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 still being released. 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. An interview with a witch? 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 an FBI run Pirate Bay. We've had
whole throngs of people going crazily berserk and picketing because the File
Sharing website had been rudely sacked by Swedish authorities. Some of these
brave souls refused to leave the premises in ? and have convinced themselves
the authorities are all ‘undead’. Some have gone half-mad and stare vacantly at
FBI agents who walk nervously past and mumble something about “the goddamn
downloads”. And the whole Pirate Bay staff has holed up in their office
building 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. 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. 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?
Hardly.
Mad
Doctor Abdullah
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