Transcending Time and
Science Fiction Truth
by award-winning Creepy writer
T. Casey Brennan
This is the story of the Abominations. This is the story of
Those Who Wait. Like L. Ron Hubbard and H.P. Lovecraft, my late
father, St. Clair County (Michigan) Board of Education member
William J. Brennan worked for that Citadel of the Old Ones, the
pulp magazines of the 1940s. Two issues of the 1940s Street &
Smith companion to Weird Tales and the Shadow, Love
Story magazine, carry my dad's stories, under the authorship,
To serve the pulps was to serve the Old Ones; to serve them,
was to behold the Necronomicon, if only in dreams. Herman
Slater, owner of the old Warlock Shoppe in Brooklyn, after he
published Me, the blood-stained legend, in the
square-backed summer 1975 edition of Earth Religion News
(not to be confused with East West Journal November 1984,
page 13, which also carries a write-up on me -- but that happened
in Berkeley, when they tried to kill Manson, so I must talk about
that later, much later), published his own fictitious
NECRONOMICON, what the Necronomicon "might be like".
No, this is the story of Lynette Fromme, one of my friends, a
girl from Ann Arbor, met her while she was being transferred from
one prison to another. It was a girl I lived with for a long
time, she was never my lover, she was just my landlady, but we
got introduced by the late Ernie Brown, of Ann Arbor's cable
channel 9, host of numerous Ann Arbor cablevision shows, the last
being entitled Simply You. Ernie died of pneumonia in
December of 1996, at the age of 39, after introducing me to the
girl who had met Lynette Fromme.
But now the Conjurella Fever begins, now the story comes
forth, now the bleak memories of things that cannot be...
No, this is the story of Eponymous Hawking, and the
Chandrashakar Limit, of dinosaurs that take back the earth, of
black holes and time warpsof the boy who shot John Kennedy, who,
still a boy in Berkeley, witnesses the aftermath of an attempt on
Eponymous Hawking fears the night. Eponymous Hawking fears the
long, dark night. His tongue has been cut out, his mentor has
proven himself an MK-ULTRA agent, he has only one ally: his
mentor's wife. He will survive. Like the other MK-ULTRA
experiments, like any life Dr. E ever touched, he is made of
steel. He will survive. Like Howard Brennan, he lied. He knows.
In the known universe, there are about a hundred million
galaxies, each with about a hundred million stars.
(Crimestoppers Textbook: To find NASA/CIA postings
about T. Casey Brennan, by ace NASA poster, "Special
K", go into the Old Usenet, and search the old
database for the Boolean <"Poor Animals" AND
To my knowledge, there is no proof that ANY of these stars has
a planetary system, like our own sun, Sol. This observation is
extremely significant,,, vis-avis, the Chandrashakar Limit. The
Chandrashakar Limit determines which stars have sufficient mass
to collapse into that paradox of physics, the black hole. Beneath
the Chandrashakar Limit, a star, upon expiring, collapses into
something at least comparable to ordinary matter, a White Dwarf,
at the extreme. A White Dwarf is still matter which obeys the
ordinary laws of physics, unly under extreme density.
Above the Chandrashakar Limit, the star collapses into a black
hole. A black hole is a virtually infinitely compact mass of
time-space, drawing adjacent time-space into its core. The event
horizon of a black hole prevents the entire universe from falling
into such a collapsed star. The event horizon is a kind of shell
surrounding a black hole. Yet, worm holes escape from a black
hole, sending a warping effect to all time-space within their
reach. A planet falling into a black hole can reverse in time,
can enter parallell worlds, and it's own distant past.
The Abominations. Where man rules now, they ruled before,
where man rules now, they shall rule again. Man's rule upon the
earth has been but a whisper, a heartbeat, that "fleeting
moment" of Goethe's Faust, one brief moment compared to
endless ages when the dinosaurs ruled, when no mammal walked,
when serpents ruled, masked and mystical, cowled and crimson,
cold and dark, of the night, of the night...
The Conjurella dream is so difficult to tell.
