. Like he can’t see or at least make a good guess what’s going on in the front seat of my Chevy.

“Sure Mister Jones.” Mary answers, all purity and light now.

Needless to say I didn’t get any that night. Hell for the rest of my leave I couldn’t even get her in a dark corner. She quote unquote was afraid for her reputation. Reputation? So I’m still a virgin, but at least I didn’t have to marry her. I wasn’t the one that knocked her up shortly after that and had a shotgun wedding invite my Mother latter wrote me.

So anyway I’m back on base and I get called in for an interview with five of the prettiest girls, no make that mature women, I’ve ever met. They ask me if I remember the test I took two months ago while I was still in boot camp, well really it turned out to be a very, very long questionnaire of sorts. I had taken it after chow on a Monday night with five others. Hell yes I remembered it, they were some really strange questions to be asked of a man, well anyone for that matter. Questions like, if you were ordered to jump out of a airplane would you. If you answered YES, in my opinion, you likely got Force Recon or Forward Artillery Observer as your bobby prize behind door number one. You became the most likely to be awarded posthumously the “dress blues and no shoes” first prize at the party. A Marine joke meaning you were likely to die first doing your job, after all corpuses don’t need to be buried with shoes. Of course most of the time it was closed coffin anyway and who knows if the legs are even in the coffin.

Me, well me, I first said I wanted to at least have a chute, a parachute that is, when I jumped. Then I asked for a little instruction before I made my first jump. The rest of the test wound up with a lot of life and death decisions disguised as innocent questions. The last group of questions was would you sacrifice yourself for your country, and I can still remember my answer, only if it was absolutely necessary to get the job done. I’m personally all for the old axiom, “the duty of a good solder is to make sure that the enemy solder dies for his country first.” I personally don’t believe in unnecessary killing or being killed you understand.

After some more cute questions and dumb answers from me. The one introduced as Joan, one of the five women present during my questioning, was asked her decision.

“He’s acceptable”. She answered after making me stand up and walking around me several times looking me up and down like a piece of meat on display at the butcher’s shop.

Acceptable? Acceptable for what? I distinctly remember asking that same question of myself at the time? But I must have said something out loud because she answered me.

“You? As of this moment Private we own you. You are TDDY as of this moment to the CIA Private. That’s Temporary Detached Duty to you Private. Go back to the barracks and get your personal affects, if anyone gives you any trouble call this number. She handed me a business card; Government Procurement Office, Agent Joan Smith, an address that I found out latter didn’t exist in Virgina, and a 1-800 phone number. You are to report back here as soon as that is done. Your new orders are already being cut, and your not to say anything to anyone about your new posting.” The one named Sherry told me.

So hours latter I wound up out in the Arizona Painted Desert, literally fifty miles from anything, on the Organization’s Ultra Top Secret base of operations. There was no getting out unless they let you, and there was no getting in unless they let you. The Teams were always in training and the sensor fields were always up and running. No there were no active mine fields like Guantonamo, Cuba, but after what the little girls did to some of the local macho redneck poachers, or YouTube thrill seekers thinking this was a Area 51, everybody stayed well clear of our base which was just fine with us after all. We never cared which they were, they were caught trespassing and/or spying on our activities a few years back, and our little girls made them an object lesion.

Since before the First World War our base of operations has been a restricted military base in the middle of Arizona’s Painted Desert. A peace of God forsaken desert that even the Apache Indians and the Mexicans didn’t want to own, even the Diamondback Rattlesnakes and Gila Monsters avoided it. At the turn of the Twentieth Century it’s only recommendation was it was close to a railroad spur line and had a telegraph wire, but only a special train ever stopped or even slowed down near that spur. Today, 1970 it’s a military artillery and missile testing range, marked on every map as a no fly zone, even the spur lines steel rails have been removed today. It’s now a site carrying out live munitions tests and very hush, hush top secret dangerous military experiments. A place that is best avoided altogether, which suites us just fine.

Maybe it’s time to describe myself. I’m nineteen, stand a little over six one, weight one sixty, maybe one seventy something, have dark brown curly, some would say kinky hair, and regular features since the zits went away, and emerald green eyes. I lettered in wrestling, studied karate and swam like a fish. I had discovered that I, without steroids, would always be skinny and never bulk up, though my Unit likes to say I’m lean they are a captive audience, ha, ha. I liked electronics and math and avoided chemistry and biology when I could. Maybe I should say now that I had learned the hard way that I hated to run. I mean I had learned the hard way that I really really hated to run. That’s something no real Marine Grunt would ever willingly admit to anybody. Every Marine is a 0300 basic rifleman, we have to run three miles in twenty eight minutes once a month and qualify with a rifle once a year, but it was true anyway, I never learned to enjoy a nice morning run before breakfast.

I didn’t come into my own until we came to “Drown Proofing”. Me, I can jump into the deep end of the pool and stand straight up in the water, and without moving anything, just stand there all day breathing through my nose which is sticking up out of the fifteen feet of water in the deep end of the pool. I was one of three in our one hundred and ninety troopees that could do our little trick, one of us didn’t even know how to swim. Most people are sort of neutral buoyancy, as long as they keep moving they float. Of course there is that ten percent, that ten percent that sinks like a rock no matter what they do because of their dense bones. For them it’s just a constant struggle to not just sink like a rock to the very bottom of the pool. For one week I got to watch some of my not-friends literally jump in and sit on the bottom of the pool in ten feet of water. I watched them drown over and over. Finally one of the Drill Instructors, getting bored watching them sit there, would take pity on them and pull them out with a long pole with a large hook on it’s end. All of this while I just floated out there in the middle of the pool enjoying the show, avoiding the other people floundering around us trying to learn to travel stroke, just trying to stay afloat and not drown. It’s really scary when one of those exhausted people, obviously on the verge of drowning, looks up and sees you just floating there. It never fails to impress me how fast he heads for you when he notices you bobbing there. It’s like he thinks your his own personal life saver buoy put there just for him to grab onto before he goes down for the third time. We learned the best way to avoid them was just to submerge until they lost interest. You can probably tell that was one of my best memories from boot camp. I’m sure that your interested to know that all Marines have to learn to swim, but the Navy doesn’t, who knew? Well that’s me way back then, long and sleek, some would say skinny. I like to think of myself as wiry and I still am years latter.

