`I see.'
I turned to my friend. `Better give her a fifty, Frank.'
He took out his wallet a second time and pulled off a single bill. She fingered it and stuffed it into a tiny pocket in her
tiny leather skirt.
`Okay,' she said. `Let's go.'
She walked over and turned on the television set, fiddling carefully with the dials and adjusting the volume quite high.
When she moved away from the screen three young men were twitching away and playing loudly some rhythmic tune
which was world-famous and which I almost recognized.
I was paying fifty dollars for this? No. Osterflood was paying. I relaxed. - `You want some hash tonight?' she asked
Osterflood. He was brooding into his half-finished drink.
`Yes,' he said.
When Gina returned from the kitchen this time she had a small pipe, apparently fully loaded, since she handed it to Osterflood and he lit up right away.
He passed it up to her and she took a long toke and then sat down on the couch between us, leaning back and reaching out an arm to hand the pipe to me. I'd read someplace that the United States Marines found marijuana and hashish excellent aids to the performance of their duties, so I took a healthy puff and passed the pipe back to her.
After only about three or four puffs by each of us, the pipe seemed to have gone out, but after a few minutes, as I was watching a handsome, sincere American clobber a greasy Latin American type on the TV screen, the pipe appeared under my nose again nicely lit. As I passed the pipe back to Gina, holding the smoke in my lungs, I smiled at her, and her soft baby face and large brown eyes looked sorrowfully and innocently into mine. If only she doesn't talk. Was she Negro or Italian? By the fourth toke of the second series I was really enjoying the rhythm of the deep inhale, the earnest American talking, frowning, driving his jet-powered jeep, then the blossoming beneath my nose of the gem-studded pipe, the inhale … As I passed the pipe back to her this time, I felt like smiling at her again, hoping she was enjoying the show too, and I watched with interest as she put the pipe in her mouth and Osterflood's hand bloomed into view just below her chin, clutched like an octopus onto one side of the v of Gina's sweater and then in slow motion flew away, sending the buttons in front popping off onto the living room rug like machine-gun pellets. Gins continued her inhale and handed the pipe back to me, her eyes focused on the ceiling. I looked at the pipe pleasurably, examining the lacework of fake gems around the outside of the bowl, looked at the small, black, charcoal-looking lump inside, and took a pleasant, long toke. ABC, I now noticed, was presenting `CIA in Action' a new adventure series, and when the commercial for Johnson's Baby Powder ended, two earnest Americans, one of whom I remembered seeing earlier, began talking about a Red plot in front of a backdrop of toiling peasants.
When I turned lazily to hand Gina the pipe she was sitting exactly as before, her head back against the couch and eyes ceiling-ward, but nude from the waist up. Her two breasts rose on her chest like two mounds of molded honey, with two neat circular sculpted crowns of brown sugar at the peak of each rounded, honeyed hilt.
Without smoking she passed the pipe on to Osterflood on the other side of her. The pipe went flying off onto the living room floor on top of the buttons, the sweater and the bra. He had bashed at her hand.
`Get up,' Osterflood said.
Slowly, like a sated leopardess, she stood. I could see Osterflood now and he was staring at her bleary-eyed and without expression, neat in his soft, gray suit.
`You bitch,' he said dully. `You cunt-caked bitch.'
'I was smiling to myself without thought, leaning back and examining with aesthetic bliss the curve of Gina's right breast, which stuck out gracefully in front of her right arm like the .prow of a boat nosing out from behind a cliff. An earnest American jawed aggressively with a greasy American just-at the tip of the short bowsprit.
`You slut,' Osterflood said just a bit louder. `You juicy-jointed sewer. Shit-slitted slut. Slime-oozing whore.'
Gina was fumbling with the belt and then one side of her feather skirt and after a moment or two; the skirt dropped like a guillotine to the floor at her feet. She was now totally nude. A long lovely scar ran down the back of one thigh.
