introduction Osiris is an independent operative, part of a shadowy nonorganization known as the Invisibles. In civilian life, Osiris was named Carl Smith. He was an intelligent young man interested in politics, art, the occult and everything around him. When he was 14 he discovered magick. When he was 16 he discovered situationism. By 18 he had thoroughly explored all that the western mystery tradition had to offer, initiated to the point of adeptus major by the Golden Dawn. Soon enough, through mutual acquaintances in both the underground occult and radical political communities, at the age of 22, in the year 1998, he was introduced to a gentleman who would change it all. that gentleman's name was King Mob. marakesh I'm walking through the old market in the city of marakesh, morrocco. someone is playing some sort of ethnic flute. people in chalabas are milling about, trading skins for rugs or vases or shoes or various things. the smell of dates and oils are heavy in the air. I'm looking for my man, though i know i will never see him. I'm looking at a pair of the soft canvas shoes they sell here, when suddenly i feel a tap on my shoulder. I'm startleed that any one is able to sneak up on me with my sensory abilities. it's not a sensation i'm used to. i'm startled, but i've been expecting it. it's my man. i spin around quickly to find myslef face to face with a bald englishman wearing sunglasses and a finely tailored black silk shirt and khaki trousers. "gotcha, mate," he says with a sexy smile that even i cannot help but feel a little bit attracted to. i am used to feeling impressions and inklings, bits of emotion and psychic trash coming from everyone around me. king mob is not like that... he is just a dead spot. i cannot get a bead o his head even if i try. "come on, mate, you know that won't work," he says, "scorpion loa taught me psychic martial arts remember. i can eat your soul," he winks, with a little laugh. i'm floored. i have no reply. he is so undeniably... cool. that is the only word to describe him. i'm kind of intimidated. magister templi? yes. bad ass? not quite. i get nervous easily. "hey man. how's it going?" "nice and smooth. morrocco is fucking phenomenal! the amrket, the hash, the opium. let's have a good time and change the fucking world!" his words excited me. i came here hoping to transcend my inhibitions ad explore the world in all it's forms. i still couldn't help but feel a little apprehensive as he leads me into the crowd of challabahed marakeshans. "Gideon!" a young girl exclaims as we enter the room. "it's been so long!" "masha, I haven't seen you since you were naked and riding a tricycle. You must have been 3 years old. is your father here?" "no, he's out. i think he will be home soon. would you like some tea while you wait?" "sure, love. honey and lemon, if you would." "sure," i say. tea sounds wonderful. we wait for about twenty minutes for masha's father to come home. i am totally unaware of what we are doing here. basically the situation is that i am in a stranger's house in marakesh sipping lemon tea with an amazing teenage girl on my left and a psychic assassin and international terrorist on my right. king mob just has a way of putting me totally at ease though. he always seems to be in control and on top of everything. soon enough masha's father comes home. "masha, i'm home with dinner," says a voice from the entryway. in strides a thin, bearded man in a chalaba. he is surprised but not startled to see king mob and i sitting here waiting for him. "Gideon!" "Sammar!" "it must have been ten years!" ten years or no, they take up talking as if they had seen each other yesterday. i think that is the way things have to be living this life. you do what has to be done. sometimes you run, sometimes you don't see people for long periods. "i heard about the dulce thing," sammar says, excitedly,"motherfucking crazy shit you guys pulled down there." "yeah, well... that's why i'm on, vacation, right." i could see that king mob was a little shaken by the mention of the dulce expedition. i wsn't sure exactly what that was, but i didn't think it a good idea to ask. "well, what are you here for? Hiding out? is the heat on?" sammar asks aping american tv in a sharply accented voice. "like i said i'm on vacation, we actually were wondering if you would help us in the desert, if you know what i mean. i'm going to need some help if this one here is going to become invisible." this comes as a bit of a surprise to me. i was just told that king mob was a cool bastard to hang around in third world countries with. i'm a litle doubtful. at this time, i wasn't even aware of the word "invisible" in this context. "whoa, pardon me? invisible?" "don't worry mate, you'll be, um, okay. we're just going to fuck with your head till you see god." the idea scares the crap out of me, but i've never been one to turn down a weird fucking trip. i follow them out the door. it's easy to trust KM. he seems so cool, but kind. he reminds me of someone. desert i remembered who KM reminds me of. gandhi. from that movie. They've brought me out to the middle of the desert. somewhere in northern africa. we drove for what seemed like hours. i drifted off a bit as the sun set. soon enough, i was jarred awake by KM shaking me. "we're there, mate," he said with a glimmer in his eye. we started walking, me, KM and sammar. walking into he darkness. the stars are brilliant. there is no moon. "so," says KM casually, "you initiated to adeptus major?" "well," I say, hesitating. KM makes a mental gesture that i feel in my mind, the sign of the grade. "Yes, i did." "Well, you ain't seen nothin' yet." we stop. in front of us is a hill. i can barely see it. it rises gently up before us. sammar leads us forward. i can barely see a small entrance to a cave. he lights a single torch and leads us into the ground. the cave goes on and on, down and down, 7 feet tall at most, wide enough for a single-file line. as we go deeper, it becomes apparent that this cave has been intentionally hewn out of the living rock. after several minutes we come to a small chamber. it is nothing spectacular, just a chamber maybe 15 feet square. water drips down the walls. a strange blue mold is growing on the walls. sammar produces a glass pipe. he packs it full of the strange blue stuff. "inhale," he instructs. at his behest, i smoke the entire contents of the bowl. he loads another and smokes it himself. KM abstains, but smokes a joint himself. suddenly, nothing is as it seems or seems nothing is as it is seems nothing. i am spinning. it seems i am falling in a direction that was always in front of me but i had never paid attention to before, funny, it was so obvious. suddenly there are hands on my face. KM is speaking to me. his eyes are right in front of me. he is so terrifying and beautiful. "do you know what words are? really?" i cannot speak. "words are things. things are words. it's like that bit you thought about the enochian tablets, with the letters being entities and words being entities and spiritual superstructures only it's more. there is no difference between representation and reality, there is only..." that's when i lost it. not my mind, just my abillity to diffrentiate between anything. i cannot describe. i am my description. my description is me. there were words in front of me... wet paint, BARBELITH. red. then nothing/everything.