Tag Archives: Miguel Castro

Bon Chance Chapter 4: So Much for the Mission

Miguel Castro

“All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.” -Edgar Allen Poe

4 – So Much for the Mission

Imagine this: You enter a side door and happen upon three naked women eating croissants at a small lunch table. Behind them, a soundman leans against a rattling refrigerator, peeling the crust off a flattened sandwich, the boom microphone resting in the crook of a tattooed arm. Then, ubiquitous: moaning women bouncing on male thighs. Ahead, a corridor lined with partially open doors, revealing poorly designed historical interiors. Here, two Greeks cavort at the foot of a column. A gentleman clenches his buttocks as he pounds a lady—a soundtrack to the motion picture, as it were. It’s too much to process at once, yet it persists like an endless shriek in time…

I was high. It certainly wasn’t my first time inside a studio but not after a whack of Peruvian Flake. I was emboldened, to say the least, acting on chemical impulses. Marduk and Elektra exchanged worried looks as I climbed on top of the table, kicking over uncapped water bottles to the women’s chagrin.

“Excuse me,” I bellowed, “I think you all know me as Red Rod, acclaimed performer of the adult screen. I’m here to cast for a major feature.”

At this the disgruntled women, now faced with an opportunity to make money, began to nod with false enthusiasm. They sat up in their chairs, emphasizing the prominence of their chests—successfully, I might add, because my throat seized up like a broken accordion. Elektra furrowed her brow and pulled me off the table, pushing me into a corner.

“How dare you gawk at these harlots!” she hissed.

Then, to the women: “He’s mine!”

Elektra’s jealousy didn’t surprise me. I noticed that she had taken a liking to me (literally) overnight. But I hadn’t expected to her to compromise the mission. I looked at Marduk for help, who instantly took hold of his acolyte. The women looked at us in confusion as Elektra struggled to break free.

“Would you excuse us?” I said, smiling apologetically. “Marduk, please help me escort the Sister outside.”

The women muttered amongst themselves. Elektra continued to fight against Marduk’s restraint even as we stumbled through the door. Once outside, Elektra broke loose and pounced on me like a feral animal. She clawed at my clothing and beat me with her fists. Marduk tried to intervene, but was quickly cast aside, debris during a storm. Elektra was implacable.

“Jesus, woman,” I said. “What’s your problem?”

She failed to answer me. A mad gleam colored her eyes. Feebly, I tried to kick her away, but she straddled me on the ground, directing her fury at my face. I put my hands up in defense, when I noticed that we had attracted an audience. Performers and production personnel had quit the studio to watch the spectacle. Marduk renewed his efforts to save me, to no avail. Elektra bloodied his nose with a stray fist. And then, suddenly, the eye of the hurricane; the eagle-clawed harpy fell beside me in tears. I got up in haste. I’d known women to be moody but never seen one become a pugilist. I turned to confront the assembled personnel, who had burst with laughter. “Get back to work!” I said, mustering what little air I had in my lungs. John emerged from his trailer, all sniffles, and repeated the command. The company dispersed. He glared at me with enormous, bloodshot eyes.

“What the fuck is going on, Rod?” he said,

Before I could speak, Elektra let out a wail.

“I didn’t get my period today!” she said, between tears.

“You knocked her up?” John said, looking at me more intently.

I recalled the previous evening’s orgy.

“No, wait,” I said, “There were nine of us.”

“Oh, give me a break!” John. “Fuck off, Rod. I don’t want to see you here again.”

John turned back to the trailer. I ran after him.

“John, come on. This is a mistake,” I said. “I’m really on to something!”

The eyes glared at me again. John pointed a deadly finger at me.

“It’s the second time you fuck up,” he said. “You’re never getting past that gate again.”


The three of us sat on the sidewalk outside the studio.  I called a taxi and waited for its arrival in silence. Elektra sat at a distance, sobbing. I have to admit her confession put a damper on my day, to say little of my newly acquired doubts concerning the future of our mission. We needed in at O-Face, and now we were banned for life.

