Old WoD – Poison what you can’t conquer

As a Non-Native speaker my English is not without problems. I really regret that it spoils the readability for some people. Still Pietroschek-Prose is all I offer, and I am not at school here or elsewhere. All may read it, nobody is forced to do so.

Poison what you can’t conquer & that’s what I do

An IC (semi-omniscient 1st person) short-story by

A. M. Pietroschek © All rights reserved

Their chanting about Set is dementation to Kainite ears,

Their worship a dumb mimicry of thaumaturgy,

But long ago they looked so cool doing it!”

I might give you my name, yet it wouldn’t be for real. Sincerely, I change them at my whim. Fifteen years ago I was initiated into the existence of House and Clan Tremere. A fascist, hermetical lodge of wizards [Erich Fromm, the anatomy of human destructiveness]. That is, of course, for the unknowing. I was ghouled by an undead vampire sorcerer, for my unique skills should have served this bloodline of vampires until I either qualified for the Embrace, or got killed. How did it come to be? I hardly know. Something I did, or perhaps something I am, attracted its attention. Please don’t get me wrong, it was a step forward.

I went thru life pretty aimless, taking whatever job I could get to make my living, a notch too fascinated by cocaine, and struggling with a certain habit of getting drawn into the occult crap. In a way it paid. Maybe it really was due one of my works showing a potential, or maybe I was so overwhelmed with new experiences, back then, that I couldn’t grasp what made me become his ghoul. I remember how it started though. I came back from a shift as a security guard, pure cannon fodder. As I checked my post box I had a strange invitation among bills to pay, and loads of advertising. I trusted my intuition and changed working shift so I could go there. After I masturbated, and took a shower, of course.

I heard some hours of dabbling about occult topics, yet a bit too close to Hollywood’s brain-dead misconceptions. Every time I sensed it reaching a useful insight the speaker switched, as if shunning away from a truth he, or she, could not accept to be. The moment I wanted to stand up and speak myself, a strange thought reached my mind. Pearls before swine, isn’t it? Of course today I know that several kindred can speak to the mind, yet back then I could have sworn it was my own idea. My feelings guided me to look around. In the back row one of the listeners seemed to agree with my unspoken thought.

That could save my evening. I waited a while, till a new speaker of some very important, very hermetical, and, of course, purely white magical order of cognitive-stillborn moved up to the stage. This break I used to switch places, nodding a greeting to the stranger while struggling with insights about his financial superiority. While I was happy to wear some synth-silk shirt along with my baggy pant, he was clad like a pretty rich sucker. Today I recognize this as a subconscious hint, too late. His suit looked more expensive than my entire lifestyle, more important it matched his personality, or what I perceived as such. He felt smooth, yet a look into his eyes spoke of more than that. I felt some fear, mixing with joy. Without much speaking we listened for further thirty minutes. It was already clear that the evening was a failure. I used the time to wonder about my reaction, and compared sympathy to homosexual urges. I don’t think that gay sex was my goal. Strange, I cannot remember what we spoke about, and how we left the hall.

I remember walking along an alley with my new-found companion, and indulging my mood of lucid fascination. His thoughts tried to push me and many of his questions were aiming to get answers, which I simply hadn’t. Today it would be a warning sign, yet I wasn’t experienced, nor strong enough, to deal better with it back then. He analysed my way of thinking, checked knowledge, and interests. Even psychological stuff. For the first time in my life I even enjoyed talking about my job. Disturbingly he listened intently. Nobody ever wants to hear about this kind of job. He did. A moment later he asked me, if I would give my opinion concerning a building he inherited from his family. When I agreed, I didn’t know that it turned into my chance to drive in a car, which I could never afford. Limousine XL is my description for it.

Nightly drives set my mood to contemplation, and I honoured that my companion disturbed me only once. The questions were about my private situation, yet I thought he just wanted an excuse to peer at me. I was a loner back then and had no problems telling it. Still I could not ignore that his entire friendliness had something lurking about it. I disliked the thought of brawling with a pervert rich boy, and nearly ignored the realization that I did not even know his name after hours of chatting. As the car came to a stop, I was already impressed enough to make my senses fail.

The area was clean, no street trash, living or material, atmosphere here was calm and cool. I saw a building, which looked like one from the movies. No, it didn’t, my mind gets clouded when I try to remember details about the time. I argued that Satanism, to me, reflects the same principles that humanity puts into effort versus reality. As humans developed out of the caves, so did heretics, and occultists, attempt to break the dogmatic thinking of the church. And in praxis, to gain power over their worldly limitations set upon them by god? God hereby as entity, or symbol for reality. Headaches accompanied my few good ideas. When we entered a room in the basement, I had to struggle for self-control.

How could someone so smart, and definitely better educated than me, make such a mistake? Was it a mistake, or some test about my reactions? These little followers of Crowley, and similar freaks, would have called it a ritual chamber. Piss into their skulls.

Yes, some symbols. And the very well known chalice, rod, blade, and pentacle. My words splashed out of my mouth. What a stupid little misconception. This room is a waste, the elements hiding behind the archaic symbols are for regressive psychological components, it would mean that a magus would enforce change of reality, display of power, or what, by focussing his mind, perhaps his, or her, will. But only narcissist-fools believe that spooking through such a room would give them magic power, except for a straight-jacket maybe.

While I realized that I just insulted my companion, he just looked me in the eyes, and said “precisely”. A relieved smile tried to spread across my face, but never got the chance. A wave of dizziness reached my mind, and I felt intense pressure building in my guts, then pain shook me. My body overheated with rapid speed, and I stumbled, already busy falling to the ground.

I awoke a while later, pain crushing my thoughts, and the taste of blood in my filled mouth. [I don’t mean blood cauldron here] Filled with my severed tongue, as I soon would find out. My eyes were damaged, my sight reduced to shades, and blurring forms. I could die of this, but what was it? His hands were empty, and he merely touched me. Insane humour came to my mind, hinting that this may have been the lurking part of him. He asked me something and I finally could understand what he said. My ears operated somehow. How long does this need to heal? I replied that, if I survive, it would be at least three weeks, perhaps with several mutilations remaining. If I could give you the power to heal it within just three nights, would you accept? Lord in Hell, I laid defenceless on the ground, bleeding, and crippled. What did he expect, me enjoying an extensive debate? I admit that my first thought was about even serials making more money than me though. I drank, what he gave to me, the first night it was Vanilla Coke!

No, it was his vitae, yet the taste of my blood, and the amok in my mind, made me swear it is Vanilla Coke. Today I can give even more sincere oaths which I not even consider keeping. I experienced a harrowing of hurt flesh, and mind-malfunctions for three nights, but it worked. While I felt emotional pain without comparison, in the middle of the third night, I recovered. My flesh operated, my eyes just needed to be cleaned from remnants of my blood, and my ears were nearly ok. Yes, my little trouser snake turned from a badly scorched sausage into the original again, too. I became ghoul to him without further troubles. After I masturbated, and took a shower, of course. I learned about powers, which I never knew. Luckily Rosicrucian pseudo-spirituality was not part of the crap.

As a ghoul my primary gifts of Caine were physical. Simplified, I could heal my body at enhanced speed, my muscles worked extremely well, martial arts, which I only clumsily executed until then, became easy, and I rarely tired. To my masters’ astonishment I could boost my senses, as we found out, when I had to gasp that night I perceived a Nosferatu neonate, breaching his minor skill with obfuscate. I guarded my master, and with some months of successful duty, even the outer ring of a chantry. Due to my way of thinking I grew into my new-found role, yet the fact that I failed some tests, and that I easily frenzy when mind-control is at task, reduced my future considerations. I had my flaws, too. I began eating more than I needed, and my sexuality turned from long periods of torpor to a feverish greed to practice Erich von Gothas collected works. But let’s not spoil my works with glorification of the competition. Indeed I enjoyed my time with House and Clan Tremere, one of the most powerful bloodlines among the children of the night.

