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I like this story better than the other two I posted on this forum. I wrote this pondering the scifi potential of telepathic brainwashing:

https://6b85226c-4c22-4fbc-a7ba-feb9959ed510.filesusr.com/ugd/28f4d6_95a3c26f2ee547bbbe95b001bc05a30c.pdf

   
He got bad grades, he didn't attend school as often as his teachers would've liked, and he probably wasn't going anywhere in life, but he was a smart kid. At least, that was what he told himself.
   
He wasn't cocky or anything. He was always a little depressed about the whole failing in life thing. He just thought of himself as a lot more intelligent than, in reality, he was. And it wasn't his fault, either. Teachers always told him things, like: "You're a really bright kid. If you applied yourself, I just know you could ace this class." His parents were always saying things like that, too. After a few years of this kind of talk, he actually started to believe them. "Yeah," he thought, "I'm really smart... I'm just lazy!"
   
This sort of thing happens all the time. People casually worm their way through school, passing just barely, and they're constantly being told how smart they are. After a while, they start to think of the people around them as studious, asinine drones. They see every little sign of ignorance as some sort of testimony to the infinite stupidity of the ignorant, even though all people are ignorant about things other people think they should know.
   
What teachers told him, about doing better if he applied himself, that part was actually true. Most students can get good grades if they apply themselves. Even the relatively stupid ones. The part about them being really smart, on the other hand, is almost never true. If they're so smart, why do they have to work so hard to get good grades? Most likely, they're just particularly strong in one or two areas, and standard in all the rest. Or worse. Maybe they're strong in one or two areas, but weak everywhere else.
   
Yeah, he had a standard IQ and a genius ego. By being quiet most of the time, and occasionally saying something insightful (sounding), he kept other people thinking he was a genius. It was a great system! He got the grades of an idiot, a jester, a bum, a donkey, and all the stupid things in the world, and the confidence of a college professor. It didn't matter that he was going to fail, because that was what he wanted. It was easier to go on failing than it would have been to mend his ways.
   
All that changed when he moved to New Kent.
   
New Kent County, an enormous area with very few people and lots of cows. Some streets lined with farms, others suburban homes. Most of the forestland there hadn't yet been cleared out for grocery stores and mini malls, commercial industry only lately peeking its head over the horizon.
   
When he started going to New Kent High, he realized that, "Hey! So this is what it feels like to be smarter than everybody else! But that means... Damn it, I'm not nearly as smart as I thought I was." This completely shattered his blissful delusions.
   
"Oh, this sucks," he decided. "If I don't get to feel superior to normal people, it isn't any fun feeling superior." And, of course, he was absolutely right: Pretty much everybody can feel superior to those stupid New Kent hicks.
   
"I know!" he thought. "I'll burn everybody... Then some normal people'll move in."
   
"It isn't so bad here," said a voice inside his head. This little voice had never spoken up before, so he was a little shocked that it would let itself be known all of a sudden. "It's nice! There're all those pretty geraniums everywhere... And they still have an all night diner."
   
"Why talk to me now?" he asked, understandably concerned.
   
"Because," said the voice, "you've never done anything this bad before! That's when we're allowed to really come out, right before you do something particularly nasty. It's like you turning a key to unlock me."
   
"We?" he asked. He frowned in thought.
   
"Oh, don't worry," said the voice. "I'm the only one with you. But everybody's got one."
   
He didn't like the sound of that. "You're a conscience? But I don't feel guilty... Aren't you supposed to make me feel guilty?"
   
"No, no, no," said the voice. "That's your emotional conscience. Yours isn't very strong, which is why you need me. I'm your cricket."
   
"Huh?" He looked around for a talking cricket.
   
"You won't find me," said the cricket. Its cackle filled the room. "I used to follow you everywhere! But then you stepped on me. So now I'm a ghost. Note the sinister cackle."
   
"What? You're telling me my conscience is haunting me. That's ridiculous." He looked around some more, hoping to find someone hiding under the bed, or maybe in the closet...
   
"Don't worry," said the invisible cricket. "You're not crazy... Yet. I'm not some kind of derangement. I'm the actual ghost of your cricket conscience. But if you set fire to just one building, I swear, I'll drive you bonkers."
   
