In the process of defending the Church of Satan from unfounded claims in the U.S. mass media, Zeena's media appearances attracted a new upsurge of membership to the formerly moribund organization, even as she began to question and ultimately reject the self-centered, atheist philosophy she promoted. As she toured the United States on behalf of the Church of Satan, Zeena's crisis of faith reached its highpoint when she learned that most of her father's self-created legend was based on lies and many of his works were plagiarized. When jealousy and spite motivated Anton LaVey and his administrator, Densley-Barton, to actually endanger Zeena's life, she could no longer, in good conscience, continue to cover up her progenitor's true character. After serving for some time, in The Temple of Set, Zeena and her husband moved to Germany and converted to tantric Buddhism, where Zeena became a respected yogini.
Anton Szandor LaVey died on October 29, 1997, at St. Mary's Medical Center, in San Francisco, CA. While on his death bed, moments before his last breath, he was quoted as expressing deep regret for his life of blasphemy. Those who were at his side, at the end, testified that Anton was frantic in terror, as he professed to have seen horrific creatures that were coming for his damned soul.
Nikolas and Zeena Schreck still swear by their werewolf beliefs and identities, but have entirely renounced her charlatan-father’s Satanic religion.
I stand accused, I believe in the forces of darkness
An incurable believer in the magic of the midnight sky
And the love that I found today
Oh I can't let it slip away
Oh darling, can't you read between the lines
- Shaun Cassidy
THE MOON
The moon was but a chin of gold
A night or two ago,
And now she turns her perfect face
Upon the world below.
Her forehead is of amplest blond;
Her cheek like beryl stone;
Her eye unto the summer dew
The likest I have known.
Her lips of amber never part;
But what must be the smile
Upon her friend she could bestow
Were such her silver will!
And what a privilege to be
But the remotest star!
For certainly her way might pass
Beside your twinkling door.
Her bonnet is the firmament,
The universe her shoe,
The stars the trinkets at her belt,
Her dimities of blue.
- Emily Dickinson
Time and space only apply to the living, and have no power or authority in the afterlife. In Heaven, 60 years is more like 60 minutes. In Hell, 6 minutes is a lifetime. Time is short on this Earth, and it goes by quickly. We’re all running out of time. Be good to each other, and do whatever you can to be right with God.
- A Wise Man
APRIL 13, 1947
FLESHBACK
REUBEN’S BACKSTORY
Reuben spent most of his time sleeping, when he wasn’t in school. His parents ragged on him for not having a social life, making him feel strange for not having any friends. They contributed to the demolition of his self-esteem, having no idea what life was like for him. He dreaded each and every morning going to school, not knowing what that day would bring. He had been beaten up in the restroom, his face shoved in toilets, struck with and locked inside lockers, and most recently had his privates taped up during gym class. This had happened in front of the teacher, who just laughed along and let it happen. They had tightly wrapped the tape around that area, effectively covering his penis, balls, and butt cheeks. Reuben had abnormally sensitive skin and tended to bleed easily, so he sat awkwardly in discomfort for the remainder of the afternoon.
On the bus ride home, one of the popular girls, whom he knew was going steady with one of his most vicious bullies, came over and straddled him. They had noticed him shifting his weight in his seat, trying to take pressure off his aching backside, so they sent the class slut to saddle him and keep him still.
“I don’t know why nobody likes you?” the teasing trollop told him, resting her delicate forearms on his neglected shoulders. “I think you’re a real dish. It’s okay,” she said, noticing him eyeing her voluptuous bust that barely stayed in her smoked-out blouse. “Take a gander. Get a good eye full, sexy,” she said insincerely, further adding insult to injury.
Reuben’s anxiety often caused him to shake and sweat. He had also taught himself to speak slowly, as to help keep him from stammering his speech. This broad was considerably attractive, even though she was ugly around the heart.
“What’s wrong?” she asked him. “Don’t I turn you on? Don’t you like boobies?” she asked, smiling, not feeling him grow underneath her. Even if he had gotten stiff, it would have been difficult for her to feel him through the layers of duct tape.
