Snippets of The Prodigal Band Trilogy: Conspiracy

When I began writing the trilogy in the early 1990s was when various news reports of “militia movements” and “far right” “patriot” groups began hitting the mainstream media, highlighted by the incident at Ruby Ridge, Idaho, and the take down of David Koresh’s Branch Davidian compound in Waco, Texas. Then, a year before I published Battle of the Band, the first book in the trilogy, the Oklahoma City bombing happened. All of these events saw standoffs of sorts between some so-called patriot group and the Federal government. These and other incidents led many to start spouting “conspiracy theories” about a “new world order” group some called “the Illuminati” as well as secret societies ruled over by “dark forces.” I am not posting this to claim if these theories are true or not–I will leave that up to the reader.

But these theories and elite groups mentioned in the trilogy provide the counterpoint to the “good” side that the fictional rock band called Sound Unltd eventually sides with, having seen the “evil” side. Further, there are groups of elites in think tanks and secret societies, some considered satanic, that actually exist. Some of these groups and secret societies are fairly well-known. Finally, it isn’t just worldwide governments, economies, media and entertainment that these elites rule over. One snippet concerns control of weather and physical structures.

The first snippet introduces the characters that make up the fictional rock band the novels are about and also introduces the primary antagonists that conspire to use the band for their evil purposes. As with ‘the powers-that-be’ that many now know belong to secret societies, the evil-doers, in one of their secret meetings, discuss why the band was chosen, and in the process introduce the band characters. The last part of this snippet is rated R and was not included in the previous citation. (Previously linked here) A similar dialogue between these conspirators later in the book introduces the point man of the conspiracy, called Swami Negran, a New Age guru cult leader of sorts.


A small group of exceedingly powerful men sat in red plush chairs surrounding a polished mahogany table. In front of each participant lay grey leather folios that displayed the gold-leaf embossed symbol of the Novordo Club—a pagan cross radiating from a sun-circle encasing an s-like snake. The Demons watched over the assembled luminaries.

“See these men of Our Lord Lucifer?” Silver Demon said. “Their agenda bears our Corionic Cross which The Creator banished from His realm. The red crystals around their necks prove their allegiance to us. Whoever wears or minds those crystals of Our Lord shall heed our cause to own this small planet.”

“Their governments are implementing our political, financial, and social programs targeted by Our Lord for placement. This group of leaders will discuss how they will control the culture of the young of this world.” Gold Demon then whispered as if the men below might hear them. “It is today they will choose our troubadours of the new generation. Of course, we will make sure they choose our boys of the spoken-pact two years ago.”

Some of the men left the oak-paneled room to attend other Novordo Club meetings involving environmental policy. Those involved in deciding who would lead the world’s youth remained. These included Baron Torquay-Lambourgeau, head of the world’s largest banking cartel; a forty-two-year-old record mogul; and two media kingpins, Mr. X and Mr. Y.

“Talent manager Joe Phillips, that is, my wayward son,” the Baron said, “has a five-man band of ill-repute that has the talent-skills, the charisma, and the desire to succeed where all others must fail. More than anything, my son says. More than anything will this group perform to impassion the youth into a frenzy of hero-worship.”

The record mogul asked, “Are you referring to Sound Unltd? They’re not exactly a hot act right now.”

“Who the hell cares?” Mr. X asked. “Isn’t it us who decide who will own popular entertainment? That they aren’t now the top band is all the more reason to go with them. They’re obscure enough so as no one will ever guess our motivation for picking them.”

“They truly have it all,” Mr. Y said. “Their singer-lyricist Erik is, pardon the expression, a godsend. Matchless voice, and even better, his naughty operatics and pyrotechnics on stage drive girls and boys into the lap of devilish fanaticism. He lived in great poverty after his hated father abandoned his family and later died. This one’s in it primarily for the money.

“Their guitarist-composer Jack is already of hero-quality with his screaming guitar style. He led a street gang and demands perfection and unity from the others. He’s in it for the glory. Coincidentally, my agents told me that the guitarist believes he made a pact with Our Lord Lucifer for success. Both the singer and guitarist are handsome rogues with model-gorgeous girlfriends, perfect for the idol image both of them must project.

“Mick, their current bassist, is skinny with a beak for a nose and a long, pretty face surrounded by dark-brown hair ringlets down his back. He was sexually abused by his mother and neglected by his father. He’s in it for the perversion. A cultist who wears our symbol of the old Celtic Crag-Dwellers of the Craggy Mountains of Wales.

