Sex and (Banana) Rockets

You ever get that feeling that you’re way over your head? You know what I mean? Like everything you are, everything you know, your life, is in someone else’s hands? It’s funny how being around insane people makes your life insane. When you think about it, you should be able to see that coming.

“So let me get this straight,” I said. “You’re THE Jack Parsons.”

“In the spectral flesh,” He said with a smile. “Mind if I smoke in here?”

“That’s not possible. You know it isn’t possible right? Spectral means you have no flesh.” I said.

“I was attempting to engage in witty banter.”

“That cigarette isn’t real either.” I said. “What the hell is going on here?”

“What’s going on here is atonement.” He said. “You must atone for your past in order to progress. Face the darkness and the unknown, only there can we find wisdom. This is called shadow work.”

This brought me back to Amsterdam when I was hanging out with Ben and Rob Rider Hill. Rob, looked at me at some point because of all the partying I was doing and said, “You’re like shadow work.” I should have been offended, but instead I felt bad. Then I thought, “I’m in Amsterdam, I was told only a week before that I was losing my sight, and only four people had shown up to our gig in holland and I had brought two of them. If I can’t chill now, when can I chill?”

So eat a dick Rob.

“A true initiate looks into the shadow world and faces the darkest aspects of their own humanity. Freedom is after all, a dangerous and terrifying intention. Shadow work provides this opportunity.” Jack said. He spoke with the tone of a professor who took the lecturing aspect of their job way too seriously. Whenever he spoke, I wanted to punch him. He seemed a lot like Ben.

“Why the fuck would I want to do that?” I said, “I’m fine with my humanity. I don’t need to do an ode to my regret to feel better about myself. Self introspection is an evolving part of a personal journey. It shouldn’t be forced on you by some spectral aberration.”

“Aberration? I’m real as real as you or anything else.” Jack said with anger. “And as for completing your shadow work, you choose to be a slave to your own devices. Slavery is not made possible by the slave owners, it’s made possible by the people who allow themselves to be enslaved.”

“Nice try, Parsons, but I’ve been gaslit by the best and you don’t measure up. And stop doing that! Stop teaching me! Why do magicians always try to teach you things? I don’t even know what I’m doing here, Parsons. Talon tricked me!” I said.

Right there, the attic door creeped just open enough for Talon to reveal his middle finger rising from the gleaming light below. “Fuck you dude.” He said as his finger disappeared back into the light, the attic door slammed shut.

“Look, if you’re going to try to use this as an opportunity to impart some ‘knowledge” upon me. This isn’t a good time. I will slap you with my dick. Also, I would never take advice from someone who had a threesome with two gingers. And someone who, allegedly, had a threesome with threesome with their mom and a dog as well.

Jack’s confident grin disappeared. “How did you know about that?” He said.

“Someone found the film in your magick box after you, the great explosive genius, blew yourself up because you were mixing combustible chemicals with the same care that a person has scrambling eggs.”

“Everyone makes mistakes, Jose.”

“Yeah, but I can’t get over some of yours. Sorry to bring this up again Jack, but why did you have a threesome with two gingers? How was that a good idea? I can’t even call it a threesome since it’s two dudes and one girl. Yeesh! What do you call having a threesome with your mom and a dog?”

“A beast-some.”

“See Jack. That isn’t funny. Why do all magicians think they’re funny? Not even every comedian is funny. Just focus on the questions I’m asking you. Why would anyone make their mom fuck a dog and record it? That something I feel that you should have to explain.”

“It’s deconditioning.”

“That’s it? The fact that you’re willing to do it is what is special about that? That is a really fucked up answer.”

“You could never understand.”

“No. I do understand. You want to be the person who is beyond sexual hangups. The person who brings their entire family to a swinger party. Everything is cool unless someone is physically hurt. But what about the psychological damage that you do to people? I could only imagine the amount of PTSD that you either caused or took advantage of with your mother.”

“A person like yourself could never know what it feels like to be free! My mother loved me!”

“Yeah. She clearly did!”

Jack stomped his feet. The candles shook.

“Enough of your narcissistic, bloviating pageantry. I will not stand here and allow you to ignore all of my accomplishments due to your conditioned, feeble mind not being able to recognize the honor you’ve been bestowed upon by being in my presence.”

“Will you stop trying to teach me. I’m here! What do you want? Please, just say something that I can understand. Talk to me like a person. Stop trying to NLP me. It’s so obvious, it’s sad. Yes, you use transparent and not very interesting techniques. It must be killing you that you can’t do anything to me from that triangle, isn’t it?”

Jack, raised his open right hand to the sky and screamed out, “Io Pan!” And just like that, a hairless chihuahua appeared cradled in his fingers. “Either you come over here into the triangle, or I fuck the dog, which is it going to be?”

“What’s wrong with you? What is it with you and dogs? No. You can’t fuck that animal you disgusting overrated junkie degenerate!”

“I will if you don’t come into the triangle.” Jack said. “Stay in the circle, I stuff this dog with some man meat. Come into the triangle, you’ll find yourself in hell. Make your choice Jose Atiles!”

I didn’t have much time to think, so I did what I could from the safety of the circle. I remembered I ate asparagus earlier in the day, so I pulled out my goo bazooka and aimed it at Jack. “You touch that dog, I rain down on your head.”

“You pee on my floor, and I’ll kick your ass.” I heard Talon say from below. So I put away my custard cannon and did the only thing I could do. I took a deep breath and jumped into the triangle.

I managed to wrestle the chihuahua away from Jack immediately, it tried to scramble out of the triangle but dissipated in a puff of smoke before it could get its paws on the ground. I then started started punching that self indulgent, arrogant prick in the face until I dropped him.

