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Like nomads we walk the earth without a home, never to love, never to feel, and never to fear death because we know our souls are older than death itself. Empathy is a strange and alien emotion to us. If you can feel it for the few then you cannot feel it for the many, not as acutely as we do. We are Allogenes, strangers in a strange land, come here for a moment, one moment of truth. Miss it and we will have lived in vain. This is the story of how we missed ours. Metaphorically this is a story of how C. G. Jung and Al Capone went out clubbing and found Aleister Crowley tending bar with the Goddess on the dance floor. But do not be deceived this is the story of the human soul... 

Authors Forward: Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan

By Jack Heart

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I wasn’t really crazy till I found out I was sane. Back in New York they called me Crazy George. That was about ten years after the facts. It was around the turn of the twenty-first century when they tagged me with that. The Sopranos got a character; George Esposito named after me. I remember when the impetus for that occurred. Somewhere back in the early two thousands an old time “Good-fellow” named Capuluiso, the cousin of slain godfather Paul Castellano, died. I was good friends with his son George so even though I didn’t know him out of the obligatory respect I attended his funeral in Brooklyn and signed the mass card. The whole cast for the Sopranos were there, which I found tacky from the get-go. When I was invited to be introduced to them, because of that and the fact that I consider them all a walking talking racial slur to Italian Americans I not so respectfully declined.

I remember watching the Pagans motorcycle gang and Michael Franzese on the investigative discovery channel and wondering why it wasn’t me. I know Michael from way back, I know his friends, and I know his friends friends. And they all know me. Just like I know the Pagans and was intimately acquainted with their legendary “Bubba,” a man who would have scared Jesus Christ himself. Michael was the son of Sonny Franzese, a legend in his own right. A lot of these Italian dudes will play off their father’s reputations, some will even tell you who their father is before they tell you who they are, but Michael wasn’t like that.

It was somewhere around the turn of the twenty-first century and it was a slow night at the Café Royale, one the New York City areas top three strip clubs at the time, along with Scores and Gallagher’s. Michael had come in with his whole crew and that was about it. About a dozen of them were drinking at the bar. I was standing at the door being assaulted by a bevy of scantily clad woman. Who wasn’t going to make enough money to cover the sixty-dollar house fee, who wanted to go home early, and who didn’t want to work with me because my friends scared the customers away. It was one of those nights where I would be lucky to break a hundred dollars myself. I wanted to go home early.

About a half a dozen cars pull up in the parking lot by the door filled with young Hispanic men dressed to the nines. Knowing Hispanic street gangs were not allowed in the club, outside of course some OG’s from the Latin Kings whom we treated like royalty to keep the rest of them out, one guy did all the talking. I told him we couldn’t let MS 13 in the club, and he tells me they’re not MS 13 but a rival gang at the time