Directlydownbelow,theVortexglowedbrightlywiththeyellow‐greenfluid,the identityofwhichwasnowundeniable.Itoccurredtomethatitwasprobably coveredwithacleartarpjustlikethebrokensunroof,orelseIwouldhavebeen abletosmellthestenchofit,likethenightbeforewhenthetopwasbroken.
Philippine,thehorsesandthebrokenchariotpartshadbeenremoved.The contrastbetweenthisandthedarkersubstancefloatingwithinit,alongwiththe bodyofthedeadlittleboy,wasamazing.
Asmywheelchairwindedself‐propelledthroughthetwistsandturnsofthe ramp,shootingstarsseemedtocomeoutofthedarkeneddomeaboveme, spreadingoutovertheceiling,andalloverthebodyofBaronCarrickfergus, glowingliketheflecksofurineandjismonthewallsoftheQaphqa.Ifeltmy headspinningasIwhirledaround.Iwasgettingdizzy.AndIwasn’tpushingthe wheelsatall.
Whereisittakingme? Iaskedmyinvisiblefriend.
ToParadise,itsaid. Butremember:Ineverpromisedyouarosegarden.
AcatchytunefromJoeSouth.Whydoyoumentionit?Rosenberg…?Rose Mountain…?RoseCross…?
Justlookforthekeystone,wasthereply,withahintofexasperation. Then I’ll tellyouwhattodonext.
PresentlyIfoundmyselfinfrontofadoorthatlookedjustliketheotherprivate officedoorsI’dseeninthatbuilding,whatfewtherewere.Butitwasmarked
“81.”Ipulledthekeyoutofmypocket.
Dennistoldmetoknockfirst,Ithought. Otherwisehe’llkillme.
Don’tknock,surprisehim,cametheanswerfrommypsychicinformant. Use the rusethatJupiterusedonSaturnaccordingtoOrpheus.
What? Ithought. I’mrunningoutoftimehere.I’mnotinthemoodtosolve riddles.
Unmovedbymypleaforclarity,thementalvoicerepliedwithapoem.
Whenstretch’dbeneaththeloftyoaksyouview Saturn,withhoneybythebees produc’d
Sunkinebriety,fastbindtheGod.
Ipushedthebuttononthekeymarked“81.”Thedooropened.JustthenIheard asecuritybotapproachingaroundthebendfromtheleft.Itquicklypushed myselfandmychairthroughthedoorwaybackwards,lettingthedoorshut behindmejustasthemachineturnedthecorner.
“Dennis!Isthatyou?”Rosenbergslurredfrombehindme.
Iwassilent.
WhatdoIdo? Iaskedmyinformant.
“What’stheword,bird?”saidRosenberg.Hesoundedreallydrunk.
TheRoseGivesHoneytotheBees,saidthevoiceinmyhead. That’sthe password. Irepeatedthisphrase,awell‐knownRosicrucianmotto,thoughits meaningremainsobscure.
“OhPamela!”hesaid.“Ohhowlovely.Won’tyoujoinmeforadrink?”
Iturnedmychairaroundtofacehim.ButIfoundthattherewasadividermade ofglassbrickbehindme,obscuringtherestoftheroom.Iwheeledaroundit.
Thisbroughtmeintothemainchamber.
Theroomwasquitelarge,withimmenseceilings,andahugetheaterprojector screenagainstthewallonmyleft.Infrontofthistherewasalongandexquisite blackleathersofacurledintoaC‐shapearoundthefatendofanegg-shaped blackmarblecoffee.
HeresatRosenberg,alone,inaonce‐white,nowred‐stainedterryclothbathrobe andnothingelse,surroundedbyemptyandhalf‐emptyceramic amphoraeonce fullofblood‐wine.Helookedupatme,thenseemedstartledashelookedatmy feet.Buthedidn’taskmewhathadhappened,soIpresumeheremembered hearing(orperhapsordering)thatmyfeetweretobecutoff.Hepouredhimself anotherdrink.Hedidn’tactuallyoffermeone,whichwasfinewithme.AllI wantedinthatregardwasmorphine.
