Tribunal for the Discipline of Delinquent Devils
6662 Undying Worm
At the request of the Administration in the ongoing case of the devil called Malthus, I will present in the following report all the information needed to lock that disappointing failure away forever. Before I continue, I must admit that the information herein will cause the Tribunal great displeasure. From my research and from the testimony of my agents in the field, I have compiled a comprehensive report of the most horrifying details pertaining to the state of the family formerly under Malthus’ care. I believe that, although this report is painful to read, the information will help inspire a proper application of the measures necessary. If it is painful for the members of this Tribunal to hear this letter, believe me, it is ever more painful for me to relay the relevant points.
I trust you have read the correspondence between myself and Malthus during the major portion of our working relationship. As you have seen, the situation undulated between victory and defeat. If it were not for my expert guidance it is certain that Malthus would have lost the family straight away. If there is anything commendable in him as a tempter it is what he learned from me. (As an aside, we must deal with the Academy and the consistent lowering of the calibre of operatives that graduate from that institution. The happy lowering of the moral standard of the human race has come at a certain cost it seems; there is less urgency to improve the devils as they face little to no resistance in the field.)
At any rate, because of my efforts and Malthus’ eventual acquiescence to my authority, the family was nicely tucked away under our cloven hooves. The father became the most delectable of perverts, the mother turned the children against the father, and the children fell into interior torment and moral decay. Within mere weeks of the pinnacle moment that saw the family so playfully severed in two, the family was a complete wreck. The father was unceremoniously scuttled out of the house like a tenant without rent money, only to find himself sleeping in his elderly parents’ basement. In our eyes he continued to improve in his consumption of both drink and pornographic material. He was isolated from his children, and his children hated him.
The mother of course did exactly as I said she would, and through a series of self-help books, New Age superstitions and feminist mantras she settled nicely into an interior decline. Of course she lied to all who knew her by sharing images of herself socializing with other “singles,” along with quotes from our most useful celebrities prattling on about empowerment and self-worth. As with all parental separations, the children were largely forgotten. They did what most children from these situations do, and concealed their depression in order to try and convince their parents that they were not actually suffering. These sorts of parents are always riddled with overwhelming guilt, and therefore welcome the fictitious dispositions of their offspring as a way of appeasing their consciences.
Being a book-worm, the daughter retreated into literature. Fortunately, she meandered into the world of the young-adult books which we have promoted for years, and was therefore being well-groomed for sexual exploitation and emotional wounds. She lost herself in the world of modern fantasy novels and eventually the film versions of those novels. There is a great danger when the humans read the old fantasy tales that come from the minds of Christian authors; the mind of a child really is our great battle ground, and there is almost nothing worse than a child who makes sense of the world with the images of Christian folklore. However, the contemporary stories of fantasy come from a neo-pagan world that has lost any real sense of the Christian moral order. All their fallen and degenerate fantasies come to life in the form of vampires and wizards, with pages full of consequentialist morality and sexualized undertones. The darkness that fills these pages inculcates in the young reader a certain hopelessness and preternatural negativity. The girl became utterly addicted to these stories and they became her scriptures. In addition, she was embarrassed by her mother’s behaviour and sought to avoid any conversation of substance with her. Her faith was largely guided by her brother, and his delectable fall pushed her over the edge.
The son continued to descend into our grasp, and as a result of his mounting self-abuse, he quickly disposed of that awful habit of praying the beads. As his hatred for his father grew, he bathed more and more in that glorious vomit of pornography that captured his father for us. He allowed in our operatives who redirected his adolescent zeal for the Enemy into a splendid passion for individualist philosophy. He did not become an atheist in the full sense of the word, nevertheless he found a useful consolation in that growing neo-paganism and humanism that dominates the philosophical landscape for men of this age. He developed an obsession with Vikings and evolution, and began researching the use of psychedelic potions and chemicals as a way of “expanding his consciousness.” This family was ours, all ours, and Malthus had perhaps the easiest path to a lasting victory that I have seen in all my years.
