GULAG “BLACK LODGE DISCIPLINE CENTER” presents a hideous inaugural power electronics delivery and the first audio project internal to and authorized by the Tempel ov Blood. A harsh sonic delivery, GULAG is spearheaded by a Commissar of the TOB and features liberal samples of actual correctional punishments, abuse and forced worship recorded within the TOB’s Black Lodge Discipline Center. Above photograph taken from documentary of physical imagery of actions recorded and sampled featured on the track “Prayer of Hate and Human Suffering.”



“The atmosphere of the story is shrouded in hopelessness so effectively described in the cold grey sky without sun which is the new reality in this radioactive, nuclear winter darkness, and also with high concrete walls of the old penitentiary that serves as organizational headquarters, its cells and bars, encompassed with barb wire. However that outside view of its walls, harsh as it may seem, gives you only a glimpse of what might be going on inside but still fails to plant the seed of expectation deep enough in your psyche to let the imagination flourish well enough. Wild as that imagination of yours may be it still couldn’t take you to the levels of horror the writer so brilliantly played with. These descriptions are one of the very best aspects of the book, as the writer went into such detail, painting so vividly the inside walls into the colors of blood and suffering, that it all keeps you on the edge of your seat while reading.”




 “To those outside it is a simple construction of wood But those inside know what is truly in store… Behind the locked door.”

“In the Hermitage of Vasistha the miscreant band devoured a hundred and eighty-eight brahmanas and nine other ascetics. They went to the holy hermitage of Cyavana, which is visited by the twice-born, and ate one hundred of the hermits, who lived on fruit and roots. This they did in the nighttime; by day they vanished into the ocean. At the Hermitage of Bharadvaja they destroyed twenty restrained celibates who lived on wind and water. In this fashion the Kaleya Danavas gradually invaded all the hermitages, maddened by their confidence in the strength of their arms, killing many hosts of the twice-born, until Time crawled in upon them. The people did not know about the Daityas, the best of men, even as they were oppressing the suffering ascetics. In the morning they would find the hermits, who were lean from their fasts, lying on the ground in lifeless bodies. The land was filled with unfleshed, bloodless, marrowless, disemboweled, and disjointed corpses like piles of conch shells.

While men were wasting away in this manner, O lord of men, they ran from fear into all directions to save themselves. Some hid in caves, others behind waterfalls, some were so fearful of death that fear killed them. There were also proud and heroic bowmen who did their utmost to hunt down the Danavas; but they could not find them, for they were hidden in the ocean; and the bowmen succumbed to exhaustion and death.”

SOURCE: Excerpted from the chapter Harm’s Way: Inimical Behavior of Vedic Humanoids Toward Humans in Alien Identities: Ancient Insights into Modern UFO Phenomena by Richard L. Thompson, 1993




A long-fingered hand with sharpened fingernails painted jet black cradled a glass of bourbon – not top shelf, not bottom shelf but mid-range. Strong, high-proof and serviceable for the taste of the discerning and violent consumer. Another hand of similar make and model held a menthol cigarette burned halfway down, also of a potent variety however predictably high-priced, held betwixt thumb and forefinger in the European fashion rather than between fore and middle as common in America – though this was both the origin and the habitation of the one so imbibing.

Reddened eyes stared coldly and without lustre from beneath thick black brows, ringed in darkness though not that of an artificially cosmetic nature as she herself only adorned herself as such for the most dramatic of events but rather with that darkness which comes naturally from long days of arduous toil, induced stress and little sleep.

An old-fashioned wall clock clicked over one minute, then another, as her cigarette burned down, the ash beginning to droop sullenly and the two ice-cubes in her libation begin to melt and meld in a visually sickening oily fashion with the whiskey. The thirty-third minute of the third hour of the afternoon came with the full circumambulation of the second hand, audible in the otherwise quiet rambling country house and her face became alive, suffuse in the angry blush of rage as she flung the glass against the door frame, shattering it.

She rushed toward the door and began undoing the myriad security mechanisms as the sound of sirens erupted from the old highway beyond the field.


