Latin American Literature

[pugetopolis]

"I wrote their faces into the pages I was then doing. They are by no means "portraits" in any sense of the word. Nobody is ever a "portrait" in any of my novels. Neither is a depicted physical space--a house, say, or a brothel--a replica of reality. But the way my imagination works is to pick out an emotionally charged person or space from reality, plant it in the place I need it in my imagination, and then train my imagination over as if it were a creeper, and the "real" person or space only a tutor: the tutor eventually becomes smothered by the creeper and doesn't show at all, but there, beneath the leaves, it holds the whole thing together. I'd say, pretty sure not to be wrong, that this tutor-creeper method is what I've used in most of my books. In most cases I've forgotten what or who the original tutor was. In the case of Iris Mateluna, for instance, the "tutor" was a girl I saw one evening in a back street in Santiago during no more than a minute as she passed by. My Iris Mateluna is surely very different from what that girl was, though to write about her, even to contradict her, I had to plant her image, that tutor, in my mind."

--A Small Biography of The Obscene Bird of Night (Donoso in RCF, Fall '99)

http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_hb3544/is_3_19/ai_n28751976/pg_6/?tag=content;col1

[pugetopolis]

“…it sends shivers
up my spine just to
think about him”
—Jose Donoso,
The Obscene Bird of Night

http://books.google.com/books?id=nj1ii72MdtgC&printsec=frontcover&dq=Jose+Donoso&hl=en&ei=KjQjTP3tBty1nAfP9rkm&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=5&ved=0CDkQ6AEwBA#v=onepage&q=Jose%20Donoso&f=false

[pugetopolis]

Queering Bunuel: Sexual Dissidence and Psychoanalysis in his Mexican and Spanish Cinema by Julian Daniel Gutierrez-Albilla

“As the father of cinematic Surrealism, extensive critical attention has been devoted to Luis Buñuel’s cinema. Much has been written about his first Surrealist films of the 1920s and 1930s and the French art movies of the 1960s and 1970s. However, here for the first time is a queer re-reading of Buñuel’s Spanish-language films allowing us to view Buñuel’s cinema through a lens of queer spectatorship. Focusing on the films Buñuel produced in Mexico and Spain during the 1950s and 1960s, Julián Daniel Gutiérrez-Albilla argues not that Buñuel’s films have a homosexual subplot, but that there are multiple forms of identity, subjectivity and sexuality present in these films."

"Queering Buñuel brings together the fields of film studies, feminist and queer theory, Hispanic studies, psychoanalysis and art theory. Gutiérrez-Albilla succeeds in reconceptualizing Buñuel’s Mexican and Spanish films beyond geographical, historical and disciplinary boundaries, questioning not just how we see Buñuel, but also how we see cinema.”

http://www.amazon.com/Queering-Bunuel-Dissidence-Psychoanalysis-Association/dp/1845116682/ref=sr_1_33?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1277505894&sr=1-33#noop

[nnyhav]

Odd, I don't recall mentioning Mr. Waggish confusing Donoso with Buñuel ... but that's obscure, if not obscene ...

[pugetopolis]

Notes on Bolaño, Buñuel & Donoso

Odd, I don't recall mentioning Mr. Waggish confusing Donoso with Buñuel ... but that's obscure, if not obscene ...

“Until the Fourth Reich in
Argentina published two
of his books, more than
thirty years after his death,
the life and works of Jesús
Fernández-Gómerez
remained entirely obscure.”
—Roberto Bolaño, Nazi
Literature in the Americas

I too am somewhat guilty of conflating “That Obscene Bird of Night,” with a Luis Buñuel film. But not Buñuel’s “That Obscure Object of Desire.”

Rather it’s with another film, starring Fernando Rey’s young handsome very well-endowed porno-star son who frequented the X-rated gay films awhile ago. He was stunningly handsome like undoubtedly his father was back in his early twenties. Worth dying for, as they say.

I enjoyed very much Donoso playing up Humberto’s “authorship” of Boy’s reality—and severing the Boy’s lineage from reality with multiple characters and plot points being continually ignored and rewritten.