In 1975, my career as an award-winning comic book writer for
the Warren magazines, Creepy, Eerie, and Vampirella
(Marilyn Manson has a tatoo of Uncle Creepy on his arm), was
virtually totalled. I was reduced to writing essays claiming to
be the reincarnation of Roaring Twenties satanist, Aleister
Crowley, as published in such magazines as Llewellyn's GNOSTICA
(#30, 31? Ciurca 1977), Earth Religion News, and a
mid-1970s issue of the British zine Insight, from
Crowleyan Deric R. James.
Anyway, it all led to two links to Manson.
This is the first link to Manson.
In 1975, I was head over heels in love with my plan to have
all Crowleyans everywhere declare me the reincarnation of
Aleister Crowley. Support for this campaign, which preceded my
work against smoking in comic books, as noted in Congressional
Record - Senate, Vol. 128, No. 131, September 28, 1982, page
S12435, was scarce, so I conceived that I would approach a well
known cult figure, Charles Manson, for an endorsement. I told
Daddy about my belief in witchcraft and Crowleyan Magick. I sure
as hell didn't know he was going to pull what he did, or I would
have changed the subject, talked about school taxes, or horse
racing, or football, or that kind of crap that he liked.
Daddy says: "Would you believe you could kill a squirrel
in Michigan, and that would kill John Kennedy in Dallas?"
I pause nervoiusly. I don't like to talk about the Kennedy
"Yeah, sure," I say, hoping to avoid JFK by going
into a long, involved explanation of the principles of
witchcraft, "It's called 'sympathetic magic'. The macrocosm
and the microcosm. Well, the spell involves a miniature, a
rteplica, which represents..."
Daddy says: "I'll make it easyv for ya. Voodoo."
"Okay," I say.
Then he tells met it's not voodoo. Then he tels me about the
Conjurella memory, and again the boy is lifted up. Again the
voices, again the operating command, again the murdered
I remember flying into Chicago's O'Hare Airport in 1975. We
hasd always respected Moslems. Sometime in the mid-1950s, my
Uncle, Charles Goodrich (not Uncle Johnny of Conjurella,
the onee that got us involved with David Ferrie), was involved
with the Aladdin Temple Shrine, on Stelzer Road, in Columbus,
Ohio. David Ferrie lived in Cleveland. We're not supposed to say,
but he had to do with my Aunt Patty, who wasn't really my aunt at
all, and wasn't really Patty at all. Like David Ferrie, she was
an Ohio cancer researcher, author of Living with Cancer by
Edna Kaehele, 1952, Doubeday & Company. Her name was Edna
Kaehele, but her friends called her Pat. She founded the
internationally acclaimed anti-cancer group, Fear Fighters, much
touted in the 1950s Columbus press, and wrote about me in her
book, Training The Family Dog, 1953, Lantern Press, page 180:
"The hardiest individualist I know..Casey Brennan, a
three-year-old friend from Avoca, Michigan."
Anyway, that was us in Ohio in the 1950s, and one day Uncle
Charley took us to the Shrine Circus. He wore his fez, and I even
got my picture taken with a little fez that said
"Moslem" on it. I think that must have gotten us all
respecting Moslems, andvthinking of them as more durable allies
than they eventually turned out to be.
So I flew into O'Hare airport in 1975. The next part of the
memory, I was sitying beside Louis Lomax, on a bench, outside, in
as remote part of the airport. I had read Louis Lomax's biography
of Malcolm X, When the Word Is Given. In the preface, he
takes note of the almost religious aspect of the Universal
Pictures horror films ofv the Golden Age: the Wolfman, et
al. I had copied that style of melodrama in my own stories for
the Warren magazines of the early 1970s, and my later comics, as
noted in my 1997 and 1998 Who's Who in America listings.
I don't remember what Lomax asked me. I don't remember whast I
told him. I only remember this. I was sitting beside Lomax on
that bench. There was no one else in sight. Suddenly a car pulls
up full of black guys. It all happen so quickly; they all jump
out. The leader says, just like this:
"put on your lips!"
They instantly pull thin gas masks over their faces.
It's a low instant whisper, but the word "lips"
is a shout.
