A band manager owed our musician friend 25 grand, so we hit him with a war doll hex…
Back in the day, my voodoo mentor Earl Marlowe and I were staying in the Montpelier district of Bristol, in south west England. One of our musician friends in the city – now in a well-known band – was having trouble with his manager, who had defrauded him out of twenty-five grand.
He told us: “I’m signing on the fucking dole because of him, and I don’t need to be.”
Earl said: “Look man, you want us to put the voodoo on the guy?”
“You think it would work?” Our musician friend asked.
Earl looked him straight in the eye. “We hit him with a voodoo war doll and, before you know it, he’ll be begging for mercy, his head on fire.”
The next day, Earl and I fixed up a clay “war doll.” We mixed various herbs and powders in the clay, then left the doll to dry. Come the dark of the moon, we did the necessary ritual – performed at midnight in a graveyard in St. Andrews, not far from Montpelier. As usual, we went into a spirit trance and muttered incantations to the spirits in “unknown tongues,” the language of the subconscious mind.
Once the rite was done, we took the war doll to our friend’s manager’s house, placing it in a plant pot in his front porch.
Earl told our musician friend: “It’s just a matter of time now. He’ll pay you your twenty-five grand – with interest if he knows what’s good for him!”
A week or so passed and nothing happened. I knew our friend saw us as a colorful pair – slightly mad, but with our hearts in the right place. He clearly didn’t have faith in our conjuring abilities!
But before the month was out, he literally fell off his chair. It turned out his manager had had some kind of brainstorm. He’d run naked one night into the streets of St. Andrews, where he lived, screaming, “They’re after me, the fiends of hell are on my tail.”
The cops were called and they saw to it that he was taken to Southmead Hospital. The eventual diagnosis was he’d had a psychotic episode.
While in hospital, though, he instructed his brother to pay our musician friend the twenty-five grand he owed him, along with an apology and five grand extra!
Earl and I duly removed the hex from him and he returned to normal – well, after six months, anyway.
We never enjoyed doing workings like that. Earl and I preferred curing to cursing. But in exceptional circumstances we always did what we had to do…