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lILY MAE MARTIN•REBECCA MURPHY•SPIRITCAGE•JESSE PEPER•MARNIE PITTS•JEREMY CROSS•DEAN FLEMING•MICHAEL T. GILBERT•CAROLINE PIERCE•MATHEW SHARP•VINCE PENDLETON•ALATHEA HOURSERIGHT•SZANDORA LaVEY•BRIANA MALMSTROM•CHET ZAR•KIM MAYHEW•FRATER PUCK•DREW DAYWALT•JOHN U. ABRAHAMSON•JEFF FARLEY•KEVIN RIEPL•DEMO DAWG•KRAWCZYK STANISLAV•KOSHKA BLACK•EERIE VON
F I R E M A S S
C O V E R A R T I S T- C H E T Z A R
P U B L I S H E R / E D I T O R / A R T D I R E C T O R / D E S I G N E R / P E S T- S P I R I T C A G E
P U N C H I N G B A G -V I N C E P EN D L ET O N V O I C E O F R EA S O N - A L AT H EA H O U S E R I G H T
C o p y r i ght © 2 0 1 0 b y V i o l e nt Sp i r i t Me d i a . I nd i v i d u a l w o r k s a r e C o p y r i g ht © 2010 b y t he i r r e s p e c t i v e c r e a t o r s . A l l r i ght s r e s e r v e d . A l l i nq u i r i e s s ho u l d b e a d d r e s s e d t o s p i r i t c a g e @ g m a i l . c om F I R E MA S S i s p u b l i s he d w he n i t ’ s r e a d y . F I R E M A S S o n t he w e b : f i r e m a s s z i ne . c o m D e d i c a t e d t o m y l i t t l e b r o t he r .
“IN THE MAGICAL UNIVERSE THERE ARE NO COINCIDENCES AND THERE ARE NO ACCIDENTS. NOTHING HAPPENS UN“ I N T H E SM A G IM A O N E IW EL LS E I T HTE R E A P P E N .” L E S SO C E L UN VI R S T O HARE NO COINCIDENCES AND THERE ARE NO ACCIDENTS. NOTHING HAPPENS UNL E S S S O M E O N E W I L L S I T T “ I N A P P E N .” G I C A L U N I V E R S E T H E R E A R E N O C O I N C I D E N C E S O H THE MA “ I N T H E M A G I C A L U N I V E R SN D H E R E E R E E N O A C C I D E “ I T S T H E MH IG I G AH A PN IE N S S ENT H E R E A R E A E T THER A AR N N . NOT A N C L U P VER U LESS N O C O I N C I D E N C E S A N D T H E RE OA R E W IO L S I T T O H A P PN O .” O I N C I D E N C E S A N D T H E R E A R E N O SOM E NE N L EN C ACCIDENTS. NOTHING HAPPENS UNA AG CAL S. NOTH T G H PPE “ I N T H E MC C I ID E N TU N I V E R S EI NH E R EAA R E N S U N I N T W LLS IT AL HAPPEN E L E S S S O M E“ON E H E I M A G I C T O U N I V E R S.” T H E R ENA R C O I NLC IS SE S O MSE O N D WH L L S I A R E N O P P E N .” E D NCE A E T I ERE T TO HA O E N O C O I N C I D E N C E S A N D T H E R E A R A C COD E N T S . N O T H I N G H A P P E N S U N E N I A C C I D E N T S . N O T H I N G H A P P E N S L E S S- S O M E O N E W I L L S I T T O H A P P E N .” UN L E S S S O M E O N E W I L L S I T T O H A P P E N .”
“IN THE MAGICAL UNIVERSE THERE ARE NO COINCIDENCES AND THERE ARE NO “IN THE MAGICAL UNIVERSE THERE ARE ACCIDENTS. NOTHING HAPPENS UNNO COINCIDENCES AND THERE ARE NO “ I N T H ED E N G SC AN O T H VN G S E T H E R E A R U “ I-N T H E M ALG ISC AS O M E V E R S WT L LESR IET ATR E H A P P E N .” E S L UNI ONE E I H O ACCI MA T I . L UNI I ER HAPPENS E N N OL E S SI N C IM E N C E S W IN DS TIH ET O H A P PN O .” O C O I N C I D E N C E S A N D T H E R E A R E N O CO SO D EONE A LL T RE ARE EN N ACCIDENTS. NOTHING HAPPENS UN- ACCIDENTS. NOTHING HAPPENS UNL E S SO C E L UN VI R S T O HARE L E S T S E M A G I E L I L L I T S E H A P P E A .” “ I N T H E SM A G IM A O N E IW EL LS E I T HTE R E A P P E N .” “ I N S H O M E O NC AW U N SVIE RT O T H E R E N R E N O C O I N C I D E N C“E S A H E M H E R C A LRU NN V E R S E T HO R E AN C I D E N C E S A N D T H E R E A R E N O N E COI RE IN TND T AGI E A E I O A C C I D E N T S . N O TO IC O I N H I D E N C E S A N D T H E R EC A I D E N O S . N O T H I N G H A P P E N S U N H NG C APPENS UNA CRE NT N L E S S S O M E O N E A CI C LD EI N T S . H AO T H IN .” H A P P E S S IS OTN -E O NA GWC AL SUIN I T O R SA P P EE R.” A R E W LI S T TO N PPE NG L E N “ NU M E M E I I L L T V E H E T H N E S H
“IN THE MAGICAL UNIVERSE THERE ARE N O C O I N C I D E N C E S A N D T H E R E A R E N“ I N T H E M A G I C A L U N I V E R S E T H E R E A R E O N A C C I D E N T S . N O T H I N G H A P P E N S U N -O C O I N C I D E N C E S A N D T H E R E A R E N O A U R “I N H N AGI I AL NI PPEN L E S S S O M E O N E W I L L S I T T O H A P P E N .” C C I D EN T S .E M O T HC N G U H AV E R S EST H EN -E A R E “ I N T H E M A G I C A L U N I V E R S E T H E R E E SR E NO M E O N C I“D NLTC E I T AA G I CAHLPU E I.”R E S E T H E R E A R E A S S O C O I E WE NLH ESMTN DHTAPE R N A E R N O I I S L O EN V N O C O I N C I D E N C E S A N D T H E R E A R E N O A C C I D E N T S . O N O T N I ND E N C EP PA N S T HN -R E A R E N O N COIHCI G HA S END U E A C C I“DN N T S . M AO T H AN G NH V E R S E T H E R E-L ER E S O M E O N E D E NLT S . I T T O H IA P P EH A P P E N S U N A C C I W I L S N O T H N G N .” I E THE N GIC I L U I APPENS UN A SS L E S SNS O C O IO N EDW NLC E SI T N O HH E R E N .” E N O L E S S S O M E O N E W I L L S I T T O H A P P E N .” O ME NCI E I LS A TD T APPE AR ACCIDENTS. NOTHING HAPPENS UNL E S S S O M E O N E W I L L S I T T O H A P P E N .”
“IN THE MAGICAL UNIVERSE THERE ARE NO COINCIDENCES AND THERE ARE NO ACCIDENTS. NOTHING HAPPENS UNLESS SOMEONE WILLS IT TO H A P P E N .”WILLIAM S. BURROUGHS
“IN THE MAGICAL UNIVERSE THERE ARE NO COINCIDENCES AND THERE ARE NO “IN THE MAGICAL UNIVERSE THERE ARE ACCIDENTS. NOTHING HAPPENS UNNO COINCIDENCES AND THERE ARE NO L E S S S O M E O N E W I L L S I T T O H A P P E N .” ACCIDENTS. NOTHING HAPPENS UNL E S S S O M E O N E W I L L S I T T O H A P P E N .”
L G C SOME VER W LL E I E T R P O .” “ I N T H E M AE SI S A L U N IO N E S E IT H S R T A O EH A P N E NC O I N C I D E N C E S A N D T H E R E A R E N O ACCIDENTS. NOTHING HAPPENS UNNO COINCIDENCES AND THERE ARE NO L IS E SO THERE W L A C C I D E N T S . N O T H I N G “ IH AT H E N S GU C A L U NE V S R S EM E O N E A RI E L S I T T O H A P P E N .” N PPE MA I NN THE MA L E S S S O M E O N E W I L L S IN O O O IA P P E N .” C E S A N D T H E“ IE A R E N O G I C A L U N I V E R S E T H E R E A R E T T C H NCIDEN R NO COINCIDENCES AND THERE ARE NO ACCIDENTS. NOTHING HAPPENS UNACCIDENTS. NOTHING HAPPENS UNL E S S S O M E O N E W I L L S I T T O H A P P E N .” L E S S S O M E O N E W I L L S I T T O H A P P E N .”
L I LY M A E M A R T I N
Brothers Grim Part Tw o
H y steria
HAVE YOU EVER GIVEN TH O U G H T T O T H E P O S S I B I L I T Y T H A T A SPIRIT YOU ENCOUNTER C O U L D B E T H A T O F A P R I M A T E ? A N ANGRY APE THROWING TH I N G S A R O U N D . L O C K E D I N A C A G E I N LIFE AND LOCKED IN A CA G E I N D E A T H .
GUN IN HER M O U T H . SHE SOBS C O U G H S B L O O D S N O T DOWN HER CHIN. SEMEN ON THE DASHB O A R D . SOLDIER TOM WILL N O T H AV E MY SOUL. I GRIN AND HUM A BLACK SA B BAT H SONG AND I S C R AT C H MY EAR. I DON’T H AV E A N Y M O R E CIGS. I SEE A DEMON ON A ROOF AND IT SEES ME. I N O D, I T NODS, I SQUEEZE THE TRIGG E R . B R A I N S A N D SKULL AND B R O K E N GLASS. I R U N AWAY.
THE SURFA C E O F L E A D BULLETS F I R E D AT H I G H VELOCI T Y M AY M E L T DUE TO H O T G A S E S BEHIND A N D F R I C T I O N W I T H T H E B O R E . BECAUSE COPPER HAS A HIGHER M E LT I N G P O I N T, A N D G R E AT E R SPECIFI C H E AT CAPACITY AND H A R D N E S S , COPPER J A C K E T E D BULLETS A L L O W G R E AT E R MUZZLE VELOCITIES.
B A N G I N G I T S H E A D A G A I N S T A C A G E O F N E G AT I V E E N E R G Y. I O N B R E AT H C AT C H I N G F I R E . T U R N T H E PA G E I N T H E M A G A Z I N E . H U M A N F E M A L E S
O N M E AT D I S P L AY. D I S P L AY M E AT. P L AY M E AT. M E AT P L AY. P L AY.
