Marshall's Story: the Beginnings of the Inner Circle: Book One of the Island Experiment Series

By Journeyman Angel

The Island Experiment series:
Book One: Marshalls Story. Marshall is a man who found his lost soul and so much more.
Book Two: Dinas Story: Dina is a woman who found a way to her own heart.
Book Three: Krystals Story: Krystal is an adult child, who found the courage to act alone.
Book Four: Angels Story: Angel is an adolescent child, cult survivor; who found her freedom.
Book Five: Rosas Story: Rosa is a survivor of a religious cult who found a heavenly connection.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491834961

Book preview

Chapter One

Mister Black

I am writing this story from memory. My story may never be read by anyone. I might be writing my story just to get it out of my mind. It could be I am writing these words to clarify my understanding of my life, in my mind. I think I was born without a soul, and then I think I grew one. My story seems to be something like that, or maybe; something else happened to me that I still do not understand. This part of the larger story is told through my eyes. The intense feelings in my story, makes it difficult to write objectively. I am also finding it hard to write in a sequential timeline. So have patience, try to follow my narrative as best you can.

I am the Spook in the Machine. I am a Serpent. I am a servant and a tool of the world’s Elite. You may have heard about the Elite [as I will now call them], by other names, The Illuminati, for example. Any labels merely hint at the power and control this small group has over the world’s fate and finances. None of those groups are actually the Elite. In the beginning, I was a servant of the Elite, but became something much more. I am what some would call Black Ops in a military sense. In espionage, I would be called a spook. Not a ghost in the machine, more like the monster hiding under your bed and in your night terrors, but only if you are a predator that preys on the innocent. Otherwise, I am the unseen force that keeps the predators away from your door. There is much that goes on in the world that the average citizen will never know. Those things involve people like me. We are people who live next door to you, and seem normal enough, for appearance sake. But we do not punch a time clock or work a fixed shift schedule. Most of us remain single so as to not put others at risk. We have information in our heads that foreign spy agencies would pay a large fortune to extract. Those like me work for a group of people who do not exist and do not answer to any sovereign power or government. Actually, I do not exist either as far as a paper trail goes that normal humans accumulate through the years. No social security number or anything like that. Our passport is stealth. Our retirement is in coded bank accounts that few of us live to collect. We work for the Elite. They are the most powerful group that does not even exist, at least not in your world. There is no way of knowing how long the world’s Elite have existed. They have no official history, no paper trail, and no official existence. But they are ancient in internal remembering. Those of us who are recruited to do their dirty field work are given a skeletal brief on their existence timeline. The real proof of their existence is in what they can do. The island experiment in this story is only one example of their limitless power and resources. I have never met them. Not in the very beginning of my story. But I get ahead of myself.