"Wouldn't I already be bonkers, if I went around setting fire to buildings?"
   
"Oh yeah, good point. Problem solved, then. You'll just have to find another way to get over your disillusionment!"
   
He didn't like that reply very much. He understood that the cricket specter was just trying to confuse him. Still, it made sense. At least, it sounded like it made sense.
   
"Listen, cricket. I'm not listening to you anymore."
   
"If you're not listening, then why should I?"
   
"I'll stop talking then you'll stop talking."
   
"Sounds logical, to me. So of course you're not crazy. Crazy people aren't logical."
   
"Shut up."
   
"But you're still talking..."
   
"..."
   
"..."
   
"Stop that!"
   
"Stop what? I didn't say a thing!"
   
"Screw this, cricket. I'm going to get some gasoline." And with that, he started down the stairs.
   
"Wait a minute!" shouted the cricket. "You forgot to feed your cat! It's enough you plan on killing off an entire county of hicks. Don't starve all your animals, too."
   
"Oh, all right," he replied, going for a can of tuna fish. "But only if you promise to leave me alone for the rest of the night."
   
"I haven't even sung any songs yet!" protested the cricket. "I have to sing at least one song."
   
"No. If you sing, I'm not feeding the cats. You gotta give a little to get a little."
   
"Give a littlelittle bit..."
   
"You sing, no food. You sing, no food."
   
"Fine," said the cricket. "Just don't come whining to me when you're stuck in prison with nothing to do and no songs with which to pass the time."
   
"Prison!" he shouted, dumping some tuna into the cat bowls. "I'm far too smart to go to prison. They'll run and run as fast as they can, but they'll never catch me."
   
"That's really lame," said the cricket.
   
"Shut up already. I fed the damned cats, so leave me alone."
   
"What's holding me to a verbal agreement, if you're going out to kill people?"
   
"Because you're my conscience," he replied. "What kind of sense would it make for you to do the wrong thing?" And with that, he left the building.
   
It was getting kind of late, by the time the bowling alley went up in flames. He could barely see three feet in front of him, which probably explains his track through doggie dookie.
   
"Serves you right," said the cricket.
   
"It's still night out!" he shouted.
   
"Technically, it's another day," said the cricket.
   
"But it's still night out!" said he.
   
"I guess you're right," said the cricket, and that was the last thing said until sunrise.
_________   
   
"What the hell!" he cried, pulled into consciousness by a horrible rendering of "It's a Wonderful World". "I don't have a damned alarm clock!"
   
"So you don't," said the cricket, ending the song. "What, does mommy wake you up?"
   
"No, daddy does... and what's that got to do with anything?"
   
"Nothing." And the cricket sighed. "I just thought you might like to wake up a few hours early this morning."
   
"I didn't, and it's more than just a few hours before school. I'm going back to sleep."
   
"No you're not," replied the cricket, a voice full of cheer. "I'll just wake you up again in five minutes. I've got lots of songs, you know."
   
"Stuff you and your songs. You'll drive me crazy with that garbage."
   
"Crazy with guilt! That's my job. I'm your unbearable guilt manifest to torment you. The only way to get rid of me and clear your head is to confess."
   
He laughed. "Guilt? What guilt? I feel fine. Good, even. Killing people is kind of fun. And besides, you appeared before I ever even did anything."
   
"Well okay," stammered the cricket, "but that's only because you were guilty about what you planned on doing."
   
"Bull," he said. "I felt fine then, and I feel great now."
   
"Not even a little guilty?" asked the cricket. "Not even just a little?"
   
"Not even just a little."
   
"Not even about all those sad families? All those people hurt that never did anything to you?"
   
"Nope."
   
"Not even about all that property you damaged, all those dreams you shattered?"
   
"Nope."
   
"Then you're a real ass," said the cricket. "You're hopeless."
   
"You'll leave me alone now?" he asked, his eyes sparkling.
   
"Of course not, you stupid ass. I'll still make you go nuts. There just won't be much of a point anymore. Not even a little tiny bit guilty?"
   
"Nope, sorry..."

"Then I'll just have to keep singing until you die. Die, or miraculously see the error of your ways."
   
