Dementia and the Dollar
There are ravings coming off the wire that state a feeble-minded soulless degenerate has published another piece of occult rhetoric. How will it end? I had been lazily vacationing in Borneo when a rude and spiteful weasel showed up at my hotel room with an ‘urgent letter’ from the editor. We were going on with it. The train was leaving the station. Somehow this stupid and dirty publication was gonna hit the newsstands. I was appalled. After trying to unsuccessfully calm my jangled nerves, I again picked up the letter and fell into such a foul and despondent state of mind that the hotel concierge remarked later that, “suicide would have been the only bright point to the entire weekend.” I railed and cursed incoherently as I read what my filthy editor had planned. A magazine about the occult? Folklore of the supernatural? It was a frighteningly real and clear case of dementia. Something had to be done.
It had already been a trying few months and I was still in the grip of deciphering the implications of Occupy Wall Street. We’ve had whole throngs of people going crazily berserk and picketing because Corporations had got uppity. Some of these brave souls sleep in tents in subfreezing weather and refuse to shower for months at a time. Some go half-mad and stare vacantly at CEOs who walk nervously past and mumble something about “falling stock”. And there are entire businesses that have holed up in their office buildings and refuse to leave due to the ‘zombies’ outside. Behaving like arctic Eskimos or Australian aborigines, these employees get drunk all day on cheap whiskey, stare defiantly outside, and talk of increasing the armament. They are the new militia and neither the FBI, the DEA, or the goddamn zombies are gonna force them out in the open. I’ve seen them with my own eyes. They are a reckless brood constantly jabbering about conspiracy, the evil disposition of the zombies, and the need for more ammunition. They are reckless and clearly ready to burn Wall Street like Waco and in front of the entire reporting world. And my nuisance editor of a clearly blasphemous and godless publication wants to join the ranks of these crazed simpletons? No thank you, I’ll take the zombies. It’s no time to be doing business. Not in this day and age.
Most days, it’s a complete waste of time to go on the internet. There is something profoundly wrong and ugly about any devise that is so laden with information that even the dumbest can fire off an intelligent-sounding blog or post and have people take notice. Not so last week however. We bore witness to the internet creature from the deep rear its many heads and slap the government silly by conducting a 24-hour blackout. It was Old Testament, violent, and clearly intended to spite. Even now, the shamed legislators that conceived the SOPA fiasco are shaking their heads in bewilderment and trying to backpeddle towards the First Amendment. Many have joined the anti-zombie militia and are now cowering in government buildings with corporate bigwigs. It’s a slow-moving fire and the internet entity has once again fallen asleep but there are remnants of scorched earth. Like Frankenstein’s hideous abomination, most are wondering what kind of mediations and networking granted this creature autonomous existence. At what point did ontological and epistemological distinctions disappear and give rise to this folkloric absurdity. We may never know. It’s clearly a savage end to normal sensibilities.
And this is what is going on in my head when that misshapen bell-boy came ringing with his ‘urgent correspondence’. What he forgot to tell me and what I only gleaned from the sheer horror of the experience was that my foul editor Preston Copeland had included a surprise with his letter. The swine had set me up an interview with a known occultist and practitioner of the Dark Arts. It was after midnight when a loud rapping at the door signaled the arrival of the Beast. She was disheveled as if she’d just gotten into a fight or car accident. Her strange Boston accent coupled with the smudges on her face and pasty complexion gave her the appearance of a corpse or monster. I backed away and instinctively raised my fists into a defense posture. This is it; I thought. The end of the ride. She squealed something high-pitched and began to rummage into her purse for what I could only imagine was pepper-spray or a shiv. I bit my lip to keep from screaming and snarled, “Get out of my hotel room.” She fished some horrid lipstick out of her bag and began to smear it across her face like a demonic clown. “I’m here for the interview.” She quipped and sat down lazily on the bed. “There’s no time for that.” I said as forcefully as I could while trying to stop my leg from shaking. “I’m the witch. I’m here for the interview.” She said again and produced what could be construed as a pentagram from a chain that hung around her neck. “What kind of witch?” I asked warily. It is well-known that each and every esoteric Order has its own set of curses, countercurses, and rituals that it uses to negotiate the numinous. Most if these groups get along with each other but never under any circumstances, would they tolerate a laymen or non-initiate perpetuating the secrets of the group. In the old days, this was grounds for a large push off a short cliff. A terrible insult. I turned to the Old Hag and remarked icily, “No, you’re not. I’ve met real witches and they’re not you.” It was as this second that again my nerves were tested to the point of flight or fight. I frowned dolefully, “It’s too late. People with black robes will get you as soon as you leave this room.” She suddenly jumped up and flung herself onto me. “Get me outta here!” She begged. “I’m too young to be eaten by crazies. I just needed money so I told your editor I was the real deal.” “I know.” I soothed. “It’s a terrible shock.” As she wept openly and chattered about being a good Christian, I remarked about the severity and downright nastiness of witch retribution. “They’re wicked and ill-tempered. They’ll make an example out of you.” She suddenly screamed and fled the room in a blind panic. I peered out and caught a glimpse of her wild-eyed and in full gallop heading for the elevator. The last thing I heard was her whimpering as she abandoned the elevator idea and headed directly for the stairs.
And now you ask me, why I’m hesitant to endorse this Magus Magazine? They want a glowing Press Release and want me to just sit back and take orders from that Copeland character? Not from me. These buggers can burn in a vat of piss before I’ll condone their rubbish. Granted, the occult and the supernatural are both vaguely interesting. Any magazine that has the cojones to approach these taboos with an ear towards critical thinking is both laudable and deserving of a good read. Does that mean I’m gonna stoop to the level of dumb beast, yapping and howling the praise of a cur who barely pays and sends strange-smelling women to my hotel room in the middle of the night?
Mad Doctor Abdullah