Work Header

From My Devil's Cup

Chapter Text



SATAN AMONG US OR SOMETHING IN THE KOOL-AID?: TattleCrime investigates the Satan of Chesapeake.

            For as long as there has been belief in deities, there have been those claiming to be; false prophets, snake oil salesmen, those cunning charlatans spreading any lies that benefit themselves. This age old formula for corrupting the meek and weak has worked for centuries, changing and evolving as the times pass. Just in the last several decades the rise in religious and doomsday cults has been steadily increasing. Some of these so called new religious movements are harmless to the general public, a small internal cycle of manipulation and theft between the leaders and the sheep. This, however, is not always the case.

            Horror stories of the events at Jonestown and the Branch Davidians continue to haunt as much as fascinate many of us. People like to pride themselves, thinking that they would never fall victim to such an obvious scheme. Lured in with socialism?  A god’s second coming? A freak occurrence such as a change in weather cycles will bring forth the end of the world? Who really knows what they could be susceptible to by these silver tongued, modern day shamans?

            The latest of these new age cults has slowly evolved from meager beginnings as a personal video diary on YouTube to a hundred plus strong and devoted cult. Attracting a diverse group ranging from young teenagers to elderly scholars and even, according to a source, a US Senator, this latest cult based near the Chesapeake Bay is unlike any of its better known contemporaries. What sets this cult apart is that this cult isn’t warning others of an impending apocalypse; they aren’t claiming to be the reincarnation of Jesus Christ (see Jesus Christ Super Aussie). No, this group claims their leader is actually Satan. That’s right, readers; the dark prince, Beelzebub, El Diablo himself.

            The Satan cult is the product of former Baltimore psychiatrist, Dr. Hannibal Lecter. The esteemed psychiatrist closed his practice nearly two years ago after his so called “awakening”. The former doctor believes he is the reincarnation of Satan. This isn’t a simple case of a group of practicing Satanists slaughtering a few chickens and lighting candles, this is a bourgeoning religious movement. This reborn Satan claims to be the misunderstood hero of the ancient texts, telling worshipers to embrace their true selves, to seek out their own pleasures, the consequences be damned.

            His message of self expression, discovery and quest for pleasure has found its perfect audience in the digital age. As of the writing of this article, the self proclaimed Lucifer averages ten thousand hits per video. His Facebook page has been liked by a hundred thousand and growing. Counter to the traditional religious teachings of being humble, forgoing earthly materials, giving to others; this cult teaches a message of being one’s own ruler, indulging one’s self in joys traditionally denied by moral codes.

            What’s so wrong with a little personal pleasure? Where does this line of do what you wish end? According to this message, a cult follower can do anything, absolutely anything in the pursuit of their own pleasure.  Rob a bank, shoot up their workplace, leave a bomb in a subway station, slam their car through a school building, torch a church, smother their children; if it brings them joy, it is just.

            Little is known of the growing cult’s inner workings aside from what is shown in the weekly video “sermons” uploaded to their official YouTube channel (links provided at the bottom), and no official record of the cult committing atrocities has been reported. But is this on the horizon? Is this the next Jonestown? Will the members be willing to take their own lives, the lives of others, just to prove themselves worthy to their dark messiah? Should we be concerned about the possibility of a hundred thousand of these cold, selfish demon worshippers? You’ll have to judge for yourself.

(PEEK INSIDE SATAN’S CULT… IF YOU DARE: YouTube | Facebook | Twitter| Tumblr)

Freddie Lounds,
senior reporter



           Hannibal Lecter’s intense maroon eyes scanned the article twice over on his tablet. No matter the overly simplistic definitions of his follower’s intentions, there was a sense of warmth deep in his stomach at his group reported on in the media. If there was any weakness of Lecter’s, it was his vanity. The man craved power, respect, and adoration. Even something as insignificant in the scope of things as a short article on a gossip site from the slums of the internet had pleased him. Soon enough he’d know the satisfaction of seeing his exploits reported on by the Los Angeles Times, the sanctified Washington Post, perhaps even the holy New York Times. Yes, that would suit Lecter’s plans just fine.