Always hatred, always – galvanizing her spine like a steel rod throughout the day and most of the night, in fact. Lying there beneath the skin, causing full-body tension throughout her musculature – muscles taut, ready to spring to action at the slightest hint of any goddamn thing, ready to spring for a bit of predatory activity or what her husband liked to call “pro-active self-defense”, like them snarling bobcats she heard fighting up in the hills as a girl.

Oftentimes anger – mostly impotent in days long past, impotent in that there wasn’t nearly a suitable outlet for it – but would an outlet only increase its potency, giving fuel to the figurative fire? That was a bit too philosophical of a peregrination for her liking, but an issue all the same and one she hadn’t quite worked out yet, though an outlet – suitable or otherwise – was always appreciated. Smashing a log against a tree was one thing, kicking a trestle and then having to deal with the afterburn of some ruined infrastructure and perhaps a half-ruined foot was one thing. A well-decided upon target and an expertly aimed – if somewhat brutish in delivery – cinderblock lobbed through a glass window (or a saw through a trestle – bigger trestle, preferably someone else’s) – or a coiled belt unfurled against someone else’s… well, there’s time enough for all of that on down the line.

Rage? Oh yes, rage was the absolute best of the whole entire goddamn lot – best left for those special moments, letting that particular screw out of the driver (or putting that particular pilot – well-pepped, mind you, into the cockpit) too casual-like wouldn’t do at all, not in a law abiding society. But when it came unbidden, or in that exact right moment where the Supreme Being turned the red light into a green (Code Green?) and gave you a free-pass A-’okay then that was, well, that was sweet, sweet possession.

She shifted from her thoughts and likewise shifted out of the old and somewhat dilapidated La-Z Boy (brand authenticity, unconfirmed) that was her somewhat supine place of residency during the off-hours during the day as well as being the usual place of living by her husband – also semi-supine, also during off-hours (though mirabile dictu – questionable) of the nocturnal hours, when she was displaced to the couch – or wandering about the outlying field through the near knee-high brush (the crop, she knew not – ruining the fallacy that everyone who lived rural had the wherewithal of a farmhand, much less that of a survivalist who knew which way was south-by-southwest depending on the fucking moss growth on a pine.)

Sometimes she would wander farther than the outlying field and find herself sulking around, slinking aimlessly in a few foot diameter by the mouth of the long dirt driveway – the mouth of their (rented) property to the highway or byway, depending on one’s unique perspective. To the mailman and to the form-fillers and form-readers it was still a “rural route” with an attached number, though she had thought that that particular nomenclature had gone out of use though not apparently in this part of the country.

Further than the mouth of the drive she didn’t often wander – at least by foot – and if by car, not alone, as her husband was the only one with a license and if that was expired (which she didn’t believe it was) he was at least the only “trained driver” on the land, her having never had the particular interest nor proclivity to put herself behind the driver’s seat (though there was certainly the pressure to adapt – a long, long time ago, it seemed now.)

And so she would stand – atop piled sand, driven down but still pliant beneath her feet and potentially dangerous embankments along the side (dangerous for those driving to fast, though obnoxious might be a better term) and flat, slightly cracked blacktop (greytop?) a foot off – seldom travelled but when so usually by the gusto and beer-filled operators of the modern two-ton truck, fast-food wrappers, beer cans and sometimes emptied cardboard twelve-packs or suitcases (beer suitcases – that means eighteen-to-twenty-four cans, for the inexperienced) flying from the fully descended electric windows, the sounds of the most recent culture-affirming Nashville band wafting through the windows. The other travellers, equally fast, would cruise by – often at similar speed but slightly less reckless – in newer model luxury cars, windows firmly sealed whatever the weather (to better cushion themselves to the peculiar and oh so custom comfort that their heating and air-conditioning systems afforded, at their expense – damn mother nature in the process) – off to one place or another, usually the other – her little patch of open road passed by and forgotten without so much as a thought.

