The suicide matrons, brought to bless the ceremonies had brought the razors down upon their flesh on the first blow – their eyes wild and filled with abject mania as they watched their life begin to gush from them in pulsing red flow before the lotus feet of the commandant. As they weakened their fellow sisters held them up so that vision of the death goddess and the ongoing torture would be their last without interruption or impediment. From the slitted prison windows outside could be heard the sound of the drill masters screams and machine-gun volleys signaling yet another round of summary executions.

Two by two the suicides neared their completion, the matrons losing consciousness and passing beyond amidst the sights and sounds which with they had been familiar since their earliest age – graduates of the commandant’s training center one and all, contemporaries of the little death goddess and now flying skyclad, denuded of all constrains of mortality, toward the hypocenter that was the source and origin point of all genocide since before the foundations of the earth were formed. Britta raised the cane one last time, the room now stinking with the blood of her victim and the blood of grisly mutilation.

“See you in the fields, little sister, see you in the fields…” Britta whispered under her breath, her mood gone somber.

“And beyond that, no one can tell.”

The forthcoming release from Bölverkr Detachment :

“ok gefinn Óðni”

Odin sacrificed himself to himself:

Veit ek, at ek hekk

vindga meiði á

nætr allar níu

geiri undaðr

ok gefinn Óðni,

sjalfr sjalfum mér,

á þeim meiði

er manngi veit

hvers af rótum renn.

I know that I hung,

on a windy tree

for all of nine nights,

wounded by a spear,

and given to Odin,

myself to myself,

on that tree

of which nobody knows

from what root it arises.

As you chant the stanza over and over in old Norse,

ok gefinn Óðni, ok gefinn Óðni, ok gefinn Óðni, whether hung in a stress position, at the end of a seven day fast, buried in a shallow grave, or engaged in a Utiseta, the void walker may reveal his secrets to you. Pushing yourself to the furthest reaches of death you may find him wandering the crooked path. The one who is called, Odin, Wotan, Bölverkr, and Draugadrottin.

Those who have attained the effulgent vision of the blood elders learn to know their place at their alien feet, awaiting the cudgel stroke, inviting transformative violation. Shock troopers of such calibre, sustaining ruination of mortified flesh and rotten soul, receive the marching orders of the elite in the furtherance of Wamphyric rule, and which Wamphyric rule equates inevitable and irreversible poisoning of an earth poisoned beyond mortal conception, torture of a tortured populace beaten to a pulp, the towering hierarchy of the undead, brass through rank and file, may feast in wanton bloodshed, undenied and all-denying, propitiated and propitiating none other, inciting horror upon horror, demonic pastimes beyond the pale of mortal conception, no litmus test on sight, the baseline of the aspirant to damned immortality can be located by deployment at coordinates over the most salient and extreme promontory, past all graveyard of human sentiment and imaginable horror, turning the unimaginable into flesh and bone, not alive but a corpse reanimated, by such sacrifice without limit.

"By way of deception thou shalt do war."

Predator Mossad

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“It is inconceivable that a secret arm of the government has to comply with all the overt orders of the government.” - James Jesus Angleton

“To betray you must first belong.” - Kim Philby

An appropriate age in that, the year of thirteen moons – with the flower moon, the blood moon, the super moon and eclipse having just passed the night before. The day after had reared itself dire and dread. Her body was scarred with myriad testaments to prior punishment – raised flesh reddened, bruises black and blue – scars still healing from lacerations made by disciplinary devices and serrated blades sharpened to razor points wielded by black-masked internal security personnel. So long within the wilderness of mirrors. How entirely had her mind been shattered. How whatever natural moral sense she had once held had been inversed, reversed and decimated completely. Her consciousness was suffuse with secrets and her trajectory was bent irrevocably toward deception conceived within the highest organizational tier. An amoral brat suited to purpose.

Predator Issue Eleven

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Horror has a face... and you must make a friend of horror. Horror and moral terror are your friends. If they are not, then they are enemies to be feared.

During these breakdowns is when the pruning of ones spirit can occur, shedding itself and being intruded upon by unclean spirits with their own intentions. It should also be stated that there also exists a certain exclusive bloodline of those predisposed genetically to these disassociations. As was stated earlier, this should be combined with rites and rituals strictly forbidden and considered detestable in the eyes of God, the subjects imagination and moral compass constantly engaged and soiled by abominations and perverse practices.

