Pathogenesis ULTRA

By Boris D. Schleinkofer

Life’s an operating theater of tragedy; why not choose your own program? Well, now you can!
An illustrated MKULTRA-themed 'Choose Your Own Misadventure' storybook novel, for Adults
Monarch butterflies are known for their unique intergenerational migratory habits, where they can fly long distances and pass down their migration patterns through generations. This has been suggested to be an example of epigenetic transmission, where certain traits and experiences can be passed down to future generations without changes to the DNA sequence.
Intergenerational trauma is the theory that trauma can be inherited because of epigenetic changes in a person's DNA. Trauma can leave a chemical mark on a person's genes, which can then be passed down to future generations. Trauma-based programming is often used in cults, abusive relationships, and by intelligence agencies for espionage and covert operations. The basic idea is to use extreme stress, pain, and fear to create a dissociative state in the victim's mind, which allows the programmer to implant new beliefs, thoughts, and behaviors. The trauma can be physical, emotional, or sexual, and is often inflicted repeatedly over a long period of time.
This book follows three successive generations of mind-control victims, as corrupt government agents study the cumulative effects of epigenetically-transferred trauma-based programming. With each decision, you'll unravel the secrets of this twisted world and uncover the true nature of the Monarch program. Will you make the right choices and survive the onslaught of deadly misadventures, or will you succumb to the debilitating effects of the programming? You'll probably die more than a few times, but death will be the least of your worries.
Just don't say we didn't warn you.
Extensively hyperlinked. Illustrated with a gallery of Extremely CursedTM images.
NOT FOR CHILDREN.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boris D. Schleinkofer
• Release date: Mar 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215692295

Boris D. Schleinkofer

He is a fictional character in the Horror-Play “The Greatest Practical Joke Ever”, by Shaytan Komp’ü’tor. He has never made love to a beautiful woman, never wallowed in fresh kill, never found a briefcase full of hundred-dollar bills. In fact, he doesn't even exist at all. So there...And another:Boris D. Schleinkofer is a slave, just like you and everybody else. He lives near the monolith of Baal. His number is 5x2-00x1-11. He is a good citizen.

Book preview

000

The secret history of the world is ten thousand years of child abuse.

—Some guy on late-night talk radio, circa 2021-2022?

You were supposed to be a scientist.

You are a research scientist first, goddamnit, and director of the San Angeles University Hospital psych ward second. Your primary responsibility is the discovery of human healing systems and the means by which to improve the human condition. You never wanted to be anything like this....this....this whatever-it-is that you've become.

You've become a monster, a villain, a fiend, the evil wizard from the fables you heard as a youth. But it wasn't your fault.

Your labs are sterile. Your home is sterile. Your relationships, the ones you have left, are sterile. You accept this as the cost of progress, but you are also exceedingly lonely. The price is one you can bear, however, as it is the way things should be: you were born alone and you will die alone, and those who would tell you otherwise are weak and live in the delusions born of their weakness. You know this. In sterility can be found strength.

Your office is on the top floor of the four-story Administration building on the west end of campus. It is away from the main body of the University and has a view of the nearby lake. While you're in your office, you can almost feel at a remove from it all, from the institution and its staff and the student body and all the petty bureaucrats who try to get in your way and hinder your work with their damned regulations and licenses and permissions and roadblocks....

From up here, you feel almost like the god you're supposed to be.

This morning you had another visit from General Van Flanders, an unpleasant surprise but one which you'd been expecting. He delivered the news you were hoping for in his usual gruff manner, telling you that your department was in no danger from the closures and that your funding was still secure for the next six years. Other departments were shutting down left and right and entire divisions of the University closing overnight, but your project had retained its clearance under the strictest measures of national security.

You were supposed to have been a man of science. Instead, you'd become a god of war.

And you not-so-secretly liked it. There was no way a normal man could have the constitution for the type of work you did, the very necessary work, vital for the war-effort. You were indispensable, and you had a special enjoyment for what your terrible labors demanded. Another man wouldn't have been able to stomach what the studies required, and only you were able to fulfill those requirements. They feared you, and rightly so. You were a monster by society's standards, and yet it was this same society that demanded it of you for their safety and the continuance of the American way in the face of the Communist threat.

