Dick's Story

Dick’s Story

Dick's life history contained one incident known to few at the time, which had given him a piercing insight into the nature of the sexual distress experienced by the population at large, and had enabled him to move out onto the other side, by means which had to be held as a closely guarded secret. As one who had been sick, and restored himself to health, he felt capable of curing society as a whole, and erotic unity was to be the medicine.

At the height of his power and fame Dick once or twice hinted in interviews that in his idealistic youth he had been for a period a soldier, fighting a progressive cause on behalf one of the oppressed peoples of the world, he refused in modesty to say which; that he had seen active service and even killed.

His old friend Josh, knew the true secret, but never divulged, nor ever thought of divulging it, though they found themselves political opponents.

When much younger, in his twenties, Dick had been much troubled by sex emotional frustration. He had married at age 18, to a nervous and egotistical female who insisted on his always being home by midnight. Many was the muff hunt he was reluctantly to decline for this reason. When he was twenty three, she decided, under a yogic inspiration, that carnal intercourse was injurious to the health, and apparently renounced it forever. As Dick depended on her for money, his situation was unenviable.

In the summer time, when the young women would put on their flimsy clothing, he was inflamed with intense physical desire he felt powerless to put into effect. He was not unattractive to many females, but there was some factor in his personality inhibiting him from summoning the required initiative to persuade them to copulate with him. He sometimes argued that this was because, during the crucial years of adolescence, he had been away at boarding school. He never learnt, he complained, the tribal skills, the mating dances, that had become essential to the attracting of the opposite sex.

Sometimes it all got a bit much.

The girl who walked into the railway carriage – British Rail Eastern Region - was young and fresh looking - about 21, he would have thought, had he formulated the question clearly in his mind - and wearing fashionable overalls, pink which tended to disappear up the crack of her arse in an indecent manner. Certainly she could not be described as skinny, pleasantly curvaceous one might say - though he did not formulate these reflections.- Familiar you look - he thought. Familiar through something strange and strong. Yet perhaps he was wrong. He stared hard then glanced away, perhaps because she caught his eye. The man next to him was staring at her hard. He too looked away. Familiar, strangely and strongly. Do I know you? Do I actually know you, or do you just remind me of someone, are you the same type, the same spirit of that other person. Your full cheeks and the shape of your chin. A feeling…Do I know her? does she really remind me of someone? Know her or someone like her? Am I imagining it? Is it just a fantasy? Or if it is not, them who? a memory to which there is attached excitement, who is it?….Eureka! Tottotte cocotte. He stared hard. Memories of Tottotte, who exposed herself naked before him and left him frustrated. Yet why Tottotte, cocotte, why not Chantal, or the other? Chantal was better looking, equally naked? Yes , I remember Totote, I sat next to you, closely, my hand upon your buttock, I felt your breath against my check, and felt mine -sweet smelling I hope, against yours. You tease, you insensitive decadent French clod. Yes you are the type. And your breasts under the overalls, what I can see of them, so ripe, so fresh, and I would like to hold them with my hands and fingers. The man on my right is still staring hard. Mental rape, the feminists call it. Yet then I felt so strongly, so close. So strong in desire. You stupid woman, and you opposite me, perhaps you are the same. I know the psychology, the delicate shade of it. That experience, that form of frustration. Poetry in it, if one could express it.
At mental rape they take offence. At mental sex murder, how do they react? It is her will -though not yours, I am sure- to spend her life perfecting flower arrangement. His will is to cut her into small pieces for his sexual pleasure.
Him, beside, male staring.
Are you aware, Tottotte, cocotte? Braless. Braless in Gaza. Braless I remove my cycle clips - no, something else, in awkward reverence. Aware of what Tottotte? Mentally raped with a splendid rape, a magnificent rape with the feeling so strong, so etched in the memory. And you are the same.
Overalls, yet used as real overalls, there is grease on her overalls, and grease on her freckled redhead's arm. That face, the curve of the cheeks and the chin. That round kind of face, with the same curls in the hair, tied in the same way. The same youthfulness, and the same vibration, that same modulation of uneasy sexual passion. The same probable vacancy. A smile, attractive, even delicately attractive - though you are not delicate- not, if I am honest, stupid, but vacuous. Yet are you not vacuous? Those breasts.
False innocent. The unusual unexpressed tone. Could I but express it. For there is poetry there. I perceive rare, undescribed essences. You in an essence of possible being. What is it? There is that which is physical, That which is material, that which you physiognomically have in common. Who could express it? Do I alone perceive it? Yet there is more. All is a whole, all is an involute. False innocent.
The passion aroused in him, was of such painful emotional intensity that he could only relieve it through fantasies of violence and sexual murder. He would fantasise about inserting knives into women's sexual organs, and ripping their stomachs apart. Such imaginings would soothe him to sleep each night.

