Two Priests, Dead Kids, and a Bottle of Whiskey

A Wise Wolf Mystery Special

A man walks into a detective’s office with proof the world is eating its children. The detective wishes he hadn’t answered the door.

---

The priest showed up on a Tuesday, which is the worst day for a revelation.

Mondays you expect trouble. Fridays you’re braced for it. But Tuesdays have a nothing quality that makes the universe lazy, and lazy universes don’t usually produce seventy-six-year-old men carrying three-ring binders full of evidence that the richest people on the planet are eating children.

Arson Wills was sitting behind his desk in the office above the dry cleaner on Hester Street, doing nothing of consequence (which was the job description most days, if he was honest), when the buzzer sounded. He pressed the intercom without looking up.

“Wills Investigations.”

“My name is Father Matteo Corsini. I was given your name by a mutual friend at the Archdiocese.”

Wills almost corrected him. He had not been a friend of anyone at the Archdiocese for eleven years, not since the collar came off and his name was scraped from the rolls under circumstances that the Church described as “a matter of pastoral discernment” and Wills described as getting fired for asking the wrong questions about the wrong bishop’s finances. But the man’s voice had a particular quality. Old. Italian. The kind of tired that doesn’t come from lack of sleep but from knowing too much for too long.

Wills buzzed him up.

Father Corsini was short and with wild eyes and wearing a frumpy hoodie over his stained priestly vestments He carried the binder against his chest the way a running back carries a football when the defensive line is closing in, which, Wills would later reflect, was exactly the right metaphor. His eyes were the pale blue of a man who had seen things that made the color drain out of his irises and never come back.

“I was an exorcist for the Vatican for thirty-one years,” Corsini said, sitting in the client chair without being invited. “I retired five years ago. I have spent those five years doing something the Church asked me not to do.”

“That’s usually how people end up in my office,” Wills said.

Corsini placed the binder on the desk. It was thick. Three inches, maybe four. Tabbed with colored dividers. The front cover had a single word written on it in black marker.

BALAAM.

“I need to tell you about a woman named Marina Abramovic,” Corsini said. “And I need you to understand that everything I am about to say is documented, sourced, and publicly available. None of it is hidden. That is the part that should terrify you.”

“Nothing terrifies me, Father. I’m a private detective in lower Manhattan. My last three cases involved a guy who thought his wife was cheating (she was), a landlord who thought his tenant was running a dog grooming business out of a residential unit (he was, and the dogs looked fantastic), and a missing cat that turned up living under a bodega on Mott Street. I am not in the terrifying business.”

“You were a priest.”

“I was.”

“You left.”

“I was asked to leave. There’s a difference.”

“Why?”

“I found out where money was going that wasn’t supposed to go there. I said something about it. The money kept going. I didn’t keep going.”

Corsini nodded as if this confirmed something. “Then you understand that institutions protect themselves.”

“I understand that institutions protect their money.”

“What if I told you there is something the institutions protect that is worse than money?”

Wills looked at the binder. He looked at the old man’s hands, which were steady. He looked at the bottle of Jameson under his desk (the bottle he had placed there four years ago when he stopped drinking, because Arson Wills did not believe in making sobriety easy, he believed in making it a daily act of defiance against the part of himself that wanted to quit everything, including being sober). The bottle was still full. It was always still full.

“I’d say open the binder.”

---

Corsini opened to the first tab. It was labeled ABRAMOVIC.

“Marina Abramovic. Born 1946, Belgrade, Yugoslavia. Both parents were Communist Party heroes. Her grandmother was deeply religious. Abramovic has said she spent her childhood in church following her grandmother’s rituals, candles in the morning, priests coming for occasions. Her mother beat her. She channeled this into what the art world calls performance art.”

“I’ve heard of her,” Wills said. “She’s the one who stares at people in museums.”

“That is the version of her the public knows. The version I am going to show you is different. In 1996, she created something called Spirit Cooking. It is a series of recipes (her word) that include instructions such as ‘mix fresh breast milk with fresh sperm milk, drink on earthquake nights.’ She painted these instructions in pig’s blood on gallery walls.”

“That’s disgusting, but people do disgusting things for art grants.”

