Everybody in South Paris 5 talks about the Saint, the whore dismemberer. It is turning into a real business problem for Big Blue and his organization of jackals.
His stable of sluts and t-girls keeps thinning. Just yesterday, the Saint has torn apart two of his most sought-after whores: Patma—five-star altar of flesh, her third tit turning over as much as a small bone-grinding factory—was found in a flat on Rue Saint Colombe where castrated Catholic priests who survived the final purge panhandle. Her guts dangling from the dilitium chandelier, transformed into soft, dripping meat stalactites; her legs as organic support of a salon table, carefully affixed to the smooth plextek surface with pressure clamps grafted in the flesh; her cut head on the balcony, its skull top precisely carved, rubber geraniums sticking out among her hair. Her blue tongue jutted out of her mouth like a snail—porous as the giant antimony-rich syn-strawberries of the Rambuillet market—looking as though it were miming and nibbling at the words of her last thoughts, those you blow out when you pass on the other side, stuff like holy shit, Hell smells worse than the sewers of this district. And finally, the famous third tit: deftly removed, now listlessly lying in a dish, in its silicone-and-blood water. It looked like mozzarella soaked in its stuff. And then the usual ritual of the Saint: the whore’s uterus, ripped away and plunged into an aluminum bucket, half full of water and synthetic ice cubes, where the bastard finishes the slaughter by pissing inside of it. On the bucket, as always, the motherfucker had written PARADIS in blue felt-tip.
The other thoroughbred of Big Blue’s slut platoon, crippled the same night, was Crazy Clarisse: her specialty, the Buddha Treatment, evermore requested by rich fatties—the best customers in the district. Equipped with electronic Belier scalpels and the renowned Metzelder carvers—proudly made in Berlin-Brandenburg—she had gracefully engraved her passionate lovers’ paunches for years, turning them into thin strips of fresh meat, like small stingrays garnished with New Scotland eggplants. She offered such delicacies to the donor themselves, as an appetizer to be licked directly between her thighs, as though they were living panties. Before lunging inside Clarisse—everybody knows—you needed to remove that coating and eat it; only then could you to reach her oyster, bordered in latex2 stimulators adjustable in hardness and temperature, looking like sharp transparent corals capable of wrapping and squeezing the customer-of-the-day’s sexual organ. Clarisse’s fakiric cunt and her living panties had stolen many hearts. They called her crazy because she kept her husband’s cut-off head, well-preserved in probax inside a see-through container, a fancy display case over the bathroom fixtures of her brothel room. More than a few, the novice customers who pissed their pants, going to the john and finding that toothless grin staring at their cocks.
The Saint took care of Crazy Clarisse, too, right after working on three-tits Patma. “Tramp” Millander, one of Big Blue’s most loyal Dobermans, was called last night by one of the eunuchs serving at the small whorehouse Le Bouc Ennuyé.
“She’s dead, she’s dead!”
The psycho whore was found in Situational Room 12: someone had used her prized Germanic carvers to thoroughly flay her, removing her skin as only an expert Assyrian motherfucker could ever do. After entering the room with his Glock G2000 leveled, Millander found himself in front of a strange composite fresco. Clarisse’s skin nailed to the wall like some fucked-up lion, her guts uncoiled and knotted on the floor to form a sort of square ring, and in its middle the usual bucket with Clarisse’s uterus—smaller than Patma’s—immersed in ice and piss. And the writing, PARADIS. The sign. The Saint.
After spitting on the ground and groaning something about butchering the eunuchs on shift—but later—Millander moved his crocodile shoes toward the bathroom, to find the mad woman’s head inside the display case, together with her husband’s. The usual toothless grin, and a new one—hers—choked by a penis. The rest of her body had vanished, as always; like that of the unlucky customer who had found himself in that mess and lost his dick, now rocking in that bath like a drunk eel between Clarisse’s teeth. Some bad publicity for the new whorehouse. Customers are walking money.
