The Cannibal Within (5 page)

Some of the babies—the most fortunate ones—were eaten immediately by the monsters. Fresh from the womb—with bacteria-free intestines—they became a sterile and delicious feast.

Some of the babies—the few females who were not infertile hybrids—were designated as future breeders. These were all predestined for rape.

Like their mothers before them, the breeders would know the pain and gore of childbirth. Squatting in their own filth— their distended bellies covered with stretch marks, scars, and stitches—their lives would focus on their wombs.

Most of the babies, however, were fattened for the slaughter. Crowded into undersized cages—deprived of all physical activity—force-fed with milk from brownish, scab-infested teats—they lived two years of misery.
Ultimately they would be seized—beaten to a jelly—and then eaten alive.

The Horror Of Passing Time
Night passed into day, month into year, and I quickly lost all sense of time. In the words of Yukio Mishima, time ‘dripped away like blood.’

Treated like an estrogen-injected breeder—a fecund producer of infantile meat for insatiable carnivores—I had to cling to my sanity in this world of menace and terror.

I was normally kept in absolute darkness—an oppressive blackness seems to have a calming effect on caged humans— and I spent most of my time in tormented sleep.

At one time I loved sleep—‘when the body sleeps,’ declare the legends, ‘the soul is awake’—but in the realm of the monsters it was different.

Horrible dreams—lewd and repulsive in nature—constantly afflicted me. Bubbling up from my animal id, I had weirdly erotic visions.

In some nightmares I saw a bloody vagina. Shamelessly exposed—its lips were thick, upturned, and deformed—it was smeared with fresh honey.

Thousands of fruit flies—drawn by the honey—swarmed over the slimy vaginal lips. The tickling of the flies—an unpremeditated act of bestiality—caused frightful and delicious orgasms.
In other nightmares, I had visions of diseased phalluses— ribboned with purple lesions—assaulting me without mercy.

The phalluses were always diminutive in size—as long as a finger and correspondingly thin—but their aggressions were infinite. Erected by my misery, they squirted blood instead of seed.

The dreams were so real—so graphic—that I began to doubt reality itself. What if life itself is a dream—I thought—but we notice the dream only when we are asleep?

Even more horrifying, what if I did not exist? I could be a fantasy—a hideous nightmare—the product of some insane mind.

I cannot remember my birth, so how do I know I was born?

Eating Filth
Trapped in a steel cage, my health deteriorated. Living with death—pelted by the urine, feces, vomit, and other droppings of the babies caged above me—I was plagued by ulcers, pneumonia, septicemia, and diarrhea.

I was given regular doses of loathsome drugs—usually through injection. The drugs were not to make me healthy, but to suppress obvious symptoms and keep me alive as a breeder.

I was also given pesticides to eat. Apparently designed to kill flies and other parasites, the pesticides passed through my body and killed insect larvae hatching in my excreta. My usual food consisted of putrid rations delivered by a mechanical feeding system. The system, a kind of automated feeding trough, made a hellish sound when operating.

Year after year—feeding after feeding—the food was always the same. A kind of meat paste, it was composed of flesh torn from human corpses.

I initially resisted this horrid diet—I tried to subsist on spiders, lice, and raw worms—but eventually I came to accept the cannibal way. I remembered the words of the Jesus, ‘except ye eat the flesh of the son of a man, and drink his blood, ye have no life in you.’

The evil-smelling meat paste, which had a revolting flavor, was always mixed with dried human feces. Since humans, like most animals with one stomach, are inefficient digestive machines—we defecate, for example, about one-fourth of the protein present in rice and potatoes—the dung was fed back to us.

Human farmers are known to inflict the same atrocity on their farm animals. In all worlds, the lower fauna are abused by the higher.

