The CIA recruited prostitutes to dose clients with LSD. They tried to remote control dogs by sticking chips in their brains. They locked people in isolation for up to 85 days, forcing them to listen to looped voice recordings as they went mad. All of this overseen by a gang of macabre buffoons taking drugs, having parties and screwing each other's wives. Our first live show is half horror, half comedy of errors.
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If we can get something that will bend these guys' minds and make them talk, make them go crazy, this will do a lot to save our prisoners and things like that.
Feldman said yes.
It didn't hurt that he admired White's virility.
He was a son of a bitch. He was a son of a bitch, but he was a great cop.
He made that fruitcake Hoover look like Nancy Drew.
We did not write this, by the way.
This is like actual quotes that these fucking idiots said.
It's all documented.
Feldman had an elaborate system to control the prostitutes he brought on board.
When they did something for him, he added a chit to their account, which essentially served as a sort of get-out-of-jail-free card.
If prostitutes got arrested, they would just tell the cops to give him a call, and then the prostitutes would lose a chit, and the cops would release them.
So it's a smooth, effective system.
But as the drug started flowing in, it was impossible to not hit a few snags here and there.
This is from John Marks again.
In addition to LSD, which they knew could cause serious, if not fatal, problems, technical services staff officials gave White even more exotic experimental drugs to test.
Drugs that other agency contractors may or may not have already used on human subjects.
Quote, if we were scared enough of a drug to not try it out on ourselves, we sent it to San Francisco, recalls a technical services staff source.
Yeah, no, if it's really dangerous and you don't know shit about it, just send it there.
Give it to the people who just want to have sex.
According to a 1963 report by CIA respecter General John Ehrman, quote, In a number of instances, however, the test subject has become ill for hours or days, including hospitalization in at least one case.
A white could only follow up by guarded inquiry after the test subjects return to normal life.
Possible sickness and attended economic loss are inherent contingent effects of the testing.
So I guess so you'll lose your livelihood.
You'll just become sick.
Yeah, they had to note down that everybody that they did this to lost their mind.
Oh, yeah.
Yeah, so everything they lost it all.
It's an inherent contingent effect that will ruin your life.
Oh, sometimes they would drug people and then they would just lose track of them.
Well... Like they would just wander off and be like fuck we... anyways.
So they don't take any notes on him, and some fucking stranger is walking with, like, a head full of ten doses of acid.
It's like the premium from last week, the Glitch of the Matrix.
Like, how many fucking glitches in the Matrix are just people who got fucking dosed by the CIA and, like, wandered off into oblivion?
You're right, Jake.
The episodes we put out are a lot like this.
We're torturing people.
So, unfortunately, the operation was limited by the MKUltra team's incredibly cursory knowledge of sex.
One of them would later recall... We didn't know in those days about hidden sadism and all that sort of stuff.
We learned a lot about human nature in the bedroom.
We began to understand that when people wanted sex, it wasn't just what we had thought of.
You know, missionary position. We started to pick up knowledge that could be used in operations, but with a lot
of it, we just never figured out any way to use it operationally.
I'm sorry.
So, let me tell you some of the stuff they figured out.
This was one of my favorites.
This was a big, big finding they had.
When a guy is about to bust, he doesn't like to share deep secrets.
So, the theory here was like, okay, we've noticed that prostitutes will get guys incredibly horny, and right before they bust, they sell them on a second thing, like on a new sex act that they're gonna pay for, and that works.
So they're like, I wonder if they'll tell us their bank account.
Like, no!
They're about to bust.
But!
But after he's busted, different story, if a prostitute stays for a few hours, he'll tell her all about his business endeavors.
And they figured out it's because if you go to prostitutes often, no prostitute has ever stayed behind after the sex.
So you just think, like, damn, I'm amazing.
And then you tell her, like, all about your business and shit.
So almost nothing to do with the sex, basically.
So this was a major breakthrough, of course, for the horny Protestant on his portable toilet, who was undoubtedly taking furious notes at this incredible finding.
Hijinks really kicked up a notch when the boys set up a porn stash.