At the time I didn’t know any of this about the base, just that I was in the middle of the desert with a lot of skimpily clad women and a few men that weren’t very interested in being friendly or communicative. Very little of the facility was even visible above ground, most of it was below ground accessible only by ramps and tunnels leading down. Everything well insulated from the blistering heat of the days and the freezing bitter cold of the nights. Even the helipad, the only official way to reach the base, was just a large pit well below the ground level of the surface of the desert with three worn Huey’s and a Harrier Jump Jet in it most of the time. All of it covered with removable camouflage netting that covers it most of the time. In effect the base was just the highest flat expanse of nondescript desert sand and rock without even a cactus or tumble weed to spoil the view for fifty miles in any direction around us. It was so flat we could actually track a jack rabbit hopping across the desert for fifty miles with our ground radar. Of course that camouflaged radar tower and covering dome was the only thing sticking up over the desert floor for miles around too. Our base was the highest point of land in one hundred miles.

At 05:00 hundred hours I was woken up, allowed to shower, and dress in the provided fluff dry utilities minus a cover, and escorted to the mess hall where I had bacon, eggs, SOS on toast, and some black coffee, bitter black Turkish coffee that I diluted with lots of sugar and milk from the machine. Then I was lectured on my duties to my Unit. Hell I didn’t even know what the heck a Unit was yet, but I was about to. I don’t how they did it in the good old days, but today they have “the Helmet”. I’m told that this is the third generation of the Helmet, and I won’t even have to have my head shaved until the operation. Operation? What operation!? Using a EEG and their new fMEG right now they would have me analyzed in no time at all and fixed, I was informed. Here I was and I didn’t even know I was broken until now, ha, ha. Next came the tour of what was going to be done to us.

EEG, or Electroencephalography, gives you the measurement of the electrical activity of the brain by multiple sensors placed around the head called electrodes. These electrodes are coated with silver conductive paste that are placed in direct contact with the skin of your scalp. The EEG process is non-invasive and capable of detecting even small changes in electrical activity in the brain on a milli to pico volt level if the person is prepped right. It is one of the few techniques available that has such a high temporal resolution it can tell us which part of the brain is active and reacting to the stimuli we are feeding to it in real time. With the EEG we mapped out the general area we were interested in, which brings us to the new fMEG.

Today’s regular MEG, Magnetoencephalography, requires liquid helium, at -269 Celsius, this is extremely cold and very, very expensive to produce and maintain. Further more the temperature itself limits how close the sensor itself can get to the brain before the cold actually effects the brain it’s used on. With the new “Focal MEG”...fMEG...they were using liquid-nitrogen instead of helium to super cool the sensor, at only a mere -196 Celsius, we can reduce the amount of insulation needed shield the head being studied. This allows the sensors to get much closer to the brain itself. That in turn allows us to take more high-resolution pictures of the brain’s activity we are studying.

Using liquid nitrogen at -196 Celsius instead of helium, which is 73 degrees colder, we can build the hardware required cheaper, with far more flexibility, and less complications. By using the fMEG and setting up a A, B and Z axis plane model around the entire head we can form a 3D map of the brain and pinpoint the activity we are studying. fMEG has a very high temporal resolution so we can isolate a thought or reaction to a given stimuli down to a few microns on the 3D map they created of the working mind.

fMRI functional magnetic resonance imaging, or fMRI, is a technique for measuring brain activity too. It works by detecting the changes in blood oxygenation and flow that occur in response to neural activity. When an area of the brain is more active it consumes more oxygen and to meet this increased demand for blood the flow increases to the active area. fMRI can be used to produce 3D activation maps showing which parts of the brain are involved in a particular mental process.

In fact by using TMS, transcranial magnetic stimulation, a form of noninvasive stimulation of specific areas of the brain we can narrow the area down even more. TMS is a relatively new development in experimental neuroscience. A super cooled coil is held up to the head of the subject, it’s positioned directly over the part of the brain you want to stimulate. By pulsing the coil it causes neurons on the surface of the brain to discharge, effectively temporarily lesioning that area of the brain. They then questioned the subject about what she felt. We had, well our pet nerds anyway, had found a way to combine the fMEG and TMS in our latest Helmet.

So far all this has been noninvasive, but with a CT scan, also called Computerized Tomography or simply a Cat Scan, we can combine a series of X-ray views taken from many different angles to produce cross-sectional images of the bones and soft tissues inside your body. CT is considered invasive because of the radiation involved. The resulting images can be compared to a loaf of sliced bread. Your head doctor, ha, ha, will be able to look at each of these slices individually to put together 3-D images of any area of the brain he wants to examine closely. CT scan images provide much more information than do plain X-rays. A CT scan can also help us visualize the different workings of the brain by watching changes in structure after exposure to the stimuli we provide. With the help of injected contrasting materials and/or dies, it can check for blockages or other problems in blood vessels and other aliphatic systems. What we had learned from our studies, and others done by other institutions, was that our particular brand of psychopaths had suffered a specific type of brain injury or damage to their brains at some point in their lives. We could speculate on what caused it and when, but the bottom line was that for some reason parts of all our girl’s brains hadn’t developed as they should have. Studying their brains they found that a major artery had a server blockage that was restricting blood flow to a very specific area of all their brains.

Once we knew what it was we could attempt to repair it in a number of ways. One we could use vascular dilators, or clot removers, maybe even use statens, but if that didn’t work, and we had reason to believe it wouldn’t, we would have to physically go in and surgically repair it. That wasn’t so bad anyway because we were going to open up her head like a coconut to insert the sensor/probes in anyway. Mine too for that matter it seemed. The theory they were operating on right now was that if we could repair the damage up there they would develop a real conscience, as they should have to begin with. Our hope was that Alice would develop a natural conscience now and that would affect Joan.

