out real fast because it was so terrible. Tasting it had made his stomach hurt and he wanted to throw up for three days. All over his mother's bed-that would be good, big globs of barf all over the white satin. On Doctor and Sarah and the maids too. Running all over the house-no, flying't Dive bombing everyone with shit bombs and throw-up bombs. Pow!
Power!
One time he saw Sarah in the cabana next to the pool. There was an open window and he looked through it. She was peeling off her bathing suit and looking at herself in the mirror before putting on her clothes.
She had small titties with chocolate centers.
Her body was tan except for a white tit belt and a white butt belt and her puss was covered with black hair.
She touched her puss and smiled at herself in the mirror. Then shook her head no and lifted her leg in order to put on her panties.
He saw a pink, squiggly line peeking out from under the middle of the hair, like one of the wounds in Doctor's books.
Her butt was like two eggs, small, the brown kind. He thought of cracking them open, yellow stuff coming out.
Her head hair was dark, but not as dark as her puss hair. She stood there in her panties and brushed it, making it shine. Raising her arms so that her titties went flat and disappeared and only the chocolate tips were sticking out. Humming to herself.
He wanted to take bites out of her, wondered what she tasted like.
Thinking about it made his pecker get all stiff and hurt so bad he was afraid it would crack and fall off and all the blood would come pouring out of the hole and he would die.
It took a long time for the pain to go away.
He hated Sarah a little after that, but he still thought she was okay. He wanted to sneak into her room, go through her drawers, but she always kept the door locked. After she went back home and before the maids had a chance to lock it, he went in and opened all the drawers. All that was left was a nylon stocking box and a perfumey smell.
It made him real angry.
He kind of missed her.
He thought of cutting her up and eating her, imagined that she tasted like sugared fruit.
The house was so big it always felt empty. Which was okay-the only ones around were the maids and they were stupid, talked with an accent and hummed weird songs. They hated him-he could tell from the way they looked at him and whispered to each other when he walked by. He wondered what their pusses looked like. Their titties. Thought they probably tasted sour, like vegetables. Wondering about it made him stare at them. When they noticed it they got angry, muttered under their breaths, and walked away from him. talking foreign.
The neat thing about the library was that the double doors were always closed; once the maids were through cleaning, you could go in, turn the key in the lock, and nobody would know you were in there.
He liked the big, soft leather chairs. And the books. Doctor's books, full of terrific, scary pictures. He had favorites, would always turn to them first. The nigger guy with elephantiasis (a big word; it took him a long time to figure it out), his balls were big-hugel-each one as a big as a watermelon. He couldn't believe it the first time he saw it. The picture showed the guy sitting on a chair with his hands in his lap, the balls hanging down to the floor! He looked pretty worried. Why didn't someone just come along and chop them off so he could walk again? Clean him up and stop his worries?
Other ones he liked were the retarded people with no foreheads, and tongues as big as salamis that just hung out of their mouths. A weird-looking naked retarded lady with a real flat face standing next to a ruler; she was only thirty-seven inches tall and had no hair on her puss, even though she was old. Naked midgets and giants, also next to rulers. People missing fingers and arms and legs. One guy without arms or legs-that looked really stupid and made him laugh. Lots of other naked people, with sores and spots and bent bones and weird bumps. Buttholes and lips with splits down the middle. And naked fat people. Really fat people, so fat that they looked like they were wearing squishy clothes all full of wrinkles and folds. One woman had a belly that hung down past her knees, covering her whole puss. Her elbows were covered by hang-downs of fat. Someone, a surgeon like Doctor, should come along and cut off all that fat, maybe use it for candles or something or to give to skinny people to keep them warm. The fat people could be peeled and cleaned up to make them look nice. The ones in the books probably didn't do it because it was too expensive. They'd have to walk around like that, all covered with fat-clothes, for the rest of their lives.
One time, after looking at the fat people, he left the library, went up to his room, and made squishy, fat people out of modeling clay. Then he took a pencil and a nail file and made holes and slit-cuts all over them, chopped off their heads and arms and legs and peeled them until they were nothing more than little chunks and pieces. Then he grabbed up the chunks and squeezed real hard, let the clay squish through his fingers. Flushed them down the toilet and imagined they were drowning. Screaming: Oh, no! Oh, God! Watching them go around and around and finally disappear made him feel like the boss, made his pecker hard and sore.
On the top shelf of the carved bookcase was this big green book, really heavy; he had to stand on a chair to get it, be really careful not to drop it on Doctor's leather-topped desk, break the skull that Doctor used for a paperweight. A monkey skull, too small to have come from a person, but he liked to pretend it was from a person. One of the midgets in the pictures. Maybe he'd tried to attack the boy's family and the boy had killed him and saved everyone, like a big hero, then peeled off the skin to get the skull.
The green book was old-the date on it was 1908-and it had a long title: The Atlas of Clinical Surgery by Professor Bockenheimer or some weird name like that, from a place called Berlin; he looked it up in his junior encyclopedia and found out it was in Germany.
Someone had written something inside the cover of the book, in this weird, thin handwriting that looked like dead bugs and spider legs, it took him a long time to figure it out.
To Charles, my learned colleague, with deepest gratitude for your kind hospitality and stimulating conversation.
Best wishes, Dieter Schwann
