Excerpt from David Britton's novel Baptised in the Blood of Millions, published in 2000 by Savoy Books of Manchester, England.
THE CRUMP of anti-aircraft fire sounded. Whistling flack fell everywhere. Then the blackout was broken by searchlights finally illuminating the flames of war: exacerbating the inconvenience of everything. Conflict presents people with a useful area of indignation. It was no longer important to have a matching set of crockery.
I lifted my head and listened to the first sound again. Beyond the blaffs of wind which carried big white clouds I could hear the resonant snaps and pops changing pitch. The Jews, flying in the night sky, were drawing closer. That crack of boiling toffee was now so familiar to me that I moved quickly to shield Jessie from the first initial sparking spray of hot caramel, particles of which peppered my naked back. I could smell my scorched flesh pumping vigour into my pipe.
Then, with Jessie nestling in my arms, we both observed more Jews rise from the red-flamed horizon, massed like flights of bomber squadrons. The outstretched hands of each individual almost touched the fingertips of his neighbour. I estimated between one thousand and five thousand Yids were flying in unison, furling up against the fiery heavens in a giant swastika formation.
Soon, the insignia of Hitler dominated the London night. I cannot impart the frisson that churned in me at the sight of these Fishers of Men. A heaven choked with human zeros trembled my pride. Nor was my vanity reproved by their physiognomical unloveliness.
And presumably they would receive that preferment to which their suffering had entitled them.
Jessie, free from active snobbery, held her face up to mine and said, "My Dear Sweetie, they drink death like wine, let us hope it gives them the boundaries of solace."
To inculcate a moral lesson from the distress of others demonstrated her qualities, and showed that I was not in error loving this woman.
The Jews on the extremities of the formation thundered and blazed with a white fire of godlike intensity, almost an ejaculation of joy. Hot ginger cordial sprayed from them in a constant charming and sylvan rain. I tell the bare truth, and give my vow as to the veracity of these events.
A devastating harangue fell on us as the crowded and living Jews soared above our heads. I can relate our surprise when we observed that many of the Jews in the centre of that spill of aerial humanity were frozen solid, prisoners in flying ice. Others still had mobility — with Jack Frost drifting from them in crystallised clouds. Stern fire licked and spurted over their bodies as they shouted their names to us. To what purpose, I could not fathom. As if that could diminish their nightmare! And so, with ill luck clinging like leeches to them, they sailed ever onward...
"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mon," I said. Horace, as ever, responding with the appropriate quote.
Many of the chocolate encasements of the outer Jews were foaming and breaking open, prematurely throwing to the earth the fiery Jew inside. One of these falling Jews, we were later informed by the Empire News, took out a full row of terraced houses in Bermondsey.
Jessie and I watched a sparky individual hurtle in a greasy fireball to impact against the Chelsea Bun House on Jew's (now Pimlico) Road, with inevitable results to the morning bread.
Long strands of expanding bubblegum, bright blues and greens, strapped each Yiddler to his brother. Caught against the roaring glow of the night, they mapped an immense spider's web of faith across the red heavens.
Fascism is my firmly held belief; and I bowed to the propagation of my faith.
A good propagandist must be a zealot with a healthy dose of cynicism. Over the years I had developed a fairly comprehensive intellectual synthesis around a set of distinctly metaphysical values, based on a solid reading in the Arts. Legitimised by a moral philosophy of life drawn from a steady use of the open razor.
That link between art and politics, that mythical repository of character and strength, of which every Fascist dreams, meets its apotheosis in Sir Oswald Mosley, royal descendant to the House of Lyonesse, by Suzerainty of Her Majesty Queen Victoria.
"Don't they look so graceful. Gliding through the heavens like Argonaut candles. They're a fucking miracle, and that's a certain fact," Jessie calmly intoned.
As the wartime whirl increased outside, we closed the windows and returned to my bed. I had made love to various of this world's most desirable women — including Bettie Page and Eva Peron. But no woman ever had a body like Jessie Matthews, or a mind steeped in so neurotic a worldliness, or more loving a disposition.
