Robert Rankin - Snuff Fiction

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ROBERT RANKIN

Snuff Fiction

The first man ever to be arrested for smoking was Rocirigo de Jerez, who sailed with Columbus on

his first voyage. His fellow townsmen of Aymonte observed the smoke issuing from his mouth and nose

and denounced him as a minion of the devil. He was imprisoned by the Inquisition. The year was 1504.

The school keeper’s name was Mr Blot. Charles Henry Blot to be precise, although this was only

ever revealed at his trial. To the children of Grange Junior School he was Mr Blot and you called him sir

when you met him.

You met him unexpectedly. In the corridor, in the toilets, in the alleyway that ran down to where the

dustbins were kept and you weren’t supposed to be. He loomed at you, sniffed at you, muttered at you,

then he was gone. Leaving behind him an odd smell in the air.

The source of Blot’s smell was a matter for debate. A lad called Billy, who knew more than was

healthy for one of his age, said that the smell was sulphur and that it came from certain glands situated

close to Blot’s arse. All male adults had these glands, according to Billy, and used them for marking their

territory. Much in the manner of tom cats.

And this was why Blot sniffed at you, to check whether you had developed your glands yet. And if

you had, he would report you to the headmistress and she would make you see the school nurse and

your parents would have to come up to the school and fill out a special fonn.

This particular disclosure led to a rather embarrassing incident, when I was caught by my mother in

the bathroom, trousers around my ankles, bent double before the mirror, head between my legs and

sniffing.

I lost a lot of faith in Billy after that.

Exactly what Mr Blot really did smell of was anybody’s guess. He didn’t smell like other grown-ups

and other grown-ups smelled pretty strong. When Oscar Wilde wrote that youth is wasted on the young,

he was only part of the way there. It’s the senses that are really wasted, because nobody tells you that

they’re going to fade.

When you’re a child, the world is a very colourful place. It’s extremely noisy and it smells incredible.

By the time you’re a teenager you’ve lost nearly ten per cent of your sense of colour and sound and smell

and you don’t even notice.

It’s probably something to do with your glands.

But Blot smelled odd and that was that.

Of course he looked odd too. School keepers always look odd. It’s a tradition, or an old charter, or

something. You don’t get the job if you don’t look odd. And Blot got the job and he kept it. He must

have been well over six feet six. My father was a big man, but Blot loomed over him. Blot loomed and

fairly dwindled. His head seemed the size of an onion and closely resembled one too. He wore a boiler

suit of September grey with a matching cap and a blue woollen muffler, which made him look like an

engine driver.

Billy explained to us that this had indeed once been Blot’s pro-fession. He had been the driver of the

Trans-Siberian Express. A terrible incident had occurred which led to Blot fleeing Russia. His train had

run into a snowdrift in midwinter a thousand miles from anywhere. The crew had eventually been forced

to dine upon the passengers, who were mostly peasants and used to that kind of thing. By the time the

spring thaw came and the train could get moving again, Blot was the only survivor. Although the

authorities were willing to forgive the consumption of passengers, as peasants had never been in short

supply, they took a dim view of Blot having filled his stomach with trained railwaymen.

Billy said that down in Blot’s lair amongst the heating pipes, he drank his tea from the stoker’s

skull-cap and sat upon an armchair upholstered in human skin.

As it turned out at the trial, Billy wasn’t altogether wrong about the armchair.

But the trial was for the future and way back then, in the time that was our now, we hated Mr Blot.

Hated his boiler suit and matching cap. Hated his woollen muffler and his onion head. Hated his loom-ing

and his sniffing and his smell.

The time that was our now was 1958 and we were nine years old and plenty of us. Post-war baby

boomers, forty to a class. Weetabix and orange juice for breakfast, half a pint of milk at playtime with a

straw. Spain for lunch, and tea, if you were lucky. Bovril and Marmite and Ovaltine before you went to

bed.Our teacher was Mr Vaux. He wore a handlebar moustache that he referred to as a ‘pussy-tickler’

and a tweed sports jacket. In our youthful innocence we naturally assumed that pussy-tickling was some

kind of exotic sport indulged in by gentlemen who wore tweed. We were right, in essence.

Mr Vaux was a gentleman; he had a posh accent and had flown Spiffires in the war. He had been

shot down over France and the Gestapo had tortured him with a screwdriver. He had three medals in his

desk drawer and these he wore on Empire Day.

