Exclusive to Edgar Allan Poe Community College:
I Weaponized Clinical Depression for a Psychological
War Start-Up. Now I Feel Overwhelming Remorse.
Patient #1: “My entire life is a sin, from the moment
I defiled my mother’s body in the delivery room to the countless times I forgot
to wash my hands before making love.”
Patient #2: “It’s like I’m the world’s most disgusting
Port-A-John. People would rather s**t in public than take a dump in me.”
If you think the above quotes are the musings of
self-pitying failures, you’d be very, very wrong.
Patient #1 is a retired Air Force Colonel, judged to
be of rock-solid mental health after a withering battery of tests designed by
my team.
Patient #2 is a superb athlete and Olympic medal
winner with zero psychiatric issues.
Until now.
Indeed. As I write this, both patients suffer from
major depressive disorder characterized by abject lethargy and constant risk of
self harm.
Why? Both interviews were conducted after exposure to
Substance X, a compound aimed at triggering in enemy soldiers an acutely
depressed state. Yes, hardened warriors lose the will to fight, casting aside
their weapons and begging for mercy.
Substance X was created by me. My name is (withheld).
I’m distinguished scientist whose moral compass went awry in designing a weapon
aimed at ending for all time further “hot wars.” I’m revealing this publicly
because my device has fallen into malevolent hands.
The march towards war without death is being perverted
by forces beyond my control. Therefore, I have adopted a position similar to
that of Daniel Ellsberg, when he released the Pentagon Papers in 1971;
wrongdoing must be exposed, even at great personal risk.
That’s why I’m penning this open letter to all
American citizens of good faith. Thanks to Edgar Allan Poe Community College for the opportunity to publish it here.
Background: I’m a Nobel Prize-nominated scientist,
specializing in the field of psychiatric warfare. I hate war. But after years
of watching the body count rise, I was forced to admit that war was deeply
embedded in the human psyche. The desire to fight is an integral part of who we
are, beginning with “my dad can beat up your dad” and ending with the atomic bomb,
the most destructive weapon of war yet devised.
Given that, the issue, as I saw it, was to devise a
weapon that allowed nations to act on this primitive impulse, while killing no
one. For a long time, it was a low-budget labor of love. Then, as luck would
have it, I received a call from a psych war start-up in late 2018. The
principals, ex-military, ex-intelligence insiders, had gotten wind of my
project. Their stated goal was to determine if Substance X was scalable, and if
so, to market the product internationally.
I jumped at the chance to join their distinguished
team. Working with these guys, many of whom I knew from previous classified
endeavors, would allow me to play an instrumental role in bringing about
permanent world peace.
Plus, I was offered a healthy portfolio of stock
options that would make me a near-billionaire should the company succeed in
going public (that I succumbed to such a base need, I am truly ashamed. I am
less man and more earthworm because of it; an earthworm engorged with the
rotted fruit of its labors).
I was flown by private jet to the firm’s headquarters.
Security there was tight, much more so than at Theranos and other infamous
start-ups. How tight? All those entering the building, including me, were
required to submit to a rectal exam and a
colonoscopy, in order to ensure nothing was smuggled via the lowermost reaches
of the digestive system.
After two hours of embarrassing recovery, followed by
a gourmet meal, I joined a select group gathered in the otherwise empty company
auditorium. They had come to hear my presentation.
I was ushered onstage, outfitted with an omni-directional
mic and asked to proceed. Anxious, for I did not know how this elite audience
would react, I began my sales pitch: “Ladies and gentlemen, we have entered a new age when
the general public is repulsed by wanton killing on a mass scale. Therefore, in
order to defeat an enemy while maintaining public support, we need a way to
incapacitate hostile troops while shedding minimal blood. But why clinical
depression? Why a depression bomb, to coin a phrase? Good question.”
I nodded at a video screen behind me. A slide show had
been hastily assembled. The word Schizophrenia
appeared, highlighted on either side by red lightning bolts and
kaleidoscopic whorls.
“Schizophrenia was ruled out after student volunteers
sprayed with my proprietary substance exhibited a wide range of unpredictable
behaviors. This I decidedly did not want. A heavily armed, yet erratic, enemy
force is not a desirable outcome.