“Yes!” He said “Do it! Punish me!”

We were immediately transported from Talon’s attic to another place. We were now under a grey sky. Clouds formed to infinity in each direction. In the distance there was a castle with seven gates.

“Where is this place?” I said.

“It’s hell,” Jack said. “How does it make you feel, Jose? Tell me.” But something didn’t seem right about Jack. Being this close to Jack and wanting to hit him this much, didn’t seem right. Even for me. Sure, Snowfricans are annoying creatures, but why did I want to punch this one so much? He was much more annoying then your typical Snowfricans. Also, Jack didn’t know NLP. Not like in textbooks. Why was he NLP’ing me this hard? That’s when I realized it.

“You’re not really Jack, are you?” I said as I stood over him and pulled out my banana rocket.

“What are you doing?” He said. I then proceeded to pee on his face with a strong rope like stream that splashed violently over his checks. “Stop it!” He pleaded, but I had a ton of water before I’d left the house, and I was going to leave as much as I could on this demon’s face until he was ready to talk.

“Reveal yourself to me, demon,” I said. His face was now soaked with my piss. He started to convulse.

“Hey! Stop! I’ll talk! I’ll talk! Please! Stop pissing on me!” He said. I paused my stream for a moment.

“I know it’s you, Ben,” I said. “No one else I know can be this annoying.”

“You’re right and wrong again little acolyte,” He said. Jack suddenly became Ben. There was still a lot of piss dripping from his face. He put on a pair of glasses and a fedora. “It isn’t Ben. It’s me. Simon Solomon Faust.”

I just stood over him with my man-cream hose still dangling from my hand. I was in no mood for this so I zapped his face with a couple of more streams of piss.

“Benjamin, can we have a real conversation, please?” I said.

“Sure. Would that make you feel better? From a scale of 1-10, how much better would that make you feel?”

I was so angry that I didn’t notice that hell had disappeared and me and Ben were now in what appeared to be some kind of pawn shop. “At least we aren’t in hell,” I said.

“Are you sure about that? Tell me Jose, how does that make you feel?” Ben raised his eyebrow like Dwayne Johnson, looking intently into my eyes.

“Ben, I feel…”

“Better?” Ben said. He was still looking into my eyes.

“Stop finishing my sentences! That wasn’t what I was going to say!” I said.

“But it was what you wanted to say?” Ben said.

That was it. I put away my steamy goo-shooter and started wailing on his piss riddled face. This didn’t stop him from talking the whole time.

“Give me some feedback,” Ben said. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“You talk a lot of shit.” I said. “Autistic differences?” I continued to wail on him. “We stopped working together because of “autistic differences”? You’re telling people that? I gotta say, if you were that funny on stage we would still be doing shows together.”

“You annoyed me,” He said.

“Yeah, it was annoying helping you get to Europe and then helping supplement your lifestyle while you were there. I’m sorry, were you talking about the show? I’m sorry we couldn’t snap our fingers and have a full audience at every live appearance. Perhaps if we’d taken a couple of years to build an audience that might have happened. Also, a simple podcast might have helped build that audience instead of the self indulgent audio sigil NLP-fest you decided was the way to go. But hey, you want to control the file we record, when to upload it, and talk 80% of the time on the pod and in live shows, you might want to find better reasons why things aren’t going your way than “autistic differences” and I “annoyed you”. I have way more important things to worry about than indulging your messiah complex, as entertaining as that can be sometimes. On top of all that, we didn’t stop the apocalypse like we planned. We might have made it worst.”

“You still don’t know how to apologize,” He said.

“Fine! So be it!” I said as I stood up to try and piss on him again. That’s when I heard the unmistakable sound of a shotgun pumping a shell into its chamber.

”Halt! I say!” the voice was one I could recognize anywhere. It belonged to one Poke Runyon. ”If anyone is to urinate on Snowfricans in this abode, it will be I, or Mr. B, not you!”

Poke was decked out in redneck chic gear, with torn jeans and lumberjack shirt to go along with his ”make America great again” hat that he probably wore every day, even when he was sleeping.

”Poke, this isn’t any your business!” I said.

”Thank you my fellow mage, ” Ben said. ”My name is Simon…”

”Silence. Stay right where you are.” Poke said. He kept the gun resting on the counter, but still pointing at us as he pulled out his iphone and made a call.

”Yeah. It’s Poke. The spider just caught two bugs in its web. When do you get here? Ok. I’ll be waiting.”

Poke hung up the phone and put it back in his pocket.

”Stand up boys, ” he said. ”We are heading out back.”

Next: The Conclusion of our story with TWO surprise guest stars. Stay tuned for, ”Poke Fiction”


The Return of the 33rd Parallel

I promised myself that I would never do anything like this again, but there I was, standing in front of a ladder to a dark attic with my friend, Talon, who just so happened to be yet another occultist in my life. This was his place. I really have to stop hanging out with these assholes.

“Are you sure there’s a demon up there?” I said. Talon, creaked a little grin out of the corner of his mouth. It was the grin of alleged hidden knowledge.

“Yes,” Talon said. “All you have to do is go up there and make a deal with it.”

I looked at Talon as if he had just started speaking fluent Sumerian.

“Why would I do something stupid like that?” I said.

Talon, just smiled. “We didn’t get all dressed up for nothing. You call a demon. You make a deal with it. That’s the rule of this house.”

“First of all. I don’t believe in demons. That’s just some shit magicians say to impress other people. I’m tired of the occult, and I’m tired of occultist. Come on dude! I just wanted to drink tonight!” I said.

