So, I guess it has been about a week since my last post. Not much new, yet everything is new. And that's just the way life is. Life, even as it is ever a constant, is filled with all kinds of changes, most simple, some, however, not.

I came to Las Vegas planning to do the vacation-thing, then head up to Canada -- all this before returning to school, and my home, at the time, in Williamsburg, Virginia. And at the time of my departure from Virginia, I had a girlfriend, whom it appeared that I would eventually marry. Now everything has changed.

I took a house here in Southeast Vegas about a month ago. A nice four bedroom. I leased it with an option to buy, and option which I never thought I would exercise, but, still, just to be on the save side, as we ever tell ourselves. (And I was the sole occupant of my new residence -- just as I was in Virginia.)

Now, not quite a month later, three of the four bedrooms have . . . tenants? Well, they're no longer empty, at any rate. And I'm not sure if I am complaining, or not.

Yvonne lives in one of the rooms; I live in another . . . and a cutie (a certified! cutie) lives in the other room. And I am picking up the tab for their well being. I talked to the cutie's dad. He lives in Texas. He has no idea how to contact her mother -- nor did he know his daughter is in Las Vegas. He did verify that she is 18 --that she'd turned eighteen only days earlier.

Yvonne is getting help, both for her previous abuse, as well as for her cocaine addiiction. Both girls are working as my . . . maids. However, it seems that the house is not a bit cleaner than it was when they moved in -- is, in fact, much messier than it has ever been previously. And I am a clean freak. Also, with my new companions, I am not getting as much work done on my novel as before, and my publisher's agent (correction: my potential publisher, as nothing has yet been carved into stone) is frantic, lest I miss my deadline(s).

On other fronts, I miss Laurie. She, however, is still refusing to relocate to Las Vegas. She is spending her summer in NYC, where she is clerking for a law firm. Come the end of the summer, she is returning to New Haven, there to do her last year at Yale before moving to NYC for good. I haven't seen Laurie in several weeks. I have, however, talked to her parents, particularly her father, who thought my marriage to his daughter (whom I was bedding on a regular basis) was a done deal. He has made me a very generous offer to go to New York City: He will buy out my contract here. Plus, he will pay the entire cost of relocating (including the whole price of a house) from Las Vegas to NYC.

Then there is this: Laurie's dad (as well as Laurie's uncle) suspect that I was also sleeping with Rachael, Laurie's gorgeous and much younger cousin. (Is this true? -- Hullo! You gotta see Rachael 'fore you judge me, Joe!) I mean, it is no secret that Rachael was living with me in Williamsburg. Nor is it any secret that Rachael spent most of the summer with me in Rome in '03. Indeed, the reason Laurie came back to Rome was to get her cousin, who wasn't interested in going home and then back to school. Life is what it is. (So, it needn't be said that Laurie suspected/knew that Rachael and I were an 'item.')

Summer is here in Vegas. God, I love it. I hate the heat; I love the beauty. Thank God my car, like my house, is air-conditioned. Also, I work indoors, so I never have to deal with century temperatures, save for walking back and forth between casino and car, house and car.

I bought a pair of binoculars, the better for checking out the chicks on the strip. God, they are gorgeous. And I can live for centuries and not tire of the splendor of a well-developed female body. Nature knew what it was doing when it put human females together.

The Hard Rock Cafe, where I troll regularly for cuties, sold for 770 million. It is at the Hard Rock that I met my current cutie, the certified cutie (God, she has looks and brains!) Anyway, I cruised by thinking to have a couple of cups of strong Joe when I eyed her, made an offer which she hastily rejected (I thought she was working the place from where she was sitting and the way she was dressed, so I offered her $500, because she is that cute.) Anyway, she came to my table later, threatened to have me arrested, which, thank God, she didn't. (I had considered that she might be under age. And prostitution IS NOT Legal here, contrary to what many outsiders think about Vegas.)