Mr Vaux was something of a hero.

Mr Vaux and Mr Blot did not see eye to eye. In the winter it got very cold in class. We were

allowed to wear our coats. Mr Vaux would turn up the radiators and Mr Blot would come in and turn

them down again.

But it didn’t seem to be winter that often. Mostly it seemed to be summer. Our classroom faced the

west and on those summer after-noons the sunlight fell through the high Edwardian windows in long

cathedral shafts, rich with floating golden motes, and put us all to sleep. Mr Vaux would try to rouse us

with tales of his adventures behind enemy lines. But eventually he would give it up as a lost cause, open

his silver cigarette case, take out a Capstan Full Strength and sit back, with his feet on the desk, awaiting

the four o’clock bell.

It was Mr Vaux who got us into smoking really. Of course in those days everybody smoked. Film

stars and politicians. Doctors and nurses. Priests in the pulpit and midwives on the job. Footballers all

enjoyed a Wild Woodbine at half-time and marathon runners were rarely to be seen crossing the finishing

lines without a fag in their faces.

And how well I recall those first pictures of Sir Edmund Hillary upon the summit of Everest sucking

on a Senior Service.

Those indeed were the days.

But faraway days they are now. And in these present times, some fifty years later, in these

post-technological days of heavy food rationing, riots and the new Reichstag, it is hard to imagine a

golden epoch in the century before, when smoking was not only legal, but good for you.

And yet it is curious how, in so many ways, those times mirror our own. Then, as now, television

was in black and white. Then, as now, there were only two stations and these run by the state. Then, as

now, food was rationed. Then, as now, there was conscription. Then, as now, there were no computers.

But then, and unlike now, we were happy.

It is certainly true that the old often look back upon the days of their youth with an ill-deserved

fondness. They harp on about ‘the good old days, the good old days’, whilst filling in the pock holes of

hardship with the face cream of faulty recollection, and no doubt papering over the cracks of catastrophe

with the heavily flocked and Paisley-patterned washable wallpaper of false memory syndrome. While this

may be the case, some times are actually better than others. And most were better than ours.

As I write today, on 30 July 2008, a mere eight and a half years on from the great millennium

computer crash, with the world gone down the pan and halfway round the old S bend, it is easy to

breathe out a sigh for times gone by and wonder where they went.

Up in smoke is where they went, which brings me back to fags.

Mr Vaux, as I’ve said, smoked Capstan Full Strength, flavoursome and rich in health. As children,

with our heightened nasal sensi-tivities, we had no difficulty in identifying any of the thirty or so leading

brands of cigarettes, simply by taking a sniff or two of the smoke. Things could get tricky on long train

journeys, as there were more than three hundred regional brands, not to mention imports and personal

blends. But Capstan, Woodbine, Players and the other well-known names were easy.

Up north, where they were evidently more enlightened, junior-school children were allowed, indeed

encouraged, to smoke in class. This was no doubt to prepare them for life down the pit, as in those days

all men who lived north of the Wash worked in the coal mines. But in London, where I grew up, and in

Brentford, where I went to school, you were not allowed to smoke in the classroom until after you’d

passed your eleven plus and gone on to the Grammar.

So we did as all children did, and smoked in the toilets at playtime. The toilets were all equipped

with fitted ashtrays next to the bog-roll holders and once a day the ashtray monitor would go around and

empty them. Ashtray monitor was one of the better monitoring jobs, as you could often collect up a good

number of half-smoked ciga-rettes, crushed out hastily when the bell rang to end playtime, but still with a

few fine puffs left in them.

There were monitors for everything back then. A milk monitor; a chalk monitor; an ink monitor; a

window monitor, who got to use the big pole with the hook on the end; a monitor to give out the school

books and another to collect them up again. There was the car monitor who cleaned the headmistress’s

Morris Minor; the shoe monitor who attended to the polishing of the teachers’ footwear; and of course

the special monitor who catered to the needs of the male teachers who favoured underage sex.

I was a window monitor myself, and if I had a pound now for every pane of glass I accidentally

knocked out then and every caning I received in consequence, I would have enough money to employ a

special monitor of my own to lessen the misery of my declining years.

But sadly I do not.