Let me introduce myself, and offer my personal profile. Call me Mister Black. This is not the color of my skin, but of my lost soul. On one particular day, I was in a maximum security prison serving multiple life terms for serial murder. In some States, I would have been executed, and this story could not be told. Some would say I am evil, others would say I am a criminal sociopath. The truth is I enjoyed the extreme control of life and death I held over my subjects. [Okay, victims if you must say so]. Well, I did get caught eventually. I was sent to prison. In that environment, I adapted as well as I could to that change of venue. Some might say I adapted too well. I was able to continue my hobby while in prison by acting as judge, jury, and executioner in certain cases, such as those accused of crimes against children or the elderly. Well, accidents DO happen, but I digress. I can get back to my prison story later. I prefer to focus for now, on my second prison. That second prison is the place where this story began. It was a place which is hazy in memory, because I think I was in a constant drugged condition. Or maybe not drugged, but struggling to adapt to the rapid changes. I woke up one day in another place that was not the small cell of my daily confinement. I just assumed I was now beginning nightly injections for a new experimental medication which was supposed to excite my pre-cortex and let me grow a conscience. [I was told I was a sociopath because I had a diminished pre-cortex. It was my assumption that I was born without a soul]. The first room I woke up in at the second prison was a very strange place, which could be described as similar to the stories told by so called alien abductees. The room looked like any hospital operating room. I was strapped down and stayed that way for uncountable days and nights. Sometimes I would be moved to other rooms where tests were run, like brain scans and such, as far as my foggy memory will allow me to conjecture. No one ever spoke a word to me directly. The White Coats always talked at me or about me to others. I was beginning to feel through the numbness of the medication like a lab rat, poked and prodded. Being beamed up to a mother ship would not have surprised me. I think the time line was only a few days though. I was given little to eat or drink and numerous injections. Strapped down to a table similar to the one used for lethal injections, I imagined that I was on an accelerated program to test the medication to grow my pre-cortex. I thought I was still at the prison complex, in some secret lab. Of course, none of the technicians in their hazardous materials outfits would answer any of my questions. I WAS a lab rat, at least to them. I would not find out until later that this room was an intake and processing room. By the time all the tests were run, they knew more about me than I knew about myself, which was never a whole lot to begin with. My only interest in life was as a predator of other humans. Now I was the prey. In hindsight, I can see that the minimal food and drink was intended to gain maximum effect from whatever they were injecting in me. Over the passage of time, I was recreated into the self they required, as a healthy physical specimen only. My becoming Mister Black only began there. In all other ways, I did not yet exist. In those first few days, not all traces of my former self could be overwritten. You can only rewire so much of the human nervous system from the outside. The abyss or black hole that is the absence of my human soul, they could not touch with their vitamins and probing instruments. That would come later.