So, long story made very short, I took her home with me -- feeling very guilty once I knew her story. Then, once we were at my place, 'we got to know one another very well.' And now she is staying here as a guest, who is also getting paid for keeping the place clean, which she isn't. (But we have fooled around an additional time or two. Still, I am paying her $1,500 a month for cleaning. I figure, she has money in her pockets, she won't be so quick to sell her most "precious asset," or something like that. But what do I know about women?

Local news: Two police officers show a murder suspect in the back. The murder suspect had his hands handcuffed at the time. And the murder suspect (who is becoming a less of suspect even as I write this) is a teenager. A black teenager. Both of the cops (detectives) are white.

The next issue is immigration, which is splitting Vegas. The casino owners rely on cheap (Mexican immigrant) labor to keep its costs downs. Local construction companies rely on cheap labor for the same reason. But local Immigrants see additional immigrants as "depressing wages additionally." And below the border laborers have pressed hourly wages down so low that most of the locals can not afford to live and work here. It is a shame.

Well. This is about all I have time for. I don't know what I intend to do with this blog. I don't intend to use it as an online journal. Why should I go public with my most private thoughts? That is stupid!

And since I have so much energy, I gotta think of something creative to put up here. Correction: I need -- or think I need, which is the same thing -- some kind of unifying theme. Actually, I don't. I can put up anything I want. And if readers don't like it (I don't have that many now, anyway. Which alleviates any kind of tension for me.), they can cease reading me.

Phone is ringing.

Swim deeply into the waters of Forever.

Enter Darkness, feel it wash over you.

Eternity beckons. Nothing but darkness.

No God. No Heaven. Only Forever.

Enter Darkness. Swim deeply into the waters of Forever.

Let the black eternal nothing wash over you, claiming you forever as its own.

-- "The Grimore"


Ah, back to my blog. It is here that I regain my energy, my focus. It is here that I refresh myself, bidding anew those thoughts and feelings which flourish when I am half dead.

So. What the fuck's up? What's been happening since we last talked? Anything? Anything at all? Ah, yours is such a boring life. You should move to Vegas, Baby!

Okay, so since last I was here, I attended some home theatre. We have that here. More specifically, I watched two girls (lesbians) fuck. It was great. They really were into it. (And they charged plenty for their efforts!) One was blonde (Tesh); the other (Yvonne) had hair the color of raven's wings. She is gorgeous. She is 18. Tesh is in her twenties.

Anyway, after watching them go at one another, I took heart in a Vegas saying, "You'll never know unless you quote a price." So I did.

I've never done it with a lesbian before -- that was part of the thrill. I mean, imagine. I didn't have to worry a hoot about her pleasure. I only needed concern myself with having as much fun as I could.

So, the deal made ($500 up front for just the evening. And I paid for her 'candy.' Turns out she could do a lot of candy. Her heart raced like crazy. She'll be dead by the time she is 25.), we went back to my place. I love her hips. Damn, talk about shape. And her stomach is hard and flat. She, however, did have a tat. (I hate tats!)

Between fucks (she told me she was just pretending I was one of her 'joy toys') she told me how she got into this: Her uncle raped her when she was 13. Her step-father raped her that same year. (I found the details a delicious turn-on.)

As for the drugs? Stepdaddy was getting her high and keeping her high to shut her up. It worked. She lived at home until she was 16, then she split for Seattle. Seattle wasn't to her liking (too much rain, she said), so she came here. Great. Sex in the middle of the fucking desert. (And Yvonne is great in the sack. Too bad I can't convert her to our team. But she is sick of men, or so she says. And I am not interested in arguing. Meanwhile, she is staying here, in my house. And I am paying her for her . . . 'attentions.' Afterall, I can't expect her to fuck just for the money. I mean, how gauche! And when she and her friends (apparently there are more than one) do their own thing, I get to watch for free. Hey, she can clean my fridge out. Call Pizza Hut 3 times a day. It is all worth it.

I'm tired of what I do for a living. I love the money; the attention and the applause. But the whole show up every night and entertain people is getting to be too much like real work.

