The Beast

It’s nighttime again, and my soul is wearily drawn to wake up in a new dream Hell, where I haven’t checked in with my Correctional Officers in a while. A whirlwind sucks me in, but this time it feels less forceful. I feel a need and a duty to go there like I have to see an old friend of mine that I haven’t checked on in a while.

I find myself in the same place I did twice before but on a different level. It no longer looks like a cell for one, it’s a private cinema, of the kinds you would only get to see in custom-built mansions of the rich and famous. It sports a large flamboyant designer couch as a centerpiece. There are open cigarettes and liquor as if the room’s previous occupant has just left it not long ago.

I get an instant sense that they’ve left the room for me to use, and that there is something in there for me.

I get a sense this room belongs to somebody related to me, who feels no need for austerity when it comes to indulgence. There are probably drugs, every kind of drug stashed in the adjacent liquor cabinet built into the seating, but I am more interested in finding out what is on screen.

Oh, it’s a movie premiere.

There I spot a formal invitation on the armrest, an RSVP printed in black and gold letters:

The Beast

Executive Producer

Nora Michalska

It’s weird because there is no cast of actors, screenwriters, make-up artists, or costume designers. It’s just me as the picture’s Executive Producer. I am responsible for everything in the story. A feeling of uneasy excitement washes over me. After the opening credits that flash at me, accusatory, too long in black and white, the story starts unfolding —

This is a story of a man with a violent past. Flashing images of drugs, ligatures, cartel violence, bags dropped in a wasteland. Long shot of a man standing next to a car alone, washing off red brick dust from his hands with a bottle of water like it’s the color of his sin that he needs to wash away. The scenery moves away from those images after that, showing a greener landscape. It is implied he got out of it, and he’s embraced some new business with a sense of urgency like his redemption lies in sticking with it.

Images of dissatisfaction. Leather boots kicking against a rock in a rocking motion. Waiting, waiting on something, someone, to come, for something to happen. But nothing does and it leads to anguish. He tries to go back to something, tries to start something new, but he can’t. He’s weighed down by this burden. Images of red and brown sand, it’s not dust anymore. It’s heavier, reminiscent of the motion of a sand clock. He dons a white shirt and takes to drinking. A woman in a white dress joins him in the landscape. He clutches her hand in the car like it’s the preferred choice to the bottle – or maybe the bottle alone does not suffice anymore. A road trip leads them back into his past, without seeking to do so, without ever intending to go back there, there he is, older, somewhere near the same place where he washed his hands in the first scene.

We see a campfire at night. Two sweethearts in a state of blissfully intoxicated, they make an oath of love and loyalty to each other. She proposes they should bind themselves by sharing a secret that nobody else knows about him. He confides in her about this monster that lives inside him, that he calls ‘It’, or ‘the Beast’. He implies that the ‘It’ has taken lives, and still wants to, and the reason he cannot leave his business is because he is afraid that It will come back and take over him. He is desperate. She listens intently without judgment, and draws the conversation back to romance, she assures him that she loves him so much that she can make sure he will never again be the Beast and that she will support his business career. He drives her to a spot where it all went down, and gives her a Ring of Promise. He stands alone against the sun, blinded by the light.

Only gentle distant whirlwinds of a white sandstorm are seen in the background.

A few years go by.

We see his old shirts folded and tucked underneath the bed in vacuum storage. He won’t need them anymore. The bottle is replaced now by something he’s injecting. It’s a false victory, a side move, but he doesn’t want to see that. Leather boots kicked against the rock sand, trying to create a rhythm. He wants to master this thing. Just get a grip on it! He can do this. The woman’s hand with the ring is shown laid over his clenched fists. The image blurs into strains of sand, raining down, all different colors, and for the first time, we can also hear them. The pouring sound. Now they too, have a rhythm. The business starts struggling and failing, because of a press scandal containing an old murder that he has nothing to do with, he is innocent this time, but the strains of sand are working. The more he speaks, the less the public believes him. His old guilt implicates him. The white shirt becomes soiled from constant sweating. The woman becomes aggravated. They argue. Despair. Blame each other. Hopes, then making up. In one image, her ring suddenly disappears from her hand. Somebody doesn’t feel bound by their promise anymore. He grabs her hand violently. She makes a counter motion, sly, pointing her hand to the place where she got the ring. He realizes he is being blackmailed. Now everything is ruined, and there is nothing he can do about it about it. His face becomes gray. He steps into the background. She appears in the forefront, white, as if saying the only way out is death now.

