Manson

Chapter One

The Age of Discontent

Rain soaked and tired, traffic that passed me by threw up the sound of hissing wet black tarmac. The Serpent’s hiss. Quickly those sounds came back, louder, tread marks writhing in the depth and blackness of the Abyss. I looked from the roadside up at the face of the converted fire station that was now a hotel; there was something sinister about it, lurking, hiding in the shadows, waiting.

The constant roar of traffic from a nearby flyover caused me to look at the illuminated sign that directed traffic north and south along the Rochester Way. Beyond it, up in the murk and grey of the hanging clouds, aerials swarmed, stirring up the tempest, unleashing yet more rain.

I checked myself into the hotel, signing the book as Lux Augustina, my adopted name—my magical name. The fat man behind the desk, a coarse and unshaven person with greasy unkempt, dark brown hair, struggled with great effort to break away from his TV guide and tend to my needs.

I thought his world must have revolved around beer, pies and copious amounts of porn. I paid him for the week and took the key without a word, and then climbed the steps up to my room. It wasn’t great, but it would have to do. I placed my bag on the bed, took off my leather raincoat and casually threw it over a chair at the table by the window. Looking out the across the Thames I could see the lit-up glass towers at Canary Wharf, while heavy clouds swirled about the apex of the pyramid of the highest tower.

A thought struck me and I turned back to the holdall and sorted through its pockets. I pulled out a handful of e-mail printouts, and sat and pondered through them for a while to formulate my plans for the future. There was an e-mail that my friend Yix had sent; great kid, smart kid, damaged kid. As I put the e-mails to one side, I looked around the room and took stock of the walls, which were yellow with white speckles, painted over red brick. It could have been far worse; it might have been magnolia.

I stripped off and took a shower, the pipes rattled and the water ran sparingly as it washed away the filth of the day. Checking myself in the mirror I noticed just how much I’d wasted away.

As I examined myself I noticed the scars from when I’d cut myself with knives and broken glass and razor cuts. I ran my forefinger over the larger scars, feeling their wormlike texture. I saw how thin I had become and how gangly I looked. It was the blue-black rings around my eyes that struck me the most. I was pallid and looked anaemic. Water trickling from my hair over my chest made me feel the cold; goose pimples were popping up over my flesh and my nipples shrank as they became erect.

Feeling better after taking a shower, I climbed into bed to keep myself warm, and in no time I fell into a deep slumber. It was a haunted, restive sleep; nightmares of my past relentlessly pursued me. I couldn’t escape the raging inferno, the smell of burning flesh and the agonised cries that were everywhere. Each way I turned there was no way out. It became a frantic struggle; eventually, I awoke panicking and screaming as the flames engulfed me.

Uncertain of where I was, I fell out of bed and crashed into the bedside table. I was soaked in sweat, and so were the bed sheets, so I towelled down and then searched for my sacred bottle of Blue Smirnoff. Vodka and cigarettes helped to ease the nagging anxiety that had driven me almost out of my mind.

These were small comforts to me. I’d had to fight all my life, looking, searching for reason, for some kind of truth, yet only finding lies and deceit. I sat there staring into my drink, and I saw my childhood; nothing it seemed should have been a happier time, but I had been sexually assaulted. I remember the fear, the horror and the helplessness. And then the nightmares came, and for years they plagued me, scarring my life, and leaving me an introverted wreck.

During my schooling I was considered to be shy and weak and as such, I was an easy target. I would get into fights or run away. They made me seethe; I was never allowed to join in, and was always the outsider. I couldn’t run away from the one thing I needed to face; however, I didn’t know that then and had no way of knowing it.

I was just a child who wanted to play, to be friends and have fun. That was until my father went away. One day he had just left and never returned home, which tore a hole in my heart. The memory of these things angered me. I twisted my face as I clenched my fist and I began to bleed. The pain didn’t register until the blood started to drip. I felt the drops splash on my foot and with a sharp intake of breath I turned the pain to joy.

