The Most Beautiful Woman in Town (5 page)

the prof was getting pissed. he kept turning the dials but nothing was happening. “TANYA! it is time for you to FUCK the OTHER man! I am. .. getting tired… must have a bit of schnapps … be off to sleep … Tanya …”

“ah,” said Tanya, “you rotten old fuck! you and your schnapps, and then nibbling at my tits all night, so I can't even sleep! while you can't even raise a decent hard! you're disgusting!”

“VAS?”

“I SAID, ‘YOU CAN'T EVEN RAISE A DECENT HARD!' ”

“you, Tanya, will pay for this! you are
my
creation, I am not yours!”

he kept turning his magic knobs. I mean, on the machine. he was quite angry, and you could see that, somehow, the anger gave him a vital brilliance beyond himself. “just wait, Mike. all I have to do is to adjust the electronics! wait! A
short!
I
see
it!”

then he leaped up. this guy they had saved from the Russians.

he looked at Indian Mike. “it's straight now! the machine is in order! have fun!”

then he walked over to his schnapps bottle, poured another goody, sat down to watch.

Tanya got off of my lap and walked over to Indian Mike. I watched Tanya and Indian Mike embrace.

Tanya worked Indian Mike's zipper down, got his cock out, and man he had plenty of cock! he'd said 14 inches but it looked more like 20.

then Tanya put both her hands around Mike's cock.

he moaned in glory.

then she ripped the whole cock right out of and off of his body. threw it to the side.

I saw the thing roll along the rug like an insane sausage, dribbling little sad trailets of blood. it rolled up against a wall. then stayed there like something with a head but no legs and no place to go . .. which was true enough.

next, here came the BALLS flying through the air. a heavy, looping sight. they simply landed upon the center of the rug and didn't know what to do but bleed.

so, they bled.

Von Brashlitz, the hero of the America-Russ invasion took a hard look at what was left of Indian Mike, my old beer-drinking buddy, very red on the floor, flowing from the center — Von B. took the highroad, down the stairway …

room 69 had done everything but that.

and then I asked her: “Tanya, the heat will be here very quickly. shall we dedicate the room number to our love?”

“of course, my love!”

we made it, just in time, and the stupid heat ran in.

one of the learned then pronounced Indian Mike dead.

and since Von B. was a kind of U.S. Govt. product, there was a hell of a lot of people around — various chickenshit officials — firemen, reporters, the cops, the inventor, the C.I.A., the F.B.I. and various other forms of human shit.

Tanya came over and sat in my lap. “they will kill me now. please try not to be sad.”

I didn't answer.

then Von Brashlitz was screaming, pointing to Tanya — “I TELL YOU, GENTLEMEN, SHE HAS NO FEELING! I SAVED THE DAMN THING FROM HITLER! I tell you, it is nothing but a MACHINE!”

they all just stood there. nobody believed Von B.

it was simply the most beautiful machine, and so-called woman, they had ever seen.

“Oh shit! you idiots! every woman is a fucking machine, can't you see that? they play for the highest bidder! THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS LOVE! THAT IS A FAIRY-TALE MIRAGE LIKE CHRISTMAS!”

they still wouldn't believe.

“THIS is only a machine! have no FEAR! WATCH!”

Von Brashlitz grabbed one of Tanya's arms.

ripped it completely off of her body.

and inside — inside the hole of her shoulder — you could see it — there was nothing but wire and tubes — coiled and running things — plus some minor substance that faintly resembled blood.

I saw Tanya standing there with this coil of wire hanging from her shoulder, where the arm used to be. she looked at me:

“please, for
me
too! I asked you to try not to be too sad.”

I watched as they ganged her, and ripped and raped and tore.

