The Marbled Swarm by Dennis Cooper Read Free Book Online

atonal, fussy bleat—somewhat marbled yet far too frozen tight and thinned by my loquaciousness to do the swarming it implies. Still, it seems to be a sleeper hit with guys my age and younger, or at least with the majority who tune in once they’re weakened by my stunning looks.
    For this fan base, my dry, chiseled meanderings seem to add a fleeting touch of magic to a face whose knee-jerk beauty might be too digestible. Long story short, had my father not half taught me to talk like this, I might instead be leering up at you from the cover of Vogue or, ugh, Tétu .
    To people who knew my father well, say Azmir and several others you’ll be meeting, I am little more than his subpar impressionist—a miscast, bargain-basement chip off the veritable old block, à la, say, Hayden Christensen’s wooden rendition of Anakin Skywalker.
    I won’t refute that I’m a busker of my father’s genius. Still, to give myself some credit, his wizardry was called for by his dull, unhelpful visage, which was frequently compared to Gérard Jugnot’s, if you know him, whereas it could be argued I need a far less charismatic soundtrack.
    As for how my cover version sits with you who lack that crucial additive, I really couldn’t guess and ultimately fear the worst, but . . . fine, I’ll go as blunt as the sound bite to which my life will be reduced by the same journalists who fashion headlines from its trail of circumstantial evidence.
    I’m what you’d call a cannibal, or, rather, I’m the figurehead, curator, human bankroll, and most willing if not wanton of a clique of cannibals, our exact number depending on who happens to be horny and/or hungry and/or situated in Paris or still alive at any given moment.
    Christophe, mid-forties, is primarily a sadist, and were embroidering the lexicon of human screams a sport, he’d be a gladiator, but, at least until we’re jailed, he’s best known to those who’ve never met him as the cosmetic surgeon of choice for French celebrities and government officials.
    His son Claude—and that doubled name is problematic, I agree—was a nineteen-year-old ballet dancer who became a member of our team for several hours, but since sixty of his kilos were on the menu at the time, his designation as a chum is strictly for sticklers.
    François, fifty-something, is a noted chef whose “bitter” cooking packs the four-star restaurant L’Astrance. At first, he saw mankind as a bonanza, as ground too hallowed not to break, and he used our dinner prattle as a critique, but, after mastering his spin on what he calls this “cult” cuisine, he’s much more tolerable personally.
    His sons Olivier and Didier round—or, in Didier’s case, and, come to think of it, Olivier’s as well, rounded—out our inner circle.
    Olivier, my age but Japanese, was hungrier for gory films than body parts. He would watch them so incessantly without uncalled-for blinks or bathroom breaks that, although I never asked, I assume he saw the tactile aspect of our cookouts as a further step in entertainment history akin to IMAX 3D.
    Didier struck inattentive strangers as a kind of Pugsly trapped within some all-male Addams Family, but, since he lived for everyone’s protection in a cage, he was really more our mascot. By this moment in my story, both Olivier and he have been digested, unless, that is, you ever stumble on my chateau and note two quadrants of the yard that seem peculiarly indented, in which case bingo.
    Barring François, the others stay around for dinner to be social more than anything else.
    I won’t claim I don’t enjoy our aperitif-like orgies, and, if you could view the CDRs, you might quibble with my need to watch the rapes with folded arms, but I would defy you to call me a dispassionate wallflower.
    Everyone knows Shakespeare’s bon mot wherein a loved one is colluded with a summer’s day. Well, I will hazard an offshoot whereby the so-called loved one is a kid like Serge who isn’t lovable at