Tag Archives: satan

Spectrum City is Haunted part 6



When the dreadlocked barista finished the journal of the man that cut his own face off, he finally understood that before the night was done, he wouldn’t have dreadlocks anymore.

The dreadlocked barista’s name was Cammy. Not even a nickname, his birth certificate literally read Cammy Day Martin because his mom was sick of having boys. He being the fourth in a row, Mrs. Martin had given up on hiding her need for a daughter and so decided her son Cammy would have to do.

Sewer didn’t care, though. That was the name the dreadlocked barista had given himself when he thought he was going to sing for a rock band in sixth grade. He never did find anyone interested in playing instruments for his vocals and so settled for singing acapella in videos he posted on the internet.

Fame was impossible, though. The only way to get famous on the internet was by whoring yourself, one way or another, and he had no desire in trying to win attention. After all, he deserved it. His voice was unique and all he needed was the right crew to stand behind him. As long as someone thought he was good enough, he would be good enough. Quality was all in the mind. It was an illusion like everything else. If only he could figure how to adjust others’ perception of himself. If he could change the illusion to fit his need, anything would be possible.

It was this stream of thought that brought Sewer to the motel. His parent’s basement was alright, except for when family came in town and he had to share it. He lied that he was staying with a friend and used his tips to secure a room for himself because his older brother, second in birth order, was intolerable just like his wife and twin sons.

The notebook was still in his brain. The video of Darren cutting off his face was uploaded, but still with no views. Even the music video versions with the edited footage were drawing nothing. He checked the tags, laying on the made bed of his motel with his laptop, cartoons playing on the muted TV. Nothing. No one had seen it. He’d checked the news, both paper and digital, and there was absolutely nothing. No one knew about the guy that cut his face off but for the people that were there when it happened.

Not enough, thought Sewer. People need to know. People need to see what I saw. People need to understand what it’s like. People need to know. SEVIL LIVES.

The statement was beginning to make sense. SEVIL LIVES meant that everyone lives and everyone dies and it’s all circular. SEVIL is to death as LIVES is to life. Death comes before life, which means that we continue forever in this cycle of death and life and death and on. That was why the guy cut his face off. He got it. He understood that death was the exact same as life. That if it’s all just a cycle, why not just keep recycling? Wasn’t it all just a game anyway? All that shit that you’re fed, all the terrible feelings wasted because feelings meant nothing in the first place, all the grief experienced needlessly because it was intangible and never even existed in the first place.

He changed the tags and renamed the video and turned on the shower, but then realized he didn’t want to get wet and that he kind of liked that he hadn’t showered in a week even though he could feel the slight layer of grime atop his skin. He stared at the mirror, looking at his face.


He hated his nose. He hated his skin. He hated his glasses. He tore them off because it was the only thing of the three he could. He could see well enough without them, though the world did turn blurry, but that was nice. Actually, blurry was exactly what he needed.

He hated his ears, hated his eyes, hated his facial hair. He ran to his bag and began raking the razor over his face before he was even back to the mirror. He would get rid of it. His mustache was stupid. His goatee and neck hair were needless. He’d be done with hair because that would make him feel better.

He couldn’t see the red that started to trickle from his patchily shaved face until he remembered his dreadlocks and understood that those too would have to go. They weren’t his own, anyway. Tied in by some foreign and English illiterate woman because he thought it was cool and worth the money.

When his fingers couldn’t untie the fake hair from his real hair, he pulled, but it wouldn’t tear and so planned for the perfect time to make himself be what he couldn’t wait to become.

X                            X                            X                            X                            X                            X

Detective Michael Roe was getting drunk at The Track and that was okay because She understood.

The work of the day was complete, except for the last deed, and when he sat down at the bar he hadn’t been to in ten years, the bartender young and new, no one realized the significance of the glass of whiskey served neat, which he had to explain to the young girl, all tits and no bar sense because she cared more for tips than her craft, and he sipped it waiting for the sign for She that would come whenever She chose for it to because that was how all the signs of the day before came to him, like flashes of illuminated focus on the object of his deed with a strange feeling of desire and necessity to resolve whatever it was that She was showing him, and so far he’d done exactly what She needed and She said there would only be five because five was her number and with four already done, he was going to be as drunk as possible for the fifth.

That and hopefully drown out the terrible sounds of karaoke coming from the bar stage.