I couldn't help it. I put my head down between my legs and cried…

also, Indian Mike never got his 20 bucks worth.

some months went by. I never went back to the bar. there was a trial but the govt. exonerated Von B. and his machine. I moved to another town. far away. and one day sitting in a barbershop, I picked up this sex mag. here was an ad: “Blow up your own little dolly! $29.95. Resistant rubber material,
very
durable. Chains and whips included in package. A bikini, bras. panties. 2 wigs, lipstick and small jar of love-potion included. Von Brashlitz Co.”

I sent him a money order. some box number in Mass. he had moved too.

the package arrived in about 3 weeks. very embarrassing. I didn't have a bicycle pump, and then I got the hots when I took the thing out of the package. I had to go down to the corner gas station and use their air hose.

it looked better as it blew up. big tits. big ass.

“whatcha got there, pal?” the gas station man asked me.

“look, man, I'm just borrowing a little air. don't I buy a lot of gas here, huh?”

“o.k., that's o.k., you can have the air. I just damn well can't help wondering whatcha got there …”

“just forget it!” I said.

“JESUS! look at those TITS!”

“I AM looking, asshole!”

I left him there with his tongue hanging out, then threw her over my shoulder and made it back to my place. I carried her into the bedroom.

the big question was yet to come?

I spread the legs and looked for some kind of opening.

Von B. hadn't completely slipped.

I climbed on top and began kissing that rubber mouth. now and then I reached for one of the giant rubber tits and sucked upon it. I had put a yellow wig on her and rubbed the love-potion all over my cock. it didn't take much love-potion. maybe he'd sent a year's worth.

I kissed her passionately behind the ears, stuck my finger up her ass, kept pumping. then I leaped off, chained her arms behind her back, there was this little lock and key and then I whipped her ass good with the leather thongs.

god, I gotta be nuts! I thought.

then I flipped her over and put it back in. humped and humped. frankly, it was rather boring. I imagined male dogs screwing female cats; I imagined 2 people fucking through the air as they jumped from the Empire State Building. I imagined a pussy as large as an octopus, crawling toward me, wet and stinking and aching for an orgasm. I remembered all the panties, knees, legs, tits, pussies I had ever seen. the rubber was sweating; I was sweating.

“I love you, darling!” I whispered into one of her rubber ears.

I hate to admit it, but I forced myself to come into that lousy hunk of rubber. it was hardly a Tanya at all.

I took a razor blade and cut the thing all to shit. dumped it out with the beercans.

how many men in America bought those stupid things?

or then you can pass half a hundred fuck machines in a 10 minute walk on almost any main sidewalk of America — the only difference
being
that they
pretended
that they were human.

poor Indian Mike. with that 20 inch dead cock.

all the poor Indian Mikes. all the climbers into Space. all the whores of Vietnam and Washington.

poor Tanya, her belly had been a hog's belly. veins the veins of a dog. she rarely shatted or pissed, she had just fucked — heart, voice and tongue borrowed from others — there were only supposed to be 17 possible organ transplants at that time. Von B. was far ahead of them.

poor Tanya, who had only eaten a little — mostly cheap cheese and raisins. she had had no desire for money or property or large new cars or overexpensive homes. she had never read the evening paper. had no desire for colored television, new hats, rain boots, backfence conversations with idiot wives; nor had she desired a husband who was a doctor, a stockbroker, a congressman or a cop.

and the guy at the gas station keeps asking me, “hey, what happened to that thing you brought down here one day and blew up with the air hose?”

but he doesn't ask anymore. I buy my gas at a new place. I don't even get my hair cut anymore where I saw that magazine with the Von Brashlitz rubber dolly sex ad. I am trying to forget everything.

what would you do?

THE GUT-WRINGING MACHINE

Danforth hung the bodies up one by one after they had been wrung through the wringer. Bagley sat by the phones. “how many we got?”

“19. looks like a good day.”

“shit, yeah yeah. that sounds like a good day. how many did we place yesterday?”

“14.”

“fair. fair. we'll make it good if the way keeps up. I keep worrying they might quit the thing in Viet,” said Bagley of the phones.

“don't be foolish — too many people profit and depend on that war.”

