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Coursing through the sky in his celestial chariot, Rāvana appeared like a blazing comet. His dark body shone with a brilliant aura. From his ten heads his reddish eyes darted about, scouring the mountains below. His twenty powerful arms hanging from his huge frame looked like five-hooded serpents. Seated on a throne of gems he directed his golden chariot by thought alone and it moved swiftly over the Himālayan range.

The demon was out on his conquests. All around him flew thousands of Rāksasas, clutching swords, barbed spears, spiked maces and iron bludgeons, all of those weapons smeared with blood. Some Rāksasas had the heads of tigers, some of donkeys and some of fierce fiends. Others appeared in their natural forms: large blackish bodies, fearful faces with tall pointed ears and rows of sharp fangs, with a mass of red hair on their heads. They wore iron breastplates studded with gems and were adorned with bright gold earrings and other shining ornaments. Surrounding Rāvana they looked like dark clouds with lightning covering the sun.

Rāvana wished to defeat in battle even the gods themselves. Wanting to establish his supreme power in the universe, he had gone to the higher planets and conquered hosts of Gandharvas and Yaksas, powerful celestial fighters. Now he was returning from his victorious fight with Kuvera, his own brother and the treasurer of the gods. That lordly deity had been made to retreat by Rāvana, losing to the demon his wonderful chariot, known in all the worlds as the Pushpaka.

The fearless Rāvana, overlord of all the demons, looked down from the Pushpaka at the forests below. It was a picture of tranquility. Amongst the trees were many verdant clearings covered with varieties of wild shrubs and forest flowers. Crystal waterfalls cascaded onto many colored rocks. Lakes filled with lotuses and swans shone from the mountain plateaus as the hordes of Rāksasas soared overhead.

Sometimes the demons would see groups of ṛsis, ascetic Brahmins who dwelt in those high mountain ranges, practising austerities and worshipping the gods. They would see the columns of smoke rising up amongst the trees from the sacrificial fires tended by the sages. Using their powers of sorcery the Rāksasas dropped down volumes of blood, faeces and urine, defiling the sacrifices. They would then hurl huge boulders and blazing coals, crushing and burning the sages where they sat in meditation. Finally the demons would themselves descend, howling and roaring. They tore apart the bodies of the rsis, drinking their blood and devouring their flesh.

SOURCE: Valmiki Ramayana as retold by Krishna Dharma Dasa, Bhaktivedanta VedaBase: A Treasury of Spiritual Knowledge



At long last the intelligence officer arrived at the forest clearing where the principal prisoner now was situated bound fully nude and in an upright standing position against the large wooden stake facing the other prisoners and the interrogation teams which surrounded them, the latter now no longer conducting the usual business but holding their charges firmly by the arms and forcing them to face their compatriot who was soon to be made an example of in no uncertain terms.

The intelligence officer approached the senior internal security personnel on duty, whispering into his ear the instructions he had received from the Field Marshal and receiving a cold nod from within the featureless black mask and goggles as the internal security member turned and began tightening the fastenings of the silencer to his MP5, inserting a fresh clip and filling several more for easy access which he inserted into appropriate slots on his tactical vest.

As the senior internal security personnel prepared his weapon, the intelligence officer proceeded to several of the nearby shock troopers and issued instructions in a low voice which elicited sadistic gleams in every eye and expressions of mirth punctuated with bloodlust upon every visage so concerned. The forest clearing became a scene of low murmurings and strange suppressed sounds as the two interrogation teams threatened their charges in low voices while the shock troopers made their own preparations for the principal captive.

A piece of the rotten clothing which had been stripped from the prisoner was plucked from the ground and torn into a stout rag, which one of the shock troopers then doused with an unknown liquid drawn from one of the ancillary canteens strapped to his utility belt before shoving it into the prisoner’s mouth and wrapping another strip of rag around his head securing it tightly.

Two of the shock troopers occupied themselves with building and stoking a small fire into which were set two makeshift torches made from small tree limbs, wrapped at the ends with the remainder of the prisoner’s rotted clothing and similarly doused with the liquid from the canteen of the shock trooper who had busied himself with the binding of the principal captive directly prior.