This was my second misadventure on the property. The first ensured a temporary suspension of my professional activities with the company. John never really forgave me. I’m not entirely comfortable reiterating the sordid details of that episode, although I couldn’t deny Elektra or Marduk. I meant to tell them about it earlier: “Hey, um, they really don’t like me here, so let’s not make ourselves unwelcome.” Now I had no choice but to tell them, because our mission was effectively over.

I turned to Marduk, who still nursed a broken nose.

“I need you to leave when we get back to the condo,” I said.

Marduk looked up in surprise, holding a bloody napkin.

“What do you mean? We still need to—”

“I know,” I said, “but we’ll never get to Thule now. And it’s not Elektra’s fault (not entirely). This is second incident at the studio to bear my name. John will never let me in again.”

“I don’t understand,” Marduk said.

“Look, remember when I asked you guys to play it cool before we got here?  Well, it’s a long story, but I was never exactly welcome here.”

“What happened?”

Years ago I produced a film: Wild & Slutty Teens 6. Following the success of The King & I & His Wives, John decided I should have more control of what the studio released. I had the dubious distinction of being a “porn genius.” Wild & Slutty was my first solo attempt. I was responsible for the script, casting and directing. It was an incredible amount of work, and I was still in the flush of youth. I was drunk on success and drunk in general. In other words, John concocted a recipe for disaster. And he was forced to drink the bitter dregs after the casting call.

There was one girl. I don’t recall her name, but I will never forget what she looked like: a lithe but curvy redhead with high cheekbones and feline-green eyes. She was the last to be interviewed, and she insisted I hire her. I asked her why. By way of reply she kneeled before my chair and rested her cheek on my thigh. “Because,” she said, with puppy-dog eyes. Before long I had her bent over my desk, indecent and defrocked. She got the job and my personal phone number.

Days before the scheduled shoot, I received a call from her number.  I answered my phone expecting another liaison with the fair creature. To my surprise, however, a gruff masculine voice quickly asked for my name. Suspecting that a jealous lover had phoned me, I told the man I didn’t have time for courtesy calls, I was very busy.

“I think you do,” he said, “because I’m about to go to the police.”

The man was none other than the red-haired girl’s father.

“She’s a minor,” he said, “and you got her pregnant.”

It didn’t take long for Daddy Dearest to contact John and threaten legal action against the studio. And it didn’t long for John to contact me and threaten death if I didn’t reach a gentleman’s accord with the disgruntled paterfamilias. The grapevine would be my noose.

Daddy wanted money—enough to put his innocent baby girl through college several times over. I had no choice but to provide. John provided half since he had been, in his words, “dumb enough to trust you.” In exchange, however, I requested that the father take his daughter to an abortion clinic. My final words were “Get rid of it.”

“How can you be so callous?” Elektra said.

“I didn’t exactly like the idea. But I could never be a father.”

“And the girl?” Marduk asked.

“I never saw her again. Anyway, I doubt she feels nostalgic. From what I gathered, she was trying to piss off her parents. She was spoiled rotten.”

“Well, I don’t want to get rid of it,” Elektra said, “and I want you to be present as a father.”

“What makes you certain that you’re pregnant?” I said.

“Call it intuition, but I feel it.”

“ And what makes you certain that I’m the father?” I said.

“You were the only one who came inside me.”


When we arrived at the condo, the door was fixed and the interior restored to its former pristine condition. The altar remained in place, as the pious Guadalupe refused to touch the diabolic paraphernalia. She left a note on the kitchen countertop, written in a neat cursive script. It read:

Don Rod,

I do job best I can. I call my hermano and he fix the door. Please give me one-hundred dollars for today.  Thank you.

Guadalupe Jesus Vargas y Panza-Rodriguez del magnifico corazon de la Virgen Maria

I wrote a check for a thousand dollars and put it on top of the note.

I escorted Elektra to my bedroom, where she settled for the night. Just before I closed the door, I caught a glimpse of her rubbing her belly. A smile as equivocal as the Mona Lisa’s appeared on her tear-stained face.