O B L I VION DOG BY SPIRITCAGE
WHEN I WAS YOUNG I FOUN D A H A T C H L I N G T H A T H A D F A L L E N O R B EEN KICKED FROM ITS NE S T . I N S T E A D O F S H O W I N G I T T O M Y P ARENTS I KEPT IT SECRE T I N A S H O E B O X . I T R I E D F E E D I N G I T WET BREAD BUT COULD N ’ T T E L L I F I T W A S E A T I N G I T O R I F I WAS JUST CHOKING I T . T H I S W E N T O N F O R A F E W D A Y S U NTIL I WONDERED IF DEA T H W A S T H E B E S T T H I N G F O R I T . I T OOK IT TO THE BATHROO M A N D P U T I T I N T H E S I N K . I R A N WATER TO DROWN IT. IT W A S S T R U G G L I N G A S B E S T I T C O U L D . I TOOK IT OUTSIDE EARLY T H E N E X T M O R N I N G A N D S E T I T O N T HE GROUND. I CAME BACK L A T E R T H A T D A Y T O S E E I F I T W A S S TILL ALIVE. IT WASN’T.
I DREAM OF A SPIRIT HOUS E F ULL OF INVISIBLE DEMONS . I WALK DO WN FILTHY CORRID OORS FILLED WITH BOXE S A ND BROKEN TOYS. THE ATT IC IS HUGE AND LEADS T O A BASEMENT THAT IS REALL Y A N ABYSS. MY GRANDMOTHE R I S THERE FOR A MOMENT AN D I AM A CHILD FOR A SPLI T S ECOND AND THEN I AM A T EENAGER. I FEEL THEM AL L A ROUND ME. IT FEELS LIK E A SICK BLACK LIGHTNIN G B OLT IS CIRCLING AROUN D I N MY STOMACH. I GRO W W INGS OF FIRE AND ELECT RICTY SHOOTS FROM M Y P ORES. I WONDER IF JESU S H AD DREAMS LIKE THIS.
I A M THE ILLUSION MADE RE A L . I A M T H E M A G I C I A N W H O C A N ’ T S E E W I TH HIS OWN EYES. I AM A S P I R A L W I T H I N A S P I R A L W I T H I N A B L A C K H O L E. TO LOOK UPON ME IS T O L O O K U P O N O B L I V I O N . I C O N T A I N M A N Y D E MONS WHO HAVE BEEN KICK E D O U T O F T H E I R H O M E S . T H E Y C L A W A N D T H E Y HISS AND THEY SCRAPE A T M Y R I B C A G E . I L I G H T A C I G A R E T T E A N D A UNIVERSE COLLAPSES. S O M A N Y S T A R S . . . S O M A N Y B E A M S O F L I G H T S H I NING DOWN ON EMPTY SH E L L S . I R E M E M B E R T H E F I R S T MA G I C I A N A N D I REMEMBER THE THIRD M A G I C I A N . I C A N ’ T R E M E M B E R T H E O T H E R T H R EE. I AM THE SIXTH MAG I C I A N . I W A N T T O G O H O M E . . . I W A N T T O W A K E UP.
1 4 Queen Mad
Subterranean Chambe r G ua r d i a n
Our Lady of Labyrint h s
A H O R R I F Y ING INTRODUCTION
BY M I C H A E L T. G I L B E R T
O R A L M O ST 4 0 Y E A R S I ’ V E W R I TTEN OR DRAWN COMIC BOOKS, INCLUDING CHILDHOOD FAVO R I T E S S U C H A S S U P E R M A N , BATMAN, DR. STRANGE, AND THE DISNEY CHARACTERS. MY COM I C S H AV E B E E N F E AT U R E D I N H E AVY METAL, SLOW DEATH, AMERICAN SPLENDOR, STAR*REACH, BAT M A N , T H E S P I R I T, WA LT D I S N E Y ’S COMICS & STORIES AND VARIOUS UNDERGROUND COMIX SIN C E 1 9 7 3 .
HOW E V E R , M Y S I G N AT U R E C R E AT I O N REMAINS THE FEARLESS MONSTER-FIGHTING SUPERHERO, DOC ST E A R N … M R . M O N ST E R , W H I C H I’VE DRAWN FOR OVER 25 YEARS. DOC’S LOYAL FANS INCLUDE ALA N M O O R E , N E A L G A I M A N A N D H A RLAN ELLISON. MR. MONSTER ALSO HOSTS “MR. MONSTER’S COM I C C R Y P T, ” A M O N T H LY C O L U M N D EVOTED TO COMIC BOOK HISTORY FOR ALTER EGO MAGAZINE –– FA ST A P P R OA C H I N G 1 0 0 C O N S E C U T IVE ISSUES!
SO H O W D I D I G E T I N VO L V E D I N TATTOOS? AT THE 2004 SAN DIEGO CONVENTION TATTOO ARTIST DAV I D B O L LT STO P P E D B Y M Y B O OTH. AFTER REVEALING THAT HE WAS A BIG FAN OF MY 1980S ELR I C O F M E L N I B O N E C OM I C B O O K SERIES, DAVID ASKED IF I’D CONSIDER TRY ING SOME DESIG N S F O R H I S C OM PA N Y, TAT TO O J OHNNY. I WAS INTRIGUED (AND INTIMIDATED!) BY THE IDEA OF T R Y I N G S OM E T H I N G S O D I F F E R E NT AND AGREED TO GIVE IT A SHOT.
I E V E N T U A L LY D R E W A B O U T 5 0 TAT TOO DESIGNS. WHAT FOLLOWS ARE A FEW OF MY FAVORITES. THO S E I N T E R E ST E D I N O R D E R I N G T HEM CAN FIND THEM ONLINE AT: HTTP://WWW.TATTOOJOHNNY. COM / S E A R C H / F E AT U R E D / A R T I ST / M I C HAEL%20T%20GILBERT
MY M A I N F O C U S ST I L L R E M A I N S C OM IC BOOKS, BUT WE HOPE YOU ENJOY THIS DETOUR INTO THE WOR L D O F TAT TO O D E S I G N S !
MIC H A E L T. G I L B E R T 6/2 2 / 1 0
© M i c h a e l T. Gi l b e r t
© Michael T. Gilbert
© Michael T. Gi l b e r t
© Michael T. Gilber t
C A R O L I N E PIERCE
P H O T O G R A P H Y B Y T H O M A S S TA R K W W W.T H O M A S S TA R K E X P R E S S I O N S . C O M
3M AT H E W S H A R P 0
Blo od River
D row n in g
Pa rty tim e
(a 1987 story) by
nthony Richard Knox was shooting south on I-77 in a stolen black ’84 Ford Tempo with no air conditioning and he felt like a boiling lobster. He’d tried rolling down the window, but the only result had been that the contents of the overflowing ashtray had whirled around the inside of the car like a furious dust devil, and the ashes that pasted themselves to his sweaty face itched like a mask of hungry fleas. The body in the trunk had belonged to a man he’d murdered a few hours ago back in Canton, Ohio, after a month of watching and planning and stalking and waiting. The guy had lived alone, he’d never left his home except for his crappy shift-management job at a Burger Shed, he’d never had visitors. He’d been scheduled off the next two days and had mowed his lawn yesterday evening. It would be a while before anyone missed him, if anyone ever did. Knox had been killing people for pleasure for years; this had seemed almost tailor-made for his purposes. Smooth as the proverbial silk. The heat of the day, however, had become an obstacle. Knox had to keep messing with his designer sunglasses; twice they’d slid off his nose and into his lap as he drove and he was grateful at least that the sun would be going down by the time he reached his destination. He snatched the map from the shotgun seat and vigorously shook it free of loose ash. The last big green interstate exit sign had been for Marietta, Ohio. He was headed for a little town in West Virginia called Walnut Creek, where (according to the underground buzz, anyway) some crazy old German guy was paying top dollar for fresh body parts. Reports varied as to whether Herr Whoever was a) eating the stuff; b) using it in some kind of occult ritual; or c) trying to build his very own personal version of Frankenstein’s monster. Knox didn’t particularly care what the guy did with his goods as long as he didn’t try to pay with a check. And anybody who called him out for conducting business with a reputed Nazi war criminal would be reminded in no uncertain terms that typically serial killers weren’t overly concerned with other people’s opinions. Knox wondered, however, if killing for profit rather than for his personal satisfaction made him a sell-out. And he resolved that the next time he stole a car for a job, he would make sure the air conditioning worked first. Lash McCarthy was mopping the dining room floor of the Dairee Fresh Restaurant and Ice Cream Shoppe in downtown Anhedonia, West Virginia. He swirled the mop in sloppy wet figure-eights and watched the mop head like it was a hypnotist’s swinging watch. Fading flat red-orange sunlight still tried to light the world outside. Behind the counter, his best friend Ross Dane tapped the yellowed plastic cover of the wall-mounted thermometer. Lash looked up at the tapping sound. “This thing’s not a thermometer, it’s a decoration,” Ross said. “No way is it only 92 degrees. It’s got to be at least a hundred. We’re in a sauna. The hand-dipped ice cream is a couple of degrees away from being soup.” He tried opening the drivethru window one more time to let in a breeze, but the air outside, though not as hot, remained still. He heard a noise and looked down. There was a tiny orange kitten, still a baby, chewing on somebody’s dropped chicken nugget directly below the window. He looked up at Ross, grabbed the nugget in his teeth, and bounded across the parking lot toward the wooded hillside at top speed before Ross could even wave hi or meow at him. A fly, slowed and burdened by the heat, cruised unenthusiastically through the open window and past Ross’s ear. Ross snatched up a roll of paper towels from the prep counter and batted the fly out into the dining room. He closed the window to stave off a bug invasion. “Hey Ricky,” Ross shouted back to the closing manager, “how about if you give
me some money from petty cash so I can drive over to Olympus Mart and buy us a couple of fans?” Near the back of the restaurant, Ricky Sargent poked his round, sweat-glistened head out through the door of his tiny office. “I already told you guys like five times that the air conditioning dude is gonna be here tomorrow, and I don’t wanna hear no more about it. And even if he never shows up, you two only got a couple more days before you take off for college, so give me a freakin’ break. You’re killin’ me.” His pulled his head back in. Lash and Ross both shot him the finger, but only after they were sure he wouldn’t see. “I guess the one high point is that we’re not busy, ‘cause if we were we’d have to hear all the customers bitching about it, too,” Ross said quietly. He started to wipe the sweat off his forehead with a dirty hand, then realized he was still holding the roll of paper towels. Heedless of the potential for fly germs, he tore off a couple of sheets and rubbed his whole face vigorously Lash mopped his way over towards Ross. “If we were busy, at least the time would go by faster, but we knew weeks ago that we’d be dead tonight because everybody‘d be at the Sand Hornet Festival over in Morton’s Fork,” he said. He checked his watch. “Right about now, the whole county is clustered sweatily together to witness the crowning of The Buzz Queen.” “I bet Sally Farmington wins,” Ross said, sighing. “You realize that we’d be there if we didn’t have to work. It’s probably the only chance I’ll ever have to see her in a bikini. I knew we should have requested the night off, but I thought it’d be an easy shift. I hadn’t considered that the a/c might die and convert Dairee Fresh into a building-sized oven.” Lash looked around for his wheeled mop bucket. It was in the far corner of the dining room. “I did request tonight off, three weeks ago,” Lash said, “but Ricky told me something along the lines of that since we were leaving for college next week, I should be more considerate of the employees who have to stay here and let them have it off to experience the one time of the year when they can enjoy their local culture. Or some similar bullshit. But it’s not like I really wanted to go to the thing. I’ll be able to get a full report from some of the guys in my karate class if anything interesting happens. A bunch of them are goin’.” “Screw the local culture. They live here, just like us. I just sort of wanted to see Sally,” Ross said. Lash leaned the mop against a dining room chair and put his hands on his hips. “I really think it’s time you just gave up on Sally,” he said. “For one thing, she’s like four inches taller than you.” “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Haven’t we had this conversation about a hundred times?” “She’s an oil derrick with tits and could break you in half-- if she liked you, which she doesn’t. She told Nancy that she doesn’t like your teeth or your taste in footwear. And she thinks you’re a know-it-all.” Ross glared at Lash and growled. “I believe we agreed not to talk about her ever again,” he said. “You brought it up,” Lash reminded him. He took his mop and went to retrieve his bucket. Stewart Casto wobbled out of the out of the kitchen, a large plastic mug packed with ice and Diet Coke in his hand. “I heard she has a boyfriend now, anyway.” “Get back to work, Stewart,” Ross said, “and so help me God, if I see your fat ass out here one more time I’m gonna tell the whole world the real reason people started calling you Turtle Stew. You’d better have that kitchen cleaned up and ready when it’s time to go because we’re not hangin’ around to help you tonight. We’ve got plans.” Fuming, Ross grabbed a cleaning rag from a small bucket of soapy water underneath the counter and looked around for something he hadn’t already wiped down seventeen times that evening. The milkshake grinders, the Slusheroo, the cash registers, the soda machine, the prep counter, the serving counter, the drivethru window, the ice machine, the loudly-humming soft-serve dispenser, the cabinet freezer holding the tubs of endangered hand-dipped ice cream… over the past four hours, he and Lash had scrubbed, wiped, swept and polished the entire place. It was the cleanest, hottest fast-food restaurant in the universe on the longest day in the history of time. “Income report,” Lash suggested. Lash and Ross were both aware that the corporate office had some kind of provision in place whereas if one of their units grossed less than twenty-five dollars an hour for three consecutive hours, the manager on duty (at his or her discretion) could close the place down for the day. This notion was intended to help prevent operational profits from vanishing in conditions such as environmental disasters. There was no guarantee that Ricky would see the sense in it, but it was worth a shot if it could get them set free even a little bit sooner. He’d already sent the new guy home early, so he was at least watching the labor cost… “Still good,” Ross said. Ross had been keeping a sharp eye on the tills. Business had been a normal kind of
