Death Is Only The Beginning
This is a story of a man who has mastered the ability of artistic expression through extrasensory, clairvoyance, and occult powers; while conflicted within his own thoughts, reflects upon his dark past. Living life the hard way, broke and homeless, one will do just about anything. Bringing illumination to the dark side of things like the alchemist that have come before his time, working with magic and unknown forces he mistakenly sparks a transformation becoming, “The Tattooist” and blurring the line between worlds. He sells his soul to the devil and walks that common path as his demons come out to play dancing under the moonlight. Fighting to survive amongst stone cold killers while hoping to see a glimmer of light penetrate to the depths of hell. The big end becomes the new beginning as this mad man tattoos a spectrum of color into your subconscious, a place where only black once resided. Come along on this journey as we search for enlightenment, and seek the true meaning of life while riding in a car full of murderers.
|Product dimensions:||6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.78(d)|
Read an Excerpt
Death is Only the Beginning
By Brandon Notch
AuthorHouseCopyright © 2016 Brandon Notch
All rights reserved.
"When answering the question, "Who the fuck am I?" I'm a nasty motherfucker with a heart of gold that has descended upon you from a cold day in hell. I have many secrets. I am instinct, raw, crazy at times, and a bit sensitive when need be. Yes, I am human. I have an unquenchable thirst for hidden knowledge and a dark fascination with esoteric mysticism. I have mistakenly germinated the so-called "Impossible Seed" within my cold beating heart as the wickedness grows out-of-control from the depths of my shadow. I find myself pulling away from the world at large, locating my sanity through my craft, with my studio as my sanctuary. I'm a well respected luminary in my own right and member of an ancient and noble secret society, the Fraternal Order of Luminaries.
My friends call me, "The Saint." You need not to call me that as we have just met, and I do believe we are not quite friends yet. People believe I am protected by powers greater than our own. From what, you may ask? My own demons: The evil within the hell on earth that I have created, or yet to create. I ride the storm waiting for that moment to jump off, only to confront my demons head on, finding a solution within my means. Trying to live in that momentary place of peace while washing out the blood from underneath my fingernails. I am a maniac within my own walls of sanity. Realizing that I have descended far from grace, I try to climb the ladder onward and upward, becoming fully aware of the fall with my perceive realization flipped upon itself. My mind never sleeps as I travel far beyond the deep, down the rabbit hole and through the pits of fire I go. Upon the great depth a soft voice is heard. The cavernous seductive valley of the dark speaks of enchanting worlds. I fear no evil as I am accompanied by my guides, spirits that have been freed from souls. An unpleasant emotion alarms me as I advance back into being, afraid I may have just sold my soul, though I'm not quite sure the soul is mine to sell.
I am a spirit hub of many entities coexisting, living within these walls of flesh. I'm an old soul that has lived many a lives. I permanently paint in flesh for a living, creating physical transformation through blood, sweat, and tears. Rites of passage, pain becomes pleasure with the reveal of new ink. This ritual is as old as time. What other career can compare? When I tattoo there is no room for mistakes. The soul of the art is captured, bounded, and frozen momentarily in time till the body is returned to its natural mother, to clay or burnt to ash. The great equalizer in life is death. We are all dead, just not yet buried. The souls are capturing part of the spirit within your imagination, and directing it back from whence it came. I put the profession of tattooing in the same league as a doctor or a lawyer. I manifest energy around people, and allow the truth to heal and change them. That is a God-given talent and a gift. I am the best at what I do. I will eventually have to choose, to be humble, or allow my ego to take control. But who likes cocky fucks?
I'm the baddest mother fucking tattoo artist this world has yet to know. I enjoy my moments of brief schizophrenia. I will fight my demons head on with you in the passenger seat as my witness. I was given the power to see people for who they really are. I will find where the innocent roam. Searching every aspect of your subconscious guiding the dark to the light, over the rainbow we go as I pave the path to enlightenment. I create from what others cannot see. I do not force my perception, it comes natural. I stand in the eternal stream of light and life, letting myself go with the current, allowing it to take me where it might have been brought. More often than not I find myself crawling out of the dark nights of the soul, the light penetrates into the depths of the deep, illuminating even the most hidden aspects of the subconscious mind.