Nonetheless, the good news stops there and the torment begins here. You will recall from my last letter written to Malthus that during the explosive break up of the family, the father broke down and squealed like a stuck pig. It was too much to bear and I could not pay attention for a brief moment in time. Now, I was present to observe the fun and was not an active participant, as this was ultimately Malthus’ operation and not mine. Following the necessary protocols, Malthus had one of his subordinates taking notes about the interior dialogue of the afflicted humans. Well, apparently during that moment, the father was so ashamed with himself that he was for a moment actually humble. In the notes recently acquired from the note-taking tempter we read the following: in the quiet of his mind, during a time of extreme anguish, the man uttered an ambiguous prayer, the contents of which was “Help me L*#d.” This note was included in the report of the incident with a commentary that disregarded it as a desperate act and not an honest request to the Enemy.
However, it turns out it was a real prayer, although seemingly insignificant. I told that blasted idiot to keep watch for the tricks of the Guardians, but he failed to plan adequately for their unfair dealings. In that minuscule moment of pitiful pandering to the Enemy, the Guardian of the father, ever ready to pounce on any inkling of permission, immediately used this as an opportunity to redirect this petition. In that annoying manner of moving on the edge of space and time, the father’s thought was immediately shared from his Guardian to the Guardian of the boy’s teacher whom they had not seen for months. If you are wondering how I have received such accurate information from the Enemy camp, well, they have permitted us to see it in order to torture us.
Now, the teacher was seemingly out of the picture, but apparently he has this habit of praying for his students and their families, especially if he suspects they are troubled. Since he left the school, he heard of the troubles facing the family during the shut-down and directed most of his efforts to their intercession. As a result, he was afflicted with the deepest sorrow when his Guardian made manifest to him that the boy’s family was suffering some great calamity. Being a traditional believer, he began a series of petitionary prayers and mortifications for the spiritual head of the family, the father… We all know how dangerous this is. He offered his Sacramental reception for him, and begged the Enemy to give the man a sign that would rip him from our grasp.
Malthus, the complete and utter imbecile, was so infatuated with his merrymaking that he did nothing but push more and more pornographic material on the father. Of course, the father did continue for a time in this arena of sin, but Malthus was overbearing and short sighted in his approach. With each passing week, and every new prayer by the teacher, the father became more and more disgusted with himself. It is often a good thing when the afflicted humans despise themselves, but it can be dangerous if someone is praying for them. Since the man was under a relentless assault of highly dangerous petitionary prayers, he began to see things differently. Previously, during his more vulnerable moments after drinking and self-medication, he would distract himself from his conscience by further debauchery or with some meaningless entertainment. But, since the state of vulnerability is fertile soil for the Enemy, the man started to switch his emotional disposition from a place of shame and self-loathing to a place of guilt and sorrow. In a way, his pleasures ceased to be pleasures, and he even started to grow tired of them.
Keep in mind that the man was out of work and now faced the prospect of a financially crippling divorce. Well, as the government welfare assistance ran out, the man was desperate for a job. There was no work available in his field of expertise, which Malthus should have used as a way to increase resentment in his soul. Yet again, the imp was lazily launching hedonist temptations his way, all the while the man was growing more and more tired of these things. The teacher never ceased to pray for him, and began praying daily a terrifying chaplet to that Angel whom we dare not name. Everyday the General stormed our efforts with a relentless cavalry of soldiers in the Heavenly Host who used every trick in the book. They played harps and sang hymns, they sounded trumpets and prayed without ceasing; in the most disorienting moments they even launched fiery arrows of conquering humility and a spirit of repentance into the man’s soul. It was as ghastly an offensive as you can imagine.
