#Setanists

[queersatanic]

"My Satanic Adventure or 'I was a Teenaged Satanist!' " by Isaac Bonewits

The [preceding] was first published in 1975 c.e. in response to a

In the city of Berkeley, California, there is a large T-shaped intersection at the main southern entrance to the campus of the University of California, where I enrolled as a sophomore in the fall of 1967, at the tender age of 17. Here, where Telegraph Avenue runs north into the east-west Bancroft Avenue, there is a large expanse of brick sidewalk between the traffic on Bancroft and the short cement pillars that mark the entry into the plaza between Sproul Hall (the administration building) and the Student Union. It was on those bricks that I spent many leisure hours heckling the preachers who held court there in the late 1960’s.

On a small soapbox (yes, a real, genuine soapbox), “Holy” Hubert Lindsey, gap-toothed, flaming-haired and loud mouthed, would hold forth to the multitudes about how sinful they all were. Mr. and Mrs. Tieman, a middle aged couple, would hold up large white posters covered with alternating lines of red and black magic marker, that told us how sinful and evil we were, while they sang hymns over a small loudspeaker. Off to one corner, the Krishna Consciousness devotees would bang away at their drums and chant on and on and on. Various “Jesus Freaks” would wander around accosting students and subjecting them to impromptu sermons (all carefully memorized). Scientologists would hand out tracts and Marxists passed out picket signs. It was all marvelously exciting.

Naturally, the favorite sport of many Berkeley students was “Let’s heckle the religion nuts!” As a new transfer student with an already strongly developed interest in magic and religion, I jumped right in with my fellows (almost all male) and started bugging the preachers. However, I noticed after a few months that our heckling had very little effect except our own diminishing amusement. The evangelists were immune to all the standard methods of heckling — the catcalls and philosophical paradoxes rolled off them like water off a duck’s back. The evangelical, gospel-spouting approach seemed impervious to all logic and reason. It was in my third quarter at Cal that inspiration hit me.

On a beautiful Spring afternoon in March 1968, I arrived at the corner of Bancroft and Telegraph with a small platform, painted black, a small loudspeaker, also painted black and a piece of black posterboard with alternating lines of red and white lettering. The top line on my sign said “The Devil’s Advocate.” It is impossible to adequately describe the horror and dismay of the preachers as I stood up on my platform, dressed all in black, and began a loud, long, sonorous sermon in my best southern accent — on behalf of the Christian Devil.

What I was preaching that afternoon was what I have since come to call “Liberal Heterodox” Satanism. I preached the Devil as Lucifer, the “Light Bearer,” champion of the intellect against repressive tyrannies on the one hand, and the original “party animal” on the other — sort of a combination of Prometheus, Bacchus and Pan. I had a “Hell” of a good time flaying my audiences for not being sinful enough, and for listening to the preachers. Inside of five minutes there was an audience around my platform larger than any of the evangelists had every raised. Some of them pretended to “heckle” me (and a few Jesus People actually did), but all their arguments were swept aside by classic preacher-think.

That day, and for many days thereafter, I practiced the art of improvisational street theater, using all the standard evangelical lines and parables to ridicule and confuse the preachers. I had been at my platform less than a week when a young woman came up to me and said, in a deliberately erotic voice, “Hi. I’m a Witch. Would you like to join the Church of Satan? You sound like you’d be perfect.”

Since she was rather pretty I quickly replied, “Hi. What’s the Church of Satan?”

“It’s the famous Satanic Church run by Anton LaVey in San Francisco,” she explained.

“Never heard of him,” I replied brightly.

“Well, you’ll like him. He’s into just the same things you are. Why don’t you go see him?” she said, handing me a card with his address and giving me a smoldering look that promised much.

So I went to see him. His hokey black house with the gothic furnishings has been described so many times by reporters that I won’t bother. Suffice it to say that I met the man and liked him very much. He was friendly, smooth talking, played the organ beautifully, and promised me much assistance in my endeavors to torment the campus evangelists. I was invited to join the Church, membership fees were waived, and I was invited to attend his lecture series for free! (The waiving of those fees, as well as those for the weekly meetings, I learned later was almost unheard of.) He handed me a bunch of literature from his Church to hand out and I went back to Berkeley bemused and intrigued by what I was getting into.

Well, three months went by. One of the members of the Church made me a more powerful loudspeaker and thousands of LaVey’s tracts were printed up and handed out. I eventually built a large black throne on wheels, with a tape recorder, microphone and umbrella holder to keep the sun off my head. I called this my “Sinmobile,” and wheeled it across campus every day to the evangelical corner, so that I could preach in comfort. In short, I really had a lot of fun that spring.

During this time, I became a regular at the Church of Satan. I attended LaVey’s lectures, went to his Friday night rituals, and quickly became one of his regular altar boys and a “Satanic Minister.” I’ll never forget the evening when I decided to ad lib some fake “Enochian” invocations during one of the ceremonies. I dramatically intoned a lot of gibberish, using the same guttural tones that Anton always used, and everyone in the ritual acted very impressed. Afterwards, I asked Anton, “How’d you like my Enochian?” and he gave me a look that would have melted sheetrock. He did not, however, warn me of the dangers of mucking with this ceremonial language, as any real Enochian magician would have done out of sheer self-preservation (since they all believe that it is a terribly powerful magical tongue), nor did he complain that I had ruined his magical intent, as he would have done if he had actually been doing any magic. It was at that point that I realized two important things about Anton: he really didn’t know very much about Enochian and he wasn’t actually trying to do magic in his supposedly magical rites. I began to wonder if he even knew how.

