Kevin WIkse vs. "El Cerdo"

Keeping a low profile at the Dream Catcher RV in Deming, NM, I hunkered down inside a battered 90s C-class RV, letting my travel companion handle the driving and logistics. Like a nocturnal predator, I only emerged under the cover of darkness, moving through the night like a wraith cloaked in shadow.

The I-10 E was a blood-soaked artery, a highway of horror for the abducted, trafficked souls funneled between Mexico and the dark underbellies of Phoenix, AZ, and Las Vegas, NV. In 2018, it was a red-market conveyor belt of human misery. I had been summoned to sever a particular link in that grim supply chain.

It had become alarmingly routine for human traffickers on the I-10 E to pad their cargo with natives from the surrounding reservations, primarily infants and toddlers. In response, a clandestine group of private financiers, unsanctioned by official Tribal Governments, began hiring sympathetic and morally aligned outsiders to act as ghostly avengers against their people's enemies.

"El Cerdo"—The Pig—a monstrous brute with a reputation as vile as his deeds, was my target. This beast was a known pedophile, rapist, and murderer, rumored to dabble in necrophilia and cannibalism. A former member of a defunct 1%er motorcycle gang in Arizona, El Cerdo had woven a sinister network of drug and arms dealers, expanding into human trafficking in the early 2000s.

The shadowy financiers who enlisted my services had marked El Cerdo as a high-priority target. My companion was a fierce-looking Apache woman, her features sharp and thorny yet delicate and beautiful like a cactus flower. At 15, her baby had been snatched from her in the hospital right after birth. The doctor claimed she tested positive for methamphetamine, and CPS whisked the baby away. She was advised to forget about it, but the wound festered.

Our stars and morals aligned perfectly.

The RV's weathered exterior hid an immaculate interior. The warmth of her body next to mine, slightly offset by the efficient AC unit, spread her floral perfume throughout the dimly lit rear cabin. Her soft, dusky eyes held my attention until we drifted off in each other's embrace.

An earthen vessel buried near Shiprock Peak, a towering 7,000-foot rock formation, contained the bones, hairs, feathers, skins, teeth, claws, leaves, thorns, and seeds of my animal and plant allies, intermingled with parts of myself. Legend spoke of a great and terrible bird that once nested atop Shiprock Peak. This Teratornis, with a wingspan over twenty feet, would pluck sheep, deer, and even people from the ground, smashing them into the cliff face before feasting.

The myth of this bird struck a chord in me, invading my dreams for months. My initiator, who handed me the obsidian knife, told me of her—a sky queen and chieftess of the four winds, rival to Eagle and a cautious friend to Raven. She would be my mother, and in my second life, I would hatch from her egg, a thunderbird's egg. I buried a potent artifact of Curanderismo in Shiprock, irrevocably binding myself to her, the place, and its ghosts.

From this towering pinnacle, I soared over the astral and shadow realms, hunting my quarry under the auspices of a grand feathered predator. Laying beside my companion, I found an ease in shifting between liminal spaces, achieving spiritual flight across various non-physical realms. Gliding over Deming's shadow side, I saw angry earthbound souls and shadow people gathering below me, heralding his arrival. The Pig was coming.

At night, we stalked the streets. I scoped out bars and strip clubs El Cerdo frequented, while she posed as 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 fifth morning, her phone rang.

The voice on the other end was deep and gravelly, muffled and wet, cutting through phlegm. The speaker rambled incessantly. She looked at me, perplexed. "Ask who it is," I mouthed silently. She nodded, "Piggy, baby, is that you?" she asked sweetly. An awkward silence followed. We waited. "Yeah, it's me. I got a big load I need to dump. You come and fuck me," he slurred. "Sounds good, baby, where you at right now?" she responded, nodding at me. "Uh, I am at the Deluxe, room 19. Get your slut ass over here." His voice grew in strength and clarity. She looked at me and shrugged. I shook my head "no" 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 it was really El Cerdo or if he was alone. No rash moves. I needed eyes on him. Throughout the morning, she toyed with him over text. She picked a girl from backpage ads in Tucson and catfished him with her face and nudes. We got a dick pic in return, but not what we wanted. An hour of troubling sexting later, he gave up the face pic. It was him. No mistaking it. The face of a nasty, ugly Pig.

But we could have been catfished too. It wouldn’t be the first time I faced betrayal. Someone had made contact, claiming to be El Cerdo, providing evidence. The face pic was him, but when and where it was taken was unknown. The danger was real.

