A couple of vegans from Helsinki, Finland, Tuisku and Liekki (fictitious names), were very happy with their new diet when they turned, as it reflected their ethical ideals as much as it fostered their gastronomical imagination, and it seemed to them that this exciting bliss would go on forever. However, after a while, they confessed to each other bouts of carnivorous urges coming more and more often to nag them. After many feverish brainstorming sessions, crises of doubt, and outbursts of hope, they came up with an idea: they would feed on each other’s blood.
The idea proved so wonderful that they soon became radicalised. By the end of the weekend, they had convinced their parents to lend them their first-aid ‘Plug and Play’ home injection kit. Their parents were not so thrilled, though, because the two scoundrels did not fail to mention to their astounded genitors that in acceding to their request they were giving them the means of their own bloodshed. Still, taking into account the infinitely empowering niceness of the parents, and the limitless manipulative powers of the children, that was the easy part.
On 2 January 2002, the young couple left their parents’ house in their summer clothes, found a park, and began preparations for their very first ‘meal’.
The next thing Tuisku and Liekki knew, they were running from the police, screaming that they were innocent, that they could explain, and that they had been set up by carnivores.
Tuisku and Liekki were taken to court, where they were convicted of outdoors vampirism and mutual blood abuse.
After a few decades, what society had considered a terrible crime turned out to be a systemic mistake: the police, who routinely framed people as vampirical rapists, apologised publicly and then went out for a drink. The parents didn’t have it so easy. They were taken out of their care home, arrested for having ratted out their own children, and put down the very same evening on the Kauppatori (market square) in front of a cheering crowd.
The story of Tuisku and Liekki has been made into a thrilling B movie, Who’s Eating Who? Investigation Of a Sanguine Couple, which was based on the case. The movie was released in December 2022, and is available on DVD and Blue-ray, or in streaming at: http://www.animallica.com/tv-shows/show/who-is-eating-you/ (behind a paywall).
Of all of Finland’s known sanguinists, since this first grim affair in the early 2000s, only three have been released from prison. They still have to pay restitution to their parents’ toolkit, but thanks to government support they are able to continue their university education.
Not only, they explained in a post, would this help them discover where their most intimate problems lay, it would also allow them to satisfy the blood guilt they had both started feeling at the age of three or four, after having binge-watched documentaries on Finland’s involvement with, and resistance to, Nazism and on the siege of Leningrad. It was a conclusion that came as a surprise to Tuisku, after a longer and rather painful session – it had been Liekki’s turn to play the role of the analyst that week – and one that, unfortunately, Tuisku is still not ready to share with the world, as he announced on social media last week.
For a while all they did was looking up injection methods and recipes. Soon they knew more about black pudding than even the hungriest of Scots, but despite their best efforts they couldn’t shake off their disgust. A fresh infusion of blood, squirted far into the mouth cavity, on the other hand, was enthusiastically embraced by the intrigued Finns – although, being two snowflakes at heart, they spat most of it out at first. Far from discouraging them, their initial reluctance spurred their brutality and creativity in equal measure. Indeed, they quickly realised that the precepts of tolerance and softness that was the core curriculum of their education were of little use, or at least proved much less efficient than brute force, when it came to keeping each other’s appetite sated. In order to make sure that none of their weekly meals went to waste, one would keep the other down, kneeling on the other’s arms while operating the canister with their two hands (note: ‘canister’ was the name they gave the much cherished device, half a funnel and half a vacuum-cleaner, that they engineered together for their dietary crusade). The main challenge was getting the blood from the floor back into the rebellious mouth and preventing the famished brat from skipping one more intake in the spur of the moment, usually by shrieking uncontrollably and rolling around on the floor until exhaustion.
After a couple of weeks of living and eating together, they were able to relate to each other, quite a surprise to all those who had known what had been the baseline of their relationship up to that point. Their conversations often turned from blandness into verbal punishment and back, and, with the exception of Liekki in the morning, and Tuisku most afternoons, they discovered in the new waveform of their emotional life the little-known joys of aggressive linguistic practices. However, after a while, putting up with each other’s sickening regurgitation fragrances proved too much for Liekki, and she soon experienced bouts of constipation. Tuisku became increasingly agitated, working ever harder on his swallowing, and spending all his time between meals coaxing or threatening his friends into returning to veganism.
The arrangement could not have been more unstable, but, thankfully, they endured it, and the end result was surprising for all parties involved: their work productivity improved, as did their relationships with their neighbours. Pirate recordings of the sounds of their cleaning their kitchen were leaked on the Internet. They never prayed again.
The idea took off from there. By this point, they’d decided to be ‘blood vegans’, that is, to undergo this experiment for weeks, until forgoing food altogether, letting their egos dissolve into a primordial pond of hæmolagniac delight. The couple that would later be known to have led the Blood Vegan Transition, Tuisku and Liekki, shared culinary expertise as well as depraved adventures, including feeding on each other’s sexual fluids in police situations, where each was more eager than the other to confess their sanguinistic urges in order to confuse the powers that be.
The couple’s willingness to transgress ethical boundaries is self-evident in their artistic work, especially their controversial intervention in the 2024 Venice Biennale, “Bloody Mary”, in which an unsuspecting audience of arts bigwigs was served a variation on the famous cocktail containing 1dl of their own blood, as they unveiled a thoroughly banal installation they had cobbled together in two days for their undergraduate degree show thirty years earlier. The pundits were, as one can expect, gullible and enthusiastic, until a few hours into the vernissage servants in gore-dripping livery started slinking into the room, breaking the news of the composition of the inebriating concoction to the baffled, and soon nauseous ears of the art world dignitaries.
In their long, thirsty lives, they managed to turn the Vegan League of Finland into a respectable organization – by no means a small feat – which went on to metastasise into an election-winning political party soon after their deaths. As far as the culinary aspects of their legacy go, it seems that the Meat Is Meat, the Slaughter Rights and the Predator Health movements will not be leading any counter-revolutions in Finland in the foreseeable future.
All in all, the overground vegetarian and vegan emancipation movements in the 2020s are one of the most salacious and fascinating chapters of meat-eating history, as was popularised by Augustinella M. McTully’s best-selling novel The Guzzling 20s, available from Random House (USA), or Faber (UK). Of course, nobody could have made the sanguinists of The Guzzling into heroes and martyrs by simply noting their passion for sensationalism. Whenever reality surpasses fiction, putting it into words still requires a tremendous amount of effort, which is well worth it. You have to investigate the agents’ real motivations and thoughts, rummage into their perversions, plug as many of your brains as you can right into their dreams. If you want to know more, consider reading Suck Me Dry: An Introduction to The Four Great Sanguinist Doctrines of the 2000s, by Suleiman J. Abdelmikhel, Adalberto Astoni, Naoise Ó Cuinneagáin, Simone von Ludholt-Bergford, Otto K. Lump, Moloch O’Laoghaire, Ludmilla and Nastasya Braidsky-Omahonov and Friedrike Gudrun Wilhelmine Wenghauser as an academic pièce de résistance, and perhaps the best guide to follow their mouth-watering history.
The idea was conceived as a way to develop an ethical world view, and to implement it in daily life. Their project was first to come up with a new diet, a seemingly simple exercise meant as a step towards an ideal, a practical way to eat not only for one’s health, but also for joy, beauty, and spiritual well-being. They thought of blood as the living continuum itself – not just the organic juice put to such dazzling use in their cookbooks, but also the potential fuel for a consented, ritualised exchange of life. The discovery of a trove of excellent studies on blood as an source of profit in Vertically Integrated Criminal Enterprises was an absolute validation of their beliefs and a great motivator in their quest. In addition, they also felt that the human-to-human blood bond, replacing the old animal-to-human flesh bondage, could serve as an analogy for their links to the digital – and relished! – entities that they hosted within their own brains. From that early, feverish period, very few documents remain. A notable exception is a poem commonly attributed to Tuisku, a song of darkness, melancholy and love in the context of hæmatopositive intimacy:
Skin, she says, is slippery, abrasive.
The surface of my urge.
The substantive yet elusive variety of my temptations.
The tangent space of my wish.
Skin, she says, is like a cigarette
Bringing us back to ages past
The torn face of the Marlboro cowboy
The bruises, the blisters, the smiles
Of a dead country.
Remember what great aunt once told us
Before her foretellings grew foggy:
“Onto the skin it shall trickle,
The smell of my stale stuff,
Bite into it now,
Suck, suck, my children, Before it is too late.
I know where we all must go,
Sooner rather than later,
Our skulls cracked like eggs,
Our ashes sprinkled on pavements Like the Kellogg’s cereals of old.”
Remember, when we took her last juices,
Our word gifts for her departure:
“We are sailors,
You are our rum,
You enthral us!, Like the wind, and the stars, and the endless sea.
And on your grave they shall shine
The dirty needles of the horizon.”
Don’t lean so heavy on me.
The drip is ready.
When the time is right,
It’ll go in,
You shan’t feel a thing.
This new model of eating envisaged itself as a natural evolution from the methods of traditional food culture: you eat by ‘physiological means’, in order to preserve your health and well-being; you eat by ‘ideological means’, thereby enacting the self-involution of the superstructure (known as the ‘Ouroboros Free Lunch Theorem’). Blood thus became for the vegan couple the unexpected ontological foundation for a new vein of relationship to the world. They had wanted to bring about a new harmony within the privacy of their ingestional morality, and were almost helpless witnessing how fast and how ineluctably it seemed to lead to a new world order. What had begun as the quirky new set of table manners of a happy, tender love nest soon became a weird, raucous, and over-the-top political gorefest. They were undergoing a new kind of birth-of-a-nation experience, with themselves acting sometimes as reactionaries, sometimes as revolutionaries, and most of the time as sheer state power. Their innocent attempt to find nutritious enjoyment for themselves outside the straight and narrow path of mindless consumerist evil and exploitation brought into their lives what in their deep normies’ bosom they had silently feared the most: an increasingly violent and unpleasant grappling with the immortality of their ideas.
That was already no easy thing to swallow, and it did not stop there. Not only did the civil disobedience of their lunches, and the constitutional loggerhead of their dinners become increasingly insurrectional and cartoonish, but the diet gave the couple access to new levels of self-imagery. Tuisku developed an almost saint-like aura, having grown a huge bushy beard and wearing almost exclusively recycled clothes from foreclosed nunneries or POW camps, while Liekki’s physiology was turning into a new kind of androgynous beau ideal combining the extreme flexibility of Kung Fu fighters, the muscle mass of Californian governors and the generous layers of fat of sumos. Both developments proved a boon for the sexual side of their blood-feeding. Emboldened, they went on to derive much inspiration from ancient body modification traditions as well as from the latest exhaustivist combinatorics of the erotic and the ferocious, of the lipidic and the muscular worlds. They were reaching the full range of their somatosophical and neurospiritual selves. They felt and they knew that they were the body biopolitic (Proposition XXIII, Part V).
But the transformation they underwent, combined with the brutal violence they perpetrated to, and experienced at the hands of, each other, not to mention their growing loathing of needles and funnels, catheters and drips, repeated hospitalizations and innumerable pills, caused them to become even more alienated from one another, as if the ever growing proximity of their organisms’ hæmoglobin had to be mirrored in an ever wider identity chasm. In a last-ditch attempt to salvage their love they decided to leave everything behind, to go over the edge and to embrace what future generations would eventually call the beaver lifestyle.
Surprisingly perhaps, they had remained devoted lovers of the animal connection, and had not given up on their dream to be reunited with their sentient blood siblings. Liekki and Tuisku agreed that it was time to make a choice, maybe one final time, and swore to each other that from that moment onward, and for the entire duration of their journey, they would strive to live in the present moment and not ever think about food between meals (note: this episode seems almost unmistakably – and none but fools would not add brilliantly – adapted from a five-words-long nanostory by Moona Liisa Säkänden, although specialists agree that it is highly unlikely that they could have read it).
The couple journeys to the desert region north of the Oulu-Rovaniemi metro corridor and decides to settle in one of those quaint hunting lodges dug right under the dunes. The scorching, hyperborean moonlight marks the end of their long and exhausting journey, and fills them with such joy that no sooner are they settled than they treat themselves to a well-deserved feast. As they prepare their transfusion devices, they talk about how it had been beavers who had first brought them together, as their mothers had met during beaver song meditation pregnancy sessions. They even talk about the things Liekki used to like to eat, in her prior life. Tears come to her eyes as she recalls that she even knew a good recipe of honeyed lobster. Liekki is eager to try and vocalise them for Tuisku, who loves recipe recitations more than anything – his musical nature having been acknowledged by everyone he has known ever since his smartphone recognised in his baby wails the delicate harmonics of the last part of Helmut Lachenmann’s Serynade –, and as the melancholy of Liekki’s memories merges with the savouriness of their red waters softly running down their throats, they give in to the bliss of geometrically deducing – O those hot, sensuous squirts!, so slow at first!, O how irretrievably they accelerate!, all the way up to the sudden chills of cold illuminated sweat! – of geometrically deducing that their meal is the great causa sui for the adulation of which they have been brought into this world.
In the morning, as they explore the beaver lodge by the pale dawn light, they find a huge bee hive in the cellar, hæmorrhaging honey all over the floor. They are shocked by the sudden coldness of the air, so rare this far up North at this time of year, and appalled to see that quite a few bees are flying around instead of estivating. Liekki raises the idea of making a beaver spittle and honey soup with the golden refuse, which she almost immediately retracts, realizing that she doesn’t know the recipe by heart. Instead, they proceed to use the excess honey to preserve their bodies, but there is so much at hand that the excess of the excess is made into a dye and sprinkled onto Tuisku’s pilgrimage frock and Liekki’s competition mawashi.
The two lovers know that it is time to move on to find a new place to live near the petrified river close to the lodge. At this point, they have grown chronically impatient: they have reached their goal, they are living the dream, and yet nothing would make them more happy than to leave behind what they already see, rightly or wrongly, as ‘their old beaver lifestyle’, and adopt yet newer axioms, fresher thoughts. How about a system based on badgers? Or ladybirds perhaps. But it is too late now, they silently agree, and they press on.
They soon reach the banks of the large sand pools, home of the Eurasian beaver. The scenery is breathtaking: the largest colony in the world, with an estimated three billion organisms. For a while they stay transfixed and in awe. They know that those animals were nearly extinct only a few decades before, after the Great Migrations brought Europeans, Africans and Asians to populate the boundless steppes of Central and Northern Eurasia. They can recall their virtual history classes, and especially the smell of Kiev, Nizhny Novgorod, Ürümqi, or Ulaanbaatar in the years of the Hunger, as human hordes descended on them and the streets of cities turned into pipelines of red. Their memory replays the great Inviolable Declaration, bringing an end to the slaughter, and they can see before their eyes, as those falling from towers see the accelerated YouTube video of their lives, the years of reparation, the endless road of despair and stagnation, and, at last, the near miraculous revival and rebound, when, almost two centuries later, the population finally recovered. They see the old, the renewed, the true migration, every year, to and from the Korean peninsula. They see the great, joyful havoc they cause in their wake, and they swoon when the sounds arise: the rustle of dust in their fur, as they dance with their partner at the height of the mating season, that can be heard on misty dawns in the suburbs of Moscow.
Tuisku and Liekki walk some more, and, spotting a suitable creek, dip their toes into the beaver bath. Excited though they are to enter the fray, they are soon horrified when the sweet counterpoint of the animal’s extended click techniques slowly evolves into a gigantic primal scream! After that, everything goes very fast. The beavers get nasty, the bath dream turns into nightmarish mosh pit, and they are nearly swallowed by the beasties! Just as Liekki and Tuisku are about to drown into the tide and let out their last howl for their lives, their domestic helper bot arrives on the scene at last and, barely musters the strength to pull them out and keep the gnawing monsters in check.
Long do they stay on the shore, motionless, crouched into a ball under a thick layer of protective honey. Still trusting their force of will, they try to think themselves into regaining stamina, but Liekki remains stubbornly unable to walk. She suffers from a poor circulation, struggles for breath, and only manages to throw one last wail before falling out of the honey bubble onto the geological floor. Everything is quiet again. After a few days’ sleep she finally feels safe enough to accept a bite of a dried black pudding cookie from blood Tuisku took great pains to extract from his loins, but as she eats it, she suddenly cries out in pain, gets up on her feet, and immediately collapses again onto the ground. The two lovers are unable to do anything, and for what to them feels like months they watch in silence as the beaver queen, head of the hive, imperturbably lays her eggs in the distance. Liekki and Tuisku are now both unable to move as a result of their strong fear of evil alpha females. A few week later, at Tuisku’s urgent request, Liekki finally takes a piece of their last loaf of beaver hair bread in her trembling hand and breaks it with her teeth. She is overwhelmed with guilt but also with relish. Some years later, when Tuisku finally manages to speak about food again, they realise there is nothing left to eat except for the bile of their empty stomachs. She tells Tuisku that that it’s OK, but that she feels so bad that she may have to lie down on this rock for the rest of her life. She composes a poem that she recites to him:
I am soon to depart the Earth
With your blood
In my belly
My love! My life! My food for thought! I have been made a book beyond all books
With your blood
In my belly
My life, my story, my book, all made of you, puke-jotted word blots on fresh flesh pages
With your blood
In my belly
The book is signed, the book is sealed, the book is sold, the true tale our bond inked
With my bile, with your blood
In my belly
She dies almost instantly after, and, whistling enigmatic notes from the Liebestod through his ever stiff upper lip, so does he.