But I continued to hang out at the Church, discussing magic, philosophy and Satanic theology with Anton and the other members and trying (unsuccessfully) to seduce some of the rare young women in the Church. Occasionally I would even flirt with Anton’s teenaged daughter — which really flipped him out, despite the fact that she wouldn’t give me the time of day. I never was able to figure out whether he was jealous, worried about protecting her virtue, or concerned that my “commie” attitudes might be contagious.

At one point that spring, some friends of Anton’s showed up with cameras and started filming bits and pieces of faked-up rituals. Since I was still an enthusiastic ritualist, I was drafted to play various silly parts in these. I climbed into a coffin with a naked woman while wearing a bishop’s costume, stabbed a poppet with a knife, asked the high priest (Anton, in his Red Devil costume) for Satanic blessings, etc. I can’t remember any of the dialog at this point, but I do recall Anton telling us that what we said didn’t matter much, since everything was going to be translated into European languages for the “documentaries” the men were making.

Well, he was telling some of the truth for once. Parts of these films did indeed wind up in documentaries, such as “The Occult Experience,” but those parts were in English. These are the films that people in the Neopagan community see every couple of years or so, and which shock them so much — apparently they can’t see that I’m only seventeen in them, so they write me letters full of concern or denouncing me for my “betrayal” of Paganism. The foreign translations, however, were done for the bits that were spliced into pornographic movies sold in Europe. His so-called documentary film producers were actually pornographers, though the films I acted in were pretty tame. I don’t know about the “acting” other Church members might have done then or since, though I’m told that LaVey later earned his living for a few years in the European pornography industry.

To me it was all just another part of the adventure. I continued to listen admiringly to Anton’s tales, though I was somewhat shocked when he claimed that his huge library of occult books had been swindled from rich widows. I was more shocked when I realized that he had read only a tiny fraction of them, and that at seventeen I had read far more books on parapsychology, comparative religion and the occult than he had, despite his twenty years’ head start.

These events and insights did not take place in isolation, though. Like many other Berkeley students, I was gradually becoming a long-haired radical. This caused increasing friction between the rest of the Church and myself. My politics then were basically left wing/anarchist with a mild dash of Nietzsche. Anton’s politics, and those of most of the central members, seemed to be quite a bit more conservative. They’d quote Nietzsche or Hitler or Rand and tell me what it supposedly meant. Then I’d give them what I thought of as a more humanistic and intellectual interpretation. The overlap between our opinions became increasingly smaller and I became increasingly uneasy about my fellow Church members.

Some were bringing authentic Ku Klux Klan robes and Nazi uniforms for the ceremonies. I was assured that the clothes were merely for “Satanic shock value” to “jar people from their usual staid patterns of thinking.” Then I would talk to the men wearing these clothes and realize that they were not pretending anything. I noticed that there were no black members of the Church and only one Asian, and began to ask why.

Then I went away for the summer, living with my eldest brother in southern California and converting him to my brand of Satanism. Since he was an intellectual humanist, this wasn’t hard (he became Wiccan a couple of years later). We had an enjoyable summer, I made a few public appearances on behalf of the Church, then it was time to return to Berkeley.

Upon my return, I found that several of the members of the Church were coming to me for magical advice, instead of to their Glorious Leader. This was apparently the final straw for Anton. It was early in October, shortly after my 18th birthday, that I was called aside for a talk by one of the “Inner Circle” members (one of the pornographers), about my “obnoxious and deviationist tendencies.” I had previously been told about “odd” accidents and arrests that had occurred to others who were purged from the Church, so I tried to be as conciliatory as possible. But crewcut right wingers never have brought out the best in me, so I probably wasn’t very convincing. A week later, after the services, I was ordered to go downstairs to the “orgy room.”

When I arrived in the sanctum unsanctorium, I found thirteen people in black hooded robes sitting around a coffin-table. I was told to stand with my heels against the side of a mattress that was on the floor, with my head directly under a strong light. They then began to berate me for my deviationist thinking. The whole inquisition would have been a lot more impressive except for two factors: firstly, I recognized most of the voices as being those of the same flakes, weirdos and losers I had been meeting all along as members of the headquarters crew. Secondly, I had just finished reading a book on brainwashing techniques — the same methods that were now being used on me to force a “confession and retraction” of my “erroneous ways.” My immediate impulse to laugh was stifled, however, by the fact that I was surrounded and out-numbered by several large men, whose voices were getting increasingly loud and fanatic, and my memories of the supposed Mafia and police connections Anton had.

The smart thing to do was convince them that I was small fry and not worth arranging a fatal accident for. I proceeded to faint back on the mattress. Ignoring the fact that I had repeatedly informed them of my activities as a drama club member in high school, they all laughed and hauled me upstairs. Five minutes later I “revived” and left in a very subdued mood.

A couple of weeks later I sent Anton a suitably wimpy resignation letter, offering to refrain from all public comment about the Church and to return the public address system to the man who had provided it to me (something that never happened, though I waited two years, because members had been forbidden to communicate with me — although several later did).

