3:00 A.M.

A man sat alone under the stars. The last of the midsummer’s heat had finally dissipated.

A fired burned in front of an ancient stone table, a stone table that was old when Gilgamesh sought his glory. The table was piled with an object, the nature of which would break a mother’s heart and bring hard men to tears.

But there were none there in this lonesome place to see. Just the man and the object.

The man, unkempt and unshaven, poured a measure of warm water over a spoon into a glass of clear green liquor. His face was intent as the solution transmuted into a milky substance. Satisfied, he gulped it down in one shot before he stripped down, bathed in nothing but firelight and the night air.

His watery blue eyes betrayed no emotion as he cut into his chest with a flint knife.

Letting the blood flow, he chanted, “Htoratsa em raeh! Nepo etag eht! Htrof emoc! Htrof emoc! Mitciv gnuoy siht fo ydob eht htiw gnola. Eeht otnu reffo i eseht. Dees ym fo dees. Hself ym fo hself. Doolb ym fo Doolb.”

Owen Benjamin prepared to complete the final part of the ritual.

Standing, he fondled his member until erect.

From a purple velvet-lined case, Owen took a battered foot-long black dildo, a dildo made special by the fact that it had been used by a thousand pornographic actresses.

Owen tilted his head back, gazing long and hard at the star Urgulû and shouting “Awilum iddak!” before jamming the dildo down his throat.

His jaw popped from the force.

His stomach lurched as he pushed past the epiglottis; vomit surged against the synthetic rubber head of the dildo.

Owen stroked his cock harder and harder until it became marble-taut in his hand.

Owen’s face became blotched with deep purple and crimson, puffed out around his bulging eyes.

His vision speckled with stars, Owen released the dildo and squeezed his member with both hands, harder and harder. He reached climax, spurting white ropes of seed onto the table and its object.

The last thing Owen saw before hypoxia took him to the land of the shades was a glimmering white line of metal.

A sword edge.

Midnight

Nick did a fifth jump-check after getting out of the car. Nothing rattled. Satisfied, he looked up and down the dirt road while taking a deep breath of night air.

Ooooh fresh, oh baby, here we a-go! he thought.

His tabi boots press off the springy loam, propelling him deep into the forest. His load of shuriken, ninjato, grappling hook, and rope pull in a swaying rhythm, counter-balancing his silent footfalls through the dark woods.

Nick J. Fuentes was on his way to get vengeance.

The insults to his family burned in his mind, spurring him into as fast of a pace as silence would allow.

Every vaguely humanoid shape in the nighted wood had a face: the face of Owen Benjamin.

***

90 minutes later, Nick crouched on the bank of a creek across from Benjamin’s compound. He checked the area, then double-checked: wall, gate, guard shack.

Gliding into the fast-moving creek, he contorted himself into a torpedo shape, darting with the current among the boulders and reeds. Finding a suitable point of egress in a stand of bulrushes, Nick inched out of the water. He eased up the bank, slithering between the rushes.

The frogs ceased croaking. Nick fell still, taking in the sounds of the night, waiting for the barking of watch dogs, the clomp of the guards.

Nothing.

Ten minutes later, he slid along the ground, left arm working in concert with the right leg, then vice versa.

Not even the crickets noticed him.

Once he was within five yards of the guard shack, he duck-walked up to the window, peering in.

His breath stopped and his eyes narrowed, despite his surprise.

Inside, the two guards were buck naked, uniforms and duty belts piled on the desk, watching Gayniggers from Outer Space playing on one of the monitors.

Wow! That’s some degenerate shit! Guess I’m in the clear.

Skirting along the edge of the wall, he made his way alongside the compound. Faint sounds of a party in the main house reached Nick’s ears.

Soon, he found a suitable spot and cast his grapple. Scaling the wall carefully, Nick picked his way over the glass shards.

He observed the lay of the land on the other side.

Whew boy, pretty big. Being a never-was piece of shit seems to pay real well.

Nick dropped to the earth and rolled into a fast crawl towards the main house.