Talon’s grin morphed into a full blown smile. “You fucking asshole,” he said with visible disgust. “You don’t come to my house, make me put on my good robes, draw a circle complete with sigils with a triangle in front of it, take all the precautions, recite ancient incantations, and trap some demons inside said triangle and then tell me you’re not doing anything. What the hell am I supposed to do with those demons upstairs?”

“Did you miss the part where I said I didn’t ask you to do any of that?” I said. “And demons? As in plural? How the fuck did we go from one to many?”

“The lord works in mysterious ways,” Talon said. “And so do I. Now get up there before I kick your ass.”

“You first,” I said.

He led me up a ladder into the attic. It was dark except for the candles set in the four corners of the room. I saw the circle, complete with sigils, and the triangle. It felt creepy as fuck.

“Where are the demons?” I said.

“Oh, they’re here,” Talon said as he walked to the middle of the circle. “Stand over here next to me.”

I walked over to him. We were both standing in the middle of the circle.

“Have fun newbie,” Talon said. I felt a gush of wind on my face as he did a cartwheel past me, unleashed a backflip into the air, then cannonballed down the attic entrance, giving me the finger as he disappeared into the light below. The attic ladder slid back up and the door to the attic slammed shut. I heard a click-clack as the attic lock latched into place.

”Oh come on!” I said as I ran toward the attic door. I started pounding on it. ”Open the door man!”

“No,” Talon said. “Confront your demons pussy. I’m going down to my room to pray. You interrupt me and I’ll kick your ass.”

Now there I was in the middle of the circle, the only light sources coming from the candles in the four corners of the room. I felt a jolt up my spine. A small blue flame appeared inside the triangle.

“Oh no!” I said.

“Oh yes!” I heard a voice say behind me. I turned around but there was nothing there.

“Over here” the voice said. “in the triangle.”

“Why did I hear you behind me?” I said.

“I threw my voice. Not bad, eh?” It said. I recognized the voice but didn’t want to say its name.

“You could say my name.” It said. Since it was a figment of my imagination, it could read my mind.

“If I say it, will you go away?” I said.

“Bargaining with a demon?” It said. “Should you be doing that?”

“You’re not a demon.” I said. “You’re an idiot.”

“My young acolyte, you have much to learn!” The blue flame exploded into a smothering dark cloud that quickly dissipated into the air to reveal the one and only, Poke Runyon, in all his fatness.

Look, it's Col. Sanders! I'm sorry that's Poke Runyon!

“You shouldn’t say fat my young disciple, “ Poke said. “Young people these days don’t appreciate those types of labels.”

“Lick my balls, Runyon. And stop reading my mind!”

“Yes. Much better. Blue humor is still an appreciated communicative technique.”

“Can we get this over with, please?” I said. “Are you the ‘demon’ I’m supposed to be talking to?”

“Demons, there you go with the labels again. I know nothing of said demons, and find such talk an impediment to progressing your initiation into the ancient practice of Magick.” Poke said.

“Excuse me?” I said. “You just literally referred to yourself as a demon 5 seconds ago. And initiation into what exactly?”

“Your road into being a true initiate.” Poke said. He smiled. His bloated alcoholic cheeks had a red glow that reminded you of your drunk uncle on the holidays, gasping for air as he fought someone to get his car keys so he could drive home.

“Ok. I see where this is going,” I said. “Poke, I appreciate an unwanted mentor as much

As the next guy, but I politely decline your offer.”

“Then it’s settled!” He said. “Your training begins immediately. The first stage is you must answer for your past transgressions. This can take years, luckily we can begin with your recent ones! Be strong my padawon. Your trial will be difficult, but the journey shall teach you much about yourself.”

“Do all magicians talk like you?” I said. “Or just the fake ones? Talk to me like a real person and stop referring to me as your student, padawon, acolyte, god dammit!”

“Ha ha,” Poke said with bellowing jubilee. “You done did it now, bitch! Happy trails!”

Poke disappeared in a puff of green bile and smoke, leaving me once again in the dim, sputtering lights of the four candles.

There I was, standing in complete darkness for what seemed like forever. I was also confused that Poke told me as little as he did. Here he was with the opportunity to explain something, an endeavour he lives for, and he shut up way earlier than he usually did. Was he really in on the plan,? Or was there something even scarier than him up ahead? He seemed to insinuate as much.

Then it happened. The room began to shake. A cloud of smoke built up around me and started to swirl like a whirlwind, spinning and spinning until it became a small tornado that burst into a flaming figure that extinguished with a loud firecracker pop into a man in a suit. This man was tall, fitting well into his clothes, his hair looked wild, but that was deliberate as it was styled to seem that way. That wild look in his eye was natural though, and the gleaming smile that appeared from behind his manicured moustache formed into an expanding black hole as he looked up toward the ceiling and screamed at the top of his lungs.

“Io motherfucking Pan!”

It was none other than the one and only Anti-Christ himself.

“Nice to meet you,” He said. “My name is Jack. Jack Parsons.” Jack dusted some blast residue from his suit. Small puffs of smoke formed where he swiped. “We’ve got some things to talk about.”

Next: A conversation with the one and only, John Marvel Whiteside “Jack” Parsons.

Part IV – Io Pan

Pan motherfuckers!

The London sky was gray as fuck. An ugly, unforgiving, elderly form of gray that was the pre-cum of death. You get it, English weather is nasty. Me and Ben were standing in line to get into the British Museum. This was our 2nd attempt, and with the help of a friend who volunteered to watch our bags and guard our weed as we stood in line, we were actually going to get in there, and finally, get our Enochian on.

