It was in the darkest hours of a long, hot and humid summer night during which Haeland, dressed in all black clothes, from head-to-foot, departed his more-than-somewhat dilapidated trailer-home, armed with a razor-sharp Austrian Glock combat knife, to seek his chosen prey amongst the local flora and fauna. He knew that Daffyd’s wife, a decrepit specimen in all respects, even in her late-thirties, would be in repine upon her back-porch, lit only with the electrical blue-glow of the insect-repellant light and, no doubt, well into her cups - Bud Light and Crown Royal being her poison of choice.
He had made his mind up, years ago to the day, to extract her from the pathetic mortal coil she inhabited, brutally so, for the smallest of slights to his personage. Haeland was one who was intrinsically tied to the area in every fashion, a sensitive, if somewhat bizarre man, who felt deeply the ebbs and tides of the natural world around him. He had long decided that those who upset the balance of such natural tides - especially those close to his own personal area - must and should be dealt with without mercy and utilizing the strongest possible measures.
Slowly, cautiously, but full of a knowing and somewhat unbridled confidence, Haeland crept through the twisted scrub pines and low-growth greenery toward the border of the property where his chosen opfer awaited.
A crackle of a desiccated twig breaking beneath his feet and the subsequent rustling of the piling dead leaves of many autumns past sounded a slight but audible alarm to the wife’s guard dogs on the other side of the haphazardly-built low-lying fencing, bringing a furry, stout, black-coated mongrel and a German shepherd bounding forward - both woofing somewhat ineffectually despite their hoarse and heartfelt barks.
Haeland smiled blackly and cooed into the hot night air.
“Here, puppy, puppy! Here, dog!”
A morsel of poisoned meat thrown and their barks subsided into the muted sounds of satisfied mastication. Soon enough, these too died into the even more subdued sounds of low, brittle choking as their breathing became more belabored and eventually stopped altogether. Haeland, pleased, mused upon the slow demise of the would-be guardians of his intended as he ran his filthy and scarred fingers across the smallish quartz crystal tetrahedron which he carried within the lower left-hand pocket of his black BDU-style jacket.
With an effortless hop Haeland negotiated the slightly more than waist-level fencing and strode past the two, now deceased, canine guardians of the property into which he now intruded during the pointed hours of dawn. A roving eye upon the recent cadavers revealed that they had begun to defecate themselves in response to their chemically-induced death, to which Haeland managed to stifle an involuntary chuckle.
The bitch to whom the professionally sharpened knife was intended came into visible relief through the cheap screening of her back-porch. Her head was lolled back against the plastic lawn chair, mouth open, revealing a shabbily installed top denture in an attempt to conceal profuse tooth loss throughout her twenties and early-to-mid-thirties as a result of a runaway methamphetamine habit habitual to the area. Furrowed skin, wrinkled well past its natural age, covered her sun-bronzed face - eyes turned into her head, one limp arm holding the still smoldering remnants of a filtered cigarette.
Haeland knew that her own three filthy pups, bitch-breed in underage male human skin, slept soundly within the converted home in which she dwelt, along with Daffyd, exhausted and dead to the world after a long twelve-hour day of toiling for his brood of mundanes, among which he lovingly counted himself. This thought made Haeland smile darkly, as it was his utmost pleasure, in this particular incidence, to sever from them, forever, the love that their mother bore them.
Several determined steps and a languorous opening and closing of the screen door and Haeland was before his chosen opfer - stifled snores and rank breath proceeding from her open mouth. With a combat-booted foot, said boots having been given to him some years ago by a former member of a Psyops division within the army of a prominent western country, Haeland gently tipped over the gasoline canister nearby, intended for use on the morrow in Daffyd’s proscribed domestic lawn-duties, allowing the petrol-laden fumous liquid to pool across the weathered beams of the porch around and beneath the sleeping woman upon whom Haeland cast his predatory gaze.
With a deft motion Haeland clasped his left hand over the sleeping figure’s mouth and with the other, ran his razor-sharp combat knife, which had been donated to him by another member of his cult, beforehand dedicated to a bleak and horrific Acausal Dark Goddess, across the throat of the female mundane. Her eyes opened widely in horror, briefly, as arterial spray shot like an iron-scented perfume from her now severely perforated neck - careening upwards some several feet before splattering down onto her doomed and slowly slackening visage.
Haeland ran from the porch, the force of his body opening the spring-driven screened-in door and did not look back as her still smoldering cigarette dropped onto the pooling gasoline beneath her slowly dying body, engulfing her and then her home in a putrid cloud of arson-ridden infernal flame. Deep within the adjutant woods, holding his quartz crystal tetrahedron with the grip of insanity, Haeland vibrated the name of that Dark God to whom the offered human sacrifice had been proffered. In tumultuous, iron-wrought clouds above, fell lightning could be seen and there, on the damp earth, Haeland’s hideous laughter mingled in the night air with the sound of the approaching ambulances and fire-trucks, seeking, in vain, to wrest some recovery as to the bitch and her kin.