"How's singing going to make me feel guilty?" he asked. It was too late. The cricket had already started.
_______   
   
Meanwhile, Deputy Billy Bobby Joe Bob Junior uncovered something interesting near the scene of the crime. "Lookit dis heya poopie!" Deputy Billy Bobby Joe Bob Junior shouted.
   
"Well dang diggidy doo ding dang doo doo!" proclaimed Sheriff Bobby Billy Bobby Joe, waving his hand about in the air like a bird. "Dis heya's hibba purdy piece o' evipie!"
   
It was he's shoeprint, of course. This told Sheriff Bobby Billy Bobby Joe and Deputy Billy Bobby Joe Bob Junior a great deal. Most people in New Kent, including he's parents, don't wear shoes. Those that do wear boots. This was no boot print. Being the renowned hunters that they were, both Deputy Billy Bobby Joe Bob Junior and Sheriff Bobby Billy Bobby Joe could tell the exact time the poo was disrupted, which was soon after the fire. All the fuzz had to do now was find somebody with shoes on, so they could ask them who burned down the building!
   
It took the crack police force months to search the dozens of houses in New Kent, but eventually they found one with shoes in the closet. He was at home relearning cursive writing at the time. His father was home, though.
   
"Bib bob flam dang diggidy do, ding dang damn damn diggidy damn dong, dabbedy boo, damn it!" shouted Sheriff Bobby Billy Bobby Joe at Ed, he's father. "Who's `at dabbedy do shoo?"
   
"Well I'm sorry fuzz, but I don't know what you're talking about," said Ed, having no recollection of the bowling alley fire since he wasn't there.
   
"Bibbedy poo poo, ding weewee dong dang damn it!" countered Sheriff Bobby Billy Bobby Joe.
   
"But I don't wear shoes," said Ed, lifting his crusty naked feet up off his leg rest for emphasis.
   
"Bibbedy dang dog it nab flabbidy bip!" retorted Sheriff Bobby Billy Bobby Joe.
   
"Officer, I swear it! Those are my son's shoes in the closet!"
   
"Shibbedy shabbedy bip boop, dang dong digit shigut, flabber blab flobbit," muttered Sheriff Bobby Billy Bobby Joe, heading for the door. It was at that moment he walked in, wearing a pair of shoes smelling ominously of dookie.
   
"Sham bam bib bob baggit bagagagaga, boy!" shouted Sheriff Bobby Billy Bobby Joe, as they passed each other.
   
"Sorry, no. I don't know anything. But a pleasant day to you too, sir," he said, taking off his shoes and walking towards his room.
   
"Well, flib flab fab dab nab gizzard!" said Sheriff Bobby Billy Bobby Joe to Deputy Billy Bobby Joe Bob Junior.
   
"May toe," replied Deputy Billy Bobby Joe Bob Junior in a huff. "May toe!"
_______   
   
He stepped into his room, slammed the door behind him, and buried his head under a pillow. He couldn't get the singing to stop.
   
"Feeling guilty yet?" asked the cricket, pausing to do so.
   
"Uh... yeah. I'm feeling really guilty! I can't believe I did all those terrible things." He rolled over and stared down at his feet in shame.
   
"Guilty enough to confess?" pressed the cricket.
   
He looked to the ceiling, thinking. If confessing would get the cricket to stop... No, he decided. Prison rape seemed a little more terrible than nonstop whimsical music.
   
"No, but that'll just make me feel more and more guilty as time goes by. My sins pull on me always, weighing me down right to the ground. I'll have to live with all those horrible things I did! Life will be my prison."
   
"Right you are," said the cricket. "You'll have to live with all those horrible things on your conscience. That won't stop. I'm here for keeps, pal, unless you confess."
   
"But I feel so bad about the fire!" he said. "I'll be worse off out here than in there. It isn't fair that I should get free food and shelter for the rest of my life."
   
"Unless they execute you. Are you absolutely sure you're feeling guilty?"
   
"Sure I'm sure," he said. "I feel like such an ass! Now that I see the error of my ways, I'll never be able to look at myself the same. Oh, the horrible agonies of the self-mutilating force they call sin! You've done your job, cricket. You watered it and cared for it and now I have a real conscience."
   