“Maxine, he can’t get a boner! Don’t you know? Gingers have no pulse! They have no souls!” one of the bullies bellowed out, as the busload of students laughed and mocked Reuben for not getting excited by the hot chick on his lap.
“Is that true?” the mean tramp asked Reuben, who was too scared and shaken-up to respond.
“According to Greek mythology, it is!” Another student blurted out. “It says that redheads turn into vampires, after they croak!”
“He probably doesn’t even fancy dollies!” One of the other guys shouted over the collective laughter, at Reuben’s expense. The truth was, Reuben found her ass more enticing than her bosom. He could feel her butt cheeks resting on his thighs, which sent a surge of electricity through his veins. He imagined what it would be like to have her sedated and restrained, so he could explore the curves and tunnels of her anal wonderland.
As soon as Reuben made it home, he went straight upstairs to undress and climb into the manganese-stained tub. He decided it would be a safer bet to soak himself in a warm bath, and let the cistern water loosen the tape, so he wouldn’t have to pull it off his flesh. His mother was sitting on the sofa when he came through the door, and said ‘hello’ to him, but was ignored. Reuben thought about suicide an awful lot, but his detrimental fear of death kept him from acting on his desperate tendencies. He couldn’t confide in either of his parents, who were incessantly uncaring and insensitive when it regarded him. He would have kept a journal, logging his innermost feelings and secrets, but he knew nobody would ever read it, which debilitated the point for him.
She and his father were devoutly religious, and had taken him to their priest several times, but it never helped. They would catch Reuben keeping things from them and lying to them about the littlest things, never taking any accountability for why Reuben was afraid to be honest and open with them. The last time they had taken Reuben to see Father Paresh, they told the collared clergyman, in front of Reuben, that they felt they must’ve gotten a bum son, since he was clearly incapable of making friends or attracting dames. They claimed that there had to be something wrong with Reuben, and that it was his fault for being such an outcast. Father Paresh felt increasingly uncomfortable talking to the Petersons, not because they were lousy parents, but because of their syrupy German accent.
Reuben had awoken that morning, after tossing and turning all night in his restless sleep. He came to with crust in his eyes and blood in the back of his underwear. He was a young boy with his whole life ahead of him, yet he felt aged and frail. His poor health was unfairly premature and gradually getting worse, yet no matter how bad it got, he seemed to live in spite of his cursed condition. He got out of bed that morning perspiring, while chilled at the same time. His head pounded in pain just above his eyes, which wanted to go back to sleep.
“Vaht’s cooking?” the soused Gerhard asked his subservient wife, as he aggressively cups one of her ass cheeks with his open hand, stumbling by her to sit at the head of the breakfast table.
Helga is wearing his favorite casual, collared shirt, which had a colorful, checkered pattern to it. She didn’t have anythi
ng on below her waist, not even a single unmentionable. He zoomed in on his wife’s gams and thought about the oppression they had barely escaped in Germany. He was grateful to have left the Third Reich behind them, even though you’d never be able to tell it by the manner that he and Helga behaved.
“Vaht vould you like, Daddy?” she asked. “To eggs and bacon sound good?”
“As long as I can eat zem off your sveet ass,” he replied back.
“You can haff vatevah you vant, Daddy. You know zat,” she said, bringing a smile to his face. “Just keep blowing your vawd on me, or in me.” Helga had no filter and not a hint of shame. She said what she felt, and felt what she said, which…unlike her other qualities…was quite admirable and unusual.
“You know I vill, ton’t you?” he said to the high-maintenance slut he called his wife. They didn’t have much, but whenever he had extra moolah to spend, it mostly went towards her materialistic fetishes.
Reuben’s bedroom was the cellar, which was darker but much cooler, which Reuben preferred. His parents heard him come up the creaky steps, and as soon as he stepped through the door and into the kitchen, his parents wasted no time in letting him have the earful that he had become so accustomed to expecting from them.