Theroom—whichalsocontainedthreemoreleathercouches,severalleather seats,manymoreblackmarbletablesofvariousshapes,severalrowsof bookshelvesbuiltintotwoofthewalls,a4.5foot‐tallporcelainwheelpainted iridescentpurple,andametaldissectiontableonwheels—wascompletely trashed.Inadditiontomoreempty amphorae,otherdebrisincludedusedcansof Lyle’s,emptycanistersof“poppers,”discardedclothing,includingblackleather fetishgarments,andsmallemptyanimalcages.
Onthedissectiontable,whichwasutterlycoveredinbloodandgore,werethe dismemberedarmsandlegsofasmallwhitemalechildwithdarkhair,aged aboutnineyears,strappedtothesides.Thetablehadbeenusedtodoa vivisection.Thehandswerestillclenchedintofists,andthetoessplayed outwardinpain.Therestofthebody—theheadandtorso—wasdrapedaround thetopoftheporcelainwheel,facedown.Itseemedtomethathehaddiedquite recently.
Hehadbeendissectedwhilealive,thenpositionedonthewheelandanally violated,fromthelooksofit.Icouldnottellifhadbeenaliveforthatlastpartor not,butthetonguewasbittenthrough.Nexttothisonthefloorwasalarge krater,stillfullofblood‐wine,andfromthesmell,stillfresh.Ishudderedand lookedaway.
Yo uknowwhatIdon’tsee,Isaidmentallytomyinformant, areany keystones lyingaroundhaphazardly. Iwaitedforaclue,butgotonlysilence.
Rosenbergwaspayingmenoattention.Hewasstaringatthescreeninfrontof himandlaughingasheatesomethingoutofawhiteceramicbowl.Itwas popcorn.Ilookedatthescreen.
Hewaswatchinganoldblack&whitefilm,familiar‐looking,withaWagnerian score.AtthemomentIlookedatit,acontinentalsoldiersittingonachaironthe patioofalargehousehadjustputaten‐year‐oldboyonhislapandbegun kissinghimonthemouth.
I’veseenthisbefore,Ithought. Infilmschool.
“It’s L’Aged’Or,”saidRosenberg,stillwithoutlookingawayfromthescreen.
“LuisBunuelandSalvadorDali.Haveyouseenitbefore?”
“I’vetriedwatchingitafewtimes,”Isaid.“Ialwaysfallasleep.”
Withthathefinallyturnedaroundtofaceme.“Neanderthal!Troglodyte!”
heshouted,pointingatmeandshakinghisheadasiftoshamemeformylackof artappreciation.Iwastoohighonmorphine,andtoomuchinshockfrom everythingelse,tocarewhathethoughtofme.Ismiledandstaredstraightinto hiseyes.
“Whydon’tyoutellmewhat’ssogreataboutit?”Isaid.
“Look,”hesaid.Hefacedforwardagainandpointedtheremotecontrolata machineagainstthewall.Thefilmskippedtoasceneofamanwithsilverhair andapointybeardstucktoaceilingnexttoachandelier.
“Youseethat?”saidRosenberg.“That’swhathappenstotheMinisterofthe Interiorinthisfilm.That’saprophecyofwhathappenedtoBaron Carrickfergus.”
Herewounditabittoshowwhatleduptothatscene.TheMinisterofthe Interiorwassittingatadeskmakingatelephonecalltoayoungermanwitha blackmustache.TheyspokeinFrench,withtheEnglishgiveninsubtitles.
“Youscoundrel,”saidtheMinisteroftheInterior.“Youareentirelytoblame.
Youcompromisedmetoo.Doyourealizethatnotonechildsurvived?
Manywomenandoldmenperishedtoo.”
“You’rebotheringmeaboutafewbrats?”repliedthemanontheotherendofthe line.