Okay. I am ready to write about my first prison experience. I was formerly in prison for serial murder. At my criminal trial, I was described by the prosecution as an evil entity without a conscience. Of course, my lawyers said I was a victim of my childhood and of an uncaring society. I am not sure I personally buy into all that psychobabble stuff. Not even now after I have educated myself on most of the theories they used while I was in prison to rehabilitate me. In introspective review of my life, I can maybe apply some of it. It could be that things did happen to me that set my life on its particular path. I am now aware of the nature and nurture debate. Who can say for sure, what specific role genetics and early environment play in the making of a sociopath? I do not really remember making a conscious choice to be a serial killer sociopath. It is not like I made that my first choice on Career Day in high school. We see you have selected sociopath serial killer as your career choice. You will take wood shop and auto shop of course, to training you hand eye coordination and to pick up other necessary skills. Since you did not select cannibal" as well, you can skip Home Economics. You will not need those cooking skills. I have read about nurture and early childhood development. So critical, they say. If one hundred thousand children suffer similar abusive childhoods, why do only a mere handful, end up like me? Though I cannot discount my childhood trauma as contributing to my career path, it might not be the main reason I became what I was. What about those who somewhat successfully lead their lives of quiet desperation without ever crossing the lines I have crossed? What redeems, or at minimum, restrains them? There are the case files of children from seemingly safe and functional homes that become like me or worse. There are clues to my creation as a serial killer in my childhood, but they cannot be listed as causation in exclusion of other data. Perhaps the germ of evil that slowly grew within me was because my mother was a product of incest. She spent a lifetime praying to a god she did not really believe in, asking for forgiveness for a sin she was the result of, but did not commit. She preached love but practiced self-loathing. The deep hypocrisy and division between what she said and what she did may have played a large role in my internal emptiness. My mother lived a life like someone who had signed a martyr contract. She willingly waded into her existential pigsty and willfully locked the gate and threw away the key. She lived in the shadows of life, a shade of gray, non-life. Some would say that my kills were proxy killings of my mother. But why kill what is already dead inside? Maybe my ability to feel was not nonexistent, but undeveloped, and latent. My killing might have been not proxy, but substitution. I think my biological father was a part of her self-induced life sentence. My parents had a dysfunctional functionality in their cohabitation. Looking back, I can see that they were never married in the true sense of the word. Just two lost souls living together, feeding each other’s sick needs. I never did find out what my biological father did to earn money. He was either drunk or working, nothing else. My biological father was a ghost in my machine. He never even acknowledged my existence, with so much as hello. Negative attention, even brutality would have been preferred to the nihilism of his non-acknowledgment of my existence. I look back and see my biological parent’s lives as one of subtle dominance and submission. He was thrust into dominance by default. Quiet and withdrawn, except when mother provoked him into punishing her with physical violence. At least she received the negative attention I so craved, and always behind closed doors. But the bruises she wore like purple hearts were not hidden in shame. And there was another payoff for her; after the brutality; the bribes. Of course, he bought off his own conscience with cheap gifts, which she never asked for, and never appreciated. They lived in their self-created microcosm of despair, and I found my own way to survive it. Being an only child, with not even a dog or cat to trickle down my anger upon, I became an amateur arsonist. And I was too clever to ever get caught. I learned to love the power and control that fire gave me. I could experience control and chaos at the same time. I was in control of creating the chaos. As I grew older and more mobile, my hobby was focused on venues as far removed from my domicile as possible. Eventually, I acquired an extensive knowledge base of how to commit arson while making it look like an accident. I began my arson hobby once a month at first, then more often as the addiction grew within me. It is possible that some people may have suspected that I was the arsonist; no one cared enough to care. No one confronted my family in an intervention type of confrontation. Most of the fires I set were in alleys and public dumpsters anyway. Alleys that I roamed at will. Free of the child predators that came out of the sewers in later times. The street people ignored me. I did not bother them. I was a free spirit child, bound only to my obsessions and compulsions to create excitement through fire setting. I was the archetype of the social bottom feeder. My graduation to murder began as an idea at first. Fire setting was becoming too much of a routine. Too easy in an impersonal city that just did not care. At a very young age, I noticed that the beat cops never ventured down the unlit alleys. And if called to investigate one of my projects, they did not even seem to notice the small disheveled child playing with whatever he found in the garbage as his only toys. Being small, I was not above suspicion, I was below it. There was no such thing as criminal profilers of small children in those days. Eventually, the thrill of arson wore off and I felt the urge to move on to bigger and better things. Animal cruelty seemed the next step up. Strangling strays like me, but with four legs not two, there were an abundance of subjects to practice on. My part of the city had many hungry dogs and cats, willing to drop their guard for a morsel of food. Not unlike the hookers I graduated to in my later years. Feed them. Gain their trust; put a rope around the neck. Watch their eyes lose all signs of life. Then bury them in a dumpster without ceremony. I think I just wanted an audience. Arson is a very lonely business. Perhaps I was beginning to be aware of the hole where my human soul was not. My wayward life started with an idea, a fantasy, and an exercise in imagination. I would go through the motions of high school involvement and spend time looking at the other students and imagining my rope around their necks. Even in school I was like a shadow no one noticed. The school bullies did not pick on me. The school teachers did not call on me. I did not fall through the cracks in the system. I jumped in. I was never the class clown acting