With a hiss the largest among the shock troopers withdrew a large and sadistically gleaming combat survival knife from a sheath hanging upon his hip, holding it out in front of him and slowly approaching the bound captive with the paced and assured gait of the born predator. The bound captive’s eyes widened into a rictus of horror as the shock trooper smiled and extended the knife, rubbing the side of the cold steel blade slowly against the face of the prisoner and watching as equally cold sweat began to drip down the face of his quarry in expectation of what horrors the organization man might have in store for him.

The preamble over, the shock trooper went directly into business mode, plunging his blade with the expertise of an experienced butcher into the crevice between the prisoner’s shoulder and arm and sawing furiously, his muscles straining and veins pulsating with vascularity under the strain of the work. The prisoner’s body began shaking uncontrollably as the shock trooper moved his blade deeper and deeper into the flesh, the muffled screams coming from the chemical-drenched rag inserted into his mouth sounding for all effective purposes like an animal trapped in the unforgiving metal teeth of a lethal snare.

The two other captured patrol members began wailing at the site of their compatriots fate, a reaction for which the respective interrogation teams were prepared as they quickly grasped black-gloved hands over the men’s mouth, stifling their screams – the weak struggling of their feeble and starved bodies easily overwhelmed by the cannibalistic and speed-induced strength of the organizational men.

With a horrific and final push the shock trooper finished cutting through the arm, with the entire limb falling with a sickening thud onto the ground beside the wooden stake and aerterial blood shooting through the air. The shock trooper reared back his head and let loose an involuntary and hideous laugh, his eyes lolling back into his head, as the shock troopers who had been tending the fire rushed forward and thrust their burning torches into the prisoner’s bloody wound, effecting a crude cauterization and filling the air with the naseuating smell of burning blood and human meat.

Systematically the scene was repeated upon the other arm – the intimidation followed by the methodical butchery – the gloating of the largest and most sadistic among the shock troopers as the others cauterized the wound. By the time the second limb had been removed the principal captive was barely conscious except for the properties of whatever chemical had been sublingually administered to him through the vector of the gag cloth, the purpose of which seemed to be keeping him conscious at least to a titular degree while experiencing a level of torture that would have easily caused him to black out in shock under normative circumstances. The other captives held by the adjutant interrogation teams were still being kept muzzled by the unyielding leather-gloved hands of their captors with not an audible sound escaping, their confessions and coerced intelligence reports being waylaid until after the demonstration with the more recalcitrant of their number having been duly effected and completed.

The shock trooper moved onto the legs, a more arduous task in general but effected with an effort more than grim, with the limbs held on tenaciously with the last remaining strings of flesh being ripped off with a brutal pulling before being slung to the side where they were collected along with the rest before being wrapped by one of the other shock troopers and carried down the trailhead and up the ridge toward the main encampment to be prepared with the rest of the flesh for the organization’s nocturnal mastication.

As the shock trooper cauterized the last two wounds only the slightest hint of consciousness could be seen upon the captive’s face, a dim flickering deep within the eyes testament to a consciousness driven to the brink and then beyond the pale of induced insanity and held aware only by artificial means and compartmentalization of the mind in some hidden internal place of comprehension to shield from the incomprehensible situation which he had found himself in for falling in with the rebels, for failing to submit to the iron fist of the commander due to the proclivities of his geographic region. Had he been a smarter man, had he been ambitious, he would have been proactive in his treason – sneaking across the border into the large organizational encampment whose flickering lights in the valley distance bore the promise of a life beyond the marginal existence to which he and his compatriots so stubbornly held.

But now that hope was gone, his only solace being that his spirit – if there was such a thing – might be drawn into some strange blood abyss by dint of his having become, albeit involuntarily, a sacrifice to the organization whose gods were strange and some of which were gods-in-flesh-bodies, such as the commander. Night fell upon his consciousness as the shock troopers moved away, the area beneath the wooden stake and the patrolman himself gratuitously soaked in sopping blood.

The senior internal security personnel moved forward, black and anonymous goggled eyes staring strange and alien out toward his victim as he raised the black and lethal snub of his silenced MP5 toward the patrolman from a distance of only a few feet away and then began shooting – the sound of the suppressed fire resonating like some strange ground wasp beneath the surface – the body of the opposition member being machine-gunned beyond all recognition as the senior internal security personnel unloaded clip after clip into the head-bearing trunk, churning and grinding the flesh into quivering meat. A fell wind blew and a mist of blood caught upon the wind, wafting into the darkening twilight.