For those who have been following the Sinister Path for several decades or more there is no question as to the efficaciousness of the methods outlined by the Order of Nine Angles as it relates to the pursuance of the same. No crises of faith, no existential dilemmas as to whether or not choosing the path less trodden is correct or incorrect, no flights of fancy or states of indecision when a new, trend-driven, supposedly “LHP” formula comes along billing itself as the quick and easy fast-track to “darkness” - those referenced “formulae” and associated “needful accoutrements”, of course, available on a pay-to-play basis from those so producing.
The few that have applied themselves - and “few” should be emphasized here - even for only several years - along a legitimate, personal, Sinister Quest, involving as it does enacting evil in the real-world, engaging in tangible, physical ordeals, involving oneself in illegality, pursuing and succeeding in self-overcoming, more often than not applied in a profoundly hard and exacting fashion, will, in fact, have no qualms as to the path that they have chosen, much less thoughts as to potential recourse. If anything, there will be a grim realisation that they have, by following the path of the ONA - to whatever degree - yet, needfully vigorously - gone past the point of no return. Their lives, once mundane, have been, and irrevocably so, imbued with that which is Satanic, that which is Sinister, that which is, in both inspiration and effect, baleful.
Through their own, individual, acts of Satanic striving against the mundane limits put before them, through their own and more often than not trauma-laden pursuance of Sinister agendas, Sinister goals, the Sinister adherent will have pushed themselves above and beyond any status of life that would have been had, regularly, sans the path outlined by the ONA and thus, whatever regrets might blossom in the mind, from time to time, the reality of their Sinister quest - what has been done - and what, indeed, remains to be done - will be the stark reality which presents itself excluding all else. For these few, legitimate, Daughters of Baphomet, mundanity is, simply, no longer an option.
Any adherent of the ONA Way, if such are, in fact, vigorously pursuing the same, will, after only a few years time (and even for the most fanatic, less than that) have, that is to say, be possessing within themselves, the rudimentary foundation of a new type of being - an iron, calculating and mission-driven living entity that will naturally, by the very dint of their nature, bring about those certain scenarios, situations, atmospheres and arenas of action which will demand a shift toward a Sinister direction by anyone who comes into contact with them, regardless of their seeming willingness or unwillingness toward whatever purpose is implicitly or explicitly put forward. The genuine Sinister shape-shifter is irresistible in their influence, unavoidable as to consequence in their dealings with the mundanes - this type of irresistible cross-contaminant nature of the Sinister adherent and their various machinations are only had by the wilfully and defiantly fanatic, by dint of the arduous and on-the-ground nature of their actions in pursuance of the Sinister Dialectic.
For, there is no great mystery, in fact, as to that sound and marked demarcation between the doers and the do-nothings. The do-nothings will continually ensconce themselves in excuses, prolonged absences and inertia - and oftentimes cite “esoteric” reasoning for such inertia and absences, such citations and excuses being as flimsy, in fact, as their alleged, and similarly flimsy, “dedication” to their pursuance of the Sinister. The do-nothings will be observed to persistently take shelter in the what they assume are the “esoteric” details of the ONA and the Seven-Fold Sinister Way, without, however, engaging in the type of real-world and decidedly concrete action-oriented deeds which are, in fact, the non-negotiable building blocks of any esoteric insight whatsoever.
For those who are the doers, those who eschew the inertia of the do-nothings with their erroneous perception of the ONA Way as an intellectual abstraction to be leisurely considered and instead approach the ONA Way as a dynamic path toward unleashing their own Baeldraca (1), thus via their own actions, sometimes spontaneous, oftentimes calculated, inducing and engineering situations of threat, of severe menace and indeed palpable destruction against the Magian infrastructure and superstructure and the mundanes who prop up the same - through both Causal and Acausal Terror (2) - for these few engaged in such decidedly baleful living, such balocraft, such profound involvement with the ONA Way will, in fact, become their ultimate, and veritably, life-long, investment. For these baleful few, commitment and dedication is no longer a question, but rather, a statement of stark realism, set in granite, and propitiated with blood.
“Build not upon sand but upon rock. And build not for today or yesterday but for all time.” - Black Book of Satan (3)
(1) “The essence of our sinister Internal Magick is Copula cum Daemone, in either the literal sense of joining with certain acausal entities, or in the psychic sense of nurturing, releasing, and joining with one’s inner Baeldraca to thus become a causal-dwelling (but still mortal) sinister changeling. In the case of one’s Baeldraca, the joining is begun by the rite of sinister Initiation, nurtured by the journey to External Adept, released by the Rite of Internal Adept, and fully joined (re-united) with one’s causal being by a successful Passing of The Abyss.
In the literal sense, the joining with certain acausal entities can be done in several ways. First, by invoking them, through Dark Sorcery, into one’s own self. Second, by evoking them and then, again through Dark Sorcery, having a candidate (a mortal, willing or unwilling) be a host for the entity so evoked. Third, by opening a collocation of nine physical nexions and recalling The Dark Gods back to our causal realm.
