Missionaries of Set, the Snake God

Send me your money. The Toronto sect of Set, the Snake God is not all about orgies, drugs, whores, elimination of rivals, and dark, leisurely vengeance upon rivals. There is a higher purpose to the teachings, a greater purpose, an elevating spiritual impulse that inspires creativity in our drive doing what we are all about. You feel good. You are relaxed. A deep feeling of contentment is upon you. Smile, just as crocodile smiles going about his business. The Missionaries of Set the Snake God not only exist, are many in number, are active in your community, but they are doing the good work, spreading the whispered message, and planting post hypnotic suggestions. I have been asked to reveal this to you, so that you can share in the elevation of others by sending me your money. Send me your money.

It takes money to do good things. The progressives know this, and use the tinsel constructs of their lying media to create the illusion of doing good, even as their white guilty sticky fingers go about spending your money on themselves. They lick their lips as poverty always gets worse, racism spreads, and injustice drips onto vegetarian buffets. You want to do good. Overthrowing the state, rounding up the white marxist traitors, and manning the guillotines is too slow. Why not turn to the methods of our pre Christian ancestors, in the days before Christ, before oppressive Roman Law, back when the gap between rich and poor was even smaller than in the Golden Days of Orange Ontario? The Missionaries of Set, the Snake God are working towards this. You can help them to help you to achieve your goals. And because the followers of the Sect of Set, the Snake God are all about results, here is an anecdote to convince you of the utility and truth of the statement: send your money to Fenris Badwulf.

I went out into the darkness, the new moon was a crescent just risen, as I walked the streets of Toronto. I work in darkness say the followers of Set, the Snake God. I was walking in darkness in one of the oppressed areas of Toronto, where all the social spending goes, but where no results happen. I wanted to help. I care. There, as I walked and prayed * I fell into walking beside a young lady. She was sad and unhappy. Instead of crying she had all the body language of someone going through withdrawal from heroin. Poor sad girl, dressed mostly in black, and not fat like a baby momma. It was her birthday, she told me; her name was Jessica. I looked up to the sliver of the moon and gave thanks to Set, the Snake God. Here was an instrument for the Greater Purpose of Digestion, because Set, the Snake God likes digestion.

I wished Jessica a Happy Birthday. She smiled, on that face so unused to smiling, more used to crying (and a nose worthy of a witch, three times broken, I might add). I apologized that I had no dope to share with her, having smoked it all just previously as I lurked in the Victorian quarter near Ossington with my friend and fellow devotee of Set, the Snake God, Jack. I said that I could buy dope, if she knew where to get it. She smiled again (this was her second smile; it warmed my heart; I care). She invited me back to her place, to celebrate her birthday. I gave her money, and she bought dope.

As I sat amongst the spent needles, mysterious ashes upon the coffee table, and other assorted flotsam of the signs of capital failure of the progressive run social welfare system, I raised up a prayer to Set, the Snake God: how could I help this fallen woman where the activists had taken decades of tax dollars and failed? They had lined their pockets, twisted minds, and done jack shit. Jessica was in need; how could I turn her into a halberd * of efficiency? Jessica returned with dope: not pot, alas. I apologized: crack is bad for my hypertension: please Jessica, it is your birthday, enjoy it all. She smiled for the third time. It takes a strong soul, trained in the evil sciences, warmed by the moon of scorpio, to resist an opiate. I am motivated by my desires for the revealed objectives of the Illuminati of the Etobicoke chapter of Set, the Snake God. Opium is but asprin compared to the delights of the temple ritual; so Jessica started the hefty supply of crack; I was left to ponder how to craft her to the Greater Purpose of the Supreme, Librarian of the Universe. Fines were coming due.

Hypnosis is generally not done whilst the patient is in some form of drugged state. This practice is usually associated with evil scientists of the stripe of Fu Manchu or Doctor No. The patient has few or no defenses. The subconscious is an open banquet, a blank manuscript upon which the hypnotist can write what they want, even to the point of swapping in a different personality. But my hands were tied (figuratively; I leave those sorts of details for my evenings with Sonjia deSade), I was forced by my high moral code (The Telemarketers Code of Ethics) to help Jessica, but she was baked on crack; her subconscious mind putty for my imagination. What would Fenris Badwulf do? What did Fenris Badwulf do?

Jessica needed self esteem, empowerment, a weapon to use against the forces arrayed against her. Her lifelong subsistence upon the leftist social welfare system had failed. She needed the power of the Emerald Eyed One, Set, the Snake God in her life. I let her tell me what she needed: a lighter that worked; some water to clear her cough from the crack smoke; someone to pay her cell phone bill. I nodded; and as Jessica phased in and out of consciousness, I took the opportunity to plant helpful suggestions in her sub consciousness. I care.

I hate people who hate. I have noticed that everyone that is worthy of hating, says bad things about me. Have you noticed that about you? Bad people are critical of you? Now Jessica shares, at a subconscious level, at the reptilian level, a burning hatred of people who hate Fenris. (I just chose that trigger word arbitrarily; I would never use my own name as a trigger for psychotic rage, heck no). A healthy person flys into a psychotic rage when they are criticized, but not Jessica, so lacking in self esteem. Her battery of rage was (is) topped up, and needs draining. Since she will not defend herself, she can defend others. What is more noble than that? And if one of her clients is a vile person, destined to live on the Winners Circle of life, who utters curses and lies about, oh, say Fenris, Jessica will soon, instantly, change into Jack the Ripper, and implement social engineering, Set, the Snake God style. Such is the good works done by the Missionaries of Set, the Snake God.

It was good to see Jessica smile on her birthday. The socialist social services sector had failed her, but I had not. I had put her on a path to renewal. A sacrifice was called for. We went out on her balcony and I pointed out the new moon, and taught her how to feel its warmth. We parted not long after. Jessica had a client to hustle, and I had to return to my house and offer incense up to the family gods of Badwulf. As a last gift, I gave Jessica a book; a simple book of astrology of the sort that girls like to read. As Jessica delighted in her good fortune I left her another gift. Something every girl needs. I waited until Jessica was distracted by hypnotic suggestion and communicated this gift to the new, latent personality that lives in Jessica's reptilian complex. Something every girl needs. A short, curved knife; made of the same steel they make straight razors with. Hidden, but a talisman of safety. Anybody messes with Jessica, they mess with the fangs of Set, the Snake God. Could be anyone. Anyone who presses the wrong switch of social justice. Anyone who patronizes crack whores, tends to break their noses, and mutters darkness about Fenris, say (I just chose that name at random; could be anyone, eh what?). Then that person will find themselves watching their intestines being used to decorate the Holiday tree.

The Missionaries of Set, the Snake God do good work, as I have exampled above. You want to help them. You care.

Send me your money.