On my way back to the kitchen I contemplated Elektra’s facial expression. How could anyone be happy in the present circumstances? The thought jarred me. And I wasn’t alone.

Marduk sat at the marble counter-top. Defeat hung heavily on his shoulders like a royal cape. His brow, too, wizened beyond reckoning, arranged itself in new whorls. It was a sorry sight. I could never stand the sight of suffering. So I quickly absconded to the balcony and lit a much-needed cigarette.

From the opulent height of the Hills, I felt a hollow in my chest. Oh god, I thought, is this what guilt feels like? The thought made me stagger back and trip against a lawn chair. I avoided the fall, but the realization was unavoidable. It was time. I had to fess up. After a long, anxious drag from the cigarette, I muttered my darkest secret: “Rod, you’re a fuck-up.”

I couldn’t deny it any longer. For all of my apparent success, I was about as mature as a candy-crazed toddler. The money didn’t make me happy. Yes, I could walk into any department store in America and purchase my bauble of choice. But I’d never fostered meaningful relationships. And it seemed to me, then, on the balcony, that I was about to miss another opportunity to change my life meaningfully. And the hollow in my chest deepened.

I walked back to the kitchen and took a stool beside Marduk.

“So what’s the plan now?” I said.

The old man shot a glance at me, confused.

“You mean…?” he said. “Oh, you won’t regret this! Everything will work out, you’ll see! I know this Englishman—Gerald—he knows what to do.”

Can you believe it? The old fart’s face lit up like a birthday cake.

Admit it. You like me.

Bon Chance Chapter 3

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Bon Chance Chapter 3: I Hope I Just Stepped In Water

Miguel Castro

“All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.” -Edgar Allen Poe

3 – I hope I just stepped in water

The sunlight cut through the window slats and shone on my face. I rolled over in a pile of vomit, hungover. Elektra was nestled under eight naked male bodies on a tarpaulin mat. (Call me Don Juan, but I was the lucky ninth.) I groaned and got to my feet shakily. Fragments of the night flashed before my mind’s eye as I stumbled to the bathroom door in an open bathrobe now speckled with vomit and (Gods forbid) semen. (Jesus, I need to stop drinking.) I kneeled by the toilet and heaved whatever vodka I had left in my stomach—flush. I crawled into the shower and lay on my side.

Two hours later, I woke up, nearly choking on the steam. I put the same bathrobe on and walked to the kitchen. There, I found Elektra, naked, serving eggs and bacon to our eight guests. They munched on the breakfast items enthusiastically, like a platoon of overworked infantrymen, and traded banter about the evening I was still struggling to remember chronologically.

“Good morning!” Elektra said, in the turgid manner of a soccer mom. “How’s my little stud doing?”

“Fuck you,” I said, “Give me something to eat.”

“You did. But what do you say first?” she beamed.

“Jesus Christ, woman, you have to be the strangest person I’ve ever met.”

“That’s not it,” she said, coquettishly.

I hate headaches.

“Please…” I relented.

Marduk appeared in our midst in sports apparel holding a tennis racket.

“I surprise myself sometimes,” he said, “I’ve still got a good forearm and backward swing. You have a fine tennis court. Ooh, breakfast!’

So there we were eating breakfast, nine semi-naked men, a senile magickian masquerading as tennis player and naked woman with a burning skillet at my kitchen counter. Where’s Edward Hopper when you need him? This vignette could make for a compelling study in watercolors, I thought. But I was still groggy, and the morning, with the attendant import of a collective act of debauchery, had a strange idyllic quality I couldn’t help but contemplate. If I may say so, dear reader, I am the morning-after aesthete. I therefore promise to keep these unusual philosophical segues to a minimum, lest I reveal anything like substantial character psychology. (Although that will change later, all kidding aside.) Anyway, we had a crazed magus to find, so I unceremoniously announced that the eight guests had to, in my native patois, “fuck off.”

