Magdalena Solís, Blood Sex Magic

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You can kill all the locals in the name of Christ you like, the fact remains the only religions that stick are the ones based on the geography. From the destructive Ganges sprung the eternal Hindu pantheon, from the fickle Nile did the Egyptians imagine their cruel and wild gods. In Japan, first Buddhism and now Christianity swept through, calling themselves the official religion, but thousand-year-old Shinto shrines are still standing, honoring whatever river or mountain they’ve decided is sacred. In California, we can’t conceive a Christ that isn’t basically a proto-surfer dude, himself an archetype echoing the chilled-out Tongva that were slaughtered by meaner Spaniards. A genocide cannot crush a land’s religion when the culture is sewn into the dirt.

Mexico is no different. Despite those same Spaniards slaughtering the fascist Aztec warlords of Central America, the gospel is preached by the land itself. The Mexican flag testifies that a religion of the earth cannot be silenced by mere genocide. It bears an eagle atop a cactus with a snake in its mouth, which is built into the founding myth of what today is Mexico City.

Magdalena Solís, a Mexican prostitute, knew something of her homeland’s religion, when she was enlisted to play the part of Coatlicue, an Aztec goddess who wore a skirt made of snakes and gave birth to the moon and stars. The performance was produced in by two idiotic brothers Santos and Cayetano Hernandez, and for an audience was the dirt-poor village of Yerba Buena, who from late 1962 to early 1963 had the small community convinced they were agents of pagan gods who would lift them out of their misery.

Magdelana Solís. How could anyone doubt this was the face of an Aztec god?

The credulousness of Yerba Buena’s illiterate townsfolk is staggering. When the Hernandez brothers arrived, they were taken seriously despite first making the mistake of promising the favor of Inca gods, a claim weakened by the fact that the Incas civilization existed thousands of miles away in Peru. Yet they were believed, and for months built a cult without anyone challenging their divinity.

The Hernandez brothers met Eleazar Solís, Magdalena’s brother and pimp, who suggested using his sister in their scheme because of her natural talent for theatricality. It turned out to be a profitable relationship, with Magdalena suggesting a grand entrance for her new worshipers. She had the brothers bring the cultists to a cave near Yerba Buena, where she emerged from a cloud of smoke, representing her interdimensional debut.

The peasants accepted unquestioningly the manifestation of Coatlicue just as easily as they accepted the switching from Inca to Aztec gods. But where the brothers exploited their followers for money and the simple pleasure of being worshiped, Solís enlisted them in sexual slavery. This is what makes her nearly unique in the history of madwomen. Her crimes were one of the few perpetrated by a woman in the interest of sexual gratification.

Yerba Buena, the town from which Solís helped recruit members for their cult

Solís held orgies of immense proportions with her worshipers, demanding they show piety by submitting to her sexual will. Cultists fucked for her amusement, all the while being ordered to pleasure her as well. Somewhere in this carnivale in the caves near Yerba Buena, the flesh-spent zealots started to wonder when the prosperity the Hernandez brothers promised would come.

When two acolytes voiced these concerns, Solís answered with that old time religion, in the style of the mean and stupid Aztec warlords before her. The two, whose names have been lost to history, were subjected to utter brutality. Cultists too fearful to announce their doubts were forced to take part in the lynching of the dissenters.

Over a period of six weeks, at least eight people were beaten, mutilated, and killed by the cult at her order. Solís, ever with a talent for staging, had the blood drained of unbelievers, which she drank in a cocktail mixed with marijuana and peyote. These acts of psychedelic vampirism were shared with those she favored, with the subsequent drug-addled episodes likely bolstering her claims of divinity.

It was at this time that their ritualistic murders were stumbled upon by a teenager named Sebastian Guerrero. From behind a rock, he witnessed the terrifying heights the cult’s antics had reached. He watched Solís cut the still-beating heart from the chest of one of her victims, squeezing blood into the chalice which she claimed gave her immortality.

Young Guerrero ran the distance of about half a marathon to Villa Gran, the nearest town with a police station, where he breathlessly told the story of what he had seen. The credulousness of the Yerba Buena villagers was only matched by the incredulousness of the police at Villa Gran, who laughed at his claims of blood-drinking sex cults. As is always the case, those in power match the earnest gullibility of those without with their knee-jerk refusal to believe in anything.

The next morning, an investigator named Luis Martinez gave the boy a ride back Yerba Buena, and one wishes to have been present for the moment doubt was shattered by bearing witness. Their exact fate is unknown, except that at some point that day Martinez and Guerrero were abducted by Solís’ cult and sacrificed for the glory of their Aztec gods. When Martinez failed to return, the Villa Gran police department began to believe Guerrero’s story. The must have, considering that they called upon the Mexican army to help investigate.

Authorities captured Solís and her brother in a farm near Yerba Buena. As far the Hernandez brothers, police killed one, and the other had been murdered by a cultist hoping to become a priest of the cult himself. In the following investigation, eight bodies were found, though it is believed that as many as 45 were killed by the masochistic sex cult.

The faith of the poor always comes as a surprise to those in power, who couldn’t believe that anybody would so desperately need to believe in something so obviously ridiculous. But illiteracy alone cannot explain the faith Yerba Buena’s peasants had in the unlikely tales of forgotten gods they heard from ordinary criminals. It was their poverty that believed they must murder on behalf of Solís, so much they desired their tales of Aztec gods bringing plenty. Their sexual subjugation was so easy to extract because Solís appealed to the one authority the pagan’s knew absolute, that of the mountains themselves.