It was the Soviets who made you do it. They marched out their Mindszenty-puppet and the man begged for the death-sentence as he'd been hypno-scripted to do, and Pandora's box was suddenly and irrevocably emptied out upon the world. Once we knew they could do it, how could we not learn to do it ourselves, and better?

How the military men knew already about your special....predilections....was still a bit of a mystery to you. Your profile matched their requirements and so you chose to serve the government rather than serve the prison-sentence. It wasn't much of a choice, examined plainly like that. It was nothing you could pin on the Russians, at any rate. That one was all you.

Now your thoughts are a dark cloud around your head, tingeing everything you can see with the threat of lightning—you have to get out of the office before this storm breaks. The phase one Numtrol-authorizations can wait, they'll still be there tomorrow. Or even later tonight, if it comes to that. You've been known to go into the office late, after hours, to catch up on work or more likely to get away from your wife. You can't stand her anymore, haven't been able to for years. You find her company....loathsome, and it's made you hateful. There's so much to be hateful about. At least your department isn't in danger of closure. The darkness threatens to consume everything.

Van Flanders made his announcement like he was doing you a favor, like he expected to be shown gratitude that you were to be allowed to continue your horrible labors. You know that what you do with children is damaging to their psyches—you cannot hide this fact from yourself no matter how you may rationalize or deflect—but what they want you to accomplish would be damaging on an infinitely-grander scale.

It's not a viewpoint you should entertain. Your position here is tenuous at best as it already is. You're going to have to swallow it down and take it.

Your darkness now complete and overwhelming, you know you're not going to be able to get anything done for the rest of the day. Four-thirty, hmmm.... No one would miss you if you left a half-hour early. Your assistants can take care of themselves, they're not running studies today and the hospital Director himself left early too, so...

You have one of the few parking spaces near the front door. Your authority is not without its minor compensations. You pass by Horvath from Pediatrics on your way through the lobby but he doesn't say anything to you and watches you leave with a wistful look in his eye—again, the privilege of authority. The same thing happens with Dewitt from Security. If only they knew the cost your authority demanded, they would not be so resentful. They would probably pity you. You are a pitiable man, and pray that no one will ever find out just how much so. It is not to 'God' that you pray.

You get into your Cradillack and start the engine. It turns over at the first spark. They don't make autos like they used to, and you care for yours meticulously. It's better to preserve the older models that work properly than to constantly fritter away money chasing the newest fad.

You would listen to music while you drive, to clear your thoughts and return some of your clarity of mind. The radio dial spews a stream of garbage that passes for music now. American society took a turn for the worse when it embraced the heathen cultures of inferior people. 'Rock-n-roll' isn't music, it's noise, and you won't even comment on the trash produced by the effeminate 'hippie' counter-culture. Another product of the watering-down of American exceptionalism.

The music makes you feel uncomfortable. It stirs up and agitates part of you that should remain buried. You keep turning the dial, until you find a Schubert symphony. At last, some real music.

There is an invalid at the edge of the parking lot where it turns onto the street, probably someone discharged from the Psychiatric wing. The man's wearing entirely too much clothing for this time of year; it looks like he's got three coats on, one on top of the other, in spite of the summer heat. There is an abandoned sandwich-board lying on the ground at his feet; the unevenly-spread lettering reads 'THe END is NEAR!'. He tries to flag you over and you're stuck waiting as the person ahead of you sits with their blinker on trying to cross the flow of traffic. Good God, now he's banging on your window.

Maybe he's a veteran. But probably not, considering the colorful rags he wears tied around his body, like a Hottentot or an Australian aboriginal. A serviceman would have had more dignity than that. Maybe you'll roll down the window a bit and find out what he wants...