steady earlier in the day, but the Sand Hornet Festival went into full swing at six o’clock sharp when some band who’d had a top-forty hit twenty-five years ago kicked off the evening, and evidently nobody wanted to miss them. The other activities, including a shabby traveling carnival and a midget karate exhibition, would continue until long past Dairee Fresh’s closing, so there was no fear of a last minute rush. From 6 pm until 7, they’d sold about 18 dollars worth of Mint Chocolate Chip Big-Time Fundaes™ to a big fat woman, her big fat husband, and their big fat daughter. From 7 until 8, the drive-thru window had been comparatively busy as people on their way home from work from the shoe factory stopped for greasy bagged dinners, but when the food parade was over the tally was $24.83 because Lash had thoughtfully not charged a Jeepful of girls in bikinis for their sodas since Ricky was hiding in his office. The score at (Ross noted) 44 minutes ‘til 9 was already $22.43 due to a call-in order from a bunch of equally-bored employees at the equally-dead bowling alley three blocks away. The guy they sent for it took two steps through the front door, said “GOOD CHRIST IT’S HOT IN HERE,” and turned around and picked up his chow through the drive-thru window instead. “This is like a desert without the sand and camels,” Lash told Ross. “We’re probably dangerously dehydrated. I wonder what the symptoms are.” “You might be. I’ve been pounding down icewater like they’re gonna quit makin’ it tomorrow. You haven’t been drinking anything? With this fucking heat? Are you actually as stupid as I’ve been telling people you are?” “Um. I showed up a little before you did, right? And since I was a few minutes early, I tried one of those new frozen sour apple Slusheroo drinks we just got.” “You didn’t.” “I did. It was awful. It was like… okay. Let’s say you made a really fat girl-who’d just eaten a big Mexican dinner-- do calisthenics for four hours.” “Stop. Stop it. Stop right now.” “Then you took some unripe sour apples and crammed ‘em up her b…” Ross pointed a finger at Lash like it was a .44 magnum. “No,” Ross said, shaking his head. “I’m serious. I don’t want to hear it.” “Oh, all right,” Lash said, but he looked disappointed. “The bottom line is I still have that taste in my mouth, and everything I’ve tried to drink since then tastes just like it. I hope it wears off before we pick up the beer.” “There’s no known antidote for that stuff. You’re doomed.” His eyes widened. “Dammit,” Ross said, swiveling his weapon-finger past Lash and through the restaurant’s big front windows. Lash looked. A car wheeled into the lot, a green 1987 Chevy Caprice that was so new it still had the dealer invoice glued to one of the rear windows. “How much leeway exactly do we have?” Lash asked. “Right around eight bucks, and just a little more than half an hour.” “Well, there’s only one person in that car, and it looks like a little old lady. I vote that if she’s more than 8 bucks worth of hungry, we initiate our new policy of 100% discount for senior citizens.” “I think you should be made CEO of the entire sprawling Dairee Fresh empire,” Ross said, nodding. The little old lady looked very tired and frail out in the heat, and she struggled to pull herself brittlely out of her vehicle. “I’m starting to wonder if we should even let her come in here because it’s so hot,” Ross said. “She looks pretty fragile. What if she dies? Maybe I should go out there to take her order.” “Wait a second. Watch.” She was moving around the parking lot, hand over her eyes like a sailor scanning the sea from a crow’s nest. Her lips were moving. She approached Lash’s big black raced-out ’75 Nova and stooped to peer beneath it. “Holy shit,” Ross said. “I know who that is. It’s Helen Watts.” “Sounds familiar,” Lash said, “but I can’t place it.” “She’s the one whose husband got struck by lightning a few weeks back, remember? It was pretty fucked up-- the lightning vaporized his head while he was working in his flower garden during a storm. It left his clothes and the rest of his body pretty much intact. She was watching from their living room window when it happened, and seeing it like fucked up her brain so much that she still talks to him all the time. Like he’s right next to her. And she thinks he talks back.” “Pretty fucked up,” Lash agreed. “What’s she looking for out there? His head?” “This story just gets sadder,” said Turtle Stew, who’d come out of the kitchen to look when he’d heard Ross bring up the magic dollar amount “All five of her kids live hundreds of miles away, and since she’s 92 years old, her friends are all dead of old age. She got herself a baby kitty from the shelter to keep her company. She named him Clyde. And she started taking him with her everywhere, you know? Like to the post office, and to get groceries, and to run errands… and
everybody loved him. She’d been meeting new people, making new friends, the whole nine yards, you could tell it was doing her a lot of good. And a couple of days ago, she decided to bring him with her when she came here for lunch… except when she opened the door of her car, he bolted. Zoom. Right across the lot and up into the woods. And she just stood there freaking out, bawling and screaming for her dead husband.” “There’s probably not a 92 year old woman on the surface of the earth who can keep up with a motivated running kitten,” Lash said. “Ricky called the cops and the fire department,” Stewart continued. “A whole bunch of people showed up, but they couldn’t find him. I distinctly got the feeling that some of them even thought he was a figment of her imagination and I was worried that they might try to put her in some kind of a home. Eventually she calmed down and they took her to her house, but she’s been coming back to look for him. Usually she comes earlier in the day, before you guys get here, but this morning it looked like rain, so I guess she waited. I hope she finds that cat. I used to be her paperboy. She’s very nice.” He looked over his shoulder, then headed back toward the kitchen. “Yesterday Ricky told me that if he sees me leave the kitchen again without a good reason he’s going to write me up. I’m gonna go watch the monitor in case she comes in and orders something, which she may not even do.” When Ross saw that he was gone, he turned to Lash. “We have a decision to make,” he said seriously. “Oh, come on,” Lash said. “I have a big bag of great dope in my car, and this is the last weekend to see some of the people we hang out with before everyone starts leaving for different colleges. I’ve got news for you, Boy Scout: if that kitty’s been up there this long, he’s toast. With the heat, and the snakes, and whatever else, something’s done him in. Look, I love animals, and despite the fact that a lot of the old people who eat here are rude, stupid pricks, I actually like senior citizens too, and hope to become one myself someday. But I figure what’s gonna happen is that we’re gonna go up on that hill and find Clyde’s pitiful little furry bug-eaten carcass, and we’re both gonna start bawling like little girls, and THEN we’re going to have to tell Mrs. Watts that the only friend she had on the entire planet is just as dead as her electrocuted, no-headed husband.” “No,” Ross said. “Clyde’s alive. I saw him outside the drive-thru window just a little bit ago, though when he saw me looking at him he bailed back up into the woods. And the decision we have to make isn’t whether or not we go looking for him-- it’s whether or not we get fried before or after we go looking for him. Because one way or the other…” “You saw him?” “Yup. And I already have a plan.” “I don’t know about this,” Lash said. “We’re supposed to pick up Nancy at-oop! Here comes whatserface!” Mrs. Watts had made it inside Dairee Fresh and up to the counter, carrying on a pleasant conversation with someone Lash and Ross couldn’t see. Ross dashed over behind his cash register. “We’d like two iced teas, please,” she said pleasantly, although her eyes were bleak and bleary and red; she’d been crying. “And could you have someone turn up the air conditioning? It’s very hot in here.” Ross’ heart bent almost in two. There was no way in Hell he was going to be able to relax and have a good time tonight, worrying about how much this poor old crazy woman’s life sucked. “I’m sorry, folks,” he said, trying in what he hoped was a convincing manner to make it sound like he was addressing two people. “The air conditioning in here is busted, but because of that you can have your iced teas for free if you’d like to stay.” “We would,” Helen assured him, patting his hand. “We’re going to wait in here until dark, and after it cools down we’re going to look for our kitty. He’s lost.” Lash hadn’t been paying attention… he’d swung open the drive-thru window to look for Clyde. No sign of the kitty, but as he watched, a beat-up black ’84 Ford Tempo with Ohio plates pulled onto the lot and eased into a spot two spaces down from his Nova. The guy behind the wheel was a large man Lash didn’t recognize. He killed the engine but didn’t get out. Lash noticed that he did, however, roll down both of his front windows. Ross fetched a couple of large iced teas and placed them on a tray. After a moment’s consideration, he told Mrs. Watts and her invisible husband to have a seat and he’d bring the teas out to them. She didn’t look strong enough to carry the tray herself, and he was afraid that she might snap when her husband didn’t pick it up for her. “Another car on the lot,” Lash said. “Guy’s just sittin’ there, though.” “Hopefully he’ll wait about another 22 minutes because our get-the-Hell-outof-here counter gets reset,” Ross said. “Keep an eye on him.” Ross took the tray of tea over to the Watts’ table. Helen had already lined up some extra packets of sugar for herself and Sweet’n Low™ for her husband. She was peeling her straw.
