Andre M. Pietroschek

Mesopotamian Dreams - Camels and Cthulhu (restored riot fiction)

Mesopotamian Dreams - Camels and Cthulhu
Author, editor, and producer (audio, video): Andre Michael Pietroschek

Disclaimer: No warranties!

A lesser copycat of Lovecraft's Joseph Curwen and the Return of the Sorcerer by Clark Ashton Smith. 

Trigger warnings:
The author occasionally identifies as a small penis white trash person!
Biased fictional protagonist.
Rude language.
Harsh language.
N-word usage.
Black Excellence & their adversaries: Black Ignorance.

The story begins:

``Young student, prepare yourself well to resist that occult allure that made many mortals before you tragically oblivious to the fact that by scientific laws our magic carpets only fly in dreams, but never ever, when another dreamy moron jumps from the rooftop! A Fake Mesopotamian Proverb, written and translated by Andre Michael Pietroschek´´


Sometimes, when a public hysteria becomes vicious and backstabbing enough, then it begins to shift what we occult ones call paradigm and changes certain definitions, of which only the lowest ranking adepts felt ever any need to speak about in public. In a frenzy of corrections, tainted by the laziness of work shunning cheaters, one such lesser contamination of the free societies had gone on. Two thousand years of occult study and practice had been reduced into nothing, but another supposedly racist murder spree against the ever-innocent darker-skinned folks among humanity.


There is no need to debate the scientific correctness of this, as the mobs across the planet would simply abuse another faked excuse to commit their crimes while playing the victims. So, in the new definitions, Cthulhu is all about killing the N-word ones, and cultists are all about reenacting some completely dysfunctional and unpaid KKK efforts from back in the Sixties of the last century. Yep. Simple. No more occult symbols, secret rites, decades of missing the fun stuff to achieve the transformation allowing oneself to at least reap some personal benefit from all invested. All reduced to a Caucasian excuse for going racist unto Africa and all it spawned forth.


In such an age every online database had accumulated at least five thousand rituals to butt-rape Cthulhu, but not a single one among those blokes and dolts could even recognize a real threat when it already came gunning for them. Sex parties and substance abuse were among the highest their brains could handle, and more than one faction had to turn against them, as their constant crimes left only perdition or retaliation as choices.


Islamists worked hard to whip their murderous mobs into more severe assaults on unarmed civilians, and terrorism learned to disguise as self-defense or anti-racism. It was the stupor of the ill-educated, the meeting of academic hubris with the desolate cities their selfish money snatching had indeed long made real. End of an era, with a lot of armed people being very angry. 


With my rituals at the very best killing merely hundreds of N-words per day, while the real Evil Wizards and Witches were supposed to wipe out at least one city per day with one curse any four-year-old girl could pronounce, with such a low body count I was considered only a wannabe, a lesser occultist or dysfunctional sorcerer. Estimations from the other side. Antagonist assessment. Poo happens.


The Black Ignorance movement, so far, had failed to usurp the governments of the world. But, their continued efforts went on, seen and unseen, heard and unheard. Riots, street crimes, rape, murder, and lots of robbery and looting. In this peculiar age, in that phase of my lifespan, we had been to one more seance again. Which of course meant an Ouija board and racist N-word hate instead of protecting oneself, so one actually could survive summoning a creature made up one hundred percent of certain death aka a ghost. Not that TV and monetized video streams could be unreliable sources, or even worse. 


Well, contrary to what these incited brutes wanted to be true, we were already overwhelmed by the need to constantly kill frenzied mobs in self-defense, and not one of us was ever told to go, kill N-words at all. Much too strenuous a task for the typical Caucasian. We are neither that energetic, nor that horny after all. If it had been our crime, then it would have been something like patron saint Kenosha enlightening us to shoot them N words from behind. Like the lazy and craven beeps we always had been behind all the facades and charades.


But, feel free to shout your Kill more N-word, if that makes you feel less racist. In any conflict, guilt is always on both sides, real wars ain't fairy tales. 