Just then my maid, Guadalupe, walked in with a bucket and a toilet brush through the hole that used to be my door. She stopped and gazed at the assembled group of weirdoes. The condo reeked of sexual fluids and a ceremonial altar stood in lieu of my trendy IKEA living room. “Satanicos,” she muttered beneath her breath.

“Meester Rod,” she said, “Should I leef now?”

“No, Guadalupe, I want you clean this up. My guests were just leaving.”

“But, Meester—”

“I’ll pay you whatever you want, but I have business to take care of in town. And get someone to fix the door. Please.”


I coaxed Marduk and Elektra to shower, respectively. The former was sweaty from his tennis match and Elektra was still cum-encrusted. In retrospect, it almost seemed like the morning had cast a spell of amnesia over the two Magi, because nothing in their ostensible behavior this morning communicated the exigency that made them burst through my door the night before. Indeed, if anything, they seemed content to embrace the glitzy (and lurid) trappings of my life. But, fuck all; I wanted to get the mission underway, because California has a way of making people forget why they’re even here, and I wasn’t looking for roommates—especially these two. (Yeah, I was still groggy and irritable.)

The second step was to find suitable attire for the Magi. California is home to an impressive collection of misfits, but there was no way I was going to walk into O-Face studios with two latter-day Crowleyites in ceremonial regalia. Then again…

“Hey, John!” I spoke into the cell phone receiver, “Listen, I got this great idea for a film. Huh-uh, it’s really fucked up, and I think I found your leads—and old wizard and some nymphomaniac who likes it pouring, if you catch my drift. That’s right. No, I’ll drive there. Just make sure that asshole at the gate lets me in this time. Yeah, it won’t be anything too fancy, but I’d still like to take a look around the studio, if that’s okay. Size up your girls. All right. Thanks again. See you in a few.” Click.

I called the taxi service and waited for the driver at the gate. My partners winced in the Californian glare, sweating underneath their thick robes. They exchanged hushed words, undoubtedly about the task at hand, but I didn’t care for their thoughts at the moment. It occurred to me that I was the only practical-minded member of the troupe. My companions were cannon fodder—decoys, if you will—for an investigation I would have to spearhead myself. No doubt they believed themselves the center of a cosmic conflict, pitting the forces of a dubious good against those of a dubious evil, but they were foils in a masterful farce I was painfully becoming aware of. Farce never seemed so jejune.

The taxi arrived minutes later. We embarked. I directed the driver to O-Face Studios, which he had no problem locating. “I couldn’t get enough of that—what was it? The King & I & His Wives,” he said. “Weren’t you in that?” Evidently the driver recognized me and promised us free fare. He said the film salvaged his nearly defunct marriage by igniting latent sexual passions in his wife. I felt Elektra’s hand press my thigh. I looked at her and she smiled as her hand moved closer to my crotch. Marduk looked on in astonishment. What had endeared this woman to me? I could only guess, but I felt last night’s misadventure had ignited her latent sexual passions and, through me, discovered a world more frivolously exciting than the “mysteries” of the occult. She promptly peered into the front seat and asked the driver to pull into a back alley. Marduk was curiously silent.

“Woah!” the driver said, as his eyes flashed across the rearview mirror. Elektra had pulled her robe open and revealed supple, white breasts, gently teasing the nipples.

The taxicab veered perilously across four street lanes and pulled into an alley behind a cheap motel. Elektra pushed me out of the back seat and pinioned me against the car’s exterior. She unzipped my pants and pulled them down to my ankles. With a few swift strokes I was erect and my member was in her mouth. The driver was present with a camera phone in his hands. “This is fucking unbelievable!” he said, documenting the act. Marduk then appeared and watched with detached interest. My head fell back on my shoulders and I surrendered myself to the moment, until…

Back en route, the driver kept looking at us in the rearview mirror with an idiotic grin.

“You guys don’t play around,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I said, “It’s all play.”


