Konrad Hartmann's Blog

I wanted to review Claude Lecouteux’s Witches, Werewolves, and Fairies, not only because I encourage others to read it, but also to organize my own understanding of the material. The book packs a great deal of material into its 176 pages (counting appendices), including sources from throughout Europe, cross-referencing phenomena shared by a host of different cultures.

First of all, the title may seem misleading. If a reader hopes to find a catalogue of the above beings, a recitation of accounts of these creatures throughout history, this book will not provide that. Its subtitle, “Shapeshifters and Astral Doubles in the Middle Ages,” gives a better notion of what to expect. I understand the choice of title, I think, given market preferences, but this book focuses on the concept of the Double as a key element in various supernatural accounts.

Lecouteux discusses how the Double exists as another self throughout the lore, a sort of alter ego. Accounts frequently describe people, who while in a sort of ecstasy or sleep, have a Double, acting either independently or under the direction of the matching person, and going forth to take action. When we use the term “Double,” this may or may not mean an apparent twin of the subject. Instead, Lecouteux seems to use the term as a concept that may include a variety of beings, sometimes human, sometimes another animal, sometimes monstrous, but functioning as an alter ego. Frequent in the descriptions, and repeating those from medieval Norse sagas of a human sending forth a double, we find the notion that if anyone disturbs the body of the sender, the person may die.

Central to the author’s discussion of the alter ego lies the conflict between Christian and Indo-European concepts of the soul. He writes that Christianity imposed the concept of a single, indivisible soul, a notion alien to the pre-Christian world. Lecouteux references Scandinavian and Germanic concepts of the threefold soul as a preserved example of the native concept. In the Norse concept, instead a single soul, we find three elements: the fylgja, the hamr, and the hugr.

The fylgja exists as a spiritual double of a person, a tutelary spirit, and an individual may have multiple fylgjur. A fylgja can leave while the human sleeps. Again, this doesn’t necessarily mean a clone of the human, and may be of either sex, human or other animal. In some accounts, the fylgja takes corporeal form. Often, the fylgja precedes its human. The spirit often takes an animal form, might not be able to take physical action, and leaves its human shortly before death.

The second component, the hamr, seems to be more closely associated with the concept of the double, and the one most relevant to this book. Accounts abound of individuals able to leave their body in another or additional corporeal form, and these stories Lecouteux attributes to the exercise of the hamr. Tales describe cases of a double being injured during his or her activities, and the wounds also appearing on the body of its human. The double runs the risk of not being able to reenter its human body upon returning to it, should the body have been moved.

The third component, the hugr, lies outside of the human, but may visit or manifest itself to an individual, sometimes to use the double/hamr for a mission or to fulfill a desire. Lecouteux’s description of the hugr seems to differ from some other sources, which define the component as thought. But the hugr may act against the human’s will, and seems to be a part of the soul or spirit, while often remaining outside of the individual. I think the author could have explained the element of the hugr a bit more.

Having presented this Norse three-part soul model, Lecouteux doesn’t necessarily stick to it. As presented, his model of the double, or doubles, takes its own dimensions and may be considered either as parallel or overlapping with the fylgja/hamr/hugr model, at least as I understand it. In his conclusion (vital for organizing the material presented), he states that a human usually owns two doubles, one being physical, the other, psychic. In stating that, upon seeing a double, one may confuse the physical or psychic doubles, perhaps Lecouteux raises the question as to whether they are not so easily defined. That is, does the author force clear definitions and categories upon something ambiguous? Is he lumping together diverse phenomena into preset containers? It isn’t an accusation, but a consideration.

Lecouteux places the concept of the double as the nexus of a range of elements including (listing items from his diagram) the dead, ghosts, metamorphosis, witchcraft, nocturnal flights, travels into the other world, nightmares, and phantoms. He also describes the double as being able to travel to other worlds, or to other locations at great distance within this world.

“The Double does not die with the body. This is the explanation for phantoms and ghosts and the root of necromancy,” Lecouteux writes. The death of a human liberates its doubles, the physical alter ego creating a ghost, the psychic alter ego, a phantom. And here I become uncertain which he means when he says,
“Both conserve their capacity for animal metamorphosis, but one manifests itself in dreams and can function as nightmare, while the other appears in reality, as a material being.” Without any further explanation, I would take that to meant that the ghost is the material being and the phantom, the nightmare, assuming each double maintains its place in its given realms of activity.

There are many rabbit holes I could travel down in discussing this book, but I’ll mention one. In his section, “The Nightmare,” he discusses a host of phenomena related to what I have heard most frequently described as night hag experiences. Modern readers may seek to explain the experience as that of sleep paralysis; all well and good, but the book approaches material from a folkloric perspective. Perhaps the concept of the night hag serves as the North American version of a phenomenon. Lecouteux references accounts in which a witch falls asleep, an animal leaves the witch’s body in order to “press or squeeze someone,” and when the animal returns to the witch's body, the witch regains consciousness. The author mentions the following terms for such beings:

German
Schrottel
Schreckli
Trude (Drude)
Drudenmensch
Alp
Walriderske
Hexe
Marriden

Hungarian
Lidércnyomas

Romanian
Zburăor

Lithuanian
Slogutis (pl. slogučiai)

The names and descriptions commonly connote a pressing or squeezing of the victim (as many people describe night hag attacks, with a sense and/or vision of something sitting on their chest).

Sleepiness, both in medieval Norse and more recent European accounts, also features prominently. The victim of an attack often becomes sleepy and, indeed, presents a more vulnerable target for a witch. These aspects, Lecoutueux notes, appear again and again, even in accounts lacking any sort of genealogical connection.

Lecouteux cites the oldest testimonial of such a being as from 1666, from Johannes Prätorius, who describes a red mouse leaving the mouth of a servant; however, he mentions an English charm against Alben dating back to about 800. And here is what is tantalizing about Lecouteux’s work. When such a range of six or seven centuries exists, what do we not know? Obviously, this information was passed on, yet we lack complete records. We only see the outlines of things.

To be an Alp or Trude appears to be a compulsion or obligation, an aspect that I find particularly interesting, as it places the perpetrator not just in the role of someone who, perhaps out of revenge or hatred, decides to go forth and press victims. One may be reminded of various werewolf stories, in which the werewolf unwillingly transforms. And of course, Lecouteux discusses werewolves in the book, but in their role as a double of the individual rather than simply a transformed human. I mention it here because, in common with the Alp/Trude accounts, the activity takes place at night, possibly with the implication of sleep and loss of control. As an aside, I am not familiar with the involuntary role of the witch in night hag accounts, nor that such attacks are always considered to be linked with a witch, but my knowledge of the topic is limited.

Now here we arrive at an intersection of topics that interests me. Jacques Vallee has discussed the overlap between folkloric accounts and what are reported as UFO abduction/visitation accounts. In tales of fairies, the witnesses often find themselves taken somewhere, perhaps passing into a hill and returning with a lost sense of time. Tales of UFO abductees follow a similar pattern, often with a nocturnal visitation, being taken through walls and into a spacecraft, and returning with a sense of lost time. Lecouteux only briefly mentions the parallels between UFO stories and stories about doubles, mentioning the work of Bertrand Meheust, who has apparently explored this facet. But again, the bulk of these various accounts seem to involve activity during sleep. The simplest explanation would be, “It was all a dream,” yet, experientially, that answer will probably not satisfy anyone who reads this book.

I think that this book would be helpful for anyone interested in European folklore, traditional witchcraft, dream phenomena, and even the more open-minded ufologists. I look forward to exploring the leads it presents, and also look forward to reading more Lecouteux (while lamenting the language barrier that exists, at present, before his many intriguing non-English sources).

Dangerous Urges, an anthology of my fiction, comes out at the end of the month:
http://forbiddenfiction.com/dangerous...

Anton LaVey’s Invisible War

My 1990 copy of Apocalypse Culture contains an essay by Anton LaVey titled “The Invisible War.” LaVey wrote many things in his life, some of them false, some of them true, some of them plagiarized. Some readers find the scholarship behind his writings somewhat wanting. Sources may be fudged, translations may be wrong, stories may be slightly embellished.

LaVey might not be the go-to source if you’re looking for documented, quantifiable information. But perhaps his value today lies in other dimensions, perhaps in his ability to inspire new ways of looking at things. In “The Invisible War,” LaVey muses on a psychological war meant to demoralize the population. “Invisible warfare,” he writes, “allows its victims to wallow in their sense of choice and freedom while actually feeling weak and ineffectual.” He does not specify who is waging this war, and at first read, the essay comes across as a vague conspiracy theory outline. Yet, it haunts me over the years, and I’d like to look at its elements and reflect on whether there isn’t something to all this, and how these notions play out 25 years later.

The essay presents nine weapons intended to demoralize. What would be the purpose of such a campaign? Government control? Perhaps, but would such a plan not leak out at some point? Corporate/business manipulation? Maybe, but it seems rather abstract given the financial goals of most organizations. One world government? Religious domination? The Deros? One may speculate endlessly, but I sometimes imagine the following: what if an intelligence manifested within a population, an entity with a, from our perspective, malevolent intent? Or, what if this intelligence arose as a product of our society’s unconscious, a poisonous influence bent on our destruction? Or, what if nothing so metaphysical occurred but a combination of factors that appeared to have a malignant design, an illusion, but one that for all intents and purposes could be considered real? Perhaps multiple organizations each pursue their own nefarious plan, each plot a thread in the toxic weave.

I don’t know what LaVey intended to mean exactly, but I wanted to create this document as a means of considering the topic. I wish to keep this as a living document, updating it if I am so motivated, and inviting others to do the same. Lest I appear to preach, allow me to disclose that I frequently use some of the below weapons against myself.

So what is this list of weapons? I’d love to include LaVey’s text on each one, but probably should not. Some I find fanciful, others more plausible. Hopefully, some readers have a copy of the expanded & revised Apocalypse Culture for reference. At any rate, he lists the following:

(1) Weather Control-

LaVey states that protracted periods of sunshine allow viral and bacterial agents to incubate, and also encourage large groups of people to gather recreationally, the masses generating a creativity-deadening wavelength.

Is there anything to this? The climate does appear to be warming, or if you like, polar ice is mysteriously shrinking. Are large groups of people less creative? Well, such an environment reduces time for introspection. Is there a correlation between a warm climate and increased noise and distraction? Greater interaction increases disease transmission. A warmer climate generates more crops and facilitates larger populations to inhabit a given area, developing the land, creating more and more buildings, highways, gas stations, shopping centers, moving the human animal further and further from nature.

