He contemplated the deck as it pertained to his life. 78 manicured cards etched by the symbolism of a gluttonous reality. This tarot wasn’t one of the famed decks as handed down throughout the ages. A Rider-Waite, Thoth, or even an appropriated Tarocchi deck. It was handmade. Leather bits and gears, magazine pages, candy wrappers, gold thread, and discounted charms. Each card was unique and could have been the template for a deck all it’s own.

The Fool was made from a sheared strip of canvas from a WWII satchel. An eye of horus from a ouija board was glued to the top and wiring from a phone cord were used to make the semblance of a body under the eye. The back was stapled, buttoned, and soldered with lavender, pyrite, glitter from a dead club kid, and marijuana seeds.

He packed his traveling kit. Video camera and journals. Candles and batteries. Glass vials and sticks of sage. Food, band aids, athame, and cigarettes. His list was two pages long and included some of his more notable possessions like the “POWER” button he got from the old slaughter house. The crystal bowl where he trapped the spirit of his apprentice’s father. And of course his war cloak, the glyph laden trench coat that had turned even the demon of the asylum.

He could feel the 100 cuts like phantoms on his skin. The cards, like possessing spirits, itched in his hands. The time would be soon. He would lay out the first card, the first cut, the beginning of the end, and to all that came to stop him, it would be too late.