SOURCE: Excerpted from IRON GATES by Tempel ov Blood, published by Martinet Press 2014 (ISBN-10:  0692306587, ISBN-13: 978-0692306581) IRON GATES is a sci-fi horror / post-apocalyptic novel, detailing a bleak view of the spiritual horrors of the world-to-come. Set seventy years after a worldwide nuclear conflagration, IRON GATES allows the reader a sight into a nightmarish landscape populated by even more nightmarish characters in a hideous future which leaves little to the imagination. Brutal and unsparing, it is not suitable for readers under 18. Readers should be advised of extreme graphic content.


REVOLUTIONARY HATE ARCHIVES is a propaganda outlet dedicated to the publication of pamphlets and materials from both the spectrum of the ultra-left as well as the ultra-right – unified in the overall mission of championing the predatory psycho-politics of extremism.

RHA is spearheaded by the TOB Commissar behind the GULAG project available via Martinet Press Audio and is the rezidentura of the Black Lodge Discipline Center. Visit RHA at:

“Tyrannical toward himself, he must be tyrannical toward others. All the gentle and enervating sentiments of kinship, love, friendship, gratitude, and even honor, must be suppressed in him and give place to the cold and single-minded passion for revolution. For him, there exists only one pleasure, on consolation, one reward, one satisfaction – the success of the revolution. Night and day he must have but one thought, one aim – merciless destruction. Striving cold-bloodedly and indefatigably toward this end, he must be prepared to destroy himself and to destroy with his own hands everything that stands in the path of the revolution.” – Catechisms of the Revolutionary, Sergei Nechayev





DRILL SGT. 333 is the LEADER of the VVM (Velton Vindex Movement.) He is a grim, grey alien with large, almond-shaped eyes and a small, skeletal figure (which is in contrast to his over-sized head.) He wears a Drill Sgt. Uniform (including a large, harsh brimmed hat with the numerical code ‘333’ emblazoned on the front, military pants tucked into combat boots and a military battle-ready logistical jacket emblazoned with the numeric ‘333’ and on which is pinned an insignia of the Nine Angles, a patch bearing the sigil of the TOB and upon the collar-tab epaulets is the numbers ‘333’ – the latter which appears on both of his thin, starved shoulders.) He wears a black armband with large white letters sewn onto the clothe bearing the initials ‘VVM’. His mouth is only a slit which never smiles. From his mouth emanates only hate because he hates you, he wants to discipline you, he wants to punish you, he wants to push you over the brink so that you fall – like chaff – into the blaze of the abyss, the blaze of subversion, the blaze of the clandestine, the blaze of torture, the blaze of discipline.

He carries a wooden punishment paddle that has been drilled with holes, many, many holes. The holes are to lessen wind resistance when he beats you and he will beat you – he will beat you like a bad little girl or a bad little boy but he will not beat you because you have been bad, he will beat you because you have not been bad enough. When he bends you over and paddles your bottom it is a loving discipline because he is saying to you: do not be human, be a Noctulian! Although the way he phrases it may sound more like ”TOUGHEN UP YOU WIMP!” or it may even sound like the churning and grating of hideous machinery in a terrible, dark and grim factory somewhere in the astral wastelands. Did I mention he also carries a cat o’ nine tails made of a hideous leather-like substance which is interspersed with spikes? You are truly a fortunate soul if Drill Sgt. 333 decides to go after you with that particularly unholy implement.

The name tag on his battle-ready logistical jacket reads ”GREY” – just in case you do not recognize him when you see him… But if you do see him you will surely recognize him, because only the most fortunate boys and girls receive the very specific sort of balloons and surprises that Drill Sgt. Grey has to offer.

Every foul verbal abuse that issues forth from his mouth which swirls and rotates with the horrors of Nythra will make you more motivated. Each beating he gives you will bring you closer and closer to the Abyss and insanity (like a trout swimming upstream, the Abyss will make you immolate yourself in the hideous and caustic ordeal of shedding the causal.) The more miles you run and the more push-ups you do chanting ‘333’ will help you transform from your current state into a bloated frog: bloated on the blood current of the Velton Vindex Movement and basking under the radioactive glow of atomic mushroom clouds who look down upon you with leering, spiral eyes.



