2/8/24: Contextual content.
The following occurred in 2003, high in the San Bernardino Mountains of California. I first published my experience in 2013 (on an older blog; it didn’t appear on Might & Magick until 2019). But it wasn’t until 2024 that I discovered—to my absolute delight—the long-term angst and vitriol my initiation experience caused among a few very lonely interwebbers, who apparently needed to double up on their anti-anxiety meds and schedule an appointment with their mental health provider after reading it.
Let me help aid in contextual understanding: In 2003, our society was still culturally anchored in the expectations of the 1990s and Generation X—my generation. And back then, it was still not OK to be a degenerate crybaby weakling. That sad, shriveled trait was seized upon by the Millennials and passed down like an evil genetic curse to their soft, screen-glued, emotionally unstable offspring, known as Gen-Z.
In 2003, the Southern California Wiccan covens still had a strong masculine core—many coming down through the lineage of Janet and Stewart Farrar, often mixed with early Asatru before it got overrun by neo-Nazi LARPing degenerates. The radical feminist psychosis of Marxist-Communist hags like Z. Budapest and Starhawk—templates that Llewellyn uses as the AI-generated soybase for their commercial coven-in-a-box kits—was still mostly isolated to San Francisco and Berkeley, like a localized tumor of ideological rot.
Fast forward to 2024, and Wicca has become little more than a cosplay cult of pale, emasculated “men” and beefy, blue-haired banshees who perform the awkward worship of a God and Goddess they simultaneously deny exist—because their fragile identities and political affiliations demand adherence to an ever-mutating clusterfuck of identity politics. These folks now “venerate” the divine while spouting schizophrenic dogma about infinite genders, critical race theory, and the disturbing normalization of drag queen story hours for toddlers. All while championing women’s rights… without being able to define what a woman even is. And yes—these same delusional clowns will look you in the eye and insist “men can get pregnant.”
Let me be very clear:
If you are unable—or unwilling—to define what a woman is, how in the hell are you going to venerate and celebrate a Goddess?!
Neo-liberalism is a dumpster fire of ideological madness. Neo-liberals are the arsonists gleefully hurling gasoline on that blaze, desperately proving themselves to be the apex of human detritus—fit only for their own burning, stinking sheol of moral refuse and intellectual rot.
And that, my friends, is a big fucking problem.
Back in 2003, the Pagan communities I knew would have taken one look at the Christianized government mandate for cloth muzzle mandates and burned those dollar store face diapers in Beltane bonfires with roaring laughter. But by 2020, most of the so-called Pagan community had degenerated into sniveling, neurotic sheep—proudly displaying their face coverings and social distancing stickers like gold stars awarded by Big Brother. What once stood in defiance of imposed patriarchal hierarchy now bent the knee and begged for a boot, to both lick and take up their ass. Their ancestors, if still watching in horror, have turned away in utter disgust.
But not all of us bowed.
Some of us stand firm.
Some of us strengthen our bloodlines and sharpen our blades.
Some of us still look in the mirror and know we’ve made our ancestors proud.
My ancestors are smiling at me.
Can you say the same, you spineless communist cucks?
Now imagine, just for a second, the cognitive and spiritual crisis that my initiation might trigger in these same people. People who can’t determine their own gender and spiral into PTSD if their phone battery hits 5%. Imagine how violently allergic they are to the idea that a man—an unapologetically cisgender, alpha male—might have to suffer, bleed, and fight tooth and nail in a sacred trial to earn something of lasting, metaphysical value. That initiation must be earned, not “liked,” not “subscribed to,” and sure as hell not paid for with a TikTok shop account.
To be set apart, it takes an initiation like mine.
It is no secret that I’m one of the most accurate and deadly remote viewers operating today.
You want proof? Read “My Occult Destruction of Jeffrey Epstein” [HERE].
My work strikes at the throat of global power structures and ripples through metaphysical currents with lethal clarity. I’d expect nothing less from a Third-Degree High Priest of Wicca—and neither should you. If you do, we clearly have radically different definitions of what that title means. I invite you to reconsider yours before you embarrass yourself further.
And here’s another uncomfortable truth:
My initiation wasn’t even the only one like it at the time.
There was an Asatru Kindred in the same mountain range who reenacted Odin hanging on Yggdrasil—spear wound, noose, and all. You heard that right. I could tell you more. I could name other groups, other rites. But I won’t. Not because I’m protecting secrets, but because I don’t want to be solely responsible for their next mental breakdown or for the pharmacist adjusting their Xanax dosage after reading about it.
I lived it.
You cried about it.
That’s the difference
My Original 2013 Posting of “Initiation of a Wiccan High Priest.”