And there was also this charming peccadillo to her. She had two clitorises. The main one was at least twice the size I had seen on any woman, with the smaller one a more natural size and growing just above the stem of the original.
Splaying my right hand, I gently opened Jessie. When my shaft entered her, the extra large numbers of her vagina lips folded back like the peel of a pomegranate. I felt their clustered tips run wavery sensations over my man as it pushed its way home. Then she chomped and squeezed my length inside her. Holding me in this vice grip for some moments, she surely slid up and down Lord Horror in tick-tock clock fashion.
"Are you all agog?" Lovelocks of her beautiful hair caressed me, her face carrying that beatific smile that had so enchanted the British public. "But oh darling heart, it is difficult, to say the least." Concentration was on her features as her hips ground into me, piling me further inside her. "How came you to enrich the earth?"
I had to conceal my inward feelings and as best I could put on a serene facade to this woman. I knew what Jessie was thinking: still plenty of dog in him.
Finding provision for her needs was my priority, and I loved my hand in a valentine. With her I lost the cloak of invisibility so dear to all men except Jews.
She eased off me, catching her breath and resting her head on my chest. "That's done its calling." Her monny shook droplets of golden rain onto my legs. Curling and feeding my dark chest hairs one by one into her mouth, Jessie said, "Hmm, did you know you taste of semen and oranges?" She held a single hair between her lips. "Or perhaps it's tangerines? All human life is living in your skin." Her tongue, slim as a candle-flame and pink as strawberries, began to lick me.
I then complimented her on her vagina and its unsuspecting wonders.
"Didn't you guess? My privates are the secret of my success."
Her mouth left my body and she laughed girlishly, folding a delicate hand around hard me. "All that extra gives my body more fluidity, more sexual drive, so necessary for dance."
"Your singing voice?" I queried.
"From drinking semen, gallons of it." She laughed again. "Yes, I know it's 'jolly silly', but my mother told me it is the best tonal lubricant there is."
So, her appearance of spontaneity masked considerable preparation, as did my own. And Jessie was right, the stink of the human race came off my body. Such irony. I, who have spent my life encouraging departings, should carry the genes of humanity in my skin!
Destiny had brought into the world a man fated for many years to be the most successful of his species. There never existed a better man, a gentleman to his backbone.
"Never give me cause to call your name in anger," I said, only half in jest, tickling Jessie under the chin.
"Listen." She stayed my hand.
It is remarkable, the various gradations sound has in the night. Noise is in the habit of faring luxuriously every day. When I hear a sunlit death, even if it is a mile from my presence, I feel as if something precious has been filched from me, from under my nose, to spite me.
But, oh, The Night.
So it was I perceived the sally of this sound with anticipation. That to which I allude was the frying splutter of the living dead. My carrion head lifted. Even in my spicy room the drench of Alphabet Cachous, Love Hearts, Sherbet Dib-Dabs, Satin Pincushions, Ogo Pogo Eyes, Tiger Nuts, and myriad other sweets came creeping to me.
A special Jew was flying our way.
A Jew somersaulting to my left arrived first. He halted suddenly before me and blushed up to his very whiskers, a sardonic smile disclosing one of his dog's-teeth. This coincided with the arrival of a second Jew, to my right, who now also stopped rigid before me, hovering silently in the air.
These two were semen-thin. They were naught but finely latticed bone draped in a gossamer skin of choc-rich gold. On their right arms were numerals fashioned from icing sugar piping. I knew straight away they were Auschwitz-born, sent in acrimony to mark my destiny by that archangel, Doctor Mengele, the Engel Der Vernichtung of Auschwitz-made man.
The third, a massive Jew, aiming to occupy a position centrally to the others, arrived last. He flew a couple of yards further towards me than the others and there towered above me, licks of fire running up from his skin. (Smouldering fire ignites when it gets a blast of the bellows, instantly blazes up and begins to generate its hydrogen.) And, despite the roaring flames, even though we moved in different worlds (as it were), I recognised him, true and immediately, as the Jew of Linz, Ludwig Wittgenstein.
It takes one Manchester boy to recognise another Manchester boy.
