Hello people! With the new HBO series "Lovecraft Country" there has been some noise about how racist Lovecraft was - as if this new series is a "first time" attempt to stick a finger in Lovecraft's eye. Um, NOPE. It is not. We did it first!

Lovecraft's most racist story, it is being said, is "THE HORROR AT RED HOOK." Please read Lovecraft's story first before attempting to read THIS story below or this will probably make no sense. His story can be found online for free. Note that his story is "AT Red Hook" while this one below is "IN Red Hook".

There are some things in this story that might seriously piss off some folks, but it was a SATIRE, a GOOF on the story Lovecraft wrote - and yup, we who wrote this are ethnics that grew up with many types of ethnics. Unlike SOME ethnics we see today, who seem to also be quite fragile, we didn't care what the WASP society was up to, what they thought, or anything else. We tended to just keep to our ways and ourselves and ignore them.

THE HORROR IN REDHOOK
By T. Jantsang and M. Homien
From Cthulhu Cultus Fanzine Number 6, 1997

My name is Malek Said Jan Homien. I am Yazidi, as others call us, and I'm now an old man in my 90's with great-grandchildren. I came to America in the 1920's with my wife and six young children. We have done well for ourselves in this land of opportunity and freedom. My children grew up strong, and were hard working people, as we all were. We never asked for anything from anyone, and we were known to be people to whom a smile and a laugh came easily. My grandchildren studied hard in school, and I'm proud to say they all went to college, they are all married, and they all own their own homes now. I'm old, and quite soon will die as time takes its toll, but I will pass on with a smile on my face, and peace in my heart.

Things were not always so happy. When I grew up as a child, there was fighting all around me, fighting between the various Arab groups, and others. We were always on the move, like nomads or gypsies. I knew about the land America, or Ameru the Western Paradise, and learned more about it from an English speaking American that visited our camp. He had on a ring with the sigil of our Serpent of Wisdom, a triangular onyx stone set in gold, with a shining eye in its center. I commented on the ring and he told me that this was part of the Great Seal of the land of America. I listened to all he said of this wonderful land of opportunity where state does not have a say in religion, and where an honest day's work received an honest day's pay.

It is through this kind man, that my family and I got into America. We had to sneak in because certain people tried to stop certain kinds of immigration; the same "certain people" that were now in the Middle East stirring up trouble, namely, the damned to hell British Empire people. The ways and means by which we smuggled ourselves into the country, matter not. There are many ways. None of them are easy, and all of them are heavy with peril. This is as true today, as it was when I came here.

My first American home was on Clinton Street in what people called "Red Hook" in Brooklyn, New York. Compared to the homes my grandchildren have, the home was nothing; but at the time we moved into this home, it was beautiful. It was all of 3 rooms; a large bedroom, another large room that Americans referred to as a den or living-room, and a large kitchen; and of course, a bathroom with a real tub in it and separate sink. The only furniture in the home was the tub and sink, plus another sink in the kitchen and a stove for cooking. The home was 3 floors up from the ground, with other homes underneath us. It seemed to me that Americans liked to build homes in the most ancient Babylonian style with compartments next to and atop each other for families to live in.

The first thing I set about to do, was get work doing anything that would pay for some wood. This, I did easily, and having obtained the wood, set about to build bunk-styled beds for the children to sleep in, as we had all been sleeping on the floor. And so it went with the rest of the home, until it was furnished. We had help, too. At first, I had heard awful rumors about the Italian people and the Mafia, but I got to know these people and the rumors were not true. The head of the "Famiglia" was always quick to smile and lend a helping hand. Once he asked my son to run into the local Catholic church and go into the confession box. There, my son only had to tell their Priest 3 numbers, and for doing only this, the Italian gave my son $20, which was a lot of money in those days. It is with this money that we were able to quickly buy material to finish furnishing our home. We made friends with the Spanish people too, many of them looked a lot like our own people, though they say this was from having Indian blood. At the time, I had no idea they meant American-Indians, which are not like Indians from India at all. They often brought over food and we shared meals. There were also African descent people who called themselves "Colored People," and spoke nothing but the English language. They were all born here and fully American citizens. Their children went to the American schools, and it is from them that my children obtained school-books from which to learn, and it is from playing with these Colored children that my children learned to speak English fluently. Everyone got along. The presence of each group was always a plus to any other group.

