Black Rite Gone Wrong

Down and down and back to Essex, era vulgaris 1970, the moonth of Februate or thereabouts, the hour midnight. Is the desertified church of St. Mary at the Walls in the olde town of Coldchester. Black robed skir hand covine in widdershins circumambulates, enchanticating names of infernalised drakness, “Lucifuge! Samyouwill! Natas!”

Centric of their circle stands upright Szanded Dashwoor, eyestraining The Book of Dragons Red in pail luminations of too few candles, far much smokiness of incenses and charcoal. The furds of envocation is all bewuddled; somewitch spiked the chalice with Hell’s Ess Dee and whooshing up strong. Zazas for a nasatanada as door swunged wide with not a prayer as in they come, all possessed with no excorcist between them for the Licence of Departure.

Daemons come and daemons go but where they comes from we don’t gnow. What we does gnowsis most of thems comed in the gingerhead on the alter, hypnotricked with curdling oaths of secrets held and spells of covine punishings. Struggles strains and hurts as change of mind denied, held fast by wrist and arse and she but 16 years jung. Was Essex Craft and all so let us not pretend of good blood manners. Concepted by Black Rite gone wrong, solitary semonid bespatters panick strucken egg and what was writ but the Grobbly – summoned to homonculi from who gnows where by squidged langs of magicology.

Seven moonths a secret but belly grows gibbous. Grandmatrix and Grandpatrix fingerwaggle blames and shame but Matrix tells them not of the name nor the when or way of it. Rumourmonger neighbours all a snigger, her reputatiates shredded. She is a just a honeybell, say all. Knows even not the patrix name nor when and way of it, say all. Keep it not the stranger’s basturd sprog, say all.

And so If was, Grandmatrix sprunching Matrix’s pregnified gloopits in the heating tub as glattles of whiskey belittered the cractiled floor – is how was done in the Old Daze. But wriggle free of cuntsquish did the Grobbly, amniotic caul and all, bobbing to the surface of shit stinked wetars and red mess bubbles in me flesh balloon.

Sliced of sack the babe within but 3lbs light, purple blue of skin and furred with red from toe to head. Crooked spined with curly tail at arse and six toe funny feet, a gribbly sprog so hard to love but kill me they could not. Hellow, is back again!

Doctors is called and comes. Besaided, “Done prematurely cuntsquished a crooked sproglet. Will never of the follolop, he so criplified. Best be chopping off that tail.”

The furry felled all rub away leaving plump baby pinkness, yet still is no bondies with Matrix’s cold witch teat. For worse our chopper sprouts teethipegs, many lots in doubled rows and sharpestmost, as if even then we sensed her twisty self hate for blame of the Grobbly and willfilled keeps the distafied.

From birthed behind a veil of tears it gets no better for matrix nor the Grobbly as life is by. Szanded Dashwoo done a flit, the gribbly. Off to grobble sproglets and snorting of wrongness with rock & roll dwindlers. So matrix was a honeybell and patrix was the Devil, and what proceeds? That which preceeds in wrongness is sure to proceed no better and so it is. Fret not fickle Fate of witch no have of sway.

So here is the Grobbly decades flitted, comfit at the crossroads as trafficking flashy by, gribbly olde bowler for tributes and all rags and blankets. Who in the now is follolop along but you, pockets at a jingle, bethinksing gnows of khaos and magick and Ifs and If Nots but no occifisdom for the Invisibubbled.

We at this intersects all dazed longing. Eyewaggle the Grobbly or no the Grobbly eyewaggles you and all your journeys of Ifs and If Nots, growtesqueries, thwarts and whatnots. All what your preceedids and proceedids whatnotted. There at the over post where Red Men sign for stillness and Green Men becon on.. Away is gone, not eyewaggles to right or wrong and folloloping lanky strides.

One day perhaps a woopsie daisy splat, run over by a karma if not more care. But this be the Grobbly litrified, not your vayn pocket jingle sprentings. Downtime bethinksing wander of your own begendings – pay more attrition for Grobbly’s sake, bespair and overstanding comes. The lessen is soon under and down and downer to the atavistical begendings of all this gribblish and grobbalosolalia. Be gentle with your selfs and blessie blessie every mourning.



WARNING! The author and publisher accept no responsibility for any loss of sanity or risk to personal safety that may or may not result from reading this book.

“Tall tales, low lives, filth and fun – a deliciously dark slop bucket of enjoyment from a modern master. If you like mind melting urban epistles that are inky with intrigue and redolent with the stink of sorcery, then hold your nose and jump in quick!” – Julian Wilde, author of The Grimoire of Chaos Magick and The Real Rasa.

“Right up my street.” – Pat Mills, creator of 2000AD

“Put what you think I might say. That should be fun.” – Ray Sherwin, originator of Chaos Magic.


Stories include; The Dangerous Author, MK Ultra Culture, The Lost Keys of Solomon, Everybody Loathes a Clown, The Rape of Saint Peter, The Apollyon Machine, Ex Nihilo, Marmalade Lane, Mistress Beta Von Rhine, The Cutting Up of William Burroughs, A Grim & Unfairy Story, Embrace Reality Through Imagination, The MK Massacre, Khaos at Trinity Road.

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