Nerding Day: Black Magic and Dark Rituals

Why do we suffer, demonless? Is a man not entitled to the demons of his brow? Is the Infernal Dream dead? Did we ever care about the poor (demonless), hungry (for demons), huddled masses yearning for demons (demons)?

I’ve read endless guides to cosmic begging, for nothing. I’m a lit professor, I don’t have time for books. If mall hoodoo can’t hire and micromanage demons, what’s the point of spirituality? Leaving death an IOU? If that’s the endgame, Sunday’s a work day.

I’m overarmed, undersocialized, and full of directionless rage. Can’t someone capitalize?

Go away. I’ve been hurt too many times. Tutors promise hellpower, but work at a spiritual Nathan’s. I can be demonless all by myself.

Well, I have felt rage once or twice this sentence. I considered car bombs, but dark magick has more flair.

Then again, the logic’s backwards. I don’t need to get pissed for dark magick. I need dark magick because I’m pissed.

Alright, one spell. Just to show I tried. My roommates ignore the other pentagrams, so what’s three more? They give the kitchen character.

Sidebar: three points anywhere make a triangle. Or do you mean equal sides? I’ll get the protractor and bandsaw.

Of all the juvenile, self-soothing nonsense I’ve read, this is the most glorious. I’ve sought this power since third edition. Lyssa’s redeemed a lifetime of therapy-free patience. Hopefully I’m wearing enough skulls, I’ve only got five on. My fault. Dress for the powers you want, and all that.

At some point, every child tries to force choke a teacher. Every child in New York. Every Jamaican child in New York. With a low fade, a funny forehead scar from another kid biting them, and an accent from nowhere. When they’re 19. Moving along.

Who is this master?

Perfect. Imagine a Brittany Nightshade writing anything else. What is your wisdom, oh Demigod ov Used Bookstore?

I’m in. Self-publishing unleashed countless talents and anti-talents. Wherever Brittany falls, I’ll see something new. Or something old, mangled into parody. All upside, really.

Alongside the usual wytch escape clause. Competing with priests must be nice: as long as you don’t touch pogroms, evolution, or kids, you win. Thanks to a soft bracket, every spellbook can reprint one copout. I guess Baba Yaga and Captain Planet share a catchphrase.

Fair point, vanilla wytches get irrational about channeling hell. If we shouldn’t frack it, then why’s it there? I’m three pages into Faust, and soul barter looks dope. Let’s do that. Facts and logic say I need a demon army, and anecdotal evidence won’t nudge my belief in white, black, or Christmas magick.

That’s dark-ish. But missing something.

Yes.

Can you feel the Abyss? The iMessage breakups surging within? Or the raw energy of not dating at all? Your shadow circle turns that force into choreo. Brittany left out naming your Cursed Technique, but we can infer. Mine’s Infinite Publishing Landfill, with the Domain Expansion Infantile Style Parody.

This dance follows the three circles we drew for Lyssa, a pentacle for our Spell of Protection, the separate Rune of Protection, and the personalized altar to Nyx, Goddess of Night. Less than ten pages in, I’m out of space for magick crap. Or dancing. I knocked over Nyx’s altar typing this. And while Invocation of Hecate doesn’t demand I draw her premium, overstuffed circle, I only have one soul. For now.

Note: high ELO spellbooks stop defining magick knives, and assume you’re strapped. Brittany’s opening is less The Historie of Frolicking in the Woods and more Torture Magick 203:

A classic! I assume. Voodoo dolls pop up in action movies, which fill all the shelves in Freedom Libraries. I thought I saw a book once, but the librarian was just hiding pot.

Done: I keep life-sized dolls of my enemies on deck, next to my evidence kiln. Brittany says a sticky note’s enough, but no it fucking isn’t. It’s a voodoo doll. It needs to at least pass for a carnival portrait. Don’t insult torture gods with laziness.

Another rage hex for Archmage Banner. A few market forces might be involved: most nerds buy Hexes For Dummies with someone in mind. Amateur Necronomicons are like wedding rings. And often share targets.

Almost there. Rapping pain with pain takes conviction: your own rhymes piss you off, trading petty dignity for power.

We’re back in business.

Cast carefully. If they’re a rival hatewytch, you’ve buffed them. Then they might cast Bones of Anger, boosting your Bones of Anger, forming a hypertension loop. Try explaining that to a doctor. They’ll send you to another genre of hospital entirely.

It sounds niche, but statistics speak for themselves. You’re most likely to turn magick on other magicians, heads of state, or yourself.

I almost ran out of rage, until I stomped chicken bones into my heel. Now I’m fucking furious.

I can’t stay mad at this. No, really, I only have so much rage. Anyone have a newspaper?

Our arsenal’s looking versatile: now we can crush bullies’ bodies and minds. Our oppressors’ suffering will fill the seas with tearblood, a potion of tears and blood fused by rage.

Sorry, went mad with hellpower early. I should finish the course first. Though that didn’t take long at all–I wonder if other wytches have persecution complexes. Or mortals, or nations, or world’s richest men, or dogs.

Wait, that’s a demon. Is it showtime? Are we done fucking around?!

I don’t trust starting with succubae. White mages already passed goon marathons off as rituals, and I can’t lose another month to Cetaphil.

That said, thumbs up for cursing the red tape. All bureaucrats reach hell eventually, and I’m sure Balor rental paperwork’s even longer than my hit list.

That’s a relief. If demons are real and this backfires, they can only destroy my mind. Safety matters.

Is there a rap?

Now I see the appeal: someone else drowns in Cetaphil. Don’t waste this power on love: banish your foes to PornHub’s ruins. Black magick’s about hate, rage, and necroplasm.