“Here you go,” Ross said. “If you’d like anything else, just tell us. It’s on the house.” Lash, waiting to see if Mr. Tempo would come in or not, noticed motion by the tire of his Nova… Clyde! Though it was finally getting dark, Clyde was hiding in the shade under the car. Lash waved his arms frantically to get Ross’s attention and motioned him over. “There’s our boy-- see?” This is going to be easier than I thought,” Ross said. “Watch him like he was your favorite stripper. I’m going to get some chicken nuggets and sneak out the back door to bag him.” He left for the kitchen. Just as Ross was out of sight, the big guy got out of the Tempo. Something about him made Lash a little nervous, though he couldn’t put a finger on it. The man was looking at Helen’s car with great interest, peering inside, looking at the dashboard… Clyde had sprung out from underneath the Nova. He’d stealthed his way over to the big guy and was clawing at the man’s pantleg. Lash started to yell “Hey, mister, grab that kitty!” but what he saw next stunned him into silence. The big man noticed the clawing and raised his foot up. Clyde zipped back to the safety of the Nova as the man’s foot came smashing down to the concrete just where Clyde had been. Asshole! Lash thought. He looked to see if Helen had caught any of the action. Nope. She’d been facing the opposite direction. Good. The big man went over to Lash’s Nova. For a moment it seemed like he was going after Clyde, but then he put his hands on it and leaned to look inside the tinted windows. Lash, through his compounding anger, attempted to shout but couldn’t find his voice. After long minutes of study, the man turned and made for the dining room door. Lash glared and schemed. Ross, armed with his chicken nuggets, slid past Ricky’s office and out the back door. He eased it open quietly and instantly noticed the darkness and the noticeably cooler temperature outside. There was his quarry, still under Lash’s car. He crept closer, inching as quietly as he was able. The big man burst into the dining room and stormed up to the counter. Lash sauntered over behind Ross’s cash register. He narrowed his eyes and tried to look like Clint Eastwood or Charles Bronson. He tried to kill a baby kitty and he laid his hands on my car. “Can I help you?” he asked, in a voice several octaves lower than his own. The man looked at him with undisguised contempt. “I want something cold to drink, you little fruit,” the man said. “The biggest size you’ve got. God DAMN, it’s hotter in here than it is outside. Make it fast.” “Oh, I’ve got just the thing,” Lash said. “You’re gonna love this.” He took his time stepping to the Slusheroo dispenser, where he filled a sixty-four ounce wax paper cup with the nauseating sour apple slush he himself had experimented with before he’d clocked in. He was so mad he was quaking. This hadn’t been a particularly good day to start with, and now… And something occurred to him: in a week, this job, this town and this life would just be memories, and some of those memories he wouldn’t need. Years from now, nobody would care that he’d once been fired from a shitty minimum wage job in a place no one had ever heard of. He smiled a dark smile. To Anthony Knox, it seemed like the skinny, longhaired white trash kid behind the counter was taking more time making his drink than was necessary. And it was hot inside, hotter even than it had been in the damn car. Also, it was getting dark, and that might make it more difficult to find his way out to the old German’s remote home. His temper was worsening with each hot, pressured second. “I told you to make it fast,” Knox said. Lash came around the counter with the man’s drink. He held it out, but before the man could take it, he drew it closer once more and, looking right in the man’s eyes, spit directly into it. “I saw you try to kill that kitty,” Lash said, “and to me it looked like you might be thinking about stealing one of those cars outside. One of them is mine. Take your fucking drink and get back in your shitbox ride and get out of here.” Knox grabbed the drink. The cold cup felt good in his hand. He raised it up, drank about a third of it in one go, including the spit. He momentarily considered pouring it over himself and ordering another one because the heat and this kid were making him crazy. He didn’t need this right now, he had important things to do, but this fucking whelp needed to be taught a lesson. He set the drink on the counter and shoved the kid, hard. “You think that’s funny? Spitting in somebody’s drink? If I wasn’t in such a hurry I’d kick your scrawny ass. I’m going to let you make a decision. I can either talk to your manager, or I can meet you back here when you get off work. Because I swear to you, little man, I’m not going to let this go.” Ross knelt by the Tempo, trying to lure Clyde with the nuggets. He took a quick
look into the dining room and saw the big guy had finally gone in-- it looked like he was yelling and giving Lash a hard time. Jerk. He’d just now been thinking about quitting and walking out on Ricky anyway… Ross put the handful of nuggets down and waddled over and used the little multitool on his keychain to tear the valve stem out of the guy’s right rear tire-- just as a slowing car went by and caught him in its headlights. “God dammit, he said. “Well, quitting, getting fired… whatever.” Fortunately, the hissing air from the tire hadn’t scared Clyde, who was chowing on the nuggets. Ross worked his way closer… “You just committed battery,” Lash said, “and you probably think that since I’m on the clock, I’m not going to do anything. You’re wrong.” And he shoved the man back. Knox was right at his limit. He popped the kid in the face with a hard right, and he meant business. For many people, that one punch would have been enough. But Lash had grown up the target of countless bullies, starting way back when he was four and a mean neighbor kid had stolen one of his Hot Wheels™. Lash could take a punch. He’d had lots of experience. And he’d had 12 hard years of karate lessons. Knox caught Lash’s eyes narrowing, and then caught the heel of Lash’s size 13 in the jaw. Lash whirled and heel-kicked Knox in the face again, for emphasis. Helen Watts looked up at the sound. She looked to her unseen spouse, screaming “Stop him! Stop him!” Finally, after a legendary shitty day, Knox had been pushed over his personal breaking point. He dug his knife out of his front pocket and flicked it open, relishing the sound of the blade clicking as it locked. Lash’s mouth and eyes went wide. Knox grinned madly, knowing that he’d have to kill the old bitch, too, and he grabbed the kid’s belt and-Something was happening to his right. His peripheral vision was registering odd colors in a vaguely human shape- green, purple, yellow. And the colors were moving, glowing, flowing into a more distinct form. Surely not, surely just his mind still shaking off the effects of the punk’s two lucky kicks to his head… No matter. He thrust the open knife at the kid’s thin belly and Nothing. His arm didn’t move. He looked and There was a hand locked around his wrist-- a thin, ancient hand, tight like tense barbed wire, hurting, crushing... The kid’s eyes and mouth were wider yet, and though Knox’s blade hadn’t touched him, he screamed. Because of what he saw. Knox’s glance veered right, following the new hand up the sleeved slender arm. No. The hand gripping his wrist so tightly-- even tighter now-- belonged to something that couldn’t be there. A headless human body, a nightmarish apparition, radiating fierce power as it continued to tighten its clamp on Knox’s arm. Knox felt his flesh starting to tear beneath the monster’s grip as it compressed, heard the bones cracking before he actually felt the enormous pain. He dropped his knife and released his grip on the kid at the same time. The kid high-tailed it away. Knox tried to do the same but could not move. He took a better look at the thing destroying his wrist. It was a slight human figure, wearing a light blue denim workshirt and a pair of jeans with dirt on the knees and high, muddy brown boots. The top two buttons of the workshirt were undone, and there was--still-- no head. The top of the neck terminated in a hollow, ragged, burnt stump, with the knob of the spine charred dark and what appeared to be cooked veins and arteries hanging out of the crisped wet blackened flesh. It reminded Knox obscenely of a hot dog that had been cooked too long over a campfire until it was burnt and wrinkled and then had the end bitten off. There was dried blood on the workshirt’s collar. Knox screamed, rage and terror and pain braided into a siren of ultimate loss as the terrible figure ripped his hand from his arm and dropped it to the floor. But he was free. He turned to run And couldn’t. The thing had grabbed onto his shoulder and spun him around Before his brain short-circuited, Knox had time to see: The kid he’d planned on killing, his head inside a dining room trash can, body shaking as he power-vomited, and The sweet little old lady, still seated at her table with a cold drink in her hand, smiling benignly at him as her eyes pulsed with the same green-purple-yellow light he had seen just prior to the appearance of the headless abomination, and Another kid in a Dairee Fresh uniform coming through the front door, wrangling a squirming tiny kitten with both hands, and lastly A police car squealing to a halt in the parking lot, strobing red and blue through the windows and into the restaurant.
