A short illustrative story by Lucian Fogaras
Jonas Peter Anderson strode across the deserted alley as the wind blew against his face, making his hair blow and blurr his view. He wasn’t wearing his glasses today as that would not match his personal and artistic projection of the self to the world: combat boots, black jeans, heavy bullet-studded belt, Ofermod Sol Nox t-shirt and a sleeveless black hoodie over it. People said that at his 33 years of age, Jonas should put aside the act, become self-sufficient and stop wasting his mother’s money on beer six-packs, vinyls and luxurious editions of occult literature from Ixaxxar Publications and Theion Publishing. But he did not care —his Satanic identity was more important to him than anything else in this world. Besides, it had been a long time since that fateful day 20 years ago, when he had decided to leave behind his Christian name. He only responded to Agnellus now —unless it was his mother calling him downstairs for dinner, in which case “Jonas, darling” would do. In the world of forums and e-mails, however, the International Satanic Brotherhood knew him as Frater Agnellus.
As he passed the battered buildings on his way to the local basilica, Agnellus chastised himself for forgetting to renovate his subscription to Dragon Rouge, and continue his path to bring forth the Infernal Light. Fortunately, he still had a few precious volumes full of dark wisdom which he could read once and again, feeding fantasies without having to risk danger physical or psychological. In this respect, Pappa Koetting never failed him, and he knew that godhood awaited him whether it was by grace of the Voudon or the habitual obeisance to Middle Eastern deities. In any case, he would not have to get his hands dirty as sooner or later he would get one of these beings to do his bidding.
One thing Agnellus was sure of was that the International Satanic Brotherhood planned to smash the Tetragramaton and kill the Elohim. The end of all life and creation was first and foremost among his goals, and he often pondered his own superiority over the scum that surrounded him whilst dozing off in self-satisfied stupor, emptying down his throat the last can of beer his body was able to hold, and inhaling the flatulence-satured air that surrounded him after hours thusly engaged. Causing the cosmic crash to kill the Demiurge would be no petty achievement, but the secret that not many an occultist or theistic satanist knew was that the Demiurge did not actually exist. He chuckled, “Not even the Qliphoth exist,” he muttered to himself, smug with confidence in his profound gnosis, “I am the only thing that is real, the only thing that matters. And I exist to become a Living God.”
A loyal friend who had passed through the flames with him, Frater Amentis Havayoth, had spurred the duo to start their own black metal band: Ridens Stercore. Esoterically, they both knew that to call this cooperation of adversarist souls a ‘band’ would be a misnomer. What arose during each of the sporadic rehearsal sessions from their semi hypnagogic states they identified as true possession, but which might have something to do with going a whole day without anything else but several packs of beer, was unmistakable communion with an entity. It was this entity which expressed itself through them, and so it was only fair to give credit where it was due. Ridens Stercore was quite simply a temporal, exoteric name for this demonic entity. The cooperation between an Anti-Cosmic Gnostic with Thelemic tendencies, like Agnellus, and a Satanic member of Operation Werewolf, like Amentis, was a unique musical manifestation. The music, they knew, was not important in the least —they could not care less if they sounded like a 1960s groovy occult rock band imitation— what really mattered was the gnosis they channeled through their states of possession, and what they put down in their overtly bombastic, forceful lyrics which some would identify as lifted from William Blake’s poetry.
Amentis had recently put Agnellus in contact with a mysterious individual who went simply by the disappointing name of ‘Edmund’. Agnellus had seen him only once. Edmund appeared foreign to what they were both used to: he did not seem to outwardly emulate the fashion or mannerisms of Howard Stanton LeVey, Aleister Crowley, Frater Euronymous, Frater Nödtveidt, or at least Frater Daniel Eriksson or Pappa Koetting. Instead, this excentric wore hiking shoes, and old weather-won trousers and jacket. For some reason he carried around a heavy rucksac. He was wiry but strangely powerful and coordinated in his movements, like a predator, giving the impression of a military bearing, which only contrasted with the enigmatic eyes behind round spectacles set on an aquiline nose. Edmund sported a disarrayed beard, which grew root-like from the inhumanly hollow cheeks. His bushy eyebrows grew over a protruding browline, above which loomed a well-proportioned forehead. The only reason both Amentis and he went ahead with this meeting was because this Edmund guy came recommended “from up high” the satanic orthodoxy and “deep inside” the underground , and was supposed to be as ‘true’, and as ‘real’, as any sinister individual.
