William S.Burroughs.
Naked lunch
© Copyright William S.Burroughs
I can feel the heat closing in, feel them out there
making their moves, setting up their devil doll stool
pigeons, crooning over my spoon and dropper I throw
away at Washington Square Station, vault a turnstile
and two flights down the iron stairs, catch an uptown
A train... Young, good looking, crew cut, Ivy League,
advertising exec type fruit holds the door back for me.
I am evidently his idea of a character. You know the
type comes on with bartenders and cab drivers, talking
about right hooks and the Dodgers, call the counterman
in Nedick's by his first name. A real asshole. And right
on time this narcotics dick in a white trench coat (im-
agine tailing somebody in a white trench coat -- trying
to pass as a fag I guess ) hit the platform. I can hear the
way he would say it holding my outfit in his left hand,
right hand on his piece: "I think you dropped some-
thing, fella"
But the subway is moving.
"So long flatfoot!" I yell, giving the fruit his B produc-
tion. I look into the fruit's eyes, take in the white teeth,
the Florida tan, the two hundred dollar sharkskin suit,
the button-down Brooks Brothers shirt and carrying
The News as a prop. "Only thing I read is Little Abner."
A square wants to come on hip.... Talks about "pod,"
and smoke it now and then, and keeps some around to
offer the fast Hollywood types.
"Thanks, kid," I say, "I can see you're one of our own."
His face lights up like a pinball machine, with stupid,
pink effect.
"Grassed on me he did," I said morosely. ( Note:
Grass is English thief slang for inform.) I drew closer
and laid my dirty junky fingers on his sharkskin sleeve.
"And us blood brothers in the same dirty needle, I can
tell you in confidence he is due for a hot shot." ( Note:
This is a cap of poison junk sold to addict for liquida-
tion purposes. Often given to informers. Usually the hot
shot is strychnine since it tastes and looks like junk. )
"Ever see a hot shot hit, kid? I saw the Gimp catch
one in Philly. We rigged his room with a one-way
whorehouse mirror and charged a sawski to watch it.
He never got the needle out of his arm. They don't if
the shot is right. That's the way they find them, dropper
full of clotted blood hanging out of a blue arm. The
look in his eyes when it hit -- Kid, it was tasty....
"Recollect when I am traveling with the Vigilante,
best Shake Man in the industry. Out in Chi... We is
working the fags in Lincoln Park. So one night the Vigi-
lante turns up for work in cowboy boots and a black
vest with a hunka tin on it and a lariat slung over his
shoulder.
"So I says: 'What's with you? You wig already?'
"He just looks at me and says: 'Fill your hand stran-
ger' and hauls out an old rusty six shooter and I take off
across Lincoln Park, bullets cutting all around me. And
he hangs three fags before the fuzz nail him. I mean
the Vigilante earned his moniker....
"Ever notice how many expressions carry over from
queers to con men? Like 'raise,' letting someone know
you are in the same line?
" 'Get her!'
" 'Get the Paregoric Kid giving that mark the build
up!'
" 'Eager Beaver wooing him much too fast.'
"The Shoe Store Kid (he got that moniker shaking
down fetishists in shoe stores) say: 'Give it to a mark
with K.Y. and he will come back moaning for more.'
And when the Kid spots a mark he begin to breathe
heavy. His face swells and his lips turn purple like an
Eskimo in heat. Then slow, slow he comes on the mark,
feeling for him, palpating him with fingers of rotten
ectoplasm.
"The Rube has a sincere little boy look, burns through
him like blue neon. That one stepped right off a Sator-
day Evening Post cover with a string of bullheads, and
preserved himself in junk. His marks never beef and the
Bunko people are really carrying a needle for the Rube.
One day Little Boy Blue starts to slip, and what crawls
out would make an ambulance attendant puke. The
Rube 8flips in the end, running through empty automats
and subway stations, screaming: 'Come back, kid!!
Come back!l' and follows his boy right into the East
River, down through condoms and orange peels, mosaic
of floating newspapers, down into the silent black ooze
with gangsters in concrete, and pistols pounded Hat to
avoid the probing finger of prurient ballistic experts."
And the fruit is thinking: "What a character!! Wait
till I tell the boys in Clark's about this one." He's a char-
acter collector, would stand still for Joe Gould's seagull
act. So I put it on him for a sawski and make a meet to
sell him some "pod" as he calls it, thinking, "I'll catnip
the jerk." ( Note: Catnip smells like marijuana when it
burns. Frequently passed on the incautious or unin-
structed. )
"Well," I said, tapping my arm, "duty calls. As one
judge said to another: 'Be just and if you can't be just,
be arbitrary.' "
I cut into the automat and there is Bill Gains huddled
in someone else's overcoat looking like a 1910 banker
with paresis, and Old Bart, shabby and inconspicuous,
dunking pound cake with his dirty fingers, shiny over
the dirt.
I had some uptown customers Bill took care of, and
Bart knew a few old relics from hop smoking times,
spectral janitors, grey as ashes, phantom porters sweep-
ing out dusty halls with a slow old man's hand, cough-
ing and spitting in the junk-sick dawn, retired asthmatic
fences in theatrical hotels, Pantopon Rose the old
madam from Peoria, stoical Chinese waiters never show
sickness. Bart sought them out with his old junky walk,
patient and cautious and slow, dropped into their blood-
less hands a few hours of warmth.
I made the round with him once for kicks. You know
how old people lose all shame about eating, and it
makes you puke to watch them? Old junkies are the
same about junk. They gibber and squeal at sight of it.
The spit hangs off their chin, and their stomach rumbles
and all their guts grind in peristalsis while they cook
up, dissolving the body's decent skin, you expect any
moment a great blob of protoplasm will Hop right out
and surround the junk. Really disgust you to see it.
"Well, my boys will be like that one day," I thought
philosophically. "Isn't life peculiar?"
So back downtown by the Sheridan Square Station
in case the dick is lurking in a broom closet.
Like I say it couldn't last. I knew they were out there
powowing and making their evil fuzz magic, putting
dolls of me in Leavenworth. "No use sticking needles in
that one, Mike."
I hear they got Chapin with a doll. This old eunuch
dick just sat in the precinct basement hanging a doll of
him day and night, year in year out. And when Chapin
hanged in Connecticut, they find this old creep with his
neck broken.
"He fell downstairs," they say. You know the old cop
bullshit.
Junk is surrounded by magic and taboos, curses and
amulets. I could find my Mexico City connection by
radar. "Not this street, the next, right... now left. Now
right again," and there he is, toothless old woman face
and cancelled eyes.
I know this one pusher walks around humming a
tune and everybody he passes takes it up. He is so grey
and spectral and anonymous they don't see him and
think it is their own mind humming the tune. So the
customers come in on Smiles, or I'm in the 1Mood for
Love, or They Say We're Too Young to Go Steady, or
whatever the song is for that day. Sometime you can see
maybe fifty ratty-looking junkies squealing sick, running
along behind a boy with a harmonica, and there is The
Man on a cane seat throwing bread to the swans, a fat
queen drag walking his Afghan hound through the East
Fifties, an old wino pissing against an El post, a radical
Jewish student giving out leaflets in Washington Square,
a tree surgeon, an exterminator, an advertising fruit in
Nedick's where he calls the counterman by his first
name. The world network of junkies, tuned on a cord
of rancid jissom, tying up in furnished rooms, shivering
in the junk-sick morning. (Old Pete men suck the black
smoke in the Chink laundry back room and Melancholy
Baby dies from an overdose of time or cold turkey with-
drawal of breath.) In Yemen, Paris, New Orleans, Mex-
ico City and Istanbul -- shivering under the air hammers
and the steam shovels, shrieked junky curses at one
another neither of us heard, and The Man leaned out
of a passing steam roller and I coped in a bucket of tar.
(Note: Istanbul is being torn down and rebuilt, espe-
cially shabby junk quarters. Istanbul has more heroin
junkies than NYC. ) The living and the dead, in sick-
ness or on the nod, hooked or kicked or hooked again,
come in on the junk beam and the Connection is eating
Chop Suey on Dolores Street, Mexico D.F., dunking
pound cake in the automat, chased up Exchange Place
by a baying pack of People. ( Note: People is New
Orleans slang for narcotic fuzz. )
The old Chinaman dips river water into a rusty tin
can, washes down a yen pox hard and black as a cinder.
( Note: Yen pox is the ash of smoked opium. )
Well, the fuzz has my spoon and dropper, and I know
they are coming in on my frequency led by this blind
pigeon known as Willy the Disk. Willy has a round,
disk mouth lined with sensitive, erectile black hairs. He
is blind from shooting in the eyeball, his nose and palate
eaten away sniffing H, his body a mass of scar tissue
hard and dry as wood. He can only eat the shit now
with that mouth, sometimes sways out on a long tube
of ectoplasm, feeling for the silent frequency of junk.
He follows my trail all over the city into rooms I move
out already, and the fuzz walks in some newlyweds
from Sioux Falls.
"All right, Lee! I Come out from behind that strap-on!
We know you" and pull the man's prick off straight-
away.
Now Willy is getting hot and you can hear him always
out there in darkness (he only functions at night)
whimpering, and feel the terrible urgency of that blind,
seeking mouth. When they move in for the bust, Willy
goes all out of control, and his mouth eats a hole right
through the door. If the cops weren't there to restrain
him with a stock probe, he would suck the juice right
out of every junky he ran down.
I knew, and everybody else knew they had the Disk
on me. And if my kid customers ever hit the stand: "He
force me to commit all kinda awful sex acts in return for
junk" I could kiss the street good-bye.
So we stock up on H, buy a second-hand Studebaker,
and start West.
The Vigilante copped out as a schizo possession case:
"I was standing outside myself trying to stop those
hangings with ghost fingers.... I am a ghost wanting
what every ghost wants -- a body -- after the Long Time
moving through odorless alleys of space where no life
is only the colorless no smell of death.... Nobody can
breathe and smell it through pink convolutions of gristle
laced with crystal snot, time shit and black blood filters
of flesh."
He stood there in elongated court room shadow, his
face torn like a broken film by lusts and hungers of
larval organs stirring in the tentative ectoplasmic flesh
of junk kick ( ten days on ice at time of the First Hear-
ing) flesh that fades at the first silent touch of junk.
I saw it happen. Ten pounds lost in ten minutes stand-
ing with the syringe in one hand holding his pants up
with the other, his abdicated flesh burning in a cold
yellow halo, there in the New York hotel room...
night table litter of candy boxes, cigarette butts cas-
cading out of three ashtrays, mosaic of sleepless nights
and sudden food needs of the kicking addict nursing his
baby flesh....
The Vigilante is prosecuted in Federal Court under
a lynch bill and winds up in a Federal Nut House spe-
cially designed for the containment of ghosts: precise,
prosaic impact of objects... washstand... door...
toilet... bars... there they are... this is it... all
lines cut... nothing beyond... Dead End... And the
Dead End in every face....
The physical changes were slow at first, then jumped
forward in black chunks, falling through his slack tissue,
washing away the human lines.... In his place of total
darkness mouth and eyes are one organ that leaps for-
ward to snap with transparent teeth... but no organ
is constant as regards either function or position... sex
organs sprout anywhere... rectums open, defecate and
close... the entire organism changes color and con-
sistency in split-second adjustments....
The Rube is a social liability with his attacks as he
calls them. The Mark Inside was coming up on him
and that's a rumble nobody can cool; outside Philly he
jumps out to con a prowl car and the fuzz takes one
look at his face and bust all of us.
Seventy-two hours and five sick junkies in the cell
with us. Now not wishing to break out my stash in front
of these hungry coolies, it takes maneuvering and laying
of gold on the turnkey before we are in a separate cell.
Provident junkies, known as squirrels, keep stashes
against a bust. Every time I take a shot I let a few drops
fall into my vest pocket, the lining is stiff with stuff. I
had a plastic dropper in my shoe and a safety-pin stuck
in my belt. You know how this pin and dropper routine
is put down: "She seized a safety pin caked with blood
and rust, gouged a great hole in her leg which seemed
to hang open like an obscene, festering mouth waiting
for unspeakable congress with the dropper which she
now plunged out of sight into the gaping wound. But
her hideous galvanized need (hunger of insects in dry
places) has broken the dropper off deep in the flesh of
her ravaged thigh (looking rather like a poster on soil
erosion). But what does she care? She does not even
bother to remove the splintered glass, looking down at
her bloody haunch with the cold blank eyes of a meat
trader. What does she care for the atom bomb, the bed
bugs, the cancer rent, Friendly Finance waiting to re-
possess her delinquent flesh.... Sweet dreams, Panto-
pon Rose."
The real scene you pinch up some leg flesh and make
a quick stab hole with a pin. Then fit the dropper over,
not in the hole and feed the solution slow and careful
so it doesn't squirt out the sides.... When I grabbed
the Rube's thigh the flesh came up like wax and stayed
there, and a slow drop of pus oozed out the hole. And
I never touched a living body cold as the Rube there in
Philly....
I decided to lop him off if it meant a smother party.
(This is a rural English custom designed to eliminate
aged and bedfast dependents. A family so afflicted
throws a "smother party" where the guests pile mat-
tresses on the old liability, climb up on top of the mat-
resses and lush themselves out. ) The Rube is a drag on
the industry and should be led out into the skid rows of
the world. (This is an African practice. Official known
as the "Leader Out" has the function of taking old
characters out into the jungle and leaving them there. )
The Rube's attacks become an habitual condition.
Cops, doormen, dogs, secretaries snarl at his approach.
The blond God has fallen to untouchable vileness. Con
men don't change, they break, shatter -- explosions of
matter in cold interstellar space, drift away in cosmic
dust, leave the empty body behind. Hustlers of the
world, there is one Mark you cannot beat: The Mark
Inside....
I left the Rube standing on a corner, red brick slums
to the sky, under a steady rain of soot. "Going to hit this
croaker I know. Right back with that good pure drug-
store M.... No, you wait here -- don't want him to
rumble you." No matter how long, Rube, wait for me
right on that corner. Goodbye, Rube, goodbye kid....
Where do they go when they walk out and leave the
body behind?
Chicago: invisible hierarchy of decorated wops,
smell of atrophied gangsters, earthbound ghost hits
you at North and Halstead, Cicero, Lincoln Park, pan-
handler of dreams, past invading the present, rancid
magic of slot machines and roadhouses.
Into the Interior: a vast subdivision, antennae of tele-
vision to the meaningless sky. In lifeproof houses they
hover over the young, sop up a little of what they shut
out. Only the young bring anything in, and they are not
young very long. (Through the bars of East St. Louis
lies the dead frontier, riverboat days.) Illinois and Mis-
souri, miasma of mound-building peoples, groveling
worship of the Food Source, cruel and ugly festivals,
dead-end horror of the Centipede God reaches from
Moundville to the lunar deserts of coastal Peru.
America is not a young land: it is old and dirty and
evil before the settlers, before the Indians. The evil is
there waiting.
And always cops: smooth college-trained state cops,
practiced, apologetic patter, electronic eyes weigh your
car and luggage, clothes and face; snarling big city
dicks, soft-spoken country sheriffs with something black
and menacing in old eyes color of a faded grey flannel
shirt....
And always car trouble: in St. Louis traded the 1942
Studebaker in (it has a built-in engineering Haw like
the Rube) on an old Packard limousine heated up and
barely made Kansas City, and bought a Ford turned
out to be an oil burner, packed it in on a jeep we push
too hard (they are no good for highway driving) -- and
burn something out inside, rattling around, went back
to the old Ford V-8. Can't beat that engine for getting
there, oil burner or no.
And the U.S. drag closes around us like no other drag
in the world, worse than the Andes, high mountain
towns, cold wind down from postcard mountains, thin
air like death in the throat, river towns of Ecuador, ma-
laria grey as junk under black Stetson, muzzle loading
shotguns, vultures pecking through the mud streets --
and what hits you when you get off the Malmo Ferry in
(no juice tax on the ferry) Sweden knocks all that
cheap, tax free juice right out of you and brings you all
the way down: averted eyes and the cemetery in the
middle of town (every town in Sweden seems to be
built around a cemetery), and nothing to do in the
afternoon, not a bar not a movie and I blasted my last
stick of Tangier tea and I said, "K.E. let's get right back
on that ferry."
But there is no drag like U.S. drag. You can't see it,
you don't know where it comes from. Take one of those
cocktail lounges at the end of a subdivision street --
every block of houses has its own bar and drugstore
and market and liquorstore. You walk in and it hits you.
But where does it come from?
Not the bartender, not the customers, nor the cream-
colored plastic rounding the bar stools, nor the dim
neon. Not even the TV.
And our habits build up with the drag, like cocaine
will build you up staying ahead of the C bring-down.
And the junk was running low. So there we are in this
no-horse town strictly from cough syrup. And vomited
up the syrup and drove on and on, cold spring wind
whistling through that old heap around our shivering
sick sweating bodies and the cold you always come down
with when the junk runs out of you.... On through the
peeled landscape, dead armadillos in the road and vul-
tures over the swamp and cypress stumps. Motels with
beaverboard walls, gas heater, thin pink blankets.
Itinerant short con and carny hyp men have burned
down the croakers of Texas....
And no one in his right mind would hit a Louisiana
croaker. State Junk Law.
Came at last to Houston where I know a druggist. I
haven't been there in five years but he looks up and
makes me with one quick look and just nods and says:
"Wait over at the counter...."
So I sit down and drink a cup of coffee and after a
while he comes and sits beside me and says, "What do
you want?"
"A quart of PG and a hundred nembies."
He nods, "Come back in half an hour."
So when I come back he hands me a package and
says, "That's fifteen dollars.... Be careful."
Shooting PG is a terrible hassle, you have to burn
out the alcohol first, then freeze out the camphor and
draw this brown liquid off with a dropper -- have to
shoot it in the vein or you get an abscess, and usually
end up with an abscess no matter where you shoot it.
Best deal is to drink it with goof balls.... So we pour
it in a Pernod bottle and start for New Orleans past
iridescent lakes and orange gas flares, and swamps and
garbage heaps, alligators crawling around in broken
bottles and tin cans, neon arabesques of motels, ma-
rooned pimps scream obscenities at passing cars from
islands of rubbish....
New Orleans is a dead museum. We walk around
Exchange Place breathing PG and find The Man right
away. It's a small place and the fuzz always knows who
is pushing so he figures what the hell does it matter and
sells to anybody. We stock up on H and backtrack for
Mexico.
Back through Lake Charles and the dead slot-machine
country, south end of Texas, nigger-killing sheriffs look
us over and check the car papers. Something falls off
you when you cross the border into Mexico, and sud-
denly the landscape hits you straight with nothing be-
tween you and it, desert and mountains and vultures;
little wheeling specks and others so close you can hear
wings cut the air (a dry husking sound), and when
they spot something they pour out of the blue sky, that
shattering bloody blue sky of Mexico, down in a black
funnel.... Drove all night, came at dawn to a warm
misty place, barking dogs and the sound of running
water.
"Thomas and Charlie," I said.
"What?"
"That's the name of this town. Sea level. %We climb
straight up from here ten thousand feet." I took a fix
and went to sleep in the back seat. She was a good
driver. You can tell as soon as someone touches the
wheel.
Mexico City where Lupita sits like an Aztec Earth
Goddess doling out her little papers of lousy shit.
"Selling is more of a habit than using," Lupita says.
Nonusing pushers have a contact habit, and that's one
you can't kick. Agents get it too. Take Bradley the
Buyer. Best narcotics agent in the industry. Anyone
would make him for junk. (Note: Make in the sense of
dig or size up. ) I mean he can walk up to a pusher and
score direct. He is so anonymous, grey and spectral the
pusher don't remember him afterwards. So he twists
one after the other....
Well the Buyer comes to look more and more like
a junky. He can't drink. He can't get it up. His teeth
fall out. (Like pregnant women lose their teeth feeding
the stranger, junkies lose their yellow fangs feeding the
monkey. ) He is all the time sucking on a candy bar.
Baby Ruths he digs special. "It really disgust you to see
the Buyer sucking on them candy bars so nasty," a cop
says.
The Buyer takes on an ominous grey-green color.
Fact is his body is making its own junk or equivalent.
The Buyer has a steady connection. A Man Within you
might say, Or so he thinks. "I'll just set in my room," he
says. "Fuck 'em all. Squares on both sides. I am the only
complete man in the industry."
But a yen comes on him like a great black wind
through the bones. So the Buyer hunts up a young
junky and gives him a paper to make it.
"Oh all right," the boy says. "So what you want to
make?"
"I just want to rub up against you and get fixed."
"Ugh... Well all right.... But why cancha just get
physical like a human?"
Later the boy is sitting in a Waldorf with two col-
leagues dunking pound cake. "Most distasteful thing I
ever stand still for," he says. "Some way he make him-
self all soft like a blob of jelly and surround me so nasty.
Then he gets wet all over like with green slime. So I
guess he come to some kinda awful climax.... I come
near wigging with that green stuff all over me, and he
stink like a old rotten cantaloupe."
"Well it's still an easy score."
The boy sighed resignedly; "Yes, I guess you can
get used to anything. I've got a meet with him again
tomorrow."
The Buyer's habit keeps getting heavier. He needs
a recharged every half hour. Sometimes he cruises the
precincts and bribes the turnkey to let him in with a
cell of junkies. It get to where no amount of contact
will fix him. At this point he receives a summons from
the District Supervisor:
"Bradley, your conduct has given rise to rumors -- and
I hope for your sake they are no more than that -- so
unspeakably distasteful that... I mean Caesar's wife
...hrump... that is, the Department must be above
suspicion... certainly above such suspicions as you
have seemingly aroused. You are lowering the entire
tone of the industry. We are prepared to accept your
immediate resignation."
The Buyer throws himself on the ground and crawls
over to the D.S. "No, Boss Man, no... The Department
is my very lifeline."
He kisses the D.S.'s hand thrusting his fingers into his
mouth (the D.S. must feel his toothless gums) com-
plaining he has lost his teeth "inna thervith." "Please
Boss Man. I'll wipe your ass, I'll wash out your dirty
condoms, I'll polish your shoes with the oil on my
nose....
"Really, this is most distasteful11 Have you no pride?
I must tell you I feel a distinct revulsion. I mean there
is something, well, rotten about you, and you smell like
a compost heap." He put a scented handkerchief in
front of his face. "I must ask you to leave this office at
once.
"I'll do anything, Boss, anything." His ravaged green
face splits in a horrible smile. "I'm still young, Boss,
and I'm pretty strong when I get my blood up."
The D.S. retches into his handkerchief and points to
the door with a limp hand. The Buyer stands up looking
at the D.S. dreamily. His body begins to dip like a
dowser's wand. He Bows forward....
"No! No!" screams the D.S.
"Schlup... schlup schlup." An hour later they find
the Buyer on the nod in the D.S.'s chair. The D.S. has
disappeared without a trace.
The Judge: "Everything indicates that you have, in
some unspeakable manner uh... assimilated the Dis-
trict Supervisor. Unfortunately there is no proof. I would
recommend that you be confined or more accurately
contained in some institution, but I know of no place
suitable for a man of your caliber. I must reluctantly
order your release."
"That one should stand in an aquarium," says the
arresting officer.
The Buyer spreads terror throughout the industry.
Junkies and agents disappear. Like a vampire bat he
gives off a narcotic effluvium, a dank green mist that
anesthetizes his victims and renders them helpless in his
enveloping presence. And once he has scored he holes
up for several days like a gorged boa constrictor. Finally
he is caught in the act of digesting the Narcotics Com-
missioner and destroyed with a flame thrower -- the court
of inquiry ruling that such means were justified in that
the Buyer had lost his human citizenship and was, in
consequence, a creature without species and a menace
to the narcotics industry on all levels.
In Mexico the gimmick is to find a local junky with
a government script whereby they are allowed a certain
quantity every month. Our Man was Old Ike who had
spent most of his life in the States.
"I was traveling with Irene Kelly and her was a sport-
ing woman. In Butte, state of Montana, she gets the
coke horrors and run through the hotel screaming Chi-
nese coppers chase her with meat cleavers. I knew this
cop in Chicago sniff coke used to come in form of cry-
stals, blue crystals. So he go nuts and start screaming
the Federals is after him and run down this alley and
stick his head in the garbage can. And I said, 'What you
think you are doing?' and he say, 'Get away or I shoot
you. I got myself hid good.'"
We are getting some C on RX at this time. Shoot it
in the mainline, son. You can smell it going in, clean
and cold in your nose and throat then a rush of pure
pleasure right through the brain lighting up those C
connections. Your head shatters in white explosions. Ten
minutes later you want another shot... you will walk
across town for another shot. But if you can't score for
C you eat, sleep and forget about it.
This is a yen of the brain alone, a need without feel-
ing and without body, earthbound ghost need, rancid
ectoplasm swept out by an old junky coughing and spit-
ting in the sick morning.
One morning you wake up and take a speed ball, and
feel bugs under your skin. 1890 cops with black mus-
taches block the doors and lean in through the windows
snarling their lips back from blue and bold embossed
badges. Junkies march through the room singing the
Moslem Funeral Song, bear the body of Bill Gains,
stigmata of his needle wounds glow with a soft blue
flame. Purposeful schizophrenic detectives sniff at your
chamber pot.
It's the coke horrors.... Sit back and play it cool and
shoot in plenty of that GI M.
Day of the Dead: I got the chucks and ate my little
Willy's sugar skull. He cried and I had to go out for
another. Walked past the cocktail lounge where they
blasted the Jai Lai bookie.
In Cuernavaca or was it Taxco? Jane meets a pimp
trombone player and disappears in a cloud of tea smoke.
The pimp is one of these vibration and dietary artists
-- which is a means he degrades the female sex by
forcing his chicks to swallow all this shit. He was con-
tinually enlarging his theories... he would quiz a chick
and threaten to walk out if she hadn't memorized every
nuance of his latest assault on logic and the human
image.
"Now, baby. I got it here to give. But if you won't
receive it there's just nothing I can do."
He was a ritual tea smoker and very puritanical about
junk the way some teaheads are. He claimed tea put
him in touch with supra blue gravitational fields. He
had ideas on every subject: what kind of underwear
was healthy, when to drink water, and how to wipe
your ass. He had a shiny red face and great spreading
smooth nose, little red eyes that lit up when he looked
at a chick and went out when he looked at anything
else. His shoulders were very broad and suggested
deformity. He acted as if other men did not exist, con-
veying his restaurant and store orders to male personnel
through a female intermediary. And no Man ever in-
vaded his blighted, secret place.
So he is putting down junk and coming on with tea.
I take three drags, Jane looked at him and her flesh
crystallized. I leaped up screaming "I got the fear" and
ran out of the house. Drank a beer in a little restaurant
-- mosaic bar and soccer scores and bullfight posters --
and waited for the bus to town.
A year later in Tangier I heard she was dead.
B E N W A Y
So I am assigned to engage the services of Doctor
Benway for Islam Inc.
Dr. Benway had been called in as advisor to the
Freeland Republic, a place given over to free love and
continual bathing. The citizens are well adjusted, co-
operatives, honest, tolerant and above all clean. But the
invoking of Benway indicates all is not well behind
that hygienic facade: Benway is a manipulator and
coordinator of symbol systems, an expert on all phases
of interrogation, brainwashing and control. I have not
seen Benway since his precipitate departure from An-
nexia, where his assignment had been T.D.-- Total
Demoralization. Benway's first act was to abolish con-
centration camps, mass arrest and, except under certain
limited and special circumstances, the use of torture.
"I deplore brutality," he said. "It's not efficient. On
the other hand, prolonged mistreatment, short of physi-
cal violence, gives rise, when skillfully applied, to
anxiety and a feeling of special guilt. A few rules or
rather guiding principles are to be borne in mind. The
subject must not realize that the mistreatment is a de-
liberate attack of an anti-human enemy on his personal
identity. He must be made to feel that he deserves any
treatment he receives because there is something (never
specified) horribly wrong with him. The naked need of
the control addicts must be decently covered by an
arbitrary and intricate bureaucracy so that the subject
cannot contact his enemy direct."
Every citizen of Annexia was required to apply for
and carry on his person at all times a whole portfolio
of documents. Citizens were subject to be stopped in
the street at any time; and the Examiner, who might be
in plain clothes, in various uniforms, often in a bathing
suit or pyjamas, sometimes stark naked except for a
badge pinned to his left nipple, after checking each
paper, would stamp it. On subsequent inspection the
citizen was required to show the properly entered
stamps of the last inspection. The Examiner, when he
stopped a large group, would only examine and stamp
the cards of a few. The others were then subject to
arrest because their cards were not properly stamped.
Arrest meant "provisional detention"; that is, the pris-
oner would be released if and when his Affidavit of
Explanation, properly signed and stamped, was ap-
proved by the Assistant Arbiter of Explanations. Since
this official hardly ever came to his o%office, and the
A%fidavit of Explanation had to be presented in person,
the explainers spent weeks and months waiting around
in unheated offices with no chairs and no toilet facilities.
Documents issued in vanishing ink faded into old
pawn tickets. New documents were constantly required.
The citizens rushed from one bureau to another in a
frenzied attempt to meet impossible deadlines.
All benches were removed from the city, all fountains
turned off, all flowers and trees destroyed. Huge electric
buzzers on the top of every apartment house (every-
one lived in apartments) rang the quarter hour. Often
the vibrations would throw people out of bed. Search-
lights played over the town all night (no one was
permitted to use shades, curtains, shutters or blinds).
No one ever looked at anyone else because of the
strict law against importuning, with or without verbal
approach, anyone for any purpose, sexual or otherwise.
All cafes and bars were closed. Liquor could only be
obtained with a special permit, and the liquor so ob-
tained could not be sold or given or in any way trans-
ferred to anyone else, and the presence of anyone else
in the room was considered prima facie evidence of
conspiracy to transfer liquor.
No one was permitted to bolt his door, and the police
had pass keys to every room in the city. Accompanied
by a mentalist they rush into someone's quarters and
start "looking for it."
The mentalist guides them to whatever the man
wishes to hide: a tube of vaseline, an enema, a hand-
kerchief with come on it, a weapon, unlicensed alcohol.
And they always submitted the suspect to the most
humiliating search of his naked person on which they
make sneering and derogatory comments. Many a latent
homosexual was carried out in a straitjacket when
they planted vaseline in his ass. Or they pounce on any
object. A pen wiper or a shoe tree.
"And what is this supposed to be for?"
"It's a pen wiper."
"A pen wiper, he says."
"I've heard everything now."
"I guess this is all we need. Come on, you."
After a few months of this the citizens cowered in
corners like neurotic cats.
Of course the Annexia police processed suspected
agents, saboteurs and political deviants on an assembly
line basis. As regards the interrogation of suspects, Ben-
way has this to say:
"While in general I avoid the use of torture-torture
locates the opponent and mobilizes resistance-the
threat of torture is useful to induce in the subject the
appropriate feeling of helplessness and gratitude to the
interrogator for withholding it. And torture can be em-
ployed to advantage as a penalty when the subject is
far enough along with the treatment to accept punish-
ment as deserved. To this end I devised several forms
of disciplinary procedure. One was known as The
Switchboard. Electric drills that can be turned on at
any time are clamped against the subject's teeth; and
he is instructed to operate an arbitrary switchboard, to
put certain connections in certain sockets in response to
bells and lights. Every time he makes a mistake the
drills are turned on for twenty seconds. The signals are
gradually speeded up beyond his reaction time. Half an
hour on the switchboard and the subject breaks down
like an overloaded thinking machine.
"The study of thinking machines teaches us more
about the brain than we can learn by introspective
methods. Western man is externalizing himself in the
form of gadgets. Ever pop coke in the mainline? It hits
you right in the brain, activating connections of pure
pleasure. The pleasure of morphine is in the viscera.
You listen down into yourself after a shot. But C is
electricity through the brain, and the C yen is of the
brain alone, a need without body and without feeling.
The C-charged brain is a berserk pinball machine, flash-
ing blue and pink lights in electric orgasm. C pleasure
could be felt by a thinking machine, the first stirrings
of hideous insect life. The craving for C lasts only a
few hours, as long as the C channels are stimulated. Of
course the effect of C could be produced by an electric
current activating the C channels....
"So after a bit the channels wear out like veins, and
the addict has to find new ones. A vein will come back
in time, and by adroit vein rotation a junky can piece
out the odds if he don't become an oil burner. But brain
cells don't come back once they're gone, and when the
addict runs out of brain cells he is in a terrible fucking
position.
"Squatting on old bones and excrement and rusty
iron, in a white blaze of heat, a panorama of naked
idiots stretches to the horizon. Complete silence -- their
speech centers are destroyed -- except for the crackle of
sparks and the popping of singed flesh as they apply
electrodes up and down the spine. White smoke of
burning Flesh hangs in the motionless air. A group of
children have tied an idiot to a post with barbed wire
and built a fire between his legs and stand watching
with bestial curiosity as the Flames lick his thighs. His
flesh jerks in the fire with insect agony.
"I digress as usual. Pending more precise knowledge
of brain electronics, drugs remain an essential tool of
the interrogator in his assault on the subject's personal
identity. The barbiturates are, of course, virtually use-
less. That is, anyone who can be broken down by such
means would succumb to the puerile methods used in
an American precinct. Scopolamine is often effective in
dissolving resistance, but it impairs the memory: an
agent might be prepared to reveal his secrets but quite
unable to remember them, or cover story and secret life
info might be inextricably garbled. Mescaline, harma-
line, LSD6, bufotenine, muscarine successful in many
cases. Bulbocapnine induces a state approximating
schizophrenic catatonia... instances of automatic obe-
dience have been observed. Bulbocapnine is a back-
brain depressant probably putting out of action the
centers of motion in the hypothalamus. Other drugs that
have produced experimental schizophrenia -- mescaline,
harmaline, LSD6 -- are backbrain stimulants. In schizo-
phrenia the backbrain is alternately stimulated and
depressed. Catatonia is often followed by a period of
excitement and motor activity during which the nut
rushes through the wards giving everyone a bad time.
Deteriorated schizos sometimes refuse to move at all
and spend their lives in bed. A disturbance of the regu-
latory function of the hypothalamus is indicated as the
'cause' (causal thinking never yields accurate description
of metabolic process -- limitations of existing language)
of schizophrenia. Alternate doses of LSD6 and bulbo-
capnine -- the bulbocapnine potientiated with curare --
give the highest yield of automatic obedience.
"There are other procedures. The subject can be re-
duced to deep depression by administering large doses
of benzedrine for several days. Psychosis can be induced
by continual large doses of cocaine or demerol or by the
abrupt withdrawal of barbiturates after prolonged ad-
ministration. He can be addicted by dihydro-oxy-heroin
and subjected to withdrawal (this compound should be
five times as addicting as heroin, and the withdrawal
proportionately severe ).
"There are various 'psychological methods,' compul-
sory psychoanalysis, for example. The subject is re-
quested to free-associate for one hour every day (in
cases where time is not of the essence). 'Now, now. Let's
not be negative, boy. Poppa call nasty man. Take baby
walkabout switchboard.'
"The case of a female agent who forgot her real iden-
tity and merged with her cover story -- she is still a
fricoteuse in Annexia -- put me onto another gimmick. An
agent is trained to deny his agent identity by asserting
his cover story. So why not use psychic jiu-jitsu and go
along with him? Suggest that his cover story is his iden-
tity and that he has no other. His agent identity becomes
unconscious, that is, out of his control; and you can dig
it with drugs and hypnosis. You can make a square
heterosexual citizen queer with this angle... that is, rein-
force and second his rejection of normally latent homo-
sexual trends -- at the same time depriving him of cunt
and subjecting him to homosexual stimulation. Then drugs,
hypnosis, and --" Benway flipped a limp wrist.
"Many subjects are vulnerable to sexual humiliation.
Nakedness, stimulation with aphrodisiacs, constant su-
pervision to embarrass subject and prevent relief of mas-
turbation (erections during sleep automatically turn on
an enormous vibrating electric buzzer that throws the
subject out of bed into cold water, thus reducing the
incidence of wet dreams to a minimum). Kicks to hyp-
notize a priest and tell him he is about to consummate
a hypostatic union with the Lamb -- then steer a randy
old sheep up his ass. After that the Interrogator can
gain complete hypnotic control -- the subject will come
at his whistle, shit on the floor if he but say Open
Sesame. Needless to say, the sex humiliation angle is
contraindicated for overt homosexuals. ( I mean let's
keep our eye on the ball here and remember the old
party line... never know who's listening in.) I recall
this one kid, I condition to shit at sight of me. Then I
wash his ass and screw him. It was real tasty. And he
was a lovely fellah too. And some times a subject will
burst into boyish tears because he can't keep from
ejaculate when you screw him. Well, as you can plainly
see, the possibilities are endless like meandering paths
in a great big beautiful garden. I was just scratching
that lovely surface when I am purged by Party Poops.
...Well, 'son cosas de la vida.' "
I reach Freeland, which is clean and dull]1 my God.
Benway is directing the R.C., Reconditioning Center.
I drop around, and "What happened to so and so'?" sets
in like: "Sidi Idriss 'The Nark' Smithers crooned to the
Senders for a longevity serum. No fool like an old queen."
"Lester Stroganoff Smuunn -- 'El Hassein' -- turned him-
self into a Latah trying to perfect A.O.P., Automatic
Obedience Processing. A martyr to the industry..."
( Latah is a condition occurring in South East Asia.
Otherwise sane, Latahs compulsively imitate every mo-
tion once their attention is attracted by snapping the
fingers or calling sharply. A form of compulsive in-
voluntary hypnosis. They sometimes injure themselves
trying to imitate the motions of several people at once. )
"Stop me if you've heard this atomic secret...."
Benway's face retains its form in the flash bulb of
urgency, subject at any moment to unspeakable cleav-
age or metamorphosis. It flickers like a picture moving
in and out of focus.
"Come on," says Benway, "and I'll show you around
the R.C."
We are walking down a long white hall. Benway's
voice drifts into my consciousness from no particular
place... a disembodied voice that is sometimes loud
and clear, sometimes barely audible like music down a
windy street.
"Isolated groups like natives of the Bismarck Archi-
pelago. No overt homosexuality among them. God
damned matriarchy. All matriarchies anti-homosexual,
conformist and prosaic. Find yourself in a matriarchy
walk don't run to the nearest frontier. If you run, some
frustrate latent queer cop will likely shoot you. So some-
body wants to establish a beach head of homogeneity in
a shambles of potentials like West Europe and U.S.A.?
Another fucking matriarchy, Margaret Mead notwith-
standing... Spot of bother there. Scalpel fight with a
colleague in the operating room. And my baboon as-
sistant leaped on the patient and tore him to pieces.
Baboons always attack the weakest party in an alterca-
tion. Quite right too. We must never forget our glorious
simian heritage. Doc Browbeck was party inna second
part. A retired abortionist and junk pusher (he was a
veterinarian actually) recalled to service during the
manpower shortage. Well, Doc had been in the hospital
kitchen all morning goosing the nurses and tanking up
on coal gas and Klim -- and just before the operation he
sneaked a double shot of nutmeg to nerve himself up."
(In England and especially in Edinburgh the citizens
bubble coal gas through Klim -- a horrible form of pow-
dered milk tasting like rancid chalk -- and pick up on the
results. They hock everything to pay the gas bill, and
when the man comes around to shut it off for the eon-
payment, you can hear their screams for miles. When a
citizen is sick from needing it he says "I got the klinks"
or "That old stove climbing up my back."