I puffed the last few drags on my cigarette with bloodied fingers, swilled the vodka, and then knocked it back in one. Looking into my scarlet palm, I saw they were not the first cuts I had inflicted. Feeling dazed, the fact that I was bleeding did not bother me, as I was in a state of otherworldliness.

My childhood had left me traumatised. There was nothing but fear in those days, and now I wanted those memories to fade forever so they would never come back to haunt me. My childhood had been all but destroyed by a society and family that neither understood nor cared. I cannot remember who taught me the hate.

Who taught me the violence? Who taught me such torture?

I got my wish, that family is no more. They have been long since gone, all victims to disease and death, and now merely a figment of the past. Some details remain, yet for the most part, it is pain and trauma that sticks in my mind. Up out of nowhere flash instant memories, instant tangible pain that tears at the very heart of me, tauntingly, sadistically, unrelentingly, until I can do nothing but break down and scream.

I poured out another vodka, gulped it down and then closed my eyes while the sharpness of it took its effect upon my body. I could only think of the haven of numbness in which I took so much solace. I could quite happily drink myself into oblivion, something which I have done, so many times before. I wanted to forget but my demons wouldn’t let me.

Such was my self-esteem, my state of disaffection that I felt I had no value, cast out into shadow realm, alone. Deep down I knew I was worth much more, I had so much to give. I was just a dog that went astray a long time ago, not living, just surviving, desperate to please, desperate to do well. Would anyone care if I were dead? I didn’t think so, and I didn’t care either. Death seemed most attractive at that juncture, but destiny had other ideas.

It was when I was on my travels in America that I met my former mentor the Magus of Mendez. I’d never met such a powerful and enigmatic person. First impression, I felt that there was so much more to him than met the eye, and how right I was.

I hadn’t been out of my teens that long when we met, and immediately he sensed my pains and anguish. To this day I think that he knew exactly what my problems were before I’d even told him. He was intelligent, intense and I wanted to learn from him. I had the feeling he would make a good teacher.

At first he was reluctant when I tried to arrange to meet with him again. I think he wanted to see just how keen I was. As I grew to know him I found that it was his way to play subtle games and set tests for me, to see how I would match up. It took about two weeks for him to accept me and take me on board. Only then did he consider bringing me into his confidence and begin to teach me the ways of the Occult and Satanism.

In those first few years I did nothing but read. I was made to read Crowley’s Cabalistic works and the Holy Books of Thelema, Enochian rites, Goetic rituals… right down to the Christian bible. Before I was fully initiated into the Temple of Set, the Magus of Mendez enquired of me what it was that I wanted to change.

I want to find my place in the world. I want to confront hypocrisies and all religious shit that I conflict over. I was raised and taught in a certain dogmatic Christian way under strict control—both mentally and physically—and what I saw going on around me was not what I had been taught. They infected me with their hate, they imposed fear upon me; now I want to give it all back to them.

I was very young, confused and impressionable. Lies and further damned lies, all to cover up the gross hypocrisies and abuses that over a period of time, proved to be endemic and global. The countless children that there must have been, the mysterious deaths and murders. No one ever paid. I hated what they stood for, the lies, and the cheating. We take the money, you take the lies as the PiL song goes. I’d seen through the lies and I wanted to destroy their church.

My anger had taken structure in the days of Punk, when I would go to see Punk and Goth bands, and then get arrested for drunken disorderly conduct, or simply for being what I was: an Enemy of the State. Churches had their uses, both the church and occultists employed magical weapons and robes during ritual. The church was replete with the stuff and provided me with free and easy access to what I wanted. I found it quite amusing, which at least raised a smile in me.

The legacy I was to inherit was the bitter emptiness bestowed upon me. It was the world’s way of telling me that I was here for one thing, and one thing alone.

That bitterness had compounded itself and manifested into paranoia and total utter madness eclipsed by pure genius. Anyone was a potential target for my hate and anger. As far as I was at war, I was at war with God, Jesus and Mary, hypocrisy, inequity, greed, poverty, love, hate and worst of all, I was at war with myself.