“Bryan, their keyboard synthist, is a bulky biker with bushy red hair and associates with bikers. He made his girlfriend pregnant last year and felt obliged to marry her. Reggie Lewis, a top studio musician, is helping him build a keyboard-effects synthesizer. He’s in it for the ride.

“Their drummer Tom lives with clairvoyant Prissy Wyatt and pretends to channel the god Corion for amusement. His father is indentured to the Duke of Effingchester. The young curly blond doesn’t know this. He’s in it to find out.

“Later, a sixth member, a Warwicke’s Ship Works riveter named Keith will rejoin them on bass. A strict follower of the outdated Code. But his dad was a womanizer. Like father, like son. He’s in it for the women.

“When the sextet is formed, they will be unstoppable.”

“So,” the mogul said, “you’re saying Sound Unltd won’t have any trouble winning over multitudes of fans? They’re that good?”

“My son thinks they’ll have an impact greater than any band before them,” Baron Torquay-Lambourgeau said, “and my agents, who do disparage their obscene antics, by the way, agree with my son. They’re fit to rule youth culture in the nineties. Sound Unltd stands for money, glory, perversion, self-interest, sex. You know, naked power at any price. Other acts will compete with them, but it has been decided.”

“You have decided, Baron,” the record mogul said. “I’ve never seen their so-called raunchy antics. How do I know Sound Unltd can best harness the basest desires of the young?”

Mr. X placed a cassette on the table. “The best I can do right now is to show you this video of a live performance at XanadU.” X put the tape into the VCR. “Not another band in the world does the routines these boys dare to do, though many come close.”

Music of raw, slow, hot passion set even middle-aged hormones ablaze.

The record company man watched and listened in titillated awe.

The first scene showed Erik singing with his hands down his skin-tight leather trousers.

Rub me, suck me, tease me, (bleep)

Then, with his exposed hands about his genitals, he humped a mic stand while moaning in climax.

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-ooooh, baby, (bleep) me dry

In the next scene Mick and Jack, on either side of Erik, jabbed their guitar necks into the singer’s awaiting rear. Scene four showed Jack and Mick flicking their tongues together as their bodies rubbed. Finally, Erik and Bryan butted each other’s rear-ends together atop the synthesizer which quickly exploded into red flames.

“These boys’ll do anything to rouse a crowd, won’t they?”

“That’s the point,” the Baron said. “They’ll do anything. The guitarist, their band leader, will drive them to greatness. Kids today don’t buy a product strictly on industry hype. The younger generation will follow them precisely because they are great.” Baron Torquay sipped his water. “And so, are we agreed about Sound Unltd?”

Each nodded. Each red crystal glowed heart red.

Torquay adjourned the meeting. “Let us now end the discussion with a prayer to Our Lord Lucifer.” The rotund aristocrat began the affirmation. “We are ever in service to you, god of darkness born in light. Your realm of power and pleasure shall purchase all who bear your light-cross symbol.”

The second snippet, narrated by pop culture pundit Jay Elliot, concerns a freakish physical earth event and the weather that coincides with an archealogical dig in the Welsh mountains sponsored by band album producer and guitarist Mick, a fan of the occult and Druidic lore. This comes from Chapter Seven of The Prophesied Band. Elliot calls Mick to find out more about this incident, which both consider some kind of conspiratorial event.


Summer, 1998

 

Now the preachers were sure of it. Seven years of tribulation were upon us. Half-way through this period in which Apocalypse’s fabled four horsemen—war, famine, pestilence, and death—would ride roughshod over sinner and saint alike, the Anti-Christ would reveal himself. All but the most devout of God would fall under his evil spells.

Until finally the Messiah would come again to save the devout.

People were urged to buy video- or audio-taped ‘wills’ for those ‘left behind.’ Some new-agers prepared welcome sites in deserts for enlightened ‘visitors’ in ‘rainbow ships’ whom would allow them to reach their ‘tenth consciousness.’

And those who would wait out the tribulation until the Second Coming or go down fighting some nebulous ‘new order’ of ‘illuminated ones’ dug in with guns and butter. Membership in militias, according to various cable news networks, grew into the millions. Media darlings as well as media outcasts warned of states of emergency almost daily. Race riots spread from city to city.

I was driving home to my new place by the Pacific waters—a secluded home I bought in a high-rent area a couple of months ago to escape a Richmont nearing ravage—wanting to turn off the radio as Reverend Ike Lawson exhorted for the hundredth time that day that we should read our Bibles. But I’m glad I didn’t. Next on the radio was this amazing bit of news.