“A bi-polar weapon had similar problems, prompting
study subjects in the up phase to
feel they were impervious to harm. One individual, in such an agitated state,
became convinced that an Army of One (namely
him), could defeat a battalion of some 300 to 800 enemy soldiers.
“A dose of clinical depression, on the other hand,
instilled in the volunteers a sense of hopelessness, lethargy and abject
despair. A quiz administered shortly afterwards indicated that ninety-five
percent of the subjects felt that nothing in life was worth fighting for.
“The implications,” I said, as those words appeared on
the screen, “are that in a war-time setting, similarly disheartened enemy
troops could be taken prisoner with minimal struggle. Once behind barbed wire
in outdoor camps, they could be administered a reviving dose of a generic SSRI.
Back to psychiatric baseline, they could then be put to productive use in work
camps, until all their fellow hostiles were dosed and the conflict came to a
swift end. With a clear victor, yet minimal casualties on both sides.”
After a tense pause, during which sweat dripped from
my brow in a humiliating close-up on the video screen, the entire audience rose
as one. And began clapping and hooting with scattered shouts of “Here! Here!”
“Should I take that as a signal you want to move
ahead?” I asked, fighting back tears. My dream of bloodless wars was about to
take a giant step towards becoming a reality.
“Yes!”
“Yes!”
“Immediately."
“If not sooner,” a former NSA insider cracked wise to
gales of laughter from the ebullient throng.
In short order, I was issued luxury living quarters on
company grounds, a crack staff, unlimited budget and, yes, stock options, after
my attorney intervened. Should the company go public, I planned to donate 50%
of my personal proceeds to the National Humane Society in honor of my deceased
wife, a dog lover and champion of orphaned pot belly pigs, of which we had
fifteen until she suffered cardiac arrest while shoveling a veritable mountain
of hog s**t.
Filthy swine! I should have butchered them all!
Sorry, but I’ve been prone to volcanic outbursts of
late, for reasons you shall soon understand.
Two frenetic days later, I began the next research
phase. This time, due to the top secret nature of the undertaking, study
subjects were the crème-de-la-crème of national security personnel. Men and
women of high accomplishment and iron will; courageous volunteers willing to
suffer weapons-grade despair until the administration of an antidote in the
form of a high-octane, inhalable SSRI.
The first session was a failure, which shamed me to no
end. I felt like a naked man being laughed at by priests. I’d stationed the
volunteers in a safe room equipped with overhead sprinklers that, when an
assistant turned them on, emitted a fine spray of Substance X. The same mixture
I’d administered college students with heartening results. I’d then waited for
the elite military subjects to manifest the symptoms of major depressive
disorder.
Unfortunately, I’d underestimated their ability to
resist the power of the disheartening spray. They’d become sad, but not despondent
to the point of incapacitating self-hate.
The executive team funding my work was not happy. I
was informed that, if an effective weapon was not created by the end of the
week, my stock options would be halved.
Under monumental pressure to achieve better results, I
labored for ninety-six hours straight to develop a fire-extinguisher-type
weapon that blasted a thick fog of Substance X concentrate. My lab assistants
pitched in to the point of exhaustion.
Fighting back sleep, we donned air-tight protective
gear, entered the safe room and sprayed a billowing cloud of Substance X until
the makeshift weapon was emptied. We then exited, showered and removed our cumbersome
suits. Pulling on slacks, I hurried in my bare feet to an observation window
and waited anxiously for the cloud to subside. The project’s future was at
stake. I knew that the demanding investors would pull the plug if significant
progress had not been made.
I was filled with a strange mixture of elation and
sorrow when it became clear that the volunteers behind the glass were overcome
with existential gloom. Elated that the experiment had worked. Sorrowful that
true American heroes had been reduced to such a pathetic state. They stood catatonic,
unable to make eye contact or utter a word. Then one-by-one, as if Substance X
was leaching into their very souls, these selfless patriots curled up on the
floor, squealing like abandoned piglets marked for imminent slaughter.