The Magus sat and listened to me patiently; his eyes were a blaze of brilliant sapphire, which emitted the vitality of his existence. I was given work to do in the Temple; writings on the philosophy of Satanism, and newsletters for the members.

Sifting through the piles and piles of questionnaires and membership application forms, I came across hate mail and the name that would burn itself into my soul for all his callous and vicious intentions toward the Magus and the members of the Temple of Set.

For the work I did in the Temple, as well as tuition, I was given lodgings and the food was plentiful and good as were the women and wine. I loved those days I spent with him in San Francisco, but it wasn’t to be for too long.

I had become distracted by the very thing that had sent me into a trance, so I picked up my communiqués and sorted through them, reading each one carefully. Then, checking the time, I left the schedule till the morning.

***

The next day began slowly. I stretched out and gave a yawn, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I looked round for my cigarettes and vodka. I never started the day before having a Marlboro.

The sun peeked through the curtains; it was one of those bright early November mornings when as bright as it was, you still needed to wrap up and keep warm. I lay puffing away, gathering my thoughts about my recent acquisition and how I would put it to good use. I picked up a bottle containing an aqueous solution and held it to the light. It looked every bit as harmless as ordinary H2O but had the potential to be every bit as deadly as Ebola or pneumonic plague.

Such was my flare for scientific subjects, chemistry, biology, genetics and virology, I spent my time alone whenever possible. Universities always had such stringent rules for their students to follow, unless of course your work experience happened to have been in the same university and your lecturers felt comfortable with your willingness. Wonders will happen. Hence, I made my genetically modified variant strain viruses unsupervised. The rest of my time was spent keeping up to date with Yix planning to get out to her just as soon as I was able.

I hadn’t revealed what had happened to my friends in the Temple of Set, nor had I told her about the Reverend Dr. Iziah P. Dollar and his redneck hillbilly sheep that followed him so mindlessly. Someday, somehow, I knew that I was going to meet up with him again and when I did, oh, when I meet that son of a bitch.

After much discussion on-line, Yix and I decided we had to get together and carry this project out as a team. At the end of the week, I caught a flight to Orlando, Florida.

Customs was fine. I had managed to smuggle my genetically modified virus in its sealed container on the plane, which was an everyday looking object that I hid way out in the open. Yix met me at the terminal entrance, and after looking her up and down, I looked her right in the eye and said, Kind of pretty, in an old-fashioned way.

Yix gave me one of her ‘Evil Grins’. Her grins had become familiar as an expression of having fun in the emails Yix had written to me in the past. Good to meet you too, Lux.

We gave each other a brief embrace and an exchange of kisses in greeting before we left. The terminal was a hive of activity with Americans yapping away, who never seemed to stop for breath. My eyes darted to and fro, focusing on the rampant and rapidly opening and closing mouths of these people.

I felt nauseated by them, tourists too it appeared were equally as bad. There came the squeals of children and the claustrophobic scream of small babies. I felt panicked and trapped by the noise and the humidity, so I had to get out and get out quickly. With the exit in sight, I breathed deeply to calm myself.

As we left the terminal building, Yix’s waist-length raven hair blew in the breeze that wafted gently across us. I loomed over her by at least six inches. Taking in the air I looked up to the sky, and as I did I saw cumulus clouds on the far-off horizon, and thought that a storm might have been brewing. Yix put on her sunglasses to shade her brown almond eyes, the shape of the glasses complemented her high cheekbone structure and full ruby lips. The sooner we get out of this sun the better, I tend to burn easily, she said.

I found this understandable, as she was quite fair-skinned.

Yix needed her wits to survive the monotony of life where she lived, the inbred scum who populated the place, she hated them. The Bible bashing, hypocritical and bigoted community, she hated them all and longed for the day to take her revenge upon that godforsaken place.

We walked round to the car park to her Land Cruiser, a monster of a machine smothered with dust; it didn’t surprise me to see it that way. We set off south to a town called Sebring, which lay about eighty miles south of Orlando, and I thought I’d take advantage of the travel time to get some shuteye. I woke with a bit of a start when Yix kicked my feet off the dash. Welcome to shitsville, she drawled with a slight sigh as if she’d been there forever.