We had a comprehensive library on Chestnut Street.
One agent who worked there later testified, the most pornographic library I ever saw.
Dirty movies, pictures, everything.
The CIA put it up there because of teaching these whores how to hump and how to turn to page 99 in the book.
It'll show you how to do what?
What, teaching whores how to fuck?
The CIA is so fucking stupid, they think they're gonna teach the whores how to fuck!
They only know about missionary!
Yeah, this is just your case of, you know, Mormon CIA agents, like, thinking that they know about shit.
They're Protestant and Mormons.
Yeah, it's pretty much a mix of Protestants and Mormons.
Well, what do you mean he doesn't just lay on her until she looks like she doesn't understand what's happening and then just... What do you mean she's got pleasure?
Remember, this is a guy who looks like Elmer Fudd and the other guy looks pretty much the same.
It's just these...
Morons.
Two fuds.
So clearly the operation was a fucking mess, right?
You're like, this is such a disaster, people being dosed and wandering off, like, the amount of loose ends are horrifying.
There's no fucking way they're gonna run this program for a long time, right?
Maybe six months, it'll be shut down?
Operation Midnight Climax lasted more than a decade.
In that time, Feldman refined his already highly sophisticated recruitment techniques I would go to these bars, various massage parlors, and these cunts, so sorry mom, I'm so ashamed, I'm so ashamed for the life, so sorry I had to say that, all thought that I was a racketeer.
Oh, that's it, that's it, sorry.
That's your, that's your, you were laughing at my embarrassment and I see you've forgotten your part.
Jake, to be fair, it's a little bit like playing your ultimate to bring your mom here because, just so I can treat you better, man.
That's what, she's like a force field.
She asked me before the show, she said, is Julian gonna be nice to you tonight?
And you know what I said?
I said no.
I said that's not what the fans want.
They want to see me treated like shit.
Look what you've done to me.
Look what you've done.
I hope you're happy.
Continue.
Feldman later told an interviewer all of this, and then he might, for example, want to see whether a subject working on a covert aviation program would reveal its secrets.
I says, hey honey, I want you to do a favor for me.
And I says, I want you to pick up Joe Blow, take him to the apartment, and give him a blowjob.
And while he's there, I want you to ask him, hey, you know that airplane?
How high does it fly?
We figured out how high the Soviet planes fly.
Incredible breakthrough.
Sometimes Feldman would join White behind the two-way mirror and watch the action alongside.
This allowed him to learn a lot about interrogation.
Again, so sorry.
If it was a girl, you put her tits in a drawer and you slam the drawer.
Feldman said.
If it was a guy, you took his cock and you hit it with the hammer.
The CIA!
Oh, we learned so much!
You know the CIA, what we used to do?
We'd take a woman's tits and put it in a drawer and slam it.
Then we'd hit a cock with a hammer.
Anyways, we learned a lot from watching these broads fuck.
Turns out you can do that instead.
Saved a lot of cocks and tits to know that.
And they would talk to you.
Now, with these drugs, you could get information without having to abuse people.
Oh well, it's humane when you put it like that.
So, White was impressed with the drugs in a more direct way as well.
given the drugs. Save yourself a couple of drawers, you know? I mean, these
shelving units are expensive, okay? We got breaking drawers left and right. I mean,
shit, we're costing the government tons of money. Black money, but you know, still.
So, White was impressed with the drugs in a more direct way as well. One of his
partners explained, he always wanted to try everything himself.
Whatever drugs they sent out, it didn't matter.
He wanted to see how they worked on him before they tried him on anyone else.
So, like, literally like shaved giant baby behind the two-way mirror, jacking off and drinking and pissing and everything.
Yeah, on top of all of that, he was just on the LSD as well, just taking notes like, Well, I mean, look, this could be like a chicken-chicken-in-the-egg case.
I mean, maybe he's drinking the martinis on the toilet because he's on LSD, you know what I mean?
Once in a while, Sidney Gottlieb would visit White and Feldman in San Francisco.
