An A.T. Spellbook?

From Robin Allen

13 Oct 1995

An A.T. Spellbook?

Back in the days of my superstitious youth, I had an abiding interest in all things occult; at the time, I thought it was because I was an insightful, open-minded, progressive sort of guy, although now I realise that I was just a sad little git who wanted to get off with a witch. Whatever, I built up a modest library on The Black and White Arts, and the other day I found
myself roaming through it. I came across one of my prized possessions: "The Book of Ceremonial Magic", by one Arthur Edward Waite. I recalled spending a small fortune on it, and then never reading it; I had only ever skipped through it, laughing at the spells and invocations therein, whilst relishing the opportunity it offered for me to appear "hard" and "wicked" and "EVIL" in front of any devoutly Christian visitors who were foolish enough to scan my bookshelves.

Well, I began to conjure up vague memories that this book was actually rather tasteless - one or two of the spells, I seemed to recall, required the consumption of bodily fluids, or somesuch... I felt an a.t. post coming on. I eagerly leafed through the tome. As I did so, I had an obvious idea: why not an alt.tasteless spellbook? A list of rituals, etc., involving disgusting acts, designed to provide the magus with the object of his desire?

To give you some idea of the sort of thing I have in mind, here is an extract from Waite's book, a *real* spell, used, I guess, by *really* sad people...


TO BECOME INVISIBLE

Begin this operation on a Wednesday before the sun rises, being furnished with seven black beans. Take next the head of a dead man; place one of the beans in his mouth, two in his eyes, and two in his ears. Then make upon this head the character of the figure which here follows. (**omitted in all the Grimoires.**) This done, inter the head with the face towards heaven, and every day before sunrise, for the space of nine days, water it with excellent brandy. On the eighth day you will find the cited spirit [i.e. the stiff who used to own the head - ed], who will say unto you: What doest thou? You shall reply: I am watering my plant. He will then say: Give me that bottle; I will water it myself. You will answer by refusing, and he will again ask you, but you will persist in declining, until he shall stretch forth his hand and shew you the same figure which you have traced upon the head suspended from the tips of his fingers. In this case you may be assured that it is really the spirit of the head, because another might take you unawares, which would bring you evil, and further, your operation would be unfruitful. When you have given him your phial, he will water the head and depart. On the morrow, which is the ninth day, you shall return and will find your beans ripe. Take them, place one in your mouth, and then look at yourself in a glass. If you cannot see yourself, it is good. Do the same with the rest, or they may be tested in the mouth of a child. All those which do not answer must be interred with the head.

Hooboy. Any takers? I'll give it a go. Gave me a fearsome woody.

Hey, Sonya - you've got anatomical connections. Any chance of some head? Sorry, a head.

I'll post an amazing, and phenomenally tasteless, ritual surrounding the "Hand of Glory", an object supposed to enable the wizard to freeze all movement near him, later. For the moment, here's the first off-the-cuff contribution to the "A.T. Spellbook".


TO BE RID OF AN ENEMY

The following ritual must be performed only on a Tuesday in a July month in which at least fifty definite Darwin events have taken place in the Northern Hemisphere thus far. Mercury must be favourable, and if the magus has any earth in his ascendant - quit. So, too, must he quit if he has ever had a boner whilst within spitting distance of a foodstuff containing zinc. The moon can be in any phase except gibbous.

Wait until midnight. When the clock strikes twelve, venture to the nearest seaside beach in a town whose name begins with "X" and, once there, gather together as many stones, shells and rotting crab corpses as will be necessary to plot a recognisable join-the-dots image of the face of your enemy (preferably at least 1dpi). This plot must be laid out so that the vertical axis is aligned to a line running from Milton Keynes, UK, to Bobi Hatch's bedroom. Lay out the picture on a garbage tip and leave for precisely one week.

Spend this week surviving on no more than your own urine and faeces. Salt, pepper and sugar are allowed as flavourants, but only in minimal amounts. Masturbate daily, every fifteen minutes between the hours of seven in the morning and nine at night. In your mind, you must be having joyous congress with the object of your loathing.

On the seventh day, at ten of the clock, procure the services of a small boy; preferably, of the "rent" variety. Ream the lad vigorously, using as lubricant the sweat of a freshly emasculated Mormon, and slit his throat as you climax. Collect two pints of his blood, mix with your semen, and imbibe. Gargle with the last twenty millilitres. It is important that you do all this before midnight.

On the stroke of midnight, take a knife and hack off the head of your charge. Ease out the left eyeball and fuck the socket. This isn't part of the ritual, but it's great fun.

Return to the site where you placed the facial representation of your enemy. Piss on it, whilst singing "My Way", backwards, in pig latin.

Then call Lenny, get an Uzi, go round to your enemy's home, and BLOW THE SHIT OUT OF THE FUCKER.

Works every time. Now *that's* magic.

Hmm. I shiver at what our Mr Weber might come up with.