I grunted, treating the place with much contempt. So, this is where you live. You poor bastard, you do need help, was the best I had to say for the place.

Aww gee, thanks, Lux. We laughed.

There was nothing personal toward each other in our comments; it was just our wit, our sarcastic humour. I fumbled for my hip flask and my Marlboro, and then coughed and spluttered as the vodka bit into my throat. I then drew long and hard on my cigarette and exhaled a large plume of blue smoke. Grabbing my baggage from out the back of the Land Cruiser, I felt that I needed to recover from the flight. I hated shaving, however, I didn’t like beards either. It was the choice of the lesser of two evils. There was always a choice to make.

Yix’s apartment was a modern spacious flat, which was tastefully decorated, shades of grey, red and black. She had a couple of posters up on the walls; one of Nine Inch Nails, the other of Marilyn Manson. The living area was open plan, with the kitchen area out toward the back, which was really quite impressive and it struck me how house-proud and clean and tidy Yix was. She showed me around, showing me where I could sleep and shower and all the essential things that one does. I took my boots off to prepare for a shower. Damn, this carpet feels good between my toes, I said.

Yix smiled.

I like your home; it’s very welcoming. Funny, I don’t feel ill at ease here at all.

You’re welcome, make yourself at home, she said.

Yix left me to shower and freshen up while she went out to buy something for us to eat.

On her return I asked: So, Yix, tell me, what’s the local animal life like around here? I grinned, which made Yix snigger.

The locals are a bunch of narrow-minded bigots and morons, she said. They’re practically all a bunch of inbred shit heads.

Interesting, I mused.

Yeah, they’d just as soon shoot, rape or rob you rather than try and understand and accept you. Then you got smack and crack dealers, pimps and gang bangers. Understanding’s not a word in their very limited vocabulary.

Well, we’ll just have to remedy the situation then, won’t we? I said, then sipped at my wine.

And do what?

Exterminate them, I said casually without looking at her. For now though, I think we ought to concentrate on our plans; we’ll have plenty of time for them later. Their time will come.

Yix gave up a grin, I can’t wait.

Are you afraid to die? I asked her.

She shook her head, but I saw from her body language that the subject of death had struck a chord with her. No, I’m not.

I looked thoughtfully at her and then said: "I have been prepared for death a long time, so it doesn’t worry me. Now I know I can die on my own terms, and under my own control. At least it will be my own doing, but then again, I may survive this ordeal, and who knows what the hell might happen?

"I think on death all the time, about the process of death and what it must feel like at the final moment? Or even what it would be like to kill when you are up close, ya know, right in their fucking face. It’s an experience I haven’t had the pleasure of yet.

It pops up when something reminds me of a certain thing, or if I have something in particular on my mind. Little wonder people thought of me as being mad, I couldn’t give a damn what people really think of me though, I said with an air of detachment.

What things? Yix asked.

"Five and a half years ago, not too long before we met on the net, I used to live in San Francisco, where I was a member of the Temple of Set for about six years. We came under attack from a fanatical group of Fundamental right-wing Christians, led by the Reverend Dr. Iziah P. Dollar. It started off with hate mail containing idiotic threats of eternal damnation and we were flooded with a plethora of their propaganda.

Vexing as it was, we paid no real attention to it; we felt that we were above the pedantic behaviour of these so-called Christians. Anyway, we found that various members of the Temple were being stalked. Daemon Asmodeus, who was the Magus of Mendez in the Temple of Set, had become concerned about the turn of events. For weeks he had been acting strangely but he wouldn’t say what it was that was troubling him, and I was in no position to force an answer out of him either. I just thought that the stalkers were a few nuts from the city, and none of us ever thought that our lives were in such terrible danger.

What happened next? she asked.