“I see you slept in your dirty clothes again,” his mother said, shaking her head in disgust. “Ton’t ve buy you pajamas?” she asked rhetorically, as she shamelessly flaunted her lower private parts to her impressionable child. “Ton’t ve buy you vat you need? Yet, this is how you zank us, right? Real nice, Reuben.” He had fallen asleep in what he had worn the night before, which was a solid black T-shirt and faded blue jeans. This was one of several habits Reuben displayed that she considered to be reprehensible. “And you know I hate it vhen all you vear is black. Vat’s vong vif color? Huh? You’re too good to vear color, I suppose? Is zat it? You look like a goddam mortician.”
“You know your muzah’s right, ton’t you?” Mr. Peterson asked. “I mean, look at you for Christ’s sake. You look like the Black Death became a person. It’s bad enough zat you’re so damned pale, and haff zat repugnant hair lip on your face. You von’t let your muzah cut your hair, vhich looks like it was born soaked in blood. The least you could to is tress nice for her, so ve ton’t haff to be so damned ashamed.” Reuben’s father always spoke extra slowly to him, as if to give the impression that he viewed his son as being mentally retarded and incapable of understanding much.
Reuben stood at the bus stop, waiting for the yellow shuttle, with an umbrella to keep the hostile sun off him. He’s standing several feet from the rest of the kids, not by his own preference or choice. He can hear them whispering to each other about him, and can feel the girls detest his very existence.
“Nice umbrella,” one of the other boys complimented sarcastically. “Trying to impress the chicks there, ace?”
“Give him a break,” one of the damsels said with counterfeit compassion. “He’s pathetic and sad. He can’t help it.”
“Yeah, I’ll give him a break,” another future despot threatened. “If he ever tries to bum my dame, I’ll give him a break alright.”
The cruel kids laughed at him, as the girls joined in on the fun and hung all over the jerks. When the motor coach finally came, Reuben continued to keep silent and made his way to the back of the bus, where he’d sit alone and had the displeasure of seeing and hearing all the mockery at his expense. The students blew spitballs at him, doing all they could to keep his heart pounding and his head hanging.
After a long morning, it was time for the students to feed their stomachs instead of their minds. Reuben sat alone with his paper bag, as was his routine. He could feel the barrage of gawks and glares from the others in the cafeteria, and could hear their contempt and ridicule. He hung his head in low self-esteem, pretending to look down and not be affected by the cruel callousness of his classmates. The anxious Reuben had only taken one bite out of his dry pastrami sandwich, when he sensed that something was terribly wrong outside. Following his intuition, the social pariah instinctively pushes himself away from the table, and rises from his chair so fast that he leaves it spinning on one leg. The same second that his chair hits the floor, Reuben is out the doors. No more than fifteen minutes later, a few of his peers and a couple of the teachers had formed a circle around Reuben, who was cradling a stray Siberian Husky in his empathetic lap.
“I zink he’s dehydrated,” Reuben said, trying his best at holding back the tears, but failing miserably. “It’s too hot outside.”
“Zink?” one of the male teachers asked, sarcastically. “You mean think? Say think, boy. Try it. Maybe these other kids would pick on you less if you didn’t talk like a fucking Nazi?”
“Hey, Reuben,” one of the nicer kids began, “don’t worry. Animals are made so that their fur keeps them cool in the heat.”
“Shut up, Stanley Stupid,” one of the pretty girls said, before shoving him hard enough to knock him off his balance.
Reuben looked over at Stanley, who had fallen flat on his face, and busted both his bottom lip and eyeglasses as a direct result from landing on the pavement. He was tempted to tell Stanley that he had been misinformed, and that the fur only helped protect the dog from the cold and not the heat, but he kept that fact to himself, not wanting to embarrass the nerd any more than they already had.
“Do you haff any vawter?” Reuben begged, putting the dog’s suffering before his own. “Please, somebody…give me some vawter so I can help him!”
