ould  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 R