Kthulhu Reich

  Kthulhu Reich

  Asamatsu Ken

  Translated by Jim Rion

  Kurodahan Press

  2019

  Contents

  The Corporal’s Self-Portrait

  The Mask of Yoth Tlaggon

  In the Wasteland of Madness

  April 20th, 1889

  A Feast for the Children of the Night

  Gigantomachia 1945

  Dies Irae

  Notes

  About the author

  About the translator

  About the artist

  Copyright Information

  The Corporal’s Self-Portrait

  I

  I first met the corporal in a grungy old cocktail bar on the outskirts of Ikebukuro. It was the kind of place we called a company bar in the old days, with a horseshoe-shaped bar in the middle of a wide-open floor where bartenders made cocktails to order for troops of post-work office drones... You get the picture.

  Of course, it was just as run down as you’d expect from a dive on the outskirts of Ikebukuro. The stools were torn, the wallpaper peeling, and the floor was missing enough tiles to make a Roman bath. The customers were the same: a washed-out crowd of hack freelance writers, salarymen working for third-rate companies, poor students... Again, I think you get the picture.

  The day it happened, I was there for a drink or ten with an occult-writer friend of mine. He ended up getting a snoot full and heading home to Warabi city early.

  I looked at the clock and saw it was only half past ten; much too early for me to call it a night.

  Just as I was asking my salty dog to help me figure out what to do next, I heard a man’s raised voice.

  “Are you some kind of idiot or something? You can’t buy drinks on installment!”

  This was followed by the sound of something large falling over.

  I and all the other innocent bystanders turned to look at the cause of all the ruckus.

  We saw a small young man with longish hair lying at the feet of one of the waiters.

  “Now, hey, hold on... You don’t have to—” The feebly protesting customer looked to be about twenty or so. He was wearing a grubby military jacket and jeans, with a crumpled black beret perched on his head.

  “Go on, grab your filthy art shit and get out of here! Just be glad we ain’t calling the cops!” the waiter yelled. Then he jerked the boy upright and threw him out of the bar.

  Now what kind of way is that to treat a poor art student?

  Maybe the alcohol had softened my jaded old heart, but the instant that thought hit my brain, I called for the check and headed for the register. I hurried up and paid, then rushed out the door after the kid.

  I was filled with what you could actually call fear that he was already gone, but when I got out there I found him on the ground scrabbling to gather his art supplies, which had scattered when the waiter had given him the 86. I knelt down to help him gather the paint tubes, brushes, and sketchbooks.

  “Here you go.” I reached out to hand him what I’d picked up, and he got a panicky look on his face.

  “Oh, uh, thank you,” he said, and reached out with trembling hand to take the goods, which he awkwardly packed away in his art box.

  I stood up and gave him a closer look.

  He had a rodent-like face with shifty little eyes and red skin dotted with crusty pimples. His weak chin was overgrown with wispy brown whiskers.

  The filthy neck peeking out from his threadbare shirt and the long greasy hair hanging from his beret spoke of long estrangement from a bath.

  “So, you in art school or what?” I asked him.

  “No, not yet. I’m going to cram school to get into Nihon University art school, though.” He finally got everything packed away and stood up.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Corporal... Sorry, I mean Hirata.”

  “Hirata, right. My name’s A—. Listen, why don’t we go for a drink somewhere? My treat. It’d be nice to talk art with someone who knows the topic.”

  “Um...”

  Young Hirata stared at me like he smelled a rat. But he apparently decided I wasn’t trying to pick him up or sell him horse, and so he gave me a big nod with a smile on his weasel face.

  He might just be a baby art student, but an art student he would be, so figured I ought to take him someplace he’d fit right in.

  Buoyed by alcohol fumes, this thought led me to take Hirata to a place in the back streets of west Ikebukuro called Vienna. It was a gloomy little hole in the basement of an old residential building, first opened in 1970 as a home for radicals of every stripe, and since then it’s had dozens of owners without any visible signs of change in the decor. It was like the place was cursed to dinge.

  Half the regulars were college students. The rest was a motley crew of theater people, self-proclaimed poets, jazz musicians, writers and editors... In a nutshell, it drew in the whole spectrum of tweeds, longhairs, and beardies.

  We waltzed into the place, which was all decked out in black with skeletons and spooks drawn on the walls in fluorescent paint, and found seats. The bartender brought a bottle of tequila, a couple of glasses, and a bowl of salty goodies. This place only served tequila, gin, vodka, and cheap brandy. I poured and asked for Hirata’s story.

  “I’m from Fukushima, originally. My father was a low-ranking official in the prefectural government,” Hirata said, and took a sip of tequila. “But he died when I was thirteen, and after that it was just mother and I. When I was little I dreamed of becoming an architect. I took the entrance exams to get into the prefectural technology high school to study architecture, but I failed. I had to go to work during the day and take night classes to prepare again.”

  The story sounded oddly familiar. I guessed every kid who had it rough growing up had a similar story; still, something about it itched at me, like I’d read it somewhere.

