The Long Hard Road Out of Hell

with a memorable prank, they were going to put raw chicken feet all over the stage. So I slipped and fell on a beer bottle, and it shattered. I was so pissed I took it and fucking slashed my chest from one side to the other. And that was my first real act of self-mutilation in front of people. We sacrificed Freddy by setting his bass drum on fire, but the whole drum kit burst into flames, followed by Freddy. As Freddy escaped backstage to find a fire extinguisher we started smashing everything. So that last day of the tour was really the chrysalis of a new stage of development for us, a sort of ritual bloodletting followed by a sacrifice to what we are in the process of becoming, which I can’t entirely explain right now because I don’t fully understand it myself.
    You never actually fired Freddy?
    No. We didn’t tell him he’d been fired and he didn’t tell us he quit. I think he knew that he’d been sacrificed because the next day he just got on a plane and went home. I never got to say goodbye to him, and I haven’t said a word to him since. He was very peaceful about it, and I respect him for that. So if he sues me now, I’ll break his kneecaps.
    Â 

we’re off to see the wizard
    A S FAR AS I KNOW, THERE IS NOT ONE WORD IN THE G OSPELS IN PRAISE OF INTELLIGENCE.
    â€” Bertrand Russell ,
    â€œHas Religion Made Useful Contributions to Civilization?”
    I had written, I had called, I had pleaded. Finally, I was granted an appointment. During a day off on the ’94 Nine Inch Nails tour in San Francisco in October, the hotel phone rang.
    â€œThe doctor wants to meet you,” came a woman’s voice, stern and husky.
    I asked her if the doctor would care to see our show the following night. I knew everything there was to know about the doctor but he knew very little about me.
    â€œThe doctor never leaves his house,” she replied icily.
    â€œOkay, when do you want me to come over? I’m in town for a few days.”
    â€œThe doctor really wants to meet you,” she replied. “Can you come between one and two tonight?”
    No matter what time the doctor called for me and where he summoned me to, I planned to be there. I admired and respected him. We had a lot of things in common: We had experience as extravagant showmen, successfully placed curses on people, studied criminology and serial killers, found a kindred spirit in the writings of Nietzsche, and constructed a philosophy against repression and in support of nonconformity. In short, we had both dedicated the better part of our lives to toppling Christianity with the weight of its own hypocrisy, and as a result been used as scapegoats to justify Christianity’s existence.
    â€œOh,” the caller added before she hung up. “Make sure you come alone.”
    The doctor was the preferred name of Anton Szandor LaVey, founder and high priest of the Church of Satan. What nearly everybody in my life—from John Crowell to Ms. Price—had misunderstood about Satanism was that it is not about ritual sacrifices, digging up graves and worshipping the devil. The devil doesn’t exist. Satanism is about worshipping yourself, because you are responsible for your own good and evil. Christianity’s war against the devil has always been a fight against man’s most natural instincts—for sex, for violence, for self-gratification—and a denial of man’s membership in the animal kingdom. The idea of heaven is just Christianity’s way of creating a hell on earth.
    I’m not and have never been a spokesperson for Satanism. It’s simply part of what I believe in, along with Dr. Seuss, Dr. Hook, Nietzsche and the Bible, which I also believe in. I just have my own interpretation.
    That night in San Francisco, I didn’t tell anybody where I was going. I took a cab to LaVey’s house on one of the city’s main thoroughfares. He lived in an inconspicuous black building collared by a high, brutal-looking barbed wire fence. After paying the cab driver, I walked to the gate and noticed that there was no bell. As I contemplated turning back, the gate creaked open. I was as nervous as I was excited, because, unlike most experiences where you meet someone you idolize, I could already tell this one would not be a letdown.
    I timidly entered the house and saw no one until I was halfway up the stairs. A fat man in a suit with a sweep of greasy black hair covering his