Owl Magic, A Short Tale Of The Occult

The heat came down like the beating of giant wings, suffocating, intense, taking the air right out of your lungs  and sucking it up into whatever was beyond the bonewhite glare of the sun.

So deal with it. Not easy, but I strode into the furnace and somehow made it to the Shamrock filling station pick 'n steal. A short walk across the anteroom of Hell.

"How's it going?" I asked across cracked formica in the cooling blast of air conditioning. She rose up from checking cheap cigars, Swisher Sweets, in all their lurid 99 cent, bluntish glory.

"OK. That it, coffee?" 

"And a pack of cigarettes, Marlboro Light, short, box."

She had the cigarettes ready. It was a morning ritual, regular and repeated but something was different.

"You like the smell?"

Stick incense wafted on the AC, familiar enough; like the odor of tipis in Wales, Austin or San Francisco.

"I smell it," I replied, "It smells like hippies."

She giggled, suddenly coy.

"But hey, better than a toilet, right?"

"So true, better than a toilet. But what's with the owl?"

She paused, laughter most definitely over, and looked at the plastic bird glaring round-eyed from the top of a glass counter and its  sign for burned offerings. 

We gazed in silence, while darkness flickered in and out at the edge of vision, barely perceptible shadowmen, closing in. I ended the spell.

"So what's with the owl. Guarding against evil spirits?"

Liquid brown Aztec Inca eyes met mine and stayed there before another giggle. "No, he's just an owl, you know, like some stupid bird."

I walked out into the heat, coffee in hand, to return the next day; rituals bear repetition.

The owl looked down from his perch and darkness clustered, sharp and flitting, almost out of sight.

"Coffee and cigarettes?"

"That's right, same again."

"You remember the owl?

"Yes."

"You're right. He stops the evil."

"I know."

I looked at Mictecacihuatl and she at me, impassive, empty, a void, this was just the way it was. 

Vade retro, I walked into the searing light of the day, "God bless."

Behind me came a rustle of feathers and the sound of tearing, plucking, ripping and pulling at flesh. I didn't look back.

All Gods, readers, are not the same.

God bless,

LSP

Stop Gendering Your Baby Vice

Biological sex doesn't exist. I'll leave you to ponder the Satanic insanity of Tourjee's "gender is a construct" piece for the aptly named Vice. In the meanwhile, here's a helpful tune.

Gotta love the Dead but really, is that the best you can do, Marxists? Look, idiots, everyone knows that biological sex exists. Keep denying it and everything else that's true and you'll look as ridiculous as...

Hillary 20/20.

Your Old Mate,

LSP

#DemandVoterID

If they can do it once they can do it again.

With voter ID Hillary would have won.

So let's kick Putin out of the ballot box.

And save democracy.

#DemandVoterID

Love,

LSP

Scraping By

Farsighted readers of this family oriented fishing blog will remember that the Compound's HQ was starting to look shabby and we hired painting Mexicans to put things right. Good call, the crew in question do a decent job but only when they turn up.

The problem was that they turned up rarely if at all and apparently didn't want to get paid. Who knows, perhaps they thought of their work as a kind of donation to the church. Which is great but left the historic Texan wooden house in danger of becoming an historic  Texan ruin. So we hired a new crew.

Guess what, they turned up and they're still turning up, every day. It's a kind of miracle and a pretty big job. First they scrape, then they power wash, then they caulk.

Scraping, washing and caulking done, on goes the primer, followed by the paint, all in 40*+ weather; it's a wonder the paint doesn't combust or even the air itself. House painting in a Texan summer can't be easy; well done, Team, for sticking with it.

At the moment things are pretty much at the scraping stage, though the North wall's been primed and's almost ready for paint. When that's done the scaffold can go back and the rest reached with ladders.

It'll look good when it's done.

Scrape on,

LSP

There's Only Two Genders

But maybe you disagree?

Your Pal,

LSP

Striper! No, Not Stormy

 

Fishing wisdom says there's not much point trying to catch fish mid-afternoon when the sun's high in the sky, it's roastingly hot at 106* and the fish are stunned into stasis by the heat. They just lay there, suspended in a kind of piscine daze, not biting. 

So don't bother fishing in these conditions, runs the wisdom, it's about as pointless as trying to get Anderson Cooper into conversion therapy.