And if this is what life is all about . . . success as I am now understanding it, what's the point? You make money. You buy an extra car, a house, get married . . . and then what? I mean, what am I going to do with the rest of my 20's? My 30's?! This is fucking ridiculous. Work and make money. Work and make money. It's already old. I would like to go to Rome. Move there. I spent a summer there a few years back, and I really got off on it. I'm not patriotic; I don't think America any better or any worse than any one of the many other countries I have been in. We just have more money. Bigger buildings and cities. More crime. More desperation . . . and boredom.

Meanwhile, when I'm not entertaining, I am writing. I have one book sold, another book in progress. God, this is not what I thought real life was going to be like. I think I should just take my trust fund and run before . . .

Politics here in Vegas is a fucking riot. I mean, everybody is on the take. And the take is like, okay, as far as most locals see it. Galardi paid hundreds of thousands in bribes to city council members and the whole town is like, "So fucking what? What's the big fucking deal? And why is a federal case being made out of it?" The details from his trial (he, Galardi, is a witness for the prosecution) were hilarious. Galardi admitted to bribing everyone in town. And those whom he couldn't bribe with money, he bribed with sexual favors: "I gave them lap dances and blow jobs, your honor. Well, I didn't exactly, your honor, but the people who worked for me, they did." His remarks are classics. "They ain't no honest people here, your honor, I mean shitfire -- this is Vegas! Sorry, your honor, I'm sure your honest. The only honest person in town. Least I didn't see you at the Cheetah." (Galardi owns a number of strip joints (gentlemen's clubs) here in Vegas.

I like the gentlemen's clubs. Myself, I am a regular at The Palamino out in North Las Vegas. The hostesses are nude. Totally fucking nude. I go there on my way out to the Poker Palace, where I buy all the ribs I can eat for only $8.99. I don't cook. I always eat out. Anyway, I spend about a $100 every time I am in The Palamino, just to get the chicks to stand close, thus to get a great view. Afterall, that is what they're there for.

I've lost 6 pounds. I am now down to 168. I don't know how I lost weight, but I did the physical, and I have. I am eating like a pig. I don't drink -- I'm probably the only person in town who doesn't. And maybe that is why I am not keeping my weight on. That and this: I'm not getting enough sleep. And I am always racing either to work, or home so that I can write (and fuck).

I haven't made any friends since I have been here. Who has the time? I go to plenty to parties, most with other entertainers, who, like me, aren't all that big at making friends.

And in between sets I listen to my customers, who are always only too glad to talk to a celeb. God, the anger. These people are really pissed off about everything -- so what are they doing here? throwing their money away? And their anger rubs off. I've been working it into my act. I did a pat about homelessness and the homeless. "Poverty should be criminalized. People are poor because they're either too stupid or too fucking lazy to work at something that really pays. Meanwhile, they're a fucking burden on the economy. We have to work harder to make up for all the dimwits who didn't have the sense to go to college, there to prepare themselves to be accountants, lawyers, and stand-up comics. And I really have a jones for the homeless. I mean, the don't do shit, and we, as a society, go out of our way to understand them. To throw money at them. What the fuck for? Understand them, my ass. They're lazy. They're drunks and druggies. They're ugly. They're homeless! So what's to understand. What, we need to pretend to be sympathetic. Fuck that! I say, string them up! Execute them. And while we're at it, let's put everybody on welfare in the tank. Give them some serious time to think about how offensive they are to the rest of us!" And my fans eat this up. I'm a fucking riot. I don't even have to practice. I think it is my cute face. I always smile. And the girls tell me I'm good looking. So of course my fans laugh and applaud, wait to get my autograph. Wait to introduce me to their daughters. And single women wait to introduce me to themselves! Ah, it's not what I thought life had in store for me. And why do all my fans have to be such drunks? I hate it when the people around me smell like booze. But I am learning loads from these people. I'm learning that America sucks (But they all love it, anyways -- especially when they're around someone with something anti-American to say.)

