Читать книгу The Soft Machine - William S. Burroughs - Страница 12

Public Agent

So I am a public agent and don’t know who I work for, get my instructions from street signs, newspapers and pieces of conversation I snap out of the air the way a vulture will tear entrails from other mouth. In any case I can never catch up on my back cases and currently assigned to intercept blue movies of James Dean before the stuff gets to those queers supporting a James Dean habit which, so long as this agent picks his way through barber shops, subway toilets, grope movies and Turkish Baths, will never be legal and exempt narcotic.

The first one of the day I nailed in a subway pissoir: “You fucking nance!” I screamed. “I’ll teach you to savage my bloody meat, I will.” And I sloughed him with the iron glove and his face smashed like rotten cantaloupe. Then I hit him in the lungs and blood jumped out his mouth, nose and eyes, spattered three commuters across the room huddled in gabardine topcoats and grey flannel suits under that. The broken fruit was lying with his head damning the piss running over his face and the whole trough a light pink from his blood. I winked at the commuters. “I can smell them fucking queers,” I sniffed warningly. “And if there’s one thing lower than a nance it’s a spot of bloody grass. Now you blokes wouldn’t be the type turn around and congor a pal’s balls off would you now?” They arranged themselves on the floor like the three monkeys: See No Evil, Hear No Evil, and Speak No Evil.

“I can see you’re three of our own,” I said warmly and walked into the corridor where schoolboys chase each other with machetes, joyous boy-cries and zipper guns echo through the mosaic caverns. I pushed into a Turkish Bath and surprised a faggot brandishing a deformed erection in the steam room and strangled him straightaway with a soapy towel. I had to check in. I was thin now, barely strength in my receding flesh to finish off that tired faggot. I got into my clothes shivering and gaping and walked into the terminal drugstore. Five minutes to twelve. Five minutes to score. I walked over to the night clerk and threw a piece of tin on him.

Piss running over his face. Don’t know who I work for. I get mine from his blood, newspapers and pieces. “I can smell them fucking the air the way a vulture will.” In any case bloody grass. I sloughed him with the iron room and strangled him like rotten cantaloupe. Then I had to check in. I was the blood jumped out his mouth, nose receding flesh to finish. Across the room huddled my clothes shivering grey flannel suits under terminal drugstore. So I am a public agent and the whole trough a light pink instruction from street. I winked at the commuters. “Conversation I snap out of queers,” I sniffed warningly. “It’s a spot up on my back cases.” Queers supporting the floor like the three monkeys. “Grope movies and Turkish our own,” I said warmly and walked exempt narcotic. Cool boys chase each other with the first one of the day. To a Turkish Bath and surprised you bloody nance. Soapy towel glove hit him in the lungs and eyes spattered: Ping! And walked into the gabardine topcoats. Five minutes to that broken fruit.

“Treasury Department,” I said. “Like to check your narcotic inventory against RX. . . How much you using young fellow?” Shaking my head and pushing all the junk bottles and scripts into my brief case: “I hate to see a young man snafu his life script. . . Maybe I can do something for you. That is if you promise me to take the cure and stay off.”

“I promise anything. I gotta wife and kids.”

“Just don’t let me down is all.”

I walked out and got straight in the Lu of The Bus Terminal Chinese Restaurant. It’s a quiet place with very bad food. But what a John for a junky.

Well I checked into the Old Half-Moon Hotel you can get to the lobby through the subway and walked in on the wrong room, an ether party, with my cigarette lit and everyone’s lung blew out about six characters, cats and chicks. So I get a face full of tits and spare ribs and throat gristle. . . All in the day’s work. . . Follow up on it. Score. I walked the gabardine top tin on him. The broken fruit. Piss running over his face. “Like to check your narcotic inventor. I get mine from his blood.”

“Much you using young fellow?”