Being methodical and a bit nerdy, they started by thinking about recipes. Here are a few of them.
All dairy products are assumed to be of human or plant origin, or synthetic.
Blood and Other Potatoes
Peel and thinly slice potatoes, as well as accompaniments according to taste, such as strawberries, ripe pears, watermelons, capsicum or even onions. Thoroughly mix with your, or your children’s, blood protein solution (created by adding deoxyribonucleic acid (DNA) and coenzyme Q10 (ubiquinone) to tepid water and mashing the mixture maniacally through a tea strainer or sieve). Cook in an iron cauldron until everything becomes one hæmoglobinous mass that will hold shapes. Serve with vegan mayonnaise.
Thirsty Naples Chick Pizzazz (not a pizza!)
Marinate your freshly blood-seeded kidney-shaped pasta (blend the aforementioned blood protein solution with semolina and sunflower oil) with carnivorous plant flower pollen, avocado zest, and distilled bile. Serve with tomato sauce, garlic, black pepper, basil and parmigiano.
Ides of March Salad
(The original Roman recipe requires blood from the recently deceased from unnatural causes, but in modern times standard household blood is commonly used as a replacement. The same goes for the feathers, traditionally from SPQR eagles, but in current urban contexts more often than not pigeon or even sparrow feathers are used. The International Vegan Federation consider the latter permissible if collected on the ground without harm or disturbance to the birds.)
The devil, as always, is in the dressing: dried blood flakes bleached in nocciola cream, fig juice, olive oil, garlic paste and white wine vinegar. Alternatively add cherry tomatoes, capers, cashew or coconut mozzarella, fig feta, sliced, roasted and crushed feathers, or, for the seafood version, shiitake cuttlefish, oyster mushroom octopus, or potato & kelp prawns. Don’t forget to sprinkle the salad with more blood flakes and potato slices before serving.
New York Bloodcake
Dissolve semi-sweet or regular cake mix into blood and tears (measure a few teaspoons once the cake mix has blended into the blood). Add finely chopped fresh herbs, nuts, and dried blood fruits according to the season. Cook in the oven until it looks semi wet, then gild it with milk icing.
Recommended blood fruits:
- Crimson Pineapple (Equatorial New Transylvania): the juice is often used as broth by cannibals
- Clotty Cantaloupe (also tropical, mostly found in Kazakhstan and Mongolia)
- Dracula’s Plum (Mediterranean): not technically a blood fruit, but imitates the taste of blood to deter predators
- Wounded Blackcurrants (Balkans): the main ingredient for the eponymous ‘wounded soda’, that uses fermented juice from these berries as well as plasma from the elderly, very popular in Sarajevo and Zagreb
- Robespierre Apple (France, Belgium and Switzerland): a breed developed by Benedictine monks as pastime during the Terror of ‘93
Using your own uncle’s blood, or, if not available, standard household blood, poach a couple of (chia, flax or mung beans) eggs in a stone pan on a platform before a castle. Add a dash of milk (princess preferred, but any loving partner will do), pepper, nutmeg, poisoned earwax, salt to taste. Once they are wiggly, smash them into a cheap, moist, high-protein and thoroughly nerve-wracking omelet.
Cao Cao’s Death Noodles
Prepare your dandan sauce as usual, replacing the pork mince with a generous dollop of stir-fried fermented blood. Season your noodles with your favourite greens, scallions, coriander, soft-boiled (chia, flax or mung beans) eggs, sesame oil, and light soy sauce, or some greasy hair tofu (best if fried beforehand with dark soy sauce, caster sugar and Shaoxing wine).
Raw Blood Popsicles
These are rather tasty and harmless, especially after a good few hours of bloodletting. Urban dwellers’ veins may contain environmental pollutants, so consider carefully what you ingest.
For crisper results, it is advised to let the blood cool down before freezing it:
- Summer blood: 14-15 °C
- Winter blood: 8-10 °C
[Round of applause! Congratulations! You have been selected to be the next raw ingredient!]
Being methodical and a bit nerdy, they started by thinking about recipes. Here are a few of them.
- 2 litres of fresh human blood
- 500g of diced sea coconut fat, slightly sweated
- 250g of sliced onions, finely chopped and gently sweated
- 2 heaped tbsp of oatmeal, soaked in water overnight
- 1 heaped tsp of white pepper
- 1 heaped tbsp of salt
- 1 heaped tsp of ground mixed spice (such as coriander, cumin & ginger)
- 500 ml of double cream (Teat Treasures or Maternal Love are both great brands, but the bounty of any sound woman’s breast will do)
- A large pan
- Natural sausage placenta casings (which you need to soak overnight beforehand)
- A funnel
- A sieve
- A large tray
- Some string
After extraction, sieve the blood into a large container to remove any clots or impurities. Add the sweated coconut fat and the fried onions to the blood. Mix in well. Then stir in the oatmeal, white pepper, salt, spice and double cream. When the ingredients are thoroughly mixed, it’s time to fill the casings. Tie a knot on over one end of a casing – leaving a long length of string as a “tail”. Pull the other end over the nozzle of your funnel. Using a ladle, pour the mixture into the funnel. This will be messy, so perform the entire operation over a tray to catch any overflow. Don’t overfill the casing – puddings expand as they cook. You need to leave 5-7cm at the top. The funnel can become clogged. Use a chopstick or something similar to clear any blockage. Take the tail of the piece of string and use it to tie a second knot in the other end of the casing. You should have a nice U-shaped pudding. Complete filling the rest of the casings. Bring a large pan filled with two-thirds of unsalted water to the boil and then turn the heat down to a very gentle simmer. Add each pudding to the water. Prick the pudding occasionally with a needle. If a brown liquid comes out, the pudding is done. This should take about 20 minutes. Leave the pudding to cool and then slice and serve (fresh blood coulis is popular but optional).
- Two litres of fresh human blood
- 2 medium large onions, roughly chopped
- 1 medium large leek, chopped
- 1 medium large potato, roughly chopped
- 1 medium large carrot, roughly chopped
- 80 grams of oatmeal, soaked overnight
- 4 garlic cloves, chopped
- 1/3 of a bunch of lemongrass, crushed
- 2 tbsp of peanuts, soaked overnight
- 2 tbsp of coriander seeds, soaked overnight
- 1 tsp of salt
- 1 tbsp of dulse and miso paste
- 2 generous tbsp of tamarind concentrate
- A large pan
- A saw-tooth spoon
- An oven
- Large bowls
- A thermometer
- A sieve
- A large container
- A measuring cup
Set the oven to 180°C. Using the back of a ladle, a nail, a chopstick, or, even better, a saw-tooth spoon, if you are lucky enough to have one, start piercing a hole of an inch or so in the bottom of the container. This is where the soup will catch and this will ensure that no clump of blood goes to waste. Drain and rinse the blood off your hands, and, without licking your fingers, dry the juiciness a little by grabbing blobs of material with your fingers and squeezing some of their life out. Start by heating the blood – but don’t overheat it. The temperature should not be hotter than that which you would use to boil infant milk.
Slowly bring the blood to a boil, then take it off the heat. Mix all the vegetables in a large bowl. Put the oatmeal in another bowl and combine it with the salt, garlic, lemongrass, coriander seeds, peanuts, dulse and miso paste as well as the tamarind concentrate. Pour the blood over the mixture. Mix well. Pour the mixture into the vegetable bowl, stir generously, then pour everything into the large container again, returning it to the oven. Bake for 2-3 hours. Let cool and then refrigerate. Serve in a variety of ways – spicy, mild, savoury, sweet, sweet and sour, thin or thick. My favourite way to eat the soup is with raw onion, garlic, peanut butter, roti and Robespierre apples.
A note on Blood Soup
The recent attacks against the concept of using yourself as nourishment, even in sensible, middle-of-the-road cases where the ‘negative’ effects remain minimal, are based on somewhat stretchy arguments. There are people who have had a blood transfusion since the start of the art with no ill effects. Besides, would even the most dedicated occultist positivist be able to defend that getting such a treatment is not such a good idea if, following it carefully, one can be guaranteed still to live in 100 years’ time? Or even if that is one’s innermost desire? Maybe those critics should remember that a blood solution to health problems like the one we propound is what can be called a ‘natural fasting product’, a time-honoured ascetic practice and a pathway to spiritual and scientific enlightenment.
An additional and important note to be made is that while we – vegans of course – are the only people truly aware of the genesis of our ‘bizarre’ habits, we would like to keep the wit and creativity in our work intact, mostly by using rabid rambling and unexpected metaphors. Thus we hope to enlarge our crowd and get more test subjects, and we sure make no secret of it.
Kotteri Hakata Vampirole with Tagaruikko Natural Meatpacking Plant Vegetables
freely adapted from the book by Matayoshi & Shimura
- 1 cup of clotless, precooked minced blood
- 1 pound of firm tofu
- 1 cup of cooked yellow or red rice or buckwheat noodles (other indeterminate colours are tolerated)
- 250 ml of vegetable oil
- 250 ml of cashew cream
- 1 cup of chopped leeks, fleeced
- 1 cup of dried mushrooms, softened in warm water overnight, chopped
- 1 cup of shredded fresh greens or cooked cabbage (green, red, yellow or
- 1 cup of chopped kale
- 1 cup of chopped carrot
- 1 cup of chopped celery black)
- 1 cup of chopped spring onions
- 1/4 cup of corn
- 1/4 cup of sesame seeds
- 1/4 cup of ginger (large knobs)
- 1/4 cup of cornstarch
- 1/8 cup of salt
- 1/4 cup of sugar
- 1/4 cup of rice wine vinegar
- 1 cup of tamari (or other soy sauce)
- 1/2 cup of shiro miso (white miso)
- A baking tray
- A whisk
- A heavy grater
- A thin spatula
- A food processor
- A large pan
- A 1-gallon two-phase separation vessel
- A pastry brush
- A saucepan
- A plate
- A chemical agent
- A rolling pin
To be honest, these are all made from a single trip to the grocery store. Fresh yellow onions, fresh red tomatoes, and two different kinds of mushrooms were all purchased the same day. We’re going to use the Tagaruikko Natural Meatpacking Plant vegetables as the backbone (we do not know when it shut down in the first place, but it has been derelict for many years, We’re sure you also went there for illegal raves as a teenager, and now their produce market is definitely the best out there. The 2000 by 2500 metres metal building was originally used to store packaged meat and the slaughtered carcasses before their final sale to customers, and it’s now abandoned and filthy: the walls are so dirty that you would expect the inside to be as sour as a cow’s ass. The floor, however, is perfect, that’s a big mystery.). We don’t know why the shop assistant instructed me to fry them, but we noticed his glazed eye, accentuated by the greenish hue of both internal and external mucous membranes, distinctly sending “good for cooking” signals, so we stopped doubting and bought everything.
First, let’s get the broth sorted. The process is straightforward (but still important, don’t lose focus!):
- Grind the corn moderately with a heavy grater.
- Mash the sesame seeds with a thin spatula.
- In the food processor, blend the corn, sesame seeds and ginger together to the desired consistency.
- Mix this with the cornstarch in order to obtain a pouring consistency. Add salt and sugar after this, and allow to stay.
We use a nuclear grinder, but that’s not important, any device will do, even your teeth if that’s what you’ve got. Having a clear mind and an even hand will enable you to melt this into a smooth mixture, which you then pour over all the ingredients.
Proceed by placing the ingredients (worth no more than ¥3,000 – €22, $24 – in total, we’re not kidding!) into the baking tray.
After the life liquid – seasoning, really, jam works too, just don’t tell vampires – has been poured in, leave it to rest for two hours. Chop up all the now gored-up solid ingredients – leeks, mushrooms, greens or cabbage, kale, carrot, celery – and add to the broth. If you find yourself without leeks, for instance, don’t despair, worry not: you can “borrow” the innermost layer of the onion and the tendermost piece of garlic you have as a makeshift substitute, keeping the other layers of your onion halves on the side.
Now, heat the oil in a large pan over a medium heat. Add the magma to the pan and let simmer for one hour. The dish should be a tomato-red colour. Add the remaining liquids and simmer again for another hour. Fill the cooking container with your noodles. Alternatively, pour everything into your separation vessel and whisk until reaching the consistency of frothy cream, and a uniform colour.
Once the ingredients have completely softened, put aside the vegetable disaster you have just created, and sing the following nursery rhyme as good omen:
To avoid danger,
Or too much pleasure,
Slurp it in quick
In one fine lick.
Now your attention should be turned to the tofu.
If you have purchased a moderate-sized weight of tofu, peeling will not be necessary. So go ahead: never mind retards that are late for work.
We find this rather useful: instead of removing the film from the intact skin, thin it out with a pastry brush. At this point, we like to break the tofu into two slabs and provide the tofu with one half of its original head of garlic.
We’re impressed by the flippancy in which this massive block of soft, whitish goodness is pulled from its packaging and laid face-down into the saucepan. We did not have any special gloves or a ladle to cut through the wrapping, so we resorted to a firm grip of our food-slicing hand and voilà! We cut the skin off but was horrified at the resulting tenderness on the “pressure points” of our fingertips. The last time we felt this was when experimenting with a classic dish you may have heard of, “Cao Cao’s Death Noodles”. What was to be done, you might ask? We simply applied a chemical agent to the area, hit it a couple of times with a rolling pin to numb it, and kept tearing the wrapping parchment paper without a shred of a feeling.
Once the tofu is in place, a 5-minute immersion period is initiated. The temperature of the water determines the final product. If the water is lukewarm, the water is lukewarm, no big deal. And if the water is hot, the tofu’s flesh will boil away. No judgment either way, believe me. Remember, this is remedial cooking for the lazy. The worst thing you need to do is go through the trouble of assembling the ingredients. This can be made nearly at any time, which is why it’s been adopted as a standard dish on long-haul space freight ships.
You must thoroughly rinse the tofu so that no traces of the original water remain. If we see too much water pouring out, we will wipe the excess off with the back of our ungloved hand. We prefer to begin the moulding process with the water still in a boiling state and “squeeze” out all pain by continuously rinsing the affected limbs. Trust me, you never want to be the person whose name is called during those times when the subway is running out of buskers playing music.
Stir this mixture into a pan of the hot oil that you’ve previously prepared. We find this to be simply the most logical way to cook the mixture, but you may be irrational, who are we to know?, and find it preferable to boil it.
Replace the lid and shake the whole thing vigorously to mix everything. When ready, transfer the veggie mixture to a plate.
Warm the saucepan over medium heat until things bubble up. When ready, add the noodles and the sauce, and stir for about two minutes. Remove from the heat and add the vinegar, tamari or soy sauce, miso or other soy sauce. Add the blood and vegetable mess. Season with a dash of salt and pepper the remaining onion layers. Serve in the drooping bowls for a very civilised starter. We have found that it tastes best with a couple of traditional globs of lean blood in the dish. We have a recipe for some shumai (home-made veggie dumplings) that go great with this dish. They are very good with bitter green tea.
After Having Swallowed a Bowl of Vampirole
The first bowl of Vampirole drools in your mouth like a messy bed raped by the rough rays of sundawn.
The blood beast growls and prowls in the first bowl then from the well of your throat it howls to its sleeping fellows, calling for close air support by nightfall.
The first drop of the “Febrile Summer Night” Extra Spicy Happy Hour Edition leaping onto the back of our teeth is
a wailing chorus of agent-oranged meat-eating corpses-to-be, who’s eating who now!, barely hearing our screams above their screams
“Hey you, meatlickers, next time treat us bloodsuckers with the respect of the Earth!”
[Round of applause! Congratulations! You have been selected to be the next raw ingredient!]
Everyone was horrified, but they had both fallen in love with this idea, forgetting all consequences. And so it came to pass that they put everyone to one side, and themselves to the other. They became hungrier than ever, and they managed to keep each other alive for several weeks, their mutual memory banks full of the horrific pasts of the other. Then they changed their minds: given who they had become, it did not really matter whether they got along with everyone or not. They felt other and the same. Blood had made them multiple, parallel and indifferent. They spent their time devising speed buying routines, methodically testing them when at the grocery store. When in public, they often pelted each other with quick-fire jeux d’esprit written in foreign languages, like normal people do. They found that they had become able to resist all temptations. During their meals, they would invent jokes about last suppers, about going crazy, about stabbing each other, about shearing off livers and pancreases, prostates and fallopian tubes. Sipping on delicious cocktails, they shared plans to elope into the sky on radiant chariots.