Donoso reminds me of Roberto Bolaño and his “Nazi Literature in the Americas”—bringing back characters from the dead offering cubist views on the history of South American literature.

Even tho both Bolaño and Donoso are writing about the annihilation of memory through imagination—I sometimes hesitate to write the same way about gay Amerikan magic realism the way I do. For about a minute, that is…

Bolaño’s combining and intermixing ersatz Nazi South American author-characters segues rather nicely with my own modest interests in modern Sci-Fi dystopian plotlines in the news lately.

Such as doing a Tokugawa sci-fi shogunate analogue—on recent BP Gulf of Mexico oil spill developments. Mushrooming into rather apocalyptic dimensions with Alex ploughing into that mess.

[pugetopolis]

Twilight Saga—Eclipse (2010)

“Don Jerónimo and I
left for the capital on
the following day.”
—Jose Donoso, The
Obscene Bird of Night

Bella bays at the moon…

“That girl won’t let me sleep,” Jacob whines…

Taylor Lautner plays moody Jacob Black. And Kristen Stewart plays cloying Bella Swan.

Bella’s greedy—she wants it both ways. She’s in love with sullen Edward Cullen the bedroom-eyed skanky vampire—played by Robert Pattinson.

But she also gots da hots—for those werewolf boyz dontchaknow. She wants to suck & fuck both ways—what a greedy bitch. In between lays, she moans and groans. She pouts for penis—she howls at the moon.

That’s what she’s doin’ tonight—outside Jacob’s window.

“…I guess I’m just gonna have to chase her way.”

Jerónimo his lover yawns—turns over in bed. He could care less—they’d had a long night of rough trade werewolf-boy sex. He was drained dry—even the full moon couldn’t get him up anymore.

The horny bitch outside the window—runs back and forth. Whining and talking to the moon—as if the fuckin’ moon heard what she said. As if the moon—were an accomplice to what she wanted to do.

Then she scampers under Jacob’s window—settles down to bay some more. She’s unbearable—she doesn’t give up. Jacob can’t sleep.

It use to be he could just lie there—and listen to the silence of the night. When he couldn’t sleep—he would lie there in bed after sex with Jerónimo. And drift off to sleep—listening to the heavy forest silence out there.

It was heavy—because it was so thick out there. Thick with rotting trees and dying stumps—little spiders, termites, beetles worming their lives into the bushes and gnarled trees decaying out there. It was all a part of him—just like a minor little leaf out there in the cyclopean cyclonic darkness. Getting devoured—and annihilated by thousands of tiny teeth. He’d grind his fangs—just listening to it.

Each fallen leaf, each twisted twig—immediately attacked, covered with greedy hungry mandibles and mouths, devoured in a matter of minutes or hours. Thousands of generations of starved, famished bugs—burrowing tunnels into trunks of trees, oozing stinkin’ spittle, spreading the rusty blotch of nature’s pestilence and petulance throughout the vast deep wet rainforest. It was alive—it was hungry.

But the bitch plants herself under his window—and lets out another howl at the moon. Jacob gets outta bed—his boner tight up against his stomach. Jerónimo reaches for it—not wanting him to go. But Jacob snarls—he’s already morphing into Wolfboy.

“I’ll have to chase her away.”

He savagely ties the belt on his dressing gown—knowing what he has to do.

“I’m gonna sick the new wolfboyz on her,” he snarled.

Jerónimo yawns—he could give a shit.

Jacob lights a cigarette—slides open the balcony door. He whistles to the four black wolves. Naturally, that’s why Kristen remains at large—because the wolfboyz, four brand-new teen werewolves, are kept locked up there in the patio. Slumbering under the tall poplar trees—swaying beneath the full moon.

The young black teen wolves obey. They come out of the shadows—all stealthy, alert and alive. Their fangs unsheathed and ready to get down to serious business.

The flowerbed quivers in fear—as their soft paws cross thru the terrified tulips. The lawn beyond the gate—that’s where Kristen is still howling beneath Jacob’s window. They sniff the air—smell her scent. She’s doomed—but doesn’t know it yet.

Kristen cranes her neck—aiming her pointed snout at the midnight full moon. Everything around her hesitates—the things that grow and rustle and crawl and reproduce.

They all stop their nameless insectoid chatter—as the four werewolves start their own howl. Soft and plaintive at first—turning into an indecipherable male message. Jacob cuts it short and shuts them up.

He opens the gate—points to the bitch. He snaps his fingers once—and the young werewolves lunge for her. Kristen turns her head—too late tho to escape.

It only takes a second—there’s a jumble of snarls, slaver and bloody saliva. All paws, claws, blood dirt—it makes the hair on the back of Jacob’s neck get erect.

He has to catch himself—from shifting into young werewolf instinctual snarl. He holds himself back—soon it’s all over. It’s hard tho—for him to stay human. Once it starts—not even Maria Alexeevna Ouspenskaya can hold him back.

He lets them howl at the moon—the accomplice moon and their bloody murder show. The insects, the bugs and the worms of the dark forest—get ready to feast again. This time on—fresh pussy du jour.

[Elporteñito]

Hi everybody I'm back, formerly fetuciniconalio and fasulouno and bocajuiors at the old NYT forum, and then elportenito1 around this neighbourhood, I'm back with "eñe" as it should be, as Elporteñito, for El Porteñito.


Regards to martinbeck,who by now should be older than Saramago.

Salu' la barra!!!

[nnyhav]

Welcome back, slicknoodle!

[pugetopolis]

Regards to martinbeck,who by now should be older than Saramago.

“Latins are tenderly
enthusiastic. In Brazil
they throw flowers at
you. In Argentina they
throw themselves.”
—Marlene Dietrich

 

[pugetopolis]

I’ve been perusing José Donoso, “The obscene bird of night” online with the Google books device:

http://books.google.com/books?id=nj1ii72MdtgC&pg=PA177&dq=Donoso++Humberto+obscene+bird+of+night&hl=en&ei=GkwsTKzmAoOClAeWwYn4CQ&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=1&ved=0CCsQ6AEwAA#v=onepage&q=Boy&f=false

What a rather long & well-endowed link!

Anyway, I’ve been enjoying Donoso’s sense of humor—somewhat darker and more sullen than most of the Fabulists. Such as this passage:

“As he grew, Boy was to recognize his own perfection in the Apollo’s, and his sexual instincts, on awakening, would discover the Huntress Diana’s figure, or a Venus pitted by smallpox who had a rear end of fantastic proportions that was ruined by cellulites, who romped suggestively in a cavern of ivy.”—page 188

[pugetopolis]

Notes on Bolaño, Buñuel & Donoso II

They say magic realism & fabulist lit is passé and outdated now—although watching FOX-News one sometimes wonders. The BP Gulf of Mexico fantasma and Afghani expedition both seem so unreal—or rather disturbingly, frighteningly fabulismo overly real?

On the other hand, reading LRB is somewhat more refreshing—their critical take on passing literary genres more, maybe less germane, I suppose. Although one wonders—just how linear on can get with a style so slanted and subterranean as fabulist lit.

I’m reminded of an earlier discussion we had on  how Borges translated Faulkner’s Wild Palms deeper into the realms of nascent magic realism very early in the game—setting the stage for other SA writers to imitate and further that style more completely.

http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_6753/is_1_24/ai_n42473932/ 

Even if, one translates Wild Palms—tweaking the text as Borges did with Faulkner at certain crucial points about ‘temporal conjectures’—even so, translation and lit crit commentary seems to me to be somewhat one-step removed from the real thing; if there is such a thing as ‘fabulist realism’ that is, of course. But then, how to make it real textually on the page? Like Wild Palms—rather than LRB?