Once they knew where their targets in our brain were, they can insert an electrode and stimulate just those cells to see what their effect is on us. Yes, we use NLP or Neurolinguistic Programming too, doesn’t everybody, and yes you can call it Pavlovian Conditioned Reflex too. Whatever you want to call it, it’s still just the direct application of neuroscience to the programing of the human animal in it’s simplest most basic form. Pleasure pain, good bad, right wrong, reward punishment, love hate, we were now able to push a button and create that sensation in ourselves or others at will.

Maybe at this point I should explain about how we came into possession of all this very, very expensive advanced medical equipment and medical knowledge to use it. Our virtual toy box for the study of mind control 101, and brainwashing 101. It really costs very little to actually make these machines once the machine is designed and built, and the engineering bugs and flaws worked out. They really cost no more than a good MIG Welding outfit at Harbor Fright. The high price is to allow the company that developed it to recoup the money they theatrically invested in developing it and because it is a very limited market. To be honest we just stole ours and then sent a couple of Units to study it’s use with it’s designers posing as government inspectors and federal agents.

It’s simply amazing what four beautiful women posing as government inspectors/agents from the FDA, CDC, or a dozen other government agencies could get out of a horny science nerd, male or female for that matter. The only problem usually came when the girls discovered that the supposed inventor was a dud. Really the company he worked for had stolen the designs from the more junior members of the developmental team it usually turned out. The head of the department usually got all the recognition for their hard work and they got dumped.

Talk about “no good deed goes unpunished”. We recruted from the nerds that really invented it. As individuals they had designed all the parts of our machine, but we were the ones that put it all together to create our “Helmet”. I doubt that they would even recognize what our Helmet was if they saw it now. I’m almost positive that most, if not all, would have strongly disapproved of the use we were putting it to now. The same went for the surgeons that helped us with developing the necessary rudimentary surgical skills the girls used after assisting in several neurosurgeries we were able to arrange, our group are fast learners.

This was all explained to me by Sherry and Alice. Alice who still responded better to being called Joan. Joan had chosen me to be the new Unit’s Master, well Chief Agent and controller. The Unit that her and the other Units were going to help me and her build around me as her master. Master?! I mean was that even possible. Joan calmly explained that she was a psychopath and could never really love or be faithful to anybody. That part of her was just missing she had come to realize, and could freely admit it now since she had met the others and they explained things to her.

She then told me their joke about the Scorpion and the Frog. “See there was this Scorpion that met this Frog on the shore of a wide river.” she started off, “Now the Scorpion wanted to cross to the other side of the river, but he couldn’t swim. So he knew he had to talk the Frog into taking him across the river on his back. Well the Frog said he was afraid that the Scorpion would sting and kill him, so the Scorpion’s argument used logic. He pointed out that that would kill him too, and he didn’t want to die. So the Frog finally agreed and they started across the river with the Scorpion on his back. Half way across the Scorpion stings the Frog and as the Frog is dying, and the Scorpion is drowning too, the Frog laments that he has killed them both. Dying the Frog asks the Scorpion why? To this the Scorpion answers, “It’s just my nature”.” Get it, it’s just his nature, ha, ha.

In fact Joan was a cold blooded murder and showed no remorse for the things she had done. She’d been caught, tried, and convicted for the cold blooded murder of a homeless man simply because he was there. Well really she didn’t do that one, but she had done three others like it. She had sat them on fire as a joke. Saying she was a cold blooded murder was perhaps too harsh, after all she didn’t intend to kill them, but she showed no remorse over their deaths either. True she was framed for that one. Oh, she would have done it all right, but the girls had to fabricate the evidence used against her at her trial. It also came out during trial that she had done others like him too. Through our investigation we even knew that her and several other girls in her sorority had actually helped one girl commit suicide while watching. One of the terms of her parole to the Organization was that she had to allow them to create a new personality within her. Alice was that new personality. It would be the conscience she didn’t have before, and what was cementing all this together would be her love for me, her Master.

Both of us had now been hooked up to the machines and even been in the Helmet a couple of times. Each sector of our brains had been mapped now. The next part of the program was the actual operation itself. I want you all to know that I did not volunteer, I never volunteer for anything. I personally would have gotten up and ran at this point if I could have, but by this time the drugs they had slipped me had taken effect. I can’t even say I was really surprised by this development. For this last peace of work on our heads we would have to be shaved and our scalps would be cut open, and the skin pealed back like a banana, exposing the bare bone of the skull itself. Then several three inch in diameter round plugs of our skull bone would be removed with circle cutting bone saws. That bone itself would latter be replaced by lab molded peace’s of micro circuitry that would be glued back into place when the operation was finished. The last part would be the insertion of the probes themselves deep into our brain’s soft spongy tissue.

The sensor/probes themselves were marvels of micro circuitry and contained active sensors that could both send and receive the electrical signals produced by the brain along hair thin micro wire bundles to the replacement plugs that were really ULSI, ultra large scale integration, CPUs. With the fMRI’s X-rays and our own feedback the probes would be placed where they were needed to be. Since the brain itself feels no pain, only a mild local anaesthetic would be used to numb the scalp during the operation. There was a conflict among the Agents over weather drugs or hypnosis should be used for the surgery and implantation of the probes, after all we would have to be hypnotized latter anyway. This would be an early test of how susceptible we were to hypnosis. We would be awake and talking to them through out the operation either way. The placement of the probes themselves were now considered a routine matter. Of course no operation of this nature will ever truly be routine where the brain is concerned.

