Hassan’s Rumpus Room (reversed)

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Approving orgasms spring up in all directions. The Mugwump parts a silk curtain, revealing a teak wood gallows on a platform of Aztec slabs against a lighted screen of red quartz. The adolescent crumples to his knees with a long, terrified “Oooooh” and shits himself, the shit running down his legs. A wave of hot blood swells his throat and lips, his body curls up into a foetal position and the sperm spurts hot into his face. The Mugwump dips a few drops of perfumed water from an alabaster vase, pensively washes the child’s anus and genitals then dries him with a blue towel. A warm wind plays over the adolescent’s body, hairs dance softly. The Mugwump puts a hand under his chest and helps him up. Holding him by both pinioned elbows, he propels him onto the platform, grabs the noose on his way and stands in front of the boy.


The pungent protein smell of semen hangs over the room. For a long time the guests caress the adolescents, who squirm at the end of a rope, hanging onto their backs like vampires to suck them.

Tall, naked lifeguards carry steal lungs stuffed with young paralytics. Blind kids rise to the surface of huge cakes like moles, decrepit schizophrenics spring out of a rubber vulva, small, eczema-ridden boys emerge from a black pond where fish nonchalantly nibble on yellow turds that float mid-water.

A man with a plastron and white tie, naked from the waist down except for his black silk garters, converses with the Queen Bee in an affected voice. (These Queens are old women who surround themselves with pederasts to form a swarm. It is a sinister Mexican practice.) “But where is the statuary?” he asks out of the left corner of his mouth. The other half of his face is twisted by the Torture of a Thousand Mirrors. He masturbates frenetically. The Queen Bee notices nothing and continues the conversation.

Couches, armchairs, chairs, the floor itself – everything vibrates, turning the guests into trembling and blurry ghosts, shrieking in pale-in-ass agony.

Two good-for-nothings touch each other under a railroad bridge. The train judders through their bodies, makes them orgasm and fades, whistling in the distance. The frogs croak. The two good-for-nothings wipe the glimmering semen off their brown stomachs.

In a train compartment: two sickly, young junkies on their way to a renunciation treatment at Lexington Hospital take down each other’s trousers in convulsions of lust. One of them lathers himself with soap and sodomizes his buddy with a corkscrew motion. “Sweet Jeeeeeesus!” They burst together completely standing, move away from each other and pull up their pants.

– I know a croaker in Marshall who readily writes for opium tincture.

– Ouch, Doctor, it’s for my poor mama, her haemorrhoids are out and bleeding, begging for a crumb of black… Come on, Doctor, suppose it was your old mother whore-dancing with leeches rimming her from inside… Mama, stop shaking your pelvis, it’s so disgusting…


Hassan shrieks in rage: “This is your doing, A.J.! My party is ruined because of you!”

A.J. looks at him with eyes cold as limestone: “Go liquefy yourself, you ape.”

A horde of lust-mad American matrons rush in. Crotches bathed in sweat, they flush out of their various lairs, farm or dude ranch, factory, golf club or brothel, suburb or studio with terrace overlooking the park, motel and bar and yacht – they run and peel off jodhpurs, ski togs, evening dresses, blue jeans, tea gowns and print blouses, slacks and bikinis and kimonos. It all hoots and meows and yips, leaps on the guests like bitch dogs in heat with rabies, it claws and lacerates the hanged boys shrieking: “You bastard! You fag! Fuck! Come on, fuck! Are you going to fuck!”

The guests flee screaming in terror, dodge among the hanged and overturn the iron lungs on the floor.

A.J.: “Bring me my Swiss! Halberds out, God damn it! Rid me of these she-foxes!”


A.J.: “Shirkers! Pretenders! I’m done… Without Swiss I ain’t worth… Gentlemen, we are cornered! The honour of our penises is at stake… Action stations! Come on, Mister Hyslop, take out your long-sword, we will fend off the boardeling (???)!

A.J. whips out a long cutlass and decapitates the serial Girls while bawling out a pirate song in a drunken voice:


Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum…


Hyslop (sighing in resignation): Oh God! He’s at it again… (He waves the Jolly Roger listlessly.)