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Messages - Slimebeast

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1
When you think of World War II, the first thing that comes to mind is probably Adolf Hitler. The man who heil-handedly ruined an entire style of mustache. The early 1940s were an implausibly dark era for humankind, testing both concepts of humanity and kindness. Like a DC comic, most of us are secure in the idea that a single evil individual was stopped by a Justice League of Nations. However, like a DC movie, the truth is much more bleak and over-complicated.

After the fall of Germany, the Allies weren't just tasked with rebuilding what they had destroyed. There were rather a lot of prisoners of war to deal with. While the smarter ones (scientists, technicians, engineers, and physicists) were put to work faster than you could say "Paperclip", others weren't as lucky.

That brings us to one of the most morally questionable events in U.S. history. An experiment dubbed "Project Briar Rose" was conducted at a clandestine research lab on an undisclosed island in the north pacific. While most of the researchers conducting the experiment were from the good ol' U.S. of A., the project was conducted jointly with allied operatives.

The German government had wanted to create an army of tireless soldiers who were alert and at the ready 24/7. American officials wanted a non-lethal chemical weapon they could secretly use on enemies to disorganize and undermine them. Somewhere in the middle was Briar Rose, one of the most grisly experiments in history.

So, you knew this was coming... what could POSSIBLY go wrong?


#5 - The Lead Researcher was a Real-Life Super-Villain.

Remember how we compared this debacle to a bad comic book movie? Hang onto your bat-hat...

The lead researcher on Briar Rose was one of the aforementioned German prisoners of war. Among this peers, he was referred to by the code name "Dr.  Albtraum". I'll save you the trouble of running to Google -- that literally translates to "Doctor Nightmare". (Another example of Germany's ongoing war against the concept of subtly.)

A three-time widower with twelve children and a long line of mistresses, Dr. Albtraum wouldn't seem to have much time for science. He must've been pretty quick in the bedroom to have time for more sex and horror than a season of True Blood. (Care to guess how his wives died, by the way? That's right -- in their sleep.)

Dr. Albtraum gained a bit of fame during the war, due to his love of anesthetizing and vivisecting prisoners. After sedating his victims and removing limbs or even organs, he would then wake them up and ask questions about how they felt. If you thought getting up early for a final exam was bad, imagine taking a pop quiz while your spleen is on the desk.

While the good doctor may have unwittingly invented the board game "Operation", that was far from his only contribution to society. By mixing several nerve agents with vaporized stimulants, Dr. Albtraum created a concoction he dubbed "Schlafwach", which roughly translates to "Waking Sleep".

Luckily, he was captured before he finalized that special recipe.

Hooray for the heroes, right? Except...


#4 - We Totally Helped Finish The Sleeping Gas.

Whoops. As it turns out, Uncle Sam is the kind of uncle no one talks about. The one that gives you fun "sleepy juice" and says it'll be your little secret.

There were many initiatives after WWII that made use of German scientists, but they all get overshadowed by the previous Manhattan Project and its work on the atomic bomb. Flash over substance, as they say. Millions of dollars and tons of resources were put into the Briar Rose project, but it was all funneled through fake programs, so you can be forgiven for not knowing about it.

German prisoners of war, the less lucky ones as I mentioned, were used as test subjects. Exact numbers tend to be unreliable, but somewhere close to a hundred German soldiers were placed in a room about the size of an airplane hangar. There, they were strapped to hospital beds and monitored by a variety of machines. Before you start to feel sorry for these guys, remember -- literal Nazis.

Dr.  Albtraum insisted on administering the gasses himself. It was noted that he made U.S. Soldiers at the facility a bit uneasy, mainly with his tendency to sing old world lullabies to his struggling "patients" as they slipped into unconsciousness.

30% of test subjects never woke up after their first dose. As far as anyone was concerned, that was an acceptable loss on the path toward expanding human knowledge. Each new death brought information that helped refine the concoction.

The ones that died quickly got the best deal, because...


#3 - A Majority of Test Subjects Tore Themselves Apart.

After several months of testing, Project Briar Rose hit an unforeseen snag. As it turned out, the "Waking Sleep" was taking its toll on the Insomni-Axis. They became frantic and agitated, while simultaneously existing in a glassy-eyed stupor. Sort of like hyper-active toddlers who were also suffering from a sense-numbing stroke.

Several patients slipped their bonds by using the straps like sandpaper. This wore the skin from their wrists and lubricated their hands with blood. Guards and nurses suffered random attacks because of this, causing even more patients to die from beatings, and even  gunfire.