He attempts to kill himself.

In a near-death coma, he perceives everything around him. He perceives himself in a cage made out of false white light.

He looks at his arms, and they are bound with shackles. Those shackles go back somewhere, far. He cannot see where. There is no point in time where everything went wrong. One chain link is tightly interlocked with another, and the next one follows from there.

He is close to dying, but there is something that catches his attention. Observing this cage makes him think of something he has pushed from his mind.

The Beast. The Monster.

His face trembles with denial. Then, anger. Then, RAGE. He realizes the Beast has never gone anywhere, it’s been him all along, and this is why he is caged, bound like an animal, he feels no freedom.

He snaps out of the coma and screams with rage. Now he doesn’t want to die, and he feels joy, it’s a Dark Joy. The picture starts turning green, representing all the business, money, a lush landscape, he turned away from crime, no, it’s another green completely, it’s poison and it’s flooding him now, drowning out the white light, he succumbs to it.

He is back where he started.

The story ends with visuals of him gathering stuff ready to take care of business, loading his 9mm gun, moving musically like it’s a good thing. Like it’s the right thing to do. He will save himself from blackmail, but what he is actually ending, is the lie. He understands now that the promise that another’s love can make the Beast go away was a lie all along, a sinister lie sold to him for a purpose.

Nobody can save him from the Beast. It is who he is, and only in accepting it, he finds redemption.

We hear the sounds of the last things packed up, as he throws on a jacket, throws car keys, and then a loud, violent door slam that resembles a gunshot. The door he enters looks green and gets flooded with light like just entered a primal jungle. As he disappears in the green doors he appears less than human, more of a supernatural force, just a silhouette, something impersonal. Justice. It is implied the woman deserves to die for lying; she was not accepting the Beast in loving understanding, she saw its power and was seeking to use it. Now that he acts by his true nature there is no more anguish, no more dissatisfaction, or even doubt. Everything becomes clear. Where once he believed that renouncing the Beast was the only way to move forward in life, he knows now that the Beast is the only one that has a future, however grim that future might be.

You are who you are, Louis. You are a vampire.

Interview with a Vampire

He who controls the story, rules the masses.

Chinese Proverb

Two quotes flash on the black screen and the movie is over.

To my left, I feel a dark presence.

Lucifer himself is here.

I know he is about to say something, make a point, but he doesn’t need to. I sense instinctively what he is trying to communicate to me, that this is a pivotal name.

I have become the creator of the story that I am watching.

The Duke of Hell speaks to my mind, directly.

There is only one story that really matters to me. Focus on it.

He is serious with words, and sparse.

There is only one lead character and one support character of importance. You know this already. I am not telling you anything new.

Then the dark presence disappears with what feels like a nudge and a wink, and I am looking at the RSVP card in my right hand. I realize it looks identical to the invitation to a show I have seen twice in Las Vegas, which was supposed to be followed by a lavish dinner that however never occurred.

I flip the RSVP. Something was added to its other side in cursive handwriting —

“Perhaps we will talk about the conditions of your release soon. Signed, Baron”

One hand on the trigger, the other hand in mine
Because now Cupid carries a gun
Pound me the witch drums, witch drums
Pound me the witch drums
Better pray for hell, not hallelujah

— Marylin Manson

Yuletide Blessings to Y’all

The Winter Solstice was a very positive Holy Day to my Ancestors because we are leaving the domain of the accursed Black God, Chernobog, behind and we are entering the domain of Belobog, the God of Sunrise.

Animals and children are especially blessed at this time of the year. It’s a good time to contact Morana, the Goddess of Winter who protects women and children and those in need. This is a fortunate time for making new contracts, lucky charms, and prosperity spells.

As the Wheel turns, things are going to take on a more positive tone in the New Year.

As the TikTok generation would say, ‘It’s going to be lit.’

There was a mass shooting at my old university in Prague today. It’s the first and worst mass casualty event in fifty years. I do not take lightly the name of Chernobog, for it is always always followed by slaughter whenever pronounced.