Thoughts On Death
Tormented by life—hounded by suffering—I often thought about death. Called ‘the flight of the alone to the Alone’ by Plotinus, death is indiscriminate. ‘All beings are destroyed when their time comes,’ declares the
Shiva Purana
, ‘whether they are gods or mosquitoes.’
Death—inescapable death—is the great mystery. Freud said we cannot imagine our own deaths—whenever we try to do so, we actually survive as ‘spectators’ watching our own funerals—but still the phenomenon obsessed me.

I knew that approximately 100,000 people perished somewhere on Earth every day, and I wondered what happened to them. What happened after the final breath?

Did the dead evaporate and rise to the heavens—perfect summerlands of light and fragrance—did they descend to a loathsome pit called hell—the eternity of which is stressed in 27 separate Koranic verses—did they return to Earth— reincarnated through the hazards of chance or the so-called ‘laws of karma’—or did they join a listless herd of nomadic dead—a horde of unhappy translucent ghosts wandering on the other side?

Or, did the dead simply die? That is what the Bible claims— ‘The dead know not any thing,’ says
Ecclesiastes
9:5, ‘neither have they any more reward.’

In the long run, was man only ozone and fertilizer? To discover the truth, would I have to ‘die and become’? ***

My misfortunes had turned me into a quasi-atheist—if gods exist, I thought, they are too powerless, too indifferent, or too autistic to help us—but I was not prepared to deny the afterlife.

Most atheists, of course, believe there is no post-death existence. If there is no god, they argue, humans simply share the squalid death of animals.

I was certain, however, that the constipated logic of the atheists was flawed. If natural life does not require gods for its existence—if the first organisms, the ancestors of all flora and fauna, emerged spontaneously in the primordial mud— why should afterlife need gods?

Yes, I thought, if life does not require gods for its existence, neither does afterlife. Both are engendered by nature.

Afterlife may not be forever—perhaps a soul lingers only for a time, like the smoke outlasts the fire—but I believed it was a natural process. It was real.

Of course, it may be the exception rather than the rule in nature—like the phenomenon of a mongoloid baby, perhaps afterlife was a rare occurrence—but it still was real.

***

George Gurdjieff taught that survival was the fate of an elite. Ordinary people perish with their bodies, he argued, but extraordinary people lived on after death. Could that be correct?

And if—as Gurdjieff argued—some special people did survive, what made them endure? Was there, I wondered, an elusive boon that bestowed life after death? If so, could it be stolen or purchased like any other treasure?

Or were some souls, I thought, simply stronger than death? If so, what made them stronger?
Human emotion was a potent force in nature—we know that faith can heal and fear can kill—so was passion the answer?

If so, what focused that passion? What invested it with its prowess? Was it the power of virtue? The force of evil? The need—the insatiable craving—to exhaust every variety of pleasure?

What could it be?

Thoughts On Suicide
Trapped in my coffin-sized cage—covered with festering sores—tortured by a monster species—I often thought about death. And—given my predicament—I became infatuated with suicide.

I have never been obsessed with life—life, as one cynic pointed out, is a sexually transmitted disease that always ends in death—so termination was a distinct possibility.

I remembered the command of Nietzsche: ‘To die proudly when it is no longer possible to live proudly. Death of ones own free choice, death at the proper time, with a clear head and with joyfulness....’ What words of power!

Yes, I thought, glorious self-annihilation is compelling and attractive. Since death is more beautiful than love (the immortal Octave Mirbeau said that), self-destruction would be a brief, almost autoerotic free-fall into a great velvet darkness.

*** Had not the great Yukio Mishima killed himself with a dagger? Thrusting and wet—his hand one with the weapon— Mishima called suicide the ‘ultimate masturbation.’

In my night dreams, my suicide was always maternal and affectionate. Nestled like a plump baby in my mother’s arms, I parted my lips to suckle a pink nipple rubbed with black poison.

There was a slight acrid taste—a moment of discomfort— and then peace. Smiling sweetly, I rested in bliss.

In my daydreams, my fantasized method of suicide was different. I imagined a radiant death—pure and clean—I died like the incinerated moth that flies into the fire.