To pick up a book and read it—or ogle at the text on a screen at night with Google is one thing it seems to me. Whether it’s a paperback or an iPad text. But to be taken in by an author such as Borges and later done by Donoso in The Obscene Bird of Night, well, then…

Theo Tait in “Flame-Broiled Whopper,” LRB, 6 October 2005, looks at magic realism this way:

“With time and overuse, artistic style degenerates into mannerism. This is especially true of magic realism. Following the success of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, a flood of semi-supernatural sagas was released all over the world—full of omens, prodigies, legendary feats, hallucinatory exaggerations, fairy-tale motifs, strange coincidences…”

Tait goes on to say that: “Wonder and novelty were always an important part of its appeal, so the style had a built-in obsolescence… the decline into artificial gesture and cheap exoticism was inevitable… especially when British writers imitated South Americans…”

Speaking of “flame-broiled”—Tait is just beginning to warm-up his Borges Barbeque:

“The other problem with the style is its tendency to degenerate into a cosy and narrowly illustrative form of fiction—a sort of politically correct fairytale. Again, this is especially true of its Anglophone variations…”

And so forth, as Tait opines about Rushdie’s Shalimar the Clown—and the “deservedly out of fashion” magic realism today.

Which seems rather misplaced, if I’m correct, in that it was Faulkner’s Wild Palms insight that perhaps got the whole fabulist agenda going in the first place—his strange Yoknapatawpha ponderings about time translated by Borges into multiple tricky realities?

Tait admits that Rushdie’s first two novels succeed at “the big political picture and the telling individual detail” in different ways. Midnight’s Children (1981) about his Bombay childhood—told as ‘autobiography re-experienced as fairytale’. And Shame (1983)—“baggy and prodigious” but still anchored in subjects Rushdie knew intimately. Thus fusing and creating character and subject—design and detail.

How to tell the big political story and re-tell it intimately like an autobiography—that’s quite a feat for any author to be successful at. Perhaps another way of doing it would be in surrealist snippets here and there—like an off-the-cuff fake film review like “Twilight Saga—Eclipse (2010).”

Or maybe an ersatz irrational take-off of some random fragment sequence in Donoso’s The Obscene Bird of Night. Call it maybe something like “Confessions of a Monster”—a ho-hum quickie imitation one might do when one’s bored with the news.

[nnyhav]

I am reminded that the only Pontiero translation of Saramago I have yet to read is The Stone Raft, which I've just learned features the Hotel Borges ...

... anyway, there's something very meta going on in Donoso. RTWT.

PS consideration of Borges' poetry features in latest LRB, sadly, onlyne subscripted (but the URI's apropos) ... a bito'fair use:

In another sonnet there is a fine evocation of a child lost in a library which in turn is lost in an adult’s memory. It’s the library where the child read Don Quixote, and the speaker of the poem knows something is buried there,

en esa biblioteca del pasado
en que leí la historia del hidalgo.
Las lentas hojas vuelve un niño y grave
sueña con vagas cosas que no sabe.

in that library of the past
in which I read the story of that knight.
The slow leaves now recall a solemn child
who dreams vague things he does not understand.

Alastair Reid, in his translation, reverses the grammar and makes the child the object rather than the subject of the sentence, which also works, but loses the delicacy in the idea of the child turning the slow pages. Volver is not the usual verb for this action, so he seems to be both turning the pages and returning to them. Life has vanished into a book, and the book and its old library are both gone.

[pugetopolis]

... anyway, there's something very meta going on in Donoso. RTWT.

I plan to read the whole novel. I’ve read two large meta-chunks so far—as I’ve mentioned with Google.

But Donoso’s writing is so rich that I can only read so much. I take long copious, some say seminal, notes—not like the esteemed LRB critics tho.

When I read a meta-text—my notes are meta-notes. And my meta-notes are usually what I post on Snarke. Because you are here tho—I am here too.

[pugetopolis]

"I wrote their faces into the pages I was then doing. But the way my imagination works is to pick out an emotionally charged person or space from reality, plant it in the place I need it in my imagination, and then train my imagination over as if it were a creeper, and the "real" person or space only a tutor: I'd say, pretty sure not to be wrong, that this tutor-creeper method is what I've used in most of my books.—A Small Biography of The Obscene Bird of Night (Donoso in RCF, Fall '99)

http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_hb3544/is_3_19/ai_n28751976/pg_6/?tag=content;col1

[pugetopolis]

Confessions of a Monster

“Nothing was to stir a
longing in his son for—
what he was never to know.”
—José Donoso, The Obscene Bird
of Night

The hacienda was converted into a sleek, sealed Frankenstein laboratory—a series of empty rooms, corridors and passageways. Cast out into the limbo of Saturn’s slowly revolving rings—not far from Titan the rebel android homebase planetoid moon.