“but the Paris Peace Conference …”

“you just ain't yourself today, Bag. you know they just sit around and laugh all day, draw their pay and then make the Paree nightclubs each night. those boys are living good. they don't want the Peace Conference to end anymore than we want the war to end. we're all getting fat, and not a scratch. it's sweet. and if they settle the thing somehow by accident, there'll be others. they keep hot points glowing all over the globe.”

“yeah, I guess I worry too much.” one of the three phones on the desk rang. Bagley picked it up. “SATISFACTORY HELP AGENCY. Bagley speaking.”

he listened. “yeh. yeh. we got a good cost accountant. salary? $300 the first two weeks, I mean 300 a week. we get the first two weeks' pay. then cut him to 50 a week or fire him. if you fire him after the first two weeks, we give YOU one hundred dollars. why? well, hell, don't you see, the whole idea is to keep things moving. it's all psychological, like Santa Claus. when? yeah, we'll send him right over. what's the address? fine, fine, he'll be there pronto. remember all the terms. we send him with a contract. bye.”

Bagley hung up. hummed to himself, underlined the address. “get one down, Danforth. a tired, thin one. no use shipping out the best on first shot.”

Danforth walked over to the wire clothesline and took the clamps off the fingers of a tired, thin one.

“walk him over here. what's his name?”

“Herman. Herman Telleman.”

“shit, he don't look so good. looks like he still got a little blood in him. and I can see some color in his eye … I think. listen, Danforth, you got those wringers running good and tight? I want all the guts squeezed out, no resistance at all, you understand? you do your job and I'll do mine.”

“some of these guys came in pretty tough. some men have more guts than others, you know that. you can't always tell by looking.”

“all right, let's try him. Herman. hey, sonny!”

“what's up, pops?”

“how'd you like a nice little job?”

“ah, hell no!”

“what? you don't want a nice little job?”

“what the fuck for? my old man, he was from Jersey, he worked all his damn life and after we buried him with his own money, ya know what he had left?”

“what?”

“15 cents and the end of a drab dull life.”

“but don't you want a wife, a family, a home, respectability? a new car every 3 years?”

“I don't want no grind, daddy-o. don't put me in no flip-out cage. I just want to laze around. what the shit.”

“Danforth, run this bastard through the wringer and make those screws tight!”

Danforth grabbed the subject but not before Telleman yelled “up your old mother's bunghole …”

“and squeeze ALL THE GUTS OUT OF HIM, ALL OF THE GUTS! do you hear me?”

“aw right, aw right!” answered Danforth. “shit. sometimes I think you got the easy end of the stick!”

“forget sticks! squeeze the guts out of him. Nixon might end the war …”

“there you go talking that nonsense again! I don't think you been sleeping good, Bagley. something wrong with you.”

“yeah, yeah, you're right. insomnia. I keep thinking we should be making soldiers! I toss all night! what a business that would be!”

“Bag, we do the best with what we can, that's all.”

“aw right, aw right, you run him through the wringer yet?”

“TWICE yet! I got
all
the guts out. you'll see.”

“aw right, trot him over. let's try him.”

Danforth brought Herman Telleman back. he did look a bit different. all the color was gone from his eyes and he had on this utterly false smile. it was beautiful.

“Herman?” asked Bagley.

“yes, sir?”

“what do you feel? or how do you feel?”

“I don't feel anything, sir.”

“you like cops?”

“not cops, sir — policemen. they are the victims of our viciousness even though they at times protect us by shooting us, jailing us, beating us and fining us. There is no such thing as a bad cop. Policeman, pardon me. do you realize that if there were no policemen, we'd have to take the law into our own hands?”

“and then what would happen?”

“I never thought of that, sir.”

“excellent. do you believe in God?”

“oh, yes sir, in God and Family and State and Country and honest labor.”

“jesus christ!”

“what, sir?”

“sorry. now, here, do you like overtime on a job?”