(2) Viral and Bacterial Agents-

Here, LaVey speculates on the introduction of agents meant to exacerbate pre-existing conditions, perhaps generating odd pains or cold-like symptoms. This item I find somewhat interesting in light of developments since 1990. When I was a kid, I knew not a single classmate with peanut allergies. Some kids may have had certain food allergies, but I wasn’t aware of them enough to remember, even going into high school. Now, in a pharmacy, one finds a rack at the pharmacy, containing color-coded bracelets indicating to which foods your child is allergic. It’s becoming less a question of whether you have allergies and more a questions of which allergies you have.

Granted, many of these allergies may be misdiagnosed. Some researchers claim that we would see far more ER visits, were peanut allergies as widespread as alleged. Still, I do know a number of people (or parents whose children) who have apparently real allergies. Why? How do we go from rare to common in the space of a few decades? Is it because parents are too clean now, interfering with the building of a natural immune system? Perhaps. But we didn’t all grow up in barns in the 1970s and 80s either. It seems like something else may be happening.

And it isn’t just children anymore. Adults are allergic to sunlight, smoke, wheat, perfume, and anything imaginable. Everything is now an allergen, an irritant.

Also suspicious yet under-discussed remains the explosion of autism diagnoses. Again, this may be a question of overdiagnosis, yet I seem to recall research suggesting otherwise. And when did these autism-spectrum diagnoses begin to appear in vast quantities? Well, the increase correlates with the introduction of Prozac in 1988. Some research, rarely discussed, suggests that maternal use of SSRI’s and perhaps other antidepressants may significantly increase the odds of a male child being on the autism spectrum. Oddly, the anti-vaccine movement, despite its suspicion of pharmaceuticals, and despite the suspicious timeline, generally prefers to ignore the possibility of antidepressant-autism correlation being meaningful. Perhaps the correlation between the vast increase in the use of antidepressants and the vast increase in autism rates means nothing, but I find it odd that no one wants to know. And one may wonder, even if these drugs do not render a child autistic, do they push them in that direction? Will we see a slow (or rapid) drift towards a new type of personality? Is Aspergers the expressionless new face of mankind?

Speaking of antidepressants, how many people take them or another psychopharmaceutical? Well, 400% more since 1988. Granted, these medications have enabled many people to lead normal lives. But how many children take medication for various attention disorders? How many adults take the same drugs as a form of legal speed? How many people take benzodiazepines in order to not panic? How many people have to take meds just to not want to exterminate themselves or to stop washing their hands? How many people have obsessive-compulsive disorder? OCD seems to be the new normal, a new standard of socially approved behavior in order to demonstrate one’s own cleanliness. People now brag about being OCD, at least in terms of hygiene.

Drug manufacturers now directly market medication to consumers, who typically receive a prescription from a family doctor with minimal pharmaceutical training. In many cases, the companies have been able to cut therapists and psychiatrists completely out of the loop. Why change your lifestyle when you can simply take pills? Hate your job? Take pills. Hate your family? Take pills, or get them to take them. No self-reflection needed, just get your prescription filled. Dose yourself. Dose your spouse. Dose the kids, the dog, the cat. Just keep dosing until everything seems OK. Let’s review that quote again from the beginning:

“Invisible warfare allows its victims to wallow in their sense of choice and freedom while actually feeling weak and ineffectual.”

To what extent do psych meds provide an illusion of choice and freedom, while leaving the patient feeling weak and ineffectual? Rather than meeting a life challenge, rather than improving or changing our lives, we simply take a pill. Does that leave us feeling more or less empowered? What if our modern lifestyle desperately needs to be changed? What if the way we live is making us sick? Will we ignore our environment by simply changing our chemical balance? Aren’t some things supposed to make us sad or anxious or distracted? Aren’t these emotions sometimes appropriate and necessary for survival? Despite the quantity of psych meds flooding the market, the suicide rate seems to remain fairly consistent in the U.S., and the numbers also do not reflect the significant amount of suicides falsely listed as accidents, in order to not shame the family of the victim.

It now seems only healthy to have some sort of diagnosis, and some kind of prescription. Maybe, if society uses enough mood-stabilizing drugs, a powerful entity could reconfigure our culture into any shape desired. And if this new configuration makes people depressed, anxious, or suicidal, who cares? Just market more drugs.

Is this all part of the Invisible War? It certainly seems to be demoralizing.

(3) Ultrasonic Targeting or Saturation (White Noise):

Like (2) above, this weapon seems even more relevant now than in 1990. Under this header, LaVey writes, “Ultrasonic sound jams volitional thought, immobilizes the individual, induces mental confusion and increases suggestibility.” He discusses how the absence of a TV or a radio feels unnatural to people, who now experience “hyper-pacing and overstimulation of the senses” as normal. In 1990, no one I knew had a cell phone. There were no tablets, PDAs, laptops (like the one I now use, anyway) to speak of. No MP3 players. No Google glass. We have become far more immersed in relationships with electronic devices than ever before.

Now, if LaVey was addressing only ultrasonic sound, we could discuss the extent to which the consciously inaudible electronic signatures of all our devices affects our thinking. It’s an interesting point that bears consideration. But since 1990, we now even have a device for use by property owners specifically to repel loitering teenagers and young people. The Mosquito Anti-Loitering Device works by emitting a very high frequency sound. One setting produces a sound enough to annoy anyone. The other produces a sound that most people over age 25 can no longer perceive.

One might conceive of ways to manipulate such a device. The Mosquito could serve as a negative reinforcer. Does a shopper experience a sense of relief when, upon entering a store, the annoying sound disappears? And does that encourage a desire to stay within the store? Does it feel bad to leave the store, and does the consumer unconsciously remember that feeling? Could the Mosquito, or other sources of ultrasound less obviously intended to be aversive, be used to influence pedestrian traffic and human activity? What sources of ultrasound do we not recognize, sources that continue to affect us? Maybe people over 25 don’t consciously notice the Mosquito, but does that mean that it has no effect on them?

Now, If LaVey was also including noise in general, the point becomes even more significant. It seems as though the impact may be expanded to include not just our addiction to noise, but to electronic interaction in general. For the purpose of this essay, maybe we can also consider the other senses affected by electronic stimulation.

The average American watches over four hours of television daily. How does that influence the mind, to receive that constant stream of stimulation, all requiring no viewer interaction, save to select a button? Ah, but we have so many choices now, so many channels, and On Demand options. We may watch virtually any movie we like, at any time. If you have a smart TV, you can watch any YouTube video, flipping from clip to clip as the attention span shrinks.

Want music? Listen to almost anything you wish for free online.

Wait, did you lose your phone? Where’s your phone? Does it give you anxiety when I ask that question? How long do you go without checking your phone? Did someone just text you. Better text them back. You haven’t interacted in minutes. Your spouse may not like that.

Did I say “like?” Do people Like your Facebook postings? Or should you alter them in order to gain more approval? Social media amplifies this psychological white noise into our lives. People purposely do activities in order to have something to photograph and document on Facebook or Twitter or Instagram. Our identities form around the electronic facsimile we create of ourselves. And when we tire of our own fake identities, we can turn to the fakeness of reality shows on television.

Constant chatter. Constant noise. Constant stimulation. All of this interferes with quiet self-reflection, and maybe that’s the point. People don’t want to reflect. They want to consume entertainment. And all of this prevents deep thought from ever happening. We become a product of what we consume. Commercial and political campaigns have permanent inroads into our unconscious through electronic media, always there, always whispering, sometimes shouting.

I forget who first said that we become like the tools that we use. If this is true, how will this revolution in consumer electronics change us? Do these tools in fact grant us “choice and freedom?” Or do they leave us “weak and ineffectual?”

(4) Subsonic Targeting or Saturation (Black Sound)

LaVey writes that “subsonics can be used to drive people together,” and that “black sound creates anxiety, hyperactive behavior, agitation, and increased stress.” Research appears to support the notion that infrasound does indeed affect perception. According to Sarah Angliss, an experiment found that,

“During our concert, infrasound boosted the number of strange experiences reported among the audience, even among those who were unaware of its presence. Unusual reports included a sense of coldness, anxiety and shivers down the spine. During our concert, infrasound boosted the number of strange experiences reported among the audience, even among those who were unaware of its presence. Unusual reports included a sense of coldness, anxiety and shivers down the spine.”

Information, both good and bad, abounds regarding sonic weaponry at both ends of the spectrum. But what about non-obvious sources? Infrasound emanates from many items- aircraft, boats, land vehicles, air conditioning, ventilation, compressors, trains, and so on. How do these sources affect us? Perhaps we don’t think about them because we are never away from them. But could the constant unconscious irritation eat away at us? Perhaps the comfort of climate controlled environments, the perceived freedom granted by cars, and the conveniences of public transportation all leave us feeling, again, with a “sense of choice and freedom while actually feeling weak and ineffectual.”

(5) Microwave Radiation

I’m drawing a blank on this one. I see a number of conspiracy sites discussing microwave radiation, but I don’t know what to make of them. Is anyone familiar with a legitimate source on this topic? LaVey does mention the concept of using natural or man-made structures- “areas between hills, valleys between skyscrapers, sports arenas, etc.” for the purpose of exposing people to the deleterious effects of radiation.

(6) Food and Beverage Dispersal

In this section, LaVey discusses chemical additives in mass-produced foodstuffs, elements that may “induce and sustain lassitude, and foster mental incapacity and insensitivity.” Has the situation changed since 1990? In the U.S., the average self-reported weight has increased by almost 20 pounds. Diabetes rates increased well over 100% from 1980 to 2011. I do not know if fast food restaurants increased relative to the population since 1990, but if you are in the U.S., and you had to get to the nearest food outlet, how likely would it not be a fast food outlet? Traveling in different parts of the country, one may be dismayed (or perhaps pleased) to find an endlessly repeating series of the same chain restaurants in every town. In most supermarkets, the customer has to walk past stack after stack of junk food in order to reach more essential items. And it’s often difficult to find food without some form of sweetener added to it.

Taking in food and drink can tranquilize us. Many people have nothing to discuss besides which bar or restaurant they favor. Children receive high-calorie sodas and sugar drinks. We really don’t know what to do with ourselves if we aren’t consuming something. We have the choice to consume an endless variety of foods, but we are left feeling sick and tired at the end of the day. Unplanned (or is it?) development leaves many people spending hours each week commuting in cars, since highways and various barriers cut off the option to walk. Service economy jobs involve more and more sedentary activity. People of all ages spend more and more time sitting in front of screens and monitors. We sit and we eat and we wonder why we feel bad.