The drive home was so unremarkable that you don't recall a single moment of it, lost in thoughts of your doomed program. Your wife prattles on about the baby and you hardly hear a word she says. All you can think about is Van Flanders's terms: you have six years to complete the project. There's no way you can compile the data you need in just six years—it's biologically impossible. Your wife wants you to choose the dessert and you snap something at her. She breaks down in tears and drops half of a cake and an overturned cherry pie on the table as she leaves the room sobbing. Your five-year-old boy asks you what's wrong with mommy and you tell him to mind his damn business. You're not having a good day.

IF you opened the car window to speak to the man, THEN please proceed to SECTION 008

IF you did not open the car window to speak to the man, THEN please proceed to SECTION 009

001

You avoid the security guard's stare as you cross the courtyard and enter the lobby of your wing in the Psychiatric unit and head for the elevator. You will avoid looking at the patients and you will ignore the nurse who says Hello, to you. You will avoid, you will avoid, you will avoid.

It is exceedingly easy to avoid just about everything when rising far above it on the fourth floor. Your office is the largest room in the building—a hall, really. It takes up a full quarter of the entire floor, and you situated your desk at the furthest end of it. It is to there which you retreat, but that will be only the physical distancing you put between yourself and others.

Next, you will immerse yourself in the case-studies, in the collation of contributing factors, in the depths of causation and correlation. You are looking for patterns, for a predictability which you can further exploit, but what you first find was not at all what you expected, and relates to your current work in only a tangential if useful way.

Subjects for studies of this nature are hard to come by, due to the nature of the experimentation and ordeals to which they are subjected, many times lethal. Voluntary participation is unheard-of, and the procurement of suitable specimens can prove challenging. This is why you take particular notice of one specific foster home in Huntsville, Alabama that has supplied nearly sixty percent of the stock required for your child-and-infant studies.

You have no information on file regarding the parents or guardians of any of the subjects, and if there are no records in your extensive personal files then there won't likely be any anywhere in the system. Information and its dissemination are strictly regulated. Everything related to the classified studies is kept in your office under lock and key, and very few of the departments have any need-to-know of what the others are doing. There are many moving parts to the big machine you're assembling for the government, and only you and a very few others in the intelligence community have any idea of how they were to fit together. The bigger picture had been intentionally obscured, but there does remain a slim possibility that further information could be had from the Admissions offices, if you cared enough to look.

Is it so wise to give a thorough dental exam of a gifted horse? Do you really want to look this thing in the mouth, or would you rather be content that the source of your funding remains secure for now and you're not behind bars? So many of your colleagues have lately fallen by the wayside—wouldn't you rather be content in your current state of exemption?

You can always change your mind later if you choose to leave it alone for now, and you may just do that because you have the feeling that once you start down that path, something irreversible will take place.

You could remain satisfied with things as they are.

You don't have to do this to yourself.

IF you go to Admissions, THEN please proceed to SECTION 004

IF you go to your files, THEN please proceed to SECTION 017

002

You've just arrived at the University hospital and already it's off to a bad start—the students are protesting the police action in Vietnam and the National Guard has been called out to keep order. The campus is occupied by ne'er-do-wells and armed soldiers and the air feels like it's about to ignite. You push your car past the crowded square and enter the hospital parking lot.

The man from yesterday is gone, no demented schizoid to harass you there, and so you wonder if today might be marginally better than yesterday, but your hopes there are soon to be dashed.

You go directly to the Administrative offices to see what new correspondence may be awaiting you there, and are quite unhappy with what you see. It figures.

You've been relieved of the phase two OHRE I.M. studies and instead re-tasked with more follow-up trauma studies. Back to that again. Apparently your studies bore interesting fruits and they want to know more. It's just your line of work, and you do a good job. Your 'skill-set' is appreciated. And your understanding of the necessity for discretion.

You're unstoppable. This level of executive privilege is driving you mad with its power, making you do things and act in ways you never would under normal conditions.

This wasn't what you'd wanted to do. You'd wanted to be a pediatrician, not some government-sponsored child-molester. Your studies would shame the Kinsey-pablum and shock the civilized world with their revelations, if ever they were to be made known. You don't want to think about it.

It's almost as if you weren't allowed to think about it, as if some authority forbade it. You did acquiesce of your own free will, with full cooperation. You don't want to think about it.