“oh, yes sir! I would like to work 7 days a week if possible, and 2 jobs if possible.”

“why?”

“money, sir. money for color tv, new autos, down payment on a home, silk pajamas, 2 dogs, an electric shave, life insurance, medical insurance, oh all kinds of insurance and college educations for my children if I have children and automatic doors on the garage and fine clothes and 45 dollar shoes, and cameras, wrist watches, rings, washers, refrigerators, new chairs, new beds, wall-to-wall carpeting, donations to the church, thermostat heating and .. .”

“all right. stop. now when are you going to use all this stuff?”

“I don't understand, sir.”

“I mean, when you are working night and day and overtime, when are you going to enjoy these luxuries?”

“oh, there'll be a day, there'll be a day, sir!”

“and you don't think your kids will grow up some day and just think of you as an asshole?”

“after I've worked my fingers to the bone for them, sir! of course not!”

“excellent. now just a few more questions.”

“yes, sir.”

“don't you think that all this constant drudgery is harmful to the health and the spirit, the soul, if you will…?”

“oh hell, if I weren't working all the time I'd just be sitting around drinking or making oil paintings or fucking or going to the circus or sitting in the park watching the ducks. things like that.”

“don't you think sitting around in the park watching the ducks is nice?”

“I can't make any money that way, sir.”

“o.k., fuck-off.

“sir?”

“I mean, I'm through talking to you.”

“o.k., this one's ready, Dan. fine job. give him the contract, make him sign it, he won't read the fine print. he thinks we're nice. trot him down to the address. they'll take him. I ain't sent out a better cost accountant in months.”

Danforth had Herman sign the contract, checked his eyes again to make sure that they were dead, put the contract and the address in his hand, led him to the door and gave him a gentle push down the stairway.

Bagley just leaned back with an easy smile of success and watched Danforth run the other 18 through the wringer. where their guts went it was hard to see but almost every man lost his guts somewhere along the line. the ones labeled “married with family” or “over 40” lost their guts easiest. Bagley leaned back as Danforth ran them through the wringer, he heard them talking:

“it's hard for a man as old as I am to get a job, oh, it's so hard!”

another one said:

“oh, baby, it's cold outside.”

another:

“I get tired of booking and pimping, getting busted, busted, busted. I need something secure, secure, secure, secure, secure …”

another:

“all right, I've had my fun. now …”

another:

“I don't have a trade. every man should have a trade. I don't have a trade. what am I going to do?”

another:

“I've been all over the world — in the army — I know things.”

another:

“if I had it to do all over again, I'd be a dentist or a barber.”

another:

“all my novels and short stories and poems keep coming back. Shit, I can't go to New York and shake the hands of the publishers! I have more talent than anybody but you've got to have the inside! I'll take any kind of job but I am better than any kind of job that I take because I am a genius.”

another:

“see how pretty I am? look at my nose? look at my ears? look at my hair? my skin? the way I act! see how pretty I am? see how pretty I am? see how pretty I am? why doesn't anybody like me? because I'm so pretty. they're jealous, jealous, jealous …”

the phone rang again.

“SATISFACTORY HELP AGENCY. Bagley speaking. you what? you need a deep-sea diver? motherfuck! what? oh, pardon. sure, sure, we got dozens of unemployed deep-sea divers. his first 2 weeks' pay is ours. 500 a week. dangerous, you know, really dangerous — barnacles, crabs, all that.. . seaweed, maidens on rocks. octupi. bends. head-colds. fuck, yes. first 2 weeks' pay is ours. if you fire him after 2 weeks we give
you
$200. why?
why?
if a robin laid an egg of gold in your front room chair would you ask WHY? would you? we'll send you a deep-sea diver in 45 minutes! the address? fine, fine, ah, yes, fine, that's near the Richfield Building. yes, I know. 45 minutes. thank you. goodbye.”

Bagley hung up. he was tired already and the day was just beginning.

“Dan?”

“yeah, mother?”