“Mrs. Watts, look!” Ross said, coming through the door with a double handful of kitty. “I got him!” “Clyde!” Mrs. Watts said, with great glee. “Oh, this is wonderful! Look, honey, he has our baby!” Ross placed Clyde on the table next to Helen’s drink, where he immediately stopped squirming and tried to poke his face down into the glass. “I’ll get him some water,” Ross said. “He could probably use it.” That’s when Ross noticed that the big guy who had tried to stomp Clyde, standing alone in the middle of the dining room, arms at his sides, stiff as a statue, staring off into some dark horizon. There was a thick line of drool running down the corner of his mouth to his shirt. Ross walked up to him, waved his hand in front of the guy’s face. No reaction. Catatonic. Then Ross heard something off to the side and saw Lash with his head in a trash can. “Jesus!” he said. “Hey-- you okay? I guess that toxic sour apple thing finally decided to hustle itself out of your system.” Lash, quivering all over, slowly, hesitantly pulled his head from the trash can. His face was pale; his eyes were mirrors of terror. There was a little vomit in his long black hair. He looked from Ross to the big catatonic man to Helen Watts, who possibly winked at him but he wasn’t certain. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. “Yeah. Sour Apple. Toxic.” He saw Clyde. “Kitty.” Then he noticed the police car outside. “I got him. The chicken nuggets worked, just like I figured,” Ross said. “Oh, I hope you haven’t got any pills on you or anything. Don’t know what’s up with the visit, but the cop drivin’ is our good friend Jenner.” “Jenner,” Lash repeated. He blinked rapidly, still shaking. He was sweating, but his flesh felt cold. Officer Jake Jenner, a seventeen-year veteran of the Anhedonia Police Force, came through the Dairee Fresh door like Darth Vader. He looked at Lash and Ross with tight, grim eyes and said “I want to talk to the manager. I got a call that somebody in a Dairee Fresh uniform was out in the parking lot letting the air out of car tires.” Ross looked off to the side and started whistling, trying to will himself into invisibility with no real effect. Then Jenner noticed the catatonic Knox… and the big, evil-looking knife on the floor. “What the Hell’s up with this guy?” “That man tried to kill the tall, skinny boy with his knife while the other one was outside catching my escaped cat,” Helen Watts said, through a sweet reptile smile. “I think he was planning a robbery, but he had some kind of fit and dropped his knife and he’s been like that since right about the time you got here. We didn’t even have time to call. I think he may be an epileptic or something. I certainly would like to commend you for your timing. It’s a miracle.” Jenner checked out Knox, who seemed not to notice as he was cuffed behind his back. Jenner radioed for backup and an ambulance and picked up the knife with the aid of a plastic glove he removed from a pouch on his belt. He turned his attention to Lash. “Your buddy Lash looks pretty stoned to me,” he said to Ross. “Again.” “I just about got stabbed in the stomach, Officer Jenner,” Lash said, slowly swimming back up through layers of foggy consciousness to reality. “I’m having some trouble dealing with that. You’ll forgive me if I seem a little unfocused.” “Fair enough. You,” he said, indicating Ross. “Come here.” He fished into Knox’s pockets and pulled out the man’s jangly keyring, which had the same tiny multi-tool as Ross’ own. “We’re going out to look at Zombie Man’s car, and if he’s got a flat, you’re going to change it for him.” Ross muttered something. “What was that?” Jenner asked. It had sounded a little like the punk had said ‘King Pig’. “Nothing,” Ross said. He led the way out, Jenner steering Knox behind him. There was actually a breeze outside now, and it was very nice after being in the DF. “Surprise, surprise,” Jenner said, observing the Tempo’s flat tire. He tossed Knox’s keys to Ross, who grudgingly opened the trunk… and revealed the bloodied, rope-bound body of the man Knox had killed earlier that day. “What the fuck!” Ross said, stepping back. “Well, looky here,” Jenner said, flashing teeth. He shook Knox by his collar. “You just ain’t havin’ a very good evening at all, now, are you?” Ross fought the urge to puke, but kept his priorities straight. “Does this mean I don’t have to change his tire?” “For now it does,” Jenner said. “Get on back inside there, and tell ‘em all that no one leaves until I say they can.” He marched Knox towards his patrol car, the lights of which were still flashing. “Can we at least wait outside? It’s hot as a bastard in there.” “I reckon so. And tell Mrs. Watts that she should lock that damn cat up in her car so he don’t run off again. I was one of the guys had to look for him the other day and I got no interest in doing it again tonight because I’m allergic to poison ivy and plus I’m gonna be busy. Hey, where’s your damn manager at?”
Back in the dining room, Helen Watts said to Lash “Young man, I don’t think you should ever tell anyone what really happened here tonight.” She was scratching Clyde’s ears. Clyde, who’d had enough excitement for awhile, rolled onto his side with a little thump and thrashed his tail. “I don’t know what really happened here tonight,” he said, “and please don’t tell me.” He ran his hands over his stomach, not quite satisfied that he hadn’t been stabbed. “Um, please tell your husband thanks and that I’m very grateful he saved my life.” “Oh, you can tell him yourself. He’s still here.” Ross pushed open the front door just a crack. “Hey, we just found a dead guy in that dude’s trunk. We can’t leave, but we’re allowed to wait out here while Jenner does his TCB.” “That’s the best fucking idea I’ve ever heard in my life,” Lash said, sprinting to get out. “We’ll just wait in here,” Helen said, smiling. Ricky had seen the reflection of the police lights and had come out of his office. He saw two of his employees outside smoking, an ambulance and a second police car joining the first one in his parking lot, and a very pleased-looking Helen Watts in his dining room sipping an iced tea and petting her returned kitty. “What’s… what…” From behind the men’s room door came the sound of a flushing toilet. Stewart emerged. “Holy cow. Why are the cops here?” “Get back in there,” Ricky said. “I didn’t hear you wash your hands.” Ricky pulled out his pocket watch. It was practically 9. This was going to mean more paperwork. He rushed back to the breaker box and turned off the big pole-mounted glowing ice-cream-cone-shaped DAIREE FRESH sign out front, then came back to the dining room and flipped all the ‘Come in, we’re OPEN’ signs to ‘Sorry, we’re CLOSED’. He didn’t think he’d get in any corporate trouble for shutting down a couple of hours early… he was reasonably certain there was something in the s.o.p. book about early closing if you hadn’t made very much money for three hours in a row, and besides, it looked like there were extenuating circumstances. He went outside. Lash and Ross came up to him immediately. “We quit,” Lash said. “Both of us,” Ross added. “Effective now.” “What? Why? How am I supposed to close this place down with just me and Stew?” “Not our concern,” Ross said. “I’m gonna need these boys for a little while, anyways,” Jenner interrupted. “To get their statements and try to get some idea of what happened here tonight.” Ross jerked his head at the body in the trunk. “We may never know exactly what happened.” Lash shivered. “It’s probably something no one would believe,” he said. Jenner approached Lash and Ross with a clipboard. “One of you boys harvest Mrs. Watts outta there. We’re gonna do this down at the station house in the air conditioning.” Lash could have sworn he saw the big man in the back of the patrol car flinch as Jenner said ‘air conditioning’, but the guy was catatonic and besides, there was no way he could have heard. Lash chalked it up to his hyperactive imagination. Later that night, after he’d dropped off Nancy and picked up Ross again to continue partying, he thought about bringing up Mr. Watts, but decided against it.
A L AT H E A H O U S E R I G H T
D A R K N AT U R E
SZANDORA SPELLS IT OUT
I N T E RV I E W W I T H S ZA N D O R A LaV E Y BY A L A LC A L A
QUESTION – People assume Satanism is about appealing only to the most negative aspects of the human condition. How on or off the mark is that? People that have never experienced a world without “God” will probably always look at Satanism as appealing to the negative and selfish aspects of the human condition. For me it’s not about appealing to the negative aspects of the human condition it’s more so about being aware that it’s there and trying to understand it. Existentialism really strikes a chord with the negative side of the human/social condition and I believe that Satanism is an extension of Existentialism. I do think there are aspects of Satanism that come off as negative to someone looking in from the “outside”. Chief among these aspects are the non-belief in God and that the individual is responsible for giving meaning and quality to their life. I don’t see these things as negative because the passion and independence they inspire is very rewarding. There are obstacles that every human goes through but at the core it’s about questioning and understanding the internal and external factors involved. It’s only then can you deal with the consequences that bleed into your life. QUESTION – Some miss the theatricality Satanism had in the early years. Others are happy not to have that distraction. As a performer yourself do you think there is a happy medium? Can the fabled Black Mass of old come back in a modern interpretation? You are asking a very visually stimulated person so for me there is a happy medium. I find that calling forth the visual part of your personality and personifying your inner “devil” is a great way to express your Satanic-self. When you apply this visually with a ritual or mass you can selectively and successfully breed the energy and mood you are trying to capture. A prime example of this is the ritual for Das Tierdrama. In the 60’s Anton LaVey used depictions of animal heads on members and mixed sexuality to shape the whole mood of Das Tierdrama as depicted here: “To me these images are still beautiful, descriptive and modern. I think that there is definitely room to depict Masses and Rituals visually, how well and modern one can achieve this visual nostalgia is up to the Satanist.” QUESTION – With Satanism no longer defined by a particular community or organization, how important is it for the individual to keep it evolving? How does one keep from making the mistakes of other philosophies & religions where they honor the past so much they never grow past it? A lot of people Satanic or not have a hard time letting go of the past, which is totally different than forgetting or evolving from it. Being selective of where and how you present yourself and Satanism is highly important. Evolution in any religion or philosophy is important because the world around us is advancing at record speed. If one can’t keep up with the times then that leads to close mindedness and self-destruction. No one is going to get you or what you are about if you trail behind. Quoting Anton LaVey every time you turn around or yelling “I follow the rules of the Satanic Bible!” sounds way too much like the fundamentalist forces we all struggle against. Any Satanist behaving as such is suspect. The Satanic Bible was made to promote personal evolution and until the late-bloomer Satanists realize that there will be less people leading and more people following. That ultimately defeats the purpose of what Anton LaVey had in mind for Satanism. It all boils down to having an open mind and being able to clearly understand the words and ideas Anton LaVey is trying to get across. No one can follow a dead leader. One can only embrace him for the knowledge he has given us to march forward. QUESTION – Satanic Rituals are of course key to being a Satanic Witch yet can a person be an effective Satanist without them? Absolutely. However with Satanic Rituals one shouldn’t attempt what they do not fully understand. You must understand the principals and practices of Satanism before you can cultivate a true command over your Ritual Magic. You can’t just jump into a pool and expect to be an Olympic swimmer, you have to practice and learn how to coordinate your mind with your limbs. The same thing applies to Satanic Witchery. QUESTION – What constitutes a lifestyle Satanist? Does it limit ones understanding of Satanism in any way? The 9 Satanic Statements are the stepping stones of what it takes to live as a lifestyle Satanist. I think if these principals alone are how one considers themselves to be a Satanist, then being a lifestyle Satanist should not hinder ones understanding of Satanism. Of course there needs to be a conscious understanding that they are not rules but statements from which we grow. 1. Satan represents indulgence, instead of abstinence! 2. Satan represents vital existence, instead of spiritual pipe dreams! 3. Satan represents undefiled wisdom, instead of hypocritical self-deceit! 4. Satan represents kindness to those who deserve it, instead of love wasted
on ingrates! 5. Satan represents vengeance, instead of turning the other cheek! 6. Satan represents responsibility to the responsible, instead of concern for psychic vampires! 7. Satan represents man as just another animal, sometimes better, more often worse than those that walk on all-fours, who, because of his “divine spiritual and intellectual development”, has become the most vicious animal of all! 8. Satan represents all of the so-called sins, as they all lead to physical, mental, or emotional gratification! 9. Satan has been the best friend the church has ever had, as he has kept it in business all these years! QUESTION – The pentagram, like the swastika, has a history much older than what we now associate them with. What meaning does it have for you and what place does it have in modern Satanism? Should new symbols for Satanism be adopted and explored? The pentagram represents rebellion. The three downward points symbolizes the rejection of the Holy Trinity. The horns pointing upwards represent Satan as man. The Hebrew letters around the pentagram spell LEVIATHAN representing the element of water and the cardinal direction west. The element water in Satanism represents life and creation, which can also be presented as a chalice during ritual practices. All of these elements together create the Baphomet, the most popular sigil representing LaVeyan Satanism. I most commonly hear people pronounce Baphomet incorrectly as Ba-pho-may, the correct pronunciation is Ba-pho-met. I wear the Baphomet sigil proudly but I do think there should be more sigils and symbols created to represent Satanism. I recommend creating your own sigil for your personal magic and rituals. This act I think will help the Modern Satanic Movement mature and progress. Question – Bold bright colors play a huge part in your personality and style. What attracts you to such colors both in fashion and design? Color play is very sacred and ritualistic to me. I am a Leo, a fire sign, so my inner self burns fiery and bright. I like to have color play represent the feeling(s) that I am trying to outwardly invoke. From time to time ritual magic involves colors to help you reflect the feelings and energy that you are trying to conjure up. I use this kind of magic every chance I get. Whether it’s in clothing, photos, hair, nails or accessories color always coordinates and represents that bright fire which burns bright inside me. You’d be surprised how using a bit of color intentionally in your life and ritual magic will alter your feelings and state of mind. My favorite movie involving ritual use of color is Invocation of My Demon Brother by Kenneth Anger. My least favorite use of color to alter someone’s mental state is white padded walls. It seems like that would make one go even more insane. Question – What stands out as your most preferred indulgence?