She herself though had much to think about on this little patch of land – whether it be by day, when she stood demurely far back from the road proper to avoid the sight of any passing cars or by night – when she stood closer, sometimes standing in the middle of the faded middle line itself, by god, though quickly retreating to the shadows of the copse of crooked pine trees that provided some small concealment (the military-formation lines of planted regrowth, expertly spaced apart in the property across the street affording no such sanctuary.)

Where to go from here? The paths that had been well trod in the past, mostly by impetus of her husband (of which she – meeting him near the zenith of his more subversive activities, upon which immediately descended the beginning of twilight as the case often is in cold hard reality, had played a part) were only filament shadows on the night-like existence that they lived. Sure, there was maintenance – and maintenance well-maintained, thank you very much – no luxury, but much more luxury than they had bargained for in the interim – within the standards of the atypical rural American outcast. But as the wise-men (or malcontents) once said, living simply isn’t life. Where was the verve? The proverbial English cut of the dash? It didn’t seem to be here, that was sure enough – and the opportunities didn’t seem to be presenting themselves to the opportune, at least not in this squalid little sector of the backwoods.

That mild discontent swirling in her mind, lazily mind you, but present nonetheless, she slowly shuffled one-foot-in-front-of-the-other back down the sandy driveway to the house, presently empty, her mate and sole physical companion off exerting himself in his own lone daytime pursuits (equally grim – though he probably didn’t think so) – back through the door onto old wooden floorboards sinking here and there, catching the light glumly shining through the dry-rotten cheap curtains there and then – to lay upon a couch bought originally by someone else and to consider thoughts probably considered by millions of humanoids before her and after her alike, marginal in scope and partial in realization for a marginal and partial people.


GULAG “BLACK LODGE DISCIPLINE CENTER” presents a hideous inaugural power electronics delivery and the first audio project internal to and authorized by the Tempel ov Blood. A harsh sonic delivery, GULAG is spearheaded by a Commissar of the TOB and features liberal samples of actual correctional punishments, abuse and forced worship recorded within the TOB’s Black Lodge Discipline Center.

“The filthy infant lay screaming upon the moist floor of the forest as her mother, her cries almost as shrill as that of her child, stood several paces away, pinned against a tree by two uniformed, anonymous figures. The field marshal approached the child and gently prodded its clothing with the razor-sharp bayonet point attached to his AK-74 copycat model, specially made for him in the clandestine armaments factory operated directly by members of his unit. Whereas most who were fortunate enough to be equipped with firearms were relegated to utilizing older and carefully maintained weapons from existent stockpiles, certain elite ranking individuals such as himself were supplied with freshly minted firearms such as the one which he now held, for reasons of both practicality and prestige. Hot air infused with his ever-present rage blew from his nostrils, his eyes were wide-open and bloodshot and this along with a heavy black mustache arranged his face in a decidedly intimidating veneer. The cold blue point of the bayonet continued to toy with the flimsy garments of the squiggling child, slowly opening its shirt to reveal a pale white chest holding a fast-beating heart, sped up considerably due to duress, thumping heavily beneath its flesh.

Seeing this from her location several paces off the mother’s cries of distress began to reach horrific proportions. The field marshal raised his left hand in a brief gesture, to which the guards holding her responded by grabbing a handful of her honey-blonde hair and yanking her head downward as another attached a rubber ball-gag to her mouth, stifling her screams so that now only the sound of the infant’s cries permeated the wooded landscape. As if on cue, the field marshal suddenly arced his rifle behind his head and drove it down, skewering the child on the tip of the bayonet. The bayonet set deep into the innocent flesh, directly penetrating into the child’s heart, causing a stream of arterial flow to shoot several feet into the air. The field marshal raised the rifle back up into the air above his head, the bayonet bloody with the crimson flow from its most recent child sacrifice, a veritable moloch in the form of a machined rifle, the small child’s limbs convulsing in its death throes. Deftly and with much skill, as he had assuredly done this before, the field marshal held the rifle at an angle so that the blood flowed downward without soaking the preciously oiled metal of the main part of the gun. Smiling beneath his thick black mustache, the field marshal eyed the mother: his eyes filled with an insane mania, hers filled with a shock beyond all reason. The child’s cries were now silent and he placed his mouth in line of the blood flow allowing the rivulets of blood to fill his mouth, staining his face and mustache in hideous ornamentation.