My customers know they're being fucked over here. But yet they love everything about this country. Go figure.

I'm finding that I am becoming angrier and more intolerant with each new day. But I like it. I'm a regular regular. Yesterday, I went to the Premier Mall and spent nearly three grand on clothes. I spent a hundred plus per pair just for some new shades. I bought four new pairs. And I bought Dockers and some A. and Fitch shirts. And a couple of pairs of shoes. I just blew the money on shit I don't even need. Christ, I have a closet full of clothes, most of it needing to be washed (for the first time) so that I can wear it. I can't stand to wear clothes which are new and starched, which is why I never try clothes on in the store. Later, if they fit, fine. If not, I'll take them back.

Enough for today. I need to work on my novel

Come, Children. I'm inviting you. Come join me, here in The Darkness. The Darkness is eternal. It's the only thing which is. Come! Come quickly while the door is still opened. Trust your instincts, you have been called.

Children, this is The End. The world as yo know it is drawing to a close. This is The End. The Final Days, they are approaching. Shhh. Just listen. You can hear The End. You can hear it approaching.

Hobnail boots. Heavy boots. Trodding and tramping. Women and children, they intuit The End. Demons sing. Even the saints rejoice. All look forward to Eternity's come.

Brothers and Sisters, Earth's stewardship, freedom from want, desiderata, harbor for naught.

Come, hide and seek. Come and find me. Out on the desert, shapes change, the light dims now, then goes out.

Eternity now surrounds you, horrors abound. Sounds of soldiers marching, indignant in uniform, lessons in Latin.

All hear mordant laughter; all laugh in the hereafter. Sparkles, like starstuff, exorcist rites. Come, let's rejoice together in the eternal night.

----From "The Grimore"

What I'd planned to do with this, my new blog, is use it as a catchall for all the ideas which might spill over from (and which won't fit in) my new novel. My current book is about the end. And the only thing(s) it has in common with this blog are Las Vegas and the desert, as these are the settings in my book. (Not a pleasant experience. Ah, but the end of a world, it's dreams, plans, and especially its belief systems, are not a thing to brook smiles. But what the hell! -- It's my book. And I'll write it as I please.)

In the current work, there are no desert monster, no shape which has existed since before time, no monster which is neither good nor Evil.(And thus, hence, by definition, something which would be totally without restraint, save those restraints it imposes upon self, and thus completely, utterly Evil.) Evil fascinates me. It fascinates all of us. And I had hoped to . . . allow some of my fascination drip over onto this blog. But, and almost immediately, the story, which I intended to develop, got away from me. I tried to accomplish too much at once, on the one hand; and on the other hand, my intent did not allow for the work such a blog as I had planned would require.

Alas (and don't lose heart here, for I am not leaving cyber-space), I am busier than I thought. A job; a book; a girl (girls, really); and a host of new friends give me little time for . . . well, for many of the things I wish to pursue. For instance, I have little time for reading, movies, keeping up with contemporary events (we call that the news), listening to music, down time.

Still, I feel the new to write . . . something. I am incessantly creative. I don't know why. I just have all kinds of energy which I must place somewhere, put into something. (Or someone. But you can't do that twenty four/seven I know. I've tried. And why not? Still, I am young. And mine is a world . . . unconcerned with right and wrong. Mine is, now, a world which asks "What do you want?" and "Can you afford it?" A simple enough world. All of our worlds should be so simple.)

I had so much more time when I was at university. Strange, really. All thought that . . . we were so taxed for time. But I had an abundance of time. Of course, I did well at my studies. And I did not try to excell. I simply wished to graduate, get my degree. Move on. And that I have done.

Now, I have changed, not only in the sense that I have last time. My views, my opinions have shifted, changed. Probably because now, out here, away from parents and professors and peers, I fell comfortable with striking my own opinions. And I love life. It is people I've no fucking use for. There. It is said. People bore me. Characters from fiction, they excite, stimulate me. Ah! Such relief, to have that said.