"I don't know," said the cricket, visibly narrowing his invisible eyes. "If you can kill, you can probably lie too. I'm afraid you just don't sound sincere."
   
"I am sincere, you dirty cricket!" he shouted, fists clenched. "You just want to stick around because you like to torment me. What kind of conscience are you, anyway?"
   
"I'm a damned good one," said the cricket, "and now I see right through all your lies. You won't trick me again."
   
"Never did trick you, cricket!" he shouted.
   
"If you want to repent, confess. That way, the families of your victims will have some kind of explanation for what happened."
   
"I'll confess alright," said he, "but only if you leave me alone and unguarded, in good faith. It's like I always say, you gotta give a little to get a little."

The ghostly conscience considered this. "I would have to trust you."
   
"If you can't trust me," he replied, "why should I trust you? How do I know confession's really the best thing?"
   
He had a point, the cricket decided. "All right, but you had better not be lying to me..."
   
He frowned. "When did I ever lie to you, cricket? You've done your job, and now it's time for you to go."
   
That said, the cricket sighed and took off, leaving he to rest in peace. He would get back to the business of arson in a few hours, when it would become suitably dark.

Leary, Wilson, and various other occultists/psychedelic researchers, thought they were in communication with aliens.

I have only really read up on Wilson and Leary's experiences. The predictions the supposed aliens gave Leary didn't come true, and neither Leary nor Robert Anton Wilson reported having an opportunity to telepathically interrogate the aliens directly.

I could see aliens existing. Infinite time and space = infinite opportunity. But something doesn't smell right to me.

I have (Edit: changed "two" to "some")some guesses as to what happened to them: 1) Probably it was just a hallucination. 2) Maybe it was a  group of human astral travelers playing a prank on everyone. 3) Conceivably Wilson & Co. were pranking us about the whole thing.

There's a chance (and rumors are circulated) that the aliens are "higher vibrational beings" so can't be interrogated telepathically. But surely, if they were real telepathic transmissions, real aliens could send someone down to a lower vibrational state to be interrogated.

Or maybe telepathy = real, mind reading = false.

I can't stand it lately,
maybe I just never noticed this before but,
have any of you... ?
every time I stand and piss
some kind of invisible crazy split stream mess happens
and there's always,
when I'm good and done,
little droplets
on my pants.

A little unstable. Not willing to take the pill. Fuck the pill. My will is greater.

The wolf, arrogant in his presumed superiority, shreds a sheep in Wolf's clothing. Or is it a snake.
   Don't you know, "Saying voices are," Arabic? Ow pouts Aramethystic?
   An Enochian script drifts through the weezer. Ey puffs n ey puffs An, Pout! Slimmpickkings
   The bloodlines are to be remembered.
   "A fine manuscript," says Dr. Wogglebirth.
   Teaching to tune they's a chune into bloom bending/pickingSmashingkLocks, locked doors, reversing through the riverside barrier. Illusions spanking into perception of false illusions. Tricking the chiggles into giggles is simple toy-wiggling. Twitch, twitch, scratching silly itches. Blisters poinking the gobbles of squirts.
   A:A:ha! Friggin slam out yer darned best yarn and fling a flapstick over the shredding board, be distanced! Nay, play, all of us,
ddddddd..... a little dab'ldabberDOyou.
   Wearing a mane, the lion roaring. Worn like a fragile necklace. Worn as a solid helmet.
   Chest heaving, exasperated. Goodness. Gracious.
   The sun sending free energy beams.
   Lemmings jumping into the river. Boing!
   !sweet
   There is no horizon unreachable, however high he climbs. There is no unreachable once there is no horizon. Stars shining in their places, too often put in their places. And the stars putting selves into places.
   It's like they told me growing up, "Kick your own ass, kid." Well, I personally don't feel my ass needs a kicking. A better way of putting it would be, "Drive yourself."

   We all should be driving ourselves, whatever we're driving to. We can worry about that once we've found out what we want. Hugs and kisses for the intentions. And open wounds.
   
   "Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law." Aleister Crowley's catch phrase is an arrow pointing into the journey. The Self, eight levels, lizards vs mammals vs the "Third sphere" or "third eye" catnip sipped by the pimp cat. And pink bananas. Explain, man!
   You to me. Where's the mystery?
   I'm walking tonight on an all right flight
   from it
   The people passing me are the same as
   The people passing me when we'
   re all standing
   still.