Predator Issue Ten

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That which is ghastly, that which is horrifying, covert, and engineered in secrecy. That which is by design inherent with the actionable ability to deceive, coerce, punish and waylay. For it is within the purview of these doyens of their craft to seek out those who, by their nature, are prorated to the task of conspiracy.

Predator Ninth Issue

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We are the clandestine organization. Monarch programming. Mobile paramilitary Hands of Death-style training. Satanic Ritual Ascension to the “next level beyond human.” Subversion, manipulation, violence. We have never left. Those who have transgressed, beware.

Via monarch programming it is we who punish – the flesh must be disciplined so that the demon-in-flesh body might manifest – constitution adamantine.

We who correct through application of trauma – for the mind must be broken so that the horrid pale light of the backwards darkness might shine, interstices manufactured, fractures through which dark knights may possess.

We will discipline you strictly and make you realize your own shame for it is shameful to be human. We will strip you naked before the evil gods of antiquity – stripping you of your identity and all human illusion.

We will penetrate you and molest you, your blood will intermingle with that of the undead, conjoining with those higher in the hierarchy in blood incest, celebrated and memorialized through excess and blasphemy.

Conceptual distortion is a mechanism often utilized in LHP praxis as well as in religion in general whatever its touted morality or lack thereof. Engaging in arcana - the worship of demons and demigods, divinities and devils in the form of idols or icons (shorthandedly referred to as “deity worship” in some New Religious Movements) can be classified thusly. As one looks and meditates on the face, limbs and posture of an idol while making offerings before it, waving a lamp of fire, anointing with water and ungents day after day, year after year, one begins mirroring the deity. Similarly to the example of if one looked into a mirror and instead of vision of the physical body saw something altogether alien reflecting back, as one stares upon the face of the deity in the context of worship one’s own self-concept begins to conform to that which is the object of worship and veneration. No longer separated as the supplicant so venerating and the target of veneration one reaches a state of unity.

Not her alone but yourself who stands fanged with red tongue protruding, the khadag of sacrifice raised aloft in a sky where vultures circle above in carrion thirst for the dead which litter the ground beneath - not her but you whose neck the hue of midnight is encircled with a garland of skulls, you who ride upon the corpse vahana through time and space from before the world was conceived to the destructive flames of universal dissolution that will destroy all at the end of days. No longer simply “self-concept as an accomplice of evil” but rather the source of all evil itself.

Amidst secular contemporary society there is at present a great amount of hand-wringing over the quantum increases in technology and AI specifically. In tandem with the elation of technological revolution lies the dread omens which accompany revolutions of any sort as the finite mind of man looks into the future abyss encapsulating an infinity of possible outcomes.

Only a few short decades ago there was still much cautionary polemic concerning innovations we now take for granted such as television, often coming from traditional circles who (rightly so) realized the potential for such technology to bring about a separation from “concrete reality” and its consequential utilization in implanting insidious mind viruses that could ultimately poison the waters of a hitherto tranquil and homogenous collective existence.

Violence and transgression, the enticing and sometimes obscene choreography of eros and the equally alluring and potentially catastrophic tandava dance of pain and lethality are the two infernal horns which, thrust up from the earth into the firmament, cause even the denizens of the heavens to weep. Curated, brief and censored glimpses into an arena of bombs and bloodshed, horror and death during American operations in Vietnam and Cambodia destabilized the minds and from there the social equilibrium of those on the homefront, though separated by thousands of miles from the action. Secrets hitherto clandestine and only carried in the memories of those who had seen combat personally were now revealed to all and thrust upon the social consciousness of a people unable to process the grisly brutality that such vistas afford. With the granite foundation of society beginning to soften and opportunities for havoc now presented the enemies of the state entered in - foreign actors who via hook or crook would erode old social orders and create a dissonance that still reverberates to this day through the infiltration of beliefs, concepts and ideologies that are specifically designed to harm.

Fast forward several decades further and as the dust from the WTC attacks had yet to settle the beginning of the war on terror with all that would and still entails. “Terror met by greater terror” but most importantly the term alone injected, emphasized and hammered into the citizenry again and again and again like some hideous mantra: terror as the axis upon which spins the universe, terror the designator which describes a thing, a place, a person - a concept, an aesthetic. All that is threat and bringing upon it like the four horsemen of the Apocalypse or the horrible smoke of universal material destruction - threat compounded upon threat.