All around were the sounds of thriving life, babies crying, music, and laughter. There were also the occasional fights, and crimes such as stealing were punished in the ways of our own people. There were also the times when everyone had to hide, times when the pasty-white-man in his silly uniform stormed by staring at us all with his large icy dead eyes; startled-looking eyes, eyes that reeked of fear but tried to hide the fear behind an arrogant, glowering stare. Why was this man even in our neighborhood? Do dogs and wolves have dog and wolf police? Do cats have cat police? It seemed to most of us that the same type of man, that British Empire type, always did the same silly things, march by, stick his nose in where it is unwanted, glower, and pretend he is better when in fact we all know they are a race of cowering, arrogant fools. Malone. That was his name. I remember because the children used to say "Maloney Baloney." The man was downright ugly, and in the summer he was the most ugly; in fact, he looked diseased with patches of red, raw-looking skin on his dour, scowling face. The nose was the worst part of it, for on its needle- like end point, one could always see a blister forming or a blister oozing. One had the impression that such people never learned to smile, or laugh, or even be at-ease and relaxed. Sometimes these uniformed buffoons got involved in a quarrel that everyone already had under control, and of course, thief and victim both would join rank and keep silent rather than get these boys-playing-soldier involved.

Other than that, everything was wonderful. Many people applied for "papers" and got them, and then they'd marry someone who does not have "papers" and soon, they would become Americans. Every morning, 5 days a week mostly, you could see processions of men on their way to a hard days work. Sleep was still upon them, as they mumbled chit-chat to each other, but in their eyes was joy, for in that hard day's work, was the promise of a life. The faces of these men, and especially their hands, showed the signs of hard work; faces pitted from the healthy exposure to the elements, hands calloused and strong. When I think of Maloney-Baloney and his paper-smooth, paper-white, pasty skin, and his almost too-soft hands, I get sick at the idea of those people. What are they? They dress up in those stupid costumes, all the same, as if trying to be the same thing, and all they seem to do is walk around glowering at others who are hard working. What is the function of these uniformed fools? Who needs them? Why do they even exist? Are they here to make everyone else on earth miserable? It surely does seem so, especially when the Colored people tell stories of a place called "Down South." It is no wonder that a thief and his victim would rather join rank and keep silent than talk to these "THINGS" in uniform.

On our days off, everything was relaxation and laughter, music and dance, recreation and chit-chat. Everywhere you could hear music in the streets, all kinds of music. Sometimes we'd all have a huge party held in the Catholic building or in the basement where there was a lot of room. That became the dance-hall for everyone.

Everything went on as usual, and then, one day, something very strange happened. It started with a man named Robert Suydam. He said he was Dutch, but that didn't matter; he looked British Empire, he seemed British Empire, he acted British Empire, and his attempts to "not-be that" were a standing joke. My Syrian friend, Achmed, had a very beautiful daughter Lili, and this creature Suydam seemed to fall hopelessly in love with her. Even that was a joke. What kind of love do these piteous creatures feel? Love in the brain? Where is passion? Where are the songs and poems of love? She cared absolutely nothing for the man, he seemed like the living-dead to her, his embraces were cold; and when he kissed her, on the cheek of course, it left her cold. But the man was rich, very rich, and he was just giving his money away! Along with the gifts of money, he made promises.

We are all a people who live by the word. Giving your word, is akin to making an oath. We speak from our hearts, we do not tend to make light-hearted statements empty of meaning and devoid of action. Aside from the obvious and visible fact that his kind of people tend to get into other people's business and get into trouble doing it, we did not know much about his kind of people where these other things are concerned, but we all thought that, in terms of making statements, or giving their word, they were like us. That was not the case. Had we known American Indian history, we'd have known this about them!