“Oh, before I forget. That’ll be ten pounds,” I said to Ben.

“What?” Ben said. “Isn’t the British Museum free?”

“Is it?” I said. “That’s news to me. I ordered the tickets online. But you don’t have to pay me.”

“No, here you go.” He said handing me the ten pounds.

I took the money and put it in my pocket. Ben, was right. The museum was free. Was I proud of what I did? You’re damn right I was. Stealing money from Ben was nothing compared to what this snowfrican had put me through the last three days. But the real problem I had was with the day before.

24 hours earlier.

Just another shitty day in England. Sky above the city the color of an old analog TV that’s lost its signal and has tuned itself to infinite snow. The clouds curdled in folds like a demon’s asshole that had not been wiped for a thousand years or so.

Me and Ben were on our way to the heart of London to rendezvous at a very special place that we were determined to check off our list. The Atlantic Bookstore.

“Rob said he’d meet us at the venue.” Ben said with a smirk. “Paper Dress Vintage. You got that?”

“What?” I said. One of the great things about smoking an insane amount of weed is that it is easy to tune Ben out. In fact, its recommendable to tune Ben out as much as you can. You’re actually better off not speaking to Ben at all.

“Yeah. I heard you.” I said. I didn’t.

Atlantic Bookstore was the first occult bookstore that I had ever been in. And by occult I mean books with lots of creepy symbols that like 5-6 people in the world understand.

“Where is Rob now?” I said.

“He’s working.” Ben said. “We going in or what?”

The Atlantic bookstore hit you with the smell of an old school library and an old folks home. It looked like two 80’s movies fucked and had a baby, a cross between The Breakfast Club and The Lost Boys. I had already skipped the books I didn’t understand and moved on to the pretty statues. I knew the one I wanted. Truth be said, it was love at first sight.

Ben immediately went to work with the proprietor of the Atlantic Bookstore, Geraldine, using his charm to win her over.

“I don’t like you,” she said with all the viciousness of a British woman who had seen Ben coming from a mile away. “You’re sneaky little tactics won’t get you anywhere.”

One of the running gags me and Ben had was which one of us was the bigger asshole, as if this wasn’t clear. Even with moments like this.

“And what’s that?” Geraldine said pointing at the device with the blue glove Ben was carrying.

“That’s a recorder,” Ben said.

“You really should get someone’s permission before you record them now, shouldn’t you?” Geraldine said. “I could have given you great stories about Crowley, but you ruined that. I’m not telling you anything. You’re nothing more than a rude, arrogant, entitled, slimy, imbecile.”

“I’m sorry ma’am, you forgot narcissist with a messiah complex. But don’t give him too many insults because he kind of likes it.” I said. “Let me apologize on behalf of my friend. You see, he just doesn’t know any better. Inside, I promise he’s a good guy.”

“I doubt that, but thank you.” Geraldine said. “And I’m sorry, did you say this man was your “friend”? I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask both of you to leave.”

“I see.” I said. “How much is this Pan statue?”

“And I’ll take these books.” Ben said.

Back at Rob’s place, with Geraldine and the Atlantic Bookstore well behind us, I placed the statue of Pan on the kitchen table. It’s flaccid goo bazooka dropping between its hairy legs like a a garden hose. He was definitely a shower.

At the Atlantic Bookstore I had to choose between Pan and a statue of Baphomet. But I went with this one.

“Why?” Ben asked through our psychic connection.

“I prefer the original to the remix.” I said.

Night time, walking over a bridge on our way to the show. We could somehow see the moon through the heaps of gray smog. Peeking through the gray clouds and shinning down on us with a pale, cold shine. The sky always looked like it was going to rain, because it was.

“Okay, once we go to the museum, we will be in the presence of John Dee’s fabled artifacts. Some of the very artifacts he used to communicate with the Enochian angels through Edward Kelly.” Ben said. “Not that you would know anything about the Angels of the watchtower Jose. Just know that they’re old, possibly alien, and you shouldn’t fuck with them because I had a bad experience.”

Ben, was excited as we were about to have our show. When Ben gets excited, he starts talking about the future.

“Let’s make a promise,” Ben said. “If we are in the presence of those artifacts and we feel nothing. We quit the occult.”

“Doesn’t that seem a little extreme?” I said.

“Yup,” Ben said as he lit his joint. “Io Pan.” Ben handed me the joint. I grabbed it and took a puff.

“Io Pan.” I said.

Rob Rider Hill was dressed in a dark slim fitting suit with a perfectly placed aluminum hat.

“Are you boys ready for the show?” Rob said as he greeted us.

“As ready as we are going to be.” Ben said. “Happy birthday Rob.”

“Io Pan,” Rob said.

We were introduced to a crowd full of friends for the first time. And truth be told, I don’t remember as much of it as I wanted to due to the amount of THC in my bloodstream. Except for the people who couldn’t be there because they were an ocean or so away. But I do remember a little bit about what happened after the show.

“Attention to detail,” I thought as I checked out Jo Sim’s hat. It was an aluminum covered hat with various touches that gave it personality. The words “Alluminati” were scribbled perfectly across it in black marker.

“Did you make that?” I said.

“Of course,” She said. She had another talent too.

I sparked up the joint and handed it to Lori after a couple of puffs, it passed to Ben, then Rob, then Tuan, all my digital friends past, present, and future. But Jo Sims didn’t partake, and neither did Molly really.

“This is Alan,” Molly said as she held up the picture on her phone. “He comes over from time to time. He likes the dog.”

This is as close as I have ever been to Alan. Quite close, but not close enough to say hello.

“Did you come here on your broom?” I said to Lori.