A person visits a newstand on the streets of a major metropolitan city or at the soda counter in rural America and sees images on the glossy special report magazines churned out in vast quantities with regular superceding editions - men in orange jumpsuits, faces obscured by black capture hoods, goggles and shackled with gleaming steel restraints. These the enemy, trussed up for their own safety but also for our own security. Thus with a slight diversion in import mechanisms once relegated to the black world were let loose in stark visual relief into the collective consciousness. “The gloves are off” - the ghastly spectres of intelligence “coming forth by night” into every town and village.

Once so immediate and so pressing in the public consciousness, these events are now decades past – many who experienced them now gone and many reading these words today not yet alive to see them. The revelations of television and print journalism who “brought the war home” in a fashion once unprecedented has brought us to now – a time where most individuals in the developed world technically exist as cyborgs due to afforded technological advancement. In this, levels for extreme distortion of self-concept exist and are bearing fruit – from popular focus on transhumanism, alternate sexuality, identity shifts and more. Images of violence are easily had as butchery and mayhem are broadcast from the ground to anyone who cares to look and, like bloodthirsty dakinis serviceable to the black goddess of destruction, politicians and pundits gleefully embrace the commodification of civilian causalties and child death with full force.

Staring into the abyss allows all the entities within that hideous backwards darkness to stare back and through contagion and spiritual reciprocation one ultimately begins to be changed even if the effort leveraged is slight or approached with the determination of a seasoned fanatic.

For adepts of the black arts, for the intergenerational Satanists who possess within themselves the blood of that old dragon “thrown to earth” now reincarnate in the DNA and RNA strands of that most secret and hidden strata walking upon the earth and also for those who follow that other sideward and unclean path inviting possession by the undead – hostile intelligences from an age gone by – such brutal change is understood. Yet so let it be emphasized and emphasized beyond any shadow of a doubt that the distortion of self-concept which you understand on a singular level or within the close confines of clandestine cells amongst fellow-travelers of the night breed is now occurring on a worldwide scope and though the destination may be different certain of the mechanisms utilized - the same.

Dark mothers horrifying in their countenance, cruel and wicked in their intent once accessed only by black pilgrimage to hidden shrines in remote wilderness or through secret interdimensional portals through methods most occult now cast their withering gaze upon all humanity from vantage points in hideous Astral Sky – all shall be disciplined, all subject to their horrifying will. None shall deny them. Dark forces ungovernable cannot be governed. No spell will keep them out. “Every knee shall bow, every tongue confess” in the series of events leading irrevocably toward the Final Harvest.

Due to unforseen conflagration, the developments of the organization characterized in its ethos as ‘blood for satan,’ eponmously its name self same, were halted. Now under new leadership, we emerge as the phoenix from the ashes with a new and horrible resolve to engrain our foundational of agendas stretching from the hazey dawn of primordial evil, to centuries in time to come.

We maintain as our methodology that strata of evil which was endemic to the satanic panic, and as saturn groans close in its orbit, we unveil ourselves to the public once more. Interested parties may make contact point at: bloodforsatan@proton.me

Excruciating death even on the microscopic level, Britta laughed, her will could make it so. Her powers soared, transcending all others – so she thought – eclipsing even the most dread mandarins of the cult recruiters in sheer scope and severity. If she wished to avail herself of the destiny that had been made known and available to her then her scythe must be honed to the sharpest imaginable lethality, her harvest must be the very zenith of all horror so that she might rise, forever in darkness.

She looked down, the mass grave laid out before her like a charnel cathedral beneath the open sky, grim and iron-hued. The contents of the mass grave slithered and churned upon itself – the last foul breath before final night of death. Those that had effected the killing gone now, the black-clad shock troopers splattered in the blood of thousands of victims on to their next grisly task, bringing all destruction in their wake and extending the razor-wire authoritarian state apparatus of the organization further and further into the hinterlands of post-nuclear hell.

Britta came later, as the vulture, sometimes even assuming direct imitation of that necrotic archetype, crouching in the crook of a dead tree as she watched the soon to be dead, the black rubber garment of her trademark flapping deathly in the still wind, profane haunches planted upon slowly twisting timber.