  “For four years I struggled to become an architect, but I could never get anywhere with it. I ended up spending all my free time sketching my own buildings to deal with the frustration. I eventually filled thirty sketchbooks. Then I realized I might be better suited to drawing than architecture, and that’s what got me started on art.”

  “So, then you applied to Nihon University?”

  “Yes. But I failed the entrance exams twice. If I fail again next spring, I’m going back to Fukushima. I guess I’ll have to do some kind of manual labor.” Hirata’s voice fell when he said this and his eyes teared up.

  “I guess you’re staying near Ikebukuro, then?”

  He nodded. “I was evicted from my apartment because I got behind on the rent. Now I earn a little money drawing caricatures on the street, and if I get enough I stay at a boarding house in Okubo.”

  “What happens if you don’t get enough?”

  “I sneak into one of those homeless shelters for middle-eastern or southeast Asian migrant workers... That, or stay on the street. There are places to sleep around Ikebukuro station entrance.”

  “Hm...”

  I frowned. His story was tugging at strings I didn’t know I had. I thought back to my own university days, when I’d wasted my generous allowance on food, wine, and literature, and I found myself wanting to help.

  How much could I give him without hurting his pride, I wonder? Then I’d better settle the bill and head home, I thought, then took an obvious look at my watch to get the point across.

  “Oh, look at the time...” I said loudly.

  We then heard loud laughter come rolling from the booth behind us. There was a mix of voices merrily chatting in
Japanese, English, and some middle-eastern tongue.

  “Kanpai!” “Cheers!” “Salaam!”

  I glanced over in surprise to see the usual crowd of theater people exchanging toasts with some young men who looked Iranian or Iraqi.

  Hirata suddenly looked irritated and hunched his shoulders. I didn’t miss how his beady little eyes filled with cold light as they darted toward the crowd. He was clearly unhappy with the foreign element behind us.

  Hirata turned back toward me.

  “To be honest, I think Ikebukuro’s become a reeking dumpster,” he said in a loud voice, then took a drink of tequila and continued.

  “I can take the Koreans and the Chinese. They’re like us, at least. But the day all these Thais and Vietnamese, Cambodians and Filipinos, and Indians and Iranians and Iraqis showed up, this place became unbearable.”

  “Hey, come on... That’s really racist!” I chided, unable to muster any real force.

  Hirata ignored me.

  “They come here to Japan and take the jobs honest students used to be able to count on. Then they send our valuable yen back to their own countries. And then there’s our women! They seduce our women and sully the pure blood of Yamato!”

  “Cut it out, you’re talking crazy!”

  But Hirata’s voice only grew louder.

  “They take the hardest jobs for almost no money. Why would they do that? That’s what they were born for, that’s why. They are capable of nothing more. They are inferior people capable only of inferior tasks.”

  “That’s enough, OK? Everyone’s staring!” I wasn’t exaggerating. At some point in his monolog, Vienna had grown quiet, and even the owner and waitresses were staring at Hirata with pursed lips.

  But still he went on, getting louder and louder.

  “People talk of discrimination. This is a word for the weak. They say it’s wrong, immoral. But the strong know the truth. Discrimination is right! It is good!”

  “Shut your damn mouth!” someone in the booth shouted.

  “Who do you think you are?!”

  “If you hate Iranians that much, you can get the hell out of here!”

  The anger in their voices shook me, and I whispered to Hirata.

  “You’re dunk, OK? Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  Hirata drained his tequila and looked ready to go on with his speech, but finally listened to the man paying the check and stood up shakily.

  I got him out the door just before things turned really ugly. Then I gave him my card and said, “If you need anything, get in touch.” Then I left him there.

  I guess I must have been pretty drunk, too, since the next day I’d forgotten all about Hirata, and got back to work as usual.

  II

  Three months later, I got a call at work from Hirata.

  “Hello, A—. It’s been a while! I just saw your book Lemuria. So, you really are a writer!” he said.

  Lemuria was a collection of some of my most successful occult-horror short stories. Apparently he’d been browsing in a bookstore and spotted my name, and decided to give me a call.

  “Oh, so, what are you up to these days?” I asked vaguely, struggling to remember his name.

  “I’ve given up on art. I’m currently focusing on my meditation.”

  “Um... Meditation, did you say?”

  “Yes. I’m on a path to find my true self. And it has finally led me to understand everything I’ve been through so far. I’m no longer the man I was three months ago. If you’re free, would you like to meet?”

  I wasn’t really all that interested, but I eventually agreed.

  I suppose it had something to do with the climate of the times. The news of the day was dismal, with chaos in the ruling coalition, the murder of a young office worker by a foreign resident, widespread layoffs, and an ongoing economic slump.

  A day like that made you so desperate for a change, you’d even meet with a nutjob if it meant thinking about something else. Or that was my reasoning...

  III

  Hirata had chosen a cafe about five minutes’ walk from Ikebukuro station’s west exit.

  It was a stylish spot facing the main street, and coffee was a thousand yen a cup. Not really the place you’d expect a poor baby art student to choose.

  I went inside, puzzled but curious, and Hirata waved at me from the booth furthest back.

  Just like he’d said, he was not the man he was three months before.

  His oily long hair was now cleanly washed and parted neatly on the side in a clean undercut. The beret and grungy jacket were gone, too. He was dressed in a neat, if old fashioned, blazer and pinstripe slacks. His dress shirt was pressed, and he was wearing a chic new necktie.

  There wasn’t a speck of his earlier grime left. He sparkled like he’d just got out of the shower.

  “Who is this upstanding citizen here?!” I said, not trying to keep the irony out of my voice.

  “My old friends say the same thing. ‘The Corporal’s a new man!’ and all.”

  “Corporal, you said? I think you mentioned that when we first met. What is that, some kind of nickname?”

  “Exactly. Ever since I was a child. I used to call myself ‘corporal’ and then everyone else followed.”

  “A kid, huh? I guess your old man was in the war and you got the idea from him, right?” I said. But he shook his head no.

  “My father was born in 1960. He had no experience of war. I think... well, I think I must have some memory of a past life. And in that past life I was once a corporal in some army, and that memory lives somewhere in me...”

  “Now that is interesting.” I nodded earnestly and put a cigarette in my mouth. As someone who writes about all things occult, we were now solidly in my wheelhouse.

  “Listen, I’ve been through so much since we met. They found out I was Japanese at one of the foreign homeless shelters and kicked me out. Then I was beaten up in a back alley by a bunch of Chinese.”

  “I don’t suppose that softened your heart up any, did it?”

  But Hirata ignored my sarcasm again. He took a thin pamphlet out of his blazer pocket and handed it to me.

  “Just when I had hit rock bottom, I was given a way out. I read this.”

  The cover featured the symbol of the Rosy Cross entwined by a snake, under which was printed O∵S∵W∵. At the bottom it read Order of Starry Wisdom.1

  “Do you know the O∵S∵W∵?”

  “Yeah, a little, ...” I nodded, suddenly feeling bone weary.

  The O∵S∵W∵ was a cult founded in Chicago, USA. They said they wanted to resurrect the ancient gods and goddesses of Egypt, and to do so they engaged in secret magical ceremonies and such. They also engaged in more illegal acts like brainwashing and forcing their followers to “donate” everything they owned to the cult, creating problems not only at home in America but now here in Japan, apparently.

  “But don’t get the wrong idea. I mean, I don’t really believe this stuff, not deep down. I just felt... well, the O∵S∵W∵ has ways to help me find out who I really am.”

  “You’re not sure yourself?” I asked.

  “That’s right. After we parted that night, I couldn’t stop thinking. I’m not meant to be some broke art student. I was a hero. My comrades looked up to me, they called me Corporal. I have seen it in my dreams. I stood, alone, to face dozens of enemies crouching in their ruined city and captured them barehanded.”

  Sounds like a new kind of Warrior Delusion, I thought, feeling dumbfounded.

  Back around 1980, a new kind of delusion spread like wildfire through middle and high school students. It was marked by a belief that their current state is not their true self, and that they were actually “chosen warriors” fighting for the peace and security of the earth on an unknown battleground somewhere in space, saying things like Come find me,
brothers in arms of the dream war. My codename is El.

  I concluded that Hirata was simply a late-blooming warrior.

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “No, no, I believe. Occult experiences are always highly subjective. It’s hard to convince the skeptics with that, you know. But you know me, I write all about the mysteries behind the world. I believe!”

  “Subjective!” Hirata spat the word. His eyes blazed at me, but the fires soon damped and he stared coolly into my eyes.

  “The priests of the O∵S∵W∵ say that my memories are all correct. They also showed me a way to recover the past more clearly and brightly. It takes sixty days to complete—and today is the sixtieth day. If you don’t mind, why don’t you come to my apartment and witness the end for yourself?”

  “I’d be derelict in my duty as an author if I said no! I suppose it’s something like yoga?”

  “No, I think you’d call it...” Hirata stopped and sighed. “Magic.”

  IV

  Hirata lived in an apartment in an old four-story building on Ikebukuro’s west side. He was in a tiny bare concrete room in the half-basement.

  No one else lived in the building. It was due to be torn down to make room for new construction in six months’ time. Hirata explained that it was only 10,000 yen a month.

  When he opened the door, an unusual smell came wafting out. It was the scent of oil paints, of incense, and of something else, something unhealthy.

  “The ventilation has always been bad,” Hirata said apologetically as he let me in.

  The room was dark, though it was still early evening. That was probably because the windows faced east and were set high up in the wall. All you could see through the frosted glass was the feet of people walking by.

  “It’s like some secret insurgent base from a war movie,” I said, grinning.

  The whole room was bare concrete: walls, floor and ceiling. There was a pathetic little square rug on the floor. Around it were some bookshelves likely picked out of the garbage and now packed with odd occult books and O∵S∵W∵ pamphlets.

  There were reversed canvases standing around as well.