Who the Saint is, what this is all about, is anyone’s guess. What is sure is that the whole thing is pissing off Big Blue’s gang for real; the demiurge of South Paris 5, by now, is having a hard time emptying his balls into his biomechanical dolls, all in a row like soldiers with strangled souls. His morning orgasms—when he activates that recreational hall with mouths, cunts and asses set in shells of neprom and flesh of still-thinking women—are thinning out. The abundance of demiurge-sperm flux is directly proportional to daily income, spinning on the room displays and slowing down more and more. “Fuck! Fuck!”
That Saint motherfucker is threatening the happiness of the Pope of South Paris 5 as he paces in circles dragging his slippers lined in female buttock-skin, his monogram BB engraved in gold on them; he gnashes his teeth, chews on bitterness and kills some lieutenant for showing up at his villa before 11 a.m. A shot in the forehead after receiving the proceeds of the day.
For the motherfuckers of South Paris 5—where morals are sucked on like mint-flavored candies and spat out when their taste is over—a brutal psycho like the Saint is simply a prick, primarily because he’s damaging the goods of a big shot like Big Blue.
For them, the true psychos are those who snuff it slowly, forgoing illegal human meat and contenting themselves with swallowing three daily doses of Symprix, the green shit pouring out like glue from the taps of the Eat Stations, scattered everywhere, connected to underground pipelines parallel to the sewers. Sometimes, when pumps and exchangers tilt as they direct and split traffic of wastewater and communal food, you may well happen to eat your neighbors’ shit; only the color changes, the taste is almost the same.
Animal proteins are lethal, and crops are daily scourged by the many gifts of Uxor, which can turn harmless peppers into purple grenades and simple tomatoes into big Nazi cyanide pills: these days either you learn to bite into your fellow humans—risking the prion disease, a lottery offering you a generous 50% win-ratio—or you slowly wither, until it only takes a gust of wind stronger than usual, or a nice kick in your ass, to smash your tissue-paper molecules and suck you under the sidewalks by the aspirators, together with the junk of the day. If you snuff it at home, maybe in the comfort of your bed, your substance might even slowly fuse with the mattress, not a bad kind of death in South Paris 5. There are widows, here, the most desperate kind, who keep rubbing themselves against those soul-endowed mattresses, where their husbands and partners melted, to reach an orgasm and end it all like that. Joining them in fluids and humors.
Post-Uxor lovemaking.
««—»»
The dismemberer has just retired two more of Millander’s whores. The bulldogs let loose by the Tramp to go after the monster have missed their target, and they can only count the pieces, roll up meters of guts and report to their boss.
Therese—the slut specialized in dominating clergymen’s purpled scrota—finished her career hanged on the steel2 grating of the Brasse convent. Therese’s stiff and violated remains dangle and sway on the façade of the religious complex, wolf-lair of the sadistic New Order of the Malemites; she looks like a plaster doll, or a marble bust out of Ancient Greece. Her legs are cut off at knee height, her arms torn off their stringy roots, and her body—entirely shaven, including her long red mane and the rusty tufts between her legs—has been painted in translucent white.
Lifting her, they discover that she suffered a morblix enema: post-Uxor concrete—tough and cheap. The woman’s ass, as well as all her mercenary ducts, has become an impregnable grave. Stuff for archaeologists aroused by underground crypts to sneak into, reaching out with sterile tweezers over macabre treasures and the insides of time; but it won’t be an easy task, liquefying the hardened stuffing of the woman. In Therese’s flat, in her baptized alcove, there is of course the bucket with the whore’s uterus in ice and urine, and the PARADIS writing.
A Saint hitting in a convent, slaughtering and pissing? And, even more sacrilegious, writing “PARADIS” in that convent? Pure madness. Pure South Paris 5.
««—»»
A few hours after the retrieval of Therese’s petrified remains, the Tramp receives an anxious and stammering call from Ambroise, the manager of the small but high-class brothel Le Diable Edentée. Ambroise is the fattest man in Paris: 450 kilos of sins, forced to move around on a neuro-mechanical structure looking like spider legs grafted around his pelvis, with metal branches coming out from his sides, ass and navel, converging on a magnetic caterpillar platform. A permanent armed escort of seven men follows the Great Babà—so the fatso is called—to protect the whorehouse general against gluttons, connoisseurs, and all kinds of sharks. Despite the prudence, Ambroise sometimes shows bite signs.
