Category: Magicians

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!

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The Death of Andrew Breitbart.

The Death of Andrew Breitbart.

The murder of Andrew Brightbart, is one of the juiciest, and perhaps most believed conspiracies among conspiracy theorist. After all, Andrew Breitbart, did not shy away from controversial statements. Like going public in a video with allegations that John Pedosta had something to hide. And shortly before his death, there was this tweet.

Who the fuck is that guy on the bottom right of this photo?

Now you can choose to believe that the Clintons ran cocaine out of Arkansas while Bill held political office, or that politicians deal directly with Satan and channel demonic entities at Bohemian Grove with all their illuminati buddies (probably all true). Or even that the Clintons, Obama and Podesta had Andrew Breitbart killed for his repeatedly toxic rhetoric towards them. But if you considered all this more than the possibility that Andrew Breitbart was killed by his own propensity for cheeseburgers, then I suspect that you are either (A) an Alt-Right troll, B) a complete idiot, or C) correct.

But if you insist on going the conspiracy route, might I offer you another more viable line of bullshit? Let’s ignore for a moment that Andrew Breitbart had let himself go and drank (and snorted?) his middle aged vessel into the bloated toad that we saw at the end (Not to mention that he died outside a bar in the wee hours of the morning after drinking)and just go all in on the idea that he was ……..murdered. 

I for one love a True Crime story, and one of my favorite games is irresponsible  speculation. And trust me, I can dedicate hours upon hours of confirmation bias to this pastime

First of all, what was Andrew Breitbart? A writer, a publisher, an entrepreneur? True, he was all these things according to his wiki. Yet, when I think of Andrew Breitbart, I don’t think of his articles, his books, or his business ventures. I don’t even think about his conservative/libertarian/unsympathetic views on race or culture. I think of all the times that Andrew Breibart opened his mouth and pissed people off. Because if Andrew Breitbart was good at anything, It was making people angry.

Andrew, lived for the thrill of being the center of attention, like when he went on shows like Opie and Anthony just to show pictures of Anthony Wiener (which he kept on his phone) jacking his meat stick. Or the time he declared in front of a roaring crowd of like minded, “culturally similar” people that he was going to expose Barack Obama with college videos from almost 25 years before his presidency. Videos that never saw the light of day despite all the channels of distribution at his disposal, like the aforementioned shock jock show circuit, Fox News, and of course his own news outlet named after himself, Breitbart.

Now surely, given his obnoxious nature, the possibility of being suicided must have crossed Andrew’s mind at some point. But whether he believed that it was possible, or he didn’t, you could rest assured that nothing was going to stop Andrew Breitbart from saying what he was going to say and doing what he was going to do. You see, Andrew, was by all accounts either a courageous trailblazing truth speaker, or a petty, outright bully. 

So yeah, it’s possible that someone killed Andrew Breitbart because of something he said or did. But in my opinion, that’s way too easy to believe given that slandering and trolling was all he ever did. As annoying as he was, why would someone kill him for it?  

Then something occurred to me the other night while watching “The Big Lebowski” for the 100th time. 

“It’s like Lenin said, you look for the person who will benefit… And, uh… You know, you’ll, uh… You know what I mean.” The Dude.

The actual quote from Lenin goes:


“When it is not immediately apparent which political or social groups, forces or alignments advocate certain proposals, measures, etc., one should always ask: “Who stands to gain?”

So in this case, “Who stands to gain?”

What does let’s say, Barack Obama, stand to gain by assassinating Andrew Breitbart? Shutting him up? Does anyone think that there was a chance that a Breitbart follower would vote for Barack Obama under any circumstances? And vice versa, does anyone believe that a base Barack Obama voter would have been swayed by anything that Andrew Breitbart had to say?

Killing Breibart over being Breibart is like hunting sharks for biting people. It doesn’t make sense. If you decide to kill someone like Breitbart, you do it because he has something. And the most valuable thing he had at the time was the Breibart brand. Now try for a moment to understand how powerful that brand is, Breitbart, was patient zero of that of the skinny jeans wearing, tiki torch baring, neo-nazi group in Charlottesville

He was what they will turn into in twenty years. They will look and talk like him. They will quote him, turn to his philosophies, photocopy his ideology into their DNA. They will canonize and follow his name into the next Charlottesville or Trump Administration. Leading that group of dedicated racist, that group of “disagree with me and we are at war” victimized morons, is worth billions in power and influence. And there is only one person who wanted that more than anyone else, Steven K Bannon.