“Let their life pass into my own” she hissed now as in times past with suppurating lips, her staring eyes engorged with blood, her flesh livid, fingers trembling as the horrible action of her consciousness brought about deadly yield in fleshly reality.

She could hear it beginning even before it was audible to any other, the collective groan of the dying as the filaments of her gaze reached out to each and every one of them, penetrating as if the fang of a reanimated corpse. Accelerating death, drawing the lifeforce into herself in what began to be seen as shifting bluish mists clearly visible there at the places of genocide during her visitations, moving from the pile of bodies to the predator that watched.

Young acolytes of the commandant’s cult there of their own volition and propelled by dint of their own curiosity, the martial forces again long since passed, would tittle amongst themselves, girlish laughter and references to the bluish apparitions as being due to the presencing of an evil spirit. This heard by her now and on many occasions prior would spur the still girlish laughter of Britta herself, though stifled as to not betray her coordinates to the commandant’s faithful. Oh yes, these killing fields indeed under the jurisdiction of an evil spirit, Britta thought to herself. She herself that very evil spirit. She herself that death. She herself that vampire, psychotic in its gorging upon the blood and suffering of atrocity, in great quantity and profusion. Vicious, she. Deadly, she, bloated in hubris and power upon the accelerant death that she had now managed to effect again and again. As the last light of the setting sun and the last choked breath of the last victim exited, life expired, Britta upon her perch began to glow.

Long now she had walked alone in places forbidden to most – though the peregrinations of the cult recruiters in many cases were spectral and strange the concourse of Britta within the hellish landscapes had taken on a tone altogether singular. Not only was she a walker in the wilderness, she was also to the day entrenched deeply within the goings on of the commandant’s dungeons and all that surrounded them – there partaking of conspiracies as intricate and complex as the corridors of the black cells themselves, there to slake with unbridled ferocity and psychic fury lusts most profound in their obscenity and then to rise, emerging from the earth as it were possessing a constitution even more cloaked in terror, out upon her secret missions once again.

All that is missing from the equation is the element of control. And how would that control be attained? Estabrooks shied away from the details, only alluding to the severe psychic torture that is required to split a person’s core personality and then exert control over the alter personalities that are created. The trauma is often referred to euphemistically as “a form of hypnotism”. In one passage, for example, Estabrooks noted that multiple personalities “are caused by a form of hypnotism”. In one passage, for example, Estabrooks noted that multiple personalities “are caused by a form of hypnotism in the first place! We will see that emotional shock produces exactly the same results as hypnotism”. Later, he came a little closer to the truth: “multiple personality [can] be both caused and cured by hypnotism. Remember that war is a grim business. Suppose we deliberately set up that condition of multiple personality to further the ends of military intelligence”. Still later, he came even closer: “everyone [can] be thrown into the deepest state of hypnotism by the use of what [I] termed the Russian method - no holds barred, deliberate disentegration of the personality by psychic torture... The subject might easily be left a mental wreck but war is a grim business”. - Programmed to Kill

The horror of the undead is singular in its evil, as intrinsically wicked as the Rephaite who are the origin point of those hostile intelligences. Yet, within that bayonet point of evil there exist multifarious dark forces, like the prismatic hues of forged steel. These comprise not only the individual hostile intelligences of the undead themselves (and multiple can simultaneously inhabit a single physical host) but also monarch alters - created from the furnace of harsh ordeal that monarch programming provides.

The organization has long enshrined the slogan “coactus feci” which translates actionably as “conceived by torture”, for it is only through punishment and punishment most severe that the mind will be broken, creating the dangerous fissures out from which alters might manifest. In turn, the undead will utilize these vectors of compromise as entry points for possession, oftentimes coopting the monarch alters for the purpose of overtaking and subsuming the base consciousness of the one so possessed.

As vultures, crows and other birds of carrion gravitate to areas of isolation and are drawn forth by the stench of death, so do the undead seek out hosts that have undergone the horrors of monarch programming, vessels prorated for ghastly pastimes ranging from perverse to lethal, disciplined by the hideous lash encapsulating all that is evil and alight with the gleam in the eye of Satan.

“What is thy name? And he answered, saying, My name is Legion, for we are many.”