Reuben’s emotional reaction to the limp Husky provoked laughter from everybody but Stanley, who started to sneak away, only to be held back by one of the two spectating teachers.
“Not so fast, boy,” Mr. Johnson said quietly, so that only Stanley could hear him, as he secured the back of the geek’s collar with his firm grip. He knew that Stanley wanted to do a good deed and fetch some water for the distressed dog, but the rest of the unsympathetic crowd were having too much fun to let that refreshment happen.
Later that same day, the 11-year-old found himself on the dreaded field again, with his fellow 6th graders. It was particularly bright that sunny afternoon, on top of the blistering weather that already made the day miserable on its own. Reuben looked even more gothic in his black, red, and white uniform. He had absolutely no interest in being a part of the Crosses, but it was important to his father for him to be there and to be active in these group competitions. Despite being regularly crucified by both of his parents, he still wanted to make his father proud. Gerhard had collected baseball cards his entire life, and had long dreamed that his only son would be a face on one of those cards.
These games were well supported by the parents and faculty of Divine Grace Academy, and were considered a big deal by the local population, most of whom were sports-obsessed. Just then, one of the lads on the opposing team hit the ball and knocked it clean into the sky above. Suddenly, the Little League game seemed to be moving in slow motion to everyone there. Mr. Peterson heard the rowdy cheering as he watched the pop-fly head straight toward his son. Gerhard, for the first time, was filled with anticipation and excitement about his boy. Could this be the moment he had been praying for? He started to believe that it was, until Reuben keeled over, holding his stomach, just seconds before the ball dropped not even a foot behind where he stood. As people screamed curses at young Reuben, he collapsed on the neatly-trimmed grass, in sheer physical agony.
Reuben regurgitated mass amounts of blood, after nearly choking on it. He did this right in front of everyone, getting it all over his shiny new cleats and spotless pantaloons, which all cost more money than they should. Rather than be concerned for his troubled and tormented son, Mr. Peterson was furious and embarrassed. Reuben had been complaining to his parents for what felt like forever, telling them about the chronic symptoms that he was having, but they never batted an eye or thought to make an appointment for him to be seen. Reuben suffered from autoimmune disorders, as well as severe porphyria, which included extreme photosensi
tivity to the sun’s rays. However, because it was still undiagnosed, nobody took any measures to protect him from harm or keep him away from risk factors.
When Reuben did this hemo-vomiting, in place of catching the ball that was well within his reach, his selfish and insensitive teammates royally chewed him out for it.
“You really got yourself a winner there, don’t you?” one of the other fathers remarked as he intentionally and aggressively brushed Mr. Peterson’s shoulder while walking to his car. Mr. Peterson would have knocked the guy out, but this particular parent had a chrome dome and a hell of an arm.
“Applesauce! Thanks a lot, Reuben!” the angry lad said to the ginger with the rat-tail hairdo.
“I know he’s your only son, Gerhard, but I think you’re whistling Dixie with this one,” another one of the fathers said, as he padded him on the same assaulted shoulder while he walked by.
“Fuck!” another boy shouted. “I guess this means no pizza again!” The boys all looked at Reuben as if they were unanimously dying to rub him out.
“Coach can’t get us pizza anyways. Remember? Reuben can’t have garlic. He’s allergic,” the boy said in a snide and cynical way.
“Dammit! Why is that loser even on the team?!” another boy cried, joining in on collectively busting Reuben’s chops.
Reuben’s father found it both ironic and pathetic that the team really joined together to attack his son, yet didn’t work so well together on the field. “If you spoiled brats vould put zat same anger into vinning a game now an zen, maybe you vould break your losing streak?” he said under his breath, quietly to himself, careful to not let anyone else hear. Any loving father would have reassured his boy that he was proud of him no matter what, and encouraged him to brush off the beefy bullshit from the other kids, but Mr. Peterson didn’t do loving. He was just upset that this made him look bad, which bothered him considerably more than his sick son being ritualistically bullied.
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