So where was I? Ah, telling you that my blog, as I originally intended it, jumped track. Yes, well, I was undertaking too many ideas at once, as it were. And I didn't take the time to acknowledge that such a blog, complex, filled with different characters, containing multiple subplots, would require postings three or so times a week. And I don't have time for that kind of industry -- unless it pays. (Ah, now mine is a world in which everything done, is done for pay. It's a nice world. It is your world. The world you bequeathed to my generation. Fun, this world. And a bit naughty. And the underlying theme is "Be a success. Make lots of money. And have all the fun you can while you drive your Beemer to the bank." Right. I got the message. I think we all have.)

And I am not the least bit upset with the world I have inherited. I like it. I love it! Make money; substitute great sex, money, success, and even more! great sex for . . .Love. Hell, sex and success (with ample amounts of money, of course) are adequate substitutes for everything and anything. Or so I am finding. And if you make enough bread, if you bed enough cuties, you never ask yourself, "What is wrong with the way I am living?"

Nothing. I'm . . . I just turned 23. Yup. And already I make more money in three months than most working adults make in a full year. And I don't put in but 28 hour work weeks. Right. Nice. Love it. I think. (Well I know I do: This is what we spend so many years of our life getting a higher education: So we can be a success. So we can make lots of money.)

Anyway, I would like to use this blog to tell you more about Vegas. God, the history of this place is just . . . mega-awesome. The Civil War ("Born In Battle" -- the state motto); the days of the mines and the miners; the 1940's and the weapons projects; the 1950's and the atomic tests, the mob, the Rat Pack. And so on. Yep. I'd like to share all this with us.

And I'd like to tell you about the mob and Vegas. Not a where the bodies are buried kind of thing, because I couldn't care less. Life is filled with evil people. You all know that. And from where I'm looking: Everybody who comes here is tainted to some degree or other with Evil -- It's just that the people who run this place are . . . a bit more Evil than those who come here.

What I'd like to do is tell you factual stories about the mob, and how they made this town. Talk some about the myths and legends -- like those are really necessary, given what really goes down here. And I'm sure you watch the news coming out of Vegas.

So you know about the G-Sting Federal Corruption, which is just now playing itself out. You know about sex being used to bribe Vegas City Council members.

You know, too, about the gang of blacks, who attacked a casino worker outside of the MGM. (They will get theirs: This, afterall, is Vegas. And this city does not forgive -- particularly its minorities.)

And Vegas is a very racist town. No?! You don't think so. Really. Try telling that to any of the locals, regardless of their color or ethnic origin. But I, for one, don't have any problems with racism. I know I am supposed to. I know I am supposed to be . . . politically correct. But while I treat other races as my equal (because it is the law), I don't feel them to be my equals. And neither do you -- I know this, because I have listened to you. And so many of you wish to talk to me after a show. And you speak truth. God, do you ever speak truthfully. Your words are cold, filled with anger. Even with hate. But I have learned to take that in stride. The world -- America as it really is -- is not the world of classrooms and textbooks. You can believe that.

And you know, I have no sympathy for the weak, for those of you who have allowed the world to fuck you over. Tell you something I was taught in my psychology classes: None has any more power over you than you allow. That is a basic fact of psychology, Brothers and Sisters. And (fact two), the more power anyone has over you, the more power you then, by extension, have over them. Think about it some time.

And this -- Let's quickly correct a myth, shall we: The myth is that 1 in 3 women will be raped by the time they are 18. Wrong! The actual statistic is as follows: 1 in 8 women will be raped in their lifetime. Ah, big difference that. (Where do I get all this info? Well, if you truly read, I get it from the same source whereby you would get it. And if you don't like books (and who really does these days), you can get your info over the net. You just need to know how to properly resource the net -- something else I learned how to do at the university.)

So, I may (will probably) use this blog to . . . rant. And rave. Afterall, it is my blog. And these are my thoughts. My opinions. And I don't care about being politically correct. Honesty is what matters to me.