At an undisclosed hour in the fragmented past (for I was drunk, having downed too many bumpers) I had been introduced to the jet-engine philosopher and celebrated fruit at the Manchester Institute of Science and Technology, on Oxford Road. Sir Oswald Mosley being our intermediary.
I threw better judgement into Constantinople, covered my inhibitions with a coat of black, and slipped into a hairshirt of lust. I prepared to mount this golden Jew with forceful intent, my opinion not yet made as to which orifice to fuck first.
Of course, there was no competition. That Jew mind of his, of which he was so proud, I would presently infect.
Quick as stick, he rounded that severe head to me. The rippling gold skin of his face was fŌtus-smooth, and eerie was the only adjective for his chocolate eyes from which pearls of hot milk dribbled. Smashed pieces of caramel hung in his mouth, broken in the flight from Germania.
"Saujud." I addressed him as an old school friend would.
"Ich hatt einst einen Diener, der hieß Horror." ("I once had a servant named Horror.") The stammer for which he was famous had disappeared. He spoke with the high clear voice not uncommon among those who have overcome an impediment.
"My honest friend." I altered tack, and gave false tongue to this being flown in from an alien world. "We are poor stage-players sure enough. I'll play you true and fair, and drink again with you 'til you're stiff, if you think proper."
The apostate Jew Wittgenstein snapped fiery fingers at me in irritation, his countenance forming ruffianly and terrific. His gracefully arched back, rising like a rainbow, caused a thrilling horror to seize upon the nerves and muscles of my system.
"Sower of Cockle, the ancient enemy of the human race...has declared to sow and make grow pernicious Errors of the irrational Sou1."
This was enough to be stiffened.
"The intellectual Soul is not only truly, of itself and essentially the form of the human body but...according to the number of bodies into which it is infused, it can be, has been and will be multiplied in individuals."
"The shape I'm in is the shape I'm in."
I answered obviously. Though tolerably susceptible myself, my heart was at this time my own, and I could not help laughing at the extravagance of his passion.
"If any man has a million mouths and tongues, let that great one speak." Morbidezza was in that submarine Jew's incantation of voice; the very same saliva that fell on the green sod under the gibbet now swept unseemingly over me.
"Give that slip of a pig, Veitel Itzieg, my compliance," said I, noting a dash of blood appear on my trousers.
I am myself no unqualified fatalist; no more than I could enumerate the people I had departed. But from here I will state, by way of episode, the Christ-killer grew nearly outrageous, and swore to me what manner of death he should put me to.
Under bitter stars on the vapoury dawn, and making diverse vulgar noises, Wittgenstein conjured 'pointing the bone' and 'singing to death' against me, to small avai1.
"Magical effects can be brought about," quoted Schopenhauer once from the Hermetica, "by violent and immoderate excitation of the emotions."
Calling upon all the ChandČlas of India, the outcast and dispossessed, for my personage to be disemboweled, spiced, swaddled, and screwed down in a fucking show-box, the Jew showed me his true substance was not the fine shimmer of gold but the smelting hot iron of Beelzebub's own black forked sword.
"How extraordinary that anything should exist."
"True for you," I ambiguously replied. Augurers, Sorcerers and Charmers promote caution in me, which come within my own observations, and I would give small change by way of answer to any of their queries lest my speech should be used against me.
"Who dares say black is the white of my eye?"
This I also said not without a spice of consolation.
Wittgenstein performed various evolutions in the air, by the moment growing larger, becoming a being of true gigantism, fostering the belief in me that this angel incarnation was descendent from the Nephilim of Mesopotamia — those immense angels who called out the Ineffable Name, that unspoken incorporeal angel of the Hebrew god who brought fire to consume the gate of Heaven.
I neither mean to play the vain egotist, nor to determine generals by particulars. Everyone is equal, but some are more equal than others — which, from the pit of my red soul, is my true belief.
The scrying paraphernalia of my nature, every bit the equal of Dee the Magus, could discern in these vessels of the air (these sky genii) the locus of Jew djinns — those malevolent spirits of Islamic tradition who suffer from a devouring hunger but cannot eat of flesh.