Thinking about the person he was about to meet, Agnellus heard the cawing of a black vulture. Immediately, he stood in attention position, extended his hand in Nazi-styled sieg-heil gesture, and loudly pronounced “Salutem Lilith!”. In fact, screech owls, and not vultures, were the Lover-Mother-Whore’s birds. This mattered little to him: what really counted was the intention of devotion towards that symbol of neurotic maladaptation to reality around him.
He heard the characteristic strident, full sound of a well-tempered distortion for electric guitars. Battle drums followed that, and a rush of blast beats and tremolo-picked notes filled the air. His body reacted immediately in ecstasy. He loved the rush of adrenaline that metal as satanic manifestation provoked in him. As Agnellus walked around the corner, he saw the crowd and the sign posts, words and symbols of what he had been mentally masturbating to. Across the street was a band fully set up on an improvised stage characteristic of the underground scum who could not sell records like Watain and Dissection, and so did not have the budget for rock star pyrotechnics on stage. The feeling of disgust which overcame Agnellus was indescribable, as he realized he had been tapping his hands and headbanging to the music of melodic splatter-goregrind Christian band Faecal Ressurection. Their hymns of worship for the Demiurge’s singular mishappen offspring filled Agnellus’ black heart with hatred and scorn. Clutching his fists into delicate blood-knotted buns that had never known violence, he spat in the general direction of the transgressors of his unholy black art, a gesture of arrogant defiance and derision which he was careful not to make noticeable enough that any of them would actually take notice of him. He did not want to physically fight any Christians himself, and was content with cursing them and letting spirits of the Goetia take care of them. The satanic aristocracy does not get its hands dirty —ever.
Arriving at the Basilica of Saint Fiacre, Agnellus looked around this partially familiar place. The outside premises were his domain, but he had been inside the building a few times to take portentous pictures of himself with Satanic Tomes purchased from Boutique Occult Literature outlets Ixaxxar and Theion. He had been here many times before with Amentis to skulk around the property around midnight. Although it had occurred to them both that it would be exhilirating to break in and steal some of the hosts to desecrate, they were not comfortable with breaching the law and incurring in a misdemeanor for breaking and entering —the act of a lowly criminal, which they were most assuredly not. Besides, who might tell what kind of trouble they would get into with the local authorities. It was just too much of a hassle when they could obtain the same heretical high symbolically from ceremonially drinking each others’ semen, something they most assuredly did not shy away from. Not that they were homosexuals —whom their instincts as Honorary Aryans drove them to despise— as they were both attracted to the fair sex. No, this was about their religious devotion to the Dark, their dedication to No Limits Evil.
Being the satanic noble soul that he was, he despised the damnable acts of the Catholic Church, especially their abuses of childhood innocence. The White Lodge, subscribing to the authority of the Demiurge was given the power to effect the most terrible transgressions. Such acts sickened all true satanists: they all knew demons hate that shit! Free as they were from conventional morality, it was common knowledge in the circles of ethical necromancy and vampirism that pedophilia would get you the unequivocal enmity of demons. These acts may seem “dark” to the uninitiated, but as Dragon Rouge taught: true darkness is blacker than black, and is beyond such immoral and bestial acts. In a way, true darkness is the brightest light, though only perceivable by those who, like Fraters Agnellus and Amentis, dwelled in the Abyss of Daath. One needed only ask progressive, innovative and unbelievably young Mestre Viktor Klaus Johansen, who had been born with many gifts from Father Satan, and who enjoyed the private tutelage of Doctor Faustus’ former guiding spirit.
He caught sight of Edmund out of the corner of his eye. The excentric envoy was standing cross-armed against one of the pillars close to the building’s left vault. Agnellus felt unnerved by his cold, unblinking stare that for some reason brought images to his mind of Area 51’s grey aliens. Edmund discreetly signalled him to join him with a slight head gesture. As Agnellus strutted haughtily towards his presumed accomplice, he could but feel out of place. An uneasy feeling washed over him. The crude impression of reality that the current situation for some reason emanated was entirely foreign to his previous life experience after three decades of privileged, boastful bourgeois existence. Grasping for mental security, he found himself ennunciating under his quickened breath, “Anoki Adamas Ater, Sum Lapis Philosophorum”.
