To quote the famous last words of General Custer, I’ve made a huge mistake.
Did you know that two Cheyenne women, upon recognizing Custer’s body on the battlefield at Little Bighorn, punctured his eardrums with huge sewing needles so his corpse could “hear better in the afterlife” because he had broken his promise to Chief Stone Forehead to never fight the Native Americans again? You know this story? It’s hitting home with me right now because I’ve been thinking about it, and you know who 100% guaranteed never heard this story? Custer. And there’s a huge lesson there, I’m pretty sure. I just can’t figure out what it is yet.
I’m writing to you today from the Czech Republic, that storied and highly leveraged chunk of Eastern Bloc real estate formerly known as Bohemia, where the dumplings are hot, the exchange rate is confusing and every other person is basically Russian. I’m here because I’m trying to escape: Responsibility, taxes, life in general—sure. But mostly I’m trying to escape the Satanists.
It’s like this, Alberto: I got hammered drunk in a strange city called Hradec Králové and accidentally sort of converted to Satanism. Actually, I’m not sure if converted is the right word because I had no religion to speak of before this happened. It’s not like I had to formally recant the Baltimore Catechism or denounce my Mormon elders or find a rabbi to reattach my foreskin or anything like that. In fact, I didn’t have to do much of anything.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking of the standard shit, am I right? But there were no hooded robes, no pentagrams, no altars, and—sadly—no naked virgins involved in this process. I didn’t even have to say anything. No Latin, nothing. They did cut me, though. But I was drunk and I wasn’t looking and before I knew it the whole thing was over. The coven master or grand wizard or whatever sliced my palm with a straight razor. I barely felt it because, like I said, I’d had a few. But there was a fair amount of blood, and I was numb enough that I could look at it objectively—without focusing or fixating on the pain, you know? Then he sliced his own palm and grabbed my hand in his and that was that. I’d made a blood pact. I was one of them. This was all unspoken, of course. These dudes barely spoke English. But it turns out the main guy’s name is Josef. I think he singled me out because of my Bathory t-shirt, but I can’t be sure.
Here’s where it gets weird. I wake up the next day in a shitty fifth floor walkup in some tenement building on the outskirts of town. After checking to make sure I hadn’t been raped (I hadn’t), I find Josef sitting in the kitchen. He’s still drinking, and clearly hasn’t been to bed. I thank him for his hospitality and tell him, you know, I’ve gotta split—I’ve got a thing or whatever. Suddenly his English is fucking perfect, right? He tells me I can’t leave. I’m one of Lucifer’s children now, and they’ve got a full schedule of doing Lucifer’s bidding today: Drinking, he says, listening to Venom on repeat, and then maybe we’ll knock over a liquor store and find some prostitutes who’ll take it in the cake. Girls, boys, whatever—doesn’t matter when you’re a Satanist—as long as it’s in the cake. Apparently Satanism is nothing if not an equal-opportunity faith. When I try to argue, he basically tells me that this is a blood in, blood out kind of deal. Like the Mexican Mafia or something. But it’s my call, he says.
So my question is: Can I get a few extra days on that cover story?
This bullshit originally appeared in the January 2013 issue of DECIBEL magazine.