SATISH SHARMA - not just Rotigraphy.: The Devil's Legions

The Devil's Legions: Churchill's Whores Went Corporate to Fuck Us All

Drunken scribbles on a stained bar top napkin:

The Devil’s Legions began in the filthy summer of 1940 as the Special Operations Executive—Churchill’s private gang of saboteurs, whores, poets, criminals, and exiled aristocrats told to burn Europe down from the inside.
Officially killed in 1946, the outfit never died; it just went freelance, mutated, learned to feed itself on heroin, cocaine, blood diamonds, and the tears of collapsed nations all chartered in the form of the CIA, reformed-MI6 and later as the BDU, et al.
Today it's the two trillion-$ a year, self-funding, unaccountable standing army of the stateless Financialists—more powerful than any government, richer than God, and twice as cruel.
This is not theory. This is the long hangover after the victory party nobody invited you to.

The Barstool Confession: A dim bar in San Francisco, 3 a.m., November 27, 2025. The jukebox is coughing up Tom Waits. I’m half in the bag, talking to some ghost who looks like Bukowski and tweets like me. He buys me a double Wild Turkey and starts spitting the real history they don’t teach in the shiny schools.

The Devil’s Legions: A Love Letter Written in Blood and Cheap Whiskey

Yeah, I was there when it started—well, not really, my pop was still swimming in his daddy’s balls in 1940, but the stink of it reached even through, two wombs later. London burning, bombs falling like steel hail, and that fat bastard Churchill pacing Downing Street with a cigar and a hard-on for chaos. The regular army was getting its ass kicked. The gentlemen spies at MI6 were too busy polishing their cufflinks to get their hands dirty. So Churchill did what any desperate drunk does: he created a monster.

“Set Europe ablaze,” he growled at Hugh Dalton, and Dalton, that socialist prick with the soul of a banker, grinned like he’d just been handed the keys to hell. Calling his partners in crime the Dulles fucks, saying, "We did it boys, he fell for it. We're on!"

Three bastard outfits got thrown into the blender:

Section D — MI6’s little psychopaths who’d been blowing shit up since ’38, and long before, really. MI(R) — the War Office eggheads writing love poems to guerrilla warfare, ruling empire with a mere handful of psychopathic murdering pricks. Electra House — Foreign Office propagandists who could convince a nun to fuck a goat if the Reich needed discrediting.

They smashed them together on July 22, 1940, gave it a nondescript office on Baker Street, and called it the Special Operations Executive. The Germans called them terrorists. The occupied called them saints. I call them the original Devil’s Legions—because once you let the devil off the leash, he doesn’t go back in the fucking cage.

They recruited beautiful monsters. Bank robbers who could crack a safe or a skull with equal grace. Whores who spoke five languages and could kill you with a hairpin. Communist poets. Lesbian athletes. Exiled princesses with vengeance in their panties. Women—Christ, the women—forty percent of the agents dropped into France were women, because the Gestapo couldn’t believe a skirt could be that deadly. Violette Szabo, Noor Inayat Khan, Krystyna Skarbek—names that should make your balls shrivel or your cunt clench, depending on your plumbing.

They invented everything we now pretend to be shocked by. Exploding rats. Silent pistols. Time-delay bombs hidden in turds. Folding motorcycles. Suicide pills. They taught Norwegians to ski down mountains with dynamite strapped to their chests. Taught Yugoslav peasants to cut German throats in the dark. Taught the French to smile at collaborators in cafés and then burn their houses down at midnight.

They were magnificent. They were filthy. They were necessary. They were also a trojan fucking horse.

And when the war ended, the pricks in suits decided such magnificent filth had no place in peacetime. At least, not that could be carried "on the books."

January 15, 1946. SOE officially dissolved. Bullshit fucking shit!

You don’t dissolve the devil. You just stop paying him a salary and watch him figure out how to eat. You charter him in unaccountable bureaucrat mumbo-jumbo and set him loose to do his worst. As long as you keep getting your cut.

Colin Gubbins and his boys walked out of Baker Street and straight into the SAS, into the CIA’s Special Activities Division, into NATO’s stay-behind networks. Gladio in Italy. Sheepskin in Greece. The same motherfuckers who once blew up Nazi trains now trained ex-SS bastards to fight the Reds—because the enemy had changed, but the game hadn’t.

Then came the masterstroke: they taught the devil to feed himself.

Laos, 1950s. CIA Air America flying opium for the Hmong tribes—who do you think wrote that playbook? SOE had done it in Burma with poppy-growing Kachin guerrillas.

Afghanistan, 1980s. The biggest covert op in history. Stinger missiles, Saudi cash, and a blind eye to the heroin that paid for it all once the Soviets crawled home bleeding. Same pattern.

Nicaragua. Contras running cocaine through Arkansas airports while Reagan preached “Just Say No.” Same pattern.

Colombia. AUC paramilitaries trained by the best, funded by the purest coke on the planet. The good shit! Same pattern.

Every time: arm them, train them, point them, then look away while they rob, rape, and traffic whatever keeps the machine humming.

Think fentynal and American streets. Not enough money in feeding crack to negros. Time to bring the crackers into it with a cheap new drug 100 times the strength of crack.

And the machine learned.

It didn’t need Langley or Vauxhall Cross anymore. It had its own banks in the Caymans, its own shipping lines, its own private airfields. It had the City of London’s “Spider’s Web”—those quaint little islands where trillions wash clean while you and I pay taxes on a fucking hamburger only 10% beef.

Today the Devil’s Legions are everywhere and nowhere. They run the heroin out of Afghanistan (90% of world supply, even after we “left”). They run the coke out of Colombia. They run the fentanyl labs in Mexico and Canada that kill your kids. They run the human cargo through the Mediterranean and the Darién Gap. They run the coltan mines in Congo worked by children with Kalashnikovs.

They collapse governments that won’t play nice with the IMF. They whack journalists who follow the money. They rig elections with blackmail and bribes and outright threats. They traffic kids through ports run by Western contractors who still get Pentagon checks.

And every dollar—every filthy trillion—gets laundered through the same offshore sewers that hold the fortunes of the Financialists. Not Americans. Not Brits. Not Russians. Stateless motherfuckers who own governments the way you own a used Buick.

This is what Churchill birthed in a panic in 1940. Stupid drunk ass motherfucker. Then Truman went and codified it into a charter, as the goddamn CIA. The Dulles brothers and their malevolent Resentfuls allies and colleagues behind it all. Wall Street, City of London, Amsterdam, and Rome.

This is what survived the peace.

This is what won.

So pour another drink, sweetheart. The war never ended. It just went private.

And the Devil’s Legions are hiring.

Citations

M.R.D. Foot, SOE: The Special Operations Executive 1940–46
William Mackenzie, The Secret History of SOE (declassified 2000)
Alfred W. McCoy, The Politics of Heroin
Daniele Ganser, NATO’s Secret Armies
Nicholas Shaxson, Treasure Islands
UNODC World Drug Reports (the ones they haven’t buried)
The ghosts in every bar who still whisper the truth when the whiskey is strong enough