The Cannibal Within

i The Cannibal Within

The Cannibal Within

ii Mark Mirabello iii The Cannibal Within

The Cannibal Within by M.L. Mirabello, Ph.D.

Mandrake of Oxford

Copyright © Year I (2002)
by M L Mirabello and Mandrake of Oxford First English Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form by any means electronic or mechanical, including
xerography, photocopying, microfilm
, and
recording,
or by any information storage system without permission in writing from the author.

Published by
Mandrake of Oxford PO Box 250
OXFORD
OX1 1AP (UK)

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the US Library of Congress.
ISBN 1 86992827X
v The Cannibal Within

Author’s Note

A Warning
I will now reveal the facts to you—the hard, inexorable, terrible facts. The truth is not beautiful—it stands on cloven hoofs—it is covered with coagulated blood—but it is the truth.

The human race does not control its own destiny. We may think we are free—millions of brainwashed simians living in a corn-fed Babylon called America believe this fantasy—but it is all an illusion. We are slaves—livestock—tethered on a long and invisible leash.

‘The Earth is a farm,’ wrote Charles Fort. ‘We are someone else’s property.’

We may think we are special—holy, honored, valued— god’s chosen primates—but that is a fraud. The dupes of superhuman forces, we are misfits and abominations. We have no higher purpose—no savior god died for our sins—we exist, only because our masters are infatuated with our meat. We have a choice: the evil may be patiently borne or savagely resisted.

vii The Cannibal Within
Dedication

This book is dedicated to the mysterious scrolls discovered in AD 181 inside a tomb at the foot of Janiculum Hill in Rome. History claims that the Roman Senate, led by a praetor named Quintus Petilius, burned the scrolls as a threat to religion.

viii Mark Mirabello

Table Of Contents
Preface

Chapter I: The Gaunt Stranger’s Story: ‘How They Raped Me And Ate My Friend Alive’

Chapter II: My Years With Things That Eat Humans Chapter III: How I Found Freedom
Chapter IV: The Question Of Madness

Chapter V: Reading The Mysterious Manuscript From The Old Woman’s Home, I Learn About The Origin Of The Monsters

Chapter VI: The Nature Of The Beasts
Chapter VII: The Life Cycle Of The Master Species

Chapter VIII: The Evil Empire: The Tunnel World Of The Master Species
Epilogue
Postscript
x Mark Mirabello

Preface By M.L. Mirabello, Ph.D.

‘The violation of something private, trembling, and moist arouses them,’ whispered a female voice, during an unusual telephone conversation on July 20, 1999. ‘With their big, godlike erections, they are rapists by nature.’

Stunned by the unusual declaration—pontificated in a matterof-fact tone—I said nothing. I simply listened.

‘They love to mix blood with their ejaculations,’ continued the voice. ‘So virgins—untouched by experience—are their preferred victims.’

The woman, who never spoke above a harsh whisper, seemed to have difficulty breathing. After a brief pause, she continued her monologue.

‘But their virgin fetish is not indiscriminate,’ she whispered. ‘They prefer the fresh pudenda of young females—warm and sensual—over the stagnant depths of old maids.’

I was beginning to think I was the victim of a telephone prank—as a university professor, I have been targeted by mischievous students before—but I continued to listen. Even if the story were a tasteless jest, the stranger possessed a certain lewd eloquence.

‘I was only nineteen when they raped me in 1972,’ she whispered. ‘They stole my pre-sexual innocence—polluted my tender, naked, helpless flesh—and kept me in a cage as

xii Mark Mirabello
a `breeder.’ After years of feeding their ghastly lusts, I managed to escape.’

***

The next day—while I was reading the Kabbala (
Zohar
3:76)—the peculiar caller suddenly appeared in my office. Clutching a mysterious-looking manuscript in her left hand, she was wearing a Rembrandt-brown cloak.

Brown, I remember thinking, is the favorite color of paranoids. I read that somewhere.
As the stranger stepped into the light, I observed a small woman who was gaunt—even skeletal—in appearance.

She had an unusual face—a face that had been twisted by pain—the pain of someone who had experienced a slow rotting of flesh and soul.

She had queerly pale skin—it looked yellowish-white, as if it had been bleached by some toxic chemical process—and she had strange hieroglyphic symbols branded unto her arms and legs. Curiously, her head and body were completely hairless.

She hesitated—as a hunted wild animal would hesitate—and then slowly entered the office. Her cloak fell open as she walked toward me, and I noticed the clothing of a prostitute.

Specifically, she wore a tight skirt—stained with whiskey, sweat, or semen—and a tattered blouse, yellowed with age. Her small breasts—misshapen and pendulous—were clearly visible through her clothing.

xiii The Cannibal Within
‘They actually think humans are ugly,’ whispered the woman, who noticed me studying her. ‘In particular, they dislike our

small heads, our protruding jaws and cheekbones, and our large noses, which appear to be falling into our mouths. Our tiny genitalia—grizzled with hair—are especially revolting to them.’

The woman’s septic breath made me wince—it smelled of rotting teeth and bloody phlegm—but I nevertheless offered her a chair.

‘Please tell me your story,’ I said. ‘I want to hear it.’ ***

Before uttering another word, the stranger unexpectedly molested my mouth with a fierce kiss. The act was so violent—so savage—I thought she was trying to suck my soul out of my throat.

