Who or What killed Christopher Alan Whiteley by Kevin Wikse.

 

1/11/24 *I am the first to suggest a Jaguar as a potential killer of Christopher Alan Whiteley. I want to state this upfront as the typical internet podcaster or blogger tends to give little to no credit or explain where their ideas stem from. Popularity, "likes, and subscribes" are their only real motivation. My reasoning for a Jaguar will make sense, and I want to honor where my idea came from as it has genuine real-world implications. 

I've found an interesting parallel between a man named Christopher Alan Whiteley and a topic I posted an article on in 2017 or maybe 2018, and in doing so, I became a principal and often cited contributor to the narrative known as the "Dog Woman of Watts." I raised some eyebrows when I speculated that perhaps the Dog Woman of Watts was potentially an agent of retribution. I conducted a phone interview with a man named Clifton. He was an eyewitness to the Dog Woman and shared proximity to the rumors that circulated in the aftermath. Namely, that Dog Woman of Watts had interacted with a notorious local Pimp before his death. 

This Pimp was known for his violence and callousness. Clifton said the Pimp disfigured women's faces and body parts, carving and slicing his name or derogatory slurs into their skin. He'd mark these women as his "property," making them feel that no other man would want them. According to Clifton, rumor had it that the Dog Woman had spoken to that Pimp. What was said? I don't know, and neither did Clifton. The rumors Clifton heard state that the Dog Woman approached the Pimp on the street, words were exchanged between the two, and the Pimp ran. He was found dead a day or two later in his house. 

Dead from what? I don't know. "Found dead" is all I know. Other than this instance, my research has not found any other injuries or property damage surrounding the Dog Woman of Watts. 

As I stated in my investigative piece about the Dog Woman of Watts, I am an initiate of an Afro-Cuban spiritual tradition, Palo Mayombe, and the New World Afro-Caribbean religion of Voudo, all three threads of it, Haitian, Dominican, and Puerto-Rican. Acts or arts of Vampirism and Lycanthropy, also known as skin leaping, while not regularly spoken of, occupy a darker space on the outskirts of each tradition's framework.

Vampirism and Lycanthropy are focal points of what is often blanketly termed "Bizango," or spiritual regiments both criminal and extreme. Within Bizango societies, acts such as vampirism or shape shifting (Lycanthropy, Skin Leaping, or Skin Walking) into animals to attack or eat people are established practices. How does that work, or what does that look like exactly? I can't tell you.

However, from what I know, what I have been told, and pictures I have been shown of these practices and individuals believed to be victims of these types of attacks, what happened to Christopher Alan Whiteley looks and sounds similar to what supposedly happened in Watts and what is said to take place in Haiti and the Dominican Republic. 

I won't pretend to know Christopher Alan Whiteley. He certainly had the lion's share of legal troubles from what has been written about him. But, by all accounts, he was turning his life around. Christopher was finding success and going places. 

I need to make it crystal clear that I do not place Christopher Alan Whiteley in the same category as the Pimp in Watts. Both men committed wrongdoing and evil deeds. But I feel strongly that Christopher Alan Whiteley had not sunk into the level of depravity the Pimp from Watts had. From my narrowed speculative perception of who or what the Dog Woman of Watts was, the supernatural and paranormal elements suggest an entity of retribution or an entity attracted to individuals with troubled circumstances.

Texas is not Haiti. I don't propose a Bizango sect operates in or near Lipan, Texas. However, Texas is home to a vast tribal history, rich with its tradition of metaphysical practices, some of it on par with the darker "horror movie" aspects of the Bizango. From 2017 to 2023, I spent considerable time in Colorado, New Mexico, Texas, and Arizona, immersing myself in the Curanderismo, Diabolism, and Brujeria—all spiritual traditions deeply rooted in the local native cultures that took on obvious Spanish/European influences.

Skin-walker is now a well-known but vastly misunderstood phenomenon told from the lens of the Hopi, Navajo, and Zuni native cultural perspectives. In Cortez, Colorado, I met a medicine man who was a keeper of a Crystal Skull he claimed was cast by the ancient Inca. He enlisted the protection of another very different medicine man. This man stated that he was an actual Skin Walker. To join the Skin Walker Lodge, he told me he sacrificed his firstborn son, engaged in cannibalism with the other members, consumed his baby alongside them, and then tested out his powers by transforming into an "evil dog" and murdering his baby's mother. He also claimed to be a hitman for native "mafias" and tribal governments. 

I don't know if there was any truth to what he said or if he just meant to try and scare me. But I can say that he possessed a metaphysical understanding concerning skin-leaping or Lycanthropy, which translated to nearly the same barred secrets kept by Bizango sects. Secrets as such are in no book. They are not found through a Google search. He was just as surprised about my knowledge of Lycanthropy as I was about his. There was an air of legitimacy that surrounded him that much can be said. 

