Greetings, odious creatures! How oft do dreams turn to nightmares, I hear you ask, my frightful creatures? 'Every day' is the obvious reply. And every day of nasty November will be a dream turned nightmare for you. Have no doubt on the subject! For I, Asperitus, baffling bard, pompous pontiff, haunting haruspex make this pronouncement so you will know that it is true.
Pin back your ears! Attend to me, my ghastly lunatics! These are prognostications, vile and bitter, that cannot be gainsaid. Naturally, I'm late with the forecast, as I overslept. I make no apology. If you can think of a reason to get out of bed in the morning, kindly send an email on the subject to someone who cares. I'll fill you in on what's happened meanwhile. Last time, you were engaged in becoming the overdressed head of a 'devil cult', due to the ill-starred success of your reality show, THE CABINET OF DR CALIGARI and of course a visit to Hell. Yet, amidst your public adulation, a vigil was begun by a lone protester, set against you in the name of moral good. Eek!
A secret plot against you was also underway, involving potions secreted in your post-torture restorative elixir. As we left, the lone protester was gathering comrades. Then, the New Moon came in your ghastly sign, with nasty aspects to aging Saturn, bringing on a bout of improper congress with Lady Moon and the great Sol Invicti. Thus, you decided to fortify your role as advocate for Satan. That brings us up to date. Now, mischievous Mercury engages in the first of several illicit encounters with Uranus, the idiot god! Thus you decide to spice up the show with a franchise on Satanic merchandise, including home torture kits (be just like Dr. Caligari in your living room) and an assortment of hellish icons for personal worship. Vamping Venus wanders mindlessly in the gloomy landscapes of the sign of the Goat and you market a cell phone with garish ring tones and unspeakably infernal options. They link the user to torture sites where they may dispose of unwanted callers and dumped lovers with a fiendish, fantastic glee. But as your evil empire grows, the potion in your after show elixir takes effect.
Gadzooks, you cry! What will it do? Well, I'll tell you. It will render you a victim of one of your own favourite devices, tiny insectoids. Under its influence, you will obey hypnotic commands uttered in a certain tone and at a certain pitch. Your opponent will soon have you, the celebrity puppet master, dancing on a string. And so the revenge of the old enemy begins!
Eek! It's almost too horrible to describe but I shall essay the attempt nonetheless, fearless as I am. Mercury the messenger moves in perverse reverse in addlepate Sagittarius and your house of money. Thus, as you leave your manse and walk the streets among your public, a quiet voice urges you to throw your ill-gotten gains to the adoring masses that have come to see the torturer. And, at this hypnotic command, you have no choice but to obey. At first, it seems only the natural largesse of one as famous and as garishly dressed as you are! But then more and more money is hurled and gathered by the fawning masses whose adulation fast turns to riotous greed as they push and shove to grab the dosh.
The Full Moon blazes in cloddish Taurus, illuminating the ghastly congress of marauding Mars and aging, wrinkled Saturn. Some fans abuse you because they haven't received as much as others. A riot begins in deadly earnest, the authorities are called to disperse the crowd and you are led away, sweating, distracted and uncertain as to what has actually transpired.
Egad! Can this be you, my nefarious scheming types? Occupying the siege parlous? For the moment, it seems so. Yet again, the mischievous messenger and idiot Uranus clash and the quiet but authoritative voice follows you everywhere so that every gain you make from your evil doings is nullified by a foolish, generous gesture. Money flows like a tide from your coffers as the mischievous one gropes the private parts of the great Sol Invicti. He then enters your own morbid sign by means of the back door (eek) and you swoon, falling into an insensate state, stumbling over your words and the furniture. You even cut yourself severely whilst cleaning one of your favourite scalpels.
By my sainted aunt! This is a rum do, my odious arachnids! What do you think will happen from here? Unfortunately, fatigue and screaming boredom have numbed my oracular powers. Thus, I will hie me to the prone position with my brown bottle and silver tube. When rested and restored, I shall return to bring the worst news you may have ever received in the entire karmic cycle of your wretched lives. Jupiter, the lord of fortune, in your sign! Ha! Fortune swings both ways, my fiendish articles. Weep and tremble in anticipation of another round of nasty upsets and a ghastly fate. Ta! Ta!