“bring me a deep-sea diver type. bit fat around the belly. blue eyes, medium hair on chest, balding before his time, slightly stoical, slightly stooped, bad eyesight and the unknown beginning of the cancer of the throat. that's a deep-sea diver. anybody knows what a deep-sea diver is. now bring one, mother.”

“o.k., shithead.”

Bagley yawned. Danforth unclamped one. brought him forth, stood him before the desk. his tag said, “Barney Anderson.”

“hello, Barney,” said Bag.

“where am I?” asked Barney.

“SATISFACTORY HELP AGENCY.”

“boy, if you two ain't a couple of greasy-looking motherfuckers, I ain't never ever seen none!”

“what the fuck, Dan!”

“I ran him through 4 times.”

“I told you to tighten those screws!”

“and I told you some men have more guts than others!”

“it's all a myth, you damn fool!”

“who's a damn fool?”

“you're both damn fools,” said Barney Anderson.

“I want you to run his ass through the wringer three times,” said Bagley.

“o.k., o.k., but first let's you and me get straight.”

“aw right, for instance … ast this Barney guy who his heroes are.”

“Barney, hoose yr herows?”

“well, lemme see — Cleaver, Dillinger, Che, Malcolm X., Gandhi, Jersey Joe Walcott, Grandma Barker, Castro, Van Gogh, Villon, Hemingway.”

“ya see, he i-dentifies with all LOSERS. that makes him feel good. he's getting ready to lose. we're going to help him. he's been conned on this soul-shit and that's how we get their asses. there ain't no soul. it's all con. there ain't no heroes. it's all con. there ain't no winners — it's all con and horseshit. there ain't no saints, there ain't no genius — that's all con and fairytale, it makes the game go. each man just tries to hang on and be lucky — if he can. all else is bullshit.”

“aw right, aw right, I dig your losers! but what about Castro? he looked pretty fat, last photo I saw of him.”

“he subsists because the U.S. and Russia have decided to leave him in the middle. but suppose they really put the pack on the deck? what can he draw to? man, he don't hold enough chips to get into a decaying Egyptian whorehouse.”

“fuck you two guys! I like who I like!” said Barney Anderson.

“Barney, when a man gets old enough, trapped enough, hungry enough, weary enough — he'll suck dick, tit, eat shit to stay alive; either that or suicide. the human race ain't got it, man. it's a bad crowd.”

“so we're gonna change it, man. that's the trick. if we can make it to the moon we can clean the shit out of the shitbowl. we just been concentrating on the wrong things.”

“you're sick, kid. and a little fat around the belly. and balding. Dan, shape him up.”

Danforth took Barney Anderson and rang and wrung and screamed him through the wringer three times, then brought him back.

“Barney?” asked Bagley.

“yes sir!”

“who are your heroes?”

“George Washington, Bob Hope, Mae West. Richard Nixon, the bones of Clark Gable and all the nice people I've seen at Disneyland. Joe Louis, Dinah Shore, Frank Sinatra, Babe Ruth, the Green Berets, hell the whole United States Army and Navy and especially the Marine Corps, and even the Treasury Dept., the CIA, the FBI, United Fruit, the highway Patrol, the whole god damned L.A. Police Dept., and the County Cops too. and I don't mean ‘cops,' I mean ‘policemen.' then there's Marlene Dietrich, with this slit up the side of her dress, she must be near 70 now? — dancing up at Vegas, my dick got big, what a wonderful woman. the good American life and the good American money can keep us young forever, don't you see?”

“Dan?”

“yeah, Bag?”

“this one's really ready! I ain't got much feeling left, but he even makes me sick. make him sign his little contract and send him out. they'll love him. god, what a man's gotta do to just stay alive? sometimes I even hate my own job. that's bad, ain't it, Dan?”

“sure, Bag. and as soon as I send this asshole on his way, I got just the little thing for you — a touch of the good ol' tonic.”

“ah, fine, fine … what is it?”