I went back to my previous ways, continuing for two more years the fascinating game of evangelist-baiting. Several other religious and magical groups recruited me and then kicked me out for heresy. Gradually, I became used to the idea that there were damned few groups around who wanted independent thinkers, and that most of the organizations I infiltrated or joined (from even before I came to Berkeley) were likely to kick me out the second I started deviating from their party line. Fortunately, I discovered the Reformed Druids of North America shortly after being purged from LaVey’s Church, and those tree-hugging Zen anarchists were just what the Goddess ordered. I’ve been a Druid and a Pagan ever since.

I’m still amused more than angered by the cyclical attacks against me in the Pagan press and now on the Net. I’m not sure that my foolishness as a teenager is particularly relevant to my present character, opinions and activities, any more than the foolishness of many other famous Pagans during their adolescence. Shall we all investigate what Starhawk, Selena Fox, Ray Buckland, Oberon and Morning Glory Zell were doing when they were seventeen? For that matter, what were LaVey, Aquino, and Flowers/Thorsson doing during their teenaged years? (Pagan computer hackers take note, this could be an entertaining research project.)

I’m perfectly happy now, as I was then, to admit that I was stupid to get involved with LaVey and his Church, and even more stupid to reveal my precocious knowledge of the occult and to advise members of the group behind the guru’s back.

Yet any magically- or mystically-oriented person must be willing to accept that if they experiment or engage in adventures, they are liable to be made a fool of, be ripped-off or have their reputation smeared by those who belong to or sympathize with the Power Elite. I was curious about LaVey and his group and let them recruit me. I find it difficult to be sorry, although LaVey expected me to be, that no new members were brought into the ranks by my efforts — after all, my chief aim had been to torment and fight evangelists and fascists, not to help them.

I said back in 1974 that people desperate to smear me would inevitably bring up those months with LaVey, for lack of anything better to use, and that prophesy has come true several times. The (re-)publishing of The Enemies of our Enemies, however, brings them out of the woodwork every time. Michael Aquino, the neo-nazi head of the Temple of Set, has been especially active in spreading carefully crafted lies (he’s a career military intelligence officer, after all) about my time with LaVey. His professionally written disinformation is precisely targeted to make feminists, civil libertarians and Neopagans disgusted with me, especially if they are unfamiliar with propaganda techniques. Various other Satanic crackpots, some of whom were denouncing me many years ago, join in with equally ludicrous accusations and sophomoric insults.

The primary claim these folks are making (other than the traditional one most my critics use: “Isaac is a terrible person, don’t listen to him”) is that every one of my opinions about past and current Satanism has supposedly been warped by my “bitter experience” with the Church of Satan when I was seventeen. To this very day, I am supposed to be horribly ashamed of having been purged by them, and using any excuse to attack these innocent philosophers. All of which ignores some glaringly obvious facts.

(1) I’ve been kicked out of lots of occult groups over the years. I haven’t spent much of my time denouncing entire theological movements related to them, because most of them weren’t very representative. Anton, however, along with Montague Summers and Adolph Hitler, was a seminal figure in the modern Satanic movement, as even his enemies and competitors (such as Aquino) cheerfully admit. So LaVey provides one excellent example of just how shallow, patriarchal and fraudulent Satanism is.

(2) As I’ve said before, you can’t be in the occult community for six months, let alone thirty years, without meeting a wide spectrum of Satanists, Setians, Luciferians, Gnostic Dualists, Chthulians, and other proud upholders of the so-called “Left Hand Path.” I’ve met scores of Satanists, “black magicians” and other idiots trying hard to impress me with how philosophical, evil, and/or dangerous they were. After a while, the shallowness of their thinking and the repetitiveness of their dysfunctional personalities becomes stunning in its cliche-ridden banality.

(3) I’m a professional occultist and a scholar of minority belief systems. I’ve read plenty of Satanic/Setian literature and found none of it plausible. I’ve studied the historical record of how the Roman Catholic Church invented modern Satanism. I’ve read the work of genuine authorities and found their academic analyses far more convincing than the self-serving clap-trap produced by folks trying to make big bucks out of conning the rubes.

My knowledge of Setanists and Setanism is observational, historical, philosophical, and extensive. Thus, my comments in “The Enemies of Our Enemies” that Satanists and their ilk tend to be “fascists, jerks and/or psychopaths” who don’t care a fig for anyone’s civil liberties except their own, is accurate, historically sound, and rather mild.

Anyone who bothers to read the trash that LaVey writes (or rather that he puts his name on — he bragged to me about how he had gotten various members of the Church to write the different chapters of his first two books for him) will notice certain familiar attitudes permeating the contents. His version of Satanism, like the Christian mythology it is a part of, is racist and sexist. His right wing nonsense is part and parcel of the patriarchal worldview that Goddess worshippers and Neopagans abhor. If Adolf Hitler had decided to publicize his occult beliefs, they would have wound up sounding much like LaVey’s (or Michael Aquino’s) writings — though with dashes of libertarianism thrown in to make it sound oriented towards individuals.

The “philosophy of Satanism” is deliberately designed to appeal to the KKK or American Nazi Party type of mind: all those ignorant embittered failures who are convinced that “there’s a conspiracy” to keep them from their rightful places as rulers of the world. Even the Satanists who consider themselves “pre-Christian Gnostic Dualists” still accept the same patriarchal worldview that lies(!) behind Christianity, dividing the universe into warring armies of Good and Evil.

