Bacchus Death Collective: Bacchus Death Collective is the story of a Bacchic death cult of Manhattan elites that are trying to shift the world’s current Judeo-Christian value system into a Roman/Hellenistic value system based on the Roman god of wine and hedonism, Bacchus.

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BLURB: Bacchus Death Collective

Bacchus Death Collective is the story of a Bacchic death cult of Manhattan elites that are trying to shift the world’s current Judeo-Christian value system into a Roman/Hellenistic value system based on the Roman god of wine and hedonism, Bacchus. The nine members of the collective are doomed to a specific death in order to fulfill a prophecy that will usher in the Bacchic age. The prophecy goes:

“One must die by fire, one must die by frost, one must die by poison, one must die by hanging, one must die by drowning, one must die by eating, one must die by being eaten, one must die by lust, one must die by suicide, one must survive and all must live in praise of Bacchus.”

EXCERPT: Bacchus Death Collective

Growing up in Brooklyn, my father was never home, leaving my sister, myself, and mother with no trace of him but the food he would put in our stomachs. Anthony De Palma, my dad, worked two jobs in construction, building the skyscrapers we take for granted today. Night and day. High and low. He’d build these shimmering behemoths from the ground up until the soot and dust, took its toll on his lungs, giving the man cancer. Never saw him smoke a cigarette in my life but who knows, I didn’t see him much at all.

What was interesting about him, and I never knew this while he was alive, was that my father was a master Free Mason. As a Mason, his life’s purpose was to rebuild the world in the image of Solomon’s temple. To a Free Mason, divinity lies within the craft of building and every brick is a metric of the sacred. It puzzles me how a poor, dumb bastard like him, high in the organization and trusted with powerful secrets, didn’t work a better job so he could spend more time with his family. Even still, the man had a profound impact on me. I don’t think I’ve even touched the surface of what spiritual powers he passed down to me. Who knows what birthright is lying in wait in every strand of my DNA.

My father visiting me in the form of an angel was God’s punishment upon me. Not the God of Bacchus Death Collective but the God of my childhood, the God of the church masses I would sleep through. Jesus Christ. I can only blame myself for all the lives my magick ritual has destroyed. All those women killing their children, then their husbands killing them…all those protests turned violent…that blood is on MY hands. I look at my face in the mirror and know I am no longer my father’s son. I’m a monster.

Devoting my life to magick was a terrible mistake. “Do What Thou Wilt.” That’s what the creator of Thelema, his unholiness, Aleister Crowley teaches. Before ever studying Crowley, I had been living my life by this tenant. Brooklyn was a harsh place to call home in those days. You had to eat or be eaten. Kill or be killed. So, I ate and I killed. Did Aleister Crowley ever know how tough it was growing up poor on the streets? Fuck no, the only reason he had the privilege to develop his philosophy was because he came from a wealthy family. It’s a rich-kid religion. So maybe my Father’s judgement is what I needed to snap out of this brainwashing. I don’t think I can do another ritual or cast another spell or summon anymore Gods. My heart’s just not in it anymore. Guilt is the worst thing a magician can feel. Guilt will thwart any magical process. If your heart’s not in it, the inter-dimensional gates will no longer bow and bend to your will. I must either learn to deal with this guilt, for killing thousands, or escape Bacchus Death Collective. Seeing as BDC needs me as a sacrifice, I don’t see how they’ll ever let me get out of the collective alive. The best I can do is convince them to let me out of the temple and escape. I just need the right plan and excuse. I also need the Banker to be a little drunk.

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