How I longed for a dignified end—I could almost smell the funeral pyre of scented wood—but it was not to be. Although I wanted to die—without fear and without anger— I could not. It was not possible.

My hate—incandescent and pure—kept me alive. And my desire for vengeance—a passion that burns hotter than lust— gave me purpose.

Vengeance gave me the reason to continue.

Chapter III How I Found Freedom

‘It is your duty to learn from the enemy.’ Ovid (43 B.C.-A.D. 17)

My Escape: The Day Of Blood
My escape occurred swiftly and unexpectedly. After years in the hellish, labyrinthian world of the monsters, I found my freedom.

On the day I escaped—the time of blood atonement—I was transfigured.
In my early life, I had always been an anvil. Now, however, I became a hammer.

An Omen Of Doom
My blessed day began inauspiciously. I had a nightmare— a bizarre lucid dream. Curiously, in the dream I could see only when my eyes were closed.

At first I was happy in the dream—I was rich, powerful, and celebrated—I was desired by women and admired by men— but then I looked down and saw a corpse.

The dead body alarmed me. Shaped like a cuddly little pet— a quadruped called ‘the Lamb of God’—the body was actually Dogma, the corpse of Truth.

‘When the cadaver no longer smells,’ hissed a voice, ‘the soul is gone.’

Frightened, I tried to flee, but I was stopped by twin sisters. Named Pornography and Blasphemy, they were naked and white, and their mouths were red from feasting on their own children.

‘Violence is the key,’ hissed the sisters. ‘When you are reborn in paradise, all your victims will become your slaves.’

The sisters forced me to eat a certain book—I could not see the title—but it was about the amoral worship of beauty and force. ‘Nazism for the Iron Age,’ I think they called it.

Devouring the book, which was sweet in my mouth but bitter in my stomach, made me afraid. This was a lucid dream, and I knew that eating books in dreams is an omen of doom.

‘I can’t die now!’ I shouted enigmatically in the dream. ‘I want to be the first into the future!’

One More Crime
I awoke suddenly, and I noticed the door of my cage was open. One of the monsters—the same transhuman who had raped me and degraded me and kept me prisoner—was standing over me. In his powerful jaws, some mutilated prey—I think it was a human baby—was writhing in agony.

The little victim reached out to me—strangely, in this hot place, his tiny hands seemed almost blue with cold—but I could not help him.

Before I could act, the monster crushed the baby’s head between his teeth—as easily as a man would crush a grape— and sucked out the contents.

The child shrieked—his white bones splintered—and his nose filled with blood.
Averting my eyes from the horror, I saw fragments of a tiny skull—scattered like flowers on the ground.
I was reminded of a sacred cauldron—a holy grail that had been shattered.
Ancient words—harsh incantations from a dead language— spontaneously fell from my lips.
‘Jubela, Jubelo, Jubelum,’ I whispered. ‘Head, throat, and heart, I will avenge you, little one.’

Mysterious Words
Casually throwing the remains of his victim aside—only the baby’s skeleton and liver remained—the beast seized me with his powerful hands and dragged me from my cage. He was so close I choked on his putrid breath.

As the monster stared into my eyes—a direct gaze that threatened death—he began to utter noise with his mouth. Resembling glossolalian gibberish, I still remember the sounds clearly.
‘Nuk Pu Nuk,’ he said slowly. ‘Nuk Pu Nuk.’

His speech shocked me, for although these monsters are orally fixated creatures who satisfy virtually all their needs via the mouth—they express aggression by biting and pleasure by sucking—they typically communicate telepathically.

‘Nuk Pu Nuk,’ he repeated, this time with greater force.

I have always believed in the power of words—all masters of psychological warfare are skillful verbal terrorists—and I knew the beast was trying to terrify me.

‘Nuk Pu Nuk,’ said the beast. ‘Nuk Pu Nuk.’
Staring back into his eyes, I tried to steel my will. In my mouth, however, I could taste the fear.