The Guardians began to coordinate the workings of their obedient humans, therefore various believers kept crossing paths with the father. Eventually he encountered one such man who opened the flood gates of irreparable damage. Out of desperation for employment, he reluctantly interviewed for an agricultural labour position, even though he has historically been the furthest thing from the type of man who works hard for a living. The farmer who offered the employment is one of those remnant Christians who still fill the rural areas of most human societies. Unmoved by our secularist philosophies and unsympathetic to the religious aversion of most modern people, he displays an overbearing statue of the Woman in his office. Rather than being repulsed by such a thing upon entering the office for the interview, the man formerly under Malthus’ care was mesmerized. The man noticed a sense of tranquility in his soul that he had not felt since he was a child. At one point the farmer even had to repeat an interview question multiple times, due to the man’s hypnotized gaze directed towards the statue. Even worse, the farmer did not see this as a problem. He looked over his shoulder to see what the man was so infatuated with, and immediately understood what had happened. He hired the man on the spot, even without finishing the interview, declaring in the most nauseating fashion, “The L*#d has sent you here for a reason, can you start now?” I hate this sort of human! They do not think for themselves, instead they hang off of every prompting that emanates forth from the Celestial Kingdom.
The man was overwhelmingly confused and did not know how to process such a strange event. That same morning he awoke with his head aching, and his mouth dry and fuzzy from a considerable amount of whiskey. In addition, he felt that continual lump of guilt in his throat from his ever increasing conscience. All of a sudden, he now found himself staring at an image of that Immaculate Woman, and for the first time in months he was not tormented by an endless mental loop of nameless sirens from our videos. The disorienting quiet of mind he was feeling only made him more open to accept a job he did not even want in the first place.
That day he performed back-breaking labour until well after the sun had set. His hands were pulverized by blisters, his feet burned in his boots, and he had never worked up an appetite so fierce in his life. What’s worse, he was so distracted by the all encompassing tasks at hand, that he could not find time to think. He simply worked, and as a result he was… happy. For the first time in years he was simply happy. He did not think of pleasure or money, or drinking, or even his failed marriage. As he arrived home that night, it was all he could do to hoover down any food he could find, and his fatigue was so great that he just went to bed. He did not watch any videos, he did not even have a drink! His physical exhaustion was so strong that he forgot about himself. Even more troubling, he slept through the night, deeply and awoke feeling rested. He was even excited to get back to work the next day, and took a certain satisfaction in his aches and blisters. “There is something meaningful about this pain,” he said to himself. Disgusting.
Though he was inexperienced, the farmer believed he was doing the Enemy’s wishes by hiring him, and therefore he was patient with the man, treating him as an apprentice. Since the farmer did not have to answer to any of the politically correct overlords we inspire, he said whatever he wanted to while they worked. He talked about the Church, morality, prayer and family. He even said prayers before eating when they stopped for meals. His children often came out to see him during the day, and his daughters would accompany them in the tractors while they harvested well into the night. The frequent presence of children, combined with the fact that the atmosphere was dastardly Christian, meant that the man only spoke of things he knew were moral—things he began to believe himself. He admired the farmer, and looked up to him as some sort of model for manhood. Oh how I prefer effeminate men.
I told you the story would be painful, but it gets worse. Remember that all the rage you are embracing is to be directed at Malthus, as this is his fault. I informed Malthus to tell me if any drastic changes had taken place, but he did not. Why he thought I would not find out is beyond me, but again, this generation of devils is increasingly stupid.
As I mentioned, the various Guardians and Angels were working together under the guidance of the General. These villains orchestrated things in such a way that totally evaded the dimwitted oversight of the devil under investigation. After some time, the man developed a friendship with the agriculturist and was invited to spend an evening with him and his family at the end of one of their busy periods. Upon entering the home, the man was stopped in his tracks by an atmosphere that would repel even the most seasoned of tempters. Before he could get his boots off he was confronted with two little twin girls, no more than four years of age, with matching hairstyles and pink dresses. Their eyes opened wider than should be humanly possible, they greeted him with smiles and called him “Sir.” Feeling dizzy from the devastating waft of pure childlike innocence, he put his hand on the wall while he untied his lace. As he stood up a young man of twelve years old approached with his younger brother in tow. The preteen shook his hand and looked him in the eye; he had the impression that he was staring at a man wiser than himself, although 30 years his junior.