According to Sherry when the operation was over I would be as much in Alice/Joan’s mind as she was in mine. For the next three or four months we would be inseparable out here in our own little Shangri-La, honeymoon suite, love nest? Away out here in the Romantic American West’s most scenic Painted Desert, and trust me when I tell you it’s beautiful on the cover of Arizona the magazine, but not up close and personal like now. We would even have a long patch cord that we were to plug into our heads before bed each night. This was all new, even to the other Units and the Organization itself it was an experiment. If everything went as planed it would be like we had ESP at the end of our time together. My brain would learn to interpret the short coded bursts of UHF radio wave energy and direct impulses Alice/Joan’s mind and mine were producing and constantly sending out and receiving now as associated sound and feelings for each other to assimilate. Hopefully our brains themselves would finally learn to interpret those impulses that were converted to radio signals and electrical pulses as speech itself, or as something so close to human speech flowing directly between two human minds, as to make no difference to us. We had learned much of this from the many studies of Siamese conjoined twins. Her mind would do the same for the signals coming from me. The longer we stayed together the closer we would become ONE.

Of course I would also have, in theory, total control of her body’s pain and pleasure centers and could literally put her to sleep or give her the best organism of her life anytime I needed or wanted to. It’s amazing what the mind can teach itself to do given the right que and motivation I was told.

Of course by this time it was all I could do to hold my eyes open as the drug I had been slipped took effect. Sherry did apologize for keeping me up past my bed time, ha, ha. I guess I shouldn’t have been too surprised when I woke up strapped into a familiar dentistry chair, well the chair was familiar, but not the straps. I was surrounded now by women I knew I had never seen before. All of them doing God knows what, but here I was, and I was scared out of my ever-loving gourd. I mean talk of sex with four beautiful women totally under your control is hot man. Hell it’s every red blooded American school boy’s dream of a harem even. That was all well and good, but this is my head, and believe it or not I liked it just the way it is, was, might be thank you. I guess I should have realized I was volunteered, that word again, the minute I got here.

I was just fixing to make my argument, plea, oh hell face it, I was going to beg and cry like a little girl damn it. Then they rolled in Alice/Joan on her own personal dentist chair, of course her’s didn’t have the restraining straps, and she took my strapped down hand in her smaller softer one, and looking me directly in the eyes said, “Be Brave Master”. Three little words that changed everything. So I sucked it up and smiled back bravely at her as Sherry pushed in the shot of curare to my jugular that froze all my muscles for the first part of the operation. If Alice/Joan could take it so could I. I would be brave for her.

From that point on I remember very little of the actual operation. I remember answering some silly questions, I even heard Alice/Joan answering questions too. I remember the high pitched squeal and stink of the bone saw cutting through the bone of my skull and the heat that I somehow knew was there. That was the first part of the operation, the part we were allowed to mostly sleep through.

The next thing I knew I was wide awake and once again became aware I was somehow still holding Alice/Joan’s hand again, but unable to turn or even move my head.

“For the next part of this you have to be fully awake Robert”, Sherry was saying.

“Bob damn it.” I corrected her mildly.

“OK Bob it is. How do you feel.”

From then on it was all about the poking around in the old gray matter in the cookie jar our heads had become. Some things like an orgasm are controlled physically by one side of the brain, but the memory of that orgasm, which can also produce an orgasm, is controlled by the other side of the brain. An actual orgasm can be produced by exciting either group of neurons directly with a little electrical jolt. Sure the memory, the whole memory is a chemical chain reaction, BUT the trigger for that memory is that little electrical jolt. The same went for pleasure and pain. There is real actual pain and then there is the thought or memory of that pain buried back there in your primitive subconscious just out of your conscious reach. Next was the audio. Audio is much simpler than the vision part it turned out. Finally after flashing pictures at us for what seemed hours they were through with us. Bamb we were both out like a light.

Next thing I knew I was waking up in a hospital bed with the rails up and my head wrapped in a mile of glaze. I know because the first thing my hands did was shoot up there to check if it was all still there? The next thing I noticed was Alice/Joan in a bed rolled up beside mine. She was awake and smiling at me. As I looked at her I got this all huggy, fuzzy, feelly, feeling. I know that sounds strange, but that’s the only way I can describe those first moments even now.

“I know Master, I feel the same way Master”, Alice/Joan answered from her bed and reached out her hand. Which I rolled over to reach through the guard rails for.

“Just Joan Master. That’s who I am right now. Alice is still learning her way around up there.” Joan said, just as Sherry breezed into the room.

“Your awake.” Sherry observed.

“And hungry.” I shot back before it really hit me how hungry I really was. What I needed right now was a five pound Porterhouse steak and all the fixings, with a pitcher of draft beer to wash it down.

“I could go for a steak and beer about now too Master.” Joan put in.

“You two ready to become Siamese twins.” Sherry asked.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” I answered, which was echoed by Joan in the next bed.

“OK this is the data cord that is going to connect you for awhile. We borrowed that neat little trick on the Apple computers and made the connector plug and your socket magnetic. That way if you roll over in your sleep and the cord gets tangled in something it won’t damage anything. Even if it’s pulled out or worst case jerked out no harm done. No harm, no foul. OK.”

“How long do we have to wear these things.” I grouched.

“All the time really.” Sherry confirmed my worst fear.

“Even when I’ve got to take a crap.” I wanted to know.

“Even when you’ve got to take a crap Frank.” Sherry shot back on purpose.

“Aren’t we entitled to some privacy.” I wanted to know.

“Yes...NO! even when you’ve got to take a crap Joan needs to be there. We need you to become inseparable. Become one. To make this work you two have to become lovers, inseparable lovers. More than just lovers, and remember you still have three more Agents to recruit into your Unit. You two need to make with the ‘beast with two backs’, and suffer the little death, ‘La petite mort’, the French are always going on and on about. Get on with it Joan, pop his cherry already, we haven’t got time for this melodrama.” Sherry finished up her little pep talk matter of factly. Remind me never to get marriage counseling from her.

“Bob is entitled to some time to adjust to all this. After all I might not be what he wanted...” I broke into Joan’s speech.

“Joan your way out of my league, I’d be proud to have you as a girlfriend...” That’s where Sherry interrupter me again.

