AND HELL FOLLOWED WITH HIM

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“The great strength of the totalitarian state is that it forces those who fear it to imitate it.”

SOURCE: Graphic from inside BLDC (Black Lodge Discipline Center) courtesy Commissar CV29.

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COMMANDANT

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The commandant standing on the bed was of super-high rank, wearing a pointed black helmet of fine mesh and one bleak bar of horizontal goggle lens and erstwhile garbed in a shining black outfit of skintight design and unknown fabric origin. Her large breasts shone like bleak and deadly moons encased in the shining black fabric, one of her waspish and skeletal hands carefully holding a vial containing a green poison liquid, her other clasped triumphantly on the bar separating the bed from the cab of the military automotive.

Her waist bore a thick nylon utility belt with a harsh nursery strap hanging to one side along with implements such as night sticks, restraints and then, in the other, a bleak, long-nosed pistol in a stellar black holster. She was of the elite of the elite, a god in the flesh, the touted female known as the commandant – never seen but worshiped throughout organization-run territories as a black mistress of death, destruction and imploding schizophrenic blood lust – creeping like a mustard gas mist across the destroyed and devastated plains of a post-nuclear hell.

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.

Graphic collage Commandant commissioned by the TOB and rendered by the artist and Satanist Erica Frevel. Original of this collage will be available for purchase directly from the artist in future and the image itself to feature in future published material set in the world of IRON GATES and published via the auspices of Martinet Press. More Art of Erica Frevel can be accessed at The Art of Erica Frevel as well as on Cargo Collective and Instagram.

 

SPECTACLES

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“The Commissar eagerly awaited his return to the castle to get a second helping of his newest play thing, before retiring for the night. He unlocked the door to his office to find her sitting in the corner bruised from her earlier time with him. He sat down in his chair and looked at her. He patted his lap and smiled. She got up and moved towards him the fear in her eyes increased with every step she took. As soon as she got close enough he grabbed her arm and forced her over his lap. She began to cry. He pulled down her undergarments and began to slap her behind. She was screaming from the pain, her wounds from earlier were still fresh and made it that much more unbearable. With every smack he visualized the villagers being shot. He became more and more aroused. Every audible crack of flesh making contact with flesh he could hear the crack of the rifles. The villagers chests exploding, their skulls shattering from the 148gr 7.62×54 rounds. Their twitching bodies in the grave. All those he finished off with his 7 shot Nagant revolver. His excitement had reached unbearable levels. He pushed her off his lap and opened his trousers. He forced her to satisfy him with her mouth. He held her head against his member and choked her. She kept trying to reel her head back, but was forced down by his hand. She gagged and came close to vomiting. When he finished, he pushed her off himself, fixed his trousers, and had a guard come and retrieve her to be locked away in one of the living quarters. It would go on like this for days.”

SOURCE: Excerpted from “The Pain Never Stops” in False Prophet Volume 1: Edition 5 published by Martinet Press 2015 (ISBN-10: 0692575502, ISBN-13: 978-0692575505) False Prophet presents an anthology of highly transgressive, amoral and oftentimes disturbing content designed for those dedicated to real-world evil without limits. Including highly predatory essays, narrative and visual illustrations centered around the nature of trauma-induced programming and other themes salient to aspiring Noctulians.

Graphic courtesy of an anonymously sourced TOB supporter.

 

WE NEVER SLEEP

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“We never sleep!” she had once heard her father say, during that strange game in which he had dressed up in the IDF fatigues her Uncle Shraga had sent him special from Bet Ayin. And indeed, Christie never slept during those sorts of nights, when the dead fingernail moon hung limply in the sky and her mother left the meat raw on her plate as a sign, a warning.

SOURCE: Excerpted from “Flight of the Monarch” in False Prophet Volume 1: Edition 5 published by Martinet Press 2015 (ISBN-10: 0692575502, ISBN-13: 978-0692575505) False Prophet presents an anthology of highly transgressive, amoral and oftentimes disturbing content designed for those dedicated to real-world evil without limits. Including highly predatory essays, narrative and visual illustrations centered around the nature of trauma-induced programming and other themes salient to aspiring Noctulians.

 

EVIL WITHOUT LIMITS

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Authorized and produced with the full concurrence of the TOB these official support patches are for those in allegiance to the ghastly blood pool, the Undead Gods, and ‘evil without limits’.

Durable construction, woven black field with TOB crest fully embroidered in white, black border piping and iron-on back adhesive for ease of application.

$10 USD including free shipping worldwide. Multiple payment options accepted. Released via the auspices of Martinet Press, orders fulfilled and shipping directly from the Hinterlands. Inquiries send PM or write to: martinetpress@protonmail.ch

FOR HE WAS THE BEAST

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“He sat in a room in a square of the color of blood. He’d rule the whole world if there was a way that he could. He’d sit and he’d stare at the minarets on top of the towers. For he was the beast as he hatched his new plans to gain power.

One day they were looking around and the sun shone on the cold flowers. The next day they were freezing to death in the snow and the ice cold showers.

These people now knew that the beast was on it’s way.”

SOURCE: Graphic from an early February self-criticism session, courtesy of clandestine organizational personnel and photographed at an undisclosed location in the United States of America.