I instinctively pushed her away and staggered back. The stranger, who seemed indifferent to my reaction, closed the door and sat down.

‘You taste honestly human,’ she whispered. ‘I had to be certain. The unknown superiors—or their slaves—they are everywhere.’

As the woman and I stared at one another, I noticed her eyes for the first time. They were compelling eyes—clear and green like the eyes of a serpent.

‘`The unknown superiors’?’ I asked, after a pause. ‘Who are the unknown superiors?’
‘They keep their existence secret,’ she whispered. ‘They understand, as Hannah Arendt pointed out, that `real power begins where secrecy begins’—but they are here.’

‘And no one else knows about them?’ I asked, in a patronizing tone mixed with curiosity.

‘A few other humans—certain betrayers of our species— know the facts,’ whispered the woman. ‘In return for riches and the appearance of power, the traitors—a `fifth column of evil’—guard the doorways to our world.’

‘Guard?’ I asked. ‘Why are guards needed?’
‘The monsters fear sunlight,’ whispered the woman. ‘It makes their skin crack and bleed.’
***

The conversation was decidedly bizarre—even weird—but I decided to continue. Although a historian by training, I have long been intrigued by present-day world views—especially when they are anomalous, apocalyptic, or odd—and it has always been my opinion that any belief system—no matter how unorthodox—is worthy of study.

After all, when dealing with the human mind, beliefs are more important than facts.
‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘who are the `unknown superiors’?’

The stranger pulled a living insect from her pocket. As it struggled spasmodically in her grip, I noticed it was a sugar ant. Such ants—which have stomachs bloated with a honeylike substance—are considered a delicacy in central Australia.

xv The Cannibal Within
‘Man thinks he is the lord of the organic world,’ she whispered, looking down at the ant. ‘The top of the food chain.’

‘We are,’ I declared. ‘`The most formidable of all beasts of prey,’ microbes and pests are our only natural enemies.’

‘Man is wrong,’ whispered the stranger. ‘He clings to his fictions—man needs lies like children need toys—but he is wrong.’

‘And what is the truth?’ I asked. ‘Can you reveal it to me?’

The stranger put the insect in her mouth. As she gripped its head with her hand, she bit down on its bloated stomach, crushed the external membrane, and sucked it dry. The taste of the sugar ant, which is supposed to be the sharp sting of formic acid followed the sweetness and fragrance of honey, seemed to give her pleasure.

‘There is a higher species,’ she whispered. ‘A master species—a transhuman species! These creatures—these unknown superiors—they stand above us as we stand above apes.’

‘And the master species....’ I said. ‘Do they live on another planet? There are legends—found among the Dogon tribe in Africa—of a `master species’ from the Sirius star system.’

‘No,’ whispered the woman. ‘They are here. Most nest in the darkness beneath our feet—in a complex network of tunnels and caverns that have been slowly—deliberately—carved out of the living rock over the millennia—but some walk among us. In disguise.’
‘Disguise?’ I asked.

‘They have telepathic abilities,’ she whispered, ‘and they are masters of illusion. Crawling into our minds, they plunder our thoughts and memories, and then, like sinister changelings, they take the places of real humans.’

‘A mental patient named Richard Shaver once described similar creatures,’ I said. ‘And psychologists have something they call Capgras Syndrome, a condition in which someone becomes convinced that a familiar person has been replaced by an identical replica that....’

‘It is really happening,’ interjected the woman. ‘The telepathically generated disguise can be penetrated—the transhuman will appear in his true form, for example, when he sleeps or becomes intoxicated—but the monsters are cautious. The transhuman who replaced a young Austrian named Adolf Hitler—on Christmas Eve in 1906—always slept alone and always avoided alcohol.’

***

The very next day—July 21 to be precise—the mysterious stranger returned to my office for her second and final visit. Still clutching her strange manuscript—and mumbling something about ‘the evil down below’—she would make more horrifying revelations.

‘The monsters—the unknown superiors—eat only meat,’ she whispered. ‘Not dead meat—not freshly killed meat— but raw flesh, quivering with life.’

With some hesitation, she handed the manuscript to me. I

xvii The Cannibal Within
noticed that her small and grimy hands—which were covered with blue, pink, and green bruises—were clearly trembling.

‘I have seen them feed,’ she continued. ‘Although the transhumans are cannibals—they devour members of their own zoological species—human meat is their staple diet.’

As I looked at the thirty-page manuscript—each page was covered with defaced Christian symbols—my face drained of blood. I actually intuited the presence of ugliness and death.

The cover of the document—fashioned from some kind of blackened leather that was hairy and soft like the skin of a wolf—was emblazoned with an obscene illustration. Painted in lurid colors, the picture had an aura of unspeakable evil.

The illustration clearly depicted a human child—fattened and oiled. The following words, which the biblical Jehovah spoke to man in Eden, were inscribed on the child’s body in a bold script: ‘you are dust, and to dust you shall return.’

Directly above the child—in an ominous and threatening posture—was a painting of a bloodstained predator clearly identified as a transhuman. The following evil command, which Jehovah god spoke to the devil in
Genesis
3:14, was inscribed on the transhuman’s body: ‘dust you shall eat...dust you shall eat all the days of your life.’