And I'm not going to worry about hurting anyone's feelings. For instance, should I talk about illegal aliens, I'm not going to play to good feelings about why we should welcome them here. Rather, I'm going to tell you why corporate America wants them here. And I'm going to tell you why many Mexican-Americans don't want any more of their country men here. And this is all very 'American,' because the whole immigration thing is about dollars and cents. Not about . . . well, the bullshit I hear on the TV, read in the papers -- even read on the blogsites. (Thanks to illegal immigrants here in Las Vegas, the average dealer makes $6.10 and hour. And the majority of dealers are Mexican. Try telling them you want to bring more Mexicans in this country, thereby to lower THEIR wages still further. Right: Try telling them that. On the other hand, tell the casino owners you're going to dry up their supply of cheap below the border laborers, and see how quickly they call up their congressmen. ) Enough for today. I've got to go out and make myself rich. Correction: I've got to go out and make myself even richer still -- because thanks to my parents, who bought in to all this crap about success, and who did very well at becoming successful (translation: My parents have made a shitload of money and have continued to be too busy to spend it), I have more money then I will probably ever be able to spend . . . unless I become really addicted to the cuties. Which just might happen. Bye. Hug your kids. Tell them you love them. And don't fill your heads with crap. Be your own person. Be kind to an animal -- they deserve kindness more than most people do.

From The Journal Of David Burton Steiner, 5/4/06

It just continues to get stranger. Last night I attended a black mass out on the desert. Billy Cohen agreed to go with me. In fact, it is because of him that I found out about the mass. He has excellent contacts among the satanists and devil-worshipers (The Dark Side, as they are self-described). Billy is helping me on the condition that I write the story of his life -- it will not be a pretty story. And I fear for his life from the moment any of his cohorts find out he is having his biography written. Billy is a strange and dangerous man. He is also highly intelligent, exactly what one would expect from a mobster, who not only has manager to survive in his game, but has risen to its very pinnacle. I should probably also note, and at this juncture, that Billy does not trust The Dark Prince. Billy thinks The Dark Prince knows far more than he lets on.

"I don't think he is an atheist, at all," Billy told me last night as we drove out to the desert. "I think he believes in God. The question, to my way of thinking, is this: Which God does he believe in." I'd never thought about it quite like that. "Nah, don't kid yourself. The Dark Prince knows too much about what is going on in this world to be a disbeliever in anything. Least he is for my money."

I couldn't agree more. And I wish The Dark Prince had told me about the black mass. I understand -- and I get this from Billy's contact among the people on the Dark Side (his name is Marshal Franklin, by the way: Judge Franklin, is his proper title)-- that these masses are a regular ritual. And that not only are these rituals conducted at specific times of the year (seasonal changes, and changes in the moon) but that "The ebb and flow of psychic energy also account for a number of the ceremonies." So, knowing that much, I got Billy to take me to the mass.

We weren't able to get any where near close enough. They held the mass out on the desert, in the middle of nowhere. The proceedings began at midnight, ended at dawn (at cocks's crow). They held their ceremony in the middle of a huge pentagram. Somehow, the whole of the desert was lit up in flames. And in the midst of that flame, their altar was constructed. The participants were clad in black robes, so I saw not a single face, therefore being unable to identify anyone come morning. This will make it impossible to ask anyone if they know what happened to my dad, let alone ask what it is that is happening here. So I finished the night with more questions than answers.

However, Marshal Franklin was most informative. He said that the satanists are "Not a bunch of high school skinheads out looking for thrills. Most of the satanists are college educated, kid." He told me.

He said, "This is what the New World Order is really all about, as it is seen behind the scenes. Power, that's the name of the game. Political power. Global power -- and all this in the guise of Christianity, so that nobody will really know what's really going on."

"What is really going on?" I ventured to ask.

"People want to usher in the end times," Marshall said, his nails yellow from nicotine. He was drinking a highball as we talked. "They want to bring about the end of the world. That's what it is all about."