Nutmeg. I quote from the author's article on nar-
cotic drugs in the British Journal of Addiction ( see
Appendix ): "Convicts and sailors sometimes have re-
course to nutmeg. About a tablespoon is swallowed
with water. Result vaguely similar to marijuana with
side effects of headache and nausea. There are a number
of narcotics of the nutmeg family in use among the
Indians of South America. They are usually administered
by sniffing a dried powder of the plant. The medicine
men take these noxious substances and go into convul-
sive states. Their twitchings and mutterings are thought
to have prophetic significance." )
"I had a Yage hangover, me, and in no condition to
take any of Browbeck's shit. First thing he comes on
with I should start the incision from the back instead of
the front, muttering some garbled nonsense about being
sure to cut out the gall bladder it would fuck up the
meat. Thought he was on the farm cleaning a chicken.
I told him to go put his head back in the oven, where-
upon he had the effrontery to push my hand severing
the patient's femoral artery. Blood spurted up and
blinded the anesthetist, who ran out through the halls
screaming. Browbeck tried to knee me in the groin, and
I managed to hamstring him with my scalpel. He
crawled about the floor stabbing at my feet and legs.
Violet, that's my baboon assistant -- only woman I ever
cared a damn about -- really wigged. I climbed up on the
table and poise myself to jump on Browbeck with both
feet and stomp him when the cops rushed in.
"Well, this rumble in the operating room, 'this un-
speakable occurrence' as the Super called it, you might
say was the blow off. The wolf pack was closing for the
kill. A crucifixion, that's the only word for it. Of course
I'd made a few 'dumheits' here and there. Who hasn't?
There was the time me and the anesthetist drank up all
the ether and the patient came up on us, and I was
accused of cutting the cocaine with Sanifiush. Violet
did it actually. Had to protect her of course....
"So the wind-up is we are all drummed out of the
industry. Not that Violet was a bona fide croaker, nei-
ther was Browbeck for that matter, and even my own
certificate was called in question. But Violet knew more
medicine than the Mayo Clinic. She had an extraordi-
nary intuition and a high sense of duty.
"So there I was flat on my ass with no certificate.
Should I turn to another trade? No. Doctoring was in
my blood. I managed to keep up my habits performing
cutrate abortions in subway toilets. I even descended to
hustling pregnant women in the public streets. It was
positively unethical. Then I met a great guy, Placenta
Juan the After Birth Tycoon. Made his in slunks during
the war. (Slunks are underage calves trailing afterbirths
and bacteria, generally in an unsanitary and unfit con-
dition. A calf may not be sold as food until it reaches
a minimum age of six weeks. Prior to that time it is
classified as a slunk. Slunk trafficking is subject to a
heavy penalty.) Well, Juanito controlled a fleet of cargo
boats he register under the Abyssinian flag to avoid
bothersome restrictions. He gives me a job as ship's
doctor on the S.S. Filiarisis, as filthy a craft as ever sailed
the seas. Operating with one hand, beating the rats offa
my patient with the other and bedbugs and scorpions
rain down from the ceiling.
"So somebody wants homogeneity at this juncture.
Can do but it costs. Bored with the whole project, me.
...Here we are.... Drag Alley."
Benway traces a pattern in the air with his hand and
a door swings open. We step through and the door
closes. A long ward gleaming with stainless steel, white
tile floors, glass brick walls. Beds along one wall. No
one smokes, no one reads, no one talks.
"Come and take a close look," says Benway. "You
won't embarrass anybody."
I walk over and stand in front of a man who is sitting
on his bed. I look at the man's eyes. Nobody, nothing
looks back.
"IND's," says Benway, "Irreversible Neural Damage.
Overliberated, you might say... a drag on the industry."
I pass a hand in front of the man's eyes.
"Yes," says Benway, "they still have reflexes. Watch
this." Benway takes a chocolate bar from his pocket,
removes the wrapper and holds it in front of the man's
nose. The man sniffs. His jaws begin to work. He makes
snatching motions with his hands. Saliva drips from his
mouth and hangs off his chin in long streamers. His
stomach rumbles. His whole body writhes in peristalsis.
Benway steps back and holds up the chocolate. The
man drops to his knees, throws back his head and barks.
Benway tosses the chocolate. The man snaps at it,
misses, scrambles around on the floor making slobbering
noises. He crawls under the bed, finds the chocolate and
crams it into his mouth with both hands.
"Jesus! These ID's got no class to them."
Benway calls over the attendant who is sitting at one
end of the ward reading a book of J. M. Barrie's plays.
"Get these fucking ID's outa here. It's a bring down
already. Bad for the tourist business."
"What should I do with them?"
"How in the fuck should I know? I'm a scientist. A
pure scientist. Just get them outa here. I don't hafta
look at them is all. They constitute an albatross."
"But what? Where?"
"Proper channels. Buzz the District Coordinator or
whatever he calls himself... new title every week.
Doubt if he exists."
Doctor Benway pauses at the door and looks back at
the IND's. "Our failures," he says. "Well, it's all in the
day's work."
"Do they ever come back?"
"They don't come back, won't come back, once they're
gone," Benway sings softly. "Now this ward has some
innarest.'
The patients stand in groups talking and spitting on
the floor. Junk hangs in the air like a grey haze.
"A heart-warming sight," says Benway, "those junkies
standing around waiting for the Man. Six months ago
they were all schizophrenic. Some of them hadn't been
out of bed for years. Now look at them. In all the course
of my practices, I have never seen a schizophrenic
junky, and junkies are mostly of the schizo physical
type. Want to cure anybody of anything, find out who
doesn't have it. So who don't got it'? Junkies don't got it.
Oh, incidentally, there's an area in Bolivia with no
psychosis. Right sane folk in them hills. Like to get in
there, me, before it is loused up by literacy, advertising,
TV and drive-ins. Make a study strictly from meta-
bolism: diet, use of drugs and alcohol, sex, etc. Who
cares what they think? Same nonsense everybody thinks,
I daresay.
"And why don't junkies got schizophrenia? Don't
know yet. A schizophrenic can ignore hunger and starve
to death if he isn't fed. No one can ignore heroin with-
drawal. The fact of addiction imposes contact.
"But that's only one angle. Mescaline, LSD6, deteri-
orated adrenaline, harmaline can produce an approxi-
mat~ schizophrenia. The best stuff is extracted from the
blood of schizos; so schizophrenia is likely a drug psy-
chosis. They got a metabolic connection, a Man Within
you might say. ( Interested readers are referred to Ap-
pendix. )
"In the terminal stage of schizophrenia the backbrain
is permanently depressed, and the front brain is almost
without content since the front brain is only active in
response to backbrain stimulation.
"Morphine calls forth the antidote of backbrain stimu-
lation similar to schizo substance. ( Note similarity
between withdrawal syndrome and intoxication with
Yage or LSD6. ) Eventual result of junk use -- especially
true of heroin addiction where large doses are available
to the addict -- is permanent backbrain depression and
a state much like terminal schizophrenia: complete lack
of affect, autism, virtual absence of cerebral event. The
addict can spend eight hours looking at a wall. He is
conscious of his surroundings, hut they have no emo-
tional connotation and in consequence no interest. Re-
membering a period of heavy addiction is like playing
back a tape recording of events experienced by the
front brain alone. Flat statements of external events. 'I
went to the store and bought some brown sugar. I came
home and ate half the box. I took a three grain shot
etc.' Complete absence of nostalgia in these memories.
However, as soon as junk intake falls below par, the
withdrawal substance floods the body.
"If all pleasure is relief from tension, junk affords
relief from the whole life process, in disconnecting the
hypothalamus, which is the center of psychic energy
and libido.
"Some of my learned colleagues (nameless assholes)
have suggested that junk derives its euphoric effect
from direct stimulation of the orgasm center. It seems
more probable that junk suspends the whole cycle of
tension, discharge and rest. The orgasm has no function
in the junky. Boredom, which always indicates an un-
discharged tension, never troubles the addict. He can
look at his shoe for eight hours. He is only roused to
action when the hourglass of junk runs out."
At the far end of the ward an attendant throws up
an iron shutter and lets out a hog call. The junkies rush
up grunting and squealing.
"Wise guy," says Benway. "No respect for human
dignity. Now I'll show you the mild deviant and crimi-
nal ward. Yes, a criminal is a mild deviant here. He
doesn't deny the Freeland contract. He merely seeks
to circumvent some of the clauses. Reprehensible but
not too serious. Down this hall... We'll skip wards 23,
86, 57 and 97... and the laboratory."
"Are homosexuals classed as deviants?'
"No. Remember the Bismarck Archipelago. No overt
homosexuality. A functioning police state needs no po-
lice. Homosexuality does not occur to anyone as con-
ceivable behaviour.... Homosexuality is a political
crime in a matriarchy. No society tolerates overt re-
jection of its basic tenets. We aren't a matriarchy here,
Insh'allah. You know the experiment with rats where
they are subject to this electric shock and dropped in
cold water if they so much as move at a female. So they
all become fruit rats and that's the way it is with the
etiology. And shall such a rat squeak out, 'I'm queah
and I luuuuuuuuve it' or 'Who cut yours off, you two-
holed freak?' 'twere a square rat so to squeak. During
my rather brief experience as a psychoanalyst -- spot of
bother with the Society -- one patient ran amok in Grand
Central with a flame thrower, two committed suicide
and one died on the couch like a jungle rat ( jungle rats
are subject to die if confronted suddenly with a hope-
less situation). So his relations beef and I tell them, 'It's
all in the day's work. Get this stiff outa here. It's a
bring down for my live patients' -- I noticed that all my
homosexual patients manifested strong unconscious
heterosex trends and all my hetero patients uncon-
scious homosexual trends. Makes the brain reel, don't
it?"
"And what do you conclude from that?"
"Conclude? Nothing whatever. Just a passing obser-
vation."
We are eating lunch in Benway's office when he gets
a call.
"What's that?... Monstrous! Fantastic!... Carry on
and stand by."
He puts down the phone. "I am prepared to accept
immediate assignment with Islam Incorporated. It
seems the electronic brain went berserk playing six-
dimensional chess with the Technician and released
every subject in the R.C. Leave us adjourn to the roof.
Operation Helicopter is indicated."
From the roof of the R.C. we survey a scene of un-
paralleled horror. IND's stand around in front of the
cafe tables, long streamers of saliva hanging off their
chins, stomachs noisily churning, others ejaculate at the
sight of women. Latahs imitate the passers-by with
monkey-like obscenity. Junkies have looted the drug-
stores and fix on every street corner.... Catatonics deco-
rate the parks.... Agitated schizophrenics rush through
the streets with mangled, inhuman cries. A group of
P.R.'s -- Partially Reconditioned -- have surrounded some
homosexual tourists with horrible knowing smiles show-
ing the Nordic skull beneath in double exposure.
"What do you want?" snaps one of the queens.
"We want to understand you."
A contingent of howling simopaths swing from chan-
deliers, balconies and trees, shitting and pissing on
passers-by. (A simopath -- the technical name for this
disorder escapes me -- is a citizen convinced he is an ape
or other simian. It is a disorder peculiar to the army,
and discharge cures it.) Amoks trot along cutting off
heads, faces sweet and remote with a dreamy half smile.
...Citizens with incipient Bang-utot clutch their penises
and call on the tourists for help.... Arab rioters yipe
and howl, castrating, disembowelling, throw burning
gasoline.... Dancing boys strip-tease with intestines,
women stick severed genitals in their cunts, grind, bump
and Hick it at the man of their choice.... Religious
fanatics harangue the crowd from helicopters and rain
stone tablets on their heads, inscribed with meaningless
messages.... Leopard Men tear people to pieces with
iron claws, coughing and grunting.... Kwakiutl Canni-
bal Society initiates bite off noses and ears....
A coprophage calls for a plate, shits on it and eats the
shit, exclaiming, "Mmmm, that's my rich substance."
A battalion of rampant bores prowls the streets and
hotel lobbies in search of victims. An intellectual avant-
gardist -- *'Of course the only writing worth considering
now is to be found in scientific reports and periodicals"
-- has given someone a bulbocapnine injection and is
preparing to read him a bulletin on "the use of neo-
hemoglobin in the control of multiple degenerative
granuloma." ( Of course, the reports are all gibberish he
has concocted and printed up. )
His opening words: "You look to me like a man of
intelligence." (Always ominous words, my boy ..
When you hear them stay not on the order of your
going but go at once. )
An English colonial, assisted by five police boys, has
detained a subject in the club bar: "I say, do you know
Mozambique?" and he launches into the endless saga
of his malaria. "So the doctor said to me, 'I can only
advise you to leave the area. Otherwise I shall bury
you.' This croaker does a little undertaking on the side.
Piecing out the odds you might say, and throwing him-
self a spot of business now and then." So after the third
pink gin when he gets to know you, he shifts to dysen-
tery. "Most extraordinary discharge. More or less of a
white yellow color like rancid jism and stringy you
know."
An explorer in sun helmet has brought down a citizen
with blow gun and curare dart. He administers artificial
respiration with one foot. (Curare kills by paralyzing
the lungs. It has no other toxic effect, is not, strictly
speaking, a poison. If artificial respiration is admin-
istered the subject will not die. Curare is eliminated
with great rapidity by the kidneys.) "That was the year
of the rindpest when everything died, even the hyenas.
...So there I was completely out of K.Y. in the head-
waters of the Baboonsasshole. When it came through
by air drop my gratitude was indescribable.... As a
matter of fact, and I have never told this before to a
living soul -- elusive blighters" -- his voice echoes through
a vast empty hotel lobby in 1890 style, red plush, rubber
plants, gilt and statues -- "I was the only white man
ever initiated into the infamous Agouti Society, wit-
nessed and participated in their unspeakable rites."
(The Agouti Society has turned out for a Chimu
Fiesta. (The Chimu of ancient Peru were much given
to sodomy and occasionally staged bloody battles with
clubs, running up several hundred casualties in the
course of an afternoon. ) The youths, sneering and goos-
ing each other with clubs, troop out to the field. Now
the battle begins.
Gentle reader, the ugliness of that spectacle buggers
description. Who can be a cringing pissing coward,
yet vicious as a purple-assed mandril, alternating these
deplorable conditions like vaudeville skits? Who can
shit on a fallen adversary who, dying, eats the shit and
screams with joy? Who can hang a weak passive and
catch his sperm in mouth like a vicious dog? Gentle
reader, I fain would spare you this, but my pen hath
its will like the Ancient Mariner. Oh Christ what a
scene is this! Can tongue or pen accommodate these
scandals? A beastly young hooligan has gouged out the
eye of his confrere and fuck him in the brain. "This
brain atrophy already, and dry as grandmother's cunt."
He turns into Rock and Roll hoodlum. "I screw the
old gash -- like a crossword puzzle what relation to me
is the outcome if it outcome? My father already or not
yet? I can't screw you, Jack, you is about to become
my father, and better 'twere to cut your throat and
screw my mother playing it straight than fuck my
father or vice versa mutatis mutandis as the case may
be, and cut my mother's throat, that sainted gash,
though it be the best way I know to stem her word
horde and freeze her asset. I mean when a fellow be
caught short in the switches and don't know is he to
over up his ass to 'great big daddy' or commit a torso
job on the old lady. Give me two cunts and a prick
of steel and keep your dirty finger out of my sugar
bum what you think I am a purple-assed reception
already fugitive from Gibraltar? Male and female
castrated he them. Who can't distinguish between the
sexes? I'll cut your throat you white mother fucker.
Come out in the open like my grandchild and meet thy
unborn mother in dubious battle. Confusion hath fuck
his masterpiece. I have cut the janitor's throat quite by
mistake of identity, he being such a horrible fuck like
the old man. And in the coal bin all cocks are alike."
So leave us return to the stricken field. One youth
hath penetrate his comrade, whilst another youth does
amputate the proudest part of that cock's quivering
beneficiary so that the visiting member projects to fill
the vacuum nature abhors and ejaculate into the Black
Lagoon where impatient piranha snap up the child
not yet born nor -- in view of certain well established
facts -- at all likely. )
Another bore carries around a suitcase full of trophies
and medals, cups and ribbons: "Now this I won for the
Most Ingenious Sex Device Contest in Yokohama. (Hold
him, he's desperate.) The Emperor gave it to me him-
self and there were tears in his eyes, and the runners-up
all castrated theirselves with harakiri knives. And I won
this ribbon in a Degradation Contest at the Teheran
meeting of Junkies Anonymous."
"Shot up my wife's M.S, and her down with a kidney
stone big as the Hope Diamond. So I give her half a
Vagamin and tell her, "You can't expect too much re-
lief.... Shut up awready. I wanta enjoy my medica-
tions.
"Stole an opium suppository out of my grandmother's
ass."
The hypochondriac lassoes the passer-by and admin-
isters a straitjacket and starts talking about his rotting
septum: "An awful purulent discharge is subject to How
out... just wait till you see it."
He does a strip tease to operation scars, guiding the
reluctant fingers of a victim. "Feel that suppurated
swelling in my groin where I got the lymphogranu-
lomas.... And now I want you to palpate my internal
hemorrhoids."
(The reference is to lymphogranuloma, "climactic
i
buboes." A virus venereal disease indigenous to Ethio-
pia. "Not for nothing are we known as feelthy Ethi-
opians," sneers an Ethiopian mercenary as he sodomizes
Pharaoh, venomous as the King's cobra. Ancient Egyp-
tian papyrus talk all the time about them feelthy
Ethiopians.
So it started in Addis Ababa like the Jersey Bounce,
but these are modern times, One World. Now the cli-
mactic buboes swell up in Shanghai and Esmeraldas,
New Orleans and Helsinki, Seattle and Capetown. But
the heart turns home and the disease shows a distinct
predilection for Negroes, is in fact the whitehaired
boy of white supremacists. But the Mau Mau voodoo
men are said to be cooking up a real dilly of a VD for
the white folks. Not that Caucasians are immune: five
British sailors contracted the disease in Zanzibar. And
in Dead Coon County, Arkansas ("Blackest Dirt, Whit-
est People in the U.S.A.-- Nigger, Don't Let The Sun Set
On You Here") the County Coroner come down with
the buboes fore and aft. A vigilante committee of
neighbors apologetically burned him to death in the
Court House privy when his interesting condition came
to light. "Now, Clem, just think of yourself as a cow
with the aftosa." "Or a poltroon with the fowl pest."
"Don't crowd too close, boys. His intestines is subject
to explode in the fire." The disease in short arm hath
a gimmick for going places unlike certain unfortunate
viruses who are fated to languish unconsummate in
the guts of a tick or a jungle mosquito, or the saliva
of a dying jackal slobbering silver under the desert
moon. And after an initial lesion at the point of infee-
tion the disease passes to the lymph glands of the groin,
which swell and burst in suppurating fissures, drain
for days, months, years, a purulent stringy discharge
streaked with blood and putrid lymph. Elephantiasis
of the genitals is a frequent complication, and cases of
gangrene have been recorded where the amputation
in medio of the patient from the waist down was indi-
cated but hardly worth while. Women usually suffer
secondary infection of the anus. Males who resign
themselves up for passive intercourse to infected part-
ners like weak and soon to be purple-assed baboons,
may also nourish a little stranger. Initial proctitis and
the inevit4ble purulent discharge -- which may pass un-
noticed in the shuRe -- is followed by stricture of the
rectum requiring intervention of an apple corer or its
surgical equivalent, lest the unfortunate patient be
reduced to fart and shit in his teeth giving rise to
stubborn cases of halitosis and unpopularity with all
sexes, ages and conditions of homo sapiens. In fact a
blind bugger was deserted by his seeing eye police
dog -- copper at heart. Until quite recently there was
no satisfactory treatment. "Treatment is symptomatic"
-- which means in the trade there is none. Now many
cases yield to intensive therapy with aureomycin, ter-
ramycin and some of the newer molds. However a
certain appreciable percentage remain refractory as
mountain gorillas.... So, boys, when those hot licks
play over your balls and prick and dart up your ass
like an invisible blue blow torch of orgones, in the
words of I. B. Watson, Think. Stop panting and start
palpating... and if you palpate a bubo draw your-
self back in and say in a cold nasal whine: "You think
I am innarested to contact your horrible old condition?
I am not innarested at all.")
Rock and Roll adolescent hoodlums storm the streets
of all nations. They rush into the Louvre and throw
acid in the Mona Lisa's face. They open zoos, insane
asylums, prisons, burst water mains with air hammers,
chop the floor out of passenger plane lavatories, shoot
out lighthouses, file elevator cables to one thin wire,
turn sewers into the water supply, throw sharks and
sting rays, electric eels and candiru into swimming
pools (the candiru is a small eel-like fish or worm
about one-quarter inch through and two inches long
patronizing certain rivers of ill repute in the Greater
Amazon Basin, will dart up your prick or your asshole
or a woman's cunt faute de mieux, and hold himself
there by sharp spines with precisely what motives is
not known since no one has stepped forward to observe
the candiru's life-cycle in sito), in nautical costumes
ram the Queen Mary full speed into New York Harbor,
play chicken with passenger planes and busses, rush
into hospitals in white coats carrying saws and axes and
scalpels three feet long; throw paralytics out of iron
lungs (mimic their suffocations flopping about on the
floor and rolling their eyes up), administer injections
with bicycle pumps, disconnect artificial kidneys, saw
a woman in half with a two-man surgical saw, they
drive herds of squealing pigs into the Curb, they shit
on the floor of the United Nations and wipe their ass
with treaties, pacts, alliances.
By plane, car, horse, camel, elephant, tractor, bicycle
and steam roller, on foot, skis, sled, crutch and pogo-
stick the tourists storm the frontiers, demanding with
inflexible authority asylum from the "unspeakable con-
ditions obtaining in Freeland," the Chamber of Com-
merce striving in vain to stem the debacle: "Please
to be restful. It is only a few crazies who have from
the crazy place outbroken."
JOSELITO
And Joselito who wrote bad, class-conscious poetry
began to cough. The German doctor made a brief ex-
amination, touching Joselito's ribs with long, delicate
fingers. The doctor was also a concert violinist, a math-
ematician, a chess master, and a Doctor of International
Jurisprudence with license to practice in the lavatories
of the Hague. The doctor flicked a hard, distant glance
across Joselito's brown chest. He looked at Carl and
smiled -- one educated man to another smile -- and raised
his eyebrow, saying without words:
"Alzo for the so stupid peasant we must avoid use
of the word is it not? Otherwise he shit himself with
fear. Hoch and spit they are both nasty words I think?"
He said aloud: "It is a catarro de los pulmones."
Carl talked to the doctor outside under the narrow
arcade with rain bouncing up from the street against
his pant legs, thinking how many people he tell it to,
and the stairs, porches, lawns, driveways, corridors
and streets of the world there in the doctor's eyes...
stuffy German alcoves, butterfly trays to the ceiling,
silent portentous smell of uremia seeping under the
door, suburban lawns to sound of the water sprinkler,
in calm jungle night under silent wings of the Anoph-
eles mosquito. (Note: This is not a figure. Anopheles
mosquitoes are silent. ) Thickly carpeted, discreet nurs-
ing home in Kensington: stiff brocade chair and a cup
of tea, the Swedish modern living room with water
hyacinths in a yellow bowl -- outside the China blue
Northern sky and drifting clouds, under bad water-
colors of the dying medical student.
"A schnaps I think Frau Underschnitt."
The doctor was talking into a phone with a chess
board in front of him. "Quite a severe lesion I think...
of course without to see the Horoscope." He picks up
the knight and then replaces it thoughtfully. "Yes...
Both lungs... quite definitely." He replaces the re-
ceiver and turns to Carl. "I have observed these people
show amazingly quick wound recovery, with low in-
cidence of infection. It is always the lungs here...
pneumonia and, of course, Old Faithful." The doctor
grabs Carl's cock, leaping into the air with a coarse
peasant guffaw. His European smile ignores the mis-
behavior of a child or an animal. He goes on smoothly
in his eerily unaccented, disembodied English. "Our
Old Faithful Bacillus Koch." The doctor clicks his heels
and bows his head. "Otherwise they would multiply
their stupid peasant asshole into the sea, is it not?" He
shrieks, thrusting his face into Carl's. Carl retreats
sideways with the grey wall of rain behind him.
"Isn't there some place where he can be treated?"
"I think there is some sort of sanitarium," he drags
out the word with ambiguous obscenity, "up at the
District Capital. I will write for you the address."
"Chemical therapy?"
His voice falls Hat and heavy in the damp air.
"Who can say. They are all stupid peasants, and
the worst of all peasants are the so-called educated.
These people should not only be prevented from learn-
ing to read, but from learning to talk as well. No need
to prevent them from thinking; nature has done that."
"Here is the address," the doctor whispered without
moving his lips.
He dropped a pill of paper into Carl's hand. His
dirty fingers, shiny over the dirt, rested on Carl's sleeve.
"There is the matter of my fee."
Carl slipped him a wadded banknote... and the
doctor faded into the grey twilight, seedy and furtive
as an old junky.
Carl saw Joselito in a big clean room full of light,
with private bath and concrete balcony. And nothing
to talk about there in the cold empty room, water
hyacinths growing in a yellow bowl and the China
blue sky and drifting clouds, fear flickering in and out
of his eyes. When he smiled the fear flew away in
little pieces of light, lurked enigmatically in the high
cool corners of the room. And what could I say feeling
death around me, and the little broken images that
come before sleep, there in the mind?
"They will send me to the new sanitarium tomorrow.
Come and visit me. I will be there alone."
He coughed and took a codeineeta.
"Doctor I understand, that is I have been given to
understand, I have read and heard -- not a medical man
myself -- don't pretend to be-that the concept of sani-
tarium treatment has been more or less supplanted,
or at least very definitely supplemented, by chemical
therapy. Is this accurate in your opinion? What I mean
to say is, Doctor, please tell me in all sincerity, as one
human being to another, what is your opinion of chemi-
cal versus sanitarium therapy? Are you a partisan?"
The doctor's liver sick Indian face was blank as a
dealer's.
"Completely modern, as you can see," he gestures
toward the room with the purple fingers of bad circu-
lation. "Bath... water... flowers. The lot." He fin-
ished in Cockney English with a triumphant smirk.
"I will write for you a letter."
"This letter? For the sanitarium?"
The doctor was speaking from a land of black rocks
and great, iridescent brown lagoons. "The furniture...
modern and comfortable. You find it so of course?"
Carl could not see the sanitarium owing to a false
front of green stucco topped by an intricate neon sign
dead and sinister against the sky, waiting for darkness.
The sanitarium was evidently built on a great lime-
stone promontory, over which flowering trees and vine
tendrils broke in waves. The smell of flowers was
heavy in the air.
The commandante sat at a long wooden trestle under
a vine trellis. He was doing absolutely nothing. He
took the letter that Carl handed him and whispered
through it, reading his lips with the left hand. He
stuck the letter on a spike over a toilet. He began tran-
scribing from a ledger full of numbers. He wrote on and
on.
Broken images exploded softly in Carl's head, and
he was moving out of himself in a silent swoop. Clear
and sharp from a great distance he saw himself sitting
in a lunchroom. Overdose of H. His old lady shaking
him and holding hot coffee under his nose.
Outside an old junky in Santa Claus suit selling
Christmas seals. "Fight tuberculosis, folks," he whis-
pers in his disembodied, junky voice. Salvation Army
choir of sincere, homosexual football coaches sings:
"In the Sweet Bye and Bye."
Carl drifted back into his body, an earthbound junk
ghost.
"I could bribe him, of course."
The commandante taps the table with one finger
and hums "Coming Through the Rye." Far away, then
urgently near like a foghorn a split second before the
grinding crash.
Carl pulled a note half out of his trouser pocket....
The commandante was standing by a vast panel of
lockers and deposit boxes. He looked at Carl, sick
animal eyes gone out, dying inside, hopeless fear re-
flecting the face of death. In the smell of flowers a note
half out of his pocket, the weakness hit Carl, shutting
of his breath, stopping his blood. He was in a great
cone spinning down to a black point.
"Chemical therapy?" The scream shot out of his flesh
through empty locker rooms and barracks, musty resort
hotels, and spectral, coughing corridors of T,B. sani-
tariums, the muttering, hawking, grey dishwater smell
of flophouses and Old Men's Homes, great, dusty cus-
tom sheds and warehouses, through broken porticoes
and smeared arabesques, iron urinals worn paper thin
by the urine of a million fairies, deserted weed-grown
privies with a musty smell of shit turning back to the
soil, erect wooden phallus on the grave of dying peoples
plaintive as leaves in the wind, across the great brown
river where whole trees float with green snakes in the
branches and sad-eyed lemurs watch the shore out over
a vast plain (vulture wings husk in the dry air). The
way is strewn with broken condoms and empty H caps
and K.Y. tubes squeezed dry as bone meal in the sum-
mer sun.
"My furniture." The commandante's face burned like
metal in the Hash bulb of urgency. His eyes went out.
A whif of ozone drifted through the room. The "novia"
muttered over her candles and altars in one corner.
"It is all Trak... modern, excellent..." he is nod-
ding idiotically and drooling. A yellow cat pulls at
Carl's pant leg and runs onto a concrete balcony. Clouds
drift by.
"I could get back my deposit. Start me a little busi-
ness someplace." He nods and smiles like a mechanical
toy.
"Joselito!!!" Boys look up from street ball games,
bull rings and bicycle races as the name whistles by
and slowly fades away.
"Joselito!... Paco!... Pepe!... Enrique!..." The
plaintive boy cries drift in on the warm night. The
Trak sign stirs like a nocturnal beast, and bursts into
blue flame.
THE BLACK MEAT
"We friends, yes?"
The shoe shine boy put on his hustling smile and
looked up into the Sailor's dead, cold, undersea eyes,
eyes without a trace of warmth or lust or hate or any
feeling the boy had ever experienced in himself or
seen in another, at once cold and intense, impersonal
and predatory.
The Sailor leaned forward and put a finger on the
boy's inner arm at the elbow. He spoke in his dead,
junky whisper.
"With veins like that, Kid, I'd have myself a time."
He laughed, black insect laughter that seemed to
serve some obscure function of orientation like a bat's
squeak. The Sailor laughed three times. He stopped
laughing and hung there motionless listening down
into himself. He had picked up the silent frequency
of junk. His face smoothed out like yellow wax over
the high cheek-bones. He waited half a cigarette. The
Sailor knew how to wait. But his eyes burned in a
hideous dry hunger. He turned his face of controlled
emergency in a slow half pivot to case the man who
had just come in. "Fats" Terminal sat there sweeping
the cafe with blank, periscope eyes. When his eyes
passed the Sailor he nodded minutely. Only the peeled
nerves of junk sickness would have registered a move-
ment.
The Sailor handed the boy a coin. He drifted over
to Fat's table with his floating walk and sat down.
They sat a long time in silence. The cafe was built
into one side of a stone ramp at the bottom of a high
white canyon of masonry. Faces of The City poured
through silent as fish, stained with vile addictions and
insect lusts. The lighted cafe was a diving bell, cable
broken, settling into black depths.
The Sailor was polishing his nails on the lapels of
his glen plaid suit. He whistled a little tune through
his shiny, yellow teeth.
When he moved an effluvia of mold drifted out of
his clothes, a musty smell of deserted locker rooms.
He studied his nails with phosphorescent intensity.
"Good thing here, Fats. I can deliver twenty. Need
an advance of course."
"On spec?"
"So I don't have the twenty eggs in my pocket. I
tell you it's jellied consomme, One little whoops and
a push." The Sailor looked at his nails as if he were
studying a chart. "You know I always deliver."
"Make it thirty. And a ten tube advance. This time
tomorrow.
"Need a tube now, Fats."
"Take a walk, you'll get one."
The Sailor drifted down into the Plaza. A street
boy was shoving a newspaper in the Sailor's face to
cover his hand on the Sailor's pen. The Sailor walked
on. He pulled the pen out and broke it like a nut in
his thick, fibrous, pink fingers. He pulled out a lead
tube. He cut one end of the tube with a little curved
knife. A black mist poured out and hung in the air
like boiling fur. The Sailor's face dissolved. His mouth
undulated forward on a long tube and sucked in the
black fuzz, vibrating in supersonic peristalsis disap-
peared in a silent, pink explosion. His face came back
into focus unbearably sharp and clear, burning yellow
brand of junk searing the grey haunch of a million
screaming junkies.
"This will last a month," he decided, consulting an
invisible mirror.
All streets of the City slope down between deepen-
ing canyons to a vast, kidney-shaped plaza full of
darkness. Walls of street and plaza are perforated by
dwelling cubicles and cafes, some a few feet deep,
others extending out of sight in a network of rooms and
corridors.
At all levels criss-cross of bridges, cat walks, cable
cars. Catatonic youths dressed as women in gowns of
burlap and rotten rags, faces heavily and crudely
painted in bright colors over a strata of beatings,
arabesques of broken, suppurating scars to the pearly
bone, push against the passer-by in silent clinging
insistence.
Traffickers in the Black Meat, flesh of the giant
aquatic black centipede -- sometimes attaining a length
of six feet -- found in a lane of black rocks and iridescent,
brown lagoons, exhibit paralyzed crustaceans in cam-
ouflage pockets of the Plaza visible only to the Meat
Eaters.
Followers of obsolete unthinkable trades, doodling
in Etruscan, addicts of drugs not yet synthesized, black
marketeers of World War III, excisors of telepathic
sensitivity, osteopaths of the spirit, investigators of
infractions denounced by bland paranoid chess players,
servers of fragmentary warrants taken down in hebe-
phrenic shorthand charging unspeakable mutilations of
the spirit, officials of unconstituted police states, brokers
of exquisite dreams and nostalgias tested on the sensi-
tized cells of junk sickness and bartered for raw mate-
rials of the will, drinkers of the Heavy Fluid sealed in
translucent amber of dreams.
The Meet Cafe occupies one side of the Plaza, a
maze of kitchens, restaurants, sleeping cubicles, peril-
ous iron balconies and basements opening into the
underground baths.
On stools covered in white satin sit naked Mug-
wumps sucking translucent, colored syrups through
alabaster straws. Mugwumps have no liver and nourish
themselves exclusively on sweets. Thin, purple-blue
lips cover a razor-sharp beak of black bone with which
they frequently tear each other to shreds in fights
over clients. These creatures secrete an addicting fluid
from their erect penises which prolongs life by slow-
ing metabolism. (In fact all longevity agents have
proved addicting in exact ratio to their effectiveness
in prolonging life. ) Addicts of Mugwump fluid are
known as Reptiles. A number of these How over chairs
with their flexible bones and black-pink flesh. A fan
of green cartilage covered with hollow, erectile hairs
through which the Reptiles absorb the fluid sprouts
from behind each ear. The fans, which move from time
to time touched by invisible currents, serve also same
form of communication known only to Reptiles.
During the biennial Panics when the raw, pealed
Dream Police storm the City, the Mugwumps take
refuge in the deepest crevices of the wall sealing them-
selves in clay cubicles and remain for weeks in bio-
stasis. In those days of grey terror the Reptiles dart
about faster and faster, scream past each other at
supersonic speed, their flexible skulls flapping in black
winds of insect agony.
The Dream Police disintegrate in globs of rotten
ectoplasm swept away by an old junky, coughing and
spitting in the sick morning. The Mugwump Man
comes with alabaster jars of fluid and the Reptiles get
smoothed out.
The air is once again still and clear as glycerine.
The Sailor spotted his Reptile. He drifted over and
ordered a green syrup. The Reptile had a little, round
disk mouth of brown gristle, expressionless green eyes
almost covered by a thin membrane of eyelid. The
Sailor waited an hour before the creature picked up
his presence.
"Any eggs for Fats?" he asked, his words stirring
through the Reptile's fan hairs.
It took two hours for the Reptile to raise three pink
transparent fingers covered with black fuzz.
Several Meat Eaters lay in vomit, too weak to move.
(The Black Meat is like a tainted cheese, overpower-
ingly delicious and nauseating so that the eaters eat
and vomit and eat again until they fall exhausted.)
A painted youth slithered in and seized one of the
great black claws sending the sweet, sick smell curling
through the cafe.
HOSPITAL
Disintoxication Notes. Paranoia of early withdrawal.
. Everything looks blue.... Flesh dead, doughy,
toneless.
Withdrawal Nightmares. A mirror-lined cafe. Empty.
...Waiting for something.... A man appears in a side
door.... A slight, short Arab dressed in a brown jellaba
with grey beard and grey face... There is a pitcher of
boiling acid in my hand.... Seized by a convulsion of
urgency, I throw it in his face....
Everyone looks like a drug addict....
Take a little walk in the hospital patio.... In my
absence someone has used my scissors, they are stained
with some sticky, red brown gick.... No doubt that
little bitch of a criada trimming her rag.
Horrible-looking Europeans clutter up the stairs, in-
tercept the nurse when I need my medicine, empty
piss into the basin when I am washing, occupy the
toilet for hours on end -- probably fishing for a finger
stall of diamonds they have stashed up their asshole....
In fact the whole clan of Europeans has moved in
next to me....The old mother is having an operation,
and her daughter move right in to see the old gash
receive proper service. Strange visitors, presumably
relatives... One of them wears as glasses those gad-
gets jewelers screw into their eyes to examine stones.
...Probably a diamond-cutter on the skids... The man
who loused up the Throckmorton Diamond and was
drummed out of the industry.... All these jewelers
standing around the Diamond in their frock coats, wait-
ing on The Man. An error of one thousandth of an
inch ruins the rock complete and they have to import
this character special from Amsterdam to do the job.
...So he reels in dead drunk with a huge air hammer
and pounds the diamond to dust....
I don't check these citizens.... Dope peddlers from
Aleppo?... Slunk traffickers from Buenos Aires? Il-
legal diamond buyers from Johannesburg?... Slave
traders from Somaliland? Collaborators at the very
least...
Continual dreams of junk: I am looking for a poppy
field.... Moonshiners in black Stetsons direct me to
a Near East cafe.... One of the waiters is a connection
for Yugoslav opium....
Buy a packet of heroin from a Malay Lesbian in
white belted trenchcoat.... I cop the paper in Tibetan
section of a museum. She keeps trying to steal it back.
...I am looking for a place to fix....
The critical point of withdrawal is not the early
phase of acute sickness, but the final step free from
the medium of junk....There is a nightmare interlude
of cellular panic, life suspended between two ways of
being.... At this point the longing for junk concen-
trates in a last, all-out yen, and seems to gain a dream
power: circumstances put junk in your way.... You
meet an old-time Schmecker, a larcenous hospital at-
tendant, a writing croaker....
A guard in a uniform of human skin, black buck
jacket with carious yellow teeth buttons, an elastic
pullover shirt in burnished Indian copper, adolescent-
nordic-sun-tan slacks, sandals from calloused foot soles
of young Malayan farmer, an ash-brown scarf knotted
and tucked in the shirt. (Ash-brown is a color like
grey under brown skin. You sometimes find it in mixed
Negro and white stock, the mixture did not come of
and the colors separated out like oil on water.... )
The Guard is a sharp dresser, since he has nothing
to do and saves all his pay to buy fine clothes and
changes three times a day in front of an enormous mag-
nifying mirror. He has a Latin handsome-smooth face
with a pencil line mustache, small black eyes, blank
and greedy, undreaming insect eyes.
When I get to the frontier the Guard rushes out
of his casita, a mirror in a wooden frame slung round
his neck. He is trying to get the mirror off his neck....
This has never happened before, that anyone reached
the frontier. The Guard has injured his larynx taking
of the mirror frame.... He has lost his voice.... He
opens his mouth, you can see the tongue jumping
around inside. The smooth blank young face and the
open mouth with the tongue moving inside are in-
credibly hideous. The Guard holds up his hand. His
whole body jerks in convulsive negation. I go over
and unhook the chain across the road. It falls with a
clank of metal on stone. I walk through. The Guard
stands there in the mist looking after me. Then he
hooks the chain up again, goes back into the casita and
starts plucking at his mustache.
They just bring so-called lunch.... A hard-boiled
egg with the shell of revealing an object like I never
seen it before.... A very small egg of a yellow-brown
color... Perhaps laid by the duck-billed platypus.
The orange contained a huge worm and very little
else.... He really got there firstest with the mostest....
In Egypt is a worm gets into your kidneys and grows
to an enormous size. Ultimately the kidney is just a
thin shell around the worm. Intrepid gourmets esteem
the flesh of The Worm above all other delicacies. It
is said to be unspeakably toothsome..., An Interzone
coroner known as Autopsy Ahmed made a fortune traf-
ficking The Worm.
The French school is opposite my window and I
dig the boys with my eight-power field glasses.... So
close I could reach out and touch them.... They wear
shorts.... I can see the goose-pimples on their legs
in the cold Spring morning.... I project myself out
through the glasses and across the street, a ghost in the
morning sunlight, torn with disembodied lust.
Did I ever tell you about the time Marv and me pay
two Arab kids sixty cents to watch them screw each
other? So I ask Marv, "Do you think they will do it?"
And he says, "I think so. They are hungry."
And I say, "That's the way I like to see them."
Makes me feel sorta like a dirty old man but, "Son
cosas de la vida," as Soberba de la Flor said when the
fuzz upbraids him for blasting this cunt and taking the
dead body to the Bar 0 Motel and fucking it....
"She play hard to get already," he say... "I don't
hafta take that sound." (Soberba de la Flor was a
Mexican criminal convict of several rather pointless
murders. )
The lavatory has been locked for three hours solid.
...I think they are using it for an operating room....
NURSE: "I can't find her pulse, doctor."
DR. BENWAY: "Maybe she got it up her snatch in
a finger stall."
NURSE: "Adrenalin, doctor?"
DR.. BENWAY: "The night porter shot it all up for
kicks." He looks around and picks up one of those
rubber vacuum cups at the end of a stick they use to
unstop toilets.... He advances on the patient....
"Make an incision, Doctor Limpf," he says to his ap-
palled assistant.... "I'm going to massage the heart."
Dr. Limpf shrugs and begins the incision. Dr. Ben-
way washes the suction cup by swishing it around in
the toilet-bowl....
NURSE: "Shouldn't it be sterilized, doctor?"
DR. BENWAY: "Very likely but there's no time." He
sits on the suction cup like a cane seat watching his
assistant make the incision.... "You young squirts
couldn't lance a pimple without an electric vibrating
scalpel with automatic drain and suture.... Soon we'll
be operating by remote control on patients we never
see.... We'll be nothing but button pushers. All the
skill is going out of surgery.... All the know-how and
make-do... Did I ever tell you about the time I per-
formed an appendectomy with a rusty sardine can?
And once I was caught short without instrument one
and removed a uterine tumor with my teeth. That
was in the Upper Effendi, and besides..."
DR. LYMPH F: "The incision is ready, doctor."
Dr. Benway forces the cup into the incision and
works it up and down. Blood spurts all over the doctors,
the nurse and the wall.... The cup makes a horrible
sucking sound.
NURSE: "I think she's gone, doctor."
DR. BENWAY: "Well, it's all in the day's work." He
walks across the room to a medicine cabinet.... "Some
fucking drug addict has cut my cocaine with Saniflush!
Nurse! Send the boy out to fill this RX on the double!"
Dr. Benway is operating in an auditorium filled with
students: "Now, boys, you won't see this operation
performed very often and there's a reason for that....
You see it has absolutely no medical value. No one
knows what the purpose of it originally was or if it had
a purpose at all. Personally I think it was a pure artistic
creation from the beginning.
"Just as a bull fighter with his skill and knowledge
extricates himself from danger he has himself invoked,
so in this operation the surgeon deliberately endangers
his patient, and then, with incredible speed and celer-
ity, rescues him from death at the last possible split
second.... Did any of you ever see Dr. Tetrazzini per-
form? I say perform advisedly because his operations
were performances. He would start by throwing a scal-
pel across the room into the patient and then make his
entrance like a ballet dancer. His speed was incredible:
'I don't give them time to die,' he would say. Tumors
put him in a frenzy of rage. 'Fucking undisciplined
cells!' he would snarl, advancing on the tumor like a
knife-fighter."
A young man leaps down into the operating theatre
and, whipping out a scalpel, advances on the patient.
DR. BENWAY: "An espontaneo Stop him before he
guts my patient!"
(Espontaneo is a bull-fighting term for a member of
the audience who leaps down into the ring, pulls out
a concealed cape and attempts a few passes with the
bull before he is dragged out of the ring. )
The orderlies scuffle with the espontaneo, who is
finally ejected from the hall. The anesthetist takes ad-
vantage of the confusion to pry a large gold filling
from the patient's mouth....
I am passing room 10 they moved me out of yester-
day.... Maternity case I assume... Bedpans full of
blood and Kotex and nameless female substances, enough
to pollute a continent... If someone comes to visit me
in my old room he will think I gave birth to a monster
and the State Department is trying to hush it up....
Music from I Am an American... An elderly man
in the striped pants and cutaway of a diplomat stands
on a platform draped with the American flag. A de-
cayed, corseted tenor -- bursting out of a Daniel Boone
costume -- is singing the Star S pangled Banner, accom-
panied by a full orchestra. He sings with a slight
lisp....
THE DIPLOMAT (reading from a great scroll of ticker
tape that keeps growing and tangling around his feet):
"And we categorically deny that any male citizen of
the United States of America..."
TENOR: "Oh thay can you thee..." His voice breaks
and shoots up to a high falsetto.
In the control room the Technician mixes a bicar-
bonate of soda and belches into his hand: "God damned
tenor's a brown artist1" he mutters sourly. "Mikel
rumph," the shout ends in a belch. "Cut that swish
fart off the air and give him his purple slip. He's
through as of right now.... Put in that sex-changed
Liz athlete.... She's a fulltime tenor at least....
Costume? How in the fuck should I know? I'm no
dress designer swish from the costume department!
What's that? The entire costume department occluded
as a security risk? What am I, an octopus? Let's see...
How about an Indian routine? Pocahontas or Hia-
watha?... No, that's not right. Some citizen cracks
wise about giving it back to the Indians.... A Civil War
uniform, the coat North and the pants South like it
show they got together again? She can come on like
Buffalo Bill or Paul Revere or that citizen wouldn't
give up the shit, I mean the ship, or a G.I. or a Dough-
boy or the Unknown Soldier.... That's the best deal.
...Cover her with a monument, that way nobody has
to look at her...."
The Lesbian, concealed in a paper mache Arc de
Triomphe fills her great lungs and looses a tremendous
bellow.
"Oh say do that Star Spangled Banner yet wave..."
A great rent rips the Arc de Triomphe from top
to bottom. The Diplomat puts a hand to his fore-
head....
The Diplomat: "That any male citizen of the
United States has given birth in Interzone or at any
other place...."
"O'er the land of the FREEEEEEEEEEE..."
The Diplomat's mouth is moving but no one can
hear him. The Technician clasps his hands over his
ears: "Mother of God!" he screams. His plate begins
to vibrate like a Jew's harp, suddenly flies out of his
mouth.... He snaps at it irritably, misses and covers
his mouth with one hand.
The Arc de Triomphe falls with a ripping, splinter-
ing crash, reveals the Lesbian standing on a pedestal
clad only in a leopard-skin jockstrap with enormous
falsie basket.... She stands there smiling stupidly and
flexing her huge muscles.... The Technician is craw-
pleasure to the head.... Ten minutes later you want
another shot.... The pleasure of morphine is in the
viscera.... You listen down into yourself after a shot.
...But intravenous C is electricity through the brain,
activating cocaine pleasure connections.... There is no
withdrawal syndrome with C. It is a need of the brain
alone -- a need without body and without feeling. Earth-
bound ghost need. The craving for C lasts only a few
hours as long as the C channels are stimulated. Then
you forget it. Eukodol is like a combination of junk
and C. Trust the Germans to concoct some really evil
shit. Eukodol like morphine is six times stronger than
codeine. Heroin six times stronger than morphine. Di-
hydro-oxy-heroin should be six times stronger than
heroin. Quite possible to develop a drug so habit-form-
ing that one shot would cause lifelong addiction.
Habit Note continued: Picking up needle I reach
spontaneously for the tie-up cord with my left hand.'
This I take as a sign I can hit the one useable vein
in my left arm, (The movements of tying up are such
that you normally tie up the arm with which you
reach for the cord. ) The needle slides in easily on the
edge of a callous. I feel around. Suddenly a thin column
of blood shoots up into the syringe, for a moment sharp
and solid as a red cord.
The body knows what veins you can hit and conveys
this knowledge in the spontaneous movements you
make preparing to take a shot.... Sometimes the
needle points like a dowser's wand. Sometime I must
wait for the message, But when it comes I always hit
blood.
A red orchid bloomed at the bottom of the dropper.
He hesitated for a full second, then pressed the bulb,
watching the liquid rush into the vein as if sucked by
the silent thirst of his blood. There was an iridescent,
thin coat of blood left in the dropper, and the white
paper collar was soaked through with blood like a
bandage. He reached over and filled the dropper with
water. As he squirted the water out, the shot hit him
in the stomach, a soft sweet blow.
Look down at my filthy trousers, haven't been
changed in months.... The days glide by strung on
a syringe with a long thread of blood.... I am forget-
ting sex and all sharp pleasures of the body -- a grey,
junk-bound ghost. The Spanish boys call me El Hom-
bre Invisible -- the Invisible Man....
Twenty push ups every morning. Use of junk re-
moves fat, leaves muscle more or less intact. The addict
seems to need less tissue....Would it be possible to
isolate the fat-removing molecule of junk?
More and more static at the Drug Store, mutterings
of control like a telephone off the hook... Spent all
day until 8 P.M. to score for two boxes of Eukodol....
Running out of veins and out of money.
Keep going on the nod. Last night I woke up with
someone squeezing my hand. It was my other hand....
Fall asleep reading and the words take on code signifi-
cance.... Obsessed with codes.... Man contracts a
series of diseases which spell out a code message....
Take a shot in front of D.L. Probing for a vein in
my dirty bare foot.... Junkies have no shame....
They are impervious to the repugnance of others. It
is doubtful if shame can exist in the absence of sexual
libido.... The junky's shame disappears with his non-
sexual sociability which is also dependent on libido....
The addict regards his body impersonally as an instru-
ment to absorb the medium in which he lives, evaluates
his tissue with the cold hands of a horse trader. "No use
trying to hit there." Dead fish eyes Hick over a ravaged
vein.
Using a new type sleeping pill called Soneryl....
You don't feel sleepy.... You shift to sleep without
transition, fall abruptly into the middle of a dream....
I have been years in a prison camp suffering from mal-
nutrition....
The President is a junky but can't take it direct
because of his position. So he gets fixed through
me.... From time to time we make contact, and I
recharge him. These contacts look, to the casual ob-
server, like homosexual practices, but the actual ex-
citement is not primarily sexual, and the climax is the
separation when the recharge is completed. The erect
penises are brought into contact -- at least we used that
method in the beginning, but contact points wear out
like veins. Now I sometimes have to slip my penis
under his left eyelid. Of course I can always fix him
with an Osmosis Recharge, which corresponds to a
skin shot, but that is admitting defeat. An O.R. will put
the President in a bad mood for weeks, and might well
precipitate an atomic shambles. And the President pays
a high price for the Oblique Habit. He has sacrificed
all control, and is dependent as an unborn child. The
Oblique Addict suffers a whole spectrum of subjective
horror, silent protoplasmic frenzy, hideous agony of the
bones. Tensions build up, pure energy without emo-
tional content finally tears through the body throwing
him about like a man in contact with high tension
wires. If his charge connection is cut off cold, the
Oblique Addict falls into such violent electric convul-
sions that his bones shake loose, and he dies with the
skeleton straining to climb out of his unendurable flesh
and run in a straight line to the nearest cemetery.
The relation between an O.A. (Oblique Addict) and
his R.C. (Recharge Connection) is so intense that they
can only endure each other's company for brief and
infrequent intervals -- I mean aside from recharge meets,
when all personal contact is eclipsed by the recharge
process.
Reading the paper.... Something about a triple mur-
der in the rue de la Merde, Paris: "An adjusting of
scores."...I keep slipping away.... "The police have
identified the author... Pepe El Culito... The Little
Ass Hole, an affectionate diminutive." Does it really
say that?... I try to focus the words... they separate
in meaningless mosaic....
LAZARUS GO HOME
Fumbling through faded tape at the pick up frontier,
a languid grey area of hiatus miasmic with yawns and
gaping goof holes, Lee found out that the young junky
standing there in his room at 10 A.M. Was back from
two months skin diving in Corsica and off the junk....
"Here to show off his new body," Lee decided with
a shudder of morning junk sickness. He knew that he
was seeing -- ah yes Miguel thank you -- three months
back sitting in the Metropole nodded out over a stale
yellow eclair that would poison a cat two hours later,
decided that the effort involved in seeing Miguel at
all 10 A.M. was enough without the intolerable chore
of correcting an error -- ("what is this a fucking farm?")
which would also entail current picture of Miguel in
much used areas like some great, inconvenient beast
of an object on top in the suitcase.
"You look marvelous," Lee said, wiping away the
more obvious signs of distaste with a sloppy, casual
napkin, seeing the grey ooze of junk in Miguel's face,
studying patterns of shabbiness as if man and clothes
had moved for years through back alleys of time with
never a space station to tidy up....
"Besides by the time I could correct the error...
Lazarus go home.... Pay The Man and go home....
What I want to see your old borrowed meat for?'
"Well it's great to see you off....Do yourself a
favor." Miguel was swimming around the room spear-
ing fish with his hand....
"When you're down there you never think about
horse."
"You're better off like this," said Lee, dreamily caress-
ing a needle scar on the back of Miguel's hand, follow-
ing the whorls and patterns of smooth purple flesh in
a slow twisting movement....
Miguel scratched the back of his hand.... He looked
out the window.... His body moved in little, gal-
vanized jerks as junk channels lit up.... Lee sat there
waiting. "One snort never put anybody back on, kid."
"I know what I'm doing."
"They always know."
Miguel took the nail file.
Lee closed his eyes: "It's too tiresome."
"Uh thanks that was great." Miguel's pants fell to
his ankles. He stood there in a misshapen overcoat of
Hesh that turned from brown to green and then color-
less in the morning light, fell off in globs onto the
floor.
Lee's eyes moved in the substance of his face... a
little, cold, grey Hick.... "Clean it up," he said. "Enough
dirt in here now."
"Oh uh sure," Miguel fumbled with a dustpan.
Lee put the packet of heroin away.
Lee lived in a permanent third-day kick, with, of
course, certain uh essential intermissions to refuel the
fires that burned through his yellow-pink-brown ge-
latinous substance and kept off the hovering flesh. In
the beginning his flesh was simply soft, so soft that
he was cut to the bone by dust particles, air currents
and brushing overcoats while direct contact with doors
and chairs seemed to occasion no discomfort. No wound
healed in his soft, tentative flesh.... Long white ten-
drils of fungus curled round the naked bones. Mold
odors of atrophied testicles quilted his body in a fuzzy
grey fog....
During his first severe infection the boiling thermom-
eter Hashed a quicksilver bullet into the nurse's brain
and she fell dead with a mangled scream. The doctor
took one look and slammed steel shutters of survival.
He ordered the burning bed and its occupant immedi-
ately evicted from the hospital premises.
"Guess he can make his own penicillin!" snarled the
doctor.
But the infection burned the mold out... Lee lived
now in varying degrees of transparency... While not
exactly invisible he was at least difficult to see. His
presence attracted no special notice.... People covered
him with a project or dismissed him as a reflection,
shadow: "Some kinda light trick or neon advertise-
ment."
Now Lee felt the first seismic tremors of Old Faith-
ful the Cold Burn. He pushed Miguel's spirit into the
hall with a kind, firm tendril.
"Jesus!" said Miguel. "I gotta go!" He rushed out.
Pink fires of histamine spurted from Lee's glowing
core and covered his raw periphery. (The room was
fireproof, the walls of iron blistered and spotted with
moon craters.) He took a large fix and falsified his
schedule.
He decided to visit a colleague, NG Joe, who got
hooked during a Bang-utot attack in Honolulu.
(Note: Rang-utot, literally, "attempting to get up
and groaning..." Death occurring in the course of a
nightmare... The condition occurs in males of S.E.
Asiatic extraction.... In Manila about twelve cases of
death by Bang-utot are recorded each year.
One man who recovered said that "a little man"
was sitting on his chest and strangling him.
Victims often know that they are going to die, ex-
press the fear that their penis will enter the body and
kill them. Sometimes they cling to the penis in a state
of shrieking hysteria calling on others for help lest the
penis escape and pierce the body. Erections, such as
normally occur in sleep, are considered especially dan-
gerous and liable to bring a fatal attack.... One man
devised a Rube Goldberg contraption to prevent erec-
tion during sleep. But he died of Bang-utot.
Careful autopsies of Bang-utot victims have revealed
no organic reason for death. There are often signs of
strangulation (caused by what?); sometimes slight
hemorrhages of pancreas and lungs -- not sufficient to
cause death and also of unknown origin. It has oc-
curred to the author that the cause of death is a mis-
placement of sexual energy resulting in a lung erection
with consequent strangulation.... [See article by Nils
Larsen M.D., The Men with the Deadly Dream in the
Saturday Evening Post, December 3, 1955. Also ar-
ticle by Erle Stanley Gardner for Time Magazine.] )
NG lived in constant fear of erection so his habit
jumped and jumped. (Note: It is a well known tire-
some fact, it is a notoriously dull and long winded fact,
that anyone who gets hooked because of any disabil-
ity whatever, will be presented, during the periods of
shortage or deprivation [such a thing as too much fun
you know] with an outrageously padded, geometrically
progressing, proliferating account. )
An electrode attached to one testicle glowed briefly
and NG woke up in the smell of burning flesh and
reached for a loaded syringe. He rolled into a foetal
position and slid the needle into his spine. He pulled
the needle out with a little sigh of pleasure, and re-
alized that Lee was in the room. A long slug undulated
out of Lee's right eye and wrote on the wall in iri-
descent ooze: " The Sailor is in the City buying up
TIME."
I am waiting in front of a drugstore for it to open
at nine o'clock. Two Arab boys roll cans of garbage
up to a high heavy wood door in a whitewashed wall.
Dust in front of the door streaked with urine. One of
the boys bent over, rolling the heavy cans, pants tight
over his lean young ass. He looks at me with the neu-
tral, calm glance of an animal I wake with a shock
like the boy is real and I have missed a meet I had
with him for this afternoon.
"We expect additional equalizations," says the In-
spector in an interview with Your Reporter. "Otherwise
will occur," the Inspector lifts one leg in a typical
Nordic gesture, "the bends is it not? But perhaps we
can provide the suitable chamber of decompression."
The Inspector opens his fly and begins looking for
crabs, applying ointment from a little clay pot. Clearly
the interview is at an end. "You're not going?" he ex-
claims. "Well, as one judge said to the other, 'Be just
and if you can't be just be arbitrary.' Regret cannot
observe customary obscenities." He holds up his right
hand covered with a foul-smelling yellow ointment.
One's Reporter rushes forward and clasps the soiled
hand in both of his. "It's been a pleasure, Inspector, an
unspeakable pleasure," he says peeling off his gloves,
rolling them into a ball and tossing them into the
wastebasket. "Expense account," he smiles.
HASSAN'S RUMPUS ROOM
Gilt and red plush. Rococo bar backed by pink shell.
The air is cloyed with a sweet evil substance like
decayed honey. Men and women in evening dress sip
pousse-cafes through alabaster tubes. A Near East Mug-
wump sits naked on a bar stool covered in pink silk.
He licks warm honey from a crystal goblet with a long
black tongue. His genitals are perfectly formed -- cir-
cumcised cock, black shiny pubic hairs. His lips are
thin and purple-blue like the lips of a penis, his eyes
blank with insect calm. The Mugwump has no liver,
maintaining himself exclusive on sweets. Mugwump
push a slender blond youth to a couch and strip him
expertly.
"Stand up and turn around," he orders in telepathic
pictographs. He ties the boy's hands behind him with
a red silk cord. "Tonight we make it all the way."
"No, no!" screams the boy.
"Yes. Yes."
Cocks ejaculate in silent "yes." Mugwump part silk
curtains, reveal a teak wood gallows against lighted
screen of red Hint. Gallows is on a dais of Aztec
mosaics.
The boy crumples to his knees with a long
"OOOOOOOOH," shitting and pissing in terror. He
feels the shit warm between his thighs. A great wave
of hot blood swells his lips and throat. His body con-
tracts into a foetal position and sperm spurts hot into
his face. The Mugwump dips hot perfumed water from
alabaster bowl, pensively washes the boy's ass and
cock, drying him with a soft blue towel. A warm wind
plays over the boys body and the hairs float free. The
Mugwump puts a hand under the boy's chest and
pulls him to his feet. Holding him by both pinioned
elbows, propels him up the steps and under the noose.
He stands in front of the boy holding the noose in
both hands.
The boy looks into Mugwump eyes blank as obsidian
mirrors, pools of black blood, glory holes in a toilet
wall closing on the Last Erection.
An old garbage collector, face fine and yellow as
Chinese ivory, blows The Blast on his dented brass
horn, wakes the Spanish pimp with a hard-on. Whore
staggers out through dust and shit and litter of dead
kittens, carrying bales of aborted foetuses, broken con-
doms, bloody Kotex, shit wrapped in bright color
comics.
A vast still harbor of iridescent water. Deserted gas
well flares on the smoky horizon. Stink of oil and
sewage. Sick sharks swim through the black water,
belch sulphur from rotting livers, ignore a bloody,
broken Icarus. Naked Mr. America, burning frantic
with self bone love, screams out: "My asshole con-
founds the Louvre! I fart ambrosia and shit pure gold
turds! My cock spurts soft diamonds in the morning
sunlight!" He plummets from the eyeless lighthouse,
kissing and jacking off in face of the black mirror,
glides oblique down with cryptic condoms and mosaic
of a thousand newspapers through a drowned city of
red brick to settle in black mud with tin cans and beer
bottles, gangsters in concrete, pistols pounded Hat and
meaningless to avoid short-arm inspection of prurient
ballistic experts. He waits the slow striptease of erosion
with fossil loins.
The Mugwump slips the noose over the boy's head
and tightens the knot caressingly behind the left ear.
The boy's penis is retracted, his balls tight. He looks
straight ahead breathing deeply. The Mugwump sidles
around the boy goosing him and caressing his genitals
in hieroglyphs of mockery. He moves in behind the
boy with a series of bumps and shoves his cock up the
boy's ass. He stands there moving in circular gyrations.
The guests shush each other, nudge and giggle.
Suddenly the Mugwump pushes the boy forward into
space, free of his cock. He steadies the boy with hands
on the hip bones, reaches up with his stylized hiero-
glyph hands and snaps the boy's neck. A shudder passes
through the boy's body. His penis rises in three great
surges pulling his pelvis up, ejaculates immediately.
Green sparks explode behind his eyes. A sweet tooth-
ache pain shoots through his neck down the spine to
the groin, contracting the body in spasms of delight.
His whole body squeezes out through his cock. A
final spasm throws a great spurt of sperm across the
red screen like a shooting star.
The boy falls with soft gutty suction through a maze
of penny arcades and dirty pictures.
A sharp turd shoots clean out his ass. Farts shake
his slender body. Skyrockets burst in green clusters
across a great river. He hears the faint put-put of a
motor boat in jungle twilight.... Under silent wings
of the anopheles mosquito.
The Mugwump pulls the boy back onto his cock.
The boy squirms, impaled like a speared fish. The
Mugwump swings on the boy's back, his body con-
tracting in fluid waves. Blood flows down the boy's
chin from his mouth, half-open, sweet, and sulky in
death. The Mugwump falls with a fluid, sated plop.
Windowless cubicle with blue walls. Dirty pink
curtain cover the door. Red bugs crawl on the wall,
cluster in corners. Naked boy in the middle of the room
twang a two-string ouad, trace an arabesque on the
floor. Another boy lean back on the bed smoking keif
and blow smoke over his erect cock. They play game
with tarot cards on the bed to see who fuck who.
Cheat. Fight. Roll on the floor snarling and spitting like
young animals. The loser sit on the floor chin on knees,
licks a broken tooth. The winner curls up on the bed
pretending to sleep. Whenever the other boy come
near kick at him. Ali seize him by one ankle, tuck
the ankle under his arm pit, lock his arm around the
calf. The boy kick desperately at Ali's face. Other
ankle pinioned. Ali tilt the boy back on his shoulders.
The boy's cock extends along his stomach, float free
pulsing. Ali put his hands over his head. Spit on his
cock. The other sighs deeply as Ali slides his cock in.
The mouths grind together smearing blood. Sharp
musty odor of penetrated rectum. Nimun drive in like
a wedge, force jism out the other cock in long hot
spurts. (The author has observed that Arab cocks
tend to be wide and wedge shaped.)
Satyr and naked Greek lad in aqualungs trace a
ballet of pursuit in a monster vase of transparent
alabaster. The Satyr catches the boy from in front
and whirls him around. They move in fish jerks. The
boy releases a silver stream of bubbles from his mouth.
White sperm ejaculates into the green water and floats
lazily around the twisting bodies.
Negro gently lifts exquisite Chinese boy into a ham-
mock. He pushes the boy's legs up over his head and
straddles the hammock. He slides his cock up the boy's
slender tight ass. He rocks the hammock gently back
and forth. The boy screams, a weird high wail of un-
endurable delight.
A Javanese dancer in ornate teak swivel chair, set
in a socket of limestone buttocks, pulls an American
boy -- red hair, bright green eyes -- down onto his cock
with ritual motions. The boy sits impaled facing the
dancer who propels himself in circular gyrations, lend-
ing fluid substance to the chair. "Weeeeeeeeee!" scream
the boy as his sperm spurt up over the dancer's lean
brown chest. One gob hit the corner of the dancer's
mouth. The boy push it in with his finger and laugh:
"Man, that's what I call suction!"
Two Arab women with bestial faces have pulled
the shorts off a little blond French boy. They are screw-
ing him with red rubber cocks. The boy snarls, bites,
kicks, collapses in tears as his cock rises and ejaculates.
Hassan's face swells, tumescent with blood. His lips
turn purple. He strip off his suit of banknotes and
throw it into an open vault that closes soundless.
"Freedom Hall here, folks!" he screams in his phoney
Texas accent. Ten-gallon hat and cowboy boots still
on, he dances the Liquefactionist Jig, ending with a
grotesque can-can to the tune of She Started a Heat
Wave.
"Let it be! And no holes barred!("
Couples attached to baroque harnesses with artificial
wings copulate in the air, screaming like magpies.
Aerialists ejaculate each other in space with one sure
touch.
Equilibrists suck each other off deftly, balanced on
perilous poles and chairs tilted over the void. A warm
wind brings the smell of rivers and jungle from misty
depths.
Boys by the hundred plummet through the roof,
quivering and kicking at the end of ropes. The boys
hang at different levels, some near the ceiling and oth-
ers a few inches off the floor. Exquisite Balinese and
Malays, Mexican Indians with fierce innocent faces
and bright red gums. Negroes ( teeth, fingers, toe nails
and pubic hair gilded), Japanese boys smooth and
white as China, Titian-haired Venetian lads, Americans
with blond or black curls falling across the forehead
(the guests tenderly shove it back), sulky blond Pol-
lacks with animal brown eyes, Arab and Spanish street
boys, Austrian boys pink and delicate with a faint
shadow of blond pubic hair, sneering German youths
with bright blue eyes scream "Heil Hitler!" as the trap
falls under them. Sollubis shit and whimper.
Mr. Rich-and-Vulgar chews his Havana lewd and
nasty, sprawled on a Florida beach surrounded by
simpering blond catamites:
"This citizen have a Latah he import from Indo-
China. He figure to hang the Latah and send a Xmas
TV short to his friends. So he fix up two ropes -- one
gimmicked to stretch, the other the real McCoy. But
that Latah get up in feud state and put on his Santa
Claus suit and make with the switcheroo. Come the
dawning. The citizen put one rope on and the Latah,
going along the way Latahs will, put on the other.
When the traps are down the citizen hang for real
and the Latah stand with the carny-rubber stretch
rope. Well, the Latah imitate every twitch and spasm.
Come three times.
"Smart young Latah keep his eye on the ball. I got
him working in one of my plants as an expeditor."
Aztec priests strip blue feather robe from the Naked
Youth. They bend him back over a limestone altar, fit
a crystal skull over his head, securing the two hemi-
spheres back and front with crystal screws. A water-
fall pour over the skull snapping the boy's neck. He
ejaculate in a rainbow against the rising sun.
Sharp protein odor of semen fills the air. The guests
run hands over twitching boys, suck their cocks, hang
on their backs like vampires.
Naked lifeguards carry in iron-lungs full of paralyzed
youths.
Blind boys grope out of huge pies, deteriorated
schizophrenics pop from a rubber cunt, boys with
horrible skin diseases rise from a black pond (sluggish
fish nibble yellow turds on the surface).
A man with white tie and dress shirt, naked from
the waist down except for black garters, talks to the
Queen Bee in elegant tones. (Queen Bees are old
women who surround themselves with fairies to form
a "swarm." It is a sinister Mexican practice. )
"But where is the statuary?" He talks out of one side
of his face, the other is twisted by the Torture of a
Million Mirrors. He masturbates wildly. The Queen
Bee continues the conversation, notices nothing.
Couches, chairs, the whole floor begins to vibrate,
shaking the guests to blurred grey ghosts shrieking in
cock-bound agony.
Two boys jacking off under railroad bridge. The
train shakes through their bodies, ejaculate them, fades
with distant whistle. Frogs croak. The boys wash
semen off lean brown stomachs.
Train compartment: two sick young junkies on their
way to Lexington tear their pants down in convulsions
of lust. One of them soaps his cock and works it up the
other's ass with a corkscrew motion. "Jeeeeeeeeeeeeee-
sus!" Both ejaculate at once standing up. They move
away from each other and pull up their pants.
"Old croaker in Marshall writes for tincture and
sweet oil."
"The piles of an aged mother shriek out raw and
bleeding for the Black Shit.... Doc, suppose it was
your mother, rimmed by resident leaches, squirming
around so nasty.... De-active that pelvis, mom, you
disgust me already"
"Let's stop over and make him for an RX."
The train tears on through the smoky, neon-lighted
June night.
Pictures of men and women, boys and girls, animals,
fish, birds, the copulating rhythm of the universe Hows
through the room, a great blue tide of life. Vibrating,
soundless hum of deep forest -- sudden quiet of cities
when the junky copes. A moment of stillness and won-
der. Even the Commuter buzzes clogged lines of choles-
terol for contact.
Hassan shrieks out: "This is your doing, A.J.! You
poopa my party!"
A.J. looks at him, face remote as limestone: "Uppa
your ass, you liquefying gook."
A horde of lust-mad American women rush in.
Dripping cunts, from farm and dude ranch, factory,
brothel, country club, penthouse and suburb, motel
and yacht and cocktail bar, strip off riding clothes, ski
togs, evening dresses, levis, tea gowns, print dresses,
slacks, bathing suits and kimonos. They scream and
yipe and howl, leap on the guests like bitch dogs in
heat with rabies. They claw at the hanged boys shriek-
ing: "You fairy! You bastard! Fuck me! Fuck me!
Fuck me!" The guests flee screaming, dodge among
the hanged boys, overturn iron lungs.
A.J.: "Call out my Sweitzers, God damn it! Guard
me from these she-foxest"
Mr. Hyslop, A. J.'s secretary, looks up from his comic
book: "The Sweitzers liquefy already."
(Liquefaction involves protein cleavage and reduc-
tion to liquid which is absorbed into someone else's
protoplasmic being. Hassan, a notorious liquefactionist,
is probably the beneficiary in this case.)
A.J.: "Gold-bricking cocksuckers! Where's a man
without his Sweitzers? Our backs are to the wall, gen-
tlemen. Our very cocks at stake. Stand by to resist
boarders, Mr. Hyslop, and issue short arms to the men."
A.J. whips out a cutlass and begins decapitating the
American Girls. He sings lustily:
Fifteen men on the dead man's cheat
Yo Ho Ho and a bottle of rum.
Drink and the devil had done for the rest
Yo Ho Ho and a bottle of rum.
Mr. Hyslop, bored and resigned: "Oh Gawd! He's at
it again." He waves the Jolly Roger listlessly.
A.J., surrounded and fighting against overwhelming
odds, throws back his head and makes with the hog-
call. Immediately a thousand rutting Eskimos pour in
grunting and squealing, faces tumescent, eyes hot and
red, lips purple, fall on the American women.
(Eskimos have a rutting season when the tribes
meet in short Summer to disport themselves in orgies.
Their faces swell and lips turn purple. )
A House Dick with cigar two feet long sticks his
head in through the wall: "Have you got a menagerie
in here?"
Hassan wrings his hands: "A shambles! A filthy
shambles! By Allah I never see anything so downright
nasty!"
He whirls on A.J. who is sitting on a sea chest, parrot
on shoulder, patch over one eye, drinking rum from
a tankard. He scans the horizon with a huge brass
telescope.
Hassan: "You cheap Factualist bitch! Go and never
darken my rumpus room again!"
CAMPUS OF INTERZONE UNIVERSITY
Donkeys, camels, llamas, rickshaws, carts of merchan-
dise pushed by straining boys, eyes protruding like
strangled tongues -- throbbing red with animal hate.
Herds of sheep and goats and long-horned cattle
pass between the students and the lecture platform.
The students sit around on rusty park benches, lime-
stone blocks, outhouse seats, packing crates, oil drums,
stumps, dusty leather hassacks, mouldy gym mats. They
wear levis -- jellabas... hose and doublet -- drink corn
from mason jars, coffee from tin cans, smoke gage
(marijuana) in cigarettes made of wrapping paper and
lottery tickets... shoot junk with a safety pin and
dropper, study racing forms, comic books, Mayan co-
dices....
The Professor arrives on a bicycle carrying a string
of bull heads. He mounts the platform holding his
back (crane swings a bellowing cow over his head).
Prof: "Fucked by the Sultan's Army last night.
I have dislocate the back in the service of my resident
queen.... Can't evict that old gash. Need a licensed
brain electrician disconnect her synapsis by synapsis
and a surgical bailiff put her guts out on the sidewalk.
When Ma move in on a boy bag and buggage he play
Hell dispossess that Gold Star Boarder...."
He looks at the bull heads humming tunes from the
1920s. "The nostalgia fit is on me boys and will out
willy silly... boys walk down the carny Midway
eating pink spun sugar... goose each other at the
peep show... jack off in the Ferris Wheel throw sperm
at the moon rising red and smoky over the foundries
across the river. A Nigra hangs from a cotton wood
in front of The Old Court House... whimpering
women catch his sperm in vaginal teeth.... (Husband
looks at the little changeling with narrow eyes the
color of a faded grey flannel shirt.... 'Doc, I suspect
it to be a Nigra.'
The Doctor shrugs: 'It's the Old Army Game, son.
Pea under the shell... Now you see it now you
don't....')
"And Doc Parker in the back room in his drugstore
shooting horse heroin three grains a jolt -- 'Tonic,' he
mutters. 'It's always Spring.'
" 'Hands' Benson Town Pervert has took up a queren-
cia in the school privy (Querencia is bullfight term....
The bull will find a spot in the ring he likes ".nd stay
there and the bullfighter has to go in and meet the bull
on his bull terms or coax him out -- one or the other).
Sheriff A.Q. 'Flat' Larsen say 'Some way we gotta lure
him outa that querencia.'...And Old Ma Lottie sleep
ten years with a dead daughter and home cured too,
wakes shivering in the East Texas dawn... vultures
out over the black swamp water and cypress stumps....
"And now gentlemen -- I trust there are no transvest-
ites present -- he he -- and you are all gentlemen by act
of Congress it being only remain to establish you male
humans, positively no Transitionals in either direction
will be allowed in this decent hall. Gentlemen, present
short arms. Now you have all been briefed on the im-
portance of keeping your weapons well lubricated and
ready for any action flank or rear guard."
Students: "Hear! Hear!" They wearily unbutton their
flies. One of them brandishes a huge erection.
PROF: "And now, gentlemen, where was I? Oh yes,
Ma Lottie... She wake shivering in the gentle pink
dawn, pink as the candles on a little girl's birthday cake,
pink as spun sugar, pink as a sea-shell, pink as a cock
pulsing in a red fucking light.... Ma Lottie... hu-
rumph... if this prolixity be not cut short will succumb
to the infirmities of age and join her daughter in for-
maldehyde.
"The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Coleridge the
poet... I should like to call your attention to the
symbolism of the Ancient Mariner himself."
Students: "Himself the man says."
"Thereby call attention to his own unappetizing
person.
"That wasn't a nice thing to do, Teach."
A hundred juvenile delinquents... switch blades
clicking like teeth move at him.
Prof: "Oh Landsakes!" He tries desperately to dis-
guise himself as an old woman with high black shoes
and umbrella.... "If it wasn't for my lumbago can't
rightly bend over I'd turn them offering my Sugar Bum
the way baboons do it.... If a weaker baboon be at-
tacked by a stronger baboon the weaker baboon will
either (a) present his hrump fanny I believe is the
word, gentlemen, heh heh for passive intercourse or
(b) if he is a different type baboon more extrovert and
well-adjusted, lead an attack on an even weaker baboon
if he can find one."
Dilapidated Disease in 1920 clothes like she sleep in
them ever since undulates across dreary neonlighted
Chicago street... dead weight of the Dear Dead Days
hanging in the air like an earth-bound ghost. Disease:
(canned heat tenor). "Find the weakest baboon."
Frontier saloon: Fag Baboon dressed in little girl blue
dress sings in resigned voice to tune of Alice Blue
Gown: "I'm the weakest baboon of them all."
A freight train separates the Prof. from the juveniles.
...When the train passes they have fat stomachs and
responsible jobs....
STUDENTS: "We want Lottie!"
Prof: "That was in another country, gentlemen....
As I was saying before I was so rudely irrupted by one of
my multiple personalities... troublesome little beasts...
consider the Ancient Mariner without curare, lasso, bul-
bocapnine or straitjacket, albeit able to capture and
hold a live audience.... What is his hurmp gimmick?
He he he he... He does not, like so-called artists at
this time, stop just anybody thereby inflicting unsent
for boredom and working random hardship.... He
stops those who cannot choose but hear owing to al-
ready existing relation between The Mariner (however
ancient) and the uh Wedding Guest....
"What the Mariner actually says is not important....
He may be rambling, irrelevant, even crude and ram-
pant senile. But something happens to the Wedding
Guest like happens in psychoanalysis when it happens
if it happens. If I may be permitted a slight digression
...an analyst of my acquaintance does all the talking
-- patients listen patiently or not.... He reminiscences
...tells dirty jokes (old ones) achieves counterpoints
of idiocy undreamed of by The County Clerk. He is
illustrating at some length that nothing can ever be
accomplished on the verbal level.... He arrived at this
method through observing that The Listener -- The Ana-
lyst -- was not reading the mind of the patient.... The
patient -- The Talker -- was reading his mind.... That is
the patient has ESP awareness of the analyst's dreams
and schemes whereas the analyst contacts the patient
strictly from front brain.... Many agents use this ap-
proach -- they are notoriously long-winded bores and bad
listeners....
"Gentlemen I will slop a pearl: You can find out more
about someone by talking than by listening."
Pigs rush up and the Prof. pours buckets of pearls into
a trough....
"I am not worthy to eat his feet," says the fattest hog
of them all.
"Clay anyhoo."
A.J.'S ANNUAL PARTY
A.J. turns to the guests. "Cunts, pricks, fence strad-
dlers, tonight I give you -- that international-known im-
pressario of blue movies and short-wave TV, the one,
the only, The Great Slashtubitch!"
He points to a red velvet curtain sixty feet high.