The home itself is over a century old and each doorway is adorned with heirloom trinkets of the Conqueror hanging from the Excruciating Weapon, with statues and paintings of our most hated adversaries spread throughout. The smell of what came from the stove brought back a damnable nostalgia that immediately transported the man as if bilocating, to a moment in his childhood. This caused a great ache and longing in his heart for an innocence he had forgotten was possible. Upon entering the kitchen he, for a moment, lost his breath as he laid eyes upon the mother of the home. She was setting the table with an infant asleep against her body, wrapped tightly against her beating heart. This wretched woman is a model of Christian chastity and the elevated presence of her virtue struck the man to his core. He looked at the twin girls as they ran about the kitchen singing a nursery rhyme, and realized in an instant that they and their mother were one and the same. They were pure and undefiled, like animated copies of that statue he saw in the office. Every single infernal temptress he gawked at for the last few months flooded to his mind. This time, however, it caused him pain and not pleasure. He could have vomited if he allowed himself. He thought of his daughter and his wife, he thought of his mother. He immediately hated lust, he hated pornography, he hated his actions. The worst thing possible had happened; he was convicted of the full reality of sin. Without an audible cry, he did not merely beg the Enemy for help like he did when all our work began to crumble, no, he begged for forgiveness.
In reality this moment lasted but a matter of seconds, but he regained awareness of his presence in the room after what felt like hours in his mind. There was a man sitting at the table holding a drink in his hand. This stranger knew the man’s name and stood to introduce himself—it was the boy’s teacher. This is the same man who set all the obstacles in motion when I began forming Malthus, and now he was somehow present at the most crucial moment in the man’s spiritual life. Malthus missed the mark on this whole endeavour and just watched as the Heavenly Host orchestrated a plan that would spoil any chance at redeeming our position. There are no mere chances with the Enemy, He seeks to control everything, and this was no different. It was not an accident that the man was somehow led to the farmer for employment, and that he was hired for a job for which he had no previous experience. None of this was an accident, and Malthus should have seen this from the beginning and promptly informed me.
As they shook hands the teacher and the father made very intentional eye contact, the teacher nodding ever so slightly. They both looked at each other as if they had finally solved a riddle, each saying to the other almost telepathically, “It was you the whole time.” The teacher finally put a concrete face to the man for whom he was prompted to pray and sacrifice, and the man suddenly understood why things had changed in his soul in recent weeks.
The evening digressed and got even worse, it was full of friends sharing food and the laughter of children. The men chatted and shared stories until well after midnight, and the man and teacher made plans to reunite the following day. I will spare certain details of their conversation as they are too terrible even to write, but after all was said and done, the worst happened; the father went with his new friend to his first Confession of his adult life. All our efforts, all my guidance, all the sins and stains crawling out of his soul like maggots on a dead animal, everything was wiped clean with those terrifying words of absolution. (Remember, all of these events fall at the feet of Malthus, they could have been avoided and he must be blamed. It is his fault that we have now lost this man, and, as I will explain presently, we have lost his family as well.)
The man’s act of confessing his sins was as repugnant as one could ever imagine. For the better part of an hour he sat there with one of those traditional priests of whom the Enemy is so fond (those who torture us). After confessing everything he possibly could, he was instructed to, among other things, begin one of those unbearable prayers that lasts nine days. It was a prayer to Monica, the woman behind that insufferable Doctor of Grace. (Again, I have explained how all this awful timing has been orchestrated in the Enemy’s favour, right under Malthus’ nose.) He was instructed to adopt a series of physical punishments to atone for his transgressions—not the lovely pretend punishments that so many of our favourite priests prescribe today, but real punishments—while at the same time offering this in conjunction with his prayers for the conversion of his wife and children. He finished his task and on the 10th day, it was the abominable commemoration of Augustine, her son, and he interceded as we have seen many times.