Acrowdwasshownrunningdownthestreetastheywerechasedbytheflowof hotlava.
“Filthyruffian,you’vedraggedmedownwithyou!”saidtheMinister.His phonewasshowndestroyedonthefloornexttohisdesk.Thenwesawhimon theceilingagain.Wewerebackwherewestarted.Therewasnoexplanationof howhegotupthere.
Rosenbergpressedanotherbuttonontheremotecontrol.Itskippedtoatitlethat read“thefirstprismaticarticulation,”followedbyasceneofscorpionsfighting.
“Thosearethescorpionsthatthe mithraeumhere,andthechambersbeneath,are infestedwith.TheyarethescorpionsthatLunasendstodevourthetesticlesof thebull.Theentirefilmisarrangedtoresemblethe‘prismaticarticulations’of thescorpion’sbody.Thisreferstotheprismthatimprisonsus.”
‘Thepris
mthatimprisonsus.’DidIhearthatright? Iwondered.
“Then,there’sthis,”hesaid.
Heskippedaheadabit.Nowacrowdofpeopleweregatheredarounda cornerstone‐layingceremonyofficiatedbyamaninablacktophat.Corn,wine andoilwerepouredontopofabrick,thensmoothedoutwithatrowel.
“Youseethis?”heaskedme.
Inodded,bewildered.
“ThefoundationoftheHolyCity. AbUrbeCondita,”saidRosenberg.
RememberwhatCrowleywrote?‘BaphometwasFatherMithras,thecubical stonewhichwasthecorneroftheTemple’”
ThefilmdisplayedarchivalaerialfootageofRome,accompaniedwithsubtitles thatalmostseemedliketheyexplainedwhatwasgoingon.Buttheydidn’t really.Thetextsaid:
Intheyear1930,onthepremisesoccupiedbytheremainsoftheMajorcans,was placedonthesheerrockthefoundationofthecityof…ImperialRome.The world’sancient,paganmistressbecametheseatofthesecularchurchfor centuries.SomeaspectsoftheVaticanformthefirmestpillarofthechurch.
RomewasfoundedonApril21stin753AD,Ithought. Thisfilmwasmadein 1930.Whatthefuck?
“Nowlookatthis,”saidRosenberg.
Inthenextscene,amanwasseenwalkingoutofacafé,brushingbitsof crumbledmasonryoffofhiscoat.Then,afewshotslater,anotherstrangetitle pageread:
“SometimesonSunday….”
Next,arowofbuildingswasshowncollapsing.
“ThediverseandpicturesqueaspectsofthegreatCity!”saidthetitlepagethat camerightafterthis.
Thewholesceneremindedmeofsomething.
“Wasn’tthereapartin 120DaysofSodom,Isaid,“aboutanaristocratwhose fetishwastomakebuildingsthatweresettocollapseeventually,trapping womenandchildrenintherubble?”
“That’stheHolyCitycollapsing,”saidRosenberg,ignoringmyinference.
Thenamanwasshownkickingaviolindownthestreetandstompingitinto pieces.
Violence,Ithought. Violenceagainstviolins.Stupidsurrealists.
“Here,”saidRosenberg.“Thispart’saboutme.”
Themanwhobrushedthecollapsedbuildingdebrisoffhiscoatwasnowshown walkingthroughaparkwithaflattishstonebalancedontopofhishead.
Hewalkedpastastatueofamanwithlonghair,alsoshownwithasimilarstone onhishead.
“Psalm118,”saidRosenberg.Thecornerstonebecomestheheadstone.”
Thelineinquestion,number22,actuallystates:Thestonewhichthebuilders refusedisbecometheheadstoneofthecorner.
ThisstatementwasalsoparaphrasedbyJesusin Matthew21:42‐44,wherehe saidthattherejectedstonebecame“theheadofthecorner,”leavingoutthe repetitionoftheword“stone.”Thenhefolloweditupwiththis:Andwhosoever shallfallonthisstoneshallbebroken:butonwhomsoeveritshallfall,itwill grindhimtopowder.
