Day: August 3, 2025

To Father Pierre, Our Lady of Fatima Parish

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Bless me Father, for I have warred with devils.

On the night of the Black Sabbath, under a blood moon, I carried out an act that to some may seem mad—but to me was obedience. Not to man, but to Nossa Senhora.

She sent me, I believe, as her unwilling knight. I asked her: Why me? Why send me alone into the ritual chambers of the enemy, veiled behind velvet masks, in a world of Eyes Wide Shut—where the devil’s harem feasts on the innocence of the lost?

That night, I burned tarot cards on the steps of your church. Not inside, but outside—on the concrete. Far from relics, pews, or parishioners. I chose a place that would protect the sanctuary from the fire, and bring light to what was hidden in shadow.

The cards were cursed.

One card in particular—a Brotherhood of Death insignia—was the reason I risked all. It bore the mark of the society George W. Bush joined at age 12, around his Catholic confirmation age. But he did not confirm Christ—he confirmed Moloch.

And though I burned it, the CIA—his watchers—erased the evidence. They scour my digital life like Pharisees picking over a field on the Sabbath.

But they missed something.

I left behind a gas can, on the roof above the church steps—not as an act of arson, but a signal to the fire department, whose presence I summoned. They would take pictures, as they always do. Maybe not all their phones got seized. I pray the Fire Chief—God bless him—has kept the evidence hidden, safe from the black suits.

You must understand, Father: the gas can was symbolic. For what else does Bush do but “kick their ass and take their gas”? Iraq burned because of a lie. A false crusade. A mock savior in cowboy boots.

Just like Ozzy.

Ozzy Osbourne played messiah that night—his Black Sabbath concert syncing with the lunar eclipse. While fools chanted his name, I saw through the smoke and mirrors. He is not the Prince of Darkness. Just a court jester. But behind him stands the real beast, who whispers: Feed them lust, then rule them.

There was one more thing, Father.

The occult bookstore down the road shut down that very week. Word is, the CIA was involved. No arrests. No press. Just silence. Another ritual center snuffed out like a candle—no one the wiser.

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I offer no excuse for my actions, only a plea:

Let the fire I lit not be seen as rebellion, but reformation. As Our Lady of Fatima weeps, I carry her sword in trembling hands. I do not ask for forgiveness—only understanding.

In Christ, and under the mantle of Mary,

Joe
Servant of the Flame, Child of the Immaculate Heart