Lightning rends the curtain from top to bottom. The
Great Slashtubitch stands revealed. His face is immense,
immobile like a Chimu funeral urn. He wears full eve-
ning dress, blue cape and blue monocle. Huge grey eyes
with tiny black pupils that seem to spit needles. (Only
the Coordinate Factualist can meet his gaze. ) When he
is angered the charge of it will blow his monocle across
the room. Many an ill-starred actor has felt the icy blast
of Slashtubitch's displeasure: "Get out of my studio,
you cheap four-flushing ham! Did you think to pass a
counterfeit orgasm on me! THE GREAT SLASHTU-
BITCH! I could tell if you come by regard the beeg
toe. Idiot! Mindless scum!! Insolent baggage!!! Go ped-
dle thy ass and know that it takes sincerity and art, and
devotion, to work for Slashtubitch. Not shoddy trickery,
dubbed gasps, rubber turds and vials of milk concealed
in the ear and shots of Yohimbine sneaked in the
wings." ( Yohimbine, derived from the bark of a tree
growing in Central Africa, is the safest and most effi-
cient aphrodisiac. It operates by dilating the blood
vessels on the surface of the skin, particularly in the
genital area. )
Slashtubitch ejects his monocle. It sails out of sight,
returns like a boomerang into his eye. He pirouettes
and disappears in a blue mist, cold as liquid air...
fadeout....
On Screen. Red-haired, green-eyed boy, white skin
with a few freckles... kissing a thin brunette girl in
slacks. Clothes and hair-do suggest existentialist bars of
all the world cities. They are seated on low bed covered
in white silk. The girl opens his pants with gentle fingers
and pulls out his cock which is small and very hard. A
drop of lubricant gleams at its tip like a pearl. She
caresses the crown gently: "Strip, Johnny." He takes off
his clothes with swift sure movements and stands naked
before her, his cock pulsing. She makes a motion for
him to turn around and he pirouettes across the floor
parodying a model, hand on hip. She takes off her shirt.
Her breasts are high and small with erect nipples. She
slips off her underpants. Her pubic hairs are black and
shiny. He sits down beside her and reaches for her
breast. She stops his hands.
"Darling, I want to rim you," she whispers.
"No. Not now."
"Please, I want to."
"Well, all right. I'll go wash my ass."
"No, I'll wash it."
"Aw shucks now, it ain't dirty."
"Yes it is. Come on now, Johnny boy."
She leads him into the bathroom. "All right, get
down." He gets down on his knees and leans forward,
with his chin on the bath mat. "Allah," he says. He looks
back and grins at her. She washes his ass with soap and
hot water sticking her finger up it.
"Does that hurt?"
"Noooooooooo."
"Come along, baby." She leads the way into the bed-
room. He lies down on his back and throws his legs
back over his head, clasping elbows behind his knees.
She kneel down and caress the backs of his thighs, his
balls, running her fingers down the perennial divide.
She push his cheeks apart, lean down and begin licking
the anus, moving her head in a slow circle. She push at
the sides of the asshole, licking deeper and deeper. He
close his eyes and squirm. She lick up the perennial
divide. His small, tight balls.... A great pearl stands
out on the tip of his circumcised cock. Her mouth closes
over the crown. She sucks rhythmically up and down,
pausing on the up stroke and moving her head around
in a circle. Her hand plays gently with his balls, slide
down and middle finger up his ass. As she suck down
toward the root of his cock she tickle his prostate mock-
ingly. He grin and fart. She is sucking his cock now in
a frenzy. His body begins to contract, pulling up to-
ward his chin. Each time the contraction is longer.
"Wheeeeeeee!" the boy yell, every muscle tense, his
whole body strain to empty through his cock. She drinks
his jissom which fills her mouth in great hot spurts. He
lets his feet Hop back onto the bed. He arches his back
and yawns.
Mary is strapping on a rubber penis: "Steely Dan III
from Yokohama," she says, caressing the shaft. Milk
spurts across the room.
"Be sure that milk is pasteurized. Don't go giving me
some kinda awful cow disease like anthrax or glanders
or aftosa...."
"When I was a transvestite Liz in Chi used to work
as an exterminator. Make advances to pretty boys for
the thrill of being beaten as a man. Later I catch this
one kid, overpower him with supersonic judo I learned
from an old Lesbian Zen monk. I tie him up, strip off
his clothes with a razor and fuck him with Steely Dan I.
He is so relieved I don't castrate him literal he come all
over my bedbug spray."
"What happen to Steely Dan II"
"He was torn in two by a bull dike. Most terrific
vaginal grip I ever experienced. She could cave in a
lead pipe. It was one of her parlor tricks."
"And Steely Dan II"
"Chewed to bits by a famished candiru in the Upper
Baboonsasshole. And don't say 'Wheeeeeeee!' this time."
"Why not? It's real boyish."
"Barefoot boy, check thy bullheads with the ma-
dame."
He looks at the ceiling, hands behind his head, cock
pulsing. "So what shall I do? Can't shit with that dingus
up me. I wonder is it possible to laugh and come at the
same time? I recall, during the war, at the Jockey Club
in Cairo, me and my asshole buddy, Lu, both gentlemen
by act of Congress... nothing else could have done
such a thing to either of us.... So we got laughing so
hard we piss all over ourselves and the waiter say: 'You
bloody hash-heads, get out of here!' I mean, if I can
laugh the piss out of me I should be able to laugh out
jissom. So tell me something real funny when I start
coming. You can tell by certain premonitory quiverings
of the prostate gland...."
She puts on a record, metallic cocaine be-bop. She
greases the dingus, shoves the boy's legs over his head
and works it up his ass with a series of corkscrew move-
ments of her fluid hips. She moves in a slow circle, re-
volving on the axis of the shaft. She rubs her hard
nipples across his chest. She kisses him on neck and
chin and eyes. He runs his hands down her back to her
buttocks, pulling her into his ass. She revolves faster,
faster. His body jerks and writhes in convulsive spasms.
"Hurry up, please," she says. "The milk is getting cold."
He does not hear. She presses her mouth against his.
Their faces run together. His sperm hits her breast with
light, hot licks.
Mark is standing in the doorway. He wears a turtle-
neck black sweater. Cold, handsome, narcissistic face.
Green eyes and black hair. He looks at Johnny with a
slight sneer, his head on one side, hands on his jacket
pockets, a graceful hoodlum ballet. He jerk his head and
Johnny walk ahead of him into the bedroom. Mary
follow. "All right, boys," she say, sitting down naked
on a pink silk dais overlooking the bed. "Get with it!"
Mark begin to undress with fluid movements, hip-
rolls, squirm out of his turtle-neck sweater revealing his
beautiful white torso in a mocking belly dance. Johnny
deadpan, face frozen, breath quick, lips dry, remove
his clothes and drop them on the floor. Mark lets his
shorts fall on one foot. He kick like a chorus-girl, sending
the shorts across the room. Now he stand naked, his
cock stiff, straining up and out. He run slow eyes over
Johnny's body. He smile and lick his lips,
Mark drop on one knee, pulling Johnny across his
back by one arm. He stand up and throw him six feet
onto the bed. Johnny land on his back and bounce.
Mark jump up and grab Johnny's ankles, throw his legs
over his head. Mark's lips are drawn back in a tight
snarl. "All right, Johnny boy." He contracts his body,
slow and steady as an oiled machine, push his cock up
Johnny's ass. Johnny give a great sigh, squirming in
ecstasy. Mark hitches his hands behind Johnny's shoul-
ders, pulling him down onto his cock which is buried
to the hilt in Johnny's ass. Great whistles through his
teeth. Johnny screams like a bird. Mark is rubbing his
face against Johnny's, snarl gone, face innocent and
boyish as his whole liquid being spurt into Johnny's
quivering body.
A train roar through him whistle blowing... boat
whistle, foghorn, sky rocket burst over oily lagoons...
penny arcade open into a maze of dirty pictures...
ceremonial cannon boom in the harbor... a scream
shoots down a white hospital corridor... out along a
wide dusty street between palm trees, whistles out
across the desert like a bullet (vulture wings husk in
the dry air), a thousand boys come at once in out-
houses, bleak public school toilets, attics, basements,
treehouses, Ferris wheels, deserted houses, limestone
caves, rowboats, garages, barns, rubbly windy city out-
skirts behind mud walls (smell of dried excrement)...
black dust blowing over lean copper bodies... ragged
pants dropped to cracked bleeding bare feet... (place
where vultures fight over fish heads)... by jungle la-
goons, vicious fish snap at white sperm floating on black
water, sand flies bite the copper ass, howler monkies
like wind in the trees (a land of great brown rivers
where whole trees float, bright colored snakes in the
branches, pensive lemurs watch the shore with sad
eyes), a red plane traces arabesques in blue substance
of sky, a rattlesnake strike, a cobra rear, spread, spit
white venom, pearl and opal chips fall in a slow silent
rain through air clear as glycerine. Time jump like a
broken typewriter, the boys are old men, young hips
quivering and twitching in boy-spasms go slack and
flabby, draped over an outhouse seat, a park bench, a
stone wall in Spanish sunlight, a sagging furnished
room bed (outside red brick slum in clear winter sun-
light)... twitching and shivering in dirty underwear,
probing for a vein in the junk-sick morning, in an Arab
cafe muttering and slobbering -- the Arabs whisper
"Medjoub" and edge away -- (a Medjoub is a special sort
of religious Moslem lunatic... often epileptic among
other disorders). "The Moslems must have blood and
jissom.... See, see where Christ's blood streams in the
spermament," howls the Medjoub.... He stand up
screaming and black blood spurt solid from his last
erection, a pale white statue standing there, as if he had
stepped whole across the Great Fence, climbed it inno-
cent and calm as a boy climb the fence to fish in the
forbidden pond -- in a few seconds he catch a huge cat-
fish -- The Old Man will rush out of a little black hut
cursing, with a pitchfork and the boy run laughing
across the Missouri field -- he find a beautiful pink arrow-
head and snatch it up as he runs with a flowing swoop
of young bone and muscle -- (his bones blend into the
Beld, he lies dead by the wooden fence a shotgun by
his side, blood on frozen red clap seeps into the winter
stubble of Georgia).... The catfish billows out behind
him.... He come to the fence and throw the catfish
over into blood-streaked grass... the fish lies squirming
and squawking -- vaults the fence. He snatch up the
catfish and disappear up a flint-studded red clay road
between oaks and persimmons dropping red-brown
leaves in a windy fall sunset, green and dripping in
Summer dawn, black against a clear winter day... the
Old Man scream curses after him... his teeth fly from
his mouth and whistle over the boy's head, he strain
forward, his neck-cords tight as steel hoops, black blood
spurt in one solid piece over the fence and he fall a
fleshless mummy by the fever grass. Thorns grow
through his ribs, the windows break in his hut, dusty
glass-slivers in black putty -- rats run over the floor and
boys jack off in the dark musty bedroom on summer
afternoons and eat the berries that grow from his body
and bones, mouths smeared with purple-red juices....
The old junky has found a vein... blood blossoms in
the dropper like a Chinese flower... he push home the
heroin and the boy who jacked off fifty years ago shine
immaculate through the ravaged flesh, fill the outhouse
with the sweet nutty smell of young male lust....
How many years threaded on a needle of blood?
Hands slack on lap he sit looking out at the winter
dawn with the cancelled eyes of junk. The old queer
squirm on a limestone bench in Chapultepec Park as
Indian adolescents walk by, arms around each other's
necks and ribs, straining his dying flesh to occupy
young buttocks and thighs, tight balls and spurting
cocks.
Mark and Johnny sit facing each other in a vibrating
chair, Johnny impaled on Mark's cock.
"All set, Johnny?"
"Turn it on."
Mark flips the switch and the chair vibrate.... Mark
tilt his head looking up at Johnny, his face remote, eyes
cool and mocking on Johnny's face.... Johnny scream
and whimper.... His face disintegrates as if melted
from within.... Johnny scream like a mandrake, black
out as his sperm spurt, slump against Mark's body an
angel on the nod. Mark pat Johnny's shoulder absently.
...Room like gymnasium.... The floor is foam rubber,
covered in white silk.... One wall is glass.... The
rising sun fills the room with pink light. Johnny is led
in, hands tied, between Mary and Mark. Johnny sees
the gallows and sags with a great "Ohhhhhhhhhhh!"
his chin pulling down towards his cock, his legs bend-
ing at the knees. Sperm spurts, arching almost vertical
in front of his face. Mark and Mary are suddenly impa-
tient and hot.... They push Johnny forward onto the
gallows platform covered with moldy jockstraps and
sweat shirts. Mark is adjusting the noose.
"Well, here you go." Mark starts to push Johnny off
the platform.
Mary: "No, let me." She locks her hands behind
Johnny's buttocks, puts her forehead against him, smil-
ing into his eyes she moves back, pulling him off the
platform into space.... His face swells with blood....
Mark reaches up with one lithe movement and snaps
Johnny's neck... sound like a stick broken in wet
towels. A shudder runs down Johnny's body... one foot
flutters like a trapped bird.... Mark has draped himself
over a swing and mimics Johnny's twitches, closes his
eyes and sticks his tongue out.... Johnny's cock springs
up and Mary guides it up her cunt, writhing against
him in a fluid belly dance, groaning and shrieking with
delight... sweat pours down her body, hair hangs over
her face in wet strands. "Cut him down, Mark," she
screams. Mark reaches over with a snap knife and cuts
the rope, catching Johnny as he falls, easing him onto
his back with Mary still impaled and writhing.... She
bites away Johnny's lips and nose and sucks out his eyes
with a pop.... She tears off great hunks of cheek....
Now she lunches on his prick.... Mark walks over to
her and she looks up from Johnny's half-eaten genitals,
her face covered with blood, eyes phosphorescent....
Mark puts his foot on her shoulder and kicks her over
on her back.... He leaps on her, fucking her insanely
...they roll from one end of the room to the other,
pinwheel end-over-end and leap high in the air like
great hooked fish.
"Let me hang you, Mark.... Let me hang you....
Please, Mark, let me hang you!"
"Sure baby." He pulls her brutally to her feet and
pins her hands behind her.
"No, Mark!! No! No! No," she screams, shitting and
pissing in terror as he drags her to the platform. He
leaves her tied on the platform in a pile of old used
condoms, while he adjusts the rope across the room...
and comes back carrying the noose on a silver tray. He
jerks her to her feet and tightens the noose. He sticks
his cock up her and waltzes around the platform and off
into ~pace swinging in a great arc.... "Wheeeeee!" he
screams, turning into Johnny. Her neck snaps. A great
fluid wave undulates through her body. Johnny drops
to the floor and stands poised and alert like a young
animal.
He leaps about the room. With a scream of longing
that shatters the glass wall he leaps out into space.
Masturbating end-over-end, three thousand feet down,
his sperm floating beside him, he screams all the way
against the shattering blue of sky, the rising sun burn-
ing over his body like gasoline, down past great oaks
and persimmons, swamp cypress and mahogany, to
shatter in liquid relief in a ruined square paved with
limestone. Weeds and vines grow between the stones,
and rusty iron bolts three feet thick penetrate the white
stone, stain it shit-brown of rust.
Johnny dowses Mary with gasoline from an obscene
Chimu jar of white jade.... He anoints his own body.
... They embrace, fall to the floor and roll under a
great magnifying glass set in the roof... burst into
flame with a cry that shatters the glass wall, roll into
space, fucking and screaming through the air, burst in
blood and flames and soot on brown. rocks under a
desert sun. Johnny leaps about the room in agony. With
a scream that shatters the glass wall he stands spread-
eagle to the rising sun, blood spurting out his cock...
a white marble god, he plummets through epileptic
explosions into the old Medjoub writhe in shit and
rubbish by a mud wall under a sun that scar and grab
the flesh into goose-pimples.... He is a boy sleeping
against the mosque wall, ejaculates wet dreaming into
a thousand cunts pink and smooth as sea shells, feeling
the delight of prickly pubic hairs slide up his cock.
John and Mary in hotel room (music of East St.
Louis Toodleoo). Warm spring wind blows faded pink
curtains in through open window.... Frogs croak in
vacant lots where corn grows and boys catch little green
garter snakes under broken limestone stelae stained
with shit and threaded with rusty barbed wire....
Neon -- chlorophyll green, purple, orange -- flashes on
and off. )
Johnny extracts a candiru from Mary's cunt with his
calipers.... He drops it into a bottle of mescal where
it turns into a Maguey worm.... He gives her a douche
of jungle bone-softener, her vaginal teeth flow out
mixed with blood and cysts.... Her cunt shines fresh
and sweet as spring grass.... Johnny licks Mary's cunt,
slow at first, with rising excitement parts the lips and
licks inside feeling the prickle of pubic hairs on his
tumescent tongue.... Arms thrown back, breasts poin-
ing straight up, Mary lies transfixed with neon nails.
...Johnny moves up her body, his cock with a shining
round opal of lubricant at the open slit, slides through
her pubic hairs and enters her cunt to the hilt, drawn in
by a suction of hungry flesh.... His face swells with
blood, green lights burst behind his eyes and he falls
with a scenic railway through screaming girls....
Damp hairs on the back of his balls dry to grass in
the warm spring wind. High jungle valley, vines creep
in the window. Johnny's cock swells, great rank buds
burst out. A long tuber root creeps from Mary's cunt,
feels for the earth. The bodies disintegrate in green
explosions. The hut falls in ruins of broken stone. The
boy is a limestone statue, a plant sprouting from his
cock, lips parted in the half-smile of a junky on the nod.
4
0 0
The Beagle has stashed the heroin in a lottery ticket,
One more shot -- tomorrow the cure.
The way is long. Hard-ons and bring-downs are fre-
quent.
It was a long time over the stony reg to the oasis of
date palms where Arab boys shit in the well and rock
n' roll across the sands of muscle beach eating hot-dogs
and spitting out gold teeth in nuggets.
Toothless and strictly from the long hunger, ribs you
could wash your filthy overalls on, that corrugate, they
quaver down from the outrigger in Easter Island and
stalk ashore on legs stiff and brittle as stilts... they nod
in club windows... fallen into the fat of lack-need to
sell a slim body.
The date palms have died of meet lack, the well filled
with dried shit and mosaic of a thousand newspapers:
"Russia denies... The Home Secretary views with
pathic alarm... The trap was sprung at 12:02. At
12:30 the doctor went out to eat oysters, returned at
2:00 to clap the hanged man jovially on the back.
'what? Aren't you dead yet? Guess I'll have to pull your
leg. Haw Haw! Can't let you choke at this rate -- I'd get
a warning from the President. And what a disgrace if
the dead wagon cart you out alive. My balls would drop
off with the shame of it and I apprenticed myself to an
experienced ox. One two three pull.' "
The sail plane falls silent as erection, silent as greased
glass broken by the young thief with old-woman hands
a;id cancelled eyes of junk.... In a noiseless explosion
he penetrates the broken house, stepping over the
greased crystals, a clock ticks loud in the kitchen, hot
air ruffles his hair, his head disintegrates in a heavy duck
load.... The Old Man flips out a red shell and pirou-
ettes around his shotgun. "Aw, shucks, fellers, tweren't
nothing.... Fish in the barrel.... Money in the bank
...round-heeled boy, one greased shot brain goose and
he Hop in an obscene position.... Can you hear me
from where you are, boy?
"I was young myself once and heard the siren call of
easy money and women and tight boy-ass and lands
sake don't get my blood up I am subject to tell a tale
make your cock stand up and yipe for the pink pearly
way of young cunt or the lovely brown mucous-covered
palpitating tune of the young boy-ass play your cock
like a recorder... and when you hit the prostate pearl
sharp diamonds gather in the golden lad balls inexora-
ble as a kidney stone.... Sorry I had to kill you....
The old grey mare aint what she used to be.... Cant
run down an audience... got to bring down that house
on the wing, run or sit.... Like an old lion took bad
with cavities he need that amident toothpaste keep a
feller biting fresh at all times.... Them old lions shit
sure turn boyeater.... And who can blame them, boys
being so sweet so cold so fair in St. James Infirmary?'?
Now, son, don't you get rigor mortis on me. Show re-
spect for the aging prick.... You may be a tedious old
fuck yourself some day.... Oh, uh; I guess not.... You
have, like Housman's barefoot shameless catamite The
Congealed Shropshire Ingenue set your fleet foot on the
silo of change.... But you cant kill those Shropshire
boys... been hanged so often he resist it like a gono-
coccus half castrate with pencillin rallies to a hideous
strength and multiplies geometric.... So leave us cast
a vote for decent acquittal and put an end to those
beastly exhibitions for which the sheriff levy a pound of
fiesh."
Sheriff: "I'll lower his pants for a pound, folks. Step
right up. A serious and scientific exhibit concerning the
locality of the Life Center. This character has nine
inches, ladies and gentlemen, measure them yourself
inside. Only one pound, one queer three dollar bill to
see a young boy come three times at least -- I never de-
mean myself to process a eunuch -- completely against
his will. When his neck snaps sharp, this character will
shit-sure come to rhythmic attention and spurt it out all
over you.
The boy stands on the trap shifting his weight from
one leg to the other: "Gawd! What a boy hasta put up
with in this business. Sure as shit some horrible old
character get physical."
Traps falls, rope sings like wind in wire, neck snaps
loud and clear as a Chinese gong.
The boy cuts himself down with a switch-blade,
chases a screaming fag down the midway. The faggot
dives through the glass of a penny arcade peep-show
and rims a grinning Negro. Fadeout.
(Mary, Johnny and Mark take a bow with the ropes
around their necks. They are not as young as they
appear in the Blue Movies.... They look tired and
petulant. )
MEETING OF INTERNATIONAL
CONFERENCE OF TECHNOLOGICAL
PSYCHIATRY
Doctor "Fingers" Schafer, the Lobotomy Kid, rises
and turns on the Conferents the cold blue blast of his
gaze:
"Gentlemen, the human nervous system can be re-
duced to a compact and abbreviated spinal column.
The brain, front, middle and rear must follow the ade-
noid, the wisdom tooth, the appendix.... I give you
my Master Work: The Complete All American De-
anxietixed Man...."
Blast of trumpets: The Man is carried in naked by
two Negro Bearers who drop him on the platform with
bestial, sneering brutality.... The Man wriggles....
His flesh turns to viscid, transparent jelly that drifts
away in green mist, unveiling a monster black centi-
pede. Waves of unknown stench fill the room, searing
the lungs, grabbing the stomach....
Schafer wrings his hands sobbing: "Clarence! How
can you do this to me?? Ingrates!! Every one of them
ingrates!'
The Conferents start back muttering in dismay:
"I'm afraid Schafer has gone a bit too far...."
"I sounded a word of warning...."
"Brilliant chap Schafer... but..."
"Man will do anything for publicity...."
"Gentlemen, this unspeakable and in every sense il-
legitimate child of Doctor Schafer's perverted brain
must not see the light.... Our duty to the human race
is clear...."
"Man he done seen the light," said one of the Negro
Bearers.
"We must stomp out the Un-American crittah,' says
a fat, frog-faced Southern doctor who has been drink-
ing corn out of a mason jar. He advances drunkenly,
then halts, appalled by the formidable size and menac-
ing aspect of the centipede....
"Fetch gasoline!" he bellows. "We gotta burn the son
of a bitch like an uppity Nigra!"
"I'm not sticking my neck out, me," says a cool hip
young doctor high on LSD25.... "Why a smart D.A.
could..."
Fadeout. "Order in The Court1"
D.A.:"Gentlemen of the jury, these 'learned gentle-
men' claim that the innocent human creature they have
so wantonly slain suddenly turned himself into a huge
black centipede and it was 'their duty to the human
race' to destroy this monster before it could, by any
means at its disposal, perpetrate its kind....
"Are we to gulp down this tissue of horse shit! Are
we to take these glib lies like a greased and nameless
asshole? Where is this wondrous centipede?
" 'We have destroyed it,' they say smugly.... And I
would like to remind you, Gentlemen and Hermaphro-
dites of the Jury, that this Great Beast" -- he points to
Doctor Schafer -- "has, on several previous occasions,
appeared in this court charged with the unspeakable
crime of brain rape.... In plain English" -- he pounds
the rail of the jury box, his voice rises to a scream -- "in
plain English, Gentlemen, forcible lobotomy...."
The Jury gasps..., One dies of a heart attack....
Three fall to the floor writhing in orgasms of pruri-
ence....
The D.A. points dramatically: "He it is.... He and
no other who has reduced whole provinces of our fair
land to a state bordering on the far side of idiocy....
He it is who has filled great warehouses with row on
row, tier on tier of helpless creatures who must have
their every want attended.... 'The Drones' he calls
them with a cynical leer of pure educated evil....
Gentlemen, I say to you that the wanton murder of
Clarence Cowie must not go unavenged: This foul
crime shrieks like a wounded faggot for justice at least!"
The centipede is rushing about in agitation.
"Man, that mother fucker's hungry," screams one of
the Bearers.
"I'm getting out of here, me."
A wave of electric horror sweeps through the Con-
ferents.... They storm the exits screaming and claw-
ing....
THE MARKET
Panorama of the City of Interzone. Opening bars of
East St. Louis Toodleoo... at times loud and clear
then faint and intermittent like music down a windy
street....
The room seems to shake and vibrate with motion.
The blood and substance of many races, Negro, Poly-
nesian, Mountain Mongol, Desert Nomad, Polyglot Near
East, Indian -- races as yet unconceived and unborn,
combinations not yet realized pass through your body.
Migrations, incredible journeys through deserts and
jungles and mountains (stasis and death in closed moun-
tain valleys where plants grow out of genitals, vast
crustaceans hatch inside and break the shell of body)
across the Pacific in an outrigger canoe to Easter Island.
The Composite City where all human potentials are
spread out in a vast silent market.
Minarets, palms, mountains, jungle... A sluggish
river jumping with vicious fish, vast weed-grown parks
where boys lie in the grass, play cryptic games, Not a
locked door in the City. Anyone comes into your room
at any time. The Chief of Police is a Chinese who picks
his teeth and listens to denunciations presented by a
lunatic. Every now and then the Chinese takes the
toothpick out of his mouth and looks at the end of it.
Hipsters with smooth copper-colored faces lounge in
doorways twisting shrunk heads on gold chains, their
faces blank with an insect's unseeing calm.
Behind them, through open doors, tables and booths
and bars, and kitchens and baths, copulating couples
on rows of brass beds, crisscross of a thousand ham-
mocks, junkies tying up for a shot, opium smokers,
hashish smokers, people eating talking bathing back
into a haze of smoke and steam.
Gaming tables where the games are played for in-
credible stakes. From time to time a player leaps up
with a despairing cry, having lost his youth to an old
man or become Latah to his opponent. But there are
higher stakes than youth or Latah, games where only
two players in the world know what the stakes are.
All houses in the City are joined. Houses of sod -- high
mountain Mongols blink in smokey doorways -- houses
of bamboo and teak, houses of adobe, stone and red
brick, South Pacific and Maori houses, houses in trees
and river boats, wood houses one hundred feet long
sheltering entire tribes, houses of boxes and corrugated
iron where old men sit in rotten rags cooking down
canned heat, great rusty iron racks rising two hundred
feet in the air from swamps and rubbish with perilous
partitions built on multi-levelled platforms, and ham-
mocks swinging over the void.
Expeditions leave for unknown places with unknown
purposes. Strangers arrive on rafts of old packing crates
tied together with rotten rope, they stagger in out of
the jungle their eyes swollen shut from insect bites,
they come down the mountain trails on cracked bleed-
ing feet through the dusty windy outskirts of the city,
where people defecate in rows along adobe walls and
vultures fight over fish heads. They drop down into
parks in patched parachutes,... They are escorted by
a drunken cop to register in a vast public lavatory. The
data taken down is put on pegs to be used as toilet
paper.
Cooking smells of all countries hang over the City,
a haze of opium, hashish, the resinous red smoke of
Yage, smell of the jungle and salt water and the rotting
river and dried excrement and sweat and genitals.
High mountain flutes, jazz and bebop, one-stringed
Mongol instruments, gypsy xylophones, African drums,
Arab bagpipes...
The City is visited by epidemics of violence, and the
untended dead are eaten by vultures in the streets.
Albinos blink in the sun. Boys sit in trees, languidly
masturbate. People eaten by unknown diseases watch
the passerby with evil, knowing eyes.
In the City Market is the Meet Cafe. Followers of ob-
solete, unthinkable trades doodling in Etruscan, addicts
of drugs not yet synthesized, pushers of souped-up Har-
maline, junk reduced to pure habit offering precarious
vegetable serenity, liquids to induce Latah, Tithonian
longevity serums, black marketeers of World War III,
excisors of telepathic sensitivity, osteopaths of the spirit,
investigators of infractions denounced by bland para-
noid chess players, servers of fragmentary warrants
taken down in hebephrenic shorthand charging un-
speakable mutilations of the spirit, bureaucrats of spec-
tral departments, officials of unconstituted police states,
a Lesbian dwarf who has perfected operation Bang-
utot, the lung erection that strangles a sleeping enemy,
sellers of orgone tanks and relaxing machines, brokers
of exquisite dreams and memories tested on the sensi-
tized cells of junk sickness and bartered for raw mate-
rials of the will, doctors skilled in the treatment of
diseases dormant in the black dust of ruined cities,
gathering virulence in the white blood of eyeless worms
feeling slowly to the surface and the human host, mala-
dies of the ocean floor and the stratosphere, maladies
of the laboratory and atomic war.... A place where the
unknown past and the emergent future meet in a vi-
brating soundless hum... Larval entities waiting for a
Live One...
(Section describing The City and the Meet Cafe
written in state of Yage intoxication... Yage, Ayua-
huasca, Pilde, Nateema are Indian names for Banni-
steria Caapi, a fast growing vine indigenous to the
Amazon region. See discussion of Yage in Appendix. )
Notes from Yage state: Images fall slow and silent
like snow.... Serenity... All defenses fall... every-
thing is free to enter or to go out.... Fear is simply
impossible.... A beautiful blue substance Hows into
me.... I see an archaic grinning face like South Pacific
mask.... The face is blue purple splotched with
gold....
The room takes on aspect of Near East whorehouse
with blue walls and red tasseled lamps.... I feel myself
turning into a Negress, the black color silently invading
my flesh.... Convulsions of lust... My legs take on a
well rounded Polynesian substance.... Everything stirs
with a writhing furtive life.... The room is Near East,
Negro, South Pacific, in some familiar place I cannot
locate.... Yage is space-time travel.... The room
seems to shake and vibrate with motion.... The blood
and substance of many races, Negro, Polynesian, Moun-
tain Mongol, Desert Nomad, Polyglot Near East, In-
dian, races as yet unconceived and unborn, passes
through the body.... Migrations, incredible journeys
through deserts and jungles and mountains (stasis and
death in closed mountain valley where plants grow out
of genitals, vast crustaceans hatch inside and break the
shell of body) across the Pacific in an outrigger canoe
to Easter Island,...
(It occurs to me that preliminary Yage nausea is
motion sickness of transport to Yage state....)
"All medicine men use it in their practice to foretell
the future, locate lost or stolen objects, to diagnose and
treat illness, to name the perpetrator of a crime." Since
the Indian ( straitjacket for Herr Boas -- trade joke -- noth-
ing so maddens an anthropologist as Primitive Man)
does not regard any death as accidental, and they are
unacquainted with their own self-destructive trends re-
ferring to them contemptuously as "our naked cousins,"
or perhaps feeling that these trends above all are sub-
ject to the manipulation of alien and hostile wills, any
death is murder. The medicine man takes Yage and the
identity of the murderer is revealed to him. As you may
imagine, the deliberations of the medicine man during
one of these jungle inquests give rise to certain feelings
of uneasiness among his constituents.
"Let's hope Old Xiuptutol don't wig and name one of
the boys."
"Take a curare and relax. We got the fix in..."
"But if he wig? Picking up on that Nateema all the
time he don't touch the ground in twenty years.... I
tell you, Boss, nobody can hit the stuff like that.... It
cooks the brains...."
"So we declare him incompetent...."
So Xiuptutol reels out of the jungle and says the boys
in the Lower Tzpino territory done it, which surprises
no one.... Take it from an old Brujo, dearie, they don't
like surprises....
A funeral passes through the market. Black coffin --
Arabic inscriptions in filigreed silver -- carried by four
pallbearers. Procession of mourners singing the funeral
song... Clem and Jody fall in beside them carrying
coffin, the corpse of a hog bursts out of it.... The hog
is dressed in a jellaba, a keif pipe juts from its mouth,
one hoof holds a packet of feelthy pictures, a mezuzzoth
hangs about its neck.... Inscribed on the coffin: "This
was the noblest Arab of them all."
They sing hideous parody of the funeral song in false
Arabic. Jody can do a fake Chinese spiel that'll just kill
you -- like a hysterical ventriloquist's dummy. In fact, he
precipitated an anti-foreign riot in Shanghai that claimed
3,000 casualties.
"Stand up, Gertie, and show respect for the local
gooks."
"I suppose one should."
"My dear, I'm working on the most marvelous inven-
tion... a boy who disappears as soon as you come
leaving a smell of burning leaves and a sound effect of
distant train whistles."
"Ever make sex in no gravity? Your jism just floats
out in the air like lovely ectoplasm, and female guests
are subject to immaculate or at least indirect concep-
tion.... Reminds me of an old friend of mine, one of
the handsomest men I have ever known and one of the
maddest and absolutely ruined by wealth. He used to
go about with a water pistol shooting jism up career
women at parties. Won all his paternity suits hands
down. Never use his own jism you understand."
Fadeout... "Order in the Court." Attorney for A. J.,
"Conclusive tests have established that my client has
no uh personal connection with the uh little accident
of the charming plaintiff.... Perhaps she is preparing
to emulate the Virgin Mary and conceive immaculately
naming my client as a hurumph ghostly pander.... I
am reminded of a case in fifteenth-century Holland
where a young woman accused an elderly and respect-
able sorcerer of conjuring up a succubus who then had
uh carnal knowledge of the young person in question
with the under the circumstances regrettable result of
pregnancy. So the sorcerer was indicted as an accom-
plice and rampant voyeur before during and after the
fact. However, gentlemen of the jury, we no longer
credit such uh legends; and a young woman attributing
her uh interesting condition to the attentions of a suc-
cubus would be accounted, in these enlightened days,
a romanticist or in plain English a God damned liar
hehe hehe heh...."
And now The Prophet's Hour:
"Millions died in the mud fiats. Only one blast free to
lungs.
" 'Eye Eye, Captain,' he said, squirting his eyes out
on the deck.... And who would put on the chains to-
night? It is indicate to observe some caution in the
up-wind approach, the down wind having failed to turn
up anything worth a rusty load.... Senoritas are the
wear this season in Hell, and I am tired with the long
climb to a pulsing Vesuvius of alien pricks."
Need Orient Express out of here to no hide place(r)
mines are frequent in the area.... Every day dig a little
it takes up the time....
Jack off phantoms whisper hot into the bone ear....
Shoot your way to freedom.
"Christ?" sneers the vicious, fruity old Saint applying
pancake from an alabaster bowl.... "That cheap ham!
You think I'd demean myself to commit a miracle?...
That one should have stood in carny....
"'Step right up, Marquesses and Marks, and bring the
little Marks too. Good for young and old, man and
beast.... The one and only legit Son of Man will cure
a young boy's clap with one hand -- by contact alone,
folks -- create marijuana with the other, whilst walking
on water and squirting wine out his ass.... Now keep
your distance, folks, you is subject to be irradiated by
the sheer charge of this character.'
"And I knew him when, dearie.... I recall we was
doing an Impersonation Act -- very high class too -- in
Sodom, and that is one cheap town.... Strictly from
hunger... Well, this citizen, this fucking Philistine
wandered in from Podunk Baal or some place, called
me a fuckin fruit right on the floor. And I said to him:
'Three thousand years in show business and I always
keep my nose clean. Besides I don't hafta take any shit
off any uncircumcised cocksucker.'...Later he come
to my dressing room and made an apology.... Turns
out he is a big physician. And he was a lovely fellah,
too....
"Buddha? A notorious metabolic junky... Makes
his own you dig. In India, where they got no sense of
time, The Man is often a month late.... 'Now let me
see, is that the second or the third monsoon? I got like
a meet in Ketchupore about more or less.'
"And all them junkies sitting around in the lotus
posture spitting on the ground and waiting on The Man.
"So Buddha says: 'I don't hafta take this sound. I'll
by God metabolize my own junk.'
"'Man, you can't do that. The Revenooers will swarm
all over you.'
"'Over me they won't swarm. I gotta gimmick, see?
I'm a fuckin Holy Man as of right now.'
"'Jeez, boss, what an angle.'
"'Now some citizens really wig when they make with
the New Religion. These frantic individuals do not
know how to come on. No class to them... Besides,
they is subject to be lynched like who wants somebody
hanging around being better'n other folks? "What you
trying to do, Jack, give people a bad time?..." So we
gotta play it cool, you dig, cool.... We got a take it
or leave it proposition here, folks. We don't shove any-
thing up your soul, unlike certain cheap characters who
shall be nameless and are nowhere. Clear the cave for
action. I'm gonna metabolize a speed ball and make
with the Fire Sermon.'
"Mohammed? Are you kidding? He was dreamed up
by the Mecca Chamber of Commerce. An Egyptian ad
man on the skids from the sauce write the continuity.
" 'I'll have one more, Gus. Then, by Allah, I will go
home and receive a Surah.... Wait'll the morning edi-
tion hits the souks. I am blasting Amalgamated Images
wide open.'
"The bartender looks up from his racing form. 'Yeah.
And theirs will be a painful doom.'
" 'Oh... uh... quite. Now, Gus, I'll write you a
check.'
"'You are only being the most notorious paper hanger
in Greater Mecca. I am not a wall, Mr. Mohammed.'
" 'Well, Gus, I got like two types publicity, favorable
and otherwise. You want some otherwise already? I am
subject to receive a Surah concerning bartenders who
extendeth not credit to those in a needy way.'
" 'And theirs will be a painful doom. Sold Arabia.' He
vaults over the bar. 'I'm not taking any more, Ahmed.
Pick up thy Surahs and walk. In fact, I'll help you. And
stay out.'
"'I'll fix your wagon good, you unbelieving cock-
sucker. I'll close you up tight and dry as a junky's ass-
hole. I'll by Allah dry up the Peninsula.'
" 'It's a continent already....'
"Leave what Confucius say stand with Little Audrey
and the shaggy dogs. Lao-Tze? They scratch him al-
ready...'. And enough of these gooey saints with a look
of pathic dismay as if they getting fucked up the ass
and try not to pay it any mind. And why should we let
some old brokendown ham tell us what wisdom is?
'Three thousand years in show business and I always
keep my nose clean....'
"First, every Fact is incarcerate along with the male
hustlers and those who desecrate the gods of commerce
by playing ball in the streets, and some old white-
haired fuck staggers out to give us the benefits of his
ripe idiocy. Are we never to be free of this grey-beard
loon lurking on every mountain top in Tibet, subject to
drag himself out of a hut in the Amazon, waylay one
in the Bowery? 'I've been expecting you, my son,' and
he make with a silo full of corn. 'Life is a school where
every pupil must learn a different lesson. And now I
will unlock my Word Hoard....'
" 'I do fear it much.'
" 'Nay, nothing shall stem the rising tide.'
" 'I can't stem him, boys. Sauve qui peut.'
" 'I tell you when I leave the Wise Man I don't even
feel like a human. He converting my live orgones into
dead bullshit.'
"So I got an exclusive why don't I make with the live
word? The word cannot be expressed direct.... It can
perhaps be indicated by mosaic of juxtaposition like
articles abandoned in a hotel drawer, defined by nega-
tives and absence....
"Think I'll have my stomach tucked.... I may be
old, but I'm still desirable."
