An Unholy Covenant—- A Mort Laitner Satire

“An Unholy Covenant” by Mort Laitner










Writers are often honored by invitations to interesting events by hosts who want their event memorialized in the written word.

I received such an invitation via email:

You are cordially invited to a blow-your-mind-and-knock-your-socks-off party.

We have read your short stories. We think they are quite descriptive, concise and entertaining.

Therefore, we are requesting your attendance at our party, if you agree to write a short story

for us in exchange for your admission.

Casual attire.

Party starts at the bewitching hour of midnight.

RSVP within the next seven days.

So began my journey to a shot-gun shack located on the outskirts of Little Haiti.

A journey to a building covered in strands of blinking red, blue and black Christmas lights.

Beneath the lights, large flakes of peeling paint tried to detached themselves from the lumber as if the boards were toxic.  

The shack’s red brick chimney poked through the roof allowing hickory-scented smoke to perfume the air.

As I examined the lawn. I saw it almost devoid of greenery except for a few patches of weeds.

A white picket fence—with every tenth picket painted black— surrounded the property.  (I counted.)

I opened the gate with its rusted hinges that screeched as if it were an Addams Family door bell announcing the presence of each new guest.

When I climbed on the porch, a shapely, shoeless and sockless middle-age blonde approached. She dressed in a black leotard that clung to her body as if it were painted on. She knocked my socks off. 

As she handed me a drink, she said in a sultry Lauren Bacall voice, Hi. My name is Fefe. I have never seen you here before. You must be the writer?”

As I undressed her with my eyes, I replied, “Yup. I am a first timer. Mort the writer. Glad to make your acquaintance Fefe.”

“Mort you’re a lucky man. Tonight, we are having a really interesting show. Look inside at the three characters seated around the table. It’s going to be one weird night.”

I sipped the pineapple rum-flavored concoction, listened to the beat of an African drum. and fantasized about an orgy of possibilities.

Fefe vanished into the house—having already succeeded in heightening my sense of excitement and passion. 

I wondered, “Had Fefe dosed or is it spiked my drink with acid. The invitation said a mind-blowing party.

I peered though the torn and rusted screen door and observed one Latino male, one elderly white woman  and one black woman seated around the kitchen table.

 A fireplace heated the entire room. Coals, ashes and a cauldron filled the fireplace.

As I walked into the kitchen, flickering candles caused shadows to dance across the walls.

My ears throbbed to the beat of the drums.

My nose loved the smell of the burning wood.

This room was toxic.

The Hispanic male, I guessed to be a Santero, a priest of Santeria, was dressed in white: pants, shirt and shoes, and a multicolored bead necklace.

I observed resting in front of him a collection of hazerei: a parade of pills, a Baggie filled with human hair and some roots.

Next to the Santero, sat an elderly white lady with braided grey hair. She wore a black dress and a silver inverted pentacle medallion around her neck.

In front of her was a six inch cloth doll stuck with pins and needles: one in each eye, two on the top of the head and one between its legs. 

Next to the older white lady sat a heavy set black lady wearing a  blue, green, white and red dress—the colors of the Haitian flag. On her head she wore a Cap of Liberty embroidered with the words, “Voodoo Queen.” 

In front of her rested two glasses: one filled with jimsom weed, sulfur and honey, the other with acid rain.

I watched the voodoo queen rise from her chair, call for silence and recite her incantation:

By the powers invested in my  soul, I call for the final ingredients to be cast into this curative stew. This man who has insulted our people, our gender, our environment, our nations must pay the price for such behavior. We must purify his soul of all chemicals and foreign bodies. He must be healed. All who agree say, ‘Amen!’

A chorus of “Amens” filled the room.

She rose and walked toward the cauldron and poured the jimsom weed, sulfur and honey into the boiling brew. Then she sprinkled acid rain into the pot.

“As I pour these ingredients into this broth, we pray for the exorcism of the zombie that inhabits his body. We sprinkle acid rain into this holy pot so it causes his precious hair to split and fall out.

 All who agree with say, ‘Amen'”.

All in the room yelled “Amen.”.

As the queen returned to her seat,the Santaro rose to his feet, picked up the pills and a dye, the Baggie filled with human hair and the roots.

“As I  toss a pill or liquid into the cauldron, I will say its name and you will respond by saying, ‘On him it must be contraindicated.'”


“On him it must be contraindicated.”


“On him it must be contraindicated.”

“Just For Men!”

“On him it must be contraindicated.”

The Santero then shook the bag of hair into the pot and dumped the Orris roots on top of the hair. He watched as the hair and roots slowly sank into the brew.

“May he lose interest in all women based on his abuse, neglect and maltreatment of the fairer sex.”

The crowd roared their approval.

As the Santero sat back down, the elderly white lady slowly stood up, picked up her doll and headed to the caldron. She raised the red headed voodoo doll, with pins strategically stuck in its body over the boiling brew and said,

“Let cruelty, pain

and evil ways

follow this villain

through all his days.

Reverse the torment

he creates

to turn on him

a crueler fate.”

(Found in Pinterest)

She dropped the doll and as the doll floated on the surface of the concoction it burst into flame.

And all in the room chanted:

“Let cruelty, pain

and evil ways

follow this villain

through all his days.

Reverse the torment

he creates

to turn on him

a crueler fate.”

At this point the room started to spin. I lost my balance and fell upon a couch.

I woke up the next morning to the crowing of a rooster. I lay upon on that couch in an empty shot-gun shack.

As I repeatedly heard cock-a-doodle-doo, I stared at my sockless feet and tried to focus my blown mind on where to begin my story.


Please share. I need the fame.

To those of you who are planning a “knock-your- socks-off—blow-your-mind party (c).”

Remember I must be given a credit on the invitation and my royalty fee must be paid before the event.

Remember you can buy all of our books, A Hebraic Obsession, The Greatest Gift and The

Hanukkah Bunny on Barnes and Noble and Amazon.

The movie “The Stairs” is available  for $15.00 through this website.

Finally, I am looking for a fan to beat out Joe Erby’s praise which he gave to my last story.

Hahahahahaha 🎇🍻🎉😁😀

Count them six hahas and all that mishegas. Thanks Joe.