When we arrived at the studio, the driver thanked us for best shift he’d ever had to work. I acknowledged the dubious honor and waved him off as the taxi joined the dense queue of cars at the stoplight. Elektra bounced with joy, grabbing my hand as we approached the gate. Marduk, however, walked behind us slowly as if he were debating something internally. His physical, as well as emotional, distance was not lost on me. I turned to him.

“Is there something on your mind?” I said.

He hesitated for a moment, but spoke at length with some trepidation.

“I know he’s here,” he said.

“Father Thule?” I said.

“Yes. I sense his presence, so we should proceed cautiously. Did you have a plan?”

I explained that I spoke to John Dickson, executive producer for O-Face Studios, about a potential idea for a film. Of course, the solicitation was a pretense to search the property for any traces of Frater Thule and to question the on-site performers about any strange phenomena such as floating penises and physical apparitions. Naturally, Marduk and Elektra would play the part of potential leads for the film; so I needed them to play it cool and not act out of place. 

“Are we understood?”

“Yes,” they said.

We walked to the gate, a small box-like tollhouse complete with a guardrail. The man inside was an out-sourced officer for a security agency wearing a bronze badge and a flashlight. I knocked on the plastic partition and waved at him as if to say, “Remember me?” He sighed and raised the guardrail, scrutinizing my companions with a look that bespoke a history of admitting freaks into the small compound. Sadly, Marduk and Elektra weren’t the first people to cross the checkpoint in what would normally pass for Halloween costumes.

“That guard,” Marduk said, “doesn’t seem to like you.”

“He doesn’t, but that’s a story for later.”

The “corporate” office was a small trailer sitting on the edges of the actual studio. I climbed the steps and invited my companions inside. No sooner had I stepped through the flimsy panel door than I saw John leaning over his cheap Formica desk snorting lines of cocaine cut on a small mirror. The intrusion, however, didn’t deter him in the slightest, as he hungrily siphoned the neat, white lines with a rolled-up Benjamin. He sprang back in his leather swivel chair and beat his fist on the table’s surface.

Snnff. Damn it! I was wondering when you would show up!” he said. “I was talking to these lame-brain writers about a new film, but all they could give me was mediocre shit. I told ’em, ‘I want to see more cock and cunt and less poetry!’ But these motherfuckers are running on empty. You want to know something, Rod? The King & I & His Wives is still our top-selling feature. So when you called, I said, hey, maybe my boy genius has something up his sleeve. So what do have for me, Rod? I see you did some casting.”

I introduced Marduk and Elektra.

“A wizard and a tramp,” John said, “I like it already. So what did you have in mind? Oh, but excuse me! Where are my manners?”

John pushed the mirror across his desk. “Go ahead,” he said.

I leaned over the desk, ready to siphon a line.

“John, I have this crazy—I mean far out—idea. But I want my two leads to take a look around, you know, get a feel for where the magic happens. Talk to the ladies before…”

“Oh, of course,” John said.

“So…” I snorted the powder, “Snnff. Shit that’s good. I’m going to walk them around and, uh, see if your old brood mares are up to it, and I’ll get back to you in a few.”

“You better, you sonofabitch,” John said, laughing, “I don’t like teases. I told ol’ Hef that at the Mansion, and he called me a prick!”

Bon Chance Chapter 2

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Bon Chance Chapter 2: A Short Survey of my Career

Miguel Castro

“All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.”
-Edgar Allen Poe

2 – A Short Survey of my Career

The mission before us, we sat in my kitchen drinking coffee. Although it was important we find Frater Thule, to keep another power-crazed magus from exposing the occult, we were beset with a paralyzing inertia. Where were we going to begin our search? California is home to hundreds of production companies. At one point or another in my career I associated with the best of them; I could easily guide my magickal brethren to the sets, introduce them to the heavy-breathing directors and bimbo assistants, but there was no guarantee I would lead them directly to Frater Thule. Indeed, I made a certain kind of porn, with typical hussies and cheesy plots, but maybe Frater Thule liked midgets, or burly leather-clad men, which would have required a different kind of familiarity with the industry. One I didn’t possess, exactly.