A simple example of the first kind is the working with the pathways on the Tree of Wyrd (qv. Naos). An example of the second kind is The Ceremony of Recalling, as given in The Grimoire of Baphomet. A fictional account of such presencings of such acausal entities is given in Eulalia: Dark Daughter of Baphomet, and in the three stories, Jenyah, Sabirah, and In The Sky of Dreaming.” - Sinister Demonlogy, ONA, 122 Year of Fayen
“Some will even consider themselves “adepts”, and start pontificating (often at great and turgid length) about esoteric matters - rather than getting on and being sinister, in the real world. It is being a Baeldraca, in the real world - in the world of mundanes - that matters: terrifying them, changing their world, inciting others, and Presencing The Dark.
As I wrote recently, our people, our type, are those who already possess an embryonic sinister-changeling within themselves or who possess the potential to be able to alchemically create one within themselves: both have to work hard, for many years, to nurture that inner changeling, and give it birth in the acausal darkness within and then let their Baeldraca loose upon this causal world.” - Anton Long, Baeldraca: From Causal to Acausal Terror, 121 Year of Fayen
“The Way is there, and is open to all. What are you doing to progress? And why should anyone care about what some other people are or are not doing? You’ll never unleash your baeldraca upon the world whilst mired in the quicksand of pretense and historicity.” - Jack MacLeod in a private ONA discussion forum, August 5th, 124yf
(2) “But perhaps most easy of all is the insemination, and thence the release of, the Baeldraca within our own sinister kind and from those whom we can and should assimilate into our kollective, so that such Earth-born dark entities, incubated by us, can seep in ever increasing numbers out and into the world of mundanes, bringing forth from their sinister deeds a practical and ever-increasing presencing of our acausal terror.” - Anton Long, Baeldraca: From Causal to Acausal Terror, 121 Year of Fayen
(3) Conrad Robury, 21 Satanic Statements, Black Book of Satan, ONA
"Genuine initiatory crises are absolutely necessary for the creation of the Noctulian and the entrance into the undead state. The silence of dwelling in the eye of the storm, a symbolic representation of the undead state that is Noctulian existence, can only be attained by traversing the path of harsh, brutal ordeals that are the hallmark of our alchemical change process. Like when approaching the eye of a hurricane, the winds of ordeal and forced transfiguration will become harsher and more intense as one approaches the eye. It is only through real, genuine initiatory crises that one can reach the Noctulian state. The initiatory crises that are prerequisite must include real tragedy, real horror and real testing. This is not simply promethean overcoming, as the Noctulian is not simply an aphorism for the Satanic Adept.
The current of the Tempel ov Blood is very specific and involves treading a sideward path towards a paradigm of existence that is alien and inimical to the cosmic life force.
Transformation necessarily must be perverse and filled with elements of Terror due to the fact that the entity that emerges after breakthrough is an abomination in quintessence, rather than being the ‘next rung on the evolutionary ladder’ per se. Specific methods of self-engineering must be employed to produce specific entities.
For many, the harshness and the absurd nature of pursuing the alchemical change process according to the Noctulian standards will be too much to bear. There are many groups and systems available for those who wish to follow a more humane approach and we do not dissuade those who are better suited for an alternative method to go their own way. However, if one wishes to aspire towards the Noctulian state, if one wishes to enter into the TOB Blood Pool, then discipline and fanatical commitment to our way must be adhered to. If you fail, you will face the inevitable torture that comes with associating with the blood currents of the TOB and embracing the Abyss – if you succeed you will also face the inevitable torture that comes with associating with the blood currents of the TOB and embracing the Abyss. One may decide to no longer embrace the denizens of the Abyss, however, the denizens of the Abyss, once contacted, will persistently be interested in embracing you.” - World Opfer: A Guide for Initiates
“Intentionally hidden, for the mundanes would consider them extremely dangerous, given their still developing and still emerging abilities.” – Anton Long
“The third of these aspects is still esoteric and thus currently rather unknown, but is manifest in a new way of living by an emerging new type of human being: the sinister empath (the traditional Rounwytha) who sometimes esoterically works, and who sometimes lives, alone, but who more often than not now lives in a symbiotic relationship with either other empathic humans, or with some acausal-entity that has emerged into, or been manufactured in, our own causal Space and our own causal Time. By their very nature, these still changing, still evolving, human beings, these symbiotic sinister empaths – and thus their work – are intentionally hidden, for the mundanes would consider them extremely dangerous, given their still developing and still emerging abilities.” – Anton Long, excerpted from the appendix to The Mischievous, Sly, Misleading, O9A