There amidst a garden world of grotesque bougainvilleas, sickly pale-blue hydrangeas, drooping poisonous lilies and perfectly classic gnarled magnolias loaded perennially with evil odiferous blooms—that’s where Boy would grow up.

His monstrous unnatural exuberance unhindered by filthy human eyes—except for humpbacked Emperatriz his Huntress Diana special nurse. And the usual telescreen voyeurs…on YouTube and Netflix.

Emperatriz had been especially designed with Don Jerónimo’s stipulations—an acromegalic jaw, crooked legs, carrying a ingrown douchebag on her quivering hump and the full moon cratering her ancient wrinkled pussy.

The Boy himself had been grown in a vat of rare retro-engineered seminal fluids—lovingly milked from the protesting loins of hundreds of young virile Martian marines captured during the fickle Exxon Revolt. Captured, tortured, milked, then deep-frozen for later organ transplants sent to TPTB Earthside.

The Boy was conceived as a nude Apollo—in the likeness of the future adolescent Boy’s obscene monstrous hunchbacked body. With the usual other exquisite features like—gargoyle nose & jaw, asymmetrical pointed ears, peach-fuzz harelip, disproportionate arms…

And last but not least—the Boy’s enormously obscene sex organ which from the cradle drew ohs and ahs of admiration from all the nurses & FOX-News bubbleheads. It had a mind of its own—with an otherworldly telepathic awareness of anything resembling pussy coming close to it. It’s clairvoyant Klingon awareness—so tenderly cloying sensing stellar snatch even light-years distantly away.

As he grew, Boy was to recognize his own perfection in the mirror—as nothing but pure Apollo male beauty. He was given android-angelic fledgling wings to enhance such an illusion—leading him to believe that he was truly god’s gift to man: an ungodly-winged dick with only one purpose in life.

To celebrate his sexual instincts, his adolescent awakening to the facts of life, it was decided that he would truly become an obscene bird of the galactic night. No matter how ugly, mean or ignoble it got—no matter how monstrous and antithetical to the significance of normal solar system earthboy beauty he became. He was to be the Boy—it would be as if he were truly the god’s ultimate android gift to mankind

And he was, of course, to his sugar daddy creator—Don Jerónimo de Azcoitía. Such an exquisite android monstrosity had its own unique beauty—especially as the Boy oozed his way into monstrous replicant adolescence.

Don Jerónimo was not your normal clammy James Whale Count Frankenstein creator either—creaming in his lab-coat and leaning back against the cold stainless steel operating table like Colin Clive down in some dingy Transylvanian dungeon laboratory.

Ejaculating helplessly with the well-known tacky refrain—“It’s ALIVE, it’s fuckin’ ALIVE!!!” Don Jerónimo was much more like a decadent, sophisticated, faggy Dr. Pretorious—with a gimpy eye out for creating young well-hung male monsters of the living dead. A descendent of the evil Tyrell Corporation Nexus queen—Dr. Eldon Tyrell himself.

His greasy fingers dripping with squirming virile stem cells—his lips dripping with the seminal slithering slobbering fluids of dozens of rough trade young gangsters and AWOL sailorboyz abducted on the run. Don Jerónimo was a connoisseur of such desperate cheap white trash runaways—with an unnatural bent toward size queen slavish attentions and overly-endowed young Godzilla groins.

Don Jerónimo had delegated his Igor Secretary, Humberto Peñaloza, to search all the cities, moons, planets, districts, ports, mines—for handsome young men worthy of populating the Boy’s seminal physique and gargoylesque genetic makeup. These types of well-hung young male humans—had a tendency to hide away, secluding the shame of their monstrous endowments in miserable out-of-the-way places.

Humberto Peñaloza had long ago become an expert at smelling out these young monsters—in certain dirty Ganymede gymnasiums and various off-beat spaceship T-rooms, for example. He had a nose for smelling them out—those big skanky Nightcrawlers of the Neptune Night. The ones with severe and noteworthy grotesque proportions—and elongated convict torsos tattooed with lush hickies in the night.