Josh was his friend of many years standing, they had met at university. Josh was bespectacled, studious, habitué of the Reading Room of the British Museum. His intellectual influence upon his small group of friends was considerable.

"I find it hard to believe that the differences between people are as great as we are told", Dick once said to Josh, apropos his passions. "What I feel and feel so strongly, I think others must feel if only they recognise it. Why should they not? Is there some incomprehensible divide between me and them? And I make every effort to understand them sympathetically, which they do not do to me".

"People's kinks do differ", said Josh. "There are homophiles and uropbibes, scatophages, rubber fetishists, foot fetishists and flagellomaniacs, incomprehensible to each other. Personally I am rather addicted to a practice called a trip around the world".

"It's not just a kink", said Dick, "it speaks with the force of a religious revelation, like God's to Abraham."

"But perhaps you are sick, perverted, perhaps there is something wrong with you".

"That is not how I perceive myself".

Eventually Dick's wife tired of him, and went off to join the harem of a Central African chieftain eager to spread his genes. Contrary to expectation, Dick's sexual state was worse than ever. The painful emotions which tormented him became ever more unbearable. He had no success with his clumsy attempts at seduction. The intensity of his need was off-putting. As it is written in the Christian gospel, "To him that hath, more shall be given; to him that hath not, yea even that which he hath shall be taken away from him".

He had to do something about it. He discussed it with his friend. There was much discussion about the morality of murder. It was agreed that if Dick felt that he had to murder a woman, then it was not for anyone to condemn him or stand in his way.

"It is not the act in itself that arouses moral abhorrence or condemnation", Josh explained to him, "Nor is it the feeling in the mind at the time the act is committed. We do not hold it against the executioner whatever he feels when he does his job, so long as he does it politely and efficiently. The only issue is whether the act is permitted or prohibited by a recognised law.

"Few are more abhorred than someone who murders children, whether he kills them for his pleasure, or because they stand in the way of some ambition. Shakespeare's Richard III is an example. Yet the man who drops bombs on enemy cities in time of war is a hero, and not the less if he enjoys his work. The act, abstractly considered, is the same, in that children are knowingly, deliberately slaughtered, but in one case the killers have the permission from the recognised government to kill, in the other not".

Dick pondered these points, as the tight clad buttocks of lithesome wenches possessed and obsessed his memory and imagination.

Much as he wanted to kill, he also wanted something else. He did not honestly want to be a social outcast, however much the role of murderer might appeal in some of his most aggressive and nihilistic moods. Nor did he want the role of sexual murderer or nonce. What could he do? This was a serious problem, and for a period severely inhibited his activity. He did not want to set his mark on the world as a hater of women. He loved humanity. He wanted to be counted a benefactor of womankind.

He hunted around for historical precedents, possible solutions to his dilemma. He was intrigued by the arguments of one curious pamphlet that Josh passed to him.

Genocide for and against.


The blackamoor


Not many have written openly in favour of genocide. Enough have been
happy to practice it, so they must have had their reasons, and
presumably justified it to themselves. It needs a fairer press.

Fyodor Vinberg, a White Russian émigré, published a book in the early
1920s in Germany, arguing that the Jews were such an international
menace, that extermination was the only solution.

I am far from arguing murder for and against. I would never advocate
common murder. Murder is clearly against the law. Do murder and you
will soon get yourself in a lot of trouble.

What it is and what it is not.

It involves killing on a basis of ethnicity not of class, which is
what happened in Cambodia, Russia and China. Arguably class killing is
worse than genocide, it is more divisive, and more liable to generate
painful remorse. People of a different class from yourself can easily
be seen as yourself given a change in circumstances.

The Holocaust, Rwanda, Old Testament, Red Indians, Armenians

Some of this is fake history, though widely taken as fact.


Practical reasons.

Getting rid of a nuisance. When the opportunity presents itself.
Beautiful logic of it.

Doing good.

War itself is rough.

When to do it

Time of war. When normal rules are suspended

Other reasons.

Pleasure of it. Excuse for it. What you don't like. Family habits.
Getting rid of something you simply don't like. That may provide the
deepest of pleasures.

War itself can offer great enjoyment to a young man with the joys of
killing raping and pillaging. The increase in freedom that can be
brought with military discipline. The joys of forbidden things,
Counted glorious by the nation.

Against nation, the fantasy of a pacifist God.


Possibility of retribution

You might one day find yourself on trial like
Adolf Eichmann who was put on trial nearly 20 years later.

Then you can't admit it. By then he had a family.


That may play up

The bad principle.

Killing people one likes.

If not your best friends, at least some of them


The reasons against ultimately outweigh those that are for. Conclude
recommend against it. Not a good idea. British Empire better.
Peace better than war. Dr Johnson.

What did you do in the war daddy? Contempt of grandchildren who will
not understand.

The writer did not have the answer to his problem though he stimulated trains of thought. Dick continued to read much and pondered hard. He eventually found a tentative solution in the ancient concept of racial hatred. Within living memory, there had had existed in the heart of Europe, a powerful and sophisticated nation state in which a large group of otherwise ordinary people had been treated as less than human, fit only for enslaving and exterminating.

Dick himself was no more racially prejudiced than the next man, one of his best friends, Harry, was rumoured to have alien genetic material, but he could see the psychological advantages of an officially sanctioned doctrine that a section of one's fellow citizens are fit objects for any kind of what would otherwise be crime.

National Socialist Germany was a modern state, it was easy to imagine living under its authority rather than under that of the Labour and Conservative governments of which he had direct experience. It was the State that gave moral authority for any act, determined whether an act was laudable or execrable. But how much was the freespirited individual bound by the authority of any particular State?

One could choose were one lived, it was true, to a certain extent. Not that, had he been alive in the 1930s, Dick would have chosen to live in Nazi Germany. Moreover, the idea of being a traitor would be as bad as being a murderer, perhaps.
It was not a question of belief, but of allegiance.
Could he find a cause to which he could give his allegiance, satisfy his impulses without rendering himself a moral outcast?

Of causes around in the world at this time, the best one seemed to be that of the Philestinians, indigenous inhabitants of the currently Parlarey state of Promisedland. Pieces of jigsaw began to fit together.

The main objection to the Parlareys in Europe had long been that they had not, unlike the Germanic peoples, secured their living space by colonisation and conquest, establishing their right by waging war on the country, exterminating or expelling the indigenous inhabitants and farming the land. Their movement into Promisedland was an attempt to remedy this, and so form them into a proper nation. Their relations with the Philestineans were to parallel those of the Anglo Saxons with the Welsh in the fifth and sixth centuries.

Dick had a Welsh mother, who might have influenced his feelings here, as well as giving him his lustful and emotional Celtic nature. Little as he would normally sympathise with nationalism or patriotism, the way in which the originally peaceable and inoffensive Philestineans, like the Welsh, had been deprived of their homeland and for so long ignored by the world, seemed to justify terrorism or extreme aggression.
And terrorism justified all kinds of acts.
He could see himself as a terrorist, fighting for the Philestinian cause, and go out and kill a woman in Promisedland. In this way, his violence, his feminacide, would be that of a soldier, and need not interfere with his conception of himself as a decent citizen.
So this is what he set out to do.