If nobody else was nearby, however, the patients who freed themselves began working on self-harm. They ripped their skin, wore their fingers to bone, and gouged their own eyes. Documents leaked decades later mentioned it was as if they could no longer identify with their own physical bodies and saw themselves as a stranger to attack.

Making matters worse, Dr. Albtraum had been up to his old tricks. Multiple patients had been surgically tampered with. They managed to open their own sutures and would un-spool their innards onto the floor. They would then die from blood loss or organ failure... you know, because said organs were thrown against a wall. Think about that next time you see kids gathering around a pinata.

So who's ready to dial the crazy up to eleven?


#2 - The Patients Who Survived Believed They Were Gods.

If you managed to live through all of that, you could be forgiven for thinking you were somehow special. Believing you're an angel, or demon, or metaphysical being, however, is a bit of a stretch.  The remaining patients, now down from one hundred to about ten, took that leap in logic.

Dazed, crazed, and yearning for the glory days of goose-stepping in parades, test subjects began speaking in language described as "flowery" and "ominous". Journals of their statements were recorded, though having so few German-speaking staff members left a majority of their statements lost to history.

One patient who had removed much of his face described himself as the archangel Gabriel and proclaimed that all around him would suffer when judgement day came. Another whose limbs were amputated due to infection began speaking of Mjolnir and Odin and the destruction of Ragnarok.

The spookiest of all was a man who had suffered no injuries. He had been a zeppelin pilot and had surrendered to allied forces at the very end of the war. This patient had done nothing but smile pleasantly since he was first dosed with the chemical agent, and for all intents and purposes he was thought to be brain-dead.

The pilot began speaking only after the island facility had descended into chaos, finally breaking a vow of silence no one knew he had taken. Unlike the others, he didn't identify himself as a spirit or a mythological figure. He said, plainly, that he wasn't even real. He declared himself to be the waking sleep, a figment of everyone's imagination. Everyone around him, everyone in the world, was dreaming, and this young pilot only existed in their subconscious.

Is that enough to keep you up  tonight? No? Well, how about this? As soon as he started talking, everyone else shut their mouths. Even the other patients. Even the ones who had plunged out their own ear drums and couldn't hear him. After what seemed like an eternity of ceaseless madness, the massive room fell silent except for the slow, calm monologue of a single grinning patient.


#1 - And Then Everyone Killed Themselves.

An unnamed soldier did what most of us would probably want to do in that situation. He put a gun to the pilot's head and, to absolutely no one's surprise at that point, put a bullet in him. Seeing that the dead man was still smiling, the soldier took a nurse hostage, turned his gun on everyone else, and demanded they drop their weapons.

Then, he shot the remaining patients, three fellow staff members, Dr. Albtraum, and himself.

At this point, there's no way to know where the prisoners were buried. There's no record of their interment, so it's very likely they were either thrown into a mass grave or the surrounding ocean. The facility was left to decay, and the island is still off-limits to anyone without proper security clearance.

In the years following project Briar Rose, twenty thee soldiers thought to be associated with the experiments have committed suicide. Six researchers did the same. The difference in numbers probably says something about which field has more difficulty with their conscience and moral code. I'm just sayin'.

While Dr. Albtraum survived the initial shooting, he was found dead several years later. He had tried to dose himself with the same chemical used on his test subjects, and it's still unclear if he intended to take his own life -- or if he had always been working toward something else entirely. Maybe he was really trying to build a bridge between the physical and metaphysical realms. If so, that "bridge" dropped him like a third grader made it out of Popsicle sticks.

I guess he hadn't heard the motto; "never die on your own supply".



T.P. Wong is a staff writer for FiveFreakyFacts.com and enjoys home-brewing his own "Schlafwach" solution by mixing energy drinks and horse tranquilizers. You can buy his new book, "Everything You Know is Wong", online or in stores this November. Would you like to write for FiveFreakyFacts.com? Submit your list now.




2
Slimy Stories / A Glance at Midnight
« on: 06:41:50 PM 11/15/18 »
The Eyejacker.

That's what the newspapers called him. It felt like every bad super-hero story. Like some cigar-chomping tool at the local Tribune slapped on a random name he pulled out of his ass.

Picturing an editor trying to come up with a catchy name for my sister's killer gives me a rage headache. I now know how every victim feels when they see the media lifting a criminal to celebrity status. I didn't understand that line of reasoning before.

So, basically, I'm writing this now as a sort of counter against that mindset.