On the third day of my initiation, I awoke with a start. The earth trembled beneath me, and I heard someone scream my name. Likely a dream—but I will always wonder. The sun was just crawling over the San Bernardino Mountains bleeding fire into the valley. I began preparing myself for the day’s uncertainties.
Looking up, I saw my mentor’s sword still dangling above me, swaying to and fro in the morning breeze. It hung from a fragile braiding of just three threads—red, black, and white—tied to a branch of a gnarled Black Oak. If the sword were to fall during my initiation, it would signify divine displeasure. Augury would be needed to decipher the cause—and what appeasements might set it right.
The fire had dwindled to embers. My body was numb from the cold, which helped dull the swelling and staved off the pain—though only slightly. I searched the branches above for remnants of rope or rub marks. My mentor told me this Black Oak was once a hanging tree, with a notorious outlaw buried among its roots—a legend from the Gold Rush. True or not, the tree’s ominous presence lent weight to the tale.
Just sitting up required concentrated effort. My hands and feet stung as blood began thawing my frozen extremities. I rubbed warmth back into my thighs, and with stiff, wobbly legs, I stood. I hobbled to the fire, coaxing it back to life. A few breaths, and small tendrils of flame reemerged from the glowing char. I scavenged for fallen twigs and branches to feed it.
I dared not snap anything off the tree. The Black Oak housed a dryad—a conduit for the Goddess. The fire belonged to the Horned God. It was his channel into my initiation. They would decide if I would shiver or find comfort, sit in light or persist in darkness. I’m convinced I heard both tree and flame speak to me more than once during those nine long days.
My camp was enclosed within a circle of stones, each blessed by my mentor and housing a spirit. I could not leave unless he opened the path. Throughout the initiation, I saw visions—mountain lions and bears stalking me from outside the circle. On the final night, a stampede of horses charged toward me. All of them—phantoms. They dissipated like mist the moment they crossed the barrier. Fey-crafted illusions, meant to test me. If I fled the circle, I’d be fair game. If caught, I might never return.
Each morning, I made blood offerings with a razor blade—no more than a few drops on the tree’s roots and into the fire. A gesture of gratitude. While frowned upon in mainstream Wicca, in my inherited tradition, such offerings are rare but essential. Afterward, I recited incantations to the Ancient Ones—protean beings, often deformed or incomplete—as well as to ancestors, the dead, the fey, and other nature spirits for aid and favor.
I wore only khaki shorts and a tank top. My cloak doubled as a windbreaker and blanket. I was allowed a mouthguard for ritual combat. I was exposed, filthy, sunburnt, covered in dirt, bruises, and blood.
Nestled at the roots of the Black Oak was a lockbox. Inside was an envelope containing several thousand in cash. My mentor told me it was entrusted by members of my coven—for rent, medical bills, and car payments. If that box were taken, my coven would suffer. I swore to defend it with my life. Even after that trial ended, I found myself glancing at it often, exhaling relief each time it remained.
My mentor had recruited individuals to try and steal it. I had to prove I could embody a bull stag—physically and spiritually. A High Priest wearing the Horned Crown must defend his herd—his coven—in all ways.
From sunrise to noon, four men attempted to take the lockbox. The rules were clear: no weapons, only flesh and guile. No more than two challengers inside the circle at once. I could not leave the ring. If the rules were broken and the lockbox taken, it would be returned. My mentor and his armed associates watched nearby, ready to enforce forfeiture.
At first, the challengers used brute force, one by one. I manhandled them all. Blood was spilled. Frustrated, they changed strategy—teams of two. I adapted. I cradled the lockbox, shielding it with my body while enduring savage blows. Punches, kicks, grapples—but I didn’t yield. I hit back. Hard. Two men quit after an hour. I drove a third off with a solid punch to the chest. The last one, unwilling to risk solo combat, surrendered.
I invoked the Horned God, embodying the stag, the frenzied boar, the wild bear, and the conquering lion. My mentor acknowledged my victory and arrived with hot food, healing herbs, beer, and red wine—likely laced. I slipped into pain-free oblivion, dream-haunted by half-man, half-animal visions.
That was yesterday. Today, I would earn my sword.
That morning, my mentor brought oatmeal and water. He examined my wounds. As he had every day, he asked if I wanted to end it. Again, I answered: “No.” We spoke of my dreams, which I recorded. After the initiation, that book became my Book of Shadows. Inside, handwritten by my mentor, were the rites and rituals sacred to our Wiccan tradition.
He led me from the circle to a clearing. At the center stood a pyramidal rock pile. A sword jutted from the top, wrapped in a sash. A group of men blocked my path—some familiar, three unknown. The unknown men were massive. Another of my mentor’s associates brought him the lockbox from under the tree.
Leaning close, my mentor told me he’d been supplying the three with cocaine and cheap hookers—promising more if they could stop me from earning the sword. He waved the cash before them. They twitched like starving dogs. The offer: more drugs, prettier women, and a cash prize for whoever took me out. My mentor even told them where I was most injured.