Another thoroughbred has been crippled: this is, summing it up, the Great Babà’s message to Millander. Isabeau, the favorite of Millander’s own harem: a bronze-skinned, powerful t-girl, who would not have cut a poor figure among the first-line phalanxes of Spartan butchers at the Thermopiles bottleneck; she has been disintegrated. Literally. The smoothie of her, bronze-colored as well, but with a touch of green extracted from New Scotland cucumbers, was found in the Room 17 refrigerator, in small transparent plexis containers, piled up beside the bottles of synthetic Montrachet and Champagne, micro-pills of Cloud 5, and tubes of epidermal Hammer.
The usual cold stock of the high-class slut.
On the small table in front of the bed—a bad Boulle imitation looking like a micro-sepulcher with paws—a glass on display, half full with the Isabeau smoothie; apparently the Saint has drunk parts of his victim, maybe while toasting to the apocalypse. Who knows which parts the monster has tasted through the missing hundred milliliters of that centrifuged body, that random jam of lungs, long muscles, tongue, marrow, and all the rest?
Millander breaks into Room 17 more troubled than ever; he has leapt out of bed and, in his hurry, he has worn different shoes: one from his crocodile skin collection, with a kitschy red buckle; the other synthetic, blue with black stripes.
“Jesus goddamn Christ, how the hell did he fuck her up like that?”
The Great Babà reaches him, the deionic engine of his locomotion rig roaring and his seven goons at his tail—plastic faces, perfect idiots all the same.
“The bastard used that, but before, he must have hacked up the body…maybe with a Metzelder carver. It must have taken a while…” the Babà grumbles, pointing at the grinder set beside the fridge—a flexible water tank equipped with rotating blade systems and crumblers. The brothel whores use the machine to offer the customers a goblet of super-drug, Cloud Gelée, as a welcome aperitif; or aphrodisiac milkshakes with New Scotland cucumbers and maracuja2 pulp, from the reconstruction hangars of Sierra Vista, Mesoamerican Republic. Among the very few Edens on Earth that survived the whiplashes of Uxor, thanks to the technological support of the prestige-food corporations. At the current price of few kilos of certified environmental-control fruit, you could once buy yourself a Ferrari.
“And what about the cameras? We must have something!” Millander urges the Babà.
“We can’t record inside the rooms, you know that, it’s a matter of…customer privacy. We have the entry hall and all common areas. I’ve had those checked: nothing. This Saint must be a ghost or some fucking sort of spider crawling up the façade…” Ambroise stammers, scratching his head in confusion.
“Holy shit… Isabeau…he drank her,” Millander whispers, then moves in front of the window. Late at night; South Paris 5 never sleeps. The blood of the district, made of lights, flows quickly on the streets without ever slowing down, ignoring murdered men and women littering the sidewalks. The mutated rats are already on the prowl; on the right, on the corner of Rue Mascat, they are dragging the corpse of a woman by her legs, toward their lair. They sink their teeth into her shriveled calves, those cold thighs so white that the moon seems to be aiming its spotlight right at them, to make them glow.
The Great Babà balances on his legs the bucket with Isabeau’s uterus, floating in ice by now melted, and in the murky assassin’s urine. He dips a finger and tastes the whore’s broth, avoiding Millander’s gaze, by now hypnotized by the night of South Paris 5 dancing inside his eyes and shaking her hips and swollen black breasts dangling on the pregnant belly of yet-to-be-born people.
««—»»
The Saint’s acts of bravado are by now on everyone’s lips: some say he is a merciless Archangel, determined to clean up the apocalyptic district from vice, too long handled by that demon Big Blue. They picture him tall, blonde, beautiful, and androgynous, with his Paradise bucket in one hand and an electronic scalpel in the other. Others think he is even a Seraphim, six wings on his back and eyes everywhere, one of those dwelling in the Empyrean heavens, right under Jesus Christ’s feet; maybe he is an irregular who wants to fix things his way, a carrier of slaughterhouse charity, a uterus cleaner, in the most literal way. A purifier, certainly not a monster, flaying sin directly from the flesh of Big Blue’s army of sex, there where it lives and grows—foolish lust with its rapid-set glue—multiplying like black plague.
— | — | —