***

He was almost seen sneaking through the garden. In the middle of the gravel path was Ben Shapiro fucking a goat while Kassy Dillon spanked his ass with a crucifix.

Nick pulled a bo-shuriken and backed off, going around the outer hedges.

I’ll get that bitch later. Figures she got her way sucking the big Jew’s little dick.

Kassy heard a crunch of gravel. “What was that?”

Ben growled at her, “Hey shiksa, don’t stop unless I tell you to or you won’t get that spot in that PragerU advertisement.”

***

Nick approached the main house. Inside, the lights were up and the music was loud. From the shadows, he checked the interior through the floor to ceiling glass walls.

The house was full of naked people.

Having sex.

It took all the discipline of his ninjitsu training to not vomit when he saw Brittany Venti getting fucked on a pile of money by a dog while a bunch of Boomers with phlebitis clapped and sang kumbaya.

Poor dog!

Nick continued his search.

Owen wasn’t anywhere on the first level.

Nick scaled a column to the upper levels. He checked all the windows. Everything in the upper stories was dimly lit.

Strange, enigmatic forms melded and flitted about the shadows.

Hanging from the rafters outside an open window looking into a library, Nick sees two men in a perverse congress: Mark Levin standing while Sean Hannity knelt before him, gobbling Levin’s cock.

“Can you feel it in the air, Sean? The expectation for when our boy Owen opens the gate tonight down by the river. When Astaroth and his minions arrive, we can begin the Iranian campaign.”

“Yes, daddy Mark, it makes me a horny good boy.”

“As I was saying, when we attack Iran, your retarded evangelical viewers will be chomping at the bit to send their sons. Funny, really: all those stupid white boys signed up to fight while Afro-Jody is at home getting busy with the white gals. They’ll join up to ‘own the libs,’ HA! Does that get your pale potato dick hard, Seany boy? Does it?”

Hannity mumbles something.

“Huh? You fucking Irish simp, don’t talk with your mouth full!”

Nick turned away and, scanning the horizon in the direction of the river, saw a lone fire burning.

From below, the clamor increased in volume. Boomers and E-girls chanted in unison, “Htoratsa! Ygrene kcid gib ruoy gnirb!” in some mad litany of the damned.

Levin shouted from the room below, “WARGASM!”

Nick ninja’d his way down to the river.

Down to Owen.

3:00 P.M.

Roosh had driven all day on his Babylon Tour, and somewhere north of Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, his radio had started acting up.

He shut it off and enjoyed the peaceful, scenic green mountains.

The radio turned back on, static blared, and a garbled transmission hissed at him.

One word came through: “Roosh.”

I must be getting tired.

The synthetic voice of the GPS directions guiding him to an apiary changed, “Roosh. Listen,” it said.

“Who in Heaven’s name are you? Are you hacking me?” he replied.

“Roosh, please, you must go north into New York state. Something terrible is going to happen tonight. You must stop it.”

The voice sounded familiar to Roosh. “Okay, I’m listening.”

***

The old priest listened to Roosh, sympathetic but concerned.

Roosh had come in during confession hours and asked for the old style of confession. That was when he made an unusual request.

“So, my son, you’re saying you need me to bless these ten gallons of water because you want to sanctify five acres of property?”

“Yes, father, that is correct. I just bought it in upstate New York, and…” Roosh lowered his voice to a whisper, “it was used for making pornographic movies.”

“Well, that is terrible, but you could just have your local parish priest come by and bless your property.”

“True, father, but I feel that I must do this myself.”

Father Bob couldn’t object anymore. Ah, what’s the harm in helping out this crazy Persian man? He seems like a nice fellow.

“I can’t see anything wrong with that. Where’s the water?”

“In the trunk of my car, out front. Oh, one more thing: can you do it in Latin?”

***

Roosh hit the road again. The kindly old priest was even nice enough to throw in an old aspergil and aspersorium.

The voice chimed in over the radio. “You have it?”

“Yes. I made a good confession also.”

“Then follow the directions to the place of evil, and pray.”