For a little over a month, the Bishop from Hippo did his worst amidst the wife’s anguish and despair. This could have been a fruitful time for Malthus to drive the woman deeper off the cliff, but the complacent fool failed. With each passing day, annoying pulsations of grace chipped away at the mother’s resolve. Little by little her heart softened, and she came to hate her husband less and hate her sins more. At night she even laid in bed, staring at her mobile phone, watching as each moment passed in a hopeless expectation that her spouse would call. She was a wreck, but she was no longer our sort of wreck. Her egotism faded and her tears changed in flavour from a sour self-pity to a sanguine sorrow. Like an arid garden being pummeled by an axe, her soul became soil and was prepared to accept the death of a grain of wheat. It was a desperate moment indeed.
The financial situation for the woman was unsustainable, and therefore she began the process of selling the home. Because of this she embarked on the arduous process of sifting through all their belongings in preparation for relocation. The fearful symmetry of what happened is so infuriating that it is a wonder I have not completely burst into flames. The date was October 7th… Yes, that feast commemorating the Woman and her Psalter. I told you that the orchestration on behalf of the General was relentless, well it seems the Woman could not resist taunting us yet again. On that day, the mother worked away at various boxes that had been hidden away for years. She discovered a box of old keepsakes. The woman opened the old dust covered box that contained a variety of useless trinkets. Most were harmless and nothing more than souvenirs, but some were very harmful indeed. First she discovered old cinema ticket stubs, things she had kept from her first instance of courtship with her husband. For the first time in many months she did not hate him, but instead thought of him as the man she had wanted to marry years prior. It gets much worse. From there she held in her hand various pictures from her childhood, which brought her to tears. She did not understand why, but it is clear now that she felt a great pang of guilt and loss at the person she once was. There is almost nothing worse than a grown person calling to mind the state of childishness that the Awesome and Terrible King clamours on about. At any rate, eventually she came to a long thin box that contained relics from her Sacraments. Her stomach wrenched into a tight knot and she felt as if she may hyperventilate. Shaking, she opened the box to see a once-lit Sacramental candle and an antique chain of prayer beads. She hastily grabbed the beads and stared at them.
Suddenly, she felt what can only be described as a white-hot burning sensation in her palm; it was not our sort of burning, but was instead that purifying burning the Enemy brings in his hatred for what we hold most dear. Attached to the chain was a medal of Benedict. She then looked back into the box of memories and discovered an image of her grandmother, the same woman of whom you have read in my correspondence with Malthus. The black and white image showed that insufferable saint presenting the very same prayer chain to the Father of the Roman Church at a time before the Council. He blessed the item which was now in the woman’s hands. At the sight of this relic from an age that seemed as if it never truly existed, the woman wept bitterly. She wept in that fashion that the Terrible Name wept over his friend at the tomb. Water flooded from her eyes in a way it never had before. She held the image in her hand and stared at the grandmother she had been so fond of, covering it with tears of sorrow. Then, she said her first honest prayer since she was a little girl. But it was not just any prayer, no, it was a prayer of petition to the Woman! She did not even know how to properly pray the beads, but she prayed the basic prayers nonetheless, going through the damnable chain for two full rounds. During this time her whole life flashed before her eyes, every sin she could ever remember.