When I arrived at my sister's house that night, I expected nothing other than to console her over the loss of our mother. Mom had passed away a couple weeks prior, and, being all but a shut-in, sis had no one else to talk to when a bout of depression hit.

I had brought a bottle of wine. I don't remember what kind. Getting drunk and watching old home videos seemed work in the past. There's only so much you can grieve before your body shuts down from exhaustion, and there was really nothing I knew how to do other than helping that point arrive a bit sooner.

I rang the doorbell two or three times. No answer. Now, she had never tried to take her life in the past, but given the situation, the possibility was on my mind. I didn't think it was likely enough to immediately call 911 on the spot, but it was just possible enough to send me into a small panic.

I checked the back door and the windows. Just like the front door, they were all locked tight. The house had belonged to out parents, and I had spent a few nights trying to figure out how to sneak back in after a night of teenage debauchery. A quick shimmy up some lattice work, and I was able to try the second story.

The bathroom window was wide open.

It was a cold night. It was November.

I didn't feel the chill of the night until I saw that open window and the curtains fluttering inside. Then, all at once, the icy wind and crisp bite of the air hit me like an injection of ice water in my veins.

Climbing in, I noticed dirty, black boot prints on the otherwise spotless bathroom tile. Work boots. Men's boots. Size thirteen or more.

I called the police immediately and was told to stay in the bathroom until the authorities arrived. The dispatcher was very insistent, cutting through my random, dumbfounded gibberish with that same clear message. Over and over again.

I made my way through the dark upstairs hallway, having traded my phone for a glimmering pair of scissors from the bathroom counter.

I didn't know whether to call out or stay quiet. The debate raged back and forth in my brain. If I called out, maybe I would be told everything was actually alright. Maybe sis had finally met the girl of her dreams online. A very large woman with very large feet, who worked a hard job and tracked it in the house with her. That didn't explain why she would've come in through the window, so it seemed implausible.

It was just as likely to think that if I called out, whoever had broken into the house would kill my sister, my only surviving family member... my only true friend, really... before fleeing into the night.

Maybe calling out would scare him away and save her.

I couldn't sort it out in my head, and in the end, staying silent and trying to assess the situation won out by default.

By the time I reached her bedroom, I knew in my heart that she was already dead. I can't explain it. It's not one of those strange sibling things where twins feel each other's pain or whatever. It was just the overall stillness of the house. The silence, the lack of a running television or radio despite all the lights being on.

I knew, absolutely knew, that even if my sister was in the house, she wasn't home.

The pent-up dread in my heart gave life to a burst of adrenaline as I all but kicked open her bedroom door. The clatter and slam surprised me - almost as much as it surprised the man crouched over my sister's bed.

He was dressed in black sweat clothes. Black gloves made somehow darker by the dampness of blood. He wore a blue ski mask, its eye holes stained with what looked like rivulets of black mascara. The goo seemed infected. Thick, like tar.

He looked up at me with surprise. It was a feeling we shared. My eyes met his, but only for a brief moment before I looked down at my sister's body.

She was laid out almost peacefully. Her white nightgown, now marred with red hand prints, made her look like a sacrificial virgin on some ancient pedestal.

He made a break for the window. It wasn't open, it was locked, so I assume he probably would've dove head-first through the glass. I closed the distance quickly. While he had struggled with my sister, probably chased her through the house, then exerted the effort of murdering her... I was fresh. Ready. I had only just began feeling the fight-or-flight rush of terror and hateful exhilaration.

I caught the man at the edge of the windowsill. Pressing him against a dresser, I buried the shears at the middle of his shoulder blades, then several times between his ribs. I had a brief flash of reading a news story about a skateboarder who accidentally severed his spine at the neck, and never walked again. I started jabbing the killer there.

He never screamed, cried, or cursed at me. It could be that I just knocked the wind out of him... but he never so much as grunted or groaned. He just scrambled against the wall, against the furniture, as I stayed on top of him like a sadistic rider.

The police found it all very interesting. I could tell they were amused at times when I was explaining the course of events. It made me hate them almost as much as the man I had killed. It made me want to throw up.

Verbally, they chided me for risking my life and taking matters into my own hands. Behind that, I could see a strange sort of admiration. Maybe I was mistaken, but I felt like they wished more criminals suffered the fate I had dealt.

I sat in a squad car as they went upstairs and attempted to sort things out. It was then that I had the opportunity to come down off of my unwanted high of blood lust. I had to breathe harder. I had to cry. I had to use the bathroom. Every human need and emotion came knocking, taking its place back from that icy chill that filled me earlier.