With limited resources, we ran his number. A burner phone from an El Super in Albuquerque. Back to square one. She agreed to meet him at the Deluxe around midnight. El Cerdo assured her it was going to be quite the party. We settled in bed together. Her scent—a blend of tilled soil with a warm breeze over sunflowers—stirred something deep inside me. I closed my eyes and let myself go.

I realized I was dreaming as I rounded a hallway corner to my old childhood home. A ranch-style house with a large fruit orchard, shadowed by the penitentiary. The house was gutted, the roof gone, walls crumbling. I heard screaming—visceral, guttural, the expelling of vomit. Now lucid, I drew my obsidian knife and skulked down a hallway to find the source.

Peeking into a room I didn’t remember, I saw a dark-skinned woman chained to a wall, naked, beaten, sobbing. Smoke wafted from her head. She turned to me, half her face charred like red hot embers. El Cerdo brandished a welding torch, running the flame over her face and breasts. She writhed in agony as he roared with laughter. Time slowed. She locked eyes with me. "Avenging Angel...do your worst, and God will see it as your best," she said.

Time resumed.

A woman now stood beside her, her face a soft glow of golden pink. She placed a hand on the tortured woman's shoulder, and a deep peace washed over her face. Her body went limp. Flames engulfed her. El Cerdo laughed louder. "Time to put this bitch out!" he yelled, exposing himself and urinating on her corpse. The glowing woman ignored him, her gaze fixed on me.

Nearly a year earlier, in Mesilla, NM, I got lost and stumbled into a small shrine tended by an older Mexican woman. She said, "You are here because she brought you here, the Mystic Rose," pointing to a statue of Mother Mary. "She is the rose among the thorns." This woman initiated me into sacred mysteries.

Now, the Mystic Rose watched me amid the horror, testing if I would be the thorn I promised. For what El Cerdo had done, there would be blood. I stepped into the room, meeting El Cerdo's gaze. Seeing my obsidian knife, he ignited his torch. We collided with the force of two heavyweights. Using my left arm as a shield, I plunged my knife into his chest, driving it deeper until he stumbled back. I followed, twisting the blade.

I pulled the knife free, showing the bloodied blade to the Mystic Rose, but she was gone. A pile of rose petals remained. El Cerdo’s body now appeared mannequin-like. I cut him open, finding strange red gelatin instead of blood. Digging into it, I pulled out a hunk of meat where his heart should be—three rotten ribeye steaks bound with barbed wire, zip-ties, and duct tape.

Untangling the barbed wire, I found jagged writing on the steaks and a crumpled paper bag with "for the devil" written in a child's hand. I poured the bag's contents into my hand—a tiny baby bird, barely hatched, injured, and languishing. Intuitively, I knew it was El Cerdo's soul. Out of pity, I placed the bird on the ground and crushed it under my heel. At least the Devil couldn’t collect it; if anyone could fix it, God could. An explosion of scratching sounds began—the tabulation of Heaven weighing my actions.

Overcome with sadness, I awoke crying. My companion watched me, touching her forehead to mine and wiping away the tears. "I need to kill that fucking monster," I whispered. She nodded in agreement

To be Continued...

-Kevin Wikse

Thank you for visiting my page. I am the only medium, remote viewer, and occultist who, with frightening and stunning accuracy, foresaw the COVID-19 pandemic/hoax and its sinister connections to China. Masks, weaponized and experimental vaccines, mandatory compliance, medical tracking on smartphones, the debacle of the 2020 election, the border crisis, the ILLEGAL migrant and CCP invasion, the specter of World War III, and the looming Magnetic Pole Reversal Global Cataclysm—I predicted it all. VAIDS (Vaccine Acquired Immunological Deficiency Syndrome) and even Dr. Fauci himself, all in my sights as early as 2014. Don’t believe it? See the complete, time-stamped, and documented evidence HERE. 

Additionally, I accurately predicted BOTH President Trump’s assassination attempt and that Joe Biden would not run again in 2024 for re-election in my “Merry Crisis and a Happy New Fear” 2024 post on 1/1/24. HERE

And that’s not all. My occult and remote influencing work played a pivotal role in the downfall of Jeffrey Epstein, the billionaire pedophile and human trafficker. This too is time-stamped and documented. Witness a true and authentic act of Solomonic conjuration from the Lesser Key, Ars Goetia. HERE. 

Please visit my Official Site HERE.

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