Members of the Neopagan community have some fairly simple choices about how to react to disinformation campaigns against me:

They can read my writings on the topics of Satanism/Setianism, Neopaganism and civil liberties, and analyze my arguments to see if they make sense regardless of any biases I might or might not have.

They can decide that a man who has spent his entire adult life as a priest of the Earth Mother may be a more reliable source of information than people who glorify the Christian “Father of Lies,” and reject poison pen letters/newsgroup posts as self-serving Setanic propaganda.

They can decide to believe the worst possible stories about me because I’m a pompous, cantankerous grouch and they would like to see me taken down a peg, regardless of whether the tales are true.

They can choose to ignore the whole controversy as requiring too much mental effort to bother with.

These last two choices may or may not lead to

5. cozying up to the Setanists, joining with them in legal and public relations work, helping to improve their public image and confirming mainstream fears that Satanists and Pagans really are the same after all — thus playing directly into the hands of the people who would like to imprison and/or kill us.

No matter what decisions the members of the community may make, I hope that they will respond in writing to the various Neopagan publications, newsgroups, and chatrooms in which the Setanists usually dominate this discussion. Defending or attacking Isaac Bonewits isn’t anywhere near as important as creating a consensus among Pagans as to what relations — if any — we should have with Satanists and other fundamentalist Christians. That requires strong Pagan positions to be articulated, Pagan arguments to be carefully scrutinized in the light of Pagan polytheology, and Pagan hearts to be looked deeply into.

We don’t let Pat Robertson or Jerry Falwell dominate our internal community debates. We shouldn’t let other Christian outsiders do so either.

The [preceding] was first published in 1975 c.e. in response to a number of vitriolic attacks against me by various Satanists. In 1992, I [Isaac Bonewits] was once again the target of a Satanic poison pen campaign, caused by the publishing of my essay The Enemies of Our Enemies (which should be read in conjunction with this). In 1996, I decided to update this essay and to make it available once again to the Neopagan community. Now, it’s 2001, we’re on the Net, and I continue to get nasty mail from Satanists/Setanists, only now it’s obscene email!

By the way, for those who never caught the reference, this essay’s title was a take-off on a famous essay by Israel Regardie, called “My Rosicrucian Adventure.”

[evangeliststerryks]

I APOLOGIZE FOR THEM - EX SATANIST, WITCHES, NEW AGE TEACHERS, CHURCHES https://youtu.be/YCQ1SiMbSp8 www.evangeliststerryks.org #satanist #setanist #witches #santeria #pastor #ex #newage #occultism #testimonial #sterryks (at Spiritual Gangster) https://www.instagram.com/p/CXHZgUohTBy/?utm_medium=tumblr

[blackaltarapparel]

Black Altar Apparel: PRE ORDER NOW! Due to the success of our latest look-book with Holly SETANIST long-sleeves are available to pre order now! Pre orders will only be live until midday tomorrow & will be shipped Tuesday 6th August latest! Garments are Unisex, Sizes Small to XL available! Model Instagram: @Holly_inked WE SHIP WORLDWIDE🌱 B.A.A www.blackaltarapparel.com

[petrachoir]

Malamute for Setanist on discord

[meredith-alexandra-jane-blog]

My Immortal: Beauty and the Beast Version- Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

Summary:

More insanity ensues, prepz and byythches!

AN: Stop flaming! if u flam it menz u a prep or a poser! Da only reason the Beast swor is cuz he had a hedache ok on top of dat he was mad at dem 4 having sexx! PS im not updating umtil I get 5 good revoiws!

The Beast made Gaston and I follow him. He kept shouting at us angrily.

"You ludacris fools!" he shouted.

I started to cry tears of blood down my pallid face. Gaston comforted me. When we went back to the castle the Beast took us to a clock named Cogsworth and a teapot named Mrs. Potts both who were both looking very angry.

"They were having homosexual relations in MY FOREST!" he yelled in a furious voice.

"Why did you do such a thing, you mediocre dunces?" asked Clocksworth.

"How dare you?" demanded Mrs. Teapot. "In front of the children?" She covered her teacup grandson's eyes. (sorry, her son)

And then Gaston shrieked. "BECAUSE I LOVE HIM!"

Everyone was quiet. The Beast and Mrs. Teapot looked mad but Clocksworth said. "Fine. Very well. You may go up and find rooms."

We went in and a sexxy candleabrum named Loomiere yelled out to us. "BE OUR GUEST!"

"Gaston, have you considered the idea that this castle may be goffik and haunted?" I asked him.

"Don't lose your nerve, LeFou. Can't you see that it is, mon amour? It is as beautiful and goffik as ME." Gaston said.

And my boyfriend was right! The castle was dark and goffik! And so romantic because Gaston was there with me.

We went upstairs while the talking objects glared at us.

"Are you okay, LeFou?"

"Yeah. I guess," I lied. I went to a fancy bedroom and brushed my teeth and my hair and changed into a long, black, frock coat 1700's style with red lace all around it and black high heel boots to make me look taller. When I came out...

Gaston was standing in front of the bathroom, and he was singing 'I just wanna live' by Gentille Charlotte. I was so flattered. We hugged and kissed. After that, we said good night and he reluctantly went back to his room.

AN: shjt up prepz ok? PS I wnot update ubtil u gibe me goood revows!

The next day I woke up in the fancy castle bedroom. I put on black breeches that was all ripped around the end and a matching top with red skulls all around it and high heeled boots that were black. I put on two pairs of skull earrings, and two crosses in my ears. I spray painted my hair with purple.