“Thatwasme,yousee,”saidRosenberg.“Iwasbornfromarockatrock-bottom,fromthedirtontheground.AndyetitisIwhoshallclimbtothehighest heaventomorrowandsitonthethroneofGodhimself.Myheadwillbethe keystonetotheArchofHeaven.”
“You’redrunk,”Isaid.“Drunkonthatblood‐wine.”
“AmI?Listen,mydear,”hesaid,turningaroundandsmilingatme,witha bloodstainedBatmanJokergrinextendingfromthecornersofhisobscene mouth.“Humanfleshandbodyfluidsaredefinitelyrichwithchemicalsthatare intoxicatingwheningestedbyotherhumans,orthosewhotaketheirform.But thatdoesnotmeanIammentallyincapacitated.Farfromit.Iaminaheightened stateofawarenessrightnow.”
Keephimtalking,Ithought.
“Whatdoyoumeanyouwerebornfromarock?”Iasked.“LikeMithras?”
“Prettymuch,”hesaid,burping.Hegotuptorefillhisglass.Thenhewalked overandmadeabizarreswishingmotionintheairwithhishandsashisrobe floppedopen.Itlookedeffeminateandawkward.Ithoughthewasjusttwitching compulsively,butthentheslidingglassdoorstothepatioopenedonthefarthest
wall.Irealizedhewascommunicatingwithhisdigitalceiling.Coldnightair camepouringthroughtheopendoors.Behindhim,theskywasemptyandblack, buttheblacklightwasbathinghisclothesandface,aswellasthebuildings behindhim.
WhatonEarth iscausingthis? Iwonderedagain. It’sdefinitelysomething ontop andoutsideofthebuilding.
IwheeledmychairclosersothatIcouldcontinuetohearhisconfessional James‐Bond‐villain‐stylerambling.HewastellingmethingsIthoughtImight needtoknow.Idecidedtogoadhimmore.
“Soyoudidn’thaveahumanmother?”Isaid.“Somegodjustejaculatedontoa rockandyoucameoutofitlikeachickenfromanegg?”
“Notquite,”hesaid.“ItwasmorelikeaKinderSurpriseEgg.They’reillegalin theUSA,butinEuropeyoucanbuythesetoysforyourkidsthatcomeintiny plasticeggscoveredwithchocolate.”
“I’mfamiliar,”Isaid.“TherearevideosaboutthemonYouTube.Youcan’t avoidthemforsomereason.”
“Yes,well,they’reillegalbecausereallydumbkidshavedeservedlybeen weededoutofthegenepoolbyswallowingthemwhole,whichoftencauses themtochokeanddie.”
“OK,”Isaid.“Whatdoesthathavetodowithwhoyourparentsare?”
“‘Parents,’yousay?”Hesnortedalaugh.“That’sformortals.No.You’veread TheGospelofThomas,I’msure. Whenyouseehimwhowasnotbornof woman, falldownuponyourfacesandworshiphim.Andthat’swhateverybodydoes.
Theyfalldownandworshipme.”
Hesmiled.
“EvenLittleSaintGeorgeboweddown,likehisfather,andhisfather’sfather.”
Icouldn’ttakeitanymore.
“Youmotherfucker!”Isaid.“What’swrongwithyou!”
Hestoodupstraight,lookeddirectlyatmewithrageandstompedrighttowards me.
“SowhatifIfuckmymother?Atleastsheproducesseedfromit—gloriousseed fullofastrallightandtranscendentalpower!Atleastshehassomethingmore thanjustavacuousslimyholethattakeswithoutgiving!AtleastI’mnotlike yourfriends,theButchers,thosestodgyoldaristocratswhocutofftheirown dicksandfeedthemtotheirqueen,their GreatMother.Theonlywaytheycan clingtotheirdecayingcarcassesisbysuckingperiodbloodoutoftheirmothers’
pussies!Didyouknowthat?SodothesonsofthecrownthattheButchershave beenproppingupforonehundredandtwentyyears!Theycallthemselves princes,buttheybowdowntosomethingaslowanddisgustingasa vagina!”
