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Ayahuasca: The devil called me to Peru – Part 4: Scream

I know the devil’s name. It’s Wurxlkwarxl. Really, wow. Do you want to know why? Yes, tell me. It is chaos in the guise of humour. This house here, it is structure. It is proof that god exists. Do you think this place is bad? Yes.

I would be talking to the Viking. I would be telling him about god, about hell. I would be telling the Viking that the shaman was the devil, without flinching.

But that would be later, hours in the future. The seconds are long in the jungle.

Fight or flight

I do not know this feeling. It’s not fear, no, not fear of death even, I know fear of death. Every fiber of my body wants to contract itself out of existence. The hair on my arms is erect as if an electric field was trying to tear it out. My eyebrows protrude unnaturally high into my forehead. I don’t take further notice of the fact that I vomit. Something heavy in my stomach moves around and binds me to the ground; a snake perhaps, charmed by the devil whose glassy eyes I had met before I zealously drank his poison.

Focus on your breath. It’s hard. I keep forgetting the concept of a body. Why, oh why did I get here? I look at my hands – they were once a gift to me but I have squandered it now. Now? My life has been a second long. My life? Yes, I must think of my life. There is none. It is not mine. Aren’t there any memories to keep me safe. What are memories. Was there not something I was used to calling home? I try to access the part of my brain that contains my home, but I don’t remember the concept of locations. I vaguely visualize a world map with black spots – the funnels to hell.

Home doesn’t exist. I started out in hell a second ago. Life has been an eyeblink, meaningless, now I’m back. The distance doesn’t matter, the world spans two inches. Was there a person with whom I had spent that life? What is a person. Who am I. What is my personality. My god, I don’t recall the concept of personality. Will I ever be free? I cannot take this anymore. Please, somebody, help!

A game

The wormholes keep whispering to my bones. Reality is an illusion. You know there is only this WURXLkWARXL. The sound is an abomination; it is a mouthful of bitten off squirting pussy, a munching burp with the vapid indifference of a body whose pussy is being bitten off forever during orgasm. A thousand blank eyes agree.

I need some guidance. I need some light. Why is there nothing!

Focus on your breath. Nobody is helping me. No bright light contrasts the horridness of hell. There is nothing to fight for, god does not want me. If god does not want me then I must fight for myself. What is that worth, no, it’s worth nothing but the escape from a place that I cannot accept as anything but wrong.

Voices inside my head. Voices of something I remember calling friends in that dream which has been life – it’s fading so quickly. They are meaningless, they are not me, they are separate and offer no security. I realize that voices – other people’s voices – have been the illusions of security I have been holding on to during my whole life. To avoid the fear of being alone in the world. But it matters not, life was only the blink of an eye. What worked during life, doesn’t work here.

My chest fills up with mor. My mind is a lost battlefield, but there is still a dwindling resistance against the hypnotizing power of the chant. Mindless giggling intermingling with violent vomiting. The orchestra of drooling souls on marionette wires, eager to suck the devils cock, waiting to be led by their master, the occult crepitating cripple who fills the room with his nausea-inducing presence of unbearable grossness.

I have to live.

Laboriously, I access my motoric systems. It is too much to say that I feel my body; I am a fatigued observer sending primitive electrical shots out into tingling limbs. My skeleton manages to upheave my flesh. The first inept step; a far too loud stomp on the wooden planks. This is a computer game and I am learning the controls.

One of the pawns guards the entrance of the Maloka. He may be curiously looking, I wouldn’t know. I move fluidly on my toes and approach the exit. I am being approached. Yes, everything is fine. The words are there, but they are not me; it’s a computer game and I am making the sounds.


The movement lets me feel an idea of my body. I suck in the air, protrude my breast and feel freshness. A ball of heat expands below my thorax and sets my chest on fire.

I breathe in and scream.

An unknown and crude bestiality is what I hear. The sound of a beast who wants to live, yet has to murder. I was born with a blue face, without oxygen. How was I to cry, no, but how can I not cry now? To be torn with such immediate brutality from the womb of everything I ever dared to hold on to, the only thing there is to do is scream. Scream at the injustice that is life, scream at the pain that I must do and that will be done to me. It is the proud roar of a lion that transcends into the bright screech of a dilacerated deer in it’s last seconds of consciousness.

I’m not in a place where I consider what others think. That is part of a dream world I was ripped out of. I scream to frighten them. I scream, devil, to show you that I protest, to show you that you have not fooled me. You have not fooled me, devil, and fooling is your mastery. Devil, I scream with the confidence of a child who knows his father is around, but he isn’t. Devil, I see your pawns and I see the uncertainty in their faces when I roar. Devil, you may kill me, but you can not destroy the kind of power that sees you for what you are.