(Madame de Goffik Garderobe the famous singer lived here and she helped me get all these kewl accessories! Stanley u jealous huh?)

In the great hall, I ate some Count Chocula cereal with blood instead of milk-

(AN: NO, I won't- I can't do that to LeFou! I love my gay son. I will not have him drinking this much blood.)

I had milk with cereal and a glass of more milk to help me grow tall and strong like Gaston. Suddenly someone bumped into me. And all the milk spilled over my top.

"You bastard!" I shouted angrily.

I regretted saying it when I looked up because I was looking into the pale white face of a gothic boy with long blonde hair with red streaks in it. He was wearing so much eyeliner that I was going down his face and he was wearing black lipstick. He was wearing red contact lenses just like Gaston's. He had a manly stubble on his chin. He had a sexy English accent. He looked exactly like Dan Stevens. He was so sexy that my body went all hot when I saw him kind of like an erection only-yeah I'm a man so maybe I did, shuddup that's private you sicko.

"I'm so sorry," he said in a shy voice.

"That's all right. What's your name?" I questioned.

"My name's Prince Adam, though most call me Beast these days," he grumbled.

"Why?" I exclaimed.

He looked nervous for a second, then I think he started to make up a lie. I'm not a fool. He may, in fact, be that Beast who invited us here and he transforms back and forth, but let's just pretend I'm stupid and I don't know.

"Because I like the taste of Vampire blood." he giggled.

"Well I am a werewolf." I confessed.

"Really?" he whimpered.

"Yeah." I howled. Then, Adam growled sexily.

We sat down to talk for a while. Then Gaston came up behind me and said he had a surprise for me and so I went away with him.

Gaston and I held our pale white hands with black nail polish as we went upstairs.

I waved to Beasty. Dark misery was in his depressed eyes. I guess he was jealous of me that I was going out with Gaston. Anyway I went upstairs excitedly with Gaston. We went into his room and locked the door. Then...

We started frenching passively (because we're Frenchmen, u dumb preps!) and we took off each others clothes enthusiastically. He felt me up before I took off my breeches. I took off my black leather top and he took off his tight breeches. We went on the bed and started making out naked and then he put his boy's thingy in (censored) and we HAD SEX. (c is dat stupid?)

"Oh, Gaston, Gaston!" I screamed while getting an orgasm when all of a sudden I saw a tattoo I had never seen before on Gaston's arm. It was a black heart with an arrow through it. On it in bloody gothic writing were the words...Vampire!

I was so angry.

"You bastard!" I shouted angrily, jumping out of the bed.

"No! No! But you don't understand!" Gaston pleaded. But I knew too much.

"No, you frcking idiot!" I shouted. "You probably have AIDs anyway!"

I put on my clothes all huffily and then I stomped out. Gaston ran out even though he was naked. He had a really big you-know-what but I was too mad to care. I stomped out and did so until I was in Beasty's classroom where he was having a lesson with Clocksworth and some other people.

"BEASTY ADAM, YOU MOTHERFCKER!" I yelled.

AN: stop flassing ok? if u do den ur a prep!

Everyone in the class stared at me and then Gaston came into the room even though he was naked and started begging me to take him back.

"LeFou, it's not what you think!" Gaston screamed sadly.

My friend, B'loody Beauty Belle, smiled at me understatedly. She flipped her long waste-length gothic brown-with-red-streaks hair and opened her crimson eyes like blood that she was wearing contact lenses on. She had pale white skin that she was wearing white makeup on. Hermione was kidnapped when she was born-

(wait- I meant Belle not Hermione! They both look like Emma Watson so dont judg me 4 beeing confuzzed u dum prepz!)

Her real parents are vampires, but Voldebeast (who is the Undead Father of Beasty) killed her mother by causing her to have the same disease his wife (Adam's Maman) died of.

She still has nightmares about her mother dying when she was a baby and she is very haunted and depressed.

"What is it that you desire, you ridiculous dimwit!" Clocksworth demeaned angrily in his cold voice but I ignored him.

"Beasty, I can't believe you cheated on me with Gaston!" I shouted at him. Everyone gasped.

B'loody Belle started to cry tears of blood and despair, because Beasty is her boyfriend.

{GASTON'S POV:} "I don't know why LeFou was so mad at me. I had went out with Beasty for a while (he's bi in case you haven't figured that out) but then he broke my heart. He dumped me because he liked Belle when she was a stupid preppy fcker before she turned kewl and goffik and became known as B'loody Beauty Belle. He had gone through horrible problems, and now he was extremely gothic because he kept transforming back and forth between a hairy Beasty and that preppy fcker Prince Adam. (Haha, like I would hang out with a prep.)" {END OF GASTON'S POV, BACK TO LEFOU'S}

"But I'm not going out with Gaston anymore!" said Beasty.

"Yeah, fcking right!" Fck off, you bastard!" I screamed. I ran out of the room and into Beasty's wolf-infested forest where I lost my virility to Gaston and then I started to bust into tears.

AN: Stop flaming ok! I dntn wach da hole Disney movie! itz nut my folt if the Beast swers! besuizds I SED HE HAD A HEDACHE! and da reson clock doesn't lik adam is coz he's christian and beasty is a setanist! MCR ROX!

I was so mad and sad. I couldn't believe Gaston for cheating on me. I began to cry against the tree where I did it with Gaston.