Now, being a top spymaster at the CIA with a PhD in chemistry, That made him a more refined intelligence operative than his less intellectual underlings.
Sidney would spend hours explaining the communist menace and criticizing the Kinsey Report on sexual behavior in the human male.
I'm joking, of course.
He mostly just had sex with prostitutes.
Gottlieb's visits to San Francisco were not purely business purposes.
Operation Midnight Climax gave him ready access to prostitutes.
According to Ira Feldman, he took full advantage of this prerequisite.
He was cock crazy, Feldman said.
While free associating about Gottlieb during a legal deposition near the end of his life.
While performing slam poetry about Sidney Gottlieb.
Dude, he's like dying in the fucking bed.
He's like, oh, oh, that guy, cock crazy.
Plus, I'm going to say, if you're cock crazy, that's because you want to use your cock?
Or is that, I don't... I would say... To me, if cock crazy is like, I want to have a lot of it.
You want as much cock as possible if you're cock crazy.
That's what I think.
I'm crazy about cock.
Doesn't tell me that I'm having a lot of sex.
He recalled complaining to George Hunter White, all he wants me to do is get him laid!
So that's the, by the way, the head of MKUltra.
So there's just an intelligence agency to the top.
You can write it to the top.
Soon Gottlieb tired of prostitutes and began fucking people's wives.
Specifically, George White's wife.
Gottlieb was humping his wife, he said.
They were very good friends.
I'd always pick him up.
We'd go there, we'd sit.
I don't drink.
But before you know it, White passed out in the bedroom, and Sidney was on the couch
with the old lady, humping her brains out.
George knew, but he, I think he loved her very much.
So Gottlieb was very satisfied with how Operation Midnight Climax was going.
He asked White to open a second safe house outside the city where they threw prostitute-filled parties and tested, quote, stink bombs, itching powder, sneezing powder, and diarrhea inducers.
On unwitting guests, of course.
So these are children.
If you have diarrhea and you understand why, that would suck.
So this is just a couple of boys getting together in a fraternity basement, ordering sip-offs from the back of a comic book.
Alright, we got a quote here from the book.
Gottlieb supplied devices for White to test, including a drug-laced swizzle stick, an ultra-thin hypodermic needle that could be used to poison a wine bottle through the cork, and glass capsules that would release noxious gases when they're crushed underfoot.
Over time, the boys got pretty sloppy.
They started dosing colleagues at parties, including a deputy federal marshal named Wayne Ritchie, who was drugged at a Christmas party and ended up panicking and trying to rob a bar at gunpoint.
He was arrested.
He lost his career and spiraled into depression.
22 years later, he read Gottlieb's obituary and finally figured out what had happened.
He sued the CIA.
The judge said, quote, if Ritchie's claims are indeed true, he has paid a terrible price in the name of national security.
But the judge didn't believe him, and Ritchie lost the case.
He never received any compensation.
No matter.
At the time, it was all just a party for the men of MKUltra, Subproject 42.
When he wasn't operating a national security whorehouse, White would cruise the streets of San Francisco, tracking down drug pushers for the Narcotics Bureau.
According to one survey of his career, sometimes, after a tough day on the beat, he invited his narco buddies up to one of the safe houses for a little R&R.
Occasionally, they unzipped their inhibitions and partied on the premises, much to the chagrin of the neighbors, who began to complain about men with guns and shoulder straps chasing after women in various states of undress.
Needless to say, there was always plenty of dope around, and the feds sampled everything from hashish to LSD.
White had quite a scene going for a while.
By day, he fought to keep drugs out of circulation, and by night, he dispensed them to strangers.
Operation Midnight Climax feels, in many ways, like a sort of rumspringa for psychotic Protestants who consider themselves above the law.
Through the program, the CIA purposefully targeted disenfranchised populations like prostitutes, drug addicts, and the poor, those who rarely had the resources to fight back if something went terribly, terribly wrong.
And, of course, it often did.
Eventually, Midnight Climax attracted the attention of higher-ups in the regime.
Kennedy replaced Alan Dulles with John McCone as director of the CIA.