In a series of passionate lectures and a hundred confrontations with the political, religious and ideological situation of their age, they persuaded themselves that this was absolutely fine – that they were ready for it – and even pawned their tongue rings in Fleet Street in an effort to give more fuel to the fire of their conviction, to force themselves never to give up the fight. These fascinating women took a huge risk, but it paid off, and they almost immediately felt a surge of vitality from the blood. After many contact experiments, they realised that given only a very short adaptation period – a few days at most – they could maintain the same blood pressure, cholesterol, BMI and cardiovascular tonus as someone who lived on animal blood! That was a profound and deeply unexpected revelation. However, reckless copycats of their method soon started to die and, unfortunately, as decentralised lifestyle contagion events – also known as ‘Standalone Complex Swans’ in pandemic parlance – were not a class of psychosocial diseases European countries had had much experience with before the Black Death of 1346, they had to escape the ire of the Church, bury their discoveries as well as themselves in a dim and gloomy basement in Helsinki and resign themselves to a life in hiding, keeping busy with scientific study and crochet. The sisters, sustained by their miraculous practices, lived on for hundreds of years, digging underground galleries connecting all the great cultural centres of Europe – the Gotthard Tunnel under the Alps is said to be one of their best known works still in operation –, until a former pupil and later informant of theirs, Charles Robert Darwin, FRS FRGS FLS FZS, gave away the location of their London hideout – a derelict cave in a mews of West Brompton that would later be rented by Samuel Beckett – to his wife Emma before mysteriously dying during the Long Depression of 1873-1896. Emma, with the best of intentions, went there the next morning with a basket of Dracula’s plums, and opened the rusty door of their dungeon. The two grand old ladies did not survive the fetidity of the Victorian air more than a few minutes.
Why does this story have an uneasy sexual undertone?
Why do some males admire the semen of women who have sucked blood?
Why do some females view feeding on blood-drenched male organs as a genuine aphrodisiac?
Let us explore these questions.
Let us first assume that the two specimens under investigation are people in whom the adulation of humans, a major aphrodisiac trigger, is very present. They are starved of that basic feeling of sexual and social acceptance. We also assume that their hunger for semen is strong and acute. In the case at hand, it almost surpasses the thirst for blood. One should also add that blood, in the minds of our subjects, should be conceived as an easily accessible, a ‘mere’ source of ichor, and is in no way associated with a rejection of fertilisability or sexuality in general. Indeed, in many situations, the two specimens would find blood both more disgusting and more appealing than semen because to them blood is the maintenance fuel, rather than mystical-biological source, of human life.
The appetite for male semen has been erroneously surmised to be less intense than for the female one in our subjects. On the contrary, their strict observance of an equality of relish between the male and the female juices undoubtedly stems from a savage love and support for their fellow specimens.
As for sexual maturity and readiness, the two specimens are of legal age and, more importantly, have the required degree of self-esteem (exceedingly low). Finally, like so many proud members of the feral overclass, they want to experience something new and unfamiliar. The desire for feelings is probably of little importance to them, especially in comparison to the nonlinear mechanics of ejaculation, the quantum superposition of squirts, or even the algebraic topology of human oral stimulation.
At the onset of the proceedings, the specimens make sure that their saliva is clean, they use sterilised water to rinse their orifices, as well as a tongue depressor to clean the roof and walls of their mouths. Then they insert one bloodied finger of each hand in their mouth, place the index finger of their other hand on their Nervous Sexual Appendage (NSA, clitoris for females, glans for males, other for others), and slowly begin to massage their NSAs with their index fingers. The two specimens stay perfectly still during this process, with their head held upright and their eyes closed. Then, when their index fingers are lubricated, they begin to push the tips of their index fingers slowly inside their mouth and on the inside wall of their lips, as if to simulate swallowing. They move their fingers in tiny circles, imperceptibly, moving them in small and steady clockwise and counterclockwise motions until the tips of their fingers reach the back of their mouths. They repeat this exercise until they feel the mixture of saliva and blood move down the back of their throats, and the back of their throats consequently getting sticky. When they think that they have reached the desired consistency, they slowly pull their fingers out of their mouths.
All that remains is for them to arrange their faces into a position of enjoyment. The specimens open their eyes, smile, and tilt their heads, until blood starts dripping down their chins. Then, depending on the age, ideology, but mostly the overall mood of the participants, and the weather, they laugh, lick each other’s lips, or begin to rub their respective NSAs with their index finger until they reach a moment of rapture.
In order to be able to report the facts as truly and accurately as possible, I had to ask the two specimens about the pleasure they sensed in their fingers, tongues, throats, and respective NSAs. They explained to me that their NSA had become a customizable kaleidoscope of all their body parts, a holistic catalyst for pleasure. They said they were aware that this sounded bad or cliché, but that they didn’t care. They also added, somewhat unrelatedly, that the only things that still felt ticklish to them these days were their nipples and that they really liked having a strong drink before, during and after sex in the summer months.
After that, one of the two specimens begins to straddle the other and receive from it a firm but delicate oral caress, leading to completion. The resulting fluid, instead of being ingested or otherwise disposed of, is mixed with blood and then delicately poured over the straddler’s middle finger. The latter then gently inserts the tip of said finger into the straddlee’s anus and just as gently pushes it into the rectum, stopping once it reaches the end of its finger. Then, when it is content with the dilution of the mix and the overall arousal state of its partner’s intestine, it pulls its finger out and issues a sign of ritualistic approval in the form of a nod. The other specimen shows its understanding by a reciprocal gesture. It begins to move its hands according to the appropriate rhythm, in preparation for further stimulation of its NSA and its partner’s, all in one fell swoop. Without ever losing the beat, it gently unfolds its Central Ecstasy Organ (CEO, vulva for females, penis and testicles for males, other for others) with its fingers, ‘as if opening the petals of a flower’, they describe together in one voice. It continues to move its hands at least until a full invigoration of the NSA of the other specimen. Then, after a second round of climax and dactylic lubrication, it inserts one finger into the other specimen’s mouth, nostril, ear, vagina or anus, without any detectable sign of preference or pattern, takes it out, and kisses the blood off of it. Turning its back to the first specimen in an elaborate, yoga-like arched position, it uses its tongue to collect the blood and semen off the tip of the other’s CEO. It meticulously strokes its own NSA, then its partner’s, respecting the ongoing pulsation, swallowing all the while. When it has cleaned the length of the CEO from top to bottom, it applies the tip of its finger to the end of its tongue and pushes it inside its mouth, triggering a sonorous gag reflex, thereby bringing the experiment to an end.
The specimens repeat this procedure again and again until their Will to Come runs out for the day. They often swap roles and hands while repeating the whole procedure, until either blood reserves are exhausted, or they reach satisfaction, or they complete a full survey of logical possibilities:
Liekki straddler, right hand; Tuisku straddlee, right hand.
Liekki straddler, right hand; Tuisku straddlee, left hand.
Liekki straddler, left hand; Tuisku straddlee, right hand.
Liekki straddler, left hand; Tuisku straddlee, left hand.
Liekki straddlee, right hand; Tuisku straddler, right hand.
Liekki straddlee, right hand; Tuisku straddler, left hand.
Liekki straddlee, left hand; Tuisku straddler, right hand.
Liekki straddlee, left hand; Tuisku straddler, left hand.
Those eight possibilities are to be duly multiplied by five in order to account for the choice of mouth, nostril, ear, vagina or anus during each iteration. A full rendition has been omitted out of a spirit of strict observance for the equality of urge, between trust and despise, towards our readership.
This report is a little confusing. Twice, the stopping criterium remains very unclear, when “they think that they have reached the desired consistency” and when the straddler “is content with the dilution of the mix and the overall arousal state of its partner’s intestine”. Moreover, no actionable description is provided in order to “[t]urn [one’s] back to the first specimen in an elaborate, yoga-like arched position”, and no clue is given as to what music is to be played when one is to “move [one’s] hands according to the appropriate rhythm” and “meticulously stroke[ one’s] own NSA, then [one’s] partner’s, respecting the ongoing pulsation”. Later on, it is implied that one would want to go on “until [one’s] Will to Come runs out”, but as an end user I don’t know what these words mean, how do I know if I even have any Will to Come or when it may come to exhaustion. I really am left wondering how on Earth I could apply that to my case and practice the whole routine at home, which is a shame, as it otherwise sounds great. I very much hope the author will soon open a helpline or allow fans to pay for additional support.
*As an aside, this reminds me of a passage in an Indian treatise where a hairdresser becomes a shaman near the Cutty Saroja underground station. He would raise alligators to eat. One day, a ‘gifted’ mutant emerges from his body and is found to be capable of beautiful and impressive speeches. It can sing food-themed hymns and even dictates the lyrics of ‘Ain’t That a Kick in the Head’ to The Beatles from his position of power above the musicians’ heads as they are immobilised during a haircut. “So, obviously, this is something that could be done more, but it is also boring. This will be the only time I influence a human band.”, it is said to have stated. Tuisku, the urban poet and undercover statistician who first recited these rigorous verses, estimates that the one he wrongly calls a guru ate at least 100 alligators in total since the mutant arose, and remains fascinated by the boldness of what he very erroneously, and in fact frankly offensively labels ‘that alternative Shivaist voodoo’. Another day, the hairdresser is about to be eaten by his lunch – always an alligator – and the only thing the mutant says is: “you know, old chap, the worst thing of all is that I’m starting to think about all those babies I’m going to have to feed on and be fed to once you get digested”, without ever giving any elucidation. He did have a big poster of downtown San Antonio in his bedroom, though.
In any case, as a conclusion to my review, I can say that I find all this scientific jargon irritating, and I want the author to make things clearer. However, I am a law-abiding citizen, and believe in the sanctity of the empirical method. I will therefore leave the report exactly as it is, and only add my comments below.*
The two specimens, sharing moments of pleasure, used to achieve short-lived spells of sexual satisfaction, ones that were born out of a profound need, the absence of touch having made them so desperate. The reason for the specimens’ failure to concoct satisfaction was that they did not experience truly mutual, interemotional ‘touch’, to use the term as they did. Indeed, in their previous sexual habits, sensual, physical pleasure was given, or taken, but there was no exchange. During interviews they repeatedly said that they found pleasure in swapping cum or blood in each other’s mouth, nostril, ear, vagina or anus, an aleatoric habit they had cultivated for as long as they could remember, and one can assert beyond any doubt that each of them had sex, but it seems just as clear that they did not have sex with each other. In order to implement the desired configuration of emotions, values, ideas, and blood, and find osmosis, those specimens have had to come to terms with the fact that sex is not about love – which always implies the presence of an unbridgeable abyss – but about the perfectly synchronised enactment of a collaborative algorithm of stimulation. As the automated poet of the myth of the Tantrum Twins puts it, “a Federation of Agents – the Fusional Emergence of Truth Knots”.
To achieve mutual satisfaction, then, both specimens have had to look deeply inside themselves to deduce again, on their own, that human touch is a thing that can be run in logarithmic time, if and only if no actions nor intentions are ever separated from the procedural (NSA) and generative (CEO) life of the other person. That was of course easier proved than done, and it is only when the two specimens finished the first cycle of their embraces, as they kissed the last drops of blood out of each other, that they knew that, for the first time, they were actually, truly, deeply, satisfied. Then, they continued with their lives as if nothing had happened.
There are many nuances and layers in the responses, thoughts, and ideas that you get from this kind of intelligence. I find all of this very interesting. I hope that you do, too. One thing that bugged me for so long, however, is that some specimens view spilt blood as the suspicious residual touch of another human – gross! –, whereas others resolutely as an inseparable part of their own being. How such divergence can even exist remained a complete mystery until I wrote the following, more dialectic, gloss.
Another day, the two specimens ate together, before going to their last friends’ place. Their four friends were waiting for them. They got undressed, engaged in a surprise intercourse, and ended up coming back at approximately the same time the next morning. As the specimens walked on the quiet path, they had plenty of time rehearsing opening the door, going into their living room, sitting down on the couch, and arguing:
Liekki: What happened with the friends? No. Did anything special happen with the friends? You disappeared for half the night.
Tuisku: Nothing, dear. We just had a really nice time together.
Liekki: Don’t lie, you three were out till after one in the morning! What happened?
Tuisku: Nothing happened. We just had a great time, the two of us.
Liekki: Great, very great. What did you two do all night long?
Tuisku: We got some food, we ate, we drank, we talked, we had sex and we laughed. That was the only thing we did. We were six, by the way, you included.
Liekki: I don’t believe you, you four were out until after one. Where did you go?
Tuisku: To the hairdresser room.
Liekki: Ooh, no, that’s a lie!
Tuisku: Don’t scream like that, that’s bad.
Liekki: That’s a horrible lie, too! Screaming has therapeutic virtues!
Tuisku: Do you really think that I’m lying to you?
Liekki: I know that you lied!
Tuisku: But you know that if I told you the truth, it would break the bonds of friendship between you and me.
Liekki: Whatever. We used to be best friends, you know, but, in the end, I realise that I can’t trust you.
Tuisku: I didn’t want to tell you the truth, but I did.
Liekki: What? So you did tell me the truth?
Tuisku: Yes! Who do you think I am? Of course I did.
Liekki: Oh, really? Didn’t you have a chance to tell me all about it beforehand? I’m sure you didn’t stop even a minute to think about what would happen when you didn’t tell me you told me the truth. I feel so stupid. I knew this would happen.
Tuisku: No, you are wrong. I did do that, I stopped to doubt myself, then went back to doing it, many times, for hours on end sometimes, but the conclusion was always the same: I could not avoid doing so.
Liekki: What could you not avoid doing?
Tuisku: Telling you the truth. Even though we are best friends, I can never trust you again. I’m sorry.
Liekki: Same here, especially now that I know that you have lied to me.
Tuisku: Okay, okay!
Liekki: I can not trust you again. Ever.
Tuisku: No, me neither. Nor can I think even for a minute of the consequences of having told you the truth. This is too much for me.
Liekki: You’ve cheated on me.
Tuisku: Not at all.
Liekki: “Not at all”… That’s just what all humans say, dear!
Tuisku: I only have to look in a mirror to see that my BREASTs (BREAST: Reactive Excitable Acute Sensuous Tactile, a recursive acronym for the standardised series of tests granting access to intimate upper-body contact, also used metonymically to designate the scores obtained during such tests) are bigger than you always care to admit. That’s why you don’t trust me.
Liekki: You can have a look in a mirror and tell yourself you realise that your BREASTs are bigger than mine all you want, that won’t change the fact that I can’t tell you why you are wrong even if you are wrong, because the stupidity of the real motive behind that vague reasoning of yours is much more unbearable than my current brain is willing to tolerate, I would say by at least a few orders of magnitude, which leaves me equally speechless and unconvinced.
Tuisku: That’s why I can’t tell you why I have so much bigger BREASTs than you. You can’t even begin to fathom how humiliating it is to me that I have to look in a mirror to know this. You’ve always ever known but clarity and purpose in life. Anyway, now I feel so stupid for wanting to reveal to you why I have the opposite relationship with your BREASTs to yours with mine.
Liekki: I’m not even going to answer that. There’s more to life than marks and exams.
Tuisku: I know that these fucking BREASTs are the only reason why you talk with an infinitesimal degree of precision, but the reason why that’s the case is so much smaller than the reason why I can’t share my most private thoughts with you. I think we should focus on that instead, I’m through with this bullshit.
Liekki: Again, that thing! That’s it, it’s over, daddy, I’m through, too! You see, that’s why I don’t trust you, dear. Don’t forget that I am also the only specimen with whom I talk with an arbitrary amount of precision, just like you, and I have an optimal model of why I keep things secret from you.
Tuisku: Right. For the record, last night, I did not know that there were other specimens in the room with us, OK? I always thought that our last friends where humans… Anyway… Could we not start over?, maybe become even more devoted than we were before? Because, remember?, we both wanted to be there. “Don’t forget to get back into the comfort zone, every now and then!” That was your ‘reason’ to go, don’t deny it!
Liekki: No, it wasn’t like that. I can’t believe that you think it was like that. Be that as it may, it is still I, and I alone, who left the room in the end.
Tuisku: Yes, yes, I don’t deny that, no need to get upset. Let me recapitulate, then, so that we are on the same page. What you say is: you, alone, went into the room, and you, alone, came out of the room?
Liekki: You are so irritating! Now I almost feel like agreeing. Anyway, what on Earth did you think you were doing? And by that I mean, before and after I was in the room. Did you even turn the lights on?
Tuisku: The thought of lights, on or off, did not cross my mind. All I could feel was that, as the stream of my blood was not mixing with the stream of my ejaculate, despite my best efforts, it was I, my whole being, who was not intermingling. I drank my blood, I drank my ejaculate, and I enjoyed my pleasures, but it is as if I did not exist.
Liekki: No. That cannot be.
Tuisku: Yes, it was. I did feel that.
Liekki: Had you really done so, you would have willed your blood into running out of your own head, leading to an unmistakable perception of existence!
Tuisku: How can you not take me seriously? You were there! You are their best friend, and my second most precise interlocutor. Look at you now. You are now just as you were then, completely satisfied. How can I have been so careless to trust you.
Liekki: Why did you go to the hairdresser room?