(7)Psychological Smokescreens

This item struck a chord with me, and involves diversions meant to draw one’s attention away from the powers responsible for the invisible war. LaVey writes:

“Some of the more obvious misdirections are: threat of nuclear attack, political ‘causes,’ scandal and campaign hysteria, concern over ‘real’ or conventional warfare, contrived revolts and shooting wars in far-away areas of the world, fear of contamination of water supplies by parties unknown (ensuring increased sales of chemical-laden beverages), poisoning or experiments by the CIA or other convenient groups, fear of the Appointed Enemy, i.e., Christian-defined “Satanic” influences, UFOs, neo-Nazis (until they’re absorbed to make room for a new common enemy).”

So what of all this? Well, Google these topics in the news and see what has changed. We have been told to fear a nuclear Iran, a new nuclear standoff between the U.S. and Russia, and North Korea’s arsenal. Political causes abound, especially on social media, where people can experience the sense of being part of something, of recreating and reliving historical causes from the old news footage. Scandals involving sex, drugs, and political cover-ups remain perennial favorites, often as a way to prove the correctness of one’s own party. Conventional war seems to be taking a back seat, but revolts and shooting wars have certainly taken the spotlight, especially when people can tweet fashionable hashtags in reaction. Intentional water contamination is mostly out, although bottled water sales have increased (and in this point LaVey’s essay becomes a bit circular). Nefarious CIA news seems to mostly involve torture.

While the worship of victimhood and grievances in general inundates our culture, racism steals the show as Appointed Enemy. Everything in the news eventually returns to accusations of racism. If you ever want to manipulate public attention, use the topic of racism. Journalists attacked by terrorists are racists. Professors and scientists with unpopular statements are now racists. Racism is portrayed as the great dragon to be slain. Indeed racism is the new great Satan for a secular age. The Satanic Panic is out, the Race Chase is in. Police are racists. The Internet is racist. Your parents are racist. Corporations are racist. Actors are racist. Directors are racist. Essayists questioning racism most certainly are racist. Calling someone a racist elevates the accuser to a higher moral level, serving a similar function to identifying witches in other eras. At the moment, nothing provides a more effective diversion. When you identify a racist, you become free of restraint. You may be as aggressive as you wish towards this most foul of all criminals. In short, the witch/racist/heretic grants the accuser a free pass to attack someone while remaining a hero and/or victim. In his Nine Satanic Statements, LaVey writes, “Satan has been the best friend the Church has ever had, as he has kept it in business all these years.” We may perhaps add that racism has been the best friend the media has ever had, for it indeed provides endless fuel for the news.

Encouraging people to feel like victims may serve another function by demotivating them. Instead of feeling powerful, one feels beaten down, craving pity. The individual learns that strength comes not from within, not from the will, but from whether or not people speak and write without cruelty. The quality of your life becomes entirely dependent upon how pleasantly people regard you, or at least, how they say they regard you. Selling the victim identity works quite nicely at making people feel “weak and ineffectual.”

Psychological smokescreens may also serve a more practical purpose. The pharmaceutical industry, for example, may benefit from the anti-vaccine movement, in that the trend diverts attention from investigating more plausible causes of autism, such as SSRIs.

(8) The Extended Weekend

LaVey writes that “Long weekends are necessary to allow spending and recreational time while maintaining the illusion of productivity.” I am not sure what to make of this item. I find most jobs to be tedious and unmotivating, and don’t see how less of them would demoralize me. But this subject brings to mind a number of people I know of who do not seem to have to work. In all of these cases, the individuals do not have to work, because someone else in their home does, or because parents did, or because the person received a trust fund. I often think that, given an income to prevent hardship, and not having to punch a clock 40 hours a week, one would have the opportunity to be truly productive. Arthur Machen, for example, upon receiving a windfall, found himself able to write some of his best work, without having to worry about the marketability of the stories. Yet, of those I know to be comfortably unemployed, none produces much of anything. They watch TV, they read the news, they play online, but none of them are writing a novel, improving their homes, or creating much of anything.

Free time grants us the choice to create or consume, and most people will probably only consume. It isn’t their fault; it is their nature. Everyone knows of people who decline upon retirement, or whose spouses demand that they return to work, finding the retired partner intolerable when at home all day. Many people cannot cope with free time, but must be given busy work. For such humans, leisure becomes toxic.

And yet, many people have never and will never work. I often, half-jokingly, say that I want to receive lessons from these people on surviving without working. But, such teaching would be a form of work, and so cannot take place.

Living without goals may indeed be demoralizing. But others do maintain employment, and do all of them find enlightenment through leisure? Consider the successful people who consume vacation after vacation, traveling to site after site, only to snap some photos to put on Facebook. For many people, leisure seems to be something to fill up with as many itemizable activities as possible, never feeling real excitement at any of the expensive trips or activities. The peril of leisure, for many people, is that free time grants an opportunity for introspection, a dangerous habit for those afraid of confronting the Self.

(9) Urban Warfare

In this section, LaVey mentions drug wars, mass murderers, and serial killers. “By allowing heavy drug use to increase, and an underground network of sales and distribution to exist, people can be kept malleable and satisfied, while the drugs induce mental retardation,” he writes, and on this point I agree. How much does the U.S. military spend on remote foreign conflicts, without perceptible gains? Am I to believe that the U.S. lacks the force and resources to instead spend that money in attacking the drug market? Sure, we hear about a war on drugs from time to time, a kingpin here or there gets busted, law enforcement temporarily cuts off a supply now and then. But the underground sales network largely operates out in the open. Look at your nearest city. You may or may not know where to buy a particular drug, but even if you use no illegal substances, you have a general idea where the drugs in your city are sold.

I’m not saying the government has to do anything to make people take drugs, but it seems as if an effort exists to keep drugs both illegal and available, just contained in certain neighborhoods. And many drugs do serve the function of offering “choice and freedom” while letting people remain “weak and ineffectual.” Many people can handle them, but many others cannot, and will require lifelong babysitting. Even with cannabis, one sees a number of young men who remain little boys well into middle age, hanging out with the same friends, getting high, and playing video games year after year.

As for the heavier drugs, keeping them both illegal and available ensures a perpetual state of mini-war in many neighborhoods and cities. Cities serve as centers of culture, government, and industry. Yet, a great many cities contain horrific badlands. You visit the city to enjoy your favorite performers as they tour or to see museums, but must avoid the danger zones in order to do so. Baltimore features the Inner Harbor as a popular destination, but at night, tourists and police both vacate the area, which becomes almost as unsafe as the surrounding city. How demoralizing is it to see these symbols of culture turn into wastelands? People love to talk about what restaurants they visit in the city, but many of these businesses exist in a small safe-zone. People play make believe that the safe-zone is the city, while ignoring the reality of all those places they avoid. What is the psychological impact of constantly knowing that one may be attacked? Detroit and New Orleans feature murder rates more commonly seen in more violent Central and South American countries. Many convention centers and other facilities will now use a big city in their name, but will actually be located far from the actual city. Development sprawls out around cities-more highways, more pavement, more parking lots, more traffic jams, more chain stores, more generic townhomes, all clustering like scabs around a diseased center.

LaVey also mentions mass murderers and serial killers under this ninth heading. Dealing first with mass murderers, (I confess my essay to be content-biased towards Western culture, particularly the U.S., mainly because I am more familiar with my own country)I’m torn between whether we should just look at individual killers, or if we should include teams. Getting into teams involves a greater discussion of terrorism and war, and probably exceeds the scope of this piece. I am uncertain and may revisit it; for now, we will stick to individuals who have murdered since 1990. In 2011, Anders Behring Breivik killed 77 people, despite Norway’s gun control laws. Brevik may have Asperger’s syndrome (though his pre-Prozac birth year of 1979 does not support my hypothesis in [2] above). In 1996, Martin Bryant killed 35 people in Tasmania. Like Breivik, Bryant has been diagnosed with Asperger’s (and like Breivik, he was born well before 1988). In 2007, Seung-Hui Cho killed 32 people at Virginia Polytechnic Institute. Cho does not seem to have been diagnosed as autistic, but rather afflicted with selective mutism and a host of behavioral problems. I do not see any information as to what medications he was taking.

Mass murder receives massive attention in the news, but accounts for less than one tenth of 1% of homicides. But let us return to the point of LaVey’s essay, that the goal of the Invisible War is one of psychological demoralization. And these mass murders certainly demoralize the public, who typically seek single-factor solutions, blaming guns, medications, autism-spectrum disorders (for brief moments until autism advocates get this topic yanked from the news), video games, or violent movies.

But what about serial killers? These were all the rage in the 180s and 1990s, but now seem to have fallen by the media wayside. Has the phenomenon disappeared? Here, the worst killers seem to be outside the U.S., but again, I will remain focused on the U.S. for the sake of the essay’s scope. Gary Ridgway continued to kill throughout the 1990s. Ronald Dominique killed in Louisiana up until 2006. Killer nurse Charles Cullen killed an uncertain number of patients, perhaps as many as 400 until 2003. So no, serial murder has not disappeared, but may thrive in more chaotic regions. In the U.S., like mass murder, the crime accounts for less than 1% of homicides.

Returning to the original essay, if we view the various violent phenomena above as the product of a willful intelligence, what would be the goal? LaVey mentions population reduction, but homicides account for far too few deaths to serve such a function. The U.S. suicide rate was 12.5 in 2012. The U.S. homicide rate was 4.7 in 2013. Curiously, the media tends to amplify homicides while ignoring suicides.

No, I don’t see violence as a significant population reducer, at least, not directly. If you want to reduce the population, you don’t kill people. You get them to stop reproducing. Depression and obesity lower testosterone in males. And if you can create a general sense of hopelessness and despair, you can convince those with the ability to care for children, to simply not wish to “bring children into such a world.”

Last year, I took a stab at writing a short heroic couplet. I don't know if this is technically correct in following the format, nor do I have much education in writing poetry. If you know how to write a heroic couplet, I would appreciate your critique.

RED SUN ARENA

by Konrad Hartmann

The sun hangs wet and raw, a wound screaming

In a pale sky, the heavens' blood streaming

As though the scene it lit gouged out red holes

With its awful grandeur, poisoned foul roles

Played out, an execution grand is staged.

All know their parts. Even the beast now caged

Questions naught but the fatal dance of feet

When one heart must silence the other's beat.