What did make me turn traitor? Some quite realistic insights, and necessities. My ego! As my reader already notes, I react more on intuition and feelings, which explains my talent with Auspex, but gives me a disadvantage with Dominate and Thaumaturgy [remember flaws like Thaumaturgical Inept]. Simplified, I could learn only petty rituals (i.e. Blood Mastery, check the rulebook, ghouls can learn it), but no real powers. It is good luck to me, if my potential hadn’t been discovered to be castrated here early on, the Tremere would have hunted me with much greater dedication.

Please be reminded my advantage in Auspex has gained new side effects due to my sacred bloodline. As a disciple of Seth I am a bit easier blinded by light. I disliked the sun even as a mortal, developing an allergy against its rays, and avoiding swimming, and stuff. This means without sunglasses a car, or a flashlight, make me blinded for a while, even at night. A while long enough to stake me, or sink your fangs into my flesh. I explain my failure as Tremere with being still too mortal as a ghoul. Maybe I only learned psychological rituals, because I was limited in my existence, not just in thoughts.

Well, I stumbled across ghouls from different masters with the time, and indulged spare time visiting a sub house of my former line. I would say that I just had more of a Setite about me than about a Tremere in my life. This is from a subjective point though. I may have become a Brujah, yet I at least knew that bad temper, and lack of self-control, beg for certain unpleasant repercussions. The Setites made me accept the embrace by the truth they told me. Yes, I fell prey to some lies, I was defenceless against their power to manipulate emotions, and I was easily tempted, too. To me, the Tremere hit my way of understanding and thinking, but the Setites suited my way of unlife. Well, my stigma of being the little unimportant security guard is still with me. I am what others call a Warrior-Setite.

This means that, to suit our one-dimensional stereotype, I do ten minutes of sit-ups, and shadow-boxing, for every night spend on drugs, vice, and tempting the cute Camarilla ghouls and neonates.

I just have found my place here, it’s that simple. The Setites subconsciously admire the Tremere power, and while they are not half as good with magic, their power increases social success, and nightly survival. What few seem to realize is that tempting is hardly our mission. We are seen as hedonistic and corrupt, yet we survived throughout the centuries with much more success than many of the unenlightened. The celestial guidance of Set gifts us not only with unique, innate abilities, but also with a growing confidence in our power, and dominion. I never saw Egypt, and I don’t care. Seth is entity and symbol in one, the simple fact that we go the path of success. Do we tempt? You think and claim so; maybe we just show people that they belong to us by their very own ambitions. Corrupting others without being corrupted oneself. What does it mean? To me it meant indulging cocaine, having sex with the best women I could get laid with, and gaining money without hard work, nasty consequences, or repercussions. I learned the truth soon enough. What is this conscience of the Camarilla anyway, but a theoretical construct that frequently fails, even in our absence. I was never willing, nor ordered, to invade your haven, diablerizing whomever I could get.

I am not guilty of proving to your ghouls that our lifestyle grants them much better gratification for their duties. Is it my fault that Toreador lack the discipline to satisfy their ghouls sexual urges? Our bodies are dead, we won’t die of aids, nor do we need much to heal injuries that a prick headed ghoul causes while doing the wild thing. We ask for religious dedication to Set which you think is evil, but both sects ask of joining a holy war against each other even from the freshly embraced.

We do not follow a theory of such kind; we live as we are to the limits of our unlife. Yes, we are weak vampires. As weak as the Brujah, and Toreador, which found that hanging up with mortals is not only more fun, but indeed a power base we exploited, logically. Perhaps they are tools, but why then do we treat them as equals, mostly? Because they may grasp the wisdom of Seth, they can be of use, and what is wrong about it? We are not the ones running around breaking a masquerade here, selling out Sabbat bishops there. We are despised, and accused, paradoxically, for the agents of hedonism and corruption kept more of their integrity from the clutches of the beast than any other line. If our ways are dangerous, what about better solutions? And who brings the peril? Is it the Setite drug priest who causes havoc, or is it people incapable, and unwilling, to handle it? If I deal you the vitae of a garou, is it my fault that you frenzy by devouring what you asked, and paid, me to deliver? How is it that we interact with your needs without prejudice?

Set taught us wisdom and self-mastery in ways, which the Camarilla is too stupid for, and the Sabbat is twisting into monstrosity. There is no place on earth, no kindred society, and no Elysium, which we cannot find our way into. Why not, we adapt with more respect to your rules than you to ours. Are you aware that we were not fighting you? Conflict arose because your intolerance made you judge our way of unlife, and turn hostile. Yes, we are a notch more humane than a vampire should be, but that is the way of Seth. Our lord could rule over kindred, and kine alike, this is just one more sign that there is wisdom in our very words and deeds. But this dabbling leads nowhere. Let’s check for my evil and degeneration, don’t forget heresy. I live with a feeling of guilt and fear of repercussions from the warlocks. I wished I would have had a better option, but I was tempted, yet responsible for it. With the Tremere only my thoughts were compatible and yes, I owe them manifold for the gift of their blood gives me powers which ensure my survival even as part of the competition now. As a ghoul I once played this video game where mage, and priest, fight side by side, it should work for us, I hoped. Yes, this is weakness, we must fight a jihad, and kill vampires of other blood. No, it could be one great Malkavian prank!

I protect our temples and places, I fight to protect my allies, and I guide my servants and disciples to the very best of my abilities. Of course for a price, they take my time, dedication, and contemplation away from my goals. I turn my ideas into weapons, establishing the cult of plague monks as easily, as exchanging ideas on how to deal with our existence. Plague spreaders, what should this be? My answer to an idea that mortals grasped even in the dark ages, and practice happily and much better than this Morbus sect of our own blood. One could not only weaken a foe by this, but also make him, or her, outright perish. Against mortals, and Camarilla alike, this proves extremely useful, infesting their territory with disease spreading beings. The Sabbat is a bit harder to get, yet we are part of it, like the Nosferatu. We grew from our centre into the Camarilla, as into the Sabbat. Like it, or not, we grant this freedom, as long, as the service to Seth is not betrayed. I feel accused by kindred who commit all the crimes they try to blame me for. We did not forget who we are. We are not children of Caine. We are children of Seth, thereby the synthesis from mortals, and followers of Caine.

We can be the poison that destroys them, but we are willing to be the guide that grants them a better way into a future that is worthwhile. What you declare venom may just be the only antitoxin you might ever find. I think we are already an overseen pillar of the Camarilla, too. We are subtle enough to keep to the masquerade, further we even like this. We enjoy humans, not slaughtering them before TV cameras to prove our powers. Yes, maybe I am too fresh to understand, or perhaps I bath in my foolish dreams to ignore that I am an elders pawn myself. Who of us isn’t?

I enjoyed being close to my paramour, was it so selfish to get her away from artwork and scheming? Maybe, yet in case of success it would have been prove that she didn’t really care for what her elders pushed her into. Was it my strategy? My feelings hurt, where I should be cold and predatory. I miss her; yet accept her decision at least for this century. In our kingdom there is no need for manipulation, but for the glory of my sake, I will endure even this. Running with the Brujah is a refreshing, though simple-minded experience. Yes, it asks for trouble. Yet they can be quite close to us, and no I didn’t supply their parties. We share some similarities, not by talking about them, but living them for real. Lepers, the ugly little rat-kissers. Among the most familiar experiences is their way. They spread nearly like us, just hiding for other reasons, and in other places. I could teach them some joy, and even a notch confidence. They taught me rat-catching and we had a good time, no matter the bad sides. I still meet them on friendly terms, mostly.