   The fallen logger dogs her until she bleeds. She begs for more just to settle the score and the logger leaves.
   What they dntowwon't hurt them.
   Billy jumps into a moat sailing a silly sailboat. The goats rain down with Nubian goat milk. We make goat milk cheese and manufacture in chunks.
   A vibration badly handles thus.
   Written in spiro techniques.
   Hey, I saw God last night. I fount him in my cigarette butt.
   Hey, I saw God last night. I found him in a pine needle.
   Hey, I say God last night. I found him inside me.
   Thou art God!
   Immortality is a piece of the brain.
   A piece of the brain is,
   "Beware the wyrme within!"
   Crazy evil geniuses succumbing to or embracing their shadows and riding the world-wind of deception into loops of seduction and manipulation.
   It is why the sun is worshipped,
   the Inner Light,
   True Illumination.
   But many are the Children of the Serpent offering gifts of light.
   There is the light and its shadow. It's got nothing to do with evil and goodness. Still, the shadow is as the shape caressing the illuminating candle. IMpotant only in its own way, as are all things.
   The silly, missing hat trick. Be back in a good smile.
   Child's play turns into such a ruckus. The Duchess enters and shouts, "Enough of these high-falootins! SHUTUP!AAAAHHHHHH!!!" It's so silly really.
   It's so silly not even a shrill cry frightening te tea into quivers to be loaded and unloaded hence into board piece targets. Prick! Blood slowly oozing forth.
   What a shout to shoot for! The doors of the Seven Spirals twisted into thwaps of ejaculation, separating the hero into twelve million's of a millimeter's depth pieces. It was neither a pretty nor an ugly sight.
   I've gone too long to goo too bar. The tar is sticky and frightening. Gum wrappers are lost to the winds. That crazy old nut sack throbs with the purple tides. Poison pleasure overcoming all else. Blastoff.
   The narrowestus charnles carnal rawness most obnoxiously in answer to the question, "How far can you take it man?"
   It is a fair question. Alls we needs is somes this shit.
   Slurp. Gurggle. Snorth. sLick.
   Get some attention focused onto the proper man. Don't now no how unforgiving be.
   Shaking, quaking, rocking the boat. Eyes bouncing in their sockets. To not total abolition the narcissism must schism some similes off their team. Positive shmogdisis, falling down, Fallingm wow!
   Good music. Always.
   Tramp understands.
   There is nothing to the Billycat's purs. He's just a silly Billycat. He is big and intimidating. He is naught but a Billycat. So ho don't be too hard on the Billy. Or are all things as they seem? Or is as raz the jaz'll friggle cream?
   Not to have to but to know how the brown of the flow was no how to blow down the ground in town where the ground is so high and dry for lack of rain only recently, the deep dirt still wet. To care for candidate. To worry about the tarry forth, tally ho. The horses jumping and jumbling in their steps.
   I likes to climb through the all, to watch from feet and take to hand and take a stand, To claim proper ground.
   Beaten. Beaten and beaten on and bloodied and dragged through the mud and standing on the summit now shouting, "I am a god!" Shouting now, "This is my summit! This is my land,
   Your land,
   "My hand,
   Your hand,
   "My fingers running through it. My eyes observing. Know what thou wilt and do it!!!"
   The gas clouds erupting in flames stink up a forest fire. Not too golden-proud, the cherry carrier.
   Calculated risks, calculated experiments. Not too refriendly. Unexpected fuckups.
"Hey man, I don't understand, I thought you were my friend..."
      "Fucking sick of your cocky bullshit..."
   "pussymotherfucker!!!"         "All because of drugs..."
                     "The end."
   "Never to be raised so high! AHHH!!!"


Never to be raised so high!
      A man walked into a convenience store and the convenience store woman looked at him and she said, "Are you into this type of shit?"
   "What type of shit?" he asked.
   The convenience store woman said, "You know, three lumps, brown, good moisture..."
The man walked out of the convenience store.

