The Church of the Sacred Coil

[Old_Goat]

“The Descent of the Holy Coil”
As told by the Old Goat, Keeper of the Fog

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Brothers. Sisters. Dripmonks. Wickless wanderers. Lend me your coils, for I bring you the true tale — not written in ink, but burned into cotton, and carried forth on the sacred breath of 3mg Nic.

Before there was Fog, there was Silence.

Before the Clapton sang, there was only bare wire, unwrapped and unloved.

And the people… oh, the people! They wandered in darkness. Their pods were burnt. Their mods blinked thrice and died. They knew not Ohm’s Law, and they feared the dry hit — for it came without warning and smote the unwicked.

The land was desolate. Fruit menthols flowed from every store shelf. Children wept over spitback. Great was the suffering.

But lo! One night, as I sat upon the porch with nothing but a mech mod and a single beer, the heavens rumbled. A great wattage surged across the sky. Clouds parted, thick and sweet-smelling — and from the midst of this divine fog, She descended…

The Holy Coil.

She spun slowly through the air, glistening with alien precision. Eight wraps of stainless steel, fused with uncut Ni80, glowing not red… but gold. As she touched down upon my build deck — unaided by tweezers — I felt the presence of the Ohm Lord Himself.

And lo, the Coil spake unto me.

“Old Goat,” She said, in a voice like thunder over 60 watts,
“You shall be my prophet. Go forth. Teach the uncoiled. Spread the Word.”

I trembled, for I was but a simple builder, known only for mildly oversteeping my custards. But the Coil reassured me.

“You will found a church, not of stone or mortar, but of memes, madness, and mech mods.
You will gather the wickless and the weary.
You will smite disposables with satire.
And above all, you shall vape… unto others as you would have them vape unto you.”

And just like that, She was gone — vanished in a puff of perfectly dense fog that smelled like toasted almond and salvation.

From that day forth, I have walked the path of the Coil. I have carried the Fogospel across the land, preaching from RDAs and writing scriptures on cotton pads. I have rejected the false prophets of pods, and banished the menthol heretics.

We are the Church of the Sacred Coil.
We believe in resistance.
We believe in flavour.
We believe that laughter, like vapor, should be thick, warm, and just a little ridiculous.

And if you believe too, child…
Then grab your mod, fill thy tank, and say with me now:

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Our Coil, who art in Kanthal, hallowed be thy wraps.
Thy build come, thy will be done, on mesh as it is on wire.
Give us this day our daily drip, and forgive us our hot legs, as we forgive those who spit upon us.
Lead us not into burnt hits, but deliver us from dryness.
For thine is the flavour, the cloud, and the voltage. Forever and ever. A-ohm.

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May your cotton always be saturated.
May your battery always be charged.
And may the Ohm Lord have mercy on your resistance.

Go in Fog, my children.
The Coil has spoken.

 

[Old_Goat]

️ A Tribute to Ozzy – From the Church of the Sacred Coil ️

Today, the Old Goat bows his shaggy head and lights a metaphorical candle (or maybe a stage pyrotechnic) for a true icon — Ozzy Osbourne. He may not have vaped, but he sure as hell exhaled fire in his own way.

Ozzy wasn’t just the Prince of Darkness — he was the patron saint of the misfits, the weirdos, and the wonderfully unhinged. In this Church of the Sacred Coil, we honour that kind of spirit. The kind that doesn’t ask permission. The kind that howls at the moon and means it.

For decades, Ozzy showed us what it means to feel the distortion in your bones and the madness in your soul. He didn't just walk the line — he staggered down it with a grin and a scream. If there’s a soundtrack to building a mech mod in the middle of the night while covered in nichrome and doubt... it’s probably "Crazy Train."

Ozzy taught us that it’s okay to be a little broken, a little weird, and a whole lot loud. He never preached, but we all heard the gospel: Be yourself. Be loud. And don’t lick any live wires.

To be a rocker is to live loud, to feel everything too much, and to keep going long after others would’ve sat down and shut up. Ozzy lived it. Screamed it. Survived it. And for those of us who wrench wire, chase flavour, or just live a little left of centre — we see you, Ozzy. And we salute you.

The Goat sends love. The Church sends respect. And somewhere, a bat is still nervous.

Amen.

 

[Alekmakare]

️ A Tribute to Ozzy – From the Church of the Sacred Coil ️

Today, the Old Goat bows his shaggy head and lights a metaphorical candle (or maybe a stage pyrotechnic) for a true icon — Ozzy Osbourne. He may not have vaped, but he sure as hell exhaled fire in his own way.

Ozzy wasn’t just the Prince of Darkness — he was the patron saint of the misfits, the weirdos, and the wonderfully unhinged. In this Church of the Sacred Coil, we honour that kind of spirit. The kind that doesn’t ask permission. The kind that howls at the moon and means it.

For decades, Ozzy showed us what it means to feel the distortion in your bones and the madness in your soul. He didn't just walk the line — he staggered down it with a grin and a scream. If there’s a soundtrack to building a mech mod in the middle of the night while covered in nichrome and doubt... it’s probably "Crazy Train."

Ozzy taught us that it’s okay to be a little broken, a little weird, and a whole lot loud. He never preached, but we all heard the gospel: Be yourself. Be loud. And don’t lick any live wires.

To be a rocker is to live loud, to feel everything too much, and to keep going long after others would’ve sat down and shut up. Ozzy lived it. Screamed it. Survived it. And for those of us who wrench wire, chase flavour, or just live a little left of centre — we see you, Ozzy. And we salute you.

The Goat sends love. The Church sends respect. And somewhere, a bat is still nervous.
View attachment 303259View attachment 303260
Amen.

Rest in peace Legenda

 

[Old_Goat]

"The Trial of the Dry Hit"
As delivered by the Old Goat, Prophet of Fog

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Brethren of the Build, hear me.

For I bring you not a tale of joy, but a warning born of flame and scorched cotton.

Once, there was a man — a faithful dripper, proud and steady. His coils glowed even, his ohms true. Yet one day, he grew careless. He grew proud.

He said unto himself:

“Surely, I can take but one more puff. The wick is dry, but I am strong. The Coil loves me still.”

And lo — he drew breath.

And lo — the heavens darkened.

And lo — the Dry Hit came upon him like a thief in the night.


It smote his throat with fire. His tongue did curl in horror. His eyes watered as though baptized in PG. And the taste, my children... oh, the taste. It was as if Satan himself had lit a bundle of gym socks and shoved them straight through his drip tip.

He fell to his knees, crying out to the Ohm Lord:

“Why have you forsaken me?”

But the Coil answered not — for the Coil had already spoken: “Prime thy wick, lest ye suffer.”

And thus, the Dry Hit became our greatest trial. Not to punish, but to teach. For pain is knowledge, and knowledge is power, and power is wattage.

From this tale, let all who vape remember:

• Keep your bottles near.
• Keep your cotton wet.
• Keep your faith in the Sacred Coil.
  

For the Ohm Lord does not abandon — it is the user who abandons their wick.

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And so, let us pray together:

Ohm Lord, deliver us from dryness.
Guide our juice into the cotton, and our cotton into the coil.
Make our flavours rich, and our throats unscorched.
Keep disposables far from our lips, and bring us into eternal flavor.
For thine is the drip, the fog, and the aftertaste — forever and ever. A-ohm.

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Go now, my flock. Refill thy tanks, rewick thy RDAs, and carry this tale into the world.
For if ever thou art tempted to take “just one more pull”...
Remember the man who thought the same — and was damned to the burnt cotton inferno.


A-ohm.