“An extraordinarily beautiful, tall and imposing woman, Jadis enchants Digory Kirke, Andrew Ketterley and Edmund Pevensie on first encounters. She is also physically powerful and amazonian, capable of breaking iron with her bare hands and lifting human beings off their feet. She retains her superhuman strength in other worlds (except in the Wood between the Worlds). She is seven feet tall, as were all members of the Royal Family of Charn, and once she has eaten the Fruit of Everlasting Life, her skin becomes as white as paper. A natural-born sorceress and a cunning strategist, Jadis is arrogant and cruel, considering herself above all rules and viewing others as tools to be used or obstacles to be demolished. Her callousness is most clearly demonstrated when she uses the Deplorable Word in Charn to vanquish her sister, even though the Word would eradicate all life in that world but her own. She prefers to destroy that entire world than submit to her sister’s authority, and shows afterward a remorseless pride in her actions. However, Jadis has shown loyalty (perhaps even love), when she states that she offered to spare her sister’s life if she would end the war between them and yield Jadis the throne. Yet this may have been a simple ruse, given the ease Jadis felt when it came to eradicating all life in her world. Though her magic disappears when she leaves Charn, she manages to build it up again in Narnia’s world, to become again a sorceress of formidable power.” – Regarding Her Imperial Majesty, Jadis
Your points are valid. I have also included the same quote from Dhyanacandra Gosvami in my book. However, I’ve reviewed quite a few books from our lineage, eg: Sri Gaura-govindarcana-smarana-paddhati, and Sri Gaura-govinda-lilamrta-gutika, and there, the ages of the principle manjaris are given as follows:
Rupa-manjari - 13 y, 6 m
Manjulali-manjari - 13 y, 6 m
Rasa-manjari - 13 y, 1 m
Rati-manjari - 13 y, 2 m
Guna-manjari - 13 y, 2 m
Vilasa-manjari - 13 y, 1 m
Lavanga-manjari - 13 y, 6 m
Kasturi-manjari - 13 y
Ananga-manjari - 13 y, 8 m
Kalavati-manjari - 13 y, 8 m
Subhangada-manjari - 12 y, 5 m
Hiranyangi-manjari - 12 y, 4 m
Ratnarekha-manjari - 12 y, 4 m
Sikhavai-manjari - 12 y, 3 m
Kandrapa-manjari - 12 y, 9 m
Phullakalika-manjari - 12 y
BVT = Kamala-manjari - 12 y 6 m
Notwithstanding Dhyanacandra’s verse, I could not find any evidence in any major acarya texts of manjaris who were 15 years old, which is the purna stage of fully blossomed youth. In Ujjvala-nilamani the kaisora period (11-16) is divided into four periods as you know, with the first one being vayah-sandhi then navya. Based on the ages given in the books I mentioned, that would place the manjaris mentioned here within those two phases. Those two phases are often where we find the mugdha gopis who are described in UN as young and innocent in their temperament and their amorous inclinations, although it is also said that sometimes mugdhas are more developed.
In UN the nayva age is described as follows:
The age when a girl’s breasts appear slightly, when her eyes become a little restless, when she smiles mildly, and when the full sentiment of amorous love begins to manifest slightly, is called the second state of kaisora. UN, 10.15
During the first part of kaisora (vayah-sandhi) there is soft flesh and the breasts are not formed. During navya the breasts begin to grow. The eyes are slightly restless, whereas during vayah-sandhi the eyes are not visibly restless. The smile does not come out of the mouth but lingers. During vayah-sandhi the smile is within the mouth. Full manifestation is slight. During vayah-sandhi the first symptoms of changes because of love are not visible, whereas in navya they are visible.
As far as Krsna being 8 years old when performing the first rasa-dance in bhauma-lila, that would then make Radha around 7 years old and the manjaris mentioned above, around 5-6 years old. However, we do not base our understanding of these things based solely on bhauma-lila, but rather, more so on aprakata-lila, the eternal unmanifest lila which is what the above ages are referring to. Therefore, your point has validity, but it is not entirely relevant in terms of what I stated in my book. In my book I’m referring primarily to aprakata-lila (our desired ultimate destination) and thus, my statements are not entirely unreasonable.
Also, in the lila books, like Govinda-lilamrita, the manjaris are generally depicted as being younger girls. In aprakata-lila, although all of the gopis are eligible for amorous pastimes in one way or another, there are still distinctions between the various categories, and age plays an elemental role in those distinctions. Older gopis can certainly be shy and innocent but according to UN those qualities are generally associated with the younger more innocent girst, ie: mugdhas.
Nevertheless, I am not averse to making adjustments to my statements so as to be more specific as I have described it above. So although your point is well taken, my overall statements are not wholly incorrect as you have indicated.
DEPUTIES: MAN THROWS GIRLFRIEND FROM MOVING VEHICLE OVER SATANIC CULT
The Lexington County Sheriff’s Department arrested a 30-year-old West Columbia man they say threw his girlfriend from a moving vehicle after an argument over his participation in a satanic cult.
According to an incident report, deputies responded to 100 Bill Williamson Court near Lexington in reference to a domestic problem on May 28.
Upon arrival, officer observed bystanders aiding the 33-year-old female victim who was apparently thrown from a moving vehicle by her boyfriend, 30-year-old Donald Smith.