“No,” Lori said. “I told you I wouldn’t.”

“Okay, I’ve always wanted to ask you this to your face,” I said. “Do you really like Ben’s writing?”

“I’d think some of it is exquisite”” she said. Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but I take what I can get when I speak to magicians.

“Where did you get that?” Someone asked me about the statue of Pan I was carrying around that I hadn’t even realized I was carrying. I don’t remember how I responded.

“Good night, huh?” Ben said. He handed me a drink this time. He was with the rest of the magicians.

We toasted.

Back at the museum.

We had advanced past the checkpoint, about to go inside. John Dee’s personal items were now just minutes away. We both had made the promise that if we were in the presence of these magical artifacts, and felt nothing, that we would quit the occult forever.

We had found his display case after speaking to a couple of security guards, to our surprise, spoke enough English to properly communicate information to American tourist. The previous guards had given us directions to the bathroom and to the janitorial closet. Which wasn’t cool.

“There it is,” Ben said as we approached the case. “That’s the case. Inside are the artifacts of John Dee: father of the apocalypse. Do you realize what this means?”

“No.” I said. “What does this mean?”

Ben thought about it for a long moment.

“I don’t know.” Ben said. “I was hoping you’d tell me. I’m way too high.”

We left the museum with little enthusiasm, just a magician and a dreamer lost in their minds.

For the first time since we had been in London, the sun was shinning through the clouds. So much so that I felt the need to cover my eyes.

I took in what Ben told me the whole walk out. “Shit.” I said as we exited the outside gates. “Does this mean we have to quit magick now?”

Part III: – Enochian Curious

There’s nothing like a cold, hard night on the streets of England to restore your ghetto. And if we are talking ghetto, perhaps no one knows that better than Rob Rider Hill.

“We gotta go to the Duke’s Head tonight.” Ben said as he prepared our stash. “Rob, is expecting us.”

“That’s fine.” I said. “But every time we meet up with another male Snowfrican, you guys tend to gang up against me. You also become an unbearable, condescending, patronizing asshole. Ever more so than usual.”

“I’m sorry it seems that way to you,” he said as he wrapped Rob’s souvenir. A statue of a Japanese demon.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about…” I said. But Ben had already done the thing and moved on to a different topic.

“We have to go to the British Library today. We should be able to get our hands on some book’s by John Dee. Oh yeah. John Dee!” Ben’s voice cackled with excitement.

“Yeah! Let’s get our Enochian on!” I said.

Ben’s eyebrows furrowed as he gave me the side eye. As usual, he was all in.

“Jose, I’m a bastion of good, informed decisions. I don’t fuck with Enochian.” Ben said. “And neither should you. We are going to use the knowledge in Dee’s work in our quest to stop the apocalypse.”

“Fine. Whatever. You got the joints?” I said

Ben, laid out seven joints on the table. Each packed with enough green to tranquilize an elephant. Then he hid them away in the inside breast pocket of his winter jacket.

“Let’s go.” Ben said.

After a brief stop at a Turkish restaurant where Ben ate half my falafel without my consent (the Italian dish he ordered, surprisingly, didn’t turn out well) we headed to the British Library. To our delight, the exhibition “Harry Potter, A history of Magick.” Was there waiting for us. And if you knew me and Ben, you know we are all about some Harry Potter.

“God, I hate Harry Potter,” I said. “I don’t care how nice J.K Rowling is.”

“Stop projecting your professional jealousy and let’s go inside.” Ben said.

Once inside the library, you could feel years and years of knowledge come down on you like an invisible hand. Just a couple of more steps, and we would have been bathing in the sweet aura of occult information that we’ve traveled through the frozen tundra of Snowfrica for. This moment, promised to be the accumulated effort of what was a years worth of blood, sweat, and marijuana. Then something happened.

“Holy shit.” Ben said. “They’re patting people down at security.”

“So what?” I said.

“I have seven joints in my jacket.” Ben said. We turned and left out the same we came. The security guards. Two brothers that had already made eye contact with me, also exchanged the patented upward nods that brown people exchange with each other. And so ended our quest to get into the British library. Sure, we could have easily come back on another day without so much weed, but if you knew us, you knew that wasn’t going to happen. We would move on to easier targets.

“Let’s go find Rob,” Ben said.

The Duke’s Head was a bar that lived up to its name. It had a unique charm about it. With its light green walls, wooden stools and tables, pretty candles, strategically placed crotch level fire extinguisher, and less than reasonable prices, it looked like a traditional British Pub, shit out another less traditional British Pub, which shit out a third, even less traditional British Pub.

“Which pile is Duke’s Head?” I heard a voice say from behind us. This was Rob Rider Hill. I didn’t expect him to be psychic, I also didn’t expect him to be this skinny in person.

If you haven’t seen Rob Rider Hill, he’s a strikingly handsome fellow who could probably dive through the center of a honey nut cheerio without breaking it. He’s also intense as fuck.

“Well, you gonna answer my question or not?” Rob said. “I don’t like repeating myself.”

“The third pile,” I said.

“Yeah.” Rob said. “That’s what we were going for.”

“Rob!” Ben said. “So nice to meet you!” To say Ben was enthusiastic about meeting Rob doesn’t exactly tell the entire story. Seeing Ben and Rob together was like seeing two long lost twin brothers finding each other after several years of separation. Did I feel like a 3rd wheel? Dude, for this bromance, I wasn’t even in the same vehicle. These two Snowfricans were made for each other.

It took all of three minutes for them to start talking about the occult. We already had a table full of drinks. Another thing about Rob is that he is pretty much good at everything. Cooking, music, tarot, rolling joints, esoteric shit, but his most endearing quality is the one thing I respect above all other qualities, telling the truth.