Silent machine-gun fire riddles Louis Lomax. I have only a
nanosecond to look and see the wounds erupting from his body, as
the rapid-fire shells hit. Then another nanosecond to look around
and see pink gas being sprayed on us from tubes.
No, after they try to kill Daddy and me, Daddy says: "Do
you still want Charles Manson as an endorser?"
I say: "No."
This is the second link to Manson.
In February of 1977, I went to Toronto, to secure an
introduction to Hollywood Babylon author and film-maker,
Kenneth Anger, from my then friend, Captain George, of the shop,
Captain George's Memory Lane. I had some Canadian ties; I'd
attended comic book conventions as a panel guest at Winter's
College at York University. I'd signed autographs (following
publication of my award-winning "On the Wings of a
Bird" in Creepy #36), done radio interviews, and
hobnobbed with other celebrities. I had some action in Toronto.
I stayed at the Carleton Inn; they had a pool and a sauna on
like, the eighth floor or something. It was nice, but it was 40
below outside. Forty below, is, by coincidence, the same
temperature on both the Fahrenheit and Celsius scales. Also, the
fire alarm went off, and I ran down twenty-three floors. Then
they said there was just something smoldering in the basement,
and I threatened to sue them.
But I got the introduction to Kenneth Anger, who, at that
time, was preparing a sequel to his highly acclaimed film, Scorpio
Rising. The new film was to be called Lucifer Rising,
and, in no time, I had arranged a part in it, written by Anger
himself. I had been slated to play the ghost of Aleister Cowley,
who appears behind Anger, as Anger performs a Magickal Spell.
Name stars associated with the movie includfed Marianne
Faithfull, and Jimmy Page of the Led Zeppelin, who had written
the musical score. But Page's music was scrapped in favor of that
of Bobby Beausolil, which Anger seemed to pronounce "Bobby
Beloy", and the T. Casey Brennan scene was eliminated
altogether. I asked Anger if Beausolil, in prison for murder, was
one of the Manson Family.
Anger says: "He killed one of the Manson Family."
This is the third link to Manson.
This is Berkeley in the early 1980s.
On October 17, 1983, Linda and Susan bought me a plane ticket
to San Diego. They distributed Jack T. Chick comics; they
disappeared on a road trip shortly thereafter. Jack T. Chick
didn't give a damn; none of their family has seen them since. I
soon migrated to the San Francisco Bay area, and in March of
1984, I moved into the Berkeley Krishna Temple. Well, it was sort
of a Krishna Temple, but for them too, things had gone from bad
to worse. An early leader of the Berkeley Temple, a priest named
Jiva, had gone bad, engaging himself in a variety of criminal
activities, prior to his murder. This was all before my time, but
around the time of Jiva's fall, and his death, Srila Hansadutta
Hansadutta was born in Germany during the war, the son of
Hitler's personal baker. He had been thrown out of Germany, and I
had seen a copy of Der Spiegel, the German version of Time
and Newsweek, calling Hansadutta and his followers
"more dangerous than the Bader-Meinhoff gang". I have
trouble believing that; he wasn't bad, he was just
hot-headed. According to the Berkeley police, the Berkeley press,
and others, he liked to crusise around Berkeley with the
passenger window open, firing on buildings. I don't think he ever
shot anybody, even by accident. He was just letting off steam,
but it was crazy as hell; me, I'll just fire off a few rounds in
the air when I'm like that. Not Hansadutta.
Anyway, I'd promised Linda and Susan I was going to make some
smart career moves in California. Joining the Krishna Temple
wasn't one of theem; the Hansaduttas treated me like dirt - I
wasn't even a eal devotee, I was just their dishwasher. A typical
memory of Berkeley was washing pots on July 4, 1984, while the
Hansadutta almost blew up their parking lots with repeated blasts
from "firecrackers", manufactured from sticks of
dynamite at their secondary temple, "The Farm", which
i'd never seen. I was told later that someone had talked
"the Farm" right out from under Hansdadutta. He'd
signed over the deed in a supposed business ploy, then, it was
lost, and he'd never get it back. I was interviewed on the UC
Berkeley radio station, KALX, by Donna Fox, and on KBLX by Keith
Jenkins. I went on KTEH in San Jose as a member of a San
Francisco Regional Mensa team soliciting funds for the station,
during a Dr. WHO marathon. I even took a call from a San Jose
police officer on camera, calling in a donation. I was mentioned
in some issue or other of the Catholic Voice in Oakland, I
created a short-lived comic character called "Capt.