She was mystically transported to a different location, and stood there in the form of a small child, holding the hand of the Woman amongst a crowd. She looked up and saw Him hanging on the Tree. She immediately internalized all the Blood she saw dripping from His wounds and was convinced of her contribution to every laceration. During this horrifying episode she gave full permission to all the Heavenly forces to cleanse her and do the Enemy’s bidding. The husband himself was also praying and asking for a sign that his prayers to Monica had worked. He received his answer and was prompted to call his wife and speak with her for the first time in weeks. The sound of her phone ringing may as well have been the sound of those bells we hate so much at the moment of the transformation of the Sacrament. She snapped out of her trance hastily and looked to see who was calling her. When she saw it was him, she began to laugh while tears still dripped down her face like the Blood from the Thorns. She answered, and for a brief moment there was a pregnant pause not unlike that moment of insurrection when Gabriel waited for the Woman to respond to the Annunciation. The husband stumbled to say anything and the woman could wait no longer. Right away she went on weeping with joyful sorrow about how she loved him and forgave him. He exhaled and joined in the insufferable weeping while they both spewed on about the most nauseating emotions. She was so enamoured with the fool and hypnotized by the Enemy that she begged him to come immediately and take her to confess her sins. Within an hour, the wretched woman was just as pure and clean as the man! Gnashing of teeth indeed.
I fear that if I continue much longer, you will be so filled with rage that you might associate this mounting rage with me, rather than directing it rightly towards Malthus. But, we must accept the relevant details in order to justly condemn the idiotic devil with all the forces of Hell.
Because the father realized his headship in the home, and because he was unjustly taken from our grasps and into the Enemy’s graces, he selfishly took his offspring back. His daughter fell into his arms with little to no resistance. The females are designed in a way that makes a continual entrapment of their souls very difficult when their patriarch intervenes. There is something so fickle about the women, and this girl was no different. When the father and mother came home after they had visited the priest, the daughter sat in her usual position on the living-room sofa, reading one of our books. The fetal-position had become her constant resting stance, as she sought to close herself off from the world and escape into her novels. At the moment her father walked into the room, holding her mother’s hand, she was reading a highly sensualized passage describing a lustful affair between a vampire and a teenage girl. As she looked up and saw the man who months ago had ripped her heart from her chest, she melted. That bastard waltzed in there, upright and with authority, his state of grace taunting us like priestly vestments. He used a forgettable pet-name he had for her and said, “Missy, I love you, I’m sorry, I will spend the rest of my life honouring your mother and we will be a family again, better than ever before.” Water once again dripped from the man’s eyes, but his countenance did not change as it did when he wept in front of his daughter months prior. Furthermore there was something that the girl found admirable about his facial irrigation. The girl was so malleable that her Guardian drew her attention to a single drop of tear that fell off his chin and onto the floor. In her mind she saw the tears of Paul, a man converted from the blindness of sin. The man stood there like a repentant Apostle, and she leapt into his arms as she had done when she was a small child. She remarked how much more solid and athletic was his build, no doubt due to his physical job. She was like a child reborn in her father’s arms; she too was lost to us.
As for the son, his conversion was not so immediate, although he did eventually break. Pornography usage causes anger in the souls of men, as it is ultimately a hatred of the natural order, and the abuse of oneself for sterile pleasures; it is for these reasons that we are so fond of its promulgation. Because of the rage that had been building in him since the separation—as is common in all adolescent boys in broken homes—the video habit worked as an accelerant for his temper. He had been uncharacteristically angry for some time, which combined with his new philosophical interests, turned him into somewhat of a “loose canon.” This was another thing that Malthus should have used to our advantage, but again, he pushed the same old tactics too far. Anger in the soul causes a man to expend a significant amount of energy, which in turn causes fatigue. Malthus, the idiot, had so much fun causing greater anger in the son by launching an endless barrage of hedonism, that he pushed him over the edge. By the time his father came home, his soul was dangerously tired. He still hated his father and revelled in his new interests, but he had no resilience left to act out his anger, especially against his father who demonstrated a new sort of redemptive confidence. The father had already consulted the farmer and the teacher about this reality, and he was prepared to handle the disposition of his son upon their reunification. Rather than try and explain himself to his son, he merely told him that he was “sorry, and did not deserve his forgiveness,” and that he would be “ready to talk whenever he wanted.” This strategy on behalf of the father gave the son nothing new to hate him for; he could continue to wallow in his anger, or he could decide to move on. The “ball was in his court” as the humans say.
