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Fucker

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, exposing the repetition of image. X lived in 18th century France in a small village outside of Paris. Every weekend, he would, with his saved weakly earnings, go into the big city and look for fun. There was always beauty in the city. There was always fun.

Y lived in a small city in France, just outside of Paris. Every weekend he would, with his saved weakly earnings, go into the big city and look for something to do. There was always something to do in the city. There was always fun.

Paris was, like any American city, empty and burned down. Poverty had set in, leaving nothing but minorities, violence, and drugs to ravage the streets. These drugs, minorities, were empty except for money. There was no money in the big city, this weekend. This desert of tenement housing, crack houses, waste-land of industry. There was no time in this shell of history. It was, like a schizoid nightmare, streetcorner after streetcorner of keep walking or you might get shot. It was the east-side, west-side, north-side, and south-side. It was that place, the one where your mother told you never to go after midnight. It was that place, the one where you knew you shouldn't be but only excitement could be found here, there, and everywhere. It was this place, this minority (Fucking niggers) ridden drug palace where, with a sawed of shotgun and a 22 ounce of Mickeys, drugs, sex, and beauty lived. But, I am being too harsh. I am painting an unfair picture. There is enough pain in the world already (Fucking niggers). I, X, should not add to this dilemma.

When we first brought them over on the boats, get 'em back on the boats and put 'em out to sea, they were beautiful. Chains are the symbol of mans return to nature. Torture is the belief that all men are created equal. There is no inequality in beauty--nature is a neutral pacifist with only god as her witness. So when we first brought 'em over, our French indentured servants, to live in Paris and work, money and drugs (Fucking niggers), we never knew that, like all American cities, Y would be looking for fun in the big city this weekend.

Fun in the Big City:

The Nigger and the Spic were walking down the street. The Nigger turns to the Spic and says, "What's the difference between a faggot and a microwave?" The Spic doesn't answer because it doesn't speak any English (Fucking niggers). The nigger says, "pizza doesn't scream when you put it in the oven."

[Y speaks] "I am only the voice of quotations. This is not real. I am only living in this world because god, who is he and what has he done?, is not living in the cell of himself but that of the past. I will spill the beans, telling you, X--the man of my dreams, the story of Z. Z was a person, much like you or me, who was loved very much by his parents. In his family, is origin, the original state of being, the time of death, the trial and the error, the method of surviving and falling, always falling (I want to die, X. I want to die/live/death). The end"

[X speaks] "We three kings of orient are. Like musketeers, fighting the plague of damnation a threat. I go see my barber who is gay and he tells me that I, X!, need to unwind. He says I need to have a little fun. He says that I need to understand my suffering no more in order to stop suffering. My barber, who is gay, tells me that I am, indeed, ruining my life. I cannot feel my anger when it is angry. I become self destructive."

Contrastive Analysis of French and English:

"I never spoke French, " X.

"I never spoke English," Y.

Z--They are involved in an intricate mating ritual. First it is small, this talk. Then, as time proceeds, things become larger, exploding into tolerance, faith, ambiguity, and simplicity. The devil, the incarnation of delineation, recedes. Recession is an economic problem (Fucking niggers) that has the world in its grip:

"I never sucked a cock before," X.

"I have," Y.

Z--Each one, cock on cock, faggot on faggot, death on death, sliding into mouth and again into mouth, back out--slurping noise of saliva breath. One must be careful not to gag. And down--into the depth of hair, umbrant red pubic delight (I am thinking of my therapist, X)--Irish cock, like the famine that never was. Into over and over--pace of speed rejects time space continuum. Pushing into further--fuck hate. Grudge fucking (niggers).

[X speaks] "This is how, my gay barber tells me, to unwind. I don't understand what is happening to me because I am in denial. I am hiding in shame, the eye of the storm, until it passes and, when the coast is clear, I will rise like the phoenix from the flame and re-embrace the dawn. Until then, I will suffering wait and wait until the morning, just call me angel of the morning. When I see the sun, little darling--it's all right. I tell myself I am beautiful but I know that all of this is only happening because I hate myself. I think about my parents. They don't mean anything to me anymore because in order for me to live, I am not that interesting of a person to construct an entire novel out of anyway, I need to give them up. I need to stop being part of my family, who I am and what I have become. I need to become another person."

[Y speaks] "I never ate pussy before"

[X speaks] "I have. watch:"

Z--Each one, grabbed by the legs in the air (I can feel the heat of the night numbing out the silence of your pause), flesh on flesh on breasts. Nipples, hard and erect, brushing against nipples singing, "sex is love and love is sex and only in love is sex worth living." Pushing further into fuck hate, grudge fucking (faggots).

Paris is, like any American city, enmeshed in the ravages of the plague. It was the twentieth century version of small pox, the black plague, typhoid. It was killing, one by one, off the people. The voice of television said, "And we remember the times when men were men, women were women, and all was right in the world. And then you were born."

Teach us that we are not important enough (Because I am nothing I sing this song for you) to be responsible for the worlds problems, events, blisses, and glory. When X would fuck up it was Y's fault. When glory would slap X in the face, it had nothing to do with Y. It was X's only way to remove himself from his own living and realize that she was, indeed, powerless over drugs and sex. Money and booze. S and M. Living and Dying. She was defenseless, like a third world nation. Economics were about people, not about commodities are skin. She remembered the voice of another running through her head--I won't remember, Y. I won't remember.

Paris, like any American city, separated the men from the boys, the black from the whites, the Greeks from the Italians, and the Spics from the sand niggers (fucking niggers). Paris, in history--hear a tale. Paris, land of the vampire. Paris. It is Victorian times, in this day and age. Victory. In the land of the blind, even the hearing impaired have rights!.

They move to New York:

New York, like any European city (Wasn't that a predictable trick?), was empty. Currency left the streets littered with feces and flesh. Junkies piled on top of junkies for free housing and--I am adding fuel to the flame. The fire takes me higher. This is New York.

[X speaks] "I don't remember myself best when I am here"

[Y speaks] "I remember it well."

[Z speaks] "I cannot talk because I am the narration. I am not, in point of fact, a character in this story aside from the twisting and pointless, even hard to follow, plot. Therefore, this is no sense."

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