Then, all of a suddenly, an horrible Beast (not Beasty cuz he's all cute and furry) with red eyes and no nose started flying towards me! He didn't have a nose (basicaly like Voldebeast in the movie-oh wait we hardly saw Adam's evil father 'cept in a song flashback can't remember if he had a nose then but this is what he transformed into after his Death as an Undead, u preps!) He had all black fur but it was obvious he wasn't gothic. It was...Voldebeast!

"No!" I shouted in a scared voice but then Voldebeast shouted "Impérieux!" and I couldn't run away.

"Courbé-Shanks!" I shouted at him. Voldebeast fell off his flying candlestick and started to scream. I felt bad for him (because I'm LeFou and I have a heart) so I stopped.

"LeFou." he yelled. "Thou must kill Beasty Adam!"

I thought about Beasty with his sexah blue eyes and his gothic blonde with red-streaks hair and how his face looks like Dan Stevens. I remembered that Gaston had said I didn't understand, so I thought, what if Gaston went out with Beasty before I went out with him and they broke up?

"No, Voldebeast!" I shouted back.

Voldebeast gave me a gun. "No! Please!" I begged. "I don't know how to shoot a gun! Gaston is the best hunter! He never misses a shot, I'm merely his hunting assistant, you see!"

"Thou must!" he yelled. "If thou does not, then I shall kill thy beloved Gaston!"

Mon Dieu! I hated myself for mentioning Gaston. I can't help it. I talk about him all the time because I love him and I can't go an hour without saying his name.

I wanted to cry more depressed tears in front of this monster, but I am not weak. I'm frcking LeFou! I showed him my sassy side by sticking out my middle finger and flipping him the bird.

"It's never gonna happen! Besides, I could probably assume that he's sneaking up on you right this moment. Most likely, he is aiming for your LIVER!" I exclaimed bravely.

Voldebeast got a dude-ur-so-pathetic look on his face. (It was exactly like the face his son Adam made in the movie when he saw the old hag Agathe in the castle.) "If you doth not kill Beasty, then thou know what will happen to Gaston!" he shouted. Then he flew away angry on his flying candlestick.

I was so scared and mad I didn't know what to do. Suddenly Gaston came into the woods. (I was right. He was aiming for his liver, but the monster flew away too fast.)

"Gaston!" I said. "You almost got him!" I said, to bolster his ego.

"Hi!" he said back but his face was all sad. He was wearing white foundation and messy eyeliner and looked kind of like a pentagram (geddit?) between Dan Stevens in the movie and Luke Evans.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"No." he answered.

"I'm sorry I got all mad at you but I thought you cheated on me," I expelled.

That's okay, he said all depressed and we went back to his school called Porc-Verrues, making out.

[meredith-alexandra-jane-blog]

My Immortal: Beauty and the Beast Version Chapter 3

Chapter 3:

I was really scared about Vlodebeast all day. I was even upset went to rehearsals with Beasty's favorite gothic band Bloody Gothic Rose 666. I'm now a background singer (because Beasty liked my voice when he heard me sing the Gaston song to Gaston). People say that we sound like a cross between GC, Caleçon Le Nodule, and MCL (that's Mon Chimique L'amour u preps).

The other people in the band are B'loody Belle, Madame de Goffik Garderobe, Cadenza the Dark Harpsichord of Death, Loomiere, and Belle's papa Maurice (we call him Diabolo now.) And a hat rack named Chapeau. (who might be another Ghey Guy).

Today only Gaston and Beasty were depressed so they weren't coming to listen so we wrote songs instead. I knew Gaston was probably slitting his wrists (he wouldn't die because he's a vampire and the only way you can kill a vampire is with a c-r-o-s-s (there's no way I'm writing that) or a steak. And Beasty was probably watching a depressing movie like 'Le Cadavre de Mariée.' I put on a black leather vest that showed off my currveyy physique, and one of those cravats from the 1700's made of red lace. And on my black coat with red lace on the sleeves and lapels I wore a tiny red ribbon pinned on the lapel that said, 'Le Projet Élémentaire.' (The name of another of Gaston's and my favorite bands!) Everybody says I'm too clingy to him but I don't get it.

We were singing a cover of 'Hélene' and at the end of the song I suddenly bust into tears.

"LeFou! Are you OK?" B'loody Belle asked in a concerted voice.

"With all due respect-what the fck do you think?" I asked angrily.

And then I took deep breaths to calm myself down and I said. "Well, it just so happened that Voldebeast came to me in the forest...(I lost my positivity and became OOC again)...and the fcking bastard told me to fcking kill Beasty! But I don't want to kill him, (my softie heart came back shuddup I'm still goffic ok?) because he's really nice, he's really kind and gentle, even if he did go out with Gaston. But if I don't kill Beasty, then Voldebeast, he'll kill Gaston!" I burst into tears.

Suddenly Gaston jumped out from behind a wall. "Why didn't you fcking tell me!" he shouted. "Why you fcking poser bytch! NOBODY keeps secrets from GASTON!" (c is dat out of character?)

I started to cry and cry. Gaston started to cry all sensitive. He stood close to me and lifted my chin up and let me be hypnotized by his gothic eyes and Vampire power. Then he ran out crying. (so wut if dat ooc? Prepz!)

We practiced for one more hour. Suddenly Beasty walked in angrily and he was in Beast Mode! His eyes were all fiery and I knew this time it wasn't because he had a headache.