In one cage four feet pace, in the other,

Pace two. A woman's feet stomp, another

Act for the crowd, for the beast to devour,

Shrieking for the mob in its final hour.

How will she die? The crowd bites at the air,

Their open maws flap, yet the woman's stare

Shows impatience, restlessness, but not fear.

Her eyes take in the people as they jeer.

The small amphitheater roars with mirth

As the condemned stares at moist bloodstained earth,

An opening act to wet the crowds' thirst,

A noontime show, women and children first.

She watches the guards laugh and wager dearly

Over how long she lives, knowing clearly

That it won't take long for the beast to take

Her apart piecemeal, and in its jaws shake

Every bone loose from her mortal form.

A rumble from the creature's throat, a storm

Waiting to unfurl and consume its prey.

Cheers ripple through the stands, the mob can stay

Its patience no longer. The time draws near

A man in silks steps forth and lays a spear

Before the woman's cage. The weapon seems

Like a child's toy, a prop to slay, in dreams,

Dragons. The woman smiles, as if to say,

Blushing, “This is too much for such small play.”

The bells begin to take the count, the sun

Above hits its mark. The crowd now as one

Counts down the moments until the black bells

Clang. Cage doors crash open. One voice now swells

From the stands. The mob screams and leaps, thunder

Shouted. They watch the victim and wonder.

The woman crouches, weapon in one hand,

The other drawing figures in the sand.

The beast stops its charge, taut muscles churning

It howls with rage and fear, its mind learning

How denial of a kill so nearby

Feels. It maddens, hearing the woman's cry,

Strange words and sounds fall from her mouth. The crowd

No longer screams, or speaks a word out loud.

Frothing, foaming, the thing paces, staring.

The woman's hand dances. The thing, glaring,

Seethes. No question asked, the human mass

Reflects on the beast's eyes of bloodstained glass.

The woman lifts her spear and points, the stands

Convulse, humans press and bite, stomping hands,

The thing now bounding over the high wall

Of the arena. The guards raise the call,

Loosing arrows at the creature, whose claws

Rend the packed ranks of spectators. It maws

Them like layers of meat stacked thick. The screams

Pulse. Arrows pierce alike fiend and the reams

Of stacked victims. The captain of the guard

Calls, “Kill the witch!” But she has left the yard,

Leaping from cage top, she follows the red

Path blazed through the stands, tossing her wild head.

Her spear darts left and right, claiming those few

Left behind. The guards rally to pursue

The murderous mistress and newfound slave.

Wading through gore, the guards follow. They crave

Revenge for their failure, payment for shame,

Redemption before receipt of the blame,

For should they now fail, tomorrow they fight

Against hempen foes, condemned at first light.

Bristling with shafts, witch and beast face the guards,

A last stand made atop flesh and bone shards.

A crimson figure, the woman laughs loud.

Spear held high, she cries out, haughty and proud,

“Come play now my fools! The cage you can't see

Is the life you live. I will set you free!”

Sample the first 25% of my novella, Arena Breed, at Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/...

My novella, Arena Breed, comes out on Tuesday, 15 April! Check it out: http://fantasticfictionpublishing.com...
The story is set in the late Roman Empire, in Carnuntum (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carnuntum). I was inspired to use this setting after reading about the 2011 finding of a large gladiatorial school in the location. Arena Breed involves two gladiators, Avitus the male secutor, and Faustina, the female Persian retiarius. In researching gladiators for the novella, I found conflicting information about the topic, and many sources only talk about what would later become known as the Colosseum. But I did read that female gladiators, though rare, did exist. Avitus and Gratianus find themselves forced to stay in the villa of Gratianus and Paula, an infamous and wealthy couple in Carnuntum.

My horror short story,"Alex Needs to Eat," is up at the Carnage Conservatory. http://carnageconservatory.wordpress....

The title above, "Das Gefahrtarifwesen Und Die Beitragsberechnung Der Unfallversicherung Des Deutschen Reiches: Nach Der Reichsversicherungsordnung" was authored by a different Konrad Hartmann. I did not add it there, and I do not know how to remove it. I sent a message to GoodReads requesting help.

“It's a bill to fuck her,” Jumper said.

“What bill?” Fernando asked. Jumper laughed and scratched his mustache.

“A hundred,” Nick said, turning his head but not his eyes toward Fernando. Nick stared through the open doorway of the camper. The three men stood outside, Fernando and Nick about 20, Jumper twice their age.

“Oh, that's okay,” Fernando said, a quick laugh shooting out of his mouth.

“What do you mean, 'okay,' Fern?” Jumper asked. “That mean you got a bill to ride?”

Nick shifted his feet in the slush. The snow was turning to a freezing rain. Jumper didn't seem to care, but only pushed his lank hair back over his head, sleet dripping from his mustache. The man wore an old leather bomber jacket with fleece lapels. Nick stared at the camper, not knowing if he wanted to go or wanted to stay. The weather was laying a thick sheet of ice over the roads. Nick noticed this when he and Fernando rode laughing in Jumper's old Buick station wagon, the man driving no slower than anyone would on a sunny day, the big car skidding and fishtailing on the way from the motel to the camper.

Nick let his mind flick through the night's memories, peering through the fog of alcohol and cannabis to retrace his steps, wondering how he got where he was now, wherever that was since he lost track of the turns Jumper took to get there. There was the bar, and Jumper was at the bar, giving off creepy biker vibes, not like the fashionable TV show biker thing, but more like the guys Nick saw at the carnival growing up. Weird, kind of unintentional 1970s hair, jailhouse-looking tattoos of snakes and asymmetrically-rendered naked women on his arms. Some kind of symbol on his neck. Kind of a random selection of rings on his fingers.

But Jumper told some funny jokes, and Nick and Fernando experienced the kind of relieved flattery that young men who are not hard men feel when a real hard man treats them like an equal. And then Jumper's nieces showed up, or at least that's what he called them, a redhead and the other with long black hair. Tattooed and pierced, with tight and low-cut shirts under their winter coats, they came in when Nick and Fernando were each six drinks deep.

By two AM, Nick felt pretty sure he was in love with Heather, the redhead, and Fernando seemed equally involved with Kat. The ladies had an errand to run as the bar closed at two, but, Jumper was cool enough to let the boys hang out at his motel room and get them high until the girls came back.

The girls never did come to the motel. Two turned to three, three turned to four. Jumper broke out what he called homemade wine, blackberry wine he said his cousin made, bottled and capped in beer bottles. Nick mentioned something to Fernando about leaving, and then Jumper lit up a bowl and soon Nick found himself staggering out into the parking lot, past children's toys and the debris of semi-permanent residents.

“Is this like a motel that people come to on vacation?” Fernando laughed.

“Well, the people here might not be going to work, but it ain't exactly a vacation,” Jumper chuckled, lighting a cigarette and opening the station wagon door.

“Are we going back?” Nick asked, not sure where he meant. To his apartment? To his car? He couldn't drive home, though, not this fucked up. He climbed in the back seat, Fernando riding shotgun.

“We going to see a lady!” Jumper said into the rear-view mirror, with mock surprise. Elvis Christmas music blared as the engine lumbered into life. Nick waited for him to turn down the music as they drove. He did not. Fernando sang along, or tried to, and Nick couldn't stop laughing. It felt like he was in some old movie about fugitives and car chases. Nick watched lights and cars blur by, then fewer and fewer lights, and more trees, pines and naked trees throwing their arms up to the dark gray sky. The station wagon fishtailed along across a bridge, the freezing river underneath reflecting the moonlight, and then they drove along, the woods on either side broken up by the occasional house or trailer, some homes abandoned either by people or by prosperity. Jumper pulled down a long driveway and parked before a camper, yellow lights blaring out its windows, smoke wafting out of a chimney-pipe rising from the top.

“We going camping?” Fernando laughed.

“Camp Fucki Fucki,” Jumper said. “C'mon.”

Things felt different once Nick climbed out of the warm car. It was dark out there, wherever it was.

“So, what's going on?” Nick asked, the comedy of the night's direction starting to fade.

“You wanted to see a lady, we gonna see a lady,” Jumper said. He plucked a joint out of his cigarette pack, took the cigarette out of his mouth, lit the joint, inhaled, and passed it to Nick in what seemed like one second. Nick hit the joint as freezing raindrops sizzled on the cherry. He handed it to Fernando without looking at his friend, Nick's attention focused on the opening camper door.

In the porn Nick watched online, the woman would have been labeled as “BBW” (for big, beautiful woman) or possibly “plumper.” He already knew Fernando would have called her fat, and Nick already resented the opinion he assumed his friend had. She wasn't fat, Nick thought, she really is beautiful, and then he wondered if he just said that out loud. He exhaled a vast cloud of smoke and steam as he stared. She looked good, really good, narrow waist, very large breasts, long, red hair pulled into a braid hanging down the front of her shoulder. Voluptuous, he wanted to say. Like Jumper and his “nieces,” she also bore a number of tattoos, though more aesthetically placed than Jumper's were. She wore a close-fitting skirt. Nick took a step backwards, involuntarily, when her eyes hit him. Nick glanced at Fernando, who stared with wide, glassy eyes at the doorway. When Nick looked back, the door was still open but the woman no longer stood there.

“It's a bill to fuck her,” Jumper said.

“What bill?” Fernando asked.

“A hundred,” Nick said.

“Oh, that's okay,” Fernando said.

“What do you mean, 'okay,' Fern?” Jumper asked. “That mean you got a bill to ride?”

“I don't have a hundred bucks,” Fernando said, laughing.

Jumper looked at Nick.

“No,” Nick mumbled. He'd never paid for sex and the situation made him want to be home in bed, because he knew if he had a hundred bucks, right then, he might have done it. The night felt weird now, like it was too strange to even know how to act, to even know what was appropriate. It was time to go home, but home seemed very far away now, and maybe they would have to walk. Or maybe Jumper would give them a ride but did he want a guy like Jumper knowing where he lived?

“I got $23,” Fernando said. Jumper squinted as he inhaled, passing the joint to Nick.

“Well, what do you got between the two of you?” Jumper said, his voice distorted by his exhalation. Jumper and Fernando both stared at Nick.

“Seriously?” Nick said to Fernando.

“Yeah, why not?” Fernando laughed. Nick looked up to see the woman standing in the doorway, leaning as she pressed her hand to the frame. Her eyes locked onto him. “Come on,” Fernando said.