I was to face each in one-on-one ritual combat. Rules: no weapons, no eye gouging, groin shots, or ganging up. My mentor’s rifle-toting posse promised strict enforcement.
They argued over who would fight first. My mentor pulled me aside and told me to use the chaos to my advantage. I had two nights’ sleep on them. I knew where they’d aim. This shift in awareness gave me clarity and a plan. Confidence surged.
“At this moment, despair ends, and tactics begin,” said my mentor. I made those words my own.
Seeing I understood, my mentor fired a shot into the sky. The largest man rushed me. I shaped my hands into bear claws, my arms like stag antlers. I danced with him, jabbed his face, baited him. He tired. I shot in low, took him down, and beat him into submission. He tapped out.
A second shot. “Next!” my mentor barked.
The second man was sharper—hand-fighting and distance striking. I played along until I caught my breath. We locked hands. I remembered my schoolyard mercy-game victories. I bent his wrist, uprooted his balance, smashed his nose, drove him to the ground, and choked him out. His surrender came fast.
A third shot. “Next!”
The last man refused. My mentor leveled the pistol at his head. “Fight or bow and address him as King.”
Tense silence. Then the man knelt. “King,” he muttered.
“LOUDER,” my mentor ordered, stepping closer. Rifles leveled. The man, eyes lowered, said it louder.
“Go claim your sword,” my mentor said, deadly serious. I climbed the rocks and pulled the sword free. A parchment clung to the blade: “Behold the once and future king!”
I lifted the sword and roared my triumph. My mentor holstered his weapon and informed the three they’d still get their reward—if they left peacefully. They agreed and were escorted away.
He untied the sash from the sword and tied it around my waist. “The earth is your throne. All you see is your kingdom. The only question is, what kind of King will you be?”
An associate handed him something draped in black. “You’ve claimed the sword. But you’re not king until you wear the Horned Crown.” Pulling back the cloth, he revealed a rugged crown adorned with antlers. He placed it on my head and knelt. I didn’t relish it, but he reminded me—true power inspires respect, not fear.
Then came a private rite. To know the sword’s mystery, I had to wound and be wounded by it. Both of us nervous. It was a painful and sacred exchange—a blood-borne pact signifying consequence and authority.
Back at camp, a tent and bed awaited. The sword no longer hung above me. I rested. At nightfall, an associate brought deer meat, ale, and water. I ate in silence. Later, I performed a secret rite aligning my astral body to the North Star—so I would never be lost again.
I was fast asleep when I heard a voice calling my name—haunting, sweet.
A beautiful woman from my coven appeared. Naked save for painted symbols and wildflowers in her hair. Possessed by the dryad of the Black Oak, she floated toward me. She carried a silver chalice, set it down, and took my hands.
She said she had witnessed everything. Seeing me defend the coven’s livelihood and claim the Horned Crown aroused her. Now, we would perform the Great Rite—as God and Goddess, in the presence of the Ancient Ones, the fey, and the spirits.
She led me to oils and a linen cloth, washed my body, and drew down the Sun. The Horned God surged through me. We enacted the Great Rite again and again (we fucked… a lot). My seed was collected in the chalice. As dawn broke, we added my blood and offered it all as a Holy Eucharist.
As sunlight grew, her trance faded. The dryad departed. I carried her to bed, the wild beauty still clinging to her. I wept from exhaustion, joy, and pain.
My mentor placed a hand on my shoulder. He led me beneath the Black Oak. There, he proclaimed me a hidden child of the fey—a once and future king. He declared me a High Priest of Wicca and hung a talisman around my neck—braided in red, green, white, and gold.
“You have shed the four great substances of a man,” he said. “Blood, sweat, semen, and tears. The price of admission into the mysteries of Hoof and Horn, Vine and Grain.”
Together, we walked beyond the circle of stones into a circle of stars. Deeper into the woods. Further into the ancient mysteries
-Kevin Wikse, 3rd Degree Wiccan High Priest.
Thank you for visiting my page. I am the only medium, remote viewer, and occultist who, with frightening and stunning accuracy, foresaw the COVID-19 pandemic/hoax and its sinister connections to China. Masks, weaponized and experimental vaccines, mandatory compliance, medical tracking on smartphones, the debacle of the 2020 election, the border crisis, the ILLEGAL migrant and CCP invasion, the specter of World War III, and the looming Magnetic Pole Reversal Global Cataclysm—I predicted it all. VAIDS (Vaccine Acquired Immunological Deficiency Syndrome) and even Dr. Fauci himself, all in my sights as early as 2014. Don’t believe it? See the complete, time-stamped, and documented evidence HERE.
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