In the Land of Nod to the east of Eden, the inhabitants of Auschwitz have like-minded traits and could have saved themselves by eating, with small effort, that other root of the human race.
Who is to say what is indissoluble?
Above me, topsy-turvy was the motion now adopted by the Jew philosopher. Fizzes came off his golden body and his collarbone disunited, cracking a wadge of thick chocolate onto my chest, and again the boiling smell of sweets — Stickjaw, Sky drops, Gobstoppers, Buzz-Bars — came on me.
Spitting on his thumb, Wittgenstein lowered his angel weight and floated naked before me.
"Ludwig the Sow-fucker we called you," I whispered, the matter soon becoming developed. "Hell to the rap of tythe-cess or hearth-money, and I am not the kind of man to rub two bones together."
"The intellectual criticism of Fascism is really this..." the Jew delivered to me his observation with the commitment with which Mr Pip had swum the Serpentine, "...that it appeals to the appetite for authority without very clearly giving the authority for the appetite."
Arnold White and Beatrix Potter had noticed animal characteristics in Jews (the main influence on their own writings, I am sure), but until now I had not associated it with philosophers. The goat, the dog and the lickspittle of apes was wrapped onto Wittgenstein's features — no angel karma or glamour could shield this from me — and the flap of invisible wings assailed the air, breezing me soundly. The bark of primates came chuntling in a hail from him, almost bursting the tympani of my ears.
"Should I now name you Iblis or Azazel, Father of Djinns?" Having an independent mind, entertaining an equal aversion to the arrogance of his thinkings as to his bestial movements, and aware of his unhealthy interest in Carmen Miranda, I was in full glee.
By the course of nature, I felt an even harsher sensation arise and operate upon my temper. "And which side is your lover's heart today?"
Giving him scant time to reply (much to his chagrin) I said, "Here..." indicating my forehead with a finger largely comprised of bone, "...which for a true man is the only palace for so divine an emotion."
Was I not the brightest fucking trick you ever saw?
The future would arrive without Lord Horror, but his fingerprints would be all over it.
"This was my own opinion," I said, without thought of a mercenary shilling.
Again, snapping his tarry finger-posts in my face, and without moving his head, or a muscle of his singular countenance, his one living eye seemed everywhere, omniscient; an almost imperceptible transition moved it from place to place, as if by magic; though, for most of the time, it stayed inflexibly fixed upon me, as if intent on a poisonous collision.
His words to me were a predictable mix-and-match of Schopenhauer, but, of course, lacking the power of the original. All Wittgenstein's philosophy was a blasphemous renegado, diversion and dilution of Schopenhauer, though his presentation of the other man's hard won opinions had improved with time. His expressive features and eloquent actions during this period of our acquaintance harmonised well with each other. Convulsed, and fucking thunderous bravura, he delineated handsomely to me: such that any soul willing to surrender at discretion would have been swept in by his spell. He concluded his exordium by a hyperbole of hatred directed to my good self, which was much more to my taste, and of some originality; I was surprised at the pertinacity with which he pressed his point.
"Nullius addictus jurare in verba magistri," I said, the Vent in me.
Men smell of cheese and women of fish. No scented chalice can erase for long our body's natural odour. Old Tib has the smell we as individuals credit him with. Nickademus must have knocked his pooh-pipe off to credit angels with the stink of sulphur (which I must confess, at times, I have also smelt).
Now I could smell semen biscuits and fresh chopped strawberries coming from Wittgenstein's pouch, prick and ball-sacs. The merry tune of the serial homosexual rapist came coiling from him in black lies.
In his plaintiff's voice, quite haunting, he sang to me:
"I've got a sweet Jew angel,
I love the way he spreads his wings,
When he spreads his wings over me,
It brings joy in everything."
"See this man — he comes as an angel yet spins a serpent's tail," I said, glancing quickly behind me at Jessie, who seemed relaxed and enjoying the spectacle. She sat open-legged, dipping her index finger into her monny and smearing the gloss from her vagina over her lips like the best quality lipstick.