Sadly, this fails with the Giovanni. This necrotic bunch of workaholics, followers of Apophis, makes me vomit. Not enough that they raid the mortals for money, they even raid their coffins. Sacrileges against the soul. The dead have to be honoured, and prepared for the afterlife, where Setite sorcerers steal their power, it is not just their very soul, but part of ours at stake. Dangerous they are in their mastery of necromancy, and everything they say attempts to crush my mind to suit their will. But is this the blood, or just those few I stumbled across? Prejudices can poison my awareness, a risk we are taught to avoid. We won’t end up like this yokel Horus. I do spend my unlife, as I like it. I enjoy all I can get, practice my skills, and contemplate as much, as I can. I sincerely wished that I had gained the sorcery of my former master, yet I got this one trick at least. I was wise enough to cover my greatest weakness early on. As children of a peaceful god, we were not really made for war. That may explain why we just can’t face every threat up front. I grew tougher through training, and practice. Devotedly even keep an inner distance from certain habits of kindred society. Yet I feel weak. My problem about it is we are mistaken to parrot faith. This is not the case.

We do not half as much worship Set, as we preach to make the ignorant realize that his teachings supply us with useful insights, and realistically solutions to archetypical problems of vampire existence. Of course there are other ways to gain such, yet our way works fine. I admit that I couldn’t be a priest. Their caste has duties, and rights, which I just cannot personify.

I am busy building my little place in the world, recruiting and teaching servants, securing my place, and dealing with my job. Yes, the blood bond felt like abuse for me, too. We all dislike being enslaved; yet have few problems doing it to mortals, and other kindred. I went through ten years with my sire, and then she fell in the line of duty. His tutelage, and resources, gave me compensation for this early.

Now I have more freedom, but less support. The first year alone in the dark had plenty of setbacks, shortcomings, and failures prepared for me. It slowly goes better now, and luckily, I can easily be bound again. No real threat is easily dissolved. I still plan to bargain a degree of neutrality, or minor cooperation, with my former master. I could fight the warlocks, yet I am aware that they can much easier take me out. Maybe this urge is even his mind-control calling me towards a trap, I really don’t know. I seem to be too mortal still, patience I measure in month, where kindred plot for centuries. This could be my damnation, as followers of Caine see it.

Perhaps I can’t find peace, even if my lusts and pleasures were not provocation to some. No regrets for this, I don’t have a choice and my mortal life is gone forever. Making base at the edge to Assamite territory is nearly as risky, as a vacation in Vienna though. Switching place was no good, my problems accompany me anywhere. Great Lord, my strengths, and virtues do so, too. I was very unimportant to the warlocks, and I can neutralize those few witnesses. I have found hideouts, when other kindred made me their target, and I may be low on allies, but servants, and disciples, stand by my side. Already paying the price for treachery, I can now swap my petty rituals to gain access to the rituals of my own bloods sorcery. I may be cursed to be the eternal little security guard, but a handful of our sacred rituals could spice up my existence.

And I can accuse/abuse/seduce you in ways that you never knew. My servants will support me in freeing ghouls of the warlocks from their dumb-hearted masters. Money will flow, as long, as we supply weapons to the unarmed, and drugs to all those who just do not want to bear this rotten existence they face. Founding the Erich von Gotha society for gentleman, paid off too. Then I somehow feel willing to support this bunch of Salubrious. Selling tomes and artefacts, trading my powers for those I desire, and keeping long-term agreements might even secure my position entirely. Many people who dislike the embrace still like being ghouled, boosting them without denying them to partake in their chosen society. Self-mastery will not be forgotten, my habit of contemplation, and meditation, accompanies me from the first night. The same on the women of our kind, they can be deadly venom to me, but also a refreshing alternative to the Holy Grail. Maybe this is an addiction, one I would not get rid of until I manage to hide my heart in heaven…

Trust and you’ll be trusted !“ – whispered Set to Ventrue.


This page is the comments & notes from the author for now.

One of the female readers told me she liked the way of writing, as if speaking (exclusively) of my real past experiences. I chose the idea of “writing to my therapist/mom/girlfriend” here, because doing the same approach, as any WoD author wouldn’t make a unique reading. I guess I would be a bit better, if I had more resources on, and experience playing, Setites (complete group), which I lack. We had emphasis on Sabbat, and another group on Camarilla. Indeed when I received the last invitations to role-playing group the feeling that made me once enjoy it was gone. I liked Vampire TM Bloodlines though. Be reminded I am German, I cannot always translate my ideas perfectly. This file is for use with the fictional game Vampire-The Masquerade produced by White Wolf Inc. http://www.white-wolf.com

  • Most Germans speaking “Seth” auto-include the hiss-sound people associate with Setites, this wicked “Tea Age thing”. Seth & Set are different stories, remain vigilant.

  • The Kiss”, or “The Embrace” means making someone a vampire of a certain bloodline.

  • The bloodline called Setites, or Followers of Set, has seemingly been crippled-down into a Mekhet Subline with White Wolfs newer Vampire – The Requiem! You can check it at http://www.worldofdarkness.com

  • *Egypt, even fictional, had prostitution, slavery, and Aida. It perished!

  • *Some mistakes are misconceptions/lies of the character, others of the author. Or psychological tricks?

  • *An overdose of pseudo history spoils fantasy role-playing for sure. History had no WoD, fantasy does.

  • *This file has nothing to do with the real world Temple of Set, which was founded by Mr. Aquino. Further I did never and do not have any allegiance to this, or any other real world cult.

  • *My what valiant poultry! Animal Farm reloaded? From the jade dragon empire comes the avenging crusader – gung ho chicken! Swiftly followed by swine flu the pathogen empire presses the attack???

  • Special Thanks to the “Danse macabre – London by Night Forum’s Other Works of Fiction ”. Storing a copy there made the auto-correction help me more than all my teachers in school or at university ever did!!! http://w11.zetaboards.com/DanseMacabre/index/

More PDFs from me:


Project Gutenberg – Contemporary Submission

On Saturday, the 29th of August in the year 2015, I decided to offer this story, plus my comments on it, as a PDF to Project Gutenberg.


Neo-Shamanic wisdom in urban survival 2016, a green technology mindset of sorts…

Neo-Shamanic wisdom in urban survival 2016

© Andrè M. Pietroschek, all rights reserved

My title accepts the risk of a terminology which became defiled due drug-crazed sermon and sanity-defying esoterica publishings across the planet.

One life to save is always your own, and that needs only one spiritual note: The term spiritual is used, as opposed to psychic, paranormal or preternatural. It does not need magic, drugs, nor anything beyond science, to feel a need of stress-reduction, anxiety-handling, or simply a casual way of life by choice.

Neither does it need too much mind-work to learn from animals, and treating them as life-forms, occasionally dangerous lifeforms, which shared this planet along with us, until we began to butcher them and toxify their environment.

Neo-Shamanism does not need a cave, within which some power animal awaits alike a slave to boss around. People outmatched by such simple traps for the ego, mere hubris overcoming their common sense, just prove themselves unfit for the spirituality they claim to have mastered.

Some options neo-shamanism cannot offer anymore:

  • We won’t save the environment by ritual. It needs a load of green technology, thorough, hard work, and funding, to even attempt a ‘green technology lifestyle’ for the masses of humanity.

  • We will NOT be more healer than any worthy medical doctor or psychiatrist. One MINOR exception is that plenty of us have lived-through the same ‘lessons of life’ which bother other people.

  • We will not manage to side with the frauds and delusionals just to make esoterica a regular kind of job. Especially, when it comes to payment.

Unemployment, street-crime, accidents, surprising trauma, and similar remain topics for the prudent and vigilant adult of our age though. While science rightfully claims to do a more thorough job the same science is oft sabotaged due the individual academics limited or flawed understanding of scientific working.

Instead of moaning about the risks and dangers I point at the good side, namely that plenty of scientists share our interest in healthy environments, disease-prevention, healing aka functional therapy for body and mind, and a sense of fulfilment in our life.

Many years ago I once started with the spiritual philosophy of the Shaolin monks, as I stumbled across a book dedicated to ‘us Europeans’, and aimed to teach us that it is more than punching and kicking, when it comes to being properly inspired-by-monks-western-barbarians! 😉

On the problematic side of urban life, the city-life which made me use the term ‘urban purgatories’, we all are recurrently challenged with ‘the unexpected’, and ‘the unwelcome’.

  • Easy lessons: Animals (mammals) are damn often more vigilant, when it comes to sensing angry or aggressive people around. Their absence is a telltale sign of ‘something’ being odd.

  • Insects behave more erratic, when anger or atmospheric disturbances (unseen killers like stress, disease, or pollution) tend to be stronger than expected by human perception.

  • A ‘new’ form of so-called gang-stalking. Drug addicts, youngsters, and former psychiatric patients using their own semi-legal cocktail of adrenal rush, auto suggestion (plus mimics, gestures, and body language), and emotional fuss-making to influence witnesses or sleeping people’s dreams, alike a gaslighting or brainwashing from crappy old films.

  • One species to plague them all! Gone is the time of denial dominating the level of politics AND public awareness. The sun burns in a more unhealthy way, the air is not that good to breath. Humanity finally learns that the consequence their greed and selfishness unleashed IS already gunning for each of us.

  • True shamans drive no carbon-monoxide-blasting-cars, won’t consider ‘pets’ to be property, and true shamans won’t go vegan either. Each of it is defying precisely the nature which could rightfully be called their source of life AND magickal prowess and power (the beastial janitors of wyrd).

  • A LINK I still consider useful: https://www.samharris.org/blog/item/the-truth-about-violence 

To be continued… 20.10.2016

Stalking & Scapegoating Notes

Stalking & Scapegoating Notes

Organized stalking methods were used extensively by communist East Germany’s Stasi (state police) as a means of maintaining political control over its citizens. The Stasi referred to the tactics as “Zersetzung” (German for “decomposition” or “corrosion” – a reference to the intended psychological, social, and financial effects upon the victim).

An organized stalking victim is systematically isolated and harassed in a manner intended to cause sustained emotional torment while creating the least-possible amount of evidence of stalking that would be visible to others. The process is sometimes referred to as “no-touch torture.” Methods are specifically chosen for their lack of easily-captured objective evidence.

Accomplices – such as neighbors, co-workers, and even friends or relatives of the victim in some cases – are recruited to participate (often unwittingly) by counterintelligence personnel using various means, such as by telling them that the target is a potential threat or that the target is the subject of an “investigation. Or the classic: The target supposedly “has problems” and they are “only trying to help”.” Examples (shortened-list):

Gang stalking is stalking by several people who know each other, and who have the same illegal intent.

Mobbing is the most familiar type of gang stalking.

Bullying is also a type of gang stalking when several suspects participate.

Some crimes like car theft and home invasions are usually preceded by a period of gang stalking.

Gang stalking is the fastest growing crime.

1 in 70 people experience gang stalking. 1 in 30 workers experience mobbing at work. 7 in 10 middle school and high school students experience bullying in school.

Gang stalking occurs frequently in apartment buildings, housing estates, shops, and libraries.

Gang stalking is also perpetrated by agents of the state, the Mafia, religious sects, and utility companies (electricity, gas, water, telephone, cable TV, internet).

Gang stalking can be so bad that you can never escape some degree of harassment. The harassment is often carried out in a way to blame the victim for the harassment. This is called victim blaming or

Source: http://www.defeatgangstalking.org/


Scapegoating is a hostile social – psychological discrediting routine by which people move blame and responsibility away from themselves and towards a target person or group. It is also a practice by which angry feelings and feelings of hostility may be projected, via inappropriate accusation, towards others. The target feels wrongly persecuted and receives misplaced vilification, blame and criticism; he is likely to suffer rejection from those who the perpetrator seeks to influence. Scapegoating has a wide range of focus: from “approved” enemies of very large groups of people down to the scapegoating of
individuals by other individuals. Distortion is always a feature.

First of all build an understanding of what has been going on, not just on the surface, but deeper as well. What is your scapegoater really trying to achieve? You can deepen your knowledge by studying the material on this site. If you concentrate on understanding what is going on between you and whoever is your scapegoateer. Your awareness may help to run down and stop the process. Make it clear that you have spotted the mechanism and that you will talk freely about it until it stops – rather than continue to be available as a scapegoater’s target.” Source: http://www.scapegoat.demon.co.uk/

What NOT to Do

Don’t blame yourself or assume that you did anything to deserve the way a person with a Personality Disorder maltreats you.

Don’t accept scapegoating as normal or allow it just to “go with the flow”.

Don’t persecute someone else who is being scapegoated. That is participating in abuse.

Don’t ignore it when someone else is being scapegoated. That is condoning abuse.

Don’t try to justify your worth by becoming an over-achiever. Don’t work yourself harder to earn the love of a parent or family member. Real love is a free gift; it doesn’t require people to jump through

Don’t immediately trust everybody or every organization who offers you validation. Save your trust for people who will treat you well and don’t have a hidden agenda of their own.

Don’t waste your time and energy trying to change another person’s opinion of you. As painful as it is to admit, you have almost no power or control over another person’s thoughts, words and actions.

Don’t kill the waste of life in a frenzy. Such psychotic trash is not worth rotting in prison for them.

Don’t forgive them nor the society which looked away on their numerous crimes against you.

What TO Do

End the conversation and remove yourself from the room and the house if possible whenever anybody treats you badly.

Call the police if anybody physically hurts you, threatens or bullies you. If you are young, report it to a responsible caring adult.

Try to base your own opinion of yourself based on your merits – your own unique strengths and weaknesses – not on other people’s emotions.

Speak up for what is right when you see injustice. Say it once and then don’t say it again or argue about it. Agree to disagree if necessary. Just saying it once can sometimes help.

Get support. Find validating and healthy friendships and relationships where people will appreciate your worth and encourage you to be the best that you can be.

If you are in an employment situation, you might want to try to find an alternate position or another group or employer.

If you are the recipient of inequitable treatment, politely decline the favor and request inclusion of your peers.


Why people participate in Gang Stalking

-Some stalkers are told lies, either positive or negative in nature, in order to gain their participation
-Some stalkers are paid or receive other benefits
-Stalkers belonging to an organization may simply be following orders.
-Some stalkers may use their participation in order to repay a past favor.
-Peer Pressure/ Need to Fit In
-Former stalkers have stated they participated out of fear of becoming
the next target should they go against the group.
-Entertainment Value/Thrill of Participation in an Illegal activity.
-Nearly all willing stalkers have a cult/satanic or luciferian group affiliation
-Some are controlled like puppets (flipping the switch)

Tactics used by Stalkers
Tactics of Predatory Gangstalking include highly coordinated surveillance (hidden cameras, conversation bugging in private as well as public), harassment, and psychological, psychosocial, financial, and sometimes physical assaults on an individual by a large group of people who are often strangers to the targeted individual.


Anchoring is a technique employed by stalkers to implant a false motivation or reason behind the stalking, preventing the victim from discovering the truth. In more sinister examples, Anchoring involves the implantation of evidence to persuade the victim some other group or organization is responsible for the abuse.


The term “Baiting” is a stalking tactic used to lure or provoke a victim into environments, or situations, which cause further problems to the victim. Often “Baiting” involves tricking a victim into committing a crime or unknowingly engaging in an illegal activity such as assault. They trick the victim into thinking an innocent bystander is the culprit of their harassment and try to compel the victim into assaulting
the person.


Brighting is a term jokingly referred to by stalkers to indicate the practice of repetitive flashing of a car’s high-beam headlights. The victim is usually followed and may be “flashed” from either a “tail-gating” vehicle or a passing or on-coming one. “Brighting” also occurs when bright lights are flashed into a victim’s home-windows.

Electronic Harassment

Electronic Harassment is the use of technological devices to spy on or cause harm to targeted victims. For example, exposure to a high magnetic field has been shown to induce hallucinations in humans while exposure to intense microwave radiation induces psychotic episodes and causes brain damage.

A frequent form of Electronic Harassment involves beaming a low frequency “hum” or “tone” into a victim’s home or general area. Over time, the exposure causes the victim to lose sleep, become agitated, and suffer the effects of prolonged stress. Such tactics are also being used in cases of hostage situations as well as covert government operations. These forms of magnetic fields can be caused by technological or preternatural means.


The term Ghosting refers to the practice of rearranging, or moving, of a victim’s home furniture, lawn decorations, desk decorations at work, etc. The purpose of Ghosting is to make a victim question his or her sanity. Ghosting is also designed to make other’s question the sanity of the victim, especially if the victim attempts to complain about the abuse.


Mimicry is a specialized form of harassment in which the stalkers publicly imitate every movement made by the victim. This shows an aspect of the trickster. It is a manifestation of the true source of the stalking.


Mobbing is a term that describes “Group Bullying”. Of itself, Mobbing is not equated with gang stalking. However, Mobbing may be a tactic used by the perpetrators of gang Stalking.

“Flash mobbing” is an event occurring when a targeted individual is spotted in society. Their photo and location is immediately and simultaneously sent out by cell phone text messages and Internet email to all gangstalkers within a certain radius. All gangstalkers then suddenly descend upon the target as a mob.

Noise Campaign

A Noise Campaign is an orchestrated effort to produce stress in a victim through prolonged exposure to significant noise levels. A Noise Campaign can range from multiple neighbors routinely playing loud music, individual stalkers with air-horns or fireworks, or organized “repair work” that involves a high level of noise.


Sensitization is a psychological term referring to the forced association between a stimuli and a corresponding reaction. Stalkers use Sensitization to psychologically abuse a victim. For example, if a stalker constantly harasses a victim while wearing a blue baseball cap, then overtime the victim will begin to believe anyone wearing a blue baseball cap is a stalker and is coming to harass. Sensitization undoubtedly creates an extreme level of fear in a victim, in direct fulfillment of the intentions of the stalkers.

Street Theater

Street Theater is a term used to describe the odd-actions and behaviors that stalkers do in public, in an attempt to rile the victim. Such behavior often borders on the extremely bizarre and is aimed at a blurring of the boundaries between reality and fantasy in the minds of the victims. Examples of Street Theater: Baiting, Brighting, Color Harassment, Convey, Directed Conversation, Ghosting, Mimicry, Noise Campaigns, etc.

Variations of Gang Stalking


The term Gas-Lighting originates from the 1944 film Gaslight. In the movie, the character of Gregory Anton, played by actor Charles Boyer, attempts to drive the character Pauline, played by actress Ingrid Bergman, insane. The phrase Gas-Lighting has come to mean similar actions and behavior, as used in the film, against a victim.

“The White Glove treatment” is slang for Gang Stalking as jokingly referred to by the Masons who either participate in, or know of its usage against so-called “Enemies of Freemasonry”.

[Note: The phrase “The White Glove Treatment” is not limited to Freemasonry, as members of similar groups and organizations often practice Gang Stalking.)
Ritual Gangstalking

Reportedly performed by cults and secret organizations such as Anthroposophists, Satanists, secret orders of free masons, some voodoo /obeah practitioners and Scientologists as a means of control or for punishment. “Ritual abuse” is incorporated into “ritual gangstalking” patterns in this case.


A situation where an individual is identified to be a target through Internet participation and their personal identity is determined. Cybergangstalkers pierce the electronic veil and are able to enter into the real life of a person, creating all forms of harassment, theft, psychological operations including slander and libel, and able to commit crimes against the targeted individual.

I will cover more information about this subject and other related topics in future articles. If you or someone you know are victims of gangstalking or any other form of malevolent harassment, feel free to contact us. We are here to help.


I guess the majority of people will not be able to understand how lethargic, antagonistic, and incompetent German Law tends to be. Still after my stalkers first major triumph, my first winter as urban homeless, I can only say: Forget the legal bullshit – strike to kill!

Like most targets I had scapegoating and gaslighting to make my days, or actually to ruin me and my days. Changes came due the alliance or gang-up, of self-declared ever-righteous psychos committing their lynch-mob justice, had their own ups and downs of loyalty.

Since last round a new streak is added to the no-evidence, no-touch-torture crap. While a skipped false friend wanted me to suffer and commit suicide a new whoever actually thought its time to convert my to fucking Islamism and take one of those vests… I needed a year to avoid instant-frenzy whenever seeing any bearded male. Yet ‘Anchoring’ or racist cliche could be the real truth.

I spoiled my last job by whistleblowing, provoking a higher-up gone criminal to pay for some of ‘the pranks’. Still illegal, but many who dislike me consider it ‘prove’ that it is my own fault (known as victim- blaming or scapegoating, as I am only responsible for crimes I commit). Luckily my first interviewer in the job-office worked for him, and an ex-girlfriend of the bunch worked on the payments. Easy to abuse a job, when control is absent.

After an onslaught of harassment and accusations from 2002 to 2015 my life lay in ruins. But I didn’t. While right yesterday someone told my to cut the ateria in my throat AFTER resting my head on a railway (to behead me IF bleeding out fails) I still don’t feel that eager to give-up. I loved life, never made the mistake of giving a BEEP about other people’s demands on me.

To give a hint: Do not rely on friends, as you will mourn their death and torment. Do not rely on professionals, as those who work for money will earn more turning against you, simply fact. Find survivors who ain’t overwhelmed by trauma, those who had to face the same psycho-fuck and were ready to handle it.




Fantastische Mini-Geschichte: Das schwarze Auge – Alrik’s dunkler Pfad.

Dunkle Offenbarungen – Alrik mal alternativ betrachtet.

© Andrè M. Pietroschek, alle Rechte vorbehalten

Seemann Jogas Walson hatte sich zuviel gefallen lassen, dass stand ihm fest. Kein Gebet, und auch kein Wehklagen bei der Wache, hatten da geholfen. Wie alle armen Leute konnte er von Freunden in der Not nur träumen. Sein falscher Stolz, sein Glaube an das Gesetz und seine Feigheit hatten ihn zwei seiner Kinder elendig sterben lassen. Kein Besäufnis der Welt betäubte den Schmerz.

Sein Kapitän war ein Monster, dass hatte sich schon viel zu oft gezeigt. Trotzdem rang er immer noch mit der klein-geistigen Blödheit, dass alles friedlich regeln zu wollen. Fast schon verloren wankte er durch die Straßen der halb versunkenen Stadt. Doch zum Glück biss ihn die Erleuchtung und Gnade der Zwölf, an diesem schicksalhaften Abend in Havena, kräftig ins Bein!

„Pass doch auf da oben, sonst steche ich Dich ab!“

Tatsächlich, gequält von der Vergangenheit, und sorgsam angetrunken, hatte er den goblinoiden, kleineren Mitbürger fast überrannt. Der Rotpelz funkelte ihn aus zugeknifften Augen immer noch zornig an. Gekleidet war der Goblin mit einer schwarzen Lederweste, die an eine Krötenhaut-Rüstung erinnerte. Hose und Stiefel waren von einfacher lokaler Machart. 

Jogas Walson tat, was schon tausende von Säufern vor ihm getan haben. Er klagte einem wildfremden Skinhead sein Leid und ließ sich, zwecks Ästhetik, auch noch schön alles durch den Kopf gehen. Kötzerchen!

Und so begab es sich, das Heldentum das Schicksal formte. „Na klar, wenn wir nur ne alte Hexe umlegen müssen, um ein ganzes Haus zu plündern, dann bin ich Dein feiner, treuer Kumpel; Sogar bis Du in Aventurien einschläfst und in Boron’s Reich erwachst!“

Da echte Helden kein Zögern und kein Zaudern kennen, stellten sich die beiden wackeren Gefährten also der bösen, alten Hexe, die ihren Mann bestimmt gar noch auf seinem Sterbebett betrogen hatte.

„Zahl Deine Schuld, oder ich zerschneide Dein Gesicht und füttere Dich mit Deinen faltigen Rundungen, Oma!“

Doch so leicht war nun mal Nix im Leben. Die Tür wurde wuchtig aufgetreten und herein stürmte ein langhaariger, krimineller Schläger. Ein brutaler Hüne, den die geizige Alte als ausreichende Muskelkraft gebucht zu haben schien!

„Ey! Ich bin Straßenschläger Alrik Thorwahnson. Ihr kriegt jetzt mal meinen Knüppel in die Fressen und dann nehme ich mir Eure Ärsche vor!“

Tapfer kämpften unsere Recken, streckten das Langhaarige Böse und die fiese Hexe nieder und nahmen ihr rechtmäßiges Eigentum an sich. Danach trennten sich Ihre Wege und sie lebten drogensüchtig und verträumt, bis Boron sie in sein Reich aufnehmen musste, weil selbst der Namenlose sie nicht dulden wollte.

Vorläufiges, namenloses ENDE.


Nützliche Tipps & freundliche Kontakte:

Wolfsfelsen – DSA Downloads

Teilzeithelden – Einsteigerfreundliche Rezensionen

WIKI Aventurica – Wissenswertes über DSA



Aber mit altem Clever & Smart Humor ginge auch:
Sinngemäß “künstlerischer” Phantast?
Hinz: „In seinem neuesten Text schreibt der Herr Pietroschek ja…“
Kunz: „Ach wissen Sie; dieser degenerierte, so offensichtlich Geisteskra…“
Hinz: „Ahem, er lobt Sie und Ihr Wirken über alle Maße!“
Kunz: „Pietroschek? Der begnadete Autor? Der wahre Adept der Muse auf Erden? Bitte verzeihen Sie, ich hatte mich da, beim Namen, wohl verhört. Hehe. ☺“

The career-crucial Selfie…

Pietroschek finally overcame his lethargy!


It is done. I purchased glasses and did put them on before making a photo of myself. More than a decade it stuck with authors that wearing glasses makes them look ‘so much more intellectual’ to customers…


Dear Customers,

in case you wanted, or needed, me wearing glasses: Here is a first test-photo!



😉 Oh, I meant 😎

Lone Star Shining – 4 parts…

Lone Star Shining – Part 1- Spoiled Fun

© Andrè M. Pietroschek, all rights reserved

  1. Chosen Name resemblance, in memory of a deceased Shadowrun author.

  2. Includes OMNISCIENT Info, which disgusts certain readers & roleplayers.

Seattle 2054: The two Lonestar Security officers driving in the hover-car were known as Sergeant-Investigator (S.I.) Nigel D. Finley, and his female counterpart Sergeant-Investigator Monica Styles. Two badge-bearers of the more educated type, who both had earned their proverbial spurs in the Redmond Barrens, and during the Puyallup riots.

Fin: “Still makes me wonder that not more songs were written about those streets of Seattle, Mon.”

Mon: “Goddamn, Fin! Not another retro-philosophical seizure of yours right now.” Her eyes rolling in grudging acceptance of awaiting a near-inevitable frustration to endure.

Finley grinned.

Mon: “Dammit, Nigel! One day you babble me into one of those overeating-couch-whiners. Celtic Soul was makin’ me drowsy with the ballad, but I admit that the party remix wasn’t too bad.”

With her hint of a compromise given Nigel moved his right index finger upon the touchscreen of the car’s inbuilt media station. In expectation of the bass-boost Monica did a preventive touch of the screen herself, just an instance before the party remix “Streets of Seattle” was unleashed.

The newest case, dished at them by their ever-grumpy Superior Captain Jarrett C. Just, was an Asphalt Pilgrimage for sure it seemed. One of those grind-jobs, for which advanced Lonestar officers are usually overqualified. A handful of murders, starting with the execution of a notorious Shadowrunner team, leading on with an up-n-coming Johnson found magically tortured to death, and, for now, culminated in the slaughter of two Orcs. Both having revealed a Turkish heritage after a deep search into their past, and the possible motive, had been conducted.

Fin: “Mon, is it us, or is the Cap once more nose-deep into politics?”

Monica Styles took a deep breath in before she replied: “Fin, if it would be about us, then we wouldn’t carry a badge anymore. And, as it feels like the hammer being dropped on us, it just must be another political pest.“

Fin nodded. Driving on with a thoughtful look on his face. Then he spoke again.

Fin: “Monica, we’ve been thru the internal hell before.”

Mon: “A-felt-million creamed punk-pants ensured that I did not forget, Nigel.”

Finley and Styles had the bad luck of causing a social effect. Most people considered them a couple, and befuddled by romance, babbled about it frequently. After a preventive investigation, plus the routine training about why fraternizing among workmates was a risk no Lonestar badge-bearer could afford, it had been restarted due an anniversary gift.

Finley and Styles had not always been partners, and contrary to others on duty, they had a pretty tough start. On their first year anniversary, a celebration to accredit solved crimes with good teamwork, it escalated. After an ambush by a now forgotten gang had inspired outsiders to meddle. Their own “friends” among those. Ticcipanello and Foster. The Shaman and the Sim-Stim Industry Pro had dug out an ancient film of sorts, and decided to remix it with most recent media reportage. A Butch Cassidy & Sundance Kid attitude mixed into the video of Finley & Styles breaking thru the punks’ ambush with all guns blazing!

Bad luck tide rising it was crowned by that clip, intended just for the anniversary, getting snatched by some unknown Decker, who shared it with the cities’ media.

Butch Finley, and Sundance Styles, could feel, and smell, the waves of dread, whenever they went on patrol back then. Finley had further sacrificed his promotion to shield Styles from getting fired as the scapegoat during the political zeal of the aftermath.

Fin: “Will you follow tradition again, Mon?”

Monica laughed, a mocking underline to it: “Oh? Is it sugar-boy Fatso again?”

Fin: “Whoa, Mon. I still get the shivers, when I’m reminded of the psychological counseling. You damn worried me with that one at start.”

True relieve, as without a better explanation, Fin had been really shocked about Styles’ reaction to one of his street-magical informants. And he was, by far, not the only one who could have sworn on Styles having a habit of provoking bad blood with mages, or outright equalizing all of them with asylum inmates. Paradoxically his informant had displayed an adamant ego on every remark Styles had ever babbled.

Mon: “I tell you we’ll be fine! Now load yer six-guns, and lemme think, Butch.”

Fin: “Ready to shield ya with my life, and by yer side, Sundance.”

The laughter was loud enough to outmatch the music, while Finley and Styles opened the doors, embarking from the armored hover-car. The woman waving them over was the first unexpected surprise in this phase of the case. Practiced in their teamwork Styles fell back, allowing Finley a more discreet dialogue.

Styles witnessed the smile fading from Finley’s face. The woman continued to talk. Styles found her clothing having a weirdness tale-telling of a rural lifestyle. Logical conclusion: Could be from one of the arcologies. Switching the filter of her goggles she verified her being a magically active citizen. Styles’ right hand was ready on her smart-gun anyway. It was during goodbye that Monica knew it was a bad news talk. Nigel did not condolence for fun.

Fin: “Gimme a moment, Mon. I was just informed that our sugar-boy is no more.”

Certain suspicions arise, when a series of unconnected murders happens. Especially, when those who know something start dying, too.

End of Story 6, Part 1.


Lone Star Shining – Part 2 – On the Trail

© Andrè M. Pietroschek, all rights reserved

  1. Chosen Name resemblance, in memory of a deceased Shadowrun author.

  2. Includes OMNISCIENT Info, which disgusts certain readers & roleplayers.

Place: UCAS; City of Seattle, Momma Jo’s Diner (between Bellevue&Redmond Barrens).

Orcish Citizen: “You sure Foxless Mage is dead?”

Mon: “Sir, eavesdropping on Lonestar conversation, in any form, is a criminal offense. Please, stay away.”

Orcish Citizen, taking a step back: “Foxless Mage is dead, Officer?”

Mon: “Sir, please. Don’t force me to take you into custody, for disrespecting the order of a Lonestar officer.” Styles saw concern in the Orcs’ eyes, and nodded her head. Right hand still resting on her Ruger Thunderbolt smart-gun. As the Orc withdrew she turned her attention back to her partner, S.I. Nigel D. Finley. Still she saw the Orc speaking into his mobile phone, and eavesdropped the “Foxless Mage is dead!” once more.

Fin, looking up from his mobile computer: “So far it seems his widow spoke true. Got the marriage verified by now. Never expected sugar-boy to have been the withdrawn type. Yet I am certain he really ran afoul of a vampire, the Metroplex juggles this rumor on all channels after all. Nothing so far speaks of any connection to our imminent case.”

Mon: “Still send it to our Department of Paranormal Investigations, for double-checking. On Mages one can’t be sure. Dammit, a Mage killed by a Vampire… is that now suiting, or blatantly suspicious?”

Fin gave a tired nod, and started sipping from his Cinnamon-Soy-Coffee. “By the Book! Always playing it clean. Ya know that, Sundance, don’t cha?”

Mon: “Later, Butch. For now it’s resting time. Waiter, more Soy-Cof, please.”

S.I. Finley was an initiate to the one mystery going beyond comprehension by the testosterone-contaminated mind: S.I. Monica Styles was a Pro, a dutiful Badge-Bearer. (Warning: Near-Classical literature mentioned) On duty no proverbial Don Juan would even get a smile from her. Contrary to that he knew her as quite a sexual predator, when off-shift.

Hot Soy-Coffee was what kept plenty of working people going. Nigel & Styles among them. Still under order to check their given case for possible connections that was what they did.

Mon: “So, in theory 1 we have this; Unknown Culprit kills a team of runners, interrogates their Johnson, to find out more, and then butchers two Turkish Orcs, both definitely too low on the income-scale to hire any Johnson?”

Fin: “Seems so. Yet theory 2 would be that those three murders, plus the loss of my informant, are actually not connected at all, which would mean they remain with the lower ranks of Lonestar, instead of becoming one major crime.”

Mon: “Nothing speaking of WCS so far?”

Fin: “My senses didn’t tingle yet. No, nothing so far speaks of the Worst Case Scenario.”

Mon: “So lets saddle ’em horses, and follow ’em darn tracks, till that old Apache Shaman shows up to bring us back unto the trail, Butch.”

Fin: “Could be a Comanche this time, Sundance!”

It was late during their shift, when Finley & Styles left Momma Jo’s Diner, returning to their armored vehicle to continue the patrol.

Fin: “Got some creds for the maintenance & recompense penalty fee, Mon?”

Mon: “Oh! Lemme drive!”

Practiced, and combat-drilled, Finley & Styles didn’t need to leave their vehicle to switch places.

Mon: “Com on! Channel 906, Code Zero!”

The touchscreen display of the hover-cars computer came to proverbial life, the AI auto-handling Monica’s request already. Two seconds later Finley & Styles heard:

Com: “You two will never grow adult! Ah damn, whatcha wasting the creds for again?”

Fin&Mon, in unison: “Ohm… Its ’em Sioux raiders riding on dragons, an estimated fifty of ’em chasing us god-fearing settlers to the lake right now!”

Com: “Amerindian Charity Foundation bills will prove you saints one day, you know that?” Of course they knew, Finley & Styles always paid those bills precisely due to that.

Smiling, and with no more need for words, Monica turned on the machines’ extras.

Com AI failure redefined it as false alert 203 that night: “Supposed gang-shootout with heavy weapons, FRT shot down, going overdrive to support local Lonestar patrol.”

The Lonestar vehicle was bathed in flashes of blue light going silvery with the watery foam drawn up into the air, as Monica Styles took the 220 MPH “there, and back, shortcut” across Lake Sammam.

Fin&Mon, in unison: “Lonestar psychological-counseling could not emphasize the importance of staying on good terms with the inner child often enough…”

Temporal end of Story 6, part 2.

Map of the Hood – Finley & Styles – Lone Star Shining


Lone Star Shining – Part 3 – Politico

© Andrè M. Pietroschek, all rights reserved

Seattle, January the 15th 2055: Captain Jarrett C. Just sat in his office chair. The political bite of Finley & Styles in their latest folly had finally started to weaken. Politics caused more blood-loss than any Vampire gone rampant. The Lake Sammam Vandals had been sent straight into disciplinary measures, and got an additional three month period of desktop work in different departments.

While true that Finley & Styles were charitable on Native Amerindian Projects, and few official complaints ever came from there, they both had underestimated how fierce a disciplinary-kick-in-the-butt they had provoked by the sheer fear of any racial unrest being caused by members of Lone Star. Just had been busy pulling the proverbial strings, and haggling or begging political favors, to minimize the collateral havoc wreaked by some ego’s in leadership of the corporation attempting to protect their careers.

Careers they assumed were one with the public well-being and customer satisfaction. Captain Just was too prudent to ever mouth a doubt about it, and luckily too prudent to take it as it was dished unto him, too. But this time they had messed-up, no chance of overlooking the set-up like with that decker publishing Lone Star Interns. The Department of Street Patrol was back on routine, or so it seemed. Just knew that the lower ranks of Lone Star Officers, those who literally risked their lives out there, did not react kindly to meddlers from above.

Finley & Styles were the beacon and the bait. They shone the bauble, so others did not have to meet the media ill-prepared. And the ‘grunts’ knew that damn well. Hated, doubted, envied or cheered – Finley & Styles were badge-bearers by conviction, not just for a handful of NuYen! And it was Jarrett C. Just who was now expected to bridge the gap between political zeal and street-securities reality.

The voice of his secretary started to come through the speakers of his computer. Just already knew it was to announce the arrival of his guests. Luckily his guests had never caught him on the political trickery he had already performed. Not committed, it was legitimate political favor-trading after all. Just couldn’t help on the disciplinary sentence, but he had assured that the additional three month would not be a waste of time for Finley & Styles.

Monica Styles had been sent to the Department of Paranormal Investigations and Nigel D. Finley had been sent to the Department of Special Investigations. Opportunity in Crisis.

His guests entered and Captain Just participated in the predefined, ever-awkward-dance of social etiquette, greetings and introductions. Simpletons overlooked that it had been purposely-designed so by society, as it served the purpose of allowing all participants to judge their surroundings and associates without compromising themselves or anybody else!

Present were: Captain Jarrett C. Just, official representative of the Departments Street Patrol and Irregular Assets, Benita Cumberland, chosen representative of the Department of Special Investigations, George Kenneth Leigh, chosen representative of the Department of Homicide, Davis Cheadle, chosen representative of the Department of Paranormal Investigations, and Whitney Mae-Wong, chosen representative from the Department of Special Investigations.

To Jarrett C. just those were the only people needed to attain both: A factual report on the performance of Finley & Styles on their temporal reassignment, and a tactical evaluation on those murders, including a suspect-vampire killing a mage gone Lone Star Informant, which had been dumped into a cold case file. The rest is corporate bargaining, Chummers.

It took gruesome two hours to pacify and comfort everybody’s ego. It took one more hour to allow Captain just the presentation of his strategy aka problem-solution. Luckily it then only needed ten minutes of mobile permission-asking and coordination to come to an agreement. Lone Star was a lot, but not corrupted into incompetence, nor foolish enough to leave an unsolved case which could be brought back into media attention. And Captain Jarrett C. Just was not just known as the ever-grumpy boss, but as an educated loyalist on the corporate career-ladder, too.

Whatever unsolved truth was hidden in the dark, the light of Lone Star would soon shine on it. And Finley & Styles would be back, where true badge-bearers belong, out, on those streets of Seattle with all the shadows…

End of Part 3.

Lone Star Shining – Part 4 – A chat among gravestones

© Andrè M. Pietroschek, all rights reserved

In the distance lights were turned on, as the light of day was beginning to vanish. A dark and cloudy night heralded itself, as it was windy and quickly turning from daytime into evening. Traffic surged by, as the graveyard lay on the outskirts of Seattle, or in other terms was found in the outer perimeter of the city.

The reinforced Duster, an armored coat, of Monica Styles was flapping in the wind while she watched the groggy approach of Nigel D. Finley. Both of them had been working all day. And for both of them it was the first meeting in a while. Voice Mails and Text Messaging can grow shallow after a while, and for these two it had been so.

Is that your idea of a reunion party, or did your horse just die, Sundance?” Finley spoke, as if the six month of separation never happened, and to a degree Monica knew that deep in his heart his loyalty was just as unshaken, as hers to him.

Nay, Butch, that old, darn horse is well, just thought I meet-ya without the Sheriff and ’em Texas Rangers gunning for us.”

Finley could see telltale signs of discomfort felt by his former partner. His remark had reassured him that those were not due his mistakes though. They both hated their nicknames, but knew they stuck until another whim of the public would change that.

Who’s Walter Berkshire?” asked Finley.

Sherlock Finley, shouldn’t you know the REAL names of your own informants?” Monica really hadn’t expected Nigel not to know.

Your sugar-boy Fatso is ahem… Buried here?” Finley was more surprised by Styles paying any mage a visit at all, then by the fact that street-people and SINless would have alternate identities.

Stop wastin’ ma time, Butch. Just put yer ole glasses on!”

Nigel did just that, and went staring in utter disbelief. The aura of his partner, Monica Styles, was that of an Awakened, a magical active person.

He’d been there for me, when my own change began. He never told anyone, not even his wife, leaving my choice to me. Taught me how to hide the early emanations for a while and about the inner price for cyberware.”

I understand.” Finley knew damn well how rare it was to find reliable allies on those Streets of Seattle. To him it was no surprise that Styles went through it alone, and while on the job. She was the kind of modern woman who wouldn’t rely on counseling and theory.

As an afterthought he added: “Mon, you know he was back in the Shadows?”

I did not, but his wife filed me in during a visit I paid her.” Monica answered.

Finley learned about the Mage who rescued his pregnant daughter from the fangs of an old adversary, but much like Styles he found no connection of that to the greater turn of events.

So why here and now?” Finley asked.

Oh come-on, Butch. Them horses thirst, and I gambled my last dollar away on the darn yester, so we will have to ride into that city and ruff ’em up for cash once more!”

True.” Remarked Finley, actually happy that Monica was not trapped in some form of mourning or regret, but instead, as always, fully focused on the job. This Friday had been the last day of their enforced reeducation in different Departments, and it was a good thing to know that, no matter what else, Styles would be by his side again next Monday morning. A willing and prepared Styles who even left him forty-eight hours to research foolhardy quotes on magically active police women!

Streets of Seattle is a fine song, did I ever mention?” asked a grinning Nigel, already prepared to dodge the provoked punch to come!

End of Part 4…

Adult Dystopian Fairy Tales – The battle for Cologne

Adult Dystopian Fairy Tales – The battle for Cologne

© Andrè M. Pietroschek, all rights reserved

Let me first write the verification that this is fiction. Further it is just about an antiquated religion, and not about Faith in God. Nor is it a challenge to any God, Mortal, or Devil. All characters and places are twisted into a Dystopian setting.

On a certain day, not very long ago, in a place most people simply know as Hell, something rare happened. The Devil prayed to God. No declaration of war, not another attempt to rape God and call it Love. Just a prayer, actually a quite short and desperate one.

Devil: “God Almighty, when I went for you in that minor Luciferian rebellion I did it one on one, so deliver me from the pestering sermon of these two mortals, who were dumped here by you. Nema!” And while praying the Devil’ wrathful eyes fell once more on Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin, who had not even noticed the Devil stopped listening, as they continued their hotheaded dispute.

God, flawless, infinite, and almighty, decided to be merciful and just on the request, as he had always been with creation, and even though the occasional believer was over come by doubts. He looked at a hellhole so lost in degeneration, infidelity, and unworthiness that it could only be saved by God’s mercy, or deserved to be devoured by the Devil itself. And to comfort readers: God certainly knows that ‘Nema’ is ‘amen spelled backwards’, as the Devil has some minor limitations since its imprisonment.

And so it came that the city of Cologne, in the middle of Europe, actually in a Spiritual-Third-World country called Germany, gained a bonus chance at salvation, redemption, or damnation by individual choice and deeds.

Grateful for the merciful God’s offer the Devil watched ‘his self-anointed two generals’ stop pestering the Devil itself, and instead returning to the egomaniac megalomania which actually was the root of their eternal damnation.

The Almighty had cast the dice, and now the Catholic Church or mankind would pay the price!

Fair beyond doubt, and in this case even without the ever-failing sabotage-attempts of the Devil and by the Devil, every mortal was given the chance to choose his or her side, and God granted them a simple but flawless understanding of this spiritual soccer game of sorts.

Triumphant Adolf Hitler recited: “Pride is a weapon, and in Cologne the Sodomites are Legion, the gays and lesbians will bring the Catholics down in a single, lightning quick series of strikes!”

Belittling Joseph Stalin glared at that competing impostor, and foretold: “How naive, you fell for the superficial, easy shortcut again, not for the might of a real solution. Science is what believers and unbelievers depend on by now, and be it only to make a living, so my army will be the army of Unbelievers who turn on others and themselves in the name of their academic godhead!”

Unshaken the Bishop of Cologne stated: “We have sold letters of indulgence, had priests more perverted than the Devil itself, and still survived twenty centuries with ease. We can and will resist those Sodomites and Scientists, until we assimilate or overcome them!”

And so the uneasy alliance of the Sodomite Empire and the Godless Science prepared to lay siege to the holy ground, which served as a clear measure who was progressing at any given time. If the Sodomites or Godless Scientists would manage to get full access to the Dome of Cologne, then the Catholic Church would have lost. But if the Catholic Faith would resist them for a certain amount of time, then their onslaught lacked Faith and Might, and would be considered a loss instead.

And a decade passed, with threats, disinformation, sexual harassment, abuse, and violation, doubts, crisis, and exhaustion colliding with goodwill, self-preservation, honest faith, confidence, hope and conviction. Thousands lost their ways and beliefs, even more were so marked by the front-line experiences that they longed for certain Death!

Still all went silent, when God wanted his announcement to be known. For one instance even the Devil itself wondered what was to come…

As a reward for dutifully snatching his two generals, ensuring they won’t escape the hell they had earned themselves, the Devil was allowed to compare with his competitor on the holy ground it could not enter since “that incident”.

And so the Bishop and the Devil looked at each other, fears and doubts washed away by their faith or conviction, and ensured that each other had received the same divine message.

“Rematch?” asked one of the two.

“Rematch!” verified the other.

For God, in his infinite wisdom, would never exclude us late readers from those who can earn their own salvation, redeem themselves, or condemn themselves to Hell.