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Фантастика. Фэнтези
   Зарубежная фантастика
      Вильям Берроуз. Голый завтрак (engl) -
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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. ъeal 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. ъider- 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 ъoad- 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..." Dъ. BEъGEъ: "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!..." AъTISTIC ADVISEъ (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...." BEъGEъ (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...." BEъGEъ: "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.' ъemember?" BEъGEъ: "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?" BEъGEъ (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 ъobin?... 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." PAъTY LEADEъ (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." PъOFESSOъ: "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. ъeally, 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 ъed ъiver 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.... ъiot 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. CHOъUS OF FAGS: "We'll all be raped. I know it, I know it." They rush into a drugstore and buy a case of KY. PAъTY LEADEъ (holding up his hand dramatically): "The voice of the People." Pearson the Money Changeling comes acropping the short g

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