(The Stomach Tuck is surgical intervention to re-
move stomach fat at the same time making a tuck in the
abdominal wall, thus creating a flesh corset, which is,
however, subject to break and spurt your horrible old
guts across the Boor.... The slim and shapely F.C.
models are, of course, the most dangerous. In fact, some
extreme models are known as O.N.S.-- One Night Stands
-- in the industry.
Doctor "Doodles" Rindfest states bluntly: "Bed is
the most dangerous place for an F.C. man."
The F.C. theme song is "Believe Me If All These
Endearing Young Charms." An F.C. partner is indeed
subject to "fleet from your arms like fairy gifts fading
away.")
In a white museum room full of sunlight pink nudes
sixty feet high. Vast adolescent muttering.
Silver guard rail... chasm a thousand feet down into
the glittering sunlight. Little: green plots of cabbage
and lettuce. Brown youths with adzes spied by the old
queen across a sewage canal.
"Oh dear, I wonder if they fertilize with human ex-
crement.... Maybe they'll do it right now."
He Hips out mother of pearl opera glasses -- Aztec
mosaic in the sun.
Long line of Greek lads march up with alabaster
bowls of shit, empty into the limestone marl hole.
Dusty poplars shake across the red brick Plaza de
Toros in the afternoon wind.
Wooden cubicles around a hot spring... rubble of
ruined walls in a grove of cottonwoods... the benches
worn smooth as metal by a million masturbating boys.
Greek lads white as marble fuck dog style on the
portico of a great golden temple... naked Mugwump
twangs a lute.
Walking down by the tracks in his red sweater met
Sammy the Dock Keeper's son with two Mexicans.
"Hey, Skinny," he said, "want to get screwed?"
"Well... Yeah."
On a ruined straw mattress the Mexican pulled him
up on all fours -- Negro boy dance around them beating
out the strokes... sun through a knot hole pink spot-
lights his cock.
A waste of raw pink shame to the pastel blue horizon
where vast iron mesas crash into the shattered sky,
"It's all right." The God screams through you three
thousand year rusty load....
Hail of crystal skulls shattered the greenhouse to
slivers in the winter moon....
The American woman has left a whiff of poison be-
hind in the dank St. Louis garden party.
Pool covered with green slime in a ruined French
garden. Huge pathic frog rises slowly from the water
on a mud platform playing the clavichord.
A Sollubi rushes into the bar and starts polishing The
Saint's shoes with the oil on his nose.... The Saint kicks
him petulantly in the mouth. The Sollubi screams,
whirls around and shits on the Saint's pants. Then he
dashes into the street. A pimp looks after him specula-
tively....
The Saint calls the manager: "Jesus, Al, what kinda
creep joint you running here? My brand new fishskin
Degagees..."
"I'm sorry, Saint. He slipped by me."
(The Sollubi are an untouchable caste in Arabia noted
for their abject vileness. De luxe cafes are equipped
with Sollubi who rim the guests while they eat -- holes
in the seating benches being provided for this purpose.
Citizens who want to be utterly humiliated and de-
graded -- so many people do, nowadays, hoping to jump
the gun -- over themselves up for passive homosexual
intercourse to an encampment of Sollubis.... Nothing
like it, they tell me.... In fact, the Sollubi are subject
to become wealthy and arrogant and lose their native
vileness. What is origin of untouchable? Perhaps a fallen
priest caste. In fact, untouchables perform a priestly
function in taking on themselves all human vileness.)
A. J. strolls through the Market in black cape with a
vulture perched on one shoulder. He stands by a table
of agents.
"This you gotta hear. Boy in Los Angeles fifteen year
old. Father decide it is time the boy have his first piece
of ass. Boy is lying on the lawn reading comic books,
father go out and say: 'Son, here's twenty dollars; I
want you to go to a good whore and get a piece of ass
off her.'
"So they drive to this plush jump joint, and the father
say, 'All right, son. You're on your own. So ring the bell
and when the woman come give her the twenty dollars
and tell her you want a piece of ass.'
" 'Solid, pop.'
"So about fifteen minutes later the boy comes out:
" 'Well, son, did you get a piece of ass?'
" 'Yeah. This gash comes to the door, and I say I want
a piece of ass and lay the double sawski on her. We go
up to her trap, and she remove the dry goods. So I
switch my blade and cut a big hunk off her ass, she raise
a beef like I am reduce to pull off one shoe and beat
her brains out. Then I hump her for kicks."
Only the laughing bones remain, flesh over the hills
and far away with the dawn wind and a train whistle.
We are not unaware of the problem, and the needs of
our constituents are never out of our mind being their
place of residence and who can break a ninety-nine
year synapses lease?
Another installment in the adventures of Clem Snide
the Private Ass Hole: "So I walk in the joint, and this
female hustler sit at the bar, and I think, 'Oh God
you're poule de luxe already.' I mean it's like I see the
gash before. So I don't pay her no mind at first, then
I dig she is rubbing her legs together and working her
feet up behind her head shoves it down to give herself
a douche job with a gadget sticks out of her nose the
way a body can't help but notice."
Iris -- half Chinese and half Negro -- addicted to dihy-
dro-oxy-heroin -- takes a shot every fifteen minutes to
which end she leaves droppers and needles sticking out
all over her. The needles rust in her dry flesh, which,
here and there, has grown completely over a joint to
form a smooth green brown wen. On the table in front
of her is a samovar of tea and a twenty-pound hamper
of brown sugar. No one has ever seen her eat anything
else. It -is only just before a shot that she hears what
anyone says or talks herself. Then she makes some flat,
factual statement relative to her own person.
"My asshole is occluding."
"My cunt got terrible green juices."
Iris is one of Benway's projects. "The human body
can run on sugar alone, God damn it.... I am aware
that certain of my learned colleagues, who are attempt-
ing to belittle my genius work, claim that I put vitamins
and proteins into Iris's sugar clandestinely.... I chal-
lenge these nameless assholes to crawl up out of their
latrines and run a spot analysis on Iris's sugar and her
tea. Iris is a wholesome American cunt. I deny categori-
cally that she nourishes herself on semen. And let me
take this opportunity to state that I am a reputable sci-
entist, not a charlatan, a lunatic, or a pretended worker
of miracles.... I never claimed that Iris could subsist
exclusive on photosynthesis.... I did not say she could
breathe in carbon dioxide and give off oxygen -- I con-
fess I have been tempted to experiment being of course
restrained by my medical ethics.... In short, the vile
slanders of my creeping opponents will inevitably fall
back onto them and come to roost like a homing stool
pigeon."
ORDINARY MEN AND WOMEN
Luncheon of Nationalist Party on balcony overlook-
ing the Market. Cigars, scotch, polite belches.... The
Party Leader strides about in a jellaba smoking a cigar
and drinking scotch. He wears expensive English shoes,
loud socks, garters, muscular, hairy legs -- overall effect
of successful gangster in drag.
P.L. (pointing dramatically): "Look out there. What
do you see?"
LIEUTENANT: "Huh? Why, I see the Market."
P.L.: "No you don't. You see men and women. Ordi-
ruzry men and women going about their ordinary every-
day tasks. Leading their ordinary lives. That's what we
need...."
A street boy climbs over the balcony rail.
Lieutenant: "No, we do not want to buy any used
condoms! Cut!"
P.L.: "Wait!... Come in, my boy. Sit down.... Have
a cigar.... Have a drink."
He paces around the boy like an aroused tom cat.
"What do you think about the French?"
-Huh?"
'The French. The Colonial bastards who is sucking
your live corpuscles."
"Look mister. It cost two hundred francs to suck my
corpuscule. Haven't lowered my rates since the year
of the rindpest when all the tourists died, even the
Scandinavians."
P.L.: "You see? This is pure uncut boy in the street."
"You sure can pick'em, boss."
"M.I. never misses."
P.L.: "Now look, kid, let's put it this way. The French
have dispossessed you of your birthright."
"You mean like Friendly Finance?... They got this
toothless Egyptian eunuch does the job. They figure he
arouse less antagonism, you dig, he always take down
his pants to show you his condition. 'Now I'm just a
poor old eunuch trying to keep up my habit. Lady, I'd
like to give you an extension on that artificial kidney, I
got a job to do is all.... Disconnect her, boys.' He
shows his gums in a feeble snarl.... 'Not for nothing
am I known as Nellie the Repossessor.'
"So they disconnect my own mother, the sainted old
gash, and she swell up and turn black and the whole
souk stink of piss and the neighbors beef to the Board
of Health and my father say: 'It's the will of Allah. She
won't piss any more of my loot down the drain.'
"Sick people disgust me already. When some citizen
start telling me about his cancer of the prostate or his
rotting septum make with that purulent discharge I
tell him: 'You think I am innarested to hear about your
horrible old condition? I am not innarested at all.' "
P.L.: "All right. Cut... You hate the French, don't
you?"
"Mister, I hate everybody. Doctor Benway says it's
metabolic, I got this condition of the blood.... Arabs
and Americans got it special.... Doctor Benway is
concocting this serum."
P.L.: "Benway is an infiltrating Western Agent."
L.l: "A rampant French Jew..."
L.2: "A hog-balled, black-assed Communist Jew Nig-
ger.
P.L.: "Shut up, you fool!"
L.2: "Sorry, chief. I am after being stationed in
Pigeonhole."
P.L.: "Don't go near Benway." (Aside: "I wonder if
this will go down. You never know how primitive they
are....") "Confidentially he's a black magician."
L.l: "He's got this resident djinn."
"Uhuh... Well I got a date with a high-type Ameri-
can client. A real classy fellah."
P.L.: "Don't you know it's shameful to peddle your
ass to the alien unbelieving pricks?"
"Well that's a point of view. Have fun."
P.L.: "Likewise." Exit boy. "They're hopeless I tell
you. Hopeless."
L.l. "What's with this serum?"
P.L.: "I don't know, but it sounds ominous. We better
put a telepathic direction finder on Benway. The man's
not to be trusted. Might do almost anything.... Turn
a massacre into a sex orgy....
"Or a joke."
"Precisely. Arty type... No principles..."
AMERICAN HOUSEWIFE (opening a box of Lux): "Why
don't it have an electric eye the box Hip open when it
see me and hand itself to the Automat Handy Man he
should put it inna water already.... The Handy Man
is outa control since Thursday, he been getting physical
with me and I didn't put it in his combination at all....
And the Garbage Disposal Unit snapping at me, and
the nasty old Mixmaster keep trying to get up under
my dress.... I got the most awful cold, and my intes-
tines is all constipated.... I'm gonna put it in the
Handy Man's combination he should administer me a
high colonic awready."
SALESMAN (he is something between an aggressive
Latah and a timid Sender): "Recollect when I am
travelling with K. E., hottest idea man in the gadget
industry.
"'Think of it!' he snaps. 'A cream seperator in your
own kitchen!'
" 'K. E., my brain reels at the thought.'
" 'It's five, maybe ten, yes, maybe twenty years away.
...But it's coming.'
"'I'll wait, K. E. No matter how long it is I'll wait.
When the priority numbers are called up yonder I'll be
there.'
"It was K. E. put out the Octopus Kit for Massage
Parlors, Barber Shops and Turkish Baths, with which
you can administer a high colonic, an unethical mas-
sage, a shampoo, whilst cutting the client's toenails and
removing his blackheads. And the M.D.'s Can Do Kit
for busy practitioners will take out your appendix, tuck
in a hernia, pull a wisdom tooth, ectomize your piles
and circumcise you. Well, K. E. is such an atomic sales-
man if he runs out of Octopus Kits he is subject, by
sheer charge, to sell an M.D. Can Do to a barber shop
and some citizen wakes up with his piles cut out....
"'Jesus, Homer, what kinda creep joint you running
here? I been gang fucked.'
"'Well, landsake, Si, I was just aiming to administer
our complimentary high colonic free and gratis on
Thanksgiving Day. K. E. musta sold me the wrong kit
again....' "
Marz Hvsvrxa: "What a boy hasta put up with in
this business. Gawd! The propositions I get you wouldn't
believe it.... They wanta play Latah, they wanta
merge with my protoplasm, they want a replica cutting,
they wanta suck my orgones, they wanta take over my
past experience and leave old memories that disgust
me....
"I am fucking this citizen so I think, 'A straight John
at last'; but he comes to a climax and turns himself into
some kinda awful crab.... I told him, 'Jack, I don't
hafta stand still for such a routine like this.... You can
take that business to Walgreen's.' Some people got no
class to them. Another horrible old character just sits
there and telepathizes and creams in his dry goods. So
nasty."
The bum boys fall back in utter confusion to the
brink of the Soviet network where Cossacks hang parti-
sans to the wild wail of bagpipes and the boys march up
Fifth Avenue to be met by Jimmy Walkover with the
keys to The Kingdom and no strings attached carry
them loose in your pocket....
Why so pale and wan, fair bugger? Smell of dead
leeches in a rusty tin can latch onto that live wound,
suck out the body and blood and bones of Jeeeeesus,
leave him paralyzed from the waist down.
Yield up thy forms, boy, to thy sugar daddy got the
exam three years early and know all the answer books
fix the World Series.
Slunk traffickers tail a pregnant cow to her labor. The
farmer declares a couvade, rolls screaming in bullshit.
The veterinarian wrestles with a cow skeleton. The traf-
fickers machinegun each other, dodging through the
machinery and silos, storage bins, haylofts and mangers
of a vast red barn. The calf is born. The forces of death
melt in morning. Farm boy kneels reverently -- his throat
pulses in the rising sun.
Junkies sitting on the courthouse steps, waiting on
The Man. Red Necks in black stetsons and faded Levis
tie a Nigra boy to an old iron lamppost and cover him
with burning gasoline.... The junkies rush over and
draw the flesh smoke deep into their aching lungs....
They really got relief....
The County Clerk: "So there I was sitting in front
of Jed's store over in Cunt Lick my peter standing up
straight as a jack pine under my Levis just apulsin' in
the sun.... Weell, old Doc Scranton walks by, a good
old boy too, there's not a finer man in this valley than
Doc Scranton. He's got a prolapsed asshole and when
he wants to get screwed he'll pass you his ass on three
feet of in-tes-tine.... If he's a mind to it he can drop
out a piece of gut reaches from his office clear over to
Roy's Beer Place, and it go feelin' around lookin' for a
peter, just afeelin' around like a blind worm.... So old
Doc Scranton sees my peter and he stops like a pointin'
dog and he says to me, 'Luke, I can take your pulse
from here.' "
Browbeck and Young Seward fight with hog castra-
tors through barns and cages and yiping kennels...
whinnying horses bare great yellow teeth, cows bellow,
dogs howl, copulating cats scream like babies, a pen of
huge hogs, spines bristling, give a great Bronx cheer.
Browbeck the Unsteady has fallen to the sword of
Young Seward, clutches at blue intestines spurting
from an eight-inch gash. Young Seward cuts off Brow-
beck's cock and holds it pulsing in the smoky rose sun-
rise....
Browbeck screams... subway brakes spit ozone....
"Stand back, folks.... Stand back."
"They say somebody pushed him."
"He was weaving around unsteady like he couldn't
see good."
"Too much smoke in the eyes, I guess."
Mary the Lesbian Governess has slipped to the pub
floor on a bloody kotex.... A three-hundred-pound fag
tramples her to death with pathic whinnies....
He sings in hideous falsetto:
He is trampling out the vintage cohere the grapes of
[wrath are stored,
He has loosed the fatal lightning of his terrible swift
[sword.
He pulls a gilded wooden sword and chops the air.
His corset flies off and whistles into the dart board.
The old bullfighter's sword buckles on bone and
whistles into the heart of the Espontaneo, pins his un-
consummate valor to the stands.
"So this elegant faggot comes to New York from Cunt
Lick, Texas, and he is the most piss elegant fag of them
all. He is taken up by old women of the type batten on
young fags, toothless old predators too weak and too
slow to run down other prey. Old moth-eaten tigress
shit sure turn into a fag eater.... So this citizen, being
an arty and crafty fag, begins making costume jewelry
and jewelry sets. Every rich old gash in Greater New
York wants he should do her sets, and he is making
money, 21, El Morocco, Stork, but no time for sex, and
all the time worrying about his rep..., He begins play-
ing the horses, supposed to be something manly about
gambling God knows why, and he figures it will build
him up to be seen at the track. Not many fags play the
horses, and those that play lose more than the others,
they are lousy gamblers plunge in a losing streak and
hedge when they win... which being the pattern of
their lives.... Now every child knows there is one law
of gambling: winning and losing come in streaks. Plunge
when you win, fold when you lose. ( I once knew a fag
dip into the till -- not the whole two thousand at once
on the nose win or Sing Sing. Not our Gertie... Oh
no a deuce at a time... )
"So he loses and loses and lose some more. One day
he is about to put a rock in a set when the obvious oc-
cur. 'Of course, I'll replace it later.' Famous last words.
So all that winter, one after the other, the diamonds,
emeralds, pearls, rubies and star sapphires of the haut
monde go in hock and replaced by queer replicas....
"So the opening night of the Met this old hag appear
as she thinks resplendent in her diamond tiara. So this
other old whore approach and say, 'Oh, Miggles, you're
so smart... to leave the real ones at home.... I mean
we're simply mad to go around tempting fate.'
" 'You're mistaken, my dear. These are real.'
" 'Oh but Miggles dahling, they're not.... I mean ask
your jeweler.... Well just ask anybody. Haaaaaa.'
"So a Sabbath is hastily called. (Lucy Bradshinkel,
look to thy emeralds. ) All these old witches examining
their rocks like a citizen find leprosy on himself.
" 'My chicken blood ruby!'
" 'My black oopalls!' Old bitch marry so many times
so many gooks and spics she don't know her accent
from her ass....
" 'My stah sahphire!' shriek a poule de luxe. 'Oh it's
all so awfull'
" 'I mean they are strictly from Woolworth's....'
" 'There's only one thing to do. I'm going to call the
police,' says a strong-minded, outspoken old thing; and
she clump across the floor on her low heels and calls the
fuzz."
"Well, the faggot draws a deuce; and in the box he
meets this cat who is some species of cheap hustler, and
love sets in or at least a facsimile thereof convince the
parties inna first and second parts. As continuity would
have it, they are sprung at the same time more or less
and take up residence in a fiat on the Lower East Side.
...And cook in and both are working legit modest jobs.
...So Brad and Jim know happiness for the first time.
"Enter the powers of evil.... Lucy Bradshinkel has
come to say all is forgiven She has faith in Brad and
wants to set him up in a studio. Of course, he will have
to move to the East Sixties.... 'This place is impossible,
dahling; and your friend...' And a safe mob wants Jim
back to drive a car. This is a step up, you dig? Offer
from citizens hardly see him before.
"Will Jim go back to crime? Will Brad succumb to
the blandishments of an aging vampire, a ravening
Maw?... Needless to say, the forces of evil are routed
and exit with ominous snarls and mutterings.
" 'The Boss isn't going to like this.'
" 'I don't know why I ever wasted my time with you,
you cheap, vulgar little fairy.'
"The boys stand at the tenement window, their arms
around each other, looking at the Brooklyn Bridge. A
warm spring wind ruffles Jim's black curls and the fine
hennaed hair of Brad.
" 'Well, Brad, what's for supper?'
" 'You just go in the other room and wait.' Playfully
he shoos Jim out of the kitchen, and puts on his apron.
"Dinner is Lucy Bradshinkel's cunt saignant cooked
in kotex papillon. The boys eat happily looking into
each other's eyes. Blood runs down their chins."
Let the dawn blue as a flame cross the city.... The
backyards are clean of fruit, and the ash pits give up
their hooded dead....
"Could you show me the way to Tipperary, lady?"
Over the hills and far away to Blue Grass.... Across
the bone meal of lawn to the frozen pond where sus-
pended goldfish wait for the spring Squaw Man.
The screaming skull rolls up the back stairs to bite
off the cock of erring husband taking dour advantage
of his wife's earache to do that which is inconvenient.
The young landlubber dons a southwester, beats his
wife to death in the shower....
Benway: "Don't take it so hard, kid.... 'Jeder macht
eine kleine Dummheit.'" (Everyone makes a little
dumbness. )
Schafer: "I tell you I can't escape a feeling... well,
of evil about this."
Benway: "Balderdash, my boy... We're scientists.
...Pure scientists. Disinterested research and damned
be him who cries 'Hold, too much1' Such people are no
better than party poops."
Schafer: "Yes, yes, of course... and yet... I can't
get that stench out of my lungs...."
Benway (irritably): "None of us can.... Never
smelled anything remotely like it.... Where was I? Oh
yes, what would be result of administering curare plus
iron lung during acute mania? Possibly the subject, un-
able to discharge his tensions in motor activity, would
succumb on the spot like a jungle rat. Interesting cause
of death, what?"
Schafer is not listening. "You know," he says impul-
sively, "I think I'll go back to plain old-fashioned sur-
gery. The human body is scandalously ineffcient.
Instead of a mouth and an anus to get out of order why
not have one all-purpose hole to eat and eliminate? We
could seal up nose and mouth, fill in the stomach, make
an air hole direct into the lungs where it should have
been in the first place...."
Benway: "Why not one all-purpose blob? Did I ever
tell you about the man who taught his asshole to talk?
His whole abdomen would move up and down you dig
farting out the words. It was unlike anything I ever
heard.
"This ass talk had a sort of gut frequency. It hit you
right down there like you gotta go. You know when the
old colon gives you the elbow and it feels sorta cold
inside, and you know all you have to do is turn loose?
Well this talking hit you right down there, a bubbly,
thick stagnant sound, a sound you could smell.
"This man worked for a carnival you dig, and to
start with it was like a novelty ventriloquist act. Real
funny, too, at first. He had a number he called 'The
Better 'Ole' that was a scream, I tell you. I forget most
of it but it was clever. Like, 'Oh I say, are you still
down there, old thing?'
"'Nah! I had to go relieve myself.'
"After a while the ass started talking on its own. He
would go in without anything prepared and his ass
would ad-lib and toss the gags back at him every time.
"Then it developed sort of teeth-like little raspy in-
curving hooks and started eating. He thought this was
cute at first and built an act around it, but the asshole
would eat its way through his pants and start talking
on the street, shouting out it wanted equal rights. It
would get drunk, too, and have crying jags nobody
loved it and it wanted to be kissed same as any other
mouth. Finally it talked all the time day and night, you
could hear him for blocks screaming at it to shut up,
and beating it with his fist, and sticking candles up it,
but nothing did any good and the asshole said to him:
'It's you who will shut up in the end. Not me. Because
we don't need you around here any more. I can talk
and eat and shit.'
"After that he began waking up in the morning with
a transparent jelly like a tadpole's tail all over his
mouth. This jelly was what the scientists call un-D.T.,
Undifferentiated Tissue, which can grow into any kind
of flesh on the human body. He would tear it off his
mouth and the pieces would stick to his hands like
burning gasoline jelly and grow there, grow anywhere
on him a glob of it fell. So finally his mouth sealed over,
and the whole head would have amputated spontane-
ous -- (did you know there is a condition occurs in parts
of Africa and only among Negroes where the little toe
amputates spontaneously?) -- except for the eyes you
dig. That's one thing the asshole couldn't do was see. It
needed the eyes. But nerve connections were blocked
and infiltrated and atrophied so the brain couldn't give
orders any more. It was trapped in the skull, sealed off.
For a while you could see the silent, helpless suffering
of the brain behind the eyes, then finally the brain must
have died, because the eyes went out, and there was no
more feeling in them than a crab's eye on the end of a
stalk.
"That's the sex that passes the censor, squeezes
through between bureaus, because there's always a
space between, in popular songs and Grade B movies,
giving away the basic American rottenness, spurting
out like breaking boils, throwing out globs of that un-
D.T. to fall anywhere and pow into some degenerate
cancerous life-form, reproducing a hideous random im-
age. Some would be entirely made of penis-like erectile
tissue, others viscera barely covered over with skin,
clusters of 3 and 4 eyes together, criss-cross of mouth
and assholes, human parts shaken around and poured
out any way they fell.
"The end result of complete cellular representation is
cancer. Democracy is cancerous, and bureaus are its
cancer. A bureau takes root anywhere in the state, turns
malignant like the Narcotic Bureau, and grows and
grows, always reproducing more of its own kind, until
it chokes the host if not controlled or excised. Bureaus
cannot live without a host, being true parasitic organ-
isms. (A cooperative on the other hand can live without
the state. That is the road to follow. The building up of
independent units to meet needs of the people who
participate in the functioning of the unit. A bureau
operates on opposite principle of inventing needs to
justify its existence. ) Bureaucracy is wrong as a cancer,
a turning away from the human evolutionary direction
of infinite potentials and differentiation and indepen-
dent spontaneous action, to the complete parasitism of
a virus.
"(It is thought that the virus is a degeneration from
more complex life form. It may at one time have been
capable of independent life. Now has fallen to the
borderline between living and dead matter. It can ex-
hibit living qualities only in a host, by using the life of
another -- the renunciation of life itself, a falling towards
inorganic, inflexible machine, towards dead matter. )
"Bureaus die when the structure of the state collapses.
They are as helpless and unfit for independent exist-
ences as a displaced tapeworm, or a virus that has killed
the host.
"In Timbuctu I once saw an Arab boy who could
play a flute with his ass, and the fairies told me he was
really an individual in bed. He could play a tune up and
down the organ hitting the most erogenously sensitive
spots, which are different on everyone, of course. Every
lover had his special theme song which was perfect for
him and rose to his climax. The boy was a great artist
when it came to improving new combines and special
climaxes, some of them notes in the unknown, tie-ups
of seeming discords that would suddenly break through
each other and crash together with a stunning, hot
sweet impact.
"Fats" Terminal has organized a purple-assed baboon
stick from motorcycles.
The Huntsmen have gathered for the Hunt Breakfast
in The Swarm Bar, a hang-out for elegant pansies. The
Huntsmen strut about with imbecile narcissism in black
leather jackets and studded belts, flexing their muscles
for the fags to feel. They all wear enormous falsie
baskets. Every now and then one of them throws a fag
to the floor and pisses on him.
They are drinking Victory Punch, compounded of
paregoric, Spanish Fly, heavy black rum, Napoleon
brandy and canned heat. The punch is served from a
great, hollow, gold baboon, crouched in snarling terror,
snapping at a spear in his side. You twist the baboon's
balls and punch runs out his cock. From time to time
hot hors-d'oeuvres pop out the baboon's ass with a loud
farting noise. When this happens the Huntsmen roar
with bestial laughter, and the fags shriek and twitch.
Master of the Hunt is Captain Everhard, who was
drummed out of the Queen's 69th for palming a jock-
strap in a game of strip poker. Motorcycles careening,
jumping, overturning. Spitting, shrieking, shitting ba-
boons fighting hand to hand with the Huntsmen. Rider-
less cycles scrabbling about in the dust like crippled
insects, attacking baboon and Huntsman....
The Party Leader rides in triumph through yiping
crowds. A dignified old man shits at sight of him and
tries to sacrifice himself under the wheels of the car.
Party Leader: "Don't sacrifice your old dried up
person under the wheels of my brand new Buick Road-
master Convertible with white-walled tires, hydraulic
windows and all the trimmings. It's a chip Arab trick --
look to thy accent, Ivan -- save it for fertilizer.... We
refer you to the conservation department to consum-
mate your swell purpose...."
The washing boards are down, and the sheets are
sent to the Laundromat lose those guilty stains -- Em-
manuel prophesies a Second Coming....
There's a boy across the river with an ass like a peach;
alas I was no swimmer and lost my Clementine.
The junky sits with needle poised to the message of
blood, and the con man palpates the mark with fingers
of rotten ectoplasm....
Dr. Berger's Mental Health Hour.... Fadeout.
TECHNICIAN: "Now listen, I'll say it again, and I'll
say it slow. 'Yes.'" He nods. "And make with the smile.
. The smile." He shows his false teeth in hideous
parody of a toothpaste ad. "'We like apple pie, and we
like each other. It's just as simple as that,' -- and make
it sound simple, country simple.... Look bovine,
whyncha? You want the switchboard again? Or the
pail?"
Subject -- Cured Criminal Psychopath -- "No!... No!
...What's this bovine?"
Technician: "Look like a cow."
SUBJECT -- with cow's head -- "Moooo Moooo."
TECHNICIAN (starting back): "Too much!! No! Just
look square, you dig, like a nice popcorn John...."
Subject: "A mark?"
Technician: "Well, not exactly a mark. Not enough
larceny in this citizen. He is after light concussion....
You know the type. Telepathic sender and receiver ex-
cised. The Service Man Look... Action, camera."
SUBJECT: "Yes, we like apple pie." His stomach rum-
bles loud and long. Streamers of saliva hang off his
chin....
Dr. Berger looks up from some notes. He look like
Jewish owl with black glasses, the light hurt his eyes:
"I think he is an unsuitable subject.... See he reports
to Disposal."
TECHNICIAN: "Well, we could cut that rumble out of
the sound track, stick a drain in his mouth and..."
DR. BERGER: "No... He's unsuitable." He looks at
the subject with distaste as if he commit. some terrible
faux-pas like look for crabs in Mrs. Worldly's drawing
room.
TECHNICIAN (resigned and exasperated): "Bring in
the cured swish."
The cured homosexual is brought in.... He walks
through invisible contours of hot metal. He sits in front
of the camera and starts arranging his body in a coun-
trified sprawl. Muscles move into place like autonomous
parts of a severed insect. Blank stupidity blurs and
softens his face: "Yes," he nods and smiles, "we like
apple pie and we like each other. It's just as simple as
that." He nods and smiles and nods and smiles and --
"Cut1..." screams the Technician. The cured homo-
sexual is led out nodding and smiling.
"Play it back."
The Artistic Adviser shakes his head: "It lacks some-
thing. To be specific, it lacks health."
Berger (leaps to his feet): "Preposterous! It's health
incarnate!..."
ARTISTIC ADVISER (primly): "Well if you have any-
thing to enlighten me on this subject I'll be very glad
to hear it, Doctor Berger.... If you with your brilliant
mind can carry the project alone, I don't know why you
need an Art Adviser at all." He exits with hand on hip
singing softly: "I'll be around when you're gone."
TECHNICIAN: "Send in the cured writer.... He's got
what? Buddhism?... Oh, he can't talk. Say so at first,
whyncha?" He turns to Berger: "The writer can't talk.
...Overliberated, you might say. Of course we can dub
him...."
BERGER (sharply): "No, that wouldn't do at all....
Send in someone else."
TECHNICIAN: "Those two was my white-haired boys.
I put in a hundred hours overtime on those kids for
which I am not yet compensate...."
BERGER: "Apply triplicate.... Form 6090."
TECHNICIAN: "You telling me how to apply already?
Now look, Doc, you say something once. 'To speak of
a healthy homosexual it's like how can a citizen be per-
fectly healthy with terminal cirrhosis.' Remember?"
BERGER: "Oh yes. Very well put, of course," he snarls
viciously. "I don't pretend to be a writer." He spits the
word out with such ugly hate that the Technician reels
back appalled....
TECHNICIAN (aside): "I can't bear the smell of him.
Like old rotten replica cultures.... Like the farts of
a maneating plant.... Like Schafer's hurumph" (paro-
dies academic manner) "Strange Serpent... What I'm
getting at, Doc, is how can you expect a body to be
healthy with its brains washed out?... Or put it an-
other way. Can a subject be healthy in abstentia by
proxy already?"
BERGER (leaps up): "I got the health!... All the
health! Enough health for the whole world, the whole
fuckin world! t I cure everybody!"
The Technician looks at him sourly. He mixes a
bicarbonate of soda and drinks it and belches into his
hand. "Twenty years I've been a martyr to dyspepsia."
Lovable Lu your brainwashed poppa say: "I'm strictly
for fish, and I luuuuuve it.... Confidentially, girls, I
use Steely Dan's Yokohama, wouldn't you? Danny Boy
never lets you down. Besides it's more hygienic that
way and avoids all kinda awful contacts leave a man
paralyzed from the waist down. Women have poison
juices....
"So I told him, I said: 'Doctor Berger, don't think you
can pass your tired old brainwashed belles on me. I'm
the oldest faggot in the Upper Baboon's Asshole....'"
Switch envelopes in clip clap joint where fraudulent
girls put the B on you in favor of the House 666 and
there is no health in them clap broads rotten to the
apple corer of my unconsummate cock. Who shot Cock
Robin?... The sparrow falls to my trustful Webley,
and a drop of blood gathers at his beak....
Lord Jim has turned bright yellow in the woe with-
ered moon of morning like white smoke against the blue
stuff, and shirts whip in a cold spring wind on limestone
cliffs across the river, Mary, and the dawn is broken in
two pieces like Dillinger on the lamster way to the Bio-
graph. Smell of neon and atrophied gangsters, and the
criminal manque nerves himself to crack a pay toilet
sniffing ammonia in a bucket.... "A caper," he says.
"I'll pull this capon I mean caper."
PARTY LEADER (mixing another scotch): "The next
riot goes off like a football play. We have imported a
thousand bone fed, blue ribbon Latahs from Indochina.
...All we need is one riot leader for the whole unit."
His eyes sweep the table.
LIEUTENANT: "But, chief, can't we get them started
and they imitate each other like a chained reaction?"
The Diseuse undulate through the Market: "What's
a Latah do when he's alone?'
P.L.: "That a technical point. We'll have to consult
Benway. Personally, I think someone should follow
through on the whole operation."
"I do not know," he said for lack of the requisite
points and ratings to secure the appointment.
"They have no feelings," said Doctor Benway, slash-
ing his patient to shreds. "Just reflexes... I urge dis-
traction. '
"The age of consent is when they learn to talk."
"May all your troubles be little ones as one child
molester say to the other."
"It's really ominous, my dear, when they start trying
on your clothes and give you those doppelganger
kicks...."
Frantic queen trying to claw sport jacket off depart-
ing boy.
"My two hundred dollar cashmere jacket," she
screeches....
"So he has an affair with this Latah, he wants to domi-
nate someone complete the silly old thing.... The
Latah imitates all his expressions and mannerisms and
simply sucks all the persona right out of him like a
sinister ventriloquist's dummy.... 'You've taught me
everything you are.... I need a new amigo.' And poor
Bubu can't answer for himself, having no self left."
JUNKY: "So there we are in this no-horse town strictly
from cough syrup."
PROFESSOR: "Coprophilia... gentlemen... might be
termed the hurumph... redundant vice...."
"Twenty years an artist in the blue movies and I
never sink so low as fake an orgasm."
"No good junky cunt hang up her unborn child....
Women are no good, kid."
"I mean this dead level conscious sex,... Might as
well take your old clothes to the Laundromat...."
"And right in the heat of passion he says, 'Do you
have an extra shoetree?' "
"She tell me how forty Arabs drag her into a mosque
and rape her presumably in sequence.... Though
they're bad to push -- all right, end of the line, Ali.
Really, my pets, most distasteful routine I ever listen
to. I was after being raped myself by a pride of rampant
bores."
A group of sour Nationalists sits in front of the Sar-
gasso sneering at the queens and jabbering in Arabic.
...Clem and Jody sweep in dressed like The Capitalist
in a communist mural.
CLEM: "We have come to feed on your backward-
ness."
JODY: "In the words of the Immortal Bard, to batten
on these Moors."
NATIONALIST: "Swine! Filth! Son of dogs! Don't you
realize my people are hungry?"
CLEM: "That's the way I like to see them."
The Nationalist drops dead, poisoned by hate....
Dr. Benway rushes up: "Stand back everybody, give me
air." He takes a blood sample. "Well, that's all I can do.
When you gotta go you gotta go."
The traveling queer Christmas tree burns bright on
the rubbish heaps of home where boys jack off in the
school toilet -- how many young spasms on that old
oaken seat worn smooth as gold....
Sleep long in the valley of the Red River where cob-
webs hang black windows and boy bones....
Two Negro fags shriek at each other.
FAG 1: "Shut up, you cheap granuloma gash.... You
known as Loathsome Lu in the trade."
DISEUSE: "The girl with the innaresting groin."
FAG 2: "Meow. Meow." He slips on leopard skin and
iron claws....
FAG 1: "Oh oh. A Society Woman." He flees scream-
ing through the Market, pursued by the grunting, growl-
ing transvestite....
Clem trips a spastic cripple and takes his crutches....
He does a hideous parody twitching and drooling....
Riot noises in the distance -- a thousand hysterical
Pomeranians.
Shop shutters slam like guillotines. Drinks and trays
hang in the air as the patrons are whisked inside by the
suction of panic.
CHORUS OF FAGS: "We'll all be raped. I know it, I
know it." They rush into a drugstore and buy a case of
KY.
PARTY LEADER (holding up his hand dramatically):
"The voice of the People."
Pearson the Money Changeling comes acropping the
short grass seized by the extortionate commandant of
Karma, hiding in a vacant lot with the garter snakes, to
be sniffed out by the scrutable dog....
The Market is empty except for an old drunkard of
indeterminate nationality passed out with his head in a
pissoir. The rioters erupt into the Market yiping and
screaming "Death to the French" and tear the drunkard
to pieces.
SALVADOR HASSAN (squirming at a keyhole): "Just
look at those expressions, the whole beautiful proto-
plasmic being all exactly alike." He dances the Lique-
factionist Jig.
Whimpering queen falls to the floor in an orgasm.
"Oh God it's too exciting. Like a million hot throbbing
cocks."
BENWAY: "Like to run a blood test on those boys."
A portentously inconspicuous man, grey beard and
grey face and shabby brown jellaba, sings in slight un-
placeable accent without opening his lips:
"Oh you dolls, you great big beautiful dolls."
Squads of police with thin lips, big noses and cold
grey eyes move into the Market from every entrance
street. They club and kick the rioters with cold, meth-
odical brutality.
The rioters have been carted away in trucks. The
shutters go up and the citizens of Interzone step out
into the square littered with teeth and sandals and
slippery with blood.
The sea chest of the dead man is in the Embassy, and
the vice consul breaks the news to mother.
There is no... Morning... Daybreak... n'existe
plus.... If I knew I'd be glad to tell you. Either way
is a bad move to the East Wing.... He is gone through
an invisible door.... Not here... You can look any
place.... No good... No bueno... Hustling myself.
...C'lom Fliday.
( Note: Old time, veteran Schmeckers, faces beaten
by grey junk weather, will remember.... In 1920s a lot
of Chinese pushers around found The West so unreli-
able, dishonest and wrong, they all packed in, so when
an Occidental junky came to score, they say:
"No glot.... C'lom Fliday....")
ISLAM INCORPORATED AND THE
PARTIES OF INTERZONE
I was working for an outfit known as Islam Inc.,
financed by A. J., the notorious Merchant of Sex, who
scandalized international society when he appeared at
the Duc de Ventre's ball as a walking penis covered by
a huge condom emblazoned with the A. J. motto "They
Shall Not Pass."
"Rather bad taste, old boy," said the Duke.
To which A. J. replied: "Up yours with Interzone
K.Y." The reference is to the K.Y. scandal which was
still in a larval state at that time. A. J.'s repartee often
refers to future events. He is a master of the delayed
squelch.
Salvador Hassan O'Leary, the After Birth Tycoon, is
also involved. That is, one of his subsidiary companies
has made unspecified contributions, and one of his sub-
sidiary personalities is attached to the organization in
an advisory capacity without in any way committing
himself to, or associating himself with, the policies,
aetions or objectives of Islam Inc. Mention should also
be made of Clem and Jody, the Ergot Brothers, who
decimated the Republic of Hassan with poison wheat,
Autopsy Ahmed, and Hepatitis Hal, the fruit and vege-
table broker.