The lieutenant began laughing maniacally, his insane peals of grotesque mirth bouncing off the jagged rocks of the bizarre cliffs that yawned into a lifeless abyss, shrouded by the sinking sun and variant heights of the evergreen forest surrounding. As he laughed specks of blood and phlegm spewed from his own mouth, the level of issue heightening as the sound pressure level increased.

As the victim fell onto his knees and began swooning in and out of consciousness from the shock of the wound, the lieutenant’s laughter became a garbled scream and his eyes became throbbing blood-shot orbs, opening wider and wider, displaying some inhuman wrath beyond the purview of the remotely sane or ethical.

‘We’ll make you hurt before we make you die!’ the lieutenant barked, as he moved in for the terminal maneuver.

SOURCE: Excerpted from IRON GATES by Tempel ov Blood, published by Martinet Press 2014 (ISBN-10:  0692306587, ISBN-13: 978-0692306581) IRON GATES is a sci-fi horror / post-apocalyptic novel, detailing a bleak view of the spiritual horrors of the world-to-come. Set seventy years after a worldwide nuclear conflagration, IRON GATES allows the reader a sight into a nightmarish landscape populated by even more nightmarish characters in a hideous future which leaves little to the imagination. Brutal and unsparing, it is not suitable for readers under 18. Readers should be advised of extreme graphic content.



The Anglian Satanic Church was run by Father Raoul Belphlegor, real name Thomas Victor Norris, and Mother Lilith, real name Magdalene Graham. It claimed vast resources, numbers and magickal powers which would be bestowed on members in return for money and/or (in the case of young female members) sex. Norris had earlier acquired a liking for brothel-keeping, involving his wife and daughters, aged eleven and thirteen. On his release from a six-year sentence resulting from this, he restored his fortunes with the aid of a rather naive eighteen-year-old (she was not concerned with his occult activities and has since now made a new life for herself, so her name will not be mentioned).

Norris’ Occult involvement brought him into contact with Magdalene Graham, who was editing an Occult magazine on broadly LHP lines. Norris persuaded her to take over production of his magazines, both Occult and political (fascist), including the occasional news-sheet of his Odinist Anglo-Saxonic Church (another paper organization).

Despite holding similar political views, Ms. Graham was, at first, reluctant to be associated with the disreputable Norris, but was in the vulnerable position of having just been diagnosed as suffering from a disabling illness and was desperately seeking a cure. That particular illness is subject to recession.

Ms. Graham experienced an improvement (presumably psychologically induced), which, for a time convinced her. She eventually became disillusioned and tried to leave. Impeded by her physical disability, she sought help from a Satanist who was not a fascist (possibly the only representative of that rare breed in Britain at the time) and he eventually re-started the magazine Dark Lily as the organ of non-political Satanism in Britain.

Ms Graham remains typist, sometimes designated editor, although it is doubtful whether she has executive powers It appears that she is now convinced that Occultism cannot be associated with politics. Certainly Dark Lily, despite its history, has, since coming under new management, shown no sign of political allegiances and has, in fact, warned that to divide one’s energies between politics and Occultism means that one will succeed at neither.

The magazine Dark Lily first appeared in duplicated news-sheet format in 1977, allegedly the organ of the Anglian Satanic Church – not to be confused (though it often was) with the Anglo-Saxonic Church, which was Odinist.

Magda Graham from the Society of Dark Lily is a disabled old gal nowadays, suffering from multiple sclerosis. For many years she had an interesting crossover into extreme underground S&M groups.

The Society of the Dark Lily, is run by Magda Graham from a farm in Scotland where she lives. It is the headquarters of the organization (and the scene of debauched, sadistic beating of naked young girls).




O, you Spear in the Sun, The One that is Not (O ti koplje u Suncu, Onaj koji Nisi)

Master of the Triangle (Gospodaru Trougla)

Lover (Ljubavniče)

Darkness of the Darkness (Tamo Tame)

Flaring Star ov the Abyss (Plamteća Zvezdo Bezdana)

333 (Trista Trideset i Tri)

Come and Conquer (Dođi i Osvoji)

Lick with the snake’s tongue (Zmijskim jezikom ti poliži)

Death and Ashes (Smrt i Pepeo)

I am You (Ja sam TI)

The Dread and the Darkness (Užas i Tmina)

31 and 2 (Trideset Jedan i Dva)

SOURCE: Dark Imperivm – HorOnZon (album version)