Cocks ejaculate in silent “yes.” The Mugwump parts silk curtains, reveals a teak wood gallows against lighted screen of red flint. Gallows is on a dais of plastic mosaics.
The boy crumples to his knees with a long “OOOOOOOOH,” shitting and pissing in terror. He feels the shit warm between his thighs. A great wave of hot blood swell his lips and throat. His body contracts into a foetal position and sperm spurts hot into his face. The Mugwump dips hot perfumed water from alabaster bowl, pensively washes the boy’s ass and cock, drying him with a soft blue towel. A warm wind plays over the boy’s body and the hairs float free. The Mugwump puts a hand under the boy’s chest and pulls him to his feet. Holding him by both pinioned elbows, propels him up the steps and under the noose. He stands in front of the boy holding the noose in both hands.
Sharp protein odor of semen fills the air. The guests run hands over twitching boys, suck their cocks, hang on their backs like vampires.
Naked lifeguards carry in iron lungs full of paralyzed youths.
Blind boys grope out of huge pies, deteriorated schizophrenics pop from a rubber cunt, boys with horrible skin diseases rise from a black pond (sluggish fish nibble yellow turds on the surface).
A man with white tie and dress shirt, naked from the waist down except for black garters, talks to the Queen Bee in elegant tones. (Queen Bees are old women who surround themselves with fairies to form a “swarm.” It is a sinister Mexican practice.)
“But where is the statuary?” He talks out of one side of his face, the other is twisted by the Torture of a Million Mirrors. He masturbates wildly. The Queen Bee continues the conversation, notices nothing.
Couches, chairs, the whole floor begins to vibrate, shaking the guests to blurred grey ghosts shrieking in cock-bound agony.
Two boys jacking off under railroad bridge. The train shakes through their bodies, ejaculates them, fades with distant whistle. Frogs croak. The boys wash semen off lean brown stomachs.
Train compartment: two sick young junkies on their way to Lexington tear their pants down in convulsions of lust. One of them soaps his cock and works it up the other’s ass with a corkscrew motion. “Jeeeeeeeeeeeeeesus!” Both ejaculate at once standing up. They move away from each other and pull up their pants.
“Old croaker in Marshall writes for tincture and sweet oil.”
“The piles of an aged mother shriek out raw and bleeding for the Black Shit…Doc, suppose it was your mother, rimmed by resident leeches, squirming around so nasty…De-active that pelvis, Mom, you disgust me already.”
Hassan shrieks out: “This is your doing, A.J.! You poopa my party!”
A.J. looks at him, face remote as limestone: “Uppa your ass, you liquefying gook.”
A horde of lust-mad American women rush in. Dripping cunts, from farm and dude ranch, factory, brothel, country-club, penthouse in suburb, motel and yacht and cocktail bar, strip off riding clothes, ski togs, evening dresses, Levis, tea gowns, print dresses, slacks, bathing suits and kimonos. They scream and yip and howl, leap on the guests like bitch dogs in heat with rabies. They claw at the hanged boys shrieking: “You fairy! You bastard! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!” The guests flee screaming, dodge among the hanged boys, overturn iron lungs.
A.J.: “Call out my Sweitzers, God damn it! Guard me from these she-foxes!”
A.J.: “Gold-bricking cocksuckers! Where’s a man without his Sweitzers? Our backs are to the wall, gentlemen. Our very cocks at stake. Stand by to resist boarders, Mr. Hyslop, and issue short arms to the men.”
A.J. whips out a cutlass and begins decapitating the American Girls. He sings lustily:
Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest
Yo Ho Ho and a bottle of rum.
Drink and the Devil had done for the rest
Yo Ho Ho and a bottle of rum.
Mr. Hyslop, bored and resigned: “Oh Gawd! He’s at it again.” He waves the Jolly Roger listlessly.