A rout of Mullahs and Muftis and Musseins and Caids
and Glaouis and Sheiks and Sultans and Holy Men and
representatives of every conceivable Arab party make
up the rank and file and attend the actual meetings
from which the higher ups prudently abstain. Though
the delegates are carefully searched at the door, these
gatherings invariably culminate in riots. Speakers are
often doused with gasoline and burned to death, or some
uncouth desert Sheik opens up on his opponents with a
machine gun he had concealed in the belly of a pet
sheep. Nationalist martyrs with grenades up the ass
mingle with the assembled conferents and suddenly ex-
plode, occasioning heavy casualties.... And there was
the occasion when President Ra threw the British Prime
Minister to the ground and forcibly sodomized him, the
spectacle being televised to the entire Arab World.
Wild yipes of joy were heard in Stockholm. Interzone
has an ordinance forbidding a meeting of Islam Inc.
within five miles of the city limits.
A. J.-- he is actually of obscure Near East extraction
-- had at one time come on like an English gentleman.
His English accent waned with the British Empire, and
after World War II he became an American by Act of
Congress. A. J. is an agent like me, but for whom or for
what no one has ever been able to discover. It is ru-
mored that he represents a trust of giant insects from
another galaxy.... I believe he is on the Factualist side
( which I also represent ); of course he could be a Lique-
factign Agent (the Liquefaction program involves the
eventual merging of everyone into One Man by a proc-
ess of protoplasmic absorption). You can never be sure
of anyone in the industry.
A. J.'s cover story? An international playboy and
harmless practical joker. It was A. J. who put the pir-
anha fish in Lady Sutton-Smith's swimming pool, and
dosed the punch with a mixture of Yage, Hashish and
Yohimbine during a Fourth of July reception at the U.S.
Embassy, precipitating an orgy. Ten prominent citizens
-- American, of course -- subsequently died of shame. Dy-
ing of shame is an accomplishment peculiar to Kwakiutl
Indians and Americans -- others simply say "Zat alors" or
"Son cosas de la vida" or "Allah fucked me, the All
Powerful...."
And when the Cincinnati Anti-Fluoride Society met
to toast their victory in pure spring water, all their teeth
dropped out on the spot.
"And I say unto you, brothers and sisters of the Anti-
Fluoride movement, we have this day struck such a
blow for purity as will never call a retreat.... Out, I
say, with the filthy foreign fluorides! We will sweep this
fair land sweet and clean as a young boy's tensed Hank.
...I will now lead you in our theme song The Old
Oaken Bucket."
A well head is lighted by fluorescent lights that play
over it in hideous juke-box colors. The Anti-Fluorides
file past the well singing as each dips up a drink from
the oaken bucket....
"The old oaken bucket, the gold oaken bucket
The glublthulunnubbeth..."
A. J. had tampered with the water, inserting a South
American vine that turns the gums to mush.
(I hear about this vine from an old German prospec-
tor who is dying of uremia in Pasto, Columbia. Sup-
posed to grow in the Putumayo area. Never located any.
Didn't try very hard.... The same citizen tells me
about a bug like a big grasshopper known as the Xiucu-
til: "Such a powerful aphrodisiac if one flies on you and
you can't get a woman right away you will die. I have
seen the Indians running around pulling themselves off
from the contact with this animal." Unfortunately I
never score for a Xiucutil.... )
On opening night of the New York Metropolitan,
A. J., protected by bug repellent, released a swarm of
Xiucutils.
Mrs. Vanderbligh swatting at a Xiucutil: "Oh!...
Oh!... OOOOOOOOOOOH!1!" Screams, breaking
glass, ripping cloth. A rising crescendo of grunts and
squeals and moans and whimpers and gasps.... Reek
of semen and cunts and sweat and the musty odor of
penetrated rectums,... Diamonds and fur pieces, eve-
ning dresses, orchids, suits and underwear litter the
floor covered by a writhing, frenzied, heaving mass of
naked bodies.
A. J. once reserved a table a year in advance Chez
Robert where a huge, icy gourmet broods over the
greatest cuisine in the world. So baneful and derogatory
is his gaze that many a client, under that withering
blast, has rolled on the floor and pissed all over himself
in convulsive attempts to ingratiate.
So A. J. arrives with six Bolivian Indians who chew
coca leaves between courses. And when Robert, in all
his gourmet majesty, bears down on the table, A. J.
looks up and yells: "Hey, Boy! Bring me some ketchup."
(Alternative: A. J. whips out a bottle of ketchup and
douses the haute cuisine. )
Thirty gourmets stop chewing at once. You could
have heard a souffle drop. As for Robert, he lets out a
bellow of rage like a wounded elephant, runs to the
kitchen and arms himself with a meat cleaver.... The
Sommelier snarls hideously, his face turning a strange
iridescent purple.... He breaks off a bottle of Brut Cham-
pagne... '26.... Pierre, the Head Waiter, snatches up
a boning knife. All three chase A. J. through the res-
taurant with mangled inhuman screams of rage....
Tables overturn, vintage wines and matchless food
crash to the floor.... Cries of "Lynch him!" ring through
the air. An elderly gourmet with the insane bloodshot
eyes of a mandril, is fashioning a hangman's knot with
a red velvet curtain cord.... Seeing himself cornered
and in imminent danger of dismemberment at least, A.J.
plays his trump card.... He throws back his head and
lets out a hog call; and a hundred famished hogs he had
stationed nearby rush into the restaurant, slopping the
haute cuisine. Like a great tree Robert falls to the fioor
in a stroke where he is eaten by the hogs: "Poor bas-
tards don't know enough to appreciate him," says A. J.
Robert's brother Paul emerges from retirement in a
local nut house and takes over the restaurant to dis-
pense something he calls the "Transcendental Cuisine."
...Imperceptibly the quality of the food declines until
he is serving literal garbage, the clients being too in-
timidated by the reputation of Chex Robert to protest.
Sample Menu:
The Clear Camel Piss Soup with boiled Earth Worms
The Filet of Sun-Ripened Sting Ray
basted with Eau de Cologne and garnished with nettles
The After-Birth Supreme de Boeuf,
cooked in drained crank case oil,
served with a piquant sauce of rotten egg yolks
and crushed bed bugs
The Limburger Cheese sugar cured in diabetic orine
doused in Canned Heat Flamboyant....
So the clients are quietly dying of botulism.... Then
A. J. returns with an entourage of Arab refugees from
the Middle East. He takes one mouthful and screams:
"Garbage God damn it. Cook this wise citizen in his
own swill!"
And so the legend of A. J. the laughable, lovable ec-
centric grew and grew.... Fadeout to Venice....
Gondoliers singing and pathic cries swell up from San
Marco and Harry's.
Charming old Venetian anecdote about this bridge,
it seems some Venetian sailors take a trip around the
world and all turn into fruits they fuck the cabin boy
already, so when they get back to Venice it is necessary
women walk over this bridge with their lungs hanging
out to arouse the desires of these dubious citizens. So
get a battalion of shock troops up to San Marco on the
double.
"Girls, this is O.A.O., Operation All Out. If your tits
won't stop them bring up your cunts and confound
these faggots."
"Oh Gertie it's true. It's all true. They've got a horrid
gash instead of a thrilling thing."
"I can't face it."
"Enough to turn a body to stone."
Paul spoke wiser than he know being a really evil
old shit when he talk about men lying with men doing
that which is inconvenient. Inconvenient is the word.
So who want to trip over a cock on the way to a cunt,
and when a citizen get the yen to hump a gash, some
evil stranger rush in and do that which is inconvenient
to his ass.
A. J. rush across San Marco slashing at pigeons with
a cutlass: "Bastards! Sons of bitches!" he screams....
He staggers aboard his barge, a monstrous construction
in gilt and pink and blue with sails of purple velvet. He
is dressed in a preposterous naval uniform covered
with braid and ribbons and medals, dirty and torn, the
coat buttoned in the wrong holes.... A. J. walks to a
huge reproduction of a Greek urn topped by a gold
statue of a boy with an erection. He twists the boy's
balls and a jet of champagne spurts into his mouth. He
wipes his mouth and looks around.
"Where are my Nubians, God damn it?" he yells.
His secretary looks up from a comic book: "Juicing.
...Chasing cunt."
"Goldbricking cocksuckers. Where's a man without
his Nubians?"
"Take a gondola whyncha?'
"A gondola?" A. J. screams. "I put out for this cock-
sucker I should ride in a gondola already? Reef the
mainsail and ship the oars, Mr. Hyslop.... I'm gonna
make with the auxiliary." Mr. Hyslop shrugs resignedly.
With one finger he begins punching a switchboard....
The sails drop, the oars draw into the hull.
"And turn on the perfume whyncha? The canal stinks
up a breeze."
"Gardenia? Sandlewood?'
"Naw. Ambrosia." Mr. Hyslop presses another button
and a thick cloud of perfume settles over the barge.
A. J. is seized with a fit of coughing....
"Make with the fans" he yells. "I'm suffocatin'!" Mr.
Hyslop is coughing into a handkerchief. He presses a
button. Fans whir and thin out the ambrosia. A. J. in-
stalls himself at the rudder on a raised dais. "Contact!"
The barge begins to vibrate. "Avanti, God damn it!"
A. J. yells and the barge takes off across the canal at a
tremendous speed overturning gondolas full of tourists,
missing the motoscafi by inches, veering from one side
of the canal to the other (the wake washes over the
sidewalks drenching passersby) shattering a fleet of
moored gondolas, and finally piles up against a pier,
spins out into the middle of the canal.... A column of
water spurts six feet in the air from a hole in the hull.
"Man the pumps, Mr. Hyslop. She's shipping water."
The barge gives a sudden lurch throwing A. J. into the
canal.
"Abandon ship, God damn it! Every man for him-
self!" Fadeout to Mambo music.
The inauguration of Escuela Amigo, a school for de-
linquent boys of Latin American origin, endowed by
A. J., Faculty Boys and press attending. A. J. staggers
out onto a platform draped with American flags.
"In the immortal words of Father Flanagan there is
no such thing as a bad boy.... Where's the statuary,
God damn it?"
TECHNICIAN: "You want it now?"
A. J.: "What you think I'm doing here Furthucrisakes?
I should unveil the son of a bitch in abstentia?"
TECHNICIAN: "All right... All right. Coming right
up." The statue is towed out by a Graham Hymie trac-
tor and placed in front of the platform. A. J. presses a
button. Turbines start under the platform, rising to a
deafening whine. Wind blows the red velvet drapes off
the statue. They tangle around the Faculty members in
the front row.... Clouds of dust and debris whip
through the spectators. The sirens slowly subside. The
Faculty disengages itself from the drapes.... Every-
one is looking at the statue in breathless silence.
FATHER GONZALEZ: "Mother of God!"
THE MAN From Time: "I don't believe it."
Daily News: "It's nothing but fruity."
Chorus of whistles from the boys.
A monumental creation in shiny pink stone stands re-
vealed as the dust settles. A naked boy is bending over
a sleeping comrade with evident intention to waken
him with a flute. One hand is holding the flute, the
other reaching for a piece of cloth draped over the
sleeper's middle. The cloth bulges suggestively. Both
boys wear a flower behind the ear, identical expressions,
dreamy and brutal, depraved and innocent. This crea-
tions tops a limestone pyramid on which is inscribed in
letters of porcelain mosaic -- pink and blue and gold -- the
school motto: "With it and for it."
A. J. lurches forward and breaks a champagne bottle
across the boy's taut buttocks.
"And remember, boys, that's where champagne comes
from."
Manhattan Serenade. A. J. and entourage start into
New York night club. A. J. is leading a purple-assed
baboon on a gold chain. A. J. is dressed in checked
linen plus fours with a cashmere jacket.
MANAGER: "Wait a minute. Wait a minute. What's
that?'
A. J.: "It's an Illyrian poodle. Choicest beast a man
can latch onto. It'll raise the tone of your trap."
MANAGER: "I suspect it to be a purple-assed baboon
and it stands outside."
STOOGE: "Don't you know who this is? It's A. J., last
of the big time spenders."
MANAGER: "Leave him take his purple-assed bastard
and big time spend some place else."
A. J. stops in front of another club and looks in. "Ele-
gant fags and old cunts, God damn it! We come to the
right place. Avanti, ragazzit"
He drives a gold stake into the floor and pickets the
baboon. He begins talking in elegant tones, his stooges
filling in.
"Fantastic!"
"Monstrous!"
"Utter heaven1"
A. J. puts a long cigarette holder in his mouth. The
holder is made of some obscenely flexible material. It
swings and undulates as if endowed with loathsome
reptilian life.
A. J.: "So there I was Hat on my stomach at thirty
thousand feet."
Several nearby fags raise their heads like animals
scenting danger. A. J. leaps to his feet with an inarticu-
late snarl.
"You purple-assed cocksucker!" he screams. "I'll teach
you to shit on the floor!" He pulls a whip from his um-
brella and cuts the baboon across the ass. The baboon
screams and tears loose the stake. He leaps on the next
table and climbs up an old woman who dies of heart
failure on the spot.
A. J.: "Sorry, lady. Discipline you know."
In a frenzy he whips the baboon from one end of
the bar to the other. The baboon, screaming and snarl-
ing and shitting with terror, climbs over the clients,
runs up and down on top of the bar, swings from drapes
and chandeliers....
A. J.: "You'll straighten up and shit right or you won't
be inna condition to shit one way or the other."
STOOGE: "You ought to be ashamed of yourself up-
settin' A. J. after all he's done for you."
A. J.: "Ingrates! Every one of them ingrates! Take it
from an old queen."
Of course no one believes this cover story. A. J. claims
to be an "independent," which is to say: "Mind your
own business." There are no independents any more.
... The Zone swarms with every variety of dupe but
there are no neutrals there. A neutral at A. J.'s level is
of course unthinkable....
Hassan is a notorious Liquefactionist and suspect to
be a secret Sender -- "Shucks, boys," he says with a dis-
arming pin, "I'm just a blooming old cancer and I gotta
proliferate." He picks up a Texas accent associating
with Dry Hole Dutton, the Dallas wildcatter, and he
wears cowboy boots and ten-gallon hat at all times in-
doors and out.... His eyes are invisible behind black
glasses, his face smooth and blank as wax above a well-
cut suit made entirely from immature high denomina-
tion bank notes. (Bank notes are in fact currency, but
they must mature before they can be negotiated....
Bank notes run as high as one million clams a note. )
"They keep hatching out all over me," he says shyly.
..."It's like, gee, I don't know how to say it. It's like I
was a Mummy scorpion carrying those little baby notes
around on my warm body and feeling them grow....
Gosh I hope I don't bore you with all this."
Salvador, known as Sally to his friends -- he always
keeps a few "friends" around and pays them by the
hour -- got cured in the slunk business in World War II.
(To get cured means to get rich. Expression used by
Texas oil men.) The Pure Food and Drug Department
have his picture in their files, a heavy faced man with
an embalmed look as if paraffin had been injected under
the skin which is smooth, shiny and poreless. One eye
is dead grey color, round as a marble, with flaws and
opaque spots. The other is black and shiny, an old un-
dreaming insect eye.
His eyes are normally invisible behind black glasses.
He looks sinister and enigmatic -- his gestures and man-
nerisms are not yet comprehensible -- like the secret
police of a larval state.
In moments of excitement Salvador is apt to lapse
into broken English. His accent at such moments sug-
gests an Italian origin. He reads and speaks Etruscan,
A squad of accountant investigators have made a life
work of Sal's international dossier.... His operations
extend through the world in an inextricable, shifting
web of subsidiaries, front companies, and aliases. He
has held 23 passports and been deported 49 times --
deportation proceedings pending in Cuba, Pakistan,
Hongkong and Yokohama.
Salvador Hassan O'Leary, alias The Shoe Store Kid,
alias Wrong Way Marv, alias After Birth Leary, alias
Slunky Pete, alias Placenta Juan, alias K. Y. Ahmed,
alias El Chinche, alias El Culito, etc., etc. for fifteen
solid pages of dossier, first tangled with the law in NYC
where he was traveling with a character known to the
Brooklyn police as Blubber Wilson, who hustled his goof
ball money shaking down fetishists in shoe stores. Has-
san was charged some third degree extortion and con-
spiracy to impersonate a police officer. He had learnt
the shakeman's Number One rule: D.T.-- Ditch Tin --
which corresponds to the pilot's KFS -- Keep Flying
Speed.... As The Vigilante puts it: "If you get a
rumble, kid, ditch your piece of tin if you have to swal-
low it." So they didn't bust him with a queer badge.
Hassan testified against Wilson, who drew Pen Indef.
(longest term possible under New York law for a mis-
demeanor conviction. Nominally an indefinite sentence,
it means three years in Riker's Island). Hassan's case
was nolle prossed. "I'd have drawn a nickel," Hassan
said, "if I hadn't met a decent cop." Hassan met a de-
cent cop every time he took a fall. His dossier contains
three pages of monikers indicating his proclivity for
cooperating with the law, "playing ball" the cops call
it. Others call it something else: Ab the Fuzz Lover,
Finky Marv, The Crooning Hebe, Ali the Stool, Wrongo
Sal, The Wailing Spic, The Sheeny Soprano, The Bronx
Opera House, The Copper's Djinn, The Answering Serv-
ice, The Squeaking Syrian, The Cooing Cocksucker,
The Musical Fruit, The Wrong Ass Hole, The Fairy
Fink, Leary the Nark, The Lilting Leprechaun...
Grassy Gert.
He opened a sex shop in Yokohama, pushed junk in
Beirut, pimped in Panama. During World War II he
shifted into high, took over a dairy in Holland and cut
the butter with used axle grease, cornered the K.Y.
market in North Africa, and finally hit the jackpot with
slunks. He prospered and proliferated, Hooding the
world with cut medicines and cheap counterfeit goods
of every variety. Adulterated shark repellent, cut anti-
biotics, condemned parachutes, stale anti-venom, in-
active serums and vaccines, leaking lifeboats.
Clem and Jody, two oldtime vaudeville hoofers, cope
out as Russian agents whose sole function is to repre-
sent the U.S. in an unpopular light. When arrested
for sodomy in Indonesia, Clem said to the examining
magistrate:
"'Tain't as if it was being queer. After all they's only
Gooks."
They appeared in Liberia dressed in black Stetsons
and red galluses:
"So I shoot that old nigger and he flop on his side one
leg up in the air just akicking."
"Yeah, but you ever burn a nigger?"
They are always pacing round Bidonvilles smoking
huge cigars:
"Haveta get some bulldozers in here Jody. Clean out
all this crap."
Morbid crowds follow them about hoping to witness
some superlative American outrage.
"Thirty years in show business and I never handle
such a routine like this. I gotta dispossess a Bidonville,
give myself a bang of H, piss on the Black Stone, make
with the Prayer Call whilst dressed in my hog suit,
cancel Lend Lease and get fucked up the ass simul-
taneous.... What, am I an octopus already?" Clem
complains.
They are conspiring to kidnap the Black Stone with
a helicopter and substitute a hog pen, the hogs trained
to give the Bronx cheer when the pilgrims show. "We
try to train them squealing bastards to sing: 'Three
cheers for the Red White and Blue,' but it can't be
done...."
"We connect for that wheat with Ali Wong Chapul-
tepec in Panama. He tells us it is a high grade of shit
this Finnish skipper die inna local jump joint and leave
this cargo to the madame.... 'She was like a mother
to me,' he says and those were his last words.... So we
buy it in good faith off the old gash. Laid ten pieces of
H on her."
"Good H too. Good Aleppo H."
"Just enough milk sugar to keep her strength up."
"We should look a gift horse in the ass already?"
"Isn't it true than when you got to Hassan you gave a
banquet for the Caid and served couscous made from
the wheat?"
"We sure did. And you know those citizens were so
loaded on that marijuana they all wig inna middle of
the banquet.... Me, I just had bread and milk...
ulcers you know."
"Likewise."
"So they all run around screaming they is on fire and
the bulk of them die the following morning."
"And the rest the morning after that."
"What they expect already when they rot theirselves
with Eastern vices?"
"Funny thing those citizens turn all black and their
legs drop off."
"Horrible result of marijuana addiction."
"The very same thing occurred to me."
"So we deal directly with the old Sultan who is being
a well-known Latah. After that everything is plain
sailing you might say."
"But you wouldn't believe it, certain disgruntled ele-
ments chased us right down to our launch."
"Handicapped somewhat by lack of legs."
"And a condition in the head."
(Ergot is a fungus disease grows on bad wheat. Dur-
ing the Middle Ages Europe was periodically deci-
mated by outbreaks of Ergotism, which was called St.
Anthony's fire. Gangrene frequently supervenes, the
legs turn black and drop off. )
They unload a shipment of condemned parachutes on
the Ecuadorian Air Force. Manoeuvres: Boys plummet
streaming 'chutes like broken condoms splash young
blood over pot-bellied generals... shattering wake of
sound as Clem and Jody disappear over the Andes in
jet getaway....
The exact objectives of Islam Inc. are obscure. Need-
less to say everyone involved has a different angle, and
they all intend to cross each other up somewhere along
the line.
A. J. is agitating for the destruction of Israel: "With
all this feeling against the West a chap has a spot of
bother scoring for the young Arab amenities.... The
situation is little short of intolerable.... Israel consti-
tutes a downright inconvenience." Typical A. J. cover
story.
Clem and Jody give out they are interested in the de-
struction of Near East oil Belds to boost the value of
their Venezuelan holdings.
Clem writes a number to the tune of "Crawdad" (Big
Bill Broonzy).
What you gonna do when the oil goes dry?
Gonna sit right there and watch those Arabs die.
Salvador emits a thick screen of international finance
to cloak, at least from the rank and file, his Liquefac-
tionist activities.... But over a few stiff yages he lets
his hair down among friends.
"Islam is jellied consomme already," he says, dancing
the Liquefactionist Jig.... And then, unable to contain
himself, he bursts into a hideous falsetto:
It's trembling on the brink
One push and down it sink
Hey, Maw, get ready my veil.
"Well, these citizens have engaged the services of
a Brooklyn Jew who passes himself off as the second
coming of Mohammed.... In fact Doctor Benway
delivered him by Caesarian section from a Holy Man in
Mecca....
"If Ahmed won't come out... We'll go in and get
him."
This shameless plant is accepted without question
by the gullible Arabs.
"Nice folk, these Arabs... Nice ignorant folk," Clem
says.
So this phony gives out with daily Surahs on the
radio: "Now friends of the radio audience, this is Ah-
med your friendly prophet.... Today I'd like to talk
about the importance of being dainty and kissin' fresh
at all times.... Friends, use Jody's chlorophyll tablets
and be sure."
Now a word about the parties of Interzone....
It will be immediately clear that the Liquefaction
Party is, except for one man, entirely composed of
dupes, it not being clear until the final absorption who
is whose dupe.... The Liquefactionists are much given
to every form of perversion, especially sado-masochistic
practices....
Liquefactionists in general know what the score is.
The Senders, on the other hand, are notorious for their
ignorance of the nature and terminal state of sending,
for barbarous and self-righteous manners, and for rabid
fear of any fact --. It was only the intervention of the
Factualists that prevented the Senders from putting
Einstein in an institution and destroying his theory. It
may be said that only a very few Senders know what
they are doing and these top Senders are the most dan-
gerous and evil men in the world.... Techniques of
Sending were crude at first. Fadeout to the National
Electronic Conference in Chicago.
The Conferents are putting on their overcoats.... The
speaker talks in a fiat shopgirl voice:
"In closing I want to sound a word of warning....
The logical extension of encephalographic research is
bicontrol; that is control of physical movement, mental
processes, emotional reactions and apparent sensory im-
pressions by means of bioelectric signals injected into
the nervous system of the subject."
"Louder and funnier!" The Conferents are trouping
out in clouds of dust.
"Shortly after birth a surgeon could install connec-
tions in the brain. A miniature radio receiver could be
plugged in and the subject controlled from State-
controlled transmitters."
Dust settles through the windless air of a vast empty
hall -- smell of hot iron and steam; a radiator sings in the
distance.... The Speaker shuffles his notes and blows
dust off them....
"The biocontrol apparatus is prototype of one-way
telepathic control. The subject could be rendered sus-
ceptible to the transmitter by drugs or other processing
without installing any apparatus. Ultimately the Senders
will use telepathic transmitting exclusively.... Ever
dig the Mayan codices? I figure it like this: the priests
-- about one per cent of population -- made with one-way
telepathic broadcasts instructing the workers what to
feel and when.... A telepathic sender has to send all the
time. He can never receive, because if he receives that
means someone else has feelings of his own could louse
up his continuity. The sender has to send all the time, but
he can't ever recharge himself by contact. Sooner or later
he's got no feelings to send. You can't have feelings alone.
Not alone like the Sender is alone -- and you dig there can
only be one Sender at one place-time.... Finally the
screen goes dead.... The Sender has turned into a
huge centipede.... So the workers come in on the
beam and burn the centipede and elect a new Sender
by consensus of the general will.... The Mayans were
limited by isolation.... Now one Sender could control
the planet.... You see control can never be a means
to any practical end.... It can never be a means to
anything but more control.... Like junk..."
The Divisionists occupy a mid-way position, could
in fact be termed moderates.... They are called Divi-
sionists because they literally divide. They cut off tiny
bits of their flesh and grow exact replicas of themselves
in embryo jelly. It seems probable, unless the process
of division is halted, that eventually there will be only
one replica of one sex on the planet: that is one person in
the world with millions of separate bodies.... Are
these bodies actually independent, and could they in
time develop varied characteristics? I doubt it. Replicas
must periodically recharge with the Mother Cell. This is
an article of faith with the Divisionists, who live in fear
of a replica revolution.... Some Divisionists think that
the process can be halted short of the eventual monop-
oly of one replica. They say: "Just let me plant a few
more replicas all over so I won't be lonely when I
travel.... And we must strictly control the division of
Undesirables...." Every replica but your own is even-
tually an "Undesirable." Of course if someone starts
inundating an area with Identical Replicas, everyone
knows what is going on. The other citizens are subject
to declare a "Schluppit" (wholesale massacre of all
identifiable replicas). To avoid extermination of their
replicas, citizens dye, distort, and alter them with face
and body molds. Only the most abandoned and shame-
less characters venture to manufacture I.R.s -- Identical
Replicas.
A cretinous albino Caid, product of a long line of re-
cessive genes (tiny toothless mouth lined with black
hairs, body of a huge crab, claws instead of arms, eyes
projected on stalks) accumulated 20,000 I.R.s.
"As far as the eye can see, nothing but replicas," he
says, crawling around on his terrace and speaking in
strange insect chirps. "I don't have to skulk around like
a nameless asshole growing replicas in my cesspool and
sneaking them out disguised as plumbers and delivery
men.... My replicas don't have their dazzling beauty
marred by plastic surgery and barbarous dye and bleach
processes. They stand forth naked in the sun for all to
see, in their incandescent loveliness of body, face and
soul. I have made them in my image and enjoined them
to increase and multiply geometric for they shall inherit
the earth."
A professional witch was called in to make Sheik
Aracknid's replica cultures forever sterile.... As the
witch was preparing to loose a blast of anti-orgones,
Benway told him: "Don't knock yourself out. Frederick's
ataxia will clean out that replica nest. I studied neurol-
ogy under Professor Fingerbottom in Vienna... and
he knew every nerve in your body. Magnificent old
thing... Came to a sticky end.... His falling piles blew
out the Duc de Ventre's Hispano Suiza and wrapped
around the rear wheel. He was completely gutted, leav-
ing an empty shell sitting there on the giraffe skin up-
holstery.... Even the eyes and brain went with a
horrible schlupping sound. The Duc de Ventre says he
will carry that ghastly schlup to his mausoleum."
Since there is no sure way to detect a disguised re-
plica (though every Divisionist has some method he
considers infallible) the Divisionists are hysterically
paranoid. If some citizen ventures to express a liberal
opinion, another citizen invariably snarls: "What are
you? Some stinking Nigger's bleached-out replica?"
The casualties in barroom fights are staggering. In
fact the fear of Negro replicas -- which may be blond
and blue-eyed -- has depopulated whole regions. The
Divisionists are all latent or overt homosexuals. Evil old
queens tell the young boys: "If you go with a woman
your replicas won't grow." And citizens are forever
putting the hex on someone else's replica cultures. Cries
of: "Hex my culture will you, Biddy Blair1" followed
by sound effects of mayhem, continually ring through
the quarter.... The Divisionists are much given to the
practice of black magic in general, and they have in-
numerable formulas of varying efficacy for destroying
the Mother Cell, also known as the Protoplasm Daddy,
by torturing or killing a captured replica.... The au-
thorities have finally given up the attempt to control,
among the Divisionists, the crimes of murder and un-
licensed production of replicas. But they do stage pre-
election raids and destroy vast replica cultures in the
mountainous regions of the Zone where replica moon-
shiners hole up.
Sex with a replica is strictly forbidden and almost
universally practiced. There are queer bars where
shameless citizens openly consort with their replicas.
House detectives stick their heads into hotel rooms say-
ing: "Have you got a replica in here?"
Bars subject to be inundated by low class replica
lovers put up signs in ditto marks: " " " "s Will Not Be
Served Here.... It may be said that the average Divi-
sionist lives in a continual crisis of fear and rage, un-
able to achieve either the self-righteous complacency
of the Senders or the relaxed depravity of the Lique-
factionists.... However the parties are not in practice
separate but blend in all combinations.
The Factualists are Anti-Liquefactionist, Anti-Divi-
sionist, and above all Anti-Sender.
Bulletin of the Coordinate Factualist on the subject
of replicas: "We must reject the facile solution of fiood-
ing the planet with 'desirable replicas.' It is highly
doubtful if there are any desirable replicas, such crea-
tures constituting an attempt to circumvent process and
change. Even the most intelligent and genetically per-
fect replicas would in all probability constitute an un-
speakable menace to life on this planet...."
T.B.-- Tentative Bulletin-Liquefaction: "We must not
reject or deny our protoplasmic core, striving at all time
to maintain a maximum of flexibility without falling into
the morass of liquefaction...." Tentative and Incom-
plete Bulletin: "Emphatically we do not oppose tele-
pathic research. In fact, telepathy properly used and
understood could be the ultimate defense against any
form of organized coercion or tyranny on the part of
of pressure groups or individual control addicts. We op-
pose, as we oppose atomic war, the use of such knowl-
edge to control, coerce, debase, exploit or annihilate the
individuality of another living creature. Telepathy is
not, by its nature, a one-way process. To attempt to set
up a one-way telepathic broadcast must be regarded
as an unqualified evil...."
D.B.-- Definitive Bulletin: "The Sender will be de-
fined by negatives. A low pressure area, a sucking
emptiness. He will be portentously anonymous, face-
less, colorless. He will -- probably -- be born with smooth
disks of skin instead of eyes. He always knows where he
is going like a virus knows. He doesn't need eyes."
"Couldn't there be more than one Sender?"
"Oh yes, many of them at first. But not for long. Some
maudlin citizens will think they can send something
edifying, not realizing that sending is evil. Scientists
will say: 'Sending is like atomic power.... If properly
harnessed.' At this point an anal technician mixes a bi-
carbonate of soda and pulls the switch that reduces the
earth to cosmic dust. ('Belch... They'll hear this fart
on Jupiter.')... Artists will confuse sending with crea-
tion. They will camp around screeching 'A new medium'
until their rating drops off.... Philosophers will bat
around the ends and means hassle not knowing that
sending can never be a means to anything but more
sending, Like Junk. Try using junk as a means to some-
thing else.... Some citizens with 'Coca Cola and
aspirin' control habits will be talking about the evil
glamor of sending. But no one will talk about anything
very long. The Sender, he don't like talking."
The Sender is not a human individual.... It is The
Human Virus. (All virus are deteriorated cells leading
a parasitic existence.... They have specific affinity for
the Mother Cell; thus deteriorated liver cells seek the
home place of hepatitis, etc. So every species has a
Master Virus: Deteriorated Image of that species. )
The broken image of Man moves in minute by minute
and cell by cell.... Poverty, hatred, war, police-crimi-
nals, bureaucracy, insanity, all symptoms of The Human
Virus.
The Human Virus can now be isolated and treated.
THE COUNTY CLERK
The County Clerk has his office in a huge red brick
building known as the Old Court House. Civil cases are,
in fact, tried there, the proceeding inexorably dragging
out until the contestants die or abandon litigation. This
is due to the vast number of records pertaining to abso-
lutely everything, all filed in the wrong place so that
no one but the County Clerk and his staff of assistants
can find them, and he often spends years in the search.
In fact, he is still looking for material relative to a dam-
age suit that was settled out of court in 1910. Large
sections of the Old Court House have fallen in ruins,
and others are highly dangerous owing to frequent
cave-ins. The County Clerk assigns the more dangerous
missions to his assistants, many of whom have lost their
lives in the service. In 1912 two hundred and seven
assistants were trapped in a collapse of the North-by-
North-East wing.
When suit is brought against anyone in the Zone, his
lawyers connive to have the case transferred to the Old
Court House. Once this is done, the plaintiff has lost the
case, so the only cases that actually go to trial in the
Old Court House are those instigated by eccentrics and
paranoids who want "a public hearing," which they
rarely get since only the most desperate famine of news
will bring a reporter to the Old Court House.
The Old Court House is located in the town of Pigeon
Hole outside the urban zone. The inhabitants of this
town and the surrounding area of swamps and heavy
timber are people of such great stupidity and such bar-
barous practices that the Administration has seen Bt to
quarantine them in a reservation surrounded by a radio-
active wall of iron bricks. In retaliation the citizens of
Pigeon Hole plaster their town with signs: "Urbanite
Don't Let The Sun Set On You Here," an unnecessary
injunction, since nothing but urgent business would
take any urbanite to Pigeon Hole.
Lee's case is urgent. He has to file an immediate affi-
davit that he is suffering from bubonic plague to avoid
eviction from the house he has occupied ten years with-
out paying the rent. He exists in perpetual quarantine.
So he packs his suitcase of affidavits and petitions and
injunctions and certificates and takes a bus to the
Frontier. The Urbanite customs inspector waves him
through: "I hope you've got an atom bomb in that suit-
case."
Lee swallows a handful of tranquilizing pills and
steps into the Pigeon Hole customs shed. The inspectors
spend three hours pawing through his papers, consult-
ing dusty books of regulations and duties from which
they read incomprehensible and ominous excerpts end-
ing with: "And as such is subject to fine and penalty
under act 666." They look at him significantly.
They go through his papers with a magnifying glass.
"Sometimes they slip dirty limericks between the
lines."
"Maybe he figures to sell them for toilet paper. Is this
crap for your own personal use?"
"Yes."
"He says yes."
"And how do we know that?"
"I gotta affidavit."
"Wise guy. Take off your clothes."
"Yeah. Maybe he got dirty tattoos."
They paw over his body probing his ass for contra-
band and examine it for evidence of sodomy. They dunk
his hair and send the water out to be analyzed. "Maybe
he's got dope in his hair."
Finally, they impound his suitcase; and he staggers
out of the shed with a fifty pound bale of documents.
A dozen or so Recordites sit on the Old Court House
steps of rotten wood. They watch his approach with
pale blue eyes, turning their heads slow on wrinkled
necks (the wrinkles full of dust) to follow his body up
the steps and through the door. Inside, dust hangs in
the air like fog, sifting down from the ceiling, rising in
clouds from the floor as he walks. He mounts a perilous
staircase -- condemned in 1929. Once his foot goes
through, and the dry splinters tear into the flesh of his
leg. The stairscase ends in a painter's scaffold, attached
with frayed rope and pullies to a beam almost invisible
in dusty distance. He pulls himself up cautiously to a
ferris wheel cabin. His weight sets in motion hydraulic
machinery (sound of running water). The wheel moves
smooth and silent to stop by a rusty iron balcony, worn
through here and there like an old shoe sole. He walks
down a long corridor lined with doors, most of them
nailed or boarded shut. In one office, Near East Exqui-
sitries on a green brass plaque, the Mugwump is catch-
ing termites with his long black tongue. The door of the
County Clerk's office is open. The County Clerk sits in-
side gumming snuff, surrounded by six assistants. Lee
stands in the doorway. The County Clerk goes on talk-
ing without looking up.
"I run into Ted Spigot the other day... a good old
boy, too. Not a finer man in the Zone than Ted Spigot.
...Now it was a Friday I happen to remember because
the Old Lady was down with the menstrual cramps and
I went to Doc Parker's drugstore on Dalton Street, just
opposite Ma Green's Ethical Massage Parlor, where
Jed's old livery stable used to be.... Now, Jed, I'll
remember his second name directly, had a cast in the
left eye and his wife came from some place out East,
Algiers I believe it was, and after Jed died she married
up again, and she married one of the Hoot boys, Clem
Hoot if my memory serves, a good old boy too, now
Hoot was around fifty-four fifty-five year old at the
time.... So I says to Doc Parker: 'My old lady is down
bad with the menstrual cramps. Sell me two ounces of
paregoric.'
"So Doc says, 'Well, Arch, you gotta sign the book.
Name, address and date of purchase. It's the law.'
"So I asked Doc what the day was, and he said, 'Fri-
day the 13th.'
"So I said, ' I guess I already had mine.'
"'Well,' Doc says, 'there was a feller in here this
morning. City feller. Dressed kinda flashy. So he's got
him a RX for a mason jar of morphine.... Kinda funny
looking prescription writ out on toilet paper.... And I
told him straight out: "Mister, I suspect you to be a
dope Bend." '
"'"I got the ingrowing toe nails, Pop. I'm in agony."'
he says.
"'"Well," I says, "I gotta be careful. But so long as
you got a legitimate condition and an RX from a certi-
Bed bona feedy M.D., I'm honored to serve you." '
"'"That croaker's really certified," he say.... Well, I
guess one hand didn't know what the other was doing
when I give him a jar of Saniflush by error.... So I
reckon he's had his too.'
"'Just the thing to clean a man's blood.'
"'You know, that very thing occurred to me. Should
be a sight better than sulphur and molasses.... Now,
Arch, don't think I'm nosey; but a man don't have no
secrets from God and his druggist I always say.... Is
you still humping the Old Gray Mare?'
" 'Why, Doc Parker... I'll have you know I'm a
family man and an Elder in the First Denominational
Non-sextarian Church and I ain't had a piecea hoss ass
since we was kids together.'
"'Them was the days, Arch. Remember the time I
got the goose grease mixed up with the mustard? Al-
ways was a one to grab the wrong jar, feller say. They
could have heard you squealing over in Cunt Lick
County, just a squealing like a stoat with his stones cut
off.'
"'You're in the wrong hole, Doc. It was you took the
mustard and me as had to wait till you cooled off.'
"'Wistful thinking, Arch. I read about it one time
inna magazine settin' in that green outhouse behind the
station.... Now what I meant awhile back, Arch, you
didn't rightly understand me.... I was referring to your
wife as the Old Cray Mare.... I mean she ain't what
she used to be what with all them carbuncles and cata-
racts and chilblains and hemorrhoids and aftosa.'
"'Yas, Doc, Liz is right sickly. Never was the same
after her eleventh miscarriaging.... There was some-
thing right strange about that. Doc Ferris he told me
straight, he said: "Arch, 'tain't fitting you should see
that critter." And he gives me a long look made my flesh
crawl.... Well, you sure said it right, Doc. She ain't
what she used to be. And your medicines don't seem
to ease her none. In fact, she ain't been able to tell
night from day since using them eye drops you sold her
last month.... But, Doc, you oughtta know I wouldn't
be humping Liz, the old cow, meaning no disrespect to
the mother of my dead monsters. Not when I got that
sweet little ol' fifteen year old thing.... You know that
yaller girl used to work in Marylou's Hair Straightening
and Skin Bleach Parlor over in Nigga town.'
"'Getting that dark chicken meat, Arch? Gettin' that
coon pone?'
"'Gettin' it steady, Doc. Gettin' it steady. Well, feller
say duty is goosing me. Gotta get back to the old crank
case.'
"'I'll bet she needs a grease job worst way.'
"'Doc, she sure is a dry hole.... Well, thanks for the
paregoric.