“You know Jose, you’re short, bald, and kind of funny looking, but you’ve got a lot of confidence.” Rob said.

“Enough about him,” Ben said. “I got you a little something.”

Ben handed Rob the demon. After a couple of more drinks we stepped outside for our hourly joint which had suddenly become our European tradition. In this state, we could start talking about some real shit.

“You boys ready for the show tomorrow?” Rob said.

“Hell yeah we are.” I said. Ben was not so sure.

“Well, you better be. The venue will be accessible around 7pm. So don’t be late.” Rob said. “We got magicians coming in from everywhere including Lori and Jo Sims. If I were you two, I’d start rehearsing now.”

“Rehearsal?” Ben said as we both looked at each other. “Yeah. We’d better get on that.”

Just one more day to the show, and we weren’t even close to the illuminati…. yet.

Next: the 33rd Parallel live show: Io Pan!

Journey To West Snowfrica AKA England

After the debacle in Russia, we were relieved to be in England. Words I never thought I’d say before.

We went to England for two reasons, the 1st was to complete the first leg of our European tour. We had people in England and we did not want to disappoint, although that was inevitable, but doing a show, in front of people who actually understood what you were saying, was always a dream of Ben’s. But me? I could seriously take it or leave it.

The 2nd reason we had ventured into Western Snowfrica, the actual real reason, was to do something that we had our eyes on since we started 33rd parallel, to join the illuminati.

The plan was simple, we would go to the Bank of England, located in the city of London, but actually located in its own territory like the Vatican. (That’s right, the actual Bank of England is literally like its own fucking city) and we would apply for jobs.

We were willing to start at the bottom. The mailroom was fine, but if we had to take jobs as janitors, so be it. Once we were gainfully employed, We would use our charm and wit to climb the corporate ladder until we found a place at the table with Lord Rothschild.

Ben was all in.

“This is a terrible plan,” Ben said as he rolled another joint. “Jose, I don’t think you realize what a stupid plan this is.”

“Ben, we have to try something.” I said. “What’s the worst that could happen? They hire us and we stay?”

“That’s the worst that could happen?” Ben said. “It’s private property.”

“I think it’s brilliant.” Tuan said. Tuan had agreed to give us safe haven for the first couple of days on his couch. He also supplied quite a bit of the sacred herb that would prove to be both our savior and undoing, “That shit sounds funny.”

“Thank you, Tuan,” I said. “I was kind of hoping you’d be willing to film it. You know, chronicle our journey into prominence.”

Tuan, is a director with a great eye. I trust him because he’s smart, talented, and practical. And like anyone who embodies these qualities, he looked me in the eye and gave me an immediate response.

“Do you happen to have a camera that can film from long distances? Like let’s say, from 3-4 kilometers away?”

“I was actually hoping we coul…” Before I could even finish my sentence, Tuan waved his finger with all the authority of a director.

“Do you have the fucking camera or not.” He said. Reiterating his position.

“Then no fucking way,” Tuan said. “I like watching people do stupid shit, but I haven’t survived all these years by participating in insane acts. Besides, why are you so dead set on joining the illuminati anyway?”

A moment of silence passed over the room, as if an angel passed. Ben, who was always ready to talk 80% of the time, answered the question that we had never really asked ourselves. Clearly joining the illuminati wasn’t about money? Anyone who knows us knows that Ben and I clearly hate money (Ben especially) which is why we tend to be in the financial positions we normally find ourselves in. But now, confronted with this moment of truth, we had no choice but to say out loud what had been boiling beneath the surface.

Ben smiled, but his eyes were intense as he looked Tuan in the face and gave him the answer that no one in that room wanted to hear or was prepared for.

“We are here to stop the apocalypse.” The words filled the room. They seemed to be crisp and clean, but at the same time venerated with a low vibration. As if they had their own consciousness.

Tuan’s face changed from serious, to an expression of extreme befuddlement, then he did what any other sane, rational human being would do after hearing such a thing, from such people.

He asked again.

“Excuse me?” Tuan said. “I think you didn’t hear my question so I’m going to ask again. Why is it you’re so intent on joining the illuminati?”

Ben nodded and repeated his answer with the same irrational confidence that he says everything.

“We want to stop the apocalypse.” Ben said.

Tuan’s look of sheer befuddlement morphed into something unexpected, anger.

“Get out of my house,” Tuan said. “Get out of here right now.”

“What the hell?” Why do you want to throw us out?” I said. Ben, had already began to put on his jacket.

“You two bumbling idiots are going to stop the apocalypse? How are you going to do that? With your dedicated work ethic? What are you doing to do? Smoke the illuminati into submission?” He said. He began to giggle as he could barely finish his sentences. “Get out of my house! And how dare you? I mean, how fucking dare you? I want you and this fucking Snowfrican out of my house. I don’t want to look at you.”

Ben had already begun to walk out of the house.

“Are you still coming to the show?” I said.

“Do I have to film anything? Tuan said.

“No,” I said shaking my head.

“Then I’ll see you there.” He said.

I grabbed my shit and put on my scarf. As I walked out the door I stoped for a moment and looked back at Tuan.

“Can I take some weed?” I said.

“Sure,” Tuan said.

I met Ben outside. He already had a joint in his mouth. And it was fucking cold.

“What do we do now?” I said.

“The only thing we can do,” Ben said as he lit the joint. “We summon a magician for help.”

“Who?” I said.