X                            X                            X                            X                            X                            X

Sewer had the karaoke stage of The Track set up with his video camera pointing toward where he wouldn’t be singing as well as his phone propped up and recording when he took the mic from the karaoke DJ. Before that, he went around to other karaoke singers and told them he’d pay them if they videotaped his performance. It was a lie, but most did anyway and he was confident that even if this did lead to his death, his performance would make it to the internet.

Saturn Warship, his favorite band’s hit song, “Generation Vex” played and when the words scrolled across the screen, instead of singing into the microphone, he dropped it to the stage, making feedback ring through the speakers, and missing the lyrics as they became highlighted with no one singing them.

Cast the spell, never tell, wash me down, wishing well.

Sewer took the butcher knife that was tucked into his baggy torn jeans at his back waist and raised it above his head. He used his other hand to hold up his dreads and then wasted no time in slicing underneath his skin, relieving his scalp from the connection to his skull. Blood formed and then ran down his face and he went straight back from the middle of his forehead, over his dome to behind his neck.

There was an uproar but the music kept playing and the people Sewer paid kept videotaping. The ones he didn’t pulled out their phones and began videotaping too, putting themselves in the frame and showing the excitement play out behind them.

Cast the spell, never tell, wash me down, wishing well.

Sewer finished with the first strip of skin, pulling it away from his head and then dangling it by the finally free dreadlock in front of him like a raw slice of bacon tied to a rat tail. Blood dripped and then he helicoptered it into the crowd before digging the butcher knife beneath another flap of skin and matted hair roll. He continued ridding his skull of concealment and got four strips in before the blood covered his face and he was on his knees, weak as the song was nearing its end.

Cast the spell, never tell, wash me down, wishing well.

Sewer crumpled into the floor as the final cymbal on the song rang and the words scrolled out of view to the left of the screen. Sound was gone and the silence felt heavier than any of the noise ever did. He closed his eyes and laid face down on the stage until neon yellow light crept underneath his eyelids.

The voice, which he couldn’t make out before, kept repeating itself. He wasn’t able to discern that it spoke only five times.

“She wants you. She wants you. She wants you. She wants you. She wants you. ”

X                            X                            X                            X                            X                            X

Mark Chambers woke up with his eyes already open. His body was frozen and the stone table beneath him was cold, though he couldn’t feel it or anything else.  He thought it might be a dream until he saw the masks over him. The chants were loud and familiar. He could have joined in, the foreign words ingrained in his brain, but only if fear hadn’t crippled his already numb mouth.

He saw knives and could tell that his skin was being separated, but it didn’t carry any of the sensation he expected. More chanting and then there was drinking and when the masks came off, he didn’t recognize anyone.

He was pulled off the table so that just his upper body was lying flat against it with his ass up and the backs of his toes on the ground. Then he was moving, back and forth with his face mushing against the stone as a palm cupped his ear and squished the other into its hard surface.

The little girl was right. His plans of suicide to avoid rape were foiled. They wouldn’t stop, he knew, until the whole congregation had their turn. He was weak with the loss of blood, passing in and out of consciousness. The longer it took the more the sedative wore off, and as he regained his body’s ability to feel pain, to scream, to struggle, he was tied at the wrists and ankles. The pull of the ropes levitated him in the air as hands at his thighs guided his torso into performing the ritual he himself had victimized so many others with, so many times.

There were more knives, more cuts, more blood and then there were whips and eventually he could see himself in his own dripping blood that created a reflecting pool beneath him.

While the other faces were unrecognizable, his was as it always was, but he still didn’t see it as his own. His distorted features, wrenched into desperate agony, were just as nomed as the rest.

March The Wretch


March The Wretch is prolly teh most fucked book I ever wrote. So read that shit. But you gotta have a ebook. Also you gotta have read that first shit. Read March the Damned cus if you dont you wont know shit bout Wretch but maybe do anyway cus the second ones allways better. Kinda like your second time fuckin when its better cus you kinda know what your doin now even though you think you know everythin about fuckin and you really really dont cus your chik is just bein nice and pretendin like you boss as fuck when you really arent boss as fuckin anything.

BUY March The Wretch HERE on KINDLE!!!

but also…

BUY March the Damned cus you should prolly know what the fuck you gettin into and why there are flying zombies and monster vaginas and lots of evil shit that will make you hate this stupid fuckin world we have to live in and pretend is all good even though its totally not and lets all praise Jesus or fuck Jesus or both at the same time because I dont think i even know the difference anymore.