First of all, the man was not young, he was not a "minor," and was surely able to make his own decisions. So when he bought buildings and let more immigrants come to live in them, it was quite a shock to find that his family tried to have him locked away for doing this. Did they think the man was devoid of reason? Just because the man forgot to comb his hair and tuck in his shirt, did they think he went insane? Apparently so! Those people either never ever let loose, or they go crazy when they try to let loose. Now, these gifts he gave, which seemed to us like gifts, were not exactly free of charge. He wanted something for them: information. Information about what? Well, I'm not quite sure, but it seemed to us all he wanted to know what words in our language meant, or meanings of words we use as a kind of synthetic lingo-jargon. Like Sephiroth. Or Malak Taus, or Damballah. He could not grasp that these are ideas, not literal things. But then, they always were a stupid race with a man-god that walks on two feet, be that their Jesus or Sosiosh, it's all the same idiocy. They believe dead people can rise up and walk, and they seem to think that objects are magical and can grant wishes. Behind all Suydam was after, was the seemingly innate feeling that his type all have, that nothing is enough, that life itself is never quite enough. He never, not even once, saw any of us as people. He saw Black Magicians and Wizards, Witches and Sorcerers. He never once asked Mrs. Rivera how her new-born baby was, but he plied her with questions about Santeria. He never once asked me how my son was doing, even so he could hear the coughing from the next room. My boy had the flu. Instead he bothered me with questions about the Turanian race, as if knowing about my race would do something for him. He sat at my kitchen table drinking the tea I made him; he never asked about the tea, and I have to wonder if he even tasted its rich and unusual flavor. The tea was real, here, of the flesh; but fanciful notions about my race were "up there in the sky" with his other fanciful idiocies. Tasting tea would be too much in the realm of the flesh and the senses, and Suydam was not in that realm. As things went, the wise women gave him henna for his hair, to color it; lotions for his wrinkled, chapped face, to smooth it out; and a lotion to prevent the sun from attacking him with those revolting, oozing blisters and ugly raw-meat patches. And so the fool thought he was growing younger, as if you can turn back the Wheel of Time. Instead of just joining in the fun at the dance-hall, which is what the Catholic church basement became, he insisted on regulating everything. That is another thing about his type, they are regulation maniacs, they can never just let go and let things happen. Everyone let him do it, because he was giving us all so much money. And of course, he grew more and more attached to Lili, whom he insisted on calling "Lilith," from a Hebrew story that he took literally.

Eventually, Lili got pregnant. Jokes abounded on how Suydam managed to pull it off, seeing that the man could not dance to walk across the street, one wondered if he was a man at all. According to Lili, he had the parts, but had no idea what to do with himself except go through the motions. If not for the money he kept giving, not one woman anyone knew would have a thing to do with the creature. Who wants to waste their time? Take 15 minutes to disrobe, and 10 seconds to do the act? In order to convey the mockery that abounded about the man, I'd fill a novel. The point is, Lili was pregnant and Suydam said he'd marry her. Do these people ever mean what they say, or say what they mean? Well, to us, the word is the oath, break your oath? You die! Simple as that! Just like with the thieves - they get their hands cut off. Looking back on this, it would seem that Suydam was trying to "get into" what he perceived was our culture, not just mine, but "ours," or "get out of his own culture." Yes, trying to get away from himself, is more like it.

I see this today in New Age, or in the same people trying to get American Indians to "teach them" about Shamanism. You can grow up among us, be one of us, and never once will anyone ask you when you were born. But let one of Suydam's type "get into" what he perceives is what we are, and they'll ask you personal questions about when you were born, in order to do some half-assed astrology chart on you. And what on earth makes these "people" think any of us would be honest with them about personal things like birth? We all know what they are doing now. They are trying to get away from what they are, which is Nothingness, and when they think they are getting into what we are, they just bring their Nothingness with them, visible to all of us who are Something Real. He saw us as Devil Worshipers, and having this false premise about what we are, he came in and tried to find out about his own false premise. We have a Dark Lord, we are Serpent of Wisdom venerating people, we are Dionysian people. But it is his kind of people who regard us as Devils. We never regarded ourselves as this, on the contrary. We know ourselves as natural creatures, part of nature; and like all other animals, we do not need a book to tell us what to do, or what to eat, or how to act, nor do we need men in uniforms to police us or guard over us. No creature needs this and no creature would consider it normal to have it. But Suydam's people consider it so normal, that they do not even notice it is there. They need a watcher, they need a leader to put a yoke on their own necks and tell them how to walk, how to eat, what to do. They are nature's crippled outcasts. And I see now, they seek to cripple others so that they, the ultimately crippled, can lord it over those others. We need to cast them out, to close our doors, to never let them in, to refuse to "teach them" anything or show them anything, we need to ignore them utterly, as if they are not even there. When they ask to learn about Shamanism, the American Indian needs to say "No, you can not learn it," and send them home. Let them keep what they have, which is nothing, and the rest of mankind can keep what is theirs and refuse to share it or show it. If this was done in Red Hook, the horror would not have happened.

