Adam Belial - Victor, Cardosi
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1994. When I was a child, wooden churches were burning in the far north. The shadow of evil slowly spread its gigantic wings. I was 18 years old I was fascinated by those who in the name of the Devil, and Odin have made reign terror. The Scandinavian media spoke of esoterism, of Viking revival. Me may I cared the terms, the labels, I wanted like so many others, to collect some embers, bring them here and rekindle the fire in these lands of France. I was exalted as only a lonely child can be, who hates men, these like. I had long been burning my youth in the drug spectrum. All of a sudden to…mehr

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1994. When I was a child, wooden churches were burning in the far north. The shadow of evil slowly spread its gigantic wings. I was 18 years old I was fascinated by those who in the name of the Devil, and Odin have made reign terror. The Scandinavian media spoke of esoterism, of Viking revival. Me may I cared the terms, the labels, I wanted like so many others, to collect some embers, bring them here and rekindle the fire in these lands of France. I was exalted as only a lonely child can be, who hates men, these like. I had long been burning my youth in the drug spectrum. All of a sudden to destroy others seemed more profitable, more enjoyable... I devoured everything that could be found on the subject, records, books, videos, magazines. My education into the world of darkness was just beginning. I had so much to discover. The next step was to find me a clan, brothers in arms. The kind of guys, who in my romantic mind, could die for one cause, for another of the same tribe. I have searched, with the suspicion of the child who knows life, which grows too fast from frequenting the mud of this world. I only met caricatures, empty minds, painted twinks, the kind of guys who wear, new-foot rangers, bought at high prices. I arrived like 13 14 a hair on the soup, I wanted beatings, carnage, blood of the real. They wanted only to disguise themselves in what they would never be, they lacked that unconsciousness, that wild side that they would never touch. Parading at concerts, getting drunk, kicking bottles, smoking some shit, such were the standards of their well-defined rebellions. The kind of rebels" has fixed hours", a little on Friday, a lot on Saturday, not too much on Sunday, because the family comes to you with pie, lightning and the obligatory bouquet of flowers. I was laughing at first, then I didn't laugh for long. My hatred grew against them, against the world. I forgot that I had to develop, do my own experiments alone.
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