Ah sorcery, the last refuge of the abomination. Nature has treated things like us so very poorly and so we do our damnedest to convince ourselves there's some secret method to subvert Her cruel machinations and, through occult means, experience a fraction of the beauty and joy She so freely bestows on Her lovelier children. The old scholar, having spent an entire lifetime secluded behind walls of old books, breathing in the bitter dust of the library, calls out to the devil for another chance at the revelries of youth denied to him. If God has responded to his endless prayers for just a tiny bit of warmth, a hint of the affection the sons of men take for granted, with silence well, perhaps Satan will hear his desperate cries. Sure, the price would be one's soul but, let's be honest, the monster has no actual spirit to trade. For an incel to forge such a pact with Hell is tantamount to the impoverished man passing a bad check; it's the act of a petty grifter trying to win something in exchange for nothing. Something condemned to the City of Dis the moment he drew his very first breath risks nothing by promising to return to his birthplace after gasping his last.
So, not surprisingly, Satan and his legion remain no less silent when called upon by monsters than the hosts of Heaven are. When I was younger, still stupid and naive, fueled by the madness unique to those starving to death, I made my clumsy attempts to follow in Doctor Faustus' footsteps and drag the spirits condemned along with Satan up from the Abyss to satisfy all of the desires both God and His consort Nature had denied me. My only reward were the filthiest hallucinations and nightmares, fitful dreams populated by succubi who viciously slapped my hand away when I reached out to them hoping to feel something trivial as a parody of the smooth, warm flesh that most men caress over the course of their lifetimes. As an ugly old virgin, Lord Lucifer already owned me by default. He was once God's loveliest angels; why would a being like that send even the basest of his minions to secure something he not only already possessed but was also ashamed to have ownership of?
Magic is no solution to the pain endured by us ugly men, and attempting to spread its noxious balm across our repulsive flesh and hideous faces will accomplish nothing else save intensifying the agony Nature, in Her wicked wisdom, has condemned us to suffer. Pretend otherwise, and we become indistinct from the haggard, infertile old hags who brewed their potions in the depths of the wilderness beyond the light of a village that had no use for them and had cast them out long ago. According to the old stories, these witches didn't stir their cauldrons for love spells that would render them lovely maidens because they knew even Lord Satan was incapable of such miracles. So they worked their poisonous wonders hoping to make the fertile barren, the prosperous poor, the lovely just as unlovable as they were. Vengeance was all they could hope for and even that was denied to them; all their spells won them was a fiery death burned at the stake for the amusement of the onlookers who enjoyed the good things the hags never could or would.
Well, I don't need the devil's instruction on how to impotently hate the beautiful. All that was required was a look of disgust in response to a friendly smile and I enjoyed that experience a very long time ago. Perhaps I should be grateful, really. Prodigy that I am, I attained in adolescence what it took the oldest members of a witches' coven decades upon decades to achieve. An ugly man knows what it is to be reviled while still in the rotting bloom of his "youth", a nasty bit of wisdom every woman needs nearly a century to learn.
An ugly man is a more accomplished witch in the cradle than an ugly woman is languishing on her death bed. We abominations don't need some secret, satanic initiation to become a witch; we are inducted into their diabolical ranks and rule as their kings the moment Nature expels us from Her rancid cunt.