“What should I pray?”

“I will lead you. Just repeat after me: ‘Kyrie eleison. God, our Lord, king of ages…”

Roosh prayed as he drove. He prayed as the sun set among the mountains, staining the air twilight blue and red.

He prayed into the dark of the night.

3:11 A.M.

With soft treads through dew-covered grass, Nick closed in on Owen’s position. Drawing his ninjato, Nick amped himself for the kill.

Spring from the dark, the silent slash, a spurt of blood resulting in the satisfaction of seeing the light die from Owen’s eyes.

Instead, he watched the drunken retard commit suicide with a fucking dildo.

Nick stepped up to Owen’s corpse, lowering the blade to Owen’s face.

No reaction.

Nick ran the blade into Owen’s arm.

Dead alright. For fuck’s sake.

He turned to the table, looking over the pale, thin body on the altar, the unmistakable candy pink hair cascading over her breasts as her head sat atop her chest.

Bianca Devins? No way is that fucking real.

Nick lowered the blade towards Bianca’s severed head.

The eyes shot open, a moan escaped its lips, and the fingers twitched.

A hollow voice issued from its mouth, “You interloper! Why do you disturb the opening of the gate? You have to come to kill that man? Astaroth’s acolyte, Owen Benjamin?

Nick didn’t answer. How do I cut the head off someone who is already headless?

“Ah! I see you have learned well from the Shinobi of Koga, Nick J. Fuentes.”

It sat up, grasping its head to set it atop its shoulders.

“Well, I have better things to do. You may get to have your fun after all.” Bianca Astaroth winked and made a finger gun at Nick.

A shuffling sound came from behind. Nick dropped into a crouch just as one of Owen’s bitch fists arced through the air where his head had been.

Nick side-rolled clear and came up, blade poised to cut the fuck out of whoever had tried to sucker him.

There stood Owen, tiny dick pricked into the air, the big black balls of the dildo slapping against his chiseled chin, grunting like a horny, dead version of Leatherface.

Nick raised the ninjato over his head and rushed at Owen.

“Hey, Owen: America first, bitch!”

Owen extricated the black dildo from his mouth, ripping out his front teeth in the process, and stomped towards Nick.

***

Bianca Astaroth entered the main house to her assembled acolytes, her belly gravid. They knelt before her, chanting, “Htoratsa! Htoratsa!”

In a vocal fry deep enough to shake the teeth and rattle the bones, she spoke, “You, my followers, have served me well to bring me forth from the Pit. For this, I am grateful and will reward you. For your service in exciting the bloodlust of the sheep against the Persian, against the Scythian, against the Sons of Shem, you will gain my power and fully become my children.”

The flesh of Bianca Astaroth’s abdomen rippled and bubbled. She stood with legs spread and her water broke, followed by a copious gush of bloody tapioca.

All the doors and windows slammed shut and locked.

The fluid streaked towards her followers, unveiling growing homunculi.

It reached Ben Shapiro first; the tapioca pearls split open, unleashing the homunculi. They crawled over his body into his mouth, his nose, his eyes, his anus until he writhed and gurgled.

The manikins raped him from the inside out as he screamed, “But I got my J.D. at 23!”

“This is MY sacrament, MY transubstantiation!” Bianca Astaroth bellowed out.

The offal spread, taking converts.

Mark Levin grabbed Sean Hannity by the hair and threw him to the homunculi. As he ran for the side door, Mark slipped on a patch of dog cum and pitched face-first through the glass door, gouging his throat open. As his blood spurts mingled with the offal, he could feel the homunculi crawling into the gash.

“Let me die, let me die,” he moaned.

Kassy Dillon and Ashton Birdie were transubstantiated. They ran after Brittany Venti as she tried to climb up the stairs. Each grabbed a leg and pulled until Brittany split down the middle like a wishbone.

***

Nick’s powerful downward stroke just missed Owen’s head, catching the hand holding the dildo instead. It fell to the ground flopping among Owen’s severed fingers. Owen battered Nick’s back and Nick side-kicked him hard while recovering with an upward stroke of his sword, amputating Owen’s penis.