`You bitch!' Osterflood screamed, 'and he staggered woozily to his feet and wobbled uncertainly for several seconds. There was a scream from the TV screen and I glanced idly over to see one of the Americans pick up one of the peasants and throw him onto a manure pile where another peasant could be seen struggling ineffectually.
I turned back just in time to see Osterflood grab Gina's curly dark hair and throw her back onto the couch. She bounced once, in segments, and then sat quietly, her large brown eyes looking vacantly at the ceiling.
`Feces!' shouted Osterflood. `Female feces!' I smiled friendlily over at her.
`It's going to be a nice evening,' I said pleasantly.
Chapter Eighty-one
I have been a woman on hundreds of occasions: in my dice life, group dice therapy and in our Dice Centers. I've usually enjoyed myself thoroughly. The only time I haven't enjoyed being a woman is when people have thought I was a man. For example, my experience with the Cleveland Brown defensive tackle (he used to be a truck driver - of Good Humor Ice Cream trucks) was at first unrewarding because he wanted me to be a man and I thought he was a man. Confusion of roles is always difficult.
I found that being a woman physically was more difficult than being one socially and psychologically. Sexually it was a big disappointment. I simply don't have the right equipment to enjoy being laid. It is much more pleasant in bed to play a passive `feminine' role with an aggressive `masculine' woman than with a real man. The pump of a penis in the anus is, to be precise, a pain in the ass. The feel of a nice hot prick moiling in one's mouth is certainly an experience that everyone should try, but is for me one of the minor sexual pleasures. The flood of hot semen into the mouth is pleasing enough if one takes any pride at all in one's work, but it is at best a psychological pleasure rather than a physical one. Choking on over-salted soup is not my idea of sensuous bliss, but I admit my limitations.
The appeal of being a woman - at least for me - lies in the freshness of the experience and in the passivity, the masochistic passivity I might even say. There is something basic in wanting to be dominated by a superior creature #161;whether man or Die. Responding to men respectfully and passively has never been my majority nature, but the times the Die has ordered me to play a woman have uncovered the latent slave in me.
And certainly being a woman is absolutely basic for every man in our society. And vice versa for women. The human is built to imitate, and every male has stored within him a thousand female gestures, phrases, attitudes and acts which long to be expressed, but are buried in the name of masculinity. It is a tragic loss. Perhaps the single greatest contribution of our Dice Centers is that they create an environment which encourages the expression of all roles; it encourages bisexuality. One might even more honestly say full sexuality, were honesty one of our virtues.
I have been a woman on hundreds of occasions and I recommend that every other healthy, red-blooded American man be one too.
Chapter Eighty-two
Dicemasters train young people as well as old. Two Dicemasters each had a child prodigy. One child, going to buy bubble-gum at the store each morning, would often meet the other going to the same place.
`Where are you going?' the first asked one day.
`I'm going wherever my dice fall,' the other responded.
This reply stopped the first child, who immediately went back to his Dicemaster for help. `Tomorrow morning,' Jake Ecstein told him, `when you meet that smart aleck, ask him the same question. He'll give you the same answer, and then you ask him: "Suppose you have no dice, then where are you going?"
That'll fix him.'
The children met again the next morning.
`Where are you going?' asked the first child.
This reply also stopped the youngster, who hurried back to his Dicemaster.
`Ask him tomorrow where he's going if there's no wind. That'll fix him.'
The next day the children met a third time.
`Where are you going?' asked the first child.
`I'm going to the store to buy bubblegum,' the other replied.
from The Book of the Die
Chapter Eighty-three
`Daddy? Why do I have to brush my teeth every day?'
the little girl asked.
`Try this new tube I've got for you, Suzie, and you'll never ask that question again.'