Saving himself the least of cordialities, Edmund immediately directed Agnellus’ attention towards the main altar. As Agnellus turned his head in confused curiosity, he felt a painful prick on the side of his neck, and the sensation of a needle being pulled out from his flesh. He jerked his head back and looked at the place where Edmund had been standing just a moment before. Bewilderment mixed with anger in his blackest heart of hearts, but his buddy Gargophias did not manifest as promised in this situation of real personal danger, in which causal acts and not imaginings of a megalomaniac were what counted. He swirled around trying to locate his erstwhile ally, but he now only saw Father Andrea Contin, the presiding priest, approaching him. The old man advanced swiftly but relaxedly with hands clasped in front of his plexus, a knowing grin spread across his malevolent visage. Agnellus tried to escape, but the adrenaline mixed with whatever drug he was given sped throughout his vascular system with increased intensity, and he felt himself a prisoner within his own body. The father leaned in until his lips brushed Agnellus’ ear, and he whispered in a low but discernible voice “Drakosophia Liftoach Satanas!”. The more than familiar magical words generated an immediate psycho-biological reaction in him.
A new feeling of security and ecstatic expectation washed over Agnellus, and something inside him knew this was right, or convinced him so. He blinked, and found himself being led by the father through a low-roof, rock-hewn passageway that appeared very ancient, not quite knowing how or when he got there. “You have reacted exactly as expected, Jonas. I still remember when you serviced me as a little altar boy. We made sure you would not be able to remember much consciously. The program was such a success that you instinctively sought to reproduce and develop the mind control process even after reaching physical —though never mental— maturity.” They passed a few more doors widely spread across the unbelievable length of the tunnel, constantly yet smoothly descending and curving to the left. “Don’t concern yourself with the situation: only I and twelve others know these tunnels even exist. The others are all waiting for us at the main underground ritual chamber.”
After another lapsus brutus, Agnellus stood shoeless and naked on the cobbled-stoned floor of a poorly-lit damp room. The walls were cold rock-hewn blocks, stained with red-brown pigmentations that were accentuated by the filtered light and the use of torches, producing visible tones lurid and otherworldly. Chains bound to rings set around his torso and his extremities were loose, for the moment, and Samael only knew what unthinkably contorted positions a human being could be forced into if their use were guided by an unbriddled, creative imagination. He heard a chuckle behind him. Turning around, Agnellus beheld the nasty vision of a naked chubby and hairy man with long curly hair sitting on a luxurious throne, grinning into a beastly half snarl. Father Conti explained that this lecherous-looking, frumpy man with semitic features was The First King of Edom. Wearing nothing but dark, shaded eyeglasses, this living satan seemed to take a moment to savour his future pleasures of the flesh. Agnellus, who had to twist his head around to barely be able to look at the face of the seated First King of Edom, saw how profusely the infernal monarch was now drooling. “Sodomize the weak!” the frumpy man on the throne pronounced at last.
The chains were pulled by unseen hands, lifting Agnellus into the air by the torso first, and then separating his legs. Helpless and full of horror, the satanist urinated and defecated himself, to the delight of a congregation that made its approval known despite their remaining in the shadows. As the victim, the offering, was dragged into position above the frumpy king of Edom, Father Andrea Conti arose from the shadows and began to chant “Sitra Ahra, sitra ahra, sitra ahra”. Perplexed, Agnellus did not know what to make of this, but his mind was stilled. After a few seconds, however, his well- trained sphincters responded to this key verbal prompt. This was only possible after years of psychic driving that paired the use of magical words with vigorous stimulation of the Muladhara Chakra using an appropriately-shaped, penetrating tool designed for kind yet firm love-giving.
Situated right above the curly-haired, semitic-featured frumpy man’s stiff Middle Pillar, Agnellus’ nether regions were lubricated beyond necessity. He gasped as the serpent power entered him, and four powerful negative thrusts completed the entering and raising of the Kundalini up his entrails: “Naheema! Lilith! Belphegore! Moloch!” he had screamed loudly, though with a broken and almost feminine voice. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as he felt the full power of the blood current illumination surge into his flabby, beer-and-pasta fed body.