and flick 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 Canni­bal 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—MOf 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 neo­hemoglobin 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, 1 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 him­self a spot of business now and then.” So after the third pink gin when he gets to know you, he shifts to dysen­tery. “Most extraordinary discharge. More or less of a

immediate assignment with Islam Incorporated. It seems the electronic brain went berserk playing six­dimensional 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 un­paralleled 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 drug­stores and fix on every street comer. … Catatonics deco­rate 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 show­ing 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 chan­deliers, 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

homosexuality. A functioning police state needs no po­lice. Homosexuality does not occur to anyone as con­ceivable behaviour. . . . Homosexuality is a politicalcrime in a matriarchy. No society tolerates overt re­jection 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 hope­less 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 uncon­scious homosexual trends. Makes the brain reel, don’t it?”“And what do you conclude from that?”“Conclude? Nothing whatever. Just a passing obser­vation.”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

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 un­discharged 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 Til show you the mild deviant and crimi­nal 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

there, me, before it is loused up by literacy, advertising, TV and drive-ins. Make a study strictly from meta­bolism: 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 with­drawal. The fact of addiction imposes contact.“But that’s only one angle. Mescaline, LSD6, deteri­orated adrenalin, harmaline can produce an approxi­mate schizophrenia. The best stuff is extracted from the blood of schizos; so schizophrenia is likely a drug psy­chosis. They got a metabolic connection, a Man Within you might say. ( Interested readers are referred to Ap­pendix. )“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 stimu­lation 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, but they have no emo­tional connotation and in consequence no interest. Re­membering a period of heavy addiction is like playing

“Jesus ! These ID’s got no class to them .”                                                                           Benway calls over the attendant who is sitting at one end of the wars reading a book of J.M. Barrie’s plays. ” Get this fucking ID 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 constitue an albatross . ”                                      “But what ? Where ? ”                                                                                                              ” Proper channels. Buzz the district Coordinator or whatever call himself . . . new title every week . Doubt if he exist .”                                                                                              Doctor Benway pauses at the door and looks back at 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

the seas. Operating with one hand, beating the rats off a 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.

“Well , this rumble in the operating room , ‘ this unspeakable occurence ‘  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 anesthetic drank up all the either and the patient came up on us, and I was accused of cutting the cocaine with Saniflush . 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 , neither was Broadbeck for that matter , and even in my own certificate was called in question . But Violet knew more medicine than the Mayo Clinic. She had an extraordinary intuition and a high sense of duty .                                                                     “So there I was flat on my ass with no certificate . Shoul 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 unhetical . 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 condition . 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

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 authors article on nar­cotic drugs in the British Journal of Addiction (see Appendix): “Convicts and sailors sometimes have re­course 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 convul­sive 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, where­upon 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.

We are walking down a long white hall . Benway’s voice drifts into my cosciusness from no partcular place . . . a disembodied voice taht is sometimes barely audible like music down a windy street. “Isolated groups like natives of Bismarck Archipelago . No overt homosexuality among them . God them 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 somebody 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 notwithstanding. . . Spot of bother there . Scalpel fight with a colleague in the operating room. And my baboon as­sistant leaped on the patient and tore him to pieces. Baboons always attack the weakest party in an alterca­tion. 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 pow­dered 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 non­payment, you can hear their screams for miles. When a