Even without the fabulous salary Don Jerónimo gave him—Humberto was tempted from time to time to stalk and prey thru various houses of male prostitution and circus sideshows in miscellaneous squalid planetoids. Searching out and recruiting teenage dwarfs and exquisite pushy pinheads—creatures with simply huge male organs.

Ones with enormous pricks—and unimaginable muscular legs. High-pitched Uranian half-boyz—with avaricious, proud, clairvoyant cocks. They could be had—they were dime a dozen. All one had to do was grease their greedy palms—with a solar C-note or some stolen Venusian pearls.

Humberto discovered the only known Neptunian Negroid huge spectacular walking Squid with legs—which wobbled as it walked and did an obscene vaudeville act for the young Space Cadets masturbating in the aisles. It would appear on stage exhibiting itself in a tiny lavender sequined bikini—dancing to the ancient tunes of Lady Gaga in the sawdust of some louche miserable asteroid circus ring or casino act. The Martian rubes gawked—the Pluto bumpkins getting off in the back of dreary douchedroid discos.
 
At night, when the really gigantic monsters came out of their lairs to cruise the empty Titan parks at the city’s edge—Humberto would be there on the lookout for any obscenely deformed male creatures of low intelligence. Alligator boyz cloned from breeder lizard labs—usually grown and then stripped of their nice soft smooth skins for swank skanky alligator shoes and luggage often meandered about late at night more dead than alive. But still available…

And, of course, there were all the other otherworldly fantastic specimens hanging around the various louche Bijou badboyz bathrooms—in the secluded stalls clotted with solid-vanilla cum and scrambled runny egg-yolks. Monstrous young males—with yellowed teeth jamming the glory-holes and awkward Penguin Boyz with ears like bat wings who waddled and winked from one movie house to another.

Albino boyz with twisted noses and kunt-lips of unsurpassed ugliness—raising themselves to special noble categories of wrathful wench-like juvenile delinquents worthy of being deflowered and dewormed properly. Oh the derelicts of unsurpassed beautiful young male ugliness—that Humberto had diligently searched out for his always expectant Master there in his louche Laboratory of forbidden love and sick romance.

Rumors spread throughout the 9 worlds—so that after awhile Humberto didn’t have to plunge out into the usual planetary dives in search of the young male monstrous seminal elixirs of life. Ugly monstrous boyz started crowding the streets—outside the Don Jerónimo de Azcoitía Nexus Laboratory. Hustling and begging for a job, a deal, a one-night stand—displaying their most intimate ugly gifts and deformed delights. Anything to make a buck—on their cursed afflictions and shocking male deformities.

They crept in from the jungles and mountains—ringing up on cellphones, wiring telegrams, sending tweets and twitters. Humberto interviewed each one—pleasing himself with how much first-class monstrous and even lower-class/sub-class monster meat he got to test, titillate and tongue in the shameless basement morgue and spectral after-hours laboratory. Many young monsters were never seen again—what primitive, abnormal nuances of extraordinary anaconda-esque beauty went into making the Boy who he was. All young beast boyz down there in the basement. Why waste it—why not use it? Waste not, want not—as all size queens know.

The Boy was the privileged progenitor of all this monstrous strength and young male beauty—right down to the last ugly lovetool-wiggle and exacerbated, synthesized sublime squirt into the ubiquitous test-tubes. To be lovingly cloned, synthesized and injected daily—into the Boy’s Apollonian beauty and shamelessly inseminated loins. Such El Primo T-bone android-androgyny…

Emperatriz the cross-eyed gimpy nurse—she didn’t ever ask any questions. She was inducted by Humberto—from some Venusian convent or Triton circus act long ago. To be the head nurse of the Jerónimo surgical sideshow—with little or no education except from reading pulp fiction novels and dirty drugstore romance magazines.

Her dribbling bulldog blubber-lips—and green fish-scale skin and dead dull garfish eyes. She was the only monster Humberto and Jerónimo kept alive—the rest were all used for stem-cell test-tube babies and organ-transplant operations & research. Only the ugliest organs were harvested—the exceptionally monstrous ones. And there were plenty of them hanging around—from the flesh-pits of Pluto to the concubine lairs of Ganymede.