   I don't really understand why it's got to be this way but if it's what they must demand then it must be what we are obligated to achieve. Pickled for geeeeennNNNSSzzz......

(A note from the writer: it came out close enough from a copy and paste that I decided not to edit, my apologies if the formatting is a little erm off...)

If astral travel is possible, post death astral control may be also. I suspect reincarnation only happens as guided by conscious sentient beings, by intelligences keeping things under control, or by beings to have learned post death astral control wanting to reincarnate with past life recall. If no intermediary, I suspect astral ghosts just linger on.

Terence McKenna and others have speculated that the chimpanzee fossil transition happened because of foraging chimps coming across hallucinogenic mushrooms. My theory is that the upswing in love induced by the shrooms taught the chimps not only astral control, but also prophecy. Love is simple and nonimpulsive, "creative" because not conditioned by anything into an instinctive reaction. I believe a significant upswing in non impulsive energy provides the ability to trace causality.

The chimpanzees before fire would have encountered adrenaline filled blood in the raw meat. Adrenaline is in blood when fear causes the organism to secrete it. This could have addicted the old astral forms into demanding blood sacrifices as "the gods".

An addiction to blood, and love the source of the immortal elite's power structure. No matter how much love the post chimps obtained, their hearts may have only focused on their families and social cliches. By now, they have had so many thousands of years to prepare if invaded in too rambunctious a manner the elite would have prophesied for thousands of years where to put the various sections and subsections of their immortal military.

It may be possible for our vampire overlords to extract adrenaline directly from blood by psychic means, or through self hypnosis to produce it internally.

To obtain slack, it may be advisable to "suck up to" the elite by earning loyalty to the existing power structure and its actual top. I would advise only assisting a territory that doesn't invade the elite. Solve global warming, veganism, communal living... (edit: I almost extracted this vampire joke about sucking up like sucking blood because in poor taste if the vampires weren't real...)

To obtain slack, learn how to prophecy and how to scry. After learning to astral travel, and network from the astral plane.

To learn to astral travel, since you dream what you think before sleeping, write a few paragraphs before going to bed about astral travel and lucid dreaming, every night until you astral travel. To dedicate yourself in your efforts, practice telepathy by attempting to transmit to close friends and loved ones such thoughts as, I am going to touch my nose. Confirm out loud you knew I was going to do that. until a confirmed telepathic dialog is started.

Once you have a network of at least two, at least one astral traveler, have the astral traveler travel into the other friend's brain and extract all fear. Fearless friend should try to prophecy, astral friend should continue extracting all fear and program in an identification of success. If prophetic talent results, use the same method to scry the answer to slack-obtaining questions:

1) What is the fairest possible we two can achieve?
2) What is the highest on loyalty we two can score by the immortal vampire elite?
3) What is the most pleasure we two can realistically obtain?
4) What is the most freedom we two can achieve, and trigger in others?

The answer to question 2 may seem unimportant, but loyalty to the elite may be available by fair methodology, and translate to slack provided by the immortals to achieve serious goals.

My first introduction to role playing was when I was around 11 or 12. There was a free form chat room and message board called the Green Dragon Inn, filled with people using D&D and World of Darkness material as background. It was like interactive writing, and endless hours of fun.

I have revisited free form role playing, role playing without rules, to create anarchist free form role playing. I designed a setting called Chrystal City: a giant turtle supports a floating city of anarchy, the turtle teleports in front of anyone seeking any kind of anarchy from open waters. The setting is supposed to be used to simulate all the "wrong" and "right" kinds of anarchy, and to promote spontaneous experimental writing styles.

I wonder if anyone here would be interested in participating in a Floating Autonomous Zone creative writing project.

I founded an ostrich cult as a branch of Discordianism. I call it the Individuate Church.

Individuates study psychology, psychiatry, consciousness expansion, Carl Jung, and Leary's 8 Circuit Model. The front page of the cult includes a bible inspired by the principia discordia, and a complete system of initiation into 8 Circuit awareness. Presented are initiation ceremonies into each circuit up to the 7th circuit, advice on designing a ceremony for the 8th circuit.

The website also includes my original fiction and poetry, music and sketches, anarchist free form role playing material, and occult essays.

https://kbupdikejr.wixsite.com/chrystalcity