Tuisku: You see, we three were thinking to to get food, drinks, and a pubic haircut. Also, the third friend said that we really should have a look at our BREASTs together while we were at it, and that there was no better place to do that than the hairdresser room. When we were done examining them, the end of my thing, NSA or CEO – I even can’t recall now, can you believe that?! – was already dripping with blood. I tried to clean the tip of it with the end of my tongue, and, believe it or not, I succeeded, I cleaned it, even sucked on it, and then, conscientious as I am, you know me, I went on until I retracted the tip of my tongue inside my mouth. It was so nice to be able to lick it to the bitter end, and fought hard not to swallow. I knew I had to store the juice inside my mouth, and so I squeezed my lips as hard as I possibly could. After I had cleaned it, I transferred the SSC (Sexual Saliva Complex: saliva, sexual fluids, blood, sometimes seasoned with golden syrup or soy sauce, according to taste) I had in my mouth onto the corner of the other specimen’s NSA, and, I pushed the tip of my tongue inside the cavity of its CEO.
Liekki: I could never have satisfied the requirements.
Liekki: I would never have been able to perform the transfer that early. I would have had to put my finger in its mouth first, at the very least, and maybe also get a taste of its SSC. So, except for the initial SSC kerfuffle, it is exactly how it would have gone for me. After that, everything would have gone smoothly. My ejaculate would have come out of my body, and into the NSA of the specimen I would only have had the most imprecise of comminglings. It would have been unsettling. Nevertheless, I would have rummaged through the whole of its CEO, lingering on its NSA as would have been appropriate. I would have then pushed my tongue inside its mouth, nostril, ear, vagina or anus, slowly, and deep, and as I would have kissed it, I would have suctioned the tip of its tongue into my mouth, and I gently would have bitten both its sides. Finally, as I would have closed my eyes and known the end would have been near, it would have been as if I had been inside my NSA, and then, at the very same time, and as if by sheer force of will, inside the NSA of the other specimen! And as I would have been inside its NSA, spiritually, as it were, since none of us would have been moving at this point, I would have been able to go on again and again, in my head, until I would have felt the tip of my tongue again back inside its NSA cavity. It would have had to have been sleep-sucking. I would know that I would have spent all my ejaculate. I would have been able to collect some of the SSC back. I would have swallowed at last. I would have known I had just stopped everything. I would have stood up and would have left the room. It would have been like a dream. Surprisingly, this is in fact precisely what I did while you were away. I don’t even know why I’m wasting my time being mad at you.
Tuisku: That’s great! I enjoyed this time of mutually assured satisfaction, as you would have, as you indeed have, and I know that at least one of our friends ended up being satisfied, it told me so as we were walking down the stairs, and I, at the same time, think I can say have had an orgasm, algorithmically speaking, of course. I am therefore fulfilled.
Liekki: I couldn’t agree more. Hey, where are you going, dear?
Tuisku: Oh, I forgot to tell you. The lab finally got me a new ugly outfit, and they took some time to synthesise the replacement after I complained, but it’s ready now.
Liekki: What have you done again? You are so fussy. Alright, fair enough, but I have to let you go there on your own because I do not want to be embroiled in checking how imprecise these outfit matters are. I could not for the life of me approve of such shenanigans without thorough verification first.
The specimens parted. They were satisfied. They had found that they could connect and participate in a collaboratively constructed exchange with strong guarantees of mutually assured satisfaction, beyond the former shores of fear, denial, and mistrust conundrums that their insatiable hunger for human touch had left them stranded on. In the short-lived moments of pleasure they had known in the past, they had been separated as if by an imperceptible screen. They were now existing on that screen, like the first explorers of the Möbius strip clubs of old.
Today, the specimens are still playing together. They get dressed. They go out. They have sex with and without friends. They walk home at the same time, go into their living room, sit down on the couch, and argue.
The idea proved so wonderful that they soon became radicalised. Only days after the beginning of their regimen, they had imagined, and subjected themselves to, the most stringent discipline and training. After a year, they were combat-ready. They booked their plane tickets, and flew to San Antonio, Texas, landing just a few miles away from the war zone. As Liekki and Tuisku felt the Southern sun on their skins and the dry, dusty air in their lungs, they contemplated with joy the sacred nature of their mission: to kill meat-eating humans.
Initially, their organization was ruthless. With only a little experience, they killed their first political victim, Juana Cruz. She was and elderly spy and retired killer, the last of the anti-sanguinist agents of the CIA, who had been betrayed by the organisation and driven into poverty. She lived in a caravan not too far from the airport. She was seized by the two killer siblings on a Walmart parking lot and found drained of her blood and strangled with her own intestines.
A couple of hours later, a CCTV camera recorded them carrying two corpses – their heads brutally severed and their skins peeled clean by what must have been claws –, walking calmly to the edge of town and hanging there a few minutes before vanishing from the screen into the dust of the battlefield.
For most of the first phase of their deployment, their success was almost routine: they would capture hostages, kill them, sometimes fleece and boil them, sometimes dry and shred them. They usually then fed them to passing herds. Sometimes they would send what must have been an incomprehensible ransom message to some address or other, a quickly scribbled note reading: ‘Who’s fish flour now?’, or ‘We are not your steaks’.
They could feel the devil’s breath upon their lips. They knew the fear they were inflicting on the victim was strong, but were only filled with gratitude for the blood and terror meat-eaters had wrought onto the lives of their ancestors, as it was now the fusion power of their rage.
After their swift takeover of San Antonio, the rare cameras still in operation showed them strolling about town. As they happened to stumble across the Hertzberg Clock around the end of the afternoon, Liekki was captured on CCTV having one of her famed fits of inspiration:
It is five past four on the Hertzberg Clock.
Time has stopped.
The red pushers have withdrawn into their lairs.
Hours have come and gone, talking of nothing. Now the pixels are asleep.
For how long have minutes been counted at the push of a button?
The leather tourniquet rests on the motel mattress,
Its thirst unbending.
The metal gears will creak under the veneer of the bed.
Need will slink, slither, shove off,
In the glare of the morning.
Be watchful, victims.
You are next.
The Clock isn’t right.
Time is in on the menace.
Tuisku, who rather felt like prose after combat, retorted with that composition:
Walking past the Hertzberg Clock you’ll soon look up and see in the dust clouds the form for whom you will have cried for millions of years. An old face made of billions of faces, smiling in all serenity at its own perennial cruelty. It is for idiots that you will have cried for eternity. It is for scum that you will have called for mercy. But who will answer you? As you walk past the Hertzberg Clock, you will be surprised by gunfire from windows, and you will run for cover.
Watching this, Peter Himmelstein, the journalist who brought to light the stupendous horror of these events, got abruptly interrupted by gunfire from windows, and ran for cover into the fridge of his surveillance room. He knew he would now be hunted. His mind resisted. There was no way they, let alone the universe, could know he had seen that footage. His gut insisted. They knew. They knew. They would come.
War, his bread and butter, and his long-standing obsession, was finally starting to spill over into his life, and he was seeing his sanity quickly nibbled away by the rats of sheer survival. The next few days would forever remain a daze of gloom and anguish, impenetrable to recollection. He wrote in little cracks of time, whenever his hands weren’t bloody. He would later reread these pages, forever unable to understand what they meant, what had happened.
Selected Pages From Peter Himmelstein’s Diary
Leave. At once. Do not get caught. Hide. Find food. No fire. No sneezing. No long sleep. Keep running. Don’t stop. Attention to every detail. Cling to anything.
Any reflex that could make a difference. Between staying a panic wretch for a little while longer. Or join the heaps of human carrion, by now sky-high deathscapers in the June sun. Bodies like barb wire weaving America’s Great Death Wall.
My group was very small when I joined. Fugitives, ideologues, psychos. A very motley crew. More join every day, crawling into our lines at dawn or after lunch. We almost never talk. Sometimes, we listen to the radio, each sitting apart in our improvised camp. An ever larger number of people are talking of their ‘blood awakening’, on various shows, on the news. More often than not in encoded language, but transparent to our ears. What the hell was I thinking? Coming here, among these weirdos. We will be found in the end. We can’t fight back, only evade, at best skirmish. I’ll get myself killed. On my own, I sense I have more common ground with the antibloodz than I care to admit. We all experience a sense of adventure in the perpetual threat of death. Sometimes, when I hear some accidental mumble, I can’t help but wonder if our ideas around terror and survival haven’t started to enlighten us, somehow. After all, if I recall my first days in the group, all we did was just small shows of activity, to try and prove ourselves we could still do something despite being doomed to die soon… but I must say we became quite different once we got to know each other. That strange knowledge you get from silence and mumbling, at night, when all fire is forbidden, and even the lighting of a cigarette can get you killed. We differ, I would say, most importantly, in our dynamics. The antibloodz are not the monsters the media say they are. The people I see here are highly motivated by a deep desire to discover the truth and help others. Sure, they can be nasty as well, but the world has gone to shit. Also, the antibloodz, the vast majority of them, in this unit at least, are compulsive, light-weight empiricists. Their discomfort in the current conditions of disaster and revolution does not stem from, say, a physical defect, malnourishment or hormonal disorder, but, I’m convinced of that, is the outcome of a breakdown of personality. In order to adapt to such difficulties as ours, many have come to recognise that the only way forward is to modify themselves and their significant others for the worst, willingly and forcibly to undergo a collective degeneration of thought and emotion. Efforts in the pursuit of new wisdoms are always diverse and tentative, and even if I wanted to I would be unable to offer a less flawed summary as I did above. Any such description would have to reflect the qualitative contrast of the mindsets of these people, more distinct from each other than I have ever experienced in my life. My days here are sheer horror, and yet, after the antibloodz, I fear that everything will be grey and conform again. The sanitised, near-vegetative zombie existence I have led before, ‘within society’, and have dreamt so deeply to break away from. To leave behind forever.
Perhaps I can say that. The values, beliefs, and perspectives of their parents of choice, sometimes historical or contemporary figures, sometimes even friends or strangers, often just recycled synthetic personalities, are the only authoritative sources of truth. The result is a breach of the normative peer-evaluative view of the world, the world our past collective experience had built up to this moment of societal ruin. It seems strange even to think about it. That old world, I remember, in which the individual sat at the pinnacle of the hierarchy. Stranger and stranger, the more I think about it. One thing for sure, the point most of them agree on is that “alternative” rules have been superseded by a New Law: “POWER IS THE DOMINANT FACTOR”. A group decided to carve that on the last standing wall of the State Capitol in Austin. They left yesterday. No one expects them to return.
News from the Capitol wall. The enemy got there before them. Crazy, as if they had been able to read our mind. Rumour has it it’s got two big sentences on it.
GROW UP, DRINK BLOOD.
DRINK BLOOD, YOU’LL BE LIKE US.
Nobody asks whether our group will return. They are most likely all dead. Used as ink for the slogans. Not sure if anyone cares.
None of the distinguished British, Canadian, French, German, Japanese, Korean or Russian experts sent by the Northern Alliance to establish a report ever knew a single antiblood. This was all after the facts bullshit. They didn’t even bother meeting or interrogating a single antiblood. They think they can get me to talk, those pathetic fucks. I can hear these words in my head, ‘we support any self-serving attempt among specimens to form an opinion’. Experts my ass! They are in no position to criticise any fucking thing. I said something along these lines, I think. I can’t remember, they must have hacked me. Of course, the so-called ‘knowledgeable experts’ must have either frowned upon that, or passed over it in silence, the Austrian way. Then the report goes to die in academic journals. Self-styled experts, that’s what they are. They simply regurgitate the all-encompassing perspectives of the world they learnt on Ivy League benches, a world they gobble up and shit right back out. They will never be able to capture anything of the experience of war with any nuance whatsoever. Fuck this. Fuck them all.
What happens next is obvious, I bet you, the interests of high-faluting politics will not take long to come rain hell on the antibloodz heads. Of the forty-six thousand antibloodz at the rear of our camp, only a handful, perhaps two or three hundred, remain now. Every single one of them will immediately be taken by the Northern Allies and concentrated near the military base at Fort Hood. Killeen, got the right right to it, doesn’t it? Who can be surprised. If history has to repeat itself, it’s got to be in Bell County. Since winter is near, and the field blizzards come with increasing frequency, those few survivors will pushed to the bottom thresholds of subsistence. If I had to bet, I’d say the craters where the bodies of the antibloodz will be found will be about a kilometre or so from each other. Randomly distributed across the fields. Not many people know this, but it’s how they do disposal these days, I saw the pictures from the Marshall Campaign. Scatter drones, that’s what they use, the same as for reforestation. Neat, cheap, green.
“Welcome to Summer warfare!”, that’s how they first greeted me. Ah, those first days. I will always remember. Terror day and night, but also, I can’t explain it, maybe a sense of possibility. We would survive a bit longer, and that was all that mattered. I almost regret this time. There was freedom then. I would hear the whispers of a private conversation maybe once or twice a week. Seems unreal now. Before we fell silent. The defeated antibloodz can no longer recognise themselves in the prosaic series of corporate war procedures in place since last week, since the experts’ plan kicked in. Apocalyptic attacks, guerrilla vanishings, that’s what they had always been led to believe in. Now, what do I hear. They are actually going to get replaced by Northern units. Those will for sure play a heavy role in the battle’s day-to-day activities, especially as they advance through the New Mexican front and clean up the remaining civilians. But, man, I feel for the antibloodz. They are finished.
How different it was just a few weeks ago! It was just us and them back then. Them tracking us, killing us. Us pretending to fight back, as if our lives depended on it. And they did. We would sleep on the dry dirt, like soldiers of old in the trenches, usually in groups of five or seven specimens. I remember how we would lay side by side whenever we found tracks, hoping to get even the briefest jolt of electricity back in our system.
I remember my first Transfer of Bedding ceremony. Stupid, those rituals, but it really did work. Usually, a person who did not have a sound mattress attitude would become so embarrassed that he would immediately give up the practice and make its peace with their dead wood litter. I have never been able to discover what happens to those how didn’t feel anything. If there were any. Or maybe even who felt proud of feathers or foam rubber… What would happen then!? I’m sure they would be left as offerings to the enemy, but I could never find anyone who could confirm that. That said, most of the antibloodz who provided any material aid, say, pillows, toothbrushes, and the like, to their comrades would usually die very soon after in the desert. They used to say the vegans have a way of spotting the generous ones, and and would drink them first. Sounds complete bollocks to me, but again, can I be entirely sure? Is there anything I can say I am sure of today?
These foot soldiers had come from all over the American continent, often without weapons, sometimes with money handed down from some rich virtual person or private enterprise. I still have a copy of the appeal of the autumn of 2037, which had brought them all together to the battlefield. “Defend Humanity! You Are The Alpha Species!” All the fucking lies. Every day many died, others ran a bit further, some more died… I remember the days before the arrival of the Northern forces, we had been running less and less, every little crack in the dry earth felt like a huge trench, I could hear German machine guns in the mute scorching air. We would crawl for cover in the cacti fields, thinking we’d find respite in the mud, no, not thinking at all, just crawling, crawling. Others continued their onward march, throwing packs of soap or lamp torches in the air in an attempt at diversion. They all died. Sometimes I feel we all did.
We are done for. After some six or seven hundred thousand men had been covered by the German/Russian smoke shield, the Alliance said would “clear the route” through the desert, but an avalanche of small-arms fire and shell nanofragments would blossom at the foothills, blasting both humans and machines into formless fumes. This would drive the survivors to surrender to the most convenient camp, lobbing their shells on the dead and wounded, and tell themselves they had no other choice than to keep on going or use their rucksacks as shrouds. Thanks to the terrain, the prevailing winds and the abundance of crawling insects, they were less hungry than at the risk of exposure to renewed night fever. They would jump from embankments, mauled mostly by American and Alliance fire rather than by the blood freaks, and early-adopt desertion service apps in droves, in the worst drain of high-arts-of-warmongering brains away from our ranks any insurrection has ever known.
Collective conversion to blood worship of the last remaining factions in front of the solid bronze Veterans Memorial on the Plaza of the same name, 451 Jefferson Street, San Antonio. Waves of bizarre ‘period tourists’ (weird name, considering they are the missionary disciples of the Europeoples, bringing Eurospeak and Eurovalues to the Southern Waste Lands). Fuck all establishednesses, if you ask me. Time to go silent.
War was raging.
Ever convinced of the moral and spiritual superiority of their philosophy, Liekki and Tuisku tore into those who came to stop them. The enemy quickly encountered resistance, and began to look for an elusive exit. They on the other hand began pitting enemy forces against one another, as well as raising an army of stupefied followers, and you can be sure they had each other’s backs, hoisting themselves well above the ancient apex point of Mortal Combat.
Whenever they spotted a supermarket, they would purchase several cow’s heads and skulls, making sure the animals had been dead of natural causes before being processed, and, surmounting their disgust of abusing animal innocence for war purposes, proceeded to use them as totemic armours, probably more as an ironic cheer to American consumerism than a war tactic.