However, what I do have is a photographic memory whose film remains unfogged and it is with the

aid of this that I shall endeavour to set down an accurate record of the way things were then. Of the folk

that I knew, who would later play their parts in the misshaping of history. Good folk and bad, famous and

not so. And of one in particular, whose unique talents, remarkable achievements and flamboyant lifestyle

are now the stuff of legend. A man who has brought joy into the lives of millions with his nonpareil nose

powder.

He is known today by many appellations. The tender blender with the blinder grinder. The master

blaster with the louder powder. And the geezer with the sneezer that’s a real crowd pleaser. And so on

and so forth and suchlike.

Most will know him simply as the Sultan of Snuff

I speak, of course, of Mr Doveston.

Those readers old enough to remember daily newspapers will recall with fondness the ‘gutter press’.

Tabloids, as were. These journals specialized in documenting the lives of the rich and famous. And during

the final years of the twentieth century the name of Mr Doveston was often to be found writ in letters big

and bold across their front pages.

He was both praised and demonized. His exploits were marvelled at, then damned to Hell. Saint,

they said, then sinner. Guru, then Godless git. Many of the tales told about him were indeed true. He did

have a passion for dynamite — the ‘Big Aaah-choo!’ as he called it. I can personally vouch for the

authenticity of the infamous episode of the detonating dog. I witnessed it with my own two eyes. And I

got a lot ofit on me!

But that it was he who talked the late Pope into the canonization of Diana, Princess of Wales, is

incorrect. The worship of Diana, Di-anity as it is now known, did not become a major world religion until

after the Great Computer Crash. By which time Mr Doveston had fallen out with the ailing pontiff after an

argument over which of them possessed the larger collection of erotically decorated Chinese snuff

bottles.

The task I have set myself here is to tell the real story. Give the facts and hold not back upon the

guts and gore. There is love and joy and there is sorrow. There is madness, there is mayhem, there is

magic, there is mystery.

There is snuff.

And where there’s snuff, there’s snot, the saying goes, and you shall have it all.

But let me explain from the outset that this is no ordinary biography. This book contains a series of

personal recollections. I write only of the times that I spent with the Doveston.

I write of our childhood years together and of the meetings with his ‘uncles’. Meetings that would

shape our years ahead.

I write of the now legendary Puberty Party, of Brentstock, of the days at Castle Doveston and of the

Great Millennial Ball. And I write, as I alone can, of his terrible end.

I can do no more than this.

And so, with that said, and well said too, let us begin our tale. The year is 1958, the month is good

old flaming June. The sunlight falls through those high classroom windows, lighting up the head of Mr

Vaux who’s lighting up a fag. Outside, in the corridor, Blot looms above a startled child and sniffs and

then is gone. And coming now across the quad, with shuffling gait, is a ragged lad, gum-chewing, with a

whistle and a grin. His hair is tousled and nitty, and he does not wear his tie. His grubby hands are in his

grubby pockets.

Can this urchin really be the boy who later, as the man, will make so great a mark upon this world of

ours?

It can.

Our tale begins.

At bull-baiting, bear-whipping and everywhere else, the English are constantly smoking the Nicotian

weed, which in America is called ‘tobaco’. Paul Heutzner, 1598

The boy Doveston shuffled across the quadrangle. It was a definite shuffle he had, as opposed to,

say, a waddle or a totter. There was the hint of a slouch to his gait and more than a little of the plod.

There was trudge in it too, as a matter of fact, and a smidgen of amble as well.

But let it be set clear upon the record and right from the very start, there was no trace of sidle in that

walk. And had he chosen, for reasons of his own, to increase the speed of his perambulation, there

would have been no swagger, strut, or goose-step.

The boy Doveston moved with the honest and unprepossessing shuffle of the poor. Because he was

poor, as indeed were we all.

That our school should be called the Grange was not without irony. For although the title conjures up

an image of some well-bricked seat of learning, ivy-walled and gravelly drived, this was not the case. The

Grange was your bog-standard Edwardian day school, built by the burghers of Brentford to educate the

sons of the poor.

Not educate them too much, of course, but just enough. Sufficient that they could spell their names

and count their wages and learn to call their betters, sir.

And so it had for fifty years.

And done so rather well.

The boy Doveston had not been taught to shuffle. It came naturally to him. It was in his genes.

Generations of Dovestons had shuffled on before him: few to glory and all to a pauper’s grave. And while

we did not suffer the wretched privations of our Irish counter-parts, who plodded barefoot to school with

a clod of turf under each arm and a potato clenched between their bottom cheeks, we were poor

enough.

