The Marbled Swarm by Dennis Cooper Read Free Book Online Page B

mind, being raped so frequently had coined this favoritism.
    “Well, there are these seven . . . wait, nine guys I used to chat with who, if I know them, and I don’t, probably tell their friends they raped some Emo loser,” he said.
    “It’s true when we were instant messaging, they were all, like, ‘Rape, rape, pound your ass, and blah blah blah, you little whore.’ But when they saw . . . that I was serious, it was all, like, ‘You shouldn’t cut yourself, you’re really nice,’ and then they’d get my face alone and maybe jack off in my mouth, if I was lucky.
    “I just . . . was happy that you didn’t act all psychiatric, and . . . you remind me of my brother, which I know is sick, but . . . God, I sound like the Elephant Man.”
    At that, the car swerved sideways, rocking and skidding down the roadside. Azmir, who’d started yelling in some language that sounds scarier than French, held the steering wheel with one hand, turned around, and threw a punch that squashed the racket out of Serge’s face, then followed it with three or four more blows that left the boy’s head lolling on the car’s rear deck and splashed a bloody image of his face over the tinted glass above.
    There are experts in the field of art who claim a child or alien from outer space would know van Gogh is greater than realistic painters without knowing he was a suffering lunatic. Not that growing up in a museum gave me expertise, but Serge’s swelling, slushy face made his cuter one seem too conformist, and I swear his pain and trouble breathing weren’t the differentials.
    I tugged out several tissues, grabbed some ice cubes, and made two chilly wads, then dug them into his palms, leaned those hands against his lips and nostrils, and asked the gory mess if Serge could speak.
    “I think . . . with a lot of effort . . . yes,” replied a soggy whisper.
    I suggested that, if he had questions, he should pose them now rather than later for reasons I would spare him.
    “Where am I going?” he asked.
    I explained that he would shortly meet some friends of mine, and, were past events with like beginnings symptomatic, there would follow an impromptu show spotlighting him.
    He might be nude or over-dressed in one of several dozen costumes that are saved for such occasions and whose simulacrums range from a convincing grizzly bear to vintage military garb to all variety of slutty drag. Thus ritzed up, he might dance and sing and tell some jokes and read poetry aloud and give each of us a lap dance.
    Ideally, my friends would then be starry-eyed enough to rape him as an encore, which, according to the definition of “rape” I was employing, included both the violent penetration he would expect as well as creepier acts that he would dislike tremendously and barely live through.
    We would pause to get some air, then reconvene at his chateau, where the raping would continue and, given how much less we’d have to work with, escalate and run its course, growing murderous so casually that he would likely find the two brands of close attention indistinguishable.
    After he’d died, or, rather, once we tired of torturing his likeness, he would find his way onto a kitchen counter. There, the most perverted of my friends would rape his stiffening cadaver while the rest of us dismembered it beneath him like lumberjacks who won’t abide some tree hugger.
    We might take a little field trip to his bedroom, explore his ex-belongings for a while, and debate what they revealed about him. No doubt a shower would be warranted, after which, refreshed, we would drift back into the kitchen.
    One friend would butcher, hew, and snip his body parts into a selective dozen at the most and then prepare a meal featuring his high points as the aperitif, main course, and possibly dessert.
    I might raid the gallery of family photographs along the chateau’s staircase and create a table setting, or we might screen a video of him in costume from the night