With an elegant bow, Mister Skeleton greets the audience of the Suprême, wrapped in his black tight mesosilicone suit, all his bones glowing and a skull mask affixed via suction cups on his face—green locks of hair sticking out here and there—as he takes possession of the half-circle of the ring.
It is the highlight of the evening. Everybody is waiting for the circus vedette: Two-Thousand-Kilo Vivien, who enters the scene appearing—oiled and glinting like a tarted-up oyster the mass of a Cyclops’ brain—inside the mouth of Marquis De Sade, papier-mâché giant guillotined for the occasion, with spinning eyes and tongue of red flexible water unfurled to form a stairway with the consistency of a step pudding. The Marquis’s top hat—with a purple, toothed vagina in the middle, tensing to amplify Mister Skeleton’s words—is glued to the colossal head, brushing the peak of the bluish marquee, up where the floating acrobats’ elevators are installed on either side on their invisible sizzling rails.
“I’m excited, ladies and gentlemen… As always, when this moment comes,” Mister Skeleton babbles—old and filthy pimp, recycled by the Suprême as Master of Ceremonies. He still carries, in his boot, the flick-knife which marred, for years, hundreds of recalcitrant whores’ butts. “The only two-thousand-kilos in the world, the Grail of the flesh, the Gluteus Maximus, the wonderful, incomparable, tasty Vivien!” So he finishes the presentation, the old pig, as he steps aside.
The ring is magically flooded in whipped cream. Applause.
An aroused old lech, wedged in his massage armchair in the parquet-circle with a slut in a blue fur coat by his side—an Amazon with a tit-and-a-half, smelling like jasmine and mango—squeezes his cane, decorated by a scowled-billy-goat dilitium head. When the deionic spotlights cross on Vivien’s flesh, materializing eddies of rose petals—love tattoos impressed over the wide nets of cellulite—the lech no longer resists: he opens his pants and grabs the mane of his ebony-skinned whore, putting that mouth where it always should be: between his gray, mangy legs.
The goddess of the Suprême is slowly dragged toward the center of the ring, a plesostructure rigged on her back; her guardian angel of steel and molybdenum. It is a harness of cables and Holzman deviation micro-engines—the same used by astronauts to move around in hard vacuum, maybe to repair some burned com membrane—capable of making the she-elephant hover with grace, offering her on stage to the drooling adoration of the audience. An old John Coltrane concert is projected on the marquee, like a maxi screen, remastered with holograms sprouting out of the elastic fibermass like ghosts as they show him squeezing pure chaos out of his sax, as they sweat down a rain of golden algorithms all along his Ascension. Mechanized brass legs, blue lips and skin white as snow, dressed in a jacket studded with smoking craters. An apocalyptic Coltrane, all the rage in Paris, just like the skewers of fried human fingers, or the new suction-cup-gen whores, put together with three breasts and disproportionate, oval suck-up mouths, gaping on alien faces no longer with a nose—a matter of space and usage dynamics. A classic, by now, but still going strong; at least in this derailed district full of plucked souls, surviving thanks to drip feeds of syntequila and the free jazz of mass-produced stand-alone sexual organs. Battery-powered cunts and asses, portable comfort.
The lights turn off, the apparition of the hovering Vivien vanishes; silence falls. Then, gradually, something appears on the mutant ring emerging from lit purple fumes; it is covered in narcissus bulbs, slowly falling off the object, revealing it. They are not bringing lions on the scene, castrated leopards, or iron-toothed gladiators—too-primitive adrenaline—and neither eunuchs armed with electromagnetic dildo-arrows and the usual quadriga chariots towed by fat women. Old news, by now. This is something big, down there, imposing, a blocky shadow. A transparent sepulcher for some volunteer tired of life? Maybe a stiff placenta full of sperm? Possibly—it wouldn’t be the first time that someone gets buried alive at the Suprême or suffocated in the liquid amber of humors collected at the entrance. Donors from all the world, unite!
Among the most imaginative spectators, someone immediately thinks about the black ingot, the monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey, picturing couples of Siamese odalisques, with monkey heads, adoring a gigantic block of frozen human fat, which is going explode like a calorific hailstorm.
Nothing like that, as the spotlights soon show with a squeak of exultation from Mister Skeleton. A bed with room for sixteen people, set in an oyster-shaped structure, and she on it: Vivien, spread-legged, covered in honey, with the Corinthian columns of her thighs and the airbags of her calves raised, supported by flexible arms like in a gynecologic inspection. Two robotic devices, with seven thin novaluminum legs—sort of twin arachnoid Cupids—clutch the woman’s sprawling breasts, and they stretch hooked limbs toward her navel, into her flesh, to free her groin from tens of kilos of excess skin, which eludes anatomic geometries dangling and melting on the edges, like Dali’s clocks.
The spectators who have bought the blue extra fall in line on the right side of the ring, so they can climb, three by three, on the flexible water slide leading—torpedo speed—right between Vivien’s legs, inside that pandemic of whipped cream and flesh. Someone tries to make space for himself in the caves of the Fat Woman and use his head to penetrate her, in apnea; others prefer dealing with her huge tits, her feet and minuscule hands, and to the available portions of the goddess’s buttocks—capillaries under pressure spilling everywhere. But Vivien’s face is absolutely inviolable—framed by a couple of two-meter-long blond braids, giving her a certain Wagnerian aura, with dozens of petrified testicles tied to them at regular intervals for all their length: spontaneous donations from the queen’s extra-performance partners.