"Do you realize what you could have DONE?" He started to cry wisely. (c dats basically not swering and dis time he wuz relly upset n u wil cry)

"LeFou, Gaston has been found in his room. He committed suicide by slitting his wrists."

...

I said stop flaming up prepz! see if dis chaprer is srupid!1111 it dels wit rlly sris issus! sp c 4 urself if itz ztupid brw fangz 2 ma frend raven 4 hleping me!

...

"Noooo!" I screamed. I was horrorfied. B'loody Belle tried to comfort me but I ran to my room crying myself. Beasty chased after me shouting but he had to stop when I went into my room because he would look like a perv that way (he's bi remember)

Anyway, I started crying tears of blood and then I slit both of my wrists. They blood got all over my clothes so I took them off and jumped into the bath angrily while I put on a L'inkin Parc song at full volume. I grabbed a steak (probably one of Beasty's he likes raw meat) and almost stuck it into my heart to commit suicide. I was so fcking depressed!

I got out of the bathtub and put on a black low-cut nightshirt with lace all over it sandly. I put on black high-heel boots with pink metal stuff on the ends, my pink bow tie, and six pairs of skull earrings. (Stanley would never wear this r u kidding he is such a prep!) I couldn't frcking believe it.

Then I looked out the window and screamed... Clock was spying on me and he was taking a video tape of me! And Loomiere was masticating to it! They were sitting on their flying candlesticks.

"EW YOU FCKING PERVS, STOP LOOKING AT ME! ARE YOU PEDOS OR WHAT?" I screamed putting on a towel with a picture of M'Arilyne d'Maison (aka Monsieur D'Arque who is also a great goffik singer) on it.

Suddenly Beasty ran in. He was in Prince Adam form again, the sexay man with eyeliner and his hair in a ponytail with blue ribbon. He wore a light blue jacket with white lace all over it (and only his black eyeliner kept him from looking like a total fcking prep).

"A'bra Que'davre!" he yelled at Clock and Loomiere pointing his womb. I took Gaston's gun and shot Clock and Loomiere a gazillion times and they both started screaming and the camera broke.

(AN: so sorry this does not make sense in the 18th century, not mentioning the fact everyone is basically OOC. But no haterz prepz!11!)

Then Beasty ran into a wardrobe which was the place he transforms (sort of like the old Superman movies with the phone booth).

Suddenly, Beasty came out of the closet (geddit?) and he was THE BEAST again!

"LeFou, it has been revealed that someone has- NOOOOOOO!" he shouted looking at Clock and Loomiere and then he waved his magic wand (Agathe gave it to him) and suddenly...

Monsieur Chapeau ran outside on his flying candle and said everyone we need to talk. (AN: how can he run when riding a flying candle? Not to mention he's a hatrack?)

"What do you know Chapeau? You're just a petit Porc-Verrues student!" (I believe Beasty said this line)

"I MAY BE A PORC-VERRUES STUDENT- BUT I AM ALSO A SETANIST!"

"This cannot be," Clock said in a crisp voice as blood dripped from his hand where Beasty's gun had shot him (AN: wait that doesn't make sense. I thought LeFou shot him with Gaston's gun correct?) "There must be other factors."

"YOU DON'T HAVE ANY!" I yelled in madly.

Loomiere (back to life apparently) held up the camera triumelephantly. "The lens may be ruined but the tape is still there!"

I felt faint, normally how I do when it feels like when you do not drink enough wolf blood.

"Why are you doing this?" Loomiere said angrily while he rubbed his dirty hands on his clook. (Does that mean Clock? I'll just leave that to your imagination *hon hon hon*)

And then I heard the words that I heard before but not from him. I did not know whether to feel shocked or happy.

"BECAUSE...BECAUSE..." Chapeau said and he paused in the air dramaticlly, waving his brass hat rack arms in the air. Then swooped he in singing to the tune of a gothic version of a song by 50 Livres.

"Because you're goffic?" Clock asked in a little afraid voice because he was afraiind it was connected with Seten.

"BECAUSE I LOVE HIM!"

stop f'aing ok chapeau is a pedo 2 alot of ppl in american skoolz lik dat i wunted 2 adress da ishu! how du u no clock aint kristian plus chapeau isn't relly in luv wif lefou dat was stanley ok!

I was about to slit my wrists again with the silver knife that Gasgon had given me in case anything happened to him. He told me (during the War) to use it valiantly against an enemy but I knew that we must go together.

"NO!" I THOUGHT IT WAS CHAIPeau but it was Beasty. He started to scream. "OMFG! NOOOO! I'M TRANSFORMING AGAIN AND IT HURTS!" and then...his eyes rolled up. You could see his red whites.

I stopped. "How did u know?"

"I saw it! And my scar turned back into The Symbol!"

"NO!" I ran up closer. "I thought you didn't have a scar anymore!"

"I do but Diablo (Maurice) turned it into a rose tattoo for me and I always cover it up with foundation. And with my fur when I'm in Beast Mode. " he said back. "Anyway my scar hurt and transforming hurt and it turned into The Symbol! Save me! then I had a vision of what was happening to Gaston...Volfebeast has him bondage!"

Anyway I was in the castle nurse's office now recovering from my slit wrists. Clock and Loomiere and CHAPUEU were there too. They were going to Sainte-Mangue's after they recovered because they were pedofiles and you can't have those fcking pervs around Beasty's castle with a lot of hot boyz (Chapeau is Ghey and maybe Clock too) and hot girlz. Beasty had constipated the cideo camera they took of me naked. I put up my middle finger at them.