Humans don’t call succubi often? For this, or anything else? I recall keeping one around in World of Warcraft for crowd control. And tactics. And strategy.

Anyway, this has been fun, but it’s all unverifiable jabber. I’m off to learn something more productive, like playing bongos with my feet.

What.

This book’s fucking wonderful. Brittany says “Fuck Link’s recital, we have real warm front sorcery.” And then frets over collateral damage the way Philip Morris weeps for your trachea.

Drown, pigs! No one dumps the Shadow Elite!

What? Again? I was fucking around. We’re lobbing lightning and melodrama like Storm, why regress to prayers for the unfucked? You’re above this, Brittany. Let’s make dick implosion dolls.

Nope, don’t give a shit. Skip.

I said no.

Necromancers should really have more confidence. You (and the powers of hell) are enough (for Satan). You can meet other mages at any bar where no one’s dancing.

Honestly, I can work with this. After Call Lightning, my foes won’t expect Call Divorce.

So far my checklist has a hammer, nail, block of wood, oil, polaroid camera, and tolerant neighbors. I thought power hid in freehanding perfect circles, but the best trick’s living above a mall.

.

So mote—sorry, reflex. There’s another page of rap. Personally, I’d punt a quick thunderstorm at a couple I don’t like, but Brittany gives us options.

“Honey? One of your stupid asshole friends is chanting outside again. And you know what? I’m sick of it. You can start hanging out with adults, or go back to swiping.”

Can you end a jilting spell casually? You’re either invested or insane. That request’s a bit curse your head, hex your belly. The fist-shaped dents in your altar don’t scream “detached.”

There’s the torture magick I signed on for. I’ll overlook all the dating sorcerie. The world isn’t ready for magecels. Inspells? Warlocks going their own way?

Right. Back to hellmaxxing.

Who cares if it works? We finally have a witch willing to say “after the storm flattens your divorced rival’s home, candles can coat their skin in open sores.” If that sounds like an overpromise, your rage is weak.

By the shadows, this rap is ass. It’s like Halloweentown drill. I couldn’t be happier.

Dick implosion dolls! Brittany’s our best mentor since Hot Wytch Summer, and this time we’re handing out the sores.

Immediate pain. If their dicks don’t implode, live, as you pierce the doll, you fucked it up. Did you forget the rage? Try rage.

For all the Spawn comics I own, I’m amazed that I’ve never read “your pain is born” before. Brittany’s vision is pure. Pure rage.

The difference between this and the Effigy Poppet Curse? Simple. That’s the first spell, and this is the twenty-fourth. The Effigy Poppet Curse appropriates island lunatics, and the Voodoo Doll of Pain celebrates them.

That’s also Columbia’s old motto. “Praise the Emperor” doesn’t hit the same way.

Oooh, a Bigrexia curse. Handy. Maybe I can finally get a bench.

After my next cut, I should be immune. Then I can get a little bigger in peace. Then smaller again. Then bigger again. Then—

I’d ask who sits there and watches you hex them, but it’s the vanity curse. You can probably ask for their autograph pencil. Just know that whatever bullying inspired the curse will get far, far worse.

Great stuff, but the barrier between life and death’s still intact, wasting space. Can we fix that?

“Grandma! It’s been a while. My succubae are slacking, so I need you to pitch in. Could you dream-fuck this list? Really go for it. Think VE Day. It’s step ninety-seven of my revenge. Thanks, nana.”

All necromancy’s one spell, which tracks in families where no one shuts up. Now, how about that Force Choke?

Man, wytch filler already? Buying a dick implosion spellbook and finding tarot cards inside is like buying a McGriddle and finding tarot cards inside.

Besides, I already understand the past, present, and future. The present blows, the past blows harder, and the future has a shot. That’s why I’m after death spells in the first place.

And as aspiring demon kings, do we want feedback from the universe? I can’t speak for Brittany, but I have the karma of a professional cynic in World War 3’s heel faction. Oh, and I guess I tried dark magick. I don’t need my report card to know I’m failing.

Hey, I’ve seen this: it’s like a cosmic yo-yo. Maybe I can use a Duncan, I learned tricks instead of precalculus/calculus/social cues. Do they come in crystal?

I’m getting ahead of myself. What chart’s in fashion? Do I need dowsing to find out?

Dope. One chart’s a dense graphic design sin, and the other takes an hour to say “S2VVSFSOG.” Helpful, if you’re running low on rage.

The room’s starting to smell like wytch filler. But Brittany taught me to summon tsunamis and wet dream demons, so I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt.

Dreaming with my eyes open. Almost like dreaming, during the day. Or daytime dreaming. There’s another name for this technique: invincibility. Thank you, Dark Mistress.

Thank Lyssa, I worried that all my students and neighbors and selves were hooked on dopamine boxes. But they’re just scrying with black mirrors.

Let’s trust the process. If I close my eyes and reach for what I want, I just might find it. Or The Secret again.

We’ve finally found the drive-by spells.

Yup, the voices in my head say murder’s dope. Full steam ahead.

I’ve read your book, Brittany. I know you don’t give two fucks. Let’s ride.

Hmm.

Time for an apology. I may have mocked Pascal’s Wager in the past, and one or two spells. Today, I eat crow. Archmages and dinosaur-skeptics win a complete intellectual victory over Dennard Dayle, midcard clown. Why? This rap offers a special headline, for free. What’s the harm? If you can think of anyone at all that to rap about, take a minute. Anyone living in any house painted any color who hosted any 2004 reality show.

Brittany Nightshade, you’re the fucking best. And I’m totally hurting myself and others with this professional medical advice. Especially if it doesn’t work. Merry met, and merry part.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Gareth Powell, the dark lord of circles and lines, creator of abysmal maths, scryer of dark flames.

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