Considered an outsider, McCone wasn't informed of some of the CIA's most sensitive activities, a term which covered the safe houses of operation, Midnight Climax, of course.
But eventually, Inspector General John Ehrman found out about them, and he set out to shut them down.
Here's from Kinsey.
The Inspector General cited the risks of exposure and pointed out that many people both inside and outside the agency found, quote, the concepts involved in manipulating human behavior to be distasteful and unethical.
McCone reacted by putting off a final decision but suspending unwitting testing in the meantime.
After a battle, Ehrman was successful in shutting down the operation.
Despite the fierce opposition of Richard Helms, a friend of Gottlieb who would go on to become the CIA director in 1966.
Even he would admit that, quote, we have no answer to the moral issue.
In reference to their drugging of civilians against their knowledge, of course.
Which they just called unwitting testing.
The San Francisco safe house at the center of Operation Midnight Climax was closed in 1965, approximately a decade after it opened.
225 Chestnut Street now looks like a generic residential duplex.
To close this segment, I wanted to read a passage from McKinsey that I think really kind of captures this entire operation.
So, I'm going to read this passage.
And that is Operation Midnight Climax.
Mmm. Mmm.
Now, if you are a listener of the show, you know we like to finish our episodes with a very nice Jake story.
This week he has created a sequel to Florida Flynn's Adventures.
The live show is a bit different than his usual setting, of course, but that should not worry you.
He has personally asked me, I'm not kidding, to tell you that he painstakingly recreated the circumstances that helped birth his usual masterpieces.
That is, it was very late at night, the night before the show, glossy-eyed, and eating trash like a critter.
And probably on drugs.
On that note, it is now time for the intermission!
So go get your heads ready for this sequel to the Florida Flynn saga, have a drink, and we will start the show again in about 15 minutes.
Thank you so much.
Thank you.
Is everybody back?
Everybody had a nice little break?
Went to the parking lot?
Smoked some of that stickiest hickey?
Your mother is here!
It's legal in this state.
Yeah, it's legal.
What are you talking about?
It's fine.
Please put your hands together for everybody's favorite storyteller, Jake Rokotansky!
This story is titled, Florida Flynn and the Midnight Climax.
Yeah!
Oh, my God.
And so, in summary, the Hebrew scripture presents Moloch as a foreign deity who is at times, illegitimately given a place in Israel's worship.
Although some scholars, including myself, think that there's far more to the story.
A school bell rang.
No.
No.
Give me a second.
Sorry.
A school bell rang.
Florida Flynn, wearing a brown tweed suit and thin-rimmed glasses, glanced at a pocket watch jutting out of his suit coat.
That's it for me.
Remember, next week you're going to be quizzed on all things demonic and occult, so I highly recommend going to church over the weekend.
That's it.
Florida Flynn stared out into a completely empty lecture hall.
He startled a bit when a janitor opened the classroom door and peeked his head in.
What are you doing here?
Class hasn't been in session for over three weeks!
Go outside and be with your family for Christ's sake!
The janitor grinned and shook his head as he disappeared, allowing the creaky classroom door to slowly shut behind
him.
Family.
The word echoed over in Flynn's head.
It had been months since he'd seen his father.
Last they talked, Flynn Sr.
was taking off on the wings of a dragon he had unearthed and resuscitated somewhere in the white-peaked Sierra del Norte mountains outside of Madrid.
Without the guiding light of his father, Flynn felt lost.
His small one-bedroom apartment had become a dirty clothes pile.
He barely ate or slept.
He had even downgraded to dial-up internet.
Without his father around, what was the use of having all those extra megabytes per second?
Unsure of what to do, Flynn had been wandering onto campus, continuing to give lectures on demonic forces, child sacrifice, and the occult.
He knew a little bit extra fully.
He knew full well that summer break had started almost a month ago, but with motivation to do little else, he had found comfort in the routine.
Flynn walked home, a worn leather bag slung over his shoulder down the hot, empty streets of Tampa, Florida.
