VIOLETTA

“I’ve never been with a t-girl…”

“Sure…”

“No, really.”

“Look, I don’t give a shit. And then, I don’t make any discount to virgin little asses, you know?”

The dork, a sous-chef at the cannibalistic restaurant Rouge Paradis, is apparently more used to cooking vegetables and garnishing second dishes of human morsels, than to talk: he keeps staring at my panties, sitting on the bed. He has large hands and sideburns like an eighteenth-century government official, a crucifix at his neck and worn-out shoes. He must be scraping by, strange…the pay is good at those creative restaurants, always crowded by gluttonous fat cats. Even a simple waiter there earns more than a rocket scientist.

He takes off his sweaty shirt, showing a tattoo on his chest, a red oyster. Not nice, that. Everything makes sense now, both his shoes and his fucked-up gaze.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The mark of the oyster eaters…” Those pigs drooling after young cunt. Too young. “They caught you sucking ten-year-old oysters, eh?”

“You think you know what’s what, do you?”

“Take your pick. This flat has seen half the people in South Paris 5. If they marked you, that means you didn’t only suck it…you also bit into it and chewed. I bet you seasoned it. What did you use? Honey, laurel…and? Cunt in sweet and sour sauce…what a motherfucker…marked and castrated: serves you right, now you can only play the pretty slutty bride…well, you’ve come to the right place for that.”

“So, that’s not a problem for you?”

“I don’t give a shit, but for little-girl matadors like you, my fee is double. Take it or leave it. And by take it, I mean literally. That’s why you’re here, right?”

“Fuck you…”

“That’s the door, move your ass and go, if you don’t like it. You’ll miss the big surprise, though…pretty bride.”

I pull down my panties just enough to let him see it…the thing he wants. The dork—he says his name is Armand—stays there with his mouth open, staring between my legs with chicken eyes.

“Free performance over: so, what do you want to do?”

As I guessed, Armand the Bride pays the sum I asked, and now he is waiting for me on the bed. I fasten the rotor to my hips, the one I use for special customers like him—the one that leaves a mark and blends your guts while it’s inside you. I, too, like to mark such bastards, in my own way. While the rotor does its thing, wonderfully whirling between Armand’s buttocks—I tied him, gagged him, and dressed him up as a pre-Uxor bride in a transparent organza white dress—a powerful explosion comes from the street. I leave the bride on the bed for a moment, his eyes goggling with pain and his face muscles warped by an underground earthquake; I look out the window.

Nothing new: a pimp pressed a remote button and blew up a gazelle from his flock. These days, some of those bastards no longer content themselves with marking your ass with their logo: they also install a micro-bomb under your skin, usually behind your neck. If you try to run, you’re fucked: a button is enough and you end up in pieces, just like that gazelle, scattered on the sidewalk below me.

I lean out to try and see where the head has gone; I may know her. There it is, over the sign of the Divan Japonais, on the corner. Wedged right in the middle of it, lit up, it looks like a perfect human O. Curly blond hair, no… I don’t think I’ve ever seen her; probably, recently landed in South Paris together with some new haul of green shit.

Monsieur Barthes, the owner, runs out from the Divan Japonais with his absurd little yellow umbrella—he never parts with it—and two fat attendants, who try to climb up to remove the gazelle’s head from the sign. If you want to taste the Holy Grail of human meat you really must drop by that place and try their famous crudité dish, exclusively made with buttocks and thighs of Japanese girls—voluntary donors, at least so they claim on their menu—while you sip a decent synthetic Montrachet.

No stars in the sky, as usual, and the forecast displays of the boiling rain—it is the season of the Uxor Monsoon—glow green: no shit coming, at least in the next six hours. Behind decrepit blue towers two kilometers west, on Route de Corbeil, a cloud of cloacal gulls is quickly moving to go hunting on the Sein shores, toward the ruin of Pont Neuf, where a long line of wretches is always waiting for their turn to jump: fresh floating meat for everyone.

I turn the rotor back on; it begins spinning, immediately taking up speed under my navel. I turn around and get back to my bride, who’s waiting for me.

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