rass  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.
  SALVADOъ  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 INCOъPOъATED AND THE
  PAъTIES OF INTEъZONE

  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."
  "ъather 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   ъepublic  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 ъa  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....  ъeek
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
ъobert  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 ъobert,  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 ъobert,  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 ъobert 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.
  ъobert'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 ъobert  to protest.

  Sample Menu:
The Clear Camel Piss Soup with boiled Earth Worms

            The Filet of Sun-ъipened Sting ъay
  basted with Eau de Cologne and garnished with nettles

            The After-Birth Supreme de Boeuf,
            cooked in drained crank case oil,
     served with a piquant sauce of rotten egg yolks
                   and crushed bed bugs

    The Limburger Cheese sugar cured in diabetic orine
           doused in Canned Heat Flamboyant....

  So the clients are quietly dying of botulism.... Then
A. J. returns with an entourage of Arab refugees from
the Middle East. He takes one mouthful and screams:
  "Garbage  God  damn  it.  Cook this  wise citizen  in his
own swill!"

  And so the legend of A. J. the laughable, lovable ec-
centric grew and grew.... Fadeout to Venice....
Gondoliers singing and pathic cries swell up from San
Marco and Harry's.
  Charming old Venetian anecdote about this bridge,
it seems some Venetian sailors take a trip around the
world and all turn into fruits they fuck the cabin boy
already, so when they get back to Venice it is necessary
women walk over this bridge with their lungs hanging
out to arouse the desires of these dubious citizens. So
get a battalion of shock troops up to San Marco on the
double.
  "Girls, this is O.A.O., Operation All Out. If your tits
won't stop them bring up your cunts and confound
these faggots."
  "Oh Gertie it's true. It's all true. They've got a horrid
gash instead of a thrilling thing."
  "I can't face it."
  "Enough to turn a body to stone."
  Paul spoke wiser than he know being a really evil
old shit when he talk about men lying with men doing
that which is inconvenient. Inconvenient is the word.
So who want to trip over a cock on the way to a cunt,
and when a citizen get the yen to hump a gash, some
evil stranger rush in and do that which is inconvenient
to his ass.
  A. J. rush across San Marco slashing at pigeons with
a cutlass: "Bastards! Sons of bitches!" he screams....
He  staggers  aboard his  barge, a  monstrous construction
in gilt and pink and blue with sails of purple  velvet. He
is  dressed  in  a  preposterous  naval  uniform  covered
with braid  and ribbons  and medals,  dirty and  torn, the
coat  buttoned in  the wrong  holes.... A.  J. walks  to a
huge  reproduction  of  a  Greek  urn  topped  by  a  gold
statue  of a  boy with  an erection.  He twists  the boy's
balls and a  jet of  champagne spurts  into his  mouth. He
wipes his mouth and looks around.
 "Where are my Nubians, God damn it?" he yells.
 His  secretary  looks  up  from  a comic  book: "Juicing.
...Chasing cunt."
 "Goldbricking   cocksuckers.   Where's   a   man  without
his Nubians?"
 "Take a gondola whyncha?'
 "A gondola?" A.  J. screams.  "I put  out for  this cock-
sucker  I  should  ride  in  a  gondola already?  ъeef the
mainsail  and  ship  the  oars,  Mr. Hyslop....  I'm gonna
make with  the auxiliary."  Mr. Hyslop  shrugs resignedly.
With  one  finger  he  begins  punching  a switchboard....
The sails drop, the oars draw into the hull.
 "And  turn  on  the  perfume  whyncha?  The  canal stinks
up a breeze."
 "Gardenia? Sandlewood?'
 "Naw.  Ambrosia."  Mr.  Hyslop  presses   another  button
and  a  thick  cloud  of perfume  settles over  the barge.
A. J. is seized with a fit of coughing....
 "Make  with the  fans" he  yells. "I'm  suffocatin'!" Mr.
Hyslop  is  coughing  into  a  handkerchief. He  presses a
button. Fans whir  and thin  out the  ambrosia. A.  J. in-
stalls himself at the rudder on a raised  dais. "Contact!"
The  barge  begins  to  vibrate.  "Avanti,  God  damn it!"
A. J. yells and the barge takes off across  the canal  at a
tremendous  speed overturning  gondolas full  of tourists,
missing  the motoscafi  by inches,  veering from  one side
of  the  canal  to  the  other (the  wake washes  over the
sidewalks  drenching  passersby)  shattering  a   fleet  of
moored  gondolas,  and  finally piles  up against  a pier,
spins out into  the middle  of the  canal.... A  column of
water spurts six feet in the air from a hole in the hull.
  "Man  the  pumps,  Mr.  Hyslop.  She's  shipping water."
The barge gives  a sudden  lurch throwing  A. J.  into the
canal.
  "Abandon  ship,  God  damn  it!   Every  man   for  him-
self!" Fadeout to Mambo music.

  The  inauguration  of  Escuela Amigo,  a school  for de-
linquent  boys  of  Latin  American  origin,   endowed  by
A. J., Faculty Boys  and press  attending. A.  J. staggers
out onto a platform draped with American flags.
  "In  the  immortal  words  of  Father Flanagan  there is
no  such  thing  as  a bad  boy.... Where's  the statuary,
God damn it?"
  TECHNICIAN: "You want it now?"
  A. J.: "What  you think  I'm doing  here Furthucrisakes?
I should unveil the son of a bitch in abstentia?"
  TECHNICIAN:  "All  right...   All  right.   Coming  right
up."  The  statue  is towed  out by  a Graham  Hymie trac-
tor and placed in front of the platform.  A. J.  presses a
button.  Turbines start  under the  platform, rising  to a
deafening  whine.  Wind  blows  the  red velvet  drapes off
the  statue.  They  tangle around  the Faculty  members in
the  front  row....  Clouds  of   dust  and   debris  whip
through  the  spectators. The  sirens slowly  subside. The
Faculty  disengages  itself  from  the  drapes....  Every-
one is looking at the statue in breathless silence.
  FATHEъ GONZALEZ: "Mother of God!"
  THE MAN From Time: "I don't believe it."
  Daily News: "It's nothing but fruity."
  Chorus of whistles from the boys.
  A  monumental creation  in shiny  pink stone  stands re-
vealed as the dust settles.  A naked  boy is  bending over
a  sleeping  comrade  with  evident  intention   to  waken
him  with  a  flute.  One  hand  is  holding the  flute, the
other  reaching  for  a  piece  of  cloth draped  over the
sleeper's  middle.  The  cloth  bulges  suggestively. Both
boys wear a flower behind the ear,  identical expressions,
dreamy  and  brutal,  depraved  and  innocent.  This crea-
tions tops a limestone  pyramid on  which is  inscribed in
letters of porcelain mosaic -- pink and blue and gold -- the
school motto: "With it and for it."
  A.  J.  lurches  forward and  breaks a  champagne bottle
across the boy's taut buttocks.
  "And  remember,  boys,  that's  where   champagne  comes
from."

  Manhattan  Serenade.  A.  J.  and  entourage  start into
New  York  night  club.  A. J.  is leading  a purple-assed
baboon  on  a  gold  chain.  A. J.  is dressed  in checked
linen plus fours with a cashmere jacket.
  MANAGEъ:  "Wait   a  minute.   Wait  a   minute.  What's
that?'
  A. J.: "It's an  Illyrian poodle.  Choicest beast  a man
can latch onto. It'll raise the tone of your trap."
  MANAGEъ:  "I  suspect  it  to  be a  purple-assed baboon
and it stands outside."
  STOOGE:  "Don't you  know who  this is?  It's A.  J., last
of the big time spenders."
  MANAGEъ:   "Leave  him   take  his   purple-assed  bastard
and big time spend some place else."
  A. J. stops in front of another club and looks  in. "Ele-
gant  fags  and  old  cunts, God  damn it!  We come  to the
right place. Avanti, ragazzit"
  He  drives a  gold stake  into the  floor and  pickets the
baboon.  He begins  talking in  elegant tones,  his stooges
filling in.
  "Fantastic!"
  "Monstrous!"
  "Utter heaven1"
  A.  J. puts  a long  cigarette holder  in his  mouth. The
holder  is  made  of  some  obscenely flexible  material. It
swings  and   undulates  as   if  endowed   with  loathsome
reptilian life.
  A.  J.:  "So  there  I was  Hat on  my stomach  at thirty
thousand feet."
  Several  nearby  fags  raise  their  heads  like  animals
scenting danger. A. J. leaps to his feet with  an inarticu-
late snarl.
  "You  purple-assed cocksucker!"  he screams.  "I'll teach
you to shit  on the  floor!" He  pulls a  whip from  his um-
brella  and  cuts  the  baboon across  the ass.  The baboon
screams and tears  loose the  stake. He  leaps on  the next
table  and  climbs  up  an  old  woman  who  dies  of heart
failure on the spot.
  A. J.: "Sorry, lady. Discipline you know."
  In  a  frenzy  he  whips  the  baboon  from  one  end  of
the  bar  to the  other. The  baboon, screaming  and snarl-
ing  and  shitting  with terror,  climbs over  the clients,
runs up  and down  on top  of the  bar, swings  from drapes
and chandeliers....
  A. J.: "You'll straighten up and shit right or  you won't
be inna condition to shit one way or the other."
  STOOGE:  "You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of   yourself  up-
settin' A. J. after all he's done for you."
  A. J.:  "Ingrates! Every  one of  them ingrates!  Take it
from an old queen."

  Of course no one believes this cover story. A.  J. claims
to  be  an  "independent,"  which  is  to  say:  "Mind your
own  business."  There  are   no  independents   any  more.
... The  Zone  swarms  with  every  variety  of   dupe  but
there are no neutrals there. A neutral at A. J.'s  level is
of course unthinkable....
  Hassan  is  a  notorious  Liquefactionist and  suspect to
be a secret Sender -- "Shucks,  boys," he  says with  a dis-
arming pin, "I'm  just a  blooming old  cancer and  I gotta
proliferate."  He  picks  up  a  Texas  accent  associating
with  Dry  Hole  Dutton,  the  Dallas  wildcatter,  and  he
wears  cowboy  boots and  ten-gallon hat  at all  times in-
doors  and  out....  His  eyes  are invisible  behind black
glasses, his face  smooth and  blank as  wax above  a well-
cut  suit  made