Ashespoke,hegrittedhisteethandbaredthemlikeanangrydog.Withhisteeth andthewhitesofhiswildeyesgleamingbrightlyintheblacklight,itlookedlike hewastransformingintoamonster.Istartedtobackawayfromhim.
“ItisIwhoshall destroytheworksofthefemale!YourfriendsattheSocietyof ButcherssacrificebullstotheGreatMotherbecauseitshornsremindthemof herwomb.ButyouandIbothknowthattheGreatMother’swombisatomb, becauseitisalsoastomach.Itisalsothecauldronthatcooksthemeatthatthe stomachdigests.Itisaprisonwherewe allsufferasslavestoprovidesustenance tooverlordswhomwecannotsee,becauseweareinsideofthem.”
HeknowsthatIknowabouttheSocietyofButchers,Irealized. Whatelse does heknownowinregardstothat?
Hishandswereballedintofistsathissidesandhestumbledashecontinuedto closeinonme.Hewastrulyenraged,thoughnotatmespecifically,Iwas relievedtoconfirm.Hecontinuedhistirade.
“Yousee,I willbustoutofhere.Iwillbringeachfloorofthismansioncrashing downuntilIfindtheFatherwhohasnoMother.Thenand only thenwillIfind somethingworthytobowdownto.”
“Sowhowere your motherandfather,”Iasked,wantingtobringitbacktothe originalquestion.“Yousaidsometh
ingaboutaKinderSurpriseEgg?”
“Yes,welltheeggcontainedthemakingsofagolem,”heexplained,calming
down.“ItwaspreparedbyanexpertrabbikabbalistworkingfortheRothschilds.
Itwasswallowed,forcibly,bythehost.Then,afterbeingpassedthroughthe intestines,itwasfertilized inanoduringapaschalriteby108
FreemenoftheCityofLondon,onefromeachoftheliverycompaniesatthe time.
Notthe‘official’ones,ofcourse.Theyallhave‘clandestine’versionsthat operate
‘nightworks,’astheycallthem,wherethesethingshappen.”
Irecalledthatfourthtofifth‐centuryItaliangrammarianMaurusServius Honoratus,commentingonVirgil,hadsaidthattheGreatGodPan,asatyr,was conceivedbyPenelopewhenshegaveherselftoall108ofhersuitorsduringone nightofdebaucheryintheabsenceofUlysses.Ihadwrittenaboutitinmy Baphometbook.Multiplefertilizationsofthesameovumwerenotuncommonin themythologiesofancientgods.
“Soyouhave108fathers?”Isaid.“Iguessyourmomwasarealslut.”
Healreadyhatedwomen,soIwasn’tsurethiswouldrilehimatall,butitwas worthatry.IwishedIcouldfindawayofhurtinghim.Idespisedhimsomuch atthatmomentthatitwasalmostoverwhelming.Thenitgotworse.Hesmiled thatuglysmileagain.
“Iguessyoucouldsayshe’sa debauchedwoman.Evenbackwhenshewasa littleteddyboytakingafreetittymagfromastrangeratPiccadillyCircus.None oftheladswhostruttedtheirassesaroundthefountainofCounter‐Lovewere innocentinthosedays.”
Sothat’sit,Ithought.Asickfeelingsliddownmythroat,likeacoldcockroach swallowedaccidentallyfromacanofCokethat’sbeensittingoutsince yesterday.
Ican’tbelieveIdidn’trealizeitbefore,Ithought. Butthatmakes Rosenberg….
No.It’simpossible.
“You’retellingmethatConsiviaisyourmotheraswellasyourwife?”Iasked.
“Civilpartner,”hecorrected.
“AndConsiviawastheEasterSundayAprilFool,”Isaid.Iputmyhandovermy mouth.
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