[Close-up of a big long tube of Glare Toothpaste]
But I had to look away because Gina was kneeling on the floor, her hands tied behind her back with her bra, and
Osterflood, with his pants and undershorts bunched at his feet but still dressed in white shirt, tie and suit jacket, was thrusting with his erect, pink weapon at her mouth, cursing her at every poke. I felt I was watching a slow-motion movie showing some huge piston at work, but some flaw in the machinery resulted in the rod's seeming frequently to miss the wide-open mouth which Gina, large-eyed and expressionless, was presenting. Osterflood's sword of vengeance against the female race kept sliding past her cheek or her neck or poking her in the eye. Whenever she would seem to have a good mouthful (she would close her eyes then), Osterflood would withdraw, raging, and thrust away sporadically, redoubling his curses. It wasn't clear whether he hated her more when she sucked him in or when he missed contact and bounced painfully off her forehead. In both cases he seemed like a movie director enraged because she, the actress, didn't mouth her lines correctly.
`Ahhggg! How I hate you,' he yelled and lurched forward and collapsed onto the couch beside me. I smiled over at
him.
He struggled sideways into a sitting position.
`Undress me, you disgusting, filthy hole,' he said loudly.
A cute, frightened peasant girl had joined the number-one earnest American and was pleading with him passionately
about her corn crop. Without any apparent effort, Gina freed her hands and dropped the bra back onto the rug next to
her skirt and sweater and the buttons and the pipe and came to the couch to undress him.
`Get me a drink,' he shouted to no one in particular as Gina tried to slide his pants over his shoes and off. She stood
and said `Sure, honey. You want some acid?'
`I just want your ass, you sink!' he shouted after her.
`It's for the good of your country,' the firm TV voice said.
Osterflood's sword was melting into an arch at the moment but mine wasn't. My body was tingling all over pleasantly and I had to adjust my .38 and my other rod (semi-automatic), to make all continue tingling pleasantly. I wondered how Osterflood could keep his hands off those breasts and buttocks and I deeply resented all his talking and his abominable aim.
He gulped down the drink she brought him while she slowly untied and removed each of his shoes and the CIA man drove a tractor and then on her knees in front of him she removed his necktie, unbuttoned one by one the buttons of his shirt and - all in a slow-motion movie which I watched as if it were a faithful newsreel of the Second Coming #161;she had just managed to slide the second sleeve of his shirt down off his left arm (the peasants I could hear were cheering now and I glanced briefly to catch a glimpse of a forest of white, toothy grins), when Osterflood's huge, muscular arms loomed out, closed around her, his face plowed into her face and his mouth sunk into her mouth.
Gina groaned sharply and the way she twisted indicated he must be hurting her somehow.
`You bastard!' she snapped shrilly when she got her mouth free. She hit him as good a slap as she could from her close-up position, and he grinned and sunk his teeth into her shoulder. As she scratched at his back he toppled her backward onto the rug with a tremendous crash. When he raised himself off her to place his weapon into the disgusting cesspool, she got in a few blows at his face and then he was in and working.
There wasn't much to see: just Osterflood's big buttocks moving a few inches up and down as he plowed away at Gina's rich earth and her fingers splayed out on his back and occasionally changing position, as if she were playing chords. Gina was groaning, when Osterflood abruptly rose to his knees, flipped her over onto her stomach like a farmer working with a sack of wheat and fumbled with his weapon to reengage the enemy in her other cave. When he thrust himself into her and fell forward upon her Gina let loose a terrible scream. It corresponded so perfectly with gun shots from the screen that I looked back quickly to see a beautiful, frightened peasant girl with a ripped blouse clutching the arm of the number one earnest American and the peasant spies blasting away from behind a chicken coop.
Gina was fighting with her right arm to raise herself and twist Osterflood off and out -of her, but he bore down, pulling, her hair with one hand and controlling her right arm with the other. His professional-wrestler role seemed to be paying off.
`Bitchbitchbitch,' he gasped, and the American was dragging the beautiful peasant girl through a cornfield and bullets were shattering the kernels every which way and Osterflood was banging Gina's head against the rug and the American tossed a grenade and whomp! the chink peasants were splattered like fertilizer over the cornfield and 'Diediedie-bitchbitch,' Osterflood hissed and with a supreme thrust deep into her anus they both screamed.