There was a thriving interplanetary black market, of course—dealing with such obscenely unforgivable, exquisitely delectable embodiments of Frankenstein male succulent android creations. But the Boy was something special—the boytoy strictly only for Jerónimo’s ogling eyes and his jaded incestuous nasty habits. All the other experiments were expendable and profitable—but the Boy was his.

Jerónimo craved immortality—for years he’d sucked it dry to the bone from planet to planet. He was the ultimate Dracula’s decadent daughter—his own jizzy family jewels drove him up the wall. His ancient family tree sprung like some evil Tree of Forbidden Fruit and Killer Krell Knowledge—faraway from evil Betelgeuse the home of the Bad Boy Star itself. Home of the evil Nameless One—the most Abnormal Freak in the Known Universe.

Yes, the Boy was the spitting-double—he was Basilio the Betelgeuse Bad Boy himself. The acromegalic Strong Man from South of the Border—the Che Guevara Superman Monster himself. Strutting in his satin swim trunks and soccer shoes—slithering in his patent leather, snake-skin pointed heels and fabulous hunchback-curved polo shirt.

The Boy in all his malevolent Marilyn Monroe beauty and meanness—in his garnet-colored turban and astrakhan chechias. His bird-of-prey hands clenching a big black bullwhip—a sadistic Lorca-esque gleam of revenge in his eye. With all the greasy generals and planetary generalissimos lined up against the wall—Peron and especially Augusto José Ramón Pinochet. Horrified glances over their Fascismo bent shoulders—as the Boy played idly with the snaky electric studded whip before whipping them to death in front of cheering FOX-TV cameras.

Before retiring back into his pastel bedroom—ensconced in an immense sad twilight of decorative discothèque ruins. Venetian chests of drawers, curtains of puce foreskin silk, Genoese velvet underground curtains—Basilio the bashful pretty boy with his Abercrombie and Fitch soccer team legs and Claude Lorrain loins. Shiny trophies, the stench of deliciously stinky tennis shoes—Rosalba Carrera jockstraps hanging in the bathroom to dry, punching bags hung here & there for young boxers to beat-up & beat-off on, all sweaty and smelly so divinely ugly.

Such gauche, youthful gargoylism—may seem rather unbelievable, unacceptable and obscene to most terrestrial beings such as yourself. If it weren’t for the Boy’s sullen harelip hauteur that is—so exquisitely cultivated all those years by endless catheters and serums, ongoing injections and transfusions, continuous transplants and hormones pumped into the kid’s body day and night.

His humpbacked, hacked and sewed-together again Naked Ape-Boy anatomy—insulting the very idea of normal human male beauty with the Boy’s humiliating and monstrous lack of any disguised indecency and decent bourgeois breeding. The more lackadaisically louche he became—the more lovely and luscious he became in Don Jerónimo’s jaundiced eyes.

“Yes, Master. The Boy is now 16 and ripe.”

“I’m pleased to hear that, Humberto.”

Don Jerónimo de Azcoitía smiled and then rewarded Humberto his faithful servant. With a bullet—straight between his eyes.

Then Don Jerónimo rang for Emperatriz—to bring him the Boy. He’d reward her too—with that beautiful Evita Peron face he promised her. Before he threw her with a bored yawn—screaming into the basement incinerator far below.

Don Jerónimo needed no witnesses—to his future approaching marriage and mating of the gods. His honeymoon pleasure cruise—down to the Methane Niagara Falls spewing down there on the stoic seething Saturnian surface far below.

Already the Skylon Towers were stridently ringing & chiming out to him to visit the sightseers paradise—where he’d make passionate love with the young monstrous Boy one last final time. Then he’d do like Joseph Cotton did—to lovely fickle Marilyn Monroe.

He’d strangle the evil Boy to death—and toss him from the Revolving Restaurant all the way down to the swarming cesspool of tourists below. Cavalierly and nonchalantly—like pearls before swine.

The other dozen clones patiently waiting up there in orbit—all of them cumly & identical to the one he’d just got rid of. Ah yes, the wonders of modern genetic technology—cloning your most intimate murderous climax over & over again.