when the junky copes. A moment of stillness and wonder. Even the Commuter buzzes clogged lines of cholesterol 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 shrieking: “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-foxes!”
Mr. Hyslop, A. J.’s secretary, looks up from his comic
book: “The Sweitzers liquefy already.”
(Liquefaction involves protein cleavage and reduction 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, gentlemen. 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: