Occult: Spirit Lodge

 An old Jeep sped over rocky and alluvial terrain. It was on it's way clandestinely to a place where much talk would commense, talk of spirits and necromancing, and maybe an excorsim to boot. Missouri was wide open for such things. The big City was in it's way, but the men occupying the jeep started where they were. It was simple. They found a contact, contacted the contact, with all the surreptitious little things undergone quite well. The whereabouts and thereabouts had all been tended as carefully as possible.
  One of these men was tired of society because he'd failed to please it as a whole. All the things projected onto him he was weary of. Perhaps he made all of this up his mind. Perhaps Eckhart Tolle was not good enough as a spiritual leader. He'd disobeyed that little number too. He was going the hard way. Sorry, Eckhart, the "pain body" is being a "pain body." He loved the work, but was in search of a form more agreeable with him. He didn't quite know that it would be, but there's no time for further conjecture or self doubt. He was going come hell or high water, for good or ill.
   He reached in his duffel bag and pulled out an old delight. It was White Man's Grave by Richard Dooling. It was a wonderful satire. It's focus was on a one Boon, who sickened to the teeth with Societal projections, gave up everything to go to Sierre Leone, or as it was called, The White Man's Grave. His relations wondered where he was going. His father recieved a package in the mail which  consisted of an African tribal curse. It would plague him and motivate him to reach his son. It was wonderful stuff. He read aloud some lines from it without realizing it.
 "Christian! What the hell are saying?" Bill, a cohort, and one ready to help, was yelling this trying to surpass the noise of the jeep over the terrain.
 "Ohh, nothin'. Nevermind that now. How far is it?"
"Whatever - it's two miles ahead. I can take you there, but I'm afraid I can't join you."
 "Why not? Aren't you my guide?''
 "Yes, but I'm needed elsewhere. Besides, only you can know what's going to happen there. I can show you the way, but I can't join you."
 "You tryin' to make me crap my pants."
 "You will or won't, Christian. Besides all this voodoo shit scares the pants off me."
 "Missouri Indians."
 "What?"
"Nevermind - are we there yet?"
"A mile ahead. Be patient. You freak out on me and we are going straight back."
 "Don't worry about that. Just hurry your ass, Bill.'
The two men raced along, jirating and bouncing up and down with the strength of four-wheel drive. It was gloaming. They could see the lodge up ahead. The jeep holted. Bill looked at Christian.
"Well, this is our stop. Get the hell out," said Bill.
"Sure you won't join me?"
"One hundred percent you crazy bastard."
"Do remember the movie Lion Heart with Val Kilmer," Christian was making an attempt at levity which did not amuse Bill.
 "This ain't no fuckin' movie and it ain't no fuckin' book. Put all of that crap out of your head before you go in there, young man." This was Bill's final farewell. He pursed his lips and tightened his grip on the steering wheel waiting for Christian to get his ass off the seat. Christian grabbed his personal effects and hopped out of the jeep.  He could hear the incantations and the tribal goings-on emanating from the tent. He had butterflies in his stomach. He took three paces forward. Bill started the jeep back up. "Move your ass!"
"Any other provisions or encouragment," Christian shouted back.
"Hellll no, ya damn fool. It's your funeral my friend. Take good care of your hair!"
Christian heard the jeep make its way back over alluvial Missouri. He walked towards the tent, Aliester Crowley on one shoulder and Christ on the other.