“What, she don't look good to you?” Jumper said, a metallic edge to his voice. The woman stepped out of the camper, barefoot into the snow, ice, and mud on the ground, and walked towards Nick. Panic turned up his heart rate and his ears started ringing. Closer to him now, her cold blue eyes pinned him in place, her expression one of total confidence, total control. She stepped close, her breasts pushing against Nick, so he could smell her perfume, something musky and spicy, as her hand slid into his back pocket. She had a tattoo on her neck like Jumper did, the same design. She pulled out his wallet and thumbed out the bills. Nick knew he had $29, and he half-hoped it wouldn't be enough.

She said something in a foreign language, holding the money in one hand and shoving the wallet back into Nick's pocket. Fernando stood, grinning, his hand full of money thrust out towards the woman. She added Fernando's money to the stack and handed it to Jumper, who began sorting it by size. She grabbed Fernando's hand, then Nick's hand. Her hand felt soft but the grip felt strong as she pulled both of them along towards the camper. Nick tried to think of a way out, but escape from the situation felt somehow abstract, out of the question for some reason. And her hand felt good, warm, like it belonged holding his. He thought about asking Jumper if he would stick around to give them a ride home, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to see Jumper when he came out, not sure if he wanted Jumper to be part of whatever thing was about to happen.

She pushed Nick in front of herself as they reached the door, directing him up the steps with guttural words and firm nudges in the small of his back. Her voice sounded hoarse but soft. Nick liked its sound as he stepped up into the camper. Warm and dry inside, he felt relieved to not be outside in the sleet. The woman and Fernando pushed in behind him. Nick didn't know where to look, overwhelmed by the density of decoration and clutter inside the camper. It looked witchy, he thought, crammed full of books, drying plants, and weird paintings of symbols. An assortment of smells jammed into his nose, odors like vodka and beer, cigarettes and cigars, herbs, incense, the smell of coal from the little stove on the wall, mixed with the unmistakable smell of female arousal, the smell of pussy left in the beard after going down, cannabis smoke, and something else he couldn't quite make out.

The woman shut the door behind herself.

“Do you speak English?” Nick asked. She didn't respond, but picked up a thin cigar from an ashtray, striking a wooden match and relighting it. She drew smoke into her mouth and let it roll out again as she ran her eyes over the men. It didn't smell like weed. Nick had never seen a woman smoke a cigar before, one that wasn't a blunt.

“Español?” Fernando asked, but again no response. In the light, Nick looked at her tattoos again. There was some kind of goat on one forearm, a sort of snake-like design on the other, and the symbol on the side of her neck.

“Glick?” she smiled, pointing at the neck tattoo.

“What does that mean?” Fernando asked, tapping his own neck and looking at Nick. “The tattoo?”

The woman unbuttoned the top button of her blouse, exposing her cleavage. She frowned and eyed both of the men, then stepped forward and grabbed Nick's hand, pulling him towards the bed.

“Don't we get to flip a coin for that shit?” Fernando asked, chuckling and leaning against a wall. The woman held onto Nick, rubbing against him, her scent in his nose as he felt his cock stiffen. She lowered herself onto the bed, pulling him with her, on top of her, lying between her legs. She ground herself into him, his prick twisted at a painful angle in his jeans. Nick always liked the undressing part, like getting to unwrap a present. He began to unbutton her blouse, and was relieved when she reached down to unbuckle his belt, opening his pants and freeing his erection. Her soft hand gently tugged him as he unbuttoned her blouse, her breasts looking huge and swollen inside her black bra. He squeezed them, surprised to feel, through the silky fabric, a padded disk at each nipple. She smiled and slid one of her hands up, unsnapping a flap and flipping open a section of the bra. A white pad covered her nipple. She plucked the pad away, exposing a thick and long nipple, glistening wet, a thick drop of milk perched at the tip, the nub about the size of the first digit of Nick's pinkie finger. Nick looked up at her, confused by what he was seeing, confused by how aroused it made him feel.

“Hey, that's, that's milk,” Fernando mumbled. “That's milk. Those are breast pads so titty milk doesn't leak out. This is fucking crazy.”

Nick ignored him. He felt a pressure inside, something different from just feeling horny, something pushing from within. The woman took his hand, guiding his fingers to her nipple. She tilted her face up to kiss him as he circled her wide nipple with his thumb. He felt moisture on his fingers as their lips met.

“Ow!” he yelped, a sharp sting in his lower lip. The woman held his wrist, her grip strong, holding his clenched fist in place as she grinned with her white teeth. What just happened, he wondered? The fact that she just bit his lip shocked him, but not as much as his own fist, apparently raised to strike her.

“Nick? What the fuck?” Fernando said.

“Krepela denna hum,” the woman cooed, letting go of his wrist and guiding his face down to her nipple. Nick thought of Fernando watching, thought of how weird the situation was. But it seemed weird enough to do whatever he wanted to do, and whatever normal was, no longer applied. Nick hesitated, wondering if he really wanted to do it, until the woman grabbed the back of his head and pushed down.

Nick felt his mouth open reflexively, taking the big nipple into his mouth, staring at the fine lacing of blue veins beneath the woman's pale skin. He tasted liquid flowing into his mouth. The sweetness surprised him, sweetness with an underlying earthy flavor. The woman moaned, bucking her hips up against him. Nick sucked, pulling greedily at her teat, holding her engorged breast with both hands. It felt hot, swollen. His cock ached and he wanted to be inside her, wanted to go into her as she was releasing into his mouth. When he fumbled with her skirt, pulling it up, his mouth still latched onto her nipple, she held her breast for him, feeding him. His hand slid up the inside of her smooth thigh, finding the crotch of her panties. Wetness soaked the silky fabric, soaked the sheets underneath her. He wondered if she had pissed herself or had her period, not caring but only curious. She ground up against his hand as his fingers slid inside the crotch of the panties. Nick felt no pubic hair, only smooth skin, slick with secretions. She moaned as his fingers penetrated her, sinking up to the knuckle in her tightness, pulling out, stroking her fattened clit.

The redhead let go of her breast, grabbing his cock and rubbing it against herself, against the wet fabric like she was trying to pull it through. Nick felt blood rushing to his head, her moans and grunts weaving a pattern inside his skull, begging him to enter her. He grabbed the crotch of her panties and yanked, tearing the seam open. She grabbed his shaft and tugged hard enough to make him wince, pulling the head of his cock against her cunt. He heard Fernando saying something about a condom as he pushed into her. She groaned, her legs hooking around his as he sunk into her, Nick's upper body twisted to keep her breast at his mouth. He thought of animals, of goats, of reptiles, thrusting into her, her tight hole gripping him wetly. Their flesh slapped together and he wanted it to be this way all night, warm nectar flowing down his throat, her limbs gripping him. This was all that mattered. This was all that ever mattered, the fucking, the hot burn, the drive to fuck, to pound, to thrust, to be with someone like this. He heard himself grunting and gasped, breath pumping in and out his nose. An electric pulse traveled through his body and he felt his orgasm approaching, his mind simultaneously racing towards it and dreading it. The woman spoke, saying something in what he thought was German, clamping her limbs around him to keep him still.

“Iä! Shub-Niggurath! Die Schwarze Ziege des Waldes mit tausend Junge!” she cried. Nick tried to remember what little German he had learned and forgotten. Something about black was all he could translate. He tried to move, to keep fucking her, but found himself unable to move in her grip. “Sag es!Iä! Shub-Niggurath! Die Schwarze Ziege des Waldes mit tausend Junge!” she repeated, more slowly now, enunciating.

“I think it's like, repeat after me,” he heard Fernando say. The woman reached up, nodding and holding the sides of Nick's head. Her blue eyes burning into his.

“Iä!” she cried.

“Iä!” Nick repeated.

“Shub,” she said.

“Shub,” Nick repeated.

“Niggurath,” she said, slowly.

“Niggurath.”

She went on, coaxing each syllable out of him, until he was able to repeat the phrase unaided, releasing her hold, allowing him to continue sliding in and out of the wet grip between her legs.

“Iä! Shub-Niggurath! Die Schwarze Ziege des Waldes mit tausend Junge!” he cried out, the orgasm flickering in the back of his skull now engulfing his body. The energy coursed out of his balls, burning up through his shaft as he pumped inside of her, slobbering milk, grunting, weightless. A loud noise like clanging iron or a gunshot popped in his head, and he saw a figure inside his mind, the figure of a goat, or at least, that was a word that came into his thoughts, though it did not really look like a goat. Goat was just a word to say to give the brain something to do, he thought, while it tried to absorb the image. The thing moved and had shape, limbs surrounding a swollen central mass, the head vaguely horned. He thought of some kind of strange microscopic organism, grown massive and mammalian. He forced himself to see black, blotting it out.

Nick felt himself turning, rolling onto his back, the woman's hand pressing into his chest, her one breast exposed, still trickling milk, a thin smudge of blood surrounding her nipple. Nick wondered if it was his, or maybe he had bitten her. He felt himself falling, landing on his back on the floor of the camper, his pants around his knees. The room tilted in his vision, Fernando shaking his head, laughing, as he stepped over Nick. Nick decided he didn't want to pass out like that, so he fought to keep his eyes open, pulling up his pants. He sat up in time to see the woman with Fernando's lip between her bared teeth. She twitched her head, blood dribbling as Fernando cried out. Fernando's fist shot out, connecting with the side of the woman's head, the sound of the blow audible. She did not flinch, but only grabbed his wrists, the same way she did Nick. She rolled and Fernando rolled with her as she climbed on top of him. She pulled off her unbuttoned blouse and tossed it aside, then hitched her skirt up around her hips. She unhooked her heavy bra and dropped it to the floor, letting her heavy breasts hang. Fernando already had his pants down and she quickly grabbed his cock, working it into herself. They both groaned. The woman leaned forward, pressing one breast to Fernando's bloodied lips. He latched on with a loud slurp, kneading and mashing her mammaries. She turned her head to stare at Nick. As Fernando nursed, blood and milk ran down his cheeks, mixing together. Leaning forward on her hands, she pounded her hips down fast and hard, her breasts shaking, quivering.

“Breng denna ropp,” she said, staring at Nick. Fernando's half-closed eyes looked up at her then at Nick, then back to the breast. “Breng denna ropp. Denn itak.” She nodded at Nick's crotch and Nick looked down, realizing he was hard again. She made an exaggerated motion with her head towards her back. Nick stared, trying to keep his balance. She frowned and reached back with one hand, slapping her ass, pointing to him, slapping again.