" 'And thanks for the trade, Arch.... He he he...
Say, Archy boy, some night when you get caught short
with a rusty load drop around and have a drink of
Yohimbiny with me.'
"'I'll do that, Doc, I sure will. It'll be just like old
times.
"So I went on back to my place and heated up some
water and mixed up some paregoric and cloves and
cinnamon and sassyfrass and give it to Liz, and it eased
her some I reckon. Leastwise she let up aggravatin' me.
... Well, later on I went down to Doc Parker's again to
get me a rubber... and just as I was leaving I run into
Roy Bane, a good ol' boy too. There's not a finer man in
this Zone than Roy Bane.... So he said to me he says,
'Arch, you see that ol' nigger over there in that vacant
lot? Well, sure as shit and taxes, he comes there every
night just as regular you can set your watch by him. See
him behind them nettles? Every night round about
eight thirty he goes over into that lot yonder and pulls
himself off with steel wool.... Preachin' Nigger, they
tell me.'
"So that's how I come to know the hour more or less
on Friday the 13th and it couldn't have been more than
twenty minutes half an hour after that, I'd took some
Spanish Fly in Doc's store and it was jest beginning to
work on me down by Grennel Bog on my way to Nigger
town.... Well the bog makes a bend, used to be nigger
shack there.... They burned that ol' nigger over in
Cunt Lick. Nigger had the aftosa and it left him stone
blind.... So this white girl down from Texarkana
screeches out:
"'Roy, that ol' nigger is looking at me so nasty. Land's
sake I feel just dirty all over.'
"'Now, Sweet Thing, don't you fret yourself. Me an'
the boys will burn him.'
"'Do it slow, Honey Face. Do it slow. He's give me
a sick headache.'
"So they burned the nigger and that ol' boy took his
wife and went back up to Texarkana without paying for
the gasoline and old Whispering Lou runs the service
station couldn't talk about nothing else all Fall: 'These
city fellers come down here and burn a nigger and don't
even settle up for the gasoline.'
"Well, Chester Hoot tore that nigger shack down and
rebuilt it just back of his house up in Bled Valley.
Covered up all the windows with black cloth, and
what goes on in there ain't fittin' to speak of.... Now
Chester he's got some right strange ways.... Well
it was just where the nigger shack used to be, right
across from the Old Brooks place Hoods out every
Spring, only it wasn't the Brooks place then... be-
longed to a feller name of Scranton. Now that piece of
land was surveyed back in 1919.... I reckon you know
the man did the job too.... Feller name of Hump
Clarence used to witch out wells on the side.... Good
ol' boy too, not a finer man in this Zone than Hump
Clarence.... Well it was just around about in there I
come on Ted Spigot ascrewin a mud puppy."
Lee cleared his throat. The Clerk looked up over his
glasses. "Now if you'll take care, young feller, till I finish
what I'm asaying, I'll tend to your business."
And he plunged into an anecdote about a nigra got
the hydrophobia from a cow.
"So my pappy says to me: 'Finish up your chores, son,
and let's go see the mad nigger....' They had that
nigger chained to the bed, and he was bawling like a
cow.... I soon got enough of that ol' nigger. Well, if
you all will excuse me I got business in the Privy Coun-
cil. He he he!"
Lee listened in horror. The County Clerk often spent
weeks in the privy living on scorpions and Montgomery
Ward catalogues. On several occasions his assistants had
forced the door and carried him out in an advanced
state of malnutrition. Lee decided to play his last card.
"Mr. Anker," he said, "I'm appealing to you as one
Razor Back to another," and he pulled out his Razor
Back card, a memo of his lush-rolling youth.
The Clerk looked at the card suspiciously: "You don't
look like a bone feed mast-fed Razor Back to me....
What you think about the Jeeeeews... P"
"Well, Mr. Anker, you know yourself all a Jew wants
to do is doodle a Christian girl.... One of these days
well cut the rest of it off."
"Well, you talk right sensible for a city feller....
Find out what he wants and take care of him.... He's
a good ol' boy."
INTERZONE
The only native in Interzone who is neither queer nor
available is Andrew Keif's chauffeur, which is not af-
fectation or perversity on Keif's part, but a useful pre-
text to break off relations with anyone he doesn't want
to see: "You made a pass at Aracknid list night. I can't
have you to the house again." People are always black-
ing out in the Zone, whether they drink or not, and no
one can say for sure he didn't make a pass at Aracknid's
unappetizing person.
Aracknid is a worthless chauffeur, barely able to
drive. On one occasion he ran down a pregnant woman
in from the mountains with a load of charcoal on her
back, and she miscarriaged a bloody, dead baby in the
street, and Keif got out and sat on the curb stirring the
blood with a stick while the police questioned Aracknid
and finally arrested the woman for a violation of the
Sanitary Code.
Aracknid is a grimly unattractive young man with
a long face of a strange, slate-blue color. He has a big
nose and great yellow teeth like a horse. Anybody can
find an attractive chauffeur, but only Andrew Keif
could have found Aracknid; Keif the brilliant, decadent
young novelist who lives in a remodeled pissoir in the
red light district of the Native Quarter.
The Zone is a single, vast building. The rooms are
made of a plastic cement that bulges to accommodate
people, but when too many crowd into one room there
is a soft plop and someone squeezes through the wall
right into the next house, the next bed that is, since the
rooms are mostly bed where the business of the Zone
is transacted. A hum of sex and commerce shakes the
Zone like a vast hive:
"Two thirds of one percent. I won't budge from that
figure; not even for my bumpkins."
"But where are the bills of lading, lover?"
"Not where you're looking, pet. That's too obvious."
"A bale of levies with built-in falsie baskets. Made in
Hollywood."
"Hollywood, Siam."
"Well American style."
"What's the commission?... The commission....
The Commission."
"Yes, nugget, a shipload of K.Y. made of genuine
whale dreck in the South Atlantic at present quaran-
tined by the Board of Health in Tierra del Fuego, The
commission, my dear! If we can pull this off we'll be in
clover." (Whale dreck is reject material that accumu-
lates in the process of cutting up a whale and cooking
it down. A horrible, fishy mess you can smell for miles.
No one has found any use for it. )
Interzone Imports Unlimited, which consists of Mar-
vie and Leif The Unlucky, had latched onto the K.Y.
deal? In fact they specialize in pharmaceuticals and
run a 24-hour Pro station, six ways coverage fore and
aft, as a side line. ( Six separate venereal diseases have
been identified to date. )
They plunge into the deal. They form unmentionable
services for a spastic Greek shipping agent, and one
entire shift of Customs inspectors. The two partners fall
out and finally denounce each other in the Embassy
where they are referred to the We Don't Want To Hear
About It Department, and eased out a back door into
a shit-strewn vacant lot, where vultures fight over fish
heads. They Hail at each other hysterically.
'You're trying to fuck me out of my commission!"
"Your commission! Who smelled out this good thing
in the first place?"
"But I have the bill of lading."
"Monster! But the check will be made out in my
name."
"Bawstard! You'll never see the bill of lading until
my cut is deposited in escrow."
"Well, might as well kiss and make up. There's noth-
ing mean or petty about me."
They shake hands without enthusiasm and peck each
other on the cheek. The deal drags on for months. They
engage the services of an Expeditor. Finally Marvie
emerges with a check for 42 Turkestan kurds drawn on
an anonymous bank in South America, to clear through
Amsterdam, a procedure that will take eleven months
more or less.
Now he can relax in the cafes of The Plaza. He
shows a photostatic copy of the check. He would never
show the original of course, lest some envious citizen
spit ink eradicator on the signature or otherwise muti-
late the check.
Everyone asks him to buy drinks and celebrate, but
he laughs jovially and says, "Fact is I can't afford to buy
myself a drink. I already spent every kurd of it buying
Penstrep for Ali's clap. He's down with it fore and aft
again. I came near kicking the little bastard right
through the wall into the next bed. But you all know
what a sentimental old thing I am."
Marvie does buy himself a shot glass of beer, squeez-
ing a blackened coin out of his fly onto the table. "Keep
the change." The waiter sweeps the coin into a dust pan,
he spits on the table and walks away.
"Sore head! He's envious of my check."
Marvie had been in Interzone since "the year before
one" as he put it. He had been retired from some un-
specified position in the State Dept. "for the good of the
service." Obviously he had once been very good looking
in a crew-cut, college boy way, but his face had sagged
and formed lumps under the chin like melting paraffin.
He was getting heavy around the hips.
Leif The Unlucky was a tall, thin Norwegian, with a
patch over one eye, his face congealed in a permanent,
ingratiating smirk. Behind him lay an epic saga of un-
successful enterprises. He had failed at raising frogs,
chinchilla, Siamese fighting fish, rami and culture pearls.
He had attempted, variously and without success, to
promote a Love Bird Two-in-a-coffin Cemetery, to
corner the condom market during the rubber shortage,
to run a mail order whore house, to issue penicillin as
a patent medicine. He had followed disastrous betting
systems in the casinos of Europe and the race tracks
of the U.S. His reverses in business were matched by
the incredible mischances of his personal life. His front
teeth had been stomped out by bestial American sailors
in Brooklyn. Vultures had eaten out an eye when he
drank a pint of paregoric and passed out in a Panama
City park. He had been trapped between floors in an
elevator for five days with an oil-burning junk habit
and sustained an attack of D.T.s while stowing away in
a foot locker. Then there was the time he collapsed with
strangulated intestines, perforated ulcers and peritonitis
in Cairo and the hospital was so crowded they bedded
him in the latrine, and the Greek surgeon goofed and
sewed up a live monkey in him, and he was gang-
fucked by the Arab attendants, and one of the orderlies
stole the penicillin substituting Saniflush; and the time
he got clap in his ass and a self-righteous English doctor
cured him with an enema of hot, sulphuric acid, and
the German practitioner of Technological Medicine who
removed his appendix with a rusty can opener and a
pair of tin snips (he considered the germ theory "a
nonsense.") Flushed with success he then began snip-
ping and cutting out everything in sight: "The human
body is filled up vit unnecessitated parts. You can get
by vit one kidney. Vy have two? Yes dot is a kidney....
The inside parts should not be so close in together
crowded. They need lebensraum like the Vaterland."
The Expeditor had not yet been paid, and Marvie
was faced by the prospect of stalling him for eleven
months until the check cleared. The Expeditor was said
to have been born on the Ferry between the Zone and
the Island. His profession was to expedite the delivery
of merchandise. No one knew for sure whether his serv-
ices were of any use or not, and to mention his name
always precipitated an argument. Cases were cited to
prove his miraculous efficiency and utter worthlessness.
The Island was a British Military and Naval station
directly opposite the Zone. England holds the Island on
yearly rent-free lease, and every year the lease and
permit of residence is formally renewed. The entire
population turns out, attendance is compulsory, and
gathers at the municipal dump. The President of the
Island is required by custom to crawl across the garbage
on his stomach and deliver the Permit of Residence and
Renewal of the Lease, signed by every citizen of the
Island, to The Resident Governor who stands resplen-
dent in dress uniform. The Governor takes the permit
and shoves it into his coat pocket:
"Well," he says with a tight smile, "so you've decided
to let us stay another year have you? Very good of you.
And everyone is happy about it?... Is there anyone
who isn't happy about it?"
Soldiers in jeeps sweep mounted machine-guns back
and forth across the crowd with a slow, searching move-
ment.
"Everybody happy. Well that's fine." He turns jovi-
ally to the prostrate President. "I'll keep your papers in
case I get caught short. Haw Haw Haw." His loud,
metallic laugh rings out across the dump, and the crowd
laughs with him under the searching guns.
The forms of democracy are scrupulously enforced
on the Island. There is a Senate and a Congress who
carry on endless sessions discussing garbage disposal
and outhouse inspection, the only two questions over
which they have jurisdiction. For a brief period in the
mid-nineteenth century, they had been allowed to con-
trol the dept. of Baboon Maintenance but this privilege
had been withdrawn owing to absenteeism in the
Senate.
The purple-assed Tripoli baboons had been brought
to the Island by pirates in the 17th century. There was
a legend that when the baboons left the Island it would
fall. To whom or in what way is not specified, and it is
a capital offense to kill a baboon, though the noxious
behaviour of these animals harries the citizens almost
beyond endurance. Occasionally someone goes berserk,
kills several baboons and himself.
The post of President is always forced on some par-
ticularly noxious and unpopular citizen. To be elected
President is the greatest misfortune and disgrace that
can befall an Islander. The humiliations and ignominy
are such that few Presidents live out their full term of
office, usually dying of a broken spirit after a year or
two. The Expeditor had once been President and served
the full five years of his term. Subsequently he changed
his name and underwent plastic surgery, to blot out,
as far as possible, the memory of his disgrace.
"Yes of course... we'll pay you," Marvie was saying
to the Expeditor.
"But take it easy. It may be a little while yet...."
"Take it easy? A little while!... Listen."
"Yes I know it all. The finance company is repossess-
ing your wife's artificial kidney.... They are evicting
your grandmother from her iron lung."
"That's in rather bad taste, old boy.... Frankly I wish
I had never involved myself in this uh matter. That
bloody grease has too much carbolic in it. I was down
to customs one day last week. Stuck a broom handle
into a drum of it, and the grease ate the end off straight
away. Besides, the stink is enough to knock a man on
his bloody ass. You should take a walk down by the
port."
"I'll do no such thing," Marvie screeched. It is a mark
of caste in the Zone never to touch or even go near
what you are selling. To do so gives rise to suspicion of
retailing, that is of being a common peddler. A good
part of the merchandise in the Zone is sold through
street peddlers.
"Why do you tell me all this? It's too sordid! Let the
retailers worry about it."
"Oh it's all very well for you chaps, you can scud out
from under. But I have a reputation to maintain....
There'll be a spot of bother about this."
"Do you suggest there is something illegitimate in
this operation?"
"Not illegitimate exactly. But shoddy. Definitely
shoddy."
"Oh go back to your Island before it falls! We knew
you when you were peddling your purple ass in the
Plaza pissoirs for five pesetas."
"And not many takers either," Leif put in. He pro-
nounced it ither. This reference to his Island origin was
more than the Expeditor could stand.... He was draw-
ing himself up, mobilizing his most frigid impersona-
tion of an English aristocrat, preparing to deliver an icy,
clipped "crusher," but instead, a whining, whimpering,
kicked dog snarl broke from his mouth. His presurgery
face emerged in an arc-light of incandescent hate....
He began to spit curses in the hideous, strangled gut-
turals of the Island dialect.
The Islanders all profess ignorance of the dialect or
fiatly deny its existence. "We are Breetish," they say.
"We don't got no bloody dealect."
Froth gathered at the corners of the Expeditor's
mouth. He was spitting little balls of saliva like pieces
of cotton. The stench of spiritual vileness hung in the
airs about him like a green cloud. Marvie and Leif fell
back twittering in alarm.
'He's gone mad," Marvie gasped. "Let's get ont of
here." Hand in hand they skip away into the mist that
covers the Zone in the winter months like a cold Turk-
ish Bath.
THE EXAMINATION
Carl Peterson found a postcard in his box requesting
him to report for a ten o'clock appointment with Doctor
Benway in the Ministry of Mental Hygiene and Prophy-
laxis....
"What on earth could they want with me?" he
thought irritably.... "A mistake most likely." But he
knew they didn't make mistakes.... Certainly not mis-
takes of identity....
It would not have occurred to Carl to disregard the
appointment even though failure to appear entailed no
penalty.... Freeland was a welfare state. If a citizen
wanted anything from a load of bone meal to a sexual
partner some department was ready to offer effective
aid. The threat implicit in this enveloping benevolence
stifled the concept of rebellion....
Carl walked through the Town Hall Square....
Nickel nudes sixty feet high with brass genitals soaped
themselves under gleaming showers.... The Town Hall
cupola, of glass brick and copper crashed into the sky.
Carl stared back at a homosexual American tourist
who dropped his eyes and fumbled with the light filters
of his Leica....
Carl entered the steel enamel labyrinth of the Minis-
try, strode to the information desk... and presented
his card.
"Fifth floor... Room twenty-six..."
In room twenty-six a nurse looked at him with cold
undersea eyes.
"Doctor Benway is expecting you," she said smiling.
"Go right in."
"As if he had nothing to do but wait for me," thought
Carl...
The office was completely silent, and filled with milky
light. The doctor shook Carl's hand, keeping his eyes
on the young man's chest....
"I've seen this man before," Carl thought.... "But
where?"
He sat down and crossed his legs. He glanced at an
ashtray on the desk and lit a cigarette.... He turned
to the doctor a steady inquiring gaze in which there
was more than a touch of insolence.
The doctor seemed embarrassed.... He fidgeted and
coughed... and fumbled with papers....
"Hurumph," he said finally.... "Your name is Carl
Peterson I believe...." His glasses slid down into his
nose in parody of the academic manner.... Carl
nodded silently.... We doctor did not look at him but
seemed none the less to register the acknowledgment.
... He pushed his glasses back into place with one
finger and opened a file on the white enameled desk.
"Mmmmmmmm. Carl Peterson," he repeated the
name caressingly, pursed his lips and nodded several
times. He spoke again abruptly: "You know of course
that we are trying. We are all trying. Sometimes of
course we don't succeed." His voice trailed off thin and
tenuous. He put a hand to his forehead. "To adjust the
state -- simply a tool -- to the needs of each individual
citizen." His voice boomed out so unexpectedly deep
and loud that Carl started. "That is the only function
of the state as we see it. Our knowledge... incomplete,
of course," he made a slight gesture of depreciation....
"For example... for example... take the matter of uh
sexual deviation." The doctor rocked back and forth in
his chair. His glasses slid down onto his nose. Carl felt
suddenly uncomfortable.
"We regard it as a misfortune... a sickness...
certainly nothing to be censored or uh sanctioned any
more than say... tuberculosis.... Yes," he repeated
firmly as if Carl had raised an objection.... "Tubercu-
losis. On the other hand you can readily see that any
illness imposes certain, should we say obligations, cer-
tain necessities of a prophylactic nature on the authori-
ties concerned with public health, such necessities to
be imposed, needless to say, with a minimum of incon-
venience and hardship to the unfortunate individual
who has, through no fault of his own, become uh in-
fected.... That is to say, of course, the minimum
hardship compatible with adequate protection of other
individuals who are not so infected.... We do not find
obligatory vaccination for smallpox an unreasonable
measure.... Nor isolation for certain contagious dis-
eases.... I am sure you will agree that individuals
infected with hurumph what the French call 'Les
Maladies galantes' heh heh heh should be compelled
to undergo treatment if they do not report voluntarily."
The doctor went on chuckling and rocking in his chair
like a mechanical toy.... Carl realized that he was
expected to say something.
"That seems reasonable," he said.
The doctor stopped chuckling. He was suddenly mo-
tionless. "Now to get back to this uh matter of sexual
deviation. Frankly we don't pretend to understand -- at
least not completely -- why some men and women prefer
the uh sexual company of their own sex. We do know
that the uh phenomena is common enough, and, under
certain circumstances a matter of uh concern to this
department."
For the first time the doctor's eyes flickered across
Carl's face. Eyes without a trace of warmth or hate or
any emotion that Carl had ever experienced in himsef
or seen in another, at once cold and intense, predatory
and impersonal. Carl suddenly felt trapped in this silent
underwater cave of a room, cut off from all sources of
warmth and certainty. His picture of himself sitting
there calm, alert with a trace of well mannered con-
tempt went dim, as if vitality were draining out of him
to mix with the milky grey medium of the room.
"Treatment of these disorders is, at the present time,
hurmph symptomatic." The doctor suddenly threw him-
self back in his chair and burst into peals of metallic
laughter. Carl watched him appalled.... "The man is
insane," he thought. The doctor's face went blank as a
gambler's. Carl felt an odd sensation in his stomach
like the sudden stopping of an elevator.
The doctor was studying the file in front of him. He
spoke in a tone of slightly condescending amusement:
"Don't look so frightened, young man. Just a profes-
sional joke. To say treatment is symptomatic means
there is none, except to make the patient feel as com-
fortable as possible. And that is precisely what we
attempt to do in these cases." Once again Carl felt the
impact of that cold interest on his face. "That is to say
reassurance when reassurance is necessary... and, of
course, suitable outlets with other individuals of similar
tendencies. No isolation is indicated... the condition
is no more directly contagious than cancer. Cancer, my
Brst love," the doctor's voice receded. He seemed actu-
ally to have gone away through an invisible door leav-
ing his empty body sitting there at the desk.
Suddenly he spoke again in a crisp voice. "And so
you may well wonder why we concern ourselves with
the matter at all?" He flashed a smile bright and cold
as snow in sunlight.
Carl shrugged: "That is not my business... what I
am wondering is why you have asked me to come here
and why you tell me all this... this..."
"Nonsense?"
Carl was annoyed to find himself blushing.
The doctor leaned back and placed the ends of his
fingers together:
"The young," he said indulgently. "Always they are
in a hurry. One day perhaps you will learn the meaning
of patience. No, Carl... I may call you Carl'? I am not
evading your question. In cases of suspected tubercu-
losis we -- that is the appropriate department -- may ask,
even request, someone to appear for a fluoroscopic
examination. This is routine, you understand. Most of
such examinations turn up negative. So you have been
asked to report here for, should I say a psychic fluoro-
scope? I may add that after talking with you I feel
relatively sure that the result will be, for practical pur-
poses, negative....
"But the whole thing is ridiculous. I have always
interested myself only in girls. I have a steady girl now
and we plan to marry."
"Yes Carl, I know. And that is why you are here. A
blood test prior to marriage, this is reasonable, no?"
"Please doctor, speak directly."
The doctor did not seem to hear. He drifted out of
his chair and began walking around behind Carl, his
voice languid and intermittent like music down a windy
street.
"I may tell you in strictest confidence that there is
definite evidence of a hereditary factor. Social pressure.
Many homosexuals latent and overt do, unfortunately,
marry. Such marriages often result in... Factor of
infantile environment." The doctor's voice went on and
on. He was talking about schizophrenia, cancer, here-
ditary disfunction of the hypothalamus.
Carl dozed off. He was opening a green door. A hor-
rible smell grabbed his lungs and he woke up with a
shock. The doctor's voice was strangely flat and lifeless,
a whispering junky voice:
"The Kleiberg-Stanislouski semen fioculation test...
a diagnostic tool... indicative at least in a negative
sense. In certain cases useful -- taken as part of the
whole picture.... Perhaps under the uh circumstances."
The doctor's voice shot up to a pathic scream. "The
nurse will take your uh specimen."
"This way please...." The nurse opened the door
into a bare white walled cubicle. She handed him a jar.
"Use this please. Just yell when you're ready."
There was a jar of K.Y. on a glass shelf. Carl felt
ashamed as if his mother had laid out a handkerchief
for him. Some coy little message stitched on like: "If I
was a cunt we could open a dry goods store."
Ignoring the K.Y., he ejaculated into the jar, a cold
brutal fuck of the nurse standing her up against a glass
brick wall. "Old Glass Cunt," he sneered, and saw a
cunt full of colored glass splinters under the Northern
Lights.
He washed his penis and buttoned up his pants.
Something was watching his every thought and move-
ment with cold, sneering hate, the shifting of his testes,
the contractions of his rectum. He was in a room filled
with green light. There was a stained wood double bed,
a black wardrobe with full length mirror. Carl could not
see his face. Someone was sitting in a black hotel chair.
He was wearing a stiff bosomed white shirt and a dirty
paper tie. The face swollen, skull-less, eyes like burning
pus.
"Something wrong?" said the nurse indifferently. She
was holding a glass of water out to him. She watched
him drink with aloof contempt. She turned and picked
up the jar with obvious distaste.
The nurse turned to him: "Are you waiting for some-
thing special?" she snapped. Carl had never been
spoken to like that in his adult life. "Why no...." "You
can go then," she turned back to the jar. With a little
exclamation of disgust she wiped a gob of semen off her
hand. Carl crossed the room and stood at the door.
"Do I have another appointment?'
She looked at him in disapproving surprise: "You'll
be notified of course." She stood in the doorway of the
cubicle and watched him walk through the outer office
and open the door. He turned and attempted a jaunty
wave. The nurse did not move or change her expression.
As he walked down the stairs the broken, false grin
burned his face with shame. A homosexual tourist
looked at him and raised a knowing eyebrow. "Some-
thing wrong?"
Carl ran into a park and found an empty bench be-
side a bronze faun with cymbals.
"Let your hair down, chicken. You'll feel better." The
tourist was leaning over him, his camera swinging in
Carl's face like a great dangling tit.
"Fuck off you!"
Carl saw something ignoble and hideous reflected
back in the queen's spayed animal brown eyes.
"Oh! I wouldn't be calling any names if I were you,
chicken. You're hooked too. I saw you coming out of
The Institute."
'What do you mean by that?" Carl demanded.
"Oh nothing. Nothing at all."
'%"Well, Carl," the doctor began smiling and keeping
his eyes on a level with Carl's mouth. "I have some
good news for you." He picked up a slip of blue paper
off the desk and went through an elaborate pantomime
of focusing his eyes on it. "Your uh test... the
Robinson-Kleiberg floculation test..."
"I thought it was a Blomberg-Stanlouski test."
The doctor tittered. "Oh dear no.... You are getting
ahead of me young man. You might have misunder-
stood. The Blomberg-Stanlouski, weeell that's a different
sort of test altogether. I do hope... not necessary...."
He tittered again: "But as I was saying before I was so
charmingly interrupted... by my hurumph learned
young colleague. Your KS seems to be..." He held the
slip at arm's length. "...completely uh negative. So
perhaps we won't be troubling you any further. And
so..." He folded the slip carefully into a file. He leafed
through the file. Finally he stopped and frowned and
pursed his lips. He closed the file and put his hand Hat
on it and leaned forward.
"Carl, when you were doing your military service...
There must have been... in fact there were long peri-
ods when you found yourself deprived of the uh con-
solations and uh facilities of the fair sex. During these
no doubt trying and difficult periods you had perhaps
a pin up girl? Or more likely a pin up harem? Heh
heh heh..."
Carl looked at the doctor with overt distaste. "Yes,
of course," he said. "We all did."
"And now, Carl, I would like to show you some pin
up girls." He pulled an envelope out of a drawer. "And
ask you to please pick out the one you would most like
to uh make heh heh heh...." He suddenly leaned for-
ward fanning the photographs in front of Carl's face.
"Pick a girl, any girl!"
Carl reached out with numb fingers and touched one
of the photographs. The doctor put the photo back into
the pack and shuffled and cut and he placed the pack
on Carl's file and slapped it smartly. He spread the
photos face up in front of Carl. "Is she there?"
Carl shook his head.
"Of course not. She is in here where she belongs. A
woman's place what??" He opened the file and held
out the girl's photo attached to a Rorshach plate.
"Is that her?"
Carl nodded silently.
"You have good taste, my boy. I may tell you in strict-
est confidence that some of these girls..." with gam-
bler fingers he shifts the photos in Three Card Monte
Passes -- "are really boys. In uh drag I believe is the
word?" His eyebrows shot up and down with incredi-
ble speed. Carl could not be sure he had seen anything
unusual. The doctor's face opposite him was absolutely
immobile and expressionless. Once again Carl experi-
enced the Hoating sensation in his stomach and genitals
of a sudden elevator stop.
"Yes, Carl, you seem to be running our little obstacle
course with flying colors.... I guess you think this is
all pretty silly don't you now... ???"
"Well, to tell the truth... Yes..."
"You are frank, Carl... This is good.... And now
...Carl..." He dragged the name out caressingly like
a sweet con dick about to offer you an Old Gold -- ( just
like a cop to smoke Old Golds somehow) and go into
his act....
The con dick does a little dance step.
"Why don't you make The Man a proposition?" he
jerks a head towards his glowering super-ego who is
always referred to in the third person as "The Man" or
"The Lieutenant."
"That's the way the Lieutenant is, you play fair with
him and he'll play fair with you.... We'd like to go
light on you.... If you could help us in some way." His
words open out into a desolate waste of cafeterias and
street corners and lunch rooms. Junkies look the other
way munching pound cake.
"The Fag is wrong."
The Fag slumps in a hotel chair knocked out on goof
balls with his tongue lolling out.
He gets up in a goof ball trance, hangs himself with-
out altering his expression or pulling his tongue in.
The dick is diddling on a pad.
"Know Marty Steel?" Diddle.
"Yes."
"Can you score off him?" Diddle? Diddle?
"He's skeptical."
"But you can score." Diddle diddle "You scored off
him last week didn't you?" Diddle???
"Yes."
"Well you can score off him this week." Diddle...
Diddle... Diddle... "You can score off him today."
No diddle.
"Not No! Not that!!"
"Now look are you going to cooperate" -- three vicious
diddles -- "or does the... does the Man cornhole you?"
He raises a fay eyebrow.
"And so Carl you will please oblige to tell me how
many times and under what circumstances you have
uh indulged in homosexual acts???" His voice drifts
away. "If you have never done so I shall be inclined to
think of you as a somewhat atypical young man." The
doctor raises a coy admonishing finger. "In any case..."
He tapped the file and flashed a hideous leer. Carl
noticed that the file was six inches thick. In fact it
seemed to have thickened enormously since he entered
the room.
"Well, when I was doing my military service...
These queers used to proposition me and sometimes...
when I was blank..."
"Yes, of course, Carl," the doctor brayed heartily. "In
your position I would have done the same I don't mind
telling you heh heh heh.... Well, E guess we can uh
dismiss as irrelevent these uh understandable means of
replenishing the uh exchequer. And now, Carl, there
were perhaps" -- one finger tapped the file which gave
out a faint effluvia of moldy jock straps and chlorine-
"occasions. When no uh economic factors were in-
volved."
A green Hare exploded in Carl's brain. He saw Hans'
lean brown body -- twisting towards him, quick breath
on his shoulder. The Hare went out. Some huge insect
was squirming in his hand.
His whole being jerked away in an electric spasm of
revulsion.
Carl got to his feet shaking with rage.
"What are you writing there?" he demanded.
"Do you often doze off like that?P in the middle of
a conversation... P"
"I wasn't asleep that is."
"You weren't?"
"It's just that the whole thing is unreal.... I'm going
now. I don't care. You can't force me to stay."
He was walking across the room towards the door.
He had been walking a long time. A creeping numbness
dragged his legs. The door seemed to recede.
"Where can you go, Carl?" The doctor's voice reached
him from a great distance.
"Out... Away... Through the door..."
"The Green Door, Carl?"
The doctor's voice was barely audible. The whole
room was exploding out into space.
HAVE YOU SEEN PANTOPON ROSE
Stay away from Queens Plaza, son.... Evil spot
haunted by dicks scream for dope Bend lover.... Too
many levels.... Heat flares out from the broom closet
high on ammonia... like burning lions... fall on poor
old lush worker scare her veins right down to the bone.
...Her skin-pop a week or do that five-twenty-nine
kick handed out free and gratis by NYC to jostling
junkies....
So Fag, Beagle, Irish, Sailor beware.... Look down,
look down along that line before you travail there....
The subway sweeps by with a black blast of iron....
-- Queens Plaza is a bad spot for lush workers.... Too
many levels and lurking places for subway heat, and
impossible to cover when you put the hand out....
Five months and twenty-nine days: sentence given
for "jostling," that is, touching a Hop with obvious
intent.... Innocent people may be convicted of murder
but not of jostling.
Fag, Beagle, Irish, Sailor, old time, junkies and lush-
workers of my acquaintance.... The old 103rd street
klatch.... Sailor and Irish hanged themselves in the
Tombs.... The Beagle is dead of an overdose and the
Fag went wrong....
"Have you seen Pantopon Rose?" said the old junky.
..."Time to cosq," put on a black overcoat and made
the square.... Down skid road to Market Street
Museum shows all kinds masturbation and self-abuse.
Young boys need it special....
The gangster in concrete rolls down the river chan-
nel.... They cowboyed him in the steam room.... Is
this Cherry Ass Gio the Towel Boy or Mother Gillig,
Old Auntie of Westminster Place?P Only dead fingers
talk in Braille....
The Mississippi rolls great limestone boulders down
the silent alley....
"Clutter the glind!" screamed the Captain of Moving
Land....
Distant rumble of stomachs.... Poisoned pigeons
rain from the Northern Lights.... The reservoirs are
empty.... Brass statues crash through the hungry
squares and alleys of the gaping city....
Probing for a vein in the junk-sick morning....
Strictly from cough syrup...
A thousand junkies storm the crystal spine clinics,
cook down the Grey Ladies....
In the limestone cave met a man with Medusa's head
in a hat box and said, "Be Careful," to the Customs
Inspector.... Freezed forever hand an inch from the
false bottom....
Window dressers scream through the station, beat
the cashiers with the fairy hype.... (The Hype is a
short change con.... Also known as The Bill....)
"Multiple fracture," said the big physician.... "I'm
very technical...."
Conspicuous consumption is rampant in the porticos
slippery with Koch spit....
The centipede nuzzles the iron door rusted to thin
black paper by the urine of a million fairies....
This is no rich mother load, but vitiate dust, second
run cottons trace the bones of a fix....
COKE BUGS
The Sailor's grey felt hat and black overcoat hung
twisted in atrophied yen-wait. Morning sun outlined
The Sailor in the orange-yellow flame of junk. He had a
paper napkin under his coffee cup -- mark of those who
do a lot of sitting over coffee in the plazas, restaurants,
terminals and waiting rooms of the world. A junky, even
at the Sailor's level, runs on junk Time and when he
makes his importunate irruption into the Time of others,
like all petitioners, he must wait. (How many coffees
in an hour? )
A boy came in and sat at the counter in broken lines
of long, sick junk-wait. The Sailor shivered. His face
fuzzed out of focus in a shuddering brown mist. His
hands moved on the table, reading the boy's Braille. His
eyes traced little dips and circles, following whorls of
brown hair on the boy's neck in a slow, searching move-
ment.
The boy stirred and scratched the back of his neck:
"Something bit me, Joe. What kinda creep joint you run
here?"
"Coke bugs, kid," Joe said, holding eggs up to the
light. "I was travelling with Irene Kelly and her was a
sporting woman. In Butte, state of Montany, her got
the coke horrors and run through the hotel screaming
Chinese coppers chase her with meat cleavers. I knew
this cop in Chi sniff coke used to come in form of cry-
stals, blue crystals. So her go nuts and start screaming
the Federals is after him and run down this alley and
stick his head in the garbage can. And I said, 'What you
think you are doing? and her say, 'Get away or I shoot
you! I got myself led good!' When the roll is called
up yonder we'll be there, right?"
Joe looked at the Sailor and spread his hands in the
junky shrug.
The Sailor spoke in his feeling voice that reassembles
in your head, spelling out the words with cold fingers:
"Your connection is broken, kid."
The boy shied. His street-boy face, torn with black
scars of junk, retained a wild, broken innocence; shy
animals peering out through grey arabesques of terror.
"I don't dig you, Jack."
The Sailor leapt into sharp, junky focus. He turned
back his coat lapel, showing a brass hypo needle covered
with mold and verdigris. "Retired for the good of the
service.... Sit down and have a blueberry crumb pie
on the expense account. Your monkey loves it.... Make
his coat glossy."
The boy felt a touch on his arm across eight feet of
morning lunch room. He was suddenly siphoned into the
booth, landing with an inaudible shlup. He looked into
the Sailor's eyes, a green universe stirred by cold black
currents.
"You are agent, mister?"
"I prefer the word... vector." His sounding laughter
vibrated through the boy's substance.
"You holding, man? I got the bread...."
"I don't want your money, Honey: I want your Time."
"I don't dig."
"You want fix? You want straight? You wanta,
nooood?"
The Sailor cradled something pink and vibrated out
of focus.
"Yeah."
"We'll take the Independent. Got their own special
heat, don't carry guns only saps. I recall, me and the
Fag fell once in Queen's Plaza. Stay away from Queen's
Plaza, son... evil spot... fuzz haunted. Too many
levels. Heat Hares out from the broom closet high on
ammonia like burning lions... fall on poor old lush
worker, scare her veins right down to the bone. Her
skin pop a week or do that five-twenty-nine kick handed
out free and gratis by NYC to jostling junkies.... So
Fag, Beagle, Irish, Sailor beware! Look down, look
down along that line before you travel there...."
The subway sweeps by with a black blast of iron.
THE EXTERMINATOR DOES A GOOD JOB
The Sailor touched the door gently, following pat-
terns of painted oak in a slow twist, leaving faint, iri-
descent whorls of slime. His arm went through to the
elbow. He pulled back an inside bolt and stood aside
for the boy to enter.
Heavy, colorless smell of death filled the empty room.
"The trap hasn't been aired since the Exterminator
fumigated for coke bugs," said the Sailor apologetically.
The boy's peeled senses darted about in frenzied ex-
ploration. Tenement Hat, railroad Hat vibrating with
silent motion. Along one wall of the kitchen a metal
trough -- or was it metal, exactly? -- ran into a sort of
aquarium or tank half-filled with translucent green fluid.
Moldy objects, worn out in unknown service, littered
the Boor: a jock-strap designed to protect some delicate
organ of Hat, fan-shape; multi-levelled trusses, supports
and bandages; a large U-shaped yoke of porous pink
stone; little lead tubes cut open at one end.
Currents of movement from the two bodies stirred
stagnant odor pools; atrophied boy-smell of dusty locker
rooms, swimming pool chlorine, dried semen. Other
smells curled through pink convolutions, touching un-
known doors.
The Sailor reached under the wash-stand and ex-
tracted a package in wrapping paper that shredded and
fell from his fingers in yellow dust. He laid out dropper,
needle and spoon on a table covered with dirty dishes.
But no roach antennae felt for the crumbs of darkness.
"The Exterminator does a good job," said the Sailor.
"Almost too good, sometimes."
He dipped into a square tin of yellow pyretheum
powder and pulled out a Hat package covered in red
and gold Chinese paper.
"Like a firecracker package," the boy thought. At
fourteen lost two fingers.... Fourth of July fireworks
accident... later, in the hospital, first silent proprietary
touch of junk.
"They go off, here, kid." The Sailor put a hand to the
back of his head. He camped obscenely as he opened
the package, a complex arrangement of slots and over-
lays.
"Pure, one hundred per cent H. Scarcely a man is
now alive... and it's all yours."
"So what you want off me?"
"Time."
"I don't dig."
"I have something you want," his hand touched the
package. He drifted away into the front room, his voice
remote and blurred. "You have something I want...
five minutes here... an hour someplace else... two
...four... eight... Maybe I'm getting ahead of my-
self.... Every day die a little.... It takes up The
Time...."
He moved back into the kitchen, his voice loud and
clear: "Five years a piece. Nobody gives a better deal
on the street." He put a finger on the dividing line
below the boy's nose. "Right down the middle."
"Mister, I don't know what you're talking about."
"You will, baby... in time."
"OK. So what do I do?"
"You accept?"
"Yeah, like..." He glanced at the package. "What-
ever... I accept."
The boy felt a silent black clunk fall through his flesh.
The Sailor put a hand to the boy's eyes and pulled out
a pink scrotal egg with one closed, pulsing eye. Black
fur boiled inside translucent flesh of the egg.
The Sailor caressed the egg with nakedly inhuman
hands -- black-pink, thick, fibrous, long white tendrils
sprouting from abbreviated finger tips. Death fear and
Death weakness hit the boy, shutting off his breath,
stopping his blood. He leaned against a wall that
seemed to give slightly. He clicked back into junk focus.
The Sailor was cooking a shot. "When the roll is
called up yonder we'll be there, right?" he said, feeling
along the boy's vein, erasing goose-pimples with a
gentle old woman finger. He slid the needle in. A red
orchid bloomed at the bottom of the dropper. The Sailor
pressed the bulb, watching the solution rush into the
boy-vein, sucked by silent thirst of blood.