Moral Arbiter

All this ran through my mind as I loaded up the rig and headed for water. Why am I doing this, I wondered. Because I had to get out and tilt my lance at fishing wisdom, I wanted to catch fish against the odds. 

A challenge, sort of thing. Not unlike trying to convince a Democrat that peace with Russia isn't treason, or even Pearl Harbor cubed.

A Perch

Whatever. By some miracle of modern technology I reached the lake without the truck melting into the asphalt and surveyed the scene. No one was there and who can blame them? They didn't want to be baked into an early Brennanlike senescence. 

Undaunted, I cast off with a split shot, small hook worm rig and was getting bites from the get-go, but couldn't close the deal. Small perch were obviously on the scene so I switched out the hook for something even smaller, miraculously the mono didn't ignite, and result, caught 5 perch.

Striper!

They weren't large and the last was perhaps the smallest. Put him to work! I thought, like Trump trying to cure our urban hellhole inner cities. Still, I wasn't counting on anything, it was the last cast. But what a cast. 

After a minute or two, the mouth-hooked perch seemed to get vigorous in the water and  I loosened the drag, instinctively. Good intuition because the line started playing out like fury, a fish was on as opposed to the perch playing around. So tighten it up, set the hook and reel it in.

Eye of the Beholder

And out came a voracious Striper who'd pretty much swallowed the perch whole. He went back to fight again another day and I went back to the Compound in the searing heat of the afternoon.

Reward. The Compound's Finally Getting Painted...

Moral of the story? Hungry Stripers, don't say Stormy,  will eat pretty much anything.

Tight lines,

LSP

Romanov Martyrs

Today marks the 100th anniversary of the Russian Imperial family's murder by a Bolshevik death squad.

In a melee of wild shooting, squad leader Peter Irmakov was drunk, Tsar Nicholas died almost immediately. His children and family retainers were not so fortunate.

It took a further 20 minutes of "disorganized" firing, clubbing and bayoneting to kill the rest of the family until, it's reported, the floor of room was slick with blood and brains, like an "ice rink."

Even then, two of the Tsar's daughters were still breathing when they were carried out of the building. The bodies were eventually burned with sulphuric acid and buried in a shallow grave. You can read about it here, here and elsewhere.

Early this morning, at 2.30 am, marking the time of the bloodthirsty, pitiless, drunken, raving, satanic, child killing executions, thousands of Russians marched and processed in pilgrimage to the site of the murders, where a church was built at the turn of the millennium.

The Russian Church has canonized the Romanov victims of Red Terror as martyrs and perhaps it's no accident that the peace summit between Trump and Putin, America and Russia, against globalist, atheist socialism took place on the eve of this anniversary.

Of course Bolshevism is gone from Russia. Judging from the frenzied reaction of our media and their BillSoc (billionaire socialist) overlords to Helsinki, its spirit is alive and kicking in the West.

By the blood of the Martyrs,

LSP

TRAITOR!

Trump meets with Putin in Helsinki and before you can say possessed by Satan, Deep State heads are exploding in tooth-gnashing rage. Traitor is their catchword.

Ex-CIA Director John Brennan pretty much led the charge, tweeting that Trump was "imbecilic" and "treasonous." Treasonous, really? Strange patriotism from the man who voted Communist Party in 1976.

Then there's John McCain, who blasted and roared in multiple salvos of epic fury. "No prior president," bombasted the failed presidential candidate, "has ever abased himself more abjectly before a tyrant." Oh my, Cato redivivus.

But don't forget the slick, elite, lying, pugnacious, venal mainstream media. CNN's thick in the fray, calling for a "shadow government" to rise up against the president, perhaps forgetting that this has been happening since or even before the election. 

Even the, ahem, moral Anderson Cooper called the president's behavior "disgraceful" and John King wasted no time, Trump simply "surrendered" to Russia.

And on and on, you can read all about it on the internet or, if you're unfortunate enough to watch TV, on the Uniparty's agitprop networks. There you'll see it, in all its howling fury. Trump is a TRAITOR. 

Like, how dare you sell out America by saying you'll co-operate with Russia on trade, nuclear non-proliferation, international crime, Islamic terrorism and foreign policy. You imbecile, telling a Russian President that you regard his country as a competitor instead of an enemy. What. A. Traitor.

Leaving aside the risible irony of people who oppose  the idea of America having an enforceable border calling Trump a traitor, imagine the reaction if Obama had said exactly the same thing in Finland. He'd have been lauded as the greatest statesman since World War II, the architect of an historic peace.