Sin Seriously,

Jeremiah Jisrael

Spectrum City is Haunted


Darren was deep into his notebook when Phil arrived to The Mound. Never before had they met up at a coffee house. Usually it was a bar, usually The Track, but Darren said he wasn’t drinking anymore and even though Phil didn’t believe him, he decided it best to humor the friend he felt an obligation to see at least once a month. He was lucky if he could push it to two, but Darren was a man of ritual and if that was disrupted, everything was disrupted.

“Back to the diary,” said Phil as he sat down.

“Eat a dick,” said Darren, not looking up until he finished his sentence. He capped his pen and closed his notebook, putting them both on his lap before leaning over the table. In front of him was a tall white cup with orange spiral designs all over it. He drank from it slowly.

Dramatic ass motherfucker, thought Phil. Here we fucking go.

Darren exhaled so as to draw attention and only then did he look Phil in the eyes. He wasn’t surprised that Darren’s eyes were widened and didn’t believe for a second the caffeine was guilty. “It’s good to see you, man. You’ve been busy.”

“They keep me busy.”


“God,” said Darren. “The devil. Their brothers and sisters. The whole family.”

Jesus, thought Phil. More bullshit.

“I have to tell someone. Show someone. Sorry it’s you. There’s not really anyone else, ya know.”

Phil squinted. He needed to show concern. He put his lips together, trying to keep them neutral, between a frown and smile. One of the two would show up if he didn’t.

Darren exhaled again. It would’ve been a sigh if it weren’t so loud. A lady behind them cleared her throat. A man across from Phil stared at them over his laptop screen. The barista, the skinny white kid with dreadlocks that reeked of patchouli, swept slowly beside them, ignoring the cropped hair portly women with football hoodies that stared up at the menu chalkboard in front of the cash register.

I’d rather be in Bible study.

“Spectrum City is haunted,” said Darren, and right as he did, Phil noticed a relief cross his old friend’s face. Almost as if it were a physical skin, shed like a reptile.

The dreadlocked barista stopped sweeping and looked over. Phil turned to him and stared until the barista went back to sweeping and pretended to stop eavesdropping. “You’re talking about ghosts.”

“No,” spoke Darren, once again drawing the attention from the other coffee shop patrons. “They aren’t ghosts. They’re gods. Two, I think. I don’t know. There are more, but they may not be gods. It doesn’t matter. What matters is I have to do something that I don’t want to do but have to do because if I don’t…” He winced and his face muscles became tight. Maybe fighting some kind of pain. Maybe preparing for it. “I just have to, okay? So just don’t hate me, or whatever. Just be cool and don’t try to stop me or anything. ”

“Okay,” said Phil. He wanted coffee, but that would only prolong the whole thing. He could still make it to dinner with Amy and her roommates on time if he left in five minutes. “Whatever you got to do, man.”

Darren exhaled again and when they asked Phil what the last thing he said was, Phil didn’t remember. He remembered hearing the words, but they didn’t seem important at the time because he didn’t think they made sense.

Maybe I should get coffee, thought Phil. Maybe Amy would like some. No, I’d have to get her roommates coffee then too. They always expect things. Just because I’m dating who they live with doesn’t mean they’re entitled to the gifts I give her. I don’t owe them anything. I’m going to stop giving them things. I do too much already for other people. I need to focus on myself and Amy. No more needless generosity. It’s like I’m dating three girls instead of one and two of them I don’t even like. Pretty girls always surround themselves with less pretty girls to make themselves feel prettier. If I can find boyfriends for them I’ll have more time with Amy. That way we can actually start fucking. We’ll just keep saying we’re waiting for marriage, but that’s how all the Christian girls work. You just keep saying it and keep kissing until they’re so wet they think they’ve been anointed with Christ’s oily blessing and of course he wants them to have sex because it’s not like we aren’t going to end up married anyway. Might as well just start now if we want it so much. God won’t care, Pastor Craig won’t know. Our parents can go along thinking we’re virgins and we’ll get married and just keep fucking. I wonder what her pussy smells like. Goddam, it’s been too long.

Darren set down two knives on the table in front of them. He exhaled louder than before and grabbed the handle of one, placing the tip by where his jawline met his ear. He breathed in and out while Phil came out of his own head, squinting and confused.

Phil opened his mouth but couldn’t even finish his question. “What are you…”

The thin knife slid up under Darren’s skin as easily as a letter opener into an envelope. There was no blood visible until he dragged the metal edge down his jaw line. His eyes were open the entire time, vacantly staring at nothing as his hand concentrated on guiding the knife, sawing underneath his skin and keeping the cut smooth, straight and even.