So we did nothing. We sipped from our mugs in silence. Twenty minutes were spent this way when Frater Marduk turned to me with wide-eyed intensity—an epiphany.

“Do you keep an altar?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, recalling an abandoned corner of the laundry room. “Over there.”

I led the magi to the laundry room and pointed at the small table next to the rumbling dyer. Marduk and Elektra rushed past me. With pitying cries, like injured dogs, they rescued the magickal instruments—chalice, wand and dagger—from gnarled beds of cobwebs and dust. Elektra seized my velvet bathrobe, visibly piqued.

“Have you no respect for your craft?” she said.

“I’ve asked the maid to clean them,” I said. “But Mexicans are very superstitious.”

“You pampered fool!” she said, clutching my testicles. I coughed, breathless. “I should mate with you repeatedly until you die!”

I looked at Marduk pleadingly, to restrain his acolyte, but he was busy inspecting the dagger’s edge. It occurred to me, then, to raise my hand and slap Elektra. She tumbled backwards, crashing into the laundry machine.

As I recovered from Elektra’s attack and she mine, Marduk looked up from the dusty chalice.

“They’re grimy but still useful,” he said. “The elemental charge is intact. We should begin immediately.”

“Frater,” Elektra said, addressing Marduk, “What did you have in mind?”

Marduk instructed us to move the altar to the living room. Of course, Elektra protested the directive because, as she put it, “I’m not going to set a table for a man.” So the task was left to me and the wizened magickian. We moved the altar in place of the coffee table and anointed the instruments, using the necessary oils and salts. Once this was done, Marduk divulged his grand scheme. I prepared a martini.

“It occurred to me,” Marduk said, “that we have all the requisites for formula XII14P. We should hurry and evoke Thoth-Mercury.”

Elektra and I looked at each other, baffled. Evidently, she was just as ignorant of the technique in question.

“Formula… what?” I said, chewing on an olive.

“Ah, of course,” Marduk said, “the formula is only given to aging (male) magi. Neither of you have heard of this.”

“And how can you be sure of that?” Elektra said, defiantly.

“You don’t have a penis. And our brother here is too young.”

“What does ‘having a penis’ have to do with anything?”

“You need a penis to perform the rite.”

“Who said?”

“I don’t know. Do vaginas suffer from erectile dysfunction?”

“Yes,” Elektra said, without irony.

“Moving on…”


I was trashed after the fifth martini. The evocation was successful even though I slurred through the banishing rituals of the pentagram and hexagram and all but collapsed during the enochian chants. After these preliminary procedures, I stumbled back to the bar and fixed myself another drink, taking a stool at the marble countertop. I observed curiously as Marduk’s flaccid, geriatric penis stirred with new life like a diminutive Frankenstein’s monster. He himself was in trance, and his head rolled from shoulder to shoulder as Elektra recited incantatory commands. Erect, the penis swayed this way, then that way, tracing an invisible arc. But I suppose I should explain.

Formula XII14p is, for want of a better term, penis divination. As with automatic writing, the host body subordinates a part of his anatomy (in this case, the penis) to supernatural influence. By his own account, Marduk had not been able to sustain an erection in 25 years, making him the perfect candidate. Now, by inducing erection in this way, the operating magus (Elektra) instructs the penis to remain semi-flaccid until it delivers an answer to the proposed question—just where had Frater Thule been last? Of course, the only adequate way to pose this question to a possessed penis is by visual cue, so we played several of my films produced by the biggest porn studios in California. We figured this would plot the course of our search or at very least give us a place to begin.