We suffered all the usual maladies of the impoverished: rickets, ringworm, scrofiila and mange. As a

typical child, the boy Doveston played host to a wide variety of vermin, from the aforementioned nits, to

body lice, gut worm, trouser roach and plimsoll maggot. Blowflies feasted on the juices of his eyes and

aphids dined upon his ear wax.

But this was the way of it. We knew no different. We were unconcerned and we were happy. The

boy Doveston was happy. He grinned and he whistled — a popular tune of the day, breathed out in

unrecognizable fragments, for it is almost impossible to grin and whistle at the same time.

The boy Doveston, having shuffled across the quadrangle, now shuffled under the veranda and into

the school building. Our class-room was 4a and within it we were enjoying a history lesson. Mr Vaux

stood before the blackboard, a piece of chalk in one hand and a Capstan’s Full Strength in the other, and

spoke to us of Damiens’ Bed of Steel.

Robert-François Damiens had in 1757 made an attempt upon the life of Louis XV. As a punishment

for this and to discourage any other potential regicides, he had been brutally tortured to death. They had

placed him upon an iron bedstead affair that was warmed to red hot. His right hand was roasted on a

slow fire. Molten lead and wax were poured into wounds that were infficted upon him by special pincers

and he was eventually torn into pieces by four wild horses.

It was all very interesting and Mr Vaux evidently knew his subject well, judging by the graphic

descriptions he gave of each particular torment. And it certainly served as an object lesson to any of us

who harboured the ambition to become an assassin when we grew up: that we should plan our getaways

with the utmost care!

The lesson was almost over by the time the boy Doveston entered the classroom, which was a

shame because he had missed all the best bits. I know he would have enjoyed the part when Mr Vaux

held his finger over a candle flame to demonstrate just how much pain a man can take before he screams

really loud. I know I did. And while most of the soppy girls were quietly weeping and that softy Paul

Mason had fainted, the boy Doveston would certainly have been the first to put up his hand when Mr

Vaux asked who amongst us would like to sniff the burned flesh of his finger.

But as it was he missed it and as it was he entered without knock-ing first.

Mr Vaux swung around from the blackboard and pointed his charred digit at the boy. ‘Out!’ cried

he, in outrage and in such a raised voice that Paul, awaking from his faint, was caused to faint once more.

The boy went out again and knocked. ‘Come,’ called Mr Vaux. The boy came in.

Our teacher laid his chalk aside and sought instead his slipper. He looked the boy both up and down

and shook his head in sadness. And then he glanced up at the classroom clock and made tut-tutting

sounds.

‘Two-twenty-three,’ said Mr Vaux. ‘You have excelled yourself this time, Doveston.’

The boy scuffed his unpolished shoes on the floor. ‘I’m truly sorry, sir,’ he said.

‘A laudable sentiment,’ said Mr Vaux. ‘And one which makes the violence I am about to visit upon

your backside with my slipper purely symbolic. Kindly bend over the desk.’

‘Ah,’ said the boy. ‘I think not.’

‘Think not?’ Mr Vaux’s moustachios bristled as only moustachios can. ‘Over the desk at once, my

lad, and learn the errors of dissent.’

‘The headmistress says that you are not to beat me for being late, sir.

‘Oh,’ said our teacher, making a dramatic flourish with his slipper.

‘You have received a dispensation from on high. Possibly you are to atone for your sins in some

other fashion. Or is it a case of venia necessitati datur?’*

It was always a pleasure to hear Mr Vaux spout Latin. But as the subject was not taught in our

school, we never had the foggiest idea what he was on about.

‘It is the case, sir, that I had to go to the police station.’

‘O joyous day,’ said Mr Vaux. ‘And so at last you are to be taken off to Approved School and I

shall be spared the onerous and thank-less task of teaching you. Hasten then to clear your desk and take

your leave at the hurry-up.’

‘No, sir. I had to go to the police station because I witnessed a crime and helped to bring the

criminal to justice.’

‘Doveston,’ said Mr Vaux, ‘do you know the penalty for lying in this school?’

Doveston munched thoughtfully upon his chewing gum. ‘I do, sir, yes,’ he said at length. ‘I do, sir,

yes indeed.’

‘That is good,’ said Mr Vaux. ‘For although the punishment falls somewhat short of that inflicted

upon Damiens, it has always in the past proved itself to be a powerful deterrent in the fight against

mendacity and falsehood.’

