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by Robert Anton Wilson
From "The Illuminatus!
Trilogy"
ALL JEW GIRLS LIKE TO BALL
WITH BUCK NIGGERS
"Sons of bitches," Saul shouted back at them. They were still working on
his feelings about Rebecca. Well, that would get them nowhere: he had
ample reason to trust her devotion to him, especially her sexual devotion.
The card moved out of the rectange, and a picture appeared in its place.
It was Rebecca's, in her nightgown, kneeling. Before her stood a naked and
enormous black man, six feet six at least, with an equally impressive
penis which she held sensuously in her mouth. Her eyes were closed in
bliss, like a baby nursing.
"Motherfuckers," Saul screamed. "It's a fake. That's not Rebecca -- it's
an actress with makeup. You forgot the mole on her hip." They could drug
his senses but not his mind.
There was a nasty laugh in the darkness. "Try this one, Saul," a voice
said coldly.
A new picture slid into view: Adolph Hitler, in full Nazi uniform, and a
naked Rebecca backing up to him, taking his penis in her rectum. Her face
showed both pain and pleasure -- and the mole on her hip was visible.
Another fake -- Rebecca was born years after Hitler died. But they hadn't
produced the slide in the thirty seconds after his shout, and that meant
they knew her body, intimately. ... And they also knew how skeptical and
quick his mind was, and were prepared to administer a series of jolts
until something got past his ability to doubt.
"No comment?" the voice asked mockingly.
"I don't believe a man who died thirty years ago would be buggering any
woman today," Saul said drily. "Your tricks are kind of corny."
"Sometimes, with the vulgar, we must communicate vulgarly," the voice
replied -- and it was almost gentle and pitying this time.
A new picture appeared -- and this time, without doubt, it was Rebecca.
But it was a Rebecca three years ago, when he first met her. She sat at a
table in a cheap East Village pad, wearing the emaciated and self-pitying
look he remembered from those days; and she was preparing to inject a
needle in her arm. It was the real thing, but the terror was in its
implications; they had been watching him that long ago. Perhaps -- it was
hard to date the picture precisely, although he remembered her apartment
in those days -- they even knew he would fall in love with her before he
knew it himself. no; more likely, a friend of hers in those days had taken
the picture and they had somehow found it when they became interested in
him. Their resources must be fantastic.
A new card came on the screen:
ONCE A JUNKIE ALWAYS A JUNKIE
A new picture quickly followed: Rebecca, as she looked today, sitting in
his kitchen -- with the new cafe curtains they had just hung last week --
once again injecting a needle into her arm.
"You're the vulgar ones, O mighty Illuminati," Saul said caustically. 'I
would have noticed the tracks on her arm, if she was shooting up again."
The answer was nonverbal: the picture of Rebecca and the giant black man
came back on the screen, and was immediately followed by a close-up of her
face, eyes closed, mouth open receiving the penis. It was in perfect
focus, th work of an artist with the camera, and he could see no sign of
any makeup that would help another woman to pass as Rebecca. He held to
his memory that the mole on her hip was missing, but, perversely, his mind
tasted at last the other possibility -- makeup can change a face, and it
can also hide a mole ... If they wanted him to use his skepticism, so that
they could gradually destroy that, and, in the process, undermine his
total psyche ....
Another sign came on the screen:
THAT WE CAN CALL THESE DELICATE CREATURES OURS BUT NOT THEIR APPETITES
Saul remembered, all too well, Rebecca's passion in bed. "Shakespeare," he
called hoarsely. 'Advertising your erudition at a time like this is worse
than vulgarity. It's petit-bourgeois pretentiousness."
The answer was brutal: a whole series of slides, maybe fifteen or twenty
in all, cascaded across the screen in such rapid succession that he
couldn't examine them carefully, except that the central character was
Rebecca, always Rebecca, Rebecca with the black giant in other sexual
positions, Rebecca with another woman, Rebecca with Spiro Agnew, Rebecca
with a little seven-year-old-boy, Rebecca, Rebecca, in a rising crescendo
of perversion and abnormality, Rebecca with a Saint Bernard dog -- and a
peppermint-colored sine-wave, part of the drug still working on him,
cutting across the scene ...
"The true sadist has style," Saul gasped fighting for control of his
voice. "You people are about as evil and frightening as a bad B-movie."
There was a whirring mechanical sound and a movie began in place of the
slides. It was Rebecca and the Saint Bernard, with several close-ups, and
her expressions were the ones he knew. Could any actress portray another
woman's individual style of sexual response? Yes -- if necessary, these
people would use hypnosis to get the effect letter-perfect.
The movie stopped abruptly and the projector had another message for him,
held on the screen for minutes:
ONLY THE MADMAN IS ABSOLUTELY SURE
***
"And modern novels are the
same," Smiling Jim went on. Sex, sex, sex -- and not normal sex even.
Every type of perverted, degenerate, unnatural, filthy, deviated, and sick
kind of sex. This is how they're gonna bury us, as Mr. Kruschev said,
without firing a shot."
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