Deputies say the woman told them she and Smith were arguing about his participation in a satanic cult and that he stole her Xanax medicine.
Officers observed scrapes and abrasions on the woman’s knees, toes, feet and elbow, the report stated.
According to deputies, a witness stated that she saw Smith speeding in a small white SUV on Bill Williamson Court.
The witness also said she saw Smith push the female victim out of the truck and then turn left on Old Orangeburg with his passenger door swinging, the report stated.
A short time later, EMS arrived on the scene and prepared the female victim for transport, deputies say.
EMS advised officers that the patient had lost consciousness and would be taken to the Emergency Room at Richland Memorial.
According to the report, dispatchers advised officers that Smith had called their location wanting to turn himself in for the assault.
Officers located Smith at his home and his vehicle parked behind the residence, with a partially opened passenger door, the report stated
Smith was arrested on a charge of criminal domestic violence of a high and aggravated nature.
RANGER SCHOOL: THE SATANIC EXPERIENCE
The moment has finally come. I’ve waited three years for this experience. My unit is finally sending me to Ranger school. How long I’ve planned and waited for this moment. This will be the most enduring, the most demanding school I will be attending in my personal quest for promethean overcoming, for satanic mastery. This will be my second tab on the way towards achieving the “Tower of Power,” known amongst the most elite of the U.S. Army. Already I’ve earned the Airborne tab, now onto the Ranger tab. Several years from now I will complete the tower and earn the Special Forces tab when I complete the Q course.
It all started three years ago when I signed up to join the U.S. Army as an Infantryman. Viewing with horror the decline in politically subversive groups of true merit I turned elsewhere for true satanic insight. For me, my insight role would last for almost 10 years. A lengthy and carefully planned execution of consecutive goals towards becoming a tier one operator in the United States military. To the detriment of my recruiter I decided to start at the bottom and earn my way up. He wanted to place me in a highly advanced MoS, because of my high ASVAB score and a bachelors in psychology. I decided to start where all real men should start, as a grunt and as a “fuzzy.” I would start at the very bottom and claw my way to the top.
I was sent off to Ft. Benning several months later to be trained for 14 weeks to become an Infantryman. Where I was taught to do one thing, to kill. Where no emotion was to be shown, where weakness was weeded out, and where even the most faint of heart were turned into weapons of war. During my tenure at Ft. Benning I was able to use satanic manipulation to cause a fellow private to hang himself with 550 cord. My very first Gift for the Prince. This was followed by a very colorful experience of horror no doubt due to the energy I carried with me from pathworking with the Dark Gods.
After graduation I was sent to Airborne school for three weeks where I was able to toy with the minds of the parachute riggers which caused a slip up in one of the chutes of a fellow student who fell to his death from the C-130 that carried us in the sky for our first live jump. After completion from Airborne school I was sent to an Airborne unit where I was to be deployed to Afghanistan only six months later.
My year long deployment to Iraq further helped the deadening of my senses I was feeling. I become a stone cold killer. I learned quickly that what I was taught all my life about America being the bastion of freedom and the harbinger of humanitarian ideals quickly flew out of the window when we greased children who were holding AK’s. When we murdered and burned to the ground everything in our path. When your told your expendable over and over you learn to fight with every resolve. Knowing that no support is waiting in the rear to come to your assistance. I saw the bodies of young girls who were decapitated and had the heads of dogs sewn onto the necks. We would learn well from their tactics. Upon my return from Iraq we went back to training. It was my goal at that point to attend the toughest course the Army had to offer, Ranger school.
I began training heavily in advanced land navigation, in patrolling, and in leading platoon sized elements. I began bulking up to prepare for the 30-40lbs I would lose in Ranger school. I began rucking barefoot on hot asphalt to toughen my feet. I built my core using 75lb kettlebells, deadlifts, military presses, and squats. I read everything I could get my hands on to prepare. I learned that only 3000 soldiers every year get the opportunity to attend Ranger school and of that number only 25% pass the first time through. 67% only pass at all out of a class and many are recycled and have to repeat phases. I was determined to make it the first time. I learned all the tricks to surviving. I knew to eat match heads to circulate sulphur through my system to keep chiggers out of my skin. I learned a lot from my deployment on ignoring pain and fatigue. I felt ready.
My personal record of Ranger school starts on day one of 61 days. I will keep the record as contraband unbeknownst to the Ranger Instructors. We arrived at Ft. Benning to begin Phase I. I was at Benning during the summer and remembered how hot and humid it was, but this is February and I can’t believe how cold it is. The high humidity chills the body to the bones. In typical Army fashion we aren’t allowed any snivel gear. I knew then this was going to be painful.
