The Vengeance of Rome
- Автор: Муркок Майкл
- Серия: Between The Wars #4
- Язык: английский
- Жанр: Научная фантастика
Электронная книга - «The Vengeance of Rome». Краткое содержание книги:
TWENTY-NINE
I draw back my arm. The heavy black whip is perfectly balanced. I could hold it like a foil, if I wished, between the tips of my fingers. But I grip it firmly, flexing my muscles as I gather my strength for the first blow.
Hitler’s narrow bottom is lifted.
I lay a swift series of stripes across his buttocks. They are still very white but the blood is beginning to come up.
I begin another series of blows across the backs of his legs.
—Disgusting little queer. Dirty Yidshit queer. Filthy, stinking little shitheap. Naughty, naughty little pansy slut. What are you?
—Pansy slut, mistress.
I hardly hear the sounds he makes. The rhythmic whistling of the whip, the thick smack as it strikes yielding skin, the patterns crisscrossing the flesh, all absorb my interest.
—What are you, Yidshit?
—Filthy little Yidshit, mistress. Filthy Yidshit whore.
—You make me sick. You make me want to gag.
THIRTY
I piss in Hitler’s mouth.
I spread my legs so that I look directly down on Hitler’s white face.
I discharge a forceful stream of pale green-yellow urine. The urine soaks into his dark, matted hair. It glistens in his moustache. It runs down his chin, his ears, his neck and over his narrow chest, darkening the carpet. His breath becomes an eager gasp.
—Open your mouth, Yidslime.
The mouth obeys. An independent entity.
—Mummy.
—Bad dirty Yidboy, dirty little slimeyboy. Drink it, queerboy. Drink it, wankerboy. Bad, bad, baddy boy. Drink it all up. Nasty, nasty, dirty boy.
I piss into the black depths. The liquid splashes loudly against his teeth, and makes a hollow sound as it cascades down the black void of his throat and into his skull.
—Yum-yum.
THIRTY-ONE
I shit in Hitler’s eyes.
The loose stools fall one after another like wet, stinking eggs breaking on his gargling head. The excrement slides off the skin and slips to the floor, leaving brown streaks across the face.
—Yidshit queerboy. Cowardly, nasty, dirty whore.
—Ja! Ja!
—Disgusting, messy, dirty, sloppy, careless little pigyid.
—-Ja! Ja!
I squat on his face.
—Foul little subhuman scum. Lick my arse clean.
He writhes and rolls. He begs for mercy. The smell is strong. His whole head and upper body are now covered in sticky filth.
—Bad, naughty, dirty Yidshit queerboy. Bad doggy Yidshit queerboy. Lick it up, dirty boy. Lick it all up for Mummy.
THIRTY-TWO
I force the dildo into Hitler’s anus. I use my own shit to lubricate it. Hitler groans and shivers. He begins to beg me to stop. I push the dildo in harder. I take his ball and squeeze it. He begins to thrash. I clutch at his penis. It slips out of my hand. I take a tighter hold on it.
—Dirty little Yidqueer bad boy Mummy’s bad boy dirty boy dirty dirty boy dirty Yidboy queer.
I dig my nails into the soft flesh. I twist the dildo to give him the maximum pain.
He starts to scream. The noise inspires my efforts. I shout at him. I jump back and kick him. I take the dildo out and shove it into his mouth to stop him blubbering.
—Shut up, queerbaby bumboy dirty queerboy bumbaby, crybaby Yidboy. Bad naughty Yidboy. Dirty Yidqueer bumboy. What are you?
—Dirty queerboy Juckmemummy.
He writhes on the floor at my feet, the dildo in his mouth, his cold eyes moving with a disturbing vitality.
—Bad dirty Yidboy queer. Bad boy, bad Alfy, bad, bad, bad Alfy.
—I didn’t mean - I didn’t want - I didn’t do it - It wasn’t my fault. It wasn ‘t my fault.
—Only your fault.
The whip rises and falls. —Dirty boy. Bad boy.
I kick him to the ground so that he lies spreadeagled on his face. I walk on his back. I shout at him. I take the dildo and push it into him again.
—No, Mummy. No, Mummy. My angel, my angel . . .
—No isn’t a word we use. Bad word. Naughty word. Punish dirty Alfy.
I take his head and grind it into the shit. I make him roll in the shit. I make him lick it up. I whip his legs. I bugger him with the dildo. I piss in his mouth. I trample his body. I spit on his genitals. I shriek at him. I call him more names. But only the names I have been taught.
Blood pours from his rump. The room is like a slaughterhouse.
—Punish him. Bad Alfy. Bad Uncle Alfy.
—Please, Geli. Please, Geli.
His screams blended with my own.
I left him sobbing on the bed armoured in his own juices.
I looked back briefly as I closed his door. Through the filthy crust those pale, unsouled, unblinking eyes were staring at me, as if to remember me. Only for an instant did they meet mine.
They flickered with chilling triumph.
THIRTY-THREE
‘He has a beautiful mouth.’ Röhm settles himself back in the deep seats of the car. He removes his soft hat, smoothes his military head. His scars are livid in the occasional flashes of artificial light from a streetlamp or window. He is periodically flung into deep, sharp shadows. Out of uniform, he always seems a little plastic and uncoordinated, as if the belts and stiff flannel help sustain his equilibrium. In repose he looks like a disappointed child. As I remove the lipstick and mascara, he sighs. The cigar he smoked before leaving is still on his breath.
‘Did you notice, Mashi, what a soft, beautiful mouth the Führer has? Like a girl. Of course, he’ll want to kill us both after this. He’ll savour the wait. Like a cat. He’ll hardly know he’s doing it, then he’ll pick his moment. That’s what he’s good at. He understands sadism because he understands masochism, it involves patience, passivity. Only a few days ago he and I were reflecting how the world runs on sadism. Do you follow me, Max?’
My friend radiates a strange, euphoric humour. Perhaps sensing our lack of intimacy, he has become unusually loquacious. ‘The de Sades run the world. At the top, the cruel but high-minded soldiers, aristocrats and creative artists. Their orders are translated by honest bureaucrats, esteeming authority above everything, passing on the orders to brute sadists at the bottom. My SA boys, for instance. Scum for the most part, but the middle layer gives a political legitimacy to the whole operation. The decent middle doesn’t understand the addictions and joys of sadism. They can even produce civilised rationalisations for everything! They’re trained to understand only the notion of just punishment. They can’t imagine the calculated use of terror as a refined political instrument. We have to accept these realities, even if we don’t discuss them in public. The better we know our system, the better we can use it to effect. If we are to rebuild German civilisation, we have to rid ourselves of the grime of Judaeo-Christian repression. We must learn to be healthy brutes again. Alf and I used to talk a lot about that. The power of cruelty, you know, to achieve high ideals. Channel your desires one way, and you become a criminal psychopath. Channel them another way, and you become a great political leader. We worked it out years ago. In the War. Those Jews in Vienna, imitating real people as ever, took our insights and sentimentalised them for the millions. Their pseudo-philosophers and -psychologists had a stranglehold on popular culture. But we were sustained by our secret knowledge. More romantic days, Mashi, in many ways. You’re lucky to have me as your own personal guide!’