The first film was “Tit-Tanic,” a lubricious take on James Cameron’s film “Titanic.” The film, like its award-winning counterpart, details the exploits of a vagabond named Jacqueline aboard the biggest sailing vessel in history. The story follows the endearingly nicknamed “Jacky” as she seduces crewmembers and fellow passengers, securing passage to the luxury deck. There, in the midst of a gentleman’s gathering, she performs an impromptu striptease, which incites the passions of the captain himself, distracting him from the dire warnings of impending disaster from the ship’s meteorologist and navigator Ambrose Feldspar (played by me). The resulting disaster is nothing less than a collision with a giant breast-shaped iceberg. And that’s when shit hits the fan. Crewmembers and passengers begin to riot, but the captain brings the ship to its senses with an impassioned monologue, calling for an “act of perennial love in the face of death.” In other words, the film ends with a giant gang-bang as the Tit-Tanic sinks into the icy waters of the North Atlantic.  The film won the “best visual effects” nomination at the AVN awards and made Pizzazz Studios the go-to production company for ambitious pornographers. However, Marduk’s penis swayed this way, then that way, indicating that Frater Thule hadn’t visited the company and, for heuristic purposes, didn’t like artsy smut. So far, so good.

The second film was “Bend Hur Over,” based on the Bible-inspired classic starring Charlton Heston. It was a crude production by comparison to the Hollywood realization, lacking any historical verisimilitude, but the story was a novel attempt to give pornography moral aptitude. The story follows the trials of a young Jewish man, Bend Hur, as he struggles against Jewish society and longs for sexual freedom. Bend Hur is motivated by the simple desire to “let my penis go.” This causes a rift in his immediate community between the Orthodox Jewish authorities and a small coterie of Kabbalists who expound a philosophy similar to that of Nathan Benjamin ben Elisha ha-Levi Ghazzati in his book “Treatise on the Dragons” (effectively calling for the dissolution of positive and negative value-judgments in the Torah). I myself played one of these wise men, and was active in the script writing. The film is full of extra-marital affairs and hardcore liaisons in a desert setting.  But again, the film was limited by its small budget; we could only afford two camels, and they were present in every shot, munching sod like bovine props. Marduk’s penis responded more favorably to this film, but it continued to swing in a low arc. Frater Thule’s sexual proclivities were clearly couched in the aesthetics of hardcore pornography, and he didn’t mind a little storytelling. We were getting closer.

The third film was “The King & I & His Wives,” a crazy adaptation of the Rogers and Hammerstein musical for the lurid screen. It details the story of a European tutor who travels to Taiwan to escape the stuffy atmosphere of 18th-century Europe. In Taiwan, she is arrested for lewd and lascivious conduct with a port official, eventually brought before the King himself. He is instantly enamored by the Western beauty and introduces her to his large harem, where he gives free-rein to her lesbian desires.  The plot then quickly devolves into a pastiche of lesbian love scenes, orgies including the King and Court Astrologer (played by me), and quirky musical numbers, including a perverse rendition of “Getting to Know You.” Throughout, the King is content to relish the goings-on in a voyeuristic capacity, occasionally delivering the money shot towards the end of a scene. Indeed, the closing minutes of the film is a bukake lovefest in which the Tutor struggles to please nine different men and is finally dowsed with copious amounts of semen. The cast won the “best degrading performance” nomination at the AVM awards. To this day, O-Face Studious continues to produce some of the most offbeat, hardcore pornography.  And when the credits began to roll, on my 96 inch plasma T.V., Marduk’s penis distended to full girth, standing in defiance of gravity and a dying prostate. Now we knew where to commence our search for Frater Thule—O-Face Studios.


Marduk was slowly roused from his trance. He was disoriented at first; the divination had obviously consumed a lot of psychic, to say little of his physical, energy. But he was immediately apprised of its success. The old magickian was happy to learn this, but asked for time to rest; he had never attempted the rite before and felt very tired. I led him to my bed room where he collapsed on the bed, neglecting to change his getup, and began snoring instantly. I returned to the living room and found Elektra replaying the closing minutes of “The King & I & His Wives,” digging into her crotch. “You know,” she said, “I would like to try that.” So I called a few friends over and gave the tart some Hammerstein.