We signed some initial paperwork and were immediately hauled off to our first training site. The smell of fresh recruits made the RI’s blood thirsty. They hurried us off the bus, some were crawling through windows to escape the wrath of the RI’s. They rushed us off to a pit where we were put into the front leaning rest position. We were briefed, more like lectured in that position for an hour. Anyone who couldn’t hold the position was given a 35lb motivation rock to hold above their head. I learned from experience to keep calm breathe deeply and ease the stress on the joints to remain relatively comfortable in that position. After an hour it became impossible even for me. They put us in the position of attention and ran us around a track where we had to bear crawl and fireman carry our Ranger buddy for hours. We were ordered off the track and into two man formation where we were to apply MACP or the Modern Army Combatives Program. We were to perform a takedown over and over until the RI’s were satisfied. Satisfied was not in their vocabulary and they sent us running around the track again. This went on well into the night. We were then ran to an obstacle course that we had to negotiate. It was already pushing 2300. I knew this would be a long night. After the obstacle course we low crawled through freezing muddy water for 300 meters under barbed wire and simulation artillery fire. All the while being hounded by the RI’s to crawl faster and to keep our faces in the mud. I emerged on the other side of the barbed wire freezing, soaked, and unable to feel most of my body. A weaker soul asked one of the RI’s when we were stopping for the day. The RI merely grinned and said we still have the morning yet. We were rushed off from the site to pick up rucksacks and rifles to go on a seven mile “ruck run.” I could feel blisters forming from the soggy mud in my boots. Already many were falling out and quitting. The ruck run ended at 0400 when we were told to shower, change, and catch a few hours of sleep. Day one over.
Day two began only one hour later. The RI’s gave us a false hope of much needed rest. We began immediately with the testing of our courage. We climbed a ladder 50 feet into the air and walked foot in front of foot over a plank over frigid cold water where three steps marked the center of the plank with the iconic Ranger insignia. We then descended hand over hand along a 20 foot long rope where we were to touch a wooden sign bearing the same insignia, then fall from that point into the water. We were then instructed to emerge from the water only to put web gear on and jump back in donning our web gear upon entering the water. How cold and debilitating the water was. Weak swimmers sunk to the bottom in desperation and were pulled out by paramedics that were standing by for emergencies. They were given only one more chance and were cut from the course. After this test of combat water survival we were run into a MACP course again. This was clearly done in effort to wear us out. Fatigue and hunger were setting in badly already. After this we were quizzed in the front leaning rest on terrain features and other map reading related matters. Every question answered wrong added 10 minutes to our misery. We were finally given an MRE around 1300. We had to eat this as quickly as possible for more pain. We found ourselves several hours later on a 15 mile ruckmarch with a 60lb rucksack, along with rifle, and FLC. This lasted into day three. Unbeknownst to my persons many were dropping out. I kept my focus on the feet in front of me, never looking up. This made things somehow easier. We finished the ruckmarch in 2 1/2hrs. We were permitted to sleep at 0200.
Day three restarted at 0345 with a five mile PT run. A couple fell out and were counted as No-Go’s. We are beginning to feel like the walking dead. Yet we still have 59 days to go. We were finally given breakfast after PT. Which was much needed, we finished the meal with great relish. We spent the next several hours on classes about advanced land nav and patrolling techniques. We then had a night long land navigation course to navigate without the assistance of headlamps or red lens flashlights. I found myself tripping over vines and getting caught in thorn brush. It was tearing my ACU trousers to shreds. I forgot about this shit when I was on FTX during my first tour at Benning. It was slowing me down tremendously and I had to constantly worry about breaking my ankle on the fallen logs and animal holes. Luckily a full moon gave some additional illumination to my misery. Perhaps an omen. When will this night end?
Day four began as all others, with pain. I was feeling invigorated from the full moon last night and it rekindled my morale. We’ve only ate two meals since we arrived and only four hours of sleep so far. Already the environment is starting to feel strange, or perhaps it’s myself? It’s getting hard to tell. We continued today with a day land nav course. This was much easier in the daytime. I made sure to perfect my land nav skills before arriving here and knocked out the course very quickly. I received high marks for this, and am hoping this will help overcompensate any negative marks I might receive. We were sent out on a 7 miles patrol through some of the thickest deepest jungle I’ve only seen in movies that night. I of course got stuck with the 240 Bravo. I found myself getting stuck several times in knee high black mud. The extra weight I was carry from the bravo didn’t help any and I had to be pulled out several times by the other Rangers. This slowed us down tremendously and we were pushing our time hack very closely. Leadership was handed off to someone else by the RI’s and we pushed onward through the thick foliage. I could hear the RI’s smirking in the enjoyment they got from our misery. We found ourselves several hours later at the ambush site, and instead of being the ambushers we became the ambushed. They sent in an SF unit to toy with us, so that they could hone in on their own skills. We used the oldest trick in the book and used battle drill one alpha. Bravo team broke contact and went New York to flank the ambushers. I had to lay down cover fire for Bravo team while they tried to run through the thick brush. Several fell on the way to getting to a suitable flanking position. God damnit this is miserable. We somehow overpowered our aggressors and moved on to our next objective which was an area to set up a patrol base for the night. We arrived and dug our shallow graves to sleep in and pull security. Luckily my Ranger buddy pulled the first security shift so I was afforded an hour of sleep. We rotated every hour until 0330 when we packed up and moved out. I could have sworn I heard strange noises out in the woods outside our perimeter. Perhaps it was only coyotes.