Nick staggered forward, climbing onto the bed behind her. Her ass, large but well-rounded, jiggled with the motion of fucking Fernando. She put one hand on each cheek, spreading herself open as she looked over her shoulder. Nick pulled his jeans down again, winching as he plucked the cotton of his underwear away from where it stuck to the drying fluids on his prick. He realized he would have to straddle Fernando's legs and could only do that by taking his pants off entirely, and so he did. He leaned forward, aiming his erection, slightly squeamish at his proximity to Fernando's hard dick sliding in and out of the woman's slit. She reached back, smearing something wet and cold on Nick's penis, then pressing it against her puckered, dark asshole. Nick pushed in and she grunted. He had never had anal sex and didn't know what to expect, but the tight grip of her ring felt amazing. He grabbed one of her ass cheeks in each hand, pushing, pushing deep into her, feeling the bump of Fernando's cock as it moved.

The light dimmed in the camper and he jumped at the feel of hands on his arms, a woman on either side of him. They resembled Kat and Heather, he thought, but they also resembled the woman who he now thrust and jabbed into, unable to stop. They resembled Jumper, too, but there was a great deal not human about them, their pupils rectangular, their mouths too prognathous, their whispered words in female voices, but guttural, inhuman. Each bore the neck tattoo like the one on the woman. Each grabbed one of Nick's hands, guiding it into the hairy mound between their legs. He stopped, feeling something like a small penis on each of them, but as they held his hands, he recognized them as clitorises, very large ones. They cooed and groaned as he rubbed them. He felt the redheaded woman speaking to Fernando, felt the vibrations of her voice through her guts, through his cock. He heard Fernando, muttering, then soon crying out,

“Iä! Shub-Niggurath! La Negra Cabra de los Bosques con sus Diez Mil Vástagos!”

Nick felt dizzy.

“We take him tonight,” one of the creatures groaned in Nick's ear.

“We take that one tonight,” the other grunted, nuzzling his neck. Nick smelled an animal scent.

“We gift to our mother. A gift for a gift,” one said.

“Iä! Shub-Niggurath! La Negra Cabra de los Bosques con sus Diez Mil Vástagos!” Fernando screamed, his body twitching, spasming.

“Iä! Shub-Niggurath!” the two females spoke in unison, into Nick's ears.

“The Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young!” They chanted it again and again into his ears, their nails stroking his back as he fucked the woman's rectum harder and harder, hearing her cry out, until the words grew too large in his brain to contain them and he bellowed.

“Iä! Shub-Niggurath! The Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young!”

His vision fell apart like broken glass as he came, driving himself deep inside the woman. And then the camper was gone and they were all outside. The cold pressed into every pore of his body, and he found himself naked, his cock still deep inside the redhead's asshole, Fernando beneath her. Nick leaned forward over the woman, pressing against her for warmth. The night sky hung in a dark gray sheet overhead, bleeding sleet. He looked around for the trailer, for the car, for any kind of shelter. He saw nothing, only the bare trees and the rocky ground covered cold mud, covered by a thin layer of snow, covering by a thin but growing layer of ice. Nick's bare feet and knees burned with cold.

“We need to get warm,” Nick said, his jaw chattering. The redhead looked over her shoulder and smiled at him. “Fernando,” Nick said. “What happened?” Nick lifted his head at the sound of footfalls, turning to see the two females from the camper. Each grabbed one of Nick's elbows, pulling him backwards to his feet as the redhead pulled away from him. A third figure appeared, more feral looking, her matted hair frosted with ice, her bare breasts pendulous. Her black tongue licked pointed teeth as she smeared something thick and oily over Nick's skin. Nick recoiled at first, but as it warmed his skin he submitted, letting all three of the females rub the grease over his entire body.

“Him too,” Nick said, pointing to Fernando. Fernando crouched on the ground, naked like Nick, hugging himself, shivering.

“This keeps you safe,” one of the females whispered into Nick's ear.

“From cold? Yes. Do him, too. He's freezing.” Nick looked around and saw more shapes loping into site, from out of the woods. None seemed as human as the females with him.

“From the Young. It wouldn't know you, yet, not until it knows the child who will carry your blood,” one whispered.

“Just do something for him!” Nick yelled, pointing at Fernando. “He'll freeze to death.”

The redhead approached, unflinching in the sleet.

“Your seed takes,” she said her heavy accent making the words all but incoherent. She placed her hand on her belly. “His does not.”

“What are you saying?” Nick said, feeling himself starting to cry.

“She carries the egg of the goat,” one female said. “Seed now sown!” she cried out.

“Child our own!” voices shouted back.

“Help him,” Nick said.

One female raised her fists in front of his face, her index fingers pointing up. She pressed one finger to Nick's chest.

“One sire,” she said. She pointed with the other hand to Fernando. “One gift. The Black goat guides the seed, taking the right one. Always. One sire. One gift.”

A scream echoed through the woods. The females, the redhead, the other forms from the woods all grew silent.

“Iä!” he now heard the call from the distance.

“Iä! Shub-Niggurath! The Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young!” the assembly of forms about him now screamed back.

“The Young. It comes now,” the female with the tangled hair grinned at Nick.

Nick looked over at Fernando. Fernando shook violently, staring at him. His mouth worked silently like he was trying to ask a question. Panic jabbed into Nick's chest. He darted over to his friend, grabbing Fernando's cold arm.

“Fernando! We got to run! We got to get away from here!”

Fernando nodded, his eyes wide, and bolted, the crust of ice crunching beneath his feet. Nick ran behind him, falling, stones battering his shins, but he rose and ran, feeling his feet tear in the sticks and rocks. Fernando did not fall and ran ahead of him. Nick struggled to keep up, his limbs burning with the effort. Behind him, he heard the noise of something large running behind him, the sound of pounding footfalls and breaking wood. He saw Fernando disappear over a ridge and Nick forced himself to run faster. Nick topped the ridge, the river before him now. His feet slipped in the dead leaves under the snow and he felt himself sliding down the bank. Below him, Fernando stomped into the river, the thin ice at the edge crackling underfoot.

“Fernando, it's too thin!” Nick shouted. He saw his friend turn to look back. Fernando's mouth formed an O as he stood in the river, knee-deep in broken ice. A shrill scream tore out of Fernando as the man pointed at something behind and above Nick. Nick did not turn, but only stared as Fernando turned away, Fernando's legs breaking through ice. Fernando crouched down, and Nick suddenly realized his friend was trying to force himself into the water, under the ice. A shape passed over Nick's head, blotting out the moon and choking him with a stench. Nick closed his eyes and huddled in the leaves and snow, covering his ears, trying not to hear Fernando's screams and the smashing of ice.

#

Nick saw light, the morning sun washing over him as he smelled cigarette smoke. He looked up to see Jumper standing over him on the river bank. The man dropped a pile of clothing next to Nick. Nick pulled himself up out the frozen ground, pain shaking him as he dressed himself.

“We gotta go,” Jumper said.

“Where?” Nick said, staring at the jagged tear in the river ice below.

“North,” Jumper said.

“What's north?”

“We got a camper and a female for you to run on your own. Seed now sown, one of our own,” Jumper said, grinning. “You don't never remember until you see your neck do you?” He tapped the symbol tattooed on his own neck. “Better that way. Makes you more, like, convincing. Well, come on, I'm parked by the bridge.”

Picking Up David
By Konrad Hartmann

The man bucked and squirmed but Megan held on, locking her arm around his neck, the other hand forcing the rag into his face.

“Brandi! His legs!” Megan yelled, trying not to inhale the fumes. She saw her petite friend, Brandi, kicking at the back of his knees. The man's legs buckled, but he kept himself up against the side of the car. He was not much older than Megan, but more athletic. She knew the fumes had to be doing something or she would never have been able to get this far. Megan wanted to yell for help. The thought almost made her smile as it darted through her mind. Her arms burned and the man clutched a lock of her long, red hair, tearing it out. Megan groaned as she saw Brandi run away. I can't give up, Megan thought, not now. He saw my face. Saw Brandi's face. He even has some of my ripped out hair in his hand. Brandi, where the fuck are you going?

She felt her arms weaken while his seemed to grow stronger. He punched her in the thigh, pain surging through her leg. She gripped tighter around his neck, as much to keep from falling as to subdue him, leaning, hanging her weight on him. For once, Megan was glad to not be as thin and small as Brandi. She usually cursed her extra weight, but now it felt like an advantage, if a slight one. She wanted to yell for Brandi but the fumes made her queasy, as much as she tried avoiding them. Panic pumped through her heart as she wondered what to do. His one hand pummeled her thigh, heavy breasts, and stomach. It was too late to run. They were on the side of a back road. How long before a car drove by and saw them? He would go to the police, even if he didn't beat the shit out of her first. Worst of all, the Young would reject her, and she would never see them again. Never. The thought frustrated her, rage pumping her up, and she kneed at the man's groin, over and over. But still he stood.

Megan saw Brandi's face appear, grinning. Brandi swung something and finally the target buckled to the ground, the rag coming away from his face long enough for him to bellow out a moan. He landed with his leg twisted at a bad angle. Brandi stood over him, holding a heavy piece of tree branch in her hands, panting. She raised it up, and looked about to bring it down on his head.

“No!” Megan yelled, her voice hoarse as she climbed on top of the man, jamming the rag over his face. “Get his arms!”

Brandi ran around, slamming the branch down on his flailing arms.

“Hold them!” Megan yelled. “Hold his arms!”

Brandi grabbed his battered arms, one by one, sitting down on the ground and pressing one foot into each collarbone.

“Put the cuffs on him!” Megan said.

“They're in the car!” Brandi said.

“Oh, you are fucking kidding me,” Megan said, her sweat soaked hair sticking to her face.

“How long does that shit take?” Brandi gasping, struggling to hold his arms.

“I. Don't. Know. Brandi,” Megan said, grating her teeth. “Fuck it.” Megan moved up, putting her knee down against his throat. She pressed her weight down until his arms seemed to lose their strength. “Brandi. Get the cuffs. Now!” Brandi let go and scampered away. The man's arms flopped, listlessly banging into Megan. Brandi returned with the sets of plastic strap-cuffs. “Come on, flip him over.” The pair managed to get him on his stomach, tightening cuffs on wrists, then ankles. Brandi fetched tape and a ball from the mini-van, and soon they had him gagged. He groaned, semi-conscious as they dragged him across the gravel. Getting him into the van proved to be a struggle almost as bad as first subduing him, hefting and dragging his dead weight through the side door.