“Agreed. But Abramovic herself has made a distinction that is critical to understanding what she actually does. She stated, and I am quoting directly: ‘If you are doing the occult magic in the context of art or in a gallery, then it is the art. Everything depends on which context you are doing what you are doing.’”

Corsini paused. He let the sentence sit there.

“Read it again in your mind,” he said. “She calls it occult magic. Her words, not mine. She says the LOCATION determines whether it is art or something else. In a gallery? Art. Somewhere private? Not art.”

“Okay.”

“In 2015, WikiLeaks published an email from Abramovic to Tony Podesta, the brother of John Podesta, who was the chairman of Hillary Clinton’s presidential campaign. The email said: ‘I am so looking forward to the Spirit Cooking dinner at my place. Do you think you will be able to let me know if your brother is joining?’ Tony Podesta forwarded this email to John Podesta.”

“At her place,” Wills said. “Not a gallery.”

“Not a gallery. By her own stated framework, whatever was happening at that dinner was not art.”

Wills said nothing. Corsini turned the page.

“November 12, 2011. The Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles held its annual gala. Abramovic was the artistic director. Seven hundred and fifty guests were given white lab coats. Naked performers were placed as living centerpieces at the dinner tables with skeletons draped over them. For dessert, life-size cakes sculpted into nude female bodies were rolled out on stage. Debbie Harry drove a machete into the chest of one, pulled out a beating heart made of red velvet cake. Shirtless men then dismembered the body cakes with meat cleavers and served the parts to tables. One breast went to Table 63. Toes went to Table 22. Guests posed with the severed cake breasts in lewd positions.”

“Who attended?”

“Gwen Stefani. Nicole Richie. Pamela Anderson. Kirsten Dunst. Dita Von Teese. Minnie Driver. Rosanna Arquette. Rachel Zoe. Art world luminaries. Fashion people. Money.”

Corsini flipped to another page and slid a laminated sheet across the desk.

Wills studied the diagram the way he used to study case boards when he still believed the world made sense. Every node connected. Every line sourced. No conjecture. Just names and dates and arrows.

(These connections, Wills would note later, are all publicly documented. They are not hidden. Lady Gaga’s collaboration with Abramovic is on Wikipedia. Jay-Z’s Pace Gallery performance is covered by the New York Times. The Podesta email is in the WikiLeaks archive. The Crowley parallels are in Abramovic’s own published recipes. You can verify every line on this chart with a search engine. That is the part that does not compute.)

“She trained Lady Gaga,” Corsini continued. “Not casually. Gaga participated in what Abramovic calls the Abramovic Method. One exercise involved Abramovic instructing Gaga to enter the woods, strip naked, and find her way home. Gaga was a financial backer of the Abramovic Institute. Jay-Z performed a six-hour piece inspired by Abramovic at Pace Gallery. He was also a financial backer. Her Star Home retreat center is on the Hudson River in upstate New York, roughly sixty miles from Esopus Island, where Aleister Crowley conducted his channeling rituals in the early 1900s. Crowley was there with William Seabrook, a writer who openly participated in cannibalism and wrote about it.”

“Crowley.”

“You know the name.”

“Every seminarian knows the name. The Beast 666. Founded Thelema. Wrote about consuming bodily fluids in ritual contexts. His Cake of Light sacrament called for menstrual blood and semen.”

“And Spirit Cooking’s recipes mirror the Cake of Light almost exactly. The ingredients. The method. The stated purpose of communion with spiritual entities. Crowley called them praeterhuman intelligences. Abramovic calls them art. The Church calls them demons. The recipe has not changed in a hundred years. It has not changed in four thousand years.”

---

Corsini turned to the tab labeled NORMALIZATION.

“If what I have shown you so far were isolated to one eccentric Serbian woman and her wealthy friends, it would be disturbing but containable. What I am about to show you is not containable.”

He slid a single laminated page across the desk.

Wills read it twice. The second time was slower.

“That could be a trend,” he said. “Entertainment follows trends.”

