And the boy? What of the boy meanwhile? He's pondering a present he wants bought in return for not having seen any of his plug-and-socket parents' secrets. From every shop he sets eyes on, the child wants another slice of life, cut fresh, only the best, just for him. The child is a devious little rat. The new generation, this. The best is barely good enough. But soon this generation will be passing on as well, moving down the line. How else would we go on?
Father has shot a wad of sperm and now it's up to his wife to clean it up properly. What she doesn't lick up she'll have to wipe up. The Direktor strips off the rest of her clothes and watches her wiping and weaving. One moment her breasts hang forward, the next they bobble about in front of her as she scrubs, making things as new. He pinches her nipples in thumb, index and middle finger, then twists, as if he were trying to screw in a minute light bulb. His raging and weighty entrail slaps out at the window that opens in his trousers and whaps against her thighs from behind. When she bends down she has to spread her legs. Now he can cop hold of her whole fig tree with one hand and set his fingers angrily a-roving. Oh and while she's at it with her legs apart like that she can stand over him and piss in his mouth. What, she can't? Let's see. Up with her knee. There we are (applause, applause!) – the tender lips of her cunt, well part them with a soft smacking sound and we men'll be banging our tankards down on the table with a thump. If she still can't pee we'll drag her privates down by the short and curlies till she bends the knee and splays across the Herr Direktor's chest. By the hairs he holds the lips of her cunt parted like a handbag and slushes it across his face so he can drive his tongue inside, an ox at the salt-lick, the mountain is on fire. The men bear the load. Her waters murmur incomprehensibly. And the women even soak it up with absorbent rags and clean the place with Ajax.
The woman drinks the cold dregs of coffee from her dismal cup. As if preparing to flee, she has pulled on her wispy tights again. There isn't a woman anywhere near who has it anywhere near as good as she does. Her lordandmaster's claw rests upon her head, to make her feel at home in the cage. That evening the Direktor will be smiling at his weary wife again and setting his sights on the target. Later his surging banks of foam will crash against her yet again, his Austrian bank safe against any crash. The woman reaches into nowhere, where the food's spoiling, as if she wanted to shake him off the place of her slumbers. And so they will always be passing each other by on the broad and perilous highway, the terrifying mountain railway of marriage. This woman is envied by the villagers for the fine clothes she wears. The dirt in her house is vacuumed up by a woman hired as a cleaner from the catalogue of villagers, who wanted nothing but to live in brotherhood. The child was born late, but not so late that he hasn't the time to turn into a griping adult. The Man shouts out loud with pleasure, and the woman's voice snuggles against him so that he will wave his magic wand and produce nice expensive things for the home. Such as a three piece suite that can be used at the stations where the two of them go to rub off their blessed sex. But no one can do magic. When the Man sobers up he is obliging towards the woman and good-natured, of course he'll buy her whatever she wants, he bought everything you see here in full colour, ladies and gentlemen. So dry your cheeks! There, now.
In the evening, their plates will offer a refuge to food without a home. Fleetingly the dishes are introduced to each other. Then off they go to mingle. In the bodies. What must things be like beneath some people's roofs! Food is of no consequence in this house, all that matters is that there be a lot to eat, so that the stronger of the two can smile and yield in his largesse. Sausage and cheese of an evening, wine and beer and brandy. And milk for the child, to guarantee his growth. That is how the middle class works: safeguarded below and legally protected above. The protection of Nature is done by the ones underneath. So that the whole class doesn't go plummeting into the bottomless depths.
Early in the morning, the Man has already relieved himself. Big are the heaps he dumps, and he's been busy with his pitchfork heaping up more. And how the urine splashes from him! Everywhere under his roof he can be heard. His articulated penis roaring to a standstill in the lay-by of his wife. Where at last he can relieve himself. Lightened of his product, he goes again to the lowly beings who make their own product under his supervision. The paper they have manufactured is an alien thing to them. Nor will it endure for long. The Direktor yells as he bangs and knocks and thrusts. Competitors are banging and knocking at the door, you have to anticipate their next moves, otherwise one or two more of the blessed poor will have to be sacked, or rather: liberated from their toil. Out he goes, the lordandmaster, into Nature, his back bowed with responsibilities, he-carries them on his back so he has his hands free. Of his wife, to whom he is a lord, by whom he is restored, he expects that she will be naked beneath the gown of her house when he specially lays back the twenty kilometres from the office to the house. The child will be out of the way. Climbing aboard the school bus the boy fell over his sports gear, what a prick!
The woman awakens quickly from the warm pressure bandage of peace where she has sought refuge. She keeps everything that the boy hastily flung at her as he was leaving. The rest will be dealt with by the housekeeper, who has seen a thing or two in this house and picked it up off the floor, too. When the boy was small, Mother sometimes took him along to the supermarket, where the manager would obligingly escort them personally past the gaggle of waiting housewives. The child would be sitting in the shopping trolley, which was not unlike the womb, and how he liked it there! The thing is, cars built for burning up the track generally have holes in all the wrong places, but still eighteen-year-olds love them more than they love their own families, they can't wait to get away from their parents and parental homes, theirs till death. And then, those magic magnetic security tags on new clothing! Oh, if only people had them too! Then they wouldn't promptly go scotching their prospects when they admire the prospects afforded elsewhere. Sex is going to be safeguarded against disease as women are safeguarded against the world, so they don't happen to look out of the window without due care and attention and go for a stroll through Life for a change and end up wanting to change their lives. But it's only clothing that is given this security protection in the stores. There's a shrill alarm signal if anyone who shouldn't takes the articles past the check-out, a wanderer out a-roving in the silent realm of the dead and of different brands of coffee. Better to go on foot and poorly clad to our sexual rendezvous. Better to live amidst waste of our own producing. At any rate, we will not have any other vehicle joining our little fleet. And so we keep life forever moving on, following where the road leads, following a friendly face in which we see the terrible reflection of our own.