GHETTO ASS WITCH (FEAT. GVCCI​-​HVCCI) [BLIND BINDINGS REMIX]

GHETTO ASS WITCH (FEAT. GVCCI​-​HVCCI)
[BLIND BINDINGS REMIX]

from GHETTO ASS WITCH - REMIXES VOLUME ONE by RITUALZ

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To Be Holding the Eye

To the reader: A federal coroner was in town for the weekend recently. She was caught short with a steep bar tab. The editors were only too happy to help out, and received this manuscript as a token of gratitude.

In terror I... beheld the living machines
of my mates standing before me.

In 1954 there was an atomic test that was part of Castle Project. It was a 13.5 megaton device called Yankee Shot, and was discharged somewhere in the Pacific Proving Ground. That it happened, of course, is of some importance, but for the sake of my story it is but one brief shining silent instant.

I was a Radio Engineer for the Navy. We were to witness the blast topside, standing at attention, with a hand covering our eyes, in some grim salute. At the time of the blast, for a frightful moment I could see not only the bones in my hands, but the network of nerves and blood coursing through it. In terror I dropped it from my face, and beheld the living machines of my mates standing before me.

I was dispatched to one of the decommissioned vessels that had remained afloat, to test the electronic equipment. This test was intended to be done on merely a pass-or-fail basis, the idea was to get in and then get out fast before things got too hot.

My preliminary testing showed that most of the gear's internal resistance had dropped to zero. This, of course, was impossible, but even my meters were cased in lead, so I trusted the reading.

I decided to extend my stay to pursue this theory, as I was bucking for a commission and transfer. In the middle of my testing, I heard a squad hit the deck hard, and quickly descend the stairs.

"Jumpin' Jay-hoo Mister! Ain't your brain getting too hot down here?" It was Commodore Bracken, an egghead, and some MPs.

"Sir, no sir. I was running some tests on the suspected zero internal resistance of the radio equipment, sir."

"Well sir, you can suspect your ass is going to experience some zero internal resistance with my boot if it doesn't get topside stat."

"No, let him speak." The egghead hissed like a goose in his white protective gear. He was the only one of us decked out for the holiday. As Bracken glared at him, the ever helpful MPs roughed me up the steps.

Anyway, after getting out of a failed career in the Navy, I wound up repairing appliances for some slave-driving company in Poughkeepsie. I had some innate knowledge in the field of fixing washing machines, refrigerators, and dishwashers. I'd just look them over, make some polite chit-chat, and be outdoors, fending off the appreciative thanks of bored homemakers.

Some portion of the good sense of duty that I had managed to glean from the Navy kept me pretty square until about the summer of '66.

I was at some place on Lawndale, which was inhabited by the wife of some pawn-broker, by the look of all the gold dripping off her. She answered the door draped the doily from the end-table, and was smoking a 120mm cigarette whose last half was stained red with lipstick.

I was hungry and grumpy in the humid afternoon, with donuts and coffee straining in my abdominal cavity. I was going to play this one.

"Howdy, ma'm."

Disinterest.

"Mighty hot today."

Apathy.

"What's the problem?" Entering the kitchen, I saw it was the fridge and only a fuse at that.

"Fridge." She said, squinting through cobalt eye-shadow. "Want a drink?" She was a bit puckered.

"That would be mighty kind of you." I palmed a 600 amp cartridge in one hand. Pulling out the appliance out a few inches, I popped the dead fuse out, and slipped in the new one. It hummed alive.

"Yay..." she intoned flatly, handing me a Bloody Mary. "My husband...," she said the word with disdain, "...will be very happy. Cheapprick!"

She trotted back to the counter, boozy on high heels, and put her big ass up on top of it. She fished out another cigarette while giving me a kind of "get to work" look.

"Will your husband be home soon to thank me?" My professional pride was hurt. I stood and began unzipping my coveralls, which were older than me, and stank of sewage.

She stuck most of the butt down her throat and sucked hard. The pigments in her heavily painted face irradiated, glowing under the sudden flush of blood in her heat.

"He told me to thank you myself."

Häxan: Witchcraft Through the Ages (1922)

After finding a copy of the 15th century occult text Malleus Maleficarum in a Berlin bookstore,Danish film director Benjamin Christensen went on to produce the film Häxan during the years of 1919 - 1921 through a Swedish studio. The film ended up being the most expensive Scandinavian silent film ever produced due to the length of production and Christensen's meticulous recreations of medieval scenes. The final version was banned in the US and highly censored versions where screened elsewhere, due to themes of torture, nudity and sexual perversion that were considered graphic and taboo at the time.


The film uses still photography of archival prints, animations and horror movie style dramatizations in a documentary study that proposes how superstitions and misinformation of mental illness lead to persecutions and civil unrest such as the Inquisitions and other witch-hunts of the past.


There are five chapters to the film each building the case of how the human need to provide supernatural, or worse superstitious, answers using faulty reasoning when confronted with the uncomprehensible or not understandable leads to paranoia, injustice and an ultimately sick society.

Häxan: Witchcraft Through the Ages (1922) -- 240p, silent with English subtitles



The above version is best viewed while playing the "ULTIMATE WITCH HOUSE PLAYLIST" created by YouTube user futureextinguisher -- also on tumblr: witchgate




Häxan: Witchcraft Through the Ages (1922) -- Criterion Collection Version
360p version with musical score and original Scandinavian titles -- no English subtitles

Fleeing From Security

arr. by Andread T. Eblis

It is highly unlikely this will reach you. I hope you can piece together the mishmash of coasters, napkins and gum wrappers that I stuffed in the envelope I sent you, as it is of grave importance to your affiliates.

Being an Army dropout and a failed cop I've worked security most my life. The post I got now ain't no cake. That's why I'm running. 