I could neither prevent it nor would police listen to me without showing utter disinterest in getting the necessary job done. Ever.


So, we had done one of the minor seances, a mere channeling of information, which contacted and communicated with a certain Howard Philip Lovecraft, an ex-loony bin kinda junkie, and a certain Clark Ashton Smith, who was also a writer but looked more like the UK version of a junkie than anything American.


It was after that seance, which I consider insignificant and harshly worth mentioning, when we were finished with visiting toilets and rushing to get refreshments and buffet. Yes, sometimes even occult practitioners are very mundane and not far from the typical vagrant, who cares more about surviving the next hours than anything worthy of mainstream praise.


Outside, gunfire could be heard, as that new law declaring any penis longer than nine-inch to be terrorism was taken very seriously by police and certain militias, which had formed when the mobs and rioters left only the aforementioned choice of perishing or retaliating. I still sneer at how those nonspiritual SHOULD have been less zealous, but the guilt on both sides kept the problems alive and the solution at bay.


In my opinion, politics and religion going sane was as probable, as the chance of an imminent invasion of Russia and China by the island of Jamaica.


Posturing, boasting, and other signs of the pseudo occult and lesser, failing ranks, went on, as nearly traditional among people, who had that parasitic need to socialize in occult guises, instead of living that part of life on their own terms, and then focusing any real occult progress. Be it solitary or teamwork. 


Our host thought knew, and in a mindset that would make a certain Agatha Christie proud, she had obviously gone unscathed with black widowing a bunch of hapless husbands, and now stood before us, an aging academic of around forty-six years, who was still snapping into a horny teenager approach to sexuality, when the mood took her. But, to counter that disease worship, she also took great care to pay well. And, as the occult had never been a money mill, most of us were always low income, as neither neo-shamanism, nor witchcraft, nor that chaos magick endured the changes of the modern age. Yeah, occultists prioritize differently than managers or politicians. 


Time passed, and with the last teenagers, who were mostly about ganging up for what horror movies taught them as ritual murder, had finally left the party, we were informed of the challenge, which I do not consider the better one. I merely went to accept that challenge and hence could not tell a different tale about it.


Forbidden knowledge, freshly discovered, and a need for lab rats risking their life instead of our aging host risking her own. I made a mental note of not volunteering that night, no matter what. Still, such challenges are routine to us, as a readiness to die trying does belong to the advanced practice of occultism, and we were not a book club merely reciting old writings labeled occult.


Transport was arranged, and we were transferred to a mansion guarded well, so no mobs of ever-innocent N-word cultists could easily spoil our efforts. Appreciated.


The daughters of our host, so it seemed, were getting their jollies from seducing the gullible and sacrificing to empower their own climax, riding on boners and planting sacrificial knives into the chests or throats of their mates. Another, boring routine to me.


While not exactly the House on Haunted Hill, my suspicion was that our Host had to keep her facade up, while still being eager to remove all not-really-welcome guests from her list. Oh, and straight out of life, which made her pretty homicidal, but such does happen in certain witchcraft traditions and may not imply her being loonier than a witch at all. So far she had not violated the unspoken traditions still kept from those paranormal smartphone selfie folks.


A bored prostitute saved my night here. With no chance for monetary gain left, the red-haired gorgeous offered me a relief freebie, which meant she signaled and articulated her willingness to play my mate, so I would not have an overflow of stagnating sexual energies. In Dungeons and Dragons, I would term prostitutes as one of the versatile character classes, as the successful ones embodied part nurse, part street artist, part criminal, and part socialite in one. Often even in sexy clothing.


The challenge began when our host decided to announce her task to each of us. A group challenge formed the warm-up to this. We have presented a statue, placed on a pedestal in the middle of a room reminding me of Egypt, Persia, or Mesopotamia in style. We all did our mumbo jumbo, which still did not really revolve around the killing of any N-word, real or imagined, but went on nonetheless. It is the kind of moment, which often makes criminals do the Kenosha Police trick on us, as our own attention is focused on a task to a degree, which does not allow us to stay fully vigilant of our surroundings.