An unearthly silence filled the room. The beautiful peasant girl was looking with most frightened eyes from the pieces of peasant to the earnest American. 'My God,' she said.
`Steady,' the deep voice answered. `We've won this round, but there's always more of them.'
Osterflood rolled off his conquered foe with a grunt, his weapon still cocked, but presumably discharged.
Gina's hilly form lay quietly for a few moments and then she got to her knees and stood up. Although she was still facing away toward the TV set, I could see blood running in a tiny stream down the right corner of her mouth and something was smeared down the inside of one thigh. Slowly she moved off to the left and disappeared into what seemed to be a bathroom.
I was perspiring a good deal and a lady was smiling ecstatically as she held up her laundry and I found myself sailing over to the liquor cabinet and fixing three more drinks, adding mostly melted ice.
Osterflood was lying on his back when I sailed back again, but he sat up to take the drink I offered him. He stared
wild-eyed at me.
'I'm going to be killed,' he said.
I'd forgotten all about that.
He clutched at my pants leg, spilling part of his drink on the rug.
'I'm going to die. I know it. You've got to do something.'
'It's all right,' I said.
'No, no, it's not, it's not. I feel it strongly. I deserve to die.'
`Come into the kitchen,' I said.
He stared wild-eyed at me.
'I want to show you something,' I added.
`Oh,' he said, and with a great effort he turned himself onto his hands and knees and staggered to his -feet.
I flowed off behind his whale-like form toward the kitchen and as he passed through the door in front of me I drew
my gun from my pocket, raised it in a long endless arc up over my head, and then down with all my force onto the top
of Osterflood's huge head.
'Wha'sat?'
Osterflood said, stopping and turning, and slowly raising a hand to his head.
I gazed openmouthed at his erect, swaying, hulking body.
'It's .. . it's my gun,' I said.
He looked down at the black little pistol hanging limply from my fist.
'What'd you hit me for?' he said after a pause.
'Show you my gun,' I said, still gaping at his blank, bleary, bewildered eyes.
'You hit me,' he said again.
We stared at each other, our minds wo
rking with the speed and efficiency of lobotomized sloths.
'Just a tap. Show you my gun,' I said.
We stared at each other.
'Some tap,' he said.
We stared at each other.
'Protect you with. Don't tell Gina.'
When he stopped rubbing the back of his head, his hand and arm dropped like an anchor into the sea.
'Thanks,' he said dully, and moved past me back into the living room.
Two snake-eyed peasants were conspiring together on the screen, and I wandered over to the liquor cabinet and stared
at the big photograph of Al Capone. Was it Al Capone? It was Al Capone. Robot-fashion I plucked three more fresh glasses from the neat stack there, poured in the dregs of ice from the bowl, and splashed some Scotch and water into each. I stirred them all idly with my finger, licked my finger and as a kind of dreamy afterthought, drew, from my jacket pocket the envelope of strychnine and poured about half of it (fifty mg) into one of the drinks. I stirred it with my finger again and was about to lick my finger but thought better of it. I poured the other half of the poison into an empty glass, filled it from the pitcher of water and stirred it with my finger again.
'I'm going to die, whip me!' Osterflood was saying on his back from the floor. 'Beat me, kill me.'
Gina had returned from wherever she had been and was standing over Osterflood, sweat glistening lightly on her chest
and forehead. Her child's face peered down at him as at an interesting toad. Osterflood was groaning and writhing
mildly on the rug. Then he stopped and said quietly.
'Whip me.'
Gina leaned down to her left and picked up her leather skirt and stepped into it, buttoning it loosely at her hips. She
drew out the leather belt.
'Would you two like a drink first?' I asked, holding the three Scotch drinks on a tray before me.
Osterflood didn't seem to hear me, intent instead upon some inner light. Gina reached her free hand out and took one
of the two harmless drinks and took a big swig from it.
'Frank, would you like I began.
The Diceman Page 40