After making his point known and as the blood began to cease its flow, the field marshal lowered the bayonet, still bearing the twitching infant on its point, and unceremoniously pushed the corpse off of the weapon’s deadly accoutrement with one heel of his combat boot. The child hit the ground with a dull thump, the last of its blood spreading around in a muddied pool upon the earth, its milky eyes frozen in the pangs of death. The field marshal looked at his guards, their faces revealing nothing but cold, cruel eyes behind the black balaclavas which were the hallmark of the internal security forces. The field marshal raised his left hand in a similar brief gesture as before. “Do as you want with the woman and with the remains of the child.” With that and a final sardonic smile, this time aimed at his men, he turned from the scene and marched several yards into the forest toward the small tent that functioned as his temporary headquarters for small unit operations in the area. Behind him, the guards paired off with the woman and the corpse of the child respectively, enjoying their peculiar tastes to the hilt.”

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.



“Hiranyakaśipu was so powerful that even the demigods in other planets would tremble simply by the unfavorable raising of his eyebrow.”

“Sri Narada Muni said: My dear King Yudhisthira, when Lord Vishnu appeared in the form of Varaha (the Boar incarnation), and killed the demon Hiranyaksha, Hiranyaksha’s brother Hiranyakashipu was extremely angry and began to lament.

Filled with rage and biting his lips, Hiranyakashipu gazed at the sky with eyes that blazed in anger, making the whole sky smoky. Thus he began to speak. Exhibiting his terrible teeth, fierce glance and frowning eyebrows, terrible to see, he took up his weapon, a trident, and thus began speaking to his associates, the assembled demons:

‘O Danavas and Daityas! O Dvimurdha, Tryaksha, Shambara and Tryaksha, Shambara and Shatabahu! O Hayagriva, Namuci, Paka and Ilvala! O Vipracitti, Puloman, Shakuna and other demons! All of you kindly hear me attentively and then act according to my words without delay.

‘My insignificant enemies the demigods have combined to kill my very dear and obedient wellwisher, my brother Hiranyaksha. Although the Supreme Lord, Vishnu, is always equal to both of us- namely, the demigods and the demons – this time, being devoutly worshiped by the demigods, He has taken their side and helped them kill Hiranyaksha.

‘The Supreme Personality of Godhead has given up His natural tendency of equality toward the demons and demigods. Although He is the Supreme Person, now, influenced by maya, He has assumed the form of a Boar to please His devotees, the demigods, just as a restless child leans toward someone. I shall therefore sever Lord Vishnu’s head from His trunk by my trident, and with the profuse blood from His body I shall please my brother Hiranyaksha, who was so fond of sucking blood. Thus shall I too be peaceful.

‘When the root of a tree is cut and the tree falls down, its branches and twigs automatically dry up. Similarly, when I have killed this diplomatic Vishnu, the demigods, for whom Lord Vishnu is the life and soul, will lose the source of their life and wither away.

‘While I am engaged in the business of killing Lord Vishnu, go down to the planet earth, which is flourishing due to brahminical culture and a kshatriya government. These people engage in austerity, sacrifice, Vedic study, regulative vows, and charity. Destroy all the people thus engaged!

‘The basic principle of brahminical culture is to satisfy Lord Vishnu, the personification of sacrificial and ritualistic ceremonies. Lord Vishnu is the personified reservoir of all religious principles, and He is the shelter of all the demigods, the great pitas (forefathers), and the people in general. When the brahmanas are killed, no one will exist to encourage the kshatriyas to perform yajnas, and thus the demigods, not being appeased by yajna, will automatically die.

SOURCE: Excerpted from Hiranyakasipu, The King of Demons based on the accounts set forth in Canto 7 of Srimad-Bhagavatam