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Suicide? Faugh! Murder was what else it could be, and murder was what it was despite the apparent circumstances. But Im sure I wont be that hard to love. Everyone loves a winner and I'll be the freak of freaks. They'll come to think of me as beautiful. The details of my body might even be, eventually, exposed on TV. My life story might be written, and surely, if I did have such a life, there would be something to write about, such as how I first decided to join the carnival and the difficulties I had, in the beginning, in doing so; how they all doubted that I would be accepted by the public, for I was, after all, a new concept in freaks. I had, it was felt, carried freakishness to its ultimate degree. I was wholly and utterly the freak, whereas people were used to half freaks. It was felt I might be too startling. I might upset people. They might be more than just disgusted, but shaken to their very bones. But, at last, in some small circus sideshow, someone had had the courage to take me on. At first reactions were mixed. There were letters of protest: This was going too far ... an insult to the public ... poor taste that I should be where others could see me at all, let alone be on public view. I was even banned in a few cities, but of course this helped in the long run. Still, it was an uphill fight. Other freaks were jealous of my purity, my authenticity. No rubber, no makeup, no mutilation necessary. Yet I had my champions, including the circus owners who had invested in me and also some freaks who were generously able to appreciate someone who was far beyond them. Still it will have taken me, let us suppose, about ten years to achieve any real acceptance. In any field one must certainly count on at least this much time, and I am not asking for a quick and easy success. And so, by then, people would have become used to me. Some would say I had a fish-like beauty, some that my movements were graceful and well adapted to my shape and to my needs. Some would argue that my achievements in rolling and flopping about had taken at least as much practice and concentration as would be needed by a concert pianist. Films would then be made to preserve my movements for posterity. Perhaps I might have had my body, by this time, tattooed with flowers and the faces of pretty girls. I would go on TV. The book on my life would be written, and in it, also, would be a description of how I came to be married and how I manage in my household with a little electric cart steered with my teeth, my children, normal or almost normal (there is no need for my sort of mistake twice), and there would be something about my beautiful sister who helped me from the very beginning, at the first mention that I might be put on display. Why was he sitting like this with his face in his hands? I had thought I was the tallest man on the planet, but he was seven feet tall and overweight. Now I knew where my giant bed had come from! Tuli Kupferberg is a Fug. If you havent heard him, youve probably seen him, and if you haven't seen or heard him, you've read his messages on lapel buttons. He is the proprietor of Birth Press (a mimeograph), publishing Yeah!, Birth,and anything else as the spirit moves him; author of One Thousand and One Ways to Beat the Draft(Grove, 1968), and other self-help books; inventor of the erectarine, a 'vertical tambourine'. He is one of the moving spirits behind the East Village Other,and a frequent contributor. In the Fugs, he plays rhythm instruments, writes songs, sings, and does pantomime. 'Kill, Kill, Kill for Peace' is one of his tunes; at forty-three, he claims to be 'the oldest rock 'n' roll star in America', and probably is. "He doesnt have one," Ratlit explained calmly, as though that warranted all change of attitude. "And because hes sick, it'll be hard for him to find work unless he has one of his own." RANDALL GARRETT:Tin Lizzie, Amz, June. Paul Bleeker broke in. "You say a professional man writes for a variety of reasons, John. Name one. Why do you write?" Actually it was the penultimate day, the day before doom. This was what the President had been leading up to when he said shortly after four p.m. that he had only a few more hours to live. What he meant, and what he said a few minutes later, was that everybody was going to die. The end was due at midnight, Eastern Standard Time (nine p.m. Pacific Standard Time, five a.m. the next day London time, six a.m. Paris time, seven a.m. Mecca time, eight a.m. Moscow time) and so on around the poor doomed world. Gausgofer lifted her bony hand breathlessly to her skinny throat and said,Of course, Comrade Rogov, of course. You did all the work. You must be the first. "Anything else wrong?" hairy nude models He put his face down into his hands.(He said the wrong thing. Tell him to go away.) The article about Rosens techniques had said that Rosen talked freely with his patients, discussing their fantasy worlds with them as if they were real, and explaining the meaning of the symbols to them. Perhaps he should see it demonstrated before trying it again. She questioned the caretaker when he brought her lunch. Lets get back to our man on theTimes, Andy Grey, struggling with syntax in his attempt to write today’s story from tomorrow’s mythical (because nonexistent) point of view. To put it another way, he was trying to manipulate the language so his story would look back as honestly as possible, from a day that wouldn’t exist, on the events of Earth’s last day. The malignant tumor, cancer, flew over the rooftops of the city. It had the shape of an egg. Its flight was slow and solemn. The birds noticed something strange in its proximity and moved away from it, coasting in silence. It was a young cancer, red in color, with bluish bands. It was three years old. It had been born in an experimental laboratory, in the skin of a mouse, near a pit-coal mine. Its destiny—to die with the mouse—had seemed a small glory and it had decided to escape. This it did, breaking away and flying off through a window. Scarcely free, it soaked up the mines atmosphere and then allowed itself to be touched by the ultraviolet rays of sunlight. It noticed itself becoming more robust, thriving. It went on molding itself with art, changing position in relation to those rays, until it attained an oval form. Its highest aspiration was to be like an egg, since this would guarantee its fecundity. Once it reached its objective, it gave itself over to the whims of the wind, upand down, seeing landscapes it would never have known in the laboratory. Until it came upon the industrial city. Good morning, gentlemen, the civilian said. Im George Wadsworth, first secretary at the Embassy here.” He looked around the room and smiled. “Your quarters satisfactory, men?” Both soldiers nodded happily..
