This is the danger of Satanism. Not the cartoonish devil-horns-and-red-tail version you scoff at when you watch those Nollywood movies of yore. No. I mean the real kind—the quiet kind. The kind that creeps in through decadence, through excess, through the slow corrosion of the soul under the weight of everything it was never designed to carry. Now, let me be clear: I’m not saying Diddy bows before Baphomet at midnight in some candle-lit Los Angeles cellar. I don’t need to. That’s too easy. What I am saying is this—there is a point in wealth where the human psyche buckles. Where the body begins to lust, not from hunger, but from rot. A lust for inversion. For undoing. For the grotesque. We were not meant to be gods. But money—stupefying money—convinces you that you are. And once you believe that, the slide begins. You lose your appetite for anything ordinary. Love, loyalty, even sex in its most vivid form, begins to feel bland. So you turn inward. You dig. You scratch. You descend. You invite the abyss. And the abyss does not come alone. It comes with a choir. Bacchus, drunk and delirious, chanting in your bloodstream. Aphrodite, split wide open, whispering like a courtesan of Shogunate Japan, coaxing new ways to be defiled. Eros, no longer the playful cherub, but a beast with slick hands and a hunger for domination. The gods of flesh and fever, now your roommates. You don’t just indulge in sin—you orchestrate it. You see, this is no longer about hedonism. It’s about ritual. About offering. About control. There’s a reason the super rich throw those “private” parties—no cameras, no phones, no clothes. There’s a reason they say you must “leave your inhibitions at the door.” Because what’s happening in those circles isn’t mere pleasure. It’s liturgy. It’s orgiastic prayer. A slow reenactment of ancient rites: Wiccan, Dionysian, Luciferian. And if you think I’m being dramatic, you haven’t been paying attention. Why do you think it’s the super-rich—the ones who can afford entire islands and human silence—that demand the darkest, filthiest, most godforsaken acts? Scatophilia. Pedophilia Bestiality. Child roleplay. Pederasty. Pain masked as pleasure. Pleasure sharpened into violence. Why do you think their desires spiral so far outside human decency that it begins to feel mythic—like something ripped from a Greek underworld or a pagan rite long buried? Because when you’ve tasted every luxury, your tongue starts to rot. When you’ve slept with everyone you’ve ever fantasized about, your fantasies start to decay. They curdle. You don’t want what’s beautiful anymore. You want what’s forbidden. What’s filthy. What makes you feel something. Anything. And that’s the curse. Wealth—true, godless wealth—has a way of opening portals. Not literal ones, maybe. But psychic ones. Moral ones. Doors you walk through and never come back the same. You don’t just lose your innocence—you lose your compass. You forget what was ever north. There’s a reason certain billionaires lose the ability to speak plainly. Why their eyes are always scanning for something they can’t name. They’ve tasted every fruit and found them all lacking. So now, they hunt for the forbidden. The profane. The blood-warm. And maybe—just maybe—the real demon isn’t some horned beast in the woods. Maybe it’s a desire so bottomless it begins to eat itself. Maybe hell isn’t a pit at all. Maybe it’s a penthouse, with marble floors, a view of the city, and screams echoing behind soundproof walls. In the end, it’s simple: there’s a kind of wealth that deifies the self—and once a man becomes his own god, all that’s left to sacrifice is everything else.