You'd rather not think about it.

IF you obsess over it, THEN please proceed to SECTION 020

IF you return to your office to check your work-load, THEN please proceed to SECTION 015

003

Your studies have led you astray.

You were interested in pediatrics, and it was that field in which you wished to practice, and if only you hadn't had that giant handle in the middle of your back like a medieval automaton...

The General took hold of it and cranked you up like he owned you. In a sense, he did.

You wake up thinking about General Van Flanders, about your meeting with him yesterday and what it means for your future. Your poor dumb wife sulks at the breakfast table and doesn't once mention that you raised your hand to her the night before. It's good that she doesn't; you'd never in actuality strike her, but if she should behave properly with only this suggestion then all's the better. You'd rather not think about it. You don't care for the unpleasantness and find it unsuitable for further consideration.

Yesterday you were informed that your funding was secured for the next six years but you don't see how that could be possible; generally speaking, none of the subjects survive for any longer than six months, much less six years, unless Van Flanders intends to repurpose your department for other studies. It would come as no surprise, as he's done so before. The first assignment he gave you was much less distasteful than this one and you took part in it personally. It was more suited to your temperament and didn't involve lethality. It was something you were capable of doing, and you had to do it.

Why was it necessary? But you already know the answer: you are pursuing science, and science demands the numbers to build a body of statistics. All the pain, suffering and death will be reduced to probabilities and percentages. Do you even care how awful a person must be, to conduct such evil in the world knowingly? Perhaps, but you have a duty and a country to serve, and science must progress.

What you do to children, you do in the name of science. There are ethical concerns, and so the work has been handed down to you. You know exactly why you were chosen.

Today will be like yesterday, and the day before, and the day to come. The particulars of the horrors you must endure may change with the winds but the results will be more of the same, always the same. No one wants to do what you do, but it must be done. In the name of the 'national security'.

The General explained it to you thoroughly: the Soviet display of their total control over the mind of man with the Moscow post-war show trials sparked off the mind-control race, the two super-powers pitted against each other battling for dominance in the field. The brass identified comprehensive objectives and a massive program went underway to beat the Reds at their own game. Case studies and background research were compiled with the goal of creating an undetectable, unwitting field agent, and it was determined that the ideal subject would be one pre-conditioned since birth before complete indoctrination was applied. This person would be so thoroughly traumatized they would have developed compensatory split-personalities, who could be individually-trained to complete Agency objectives and report back afterwards, all without the knowledge of the original personality. Your contributions to the field were remarkable, manifold, and would never ever be credited in any journal outside the military's Intelligence elite. It was possibly the highest honor in the land, equal to or even more important than the Manhattan Project, and no one would ever hear of it. This wasn't what you'd wanted for your life.

Just as you'd expected, today was more of the same. You initiated a new branch of study and gathered a new pool of subjects and all the dressings have changed but it is still the same wound, opened and reopened and never allowed to fully heal. In this case, 'healing' would be against the national interest. At least you're no longer handling radioactive materials. You were told that your exposure would be well within safe limits but your studies would seem to indicate otherwise. You hope you haven't developed cancer as a result.

Again, you are abusing children. Your heart is twisted up in knots over it, over all it brings to the surface. The wound is opening again. Your slow, ponderous drive to work taking extra turns and detours has brought you no solace, no peace of mind. You arrive at the University in a worse mood than you were in before you left home.

IF you go to your office first, THEN please proceed to SECTION 001

IF you go to the Administrative office first, THEN please proceed to SECTION 002

004

So now you've done the unthinkable: you've gotten involved in one of the patients' personal lives. Actually, eighty-eight of them, to be exact. Eighty-eight children in a twenty-four month time span, all from the same foster home in Alabama. Something smells fishy about it to you, off. In any case, you are above the law, you are serving the greater good and are immune to prosecution—but still you wish to avoid any discovery of association between you and traffickers, should ever the worst happen and the truth come out about what you do for the government. You don't want to think about it.

To clear the oppressive thoughts from your head, you choose to take the stairs rather than the elevator down to the lobby and away. No