My most preferred indulgence is the exploration of my sexuality. It didn’t come natural to me being that I was sexually abused as a child. Still I felt the only way to overcome those fears was to accept sexuality as the norm. After I defeated those childhood hang-ups I have never been sexually shy. Whether it be in the bedroom or on the stage shakin’ what my momma gave me! Question – Satanic Sex is defined by true sexual freedom. How did this impact your sexuality and outlook? As I’ve mentioned, sexual freedom did not come naturally for me. I went to many therapists as a child to overcome these hang ups and nothing really worked until read The Satanic Bible and Satanic Witch. It was then I realized that sex is a primal and animalistic instinct. You should never let any person stifle your sexual freedom but you should also be responsible while investigating the many things that get you off. Satanic sex is not about sleeping with strangers every night it’s about being in control of your sexual self.
***All photos except for Das Tierdrama were Taken by Abbie Enigma @ The Famous Condor Club in San Francisco where Anton worked as an organ player for the Striptease performers.
The Origin of the Fire Horse
y mother wrote: “Anyone denying their dark spirit has no inkling how bright their soul can be, because they have nothing with which to contrast it.”
By Briana Malmstrom
She was what we would now call a dark artist, but in 1950s Toledo, Ohio, she received no approbation from the fringes of society, or the exuberant company of freakish, like-minded souls who would have drawn her into their hive mind, and rejoiced in her liminality. She was isolated and bruised, using color and sculpture to speak, if only to herself. The Meat Horse was drawn by my mother in her late teens and quickly put away. She drew, with colored pencil and crayon, a horse carcass hanging from two hooks, one through the neck, one through the hips. A product of physical, mental and sexual abuse by a psychotic mother and her psychotic mother’s boyfriends, my mother had a nervous breakdown at age 13. She showed up on my grandfather’s doorstep, medicated and emotionally comatose. His wife, Anna, raised what was left of her. She provided my mother with colorful handmade clothes, colorful paints, and the support necessary to develop her abilities in college. Her father was unexpressive and uninvolved, grumbling that my mother should have been thrown over the fence when she was bornshe wasn’t a boy, after all. She called him ‘The Ash Man’. He was a dead thing, bereft of color and life. Nothing is born without pain. When asked about the origin of the horse on hooks and why she no longer paints, she said: “I married and somewhere it all got lost. I let it. Someone I thought I loved said he didn’t like my work and it all fell apart. I guess I had been holding it together for so long, I just couldn’t do it anymore. Art production ended and stagnation began. The horse I held on to, after all other works vanished, symbolized aloneness - loneliness. It was all that was left of Toby, the milkman’s horse who I fed carrots to when the milk wagon stopped at our house. It was all that was left of the junkman’s horse - I also fed him carrots while the junkman was drinking in the bar. That horse is all that remains of a childhood…” When I was 13, I found a newspaper clipping describing piles of dead and dying animals ‘collected’ by my maternal grandmother, cats, dogs, turtles, I don’t recall what else, giving detailed information about the bodies and garbage being carted out of her house and yard. What a revelation to learn that the grandmother I had never met was a woman riddled with mental dry rot. Already displaying early symptoms of mental instability, I had no idea that my fire had already kindled by the time I discovered this genetic gem in a photo album. My father’s mother was a booze hound and schizophrenic, something he tells me in his cups and denies when he is sober. He also denies the story of hiding under the bed with his sisters while his mother chased his father around the house with a carving knife or the occasion when she climbed over a table to attack my mother, trying to claw her eyes out. My paternal grandparents’ genetic contribution to my bonfire includes alcoholism, depression, substance abuse and a misplaced sense of duty. That’s not ‘genetic’, I know, but it seems to be a strong family trait that fucks with every one of my father’s ancestors and spawn, so yes, I’ll lay the blame on genes. His side of the family seems to have an abiding predilection for backing a losing horse. After years of microscopic observation, I cannot nail down the identity of the wreckage who passed the bipolar torch to me. Which woman slipped a packet of madness into the sauce as my flesh bubbled and boiled in utero? For certain, I was born with a sense of crippling horror, with wide, shivering eyes, and a mouth stitched shut. I am an amalgam of mental disorder and broken chemistry. But, I do well. People see me as sane, attractive, well put together professionally and personally. I’m sober. I pass. The mothers cannot shoulder all of the blame. I accept this. My monstrousness was both made and born. When I was very small, my mother allowed me access to her volumes of Man, Myth and Magic and later, her books on witchcraft. Because of her, I know how to bury a cock up to its head at a crossroads at midnight, cutting its throat at the precise moment and saying the exact words for wealth, love, success, even the death of a neighbor, should I be so bold as to ask. I grew up with my imagination filled with magic, mystery and folklore, my reality filled with mental and physical trauma, death, and isolation. Something about my childhood spent in books, in a barn, in the slaughterhouse, and on horseback made me into the one to look at with suspicion, even when I’m on my best behavior. I reek of a hideous borderland. I fear opening my mouth among strangers because I never know what will come out. I stutter and fail. So, I write instead. The Fire Horse slid into existence late one night while I was home alone on a manic bender. Whiskey in one hand and a mouse in the other, the Fire Horse came from me. I could not re-create her if I tried, I have no idea what mess of filters, brushes and effects I used. I remember feeling detachment and fascination as I painted the flames and uncovered her skull. I was transfixed as I lit the fire in her eye.
Galloping from flames into the darkness, she is the crystallization of every situation in which I should have died, my creativity, my fear and horror, my passions, my past and future and above all, my mind. Every trite horse metaphor applies. She is what I ride, with strange and varying degrees of control, and she embodies all that rides me. Her mother was the Meat Horse, genetically bound to my mother’s art and trammeled mind, the woman who moved to a backwater nowhere so that she and my father could have horses and ride them. I was on a horse’s back before I could walk and spent the better part of my childhood and teenage years alone in the hills clinging bareback to a galloping, sweating animal. Years ago, I was drinking with a guy who, after heady, whiskey-fueled conversation, said to me: “…you don’t look damaged.” He said this to me with a straight face, and was strange because at no point had I verbally acknowledged my internal dents and bruises. I wondered if the collateral damage of my childhood was suddenly leaking from my pores and horrifying him, the blackheads really psychosis, instead of oxidized oils. He looks into my face and wonders. I half-intentionally rub the long scar on my forehead, the symbol of the horses and the violence of my childhood. He had asked about my writing and I’d mentioned my nascent memoir ‘Ride’ and the contents of it. Whether to fictionalize my life or not was a concern, as certain events seemed so fabulist and grimly absurd, they would be out of place in a straight-shooting work of fact. I had mentioned themes in minimal detail--a few animals, a bit of insanity, a taste of death. With this small information, he declared me damaged. I was fortunate he didn’t have a price gun handy. I’m sure I would’ve been heavily discounted. I get this a lot. I suppose it would be easier if I was physically burned. My life would be so clear, the disambiguation of my scars pleasing everyone I meet. No mysteries, no questions. All would be explained in the scar tissue pulling my eyes into weeping slits, my nose a hole, my mouth a grim scarecrow gash. I think of what he sees, my tattoos, my horror movie posters, my books. Among them are The Dread of Difference and Lustmord: The Writings and Artifacts of Murderers and with them, a dog-eared paperback of Helter Skelter, crushed in next to a biography of the Beatles. There is Joel-Peter Witkin, through whose eyes I see the gloriously familiar. There are the shelves next to my bed, and on them the children’s books--The Story of Ping, Grimm’s Fairy Tales, The Contented Little Pussycat and others. Next to them are The Story of O, Delta of Venus, and the Kama Sutra. A tapestry of a child dreaming of sex would hang above them, if only I could weave, a union of perversion and sanctity. Exposed to a lifetime of mental conflagrations, I do not benefit from evident scar tissue. Therefore, I must write it out, make it apparent and understandable. The horror and humor of two women’s survival and the horses they fed and tended should be made available to anyone who might benefit from such knowledge. Whether crafted into a work of creative nonfiction or held accountable for the facts as a memoir—‘Ride’ will be my face and my explanation.
“ I L I K E T O PA I N T M O N S T E R S .”