‘I hate this world, this world hates me, and I want to create as much pain as possible,’ were the shooter’s written words.

This sacrificial act of blind violence and terror is a good time to ponder one’s mortality, and the need for a Black Magician to find their own way out of the Infernal Ring of Vengeance, and to consider what is left behind as the heritage of a man who chose Vengeance over all.

Not exactly a Christmas Speech, I know, but since I have been visited a lot by Sammael, this is what he has been teaching me…

Anima Noira

Samael Drives the carriage

Samael is an utterly inhuman force. He likes to point that out to me when he shows in heavy warpaint that takes away facial features. More often than not, when he shows he doesn’t come as humanoid at all, but as a force majeure, a force of nature. I have seen it shut down airports, remove large objects, and most recently he came as a storm that physically stopped me at the crossroads when going to buy groceries. The wind was so hard it felt like I was being whipped by my own hair, dust bins flying down the street. I could not pass the highway that day. I had to give up and I barely made my way back home. He has been around me ever since I was force-returned to Las Vegas, and I get a sense he is babysitting me here while we await something major.

Yesterday I had a disturbing encounter with what could only have been him, in yet another form. A young cab driver picked me up on my way home from the grocery store, and immediately something felt unusual about this man. Not only was he heavily tattooed, exuding a tribal timeless feel, but he was so tall he could barely fit himself into the car.

Inside, I found myself set up for a dark surprise.

The driver had some True Crime show on his radio, something I have never seen anyone do before – and I thought when it comes to all the cabbies driving the Devil’s Carriage, I’ve heard if all… from bible preaching lectures to strange ads talking to me, or demonic laughter.

I was forced to listen to this harrowing tale of some teenager being kidnapped in 1995, unable to turn my attention away, but also somehow unable to ask him to make it stop. And now this story will be with me forever. Especially the part about the boy passing out from the pain and injuries several times, as he crawled down the stairs, broken ankles and all, to reach the phone. He escaped, and he survived, so it was a ‘happy tale’, but… The Lord of Torment has a weird taste in dispensing wisdom. I was just stuck there listening and unable to make it go away; the Voice of Death is so suave he could be talking about anything and I would still love him to death. Pun intended.

Black Cat Wins the Spiritual War of Las Vegas

Speaking of black cats working for the Devil, the Spiritual War of Las Vegas, and Lucifer H.I.M.self who shows as a Black Cat, notoriously… In repressed news that you won’t hear on mainstream TV, for obvious reasons, a group of hackers called ‘Black Cat’ are currently holding hostage the entire MGM entertainment complex in Las Vegas, costing them a staggering loss of $ 13,000,000 every day the standoff continues. Every single slot machine, front desk computer and even parking lot machine in the south half of the Strip has been down. I have seen it. People are being checked into the hotels manually with clipboards. They keep releasing fake press releases, so that ‘what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’ but nah. You know what me thinks – this is no accident that this happened just as I aired the new episode about the Spiritual War of Las Vegas ~

I showed a lot of cats there. Meow.

My personal take on things is that the Boss, acting as the Black Cat, is simply moving around his financial resources between different Departments of Hell. After all not even His resources are unlimited 🙂 By the way, it is undeniable that MGM’s main rival the Caesar’s Entertainment Complex, has actually paid their ransom at an earlier date.

Maybe this whole story will be one day made into a movie.

Occult Meaning of True Detective Season 1

True Detective, the dark crime thriller series touched such a nerve that it provoked a wild conspiracy that it’s ‘based upon a true story’, something that the very name, after all, implies. Characterized as a Gothic or Neo-Noir Thriller, the series connects many themes from human sacrifice, to evangelical religion, drugs, atheism, Nietzchean philosophy of Pessimism, and themes from H.P. Lovecraft. We delve into the esoteric occult meaning of this purported True Crime, one of a surviving Ancient Pagan Cult that still practices human sacrifice.

