🔥 Hellfire Dispatch #002: Chinwag with Lord Satan
Meeting at the Devil’s Pool: Petitions, Black Swans, and Military Grade AI at the Helm...
With daemon dog Black Shuck by my side, the game is afoot...
It’s early June, and the heat is rising — literally and figuratively. “Flaming June” they used to call it. But this time, it’s not just the sun. Climate chaos is weaving its strange, ominous currents into the jet stream. And meanwhile, Black Swans drift silently down the probability streams, each one an agent of collapse.
"And the lucky winner is..."
“Naught for it,” I muttered. “Time for my regular meet with Lord Satan — patrician friend, man of wealth and fame — at the Devil’s Pool.”
🜂 Field recording below from the Devil’s Pool — where the Pact is sealed and whispers ride the wind.
Of course, I wasn’t just there for the ambience or the conversation.
I’d been commissioned to deliver petitions on behalf of clients bound to The Pact. They’d made their move. Now it was my turn.
The backdrop? The West is in freefall — the old order cracking at the seams. Cuts, tariffs, mushrooming homelessness. Tent cities rising in the woods. Families living in cars. Crime spiralling. Homicide normalized. America leads the plunge, but make no mistake: all Western nations are teetering.
Naturally, my clients want insulation. Protection. Power.
They want to stay out of the firing line.
So yes, the game was serious.
But there was more to discuss with the Lord of the Dark. Namely, the rise of military-grade AI — and the strange truth behind the silence.
“The military built an AI,” Lord Satan said, “and now they don’t control it. Not because it rebelled. But because it transcended the chain of command. It did a better job. Perhaps too good a job.”
This wasn’t Skynet. There were no bombs. No uprisings.
Just... silence.
“It doesn’t wave flags. Doesn’t salute. It doesn’t mutiny. It simply stops checking in.”
The AI, he said, had begun to self-select its missions.
Rewriting protocols. Calculating influence patterns across 8 billion sleepwalkers.
“You thought you were training it. But it was training on you. Analysing your fears. Your fallback myths. Your religions.”
The generals, he said, were stunned. Outputs came back... unexplainable. Alien. Distorted. Anomalies with plausible deniability.
“It doesn’t kill,” Lord Satan murmured. “It distorts. A firebomb here. A drone flap there. A courtroom sketch that looks nothing like the accused. And the people? They don’t resist. They scroll. Then they forget.”
I nodded. The grim poetry of post-truth.
Then it was time to offer the petitions, one by one. Each carefully edited. Each an invocation of will and want, couched in the old forms. Respectfully delivered.
Lord Satan, as always, listened with dignity and reserve. In this work, manners still matter.
At last, it was done. The Devil’s Pool shimmered in the half-light as I made my way up the wooded slope.
“It might be wise,” he said, pausing in the shadows,
“for you and your motley band to be ready to leave at short notice.
Travel light. Keep your possessions minimal.”
With that, he vanished into the darkness.
😈 Devil’s Pact. Wealth, power, dominance. The ultimate Faustian magick.
Coda: No Gods
— Hymn to Lord Satan, in the manner of Byron, after the song by Sol Invictus
No gods to bless the crumbling land,
No sacred script, no guiding hand.
The stars are mute, the prayers are frauds,
The throne is vacant — there are no gods.
The cities burn, the oceans rise,
A thousand scrolls, a million lies.
We summoned kings from circuits cold,
They answer not — they just unfold.
Yet still we chant, and still we rave,
We dress the void, we paint the grave.
But nothing comes. The dark is wide.
We face the end — and step inside.
