The Succubus cocktail

The Succubus cocktail

What man amongst us has not woken suddenly in the pitch-dark watches of the night to feel the invisible weight pressing upon his chest and limbs, to hear the inaudible whisper of its hunger…? Next morning, nothing remains to prove it was more than a dream – nothing but the memory of its perfume on the twisted pillow. I see you bow your head. You know of what I speak, child of Cthulhu.

Here is a cocktail I have devised, coloured like the first terrible presentiment of dawn against the horizon, a cocktail that recaptures the elusive scent of the succubus. The citrus releases the floral personality of the muscat liqueur in the brandy. The Campari adds a bittersweet bass note to the experience, without which the drink is left hollow and unsatisfied, incomplete, fit only to lead apes into hell.

1          Half-fill a Highball glass with ice. Add two tablespoons of freshly squeezed lemon juice and two tablespoons of freshly squeezed orange juice. Add two ounces of 3- or 5-star Metaxa brandy (no other brandy will do) and stir. Drop in one teaspoon of Campari. Top up with the merest splash of very cold soda water. Garnish with a thin slice of orange.

  1. Impetuous initiate, know that the name of dread Cthulhu is not to be invoked lightly. Your insipid libation is ambrosia next to the noisome and unspeakable fluid upon which the star-spawned Elders slake their terrible thirst in the shoggoth-haunted caverns of darkly pulsating Yuggoth. A mere sip of that nefandous ichor, malignly bubbling in its cosmic and unrecognizable chromaticism, would be enough to send any mortal man screaming into black abysses of primaeval madness. Ia ia Cthulhu fhtagn!

  2. Armitage…
    I had all but forgotten you. Now I see you forget yourself – you who claim knowledge of the Unaussprechlichen Kulten, you who have dared to utter the dread incantations and deem yourself a protegé of beings you do not even begin to comprehend.
    I know you, Professor .
    And tell me this: Where are those acolytes whose trust you betrayed?
    Where are those Miskatonic sophomores who followed your teachings in the belief that violence and amorality might lead to enlightment instead of dark and abysmal damnation?
    You, not I, are the blasphemer. You and Friedrich and poor, misguided August! The unholy trinity. And you dare to threaten me? I raise Long Daniel – my middle finger – in your face.
    We used to jest about the fate of the scholar – do you remember? Torn to pieces by invisible hands in the market place… There was always fear in your face – but not in mine. Crom is my god. He laughs from his mountain.
    Do you want to live forever?
    James Chatto

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