“Would you believe an earthquake in Wales?” folksy syndicated radio columnist Paul Harvard asked rhetorically. “It’s true, folks. A five-point-fiver hit today in the central Craggy Mountains of Wales not far from an archeological dig for the nineteen-hundred-and-fifty-year-old bones of Crynnwagg, one High Priest of the Druidic Crag-Dweller sect. Dig sponsor Mick Pordengreau had this to say, ‘We’d been having problems finding any evidence of his bones for months. But we knew he was buried in this area. I truly believe this earthquake is a sign that we’ll find them.’ Never mind that an entire village was levelled.”

Cute, Harvard, cute.

When I got home at seven that evening I couldn’t keep my hot little fingers from dialing Mick at Holyhope, a full nine hours of time ahead of me. I knew he hardly ever slept until just before daybreak.

“Is that earthquake for real, Mick?”

“Shit, Jay. Me phone’s been ringing off the hook for an hour. I just started to sleep, eh?” He sounded tired and irritated. “Yeh, it’s real. And it killed twelve people so far. I’ve gotten several calls from charities begging me to give ‘em a big load o’ bread for their earthquake funds. But I’ve already told the town leaders I’m donating whatever money they need. A lot of these folks helped out with the Crynnwagg dig, and with a couple o’ videos the band did earlier this year.”

“The two Crag-Dweller songs on Seccond Coming.”

“Yeh. These are good people here. You know they never hassled me about my lifestyle. We get along.”

Of course it’s not every day a remote Welsh village has a world-renowned musician-producer in their midst, even if a bit kinky. But his Crynnwagg dig very much put the town on the map, and money in their tiny gift shops.

“So,” I finally asked, “did the earthquake help you find the bones?”

“That they did. Or at least we’re speculating they’re his bones. Crynnwagg was known through legend to have had tibia bones much longer than they should have been.”

“Long-shanks.” Which reminded me of a long-ago English king.

“Yeh.” Snort. “And like Swami Negran, too. Little murdering bastard!”

By this time the word had gotten out that Negran was the one who did in Adam Bloodlove. Mick made sure of that. But no one could bring the Indian mystic to justice. The man supposedly had been killed by a Christian radical in a so-called car crash.

“And no one can find his red crystal,” I said.

“Joe thinks his father and his elitist cronies hid the crystal somewhere and they’re using it. I mean, all the crap with the weather. Shit, Jay, southern England’s drying up, and they’re literally drowning in Walltown. Jack and Keith have been up there about a month now. They think they’ve found some Code manuscripts in an iron vault, but they can’t open the vault until it stops raining. And who the hell ever heard of earthquakes in Wales? Torquay and them are definitely screwing around with the weather.”

I laughed, especially since he had no proof. “You sound like those militia-types we have here in the States.”

The third snippet from The Prodigal Band, Chapter Eight (Chapter Ten in the PDF version) features the same group of evil-doers but with newer members making plans to deal with the band which appears to be reneging on their original “oath” to the forces of evil.


Inner sanctum of the Hellyon Society at Torquay Hall, June 14, 2001

 

A glowing hot ring of fire embedded within a pentagram and reflected in the faces of Torquay, Effingchester, Rodney Davis, Messrs. X and Y and eight others as they stood, in black robes with black hoods covering their foreheads, in a circle surrounding the fire. They held up crystal goblets filled with a blood red wine.

“To Cole Blessing,” Torquay began the toast. “He served us well, and he put the planet, and Our Lord Lucifer, above everything else. He served our cause to the fullest.”

They clinked glasses.

“Being impaled on a bedpost!” Davis snickered. “Crap, if I wanted to kill somebody—”

“You always want to kill somebody,” Effingchester scoffed.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Marty, but I wouldn’t have picked him up and put him through a bedpost. Anyone know who did it?”

“None of us,” X said, “and, as far as I know, everyone who knew Blessing has already been cleared. I personally think it really was an accident.”

“Right,” Davis sneered, “just what the media says.”

“And who do you think told them to say that?”

Murmurs all around, some muffled laughter.

“But Blessing isn’t why we’re here, you know?” Davis had no love lost for the spirit healer of the St. Xenos ashram. “It is past time for us to have gained the complete and total allegiance of Sound Unltd. Way past time!”

“We have their allegiance,” Y said. “We’ve had their allegiance since Swami Negran inducted them into the Circle of Unity.”