Yix was gripped by what I was telling her, I hadn’t told this to a soul before. I sipped at my wine and carried on: "Things became increasingly worse, and in the weeks to come, the Temple fell victim to petty vandalism. The women were being kidnapped, beaten and raped when they were almost home, while others were beaten and hospitalised. Things were becoming heavy and we didn’t really know who it was.

That is until Walpurgisnacht when we were in the Temple performing our ritual. There was something in the air that night, the kind of feeling you get when you know something is wrong, but you don’t know what. You just can’t put your finger on it until it actually happens.

I see, Yix said.

"Well, I suppose the Reverend Dr. Iziah P. Dollar had done some research into when we held our ritual meetings and found out, somehow, where the Temple of Set was. We had no chance. They burst in heavily armed, and some of them carried cans of gasoline with rags stuffed in them. Their leader stepped forward with his bible held high in his left hand and a revolver in his right, pointing it in front of him as he forged ahead with two of his men by his side, they beat my siblings to the floor with the butts of their guns.

"There were too many of them for us to fight, plus we were in ceremonial robes and had no practical way of fighting. We were fucked. You should have heard this guy, he screamed maniacally: ‘I am the Reverend Dr. Iziah P. Dollar of the Fundamental Christian Church, and we have taken on the armour of Christ and are going to war with Satan and his legions. Prepare to meet your maker!’

"I could only think, what the fuck? I was stunned, and then before my very eyes he opened fire, killing first Daemon Asmodeus who got it in the guts. He collapsed in agony and was left to bleed slowly to death. As soon as he fired, the rest of them opened up on us. They lit the rags in the gas cans and threw them into the Temple congregation, which became an instantaneous human pyre, the stench of the gas and burning flesh, the screams of the dying, these were my fucking friends and loved ones."

I had to stop to choke back the tears at the memory of it. I finished off the rest of my wine and then replenished my glass. "It was weird. I hadn’t been touched. It seemed that no one had noticed me. It was a scene the likes of which I’ve never seen in all my life, not even footage of holocaust victims came close to this. I don’t know exactly what I did, but somehow I managed to fight my way through those right-wing Christian murderers to a room that had an external window.

"The fire had spread and intensified. Acrid smoke was everywhere, but I could still see the window once I was in the room. I didn’t think. My first instinct was to get out, so I ran and smashed right through it. I had cuts on my head and my face. I could feel blood running down my face and my heart was almost bursting with fright. I ripped off my ceremonial robe so that I could run properly. I never once looked back, and as far as I know, I am the sole survivor.

I got back to my apartment, threw my things in a bag and blew, giving myself just enough time to wash the blood from my face. I had money, so I jumped on the first long-haul flight anywhere, I didn’t care. I had been subjected to something that to this day grievously pains me, I said and then paused for a moment to reflect. It hit the headlines all around the world.

Yeah, I heard about it, Yix said.

Well, the sick thing is, the authorities caught no one. One of the biggest mass murders in American history, and they haven’t a clue as to who did it? It would probably be more true to say that they conveniently overlooked who the perpetrators were. I think the authorities were a part of it, that’s why I’ve kept quiet, and I had no intention of allowing the Feds or the Cops to get their hands on me and make me another missing person statistic. I stopped and sat still, swilling the wine in my glass. Yix saw that I was staring off into space.

Hey, Lux, she softly called to me.

Huh, oh yeah right. Sorry, I was just thinking.

What? Yix asked.

How many people do you know that are under attack from these right-wing Christian Fundamentalists? And how many are full of undirected hate and frustrated anger? And how many are there that realise the lies they are constantly being subjected to? Time for a change. My thoughts wandered for a moment.

Just how do you propose to implement all this, Lux? Don’t get me wrong, I amongst all people want this to work, but don’t you think it is a bit of a massive task?

"Yix, oh segregated one, it’s the biggest challenge that anyone has ever tried to undertake. People want a leader that’s strong, a leader that’s decisive and most of all, people want a leader that will always let them know where they stand with him.