Father Apo ca ly p s e
B l o od Queen
Lilith And Her Owl Fa m i l i a r 46
Do omsday Soldier
“Who’s Afraid Of The Process Church Of The Final Judgement?”,
asks Frater Puck
to worship equally; drugs are evil entities that should not be allowed in your bodies; Armageddon is, obviously, on the way. The sincerity of the message aside, these extreme views sure didn’t hurt magazine sales. As Timothy Wyllie explains, “I hadn’t thought to write the book, but when Genesis P-Orridge, who’d been archiving Process Publications over the years, introduced me to Adam Parfrey of Feral House, the original concept was to simply publish a facsimile edition of the graphic art I created for Process magazines. As Adam and I got to know one another, I realized that I could tell the inside story of The Process Church. I was in at the beginning, and out in 1977, at the time when the group had effectively run its course. However, no one person would be able to tell the history of the group since so much went on in so many different places, over a number of years, everyone in the group would have to be extensively interviewed. No, my point of extreme interest was this strange woman, Mary Ann (MacLean), who no one on the outside ever knew was the one in charge of the whole operation. “ “Although I feel I have discharged or released the scars I carried from my 15 years of misplaced adoration – after all, I’d proved to myself Mary Ann was the incarnate Goddess – I was still curious about the nature of her personality and how she was able to have this extraordinary effect on so many of us. And since I was, on and off, a favorite of hers, this gave me unique access to much of what went on behind the scenes in this mysterious cult. It was this desire to know and understand the woman at the center of it that drove my interest in writing the book. “ What did the Process Church Believe? “It’s much too complicated a question to answer here. I can give you my own reading, what moved and appealed to me, since it was both an experiential reality (I felt it) and it fit in with much that I’d been studying, which was the reconciliation of opposites. It’s an alchemical concept and I knew enough about myself by my early twenties to know I had to work on what I didn’t know about myself; I had to deal with my darkness, it was having a negative influence on my life. Of course I didn’t consciously know this at the time, but I was following my intuition, and my intuition- plus a number of significant synchronicitieswas what got me into The Process, and Mary Ann’s web. “ Telepathy Experiments “What isn’t generally understood is the empathic aspect of telepathy. Telepathy, as I’ve experienced and observed it, is not the picking up on everyday thoughts from peoples’ minds, it’s more the ability to empathize with another to the degree that one almost is the other. Metaphorically, like stepping into their physical vehicle and simply reading it from the inside through feelings. Thus, in practical terms, it’s far more valuable to know what a person is truly feeling, underneath all the emotional disguises, than to know their grandpa’s name and address. “ “I’ve had a number of telepathic moments over the years since I left the group that I’ve written about in my other books. I intuitively know that as a species we are heading for a telepathic future as we prepare ourselves for the impact of the extraterrestrial reality.” What was the relationship between Scientology and The Process? “Both Robert (DeGrimston, one of the cult’s leaders) and Mary Ann were pretty disgusted with Scientology, especially with (L. Ron) Hubbard himself. Although they used two or three group processes lifted from Scientology, and the E-meter of course, they were insistent on being seen as different from Scientology. Which, of course, they were. So, if and when Scientology ever came up in conversation – which was rare – they’d always be dismissed with a cynical joke. Although Mary Ann always acknowledged Hubbard for coming up with those few early techniques that she found valuable. “ “Apart from the E-meter, which we used in a very different way from Scientology, I believe Mary Ann and Robert took about three of the basic exercises in the Communication Courses. I don’t recall what we
he farthest-out hipster prose in the original print run of Ed Sanders’ highly readable Manson account, The Family, concerns the supposed “hooded snuffoids” from the spookily-named but otherwise harmless Process Church Of The Final Judgement. This kind of statement, made despite the fact that no one in the group has ever been convicted of anything like murder, is somewhat like blaming the people who ran Amok Books for all the horrible killings written up in their inventory. Although the Process Church did publish a magazine, which solicited an essay from Manson, author and sect member Timothy Wyllie remarks, “One of the only times I recall that we decided to deliberately break the law was to smuggle a German Shepherd across the English Channel.” So Wyllie’s book Love Sex Fear Death (Process Media) is not a true crime novel, although it’s possible that the way they talk about Satan will still get you in trouble in some parts of the country. To read the book is to realize that theirs is a relatively dry, talky, intellectual religion, and the use of Satanic imagery is more symbolic than diabolical. The book’s interest lies more in the parts they made up, the mythology of Christianity re-written with a new slant on the characters, kind of like the musical Wicked. The church’s founders founders came out of Scientology, having been early and quick adopters in the late 50s. They broke with the church in 1963, apparently figuring if you can just make this shit up, why not go all the way and make up a new story, one that suits you better? And while you’re at it, you can borrow some of the popular characters from other stories. Hence the idea of Christ and Satan, buddies, just two guys with a job to do, beating each other senseless every day and yukking it up over a beer every night. The Process Church of the Final Judgment was a religious group that lasted from about 1966 to 1974 and reportedly had ties to all of the big counter-culture names of the time, including Scientology, Mick Jagger, Marianne Faithful, and the entire Manson clan. Unfortunately, most of these links are either embellishments or complete fabrications: The Mick Jagger/Marianne Faithful connection were simply examples of the cult’s star-fucking promotional tactics, trying to sell magazines by getting big stars on the covers; the Manson connection was an example of author Ed Sanders using a bit too much creative license in his book The Family. Wyllie’s new book Sex, Fear, Death: The Inside Story of the Process Church of the Final Judgment offers a number of perspectives (including Wyllie’s own, obviously) on the story of the cult and how life was lived in such a setting. While there are no stories of animal sacrifice or virginladen orgies, the book is a worthwhile glimpse into how a cult forms, what goes on in such an inclusive and sheltered environment and, ultimately, how these things tend to dissolve. Included in the book are reproductions of the beautifully-designed magazines and other handouts that the church used to sell on city streets. These conveyed The Process’s complex views, for example: Christ and Satan were one in the same, meaning you have
called them but one involved sitting opposite someone, knees touching, and simply remaining fully-conscious while looking directly in the eyes of the other for five minutes or longer, and calling out the other person when you see them zoning out – you can see it in the eyes. Then starting again. It’s harder than it seems and is very helpful in life since being able to look someone in the eyes while talking to them communicates honesty and integrity. Second one, similar seating, only this time you take turns in insulting the other person as perceptively as possible; flip-side to that, you shower each other with sincere complimentary observations. Both exercises are designed to bring out and flatten emotional out-of-control responses. The third that I recall was when an individual was put in the center of the group and people take turns in insulting them – the worse the better. “ What was the downfall of the Process Church? “The downfall, if one can call it that, was incremental. I suggest in the book that it started with our losing the English court case against the English edition of Ed Sanders’s The Family, in which the fallibility of our Goddess was first evident. And when I read the court records while writing the book, I was appalled at the cavalier attitude taken by Robert and Mary Ann to defending Robert’s words, by ordering three of their underlings to appear instead of them and fumble the ball. The judge was clearly insulted by this and was justifiably cynical in his summary. But I’ve always believed that on a spiritual level it was when we started charging for spiritual healing that put the cap on it. On a more subtle level, I believe the seeds of its demise were baked into the system from the start. Mary Ann’s powerdriven ambitions, her manipulative brilliance, and greed might have been effective for a while in driving The Process along, but in a sense it was always bound to implode and destroy itself. “ “Cult” vs. “Culture” “Sociologist Phillip Slater’s statement to the extent that prophets are extruded from a culture in order to explore living arrangements and spiritual or psychic realities with which they then return to their society to tell what they have found.
Some of the information is useful to the overall culture and is maintained; other [information] is deemed irrelevant or too advanced and is rejected. I saw cults in much the same way. Cults can explore social engineering, which, if the entire culture tried to do it would be to throw everything in the mix to the detriment of the overall culture. Some cults, for example, went to town exploring “free love” with all its unintended consequences. By their examples we can see more clearly what the effects on a social group of sexual love and learn the lessons derived from that. “ Members of The Process are now the controlling interests of BEST FRIENDS, the popular animal society in Utah. “I suspect this is one of the very few factors that still gives me a tinge of regret, although my older self knows better. When we started off back in the 1960s we all felt thoroughly committed to changing the world for the better. What I believe was discovered over the years was the virtual impossibility of influencing the world, which then led to a certain cynicism about humanity and a turning inside to focus on the community itself. When the group fractured in 1978 and floated for a while before establishing Best Friends in Utah, they evidently became fully committed to the care of animals. “ “So I do feel there is a bit of the spirit of disappointment hanging over those who were there from the start, the remaining inner circle. “ Photos are all Public Domain
M A M A’ S B A B Y
A HORROR SHORT
B Y D R E W D AY WA LT
C R E AT U R E D E S I G N B Y J O H N U . A B R A H A M S O N C R E AT U R E F X B Y J E F F FA R L E Y M U S I C CO M P O S E D BY K E V I N R I E P L
Drew’s original scri p t :
INT. WOMAN’S HOM E - N I G H T A
yOuNG prOfESSIONAl WOMAN cOMES HOME frOM WOrk, ExHAuSTEd.
INHuMAN THING IS ScrEAMING ANd WHINING frOM THE OTHEr rOOM, WHIcH IS SEpArATEd by AN Old dOOr THAT HAS bEEN cOvErEd
IN bOlTS ANd lOckS.
AN EvIl, IMprISONING dOOr. SIGHS AT THE dOOr ANd THE SOuNd Of THE cryING ANd WHINING.
IS WHAT SHE fEArEd WHEN SHE cAME IN THE dOOr.
ExHAuSTEd ANd frIGHTENEd Of IT.
TO IGNOrE THE cAll IT MAkES TO HEr IN ITS TWISTEd, pATHETIc fOrEIGN TONGuE.
ScrEAMING, WHINING cAll frOM THE OTHEr SIdE Of THE dOOr SEEMS TO MAkE HEr WHOlE WOrld vIbrATE.
clOSE upS ON
INT. b ATH rOOM - N I G H T SHE
GOES TO THE MEdIcINE cAbINET ANd GrAbS A bOTTlE Of pIllS
HIdEOuS ScrEAMING IN THEbAckGrOuNd fOr
INT. k ITcHEN IS lA Nd - N I G H T SHE
pOurS A GlASS Of WINE, SWIGS THE WHOlE GlASS WITH A pIll.
INT. lI vING r OOM - N I G H T SHE
plOpS ON THE cOucH WITH THE SEcONd GlASS Of WINE.
THErE’S A frAMEd SNApSHOT Of A HEr EMbrAcING A MAN. bETTEr TIMES.
TAkES A SIp, SETS IT THEy’rE AT THE pArk ANd
lOOkS OvEr TO THE MANTlE WHErE
HOldING EAcH OTHEr ANd SMIlING brOAdly.
lOOkS TO HEr HANd.
rINGS ON HEr fINGErS.
WHErE A WEddING bANd uSEd TO bE.
IN THE bAckGrOuNd.
lOOkS OvEr TO THE clOSEd dOOr cOvErEd IN bOlT lOckS.
ANd cHEWING AT THE dOOr frOM THE OTHEr SIdE. ON THE OTHEr SIdE, dOWN SEE HINTS Of ITS uNcANNy
S O M E u N E ArT H l y T H I N G O N T H E O T H E r S I d E I S c l A W I N G A N d p I c k I N G WE cAN SEE THAT THE bOTTOM cOrNEr Of THE dOOr HINTS TO SOME GOd-AWful THING ON THE fOOr, clAWING ANd pIckING ANd cHEWING AT THE dOOr TO GET THrOuGH IT frOM THE OTHEr SIdE. WE ANd AWful INHuMAN-NESS.