“That’s the problem! You two are not on a high school prom date. Hell you two are more than married. Get on with it. By this time she should know it if you even think you have an itch you need to scratch. SHE’s IN YOUR HEAD FOOL! YOUR IN HER HEAD FOOL! There’s none of this boyfriend, girlfriend stuff! No privacy, no getting to know you slowly crap. Get on with it.” Sherry finished her little speech, well more a tirade really.

It turned out that those signals we were sharing were much more complicated that we were originally told. It turned out that we had six major sensors planted in each of the four major sections of our brain. The computers recorded three seconds from each and then retransmitted it back to my brain, then it did the same for her. That’s what we shared back and forward. What I was seeing, feeling, tasting, whatever was being sent to her as electrical pulses and the same was coming back to me. Hopefully our brains would learn to interpret these pulses as short term memory that would become long term memory. What she was feeling I was feeling. We were in a loop. We were the first human guinea pigs of this new system. If it worked fine, if it didn’t no big loss, thank you for your contribution to the advancement of medical science, ha, ha. These were certainly not the girl scouts I remember.

This completes my log for this the 13th day of December, 1970.

June, 1973. Today Present Time

Well what did you expect from a group of psychopaths. Smart well educated psychopaths with more money that they knew what to do with and a steady supply of volunteers, there’s that V word again, to work with and no silly compulsions about killing somebody in the process. That was years ago and the system has worked fine for me. Of course at first it was like that time I got drunk and fell asleep on the beach down at the Gulf Coast and got invaded by a bunch of army ants, ha, ha. Well big red fire ants anyway. They had gotten into my hair and on my head and were biting the crap out of me all over. Even when you got rid of them you still felt them crawling around on you and biting you. Psychosomatic, well maybe, but no less real at the time and for months afterward too. Now all the Units, well Teams, have been converted like us. Some of the Masters say it works too well. They complain that we need a switch to turn off our girls thoughts sometime, well at least their transmissions to our brains anyway. It seems that at least one of the girls is always horny which is like an itch you need, no make that have to scratch.

We are now a full Unit, Joan, my over six foot, one hundred thirty five pound, red haired, freckled faced Irish Colleen who was incorporated into Joan/Alice, who decided to keep Joan as their personal name. She had beautiful gray eyes with golden flakes that I always found myself drawn into, her eyes always had that effect on me to the exclusion of everything else. To describe her body I would say she summed up your ideal woman. Everything you personally considered feminine. Breasts not too small, but not too large, everything just right for me. My personal ideal woman, my dream woman. To this day I can’t remember when, or how they adjusted me, but they must have, because she is everything I have ever wanted in a woman. Of course in the back of my mind I can still remember when she wasn’t if I try real hard, but she is the perfect mate for me now.

Yes she has a fully internalized sense of right and wrong now, the kink in the major blood vessel was surgically removed, and she’s just like everybody else now, but she’s never rushed out to join the Peace Corp or anything like that. Well not yet anyway, she’s too level headed for that she says. We together now found our other parts and integrated them into our Unit with Sherry’s help and assistance.

“You mean Brenda, Cathy, and Darcy.” Joan forcefully reminded me, putting her two cents into my supposedly private recorded log for future prosperity. AND NO that much sex is not a honeymoon it’s too much like work.

Brenda is as she describes herself is a Spanish/Moor, striking sharp chiseled facial features, strikingly perching violet eyes, and skin a rich deep black, a black so black it’s almost blue. A black Sophia Loren, with long wavy black lustrous hair down past her shoulders, that has rich red highlights in it when the light strikes it just the right way. Of all her features I think I love her hair the most and can spend hours running my fingers or a comb through it. A woman with a fey temper, wide hips, impossibly narrow waist, and a bosom to die for. She was the second agent me and Joan recruited together. It was as if she had been made for this role. She just had a little problem with being second, second to anything.

Brenda had been a drug mule for a major Mexican cartel. She had been picked up at eight years old from one of the packs of wild children that roam under the border bridges of TJ. One of a pack of twenty or so fighting for the loose change American GI’s and the occasional tourist crossing over to the whore houses throw to them to watch them fight. She had a natural knack for languages. At eleven she spoke English, Spanish, Latin, French, some Polish and Russian and several native Indian and local peasant dialects. At first she was used as a runner, go-between, and lookout, latter as a lure for street muggings. At thirteen she caught the eye of an upcoming cartel lieutenant who made her his mistress. After he was killed by the DEA she was offered two options, become a prostitute in one of the cartel’s houses or become a drug mule. She chose to become the mule rather than service the leader of the cartel. At eighteen she was noted for her skill with anything with an edge and her uncanny ability to anticipate attacks and survive. It was almost as if she had a sixth sense everybody said.

A mule swallows latex condoms greased with olive oil full of dope and then takes a purgative on the other side of the border to deliver it to the buyer. Three crooked San Luies Mexican Federalizes tried to hijack her and she killed them and then escaped over the border. The Federalizes had bragged that the cartel leader’s current mistress had given them their orders before she killed all three of them with a concealed box cutter. Knowing she could never return she fled over the border and was immediately arrested in Yuma by the YPD acting on tips from her own cartel.

When me, Sherry, and Joan approached her, she was in a solitary confinement cell because of attempts on her life by other inmates. We once again were impersonating pro bono appeals lawyers. Mexico wanted her back, the cartel wanted her dead, Arizona wanted to deport her, but since Mexico wanted to impose capital punishment the deportation order was presently blocked. Brenda was well aware that it was only a matter of time before somebody got to her or she got deported back to Mexico. As Joan before her she readily accepted our offer and died, only to be reborn.