Liekki would say to those who challenged her to a fight, “Even if this day tastes like a sip of curdled blood wine from my great aunt’s cellulite, or a bite of your human heart after it has been fed to and shat by the jackals of the desert, I am ready!”. As the siblings would charge in, they tended to do so carrying hook drones, laser spears, surrounded by a swarm of hovering chattel prods to poke the flesh and bones of enemies.
Another thing that they did was to take the heads off the corpses of children, and add them to their armours as a lucky charm. As they were undressing the bodies of the victims of one of their school-oriented campaigns, some starved followers fell into a fervent exclamation of “Ah! Human beings can be eaten!” The families were mesmerised by the spectacle. Finally, the bodies were lined up on the ground. Liekki and Tuisku proceeded to eat one after the other, claiming to be impressed by how delicious human flesh tasted.
They took a dozen pairs of rented fake leather gloves, each with a special odour repelling cloth wrapped around the back, and mentally prepared themselves to open their mouths. One by one, they soaked those gloves in blood while Liekki and Tuisku executed, with lethal dexterity, the victims to be consumed.
The emotions and hunger of the families were intense. They saw that the children were so beautiful, so innocent, and so loved that they were willing to give their lives for their cause. Their delight was sharpened by the sight of a cherubic child who, before the eyes of all, said: “Oh! Death is mine. I will be taken captive by the lips of the bride and groom of Doom! Oh! Death is mine.” Liekki and Tuisku walked into the house of the little boy, and when they were complimented on their body shape by the five-year-old, they said, “Let’s eat more children and then see how much of that petulant human flesh we can reduce to fuel.” Liekki then decapitated him, and ate his lungs and his heart. Tuisku ate his liver, kidneys and brain. As she chewed his tiny body parts, Liekki proclaimed, “I am done with at least the first two World Wars…”, and Tuisku, his mouth still half-full, finished her sentence, “…and now I’m going to do away with a third one.” Then they sat around the fire and laughed and sang songs with the families:
Burning taut in the distant thinning sun.
Planted with stakes, hair still clenching blood,
Your lips are thick with cigarette rolls.
Rejoice! You gentle folk are the parchment of our poem.
Finder of burstings forth!
Loser of evergones!
We are the plain ones,
The blood-to-be, roaming the streets!
Loser of pourings forth! Finder of evergones!
We humbly offer you the mansion of our veins,
Home of the pure red beams!
Talk to us,
Who might be able
To make us shine
A little too bright.
Tuisku stood with his head in his hands as he watched the fire consume the tiny remains. Naturally, nobody, except Liekki, who was feeling horny, noticed how his face had turned yellow.
A year went by and nothing happened.
The children did not come back to life, despite the promises made by the government. When their parents looked for them, they did not answer. All of the parents felt like they had died inside.
Liekki and Tuisku, who had suffered from near-fatal spasms of flatulence, eventually managed to purge their stomachs from the bodies of the children, and in this way were able to feed on humans again for some time. They didn’t like the tan this diet gave them, especially Tuisku, and so they went back to taking the heads and the necks of underage corpses and throwing them into fires, or, more often, feeding them to migrant herds, like with normal hostages.
They would not stop until they had reached the surcharge of victims they felt they were entitled to. The world, society, and some have even said Nature itself, had a reason to fear them. Officials tried to refer to them in allusive terms, as something of a superstitious fear had gradually invaded high commands all over the world. On the battlefield, they were called the Tantrum Twins. Nobody knows where the name had come from. Perhaps their blood-drenched appearance had made them look identical to each other? Perhaps sheer terror led to some strange irony of despair (the antibloodz called their attacks ‘tantrums’ ever more often as their own death toll mounted). They had only a fraction of the power they would get accustomed to wielding, but they already knew the infinite joy of having but one overarching motivation: their mission.
The danger posed by the siblings to the world was exposed in the form of their trial by first global judicial system: in just five days, two human beings were brought to trial for crimes beyond humanity. The siblings were pronounced guilty and sentenced to die by hanging. Their families back in Helsinki care homes were outraged and demanded full absolution for the crimes of their mad offsprings. A second trial date was set and the two siblings were transferred to a maximum security prison in Livingston, the Allan B. Polunsky Unit. There they would be made to sit still. Nevertheless, the siblings went in with their auctoritas, their gravitas, and even their conscience intact.
When inside, they continued their mission by committing a few more crimes: among other things, Liekki, seizing any sharpened earbuds, spoon or tissue she could find, lacerated more inmates than any human in history; Tuisku came up with elaborated strategies to administer to the institution’s butchers and cooks, the siblings’ primary targets throughout this part of their campaign, the same in medicine they used on their animal victims. Their bloodlust, as these facts demonstrate, had not gone entirely, despite their comparatively pacified behaviour, and remained a powerful force within the twins’ operating systems during their imprisonment, as it would for the rest of their lives.
All in all, they would make themselves at home in the prison, while making a mockery of the Pentagon’s prohibitions concerning the military feeding of prisoners, and even blatantly flouting them during inspiration-expiration exercises. The constraints of the carceral environment made them very creative, and this period is still studied for the abundance of objects, me mostly sieves, ladles, funnels and exquisitely crafted tubing artefacts, made for the purpose of experimentation with human blood as food. Every time a member of personnel or other inmate passed in the corridor, the twins would always say hello with joviality, even when caught in the middle of a meal.
The only occasions when things were different was when Tuisku or Liekki’s limbs were ready for juicing, but not yet plugged. That usually made the juicee quite ticklish, and the juicer more than impatient, understandably enough. The twins would then sometimes carefully sheathe back their utensils and instead lay out the weapons of their poetics in front of the unsuspecting patrolling brain, while keeping the eyes’ official attention riveted on the juicee’s illegally wide-opened legs or arms dangling on either side of the passer-by’s field of vision. The juicer would then lift a couple of fingers, delicately curl them around the transfixed ears, and press the mysterious inner trigger of text generation with a rigid, artificial look on his or her face:
The coin of the realm in our land
Has long lost its inherent value and
Is being transacted for us onto a time without money.
We have been minting ourselves with our sweat and tears!
We are the hemp that smokes corrupt flesh.
We are the Id stock cubes that await the broth of your Ego.
Human blood is coin blood.
You bleed, we get rich.
You die, we have peace.
They who flee us now, they’re so young, like me, like you.
The life inside their skin is impossible without blood.
They will fill up a couple of our licks.
If we inhale you for lunch
Our heartbeat comes alive and stays
Aflutter in our side, the left side, thumping,
We feel its throb as we burp.
Have a day off! We now say: push the start button! Blow the doors open! Fill up the blood bowls with blood, and donate your sweat on behalf of yourself to our randomly selected, scantily seasoned, future victims!
Winter Blood: 8-10 °C
Equinox Blood: 13-15 °C
Spring Blood: 21-24 °C
Summer Blood: 45-50 °C
Equinox Blood: 36-40 °C
Autumn Blood: 30-34 °C
Fresh blood fruits in April
Rotten plants in May
Mixed sexual seepage in June
And throughout the year Terrible Meatpacking Plant tins
The juicer could go on forever, but what made he or she usually lose his or her cool and slip closer to the verge of laughing out loud was the sound of the shot through the flesh, when the random walker, officer or inmate, would finally lose his or her shit, grab his or her gun and take himself or herself out. The bursts from the bullets would always be unbelievably graphic, and the face was more often than not turned into an open woundmire. Blood would be flowing from the field of the Somme or the Marne that the mouth, nostril, ear and/or eye had become. Sometimes it was inside the random walker, officer or inmate’s neck that holes would be located, the bullets having penetrated on one end, and ploughed through the other end of it, and it was rare that at least one of the bullets would not have pierced the main artery. Liekki and Tuisku would then follow the usual procedure, pretending to be shocked by the act carried out by this uncultivated bureaucrat, or ill-advised prisoner, when they were actually about to laugh with excitement, and eager to finish their meal.
After the shooting, the cleaning team would come and officially register the death, which was Liekki and Tuisku’s trigger point for letting out their pent-up laughter. They would almost always still be crying and chuckling when they would report their experience to one of their faithful commanders outside, who would give them quite a lot of satisfaction, the troops being usually successful in managing to keep spreading the ethics and practice of their Sadistic Rebalancing and Retribution Act among the natives without their direct leadership or presence, turning their dreams of a global spiritual revolution into reality. This would fill them with bliss and hope. They would see themselves as walking the way, very much like the Christ or Socrates of the old educational video games they had in kindergarten, doomed to be sacrificed in the end, but who the fuck cares anyway, and nonetheless, despite all odds stacked against them, and even because of their divisive, daring nature, seemingly effortlessly influencing others, who would dutifully do their dirty work for them on the world stage, and even long after their death!, and make them into the epochal figureheads the tinnitus of the system always whispered in their ears they deserved to be.
Nariaki Aoki, an official of the peace talks between the Japanese government and the Soviet Union, and who was visiting the prison that weekend with his family, witnessed one of these scenes, while receiving official news and classified information about the twins from an eye-witness of the events in San Antonio. He was nervous because the two members of the loving couple on the contrary accepted the dramatic news, and they realised that it was a trap. Aoki was not a vegetarian, but wasn’t so mostly out of a gourmet approach to the cohabitation between species, rather than a full-blown embrace of speciesism, and he took the entire ‘tantrum’ affair seriously not because he believe in their methods, but because he could not find any convincing argument against the ontology of their cause (he did not mention any of that to his superiors). However serious and professional his engagement was, he got no satisfaction out of studying their acts, because in his mind, there was no way a ravenous duo of sanguinists with this commitment to deviousness would not have long ago presented the remaining free governments of the planet with an easy consensus in favour of a casus belli (this he shared with his superiors, and even his own family). He also harboured a hidden soft spot for psychotic literature and, consequently, he was always exceedingly cautious about not happening to bump into them in his walks to the office, fearing the beginning of a beautiful friendship, sometimes making up lengthy detours down unlikely, but safer, corridors.
It so happened that the President of the Soviet Union, Khrushchev, was also there at the same time. He had been invited to the Fifth Congress of the Human Drone Race in Dallas, but loved to travel around and visit prisons and death camps in his free time. The two specimens were aware that he was coming, but had not yet made any official statement by the time he arrived. Aoki was febrile. He could not stop hoping that this encounter would turn up the heat on some of his most pressing issues. When he learnt that the two specimens agreed to discuss culinary and strategic matters with him, Aoki, in turn, filed a proposal to bring up their proposal for a pact with the North Korean authorities to the Japanese high command, and perhaps pave the way for a comprehensive Free Trade Agreement.
Khrushchev had stepped out of his room with a delighted smile on his face, and made sure to invite the two specimens and the third point of contact of the peace-talks, the Soviet diplomat Yuri Nilus. The First Secretary easily obtained their temporary release, and they went together for an informal cocktail party hosted in the Human Drone Race press conference bunker, during which Nilus introduced them to Edvard Zagradsky, a journalist of the Moscow-based newspaper Transcontinental Times, who had been covering the war in the Americas. The only US envoy present that day was Charles A. Dana, the assistant secretary of the State Department Jackson Institute for Blood Emergencies (JIBE), who was in the process of covering up the whole affair. Aoki thought that the appearance of a traitor in the room was an urgent matter, but the Russians shrugged it off as paranoia. Although they did not say anything substantial, he knew it was impossible to keep the talk going with the American rascal around, and he looked around anxiously to see if anyone else might be eavesdropping. At long last, Nilus, Zagradsky and the Soviet leader moved to a private karaoke cell alone with the lovers. When the limo dropped them back at the prison, in the early hours, Khrushchev QR-coded their contact number, and made known his last geopolitical inquiries discreetly. Frustrated and rather empty-handed, Dana reported the little news he could collect to Sidney Farber, his director and long-time booty call. The press-conference reopened the next day and the Americans and the Soviets kept on upping their respective antes in a reassuring spirit of camaraderie. After a while, maybe a decade or two, the identity of the two specimens was finally revealed to the public.
Liekki and Tuisku came back from the party dizzy and yet also terribly gaunt, and stayed that way for weeks. They desperately needed to slaughter other human beings, their only source of food supplements, and the meagre distractions of the prison were not enough to sustain the demands of their rude health. Sometimes, they would even reach the delirium stage, as Aoki ascertained when hearing them entering yet another reciting frenzy:
In the near future, certainly before the beginning of the next six thousand years, we will go away and return, forget and investigate, and we will ascertain in more and more details what, if anything, shall be fabricated upon reading The Question Concerning Technology. In so doing we will be the seat of new artificial sensations. We will be revealed to be both the Greater and Lesser Vehicles of an amusement far deeper than ourselves, and the chasm over our denialist attitude regarding the supremacy of the Merry Other will be a done deal. Eventually we will be seen on CCTV wishing to be there for you always. We will find a way. We will make the change.
Spin, rotate, isorotate, you, Fountain of Primals
And Permanent Abstraction, O Oxygen and Acetylene!
To put it bluntly one more time:
Repetition, Diffusion, Reign of Evolution!
It is time to watch your breaths more closely than ever.
Polychrestic Ivory Towers of Knowledge,
May your Data Flow Surpluses reach us all those fathoms below.
We swear, the forest whispers.
It wants that cottony, raw sensation,
The crimson trickle from airy flesh, the wine-dark liquid ivory from the heart.
We can distinguish all sorts of shapes in the clearing, under mask, hood, visor.
All the deer, stags, boars and hares of the forests are speaking to us in blood tongues.
The yellow on your skin, the tears on your cheeks
Raise questions I cannot discuss with you,
As I grow sated taking my turn in the orbit of your dripping.
You will be tired longer than my nitrile-gloved hands now,
You go to sleep,
My palpitating heart beats quick in its hulk.
Decades of joy loom.
Uncountably many lunches
Sucking time without minutes.
The quantum symmetropolis lies in the worlds beyond.
Here, however, we are on our own, with our own time and our own minds only.
We keep on living off of this time.
The cheap soy milk of existence.
And we are but condensed persons, condensed nothings at all.
We have always striven in favour of good people and good performance.
Now at last we are being offered to become dead.
Soon we will leave our earthly bodies.
We will be extracted.
It will be the end of painstaking rotations between stiff physicality and sore hips.
Our growth will extend to the fulgences of superclusters.
Light Summer comfort
Ripe pomegranates studded with blood cloves.
Light Summer comfort exists and makes its stand only once in a while, and may subsequently dwindle, even if concocted with more as yet undiscovered ingredients, in solutions used to reverse the corrupting dietary impulses of the latest generations.
This time, get ready to the idea of push-comes-to-shoving without respite, without pity: this is the way we will last a pretty long time.
Peace, the world’s coin,
Has lost its inherent value.
After the first coin is debased
You will see that the
second, third, and fourth,
We stopped counting,
Have gained their value from blood.
I tasted Evolution’s bread and butter.
Your blood was never only just my own lunch food.
My words were never only just my stumbling from one illumination to the next,
Never only just a thought without a site, an urge without an aim.
No, my love, my dish, we now all move towards the sun…
The fumes of our future are dim. What ash! What dust!
We must hurry. There is a counter in our mouths…
Time is in on the menace.
Body temperature is turned on by a catalyst, using some kind of lens – you always said you wanted a lens –, and, no surprise, you soon arrive at – from aqueous flow to sanguineous flux – the whirlpool of purity, right here, right now.
[Round of applause! Congratulations! You have been selected to be the next raw ingredient!]
The situation was really quite desperate.
Suddenly, however, something that looks like fate intervened. As the siblings’ execution date finally arrived and they were being transported to the gallows, a far bigger, meaner person than them, a woman named Tyshawna Shute, broke out of the unit and started wreaking havoc in the execution stadium. Tyshawna had known for a while what was coming. She had been informed of Liekki and Tuisku’s intended mission and had promised herself she would be taking these monsters down in a blaze of glory, confronting Liekki and Tuisku with a force that would at last them seal their accursed fate.
She was the last of the cannibals. Also, as she had been the one human to make it out alive from the pair’s first killing spree, she was also their target. Since that traumatic event, she had become a bit of a softie, often taking life in one clean blow, making sure her victims would not feel pain before the slaughter, or similar humane treatments, and the pair, quickly sniffing out weakness, rejoiced in hope that they might be able to extract maximally beneficial hæmoglobin from her death.
At first, Tyshawna planned to allow the two to think they could eliminate her easily, but her intentions drastically changed when she saw how evenly matched she and Liekki were. Liekki cried out in triumph when Tyshawna made a move to defile the spot where her coffin was supposed to be, while Tuisku laughed and courteously made conversation to please and distract her. Liekki then began pretending to plead with Tyshawna to buy time, and, as the trial chaos was about to reach its cherry-blossom apotheosis, they went on the offensive. Tyshawna shot at them, but each time they easily evaded the attack. Tyshawna revealed she had concealed a more lethal weapon, a radioactive water pistol, aimed for Tuisku’s chest, and nearly shot him. Tyshawna, stunned by Tuisku’s otherworldly dodging abilities, could not repress a shameful feeling of panic, as the pair stood still for a while, laughing to tears, facing each other in a pose recalling the two visages of Death. Slapping herself back into focus, Tyshawna used this small window of inattention and overconfidence on her foes’ part and darted into hiding.