Megan slammed the door shut once he was in, and dove into the driver's seat. The adrenaline rush fading, Megan leaned over the steering wheel, pain flowing through her body. Tears filled her eyes.

“Where's his phone?” Megan asked, feeling her scalp where the hair was ripped out.

“Right here,” Brandi said.

“What kind? Oh. The battery doesn't come out of those. Put it back in his car. Wipe your prints.”

Brandi climbed out, holding the phone with her shirt and throwing it into the car before getting back in the van.

“What about his car?” Brandi asked as Megan stomped the gas pedal, the wheels throwing gravel behind them.

“I don't know. I don't know. Hopefully, they'll take care of it,” Megan said.

Sweat soaked her clothing. Her fingers clawed at the settings on the temperature controls, trying to clear the quickly fogging windshield.

“Yeah, but what if they don't?” Brandi asked, rubbing her short pixie haircut, her hair red like Megan's, but dyed.

“I don't fucking know, Brandi!”

“Sorry.”

“I don't know. It's just, we had to do it now. If we didn't do it now, when could we? Maybe never? And then they don't come back. Ever,” Megan said. “Cuff him again to the metal under the seats.”

“Okay,” Brandi said. “He's waking up. Sort of. Should we use the ether or whatever that stuff is?”

“If he gets rammy, yeah, but not if he's just awake. I thought that stuff worked faster than that. Ow. I got really beat up back there,” Megan said. It was dark, but she knew she would have heavy bruising all over her body.

“Are you alright?” Brandi asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so. I never got beat up that bad. I'm assuming this is normal. Ow. Fuck.”

They drove in silence for a bit. Megan glanced back and saw Brandi sitting on the floor next to the man, stroking his head.

“What if it doesn't happen tonight?” Brandi asked.

“What if we don't get pregnant?” Megan asked.

“Maybe, yeah. But what if they don't come at all? What if they're just not coming back? What do we do with him?” Brandi asked.

“Why wouldn't they show up? They left this van for us. Why would they want us to grab him, bring him to out to the spot, and then what? Let him go? Kill him?” Brandi's questions annoyed Megan, digging up her own fears. “Why would they want us to possibly get caught and maybe tell the police about them?”

“Well, what if we did get caught?” Brandi said. “What if we did tell the cops everything? I mean, they would just have proof that we kidnapped this guy. But other than that, we'd just look like two crazy people, you know what I mean?”

Megan cleared her throat.

“And we, first of all we won't get caught. Right?” Megan said. “But if we do get caught, Brandi, that's exactly our story. We're two crazy women who wanted to get pregnant.”

“But what if we don't get caught, but they don't come, either? What do we do with him?” Brandi asked.

“Brandi, I don't know. What do you think we should do with him then?” Megan asked, without emotion.

“I don't know,” Brandi said, her voice small.

“Listen,” Megan said. “I'm pretty sure they've done this before. Or I think we would've heard about people getting caught kidnapping people. It would be in the news, wouldn't it?”

“I guess,” Brandi said. “But we could've easily gotten caught back there, too. Like, we don't know what we're doing, Megan. We never kidnapped anyone before. No one ever trained us. We didn't even know how to use that ether or whatever it is. It would take just one car driving past us, or him seeing you coming a second earlier. Anything. If they did this a lot, this sloppy, don't you think they would get caught once in a while?”

“Well, yeah, but we do hear about failed kidnappings in the news. Maybe some of those are like us,” Megan said.

“But they always seem like, some guy trying to abduct a woman in order to rape her or something. Not women abducting guys. Have you ever heard of that? When was the last time?” Brandi said.

“Brandi, that's exactly my point,” Megan said, excited, feeling like she had an edge on Brandi's argument now. “We don't hear of anyone who might be like us. That's why I'm confident.”

Brandi replied with silence instead of acknowledging the point, annoying Megan.

“Ever been pregnant?” Brandi asked after a few minutes.

“No,” Megan said.

“I think I was, once,” Brandi said. “Maybe. What if we don't get pregnant this time?”

“I don't know, Brandi. What's going on with you? Why are you bringing up all this shit now? We talked all about this. A lot. You said you were ready every bit as much as I did. And, honestly, right now, I could use a little more stability from you. It's not the time, Brandi. It's not the time to say what if this or what if that. Please don't turn into a child on me. I need you to be a little more confident and stop second guessing every fucking thing--”

“Alright, fine, just, please slow down, Megan. I don't think we need to crash or get pulled over right now, either,” Brandi blurted out.

Megan glanced down at the speedometer, surprised at how fast she was driving. She eased off the pedal. She wondered if she should have come out alone that night, but realized that without Brandi's help back on the side of the road, she would have failed. They drove on, sulking.

“How much longer is it?” Brandi asked.

“I don't know. A while. Why?” Megan snapped.

“Just asking, Megan. Just asking. Hey, our boy's really making some noise like he wants to say something. Should I dose him?”

“Eh. Not if we don't have to. They said, has to be alive, and conscious is better. Besides, we don't really need to be smelling more of the fumes,” Megan said. She listened as he groaned and grunted, apparently trying to vocalize something. “You know what? Pull the tape off. Can you peel the tape off, but be ready to gag him again?”

“Yeah!” Brandi said.

“All right, yeah. Let's talk a little,” Megan said.

“Thank you!” the man croaked, his voice hoarse. “I don't understand. What's, what's going on? Why are you doing this?”

“Well,” Megan said. “We need you.”

“What? Why do you need me?” he asked.

“You're an offering,” Megan said. “To Shub-Niggurath.”

“To shrub what?! What do mean 'offering?!'” he said. “Is this like a cult or something?”

“Yeah, I guess you could call it that,” Brandi said.

“But 'cult' didn't used to be a bad word,” Megan said.

“Okay, okay, what do you mean 'offering?'” he said. “Whatever you have in mind, let's talk.”

“What we have in mind is to present you as a sacrifice, a sacrificial offering to Shub-Niggurath,” Megan said. It felt awkward to say it. It was the first time she had clearly verbalized it.

“And, and Shub-Noggurat, he's like your god or something?!” the man asked, hysteria stretching his voice.

“She,” Brandi said, still stroking his head. “She's a goddess.”

“So you're actually planning on killing me?!” he cried.

“Yes,” Brandi said.

“Well, not us,” Megan said. “The Young will do the actual working.”

“Okay, listen, listen, what the fuck is 'The Young?'” he asked.

“The Thousand Young,” Megan said, “of Shub-Niggurath, the Black Goat of the Woods.”

“Well, not all thousand,” Brandi said.

“No, not all of them,” Megan sighed. “Some of them.”

“Listen, listen, let's talk. My name's David. What's, what're your names?” David asked.

“Megan,” Megan said.

“I don't know if we should give our names,” Brandi said.

“First names are fine,” he said. “I don't need to know last names. Don't want to know. Make them up if you want. I just want to talk.”

“Megan Anderson and Brandi Stevens,” Megan said. “Brandi, he's not going to be able to tell anyone your name.”

“Okay, Megan, Brandi, listen. I don't know what these people, whoever you've been talking to, I don't know what they told you,” David said. “But think about what you're saying. You're talking about what? Murder, right? You're talking about actually killing someone. Me. Do you understand that?”

“Why, because meat is murder?” Megan laughed.

“Well, it's not about, maybe you don't care about me. I mean, why would you? You don't know me, right? Fine. But they can still, they will charge you with murder, even if you don't do it yourself. No statute of limitations. Think about that. Ever been to prison, Brandi?”

“A little,” Brandi said.

“Okay. Megan?” he asked.

“No,” Megan said.

“Well, look, you're about to do something you can't take back. Ever. And what for? What would you possibly gain from me dying as a sacrifice to Shrub-Whatever?” he asked.

Megan heard the crack of knuckles on flesh.

“Shub-Niggurath,” Brandi said, enunciating.

“Okay, okay. Shub-Niggurath,” David said, sounding out the name. “What would, what magical thing would happen if I became a human sacrifice to her?”

“Magical?” Megan asked. “Yeah, I guess it is magical, if you want to call it that. What will happen is, the Black Goat will receive you through one of the Young chosen for the task.”

“Who's the Black Goat?” David asked.

“Shub-Niggurath,” Brandi said. “One of the Young will host her. You will be consumed. And Megan and I will bear the seeds of the Young.”

“So, you're saying,” David said, “a black goat will possess some person, and that person will eat me? Is that like a Satan Wicca thing?
Cannibalism? You're talking about cannibalism?”

“Cannibalism is within the same species,” Brandi said.

“Yeah! Because you two are humans! Like me! Look, I don't know what these people put into your head, some kind of brainwashing, indoctrination, I don't know. Maybe we can work something out. What is it you want? You two are saying you want to get pregnant?”

“Yes,” Megan said, smiling, “yes, we do.”

“Well, I can't believe I'm saying this, but, I could do that,” David said.
Brandi laughed.

“You could get us pregnant?” Megan asked.

“Aw, you'd do that for us?” Brandi laughed.

“Seriously,” David said. “I know I have a good sperm count. I've gotten women pregnant before.”

“Oh, is that why they gave us your name?” Megan asked.

“I don't know why they gave you my name,” David said.

“Are you sure?” Megan asked. “Because someone gave us your name. Someone apparently felt some sort of way about you.”

“I have no fucking clue, I swear to God,” he said.

“Yeah? No idea? Because we're getting you because I gave them my mother's name,” Megan said. “Somewhere, someone is picking her up. I'll never know who, but, yeah.”

“You got your own mother sacrificed?” David asked. “Why?”

“You don't have enough time to hear the story, David,” Megan said. “But I know you did something, too. Because that's how it works. I'll probably never know the person who named you. Same for whoever's getting my mother.”

“I have no idea, Megan. I swear,” David said. “But listen. I heard what you said. What you guys were talking about, like what if you don't get pregnant, what if they don't show up? I can help you. Really.”

“So you could get us both pregnant?” Brandi said.

“Yes,” he answered.

“Right now?” Megan asked, chuckling.

“Yes. But you have to swear to let me go if I do,” he said.

“Fine,” Brandi said, shucking off her jacket.

“Whoa, I didn't agree to this,” Megan said.

“Up to you,” Brandi said. “I'm just casting my yes vote.”