It is somewhat common knowledge the CIA funded fringe and paranormal research projects. The more base and dim-witted Americans would believe that the CIA discontinued their study and didn't simply rename specific projects and hire outside private research groups (owned by and staffed with CIA operatives). I encountered representatives of a few of these research groups who, for unspecified reasons but in my educated opinion, I'd guess for military applications, sought to enlist me for consultation purposes. Skin Walkers were of particular interest to them. 

The location of Skin-Walker Ranch, I would suggest, is little more than a black-budget research facility, and any tourism or reality TV shows associated with the area are cleverly scripted PR smokescreens with the benefit of financial gain. 

Why bring any of this up in relation to the murder of Christopher Alan Whiteley? I wanted to lay a framework for my more "fringe" speculations. 

But first, from a more empirical standpoint, Christopher Alan Whiteley likely could have been killed by a large cat—a cougar or mountain lion. The problem is that the wounds left by the assailant are too large to be from a cougar, the attack came from the front, and not the back, mountain lion tracks are absent, and there are zero reported sights of cougars in Hood County, Texas. 

I suggest another potential feline culprit. 

2017, I was recruited to observe the El Paso, TX /Juarez, Mexico border. I have seen with my own eyes the legions of migrants who have come through the TX, NM, and AZ border crossings, and that was before the Biden Administration ended Title 42. A fair number of migrants had trekked thousands of miles north, up through South. America. They would tell me about the Hungry Ghosts that stalked them through the swaths of jungles and forests. Hungry Ghosts gaining a taste for human flesh. 

The Jaguar. 

Jaguars have larger and more powerful jaws and are significantly bigger and stronger than the North American cougar. They do not tend to leave as many signs of predation behind as they can kill bigger prey quicker than the cougar. Christopher Alan Whiteley's body was dragged or potentially (accidentally) dropped from above into a dense thicket (Jaguars can haul big kills up into trees like Leopards) for later feeding. 

I believe it is possible a Jaguar who hunted humans as they migrated North from South America, now with a taste for human flesh, crossed into Lipan, Texas, and killed Christopher Alan Whiteley.

Texas and Arizona seem to have a politically motivated interest in downplaying reports, sightings, and documented evidence of Jaguars and Panthers. This vested interest might be why the Tarrant County Medical Examiners. were so eager to wash Christopher Alan Whiteley's body, eliminating the chances of using DNA to identify Christopher Alan Whiteley's killer. 

Circling back to my more "fringe" hypothesis, I find some, albeit slightly stretched, parallels between Christopher Alan Whiteley and the Pimp from Watts. If there were injuries on the Pimp's body, I don't know about them or what they were. I was told he was found dead and "soon" after his encounter where he and the Dog Woman exchanged words. Christopher Alan Whiteley was the target of a frontal assault. It is speculated Christopher Alan Whiteley was aware that he was about to be in a fight because his shirt was removed before the attack. He might have even known his attacker, but that is pure speculation. 

No animal tracks were found anywhere near his body or where it is believed the initial conflict took place. There were shoe prints, though. There are no animal tracks, but his injuries are well within the realm of animalistic—claw marks on his upper body and his throat/ jugular, ripped, bitten open, and crushed between the jaws of a sharp, large-toothed creature. This rules out Sasquatch or Dogmen, as they are always in animal/beast form and would leave animal tracks. 

I am reminded of the self-professed Skin Walker I met in Cortez, Colorado, who also claimed to be a hitman for native criminal syndicates and Tribal Governments. 

Christopher Alan Whiteley had been in and out of correctional facilities for a significant portion of his life. In addition, he was reported to have been abusive toward women. Did he draw the ire of a native gang or the parents of a girl he abused? Did someone pay an individual like the self-professed Skin Walker in Cortez, Colorado, to kill Christopher Alan Whiteley? 

In the same vein, if the rumors about the Pimp in Watts are true, and the Dog Woman of Watts was some avenging entity or Skin Walker equivalent who, for whatever reason, made a public display of its hybrid form, why? Was it to send a message? She didn't physically attack the Pimp, as something physically attacked Christopher Alan Whiteley. Did the Pimp die of fright? Poisoned? Other supernatural means?

Might Christopher Alan Whiteley have been an opportunity-killing? An initiate Skin Walker looking to test their new power, just as the above-mentioned Skin Walker claims he did by transforming into an "evil dog" and killing the mother of his sacrificed son?

If the research of the CIA or some other Defense Contractor group, be it DARPA or Lockheed, etc, finally yielded fruit and unlocked the power of Lycanthropy, it's no stretch of the imagination to suggest field testing its military capabilities in real-world situations against, in their view, disposable people, having a supply of scared, confused and desperate migrants to hunt would be an ideal situation. 