Day five, this is supposed to be the last day of the most cuts. If you can make it past day five all you need to do is stand fast and make it through. Easier said than done. We maneuvered our way through the brush and made it back to some “hooches,” that had been in place since the 40′s by the look of them. We were offered the chance to clean up and be ready by 0545 to conduct morning PT. A relief at last. I cleaned the grime off my body that was beginning to form. PT was a five mile run in full battle rattle, how nice of the RI’s. We continued again with MACP during mid morning, ate an MRE, and continued on with patrolling techniques again. 17 more days to go at Benning, which will conclude the “crawl phase.” Have to operate day by day. It’s the only way to make it through.
Day 19, the past weeks have been nothing but a physical and mental test to see if we can deal with the rigors of the last two phases of Ranger school. I’ve already blacked out twice from sleep deprivation. I’m having a hard time recalling what we done so far. Everything is starting to blur. The same foliage, the same tree’s, the same god damn Georgia red clay. It’s still very cold and it even snowed on us a little last week. A very uncommon event here, apparently not uncommon enough for us. I’ve been noticing this class is quite uncommon or perhaps something is happening where not aware of. I’ve watched as guys got up from their shallow graves at night and walk around aimlessly muttering to themselves. I wonder if they realize what they’re doing. I’ve noticed myself staring into nothingness for hours at points. Tomorrow is the last day of the Benning phase and then we begin the Mountain phase. At least at this point if I break my leg I’ll get recycled to the next class. One phase at a time, one day at a time, one hour at a time. Have to keep counting down.
Day 21, we made our way to Camp Merrill to begin the mountain phase. We spent most of the day learning knots, instruction on rappelling down mountain cliffs, and climbing cliffs. Staying awake has been my worst enemy. Anyone unable to stay awake during class is given the motivation rock to hold above their heads. They must have air assaulted that damn rock here. The terrain here is terrible. Already some have literally rolled down some of the mountain sides. Still attached to their rucksacks they got hit a couple of times in the head from their gear. One broke his leg from bad footing in between two rock formations. We’re back to patrolling constantly and the rough mountainous terrain slows us down tremendously and some of our missions require us to already apply the mountaineering skills we’ve learned from class earlier. There’s snakes everywhere and the spider webs we walk through are so thick you have to turn around and walk backwards to break through as you swat at the arachnid that has decided to use your face as a new spot to make a web. We were weighed that night. First time since we arrived. I’ve lost 20lbs already. For those who didn’t bulk up before arriving it’s showing tremendously. When they change their ACU’s their ribs are starting to show. Our eyes are starting to sink back into our heads and a permanent black shroud is beginning to form around our eye sockets. We catch occasional whiffs of the distinctive smell of a man who’s been out in the field for days.
It’s not even worth keeping track of the days at this point, they all melt into one. I’ve noticed I’ve picked up an appetite for raw blood meat. I find myself becoming more and more animalistic and primal. The lack of sleep and food is causing us to stumble around during patrols, to overlook the simplest of tasks, and unable to hold any sane conversation. I found myself today kicking rocks at a snake and laughing, when one of the RI’s came upon me he shook his head and gave me a push to move onward. I’m beginning to understand what it means to be a vessel for the Dark Gods. It’s become almost impossible to operate on a conscious level.
Today I’ve been given leadership to lead a raid on a mortar position. With the intention of the course being to simulate combat stress, they certainly are doing a most effective job of such. All that’s missing is the combat rush I felt so often in Iraq. I led the platoon along a ridge line I felt would give us cover and keep us out of some of the valleys and away from some of the cliffs that plotted the landscape. I was wrong, we ended up in moving right through a saddle which put us in the perfect ambush site on both sides. How could I have missed that? Fortunately we weren’t ambushed, but the RI’s made note of that mistake. We successfully made it to the OPFOR mortar site and set up a successful ambush position. We wasted every OPFOR soldier and managed to get ahold of one to interrogate. We learned there was a large weapons cache only several miles away. I made the decision to go raid the cache and hopefully we could confiscate some food as well. We were in luck, we snuck up on the guards watching over the cache, dispatched them and got ahold of three boxes of MRE’s. We disappeared back into the woods to enjoy with great delight our pogie bait.
During security that night in our patrol base I watched as black tendrils descended from the stars to my solar plexus. I felt myself beginning to lift off the ground. I could hear a language being spoken to me that I couldn’t consciously understand but deep within my subconscious my blood began to boil and my skin started to crawl. Just as soon as it began, it was over. Was it a dream? I don’t know.
