Oh! . . . OOOOOOOOOOOHH!” 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 mustv odor of penetrated rectums. . . . Diamonds and fur pieces, evening 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 veils: “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 Champagne . . . ’26. . . . Pierre, the Head Waiter, snatches up a boning knife. All three chase A. J. through the restaurant with mangled inhuman screams of rage. . . .
Tables overturn, vintage wines and matchless food crash to the floor.. . . Cries of “Lynch him!” ring through