At the entrance to Denver International Airport (DIA), a lone sculpture stands amidst the backdrop of high prairie and the distant Rocky Mountain front range; Mesteno (or as I like to call it, Demon Horse). The sculpture is a polarizing fixture as its bright red eyes eerily glow out over Pena Boulevard (at dawn or dusk, the effect is particularly creepy) and most Coloradans despise the sight of it. I like the sculpture and enjoy the satanic evilness of it. Besides, how could I openly bash a sculpture that killed its own creator? I do not taunt Demon Horse. For he may come alive with the magical powers of hellfire and gallop across the prarie to claim my soul. Or, at the very least, just fall on top of me and sever one of my arteries.
Religious moviegoers in Georgia were horrified to find their ticket stubs to The Passion of the Christ imprinted with the number of the beast. The manager of the theater claims it was a computer glitch and not the work of Satan.
First, in the book of Revelation the number 666 was said to refer to the Antichrist in which many modern Christians misinterpret as the coming of Lucifer to Earth in human form during Armageddon. Most biblical scholars concur that the number actually refers to the Roman emperor Nero, whose name equals the numerical value of 666 in Hebrew. Nero was quite a bastard to first century Christians and he enjoyed torturing them by crucifixion, setting them ablaze and feeding them to lions. John, the author of the book of Revelation, understood the wrath of the Emperors firsthand as he was poisoned, beaten, dipped in boiling oil and eventually exiled to the island of Patmos just for being down with the Lord. Therefore, the number of the beast does not refer to the Prince of Darkness himself but to the oppressive leaders of first century Rome.
When I was a youngster, my mom would always encourage me to go outside and play. I usually complied and got my bike out of the garage to ride around or met up with the rest of the neighborhood kids in the area vacant lot for a game of baseball. One a hot summer day, a neighborhood kid thought we should get a game of Dungeons and Dragons going. We briefly read the rules, made up our characters, rolled the 12-sided die and got our geek on. Within the hour my avatar was slain and I was out of the game. Two neighborhood kids proceeded to play that game for another three weeks. Little did we know at the time we were fucking around with dark forces, Satanism and the occult. Coincidentally those two kids grew up to be the biggest drug dealers at my high school. The dark influences of DnD or absentee fathers with a penchant for hardcore pornography and liquor? You be the judge.
I wish we had Club Satan at my high school because I might have actually joined and formulated a positive opinion about organized clubs into adulthood. Instead we had the garden-variety student council and pep club scene with kids promising another pop machine in the cafeteria should they be elected to a meaningless political post. Someone (read: my buddy Tim) should have dedicated a club to Satan, Lord of the Underworld. It would have been more constructive for me to talk about Lucifer within the safe confines of a high school classroom with a faculty adviser present mediating discussions rather than what I actually did; discussing the Prince of Darkness over a three foot bong in a stoned kid’s basement, listening to Slayer’s South Of Heaven on the stereo, smoking Camel Wide cigarettes and drinking stolen whiskey.