“Or trends follow instructions. A zoologist writes the academic justification. The world’s most famous atheist tweets the philosophical permission slip. Newsweek provides the mainstream on-ramp. A Swedish marketing professor (not a scientist, Arson, a marketing professor, a man whose job is studying how to change what people find acceptable) tests the public’s gag reflex on live television. Hollywood floods the zone with cannibal content until the audience stops flinching. And the New York Times Style section prints the benediction: cannibalism has a time and a place, and that time is now.”

“You’re describing a campaign.”

“I am describing Balaam’s strategy executed at industrial scale. You do not need every person to eat children. You need enough people to tolerate it. To call it art. To call it a trend piece. Tolerance is the gateway. Participation is the mechanism.”

“January 2020,” Wills said. “Gervais.”

Corsini raised an eyebrow.

“Ricky Gervais. The Golden Globes. He stood on that stage and told a room full of every powerful person in Hollywood, ‘Just like Jeffrey Epstein. Shut up, I know he’s your friend but I don’t care.’ Told them they were in no position to lecture the public. Told them to accept their little award and f--- off. Tom Hanks turned white. The camera operators seemed to know exactly where not to point the cameras.”

“You watched it.”

“Everyone watched it. Nobody did anything about it.”

Corsini nodded slowly. “That is also part of the strategy. The truth can be spoken out loud, on national television, to two hundred million viewers, and nothing happens. Because the truth has been pre-neutralized. It has been filed under ‘comedy.’ Under ‘entertainment.’ Under ‘conspiracy theory.’ The filing system is the weapon.”

He turned to the final tab and placed a third page on the desk.

The room was quiet for a long time after Wills finished reading.

“They deleted it,” he said. Not a question.

“The file designation was EFTA00147661. It was reported on. And then it was gone.”

---

Wills stood up. He walked to the window and looked down at Hester Street. A woman was pushing a stroller. Two kids were eating ice cream cones outside the bodega. A delivery truck was double-parked, as delivery trucks in lower Manhattan are constitutionally required to be. The world outside his window was doing what the world does when it doesn’t know what’s happening inside rooms like this one. It was being normal.

“You said the binder was labeled Balaam.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me what Balaam has to do with cannibalism.”

Corsini closed his eyes. When he opened them, Wills saw something he recognized. The look of a man delivering a homily he has delivered a thousand times but that still cuts him every time.

“Numbers, chapters 22 through 25. Balak was the king of Moab. He saw the Israelites coming and was terrified. He hired a prophet named Balaam to curse them. Balaam tried three times. God would not allow it. Every time he opened his mouth, blessings came out instead of curses.”

“I remember this.”

“Then you remember what Balaam did next. He could not curse Israel from the outside. So he taught Balak how to corrupt Israel from the inside. Send the Moabite women into the camp. Have them seduce the men. Invite the men to the sacrificial feasts of the false gods. Get them to eat the food offered to the idols. Get them to commit sexual immorality. And God’s protection lifts. Twenty-four thousand Israelites died in the plague that followed.”

“The strategy is corruption through participation.”

“Exactly. You cannot destroy what God protects. But you can get God’s people to disqualify themselves. And the method is always the same. Two things. Sexual immorality and eating food sacrificed to idols. Always together. Never one without the other.”

Corsini opened to the last tab in his binder.

“Revelation 2:14. Jesus Christ addresses the church at Pergamum. Let me read it exactly. ‘But I have a few things against you, because you have there some who hold the teaching of Balaam, who kept teaching Balak to put a stumbling block before the sons of Israel, to eat things sacrificed to idols and to commit acts of immorality.’ This is not the Old Testament, Arson. This is Jesus in Revelation listing specific sins that provoke judgment in the last days. Not general wickedness. A specific, named strategy. Balaam’s strategy. Two acts. Fornication and eating things sacrificed to idols.”

“And Revelation 2:20.”

“You do remember.”

“’You tolerate the woman Jezebel, who calls herself a prophetess, and she teaches and leads my servants astray so that they commit acts of immorality and eat things sacrificed to idols.’”

“A woman,” Corsini said, “who calls herself a prophetess. Or an artist. Or a spiritual advisor. Who leads people into the same two sins. Fornication and eating things sacrificed to idols. Always together. Never one without the other. Do you understand why they are always together?”