A week later, the father kept his son home from school for the day. The boy had grown to hate school, and since the humans were still persisting in hellishly expedient virus adoration, schools were for us a great breeding ground of insanity. In any case, the father had other plans for the boy, plans which he kept hidden at first. As they drove out of town in the early hours, he said to his son, “You know, school can be the worst.” The son said nothing, but he slightly nodded his head and let out a small chuckle. Nothing else was said on the ride, but as the sun began to rise the boy noticed an irritating light shining in his eye; it was the orange sunlight reflecting off the metal Tree attached to the beads hanging from the rear-view mirror. It had been almost four months since the young man had recited those blasted prayers, and it stung his conscience to stare at the Lady’s Psalter, clothed with the sun. The father had brought the boy to work on the farm, and as they arrived he said, “Work hard and I will give you a hundred bucks.” For the rest of the day they simply worked, without saying more than a few words. As is the case when men work hard together—something we continue to stifle by pushing females into predominantly male industries—they develop a certain trust by a sort of osmosis. The father and son did not speak, but the rage in the son’s soul began to relinquish. For the next few days he stayed out of school and they did the same, and by the end they even began to laugh and act like chums, it was painful to watch.
At the end of the week the farmer presented the young man with a package that had been left for him. Confused, he opened it to find a book inside, but not just any book, it was The Book. There was a folded piece of paper that had been slipped in between two pages near the end of the book. It was a letter from his former teacher, it read: “Small world, your dad and I are friends now, who would have thought? He told me things were rough, so I thought you might want this. I highlighted a passage on the page where you found this letter, it’s about you and your dad. You are more like him than you think. Cheers, Mr. J.”
He read the passage. Without explaining why, he told his father to bring him to the church on the way home. His father obliged, and within three quarters of an hour he found himself kneeling in front of an altar while his son whispered away his iniquity in that damnable closet of repentance. Upon his release from our captivity he knelt down beside his father. He opened The Book to the page marked by the instructor and asked his father to read it. “There was a man who had two sons, the younger one said to his father, ‘Father, give me my share’…” When the father was done reading, they both stared in silence at the graphic hanging memorial of Golgotha. No words were necessary, we had lost two prodigal sons.
The whole family now attends the liturgy and was enrolled in the Habit of the Woman on the feast of her Conception. In reality, they are entirely out of our grasp and now under the Mother’s Mantle, untouchable by any of our advances. They have taken their interior change so seriously that the man even reversed the neutering he underwent a decade previous, and they are now expecting a set of twins that they will surely baptize! They have moved their family into a rural setting, where the man continues to work with the farmer, and they have downsized and humbled their material life to the point where the mother is now home. Nearly all marital chaos and discord has ceased, and they now gather at the kitchen table of their small country-home, to recite the Lady’s Psalter every evening. As I said, they are utterly lost.
In conclusion to this most painful report, we must resolve to not only punish Malthus, but he must be made an example. The tactics of the Enemy and his adherents must be analyzed and synthesized into a comprehensive teaching philosophy to form more competent devils in the future. It is my contention that with enough work and progress we may finally vanquish our adversaries and take the humans as our rightful property and possession. Until that fateful day comes, let us have our fun with the devil to blame. We deserve at least a bit of consolation to distract ourselves from the embarrassment he has caused. Once again: Malthus is to blame, not me.
Quelle E. Quirinus
Editor’s note: this serialization is from the novella Lockdown with the Devil.
Kennedy Hall is a contributing editor for OnePeterFive. He is the author Terror of Demons: Reclaiming Traditional Catholic Masculinity and Lockdown with the Devil, a novel published by Our Lady of Victory Press. He is a writer at Catholic Family News, LifeSiteNews and is the host of the Conservative talk-radio show, The Kennedy Report. He is married with four children and lives in Ontario, Canada.