Hell, you don't know where over 85,000 missing migrant children are here in the US, so what are a couple hundred or so dead migrants in the jungles, forests, or deserts of Mexico? Maybe one of their militarized Skin Walkers moved up on Christopher Alan Whiteley. 

Since we are already down this peculiar rabbit hole of high strangeness, it occurs to me that Christopher Alan Whiteley's death could have come from a source similar to the Anyoto or Leopard-Men Society of the Congolese. The Anyoto made up a brotherhood, a witch-doctor warrior elite who dressed in the skins of Leopard, were believed to transform into Leopards, and had their secret system of martial arts, employing weapons made from or to greatly resemble Leopard claws. 

In this postulation, not only do we have the potential for yet another Skin Walker situation, with a maybe a Jaguar Man who came up through the border from Mexico and South America. The Aztecs had their order of Jaguar Knights. A secret cult or society of Jaguar Knights or warriors, legitimately connected or at least claiming lineage to the original Jaguar Knights, fits nicely with most other modern-day secret societies. There wouldn't even need to be a supernatural element here, but a human who attacked and killed Christopher Alan Whiteley using weapons made from Jaguar teeth and claws, or so resemble them, that telling the difference is very difficult as in the case with the Leopard Men of Congolese. 

I have difficulty believing that someone did not take a DNA sample from Christopher Alan Whiteley's injuries. However, I have no problems thinking that the results of that DNA test came back as Jaguar or human or there was no DNA because Christopher Alan Whiteley was attacked with a weapon. All three findings would be highly problematic for Law Enforcement, as they all serve to highlight the border crisis eventually. It would be much easier to rule his death as "accidental due to injuries sustained by an animal attack." 

There does seem to be a bizarre set of circumstances surrounding Christopher Alan Whiteley's murder, as well as a noticeable rush to a "mostly plausible" conclusion and pushing this case as deep down the memory hole as fast as possible. I am obviously of the opinion that there remains much to unpack regarding Christopher Alan Whiteley's death. I am open to further speculation, and should something more arise or be uncovered, I'll likely be covering it. 

-Kevin Wikse

Foul Catch by Kevin Wikse

I began dreaming of an experience I had more than thirty years ago. I never forgot what happened, but when I recall memories, they were ephemeral, like grasping smoke, and I would quickly forget again. However, since the dreams began, my memories of the experience are becoming more concrete. I want to further solidify the experience for myself and see, on the off-hand chance, if anyone else has information that could assist me in resolving these events.

This occurred at Big Bear Lake in Big Bear, California, in the summer of 1986. My family had access to a vacation cabin there. We stayed a week. But none of that really matters concerning the experience...as far as I remember. 

I was swimming in Big Bear Lake. I remember the lake was busy. Tiny islands, rocky outcroppings, and hidden coves dot Big Bear Lake. I liked adventuring and swimming alone, so I headed to the out-of-way outcroppings. In 1986, I was hyper-fixated on dinosaurs. I regularly imagined slipping back into time through a portal made by an advanced prehistoric culture to see them or trekking down a hidden cave and discovering a secret location in the present day where a dinosaur or dinosaurs still lived. With wild rock formations jutting out of its pristine water and craggy cavern mazes, Big Bear Lake provided a spectacular backdrop for 10-year-old me to project his fantasies on. 

I soon found a place far away from the masses, tucked behind boulders and pine trees. I believed I was alone and began searching for evidence of a Plesiosaur or Brontosaurus, which might serve as the basis for a lake monster waiting to be uncovered. But I was not alone, and as far as monsters, the monsters lurking in Big Bear Lake that day were decidedly of the modern world. 

While I was exploring, I came across an odd sight. A man and woman, both adults, with a boy about my age, standing in the water. They were not playing. They were not relaxing or reveling but standing. Standing still, almost too still. The atmosphere around them was eerie. I was brought up in the LDS or Mormon Church, and I had been and seen others be baptized. For a moment, I thought I stumbled onto this boy's baptism. However, the circumstance suggested the existence of elements I was not accustomed to. 

Like me, the boy was Caucasian. The man and woman were oriental. The woman stands out the most. I remember her as uncomfortably flawless. In a sinister way, maybe even perfect. Long inky black hair, a thin, sleek body of glowing alabaster skin, clad in a skimpy crimson bikini. Her beauty was dangerous, unnatural, and otherworldly. A sweet but poisonous miasma persists around her in my memory. Thinking of her just now, I conjured the image of an onyx black widow spider with an hourglass made from ruby. I then experienced a sudden sharp pain behind my forehead, followed by a ferocious burning sensation. 

Besides being present and of Asian descent, I cannot register the man's features. Outshined by the woman, he might forever be relegated to her shadow. He remains faceless. However, as my dreams of this have started recently, I can get a vague sense of the boy's face. His eyes have a vacancy, as if in a trance or stupor. 

With a dragonfly's grace and predatory trajectory, her gaze floated above the water to meet mine. Her presence was overwhelming, and I was instantly, irrevocably captivated by her. 