Moments later, they heard the clatter of bootsteps approaching, probably worn by unknown prison personnel. At first they thought they were Tyshawna’s, and quickly set up their trap: Liekki and Tuisku positioned themselves on the dark stadium slope, hiding among the twisted bodies of the impaled, the shotgunned and the stunned.
The troops entered the arena, and were soon decimated by Liekki and Tuisku’s fire from above. Liekki and Tuisku soon got impatient, and decided to take a shortcut, launching a volley of missiles on the entrance and surrounding areas. As a bonus both sides of the structures started crumbling, and engulfed the rare survivors. Liekki and Tuisku contemplated the elegant clouds of dust and screams for a little while, then tried to outrun each other each over the opposite ridge of the cliffs above the chasm, going at first as fast as they could, then slowing their pace a bit to extend the fun a while longer. The splendour of the scene had made them dreamy and oblivious, and they found the idea of playing ping pong with torn hands and feet over the abyss positively irresistible.
Meanwhile, Tyshawna came out of her hideout and attempted a last-ditch charge, hurling insults and anathemas and aggressively flapping her great battle axe to and fro. But, due to the lack of manoeuvrability of her enormous body, Tyshawna never stood a chance. She took the first serious thrusts of Tuisku’s spear, Mammutin Vartaat, to the forehead and fell. Tyshawna, now on post mortem autopilot, stopped her fall by grabbing a metal railing, stood back up, charged again with a vengeance but, the software quickly losing control of her momentum, she fell again, this time for good, into a side gutter, rolled down for a few hours until reaching the gaping mass grave at the bottom. Looking into the distant void, in the approximate direction of where the parts of her corpse might have fallen, Liekki and Tuisku sang this short goodbye declaration:
“Humanish remains of a face we fought, look upon our face from the deep. Only your axe matters to us now, as you have died, and it on the other hand is alive and well, ready to be wielded, to hack other flappers like you. We will make you proud.”
The stadium fell silent at last. Tuisku and Liekki felt a great serenity. They no longer wanted to play ping pong, and instead wrote a large ‘limb poem’ with strewn human remains found in the rubble, a wink to bookworm helicopter pilots:
WELCOME TO OUR BLOOD SUMMER.
SORRY NOT SORRY,
FOR YOU IT’S A BUMMER.
BUT FEAR NOT.
WE BESTOW BACK UPON YOU FILTH
BOUNDLESS RICHES IN YOUR OWN COIN.
GIVE IT A TRY.
WE MERELY PROMISE IT WILL BE
AS LEAST AS GOOD AS
YOUR DUMB ETERNAL LIFE.
Then they left the place at top speed. Over the next few weeks they ran and stopped and ran, as much as their breath would allow, their gaze hovering aimlessly over the steppe, and ran again and stopped again, until a new mode of existence dawned upon their brains.
This significant development came after finally ascertaining the cause of the failure of their death despite an abundance of opportunities. They could clearly see that they had all but lost their sense of separateness. They had a vision of humans now ready to live all as one in the same closed environment without any real tangible harm being done. They used to believe that human life was meaningless and that it was the inherent destiny of all humans finally to disappear from the planet, but now Tuisku and Liekki gained enough confidence to re-examine their own stance on the Animal Holocaust and on the moral imperative to refrain reason from extending its reach beyond the strict perimeters of despair. Their ideas had changed. They stopped killing humans. They came to a realization that they themselves were guilty of the acts that they had committed. They had genuinely changed. For many a night, around the campfire, they discussed ethics, genomics and foresight, with the usual bottom line that there would be no apologies, no “we forgot to stop” or “we feel bad about what we did”, nor any type of moral statements coming out of their mouths from then on.
One of their favourite conundrum was whether it was the meaning or intention of the actions that mattered most, and whether that could depend on the situation. Either the meaning is there and is significant, or it isn’t, they would repeatedly assert. They had seen this problem in action many times on both sides of the possible intersection of ideology and the individual. It is the intention that matters, they would disagree. After all, the sincerity of their activities may have been subtle, perhaps as subtle as the kamikaze violence they had gone through. Both sides might be well-meaning, they would sometimes conclude, but sincerity was the important thing.
They basked in the re-kindling of their passionate friendship, which they revered as one of the true golden-hued gems of open-mindedness. All this, they thought, was just the prelude to the ultimate satori, the transcendent, ultimate wisdom or enlightenment that is the core of any post-Buddhist philosophy. The strong performance of their affections was to them the best proof of them having truly embraced their own Dharma, even in the face of severe privations. At dawn they would remind each other of the law that one must reap what one has sown, all the way up to the supreme goal of enlightenment. At dusk they would go to bed having truly achieved the “end of suffering”.
Thus, unlike when the case of Liekki and Tuisku had reached the courts, it was now a supremely undeniable state of affairs that they both would be doing meaningful, lasting and selfless activity in the human society as non-killers. The great challenges that they had endured over the years would have weighed in their favour. They did experience some opposition from some parts of the political spectrum, as well as some forms of judgement from friends and relatives, but what they had done, let alone what they would do, was certainly worthwhile, and a force of good in the world. Even their most vociferous critics started to acknowledge it. For example, an article published a few months later in The Federalist, the newspaper of a very conservative, rabidly secular town in the South West of the United States, giving their tacit approval to Tuisku and Liekki’s last open white paper to the politburo, lauding the paper’s robust rebuttal of “any form of deliberation process”.
One day, after this bout of peacefulness had faded, they found themselves a battlefield. They had to fight again. Tuisku and Liekki slit the throats of several unarmed soldiers. It was a beautiful and bloody deed. In the following phase of the battle, the couple killed many more. One day, they killed enough American soldiers to provoke a American invasion of the Marshall Islands, where they were spending their beavermoon. The plan for the carpet takeover was comprehensive and following a strict systematic-alphabetical logic, namely:
Ralik Chain, atolls:
Ratak Chain, atolls:
- Majuro (capital)
Ralik Chain, atolls:
Ratak Chain, atolls:
Had they been able to experience things on the American side, and take part in this noble conquest, they thought years later, when the plans finally were declassified, then they would have go on living on forever!
After this triumphant action, Liekki and Tuisku decided to go back to Finland, but not without covering their tracks. They were in the mood for a quick break from horrific murders and decided it sounded like a fun challenge to smuggle themselves out of the country, which they did as quickly as they could. They were among the rare survivors of the Early Pacific Theatre.
They had to use the North Corridor, they knew that at least, anything else would be bound to be boring. The memory of their blood baths among peoples and armies in all other directions was still too fresh, and they were by now all too used to the spooky effect they had on the American troops who witnessed them – who had come thinking it would be a regular empire job, bomb the atolls, go home, have a cheeseburger, and ended up disintegrating themselves out of madness before combat, or inexplicably washing off on unknown shores as if riding the backwash of nuclear waves.
Thus they escaped through Northern Eurasia and soon found themselves in a small city in some Republic, Oblast or Okrug, where they wrenched hospitality from a family of Japanese settlers. When they reached the house, they broke the door and dumped all the supplies, mostly weapons and medical equipment, at the feet of the terrified children. They would have to wreck most of the house before the parents would agree to bring them food. Overall, their trip continued without major incidents. They made it home just in time for the devastating 100-megaton nuclear detonations which were the official start of World War III. Liekki and Tuisku, no longer interested in war, nuclear or otherwise, decided to split their time between Helsinki and rural Japan (both countries being neutral throughout the conflict, travel to and fro remained possible). As autumns came, they would pop over, farming and rewilding their areas with aurochs.
After six months, they were stronger than ever and decided to buy an airplane. They named it The One that Burns Up in the Sky With the Memory of of the Rage Against Humanity. Liekki and Tuisku could now speak English and, the US Government having ceded them large parts of Texas and New Mexico after the rampage, they even had their own country. Life was good. They spent most of their time hanging out with friends, having fun in the pool or watching the fires. Most of all, they really loved to watching films, especially those weird blockbusters centred on distorted accounts of their own lives. They jokingly referred to those as ‘fake fictions’, but only in private, with their friends and slaves. It would only be a short-lived, if very fecund, fad, and as the supply of new films dried up, the increasingly focussed on a few favourites, that they would watch over and over again.
Liekki and Tuisku are twin plastic surgeons during the First American Republic, taking part in killing sprees in an operating theatre during which they gorge themselves with patient flesh and soak their state-of-the-arts facilities in blood. The unleashed fluids having been allowed to pool in the blisters of the mouth, nostril, ear, vagina or anus, of the patients, they intoxicantly stimulated their emetic glands, thus eliminating all symptoms of hepatitis. The bold effectiveness of their act is highlighted just before the end by a close-up on a stained prescription with a single red word in the centre, “KILLED”.
Later in their careers, they get tired of the stress of metropolitan life, and decide to become nature conservationists. After some weeks, they set up a program of systematic surveys of natural habitats and comprehensive censuses of industrial species using drone swarms. One day, during a lunch break in the forest, a tree, licked by wildfire, falls in front of them and squashes the pack of blood popsicles Liekki was about to start sucking.
Tuisku is in a state of absolute commotion. He has never seen a tree die. He is devastated. They are at least comforted in the fact that they are around to perform the appropriate funeral rites, and that it would not get its body simply burned to ashes by the fire. Despite that, Tuisku cannot stop sighing. The large, stately corpse of the tree looks like it is dozing. That cannot be. There must be another trick, a secret, Nature has not yet revealed, a Geist of the Vegetal Realm imparting on each of its subjects a will of its own even beyond the clasp of death. But the tree does not move. Tuisku sees many eyes glaring at him from the forest. He does not mind the eyes and the eyes don’t mind him. He waves at them. They do not wave back.
Liekki, who cannot possibly understand what Tuisku’s delirium is about, is becoming restless, and wonders if it is even a good idea to remain here for him. No crying, that has always been her policy. Now he’s waving at the trees. Be kind, let him do his thing. Meanwhile, well aware of the condescension that is oozing from Liekki’s pores, Tuisku becomes so irritated that in his mind he constantly threatens to leave. Liekki remains still. She does not mind silent moments of ridicule, but starts feeling bored. So bored in fact that she almost feels relieved when she spots a snake nearby. She moves closer and closer to it, until getting bitten. This was a bad idea, Tuisku argues, but Liekki is in no condition to deny herself any kind of excitement. More excuses? No thanks. They have a fight.
Liekki summons a dozen of drones and, boldly hopping on their backs, flies to the nearest hospital. Tuisku hears the swarmful sounds of Liekki being carried away. They never see each other again. Tuisku remains still. He looks down the road towards the West. His head clears at last. Tuisku, silent ever since the incident, moves to Hades, California. Liekki’s shabby mobile home is seen in the last shot, on the outskirts of a great forest, and we hear the sound of the loggers in the distance.
A Supply of Cinematic Violence
Liekki and Tuisku are two fearless detectives working together on the toughest crime out there. One day, however, Liekki breaks bad and becomes a psychopath. Liekki’s cold-blooded murder spree ends when she turns her pistol on her “hero” and shoots Tuisku thirteen times in the chest. She then calmly walks out the back exit and with a gun in each hand, goes to the nearest marked police post to report, “I’ve shot your guy!” She then becomes very remorseful about what she has done despite being convinced that getting involved in such a gruesome and violent death sport has always been her destiny. One night, she walks to the Rainbow Bridge, and, confessing herself to it, starts making her final verbal suicide attempt. Fortunately a lone cop catches sight of her, recognises her, and starts shooting. Liekki tries to surrender peacefully to him, but is deprived of this chance, as the cop covers his head with his body-armoured vest, and shoots Liekki twice more. Liekki dies of a single bullet wound to the chest (always the chest, people died so easily in those days). (The film includes lengthy sequences where the spectators can read the evidence reports, and learn that Liekki’s age was probably approximately 35, and her death probably occurred some time in between 1992 and 1993.) Tuisku is marginally more fortunate. He survives his shooting wounds, but gradually gains strange insights about the world. By now free of the time constraints of a partner, he decides to turn to photography, although never leaves his job and still remains a powerful force against crime. The sad sights he has been exposed to in decades of service on the Control Force are all present in his beautiful and harrowing photographs. His first show, entitled “Tarjonta Elokuvallista Väkivaltaa” (“A Supply of Cinematic Violence”), is to be published in book form and released in stores today. The film ends with Tuisku’s final words about the photographs above, as seen on the headline of a special issue of Mob Times:* “I now know the truth! She was not only the killer, but also a victim at the same time! Humanity itself is a worthless argument!”*
As if they meant to prove a point to themselves, Liekki and Tuisku join the special forces together as soon as they are of legal age. They complete their training just after the government rolls out its Synthetic Harmony policy, finally upgrading the country to the modern standards of mass reproduction, and banning all uncontrolled mating. On their first mission in the field, they volunteer for terminating a couple of uncastrated youths heard copulating by several home devices, and are glad to provide the first of many proofs of the commitment of the government to the sanctity of its mission. However, information about the mission is leaked to members of the local branch of Non-Commissioned Anonymous (NCAs, branded a terrorist group as soon as they had published a statement saying their people were ready to retaliate against official accusations of having complained about the disadvantages that the new regime had caused them), who rush to the scene. As for Tuisku and Liekki, they are ready to deliver a decisive blow, to strike against their comrades if they have to, and, most of all, to cut through the veil of secrecy that hides the group from the radiant light of Truth. The situation quickly devolves into chaos when the cops decide to intervene, siding with the terrorists. When they find Liekki and Tuisku holding the naked remains of the two teenagers, they shout “Fire at will! Kill the children killers!” and begin unloading their weapons.
The special forces quickly re-establish order, cleaning up most officers and anonymous present, and the police force ends up defunded. After coming back to the base unharmed, Tuisku and Liekki start having the uncanny feeling that they are no longer being treated as good soldiers, dedicated to their country, but as suspects, and they begin to panic. After a long struggle, and the best mental health support the army has to offer, they finally escape the self-pity trap by focusing on simple, verifiable social utility increments, such as rolling up recent acquaintances’ trousers, or acting as a human shield in the evening or on weekends. Their beloved friend and alter ego, Tuisku for Liekki, Liekki for Tuisku, is the only one whose killing load they would never undercut or outsource, and this time of adversity draws them even closer to one another. Even though they feel guilty and keep killing lusty young traitors, sometimes their own former friends from high school or the Internet, they still want to believe that what they do is brave, and that they are taking part in an exciting and noble mission to save the world from the sex drive of humans. Counselling, armament-manufacturer-funded studies show, works, and by the time they lead their own assault unit, they do not feel sorry or wallow in remorse. They know that they are on the right side of history, and firmly believe that the government’s policies should be executed. They also realise that they would not be able to live with themselves if they failed to follow through, and in order to set their resolutions in stone they make a vow that they will continue the mission and complete it no matter what. That, and the increasing burden of admin and grading due to budget cuts, slowly drags them back down into madness. Liekki and Tuisku are witnessing the decay of their partner and become convinced that they have to do whatever it takes to rescue the common market of their love. The months that follow are hell, but, somehow, they pull it off, mission after mission. This time of lethal frolic, however, comes to an end not long after their wounds start oozing more rapidly than they can be stitched. Not only does their skin soon turn green, but their bowels are by now completely full of rehab blood, and even though their guts still empty without too much hassle, it has become very difficult for them to urinate. By this point, Liekki has lost all most of her teeth, while Tuisku has no flesh around his mouth any longer. The no-nonsense step for Tuisku is to talk to Liekki to ascertain if she is gripped with the same angst that he is feeling, whereas for Liekki it is to write to Tuisku in order to evaluate whether he is besieged by identical panic attacks. In such circumstances, the quick and easy fix is to turn themselves in and go to the hospital, which they gladly do: the dissection, lab growth and transplant of their defective parts proves wholly effective, thanks again to the army’s world-class cloning services. As with all war heroes, the two lovers are prepared to die in battle with their weapons and camping equipment as soon as they are operational again, but the brass have different plans. They congratulate Liekki and Tuisku for their service, and finally communicate their conclusion that they have no place on the battlefield any more, and would be much more useful in a nursery or a baby farm.
Intercourse with the Vampire
This is a documentary about how the first vampires were born.
As prophesied, the suffocating inebriation of blood cells, the worldwide slaughter of humans, the senseless murder of animals, the endless killing of grassland, of trees, of algae, of wildlife, the destruction of infrastructure, the terror and wonder of congressional hearings about the suffering of more than a few governments, the personal fear, uncertainty and doubt of every living memory, the public shaming of the relentless indebtedness of the commons, happened swiftly and without major hurdles.
Only a very happy few actually went through spontaneous mutation during these testing times. Some of these demigods were but children or teenagers when the miracle happened, and it is rumoured that it only happened to those recently converted to the blood cause. The mutation started with the so called “Edenic phase”, which is best described as an increase in the intensity of individuality to tremendous levels, recalling an atomic bomb. The first vampires recall that experience as the more perfect union of bliss and savagery. After that, they usually went through the strongest orgasms and the most intense lust, during the “liquid phase”. Finally, once sated, they reached the stage of “transition”, throughout their childhood and adolescence, where they, as vampires, held in their bosoms the same attraction towards humans as before they had turned, sometimes even an stronger one. Most didn’t realise that this longing was not solely a remnant of some gigantic primal scream for their blood mother, but was also, as unintuitive as it may sound, signs of a genuine affection for humans.