He backpacked across Europe, down through Turkey and into Syria, stopping briefly to gaze ecstatically at the wonderful ruins of Palmyra, which he saw at sunset. From Damascus he travelled by taxi into Jordan, and eventually crossed into the occupied old capital. He was now in Promisedland.

He spent some weeks sleeping on beaches, stalking and staring at girls. He ate lots of fish to build up his sexual desire. He spoke to few people, cultivating a seething, silent, fanatical hatred of the women of the country, channelling all his frustration and resentment into this racist emotion. He was a terrorist in the Philestinian cause, an individual cell working on his own. He planned with the greatest care.

One moonlit night he selected a bikini clad girl walking home from a beach, and attacked her suddenly from behind, smashing in her cranium with a claw hammer. (The police report said she had been sexually interfered with, but Dick always denied to Josh that he did any such thing, saying the police must have done it themselves). He left the body, and fled. His escape route had been well prepared. He felt a lot of fear, but no guilt, because he had justified his behaviour. The emotional relief he felt was the lifting of a tremendous burden, the depositing of the old man of the sea.

The anonymous nature of the act had been essential to him, he had not wanted to know anything about the girl before he killed her. As it turned out, she was a young foreigner of non-Parlarey stock, who had been working in one of the agricultural communes common in that country. He never felt the need to do anything like that again. He did not feel that his virtue or decency had been in any way compromised by his deed. He flew back to England, underwent some psychotherapy and a couple of racial awareness courses to cure his racism, and soon remarried. The true nature of Dick's war service did not emerge till after Josh's death, by which time Dick was old and retired and nobody cared any more. That was long after the period covered by this history.

The story was to influence a later generation, through the seminal inspiration it gave to the Peace and Justice movement of the Rippers Front, but that too is way beyond the scope of our history.

A tape was discovered among Josh's effects and transcribed. It may seem strange that such an incriminating document has survived. Perhaps Josh intended one day to use the tape for blackmail. Perhaps he did so use it, that would explain certain historical events, such as the mysterious and peaceful collapse of Dick’s political project. Alternatively the document is a forgery, that could have been produced at any time.

Dick said, “Afterwards the release was mystical, overwhelming, earth shattering. The fundamental rage, the furious frustration that had built up at everything that thwarted me, (and do we not all feel thwarted? Society itself thwarts, the way things are as they are, the current order of things in so many ways, inspires to a silent rage that can only seek relief in some one act of atrocious violence) and the commission of that deed is a miraculous cure, a breaking through a tremendous resistance. The rage is all purged, I see the world without anger, no longer burning and thrusting at so many points, to inescapable frustration and suffering.

Josh “Are you really sure when you say you will never feel the urge to do it again? Most do, especially if the buzz is a good as you say it was”.

Dick. “For me just the once is enough. Through this magical act of cleansing violence the world itself is renewed, reborn, and I can love freely. Now I am born to such love as I could never believe possible. All the rage of the world has coursed through my veins. I knew it, I suffered from it, I felt all that was wrong. Now I have passed through. I no longer suffer. I can set the world to rights. Now I shall become a politician, a statesman. I am going to join the Liberal party.”

Josh “But there is a contradiction in your position. The essence of your act is that it is crime. The atrocity of your crime is what gives it its strength and sublimity. But then you still want respectability. The proper reward for atrocious crime is the death cell followed by the scaffold. That's the purging you would seem to require”.

Dick “How many Russians how many Germans, even Britons, raped, killed and tortured in the Hitler war, then went home to become pillars of society? What is culture, what is civilisation? I have two motives, one antisocial, and one social. Surely they may be harmonised in a higher synthesis. Is that not the whole point of religion as well as of Hegel's philosophy?”

Josh “There's plenty of your sort about, self justifiers all. I, on the other hand, have something to feel proud of. I've done no murder, but I've got you as a friend. That’s a rare privilege. I'll never report you. You're just a common criminal, mine is the more interesting condition”.

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