"Lucky for you, little horse, today we need a dragon," she told me. The man tossed coins onto a metal tray or plate. I remember liking the sound it made. The man and the woman looked intently at the tray and discussed between themselves before she beckoned me closer. 

"You were marked with difficult beginnings at your birth. Your fruit is still not ripe. I, too, was born marked with bad fortune, but I have learned to correct it," the woman said, placing her hand on my cheek. Looking at the boy, the woman told me, "He was born with great fortune. Money will rain down on him his whole life. For him, luxury will be commonplace." I heard the sound of coins dropping on the mental tray again. 

"It is auspicious and a favorable sign that you are here, little horse. You should stay and share with us." The man next produced what I know now is a Bagua or Feng Shui compass. He consulted it before motioning to a specific spot. Taking me by the hand, she guided me to where I would stand. "Remain still, but be happy, for today, we again improve our fortunes," she tells me. 

I see her feeding the boy different colored paper money. As he chews, the man and woman begin sticking paper notes with red and black calligraphy on his body. His forehead, upper and lower back, chest, and stomach. Next, a bright red blanket or large cloth was draped over his head and body, floating in the water around his waist level. She and the man began speaking incantations as they made fast hand signs and traced symbols around and over the boy with their fingers, making abrupt thrusting gestures toward him. 

The woman wraps her arms around his body like a belt and secures her hands. The man places his hands on the boy's covered head, and together they submerge him underwater. It is complicated to say how I felt about watching this. I realized that they intended to drown him. Still, her charm was so disarming and reassuring that my concerns, even for myself, were nearly instantly tranquilized. 

A struggle and splashing occur. I can see the man and woman bear down a little more to keep the boy underwater, and very quickly, the water becomes calm again. I am standing on the shore of the small nearby island. I have no memory of getting out of the water. "He is still drowning, little horse," the woman tells me. She is holding the red cloth, wringing it closed with both hands. "First, it was the water because he needed air, but now it's the air because he needs the water." I can see that something is undulating within the makeshift sack she is clutching. 

She gestures to me, come and see. As if still in a hazy dream, I step forward. Peeking inside, I see a large golden carp struggling to breathe. "The first time we caught a dragon, he was able to swim away. But never again," she smiled. Looking deep into my eyes, she says. "I will let you have a taste." The man brings the tip of a fillet knife to the gill of the gold carp and sharply inserts it. 

The world goes black. 

I awoke on the beach with a start. I am alone. Blood and footprints are in the sand, leading back into the water. I don't remember how long I lay there on the shore. There was no indication I had been gone very long. Upon rejoining my family, neither my mom nor dad ever said a word. However, my mom noticed something wasn't right. Throughout the rest of our trip, she repeatedly asked if I was okay until I uncharacteristically threatened her to stop. Snapping and lunging at her. I scared my mom, causing her to cry. It was one of the first times I consciously realized that I wasn't "me" in how I reacted. It was...something else. 

My mom wasn't wrong to be concerned. The dread and uncertainty that clung to me took the sparkle out of Big Bear Lake, and honestly, it never came back. I wonder if I were to return to Big Bear Lake, now, no longer a "little horse," if I would be so easily corralled by exotic beauty. I would be curious to learn how particular fortunes have fared over the past three decades. 

-Kevin Wikse

Dead Dog's Tale

An Excerpt from "Strange Strangers: Tales of Childhood Alien Abduction" by Kevin Wikse.

 

Surprised, I opened my eyes to find myself standing. My gaze was fixed on a vast crystal blue sky. A soft, icy breeze coiling around the hilltop conveyed the morning cold. I began shivering and asking myself how I got here when a glint of silver caught my attention. I looked over my shoulder to see a bright metal disc with a mirror polish, gigantic in proportion, hanging silently above me. Upon my realization, I was suddenly seized with a terrific force. Some invisible vice locked itself around my whole body; the air crushed from my lungs as it gripped me ever tighter against my consent. A loud metallic click resounded as I strained against what bound me and reverberated inside my brain. The disk and I began to interface. A deluge of images flooded my mental processes. I was a human particulate futtering between states of consciousness and dissolving in equal parts terror and astonishment. 

Amidst the churning ocean of digital chatter I was drowning in, a single directive emerged, stronger and louder than any other. It rose above the crashing waves of analog noise and onto a crystal pedestal of clarity. "I was a builder." I was born to construct and fashion walls, towers, houses, bridges, ramparts, and roads in literal and ideological mediums. To create communities and weave together networks. People would be my primary material, igniting their purpose and unifying their goals. However, I was just as capable, maybe more so, of rendering instruments of destruction, of crafting poisons for the body, mind, and soul. I COULD DECONSTRUCT what I or another built, either piece by piece or in wide murderous swaths.