"Rub his neck with hot vinegar," she sarcastically advised me, intimately whispering "Sweetheart!", to ease my anxiety. For a moment, I thought I could hear her thoughts.
My Darling Heart, she seemed to say to me, with the inky dawn for background, and firelight illuminating your face, there's a sort of affinity between you and the angels' flames. Like a salamander or a devil, you seem to be at home in them. Like Satan in Paradise Lost or a prophet in search of a creed.
Even if, on my part, this was illusion, built up from the Peep-O-Day, I was comforted. I surmised the creed was Fascism — and my prophet was Mosley. Both a spit more substantial than adverse factions and cotchers would have you believe, or, indeed, anything in the Jew's Tractatus, that unitary of all hypotheses.
Big glow-worms, red as cinders, made entrance from his stretched bowels, walking right out, onion-stenched, the colour of niggers dropped smooth on their heads. How could I see this in the flame? I do not know, but answer carefully that all that can be viewed is never the full canvas; and stood foursquare before that blaze-topped being resembling (as I have stated) Azazel, the goat shamen, that reviled pig of the Jew.
For, despite his animal characteristics, Wittgenstein was no emissary of the Beelzebub of now, but of that ancient being of true nemesis, Belzebub, salt-formed well before the raised hand of Cain cast its shadow over mankind.
"The Here and Now," said Wittgenstein, as if reading my thoughts. "Not the By and Then and Over the Way." He lisped forthrightly, struggling with his words, declaring himself to me as a spoiled, kvetching fusspot. He spun in a fiery conflagration around my head, and I twisted to follow his all-encompassing turning motion.
Waxing greatly, I became capital, handsome and readily fantastic in my actions, and executed a tolerably effective gash to his hooked nose, which nearly eased him of that appendage; it holding conspicuous to me.
It is an observation I have always made — let sceptics draw their own conclusions — that a moral may be extracted from every action, so that a man of high respectability and delicacy of mind could still find himself fucking wrong-footed in spite of his superiority.
"There for you!" I cried, awash for a second time with an inundation of flame, and a splash of ill blood, which in due rotation fell across my right shoulder. "True for you!" I alluded, without incurring a faux pas; this forming an ambit of our situation.
Big centipedes, red as glow-worms, came gimcracking, landing smack-dab on my suckling person; for my hands had not idled at sentry, and the richly ventilated angel crouched in some discomfort a yard or so away from me.
I came forward to seriously grieve.
Cool claptrap surged from him, and I roamed disgusted at his trumpery, signalling my roasting man to perch, readying for an inamorato's penetration.
"Who's up for a Sperming?" My face smeared, layered with phosphuretted oil, in heavenly service, gleamed like 'Jenner's Golden Ale'. "I'm at attention to Fuck Out a liver."
You get the drift of my gait here?
And then Wittgenstein revealed his myriad cunts to me. Right there, before my eyes, the philosopher prostrated himself; a being inflated. Was his bulk many a ton in weight? Upright did he rise above fifty feet? I think so. His big angel body grovelled steady within my circumference. His broad back presented itself naked, and the movement of skin, which before had moved in ripples, now became chaotic. Whirlpools of mottled flesh surrounded that which I had no difficulty in recognising as vaginas, dozens of which grew in profusion down and across Wittgenstein's back, protected by a small army of tentacles each a foot long, fist-thick and green-hued, and which were dotted, red-tipped like waving palm trees, around those watery oases.
His tentacles were in constant serpentine movement, preening his skin, sending his flesh scudding in waves down the length of his body, where it hung in breakers about his haunches. They were feeding the minuscule organisms (of Semitic origin) off his skin, lowering the stuff straight into the blue sucking hollows of his cunts. From the back of his fleshy neck, Fry's Five Boys chocolate squirted from open skin punctures like Jews into the Everlasting.
"Look into the pewter pot / To see the world as the world's not," said Wittgenstein, laughing at me, launching into a strong philippic on my conduct as I raised a booted foot and mounted his back.