But no, this isn't Obama or even Hillary and we have to wonder, what really enrages Trump's enemies about peace with Russia? Good question.

The Military Industrial Complex bottom line, bought and paid for inside-the-Beltway special interests, don't say Browder, demonic possession, leftist nihilism, the enraged cacophany of evil found out?  All that and more, you name it, go right ahead and stick the tail on the wicked donkey. 

Speaking of which, Trump met one-to-one with Putin today and no one else but interpreters were present. Can you imagine, just for a second, Putin handing Trump a large envelope labelled "Clinton."

Hell hath no fury... I'll leave you to fill in the blanks.

Your Old Friend, 

LSP

Melania Mondays!

Readers of this internationally respected mind blog are still reeling from frightening images of failed presidential candidate Hillary Clinton, and who can blame them? 

Here at the Compound we understand that, which is why we're delighted to lift everyone's spirits with another installment of Melania Mondays!

America's popular and glamorous First Lady's been busy flying the flag in style. She met the Queen at Windsor Castle.

Well known for her love of children and veterans, she visited with Chelsea Pensioners and school children in London.

Blenheim Palace got a look in too, with one commentator describing Melania as looking "ethereal" and like a "Disney Princess;" unlike Britain's famous traitor, Theresa May, who didn't.

Then it was on to Finland for the Helsinki summit, where the First Lady met with her counterpart, Jenni Haukio, before the President's meeting with Vladimir Putin.

Melania attended the press conference following the historic meeting, where both leaders laid out sensible objectives for bilateral cooperation.

As a sign of goodwill, President Trump was given a Russian football, which he cheerfully passed to a smiling First Lady.

On behalf of us all, well done Melania for doing your part to make America great again.

MAGA,

LSP

Dark Matter

This is dark. This is as dark as it gets... 

Via ZeroHedge:

The most bizarre thing is the people who protected her from clear felonious activity and violations of the Espionage Act. James Clapper, Director of National Intelligence, was protecting her and leaking things to the media and lying. You had John Brennan, Director of the CIA, protecting her by starting a false investigation (on Trump) and stirring things up with this (false/unverified) dossier. You had James Comey, Director of the FBI, protecting her...

Then, you’ve got Peter Strzok protecting her, and now it appears the United Kingdom GCHQ was using NSA information to target Donald Trump and protect Hillary Clinton. You have to ask yourself what kind of power or connections does this woman have to get all of these members of the Deep State, Shadow Government to risk their own criminal penalties to protect her and try to get her elected? That is the Shadow Government. That is the Deep State. That is what is so chilling about this whole thing...

This is deep. This is dark. This is as dark as it gets, and this is the biggest espionage case involving government officials in the history of this country.

Rumour has it that Hillary's psyching up for a 20/20 run for the presidency and her chance, yet again, to be the most powerful woman in the world.

I hope that's true and who knows, maybe Putin has a large envelope marked Clinton which he'll give to Trump in Helinski.

God bless,

LSP

#WalkAway -- WARNING GRAPHIC

There's a new movement in town, #WalkAway, in which people describe their journey out of the Party. It's a big thing, echoing the success of Trump in what used to be blue states during the election. But why would anyone walk away from the Democrats?

Well That's Normal #WalkAway

Not because of the weirdness, surely, or the "everything you don't like is Hitler," or the "we hate anyone who isn't part of the Party," or the lies, cronyism, hypocrisy and nihilism of the left.

#WalkAway's been branded as a fake astroturf movement full of Russian bots, spies and double agents. 

Typical Russian Collusion

Unh Hunh, a bit like President Trump himself, the notorious Kremlin agent who had the shameless, brazen temerity to defeat Hillary in an election. Like, how dare he?

Despite #WalkAway's forest fire, grass roots success some people keep can't break their allegiance to the Party. Here's a video.

And here's Wictor's analysis. I'd be careful if I was a member of Antifa, just imagine all those slender undercover feds at your next revolutionary meeting to overthrow the Man.

Your Pal,

LSP

Black Cavalry

There I was in the front office, some call it a porch, when a troop of cavalry trotted by. Black cavalry, a stirring sight.

There were a few outliers, some ambled along at a walk.

Others at something like an extended trot.

And others again at a bareback hand gallop.

I like everything about this and file it under "country life in Texas."

Ride on,

LSP