He wiped the sweat from his brow, glancing up at a restaurant sign.
Joe abs craps it said Fuck off
I'm off.
Hahahahaha!
Flynn felt a tidal wave of emotions.
He and his father used to eat here once a week.
He smiled, remembering the time Michael Sr.
had spilled hot butter down his shirt, and instead of making a scene, had instead just dipped his crab's legs into his belly button for the remainder of the meal.
Flynn lowered his gaze and stared off into the sweltering city streets.
Would he ever see his dad again?
What was so great about the mud fossil guy anyways?
He quickly found himself angry, jealous.
What was the point?
No matter how sad he felt, it wouldn't bring his dad any closer.
Flynn knew dragons could fly anywhere they desired.
Florida Flynn jiggled his keys into a rusty old mailbox.
The flap opened, and he carefully reached inside and grabbed a small pile of letters.
He began to flip through them.
Amongst the DMV notices and Bed Bath & Beyond coupons, a small weathered envelope caught his eye.
He recognized the handwriting immediately.
Flynn's heart began to race.
He shoved the DMV notices back into the box, but saved the coupons, slammed the flap shut, and took up off the stairs towards his flat.
As soon as he was inside, Flynn spun around, latching two separate locks on the door.
He rushed over to the windows and drew the blinds, shrouding the room in almost total darkness.
Florida Flynn reached into his front pocket and produced a small book of matches.
With a flash and a hiss, he struck a match and lowered it onto a nearby candle.
With the flames flickering off his soft, dumb face, he sat down on a worn leather couch in the center of the living room.
In his hand was the letter from Michael Flynn Sr.
Junior, I hope this message finds you well.
I'm in grave danger, and there's little time to explain.
Spurr was an op boy.
He used me to find the Dragon Boy.
And now the CIA is after us, and I've lost her.
The Dragon?
asked Flynn Jr.
out loud.
Yes, boy, the Dragon.
I've lost her.
A shiver went down Flynn Jr.' 's spine.
Wait a minute.
Did you just answer my own thought?
In my head?
Quite precisely, yes, Flynn Sr.
replied.
If you haven't discovered by now, I'm talking to you in real time with the help of voice-to-skull technology,
one of the perks of being imprisoned in a black site bunker owned by the bloody clowns!
Hahahahaha!
Ahhhh...
Flynn Jr.
allowed his gaze to fall.
The envelope was still in his hands, unopened.
Incredible, Flynn Jr.
remarked, with the power of both their brains in his head.
With the power of both their brains in his head.
Florida Flynn was certain that together he and his father would find the dragon and defeat the clowns in America once and for all.
But how do I get to you?
I can't afford to fly to Morocco or Madrid or wherever the hell you are.
Open the letter.
What?
Open the letter.
Florida Flynn paused.
He glanced down at the still sealed envelope in his hands.
Go on.
He dug his finger under the flap and cleanly opened up the small envelope.
Inside was a plane ticket.
The destination?
San Francisco.
Flynn Jr.' 's face soured a bit.
San Francisco?
What if I don't want to go?
There was a slight pause.
It was almost as if Flynn Jr.
could hear his father sighing, taking off his glasses, and rubbing the bridge of his nose.
Then I'm afraid we're lost, boy.
You see, a war is coming.
A war?
A war with who?
A war between the Giants and the Dragons, boy!
The bloody CIA is funding the damn thing!
Haven't you been reading my emails?
Flynn Jr.
glanced over at his yellow, smoke-stained Dell computer.
A dial-up modem blipped lazily next to it.
Dead.
Forgive me, but Flynn Sr.
cut him off.
There's no time.
You must go to San Francisco.
You'll be looking for a girl.
Her name is Anne VanderSteel.
She's in a flat somewhere on Telegraph Hill.
Find her.
You find me.
Wait.
They're coming.
I must leave you.
Be careful, boy.
You're our only hope.
And he was gone.
Flynn Jr.' 's thoughts were once again his own.
He collapsed on the couch, exhausted from the mind meld.
Giants and dragons?
What did it all mean?
Had the old man finally lost it?
