The blue woman begins to touch me now, to excite me, trying to get my penis erect so that she can eat. She’s always touchy-feely when she is hungry, and very alert instead of inside her dream world.
Mooshing her plump breasts into my stomach, digging into the skin with flinty nipples. BIG eyes looking into me — she knows I like that, it jingles our souls together. I’m not certain that blue women have souls. They’re more like machines or like animals, and I’ve been told that neither of the two possess souls.
I slink into her neck, washing the azure plastic, feeling her smooth-fleshy. She doesn’t have human neck bones. The neck is more like the human calf — lots of meat with one hard bone… but her bone is soft and thin, flexible. I can also feel a slight tube, probably for mouth reproduction. It creak-chirps when she slavers on my chest.
It begins raining.
I hear it tinkle-clanking against a metal shelter from my sex bed as the blue woman rubs me. I eye to the outside, leaving my corpse with the four-year-old creature engorged.
The rain clouds weeping needle-goobers, thick and colored like pig snot. But I know the rain drops are not made of water. They’re particles of madness instead.
“The storm will bring insanity,” said the scorpion flies.
“The Earth wants to have some fun with us,” said the little cockroach man, still dead and now crunchy in the corner of my room, listening.
The insanity leaks onto the unsheltered street people, sloshing onto their naked faces, seeping into their minds. Their mental states become schizophrenic at first. Slow and scared… paranoia. They begin shivering. They are unable to move.
The insanity rains onto the warehouse as well, dripping only the madness-scent through a few cracks, but the smell alone is enough to drive lunacy through your skull.
The aroma fills everyone’s breath, even mine… and peculiarly, it also affects the blue woman, who doesn’t breathe.
This is where the fun begins…
ACT THREE
The Supreme Ordeal
Scene 17
Maggots in the Brain
The madness comes second.
It starts when Christian goes outside for a cigar. He lights up under the dry clanking metal, looking up at the grotesque patterns in the clouds. They remind him of my descriptions of my acid ocean eyes, wondering if my vision looks similar to this. But my vision doesn’t make me see evil-sickly patterns like these, only swirl-whirls.
The warehouse doesn’t mind the maddening rain too much. Neither does it give a fuss over the crowd inside its belly. We asked if it would be okay to have another concert, but the warehouse just stared at his carpet walkway and shrugged.
Christian is very calm. He’s been very calm for a long time now. Very unlike him. He doesn’t seem totally emotionless, but surprisingly laid-back, strutting around in his zoot suit like a real classy gangster. The loss of his emotion has actually helped make him more appealing to people, especially women.
He looks into the BIG crowd of street people and their malformed-minds, all of them beady-watching him back. He knows something is wrong with them, the way they are staring. But he tries to ignore. Cool smoking.
Richard Stein would have said they all have maggots in the brain, which he used to say about his wife. His wife was quite the insane one back when she was alive. She was afraid of almost anything, especially moving things. She didn’t feel comfortable in cars or walking near cars, or taking the subway or trains, or airplanes, or even riding bikes. She couldn’t leave the house on some occasions, paralyzed on her sitting chair.
Richard Stein was attracted to her because of this insanity, which is why he married her. There is something passionate about crazy women that can’t be described, he said, you know you are absurd for getting into these relationships but there’s nothing you can do. And he was happy with her for several years, even though he never got to know her completely, never figured out what made her tick so awkwardly and without rhythm.
Once age turned her ugly, Richard Stein initiated hate towards her. The crazy personality no longer cute. And the older she became, the more maggots crawled inside of her skull. Eventually, she drove her crazy emotions into Richard Stein’s skull as well. And he spent a lot of his time hiding under blankets in the attic like a piece of furniture.
Christian glances away from the crowd of sniveling insane ones. Looks up into the sky, with droplets hitting his cigar.
The rain’s influence starts to alter the warehouse crowd. Finally there are enough droplets indoors, enough punks to breathe in the lunacy. And the crowd of emotionally weak people begin a dance. Crooked-slowly at first, then fast and slamming, smashing into each other, moshing. The ultimate of all round-a-go crowds. Boot Lips, a screaming machine, starts punching the skinheads that get too close to him, kicking over tables and stands. The band plays chop-chop. Consumed by the insane energy, they sing song after song without a break.
Then the entire crowd is throw-slamming themselves against themselves; even the walm people that live in the corner of the warehouse join in. Battering into the walls and each other, pounding and skull-blasting…
Wild maniacs around the crude sculptures.
The insanity hits the blue woman. She sucks and rubs faster on my stomach, trying to swallow me. She puts her vagina into my face and a small tongue emerges. It laps at my nose and an eye. The itch-meat slides into my mouth and squirts a sweet flavor into me, a strong aphrodisiac — produced under the blue woman’s vaginal tongue like a salivary gland.
She slides the little tongue down my neck and body, leaving a trail of sauce. Then it takes a couple licks off my shank skin and slides me into her feeding hole. Immediately pounding, bouncing on me, rubbing my chest hair with her blue claws. Eyes in deep contact with mine. Whirlpool.
God’s Eyes to the outside:
Christian puts out his cigar as he notices the street people dancing as madly as the ones inside the warehouse, like the thrashing hardcore is powerful enough to hit anyone that hears it.
Then a small group of them charge the warehouse screaming carnal violence. Christian falls back, stumbles inside, kicks the door shut… He locks the door in two places and throws his weight on it.
The insane ones attack the door, booting, ramming…
Christian yells out for help, but the words drown under the singing.
The mosh pit gets out of control. People use chairs and guitars to beat each other. Beer bottles smash over heads, glass covers the floor, a skinhead uses a broken beer bottle to stab everyone as he dances, the wounded keep dancing, showering blood onto the stage…
Mort tries to stop them from ruining his equipment, but a large walrus-shaped man hits him with a speaker box, knocking him into painful sleep. Some blood tangles down his neck.
The blue woman uses her mouth-tongue on my face now. She leans forward so that her breasts can massage my skin.
She bites into the fat of my shoulder, moving it in circles with her screwing, drooling out the cold liquid of the yellow-violent pleasure.
People brush against the scornful artwork. They cut themselves on acute edges and knives. Fria’s blade-like nipples slice into the dancers, two or three at a time, and their tips become red.
Nan and even Gin join the slamming. They’re near the sculptures and hold onto each other, Nan laughing insanely at the pain of broken glass digging into her feet. Gin’s dreads do a snake-dance. They attack skinhead faces, whipping with excitement. Breakfast holds onto Gin’s pocket, regretting that he was separated from his wrist/womb for the first time.