“Right!” Davis grew angry, trashed his cup, and stomped out of his point into the center of the pentagram, by the fire. “That’s a load of crap! I know for a fact that they stopped following the Circle of Unity since those heart attacks of theirs. I know for a fact that they’ve repudiated Negran since Mick found out Negran killed Adam Bloodlove. I also know for a fact that instead of following Blessing, they went chasing after the meaning of that blasted Walltown Code, have communicated with someone called the Witch of the Hovels and have had miraculous messages from that Tooters statue of theirs! Now, does anyone here really think that Corion is pleased with our piss-poor efforts? We were supposed to have them signed, sealed, and their souls delivered by now. I guarantee it, he was not at all pleased with Cole Blessing’s botching of that job. The same way he was not pleased with Swami! And I, for one, don’t want to wind up in their shoes!” The promoter was livid now, flailing his arms. “We’ve got to do something! Now or never!”

Marty then stepped out to commiserate with Davis. “I admit we haven’t been on our guard over them. But that miracle business will soon be forgotten if it hasn’t already, and those six will get back to normal. At this point, Rod, they couldn’t leave all their wealth and power behind even if they wanted to. They are wedded to the elite just as surely as we are.”

“But they need to take the oath, Marty. They need to come right in here, drink blood, sign the oath in blood, do the ceremony just like all of us have, and then I’ll know—we’ll know—that they belong to Corion and Our Lord Lucifer. Then we’ll know that we’ll be side by side with him when he comes back to rule the world. Then we’ll know that Corion won’t gnaw on us forever!” Davis was now pleading in desperation. “We have got to get them in here! One by one in chains if we have to, but we have to prove to Corion that we mean business!”

“So how do we do that without exposing ourselves?” Torquay, usually assured of every Novordo plot, was now at a loss and nervous about being at a loss. “We can’t kill them until they’ve signed the oath. And scaring them into signing an oath would tip them off.”

“What ‘tip them off’?” Davis would have no excuses. He faced down Torquay. “Tip them off to what? They have no idea about what we want them to do. The ‘tip off’ as you put it comes when they are threatened with losing all that money and power they’ve acquired. That we’ve allowed them to acquire! They either sign on, or we wipe them out financially and any other way we can come up with. Maybe a few accidents, you know what I mean?”

Effingchester stepped back into the circle. “We must never soften our stance, you know. We must screw them over until it is done. And their women too, you know. They must suffer also. And their children. And their families. They must be ruined. Completely and utterly.”

“Works for me,” X said. “Too bad. They’ve always had such productive unit-sales.”

Y concurred. “Yes, they really know how to make a hit. They’ve got the most loyal fans in the world. It really is too bad we have to lose them.”

“Well,” Davis said, “it’s either them or us. That’s all there is to it.”

Now, if you want to know what this conspiracy involves, you may just have to buy the book–no spoiler alerts this time!

You can purchase the entire The Prodigal Band Trilogy at my author spotlight page here!

The Prodigal Band Trilogy © 2019 by Deborah Lagarde, Battle of the Band © 1996 by Deborah Lagarde, The Prophesied Band © 1998 by Deborah Lagarde and The Prodigal Band © 2018 by Deborah Lagarde. Permission needed to copy any materials off this page.

 

 

Author: deborahlagarde

Born on Long Island, NY, in 1952, now live in the mountains of far west Texas. Began writing fiction stories at about 8 years old with pen and loose leaf paper, and created the characters in my Prodigal Band Trilogy as a teenager. From the 70s to the 90s I created the scenario which I believe was inspired. While bringing up and home schooling my two children I continued to work on the novels and published "Battle of the Band" in 1996 and "The Prophesied Band" in 1998. Took off the next several years to complete home schooling and also working as an office manager for the local POA. In 2016, I retired, then resumed The Prodigal Band, a FREE PDF book that tells the whole story to its glorious end. Hint: I'm a true believer in Christ and I'm on a mission from God, writing to future believers, not preaching to the choir. God gave me a talent and, like the band in my books, I am using that talent for His glory, not mine (and, like me, the band is on its own journey, only fictional.) I also wrote for my college newspaper and headed up production, was a columnist in a local newspaper in the early 2000s, and wrote for and edited "Log of the Trail," the news letter for the Texas Mountain Trail Writers, and wrote for and edited it's yearly catalog of writings, "Chaos West of the Pecos." OmegaBooks is my self-publishing sole proprietorship company founded in 1995. Other jobs included teaching secondary math, health aide, office worker, assembly line work, and free-lance writing and bookkeeping,much of it while home schooling.

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