Doris was next, she was a petite little thing, four foot five or seven in her stocking feet without her Prada’s, and yes she would fight you for those inches. Maybe she weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet after a full meal, she had natural long platinum blond hair, Robin egg blue eyes, no hips to speak of, but nice buns as the English say, a flat stomach and two of the perkiest little self supporting ice cream cones for tits I had ever laid eyes on, with the longest pointest nipples and largest aureoles for their size I’ve ever seen too. She also loves to be tied up and tickled with an Ostrich feather which she insists on carrying around in this God awful giant Gucci handbag she calls a purse. She reminded me of this little Bantam Rooster I had when I was a child, small but full of energy and ready to put the spurs to anybody that crossed her. She was in prison in New York for poisoning her boyfriend and her best girlfriend when she learned they were fixing to steal her share of the money from the robbery and tip off the cops about her. She was an absolute wizard with locks and alarm systems.

Last but not least was Freta, my Unconquerable Viking Warrior Queen, that all three girls chose for me. In fact they insisted I had to take her. Six three, maybe six four actually, a rippling mountain of muscle described her. Not an ounce of fat anywhere on her toned and tuned body, her work of art. Her mass of dirty golden blond hair done up in these two long golden braids on each side of her head, held down by a golden elastic sweat band. Her looking regally out at the world from a beautiful pair of golden brown eyes, with a pair of twenty pound barbells in each large, but clearly feminine hands, sweat gleaming on her statuesque body which was on full display, in nothing but a tight halter top, body hugging short shorts, and one of those six inch wide black leather weight lifter belts clinched tightly around her extremely narrow waist. The only thing missing from the picture was that huge broadsword strapped to her back and maybe one of those horned brass helmets you see in all the Viking movies. Being a fan of Conan and Red Sonya I had to have her the minute I actually saw her. I had originally balked at recruiting her because, I’ll freely admit it, her file and attached photo intimidated me. She could probably easily tie me into a pretzel any time she wanted to, but I had to have her once I actually saw her this way. She turned out to be an extremely gentle lover. It was like she was subconsciously afraid she would break one of us when we made love.

“Oh admit it Master you’ve enjoyed it all.” Joan interjected directly into my mind with her other three coconspirators backing her up.

“Well your right, but I don’t have to admit it.” I think back on our not too private honeymoons on base. After all there are several hundred of us now transmitting on what is supposedly our private encrypted links, but there is always a little bleed over in our supposed private links. All of us get feelings, which are much more than mere feelings from the other Units. General feelings will not describe them. I guess you would have to say they nagged at you. Good or bad feelings, hungry, thirsty, comfortable, irritated, horny, like I was saying general feelings don’t do them justice. With my Unit it’s almost like what some of the old time science fiction writers used to described as telepathy. With the other teams it’s just a steady confirmed empathy. There’s no hiding their true feelings from any of us.

I guess you would have to say that we, the Unit that is, has an acute situational awareness sense. We are always aware of where each and everyone of us is at all times. We also know what each of us is doing, and yes when we play cards we know what each is holding, which takes all the fun out of gambling. We have also found that our UHF band of ESP can be jammed in a number of ways by anyone that becomes aware of it, and sometimes by pure random chance alone. That’s a problem in and of itself for us to address. I mean think about it, anyone paranoid enough to be monitoring the radio traffic around them with a frequency scanner, is going to recognize our communication for what it is. It’s not random so it’s probably man made and that makes it communication of some kind. The next step is to identify where it is coming from and jam it.

That leads to the possibility of someone actively jamming us. Jamming that can actually give any of us anything from a mild headache to actually causing any of us to pass out when hit directly with a high intensity concentrated burst of directed UHF energy we’re not prepared for. Now that we have become aware of these limitations we are working on fixes, or at least workarounds for the different problems. The other Masters might get that on and off switch they wanted after all. We might even have to go back to the patch cords only, our high tech equivalent of two cans on each end of a string. Well a very long, very high tech, almost unbreakable, very thin fiber optic bundle string anyway.

As a side note it has been discovered that all this dabbling around up there in that gray mess of pudding we call a brain has in some way stimulated the pituitary gland and hypothalamus and we don’t appear to be aging any more. No that’s not quite right, it’s more like our biological clocks have reset. It appears that we, all of us, have been set back to late adolescence. Well thank God it’s late adolescence anyway, no more zits anyway, but horny as Hell. Who knows we may actually live to see the turn of the next century at this rate.

We are now an integrated team, ready for an actual assignment.

This completes my log for this the 23rd day of June, 1973.

Things Change

Some things change in spite of how we want them to stay the same. I’m an Assassin, no that’s not quite right we are Assassins. I’m a member of the Organization of Assassins. Better yet, I’m one of five of my Unit or team. I’m Terrace Leon Simmons better known as Just Terry. I’ve had so many names since 1876 that I sometimes find it hard to remember my actual birth name. Sometimes I clearly don’t want to. Sometimes I feel like an onion, one day somebody is going to start peeling and there will not be anything left of me. Some of my covers are more real to me now than my actual past is sometimes.

Organization of Assassins sounds pretty pretentious doesn’t it, even hints at megalomania some might say. We were started in 1870 by then President Ulysses Grant after the bloody and divisive Civil War to take care of some loose ends. A White Russian Mystic from deep within the Caucasian Mountains region of Russia set us up. He had studied many religious cults, secret societies and assassin cults, including the Ninji of Japan, Hashshashin of Persia, Thuggee of India, and even the Tong of China. The Thuggee were the exception to the rule as they served Mother Kali. It turned out that he had intentionally sought us out as a test of his new training techniques. According to him the failure of the Hashshashin and other secret societies was their refusal to fully accept women into their organization. Their fanatical religious belief that women were somehow made inferior to men by God and unclean lead to their ultimate downfall.

His title while working for us was Sensei or Teacher, “the one who comes before to teach”, this also describes his project with us. According to him, his name, well his title anyway was derived from these two chicken scratch Oriental Eastern Mystic symbol things. Oriental characters whose meanings changed over time and between Asian cultures. You know those things your always seeing on that pack of firecrackers you bought, or are seeing now on full display on some hot chick’s ass. The characters themselves may be in dispute as to their true origins, but their meaning is pretty much agreed upon now as “comes before”, one who teaches based on what his age and experience has taught him.