It's 07:10, and I know my tail just showed to say he hasn't seen me all morning, and that I never came home last night. That's because I'm running, trying to figure out what to do.

At 07:00 I'm usually just making roll call. The only rolling I do however, is on a gurney in 7 -point restraint.

The job pays well I'd suppose, if you ever got to spend it. If I m not here, or working a double, I'm trying to bust the hangover from all the dope they load me up on. Then there's the booze and pills from trying to drink myself to sleep. I'll never sleep again with this gig.

They roll you to some operating room in some sub-cellar. They induce death... You spasm, you shit, you seize. I've died more times than any sane man should. I am no longer sane.

The only solace is that I know I'm not alone in my vocation. There's MacDouggal and big ol' Earl Jones. MacDouggal always bitches about me being late [I've built up a tolerance to death], and mumbles about his late car payment, or his wife's cheating, or something as he slips out the door, leaving me with a hand full.

Jones is a company man, though. He's always on overtime, helps me set the load, and is early to relieve me. The man is huge, with sweat always boiling on his knotty black brow.

I'll skip the part of bow we transmute, how we get there, for then I would be truly nuts. To even try to relate the process that tears a man's being in shreds and delivers it to that place, would snap the thin thread of credibility I have with you and your people.

So, once I'm down there, or up there, or where ever there is, the reality of my task becomes apparent. Not that this is a place where reality has any meaning. 

As I become aware— after the initial overwhelming stink and sound— the sight of one puny man holding back that, seems wholly ludicrous. Its enough to fill one with tears and titters, and then I know I am to replace the man who is firmly entrenched, maintaining the security of the Gate.

Yesterday morning it was Jones. Actually the man is huge and dark, looking proud and tall, holding it back with unfailing ease. "Where's MacDouggal," I mumble.

"No call. No show," Jones grunts. "Got him before I hit the gurney." All conversation is over as I brace myself for the load. Jones, kind as he may be, lets up too quick, and I am nearly bowled over with the sudden encumbrance. 

Those on the otherside rally at the newcomer, emitting that low, though deafening, hiss-click-click noise which I know is an entreaty, an empty promise.

The frayed edges of my mind tell me that if I succumb I will not die like the rest, I will go to another place, have great power, much of a realm, and thousands of concubines; things I have never imagined. 

Pulpy talons stroke my chest, and tails— at least I hope they are tails— lash and wrap around my thighs. My shift has just begun.

I no longer have any concept of myself. My life before isn't even triggered by photographs. My off-duty hours are bobbled and lost. I have no paid holidays, sick days, vacation, or health insurance. I am off on a folly and I run...

Peckman's Model

to the reader: Following is a copy of the transcript from a recent police interrogation. It fell out of the pocket of a local detective who was taking a cab ride home to his wife, after a long night on the town. The cabbie was nice enough to send it our way. The questions have been edited out.

I first met Richard Peckman when we were bike couriers. We called him Peck, Heck, Hecky, Pecky. Called him Pecker behind his back. We called him Heck after Richard Hell, because he was such a dark son-of-a-bitch sometimes.

He had gotten a Multi-Media Art degree, and worked as a messenger while getting a Master's in some sort of Bio-chemical Engineering thing. He did it pretty slow, it took him a long time. We were pretty good friends for a time, but then he met Molly. Molly Sindretta. With an “S”, I think.

He had just graduated, and he was acting like some golden boy. He was high out of his tree. We had done some partying while he was in school, but this was like all-natural, through the roof. I don't blame him, we lived like dirty dogs for years, we were always filthy then. (Laughter) Yeah, thanks pork-pie.

I was there when they met, him and Molly, that was a wild night. I was there with some other people, the place was packed. I don't know, some summer... I don't know which year, I was hammered.

Peck comes down to bitch someone out, I forget who or why. Had a shot, did his bitching, and went off to the back of the bar, by himself and nursed a beer. I had seen Molly earlier, across the way, sitting like the ice princess she is, or was. I couldn't get anything going with her, never could on the other times I'd seen her there.

I see her look at Peck though, and he catches it, and goes limp like a goose with a rung neck. I see him rolling gears in his head, like he's trying to work up to chatting her, like he always had to. He makes like he's going to, but I know he's just going to get another shot. She wags and curls a finger, and points to the seat next to her, and like a fool, he sits down. He never stopped doing whatever that itchy finger required.

Anyway I start seeing him rarely, if ever, and he's always got some big ideas, real hare-brained stuff. She's got a Fine Arts degree and they do some joint art projects, or some such thing, together. I never understood the stuff, it was way over my head.

They get this gallery going down on Pittsburgh Street. Yeah, where you busted up the party tonight, where you busted me. That was the chick’s pot, not mine… The bassist from the punk band… I thought I'd get lucky, I don't know… What’s the matter with her?... You don’t know that!...

Anyway, they hook some freaky patron, some French faggot, and get offered some wacky gig in Paris. The get married before they go, kind of elope. Too good to be true? That's right, her hooks were in him so hard, so quick.

Next time I see him in is in the bar… Yeah, the same one… Well I guess you'll always know where to find me then… To let you know that that cheap tie doesn't go with that even cheaper suit.

I see him in the bar and he looks worked… Not more than a year-and-a-half ago. Molly's left him and he's not too clear on why. He looks like hell, like he's taken it real hard. And he admits it too, "but not to worry" because he's got some big stuff rolling. I don't hear from him for a long time.

I was down on Pittsburgh awhile ago… Like six months ago… Making a drop at some photographer's place in that same building… Yeah, that's him… Yeah, in Peck's building.

I see Peck's name on the mailbox, so I drop in on him, ring his bell. And he looks worse than when I last saw him…