“Tell me.”

“Because they are not two separate activities. They are one ritual. The fornication IS the sacrifice. The eating IS the consummation of the ritual. Psalm 106. They sacrificed their sons and their daughters to the demons. Shed innocent blood. Leviticus 18:21. Deuteronomy 18:10. Jeremiah 19:5. Second Kings 23:10. Over and over and over. What gets sacrificed to the idols? Children. Always children. And the sexual violation of the child IS the act of fornication that Scripture describes. The trauma, the defilement of innocence, that is the offering. That is what the entity demands. And the consumption of the sacrifice completes the circuit.”

Corsini’s voice had not risen. It had gotten quieter. That was worse.

“This is not symbolism, Arson. This is the oldest technology on earth. The occultists know it. Crowley wrote about it openly. The ritual abuse of a child generates a specific kind of spiritual energy. The sacrifice of that child to the idol transfers that energy to the entity being worshipped. And the consumption of what has been sacrificed is how the practitioner takes the power into themselves. Fornication. Sacrifice. Consumption. One ritual. Three stages. The Bible doesn’t separate them because the ancients didn’t separate them. Revelation 2:14 is not listing two sins. It is describing one machine.”

The room was very quiet.

“Balaam taught Balak this machine. And it worked. Twenty-four thousand dead. Not because God was angry about a menu. Because the participation in the ritual opened a door that God’s protection had been holding shut. And Revelation tells us this exact machine, this exact strategy, is one of the specific reasons judgment falls in the last days.”

He looked at Wills.

“Now look at that network diagram on my desk. Look at the woman at the center of it. She calls herself an artist. She leads the powerful into rituals involving bodily fluids, ‘simulated’ (real) cannibalism, and sexual imagery. Her recipes mirror Crowley’s sacraments. Crowley’s sacraments mirror the ancient rites. The ancient rites are what Balaam taught Balak. And Revelation says this is the sin that brings the fire.”

“The fire.”

“The first judgment was water. The next one is fire. Second Peter 3:7.”

Wills said nothing. Corsini let the silence hold. Then he spoke again, quieter still.

“The fairy tales all warn about the same thing, Arson. Hansel and Gretel. Baba Yaga. Jack and the Beanstalk. ‘I’ll grind his bones to make my bread.’ Every culture. Every continent. Every era of human civilization. Stories about witches who eat children. The academics say these are metaphors for childhood fears. I say they are field reports.”

He stood up. He zipped his coat. He left the binder on the desk.

“And the normalization you just read on that timeline? That is Balaam’s strategy executed at industrial scale. You do not need every person in the world to participate. You need enough people to tolerate it. To call it art. To call it a trend piece. To publish it in the Style section. Balaam did not need every Israelite to worship Baal. He needed enough of them to eat the food. Tolerance is the gateway. Participation is the mechanism. And the machine has been running for four thousand years.”

He looked at Wills with those pale blue eyes.

“I did not come here to convert you, Arson. I came here because you are a man who lost his faith because the Church was corrupt, and I wanted you to know that the corruption you found was a splinter from a much larger piece of wood. The tree is rotten to the roots. And the roots go all the way down to a valley outside Jerusalem where they burned children alive and the screaming was so loud the priests played drums to drown it out.”

He walked to the door.

“The binder is yours. Everything in it is sourced. Read it or don’t. But when you see the New York Times Style section telling you that cannibalism has a time and a place, remember what you learned in seminary about what Balaam taught Balak. And then ask yourself whether the fairy tales were really fiction.”

The door closed.

---

Arson Wills sat in his office for a long time.

The light changed. Hester Street went from afternoon to evening. The dry cleaner downstairs closed and the chemical smell faded and the sounds of the city shifted from commerce to something else, something looser and less purposeful.

He opened the binder. He read it. All of it. The emails. The photos from the MOCA gala. The Podesta invitation. The Abramovic quotes. The Dawkins tweets. The Newsweek article. The Swedish professor. The New York Times Style section. The Epstein files. The fifty-two mentions. The deleted FBI interview. The body cakes dismembered with cleavers at Table 63.