Ben began to chant as the smoke from his joint began to swirl until it became a shape. The shape suddenly began to take form of a face. I could tell by his slim face and symmetric eyes that this was quite a pretty Snowfrican.

“Jose, I would like to introduce you to Rob Rider Hill. Our savior.” Ben said.

I looked up at the image of the pretty, yet clearly, malnourished Snowfrican.

“Oh shit,” I said out loud. “Wtf have I gotten myself into?”

Next. Part three, continuation of the England chronicles and the introduction of Rob Rider Hill.

If you want to listen to what happened on this day, you can check us out on iTunes


Journey To Russia: The Dawn Of Snowfrica.

What Russia looks like to Americans

The 1st 33rd parallel tour kicked off with the boys meeting in Shinjuku, Tokyo way before we had to.

“You got everything, man?” I asked with extreme skepticism. Benjamin, not only had all his shit, but apparently all of someone else’s as well.

“What do you have in that bag?” The bag was just a little bigger than Ben. Visually bigger than both my bags put together. I suspect he used a Goetian demon to grant him the strength to carry it.

“Just my clothes, a camera, mayonnaise, suntan lotion, saltine crackers, blah, blah, blah,” Benjamin said. He could have just said a lot of shit, but I did make the mistake of asking the question in the first place. “I’m going to carry it on to the plane.”

Sure you will, I thought. I’m younger than Ben, but have been on considerably more flights in my life, and never, I mean never, has any airline allowed me, or anyone, to carry a bag this size onto the plane. Even when the aircraft was practically empty. Of course they wouldn’t let this generic soda water bring his behemoth of a bag on board a full passenger plane during the holidays? But more on this later.

We got on the Narita express and headed over to the airport. We had a special flight with a special airline, Aeroflot.

Aeroflot, is a Russian airline that is the official airline of Manchester United. A relationship that works great for Aeroflot, and works well for Manchester United. The airline makes its bones by channeling international flights through Moscow. Which is about as comfortable as it sounds. But we will get to that later as well.

The fun started at the airport check-in, where our tickets, purchased through me, were issued to us, with my name, by the Aeroflot staff.

“Are you checking in that bag?” The lady asked Benjamin as he let the oversized Sasquatch of a bag tumble down to the floor with a thunderous boom that echoed through the airport terminal. Somewhere a school of pigeons eating bread disperse into different directions into the sky.

“Yes. It’s my bag.” Ben said with all the shame most Caucasians do everything when it comes to rules. You see, rules for Caucasian people are nothing more than arbitrary guidelines. And no one knows this better than Ben. “I’d like to carry this bag onto the flight.”

I smiled. And to my surprise, so did airport staff.

“Place the bag on the scale please.” The check in staff attendant said as she typed away at her keyboard.

Ben, flexed his muscles as he just barely got his bag onto the scale. Which tapered all the way down as the numbers shot up like a rocket revealing the weight of his bag. The actual number? Doesn’t matter. Let’s just say it was a lot bigger than mine. Like twice the weight of both my bags combined. And guess what?

“Thank you Mr. Beardsley. Have a nice flight.” The check in staff attendant said.

Ben, picked his bag off the scale and dragged it away from the desk.

Now the check in staff turned her attention to me. I had two bags with a combined weight of less than half of Ben’s one bag. In fact, one of my bags tipped the scales at 2 kilos. Yet, this lady looked me in the eye when I told her that I wanted to take these bags with me onto the plane and said.

“You’re going to have to check in one of your bags.” The check in staff said.

“Excuse me?” I asked in disbelief.

“You can only bring one bag onto the plane. So you have to check one of your bags.”

“But both of my bags combines amount to less than half of his and you let him carry his bag on.”

“I’m sorry sir, thank you for your cooperation.” She said as she pried the bag out of my hand, marked it, and placed it on the conveyor belt.

Walking away, dejected, Ben tapped me on the shoulder. “Lets go get some English Pound.”

We would be in England soon, after a brief layover in Russia.

I spent the plane ride to Russia watching the first half of the latest season of game of thrones. I tried to watch American Gods, but there was a problem, it sucked.

“This is really bad,” Ben said. He went on to watch most of season one as this is what you do when you don’t like a TV show.

Then suddenly, it happened. The world outside the plane became dark and a sudden change in the environment of the cabin could only be explained in one word, ominous. And another word; freezing.

“That’s weird,” Ben said as his breath became a smoky vapor as soon as he left his mouth.

I turned to the man sitting across the aisle from me. He was already dressed in his full winter set-up. Down jacket, scarf, gloves, broadsword, and crossbow.

He looked into my eyes and said with a bellowing voice. “Winter is coming.” Vapor coming out of his mouth as well.

That’s when we heard the announcement.

We will soon be landing in Moscow. Please fasten your seatbelt and prepare for landing. The current time in Moscow is 4pm. The current temperature is, who gives a fuck? It’s always cold.

I looked over at Ben and he was already dressed for the upcoming battle. Except, instead of a broadsword, Ben, had a magic wand.

“Where the fuck you had that?” I said.

“My carry on.” Ben said.

We were transferred from the plane, to a bus. The bus driver was standing outside of the bus wearing only a thing hooded jumper and his jeans. He watched in disgust as the passengers recoiled and withered in the Russian cold. Being sure to taunt each passenger as they entered the bus. We later learned that this time was the darkest time in Russia in quite some time. Which made total sense now that I think about it.

On the bus, we tumbled together toward Sheremetayo Airport.

“Where is the airport?” I said.

Ben, who had already drawn a circle of protection around us, pointed to a gigantic mountain in the distance with his magic wand.

“That’s it over there.” He said pointing at the mound of snow.

“There?!? That’s a fucking mountain, isn’t it?” I said.

