Rachel Medium

Legendary. Ageless. Unkillable. Bloody. Broken. Beautiful. And only those who've been to Hell can remember her when she passes.

They say that she's "the soul"; the sum of your old uncle Charlie's 'hole in the infinite' through which the Beatles communicated to him and the Family back in the day. According to Bubba St. Germain, she's the biological mother of The Honorable and Revered Platus Mondanus Maximus, way back before he got dirt-napped in the Honeymoon Suite's bathroom on Christmas Eve of '91 with a switchblade in his eye. That would make her God's blushing bride, so some incongruous and weird things about her make sense to the Abraxians; of course, Hobnail Jenkins tells a different story. And maybe, just maybe, she's the unholy 37th anti-tzadikim - the unblinking eye of the inverted black pyramid, holding the whole universe down so that the future remains, forever, a boot stomping a human face unrecognizable. Plenty of folks think that she might be the actual Whore of Babylon, there astride the seven-headed Beast, womb to Wormwood. Other, less religious theories suggest that she's the Hatchet-Mother: a living being, from olden age, tasked by the Nether itself simply with the goal of making the world a worse place, just shepherding the goats into the flames and stoking the fire to keep it hot.

If you ask her, she'll talk your ear off about the "closing of the 11:11 doorway": the moment when the simulation of mortality exhausts itself and the wave-form of theoretical novelty collapses to zero-state.

Whether this is meant to be a prophecy, possibly tied to the Mayan long-count which rotates in 2012, or actually a metaphor for something much more personal, including potentially the "missing time" reported by un-damned between death and the Nether, there's a lot of debate. Heck, some folks think there's a code in there for how to crack an anti-cherry, possibly into Heaven, while other assholes are convinced that Miss Medium has something concrete on Icke's reptilians or how to kill thetans. And, on the whole, it's all so mixed up with references to the 1139-era St. Malachi papal prophecies and really odd, personal takes on astrology, tarot and inner alchemy, qabalah, Enochian magic and astral projection that it's all damn near useless.

Or, at least, Callus Detier Drogovich keeps telling everyone that what she has to say is useless, but he seems twitchy when she's brought up.

And that doesn't keep crashers from chasing after her like Bigfoot legends & Elvis sightings, trying to buy her some waffles, get her to kiss their shotgun shells and sign their switchblades. Folks say that she even attended Godless Bob Alvarzo's funeral, but if even half the assholes who claim to have dosed up on bathtub DMT after that were actually there, that trailer park would have been like fucking Woodstock.

Whatever the case, the thing is that Rachel hasn't aged since she hit puberty, and most folks place that date some goodly time before her public involvement in the concave-Earth-cult Koreshan Unity movement in the 1870s. And before that, it's all speculation, because records of her go "wonky".

Her name, as far as anyone knows, comes from Genesis 29, Verse 11: "… Jacob [son of Issac, son of Abraham] kissed Rachel, and he wept aloud" or possibly Verse 17: "Leah had weak eyes, but Rachel was lovely in form, and beautiful." Either way, it's rumored that a spell for summoning her can be generated by blacking out every second & third word in the unexpurgated Gospel of Eve and reading it in front of a mirror by candlelight. Alternatively, it's known for a damn fact that she can be 'called-up' by castrating your own father and flicking the blood from the severed member into salt-water, which is why one of her nicknames is 'Erin', short for 'Erinyes'.

She'll show up to your house before sunrise. Not necessarily in a good mood, of course, and probably in a stolen car. And she's shorter, in real life, than most people expect her to be.

And sometimes a crew can get lucky, and she'll be spotted shoplifting at a 7-11 outside Death Valley right when she's needed most.

Once she's been marked by a crasher, she'll want payment in booze and drugs - or everyone dies. The price for sex or for a simple chat is the demand that you kill someone wearing a badge - doesn't matter what kind. Even the little plastic toy ones will work. In exchange for divination, a weapon-blessing or Nether-lore fact-check, she always has a message to be delivered, an errand to be run, or a construction project to be undertaken.

And, if she's feeling really generous, she'll channel any soul in the Nether for a chat: her eyes roll back and you've got a two-way teleconference with the Big Below.

What she charges for that, nobody quite knows. Or, at least, nobody is willing to say.

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