He thought about Revelation 2:14. He thought about Balaam teaching Balak. He thought about twenty-four thousand dead from a plague that came because the people ate what they should not have eaten.

He thought about the witch in the gingerbread house.

He reached under the desk. His hands were shaking. Not the fine tremor of caffeine or cold but the deep, structural shake of a man whose framework for understanding reality has just been demolished and rebuilt in a shape he cannot refuse because the evidence is sitting in front of him in a three-ring binder with colored tabs and Getty Images watermarks.

The Jameson was room temperature. Four years of room temperature. He poured two fingers into a coffee mug that said WORLD’S OKAYEST DETECTIVE (a gift from a client whose cat he had found under the bodega).

He drank.

It tasted like nothing at all.

It is not every day you realize the Bible is real and Satan is running a marketing campaign while people argue about whether Donald Trump was a little too close to Jeffrey Epstein to be just a casual acquaintance.

Outside, on Hester Street, a woman pushed a stroller past the bodega. Two kids ate ice cream. A delivery truck was still double-parked. The world did what the world does when it does not know what is happening inside rooms like this one.

It kept going.

---

A Note From the Wolf

I wrote this article like a scene from a film noir because I have run out of ways to get people to believe what is actually happening.

I have written it straight. I have written it with sources. I have written it with screenshots and documents and timestamps and direct quotes. And people still comment on my articles telling me I am insane, that there is no way the ruling class of the most powerful nation on earth is ritually sacrificing and consuming children. That it is impossible. That I need to take my medication.

So I put it in a detective story. Two fictional priests in a room on Hester Street. A binder full of evidence. A bottle of Jameson. Maybe fiction is the only delivery vehicle left for facts that people refuse to absorb when you hand them over straight.

But I need you to understand something. Father Corsini and Arson Wills are fictional. Everything in that binder is not.

Every single data point those two men discuss in that office, you can find on Google yourself right now. The Abramovic Spirit Cooking recipes are in the collection of the Museum of Modern Art in New York. The WikiLeaks Podesta email is in the archive with a search function. The 2011 MOCA gala photos are on Getty Images. The Dawkins tweets are on his account. The Newsweek article is still up. The New York Times Style section piece is still up. The Epstein files are on the DOJ website (except the one they deleted, which is its own kind of confirmation). Armie Hammer confirmed biting into a warm animal heart on a recorded podcast. Ricky Gervais said what he said on live television to two hundred million people.

All of it is real. All of it is sourced. All of it is publicly available. And all of it points in one direction.

The ruling elite have created a cult. The cult worships entities that the Bible calls demons and the practitioners call gods. The fuel for the rituals is innocent blood. The victims are children. The government is involved because of course it is. When has any government in the history of civilization managed to resist the temptation to gain more power? And these rituals promise power. That is the entire sales pitch. That has been the sales pitch since Canaan.

I am honestly terrified at this point that I am going to end up dead or thrown in prison on some fabricated charge and quietly removed from the equation. That is not paranoia. That is pattern recognition. People who investigate these networks have a tendency to experience sudden misfortune. I would very much like to not be one of those people.

It would be extremely helpful if this article went viral. Not for my ego. For my safety. Because the more people who have seen this, the harder it becomes to make me disappear without anyone noticing. Sunlight is the best disinfectant and it is also the best bodyguard.

If there is a civil rights lawyer reading this who has the spine and the resources to represent two freelance journalists who are trying to expose a satanic money cult on a budget that would make a lemonade stand look well-funded, we would very much like to hear from you. Lily is less than a year from finishing her journalism degree. I gave up a career in finance that would have made me wealthy because I grew a conscience, which, as career moves go, ranks somewhere between “investing in Beanie Babies” and “opening a restaurant during a pandemic.” We cannot afford an attorney. We can barely afford the newsletter. But we are not going to stop.

If you can swing a paid subscription, it keeps the lights on and gets Lily closer to graduating without selling a kidney (she only has two and she is going to need those for the kind of investigative journalism we do, because this work will age your organs). If you cannot swing it, share this article. Share it everywhere. Text it to the person in your life who thinks you are crazy for believing any of this. The binder is right there. Every line is sourced. Let them check for themselves.

Help keep the Wise Wolf howling.