He believed that young girls, well young adaptable adolescent women anyway, were far stronger that men in most of the things that really matter to an assassin today. True most women will never have the upper body strength of the average man, but then who needs to swing a broadsword, or stomp around in a ton of steel plate armor today anyway. Sensei saw this as an opportunity to test out these theories he had developed and sought out President Grant after he was approached by one of Grant’s Aids to teach his skills as a mercenary Ninji to a group of men Grant was forming.

Sensei, I’m told, just loved to tell his parable about the Scorpion and the Frog any time he got the opportunity. “See there was this Scorpion that met this Frog on the shore of a wide river. The Scorpion wanted to cross to the other side of the river, but he couldn’t swim. So he talked the Frog into taking him across the river on his back. Well the Frog said he was afraid that the Scorpion would sting and kill him, so the Scorpion pointed out that would kill him too, and he didn’t want to die. So the Frog finally agreed and they started across the river with the Scorpion on his back. Halfway across the Scorpion stings the Frog and as the Frog is dying, and the Scorpion is drowning too, the Frog laments that he has killed them both. Dying he asks the Scorpion why? To this the Scorpion answers, “It’s just my nature”.” Get it, it’s just his nature, ha, ha. Well Sensei said that summed up everything in life he taught and did. Knowing something’s true nature is everything.

The first early recorded societies were based around knowledge, woman oriented and worshipped the Moon Goddess. They were woman controlled Matriarchies. So he reasoned he would establish cells in his new Organization of Assassins based loosely on those early Matriarchies. Four women around one man. The man would run the cell, he would be the face presented to the public, but the women would own the man lock stock and barrel. They would also be the sharp edge of the weapon. Yes, he might be Master, but they were certainly not going to be any meek little sex slaves, or they certainly didn’t think they were anyway?

It was Sensei’s belief that men are not naturally monogamous. That a man can never be totally loyal to just one woman. That all male mammals, men included, naturally have an undeniable urge, or inbuilt instinct, to take, hold, capture and impregnate any and all available females and then move on to the next available female. True human females may not be governed solely by her hormones today, or experience estrus, better known as heat, like the females of all the other mammalian species still do. No they don’t periodically go into estrus, better known as heat, demanding sex from the males around them anymore. In fact human females no longer produced the pheromones or hormones necessary to demand that men mate with them now.

Of course there is also evidence that men have developed immunity too those same pheromones or hormones now too. Like the Scorpion though, the instinctive drive to dominate females remains. “It is just his nature”. It’s in his genes. It’s also in his genes to drive off any competing males from the females he dominates, his herd or harem. That in theory explains why certain males of the human species and lower animal kingdom males both sometimes kill their own offspring.

Women on the other hand want a strong, loyal, stable mate to guard and provide for them while they have and raise the offspring. They want what they perceive as the best provider. Once again it’s instinctual, “it is just their nature”. It’s just built into their genes stupid. Any time you want to say women are the weaker sex think of child birth itself, and the pain they endure to bring forth new life into the world.

Women, unlike men, can and do form monogamous relationships if the proper conditions are met. Yes, deep passionate, unbreakable ties are forged for life to just one man, and especially after Sensei is done with them. By the end of their treatment they would all be deeply, madly, passionately in love with the fifth member of their Unit. The lowest member of the Unit he was part of. Yes, he would be the Master of all their minds, and bodies. The owner of their very sole, if one believed in such nebulous things as the immortal sole, but with ownership comes responsibility. In the end it was debatable who owned who.

After Sensei’s full course of fasting, drugs, sensory depravation, and finally hypnosis, all the young women and so called Master would soon realize that they were all bound together as an unbreakable Unit, now and forever more.

2017 Assignments

Everybody has this mistaken ideal that the perfect murder is hard to pull off, but it’s not. Ask any insurance company and they will tell you of hundreds that they have had to pay off on. I repeat, that’s just the ones they had to pay off on, ha, ha. Means, motive and opportunity, the big three MOM, without them very few murders are ever solved, and that’s only the ones we know are homicides. Throw in deaths from highway accidents. Deaths from misadventure, say a drug interaction. Accidents in the home, like a fall down a flight of stairs, and there is no telling how many perfect murders are committed each year. You also have to throw in the fact that even murder has a statue of limitation. Even an expiration date, ha, ha.

We are assassins not Murder Incorporated. We are sent to deliver a message, a clear and precise message to somebody. Nobody relies on a lone sniper to do any serious assignation though the names like William Tell, Hawk Eye, Annie Okely and others are always brought to mind as sharpshooters that never missed their mark.

Take JFK’s assignation for instance. It is probably the most famous and well known assignation by a sniper in history. No Marine would even seriously consider trying to actually shoot anybody with a rifle that hadn’t even been properly cleaned. Talk about muscle memory, it’s drilled into every Marine, he eats, sleeps and damn well dreams of that damn rifle for months in boot camp alone. If Oswald had been an Army doggy nobody would have thought anything about it, but a Marine, give me a break. It was always our speculation that the Secret Service Agent who jumped in the back seat of the car with Jackie issued the coup de grace shot that actually killed John, if it wasn’t him it was the doctor at the hospital that was the back up. The only thing we were certain about was it wasn’t a bullet from that rifle that killed John.

Of course the Continental style of assignation on the other hand, which includes Russia, is to use enough high explosive to take out the entire city block indiscriminately. Sometimes it is hard to even figure out afterward who the actual target was. Not enough of the bodies is left for a positive identification, which caused problems.

If the Government, or Organized Crime which is really the same thing, wants you dead they just have this dumb Smoe who’s into the banks and the loan sharks for a bundle of money to run over your ass in the crosswalk today. No fuss no bother, just good old fashion dead. Most of the time there isn’t even an investigation since our Smoe doesn’t try to flee the scene of the accident, and there is no drugs or alcohol involved.

