The life of Anton LaVey was fantasy made real. Lions roar as a whip cracks against the sawdust covered ground, rings of fire flicker before the circus crowd. Barkers exhibit freakish curiosities to the wide-eyed sheep, while god-fearing men sneak under the tent flaps hosting a topless revue. Silhouettes meet in fog covered streets, operating on the fringes of society, playing all sides of the game. Bulbs flash, illuminating the cruel darkness of man’s true nature, children splattered by cowardly hit and run drivers, brothers murdered by brothers, bloated corpses fished out of the San Francisco Bay. Black-clad figures stand before a nude female altar, a massive black Sigil of Baphomet hangs in front of them. A hooded devil opens his cloak, enveloping his cohorts in a sinister shadow. Shouts of “Hail Satan” and “Shemhamforash” echo in the ritual chamber between hypnotic chanting. “So it is done!” A den is populated with handcrafted artificial human companions, imperfect androids which appear to have seen more of life than the full-blooded drones who walk the streets by day.