“NicholAAASSSSS, I’m going to throw nickels at your ASSSSSSSS!”

Nick ran Owen through, but Owen didn’t bleed. Nick whipped the sword out. A farting sound came from Owen’s gut. Nick cut off Owen’s other hand.

“Comedy never dies,” Owen said and kicked at Nick’s shins.

Nick sliced through both of Owen’s knees. Owen crawled after Nick, making horsey sounds.

Nick blurted out “ENOUGH!” and chopped off Owen’s head.

Short of breath, Nick fell to his knees in front of the corpse, limbs still moving like a toy winding down. Owen’s eyes weren’t glassy: they still blinked and the mouth still moved.

He rammed the sword through Owen’s eye socket and cast the head into the fire.

Time to ex-filtrate, time to leave this nightmare. It is finished.

But the nightmare wasn’t done with Nick yet.

***

He met them coming across the yard: Ben, Ashton, Kassy, Mark, Sean, all the phlebitic Boomers, the conservathot e-girls, the bearded chickenhawk boys. They were dressed in black hooded robes waiting for him.

Nick threw his shuriken. He nailed several of them to no effect.

“Fuck it.” Nick charged at Kassy and slashed through her torso, bisecting her at the waist.

She just laughed and grew new legs.

They all laughed at him, then chased him into the house.

Heart thumping, veins pumping battery acid, the next five minutes devolved into a blurred maelstrom of flashing steel, blood, and severed limbs, only for them to reform and regroup to attack him.

They toyed with Nick. Bianca Astaroth mocked him, imitating his voice, “”That would be kind of funny, doe, if you joined us. Take the seed!”

He stood braced against a wall, his resolve to die standing steeled.

Suddenly, there was a crash at the front gate and the glare of headlights.

All turned to the front where Roosh, with a mighty kick, knocked the front door off its hinges.

Roosh strode in rocking a St. Benedict’s medal and praying, “Kyrie eleison. God, our Lord, king of ages, all-powerful and almighty, You who made everything and who transform everything simply by Your will. You who, in Babylon, changed into dew the flames of the seven-times hotter furnace and protected and saved the three holy children. You are the doctor and the physician of our soul. You are the salvation of those who turn to You.”

Roosh wielded the aspergil. Showers of holy water rained down upon Bianca Astaroth’s congregation with a sizzling, crackling sound.

They screamed at him.

“Sand nigger!”

“Rapist!”

“Fraud!”

Ben Shapiro sprung forth shouting, “I have a law degree, I OWN LIBS!”

Roosh dipped the aspergil into his bucket of holy water and gave Ben a deluge of holy water to the face.

The smell of brimstone filled the room as Ben’s head dissolved into a smoking, blackened stump.

Roosh screamed, “Begone, thots!” as he sent out lashes of water at Kassy and Ashton, who sank to the floor whining, “I’m melting!”

Like Christ driving out the moneychangers, Roosh struck out in torrents of holy water until he came to Bianca Astaroth.

“Unclean one, I cast you out,” Roosh said and threw the aspersorium of holy water into Bianca’s face.

A roar filled the house and a mighty wind shook the foundation, exploding the windows.

Bianca shattered into a thousand pieces.

Her acolytes shriveled up, turning to dried husks in their robes.

“Nick,” Roosh said, extending his hand, “Our Lady sent me. She told me there was a great evil here.”

“Let us leave this place,” Nick said.

“Shake the dust from your sandals.”

As the two men walked to Roosh’s banged-up car, Roosh said, “Have you been to Denny’s? I feel like breakfast.”

“I could use some Moons Over My Hammy now that I think about it,” Nick said.

“Good! Denny’s is nice; lots of old, white people. No globohomo rainbow flags.”

“That’s good, Roosh. I hope I don’t have to deal with the poz for a looooooong time. One thing, though.”

“Yes.”

“Please keep the old ladies from pinching my cheeks,” Nick said.

They laughed, walking into the dawn of a new day.