For once the people will have a system that is totally honest. It will not falter in its integrity; those who oppose us, will die. There will be no more lies and hypocrisy, I said. I by no means wish to create another Nazi Germany, no. On the contrary, I just wish to sanitise our world and give our own the chance to live life as it should be, unfettered without restrictions and excessive bureaucracy. The quandary is how are we going to manage this new regime, if we should at all? Perhaps you’d like to think on that for a while, Yix?

She nodded: Whatever happens, I’m not going back on what we’ve talked about. It just seems a bit overwhelming, and of course it is.

I was deep in thought. I was clear in my mind about what I wanted to do, but when it came to trying to communicate this, it was a different matter. Things became boggled and confused when other people didn’t understand the point I tried to make. I didn’t seem to be able to make myself plainly understood. I often felt I was so much more intelligent than everyone else around me, not that I considered myself to be an elitist, at least not in that sense.

As the full weight and gravity of the situation sank into Yix’s mind, I watched as she sat staring, nodding at one thing, and then shaking her head at another. The look on her face told me she finally realised exactly where she stood in all this, and I could see that she understood she was about to be whisked off to great heights and she had to be ready. No time like the present for preparation, she said to herself.

We reached the end of the bottle, which was a sad moment as I was enjoying it so much. Such is life, I said and sparked up a cigarette. We worked late into the night heavily involved in our scheming, where I was as a demon, my fury plainly visible.

The very fabric of the American way is about to be altered forever. No one can possibly imagine what’s in store. This will be a time of great change, I said. When the sun rises in the morning, we will begin.

I felt my hate and anger was being channelled in one direction. I was feeling very strong, and this in turn gave Yix all the confidence she needed, and I could see she felt safe with me.

Yix, you can depend on me, I won’t let you down. I will kill without hesitation, even if I feel the slightest presence of danger, I will drop that person, whoever they are, into their grave. No one will come between us. Right now I have to sleep. It’s been a long day and the jet lag is really beginning to creep up on me.

***

The following morning I was roused by the smell of sizzling bacon and frying eggs. I was hungry and needed coffee, so I made my way into the kitchen area where we sat down to breakfast. I sat opposite Yix and discovered I wanted to know more about her. What was her history? I wondered. And what was it that had happened that pushed her over the edge?

You don’t really come across as the type who has been through hell and come back to tell the tale, I said. But then again, how am I to know what you’ve been through, I’m no psychologist, but I do want to understand your pain.

She looked up from her plate, chewing slowly.

So, my evil little play-thang, I drawled. What’s your story? I know we’ve talked about things, but you haven’t really told me anything about yourself. Come, confess your sins!

"I’m no different from the next person really. I’m sick and tired of the shit I’ve had to put up with at home, and there’s not much I want to talk about on that front. Abuse and abusers leave their scars, but it’s the scars people can’t see which are the worst.

Americans think that we have a monopoly on God. It’s like the Christian coalition have got shares in Him. Convert a non-believer and buy yourself a ticket to heaven on the back of ignorance. People are brainwashed by TV evangelists and treat people like us in the most appalling ways.

Her feelings began to stir up the anger, and the pain was coming through. She became flushed and had to take a deep breath, and tried very hard to keep her composure. I felt she was more embarrassed than anything else.

She continued: I’m just so sick and tired of having their Christian shit rammed down my throat… even the Westboro Baptist Church attack people with their hate and bigotry, turning up at people’s funerals shouting out how people’s loved ones are Fags and are burning in hell.

She sat quietly for a moment while she collected her thoughts.

My father used to beat my mother. My brother and I were too scared to do anything to try and stop him. He used to come home drunk every night. We were only about seven and four years old at the time, and we used to hide behind the couch whilst he took his drunken temper out on my ma. He would give her a split lip and black her eyes.

She stared off as she recalled her nightmare.

He was a real bastard, I hated him. One night it all kicked off again, but this time ma tried to leave. She wanted to get us all to a safe place, but when she tried to take us he hit her so hard she fell and hit her head on the corner of the table. I screamed and ran to try and protect her.

Yix quaked with the memory of what