I alerted my corporate masters, who raced into the
lab, clapping each other on the back. Some babbled on their phones. For all
knew, they were ordering fresh Lamborghinis or bigger mansions than they
already possessed.
At this, my spirits plunged; I now hated myself for
selling a non-lethal, but incapacitating weapon of war to mere profiteers. Disgusted,
I wanted out.
However, my corporate overseers had me by the
financial balls; I’d already made a large cash donation to the non-profit I’d
established in my beloved wife’s memory. If I pulled out of the depression
project now, my stock options would be taken away. I’d be penniless and, with
my reputation ruined, I’d be unemployable as anything but a greeter at
Wal-Mart.
So I answered “yes,” when the CEO asked me to see if I
could replicate the results in a variety of novel settings. After choking down
a celebratory dinner, I went back to work.
Day followed wretched day. Repeatedly, I was ordered
to increase the dosage. As time went by, it became more and more difficult to
justify the anguish I was putting my subjects through. It broke my heart to see
these gallant men and women beg for sharp knives in order to cut their own
throats.
I refused further gourmet meals (aka bribes). I rapidly
began losing weight. My face broke out from the unrelenting stress. It was a
hellish routine; saturating the safe room with new formulations of Substance X,
taking notes as America’s heroes fell apart, then exiting and thoroughly cleaning
my protective gear. Mentally spent, I’d trudge upstairs to the executive suite
and file my nightly oral report, which always seemed to meet with frowns and
muttered disapproval.
I began to suspect that management was taking actions
behind my back; a misplaced vial here, a notebook with a page missing. Who was
entering the locked lab without my permission? What were they up to? The
constant speculation made me weary. Yet, I’d lie awake all night, unable to
close my eyes.
My moral crisis reached a peak when a study participant,
a highly disciplined martial arts wonder, was found hanging from his Black Belt
after another round of Substance X. Fortunately, he was quickly cut down.
Coughing and gagging, he survived.
While many in top management high-fived this grotesque
display of Substance X’s super-sized effectiveness, I was bothered to no end.
Wracked by guilt, I began staying in bed all day,
unwilling to set foot in the lab. My mind became a rat’s nest of racing
thoughts. I developed agonizing aches and pains.
And then came the final straw: the antidote stopped
working. One night, despite countless doses of inhalable SSRIs, the fallen
heroes remained critically morbid in mind and spirit. Management, indeed, had
been laboring mightily behind my back to neutralize the effectiveness of any
and all antidepressants.
That’s right. Prozac, et al, no longer worked. My
top-drawer study subjects had been relegated to eternal mental agony. Many were
institutionalized in a private psychiatric hospital owned at arm’s length by
the start-up.
I protested to no avail. It soon became clear that the
company had misused my intellectual property for its own reprehensible ends. I
was of no more value to them than a flip-phone. Neither was my mission for
world peace.
While I’ve been allowed to remain in my luxury
apartment, I haven’t the energy to rise from the floor.
I live in perpetual darkness with no hope of feeling
like myself again.
How can I state that with such certainty? Well, you
see, I found a tear, a deliberate tear in my protective suit yesterday. For my
perceived disloyalty, I’d been exposed to a toxic dose of the new and improved Substance
X, for which there was no cure.
My body, my mind, my soul are afflicted with unceasing
despair.
There’s a gun on the coffee table and a pen in my
hand. With any luck, I will be able to resist oblivion long enough to finish
writing this open letter—to warn you—to warn every living soul—of the true horror
to come.
The start-up was just sold to a malevolent consortium
of hedge fund managers. I’m now rich man.
But…but…the hedge fund guys and gals, well, I hear they’re
quietly equipping hundreds of crop dusters with Substance X weaponry. The
alleged goal is to fog major cities. To conduct a war of depression and despair
against the American people. To strengthen the grip they have over our lives.
The possibility that someone will read this gives me
hope. A reason to keep a firm grip on the pen. To keep writing. To never stop.
Until a new day dawns.
Writing is my Prozac.
There’s still time to find yours.
by:
Anonymous
posted by Doc Paranormal
Adjunct Professor, Automatic Writing Curriculum
Edgar Allan Poe Community College