"Who wants to bring about the end of the world? George Bush?" I was shocked.

"Bush don't know shit," Marshal told me, his words slurred. "Bush is just another one of their puppets. And you can take this to bed: These people are demons in high places. People with money. People with access to the thrones of power. And they want it all."

Marshal wasn't making himself clear. And I intuited that that was his intent.

"While everybody thinks of satanists as a bunch of out of control teens dressed in black, these guys go readily about the business at hand, glad we're being distracted by Hollywood's conception of satanists. Everything is an illusion, kid. Just an illusion. And you know why?"

"Why?" I asked.

"Because people are just naturally scared shitless of the truth," He said, finishing his drink. "Now you go on, get out of here. I've given you enough. You and Billy, you go on. See for yourself. Then, you want, maybe. Maybe, I said. Maybe we'll talk some more."

Yeah. Anyway, I went to the mass. It was a strange sight. They didn't talk in some foreign tongue, like in the fictional accounts of satanists. They spoke in good old American English. So I understood every word -- every word that I heard, that is -- and there weren't many words that I could hear, and thus make out.

Certain procedures of their ritual I found odd. They tethered a small lamb to a silver chain, for one thing. And then there was that bit about the candle -- and during the mass, the high priest pissed on the candle, putting it out. (Billy later explained to me the significance of the candle -- "It symbolizes the Light. The Good, if you will. And the priest symbolically extinguished the light, putting it out forever, thereby ushering in another, A Dark Age. An Age of Spiritual Darkness. An age which, if we see it begin, will last forever.")

I can't believe Billy Cohen, raised as a Jew, believes in such nonsense. And yes, myself, I am not sure what I believe. And since coming here to Las Vegas, my faith has been sorely tested, as it is. But as to what I believe . . . I have yet to decide.

"What about the lamb?" I asked. "That little white lamb? What did it signify? And why was it killed?"

Actually, they cut the lamb's throat, then they drank its blood.

"The lamb symbolizes Jesus Christ," Billy told me. "That's why they slit its throat and drank its blood -- literally, the blood of the lamb was spilled."

There was a girl, quite a looker from what I could see, who was stripped naked, raped, and then placed up on the altar. I had no idea what she represented, and I didn't dare ask. But, right after the members of the coven placed the nude girl on the altar, they placed something in her vagina. This I was curious about.

"A host," Billy informed. "A blessed communion wafer," He said. "But don't ask me it's meaning. Because I don't know."

It was hardly the response I was seeking.

"But I can tell you this," Billy continued. "The fat used in those candles atop the altar?"

"Yeah? Go on."

"Those candles are made from baby fat. From the specially processed fat of unbaptized babies. And when such babies are not available, the candles are made from the fat of any kind of baby they can get their hands on."

I was astonished. "Where do they get the babies?" And my voice sounded strained, even to me.

"Are you kidding? In this day and age? They get the babies from all over the world. Thousands of babies come up missing every day. Children, breeder stock, these are easy to get."

"Breeder stock?" I asked, needing clarity.

"Young girls." They're impregnated. They're children then either are raised to join the coven -- or their children are sacrificed. It's all decided by lot."

"You mean the child's fate is a gamble?"

"Yeah. Why not?" And Billy wasn't the least bit disturbed by it. "This is Vegas, Kid. Get used to it. Strange shit, here? That's the order of the day!" Billy laughed.

And, I, horrified, ran to the bathroom, there to heave up my stomach.

Okay. My Private Message Send is not working. Neither am I now receiving your posted comments direct to my regular E-Mail address. I am not sure who I can blame for this blunder, but I am certainly wishing to blame someone. Anyway, I have set up an E-mail account just for you. Yup. Always on the ball, am I. Always. So here goes: Enterdarkness6666@yahoo.com. You can contact me anytime, anyplace. Yeah, I know: Such an address is a bit threatening and intimidating. But it doesn't have to be. And, yes, I do continue to dabble in both Magick and The Dark Arts. But mostly I dabble in Satanism. So, should you wish additional information on such subjects, and you really shouldn't, you know, but if you do, Enterdarkness6666@yahoo.com. is the place for you.