Having traced from ear to ear, Darren removed the knife from his face. The blood covered his blade hand completely. Phil stood up then, the shock having worn off enough to realize action was necessary, and put out a hand to stop Darren. The blade entered his palm, directly through the middle, and Phil stared at the blade tip that pointed directly at him out the back of his hand. He turned his wrist and panic took him once he confirmed that the knife actually was inside him, the handle sticking out of the inside below his fingers like a misplaced sixth.

“You stabbed me,” said Phil. He stumbled back, squeezing his wrist, and plopped into his chair.

Darren took the other knife off the table and dragged it up from the front of his ear, separating the skin below his hairline and above his forehead.

The dreadlocked barista kept his phone steady on the scene, recording as blood reached Darren’s eyes.

“He’s stabbing people,” yelled a lady behind Phil into a phone.

The man behind the laptop watched silently and others from the back ran for the front doors. The cropped hair portly women with football hoodies almost got involved, until they saw how much blood there was and decided to get coffee elsewhere.

Oh my God, thought Phil. What do I do? Should I take the knife out? Oh Lord, please. Please, help me. What if I lose my hand? I’m going to be handicapped. I could die. I can’t die. I still have to fuck Amy. Please, God let me fuck Amy.

Darren put the knife down and dug his fingers into the cut atop his forehead. He gripped the skin flap and pulled down. It removed easily at first until he got to the eyelids, but he ripped harder and they came away from his eyes, stretching the skin holes. The circles elongated into ovals and the skin then pulled away at the cheeks with a fair amount of ease. The nose was difficult, but it was the most stubborn at his mouth and so he went back for the knife to cut between where his lips and gums met. He cut around feverishly with the rest of his face hanging over and his eyes wildly glued, exposed completely to the open air.

Phil never took his eyes off the knife in his hand.

When Darren was done, he got up from his seat, leaving the knife on the table and taking his face with him. It didn’t look like a face the way it hung from his fingers, but when he stretched it back out on the counter by the cash register, it almost resembled one again, though flat and weird as it was with the extra skin of the nose, scrunched and folded, resembling more of a pig’s than a human’s.

Later, witnesses outside claimed the raw faced man was trying to tell them something. When they were questioned later as to what specifically he was saying, none of them were able to discern it accurately. He wasn’t saying the word, “separatist” and he wasn’t telling them he was the “devil’s gift”, but both were close enough.

At the hospital, days later when Darren wasn’t dead and they gave him a notepad to communicate, he wrote only one phrase over and over.


Live On No Evil – JULY 2016


Live On No Evil is coming to Perpetual Motion Machine Publishing July 26, 2016.

I’m excited to the point of ridiculous so instead of communicating that through as many obscenities as I can fit into one sentence, I’ll instead tell you why this book means so much to me.

This novel started out as a way of venting my frustrations with our modern slave culture while working as a Target employee. By the end it evolved into an attack on the god of the Bible and all of the inherent evil I have personally experienced through religion and the disease of thought that is Christianity.

When I began, I had no plans for what the book would become. One of the things I shy away from when writing is creating outlines. Nothing of this book was edited until each of the four handwritten notebooks it took to finish were completed. The Moleskins I wrote them in were holy. No mistakes were made because every stroke of the pen, intentional or not, was destined to be there. That’s how seriously I treated these books. I was creating gods and demons and they were real because I had allowed them to be. Not only in this book, but manifesting themselves in my own life as well. Truth didn’t matter. All that mattered was that I believed and the story would find itself. The gods would show me who they were. The demons would make themselves known. The book already existed, I just needed to physically add it to this plane of existence.

That’s exactly what happened and that’s exactly what is still happening. These gods started out as The Neon Three. I then realized that there was in fact six of them and that these three were only half of The High Six. The further I wrote, the more I realized that these entities already existed in my previously unpublished book Mammoth, I just didn’t know it yet.

I made a divination deck that involved the gods of The High Six, The Neon Three included, and began to use them to speak to me. Every color I see, every number sequence, every look, word, tooth, eye and nail, everything is The High Six and their attempt to communicate.

I actually believe this is true because I choose to. Why the fuck not? I think God and the devil are both evil. So why not create my own gods? My own devils? Fuck it. I’ve known I was going to hell since I was three years old and couldn’t keep my eyes closed during prayer. So until I get there, all because I have rejected Jesus Christ from my heart because God is most definitely not good, I’ll keep writing about my gods and hope that maybe one day they do become real and really do save us from the nightmares of both heaven and hell.


Jeremiah Israel


Live On No Evil is a spiritual horror novel about aliens, demons and an extra dimensional god entity named Sahasa that has come to earth to provide human beings with a third option between heaven and hell.