“In Russia. All buildings are covered in snow.” Ben said. “This is Snowfrica!”

“Snowfrica?” I said. What the fuck is Snowfrica?”

“Russia is white Africa, remember? You figured it out. I don’t know how. Being all inferior intellectually and all.” Ben said. “But the people here call it Snowfrica.”

Snowfrica.” I said. “That makes so much sense.”

“Yes.” Ben said. “I’m a Snowfrican.”

I don’t know how, but it somehow became darker outside.

Next Week: Journey to West Snowfrica AKA England

Richard Bandler is the Devil.

Richard Bandler is the Devil.

We can all picture Richard Bandler riding a giant vampire bat that grabs young children and tosses them into the burning stomach of an enormous man-bull statue as a line of Rothschild’s wait for their turn.  

But I’m not here to talk about what Richard Bandler does in his free time. I won’t even speculate on his favorite drink (infant blood), or his 2nd favorite drink (unicorn cum). I just want to talk about the night Richard Bandler got away with murder.

How evil is Richard Bandler? He shot his friend’s girlfriend in the face, with his gun, at her home, then convinced a jury that he didn’t do it. Now how does a gun, and its owner, get to the house of the victim in the first place? You get the picture, stay away from the guy.

Yet, here I was, on Bandler’s couch, taking a private NLP session to get over my food addiction.

“How often do you touch yourself?” Bandler asked. “No need to feel ashamed. We’re all friends.”

“What does that have to do with my food addiction?” I said.

“I’ll answer that.” Bandler said. “But first, I want you to look into my eyes. Imagine your hand is some pepper, and your dick is a baked potato. Lather that pepper over the potato. Let’s see how it taste.” 

“What the hell?”

There was an awkward pause before I decided to take off the VR visor. Benjamin, had received the PlayStation VR setup to try the new NLP game “The Map is the Territory.” He didn’t tell me that Bandler was the games final boss. He did however tell me that there would be boobies, there were no boobies.

“Nice, Jose.” Benjamin said. 

“Hell no! I ain’t doing that again.” I said.  

“You only have to do it one more time. You can’t just quit treatment before its over. There could be major repercussions.”

Oh yeah. Like what?” 

“NLP is an egragore, Bandler is its patron. Disconnecting from your virtual therapy can damage your subconscious.” Ben said. “It has imprinted you. Or it hasn’t…. So you just can’t get up and quit. That’s some bad juju.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Ben looked into his exotic quartz crystal ball. That was my cue to scoot.

The whole train ride home I could hear Ben’s words but it was hard to take the man seriously. Imprinted? What kind of horseshit was that? 

It’s easy to be scared of Bandler, who took the teachings of Milton Ericsson and used them to help usher in the era of consumerism that works as the engine of the world economy. The parasitic ecosystem that drifts towa the top 1%. No, Bandler didn’t invent consumerism anymore than Apple invented the smartphone, but like Steve Jobs, he put it into a package that everyone could understand, NLP.

Since then, the world has been a worst place. Not exactly because people use NLP, but because of what people have used NLP for. Like in advertising, where companies use NLP to bombard the subconscious with images of garbage no one needs and turning us all into zombies. Or how about the PUA’s? Do you think the world needs a bunch of geeks “peacocking” outside of cafes, night clubs, and pool halls? Can’t they just masturbate like the rest if us? What about Tony Franken’Robbins? Do we need another Arnold Swarzenegger running for office? How does any of that make the world better?

PIck-up artist culture. Brought to you by NLP.

After about a gallon of vodka, and a g of grade A kush, I decided to charge a sigil before going to sleep. As I collapsed my head onto my pillow, my eyes started to close. I saw the face of Bandler staring at me from the foot of my bed as the conscious world began to disappear. He was smiling. 

“Do you believe in Word Magick,” Bandler said as the world faded to black.

I heard a metallic clink, the air felt thick, then suddenly, a rush of hot steam shot onto my face. Forcing my eyes open. I looked around, I wasn’t in my room anymore. This was some shit out of a horror novel, or an 80’s movie, it was some kind of factory or basement, complete with mesh walkways and leaky steam pipes. I was standing in the corner of the giant room. There seemed to be a couple of levels above and below me. But my view was obstructed by steam. 

“I must be dreaming,” I said. 

I tried to pinch myself to wake up but it wasn’t happening. I screamed, I yelled, I even peed into the steam below, nothing. I was stuck in this dream. And worst, now I was sure that I was sleeping in my own piss.

I realized that it was more than a dream as a hot redhead emerged from the cloud of steam from across the mesh walkway and started walking towards me. She moved with feline precision, floating on a cloud of air. The whole time, peeling off her clothes until she was standing in front of me completely naked. 

I didn’t waste any time as we went to the floor and started to get busy. I was about to get mine when I felt her pull away.
“You’re going to feel great,” Bandler said. I opened my eyes, the redhead’s face was replaced with Bandler’s. I tried to move but the thing had wrapped its legs around me. I could only manage to pull my head away..

“Sometimes people say ‘One day you’re going to look back at this and laugh.'” Bandler said. “My question is: ‘why wait?'”

He grabbed me by my ears and moved forward to kiss me. Just before he got close, his head exploded. Green bile splattering everywhere, including on my face. I looked up confused. Standing above me was my “savior”, with a shotgun pointing down towards the spot where Bandler’s head had been. My savior was also wearing a ski mask, which he took off to reveal a face I knew all too well, Ben Beardsley.

Ben put on his fedora then pumped a shell back into the chamber of his shotgun. “Get up.” He said.”We’re getting out of this places.”