"Jesus!" said the boy. "I never been hit like that be-
fore!"
He lit a cigarette and looked around the kitchen,
twitching in sugar need. "Aren't you taking off?" he
asked.
"With that milk sugar shit? Junk is a one-way street.
No U-turn. You can't go back no more."
They call me the Exterminator. At one brief point of
intersection I did exercise that function and witnessed
the belly dance of roaches suffocating in yellow pyre-
theum powder ("Hard to get now, lady... war on. Let
you have a little.... Two dollars.") Sluiced fat bed-
bugs from rose wall paper in shabby theatrical hotels on
North Clark and poisoned the purposeful Rat, occasional
eater of human babies. Wouldn't you?
My present assignment: Find the live ones and ex-
terminate. Not the bodies but the "molds," you under-
stand -- but I forget that you cannot understand. We
have all but a very few. But even one could upset our
food tray. The danger, as always, comes from defecting
agents: A.J., the Vigilante, the Black Armadillo (carrier
of Chagas vectors, hasn't taken a bath since the Argen-
tine epidemic of '35, remember? ), and Lee and the
Sailor and Benway. And I know some agent is out there
in the darkness looking for me. Because all Agents
defect and all Resisters sell out....
THE ALGEBRA OF NEED
"Fats" Terminal came from The City Pressure Tanks
where open life jets spurt a million forms, immediately
eaten, the eaters cancelled by black time fuzz....
Few reach the Plaza, a point where The Tanks empty
a tidal river, carrying forms of survival armed with
defences of poison slime, black, flesh rotting, fungus,
and green odors that sear the lungs and grab the stom-
ach in twisted knots....
Because "Fats'" nerves were raw and peeled to feel
the death spasms of a million cold kicks.... "Fats"
learned The Algebra of Need and survived....
One Friday "Fats" siphoned himself into The Plaza,
a translucent-grey, foetal monkey, suckers on his little
soft, purple-grey hands, and a lamphrey disk mouth of
cold, grey gristle lined with hollow, black, erectile teeth,
feeling for the scar patterns of junk....
And a rich man passed and stared at the monster and
"Fats" rolled pissing and shitting in terror and ate his
shit and the man was moved by this tribute to his
potent gaze and clicked a coin out of his Friday cane
(Friday is Moslem Sunday when the rich are supposed
to distribute alms ).
So "Fats" learned to serve The Black Meat and grew
a fat aquarium of body....
And his blank, periscope eyes swept the world's sur-
face.... In his wake of addicts, translucent-grey mon-
keys Hashed like fish spears to the junk Mark, and hung
there sucking and it all drained back into "Fats" so his
substance grew and grew filling plazas, restaurants and
waiting rooms of the world with grey junk ooze.
Bulletins from Party Headquarters are spelled out in
obscene charades by hebephrenics and Latahs and apes,
Sollubis fart code, Negroes open and shut mouth to
Hash messages on gold teeth, Arab rioters send smoke
signals by throwing great buttery eunuchs -- they make
the best smoke, hangs black and shit-solid in the air --
onto gasoline fires in a rubbish heap, mosaic of melo-
dies, sad Panpipes of humpbacked beggar, cold wind
sweeps down from post card of Chimborazzi, flutes of
Ramadan, piano music down a windy street, mutilated
police calls, advertising leaflet synchronize with street
fight spell SOS.
Two agents have identified themselves each to each
by choice of sex practices foiling alien microphones,
fuck atomic secrets back and forth in code so complex
only two physicists in the world pretend to understand
it and each categorically denies the other. Later the
receiving agent will be hanged, convict of the guilty
possession of a nervous system, and play back the mes-
sage in orgasmal spasms transmitted from electrodes
attached to the penis.
Breathing rhythm of old cardiac, bumps of a belly
dancer, put put put of a motorboat across oily water.
The waiter lets fall a drop of martini of the Man in the
Grey Flannel Suit, who lams for the 6:12 knowing that
he has been spotted. Junkies climb out the lavatory
window of the chop suey joint as the El rumbles past.
The Gimp, cowboyed in the Waldorf, gives birth to a
litter of rats. (Cowboy: New York hood talk means kill
the mother fucker wherever you find him. A rat is a rat
is a rat is a rat. Is an informer. ) Foolish virgins heed the
English colonel who rides by brandishing a screaming
on his lance. The elegant fag patronizes his
bar to receive a bulletin from Dead
lives on in synapses and will evoke the exciting
Beater. Boys jacking off in the school toilet know
other as agents from Galaxy X, adjourn to a
night spot where they sit shabby and por-
drinking wine vinegar and eating lemons to
the tenor sax, a hip Arab in blue glasses sus-
to be Enemy Sender. The world network of junkies,
on a cord of rancid jissom... tying up in fur-
rooms... shivering in the sick morning...
Old Pete men suck the Black Smoke in a Chink laun-
back room. Melancholy Baby dies from an overdose
Time or cold turkey withdrawal of breath -- in Arabia
Paris -- Mexico City -- New York -- New Orleans -- ) The
and the dead... in sickness or on the nod...
or kicked or hooked again... come in on the
beam and The Connection is eating Chop Suey
Dolores Street... dunking pound cake in Bickfords
. . chased up Exchange Place by a baying pack of
Malarials of the world bundle in shivering
Fear seals the turd message with a cunei-
account. Giggling rioters copulate to the screams
a burning Nigra. Lonely librarians unite in soul kiss
halitosis. That grippy feeling, brother? Sore throat
and disquieting as the hot afternoon wind?
to the International Syphilis Lodge -- "Meth-
Epithcopal God damn ith" (phrase used to test
speech impairment typical of paresis ) or the first
touch of chancre makes you a member in good
The vibrating soundless hum of deep forest
orgone accumulators, the sudden silence of cities
when the junky cops and even the Commuter buzzes
clogged lines of cholesterol for contact. Signal flares of
orgasm burst over the world. A tea head leaps up
screaming "I got the fear!" and runs into Mexican night
bringing down backbrains of the world. The Execu-
tioner shits in terror at sight of the condemned man.
The Torturer screams in the ear of his implacable victim.
Knife fighters embrace in adrenalin. Cancer is at the
door with a Singing Telegram....
HAUSER AND O'BRIEN
When they walked in on me that morning at 8 o'clock,
I knew it was my last chance, my only chance. But they
didn't know. How could they? Just a routine pick-up.
But not quite routine.
Hauser had been eating breakfast when the Lieu-
tenant called: "I want you and your partner to pick up
a man named Lee, William Lee, on your way down-
town. He's in the Hotel Lamprey. 103 just off B way."
"Yeah I know where it is. I remember him too."
"Good. Room 606. Just pick him up. Don't take time
to shake the place down. Except bring in all books,
letters, manuscripts. Anything printed, typed or written.
Ketch?"
"Ketch. But what's the angle.... Books... "
"Just do it." The Lieutenant hung up.
Hauser and O'Brien. They had been on the City Nar-
cotic Squad for 20 years. Oldtimers like me. I been on
the junk for 16 years. They weren't bad as laws go. At
least O'Brien wasn't. O'Brien was the con man, and
Hauser the tough guy. A vaudeville team. Hauser had
a way of hitting you before he said anything just to
break the ice. Then O'Brien gives you an Old Gold --
just like a cop to smoke Old Golds somehow... and
starts putting down a cop con that was really bottled
in bond. Not a bad guy, and I didn't want to do it. But
it was my only chance.
I was just tying up for my morning shot when they
walked in with a pass key. It was a special kind you can
use even when the door is locked from the inside with
a key in the lock. On the table in front of me was a
packet of junk, spike, syringe -- I got the habit of using
a regular syringe in Mexico and never went back to
using a dropper -- alcohol, cotton and a glass of water.
"Well well," says O'Brien.... "Long time no see eh?"
"Put on your coat, Lee," says Hauser. He had his gun
out. He always has it out when he makes a pinch for
the psychological effect and to forestall a rush for toilet,
sink or window.
"Can I take a bang first, boys?" I asked.... "There's
plenty here for evidence...."
I was wondering how I could get to my suitcase if
they said no. The case wasn't locked, but Hauser had
the gun in his hand.
"He wants a shot," said Hauser.
"Now you know we can't do that, Bill," said O'Brien
in his sweet con voice, dragging out the name with an
oily, insinuating familiarity, brutal and obscene.
He meant, of course, "What can you do for us, Bill?"
He looked at me and smiled. The smile stayed there too
long, hideous and naked, the smile of an old painted
pervert, gathering all the negative evil of O'Brien's
ambiguous function.
"I might could set up Marty Steel for you," I said.
I knew they wanted Marty bad. He'd been pushing
for five years, and they couldn't hang one on him.
Marty was an oldtimer, and very careful about who
he served. He had to know a man and know him well
before he would pick up his money. No one can say
they ever did time because of me. My rep is perfect,
but still Marty wouldn't serve me because he didn't
know me long enough. That's how skeptical Marty was.
"Marty?" said O'Brien. "Can you score from him?"
"Sure I can."
They were suspicious. A man can't be a cop all his
life without developing a special set of intuitions.
"O.K.," said Hauser finally. "But you'd better deliver,
Lee."
"I'll deliver all right. Believe me I appreciate this."
I tied up for a shot, my hands trembling with eager-
ness, an archetype dope fiend.
"Just an old junky, boys, a harmless old shaking wreck
of a junky." That's the way I put it down. As I had
hoped, Hauser looked away when I started probing
for a vein. It's a wildly unpretty spectacle.
O'Brien was sitting on the arm of a chair smoking an
Old Gold, looking out the window with that dreamy
what I'll do when I get my pension look.
I hit a vein right away. A column of blood shot up
into the syringe for an instant sharp and solid as a red
cord. I pressed the plunger down with my thumb, feel-
ing the junk pound through my veins to feed a million
junk-hungry cells, to bring strength and alertness to
every nerve and muscle. They were not watching me.
I filled the syringe with alcohol.
Hauser was juggling his snub-nosed detective special,
a Colt, and looking around the room. He could smell
danger like an animal With his left hand he pushed
the closet door open and glanced inside. My stomach
contracted. I thought, "If he looks in the suitcase now
I'm done."
Hauser turned to me abruptly. "You through yet?"
he snarled. "You'd better not try to shit us on Marty."
The words came out so ugly he surprised and shocked
himself.
I picked up the syringe full of alcohol, twisting the
needle to make sure it was tight.
"Just two seconds," I said.
I squirted a thin jet of alcohol, whipping it across
his eyes with a sideways shake of the syringe. He let
out a bellow of pain. I could see him pawing at his eyes
with the left hand like he was tearing off an invisible
bandage as I dropped to the floor on one knee, reaching
for my suitcase. I pushed the suitcase open, and my left
hand closed over the gun butt -- I am righthanded but
I shoot with my left hand. I felt the concussion of
Hauser's shot before I heard it. His slug slammed into
the wall behind me. Shooting from the floor, I snapped
two quick shots into Hauser's belly where his vest had
pulled up showing an inch of white shirt. He grunted
in a way I could feel and doubled forward. Stiff with
panic, O'Brien's hand was tearing at the gun in his
shoulder holster. I clamped my other hand around my
gun wrist to steady it for the long pull -- this gun has the
hammer Bled off round so you can only use it double
action -- and shot him in the middle of his red forehead
about two inches below the silver hairline. His hair had
been grey the last time I saw him. That was about 15
years ago. My first arrest. His eyes went out. He fell off
the chair onto his face. My hands were already reaching
for what I needed, sweeping my notebooks into a brief-
case with my works, junk, and a box of shells. I stuck
the gun into my belt, and stepped out into the corridor
putting on my coat.
I could hear the desk clerk and the bell boy pound-
ing up the stairs. I took the self-service elevator down,
walked through the empty lobby into the street.
It was a beautiful Indian Summer day. I knew I
didn't have much chance, but any chance is better than
none, better than being a subject for experiments with
ST (6) or whatever the initials are.
I had to stock up on junk fast. Along with airports,
R.R. stations and bus terminals, they would cover all
junk areas and connections. I took a taxi to Washington
Square, got out and walked along 4th Street till I
spotted Nick on a corner. You can always find the
pusher. Your need conjures him up like a ghost. "Listen,
Nick," I said, "I'm leaving town. I want to pick up a
piece of H. Can you make it right now?"
We were walking along 4th Street. Nick's voice
seemed to drift into my consciousness from no particu-
lar place. An eerie, disembodied voice. "Yes, I think I
can make it. I'll have to make a run uptown."
"We can take a cab."
"O.K., but I can't take you in to the guy, you under-
stand."
"I understand. Let's go."
We were in the cab heading North. Nick was talking
in his Bat, dead voice.
"Some funny stuff we're getting lately. It's not weak
exactly.... I don't know.... It's different. Maybe
they're putting some synthetic shit in it.... Dollies
or something...."
"What!!!? Already?"
"Huh?... But this I'm taking you to now is O.K.
In fact it's about the best deal around that I know of.
. Stop here."
"Please make it fast," I said.
"It should be a matter of ten minutes unless he's out
of stuff8 and has to make a run.... Better sit down
over there and have a cup of coffee.... This is a hot
neighborhood."
I sat down at a counter and ordered coffee, and
pointed to a piece of Danish pastry under a plastic
cover. I washed down the stale rubbery cake with
coffee, praying that just this once, please God, let him
make it now, and not come back to say the man is all
out and has to make a run to East Orange or Green-
point.
Well here he was back, standing behind me. I looked
at him, afraid to ask. Funny, I thought, here I sit with
perhaps one chance in a hundred to live out the next
24 hours -- I had made up my mind not to surrender and
spend the next three or four months in death's waiting
room. And here I was worrying about a junk score. But
I only had about five shots left, and without junk I
would be immobilized.... Nick nodded his head.
"Don't give it to me here," I said. "Let's take a cab."
We took a cab and started downtown. I held out my
hand and copped the package, then I slipped a fifty-
dollar bill into Nick's palm. He glanced at it and showed
his gums in a toothless smile: "Thanks a lot.... This
will put me in the clear...
I sat back letting my mind work without pushing it.
Push your mind too hard, and it will fuck up like an
overloaded switch-board, or turn on you with sabotage.
And I had no margin for error. Americans have
a special horror of giving up control, of letting things
happen in their own way without interference. They
would like to jump down into their stomachs and digest
the food and shovel the shit out.
Your mind will answer most questions if you learn
to relax and wait for the answer. Like one of those
thinking machines, you feed in your question, sit back,
and wait....
I was looking for a name. My mind was sorting
through names, discarding at once F.L.-- Fuzz Lover,
B.W.-- Born Wrong, N.C.B.C.-- Nice Cat But Chicken;
putting aside to reconsider, narrowing, sifting, feeling
for the name, the answer.
"Sometimes, you know, he'll keep me waiting three
hours. Sometimes I make it right away like this." Nick
had a deprecating little laugh that he used for punc-
tuation. Sort of an apology for talking at all in the
telepathizing world of the addict where only the quan-
tity factor -- How much $P How much junk? -- requires
verbal expression. He knew and I knew all about wait-
ing. At all levels the drug trade operates without sched-
ule. Nobody delivers on time except by accident. The
addict runs on junk time. His body is his clock, and
junk runs through it like an hour-glass. Time has mean-
ing for him only with reference to his need. Then he
makes his abrupt intrusion into the time of others, and,
like all Outsiders, all Petitioners, he must wait, unless
he happens to mesh with non-junk time.
"What can I say to him? He knows I'll wait," Nick
laughed.
I spent the night in the Ever Hard Baths -- (homo-
sexuality is the best all-around cover story an agent can
use) -- where a snarling Italian attendant creates such
an unnerving atmosphere sweeping the dormitory with
infra red see in the dark fieldglasses.
("All right in the North East corner! I see you!"
switching on floodlights, sticking his head through trap-
doors in the floor and wall of the private rooms, that
many a queen has been carried out in a straitjacket.... )
I lay there in my open top cubicle room looking at
the ceiling... listened to the grunts and squeals and
snarls in the nightmare halflight of random, broken
lust....
"Fuck off you!"
"Put on two pairs of glasses and maybe you can see
something!"
Walked out in the precise morning and bought a
paper.... Nothing.... I called from a drugstore
phone booth... and asked for Narcotics:
"Lieutenant Gonzales... who's calling?"
"I want to speak to O'Brien." A moment of static,
dangling wires, broken connections...
"Nobody of that name in this department.. . Who
are you?"
"Well let me speak to Hauser."
"Look, Mister, no O'Brien no Hauser in this bureau.
Now what do you want?"
"Look, this is important.... I've got info on a big
shipment of H coming in.... I want to talk to Hauser
or O'Brien.... I don't do business with anybody
else...."
"Hold on.... I'll connect you with Alcibiades."
I began to wonder if there was an Anglo-Saxon name
left in the Department....
"I want to speak to Hauser or O'Brien."
"How many times I have to tell you no Hauser no
O'Brien in this department.... Now who is this call-
ing?"
I hung up and took a taxi out of the area.... In the
cab I realized what had happened.... I had been
occluded from space-time like an eel's ass occludes
when he stops eating on the way to Sargasso....
Locked out.... Never again would I have a Key, a
Point of Intersection.... The Heat was off me from
here on out... relegated with Hauser and O'Brien to
a landlocked junk past where heroin is always twenty-
eight dollars an ounce and you can score for yen pox in
the Chink Laundry of Sioux Falls.... Far side of
the world's mirror, moving into the past with Hauser
and O'Brien... clawing at a not-yet of Telepathic
Bureaucracies, Time Monopolies, Control Drugs, Heavy
Fluid Addicts:
"I thought of that three hundred years ago."
"Your plan was unworkable then and useless now.
...Like Da Vinci's Hying machine plans...."
ATROPHIED PREFACE
WOULDN'T YOU?
Why all this waste paper getting The People from
one place to another? Perhaps to spare The Reader
stress of sudden space shifts and keep him Gentle? And
so a ticket is bought, a taxi called, a plane boarded. We
are allowed a glimpse into the warm peach-lined cave
as She (the airline hostess, of course) leans over us to
murmur of chewing gum, dramamine, even nembutal.
"Talk paregoric, Sweet Thing, and I will hear."
I am not American Express.... If one of my people
is seen in New York walking around in citizen clothes
and next sentence Timbuktu putting down lad talk on
a gazelle-eyed youth, we may assume that he ( the party
non-resident of Timbuktu) transported himself there
by the usual methods of communication..
Lee The Agent (a double-four-eight-sixteen) is taking
the junk cure... space time trip portentously familiar
as junk meet corners to the addict... cures past and
future shuttle pictures through 'his spectral substance
vibrating in silent winds of accelerated Time.... Pick
a shot.... Any Shot....
Formal knuckle biting, floor rolling shots in a precinct
cell.... "Feel like a shot of Heroin, Bill? Haw Haw
Haw."
Tentative half impressions that dissolve in light .
pockets of rotten ectoplasm swept out by an old junky
coughing and spitting in the sick morning..
Old violet brown photos that curl and crack like mud
in the sun: Panama City... Bill Gains putting down
the paregoric con on a Chinese druggist.
"I've got these racing dogs... pedigree greyhounds.
. All sick with the dysentery... tropical climate
. the shits... you sabe shit?... My Whippets
Are Dying...." He screamed.... His eyes lit up
with blue fire.... The flame went out... smell of
burning metal.... "Administer with an eye dropper.
Wouldn't you?... Menstrual cramps... my
wife... Kotex... Aged mother... Piles ..
raw... bleeding..." He nodded out against the
counter.... The druggist took a tooth-pick out of
his mouth and looked at the end of it and shook his
head....
Gains and Lee burned down the Republic of Panama
from David to Darien on paregoric.... They Hew
apart with a shlupping sound.... Junkies tend to run
together into one body.... You have to be careful
especially in hot places.... Gains back to Mexico
City.... Desperate skeleton grin of chronic junk lack
glazed over with codeine and goof balls... cigarette
holes in his bathrobe... coffee stains on the floor...
smoky kerosene stove... rusty orange flame...
The Embassy would give no details other than place
of burial in the American Cemetery....
And Lee back to sex and pain and time and Yage,
bitter Soul Vine of the Amazon....
I recall once after an overdose of Majoun (this is
Cannabis dried and finely powdered to consistency of
green powdered sugar and mixed with some confection
or other usually tasting like gritty plum pudding, but
the choice of confection is arbitrary... ). I am return-
ing from The Lulu or Johny or Little Boy's Room
(stink of atrophied infancy and toilet training) look
across the living room of that villa outside Tanger and
suddenly don't know where I am. Perhaps I have opened
the wrong door and at any moment The Man In Pos-
session, The Owner Who Got There First will rush in
and scream:
"What Are Yon Doing Here? Who Are You?"
And I don't know what I am doing there nor who I
am. I decide to play it cool and maybe I will get the
orientation before the Owner shows.... So instead
of yelling "Where Am I?" cool it and look around and
you will find out approximately.... You were not
there for The Beginning. You will not be there for The
End.... Your knowledge of what is going on can only
be superficial and relative.... What do I know of this
yellow blighted young junky face subsisting on raw
opium? I tried to tell him: "Some morning you will
wake up with your liver in your lap" and how to process
raw opium so it is not plain poison. But his eyes glaze
over and he don't want to know. Junkies are like that
most of them they don't want to know... and you
can't tell them anything.... A smoker doesn't want
to know anything but smoke.... And a heroin junky
same way.... Strictly the spike and any other route
is Farina....
So I guess he is still sitting there in his 1920 Spanish
villa outside Tanger eating that raw opium full of shit
and stones and straw... the whole lot for fear he might
lose something....
There is only one thing a writer can write about:
what is in front of his senses at the moment of writing.
. . . I am a recording instrument.... I do not pre-
sume to impose "story" "plot" "continuity."...In
sofaras I succeed in Direct recording of certain areas of
psychic process I may have limited function.... I am
not an entertainer....
"Possession" they call it.... Sometimes an entity
jumps in the body -- outlines waver in yellow orange
jelly -- and hands move to disembowel the passing whore
or strangle the nabor child in hope of alleviating a
chronic housing shortage. As if I was usually there but
subject to goof now and again.... Wrong! I am never
here.... Never that is fully in possession, but some-
how in a position to forestall ill-advised moves....
Patrolling is, in fact, my principle occupation.... No
matter how tight Security, I am always somewhere
Outside giving orders and Inside this straight jacket of
jelly that gives and stretches but always reforms ahead
of every movement, thought, impulse, stamped with the
seal of alien inspection....
Writers talk about the sweet-sick smell of death
whereas any junky can tell you that death has no smell
. at the same time a smell that shuts off breath and
stops blood... colorless no-smell of death... no
one can breathe and smell it through pink convolutions
and black blood filters of flesh... the death smell is
unmistakably a smell and complete absence of smell
smell absence hits the nose first because all or-
ganic life has smell... stopping of smell is felt like
darkness to the eyes, silence to the ears, stress and
weightlessness to the balance and location sense....
You always smell it and give it out for others to smell
during junk withdrawal.... A kicking junky can make
a whole apartment unlivable with his death smell...
but a good airing will stink the place up again so a body
can breathe.... You also smell it during one of those
oil burner habits that suddenly starts jumping geometric
like a topping forest fire....
Cure is always: Let go! Jump1
A friend of mine found himself naked in a Marrakech
hotel room second floor.... (He is after processing
by a Texas mother who dressed him in girl's clothes as
a child.... Crude but effective against infant proto-
plasm.... ) The other occupants are Arabs, three
Arabs... knives in hand... watching him .
glint of metal and points of light in dark eyes .
pieces of murder falling slow as opal chips through gly-
cerine... Slower animal reactions allow him a full
second to decide: Straight through the window and
down into the crowded street like a falling star his wake
of glass glittering in the sun... sustained a broken
ankle and a chipped shoulder... clad in a diaphanous
pink curtain, with a curtain-rod staff, hobbled away to
the Commissariat de Police....
Sooner or later The Vigilante, The Rube, Lee The
Agent, A. J., Clem and Jody The Ergot Twins, Hassan
O'Leary the After Birth Tycoon, The Sailor, The Exter-
minator, Andrew Keif, "Fats" Terminal, Doc Benway,
"Fingers" Schafer are subject to say the same thing in
the same words to occupy, at that intersection point,
the same position in space-time. Using a common vocal
apparatus complete with all metabolic appliances that
is to be the same person -- a most inaccurate way of
expressing Recognition: The junky naked in sunlight...
The writer sees himself reading to the mirror as
always... He must check now and again to reassure
himself that The Crime Of Separate Action has not, is
not, cannot occur....
Anyone who has ever looked into a mirror knows
what this crime is and what it means in terms of lost
control when the reflection no longer obeys.... Too
late to dial P o l i c e....
I personally wish to terminate my services as of now
in that I cannot continue to sell the raw materials of
death.... Yours, sir, is a hopeless case and a noisome
one....
"Defense is meaningless in the present state of our
knowledge, said The Defense looking up from an elec-
tron microscope....
Take your business to Walgreen's
We are not responsible
Steal anything in sight
I don't know how to return it to the white reader
You can write or yell or croon about it... paint
about it... act about it... shit it out in mobiles.
. So long as you don't go and do it, .
Senators leap up and bray for the Death Penalty with
inflexible authority of virus yen.... Death for dope
fiends, death for sex queens (I mean fiends) death for
the psychopath who offends the cowed and graceless
flesh with broken animal innocence of lithe move-
ment....
The black wind sock of death undulates over the
land, feeling, smelling for the crime of separate life,
movers of the fear-frozen flesh shivering under a vast
probability curve....
Population blocks disappear in a checker game of
genocide.... Any number can play....
The Liberal Press and The Press Not So Liberal and
The Press Reactionary Scream approval: "Above all the
myth of other-level experience must be eradicated...."
And speak darkly of certain harsh realities... cows
with the aftosa... prophylaxis....
Power groups of the world frantically cut lines of
connection....
The Planet drifts to random insect doom....
Thermodynamics has won at a crawl.. Orgone
balked at the post.... Christ bled.. Time ran
out....
You can cut into Naked Lunch at any intersection
point.... I have written many prefaces. They atrophy
and amputate spontaneous like the little toe amputates
in a West African disease confined to the Negro race
and the passing blonde shows her brass ankle as a mani-
cured toe bounces across the club terrace, retrieved and
laid at her feet by her Afghan Hound....
Naked Lunch is a blueprint, a How-To Book..
Black insect lusts open into vast, other planet land-
scapes.... Abstract concepts, bare as algebra, narrow
down to a black turd or a pair of aging cajones..
How-To extend levels of experience by opening the
door at the end of a long hall.... Doors that only
open in Silence.... Naked Lunch demands Silence
from The Reader. Otherwise he is taking his own
pulse....
Robert Christie knew The Answering Service..
Kill the old cunts... keep pubic hairs in his locket
...wouldn't you?
Robert Christie, mass strangler of women -- sounds
like a daisy chain -- hanged in 1953.
Jack The Ripper, Literal Swordsman of the 1890s
and never caught with his pants down... wrote a
letter to The Press.
"Next time I'll send along an ear just for jolly..
Wouldn't you?"
"Oh be careful! There they go again!" said the old
queen as his string broke spilling his balls over the
floor.... 'Stop them will you, James, you worthless
old shit! Don't just stand there and let the master's balls
roll into the coal-bin!"
Window dressers scream through the station, beat
the cashiers with the Fairy Hyp.
Delaudid deliver poor me (Delaudid is souped up,
dehydrate morphine).
The sheriff in black vest types out a death warrant:
"Gotta make it legal and exempt narcotic...."
Violation Public Health Law 334... Procuring an
orgasm by the use of fraud....
Johnny on all fours and Mary sucking him and run-
ning her fingers down the thigh backs and light over
the outfields of the ball park....
Over the broken chair and out through the tool-house
window whitewash whipping in a cold Spring wind on
a limestone cliff over the river... piece of moon smoke
hangs in China blue sky... out on a long line of jissom
across the dusty floor....
Motel... Motel . Motel . broken neon
arabesque... loneliness moans across the continent
like fog horns over still oily water of tidal rivers....
Ball squeezed dry lemon rind pest rims the ass with
a knife cut off a piece of hash for the water pipe-
bubble bubble -- indicate what used to be me..
"The river is served, sir."
Dead leaves fill the fountain and geraniums run wild
with mint, spill a vending machine route across the
lawn....
The aging playboy dons his 1920 autograph slicker,
feeds his screaming wife down the garbage-disposal
unit.... Hair, shit and blood spurt out 1963 on the
wall.... "Yes sir, boys, the shit really hit the fan in
'63," said 'the tiresome old prophet can bore the piss
out of you in any space-time direction....
"Now I happen to remember because it was just two
year before that a strain of human aftosa developed
in a Bolivian lavatory got loose through the medium of
a Chinchilla coat fixed an income tax case in Kansas
City.... And a Liz claimed Immaculate Conception
and give birth to a six-ounce spider monkey through
the navel.... They say the croaker was party to that
caper had the monkey on his back all the time..
I, William Seward, captain of this lushed up hash-
head subway, will quell the Lock Ness monster with
rotenone and cowboy the white whale. I will reduce
Satan to Automatic Obedience, and sublimate subsidi-
ary fiends. I will banish the candiru from your swimming
pools.-- I will issue a bull on Immaculate Birth Con-
trol....
"The oftener a thing happens the more uniquely
wonderful it is," said the pretentious young Nordic on
the trapeze studying his Masonic home work.
"The Jews don't believe in Christ, Clem.... All they
want to do is doodle a Christian girl...."
Adolescent angels sing on shithouse walls of the
world.
"Come and jack off..." 1929.
"Gimpy push milk sugar shit... " Johnny Hung
Lately 1952
(Decayed corseted tenor sings Danny Deever in
drag.... )
Mules don't foal in this decent county and on hooded
dead gibber in the ash pits.... Violation Public Health
Law 334.
So where is the statuary and the percentage? Who
can say? I don't have The Word.... Home in my
douche bag... The King is loose with a flame thrower
and the king killer, tortured in effigy of a thousand
bums, slides down skid row to shit in the limestone ball
court.
Young Dillinger walked straight out of the house and
never looked back....
"Don't ever look back, kid.... You turn into some
old cow's salt lick."
Police bullet in the alley... Broken wings of Icarus,
screams of a burning boy inhaled by the old junky...
eyes empty as a vast plain... ( vulture wings husk in
the dry air).
The Crab, aged Dean Of Lush Workers, puts on his
crustacean suit to prowl the graveyard shift... with
steel claws pulls the gold teeth and crowns of any Hop
sleep with his mouth open.... If the Hop comes up
on him The Crab rears back claws snapping to offer
dubious battle on the plains of Queens.
The Boy Burglar, fucked in the long jail term, ousted
from the cemetery for the non-payment, comes gibber-
ing into the queer bar with a moldy pawn ticket to pick
up the back balls of Tent City where castrate salesmen
sing the IBM song.
Crabs frolicked through his forest... wrestling with
the angel hard-on all night, thrown in the homo fall of
valor, take a back road to the rusty limestone cave.
Black Yen ejaculates over the salt marshes where
nothing grows not even a mandrake....
Law of averages... A few chickens... Only way
to live....
"Hello, Cash."
"You sure it's here?"
"Of course I'm sure.... Go in with you."
Night train to Chi... Meet a girl in the hall and I
see she is on and ask where is a score?
"Come in sonny."
I mean not a young chick but built... "How about
a fix first?"
"Ixnay, You wouldn't be inna condition."
Three times around... wake up shivering sick in
warm Spring wind through the window, water burns
the eyes like acid....
She gets out of bed naked.... Stach in the Cobra
lamp.... Cooks up....
"Turn over.... I'll give it to you in the ass."
She slides the needle in deep, pulls it out and mas-
sages the cheek....
She licks a drop of blood off her finger.
He rolls over with a hard-on dissolving in the grey
ooze of junk.
In a vale of cocaine and innocence sad-eyed youths
yodel for a lost Danny Boy....
We sniffed all night and made it four times... fin-
gers down the black board... scrape the white bone.
Home is the heroin home from the sea. and the hustler
home from The Bill....
The Pitchman stirs uneasily: "Take over here will
you, kid? Gotta see a man about a monkey."
The Word is divided into units which be all in one
piece and should be so taken, but the pieces can be had
in any order being tied up back and forth, in and out
fore and aft like an innaresting sex arrangement. This
book spill off the page in all directions, kaleidescope of
vistas, medley of tunes and street noises, farts and riot
yipes and the slamming steel shutters of commerce,
screams of pain and pathos and screams plain pathic,
copulating cats and outraged squawk of the displaced
bull head, prophetic mutterings of brujo in nutmeg
trances, snapping necks and screaming mandrakes, sigh
of orgasm, heroin silent as dawn in the thirsty cells,
Radio Cairo screaming like a berserk tobacco auction,
and flutes of Ramadan fanning the sick junky like a
gentle lush worker in the grey subway dawn feeling
with delicate fingers for the green folding crackle..
This is Revelation and Prophecy of what I can pick
up without FM on my 1920 crystal set with antennae
of jissom.... Gentle reader, we see God through our
assholes in the Hash bulb of orgasm.... Through
these orifices transmute your body.... The way OUT
is the way IN....
Now I, William Seward, will unlock my word horde.
. My Viking heart fares over the great brown river
where motors put put put in jungle twilight and whole
trees float with huge snakes in the branches and sad-
eyed lemurs watch the shore, across the Missouri field
(The Boy finds a pink arrowhead) out along distant
train whistles, comes back to me hungry as a street boy
don't know to peddle the ass God gave him....
Gentle Reader, The Word will leap on you with leopard
man iron claws, it will cut off fingers and toes like an
opportunist land crab, it will hang you and catch your
jissom like a scrutable dog, it will coil round your thighs
like a bushmaster and inject a shot glass of rancid ecto-
plasm.... And why a scrutable dog?
The other day I am returning from the long lunch
thread from mouth to ass all the days of our years, when
I see an Arab boy have this little black and white dog
know how to walk on his hind legs.... And a big
yaller dog come on the boy for affection and the boy
shove it away, and the yaller dog growl and snap at the
little toddler, snarling if he had but human gift of
tongues: "A crime against nature right there."
So I dub the yaller dog Scrutable.... And let me
say in passing, and I am always passing like a sincere
Spade, that the Inscrutable East need a heap of salt to
get it down... Your Reporter bang thirty grains of
M a day and sit eight hours inscrutable as a turd.
"What are you thinking?" says the squirming Ameri-
can Tourist....
To which I reply: "Morphine have depressed my
hypothalamus, seat of libido and emotion, and since the
front brain acts only at second hand with back-brain
titillation, being a vicarious type citizen can only get
his kicks from behind, I must report virtual absence of
cerebral event. I am aware of your presence, but since
it has for me no affective connotation, my affect having
been disconnect by the junk man for the non-payment,
I am not innarested in your doings.... Go or come,
shit or fuck yourself with a rasp or an asp -- tis well done
and fitting for a queen -- but The Dead and The Junky
don't care.... " They are Inscrutable.
"Which is the way down the aisle to the water closet?"
I asked the blonde usherette.
"Right through here, sir.... Room for one more in-
side."
"Have you seen Pantopon Rose?" said the old junky
in the black overcoat.
The Texas sheriff has killed his complicit Vet., Brow-
beck The Unsteady, involved in horse heroin racket.
. A horse down with the aftosa need a sight of
heroin to ease his pain and maybe some of that heroin
take off across the lonesome prairie and whinny in
Washington Square.... Junkies rush up yelling:
"Heigh oOO Silver."
"But where is the statuary?" This arch type bit of
pathos screeched out in tea-room cocktail lounge with
bamboo decorations, Calle Juarez, Mexico, DF.... Lost
back there with a meatball rape rap... a cunt claw
your pants down and you up for rape that's statutory,
brother....
Chicago calling... come in please... Chicago
calling... come in please.... What you think I got
the rubber on for goulashes in Puyo? A mighty wet
place, reader....
"Take it off! Take it off1"
The old queen meets himself coming round the other
way in burlesque of adolescence, gets the knee from
his phantom of the Old Old Howard... down skid
row to Market Street Museum shows all kinds mastur-
bation and self-abuse... young boys need it special....
They was ripe for the plucking forgot way back yon-
der in the corn hole... lost in little scraps of delight
and burning scrolls....
Read the metastasis with blind fingers.
Fossil message of arthritis...
"Selling is more of a habit than using." -- Lola La
Chata, Mexico, DF.
Sucking terror from needle scars, underwater scream
mouthing numb nerve warnings of the yen to come,
throbbing bite site of rabies...
"If God made anything better he kept it for himself,"
the Sailor used to say, his transmission slowed down
with twenty goof balls.
(Pieces of murder fall slow as opal chips through
glycerine. )
Watching you and humming over and over "Johnny's
So Long At The Fair."
Pushing in a small way to keep up our habit..
"And use that alcohol," I say slamming a spirit lamp
down on the table.
"You fucking can't -- wait -- hungry junkies all the time
black up my spoons with matches.... That's all I
need for pen Indef. the heat rumbles a black spoon in
the trap....
"I thought you was quitting.... Wouldn't feel right
fucking up your cure.
"Takes a lot of guts to kick a habit, kid."
Looking for veins in the thawing flesh. Hour-Glass of
junk spills its last black grains into the kidneys....
"Heavily infected area," he muttered, shifting the tie
up.
"Death was their Culture Hero," said my Old Lady
looking up from the Mayan Codices.... "They got
fire and speech and the corn seed from death.... Death
turns into a maize seed."
The Ouab Days are upon us
raw pealed winds of hate and mischance
blew the shot.
"Get those fucking dirty pictures out of here," I told
her. The Old Time Schmecker supported himself on a
chair back, juiced and goof-balled... a disgrace to
his blood.
"What are you one of these goof-ball artists?"
Yellow smells of skid row sherry and occluding liver
drifted out of his clothes when he made the junky ges-
ture throwing the hand out palm up to cope...
smell of chili houses and dank overcoats and atro-
phied testicles....
He looked at me through the tentative, ectoplasmic
flesh of cure... thirty pounds materialized in a month
when you kick... soft pink putty that fades at the
first silent touch of junk.... I saw it happen... ten
pounds lost in ten minutes... standing there with
the syringe in one hand... holding his pants up with
the other
sharp reek of diseased metal.
Walking in a rubbish heap to the sky... scattered
gasoline fires... smoke hangs black and solid as excre-
ment in the motionless air... smudging the white
film of noon heat... D.L. walks beside me... a
reflection of my toothless gums and hairless skull .
flesh smeared over the rotting phosphorescent bones
consumed by slow cold fires... He carries an open
can of gasoline and the smell of gasoline envelopes him.
.Coming over a hill of rusty iron we meet a group
of Natives... Hat two-dimension faces of scavenger
fish....
"Throw the gasoline on them and light it....
QUICK...
white Hash... mangled insect screams .
I woke up with the taste of metal in my mouth back
from the dead
trailing the colorless death smell
afterbirth of a withered grey monkey
phantom twinges of amputation...
"Taxi boys waiting for a pickup," Eduardo said and
died of an overdose in Madrid....
Powder trains burn back through pink convolu-
tions of tumescent flesh... set off flash bulbs of
orgasm... pin-point photos of arrested motion
smooth brown side twisted to light a ciga-
rette....
He stood there in a 1920 straw hat somebody gave
him... soft mendicant words fallings like dead birds
in the dark street....
"No... No more... No mas..."
A heaving sea of air hammers in the purple brown
dusk tainted with rotten metal smell of sewer gas...
young worker faces vibrating out of focus in yellow
halos of carbide lanterns... broken pipes exposed....
"They are rebuilding the City."
Lee nodded absently.... "Yes... Always..."
Either way is a bad move to The East Wing..
If I knew I'd be glad to tell you....
"No good... no bueno... hustling myself...."
"No glot... C'lom Fliday"
Tangier, 1959.
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