I am merely channeling through thought, allowing others to communicate, by transposing information into this time of existence. You do the same, you just don't realize it, you have been listening to the voices in your head for so long that you think it's you. Relationships are an interesting thing, especially the ones with ourselves, and that is the relationship we most neglect, the one we forget to foster, feed, nurture, and grow. The uglier things become because we feed the ego, we give life to our demons, we allow them to resonate to the surface and take flight with our hidden desires. Remember that you are dying, you die a little more each moment, and you're dying to do something with your life. It's a sobering moment reaching the gates of death realizing you never lived, I know this firsthand, and I have returned to write my story, into the world I go, I lose my mind and find my soul, I am here to create, intensely laboring on as I bring my entries into this world through my creations.
This is just one story of death, betrayal, and mind-altering experiences laying ink in the skin while on search for the meaning of life, true enlightenment will be bestowed to the one that has passed the threshold. I am from the other side, you know, the mirror image within your own soul's manifestation. "Me, me, me ... schizo-... Ha, ha ... No joke." I am a struggling artist deep into the occult, living in the city of angel's, Los Angeles. My medium; ink, skin, flesh, blood, bodyand-soul. Good old fashioned ritualistic tattooing is my craft. Manifesting spirit into skin; painting in the flesh and telling tall tales, stories from here and beyond. I walk beside death and destruction, yet I'm not a thing of evil. After an encounter with me, you truly are a different person. Like this crazy fucking journalist guy sitting in my chair as I start to tattoo the iconic image of the Virgin Mary into his inner forearm.
The Journalist just happens to be one of my victims for today. He walked in off the street looking for a new tattoo not knowing he was going for a ride with me. Let's just say he got more then what he bargained for. The Journalist seems to be in a lot of pain, or maybe it's all that smoke clouding his mind making him focus in with a heightened sense. That awkward moment of being thrown into an unknown situation, the stillness fills the air as he tries to compose out of his abstract thoughts. I briefly stop, giving the Journalist a break from the buzzing of the tattoo machine as I change my gloves, they certainly dirty up fast with all that ink and blood.
Quickly back to work and only moments later the Journalist interjects, "Hey Saint, I need a smoke break, brother."
The Saint lifts his head up with a confused stare, "It's always after you get a fresh pair of gloves on that the client needs a break. Plus I have yet to make you truly bleed." The Saint stops tattooing and lays down his machine, looking up at the skeleton clock, nodding his head. This mysterious dark figure, a soulless creature rises from the seat, and I believe he calls himself the Journalist.
"Looks fucking amazing, you are the best," says the Journalist.
"We just started. I'm not even close to done yet," the Saint spat out.
The Journalist walks outside to the elaborately, almost excessively, decorated vine covered ornate patio, "Are you going to have a smoke with me?" He asks.
The Saint going into the restroom yelling over the bathroom exhaust fan, "I will be out in a second. I have to hit the head." The Journalist lights up a smoke as the heavy metal music blares throughout the studio, some satanic tune. A familiar smell fills the air, marijuana, that wacky tobacco. Saint thinks to himself: I guess everyone smokes nowadays.
The Saint finished washing his hands turning the faucet off with his elbow, grabbing a paper towel to dry them, and using it to open the door. He is a germaphobe with obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Consumed with hidden paranoias he looks at the world through a microscope. With his exaggerated self-importance and complex delusion of excessive cleanliness, he walks out of the restroom just as his cell phone rings. Ring, ring.
The Journalist blurts out, "You know your phone is ringing."
"Oh, thank you. I thought it was just the ringing in my head." Saint thinking to himself: I know, I'm not fucking deaf thanks.
"I'll let the answer machine do its job. I don't like to get interrupted when I work," says the Saint as he appears to get annoyed when people point out the obvious.
It's a beautiful summer day with a light warm breeze passing through the studio. A sense of change in the weather strikes the Saint as he grabs a few cold beers out of the refrigerator and steps outside onto the patio handing the Journalist a cold one. "You know, you really have something here," says the Journalist with his arms stretched out taking in a moment of the suns warmth. "This is the life," the Journalist appearing to be in a deep reflective thought with a slow pause of contemplation he blurts out, "I'm sorry. Do you want a hit off this? Puff puff pass brother."
Saint keeping his thoughts to himself, what are you sorry for? He then replies, "No thank you. It will just slow me down as I work. I'm good with beer for now."
The Journalist out of the blue asks, "Say, do you believe in a soul?" After a couple hits of marijuana things apparently got real. The Journalist got really deep, as if he's coming to a crossroad in his life. It is no mistake he has come across the Saint on this very day.
The Saint says sarcastically, "Why? Do you think you don't have one? Ha, ha. I believe in the eternal vibration of energy, Nada Brahma- all the world is sound ... There is a fork in the road at this moment of time, which way are you going to go?" He asks, "What direction are you heading?"
The Journalist is so relaxed in the moment he zones out completely in his own thoughts not hearing the Saint at all. He's leaning against a support beam on the patio as if his legs are failing him and he can't hold himself up on his own. He unwittingly blurts out, "I believe everyone is born with a soul. At the moment of conception the soul starts to grow, feeding off the energy of the surrounding environment. Dreams within dreams are not yet your own. The ability to decipher between the two worlds, one a physical manifestation, your perspective of your perception of reality The other of abstract thought, unrealized formation, aspect of creation. The minute your first breath was taken, your essence, your spirit became trapped within being, matter, life. At that split moment duality is born and spirit is imprisoned within the soul of body. Life is full of moments, parts of a story once told, which in most cases are not even your own. Without question you accept them to become your memories, allowing others to write your story. Life has purpose we are not here just to work, pay bills, and die."
The Saint only hearing what he wants to hear blurts out, "What the fuck are you talking about? If you have lived the life I have you would learn to enjoy the small things in life and take nothing for granted." Saint thinking to himself: That marijuana must be doing something upstairs, his head is all clouded, and it's making him think too much. He appears slightly disconnected from this reality, maybe his psychosis is kicking in.
The Journalist making a statement announces to himself: An artist will lie to tell the truth, and a politician will tell the truth to lie. Learn to read your opponent. The Journalist and the Saint are no different than two peas from the same pod unable to recognize each others connection. Right away some sort of primitive instinct of the ego kicks in as they try to read each other, and figure out dominance. The ability to see ones strengths and weaknesses is an art of its own. Everyone has their purpose, it's just a matter of finding the right tool for the job. When you master such techniques you become more skilled in overcoming the challenges proposed by your choices in life. Know thyself and you will understand clearly that you create and ultimately become your own worst enemy. The Journalist continues telling himself: Never trust an artist, they mingle with both sides of the track. From politicians, lawyers, rock stars and judges, to the dirtiest gangsters on the block, stone cold killers ...
The Saint sipping on his beer takes a minute to check his voicemail messages on his phone before he gets back to work, slinging the ink. He immediately shouts out, "Shit! It's the bank. Someone drained my account. Some jerk off got a hold of my debit card and apparently they like coffee as much as I do." Saint pitches his beer into the ground and storms back into the building. Entering his sanctuary he starts pacing back-and-forth by the tattoo station, looking at the ground shaking his head mumbling to himself. Feeling somewhat violated he attaches old emotions from past traumas to this particular incident. The Saint frustrated and not in one's right mind thinks to himself: I'm going to find this fuck so help me God. I will make sure he has no fingers to eat with, chopping them all off one at a time, with a pair of old dull rusty pruning shears.
The Journalist dumbfounded takes one last hit before putting out his joint, proceeds back inside and chimes in. Trying to calm down the Saint he blurts out, "Identity theft, assholes get a life."
"Yeah, they should get a life instead of trying to steal mine, or at least be a real criminal. A politician, a lobbyist, or play in the financial district on Wall Street, steal from large corporations that can afford to lose a couple dollars."
"You're right, they're just a bunch of pussies. Maybe they should play in an intersection, better yet try the freeway. Thank God the bank caught it so quickly. You should get your money back I would think."
Saint taking a minute to think about how his money got stolen in the first place, ultimately and finally pushing it out of his mind. His expressions quickly change from anger and frustration to eventually calm and collective. He remembers and tells a story of a lesson his fraternal brothers bestowed upon him, about mastering your emotional response to anger. "I was once called to the top floor of a parking garage where a whole lot of my brothers surrounded me partying like drunken animals. They spit on me and called me names, just downright rude and aggressively taunting me. They were trying to get me angry and they succeeded. When the beast awoke within, the brothers proceeded to cheer and holler, as now the ritual can commence. They lined up and formed a funnel in an unusual manner making way for an unruly goat that was just released into the crowd, telling me we got your goat and you better go get it back. As soon as I wrestled it to the ground the brothers jumped in and helped tie a rope around its neck.
The brothers cheered with bloodthirsty cries as they started a procession across a narrow bridge into a nearby building. Once we entered I realized something awful was going to happen. I found myself in the middle of a large ritual room surrounded by dark cloaked brothers. A great roaring fire burned just to the left of me, and centered stood a large raised 12 foot round marble altar with a sizable pentacle and grooves cut deep upon it. A type of sacrificial altar with years of use covered in blood stains. Golden cups were placed underneath openings beneath the tips of the five pointed star. As I was handed a large razor sharp hunting knife, I knew what was coming next. The brothers prepared the goat for sacrifice, tying ropes to its legs they stretched it out over the pentagram. Chanting filled the air, 'kill your goat, kill your goat, kill your goat,' but all I heard was the cries of this poor creature, the innocent goat. Something within me reached out without question causing me to jump onto the raised platform grabbing the goat from under its mouth and cutting right through, slitting the jugular. The throat slashed wide open, the blood gushed from its neck flowing through the deep grooves of the pentagram and into the cups. One cup was offered up to the Gods and poured upon the open flame. One was offered to me and the other three were taken by the heads of protocols. A prayer was given ending with, 'Life to life nothing will go to waste,' after this gruesome sacrifice we feasted upon the dead, dined on the fresh kill with no remorse. I then was told, 'May this be a lesson to you Saint, from this day forward may no one ever get your goat.' The horrific sounds and visual of that night will forever stay with me."
"That's crazy, but I suppose it got the point across to master your goat, the emotional response to anger."
"Every so often someone steals my power and I let them get my goat. Fucking distractions. Life is full of distractions keeping you from what is at hand." His psychosis snaps and brings him back to reality. "Thank God we don't act upon all of our thoughts we have, or we would be in a lot of trouble. Ha, ha, ha." The Saint motions to the Journalist, "What was it that you were talking about before we got interrupted?"
The Journalist and the Saint make their way back to the tattoo station as the Saint picks up his tattoo machine, sits back in his chair barking at the Journalist, "Tattoo time! Take a load off, sit down, and get ready for some pain."
Excerpted from Death is Only the Beginning by Brandon Notch. Copyright © 2016 Brandon Notch. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
ContentsIntroduction Into My Dream World, ix,
Chapter 1 Mystical Concepts, 1,
Chapter 2 Alchemy of life, 63,
Chapter 3 Dark Nights Of The Soul, 105,
Chapter 4 Evil Feeding Ego, 192,
Chapter 5 Search For Reality, 256,
Chapter 6 The Morning After I Killed Myself, 298,
About The Author, 331,
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
This book has a lot of twists and turns that'll keep you guessing all the way to the end. I was lucky enough to receive an early copy of Notch's book "Death is only the beginning," and WOW. I like how it reads as a conversation, and takes you the reader from dark to light. Putting you into the story as these fraternal brothers, illuminated ones, walk the fine line befriending gangsters and running amuck. A fast pace, psychotic thriller of one man's journey through life, with a shattered personality and his struggles to find meaning. "The Saint" walks you through his inner consciousness as he tries to make sense of the world and find spirituality amongst killers. This character goes through many struggles with his concepts of his own personal reality as he fights off his demons, tattooing into the night. This book has many hidden esoteric, occult, and Masonic references in the characters and situations. I would recommend it to anyone looking for a great read, very entertaining with a lot of deep conversations that will leave you walking away thinking.