           He closed the tablet, growing tired of reading the article after a fifth time. It was almost perfect except for that insufferable Jonestown comparison. As if Lecter would be ignorant enough to have his killings brought to light, as if he’d order his followers to kill themselves, as if he’d be cowardly enough to take his own life. He was far smarter than the pigs that would try and investigate him. His mind was too great to destroy with a bullet or toxins in his veins. He had something that none of these other pathetic excuses for religious sects had and that was pure, dark and unquestionable control.

           Lecter was never one to give in. The things he lost didn’t have claw marks as they were never really gone. Even those things no longer accessible in the flesh, the most important person in his life, all remained with him, safely and lovingly catalogued within the deep thresholds of his memory palace. There things remained constant, the way they were, the way he wished them to be. Bubbles blown through a silver bracelet, old songs sung by the lake, childish laughter, star shaped hands, beautiful stories told before bed. The most cherished memories in endless loop in his mind, available to him whenever he wished to draw upon them, however the purest of memories were the hardest to recount.

           The sensation of something wet pulled Lecter out of his daze. Unclenching his left hand he noticed four bloody crescent moons on his palm. He hummed, a deep, contemplative sound in the back of his throat. He had not ventured so deeply inside his palace for quite some time.

           There was a light pawing at his tailored trouser leg as a blonde, tousled head looked up to him with wide brown eyes of pure devotion, darting briefly between the eyes of their leader and the bloody marks on his palm.

           Georgia was one of his earliest followers, a clever girl and sweet in every sense. She had been homeless when they met, her mind ravaged by disease and neglect. She could have been just another statistic, another lost gem swallowed up by a cruel world. Lecter had been the one to get her the help she needed, nursing her to better health and embracing her, encouraging her to pursue her own interests. She would never regain her full mental faculties, part of her mind too ravaged by the disease that had nearly destroyed her, but she was happy and happiness was at the core of everything his group professed.

           She reached out with her scarred hand, taking his left hand and ran her thumb over the marks softly, smearing a red line down the center. She giggled softly, pleased with the line she made before grabbing his hand and pulled it to her mouth, desperately lapping up the blood.

           Lecter watched with amusement as she closed her eyes; a euphoric, almost spiritual look taking over her pale face as she drank him in. It was her desperation in the act that intrigued him. There was no way to truly interpret her actions. It could be some sort of symbolic ingestion of a powerful deity, an attempt to absorb some of the stability she longs for herself. It could also simply mean she liked the color and the taste of copper on her tongue.

           The girl finally pulled away, her wide smile accented by the smear of red along her bottom lip. Lecter reached out and touched her lip softly with his thumb before patting her head softly.

           “I trust you’re done.”

           Georgia nodded, not looking away from the man for a moment as he stood and towered above her.

           “Good. Go to the sitting room and tell Barney I’ll prepare dinner shortly.”

           The girl nodded again, rising to her feet as the bunched sleeves of her jacket fell down her arm, past her fingertips. Lecter had offered to buy her a new one in her appropriate size when she first came to him but the tattered old thing served as a comfort blanket, a memory of her old life and one she wasn’t yet ready to leave behind. He had allowed her keep it; the keepsake did not affect his complete control over her, and if it comforted her then there was no harm in her keeping it. The group was about happiness after all, one mustn’t forget that.

           He left his office, turning off the light and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt carefully and methodically as he made his way to the kitchen and opened the industrial size refrigerator. Taking stock of his cache of fresh cuts, he realized that another hunt would have to be planned and soon. Their food supply was depleting faster and faster as their numbers increased. Just this morning they had welcomed three new members into the fold, a group of young girls from some small town in West Virginia, desperate for guidance, desperate for approval, for someone to show them their true potential. The girls deserved something special for their first meal as with the group tonight. Lecter’s lips curled into a smirk as he lifted out two particularly beautiful cuts. Now then, he considered to himself, liver or heart?