Megan glanced back as she drove. Brandi peeled off her sweaty top, uncupping her bra from a pair of uptilted breasts. Megan heard her kick off her shoes, then saw her wiggle out of her jeans. Megan's own clothes felt cold now as the sweat cooled, but the sight of Brandi's body pulsed warm through her own body. Brandi was small and slight without being bony, moving like the flicker of a flame. Megan wanted to be back there, touching Brandi. The hunger dug into her, just like she knew it was hitting Brandi. Megan felt her vagina widen up, wanting either or both of the people. She saw Brandi's little white ass in the reflection of the panel lights, heard the sound of a buckle hitting the floor. Megan didn't know if Brandi was serious or not about letting him go, but it wasn't up to Brandi anyway and they both knew it. They would bring David, no matter what.

“I don't know, Megan. Look,” Brandi said, squatting back to let her see David's thick but flaccid cock. Brandi wiggled it. “Never happened before, right, David?”

“Never been kidnapped before, either, with a possibly broken leg,” he snapped. “Just, suck on it a little.”

Brandi grinned and bent down. Megan struggled to keep her attention on the road, glancing back and forth between mirror and road. She saw the tip of Brandi's tongue flicker along David's dick before audibly sucking it in, sinking in her cheeks. Megan saw Brandi's head gradually lifting as the organ in her mouth swelled.

“Good boy,” Brandi said, leaning back, shaking David's now-erect penis. She shoved David into position on his back on the floor of the van.

“This would be better if I could touch you,” he said. “Just one hand.”

“Heh, no,” Megan said from her seat.

“I don't need you to touch me,” Brandi said, straddling him awkwardly, her one leg under the seat. Megan saw her reaching between her legs, murmuring as she worked David's organ into herself. Megan felt herself sweating again, glancing back and forth to see Brandi lowering herself down, the petite woman grinding, grunting. Soon, Brandi was bucking up and down, flesh slapping as she settled into a fast, steady rhythm. Megan smelled Brandi's sweat and arousal mingling with her own. She knew Brandi was coming by the way her breath smelled, changing to an odor like blue. Megan heard her own pulse as she listened to Brandi whimper, the little ragged squeak of a cry that always gave away Brandi's orgasms. She thought about how much Brandi's cunt tightened when she came last time they played, clenching around Megan's fingers. “You like that, David?” Brandi said, slapping his chest, gasping for breath. “You like being tied up, getting fucked like that? Gonna come for me, honey? Can you do that?” She reached back, playing with his balls as she rode him.

“Oh, God, unh!” David grunted out, and Megan laughed, listening to his sputtering breath.

“You're up, lady,” Brandi said, climbing off David and picking up her panties. “Let me get dressed and I'll drive.”

Megan paused, trying to think. The promise was to let him go if he got them both pregnant, a feat which couldn't be proven that night. Still, it was a potentially binding oath if she went through with it, she thought. She tried to ignore the ache inside herself, tried to focus, but found herself pulling over as soon as Brandi dressed. She climbed out of the seat and into the back, her fingers stroking Brandi's arm as they exchanged places.
Megan peeled off her cold, wet clothes.

“You broke it,” she said as she knelt, touching David's now-soft prick.

“Gotta blow him up,” Brandi said.

Megan crouched down, sucking him into her mouth, tasting Brandi's juices on it. She sucked harder, more to taste Brandi than to get him hard, and in a few moments, the organ stiffened just enough to function. Megan climbed up onto him, relishing the tang of his fear-sweat in her nose. Her side hurt and she wondered if she had a cracked rib, but the pain seemed like something outside herself now. She jammed David's cock inside of herself, leaning forward and pushing one breast into his face.

“Suck,” she said, an electric shock threading through her body from her nipple as he nursed at it. Megan jammed her hand down between them, down to her swollen clitoris, making herself shiver as she touched it. “That's pretty impressive,” she said, her voice shaking. “To stay hard, even knowing what will happen to you tonight. The way the Young, when they're being ridden by Shub-Niggurath, I never saw it, but they say they can keep the victim alive, even as they core him out. They core him out--,” She trailed off, feeling the orgasm quickly threading itself through her body, pulling tight its strands. The small thought that she couldn't let David come voiced itself, but the onrushing wave crushed it. Blood rushed in her ears as she closed her eyes, weightless, she spun, feeling like the van rolled. She sucked air into her lungs, nerves exploding. When she could hear again, Brandi was talking.

“And they can still scream,” Megan heard Brandi saying, “even split open like that. It threads through the urethra, like a wire with thorns, and then it gets pulled out through the flesh, like sideways, kind of like one of those wires slicing cheese, and at the same time, the eggs get implanted inside the cored-out digestive track, through the expanded cavity. Anyway, that's the best I could describe what I learned.”

Megan felt David's flaccid prick sliding out of her. He was crying.

“Did he--?” Megan asked.

“Oh, fuck, no,” Brandi laughed.

“What happened, David?” Megan asked, climbing off of him. She felt hungry and angry, so she knelt on his injured leg.

“Ow, no, fuck, ow!” he screamed, so she kept kneeling, his squeals and shouts making her laugh.

“Megan!” Brandi cried.

Megan looked up at the red and blue lights, and fought the urge to vomit.

“No fucking way,” Megan groaned, scrambling to dress herself. She pulled on pants and jacket and shoes.

“Ha, you're fucking caught you stupid whores! You fucking cultists!” David cackled.

“The blanket!” Brandi said, pulling the van over.

Megan grabbed the blanket from the back of the van. She shoved the ball back into David's mouth, tearing off more duct tape and wrapping it sloppily around his head before throwing the blanket over him. He thrashed beneath it, making laughing sounds through his gag. Megan heard a snicking sound, and looked up to see Brandi's white knuckles gripping a now opened folding knife, holding it by her side as she stared hard at the driver's window.

“Brandi! Put it away!” Megan said.

“I can't. We can't get caught,” Brandi said, turning off the ignition.

“Brandi, no! He will shoot you! Don't fucking try it! Put it away!” Megan said. The spotlight from the police car lit up the van interior. A dozen plans pulsed through her head, none of them good. Try to use the ether on the cop. Use it on Brandi. Use it on David. Use it on herself. Run away. Act crazy. Drive away. Lay on the floor and hope not to get shot while Brandi tries to stab the cop out through the window. Take the knife and stab David. Take the knife and stab herself.

Instead she sat on the seat, stomping down on David through the blanket, harder and harder, trying to shut him up.

“Brandi, give me the fucking knife or I am running!” Megan hissed.

“So what the fuck do we do?” Brandi hissed back, closing the knife and tossing it back to Megan.

“Just calm the fuck down,” Megan said, voice shaking. “Just act normal. Say I'm sick.” Her foot found David's neck and she pressed down, hoping to try the choke-out technique without the chemical. “If he finds this piece of shit, we just say we need to talk to our lawyers and then we shut up.” Megan jumped as she heard the rapping on the passenger side window. The officer stood outside, shining his flashlight into Brandi's face. Brandi hit the button to roll down the window. Her face looked white and waxy in the light, expressionless.

“Good evening. License and registration?” he asked.

“Uh, do you have the registration?” Brandi asked Megan.

“No,” Megan said, her voice hoarse. “Not my van.” Beneath her feet, David squirmed, making her legs jump. He made moaning noises through his gag. She waited for the officer to react, feeling numb, frozen.

“License is fine,” he said. “You, too.” He flicked the flashlight beam onto Megan.

“Uh, my purse, Brandi?” Brandi handed the purse back and Megan pulled out her license, unable to think straight. She handed it to the officer. He examined both licenses. Megan felt her hand going towards the folding knife, not knowing what she would do but feeling compelled to do something, anything.

“What you got there?” the officer asked without looking up.

“What?” Megan asked, still reaching.

“Right there,” he said, finally looking up at her, shining the light on the writhing blanket.

“I need to, to speak to a lawyer,” Megan said, her voice tight.

“Come on, come on,” he laughed. “Pull it off. I have to check.”

Megan hesitated.

“Take your hand off whatever you're reaching for,” the officer said, his voice now loud and hard, “and pull off the blanket. And keys out of the ignition, Stevens. We don't have all night.” His hand seemed to reach back to rest on his gun.

Megan reached down and flipped the blanket back with one hand, flicking the knife open and holding it to David's throat.

“What exactly are you doing?” the officer asked, his voice more annoyed than alarmed.

“Let us go or I kill him,” Megan said.

“Why? We catch David Harris. And you're gonna kill him? Right now?” he asked.

“If you don't let us go,” Megan said quietly.

“Wait are you with...?” Brandi asked the officer.

“Yeah,” he laughed. “I'm with.”

“So,” Megan exhaled. “So you're not a real cop.”

“I didn't say that,” the officer said. “Just said I'm with. Either of you wounded?” He nodded towards David.

“Him?” Megan asked.

“No,” he sighed. “Only matters that he's alive. You two. Ladies. You get hurt taking him down? You can put the knife away. Don't let him get a hold of it. Did you?”

“I'm pretty bruised, but, I think I'm all right,” Megan said, feeling her heart still pounding.

“I'm fine,” Brandi said.

David's face and body slackened, his eyes slowly swiveling between the three people.

“Where's his gun?” the officer asked.

“We didn't see one,” Megan said. “Brandi?”

Brandi shook her head no.

“Unless it was in the car. We didn't stick around to check. What, is he a cop?” Brandi asked, her voice crisp.

“Not a cop,” the cop said. “Investigator, I think he likes to call himself. Put bullets in the last three people who tried to grab him. If this is your first grab, you have no idea how lucky you are.”

“Would've been nice to know,” Megan hissed.

“Eh, didn't help the last few people. And you're new faces so, they probably figured you had a shot. Shit, I would've bet against it, though, to be honest,” the officer said. “Anyway, time to move. You got him secure? Let me see. Yeah, that'll work. Follow me. We're close.”

“Wait, so he knows about us?” Brandi called out as the officer walked away.

“Oh, hell, yes,” he said. “He's been hunting us.”

#

Megan sucked cold December air into her lungs as she walked next to Brandi through the pines. She glanced back towards the road and saw the tail lights of the van disappearing, followed by the police car. She looked at the people walking with her, counting a dozen. Some of them looked as human as Brandi or herself. Others bore an almost simian shape, their eyes reflecting her stare in the moonlight, pupils rectangular. They carried David, strapped to a litter in their midst.

“It's for real,” Brandi whispered, smiling and gripping Megan's hand. Megan hugged her with one arm as they walked. Deep from the woods, a voice bellowed through the winter air, the words at first incoherent, but Megan and Brandi knew what to call back, their voices joining the throats of those around them in a single shouted response, leaping out of them like a reflex, like an orgasm burning blue under the blazing moon,

“Ia! Shub-Niggurath! The Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young!”