Call me whacked, everyone does, just don’t call me a thrillseeker. No, no, no. Perspective: car surfing’s a thrill, sprinting across railway bridges is a thrill. War reporting isn’t a thrill. It’s an assignment, it’s a duty. It’s why they don’t hand out Pulitzer s for base jumping. It’s about redefining your view of mortality. For yourself, and for the other guys. To tell people it’s not indiscriminate death, period, it’s indiscriminate death, comma. Someone has to be the hell-chaser. When I finally found the real thing, I hardly felt surprised. Turns out that Hell is a whole lot like home. No matter that I’ve been desensitized by mass graves and hate crimes and Fox News and fucking Burger King. The air tastes like bleach fumes and the way the light falls is all wrong, too red and too overexposed, but it’s a whole lot like home. I don’t see any great cosmic moral in that, though.
You wanna page from my memoirs, bud? I first saw it in Afghanistan. Down in the caves, the real old caves, the ones the Taliban dynamited the shit out of along with those big Buddhas. Opened something they couldn’t close again. Finest military ordnance the taxpayer’s money can fund barely closed it. Picture if you will a squad of huge-ass marines, doing all they could not to piss their pants. Praying to every god in the directory. I just squatted in my own mess and wrote until my hands seized up. Gibberish. Total shit, that’s what it turned out I wrote. That’s what the camp docs made of it, too. Check it off under battlefield trauma, heat exhaustion, second-degree sunburn. Mass hallucination. Gave us a lot of prescription drugs I dumped in the desert. Seriously, take two if visions of fucking howling, screaming purgatory persist? I don’t know what happened to the other guys, at least, not all of them. Let’s say I took it better than most.
The Secret World
Yeah, I know I’ve been busting your chops, but that’s just me, I’m an asshole. Unrepentant. I appreciate the company, no shit. You don’t get a lot of it when you’re going a million miles an hour. F5-ing the world every ten seconds. If I lived to do an autobiography, it would’ve been an RSS feed. There were two people who really got my angle. My grandfather, who told me I was always jumping freight trains straight to hell. And Claudio – my wife – maybe you read her, wrote for the Village Voice before the buyout. Yeah we had it good, same wavelength, didn’t want kids, gymnastic shit in the bedroom… Things weren’t the same after I did Georgia. The country, not the dancer at the 5th Age, Claudia was totally accommodating. Sitting in the back of an open jeep, in the rain, with Hell on my mind. I knew just where to find it. Someone, something was calling me there. We had a…real special moment in the ruins. The glasses haven’t come off since.
Hell Hath No Vacancy
Daniel Bach compares the Overlook Motel grounds to a warzone. Demons, hell beasts and portals into another world – at least it makes for an interesting news article. But who knows what else could come through the rifts if the demons aren’t stopped?
Interestingly enough, fireworks ensue when the draug invasion from the sea clashes with the demon invasion from Hell.
To swear contract with demons is to embrace a false change. it is an easy power, a basic power, with only one outcome. Destruction without echo. Understand that the Hell Dimensions are simply another form of stasis. The catastrophe that it brings cannot trigger transformation, other than the transformation into the Hell Dimensions. Where they are in play, the cycle halts on apocalypse. The wheel is seized. And so, they are of no use to us. An enemy that cannot be subverted is the bases of enemies, and should be treated only by the blade.
Hell and Bach
Daniel Bach has been chasing a rogue magus through the piss soaked alleys of the world. Use Bach’s research to trace back the life of Theodore Wicker, to understand who he was, where he’s been, and what he sacrificed along the way.
Inside Room 13 I found an old notebook, presumably Wickers, and a seance circle. A Latin phrase inside the book read: ORDERINT DUM METUANT “Let them hate as long as they fear”
I solved the puzzle and Theodore Wicker appeared.
“This is the place. So pathetic for something so portentous.I can feel the other side is close, so close.I saw it in the motel owner’s eyes, glazed with fear and suffering.Offerings have been poured out on this ground. Soaked through to the foundations.Covered over with a minimum of effort. An Illuminati hallmark. The room stinks of inevitability.Of all the damned lives I have ended, this final sacrifice is the most deserving.I hold up to you, Saccharissa, the heart…of Theodore…Wicker.”
So I figured out how Wicker got into Hell, time to backtrack his steps using Bach’s notes. First stop: New York sewers.
NON SUM QUALIS ERAM: “I am not what I was”
I solved the puzzle and an image of Wicker appeared, as before.
My preparations were flawed.In rendering my body able to survive the Hell Dimensions, I have made myself sick among humans.Each climate brings a new fever. I retch at the touch of sunlight on my skin.My dietary requirements, extreme. I am become some Victorian storybook monster.And no crossing point, no portal will do. I travel the world, searching, a leper prodigal.This one won’t do, and this one won’t do–It must be fresh. Exposed.I am driven.Saccharissa waits at the border.
The next picture in the journal appears to be somewhere in London. I’ll have to find that stairwell.
In London, I discovered what I can only presume is Mr. Wicker’s home base of operations. I found the seance circle and the following Latin inscription painted on the ceiling: ORBIS NON SUFFICIT: “The world is not enough.”
As before, solving the riddle showed me an image of Wicker, who said:
I see those shores aflame when I sleep. I see them when I am awake.I look out at this city’s dismal shapes, BT Tower blinking feebly in a sky of unfinished grey wash.I cast no reflection. The glass feels alien to the touch.I will not miss this place, no more than I regret the sacrifices I have made.Or those yet to come.”Do not plead, do not rage,” I should say, “for your language means so little to us.”Saccharissa…
Searching the apartment I also found this page from one of Wicker’s journals:
Translating the Latin in this journal entry yields: TABULA RASA and SEPTIMUS. Tabula Rasa is a club in London where you can rent rooms, one of which is called the septimus room.
Inside the septimus room I discovered a tape recorder with Wicker’s first recording about his descent into hell. I also discovered a pamphlet for a seminar he was giving at the British Occult Museum in 1977.
It’s true. Everything is true. Mankind and demonkind lived as one. All my work has led me to this, and yet still it changes everything. They were right to suppress this history, man and demon both. For its magnificence is…fracturing. My mind is stripped naked by the possibilities. The historian’s curse is to forever be on the outside, looking in, on former glories trapped in amber. What if one had the means to return them- What if one had the will to do it?
AD AUGUST PER ANGUSTA “Through difficulty to magnificence”
And I found this tacked to the door of the British Occult Museum.
Referenced YouTube video:
If you don't like what you are, you must change where you come from. You must claw your way into a new womb and be born again. We were at the lecture in 1977. All the great societies were interested in Theodore Wicker. The Illuminati wanted him. The Templars wanted him away from the Illuminati. And we were content to merely sit there - third row, second from the left - and ring a soundless bell every time he said the word "life." It was part of a flawed model, built on the premise that Wicker would garner an army of followers in this world. We were half right. Unfortunately, soundlessness carries very differently in Hell.
Into the Inferno
Daniel Bach’s quarry, the hell-raiser Theodore Wicker, is the cause of the hellish events at the Overlook Motel. Cross to the other side and find him before the situation worsens.
Theodore Wicker is a dangerous and unstable element in the fabric of Hell. We would rather see him free than chained as a mindless battery. Hell is a stilled sea of oil, awaiting introduction of a spark, and we are curious to see the long-term effects of a man like Wicker. In time, Hell will burn through him, make of him another melted candle. That is why we do not sign agreements with so-called masters of Hell. Today, we aid Wicker. Tomorrow, whoever is best positioned to maintain the beat of the furious drum.