In those days men framed their labours with joy. "Here's your man," I readily informed the whore-queen; indeed, I bowed to the feminine in that immense angel body. But would nevertheless fuck him without love, out of duty and to bring on the fucking shame of his weakness. To make him less and elevate myself. I did not knock on his door but entered him forcibly, teasing and positioning myself sideways on his back, while his tentacles beat out a semaphore on my Lordly pride. I guzzled at his whore-hole as eagerly as the joust drew the Glee-Men.
Whatever Jesus took me for, it can't have been a sunbeam.
That spirit of licentiousness that often led me to moonlight walking had not deserted me, and I fell to with an ensign's passion at Wittgenstein's cunt-bed, much as farriers drench a horse. The smell of my own sperm intoxicated me, and the vulva into which I dipped was a Scheherazade of weighty sensations. That cunt seeped with all the eroticism of Wittgenstein's nature, perverse and neurotic, swelling in tempo with my coruscate shaft until there was no more good in him.
However, the foundations of my propensities had been too well laid to be easily uprooted; and whilst I certainly could, for a while, indulge in the habits of those around me, I was not at all idle in the pursuits to which I had been previously accustomed.
Wittgenstein's continuing rousing yammer, wind song and general thrasonical manner, set my back up, as I gauged it, and, because of his very coarse and ill-natured ridicule, I slit his blazing throat with a happy-clapper's joy.
As for myself, I was not unseasoned to the appearance of blood (that costly colour) in the constellation of departing life stuffs. No hurrah fell from my lips, but I was not displeased. The lacy affections of the departing were a Pan's pipe to my nature. The proper hour was never past for a late departing.
Every recipe is a rebus to an old apothecary. Even when there are always plenty of snarlers to cut up the reputations of substantial and very dapper men.
Handicapped by an open throat, that churlish philosopher continued remugient. His tongue of misrepresentation still had a bad word or two that addressed my personality and behaviour. So much falsehood and exaggeration he put abroad — so many circumstances he distorted, and so many invented — some of the latter possessing sufficient plausibility to deceive even the most wary — that, if not a duty, it was a proper action of mine to relieve his mind of the burden of living. It appears at least not wrong to aid in the refutation of malicious calumnies.
In fooling, his acromegalic arms flailed the air. I was up for one final push, and spoke with meagre advice. "First you take a heart, then you break a heart." Feeling settled in my body, I mellowed down easy and again drew my firm blade back across his neck. The solid rumble of distress emitting from him would have vanished a dozen wailing Rock-Olas.
This was a pleasant and confirming time, and, I registered, here was one of the few instances of all men being equal — when they are part of the food chain. I bent and took a huge wallop, nearly all bone, out of Wittgenstein. As I chewed his meat, I named it Subordinate.
Seuechoros, the Babylonian king, believed in bloodsucking beings, and Babylonians paid homage to the most ancient breed of angels — the Edimmu — vampire creatures of the night, who entered mankind's legend as the Weeiro — flying bat creatures — nigra of tool — that nestled on the white necks of unfaithful widows.
One blood demands one England.
Wiping my lips, with no intention to cornut, I sank to my knees there on his massive back, and slid myself amongst his tentacles, allowing myself to be open. Water, so silvery of hue, spumed from his cunts, hiding me from the world. There I luxuriated as a man of the ocean.
In a fury, I fucked at his cunts, beside myself with lust. Vaulting from one to another in a dipping crawl until I had covered every last one of them, I left my sperm stuffs lurid in his fiery Lady Janes. Blood from his lashing tentacles, so whip-crack pure on my skin, speckled me.
The smell from Wittgenstein's love juices was beatific. Only the foul stagnant waters of the River Irwell rising in high summer equalled their sweet pungency. But I extracted joy, unbelievable joy, from the pitted Jew. My body thundered with angel debasement; no beast of cloven hoof, no spirit, could do infernal business better than that Yid philosopher.
His love was quite quenched in horror.
Baptised in the Blood of Millions © David Britton & Michael Butterworth 2000.
The Kindle and iBooks edition of Horror Panegyric has been expanded with a new afterword by Supervert and additional excerpts from Savoy Books' most recent Lord Horror novels, La Squab: Black Rose of Auschwitz and Invictus Horror.