Bannon, has been called by many people the most evil man in existence. Bannon, is not called evil for his conservative beliefs (although he could be). He’s also not evil for his support of Trump (although a case could be made). Bannon is evil for the simple reason that the motherfucker is the pure embodiment of anti-good incarnate. A true detriment to humanity. A man who is actively trying to bring about the motherfucking apocalypse .

If anyone had a motive to see Breibart dead, it was Bannon, just consider how much he benefited from it.

  • He “inherited” Breitbart News. 
  • He retained the dedicated attention of the neo-nazi, skinny jean wearing, army of tiki torchers.
  • The exclusive financial backing of Billionaire Robert Mercer, a richer, smarter, more evil version of Lex Luther.
  • On top of all that, he became the right hand of Donald Trump with a made up position, just for him. Can’t you picture Andrew Breitbart speaking at the republican convention? Giving interviews, defending the Charlottesville protest and demonizing counter protestors for opposing Neo-Nazis? I can. 

It was after taking all these facts into consideration that we here at 33HQ decided to undertake a ritual to discover the truth.

We knew we had to speak directly to the devil.

It was storming outside that night. The thunder erupted across the sky in a rolling crash as the rain began to pour down. Ben was waiting for me at the crossroads, slouching against the downpour in his trench coat and fedora.

“You got the book?” I ask.

“Sure,” Ben says, holding up the embossed, leather-bound volume that flickers as a bolt of lightening cracks open the sky. “You got the chicken?”

I lift that fat cock up to Ben’s eyes, “This is Andrew.” I say over the roar of the rain. “Andrew Breitbart.”

To be continued…

How To Scry: The Definitive Poke Runyon Interview

How To Scry: The Definitive Poke Runyon Interview

If you don’t know Poke Runyon, then he is no doubt more disappointed by that fact than any of you are. Poke Runyon is not a conspiracy theorist. Let’s make that clear. Poke is what you would call a magician of the ceremonial kind. He’s very similar to the ones you read about in medieval times. Men of sorcery and alchemy who scried into a black mirror or ventured across the land in search of sacred knowledge muggles like us never knew existed.

To put it it bluntly, Poke Runyon is a fabled mystical figure of his own creation. Just check out his Metapedia page, no doubt written by Poke himself. In it, Poke takes credit for black mirror scrying by rewording it into something different. But really, it’s just black mirror scrying. He didn’t make it up.
Reading his page and actually getting through it, was much easier than I thought it would be. That’s because as far as charlatans go, Poke is very good at talking about himself and making that information seem interesting. However, it gets convoluted very quickly. Somehow I know that a lot is missing. I feel like there is more to it. Something, just isn’t there. If I had two words to describe that something, I would call it the truth. 

And here is where I encounter the limits of the Internet. Poke’s accomplishments are too fragmented across its treacherous landscape to extrapolate a reliable narrative. It became clear to me that in order to find out the truth about Poke, I would have to get it straight from the mage’s mouth. I would have to speak to Poke himself.

Speaking to Poke Runyon would be no easy undertaking. He’s a pseudo celebrity after all, and there is also some electronic proof of me slandering him out there. It also doesn’t help that I have the face of a slanderer. Still, with all this against me, I continued to take up this task, if for anything else, for the possibility meeting a great master magician. 
I turned to the Internet again for clues of how to find him. Word is that Poke runs the Temple of Astarte, the OTA, out of a secluded lodge in California. Now I would go there, but that would be the easy thing to do. Also, I don’t have the money. But almost any other interviewer can buy a plane ticket. No. This deserved a more nuanced approach, a more, dare I say it, magical approach. 
As I stared into the empty black mirror of my iPhone, it came to me, I would scry Poke Runyon, from my iPhone. With the help of a friend, of course.

“Nooooooo, noooooo, noooooo!” Benjamin said as he levitated above the tatami mats of his flat. “No fucking way.” 

“But we call up demons all the time,” I said. “You love that shit!”

“No.” Ben said. “I am not scrying into a mirror for Poke Runyon. That’s where I draw the line.”

Ten minutes later, Ben had already prepared the basics for the ritual, we just needed one more thing….

“The black mirror.” Ben said.

“I got it.” I said placing my iPhone down on the table.

Ben turned off the lights to the room and got a couple of candles going. He then sat down in front of my phone and began to call upon Poke. It only took four minutes, but the fires from the candles got brighter, and the room was then filled with the faint aroma of bullshit. 

“He’s here.” Ben said.