For reasons I never heard rumor of, Suydam stopped visiting our neighborhood. Then, it was learned through one of the Colored people who read the news, that Suydam planned to marry some Ice Queen from his own race. He did not even have the honesty to come and tell this face to face, to Lili's father, or to even offer to support his child by Lili. That did not sit well. The Italian Famiglia chief offered to put concrete on Suydam's feet and throw him into the harbor. One Spanish fellow who was enamored of Lili himself, wanted to cut Suydam's throat. The Colored people got scared because they figured something really bad was going to happen, and they did not want trouble with "the man." They said that we were getting ready to "mess with the man and his people," and told us we should forget it. Forget it? Not likely. Especially with all the other things this bastard did. Stories began to spread akin to the crazed stories told by Christian fools about Jews "making Matzo balls from Christian children's fat," or "draining Christian children's blood and drinking it." They project their own insane "drink the blood and eat the flesh" of their pathetic eunuch god, onto the Jewish people. Of course, the flesh and blood of their own pathetic, mentally crippled little brats is supposed to be "special." Like also, the tales of gypsies stealing their stupid little children, as if the wily and intelligent gypsies would want their stupid little children; rumors spread about all of us stealing children. The only problem is, some of us recognized those "missing" children and were taking care of them! And why was this? Because Suydam brought them around claiming they were orphans, and he paid people to care for them. He lied! Apparently, he kidnapped the children and dumped them in the laps of unsuspecting immigrants! When I think back on this, the Colored people all kept telling us that we had better have nothing to do with these orphans, but we could not understand why. Then, what were any of us to do with these children when it came out they were kidnapped by Suydam, and Suydam left to marry his Ice Princess? Take them to the police? Not likely. The police would not believe anything we said, especially if we accused Suydam, like the Colored people said: "the man and his people," against nothing but the word of us foreigners, us illegal immigrants, who just happened to have missing children with us? Not likely, and this was not the issue at hand. The children were fed, clothed, had a home and were happy. What was the issue at hand was that Achmed was out for Suydam's blood and Lili was out to get the Ice Princess that her "lame lover with the fancy words" decided to marry. And so that was done. Achmed and Lili got aboard the boat Suydam was on for his honeymoon. Achmed throttled the man in the manner of Thuggees, and Lili scratched out his wife's throat with a weapon known as the Tiger's Claw. Of course, things did not just end there. Maloney-Baloney had to get involved next. If not for the total collapse of the dance-hall-church, heaps of people would have been in deep trouble. That night, there was a veritable war dance going on, Lili all smeared down with oil, giving her skin a strange sheen, everyone else decked out in costumes like Mardi Gras; a combination of the Colored people's Voodoo, and our own war-dances, Tantrik style, topped off with Syrian displays of sword and knife arts. It was the kind of thing that could set off a Jihad in the Middle East. There was Suydam, dead, near this deep well, Lili was going to heave him into it. Next thing anyone knew, Maloney-Baloney and his troops burst into the building and caused a riot. There were immigrants with small children who had just come off the boat, sick with fever and kept isolated lest the fever spread; they all scampered into niches in the wall to try to hide from the police. Quite a few people got caught by the police and sent back home as illegal immigrants. But for the most part, the building collapsed and who could not get out, died.

The top portion of the dance-hall was fixable, and was fixed, and the well was dug out again as it lead to tunnels where immigrants came through, and where the Italians smuggled in their bootleg liquor, because back then, for some strange reason, drinking liquor was against the law. The Law. Them and their damned stupid laws. They only manage to drive things underground with these laws, and fill up their silly jails. Lili escaped with only a few scratches and had her child. Though Lily’s family was Muslim, the child, a boy, was not raised in any religion because she ended up marrying that Spanish fellow who loved her, and his family was not Muslim. He got a college education, became a lawyer, and in the 1960's he was very active in the Civil Rights Movement.

I wrote this all down to set the record straight. There are many ways that one can view events. How you view events, how you react to situations, or how you do not react or notice something, is purely dependent on what is considered "normal" in the culture you are from. In the culture Suydam was from, dancing as we dance would be considered immoral. But in our culture, if you can not dance you are considered sickly, and in other cultures if you can not dance it is believed you have no soul.

Malone was obviously delusional. He had seen Lili in broad daylight many times. Did she really look like a "tittering thing" in the dim light of the dance-hall basement? Perhaps that is how Malone thinks of naked women: as things, as ugly. Was he so bereft of reason that he could not recognize people with masks on? Did he really believe, at that moment, that they were demons? Is the mind of the white man really that fragile? Perhaps it is. Perhaps this breed of man really does fear Nature and Her unexpected wonders. Surely, all his compulsive efforts to regiment himself are just ways to insulate himself from Nature. Or they are his pathetic attempts to do this! And what of Malone, a police-officer? What would happen to his fragile mind if he were ever thrust in the middle of a real war? Would the blood and terror unhinge his mind?

So, Malone went to New England and told a writer his version of the story. At least the writer had the sense to call it FICTION.

//END//