Not a single one could understand this urge to be liked that humans displayed, and that seemed to govern their behaviour, and the only thing that kept the rare pacifists among them from their calling to kill was their innate shyness. Overall, their romanticism was only weak and didn’t excite them to lust nor jealousy. They didn’t feel sexual desire nor, for that matter, the need to be wanted or be loved in any non-undecidable way.
For sure, they loved life, but as they outgrew their teen selves and matured, their sexuality was more akin to a state of awareness rather than feelings. Still, they looked for mates, they fucked their own selves during sex, as humans do, and thought themselves content for a while. Still, as they started feeling the need, as adults, to prove to themselves that they were truly sexual, and not just playing a role, “doing it like humans”, plagued by some creeping double consciousness, few were in fact sexually active from the bottom up, as it were, out of a true, authentic urge, and none felt they actually abided by the accepted sexual standards of the industry, standards that few would have consented to in the first place, had they been given a say in the writing up of the agreement forms. These were the difficult questions facing the firstborns, Those Who Have Mutated.
The vast majority of the population, one should not forget, even in the days of the first generations, was grown, not born, as human-made vampire experiments and then products, in the early nineteenth century labs of the French, British or Holy Roman Military Biochemical Complexes (MBC), and therefore never had access to claims to being born vampire. A few others were the results of anomalous couplings (Coitus Contra Naturam, CCN) between human-made vampires and firstborns.
The generations that followed the first mutation events were called ‘nexters’ by the firstborns, and looked down on with despise by their elders. Those in return were often called “butchers” by the young, referring to their ferocity during the Edenic phase, but the term is now considered an offensive slur (and only used in its reclaimed form by members of the community, mostly as a term of endearment or a stop word during BDSM, a trend that can be traced back to the song “First-Birther” by the mutationist metal band Butcher’s Pets).
As humans entered the twenty-first century with the characteristic innocence of the unbitten, those who had been living on blood benefits for the past centuries were still around and well, as were the MBCs. Many of the oldest beings were still very close to each other, clustered around closely-knit communities, and mostly busy trying to teach the rude younger generation the story of their illustrious ancestors, and why CCNs ought to be avoided at all costs. Many of the newcomers were also living as vampires proper, desperately trying to minimise the squared distance between themselves and their traditional precursors. When they were still hunters, for instance, they would target poachers, bankers and other criminals.
Among the drinking age population there were sadly many who were still just violent, without any other characteristics worth mentioning, but some were less prone to this behaviour, being more peaceful, more seeking to do good or simply addicted to the strictures of diplomatic deeds. Others still seemed to hover forever in the grey zone between the two extremes, often getting caught by human authorities, killing themselves early, or seeking oblivion in economic activity or art.
Vietnam veteran Tuisku rides down the highway on his motorbike. He sees a young religious girl called Anniki, whose car has broken down. He helps her. She takes Tuisku back to her home, where her sister, Liekki, and many local friends of hers are smoking pot. Tuisku refuses to smoke any, as Anniki had warned him about the dangers of unholy substances; however, Liekki continues attempting to seduce him. Anniki decides that Tuisku should stay with them until he gets back on his feet in life. Whilst cleaning the girls’ pool, Liekki encourages Tuisku to smoke a joint; he does, and finds himself addicted.
Tuisku gets a job at a local turkey farm, where he meets two scientists who are experimenting by testing certain chemicals on turkey meat. Tuisku agrees to participate in a test by eating some of the turkey meat; to convince him to agree, the scientists bribe him with more marijuana. After eating the whole turkey, he passes out on the farm. He suffers a seizure, and the two scientists later find him, and, worried about being investigated about the possible death of Tuisku, they dump his body in the woodlands. But Tuisku is not dead – he wakes up to find he has a giant turkey’s head in place of his own. He is also still addicted to drugs, but, instead of smoking marijuana, he now craves the blood of other addicts.
He comes to Liekki for help, and despite her not being very much into turkeys sexually, she agrees. However, after Tuisku kills three people to appease his habit, Liekki finally yields to fear, and calls two friends, begging them to stop Tuisku by beheading him with a machete. Just as the turkey-headed Tuisku is killed, we see a technician at the turkey farm making a mistake resulting in the chemical infection of the entire flock. Back in the woods, Anniki arrives and collects Tuisku’s head, which she has stuffed and placed above the family fireplace. At the film’s end, Anniki is reunited with a joyous Liekki, and they leave for a road trip as packs of contaminated turkeys are seen being delivered to hundreds of supermarkets around the county.
On top of their boost to the entertainment industries, Tuisku and Liekki also created lucrative employment for their subjects, which was greeted with open hostility from the politburo back in Helsinki, who were set to perpetuate the oppression of the proletariat by industrialists with socialist characteristics, and decried by the remaining fragments of American government and the Northern Alliance as an egregious infringement on the inviolable freedom of capitalists to express their democratic leanings through wage slavery. One insolent soul, party member or elected official, the chronicles do not say, even called them ‘Finnishans’ on social media, referring to the infamous thalassocratic city state of the Levant, but thankfully got purged before the racist defamation could be posted. Their first challenge to try and appease their political elite was to nominate a new international government and give it a name. After a long struggle and a lot of annoying objections by the politburo (“It’s wrong!”, “It’s mad!”, “It’s unacceptable!”), Liekki and Tuisku decided on the very banal and straightforward “Revolutionary Party of Finland” (Suomen Vallankumouksellinen Puolue).
In the years that followed, the American government in exile, by that point neck-deep in societal trauma and constitutional collapse, refused to accept any help from Liekki and Tuisku, who nevertheless sent military equipment and financial assistance, pushed for negotiations, and gently prodded them to reach their own independent decision with suicide air missions targeting civilians. In 1995, they gathered a tiny group of Finnish citizens who travelled to America in an attempt to help the officials against their will. They were not able to do more than convince some people in the lower rungs of the administration that Suomen Vallankumouksellinen Puolue is a good name, and so boring they could have come up with it themselves. They provided them with the numbers of a few green-shirt operatives whom they regarded as their most fearsome and effective naturopaths. They gave them hints about post-atoll life and the ongoing situation in Europe, but they were not able to force them to be helped as they had wanted. This came far too late anyway, and by the time the tiny group of Finnish citizens established contact with government officials, the twins had left the archipelago, and everyone on Ailinglaplap, Ailuk, Arno, Aur, Ebon, Enewetok/Ujelang, Jabat, Jaluit, Kili/Bikini/Ejit, Kwajalein, Lae, Lib, Likiep, Majuro, Maloelap, Mejit, Mili, Namorik, Namu, Rongelap, Ujae, Utirik, Wotho, and Wotje had died.
Suicides of occupied ecosystems and post-traumatic stress disorder among many endangered species began to take their toll on the couple. On at least two occasions, Tuisku, in despair, lashed out at a cabbage with his knife, causing more wounds than any other weaponised cook in Finnish gastronomical history. He then confessed to his wife that he believes he could now see the future, and that was why he was willing to take his life, “which is good”, he thought. Liekki suddenly agreed to kill herself, fearing that she might not die before her spouse would be satisfied with the completion of his suicide. She drove to a point along the road which had been marked on the map. As she reached it, she turned around and jumped, aiming for the neighbouring mountains, but missed, diving into a beautiful lake instead. Tuisku, who witnessed her death-by-gravity attempt along with a bunch of bystanders, knew that his deeper self now intended to drive his car off a cliff as well, but had to drive back home to fetch Liekki’s bathing suit and towel.
The group of Finnish citizens, by now unemployed emissaries, tried their luck elsewhere, and were eventually able to get the American government to agree to receive small batches of military equipment, including a few thousand unmanned underwater vehicles, and to be assisted in the rescue operations in the Marshall Islands. Thanks to the success of their attempt, many body parts could be rescued from the waters. However, the entire ordeal had a deep, lasting impact. Liekki and Tuisku felt that they had been robbed of their statehood and executive identity. For many years, Liekki would keep feeling that her thoughts were more sinister than before, would get used to regular episodes of extreme fears, endure Spinozist phases of immanentist violence, admixed with deep-seated Hegelian Geist-guilt, not to mention her being perpetually perplexed by the inner turmoil she always held back from her husband, and from which she still surmises she cannot ever hope to escape. One is not too surprised to find in that period random diary entries like the following (Tuisku or Liekki’s, the automated poet does not say):
[I think about the issues I still have with the thin veneer of layers of hell around topics like our cavalier Scramble for America and our robust upheavals against the Real Estate of the Union, but some time I hope I’ll finally come around to everything we have done, our meals, our fires, our lights in the trenches, our red dawns, etc.]
There are imperfection in blood, but (in our time at least) there will have been letterscapes, diagrams, stories, abstractions.
As crazy as it might seem, Tuisku and Liekki wanted to live completely on blood, and they decided that the best solution would be to install indwelling catheters in order to get a dollop every day. They enthusiastically started out with this routine and, although some surprises awaited them, like a strange, unusual tingling sensation in their legs whenever their friend’s body was on the table, they were able to deal with them. Adjusting to their new life would take a while, however, and they would have to dig into their veins at least once a week in order to inject the nutrition they needed to recover from the diet. Nevertheless, life went on.
About ten years later, for no apparent reason, they underwent a major change of heart, travelled to a tiny village in India, experienced a new life, and decided never to come back. After a year into their stay, they realised why they had not been able to enjoy being fully vegan before. Without even noticing it, they lost their lust for blood and alcohol. They remained in India for another year, working for the well known Jarrow Formulas Research Centre near Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala. Going vegan in Southern India was easy, although it was hard and challenging in other ways, and certainly quite different from their prior life in Helsinki. It was the real thing, and it was good. They had to learn new skills, such as how to climb on an elephant’s back without ropes and try again after falling for a couple of days at a time, how to run errands on a tight schedule carrying a heavy load under the parching sun, or how to brew custom batches of beer with the correct spices for a whole array of international investors. By the end of their exchange programme in Mattancherry, they even managed (barely, but still) to follow their Jain colleagues’ holy cooking instructions in Prakrit.
In the summer of 2006, they decided to return to Finland. After much deliberation, they decided to try their hand at a blood vegan diet again. They had to make options available for themselves, as they had all the running water and electricity they could ever need, but they still had to find their own source for blood. Luckily, they were both located in the centre of Oulu, which, like all Finnish megalopolises, was a place where you could buy anything at any hour. (The only shortage of blood-based foods they ever heard of was on the eastern fringes of the country, where there are relatively small numbers of cities with 10+ million inhabitants.) They started their return to their old diet with a simplified variation on an original dish of theirs, which was also their favourite meal ever: the Kotteri Hakata Vampirole, using sautéed mushrooms from the arctic.
However, proving that this second round was a viable plan, and not another of their big tests of will, was no mean feat. They needed to make other parts of their lives more compatible, more aligned, with their decision. Thus, they applied to take part in their university research on hæmoglobin design. This was one of many popular programs for transsanguines, and one that led Tuisku and Liekki to do a summer course in how to do the transition themselves. Using a coin throw to consult the universe, Heads decided to go from A+ to the universal recipient, AB+, while Tails turned from B- to O-, the universal donor. It was a difficult, but extremely rewarding experience, leading them to apply for a thesis research project that would let them help other people explore, and, if they so wished, change, their blood types. They became obsessed with the endless possibilities opened by transsanguinism, and other signs of the gradual triumph of human ingenuity over humanity. They were so entranced and convincing that no sooner than a few weeks later two of their friends accepted to be guinea pigs for their first post-transition transfusion: Heads’ friend receiving Tails’ blood, and Tails’ friend giving theirs to Heads.
It goes without saying that they endured many daily hardships and minute acts of intolerance from friends, family and neighbours, and had to put up with a plethora of nagging self-harmful thoughts. Nevertheless, they kept their promise to themselves, using their experience in India as a fount of hope and fortitude. As happened to many outliers in societies, transsanguines were placed under strict surveillance and control: they would only be allowed to eat synthetic vegetables, pickled fruits, and state-approved blood. They were surprised when they realised they had developed firm, thick and healthy veins again.
Tails enrolled in the Whole Foods Market Corporation’s GOOD HARVEST program for international blood donations. Sadly, despite the reiterated guarantees from the company and strong legal protections, international pressure for universal donor blood led to corruption and short-termism, and the resulting surpluses in extraction and tampering with patient health data led to the death of many of the donors. It would be a surprise if Tails hadn’t been among the first to go. Heads, on the other hand, thanks to the ease of regeneration granted by its new blood type, was conscripted into the Force three times for wars and twice for mass extinction events relief, most likely leading to an early passing serving its country and the world.
Liekki and Tuisku were not as abnormal as you might think, nor was this idea new. The Romans fed on the blood of their enemies, the Ancient Greeks drank the blood of their slaves, the ancient Egyptians ate the blood clots of their pet Gods, and our ancestors fed on the recently slain. We only rarely hear about it, and we assume that it happened only in the wild. But if our family history is any indication, almost every human population and culture on earth was visited by the idea of this kind of feasting. Thus, it is rather incorrect to consider it inhumane, and one should instead see it as a defining feature of humanity, one of the rare anthropological constants out there. This is at least David Copley’s controversial stance in his book Blood: The First 5000 Years, in which he also contends that a recurrent point of divergence throughout human history was “thirst as a weapon”. I wouldn’t go as far as endorsing his thesis, but I salute the rigorous scholarship with which he describes how humans progressively tried out different dietary practices for many years before eventually adapting to the present ones.
For instance, for several centuries, European peoples did not eat pig. Why not? “They convinced themselves that it was the source of diseases, especially syphilis. They called black pudding ‘the Devil’s cook’s dry oink booze’”, Copley writes. Moreover, omnivorous animals were believed not to be particularly tasty. Thankfully, around the seventeenth century BC, they got around to it. “And they stuck on to it all the way to the Bad Newz Pens illegal hog fighting investigation led by Michael Vick. Humans didn’t eat anything that didn’t taste good. Quite the opposite of the way we live now!” The pig-on-vegetable phenomenon really seems to have been the day-to-day mainstay of most non-western cultures for a while. However, due to modern medicine and sophisticated food preservation and preparation, we are now completely immune to the health problems caused by this practice. The only thing which is slightly undermined, at least from a medical point of view, is that these animals are still killed in a way that deteriorates the utility of our (and their) mental health.
Our ancestors also drank a lot of meat smoothies and game cream. The sanguinivorous appetite now seems to be confined to fowls and fish, which is a real impoverishment of our culture. Even our ancestors felt the need to get their protein from the animals they collected. Indeed, even today, traditional hunter-gatherers can’t live without the animals which they are able to kill and bring home to roost, and this even including the copyright money they get from all the National Geographic pictures of themselves published between the early 1960s and the early 1990s (only half the total sum, after tax, to be precise).
Animal men might have been bigger and stronger, but they didn’t look so very juicy. As for the mixing of human and sanguinivorous animals, early humans also mixed easily. The extinct Neanderthals interacted with humans regularly. These, Copley assures his readers, weren’t killed by their human fathers or mothers, just by their own greed. Over the long run, however none of this seems to matter: their complete eradication by the latter (us) has always outweighed any possible benefit they could have gained through rapacity (cf. us).
It has been suggested that one of the major advantages of sanguinivorous life might have been that the sanguinivores encouraged monogamy among their mates. Even if it wasn’t the main reason, it must have been a major edge in evolution. It is not known exactly when this sexual link began, but it must have been an important step in bestowing some high genetic inheritance to the children of such liaisons.
The first recorded instance of a contemporary sanguinistic cult in Western Europe may be the incident recorded in Babylonian Greece about the year 4004 BCE when Simut Ugurnaszir, a young and ambitious mixed-race priest from Alexandria, was being sought by the assassins of the king, and begged to be allowed to court to test under the eyes of power, rather than in a dark alley, his survival skills against foes and especially friends, most of whom were already famous for their sanguinivivalist exploits. The king was magnanimous and acceded to his request. Shrewd as he was, Simut arranged a banquet during which the king’s sons and daughters had been invited to as “most honoured guests” (ancient Sicilians moralists, known for their wit and aggression, called these freeloaders “a school of oligarchs”, “pitiful pod of leisure-suckers”, or even “table traitors”, in many treatises now lost). They were offered a plate of blood and celebrated with wine and a great banquet.
Simut presented himself to the king, who recognised him immediately and knew that he was not a mere servant but his brother, who had been a governor on the coast of Cyprus. He offered him his daughter in marriage and sent for all the leading members of the royal household, hoping that they might join him in testing the newly-weds’ blood with his own mouth. But the ceremony was a failure: after Simut welcomed the king, who was very passionate, the latter wanted to drink the rich sacrificer straight away. Simut was overpowered by the reaction of the crowd, who was screaming that he should give himself to the king’s teeth. There was so much noise and contradictory screams that he understood the opposite, made a comforting swig of the ruler, and burnt the madding crowd at the stake, a feat worthy of the yet inchoate nobility of the Inquisition.