(AN: If you are confused, my apologies. Working with the original text)

Anyway Chapueau came into my hospital bed holding a bouquet of pink roses.

"FeLou, I need to tell you something." he said in a v. serious voice, giving me the roses.

"Frck off," I told him. "And get my fckn name right! You know I fcking hate the color pink anyway, I only wore the bow tie because Gaston used to like girls as much as boys, and pink is a girl color! And...I don't like fcked up preps like YOU!" I snapped.

Chapeau had been mean to me before, for being goffik. He had punched me repeatedly in the face with his hat-rack arms. It didn't hurt though.

"No, FeLou," Chapuau says. "Those are not roses."

"What, are they goffs too you poser prep?" I asked because I was angry that he got me pink roses. And he can't get my name right.

"I saved your life!" he yelled angrily. "No you didn't I replied." "You saved me from getting a Paris L'Hotel de Hilton p-video made from your shower scene and being vued by Clock and Loomiere. Who MASTICATED (c is dat spelled rong) to it." he added silently.

"Whatever!" I yelled angirly.

He pointed one of his hat-rack hands to the pink roses. "These aren't roses." He suddenly looked at them with an evil look in his eye and muttered Well if you wanted Honesty thats all you haD TO SAY!

"That's not a spell, that's an MCL song." I corrected him wisely.

"I know I was just warming up my vocal cordes." Then he screamed. "Petulus merengo mi kremicli romacio (4 all you cool goffic mcr fans out there, that is a tribute! specially for raven I love you girl!) imo noto okayo!"

And then the roses turned into a huge black flame floating in the middle of the air. And it was black. Now I know he wasn't a prep.

"Okay I believe you now wtf is Gaston?"

Chapeau rolled his eyes. (on his top hat head) I looked into the balls of flame but I could c nothing.

"U c, FeLou," Beastly said, watching the two of us watching the flame, "2 c wht iz in da flames (HAHA YOU REVIEWRS FLAMES GEDDIT) u mst find urself 1st, k?"

"I HAVE FOUND MYSELF OK YOU MEAN OL' BEAST!" Chapeau yelled. BEASTly looked shocked. I suppose he didn't have a headache or else he would have said something back.

Chapeau stormed off back into his bed. U r a liar, Beasty!"

Anyway when I got better I went upstairs and put on a black leather frock coat that was all ripped on the ends with lace on it. There was a dark blood red vest, too, with corset stuff (laces) I put on the front. I put on ripped black breeches with black fishnet stockings and black high-heeled boots with tiny pictures of Gaston (the animated cartoon Gaston) on them. I put my hair all out around me so I looked like Samara from the Ring (if u don't no who she iz u a prep so fck off!) and I put on blood-red lipstick, black eyeliner and lip gloss.

(Mon Dieu! if only I could get back to Villaineuve- cuz Stanley would so be jealouz AND turned on- He dat sexy prep wiv hair like Jean Travolta from Grease!)

"You look kawai, boy." B'loody Belle said sadly. Belle was wearing her yellow ballgown except it was all ripped up with blood droplets on it. (Like those posh prep mums, the way they dress up their kids for Halloween? That.)

"Fangs (geddit) you do too." I said sadly too. but I was still upset. I slit my wrists feeling totally depressed and I sucked all the blood. (In memory of my Gaston the Vampire) I cried again in my bathroom (where M'oaning Monsieur Toilette kept me company but don't worry he is not a perv he just moans all depressed and he sucks himself back down the toilet from time to time) I put the shades on so Clock and Loomiere couldn't spy on me this time.

I went to some classes. (Reading classes where B'loody Belle taught me some basic reading in the big Library.) Beastly was in the Hair of Magical Magic Creatures (don't ask me what that means, je ne sais quoi- I sincerely don't get it.) Belle also reads us some Shakespear, because his stories are all dark and Goffic so we like his books.

Beasty (who was human Prince Adam right now) looked all depressed because Gaston had disappeared and he too used to be in love with Gaston. He was sucking some blood from a 'Hufflepuff' (Je ne sais quoi!)

"Hi" he said in a depressed way. "Hi back." I said in a wqually said way.

We looked at each other for some time. Adam had beautiful red gothic eyes so much like Gaston's. Then... we jumped on each other and started screwing with each other.

"STOP IT NOW YOU HORNY SIMPLETONS!" shouted Mrs. Teapot who was watching us and so was everyone else.

"Beasty you fcker!" I said slapping him. "Quit trying to screw me. You know I loved Gaston!" I shouted and then I ran away angrily.

And then he started to scream. "NOOOO! MY TRANSFORMATION HURTS!" And then...his eyes rolled up! You could only see his red whites.

"No!" I ran up closer. "I thought you didn't have a scar anymore!" I shouted.

"I know but Diablo (Maurice) changed it into a rose tattoo for me and I always cover it up with foundation!" he said back. "Anyway my transformation hurt and then I had a vision of what was happening to Gaston...Volfebeast...MY FATHER...has him bondage!"

SPECIAL FANGS RAVEN MY GOFFIX BLOOD SISTA WTF UR SUPPOSED TO RIT DIS!1111!

HEY RAVEN DO YOU KNOW WHERE MY SWEATER IS