Having delivered its message, the disc released me. Oxygen came rushing back into my lungs along with spacial awareness into my brain. The disc shot upward with the speed of a bullet but with none of the force. Quickly, the sky grew dark, and the stars were again shown. I stood open to the elements. I was stripped down to nearly nothing, exposed physically and emotionally. The dying campfire's dim radiance illuminated my friends, cocooned in their sleeping bags and blissfully unaware of what had transpired. Dangerously chilled, I trudged back to them with frozen footfalls along a trail of my clothes. 

A terrible wave of nausea welled inside me, and I began to dry heave. Over and over till I was dripping with sweat and finally vomited. Exhausted and mentally zeroed out, I collapsed on the hard ground and enjoyed the pre-dawn frigidity. The resulting walking pneumonia clung to me for almost three months, until the New Year of 1994, my sophomore year of High School. 

The act of intentional and repeated separation from the group wasn't lost on me. Memories of being called out of class or pulled out of school assemblies to visit persons who disclosed neither their purpose nor identity bubbled up to the forefront of my mind. Institutionalized ostracization and alienation via institutional intrusion by The State of California's Educational Board's ties to black projects and genuine alien forces? For the vast majority, such a supposition need never cross their minds. Lucky them. 

Taken.

Abducted. 

Removed.

The feeling of division between self and other, fading since my family relocated from California to Idaho, was starkly reaffirmed. I had again been set apart. I was anointed not by sacred or holy oil as in my adult life's numerous religious and spiritual initiations but by otherworldly light and sound. I knew of the distance in close proximity and the feeling of separation, even in a crowd. Understanding these paradoxes would always and inevitably cause cracks in the foundation of all my relationships. However, through these fissures, I could access the liminal spaces between the worlds and experience interdimensionality. 

If there was a solace to be taken, I would take it as this: I could at least be an architect of creation and traveler of realities. In exchange for eliminating my sense of societal normalcy or being relegated to the base act of mindless consuming, in contrast to so many others, I was granted that. I was long beyond the false sense of permanence. I suppose I couldn't miss the feeling of authentic security if I'd never known it. Still, I could fantasize about it and be jealous of others who had it. 

Maybe I was like the cat who would bolt for the open door and the wild and uncertain, no matter how warm and cozy it was inside. Freedom to me had that irresistible siren's call. I suspected the dark figure that ceaselessly followed me resulted from wandering down shadowed corridors during my frequent early childhood astral and real-time projections. How frighteningly accurate that hypothesis was would soon be realized. 

-Kevin Wikse, Strange Strangers: Tales of Childhood of Alien Abduction.

A Dead Dog's Tale 

Pig Sticker by Kevin Wikse Part 1

 

A Fictionalized work of Non-Fiction, American Horror, and High Strangeness. 

Keeping a low profile at the Dream Catcher RV in Demming, NM, I remained hidden inside a rough-looking 90s C-class RV, letting my travel companion drive and arrange all the needed accommodations. Like a vampire, I would emerge to hunt only at night, cloaked in shadow and covered by darkness. 

Blood and tears stain the I-10 E, a corridor of misery for the abducted on their way to be sold and traded, either coming up from or down into Mexico. In 2018, the I-10 E was a low-visibility red-market supply chain feeding Phoenix, AZ, and Las Vegas, NV. I had been summoned to break a particular link in that supply chain. 

It was becoming increasingly commonplace for human traffickers using the I-10 E to pad their load with natives from the surrounding reservations, primarily infants and toddlers. In response, a coalition of private financiers who, for many reasons, could not be sanctioned by official Tribal Governments began hiring sympathetic and morally aligned outsides to act as phantom tomahawks against their people's enemies. 

"El Cerdo" or The Pig, a large, reportedly powerful brute whose face and sexual fetishes, of limited appeal, earned him his moniker, would be my target. He was a known pedophile, rapist, and murderer suspected of engaging in necrophilia and cannibalism. A former member of a defunct 1%er motorcycle club that used to ride in Arizona, El Credo established a network of drug and arms dealers from his club connections, moving into sex and human trafficking in the early 2000s. 

The nebulous financiers who hired me had marked El Credo as a high-priority target. My companion was a fierce-looking Apache woman with sharp, thorny features but still delicate and beautiful like a cactus flower. When she was 15, her baby was taken from her at the hospital right after delivery. She never got to hold her little him or her. The doctor said she'd tested positive for methamphetamine, and CPS was called to place the baby in protective custody. She was encouraged to forget the incident, as the legal system was not her friend. She didn't, and the wound only festered.

Not only did our stars and planets align, but so did our morals and ideologies.

The aged and weathered outside of our RV belied it's inside—clean and nearly new everything. The warmth of her body next to mine, slightly off-set by the efficient AC unit, circulating her floral perfume throughout the small, dimly lit rear cabin, her soft, dusky eyes captivating my time and attention until we drifted off within each other's embrace. 