‘Yes indeed,’ said Doveston once more.

‘So, with that firmly understood, perhaps you would care to share with us the details of your day?’

‘I would, sir. Yes please.’

‘Then do so.’ Mr Vaux settled himself down at his desk, stubbed out his cigarette and put his hands

behind his Brylcreemed head. ‘The floor is yours,’ he said, ‘so say your piece.

‘Thank you, sir, I will.’ The boy Doveston thrust his hands once more into the pockets of his shorts

and sniffed away a runner from his nose. ‘You see, sir,’ he began, ‘I left my house early, because I had

to do an errand for my mum and I didn’t want to be late for school. My mum had asked me to go to old

Mr Hartnell’s corner shop and buy her a packet of Duchess. Those are the new perfumed cigarettes

from Carberry’s of Holborn. The tobacco is a light mellow Virginia, flavoured with bergamot and

sandalwood. And although I do not

*Pardon is granted to necessity.

condemn the use of essential oils in the preparation of snuff, it is a different matter with cigarettes,

tending to adulterate the taste of the tobacco rather than enhance it. I feel that with Duchess, as with

Lady Grey’s and Her Favourites, the application has been over-liberal. In my opinion, the perfuming of

cigarettes is little more than an exotic blandishment, designed to lure gullible female smokers away from

their regular brands.’

‘An argument most eloquently put,’ said Mr Vaux, his eyebrows raised. ‘I had no idea that you

were aufait with the subtleties of the tobacco—blender’s craft.’

‘Oh yes, sir. When I grow up I intend to go into the trade. I have certain ideas that I think will

revolutionize it.’

‘Do you now? Well, I’m sure that they’re all very interesting. But please confine yourself to the

matter in hand.’

‘Yes, sir. So I went into old Mr Hartnell’s to purchase the ciga-rettes. Which, I might add, cost one

and fourpence for ten, an outrageous sum. And there was a chap waiting to be served before me. He

was dressed in the garb of a road-sweeper, but I chanced to notice that his shoes were highly polished.

My suspicions were further aroused when he asked to buy a packet of cigarettes.’

‘Why?’ asked Mr Vaux.

‘Because he asked for a packet of Carroll’s Golden Glories, a tipped cigarette smoked almost

exclusively by the gentry. No road-sweeper would ever smoke a tipped cigarette, let alone a Carroll’s.

And then, sir, if this wasn’t enough, he paid with a five-pound note.’

‘Incredible,’ said Mr Vaux.

‘Incredible,’ we all agreed.

And it was incredible. And as we listened and the boy Doveston spoke, the tale that unfolded was

more than incredible.

It was exciting too.

He had followed the man from old Mr Hartnell’s corner shop, down Moby Dick Terrace, along

Abaddon Street to an empty house on the edge of the bomb site at the Half Acre. We knew all the

empty houses in Brentford, but we’d never been able to get into this one because it was so well boarded

up. The man had entered the house through a hidden doorway at the back and the boy had followed him

in. Once inside, the boy had found himself in what looked to be a laboratory, with strange specimens

suspended in tall preserving jars and much complicated apparatus of the electrical persuasion. He

crouched down behind a work bench and watched as the man made a call on a tiny wireless set,

speaking in a language that seemed to consist of squeaks and grunts. His call completed, he swung

around, pistol in hand and demanded that Doveston show himself.

Grudgingly the boy complied.

‘So,’ said the man, ‘you are an enterprising youth.’

‘I’m lost, sir,’ said the Doveston. ‘Could you tell me the way to the -railway station?’

‘You are indeed lost,’ said the man, in a voice that the boy described as chilling. ‘But now I have

found you.’

‘Goodbye,’ said the Doveston, turning to leave.

‘The door is locked,’ said the man. And it was.

‘Please don’t kill me,’ the Doveston said.

The man smiled and put away his pistol. ‘I have no wish to kill you,’ he replied. ‘On the contrary,

when I have finished with you, you will be anything but dead. You will be more alive than you can

possibly imagine.’

‘I would rather just leave, if that’s all right with you.’

‘No,’ said the man, ‘it’s not. Now listen carefully while I explain the situation to you and then, when

I’ve finished, you can make up your own mind about what you do.’

‘Do you mind if I smoke while I listen?’

‘No, certainly, have one of mine.