Those who have bought the extremely expensive red extra—with a thousand credits you could rent a tank-shed at Chachan4 for several years—are much fewer than the sex Argonauts with the blue pass. They are equipped with fat-extraction Beck cylinders, and they wait for their turn to take back home a small part of the mega-cake Vivien. Some of them already have an idea about how to use it, to satisfy sexual or anthropophagic needs; while the crow-faced collectors want to preserve those bio-gadgets with Siberian criteria inside their dynamic safes.
All the other spectators content themselves with admiring that formidable scene, with its riot of bedeviled little ants working on the mountain of flesh, whirling crazed upon it, sliding on fluids and essential oils of holed souls, and another line of human bugs scuttling as they carry their supplies of fat to fill the horrid pantry of their lairs.
Finally, sweated and exhausted by the performance, Vivien makes a last effort and contracts her vagina, her face reddening as she squeezes her fists over the blue bedsheets as in painful childbirth, until she manages to strangle the last pig with his head inside of her up to his neck. Eternal requiem for the heretic scuba diver.
Applause, with no end.
Juliet hurries down the boulevard, leaving behind the racket and the blue shape of the Suprême marquee, by now sewn to the dark cloth of the night. Autumn, one of the coldest here in Paris, and the frozen fallen leaves of the few trees survived to Uxor 77 cover small patches of asphalt, gladly creaking under the heels of the living. The circus sign—with its luminous frame and Vivien’s immense ass on it, projected high by the holo-spitter in 1:100 scale—is going farther and farther, but still it manages to summon fitful shafts of azure light, ropes of nothingness and harpoons of icy air, grasping the short legs of the spectators’ imagination, as they all migrate toward their roadcars; small flocks searching their pockets for keycards and bundles of ideas to reach tomorrow.
Forty-five minutes to curfew.
Martial—the woman’s husband—chases her, reaches her out of breath, and grabs her arm.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asks her in a broken breath, feeling suddenly surrounded by ghosts in miniskirts and Superman boots, only now materializing to his eyes, not completely adjusted yet to the darkness after the too many flashes of the circus. Whores, scores of them around them, like LEDs of flesh, joints between the red lights of the vehicles pulling up.
“Did you really like that shit?” she replies, outraged, without slowing down.
“Come on…just a way to do something different than usual,” he continues, blowing out steam and excitement.
“Really? Is this what makes you hard?” Juliet cuts him short, glaring at him even better than Medusa. “Let’s see if I hold a candle to the fat woman…for her, you had goggling eyes. She can’t be the only one dispensing miracles, can she?”
Autumn is behind her, now: it looks like a black dishwashing machine with crocodile eyes, and it whistles a monotonous litany of days getting ever narrower, of split beds, of cold thighs and full balls, of boiled loves buried in plastic colanders, of toothless thoughts and bites in the air.
Luckily, there is still Coltrane to make someone hesitate, before the last jump—a jazz parapet. Tens of thousands of suicides, an ongoing line of people diving from Pont Neuf every day; and a new breed of rats quickly bloomed below to clean up the floating area. The Sein says thanks.
Juliet slips out of her black skirt, letting it drop on the curb. She is forty-five, an out-of-fashion pearl necklace and worn-out pelvis, but she shows a pair of thighs which aren’t half bad and, even better, an ass adorned with those extra molecules which make all the difference. Here, at least. It will be certainly enough, on the streets of Paris—obscene anthill where everything becomes appetizing, even a road sign with a sinuous shape, maybe with a black bikini of bumps printed on it. It will be enough, where everything has prices and customers.
Martial stands there dumbstruck; he cannot move a muscle, he is a piece of granite with a mutated carnation flower and a cigar in the chest pocket of his jacket, kind gifts of the Suprême.
His wife stops the delay, and she removes her panties—she has just shaven, would be a pity to waste the opportunity—and she unloads her deflated boobs on the antiquated pattern of her bustier, trying to take away some barracudas from the group of young gazelles a few meters farther; with their smooth extra-large prostheses, hard as marble, they are dominating the scene and most of the wallets.
A skanky customer finally picks her up—brake system bouncing, a wheel climbing the twenty centimeters of the curb, and he stretches over the seats to unlock the passenger’s door and suck in that mature slut who suddenly appeared in his hunting grounds, like a meteorite with an extragalactic plate randomly crashed among terrestrial rocks. Still damp with the white humors of a just-penetrated Milky Way. Then, Juliet’s hand pops out of the window and, moving an index finger like a fishhook, she invites Martial to join her, to climb with her on the vehicle, overheated by testosterone acridly exhaling from the buyer’s camo pants.
Martial sheepishly exits the unstable shadow hat of a fitful streetlamp, knowing he is heading toward the entrance—so narrow—of the night’s second show. As she waits for him, she opens her purse, pulls out her pocket mirror, and decorates her mouth with purple lipstick. She wants to leave a mark.
After all, she enjoyed the Suprême show as well.
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