The following is a conversation between myself and Poke Runyon scried on the black mirror on my iPhone. It’s as real as any conversation Poke has ever had with a black mirror.

Thanks for coming Poke.

You’re most welcome. And thank you! I always welcome the opportunity to speak to a fan.

Well, I’m not a fan, I’m just interviewing you. Or scrying you, or whatever.

Oh? Are you a journalist?

No. I’m not a journalist. 

Then you must be a fan! 
Okay. Never mind, listen, Poke, may I ask you a couple of questions while you’re here?
Well, that depends… Have you taken all the precautionary measures for this ritual? 
Yes. I think so.

And are you of sound mind? Have you partaken in any types of hallucinatory substances?

What? 

Have you …. You know? (The spectral vision of Poke in the mirror makes a smoking gesture) 

Okay! Nevermind. I’ll stick with irresponsible speculation.

No. No. No. Proceed with the interview.

No. Seriously, I don’t have time for this shit. I only wanted to ask you a couple of questions. And you got all weird and shit. 

No. It is rude to call on a spirit without consorting with it. Please, proceed with your questions
(I look at Ben, who is already uploading some photos of the ritual on to the CMG. Ben types “Have you ever scried? What for, and how do?” )

Poke is right. It is rude to call upon a spirit without properly consorting with it, Ben said.

Ha! The rabbi is accurate. Ask your questions my young acolyte. 

Thank you. Okay Poke, I only have three.

The only more perfect number would be 93.

Please stop doing that.

Doing what? 

Responding to everything I say with a dramatic connection,

Do you not want me to answer your questions? 

I’d like you to let me ask them first. We’ve been here for already five minutes and you haven’t even let me speak.

Proceed.

Did you in fact sell trinkets to rich people while living in the sewer?

That wasn’t me, that’s from the movie “Simon, King of the Witches” which is in no way based on my life.

That’s right, so did you do it or not? 

Young man, did you not hear my words? “Simon, King of the Witches” is in no way based on my life. 

I’ll take that as a yes. My second question. You’re credited with “rediscovering” the ancient method of black mirror scrying. First of all, how does one “rediscover” something that has already been discovered and in still in practice? And secondly, how does a person see something in a mirror without the use of drugs or any other kind of mind altering substances?

Rediscover.” Such a fascinating notion, I guess I did rediscover this method and reintroduce it to the masses…

No. Poke, that’s not what I asked. I asked….

As for your second question, the answer is just as simple…

Alcohol? 

Yes.

Ok then. My last question, and then you can go…. Please. When you died and came back, you allegedly returned with ancient sacred knowledge, what specifically was that ancient sacred knowledge?

The ancient sacred knowledge? Oh my. How do I begin…

You can by opening your mouth and telling me.

The secret ancient knowledge. Why, it’s simple, you only have to…. Oh, I’m very sorry my young acolyte, but I must make flight, for my journey through the ether must continue. Please feel free to call upon me another time. 

Poke, that’s not how it works, you can’t leave until we close the circle and allow you to go. I know this from watching your DVD “The Magick Of Solomon.”

It is good to see that the younger generation has taken it upon themselves to preserve the ancient secret knowledge.

Stop referring to me as a fan, acolyte, and young. I’m forty. Dude, Poke, just please answer my question.

And what, exactly, is your question?

Grrrrr! What is the ancient secret knowledge? 

That I cannot tell you, unfortunately. You must discover it for yourself.

Okay. We stay here until you tell me.

(Five hours of awkward silence pass. Ben had already completely lost interest and moved on to answering his Facebook messages, which at that point had to be in the hundreds of lost souls such as myself seeking his guidance. Poke’s eye had begun to twitch slightly.)

Ready to talk, Poke? 

I’m sorry, but I can’t share the sacred ancient knowledge with you.

(Another five hours pass. During which Ben went down to the Lighthouse for a couple of drinks. I looked into Poke’s sleepy, pug eyes. He had the resolve, but so did I.)

Poke?

Yes.

You don’t have the secret ancient knowledge do you? 

(Poke intently contemplated my question for an entire one quarter of a second before giving the answer that I should have known all along.)

No.

Okay. 
So I closed the circle and joined Ben at the Lighthouse. The moral of the story being that perhaps Poke has something of value to share with the rest of society other than his outsized messiah complex. But, if so, he doesn’t know it yet, and even if he did, I doubt he would tell any of us.

“You’ve learned a very valuable lesson today,” Ben said with a smile as he finished his Vodka Cranberry.

“Which is?”
“Never trust a magician.”

No shit.