The Marmite Horror

If it appears that I write these words in haste, I beg your forgiveness - but my time is brief, for I cannot know how long my sanity will endure. For I have tasted of That Which Must Not Be Named - that which its acolytes, in foul ceremonies of ancient Pagan faiths, call “Marmite” - and I fear my mind cannot long endure the memory of that hideous flavour. My G-d, my G-d, my G-d -

No. G-d help me, no! I will finish this, my last and greatest duty in this life. For the sake of my soul, that it might be saved though my mind cannot. And for you, Gentle Reader, that you might hear the warning I was too arrogant to heed . . .

I graduated from Miskatonic Univerity’s Gardner School of Law, New England’s finest law school. I was - there is no modest way to put this - widely regarded as a genius. My monograph describing the influence of the Cult of Nyarhotep upon the development of Greco-Roman law was published in the Miskatonic Review of Forgotten Law, and secured my place in the Arkham firm of Pierce and Danforth. My court-room skills were such that I prevailed in suits thought to be beyond the hope of victory, and I was made a partner in the firm before two years had passed.

Perhaps my successes in the world of Man are what doomed and damned me both. Perhaps my victories in litigation seduced me into the pursuit of newer, stranger victories beyond the grasp of Man. If I knew once why I had chosen as I did, I cannot now recall - not now, as the light of Reason dims by the instant, smothered by that Taste … merciful G-d, that Taste …!

I had just settled the matter of the West Estate, to my client’s satisfaction and delight. At his insistence, I joined him at a local pub. I would have preferred to decline, for the pub was of the lower sort - a tradesmen’s pub, for fishermen and dockworkers and the like. However, my client had amassed a considerable fortune, and my fellow partners insisted I indulge the man. G-d, what I would give now to have stayed away then! To have stayed far away! To have run, and run, and run, until legs and lungs and heart could carry me no further!

The bar-tender was ancient, his face lined in eldritch manner beyond that which years alone (though they were many) could credit. As afternoon turned to evening, and evening to night, he brought pint after pint to our table, listening with cold and somehow foreign eyes to my increasingly elaborate boasts of my legal prowess.

It must have been ten o’clock when, steeped in drink as Adam was steeped in that first and greatest sin, the bartender produced a small jar alongside our ales. It was a harmless-looking thing, at first inspection. But my old professors of Law had trained me to look deeper into the heart of things, and the heart of this jar was … wrong. Its lines bent and curved upon each other in ways that Euclid had never imagined, and the colour of the thing defied my eyes in some strange and hideous manner – seeming first one hue, and then other, but never anything that the Earth of sun and stone and living things had ever seen.

“What’s this, then?” my client asked, his arm sweeping drunkenly to encompass, not just the jar, but perhaps all Creation. He struck his pint – long-since emptied – and it rolled unheeded to the floor.

The bartender gestured silently towards the jar, and – with eyes now accustomed to the unnatural colour and lines of the wretched thing – I saw a label, faded by what seemed like strange eons past. The script was alien – surely no Man had ever thought to inscribe lines of such obscene proportion, such arcane and strangely decadent curvature and angle. And yet … a word came to me, as if from unfathomable distances of space and time, and I knew the name of the jar – or rather, its contents.

“Marmite,” I whispered, the fetid word crawling from my lips despite my manful effort – for no curse, no blasphemy, no obscenity uttered by Man had ever felt as coldly, inhumanly vile as those two alien syllables.

A chant – harsh, and far older than any Christian verse – burst from a nearby table. “La! La! Cthulhu ftaghn! Marmite ftaghn! Cthulhu ftaghn!”

“What is this?” whispered my client. I glimpsed the colour draining from his slackened face, but my eyes remained locked to those cold and foreign eyes of the bartender.

“It goes well … with toast,” the ancient man intoned. He produced a slice, pressed it into my hand. My skin went cold, then numb, where the man’s fingers brushed mine.

My client, roused from his drunken stupor, tensed. “No!” he cried. “Damn you, man, death will be the least you have to fear from this! My grandfather was maddened by the mere odor of Marmite!”

That alien chant burst across the room again. “La! La! Cthlhu ftaghn! Marmite ftaghn! Cthulhu ftaghn!”

Laugher rose in me – or perhaps from outside of me, from that cold and uncaring corner of vast and unknowable space from whence Marmite came. I knew not then, and I know not now. Perhaps it was merely pride that impelled me to say, “Nonsense! I could do with a snack!”

My hands, as of their own accord, grasped and unscrewed the lid of the Marmite jar. The screw-threads screamed in faint protest as the lid, of metal older than any to be found in the world of Men, scraped against them. The ichor revealed whence the lid was removed – faintly quivering, gellid and loathesome – cannot be described in the English tongue, and G-d willing never will be. However, I was compelled – I swear to Chr-st, I was compelled! – to scrape the dark mass onto toast.

And then I ate, in obscene parody of the sacred Communion rite – but whose body that bread became upon transubstantiation, and whose blood the Marmite was, I cannot relate even now, at Madness’ door.

The rest of that night, I cannot – and dare not – recall. I woke the next morning in my home, collapsed upon the floor, with horror bubbling beneath my breast, I took up pen and paper, and wrote these words.