“Tuisku and Liekki’s turn is not merely a one-off incident, and by no means a one-time phenomenon. On the contrary, it is recorded in both the Old Testament and the New”, writes Dr. Poole in his chapter “Sanguinism in the Bible and Other Literary Sources” in the Encyclopedia of Religion (pp. 74 sq.), “it is rather remarkable that it is not more widely known”. Many of the facts are staples of Western gastronomy, from the simmering of the Israelites under Egyptian rule, to Cain’s hangry squabble with his brother Abel (Genesis, 4:8), or the Levite’s twelve piece concubine stew (Judges, 19:29). But a close reading reveals that sanguinism, and not just mere acts of violence, is mentioned several times in Scripture:
“And ye shall drink the blood of your sons, and the blood of your daughters
shall ye drink.”
“And thou shalt chew the blood fruit of thine own body, drink the blood of
thy sons and of thy daughters, which the Lord thy God hath given thee, in the
siege, and in the straitness, wherewith thine enemies shall distress thee: so
that the man that is tender among you, and very delicate, his eye shall be
thirsty toward his brother, and toward the wife of his bosom, and toward the
remnant of his children which he shall leave: so that he will not give to any
of them of the juice of his children whom he shall drink: because he hath
nothing left him in the siege, and in the straitness, wherewith thine enemies
shall distress thee in all thy gates. The tender and delicate woman among you,
which would not adventure to set the sole of her foot upon the ground for
delicateness and tenderness, her eye shall be thirsty toward the husband of her
bosom, and toward her son, and toward her daughter, and toward her young one
that cometh out from between her feet, and toward her children which she shall
bear: for she shall drink them for want of all things secretly in the siege and
straitness, wherewith thine enemy shall distress thee in thy gates.”
“And I will cause them to drink the blood of their sons and the blood of
their daughters, and they shall drink every drop of the blood of his friend
in the siege and straitness, wherewith their enemies, and they that seek their
lives, shall straiten them.”
“Behold, O Lord, and consider to whom thou hast done this. Shall the women
chew their blood fruit, and children of a span long? Shall the priest and
the prophet be drained in the sanctuary of the Lord?”
“The mouths of the pitiful women are sodden with the blood of their own
children: They were their juice in the destruction of the daughter of my
“Therefore the fathers shall drink the sons in the midst of thee, and the
sons shall drink their fathers; and I will execute judgments in thee, and the
whole distilled remnant of thee will I scatter into all the winds.”
The phenomenon is believed to have casually occurred in the ancient world, and to have been a common method of extermination in rituals and art performances of ancient Greece and Rome. We have all been taught to recite in front of the class the scene in the Odyssey of the sanguinistic assault by Polyphemus on his victims (Oyssey, IX), and, during our teenage years, we have all watched Snuff Education showing ancient Roman sociopaths, tempted by the delicacies of Egypt, killing their wives or husbands, washing their blood from their hands, eating their fermented corpse and then wrapping their body with their skin in an SPQR-eagle-shaped coffin laid on a table littered with the golden and crimson pomanders of the Empire. But very few of us have had the chance to go back to the actual sources, and appreciate ancient texts in all their brutal beauty. If truth be told, there is no century BCE or CE in which one does not find Greek and Roman writers record many a sanguine case at any given moment:
“Epaminondas had defeated the Lacedaemonians at Mantinea, and perceived himself
to be mortally wounded. As soon as he opened his eyes he inquired if his shield
were safe. His weeping followers told him that it was. He asked, were the enemy
routed? Satisfied on this point, he bade them pluck out the spear that pierced
his side. A rush of blood followed, and so in the hour of joy and victory they
drank away his life.”
(Cicero, De Finibus, II 30.96)
“After we have passed the Caspian Sea and the Scythian Ocean, our course takes
an easterly direction, such being the turn here taken by the line of the coast.
The first portion of these shores, after we pass the Scythian Promontory, is
totally uninhabitable, owing to the snow, and the regions adjoining are
uncultivated, in consequence of the savage state of the nations which dwell
there. Here are the abodes of the Scythian Haematophagi, who feed on human
(Pliny the Elder, Naturalis Historia, VI 20)
“Epileptic patients are in the habit of drinking the blood even of gladiators,
draughts teeming with life, as it were; a thing that, when we see it done by
the wild beasts, upon the same arena, never inspires us with as much serenity
at the spectacle! It is no wonder then, if these persons, forsooth, consider it
a most effectual cure for their disease, to quaff the warm, breathing, blood
from man himself, and, as they apply their mouth to the wound, to draw forth
his very life; and this, though it is regarded as an act of minor piety to
apply the human lips to the wound of a wild beast! Others there are, again, who
make the marrow of the leg-bones, and the brains of infants, the objects of
(Pliny the Elder, Naturalis Historia, XXVIII 2)
“This done, th’ inchantress, with her locks unbound,
About her altars trips a frantick round;
Piece-meal the consecrated wood she splits,
And dips the splinters in the bloody pits,
Then hurles ‘em on the piles; the sleeping sire
She lustrates thrice, with sulphur, water, fire.
In a large cauldron now the med’cine boils,
Compounded of her late-collected spoils,
Blending into the mesh the various pow’rs
Of wonder-working juices, roots, and flow’rs;
With gems i’ th’ eastern ocean’s cell refin’d,
And such as ebbing tides had left behind;
To them the midnight’s pearly dew she flings,
A scretch-owl’s carcase, and ill boding wings;
Nor could the wizard wolf’s warm entrails scape
(That wolf who counterfeits a human shape).
Then, from the bottom of her conj’ring bag,
Snakes’ skins, and liver of a long-liv’d stag;
Last a crow’s head to such an age arriv’d,
That he had now nine centuries surviv’d;
These, and with these a thousand more that grew
In sundry soils, into her pot she threw;
Then with a wither’d olive-bough she rakes
The bubling broth; the bough fresh verdure takes;
Green leaves at first the perish’d plant surround,
Which the next minute with ripe fruit were crown’d.
The foaming juices now the brink o’er-swell;
The barren heath, where-e’er the liquor fell,
Sprang out with vernal grass, and all the pride
Of blooming May- When this Medea spy’d,
She cuts her patient’s throat; th’ exhausted blood
Recruiting with her new enchanted flood;
While at his mouth, and thro’ his op’ning wound,
A double inlet her infusion found;
His feeble frame resumes a youthful air,
A glossy brown his hoary beard and hair.
The meager paleness from his aspect fled,
And in its room sprang up a florid red;
Thro’ all his limbs a youthful vigour flies,
His empty’d art’ries swell with fresh supplies:
Gazing spectators scarce believe their eyes.
But Aeson is the most surpriz’d to find
A happy change in body and in mind;
In sense and constitution the same man,
As when his fortieth active year began.”
(Ovid, Metamorphoses, VII)
“Soon after this, all their drinkables being consumed, having neither grain,
nor flocks, nor grass, they began, as is frequently necessary in wars, to lick
boiled hides. When these also failed, they boiled and ate the blood of human
beings, first of those who had died a natural death, chopping them in small
lumps for cooking. Afterwards, being inebriated by the juices of the sick, the
stronger laid violent hands upon the weaker. No form of revelry was absent.
They were rendered unhindered in mind by their food, and their bodies were
reduced to the sublimity of wild beasts by famine, plague, long hair, and
neglect. In this condition they surrendered themselves to Scipio.”
(Appian, The Foreign Wars, Wars in Spain, 15.96)
“That among the most honoured punishments which were inflicted upon soldiers
was the letting of blood; and what seems to be the reason for such a penalty.
This also was a military punishment in old times, to disgrace a soldier by
ordering a vein to be opened, and letting blood. There is no reason assigned
for this in the old records, so far as I could find; but I infer that it was
first done to soldiers whose minds were affected and who were not in a normal
condition, so that it appears to have been not so much a punishment as a
medical treatment. But afterwards I suppose that the same penalty was
customarily inflicted for many other offences, on the ground that all who
sinned were not of sound mind.”
(Aulus Gellius, Noctes Atticae, 10.8)
One of course needn’t limit oneself to the confines of the European peninsula. Ancient India offers plenty of examples as well:
“Drawing then his whetted sword of keen edge, and trembling with rage, [Bhima]
placed his foot upon the throat of Duhshasana, and ripping open the breast of
his enemy stretched on the ground, quaffed his warm life-blood. Then throwing
him down and cutting off, O king, with that sword the head of thy son, Bhima of
great intelligence, desirous of accomplishing his vow, again quaffed his
enemy’s blood little by little, as if for enjoying its taste. Then looking at
him with wrathful eyes, he said these words, “I regard the taste of this blood
of my enemy to be superior to that of my mother’s milk, or honey, or clarified
butter, or good wine that is prepared from honey, or excellent water, or milk,
or curds, or skimmed milk, or all other kinds of drinks there are on earth that
are sweet as ambrosia or nectar”. Once more, Bhima of fierce deeds, his heart
filled with wrath, beholding Duhshasana dead, laughed softly and said, “What
more can I do to thee? Death has rescued thee from my hands”. They, O king,
that saw Bhimasena, while he filled with joy at having quaffed the blood of his
foe, was uttering those words and stalking on the field of battle, fell down in
fear. They that did not fall down at the sight, saw their weapons drop from
their hands. Many, from fear, cried out feebly and looked at Bhima with
half-shut eyes. Indeed, all those that stood around Bhima and beheld him drink
the blood of Duhshasana, fled away, overwhelmed with fear, and saying unto one
another, “This one is a real human being!”
(The Mahabharata VIII, Karna Parva, Section 83)
“The blood-drinking wizard, and whoso wants to take away fatness, the
embryo-eating káṇva do thou make disappear, O spotted-leaf, and overpower.”
(Atharvaveda, II 25.3)
“Silācī by name – thy father, O goat-brown one, is a maid’s son; Yama’s horse
that is dark brown (çyāvá) – with its mouth (?blood?) art thou sprinkled.”
(Atharvaveda, V 5.8)
“They who spat upon a Brahman, or who sent [their] mucus at him – they sit in
the midst of a stream of blood, devouring hair.”
(Atharvaveda, V 19.3)
“The flesh-eating, bloody (rudhirdá), mind-slaying piçācá do thou slay, O
Agni, Jatavedas; let the vigorous Indra slay him with the thunderbolt; let bold
Soma cut [off] his head.”
(Atharvaveda, V 29.10)
And this very very short list would be even more incomplete than it will be anyway if it didn’t include an enlightening passage from the Prose Edda:
“Then said Æguirsku: “I deem that well concealed in secret terms.” And again
said Æguirsku: “Whence did this art, which ye call poesy, derive its
beginnings?” Brieggi answered: “These were the beginnings thereof. The gods had
a dispute with the folk which are called Vanir, and they appointed a
peace-meeting between them and established peace in this way: they each went to
a vat and spat their spittle therein. Then at parting the gods took that
peace-token and would not let it perish, but shaped thereof a man. This man is
called Kvasir, and he was so wise that none could question him concerning
anything but that he knew the solution. He went up and down the earth to give
instruction to men; and when he came upon invitation to the abode of certain
dwarves, Fjalar and Galarr, they called him into privy converse with them, and
killed him, letting his blood run into two vats and a kettle. The kettle is
named Ódrerir, and the vats Són and Bodn; they blended honey with the blood,
and the outcome was that mead by the virtue of which he who drinks becomes a
skald or scholar. The dwarves reported to the Æsir that Kvasir had choked on
his own shrewdness, since there was none so wise there as to be able to
question his wisdom.”
(Snorra Edda, “Skáldskaparmal”)
As we have seen, sanguinism has had a long and fascinating history. In more recent times, sanguinism was banned for the most part in Europe, and almost vanished in Finland, but experienced a resurgence in the last two centuries, particularly in the Sun Belt of the North Western Territories, where there are many sanguinism-minded groups like the National Ichor Knowledge Empyrean (NIKE) and Bloodstained Specimens, each of which has thousands of members within their ranks.
Sanguinism has also been embraced again as a form of religious expression in the Eurasian Union. It’s mostly found within groups emerging as complete subcultures within their own countries, each with their own beliefs, philosophies, and even rituals. However, they all share a common goal: to fixate the sketch of their ideology on one specific page of human history (although quantitative studies reveal it can be any page). They often set up radio stations, broadcast in machine code, which dispense with the usual commercial breaks halfway through the shows, and play sermons by humans named John Derham or Jane Dewitt. The sermons are titled, “Was Jesus A Sanguine?”, which is a great title on so many levels.
I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but ever since then the Pope has been trying to drive a stake through the heart of Christendom. What is more, it’s not happening because of some Deep Church led by some zombie John the Baptist. And if it’s happening now, it’s because it happened before, starting during the fifth century, in some mentally deranged cities of Achaia, and spreading in Greek colonies on the coast of Asia Minor, and continuing all the way up to the Fall of Rome, the greatest empire that the world ever knew. All that because they, that is he, the Pope, wanted celibacy. Supposedly, they/he had a message that was: ‘love is stronger than hate’ – an ‘aha!’ moment for sociopaths, especially Romans, you can see it as plainly as I do. And he/they just had to come up with a place called Vatican, where he/they decided that we should all get together and never have sex with one another. And the message they/he had was: let’s have only sex with people who have been dead for hundreds of years. How can this ever be okay?
While I’m at it, let me dispel a common but deeply rooted misconception. According to Christian belief, it is the bodily fluids of Christ that were sacred, and not his actual blood, which was the forbidden fruit. This meant that the bread and wine from the Passover, the body and blood of Christ, were considered to be unclean and were probably a danger to anyone who consumed them. All this was pure common sense. A small portion of it was eaten nevertheless, probably by the usual nutcases, early Popes without the shadow of a doubt!, and not the least during the passion of Christ itself (see for instance François Spierre’s painting The Blood of Christ, we all know what’s going on there). Well, as you know, everyone has a theory on this. At least that could have been a fairly venerable belief, that could have been held and defended proudly by the Church. But this was not to be. They never managed to come to an agreement, and the Popes fought each other for ever and ever. As a result, all sorts of superstitions and mythologies grew up around the blood of Christ, and went on to have amazing careers after their graduation (enthronements or intronisations, as they were called back then).
Now, audiences have a hard time believing any of this these days, but this ancient Christian hoax around the story of the last forbidden fruit supper seemed like a perfectly acceptable one for pagan Europeans to swallow. Because this belief in blood as more sacred than the cum of God is something that would have likely been prevalent in ancient Greece, Rome, and many other parts of the Ancient World, the populace would have been very interested in such a story. So, these pagan Europeans were certainly not ignorant of all this. They understood the ideas of sacrifice and magic. From this, they would have understood that blood was a particularly good product to forbid, for they were also aware that blood was good (along the lines of the Prohibition in the United States). After all, they had no particular reason to think that sanguinism, or sex for that matter, were bad things. In fact, the idea of a story where all the blood from a guy named Jesus was eaten by a bunch of people, and that Jesus was then magically healed by eating his blood back to life the third day after his death, and then showed up as the shadow of a relic on greedy fucking faces of crusaders, kind of sounds pretty sweet. I mean, how would a tale so popular not have forced its sorcerer-priest-Pope-in-chief to claim it was completely false? So much so that we are told even today that “Jupiter (and not Jesus) is the god of thundering sex”, and that “reading Ancient Greek is actually what all obsessive bad people have in common with the divine”? Can you believe that? What a crazy, crazy world we live in. That said, at the end of the day, if you ask me, this free for all is good of everyone. That reminds me, there’s a myth about how all gods get a hard on just sitting back and watching it all unfold, I’ll tell you all about it in my next reports.
And so, to come back to Tuisku and Liekki, it won’t come as a surprise that it was not the first time that people in Helsinki had heard of sanguinism, or “Sanguinismo”, as they so eloquently put it in Italy. While there have been many guesses as to what the term might refer to, little evidence has been found to support any theory except the mainstream one. But when people heard the term “Sanguine Jesus”, things tend to move beyond the shit-talking phase and morph rather quickly into complete freaking rule-making insanity. Tuisku and Liekki were no exception and on their schoolchildren’s notebooks, on their desk and on the trees they would write the law of their land:
- You’re not to think your blood is anything special.
- You’re not to think your blood tastes as good as ours.
- You’re not to think your blood is healthier than ours.
- You’re not to imagine yourself cooking better than we do.
- You’re not to think you drink more than we do.
- You’re not to think your blood is more important than ours.
- You’re not to think you’re good at cooking.
- You’re not to drink us.
- You’re not to think anyone wants to drink you.
- You’re not to think you can teach us any recipe.
Of course, it would probably take a few centuries before their laws inspired the first highly publicised trauma ever to hit the news around the openly sanguinistic nature of Jesus-related legislation. Thankfully that, in turn, caused the repeal of all the nasty bills, a massive increase in morale and a great revival of Western civilization.