out to draw attention to myself. I kept to myself, living a gray life in a beige world. In my self-imposed social isolation, I gave in to a gradual succumbing to an inability to empathize. MY life was all about me and no one else. I AM a product of my culture, I just used nontraditional methods to get my needs met. As I mentioned, my first projects were animal experiments. Got to start somewhere, I started with stray dogs and cats. Unloved and unmissed. This foreshadowed my first human victims, which were prostitutes. I realized that four legged subjects were not interactive enough. That was when I graduated to humans, with no one to report them as missing. I sometimes wanted subjects who would fight back, that added to the thrill, the danger. My last subject was an unfortunate choice. She was actually a he, dressed in drag, undercover as a prostitute. Yeah. I got busted by a cop I tried to kill. So, off to prison I went and began my career as pest control in that environment. That brings us back to the genesis of my beginning as a spook in the machine. But I wish to mention just one thing about myself. I was a closet reading prodigy. No one ever knew or maybe, just did not care. From the time I first learned to read, I spent every spare minute in the school library, and later graduated to the public library. I did my reading always in the library, never trying to check books out. Devouring reading material like it was my primary source of nourishment; I developed a memory for what I read, and the ability to make connections across topics. No one ever benefited from my life as a walking encyclopedia I could read assigned pages and then take any test without studying. This is how I made it through the public education machine. I graduated with a B average, and left the public school system unnoticed. They might as well have put a big question mark in the yearbook where my picture was supposed to be. No Picture, no parents who cared enough to take me to school on Picture Day. I was just a gray ghost in the educational machine. Now, let it be understood that I am not using my childhood to justify my life in any way. That would come later, at my criminal trial, courtesy of the public defender, pro bono lawyers. I just sat at the defendant’s table as if the whole thing was not about me. I saw myself as just a powerless pawn in a sad game between the prosecutor and the free lawyer. My criminal trial was to me, a going through the motions that led to the inevitable. The trail was just a playing out of my rightful due process, my day in court. Done deal before it even began. I pled no contest and refused a plea bargain. I just did not care. One prison is as good as the next. The one inside me was the one I held no hope of ever escaping. Where they parked my carcass was of no concern to me at that time. I saw myself as dead man walking, for life. And life without any possibility of parole was my only future. So be it. I adapted to prison life like I was born to it. The solitude of the yard was filled with daily exercise via weight lifting. I filled out and became very muscular. No one messed with me. Other serial killers would from time to time, try and befriend me, but I held them at arm’s length. I just did not revel in my killing enough to share stories with them. So, my reputation in the prison was built on others filling in the gaps. I became a composite of all the famous ones. I did confess to not being a Hannibal Lechter, or Jeffery Dahmer cannibal type, so they left that out of my story. And no spin that labeled me a John Gacy type either. Eventually, I falsely became known as a hater of pedophiles and such. This led to my then new hobby of terminating such types. It seems that even the prison guards did not care if I killed an occasional pedophile or wife beater. That gave them one less loser to baby sit. It even got to the point where victims were handpicked for me. I would be assigned to clean up the showers, and in would walk my next victim, assigned to assist me. A literal clean kill, left for dead in the showers after my cleaning was finished. The other small thing worth mentioning is the prison library. Once again, I spent all my spare time devouring what I could find to read. I was Tin Man, all head and no heart, with no hope of going to see the wizard. I lived two life sentences; one in the physical confines of the state penitentiary, the other, a prisoner in my own mind. With no awareness within me of any better alternatives, I settled into a life of waiting my turn to grow old and become someone else’s victim, in the survival of the fittest scheme of things. Life seemed good because I knew no better. That would one day change, and change in a big way. But I get ahead on my story. There are always worlds outside of the microcosm of our inner private universe; other towns or cities, other countries. I was content to explore such things in my reading adventures, but they all seemed like fiction to me. Asia and Europe were no more real to me then dragons and faeries. Or just as unreal. A prison is a prison is a prison. Four walls are four walls to a career criminal. It’s all good, or all bad, depending on individual perception. Adapt or die. No other choices available. My relocation to what in the beginning, felt like just another prison was made easier by my ability to hyper adapt. I did not spend a lot of time bemoaning my fate, whatever it may be at the time. Just roll with it, survive. When I was relocated to the Stage One Indoctrination Process location, it might have perplexed my observers that I adapted so well to my new surroundings. Again, I know not how many days I spent in physical rehab. Probably not many, in that I was in good shape to begin with, on the outside. Of course, State Prison is not the most hygienic place. Then there was those brain scan and other tests. Wonder what their reaction was when they were unable to locate a human soul. Maybe there is no test for that yet. At the end of my guinea pig days, I was well rested. That’s a plus. Forward and back; see through hindsight and use retrospective inevitability. Take it step by step. Keep it simple. Okay. From prison to prison, a good place to go next.

Chapter Two

Prison Upgrade

Looking back; in the extensive indoctrination that I was given as deep background for my new persona, my handlers fed me the following data on my new creators. Of course, when building a façade, whether for a building, a person, or a group; the builder selects the final look. This becomes more of a challenge when that look is one of invisibility. The possibility of someone going rogue is always there. This is how the conspiracy nutcases acquired most of their misinformation. Myths and legends are misinformation with a core of truth, wrapped in speculation. Like the rumor that circulates, and changes slightly with each new telling, the Elite back story is ever evolving. The information I have is like a jigsaw puzzle. Bits and pieces patched together from various sources. Some