An earthen vessel is buried near Shiprock Peak, a massive rock formation standing over 7,000 feet from which Shiprock, NM, takes its name. In this vessel are the bones, hairs, feathers, skins, teeth, claws, leaves, thorns, and seeds of my animal and plant allies, intermingled with parts of myself. I was told the story of a great and terrible bird who once made its nest on Shiprock Peak. A loud flurry resounded as it took to the air. It would return with sheep, deer, and even people clutched in its talons. The bird would toss its prey smack into the cliff face of Shiprock Peak and let them fall a thousand or more feet before retrieving the carcass.

This bird, called a Teratornis, having had over a twenty-plus foot wingspan, lived atop Shiprock until a little over a hundred years ago. The knowledge of this creature struck a chord in me. I dreamed of it relentlessly for months on end. My initiator, who passed me the obsidian knife, told me of her. A great queen of the sky and chieftess of the four winds, she rivaled Eagle and made even Raven cautious. She would be my mother, and in my second life on this earth plane, I would hatch from her egg, a thunderbird's egg. For this reason, I buried a mighty artifact of Curanderimso in Shiprock, irrevocably tethering myself to her, the place, and its ghosts.

From this towering pinnacle, I take spiritual flight, soaring over the astral and shadow realms, hunting my quarry under the auspices of a grand feathered predator. On assignments, I naturally gravitated to this power spot with little effort. Laying beside my companion, however, I found an astonishing sense of ease in shifting between liminal spaces and achieving spiritual flight inside various grades and dimensions of non-physical reality. Gliding over Demming's and the surrounding area's shadow side, I could see an accumulation of angry earthbound souls and shadow people steadily gathering below me. Like heralds, they preceded his arrival. The Pig was on his way. 

She and I would stalk the streets at night. I would stake out the bars and strip clubs El Cerdo was known to frequent. She would walk the streets, and truck stops pretending to be a junkie and sex worker. Giving her number out and claiming she was a friend of The Pig's, wanting to know if he was around. On the morning of our fifth day, her phone rang. 

The voice on the other side of the phone was deep and gravelly but muffled and wet like it was cutting through a lot of phlegm. The speaker launched into a one-sided conversation and just kept rambling. She looked at me quizzically, and I could tell she was having difficulty understanding what was being said. 

"Ask who it is." I silently mouthed to her. She nodded, "Piggy, baby, is that you?" she asked sweetly. An awkward silence followed as the voice stopped. She and I looked at each other and waited. "Yeah, it's me. I got a big load I need to dump. You come and fuck me." He said, his words slurred and slow. "Sounds good, baby, where you at right now?" She responded, the corner of her lip turning sly, and coyly nodded at me. "Uh, I am at the Deluxe room 19. Get your slut ass over here." His voice grew a little in strength and clarity. She looked at me and shrugged her shoulders. I shook my head "no" at her and mouthed, "Tell him you will call back."

 "Ok, babe, I'll call you back soon." She ended the call without waiting for his reply. 

We didn't know if that was really El Cerdo or if he was alone. No rash moves. I needed eyes on him. Throughout the morning, she played with him over text messages. She picked one particular girl from back-page ads in Tuscon, Arizona, and catfished him with her face and nudes. In return, we got the dick pic, but it was not what we wanted. An hour or so of troubling sexting later (he enjoyed activities like scat, dungeon torture, keeping women in small cages for weeks, abusing animals, psychological torture, etc.), she got him hot and bothered enough to give up the face pic. There was no mistaking it. That was the face of a nasty, ugly, evil Pig. 

However, we were just as suspectable of being catfished ourselves. It wouldn't be the first time I found myself in a situation of betrayal. Although "we be weaving spiders", Ive seen in nature that spiders can get stuck in another spider's web. Someone had made contact, claiming to be El Cerdo and providing evidence. The face pic was El Cerdo, but we couldn't verify when and where it was taken. It is either El Cerdo or someone privy to sensitive and restricted knowledge, which would, in many ways, be worse. The danger was now genuine. 

With our limited resources, we ran his number. It was a burner phone purchased at an El Super in Albuquerque. Back to square one. Sending him a text, she agreed to meet him at the Deluxe around midnight tonight, and "party favors" would be greatly appreciated. El Cerdo assured her it was going to be quite the party. We settled down in bed together. She had this intoxicating scent. A blend of tilled soil with a soft, warm breeze over sunflowers. I couldn't place where I smelled it before. Southern California, Chino, maybe. Something deep inside me stirred in response to it. I closed my eyes, and as I faded away, I let myself go there, wherever there was. 

I realized I was dreaming as I rounded a hallway corner to find my old childhood home. A ranch-style house with a large fruit orchard for a backyard and in the shadow of the penitentiary. The house had been gutted and striped. There was no more roof, just crumbling brick walls and floors of shattered tile. I could hear screaming. Screaming was so visceral it had a deep guttural accompaniment. The expelling of vomit. Now actively lucid dreaming, I pulled out my obsidian knife and skulked down another hallway to find the source. 