KALX" for the KALX Program Guide, I appeared on California
Tonight on KFCB in Concord (at that time, one of the Jim and
Tammy Bakker stations), I was written up in East West Journal,
November 1984, page 13, and I was an also-ran guest, with a free
table, at a comic convention in one of those buildings by Sproul
That was Berkeley, 1983 to 1985, a hodge-podge of memories; a
hell of free meals, long penniless walks to the AA meeting at
2910 Telegraph for free coffee, a career being shattered, and a
servant's life in a commune of inexplicable cultists, who, like
myself, were being pursued by their own deadly enemies.
This was the hit on Manson.
That afternoon, I came back to 2334 Stuart, the Berkeley
Krishna Temple, to find the community abuzz with some astounding
news. The Los Angeles Times had called...a former Berkeley
devotee had attempted to kill Charles Manson. The Times
was adamant: Manson was dead, or should be considered so;
he'd beenm burned over 90% of his body, they said. Some time
after that, we were given a more detailed account of the attack,
so detailed that I suyspect it may have come from law
enforcemernt officials, or even a call from the attacker himself,
though I suppose the LA Times could have given it.
It went like this.
The ex-Berkeley devotee, first a priest, then a cop killer,
then a convict, is trying to chant aloud on his Krishna rosary.
This gets on Manson's nerves. Plus, probably Manson still thinks
the Krishna people are a bunch of sissies, the way they were when
he went up...whatever happened, now they're often mean as hell,
especially ones from Berkeley.
Anyway, after much wrangling with Manson, the priest conceives
an assassination attempt. He has clearly studied Manson's habits,
in that he knows that Manson frequents the prison hobby shop. His
thinking is the elementary thinking of a warrior (of those
objects around me, which can be used as a weapon?), not the
subsidized kind of thinking, where they GIVE you axweapon that
DOES the job. He chooses his make-shift weapon, a can of paint
thinner used in decorating model cars sold there. He awaits
Manson, throws the fluid in his face and lights it. Some
combination of prison guards and other inmates put out the fire,
which leaves Manson with only a few scars...but instantly the
story is brought to the Berkeley Temple, where the priest oncew
lived, that Manson is burned over ninety percent of his body, and
is not expected to live.
This is the fourth link, the link that cannot be.
Scientists have determined that our sun, Sol, is well within
the Chandrashakar Limit; that there is no possibility that it
will eventually implode into a black hole. But the Chandrashakar
Limit was based on the atomic weight of suns with no known
planetary systems. Sol, combined with its solar systrem,
particularly if one adds the outer planets that are speculated to
revolve beyond Pluto, is doubtless well above the Chandrashakar
You could just look, and the sun could turn into a
Long before our planet pierces, or is shattered against the
black hole's event horizon, worm holes of distorted time-space
will escape from the black hole, encompassing whole worlds, even
travelling back in time to before the black hole took place.
Time will turn backward. The earth will become as it was. The
abominations shall rise up, their wait has been endless, the
serpents of the old times shall rise up and take back the earth.
This is fiction:
Squeakanella sees the matrix, falls, has an epileptic seizure,
then pockets the gun. Two operating commands repeatr themselves
in her frenzied head:
- Fire on command.
- It isn't real.
Someone hass erred. The commands will conflict. Squeakanella
has fired guns in dreams before, she knows how a dream gun works,
you just draw and fire. You don't have to DO anything, it ruins
You don't have to take off the safety.
Squeakanella raises the impotent automatic, and pulls back a
rubbery trigger, just like a dream gun should be. She has shaken
off the blood, she did what I could not. Then she looks to the
sky and she beholds them, the serpents of the old places, for
endless ages they ruled before man, their yearning is endless,
they yearn for the earth, they yearn to come forth, and even to
be used by them once is to know that yearning eternal.