It wasn't until that moment that I realized... before the police told me, and way before I read it in the paper.

The killer's eyes.. when my gaze locked with his for that brief moment. Shimmering green. Flecks of gold. Beautiful, innocent, yet sadly wary of the world.

They were my sister's eyes.

So yeah.

I think you can see why I don't appreciate the media buzz around her death. I didn't like when photos of her body were leaked. It doesn't matter if they put a black bar where here eyes had been. It doesn't matter how many times they call her "sleeping beauty" or "the sad sacrifice" or any of that. It's an insult to her dignity no matter how you present it.

I report every single "True Murder Case" video I see that talks about her. I'll keep doing it, too. Please keep crying about how you're making a living off of the grief of others, and now it's being taken away. It's one of the few times I smile, anymore.

Giving a murderer a portmanteau for a name in lieu of an actual identity does nothing more than project him to some kind of sick, stupid "urban legend" status. I don't know who he was, either. I don't know how he did what he did, and I don't know if he could really see me through his stolen eyes, or if he was just following the sound of the door flying open.

The difference between me and them is that I don't make up bullshit explanations.

My sister was a human being. She liked to play online games, and she would pretend to be a guy to avoid having to turn down advances. Her first kiss was with the most popular girl in middle school, and I gave her flack because I felt like she 'stole' my chance. My sister would sew pin cushions in the shape of small animals, despite the fact she didn't need them and wouldn't sell them. She wouldn't eat pizza, no matter how incensed everyone around her would become.

She was a real person.

She matters so much more than some random, unoriginal coward who hides behind a mask and preys on people more interesting than himself.

As I mentioned, I wanted to write this out to explain exactly how I feel.

If you'll excuse me, now, I have to go make my weekly anonymous threat to the newspaper. I know it's petty and dumb, but it lets me feel less helpless in an otherwise bleak and lonely situation.

Hey. Maybe some day they'll come up with an asinine name for me.

3
It's not me, just a domain squatter trying to find a sucker to pay way too much.

4
Creepy Media Picks / Pumpkin Song
« on: 02:07:44 PM 10/20/18 »

5
Hell Rising / Re: Suggestions
« on: 05:49:06 PM 10/16/18 »
d u c k b e r g

6
Hell Rising / Re: Suggestions
« on: 01:01:27 PM 10/16/18 »
MAYBE
WE NEED
A NEW MAP

7
Slimy Stories / Re: Codger's Cottage
« on: 09:30:25 AM 09/23/18 »
When you're viewing the list of topics on a board, there will be a green button called "New Topic". :)

8
General Discussion / Re: Yo
« on: 03:25:59 AM 08/11/18 »
Eh.

9
Hell Rising / Re: Suggestions
« on: 07:36:58 PM 05/23/18 »
I'd keep it up but I feel like "you keep my work up when I leave" will eventually become some stupid problem and I don't need any more stress from Mammon or the girls he kept siding with against the games.

10
Hell Rising / Re: Suggestions
« on: 02:48:03 PM 05/23/18 »
Since Mammon quit, I think it's a good time to finally put HR out of its misery. There's no future for this stuff. Every programmer ends up shitting the bed.

11
Hell Rising / Re: Suggestions
« on: 04:28:26 PM 03/10/18 »
Fun Fact: Some human NPCs fix buildings.

12
Hell Rising / Re: Possibke bug?
« on: 12:59:22 PM 01/11/18 »
This is a possible scenario...

- Kill someone, causing your Bloodlust to go up with that kill.
- Hide, removing the buff you just got on that last kill.
- Next kills look the same as the previous.

13
Hell Rising / Re: Superhumans?
« on: 05:19:57 PM 01/07/18 »
Is the damage you can do very low? They may be wearing protective gear that has a chance of reducing damage by 1 or 2

14
Slimy Stories / Re: The "Donational" Project
« on: 04:58:34 AM 01/06/18 »
I guess it was Logan Paul all along.

15
Slimy Stories / Re: Grendel Grove
« on: 10:38:40 PM 12/24/17 »
A long while ago, I was going to insert this story into another, sort of like a "Creepypasta within a Creepypasta". Obviously this is a riff on Candle Cove. I don't thin k I'm ever going to write the larger story this was going to be "hidden" in, plus it was before "Channel Zero" was released, and that whole thing isn't really something I want to connect a bigger story to now, so might as well toss it out here.

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