The boy Doveston grinned at Mr Vaux. ‘I was hoping he’d say that,’ he said, ‘because I’d never

tried a Carroll’s before. I must say, however, that it was something of a let-down. The quality of the

tobacco was good, but the watermarked paper has a slightly glossy feel and burns unevenly. I was

impressed by the charcoal filter, but there is definite room for improvement there. Possibly the addition of

a cork tip such as with Craven A. I—’

But this particular discourse was cut short by the sound of Mr Vaux’s slipper striking his desk. ‘Get

on with it!’ cried Mr Vaux.

The boy got on with it.

‘The man told me that he was part of an élite group of scientists working for the government. They

had created an electronic brain that was capable of predicting future developments in technology. It

couldn’t actually tell the future, because it couldn’t access all the information required to do that. It

worked on a mathematical principle. If you are asked to work out what two and two make, you will say:

four. Which means that you have predicted the future. You have foretold what will happen when you add

two and two. The electronic brain works something like that. He said that it had worked out that by the

end of the century we would be almost completely reliant on machines like itself, computers, to run

society. They would be linked into almost everything. Food production, military defence,

telecommunications, transportation, hospitals, banking, whatever.

‘But, he said, there would be an unavoidable design fault in the programming of these systems.

Something to do with the little date-counters inside them. And this would mean that when they reached

the year two thousand, many of them would break down. Society would then collapse, he said.’

Mr Vaux stroked at his moustachios. And if I’d had some to stroke, I’d have surely done the same.

It was fascinating stuff. Radical stuff Incredible stuff And, curiously, it also seemed as if it were familiar

stuff I felt certain that I’d heard all this before. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more absolutely

certain I felt that I’d heard all this before. Indeed that I’d read all this before.

In a comic book that the Doveston had recently lent to me.

I don’t think Mr Vaux had read it though. I think he would have stopped the tale-telling sooner if he

had. I think he quite enjoyed the bit when the boy refused to submit to the brain-implant operation that

would have linked him to the electronic machine and the man pulled the lever that dropped him through

the trapdoor into the cage beneath. It was here, of course, that the Doveston met the princess with the

silver eyes, who had been kidnapped for use in some similar experiment. I don’t know whether you can

actually pick a padlock with a matchstick and whether there really is a maze of subterranean caverns

beneath Brentford inhabited by dwarves with tattooed ears. I remain uncertain about the amount of

firepower the Brentford constabulary were able to call upon when they surrounded the house. And I’m

certain we would have heard the explosion when the man pressed the self—destruct button rather than

be taken alive.

But it was a thrilling story and I do feel that it was really decent of Mr Vaux to let the Doveston

finish.

Before he bent him over the desk.

Although we were never taught German at the Grange, we all knew the meaning of the word

Schadenfreude. And we all enjoyed the beating. It was a suitably epic beating and at the end of it Mr

Vaux had four of the injury monitors convey the unconscious Doveston to the school nurse to have his

wounds dressed and the smelling bottle applied to his nostrils.

All in all it was a memorable afternoon and I include it here as I feel it offers the reader an insight into

just what sort of a boy the Doveston was.

Imaginative. And daring.

At home-time we helped him out through the school gates. We were all for carrying him shoulder

high, but his bottom, it seemed, was too tender. However, he was a hero, there was no mistake about

that, and so we patted him gently upon what areas of his body remained uninjured and called him a jolly

good fellow.

As we left the school our attention was drawn to a large black and shiny motor car, parked in the

otherwise deserted street. On the bonnet of this leaned a man in a chauffeur’s uniform and cap. At our

rowdy approach he stepped forward. Not, however, to protect the car, but to hand the Doveston a bag

of sweets.

We looked on in silence as the chauffeur returned to the car, climbed in and drove away at speed.

I have a lasting impression of that moment. Of the car turning the corner past old Mr Hartnell’s shop.

And of the passenger in the back seat, smiling and waving.

The passenger was a beautiful young woman.

A beautiful young woman with astounding silver eyes.

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ROBERTRANKINSnuffFiction1ThefirstmanevertobearrestedforsmokingwasRocirigodeJerez,whosailedwithColumbusonhisfirstvoyage.HisfellowtownsmenofAymonteobservedthesmokeissuingfromhismouthandnoseanddenouncedhimasaminionofthedevil.HewasimprisonedbytheInquisition.Theyearwas1504.Theschoolkeeper’snamewasMrBlot....

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Robert Rankin - Snuff Fiction

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