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.