The drums boomed as the bottle with sugarcane liquor

passed from mouth to mouth. In the pale moonlight, on a lot

limited by thorny bushes and a hut, two dozen white-clad

figures moved to the rhythm. Usually, the herbs added to the

liquor had a euphoric effect, compelling ecstatic dancing

and putting body and mind into a trance, ready to receive the

dead who would gaze through twisted eyes and speak trough

other people’s mouths. But this time the brew was different.

The drums swelled and the masters and mistresses of

ceremonies, experienced keepers of darkest secrets, became

phenomena: Gargoyle-like creatures, some horned, others

dog-mouthed or bristling like pigs, some feathered like birds,

soaring into the treetops with the swiftness of a blink. And

all, the drummers, the masters and dancers joined forces to

break the curse that had already cost several lives.


He had come to Cuba as a child and since then had gone his

own way, despising the others, their customs and dreams,

animal-like and slavish as anything a Haitian could bring

about. But the walk of a girl captivated his look, her laughter

enchanted him, her eyes conquered his innermost being. But

never would she turn her back on the others to enter his hut.

In the fields outside the bohío, even further away than his

own hut, lived an old woman feared by all. From her hands

he received a powder, enriched with the desire hidden in

their common ill-will. Soon the beloved would be his! A

careless moment in one of the few feasts of the bohío was

enough to sprinkle the remedy into her cup. Then he

withdrew to wait for her. On the third day there was a knock

at his door, but there were men. The girl had died in terrible

pain, foaming at the mouth, and the old woman had

confessed everything at the sight of the machetes. Now, she

was already lying in her blood, forever freed from her hatred.

But with him they had other plans. The blades poisoned with

excrement cut into his skin, which became a biting hell

where for weeks he writhed between life and death, until he

emerged from it as a creature disfigured for life.


For decades he had hidden himself in the darkness of his hut

from the gaze of others. With hands disfigured by scars, the

now old man accepted the daily bowl of rice and beans, long

since he had atoned for his deed and the others had forgotten

and turned to the new times, seemingly less dark, though full

of hardship. But still the old scars burned, and hatred seethed

like lava.


One day doctors came and told of an epidemic to protect

against. The puncture was almost painless, and they came

back every two weeks, three times in total. For a long time

nothing happened, while many predicted the imminent death

of all. Then, one night, he felt him under his riddled skin,

filling his emptiness. While he grew he offered to fulfill the

most hidden desires. The old man craved revenge alone and

was shown the way. Inside his hut, loud and unmistakable,

waving a bottle of strong booze, he execrated all Haitians

and scrawled the curse with his own blood on a piece of

paper, which he placed outside the door. So that the contract

would be valid. Finally, he doused himself with the liquor,

set himself on fire, and cursed to the last anyone who had

ears for his dying croak.


Laurent was a simple Haitian worker who, despite his

meager life, loved rum and women. One evening he took the

bottle from the kitchen table, went into the backyard, sat

down under a kapok tree, doused himself with the alcohol

and lit himself on fire. Five months later, there were already

four pichones who had taken their own lives in this way, and

for the Haitian community of San Germán, what evil and

fearful tongues had been repeating for months, was gradually

becoming a certainty: The old man was about to take every

Haitian to his miserable afterlife.


The drums thundered as the bottle with sugarcane liquor

passed from mouth to mouth. For two weeks already, the

ceremonies had lasted in Matanzas, a province located seven

hundred kilometers west of San Germán. The masters of

Palo Monte Mayombe, how Voodoo is called in Cuba, had

made the long journey to break the old man’s curse in the

cradle and sacred ground of all Afro-Cuban religions. The

nights were long and full of rituals, and many of those

present turned into phenomena and entered the world of

demons to hunt the dark spirit of the old man down. After so

many days, exhaustion spread, but also the certainty of

having made it.


Around noon, the hour of the ghosts and the dead, Pierre, a

tall slender Haitian in his mid-thirties with a serious face,

had risen from his bed in Matanzas after another long and

exhausting night playing the drum, but the heat under the

corrugated iron roof had become unbearable. He found no

rum, but the kerosene next to the stove was enough. He went

outside, sat under a tree, doused himself with the oily liquid

and set himself on fire.


“We are in despair,” my little witch wrote to me. “Everything

was in vain.”


That same day, I came across the link from Jack Heart’s

article in my mailbox, commenting on Dr. Lee Merritt’s

observations. When it was mentioned that the Russian

vaccine was also contaminated by Western suppliers, I

shuddered. After all, Cuba prides itself on its own vaccines –

but how much of it is actually produced in local laboratories?

The global players in the pharmaceutical industry also have

their sales offices in Cuba.


We all have observed the personality-altering effects of these

vaccinations, wherever they might come from. While the

precise mechanism is in the realm of speculation, the

spiritual effect of the poison is more than obvious. Many, if

not most of the vaccinated seem to suffer a disconnection

between their apparent self and the deeper layers of their

being, if not to say their soul – But what is this good for?