Backpack is an eight year old boy who has found his only friend in a mysterious alien entity named Blue. After failing at saving the live action role playing obsessed Forest from murder at the hands of deceptive demons, Backpack must save the notorious ‘Pet Threat’, Spectrum City’s animal serial killer, from a similar fate. In order to complete his induction into the loyalty of Sahasa, Backpack must find the one who will defeat the Library Labyrinth to stop an alien attack that will destroy Spectrum City.

Live On No Evil JULY2016!!!!!!

Oh and shit, check out the PMMP website and buy a book for Sahasa sake!!!!!!

The 4 Conspiracy Posts I Resolutioned Myself Out of Writing


I was trying to write another Conspiracy post but I’m sick of it. Conspiracy is tiring. I got other shit to do. I like these pictures though and I’ll give you at least a snapshot of the conspiracy bullshit that may or definitely isn’t true.

The Beast Conspiracy


The Antichrist is coming and blah blah blah shit and shit. Anyway, the Mark of the Beast is in your cellphone and the Antichrist is an alien.

The Bitch Conspiracy


Just watch this lame ass video trying to make recent domestic terrorist attacks by young white kids on antidepressants into an issue of  boys not being able to express their feelings. Oh and crying happens too. Weird.

The Blank Conspiracy


Your mind is shooting blanks because everything is making you stupid. Fluoride, GMOs, and especially the television. We are all bewitched by brain-eating medicines. We are all under the hypnosis of the moving pictures. Earth is just a petri-dish of dumb souls waiting to be harvested. There was more but I’m drawing a blank.

The Bogus Conspiracy


Last and probably least, Conspiracy culture is so full of shit. I’ve been running myself mad watching and re-watching contradictory conspiracy theories in YouTube videos. There’s a lot of crazy shit out there and crazy is exactly what you become when you spend all your time learning about how celebrities eat poo as a part of Satan worship, or about how Anton Lavey, founder of the Church of Satan, castrated his son for not following in his footsteps and is still alive today. Magicians are really just summoning demon spirits to do their tricks for them. Eminem has been dead for a while and is replaced by a robo-humanoid clone.

Miley’s under mind control, Obama is the Antichrist and aliens are really fallen angels working for the devil.

I need a break from this conspiracy shit. This isn’t really a resolution as much as it is a way for me to do, as half-assed as possible, the last four conspiracy blogs I had already planned.

I intentionally didn’t use any links for the conspiracy theories above. They’re a never-ending rabbit hole that’ll make you feel like you’re falling even though you aren’t going anywhere.

Good luck and happy fucking New Year motherfuckers. 2015 doesn’t hate you yet and everything might just turn out alright. Of course, when it doesn’t and you’re stuck in a bunker starving with your family all without food, just remember that eating people is an asshole thing to do.

Also, if you’ve read this than why the fuck haven’t you read March the Damned yet?

Sin seriously,

Jeremiah Israel

March The Damned



March The Damned: The Flying Zombies Trilogy Book One is now available in ebook and paperback here —> http://amzn.to/1pTch2u

Here is the description:

Movie director, alcoholic and all around asshole Dennis March’s plans for his next blockbuster are put on hold when Southern California is invaded by flying parasitic aliens that use people as hosts before discarding them as zombies. After local newscaster Kelly Stelly and crew save him from attack, he discovers that he has become partially infected with the alien DNA which changes his mind and body into something more alien than human. March quickly takes control of the group, renaming everyone and casting them as actors in the film that will save their lives and salvage his career.

Meanwhile, Military officer Shane Mitchell is anxious to get a piece of the action, but his superiors won’t lift the stand down order. After Professor Perry Prost makes a fool of him for disrupting his informative class on the aliens and zombies, Shane takes his action hungry Win Squad to take on the flying alien parasites and their hosts head on at the happiest place on earth: Disneyland.

March’s crew teams up with Little Boy Blam, a ten year old gangster from Compton, and uses his weapon and drug packed safe house to outfit his cast. No one knows the true secret to March’s new found power, or the conspiracy behind the alien attack, until they meet another of the partially infected. By refusing to join the alien collective in their evil conspiracy to consume the souls of all mankind, he instigates a losing battle against the most powerful controlling force in existence.

Flying Zombies deftly blends action, horror and satire into a ruthlessly humorous caricature of American pop culture and infectious paranoia. Its outrageous conclusion will either leave you laughing or deeply disturbed, but probably both.