When you read in the news or see it on the tele about these former foreign spies or Mafia informers that defected to us years ago, and were under our protection at the time, being assassinated after all these years your really seeing a well choreographed play. What you need to remember is there is nothing more worthless to the System itself than yesterdays news or last years defector. The country or agency that has them has pumped them dry of any useful information that they ever had, and they have no worth anymore to the people holding them. Their only value now is to ‘wave the flag’, advertising that we have them and you don’t. They have become a drag on the market so to speak and the accountants want to get rid of them because they are costing them money, and they can publicly denounce the killing.

Their very spectacular death, or dramatic near death, at the hands of the Mean Old Enemy is the only thing left that they have to contribute. It’s a natural two-for-the-price-of-one thing. First they save all that money which makes all those Senate Oversight Committees happy, and two you embarrass the Enemy again with the fact that he defected to you in the first place, ha, ha. You have effectively tied up all those loose ends. Talk about making maximum use of your resources. Especially when you, well your Unit anyway, poisoned him with the sample of the rare poison he originally smuggled out of West Germany when he originally defected. That rare poison that is supposedly only available to the Russian’s according to all the major news sources now reporting on his death.

Today that is what the world of assassins has come down to. Arranging an embarrassment to the Russians. Arranging the suicide drug overdose of the roommate of the President’s mistress whose trying to sell her story to the Sun. Well that’s not all we do and by the way I’m the oldest original member of The Club.

Today 2018.

In 1990 a major chunk of a dead sun was discovered to be hurtling toward, NO not our planet, our Sun. There was even reason to believe that our own Sun’s gravitational pull was effecting this collapsed piece of a destroyed sun. It was even reasoned that they were somehow locked onto each other. A Summit of all the major industrialized nations of Earth was called and it was agreed that this fact would be kept secret from the general public. At that time every scientist that was consulted agreed that there was no force known to man that could stop or alter the course of Object 0. That was what they named the object.

Object 0 was going to enter our solar system and at best tear our Sun out of orbit, if not outright destroy it. At that time the Summit agreed to establish Project Life Boat Earth. All the nations agreed to contribute and fund the project. In 1996 the first installment to that fund was made. That was the Great Wall Street Collapse of 1995. Everybody across the board lost trillions of dollars. No single nation, group, or person was singled out at that time, it was everybody equally. Interest paid on savings went from a conservative six percent to a high of twelve percent to as low as zero percent almost overnight. On the other hand Usury Laws were repealed and credit card rates and loans rates jumped up to over twenty per cent overnight. Really there was no limit set on interest rates that could be charged.

To pacify the general population whole new classes of recreational drugs were created and systematically distributed to the masses by quack doctors as necessary. Whole new classes of distractions were created to entertain the masses. Everyday a new asteroid was found, and everyday the masses there told that there was no cause for alarm. Everyday a little more money was drained off the stock market. Nobody questioned where the losses went. Major news figures rose and fell overnight because of the slip of the tongue, or a perceived slight to somebody. Causes rose and fell to be swept away by other causes that nobody even remembered the next day.

Me and the OA, as we had come to be known, had come into our own. Us, the Russians, and our counterparts in the other nations were given the task of keeping the truth from the people. After all they couldn’t handle the truth, we were all going to die. I like to think that Tricky Dick would have been really proud of us. Several of the scientist on Life Boat broke down and spilled their guts. Several of the heads of state broke down too. Quite a few were even believed, but nobody was willing to put his life and career on the line to expose the truth. By 2017 nobody actually wanted to know the truth, you couldn’t force them to even imagine the truth. Bad things happened to people that wanted to talk about where the money was going. After all nothing would actually be visible from Earth until 2044.

Project Life Boat was a survival station under the North Pole. Mini Atomic reactors had been used to create giant melted out caverns and cities under the ice. Caverns lined and reinforced with a combination of sawdust and poly foam plastic spray. Each nation had it’s representee group of families there. They would survive as best they could, as long as they could. There was always the chance that they would survive if anybody did. There was even a high degree of probability that Object 0 would pass through the entire solar system without actually hitting anything, just disrupting everything in orbit around the Sun. There was no going to the Moon or Mars to avoid what was coming. They would be effected too.

No there would not be any Great Human Effort to build spaceships to leave Earth and escape the coming doom. All the world leaders, or I should say those that were left, agreed that the general population would panic and run wild in the streets if told. They reasoned it was better just to entertain the masses until the end and then take shelter from both the disaster and the masses.

We all had our jobs well in hand when we discovered we were being watched. I would like to say it was us who discovered them but it wasn’t it was the King and the Saudi’s Royal Guard that spotted them. Yes, them.

The Saudi’s at great expense had gone ahead and launched a deep space probe of their very own. A probe that had passed the Moon and looking back at the Moon they had spotted a large ocean going vessel suddenly appear on their monitor screen. Momentarily there was even a radar return, then it disappeared again.

The scientists all wanted to chalk it up to a mass hallucination, or illusion like ice crystals on the camera lens, but the King didn’t. After all it had been his Royal Majesty that directed them to turn the camera around in the first place, and Phrase be to Allah, he had seen what he had seen, “damn it all my good fellow I know what I saw”. So the captured video was analyzed and the ship identified as a USN Hope Class Hospital Ship though the name was not on any roll.

The King then ordered the probe stopped and turned around. Once again the project managers and scientists tried to argue with the King. The ship was gone let’s proceed with the mission they argued. In America, a democracy, it would have probably proceeded, but this was the King and here his word was law in his kingdom. After coolly explaining that he would have them all shot if they didn’t comply, the probe was soon heading back to the Moon. When it reached it’s original position it was halted and they waited, and waited, and waited. All the time the project managers and the scientist pushing to continue the great mission, and complaining about the cost and delay. The King steadfastly refusing to bulge. Allah himself had directed the King he proclaimed, AND finally on the seventh day the Hope Ship reappeared. Only it was another Hope Ship this time.