My humble guess is this: Everything is conscious space and

thus everything in space is conscious. The eternal creation

taking place in it, originating from few dualistic principles,

spawns a pulsating universe of complex geometry, which

condenses to the antipole of this light and shiny play, to the

Samsara of the Lord of Darkness, Lungambe in voodoo, who

presumes to be on a par with the all-embracing spirit of light.

In these swamps of gravity man shall be held to forget the

highs from which he came. To this has to be added Malachi

Martin’s observation of the special accessibility of Haitians

to demonic possession: Those who know Afro-Cuban

religions are aware of how thin the membrane to those

realms is. Thin enough to pierce it with a hypodermic needle.


Eager to get more information, I wrote to a friend, well

related to a scientist involved in the Cuban vaccine

development and advised my little witch in Matanzas – since

ivermectin seems to attack the microparticles of the vaccine

as if they were parasites – the endangered Haitians may take

antiparasitic substances, also herbs and home remedies,

because the supply situation in Cuba is so disastrous that

even aspirin has become a rarity.


The answer from the Cuban vaccine laboratory was prompt

and evasive: what I had been asking for, was delicate

information that could not be released so easily. Within the

realm of this speculative vagueness falls the entire behaviour

of Latin America in the last two years, including countries

critical of US globalism, which raises the suspicion of

pandering to WHO guidelines, if not worse.


Internally, there seems to be fierce dislocation on the

subcontinent, including in Cuba: since the tightening of the

U.S. embargo, coupled with the collapse of the tourism

industry due to pandemic and war, the supply situation on

the island is dire, and the fate of the country depends on the

goodwill of Russia and China. The American presidential

avatar “Joe Biden” is just waiting for the fruit, already

damaged by his predecessor, to fall into his lap without

lifting a finger. At the same time, in Cuba, the globalist tone

of the WHO joins the patriotic holdout slogans, and the 2030

Agenda or the concerns of the LGBT community are also

served in global agreement. Moreover, since last summer’s

color revolt incited by facebook avatars, eleven generals

have passed away, the most recent being Rodriguez López

Calleja a few days ago, all of them guarantors of the state

economy, which is closely intertwined with the military. If

Cuba were Iran, the culprit would be quickly identified – in

Cuba, however, the question is whether the globalists are

proceeding from the outside or from within.


Meanwhile, in Matanzas, the rituals continued on St. John’s

Eve, this saint being in the Santería religion Osun, the

mediator of the supreme Trinity of Olofin, Olorun and

Oloddumare. At first, it was not certain that what was

ordered would arrive on time, but finally some foot and skull

bones of the hateful old man made the hundreds of

kilometers. The pieces, after thorough preparation, were

charred in fire and delivered to the sea. Then, a few days

later, the earth got to eat: several chickens, a rooster and a

goat. One of the masters on this occasion turned into a snake

and wriggled down into the pit dug for the earth meal. My

little witch ran away in fright; she too will one day become a

phenomenon, for so it is written …


  1. I have aquired a laptop computer.

    It failed immediately upon starting up

    because bill gates decided that he had to have empire

    said computer failed because ultimately lack of hard drive space

    The updates destroyed the computers functionality

    How I got in? First deleted bill gates shit software being win 10

    installed a new operating system as works fine now

    for basic computer functions
    like surfing the web of things


  2. Jack,

    Our dearest MK has repeatedly told of us about his problems accessing the internet of things.

    Perhaps we could cut him a little slack? Did you know that I got shut out of twitter the other day? That supposed androied "tablet" that was supposed to replace my laptop, never had one, prevented me from signing up for twater. however, moved up to a bigger warbird. The Win 10 desktop computer the Feds bought for me.
    Got me on twatter.


  3. I have the forthcoming piece more than half done. I would have it finished by now, but for the rise of vengeful evil. I really do need to be more measured in terms of what I say, especially in the comments. Again, this is not for myself, but for others, including those visiting hospital now.
    I sincerely hope the piece is worth the wait, but all I can promise is that it will be as honest and authentic as the sunset over a government annihilated forest.

  4. Cyclists where very tight fitting hats

    Many anti semantics say

    All jews are cyclists

    Only the best ones I know

    A bicycle is like a voodoo doll

    We ride8 her till we're finished

  5. So, my dearest Jewish friends say cycling is like voodoo.

    Gets into your blood

    We are choosen


    gospel I see

  6. Mind is always above matter. In fact, what we call reality is created out of mind. Therefore, to believe in something, is a strong creative force. Jacobo Grindberg for example described reality as a subjective experience within a structure he called lattice which can be altered by consciousness. The supposedly objective and material world dissolves into flowing experiences, each one being an unique and subjective view of a greater order.

  7. Interesting read. Not quite the standard fare, but an interesting perspective.

    I recall reading an article many years ago regarding voodoo. In a nutshell, a researcher or two were attempting to understand how voodoo worked and the conclusion they came to was this: voodoo works simply because the participant(s) believes it works.

    I won’t even pretend to understand much about voodoo or it’s history, and I don’t have enough information to be able to say how effective any occult practice may be, other than to say I believe there is something substantial to all of this. However, more importantly, I am becoming increasingly convinced in the sheer power of thought.

    Spirit, consciousness, thought, and intention. Makes me wonder why I am sharing this particular reality with all of you. Can’t say it’s been boring.