Salutations, odious arachnids! Last month, we left you about the devil's work as you returned from a sojourn in hell to the arena of your triumph, the mysterious manse where THE CABINET OF DR CALIGARI is made. This is, of course, the reality tv success that you star in, where ghastly persons, hated by the general public are voted into the torturer's cabinet (carried by the grim somnambulist) to experience the tender mercies of your dissembling ways, sharp tongue and even sharper instruments of pain. And so it is that you're set to rise above the role of celebrity torturer to become a leader of a new cult to advance the dark forces in this benighted universe ruled by insane gods.
On reflection, I am not entirely sure that your efforts could make it worse than it already is! Each to their own, the sages say! Such ponderings notwithstanding, you began to dress in preparation for the part, adopting garish costumery and jewelry and a suitably exaggerated manner. So, now we lift the vile and bitter cup this time and drink deep of the prognostications that seethe within its depths. What shall we find there, my idiot rulers of the anus? Read ahead and so discover for yourselves!
It's tumultuous from the start as marauding Mars turns his backside on the world and moves into perverse reverse motion. He does so in cloddish Taurus and your house of partnership! Egad! That means there's someone out there that hates you and is seeking revenge against your estimable person. Hard to believe but true nonetheless! And so it is! For as you're set to begin another night of torture, mayhem and general merriment, a lone figure pickets the mysterious manse wherein these grim doings are done! However, you step from your limousine, unconcerned, passing the creature by. You do not see that picket sign accusing you of the very thing of which you're guilty (well, one among the many things), that of being in league with the devil!
You also do not see beneath the cunning disguise of simple religious cloth that this is an ex-lover, one jilted, betrayed and burning for revenge (is there another kind where you're concerned?). Under the auspices of an evil New Moon in loathsome Libra that brings a Solar Eclipse to your house of self-undoing does this soon-to-be-costly inattention occur. Mischievous Mercury gropes the private parts of jolly Jupiter and your enemy lays secret plans to bring you low from your high estate! Eek! How cruel, but how cosmically just!
Vamping Venus moves to ghastly Sagittarius and you keeping raking in the moolah and buying expensive clothes and garish jewels to bedeck the growing prestige of your august personage. Mischievous Mercury then slithers into your own morbid sign and you issue orders to all and sundry as you direct the doings of the torture chamber that is your demonic domain.
But what's this? By my little brown bottle, say not so! But indeed it is! All hell breaks loose in the Heavens! Ghastly farting from the nasty back passages of larrikin planets delivers noxious miasma, piped through to the paltry denizens of a benighted universe ruled by insane gods (that includes yourself). Chief among them is the Martian marauder as he forms yet another Yod (you had one last month), a grim configuration that betides woe of nine kinds and is known to astrologers of yore as the Finger of God. Again the divine but deadly digit directs itself at you! The lone protester for religious good on the outside of the manse has a comrade inside.
A Full Moon glowers in addlepate Aries, bringing a Lunar Eclipse to your house of work and health. So it is that substances of unknown derivation (mischievous Mercury and narcotic Neptune in an unhealthy grappling motion) find their way into the flask of the restorative elixir you drink from after each completed round of torture.
Egad! You begin feeling strange! But then you are, so there's nothing to alarm you yet! In fact, it seems the opposite at first! Mischievous Mercury lays bare his private parts upon the rack of marauding Mars and you deliver such a rude yet gracious and exquisite round of torture to the CEO of a bankrupt IT corporation that phone and text lines crash with the weight of your public acclaim. The great Sol Invicti slithers into your hag-ridden sign and you're set to celebrate a Sun Return such as no other you have had. Not only that but also does jolly Jupiter, the giggling and inebriated lord of fortune follow on the wounded heels of the Sun into the domain of death, taxes and the anus! Your evil kingdom!
Great gods alive and dead, what can you not do now that fortune is in your house? But fortune has turns both good and bad. How long will it be before the poison in your system begins to work. Oh, and by the way, others have begun to join the moral rearmament protester. No longer the lone figure set against you! Others too are tired of the moral corruption of this naughty world! Will their numbers grow? Will yours decline? Click here next month and see, my arch arachnid fiends! For then, will your cry be 'morituri te salutant'? We shall see! Ta! Ta!