Peaking around and into a room I don't remember existing was a dark-skinned woman chained to a wall. She was naked, beaten, and sobbing. Smoke wafted from her head. She turned and looked in my direction. Half of her face was charred, like red hot embers and ash. El Credo stood before her, brandishing a welding torch; he ran the flame over her face and breasts. She roiled and trashed in agony as he roared in laughter. The passage of time slowed and paused. She turned toward me again. Her eyes locked on to mine. "Avenging Angel...you may do your worst, and God will see it as your best," she told me.  

Time resumed. 

A woman now stood on the other side of her. The woman's face glowed a soft radiance of golden pink. Gently placing her hand on the tortured woman's shoulder, a sense of deep peace washed over her battered and burned face. Her body went limp. A fire then engulfed her motionless body. The volume of El Cerdo's laughs increased in equal measure with the flames. "Time to put his bitch out!" El Cerdo exclaimed, exposing his dick and pissing on her corpse. The shining woman paid El Cerdo no attention and kept her gaze on me. 

Nearly a year before, I had been in Mesilla, NM, just outside Las Cruces. I got lost walking around its many backstreets. I opened a fence door, thinking it led to a public park when the smell of roses saturated the air around me. I felt like I entered another world. I followed the sidewalk and up to a small shrine being tended to by a beautiful older Mexican woman. I attempted to explain why I was there. That I got lost, but she stopped me mid-sentence. Amused, she said, "You are here because she brought you here, the Mystic Rose," pointing at the central statue of Mother Mary. "She is the rose among the thorns." I would learn what that truly meant, and this woman would be my initiator into those sacred mysteries.

I recognized her now. Standing amid the horror, the Mystic Rose wanted to see if I would be the thorn I promised her I would be. For what El Cerdo had done to this rose and many others, if there was no blood, that would invalidate her mystery. No, there would be blood. I stepped into the room and met El Cerdo's gaze. Seeing me and my obsidian knife coming straight for him, he ignited his welding torch and brought his arm up. I rushed him, and we collided with the clapping force only two lumbering heavy weights could. Using my left arm as a meat shield, protecting my face from the torch, I plunged my obsidian knife into his chest. I charged forward until El Credo stumbled back. I followed, driving the blade and twisting it in deeper and deeper.

I pulled my knife free and displayed the obsidian blade, dripping with El Credo's blood, to the Mystic Rose, but she was gone. A pile of rose petals occupied where she once stood. Turning back to El Credo, his body now appeared like a mannequin. I cut him open and found a strange red gelatine instead of blood. I sunk my hand into the jelly and felt around. I pulled out a thick hunk of meat where his heart would have been. It looked like three rotten ribeye steaks bound together with barbwire, zip-ties, and duct tape. 

I untangled the barbwire and cut the ties, pulling it apart and opening it. Inside was jagged writing scrawled on the steaks, a crumbled paper bag with something in it, and writing on the outside. On the steaks was a language I could not read. It was something I had never seen before. On the brown paper, in a child's handwriting, was "for the devil." I poured the bag's contents into my hand, and another piece of rotten-looking flesh slid out. It started to move. It was the tiny body of a small baby bird, barely hatched, eyes still closed and no feathers. It was injured and languishing like it fell out of the nest. 

Intuitively, I knew it was El Credo's soul. In a decision genuinely born out of pity, I placed the baby bird on the ground and crushed it under my heel. At least the Devil could never collect it; if anyone could fix it, God could. An explosion of scratching sounds immediately began. I knew this was the tabulation of Heaven in response to my actions. Grand mathematical equations calculating moral decency and weighing good against bad now marched across all the watchers' chalkboards. Good or bad, a terrific sadness overtook me, and I awoke crying. 

My companion was already awake, watching me. She touched her forehead to mine and rested her hand on my cheek, wiping away the tears. "I need to kill that fucking monster," I whispered to her. She quietly nodded in agreement. 

TO BE CONTINUED

-Kevin Wikse

Dream Warrior

Order of the Dead Dog by Kevin Wikse.

 

A Fictionalizer Work of Non-Fiction, American Horror, and High Strangeness.

I first heard about him while I was in Las Cruces. An old Apache knife fighter and Brujo, still honing his edge and blooding his hands in the desert. Based on a rumor, I spent a week trekking up and down the Rio Grande searching for him but learned from his friend in Mesilla I'd missed by a few months. It was in Lordsburg I caught up with him, a short and round man with eight or nine rattlesnake heads circling his hat band. 

He flatly denied he was who I was looking for. I wasn't buying it, so I lunged at him after a couple more protests that I should go away. He had a knife as fast as a rattlesnake's strike, the tip pressing firmly into the skin under my chin. I smiled as he rolled his eyes. He'd blown his cover. 