Okay, so Enterdarkness6666@yahoo.com. sounds all spooky and creepy, depraved and disgusting, and it is all that and more! You can count on it. (I swear it is! in fact, I promise it is!) But, if is sounds just too . . . oh, I don't know, call it out of touch with reality (And it is!), and if you find that you just can't find yourself sending mail to just such a disgusting site as that (And I won't blame you!) then you can still reach me at Godinheaven@Give-me-a-break.com.

Also, if you're seeking to get in touch with someone on the Otherside (meaning someone who is dead and gone, who ain't no more, at least not in the here-and-the-now), Enterdarkness6666@yahoo.com. is gonna be your cup of tea. Yep, because I talk to dead people all the time. Yup. I mean, it's not like I intend to or anything. It's just that they're alway seeking me out, and then, once they start talking to me, they just won't shut up. So if you have anybody over there you need to contact, let me know, and I'll contact them for you. I'll have a nice chat with the party of your choice. I'll invite them out to lunch here in Vegas (this will cost you extra), and we'll have a real gab fest. And then I'll charge you bigtime for my efforts.

(Oh, and this is so cool! Paris Hilton has a new beau. She was seen with him last night at the Pure, where she also sings. And an actress with the last name of Lohan was also on hand -- and she was with Paris' former beau. I mean, there weren't any cat fights, or anything. But it's still way cool, right? Hey, just thought you'd like to know what's happening here in Vegas, Babies!)

In short, if you think Christianity bunk. If you've no use for morals of any kind. If you want to get strange and peculiar. And maybe just a bit kinky (Hell, a whole lot kinky!) , then Enterdarkness6666@yahoo.com. is gonna be your kind of address. And when you ring me up, if you smell sulphur, if you hear moaning and screaming and begging and crying, you're at the right address! Cause this number rings straight to my private abode here in . . . well, call it Hell, for most people do.

Okay. So you can now ring me up at any time to post -- and very privately -- your most candid comments and remarks. And, as in the past, I will attend to your problems, remarks, needs, etc. in a most timely and professional manner -- meaning, you're gonna need a credit card for most of the services which I provide.

Anyway, now we got this established. Good. And from time to time, I will reintroduce my new Email address, lest one of you forget. So, remember not to private comment me anymore, as I am not getting them, which is why I have been so lax in responding. Good. Nuff said.

Now, tomorrow or the next day, I shall continue with a new installment of our story. And, yes, I am working on a new book, and yes, I am trying out a few of the ideas here. (Way to go smarty-pants. You figured it out, so I am crediting you for it here! And I would use you name, but we do have . . . let's call it an understanding.)

Oh, yeah -- and for those of you interested in such things, my girlfriend situation is . . . well, not going so well. I think my current and I are coming to an end. Which is sad. But there are a lot of girls here in Vegas, many of them very easy. And, like, so tight and Right! So, okay, then. Nuff said about that!

Oh, yes -- For those of you posting emails to my former address: Please switch over at once to Enterdarkness6666@yahoo.com. Thank you. Well, now I need to get on to work. I am already late leaving. (Yes, even I have to work. And there is much more to my job than merely collecting wayward souls.) Ah, and there is Smallville to watch; the Bedford Diaries; and One Tree Hill -- does anyone else watch these shows? Some of my favorite. And I tape them all. Ah, the wonders of Tivo. Anyway . . . oh, and it is in the 90's here. But check this out! Like, you can still see snow on the tops of the mountains here. Talk about Rad! I mean, the heat in combo with the beauty of all those peaks covered in patches of snow, like, so amps me up! I'm on a natural high (made all the higher by lots and lots of cups of coffee from Starbucks!) even before I hit the house. Gotta go, Blogstream! Talk to ya later!