I scream at the devil while I run away in trepidation, breathing deeply, focused on every step, followed by the ghoulish instructor.

Never have I felt more alive. Never have I felt more helpless. I am proud, I am a warrior, I am devastated.

Welcome to the jungle

Hastily tiptoeing, I reach the forum of the village. I don’t recall having been here, the place looks different. Space and distance is distributed in an entirely new manner. Yet space does not warp. It stays just the same kind of different and I freely move in this alternate reality. What is this. What have I done.

I look back to the Maloka, the indoctrination house. The mere thought of going back fills me with horror as I hear the distant chanting. The feeling reminds me of a movie about voodoo where an elderly pair exchanges souls with young kids to prolong their lives. It is one of the most chilling film moments I remember – the kid’s consciousness waking up in an old body, robbed of it’s youth.

The instructor comes after me. I extend my arms towards him to make him stop. He comes closer, too close. His circumorbital rings scare the hell out of me – or back into me.

I turn around and run along a path, further into the jungle; realizing that I am thousands of miles away from a safe place, hours away from civilization. I will be just another unfortunate news story about a guy who died in the rainforest. Very unfortunate, but it happens only so seldom.

Lightheaded and dizzy, I run past trees, my entire back moring in apprehension. This is a hunting ground and I am easy prey.

My mind is infected with the vine and my body hardly listens to me. Every single step feels like the last as my limbs randomly jerk from fatigue and poisoned neural pathways. There is no rationality here.

I gasp, producing high howling sounds of terror.

This isn’t about survival. I am not afraid of my life as I barefootedly run through the wild jungle, kicking thorns into my soles. If they catch me, they will sing the chant and my soul will be lost in hell forever, serving the perverse pointless pleasures and pains of Wurxlkwarxl.

I hold on to a tree for support as I pass it. A dozen spikes puncture my palm. Sharp pain, but it doesn’t matter in the slightest.

Exhaustion overwhelms me. The jumping cones of my followers’ flashlights wear down what is left of my concentration. I must hide. It’s a game, they must not find me. Ever.

I jump behind a bush and cease to breathe. My mind is blank but for an irrational hope not to be spotted.

The ghoulish instructor passes by. Overwhelming relief sets in.

He turns around and catches me in the spotlight. I am exposed. This cannot be possible, no, I cannot go to hell yet. Tom, listen, we want to help you.

They keep saying that. Tom, Tom, we want to help you. Tom, listen to me. I realize that these are orders. I am programmed to listen to these orders, but in my current state of mind, the programming is completely detached from myself. I listen to the voices and I clearly see the anchors attached to them, buried deep within something that once was my social persona. Red herrings that sound nice. We want to help you. Trust me, Tom.

I contemplate resignation. The only left desire is to give in to the lure of comfort. Give in to the voices.

Just in the instant I make the decision to give up and feel the warmth of surrender take over, my body jerks itself back up in protest and I continue to run.

I repeatedly scream the lions roar. In between I resort to high-pitched deep breaths.

A pond lies ahead. There is no other way and I jump into the unknown water with widespread arms and legs, like a hero.

Tom, come out of the water, please. My former mind tells me to be reasonable, these are people just like you and they know what’s best for you. The wish for trust and harmony clouds my senses. Yes, you are right.

And again, just when I decide to listen, my body’s survival instinct kicks in and I get flooded with another thrust of rebellious energy. I don’t know what it is. The concept of hormones doesn’t belong to the world I occupy right now.

On and on I go. I stumble, I cry out in desperation as my feet get stuck in knee deep mud, I scream to intimidate the cowards who are the devil’s pawns. See, devil, I can use my voice after all. You can’t hinder me, see?

I reach moor and reed. I must hide here. Quickly I run, quickly and I let myself fall, hope for the light cones to pass by and get lost. Hope to never let them find me. Nothing. Infinite weariness consumes me.

The spotlight finds me. Tom, Tom, do you hear me. No! I don’t hear you fucker!

My body gets slowly bored from doing the impossible. With each time I stand back up and fall down, with each lost moment of hope to lose the hunting party, with each further try standing up takes longer. Until my body finally collapses and ceases to respond to my orders. Whatever currency I had been bribing my muscles with, I have run out of cash.

I lie in the wet reed, breathe the humid air, hear the crickets’ song and frantically avoid looking into anybody’s eyes. I don’t play their game.

Incandescent consternation crushes me down from within as the devil approaches and gives me an empty gaze. I pee myself.

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