Sick with brain worm from decades of deep diving into conspiracy theories on the internet?
No, Flynn thought.
His dad was probably right.
A war between two ancient god-like species would explain the extreme division in the country.
A division he was certain the Deep State would capitalize on.
There was only one problem.
I hate San Francisco.
The streets were vacant and bare as Florida Flynn set foot into what was once called the
Golden City.
The tech companies had ravaged what was once a beautiful and peaceful land and had isolated themselves inside a protective dome, leaving the outer city to rot and deteriorate.
Hot neon and sewer fog hung thick in the air as Florida made his way through the seedy side streets and alleyways.
Sleek electronic automobiles floated by vast tent cities filled with those Silicon Valley had tossed aside.
Before long, Flynn found himself on Telegraph Hill.
He paced up and down the streets, waiting.
For what?
He wasn't sure.
Looking for someone?
A woman's voice cut through the fog.
Flynn spun around.
A pretty blonde, middle-aged woman was standing delicately in a lit doorway.
Maybe?
Florida Flynn flashed a sheepish but charming grin at the woman.
She smiled back.
I suppose you're looking for me, then?
My name is Anne VanderSteel.
I knew your father.
Flynn nodded but seemed hesitant.
Would you like to come up?
I could tell you everything I know.
In fact, I was just about to make a drink.
Reluctantly, Flynn Jr.
followed her into the dingy flat, closing an iron gate behind them.
The flat was clean.
A single studio with a small kitchenette and a large bed shoved into the corner of the room.
Ann walked over to a small kitchen counter and plunked down two glasses.
Whiskey okay?
Fine, said Flynn.
He reached up and removed his hat before setting it down on the counter.
Would you mind telling me what the clock says on the far wall?
The kitchen one is broken.
As Flynn craned his neck to get a reading off the clock, Anne quickly slipped a small pinch of a dusty golden substance into one of the drinks.
11.45, Flynn said.
Thanks.
She finished making the drinks and handed one to Flynn Jr.
To finding your father, she raised her glass.
Flynn Jr.
gently temped his against hers and took a long thirsty pull.
The booze flowed through his veins like rays of 1,000 suns.
Before he knew it, he and Anne were all over one another, engaged in an elaborate tango of body and soul.
LAUGHTER Flynn could slowly feel his inner lining falling away,
leaving an empty vessel, ready to receive whatever gift the gods had prepared for him.
LAUGHTER After they had extracted each other's essence.
Come on!
Extracted each other's essence?
My parents were here.
I tried to make it, you know... That is way more pornographic than just saying something horrifyingly sexual.
Well, oh well, Julian.
Tough tooties.
I feel like I just came with my pants on.
Flynn glanced over once again at the small clock on the far side of the room.
12.02.
He chuckled to himself.
He had climaxed almost exactly at midnight.
And then I wrote, like, pause for applause in the documents.
right there. Thank you. This is a fucking telethon.
This is a charity at this point.
Flynn basked in the afterglow as Anne ran her nails across his chest.
So what did your father say exactly the last time you talked to him?
Flynn raised his eyebrows and shrugged.
He opened his mouth to speak when another voice came slamming into his brain like a goddamn semi.
It was Michael Sr.
Keep quiet about the Giants, boy.
She can't be trusted.
But it was too late.
The words were already pouring out of Flynn Jr.' 's mouth.
Whatever Ann had slipped into his drink was working.
And Florida was spilling the beans.
He said there'd be a war.
Dragons.
Giants.
Hundred stories high.
Dragons the size of mountain ranges.
CIA pulling the strings.
Michael Flynn Sr.
cried out in vain.
Why don't you give the bloody code to the family safe while you're at it?
As Florida struggled to maintain a grip on reality, he became increasingly aware of a large glass window on one side of the studio.
He had seen that kind of glass before.
Interrogation rooms.
Someone was watching.
Without warning, he picked up a nearby chair and flung it into the window, shattering the glass.
And exposing a man sitting on the other side with his pants around his ankles on a small toilet drinking a martini.
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