Time passed, as every single one of us was interviewed by our host discreetly, hence no blurting out of secrets was made too easy. When my turn came I was up to it. Let me merely note that I was not worthless and not fraudulent about it and that I even had one extra to offer. Thereby I was qualified for the second round, and the chance of not being murdered by the horny daughters of our host, or their personnel, seemed to increase.


The second round made us venture into another room, this time to see a book and a video apparatus allowing us to project the book's content onto a large screen, so nobody would have to even get close to the most probably expensive rarity kind of written sermon pinned onto paper. Yep, that book was in a glass-like box, not to get spittle and saliva or sweat unto it. Wise, but such is routine to academics.


Observation, empathy, and extensive practice with channeling or clairvoyance make up the competencies, that I would associate with the task at hand, the book analysis. As for the physical one, an academic would hire colleagues, and for a mere text-based one it would need philosophers more than practitioners. The trick is old and known. Our host wanted to get certain results without any of us realizing what those results were, or what our host intended to do once they were reaped.


Once more a lot of time was invested into informing our host properly. An opportunity to make me realize that from the original twenty-two guests, only twelve could still be seen. Three of them found themselves the target of attention from our dear host's daughters, who cultivated an air of nonchalance and innocence, the way only homicidal whores can do it. The prostitute partner at my side clenched tighter, her fingers clawing my left arm, but her eyes also received my look in return. I was not her psycho tonight, and I would offer a return of favors. Mutual parroting of loyalty increases the chances of survival.


A surge of power could be sensed when we continued through the roundel of the rooms. The third one looked so occult cliche that it should have received an award for that. A carefully drawn pentagram, inscribed with foreign language symbols I had never seen before, and a kind of suspiciously small gate. The kind made to only allow one person at a time transfer, or at least suggest such to the gullible customers.


We once more worked to earn our payment and informed our host discreetly. This time we received an envelope and ordered to open it after returning to the gate room. We did.


My envelope revealed a black credit card, a master card if I remember properly. And a note. My note read:


Congratulations, you have reached the final challenge. Your debit card is loaded with one hundred thousand US dollars. But, to not be a corpse bereft of that card, and your life, you must now escape this mansion on your own. While we looked up from our notes, our host had made her way through the portal, using our distraction to prevent us from witnessing, how she activated it. At the same time, streetwise distrust of the rich remembered, I spotted one of the daughters enter the room, a knife in each of her hands. Easy to guess, the other two sisters also were on their murder spree again! 


I snatched one bonus card from the ground in this final rush, as my prostitute of the night and I increased the distance between us and the killer teenagers by running towards the window. Also, I took the time to draw both my Taurus Spectrum handguns, which I do not call mouse guns but knew from concealed carry lessons in countries with a gun ban. The trick is spicing up the ammunition. At close range, they are decently deadly then.


I fired some shots into the window glass, to make it burst, and a warning shot, when one of the homicidal gals came close, but I did not have to kill that night. The prostitute and I escaped and shared a room in a motel far, far away from that mansion. The rest is self-hype to thwart my own competition.



I would love to thank certain Afro-American & African friends for helping me on this, but life taught us that
keeping it secret and leaving only myself to blame is wiser in this modern age.

Side-note: When I wrote this, it were still women. Someone LGBTQ already decided for them that now
they are 'menstruating persons'. Balkan, Paprika, Pizza Southern-Sea Island. I tell you. (German
replacement terms for supposedly 'racist' terms like gypsy or Pizza Hawaii)


I did not upload the video for this story, as overdoing on the 'racism' topic, factual or biased, does not
really help anyone.
Authors comment

All rights belong to its author. It was published on by demand of Andre M. Pietroschek.
Published on on 01/06/2024.


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