THING IS STIll cryING fOr MAMA IN AN EvIl, uNSETTlING fOrEIGN lANGuAGE. Of THE MAN AGAIN, dISGuSTEd.
b A ck TO WOMAN O N T H E c Ou cH : S H E l O O k S A T T H E p I c T u r E THE fOOr ANd pIckS up A MAGAzINE. TrIES TO pAGE THrOuGH IT. IN
TOSSES THE pIcTurE frAME ON
THE MAGAzINE SHE SEES A SHIrTlESS HuNky MOdEl IN TIGHT jEANS ANd lOOkING AMAzING. pullS HEr pANTIES ANd drESS Off uNcErEMONIOuSly, ANd STArTS MASTurbATING, ANd NOT IN THAT fAkE pOrNO WAy EITHEr.
furIOuS, dESpErATE, dElIbErATE.
dONE WITH SpEEd ANd prESSurE.
NOT SOfTly lIT.
NOT SlOW ANd
WANTS TO cuM ANd SHE WANTS TO cuM
WOOd cHIpS ANd flEckS ArE All AlONG THE dOOr, ANd THE rATHOlE
THING AT THE dOOr IS clAWING ANd ScrEAMING fOr HEr.
IS GETTING bIGGEr.
WITH THE WOMAN AS SHE MASTurbATES furIOuSly.
clOSES HEr EyES.
crOSSES HEr fAcE ANd SHE lOOkS up,
STruGGlES TO rEcOGNIzE WHO IT IS THAT’S OvEr HEr, ANd WE SEE IT’S THE MAlE MOdEl frOM THE MAGAzINE. SATISfAcTION ANd kISSES HIM WETly, AWkWArdly, HuNGrIly.
SMIlES quIET SExuAl
fuMblES WITH HIS pANTS buTTON ANd zIppEr TOGET THEM Off.
rEAcHES INTO HIS pOckET WHIlE kISSING HEr ANd pullS OuT A cONdOM IN A WrAppEr.
NOTIcES ANd yANkS IT AWAy frOM HIM
WOMAN N O ... HE
lOOkS AT HEr curIOuSly.
WOMAN yOu HE
dON’T NEEd IT.
S O .. .
juST dON’T.... plEASE...
NOdS ANd pullS HIS pANTS dOWN, HE puSHES HEr lEGS OvEr HIS SHOuldErS ANd ENTErS HEr.
SMIlES ANd lETS HIM.
GrINdS HEr HIpS AGAINST HIS INvITINGly...
STArTS fuckING HEr HArd.
OpENS HEr lEGS WIdEr.
WOMAN fuck HE
ME yOur SEEd.
WANT yOu TO fIll ME.
ME yOur bAby.
M E A c H I l d ...
STOpS fuckING HEr buT STAyS INSIdE...
MA lE MO dEl I
cAN’T. HOrrIbly dISAppOINTEd.
WOMAN WHy HE
GESTurES WITH A NOd TO THE HEAvIly bOlTEd dOOr.
fOllOWS HIS lOOk TO THE dOOr, WHErE THE HIdEOuS AbOMINATION ON
THE OTHEr SIdE IS STIll cAllING OuT TO HEr, ITS MAMA, IN THE pITIful ANd WrONG SOuNdING fOrEIGN lANGuAGE.
WITHOuT WOMAN buT
TAkING HEr EyES Off THE dOOr, SHE SpEAkS TO THE MOdEl.
THAT’S NO cHIld.
MA lE MO dEl I’ M
S O r r y ...
d O N ’ T S T O p ....
MA lE MO dEl yOu’rE WHEN
NOT EvEN AblE TO MAkE A cHIld AfTEr WHAT yOu’vE dONE.
SHE TurNS bAck TO fAcE THE MOdEl, HE’S GONE.
S T r E A M d O W N H E r f A c E A N d S H E ’ S S T I l l j u S T M A S T u r b A T I N G ... A N d
MAGAzINE IS ON THE cOffEE TAblE, OpEN TO THE MOdEl.
cONTINuES TO MASTurbATE, WHIlE SObbING. THING cHEWING ANd clAWING AT THE dOOr TO GET OuT IS rElENTlESS.
SHE cuMS juST AS THE THING bEHINd THE dOOr
ScrEAMS OuT fOr HEr, buT IT SEEMS TO bE
Or G A S M I N G W I T H H Er. . . THEN
AfTEr A lONG bEAT, SHE SIGHS, cATcHES HEr brEATH,
AN EArTHSHAkING OrGASM, bOTH SHE ANd THE THING ArE SIlENT.
WIpES AWAy THE TEArS, ANd cHuGS THE rEST Of HEr WINE.
SMASH cu T TO: INT. l IvING rOOM - l A T E r - N I G H T STrIkING SHE’S
ASlEEp ON THE cOucH NOW, EMpTy WINE GlASS ANd NOW AN EMpTy WINE bOTTlE TOO. IN THE cOrNEr Of THE dOOr IS cHEWEd OpEN NOW.THE HOlE IS bIGGEr, ANd THE THING IS Of WOOd ANd drIpS Of blOOd ANd MucuS ON THE flOOr.... INcOMprEHENSIblE AbOMINATION clIMb ArOuNd THE dOOr OuT Of fOcuS, IN THE bAckGrOuNd.
cu ON THE b OlTE d d O O r : T H E H O l E G O N E .... E S c A p E d ? T H E r E A r E S p l I N T E r S
bA ck TO THE WOMAN : A S S H E S l E E p S , W E S E E S O M E S M A l l , b A b y - S I z E d ON THE WAll, AcrOSS TO THE lIvING rOOM WAll, lIkE AN INSEcT. buT IT’S IT’S SIlENT. AS IT ScrAMblES dOWN THE WAll, WE WATcH AS IT dISAppEArS
H E r ...
bEHINd THE cOucH WHErE SHE SlEEpS.
E cu ON WOMAN S lEE p I N G : S O M E T H I N G c l I M b S u p O N T O T H E c O u c H A N d u N d E r T H E b l A N k E T W I T H H E r . . . S H E W A k E S , S T A r T l E d - A N d W E S E E T H E T W I S T E d , uNGO d l y- WrO N G Ab E r rA T I O N . I T ’ S A f O u r l E G G E d T H I N G W I T H G N A r l E d O l d - M A N T H u M b S f O r l E G S , A p r O T r u d I N G ANd ExpOSEd SpINE Of jAGGEd vErTEbrAE, ANd INSTEAd Of A HEAd IT SIMply HAS A dISEMbOdIEd uppEr jAW ANd A lIMp TONGuE HANGING frOM ITS pAlETTE. A b OMINATION (fOrEIGN
TONGuE SubTITlES) H u N G r y ...
M A M A ... I’ M SHE
lOOkS AT THE THING, EyES full Of TEArS.
k N O W , b A b y ....
SHAkES HEr HEAd TIrEdly, rESIGNEdly.
flIpS ONTO HEr bAck, uNdEr THE cOvErS, ANd OpENS HEr lEGS INvITINGly.
crAWlS uNdEr THE cOvErS ANd dOWN bETWEEN HEr lEGS. cOvErS.
lIckING, EATING SOuNdS EMANATE frOM THE THING bENEATH THE
THrOWS HEr HEAd bAck WITH rElucTANT plEASurE ANd lETS HEr HEAd fAll TO THE SIdE Of THE cOucH.
STrEAM frOM HEr cHEEk
ONTO THE frAMEd pHOTOGrApH Of THE HEr WITH THE MAN, WHIcH SHE THrEW ON THE flOOr.
MAN’S fAcE IN THE frAMEd pHOTO SEEMS TO bE SMIlING HIdEOuSly.
cuT TO blA ck.
THE EN d
‘M A M A ’ S b A b y ’ ,
cOMplETE WITH THE INITIAl cONcEpT SkETcHES by MOdEl by
AS WEll AS A bIO ON
j O H N u. A b r A H A M S O N cOMpOSEr kEvIN rIEpl.
ANd THE crEATurE
C r e at ur e D e s i g n :
J o h n U . A b r a h a mson
C r e at ur e F X :
hroughou t h i s m a n y y ea rs wo r k i n g i n t h e v i d eo ga m e a n d f i l m i n d u st r i e s , K ev i n R i e pl h as distingui s h e d h i m s e l f f ro m h i s pe e rs w i t h h i s a b i l i t y to c r a f t e n gag i n g at m o s ph e r e s a n d rousing
scores that n ot o n ly co m pl e m e n t a n d e n h a n c e t h e n u m e ro u s v i d eo ga m e , f i l m , a n d t e l ev i s i o n projects he’s wo r k e d o n, b u t a r e a l s o r eco g n i z e d a n d pr a i s e d by ga m e rs a n d m ov i eg o e rs a l i k e . His themes r a n g e f ro m e n e rg e t i c a n d r h y t h m i c to e m ot i v e to s i m ply m ac a b r e a n d ot h e rwo r l d ly, as best demo n st r at e d by h i s acc l a i m e d s co r e fo r M i c ro s o f t ’ s to p - s e l l i n g G ea rs o f Wa r f r a n c h i se. Since 2002, h e h as st ea d i ly ga i n e d r eco g n i t i o n f ro m fa n s a n d c r i t i c s fo r h i s wo r k o n t h e U n r eal series, with h i s wo r k o n G ea rs o f Wa r l au n c h i n g h i m to t h e fo r e f ro n t o f t h e v i d eo ga m e m u s i c world.
Riepl has appl i e d h i s l i f e - lo n g pas s i o n fo r co m p o s i t i o n t h ro u g h pr i vat e st u d i e s a n d a fo r m a l musical educ at i o n at t h e M a n n e s Co l l eg e o f M u s i c i n N ew Yo r k , a n d h as a ga i n e d a st ro n g foundation in t h e m u s i c b u s i n e s s d u r i n g h i s t i m e i n t h e L o s A n g e l e s a r ea . A s a lo n g t i m e w r i t i n g partner with t e l ev i s i o n a n d v i d eo ga m e co m p o s e r K ev i n M a n t h e i a n d a co l l eag u e o f r e n ow n e d composer Mic h a e l G i acc h i n o, R i e pl sta n d s p o i s e d to to p h i s past ac h i ev e m e n ts a n d lo o k s fo rwa rd to applying h i s s i g nat u r e s o u n d to m a n y m o r e pro j ec ts i n t h e f u t u r e .
K ev i n R i epl
JOHN U. ABRAHAMSON
SPIR I TC AG E 60
DEM O DAWG
FRANK AND BIG
KRAWC ZYK STA N I S L AV
Koshka Bl ack
P h o t o g r a p h e r : K o n s tantin Alexandroff
E E R I E VON
Th e C r i m s o n G h o s t
Th e C r i m son Ghost
Man Made White Devil
VIOL E NT SPIRIT ME D IA
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