The next morning I awoke to yelling. One of the Rangers was eaten alive last night by wild animals. His flesh was mauled and his eyes stared into nothingness. How didn’t any of us hear this, how come we didn’t hear his cries for help as he was ravaged by wild animals. I stood there and stared at his gaping wounds and I felt my mouth begin to tremble and my back begin to tense. I felt a coiling black energy working its way up my spine to my brain. I clenched my teeth and my fists. While everyone was doing everything they could to resuscitate a corpse I felt myself desiring to taste the blood that had formed around the body. My moment of stupor was broken when the RI’s came to extract the body, shaking their heads. What’s happening to me?
W. Hacon, ONA
ASSASSINS OF BAPHOMET: PART ONE
Sylvia snubbed the butt of her cigarette into the ashtray and walked out the door of her place of employment into the cold, frigid December air, down a long flight of steps and across a sodium-lit tarmac to the parking lot where her oldish but well-repaired (yet not ostentatiously cleaned) some-odd year sedan sat awaiting her hour-long drive to her rural home which she shared, as she had for some years, with her reclusive husband.
She had routinely and politely denied the offer of the club security to walk her to her car just as they, in their typical hubristic manner, routinely offered to do so despite her never having taken them up on their offer for protection. She sighed with some resignation that the song-and-dance would continue the next night as well yet also smiled ruefully and ever-so-slightly, knowing that her propensity for violence and willingness to confront danger made their bravado as pathetic indeed as it actually was. But this, she would keep a secret.
The sedan crunk smoothly despite the cold and she peeled out slowly from the near empty parking lot, as it was now some twenty minutes past closing being as it were in the wee hours of the black morning. Out from Greystone Blvd. then and along the main four-lane, passing by the garishly-lit auto dealerships and then onto the interstate - taking the 1-26 West which would lead her in time to her isolated mobile home, deep in the country as it would seem from the vantage-point of the city-dwellers whose deep pockets earned her her daily bread yet not deep enough for her in truth, nor for her husband and their shared purpose.
Within minutes the interstate had taken her out from the remaining northern boundaries of the capitol into the heart of the countryside with exits spaced many miles apart and solid walls of pine upon either side of the road. The trees, the darkness and the near entire absence of traffic pleased her as did the deep silence of the night, particularly following hours inside the artificially-heated club full of its flashing lights, its loud, throbbing custom-sound systems and its hordes of increasingly tippled patrons.
Should she had been able to completely go without driving at all she would do so, as would her husband. However the nature of life in the country, where the nearest store of any sort was miles away much less means of generating income necessitated her commute to and from her employment. Her husband of some years was even more averse than she, although he kept an old pick-up, of a model that had ceased productions decades-ago, in which he would make the rare trip to the small combined gas-station and grocery store on the outlying borders of the small town nearest to them in the mostly rural county or to visit occasionally the garage whose with mechanics he had some small report, having long abandoned the country honkey-tonks which he had visited even rarely so at that, long, long years ago it seemed.
He had visited the club only once and during the slow hours between lunch and happy hour, having insisted on such scheduling to avoid the excess crowds. She had not been working on that occasion but it had been an opportunity for him to be introduced to some of her co-workers while sharing some pork ribs and other assorted victuals spirited away from the free buffet which marked their noon-time draw. He had been polite but distant and her co-workers in the weeks afterward, while politely not asking any untoward questions outright, had gently inquired about him albeit with seeming ulterior purpose. She recognized the looks in their eyes and the suspicions inherent there and so gently deflected their questions, which, said deflections withstanding, eventually ceased.
Her husband never ventured into the city itself except on business that was absolutely mandatory and that as the case may be consisted only of an every three month visit to the VA Hospital for which on such occasions he opted to be picked up by the free transit vans reserved for the poor and infirm instead of taking the pick-up, even though the vans necessitated the botheration of prior scheduling and long waits until he was picked up from the hospital for the return voyage, given their out-of-the-way locale in distance from the city. The hours between the end of his appointment and the pick-up from the van would consist of whiling away time in the emptiest corridor he could find, immersed in a novel or biography and interspersed with a meal on some occasions at the institutional cafeteria - opportunities for trading war-stories and random socialization with sometimes conversationally eager ex-servicemen being avoided strategically and, if engaged in impromptu, quickly terminated - by him.
Sylvia drove on, thinking about the life shared so intimately and so exclusive of others between her husband and she, a relationship which broke rank so starkly with society at large as well as in its most intimate and secret expressions, the nature of which few outside observations of them together would hardly guess. With these thoughts and others on her mind, thoughts which steeled her countenance in consideration of both their relationship and their shared purpose alike along with consideration of certain enemies which threatened their way of life, she inserted a CD into her car stereo.
After some few seconds of silence the silence was broken with the sound of a grim, beating tympani upon which like a breaking Acausal crescendo came the sound of voices, male and female singing octaves apart the Sinister Chant which encapsulated her purpose and - in those moments - her plan for rectification fructified within her mind. She laughed, Satanically, a laugh which seemed to reverberate out into the expanses of forest on either side of her as the chant burst forth, forged thousands of miles away yet still as potent as if it had been performed there and then.
“Agios O Baphomet…”