Bon Chance Chapter 1

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Bon Chance: Chapter 1- What May Suffice for a Beginning

Bon Chance
Miguel Castro

“All that we see or seem/ is but a dream within a dream.”
-Edgar Allen Poe

What May Suffice for a Beginning

Since I left the Society fifteen years ago, I had almost forgotten about it. I moved to Malibu, California where I made a career for myself as Rex Rod, an acclaimed male porn star, famous for his physical and intellectual endowment. I was the star of “Indiana Bones and the Lubricious Cave.” I secured the role by summarizing Sumerian mythology for slack-jawed producers and scriptwriters. The impression was indelible. “Damn it, Charles! He fucks like a horse and reads like a nerd.” Soon I monopolized the horny-professor/scientist niche. Now I live in a gorgeous ocean-front condo with supermodels. I make a lot of money and do what I want. God bless America.

Given my success, is it any wonder I forgot about the Society? I was sure I’d never to hear from them again. Until last night, that is.

I was sitting in my living room, getting ready to masturbate, when the front door burst open in a cloud of splinters. I tried to clean a glob of KY from my wrist but was blinded by a flash of light. “Recite the Holy Names!” boomed two voices through the glare—one male and one female. As the explosive light faded, my eyes refocused on two cowled figures standing across the coffee table. I was confused, but I recalled their command and coughed up the Holy Names peremptorily, like a guilty child answering an authority figure.
“Whiskey, Testicles, Pentacles, Cthulhu!”

There ensued a tense silence. For a moment, the two figures continued to confront me with the same pompous ceremonial affectation. But slowly, with an almost deliberate sense of anticipation, they bowed their heads and lowered their hoods—looking up to meet my gaze in a final dramatic gesture. I recognized them instantly: Frater Marduk Sunshitter and Sister Elektra Penis-Envy. And as they figure prominently in this story, I think I should venture general descriptions of these Magi.

Frater Marduk Sunshitter is the wisest member of the Society. He is, as such, older in appearance and slouches under the weight of three hundred Magickal degrees. When asked for further elucidation upon his characteristically cryptic answers, he strokes his long white beard and stares into infinite space. Therein lies his wisdom.

Sister Elektra Penis-Envy is a woman who, despite the prevailing masculine hierarchy of Western Magickal systems, forced her way into ranks of hitherto gender-exclusive societies. Some claim that she fucked her way to the top, and may have even consorted with Aleister Crowley, albeit in astral form. Others claim that she organized a number of women’s coalitions and the ACLU lobby the Secret Chiefs.

Without hesitation, they apprised the situation at hand.

“Frater Thule has escaped before his time,” Marduk said, “and with a terrible secret, I’m afraid.  After the confirmation of his last degree, Thule was granted access to Formula XXXL-1, which allows the magus to assume the shape of any physical object. However, the procedure also makes the magus susceptible to erection, and depending on the girth, the penis will assume a corresponding degree of visibility.”

“Imagine a floating penis,” Elektra said, licking her lips.

“Yes,” Marduk said, “and if that penis were to be touched by anyone else, the Magus would then appear whole, resulting in fear first, inquiry second, and finally the gradual dissolution of our societies and further occultation of the occult.”

Marduk stroked his beard.

“And how am I supposed to help?” I said.

“Given your former membership in the Society,” Marduk said, “you are not in a position to underestimate the importance or reality of this situation. Moreover, you will lead us to Frater Thule.”

“I don’t know where he is.”

“No, but where he might be. It just so happens that Frater Thule, while in use of said formula, will naturally gravitate towards exponential pools of sexual energy, i.e., porn sets. It is a built-in failsafe in the formula to keep anyone from abusing his power. And as a porn star, you have unlimited access to these pools, giving us a greater chance of finding Frater Thule.”

“In return for your service,” Elektra said, “the Society is ready to give you a million dollars and, if you like, readmission to the order with the highest degree. I myself will perform in the sacramental titty-fuck.”
None of this came to me as a surprise. The world of the occult is rife with power struggles, ridiculous scenarios, and such profound buffoonery the layman will never understand. Willing or not, I had to help, because I’m already part of the story.

Bon Chance Chapter 2

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