That evening, we shared a pack of Pall Malls and a 12-pack of Modelo in the alley behind his house while candles to Jesus Malverde and Saint Jude flickered in the darkening shadows. We told stories about hunting down our common enemy when he stopped abruptly.

"I will call you Gila Monster because you are tenacious and like to fight, but mostly because you are ugly," he said, staring off into the night sky. "I will show you how to walk the path of the Dead Dog, always on the warpath, always hunting. It will be up to you to keep up with the pack." 

He took out his knife, and we sealed our pact with blood. 

-Kevin Wikse

Remote Viewing

Bagua circle walking leaves your mark upon the earth, by Kevin Wikse.

 

On and off, from 2016 to 2019, I regularly (when I was in Idaho) practiced long hours of Bagua circle walking around a specific tree in Settler's Park, Meridian, Idaho. Here we are, four years later, and the circle I walked still shows up. 

Looks like a crop circle...

-Kevin Wikse

Vimana Vajra Baguazhang

The Captain's Chair Tattwa Shuddi Vimana Tantra by Kevin Wikse.

 

Astralnauts, training parameters for "The Captain's Chair" begins after you have completed the protocols laid out here in "The First Steps to Building your Vimana REVISED (an addendum)" when you are inside or enveloped by your personal astral Vimana. 

This practice builds off the empowering and purification of your five elemental forces as performed by reciting the mantra, "Om Nama Shivaya." 

You are now inside your astral Vimana and integrating with it; this method will further refine your five elemental energies and begin the ever-important process of building your energetic and internal infrastructure to effectively, consistently, and productively experience the raising of your Kundalini energy system. 

In your astral Vimana, you are seated in the captain's chair. 

What follows is an exceptionally brief detailing of the functions performed by the five elemental forces. 

Begin by seeing and feeling yourself sitting on a cube of pure gold. Your perineum and sciatic nerves should feel solidly connected to the cube of gold. This is your elemental force of Earth (physical and non-physical) and comprises all the frequencies and vibrations that make up your astral and psychical Vimana and your physical and energetic body/bodies. 

The mantra is "Om Lam Om," recited as:

 Oh-m L-Ah-m Oh'm. 

Speak this nine times. 

Now, see and feel a ball on your lap. It's black but with the bottom part of a pure white crescent moon sitting as a slice of melon. This energy feels moist and clean. This is your elemental force of water. This Tattwa controls your psychical and psycho-sexual-spiritual fluids—the same for your astral and physical Vimana's fluids and plasmatic response. Your sexual organs and naval/belly button should pulsate a little. 

The mantra is "Om Vam Om," recited as:

Oh-m V-Ah-m Oh-m.

Speak this nine times. 

A ruby-red upright triangle appears on your chest—the triangle's base at your belly button and the apex tip on the nape of your neck. This is the elemental force of fire. For you and your Vimana, this Tattwa governs all your digestive, combustive, and energy-producing functions and how well you use your fuel. 

The mantra is "Om Ram Om,' recited as:

Oh-m R-Ah-m Oh-m

Speak it nine times.

Floating in front of your face is a smokey blue 6-pointed star. The uppermost point aligns with your 3rd eye. The uppermost left and right points align just outside your left and right eyes. The bottom-most left and right points align just outside your mouth's corners. Finally, the bottomost downward end aligns with the nape of your neck. This Tattwa is your elemental force of air and governs and refines all the bio-electrical/electromagnetic energy produced by breathing and your mind's mental/psychic energy, developing clairaudience. Fields and communications systems held within this Tattwa are shared by both you and your astral/physical Vimana. 

The mantra is "Om Yam Om," recited as:

Oh-m Y-Ah-m Oh-m 

Speak it nine times.

Lastly, a glittering egg, deep purple-black, crowns your head, the base at your 3rd eye. This Tattwa is the elemental force of aether/ether(space) and is almost a purely psychic/spiritual center. This Tattwa's power allows access to the Astral Realm and Akashic Records. It will enable seemingly spontaneous knowledge, increased intuition, and clairvoyant talents. Through this Tattwa, you and your Vimana will gain a more profound understanding of each and open the way to direct communication with higher-level entities (Devas/Devis, for example). 

The mantra is "Om Ham Om," recited as 

Oh-m H-Ah-m Oh-m

Speak this nine times. 

Now repeat the entire process backward just as you did, starting directly at the Tattwa of Aether and ending at the Tattwa of Earth. The ONLY difference is the Triangle Tattwa of fire now points downward (the base in line with the nape of your neck and the apex tip on your belly button), directing the Kundalini energy down.

After completing"The Captain's Chair." you may perform the Merkaba if you wish to. 

Do this work at least three times a week, just as described. 

Report back often for your next assignment. 

-Kevin Wikse

Astral Force