My work is almost done now, as is my Sanity. I find I cannot mourn its passing – perhaps the horror will lesson once I rest in insanity’s embrace. Perhaps.

Learn from my sad example, Gentle Reader. There are things Man was not meant to know – things that care for us not at all, that crush us as we crush ants that stray beneath our feet. These, we must avoid. And chief among their number – is Marmite.

Oh God yes. I once tried a dot of Marmite; not a bite, not a drop, a dot. a dot the size of this smiley------>:eek: It was fucking foul. The only things I can compare the awfulness to are things that I never intended to put in my mouth: gas, oil, paint and photo developer. Even after I brushed my teeth, there was still latent bits of Satanic Hellishness that would come back, as much as an hour later. It boggles the mind how that’s even considered food.

The OP: what a load of overblown shit.

Funniest post I’ve read in a long time. Lovecraft RULES ! I daren’t, however, consume the afre-mentioned foul stuff … nor vegemite, neither.

Even boullion turns up these toes :frowning:

:: claps ::

Great parody! This Neo-Pagan will–possibly–forgive you for fouling the good name of Paganism with that horror.

I’ve seen Marmite filed in the cleaning-supplies section at the local food store. I don’t think they knew what it is.

The cry of the acolytes of the Old Ones is Ia, not La. Other than that, well done!

You know you’re going to hear from Qadgop, right?

Updates list of classic Pit threads

Haha, thanks! As for the chant, I think you’re right - should have been “Ia!” Oh well - clearly, the Marmite has affected me more profoundly than I knew …

And while I fear the good Doctor Quadgop, as we all should - there’s not a lot even a Mercotan can do to me, after the Marmite. Sure, Mercotans can savage even neutronium-hulled spacecraft - but the Marmite is inside me, doing G-d knows what.

Thanks, Sunspace!

I’m pretty sure that the food store staff knew damned well what the Marmite was … and were trying to protect you from it. Thank them the next time you visit!

But you have to butter the toast first and then- no?


More for me, then.

It made my urine smell funny. And not “funny-good.”

If I insulate myself with a good curry, perhaps… no. No. I cannot.

There is a small voice in the back of my head urging me to go down to the all-night Sobeys right now and buy some, just to try it. This is the same voice that urges me to jump off overpasses or tall buildings just to find out what it would be like. It’s not a kind voice; it’s an anti-human voice that urges the destruction of all long-term plans. It’s the voice in all of us that wants to blow all my living money on a new computer; that wants to touch the incandescent stove element; that wants to push the button and launch the nukes; that rejoices in Armageddon on any scale and works to hasten its coming.

I think I shall refuse.

[sub]I’m hungry.[/sub]


I don’t know. I am just sitting here eating Spam and drinking Stout. How could you eat that crap?

What does it taste like? I have to trust you. i am not going to try it.

Well written and Kudos!

My favorite line: *“It goes well … with toast,” the ancient man intoned. He produced a slice, pressed it into my hand. *

I just like to think where did that piece of toast come from???
Did he just magically have it within his body somewhere?
That and the Communion line, great great stuff! The Pit’s been long overdue for one of these

Wonderful post.

However the “La! La!,” makes me think of Smurfs worshiping Cthulhu. I can hear it now…

La, la, la, la, la, la, Cthulhu ftaghn!
La, la, la, la, la, la, Cthulhu the whole day long!

The horror… the horror…

Up yours with a rustry crowbar! Sideways. :stuck_out_tongue:

A good Lovecraft parody is a thing of beauty.

There are two major varieties of Marmite: English and New Zealand. The New Zealand stuff is excellent, IMHO- I love it- but the English stuff isn’t quite as good.

And as much as I enjoy Lovecraft and a good homage thereof, I’d suggest that if you’re not prepared to type the word “God” for whatever religious or moral beliefs you have, find another word to use instead, as opposed to missing a letter out and pretending that makes it a different word.

Marmite (and Vegemite) are one of those things you have to grow up with to enjoy, I think- I only know one or two Americans who like the stuff, but pretty much every non-“foreign immigrant” household in Australia & NZ will have a jar of one of them in it.

Besides, if you don’t like the stuff, don’t eat it. It’s not like it’s the only foodstuff in existence or anything. There’s quite a few things I can’t believe you lot in the US eat but I don’t go starting pit threads about them.

Sorry, people censoring out parts of words- regardless of the reason- in the mistaken belief that somehow makes the word “non-offensive” is one of my pet hates

marmite is ok, but it’s no vegemite…I’m out of Vegemite and I’m craving the stuff. I’ve got friends over there who keep promising to send me more…I have to pay like 20 bucks a jar when you include shipping to order it from San Antonio. I’ve got a lead on someone with a 5 lb bucket, that could be worth it.

You don’t have to grow up with it, I was 40 before I tried it. Sick bastard sent me a little touthpaste tube of it and it was gone in a day.

Tried Marmite for the first time two weeks ago and am in love.
If you don’t like the thread, don’t read it. It’s not like it’s the only food-related thread in the Pit or anything. There’s quite a few things I can’t believe you lot in Australia get all riled up about but I don’t go starting Pit threads about them.:wink: