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Фантастика. Фэнтези
   Зарубежная фантастика
      Вильям Берроуз. Голый завтрак (engl) -
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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

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