Kevin Wikse vs. The Dark Queen of Mexico Part 1

As I stumbled off the Greyhound and into the inferno of Los Angeles’s Figueroa Street, I was immediately assaulted by the pungent cocktail of sweat, sex, and hopelessness. The air reeked of unwashed pussy and bad decisions, a sugary stench that clung to your skin like the ghost of sins past. I could feel the spirit of Dirty Harry gripping my soul, whispering dark truths about this forsaken stink of urban decay. This wasn’t just another day in the city of Angels; this was a plunge into the gut-wrenching bowels of the beast, a reckless dive into the chaotic underworld where the polished facade of civilization cracks wide open, exposing the raw, throbbing nerves of reality.

The sun hung low, casting an eerie glow over the sprawling mobile meat market, a fitting backdrop for the madness I came to unleash. The streets were a twisted tapestry of human folly, each thread woven with tales of survival, ambition, and relentless vice. The gutters ran with hard-cried tears and the kind of piss that burned like acid, a testament to the city's unyielding grip on the souls trapped within its urban nightmare. I was the necromancer, armed with a skeleton key and the rituals required to open the gates of hell.

Armed with nothing but a heart of stone pumping ice water through my veins and a brain full of calculated mayhem, I plunged headfirst into the melee. My first stop was a hole-in-the-wall bar, the Tiger Shark Lounge, a relic from California’s golden years, now a cockroach-infested rusty bucket of blood where used needles and condoms littered the restroom and back alley. The walls here still whispered secrets of broken dreams and shattered lives, echoing the ghostly remnants of a bygone era. For "need-to-know" type information, few spots could deliver as well as this forsaken dive.

The man behind the bar was not happy to see me. Truth is, he was never happy to see me. His reasons were valid. I either brought trouble to his doorstep or dug it up and left it there. A former pro surfer I'd met while running operations out of Huntington Beach, he was one of those late '90s Orange County bad boys. He fell in with a rough crowd and did a stint at San Quentin after his surf career wiped out harder than he ever did. He took a reef to the face and almost drowned. He might have crawled back up onto the shore, but he left too much of himself in the ocean to ever be whole again. Like his surfboard, his soul lay washed up and broken in the sand.

His name was Jason "Razor" Thompson, a name that once conjured images of slicing through waves with the grace of a predatory fish. Now, it was a bitter reminder of the edge he'd lost, both on the water and in life. He was a shadow of his former self, his eyes dull and haunted by the ghosts of waves he would never ride again. He was the embodiment of a shipwreck, his emotional turmoil raw and bare, like sun-bleached bones scattered across a deserted island—a grim testament to the glory days long gone.

"Wikse," my name seeped out of his mouth like a curse, a low hiss of recognition and resentment.

"Razor," I said, peppering my voice with as much believable sympathy and long-overdue apology as I could muster while still sounding palatable. I slid up to the bar and took a seat directly across from him.

The hellfire in his gaze flickered briefly before returning to the glass he was polishing with obsessive fervor. He and I were both shell-shocked veterans of too many lost nights, shady deals, and backroom reckonings. We shared a street warrior’s bond. The mercenary in him recognized the sell-sword in me. As mad as he was, he couldn’t refuse me alcohol—the lubrication to all grinded gears—and slid a glass of something amber and potent my way.

“Paloma. Do you know where she is?” The lion in me asked, but in a sheepish tone, my voice barely cutting through the haze of smoke and regret.

He looked up at me with weary bloodshot eyes, the kind that had seen too much and cared too little. “Last I heard, Santa Ana. She was hiding out around Nayarit until things cooled down enough for her to creep back up,” he almost whispered, terrified she might hear him, before turning his attention to a more pressing task—polishing glasses that would never truly be clean. “She is dangerous, Kevin, dangerous as hell.”

Razor wasn’t overselling her. To many, Paloma was the dark queen of Mexico, a demi-goddess of death, so otherworldly beautiful she could arouse the dicks of long-dead men in the grave and make the living want nothing else but to kill and die for her. She was the best parts of a black widow spider and a vampire, but in the worst way. Formerly one of El Chapo’s sex kitten assassins, and rumored to be his most lethal, after his arrest she wasted no time cutting a terrifying and murderous swath up the ranks to achieve a rare status. A satanic high priestess with a gold-plated AK-47 and a blood-drenched altar fashioned from the skin and bones of her victims. She loudly cavorts with demons, devils, and the dead, some human and some not. Her sycophantic henchmen and women, fanatically loyal and ensorcelled by her infernal enchantments, hang on her every word, desperately thirsty for any patch of flesh she might reward them with to put their tongues on.

Oh, and Paloma and I, we used to fuck. A lot Further complicating the already complicated situation.

I had no illusions. Razor would help me, not out of any sense of camaraderie, but because our goals, twisted and dark, aligned just enough. We both wanted to end the reign of the Dark Queen of Mexico. He had no desire to see me succeed for my own sake, but he relished the thought of Paloma’s downfall. He wasn’t interested in feeding me; he wanted to watch her get eaten.

To be Continued...

-Kevin Wikse

I am the only medium, remote viewer, and occultist who, with frightening and stunning accuracy, foresaw the COVID-19 pandemic/hoax and its sinister connections to China. Masks, weaponized and experimental vaccines, mandatory compliance, medical tracking on smartphones, the debacle of the 2020 election, the border crisis, the ILLEGAL migrant and CCP invasion, the specter of World War III, and the looming Magnetic Pole Reversal Global Cataclysm—I predicted it all. VAIDS (Vaccine Acquired Immunological Deficiency Syndrome) and even Dr. Fauci himself, all in my sights as early as 2014. Don’t believe it? See the complete, time-stamped, and documented evidence HERE. 

And that’s not all. My occult and remote influencing work played a pivotal role in the downfall of Jeffrey Epstein, the billionaire pedophile and human trafficker. This too is time-stamped and documented. Witness a true and authentic act of Solomonic conjuration from the Lesser Key, Ars Goetia. HERE.