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The Black Disciples: Occult background of Chicago Gang Wars

The Devil’s Disciples was the original founded name of the infamous Chicago gang, The Black Disciples. From there springs the most pivotal war in this entire country – a war so bad they don’t even want to scare the public anymore. One of my listeners, an Occultist from Chicago, has provided me with fascinating material under the promise of anonymity, and we are going to cover it all – meetings at abandoned churches for witchcraft, an occult map of Chicago, and Harvesting of Souls…

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The Sad Harvest: Baneful Magic and the Dying Bride

Taking a human life through metaphysical means is serious business. Anybody who doesn’t realize that is a moron, and an asinine waste of flesh. People who take pictures of themselves with a stash of coffin boxes meant for D.U.M.E (Death Unto My Enemies) curses are just proving that they don’t understand the meaning of any of the words they are using. They actually deserve to fuck around and find out the things I am going to discuss, on their own terms.

There’s been a lot of ink spilled over the questions of the morality of such magical attacks, and using magic for uncivilized deeds and for personal gain. I will not waste the pen on those. Instead, I want to relate to you some Old Lore, the observations that come from practice. That which I have witnessed to work, and to happen when these powers are invoked for baneful purposes, and a story of a dying bride that was told to me by an old witch who is not with us anymore because she failed to honor the taboos herself.

Baneful magic in its most classical form that leads to the demise of an otherwise healthy victim, when performed correctly, takes about a year to manifest. You can devastate people’s lives faster, or even cripple them irreparably, but the road from wellness to death is a long road. That makes it a rather slow-acting means of justice or removal of enemies, and if that’s what you’re looking for. I have heard those who mastered it speak in front of me begrudgingly about the relative uselessness of such harsh measures in a situation where they simply do not have that kind of time frame in mind, and they need for things to shift fast. A witch who was stuck in a marital triangle had the means to get rid of her love rival, but knowing it would likely take two years of her life, some terrible disease and dying, she commiserated to me, ‘I wish I could kill quickly.’

She was well aware that in her situation seeing her rival die, and all the loss and drama that would befall the family, would make her life sour, and that she would likely not be interested in winning the man if she had to wait that long.

Sometimes, people are so hell-bent on a goal that they will, in fact, wait for the inevitable, on this path of no redemption. One such story that reached me from the witches in the Black Forest was about a jilted bride, who was somebody known to them personally. It was a young woman who was engaged to be married when a few weeks before the wedding her fiance did the unimaginable – he called off the nuptials, and instead, he married another woman. The scandal and shame for the jilted bride were beyond the imagination of our sensitivities today. Back in the day, this was a big thing. A matter of family honor that was met with a harsh vengeance. She went to the witches and worked with them against the new bride, using terrible means of folk magic which I will not repeat here suffice to say the ritual elaborated on the notion of using decay and dripping water, and the victim’s personal effects in order to destroy her life force. In American hoodoo, these customs are still practiced, where an object will be disposed of in a tidal estuary, causing the victim never-ending trouble.

The spell was successful, her rival died of cancer within a few years of the accursed wedding. The rest of the story is tragic. With her old flame now being free of societal obligation as a widower, he was approached but the flame could not be ignited because this man from watching his wife wither and die became so traumatized and partially insane, that he left all of his possessions behind him, and moved to a foreign land.

If you want to “kill” someone, perhaps think again. Is that what you want? Or is it actually, you need to make them stop doing what they’re doing. You need them to get out of the way. You want to see them suffer loss. All of these motivations might blend in at the height of passion, but they render very different outcomes in ritual. There is much less to consider if you just want to ruin someone, through any and all means, to fuck them up. Especially when you don’t care about collateral damage inflicted upon those near them. For that is the nature of curses – unless performed with surgical precision, they will uncontrollably spread to those around, and create suffering that wants to attach to the target, in any way.

It’s far too common for people to fantasize, or fanaticize themselves into believing someone’s death is the best or the only solution to the matter at hand. They don’t think it through. Honestly, they can’t. There is always a significant element of surprise in the Works of Magic. What I warn about is for us to follow that well-known forsaken path that has been captured by crime stories so well – one corpse looks like a tempting solution to all problems, but more problems are created in the wake of the events. This is where poor judgment leads to what one sorceress has described as ‘the pyramid of wrong decisions’ that just builds up, and carries momentum that oftentimes ends up swallowing up the caster, or in stories such as the one of the corpse bride, you end up with a metaphorical rather than actual pile of corpses, some of which belong to your dreams.