Betrayed By Rita Hayworth

Betrayed by Rita Hayworth

—Back again, honey? Couldn’t get enough?
—My dear, I’m exhausted. I simply couldn’t sleep.
—Ho-hum. You’ve got the Disease. Juan’s Jizz-Fever.

—It’s not that. Surely not that. It can’t be just that.
—Hush, Miss Thing. You’ll wake him up.
—Of course not, dear. We wouldn’t want that.

—Really, Mary? What a skanky old slut you are.
—Juan, that poor child. He must be just drained dry.
—You should know, Miss Dickface. After last night.

—I had no idea, my dear. Such a seminal Valentino!
—Yes, honey—Copious as Copacabana, isn’t he?
—I had no idea Creole Romance could be so…

—So worthy of shameless Betrayal?
—Yes, done in by Rita Hayworth!!! Betrayed!!!
—And yet such a young sweet innocent…

—Please, honey. Your panties are in a twist.

—How could anything so unabashedly unpretentious.
—Please, you slut. You love it, every inch of it.

—I feel so ashamed. I feel completely, totally…
—Betrayed? Of course you do, it’s quite natural…
—Do all young Creoles hide such Blatino Big Ones?

—The better to Betray you with, my dear.
—I feel totally Betrayed, such a whore I’ve become!
—What’s new? You’re about as Innocent as a…

—An old used Rubber? A used Trojan in the gutter?
—Try Semen in the Sewer, Miss Rotor-Rooter.
—So Whitey upstairs, Mandingo in the basement.

—Fix me another martini, won’t you my dear?
—Skip the olive, I wanna do him again.
—Oh dear, look there. we’ve added some hickies.

—Plus a swollen testicle or two, you whore.
—Oh please forgive me, I couldn’t help myself.
—You helped yourself plenty, last night, honey.

—You’re so right about his green cheesy smegma.
—Ho-hum, told you so. It’s my favorite fondue.
—Is that why you keep him kept Captive?

—What do you think, Mary? I’m no dummy.
—All spread-eagled in bed, so very helpless.
—Handcuffs around his wrists & ankles tight…

—Yes, jars of K-Y & Vaseline strewn on the floor.
—He does look a bit like cute Terrence Stamp…
—Yes, like Billy Budd or The Collector…

—Yes, except I’m the Collector this time...
—Yes, of course, my dear, you dreadful Claggart.
—I admit it, I confess it, I live it, I suck it…

—It does wonders for your complexion, Lueez…
—And the wrinkles under my eyes, they’re gone too.
—All those young male hormones, Juan’s so sexy.

—Who needs a Facelift—with Cream like that?
—Those big puffy pouty Botux lips of his…
—Hush, he’s waking up again. Time for his bath.

—He does like the Jacuzzi doesn’t he?
—I’m simply going broke with the coke bill, dear.
—I know, here’s a couple of C-notes for you.

—After last night’s orgy, he is kinda gimpy.
—Gawd, I hope it wasn’t my fault in any way.
—Well, he limps to the bathroom, it hurts him so.

—The left nut or the right nut, we both had one?
—I love it when he faints, it’s so excruciating.
—The look on his twisted face, pure Betrayal.

—That’s what Tyrone said, after Rita blew him.
—I can imagine—“Betrayed by Rita Hayworth!”
—You should know, honey. You shameless whore.

—And I thought Miami Beach boyz looked betrayed…
—So many Creoles in New Orleans—so little time.
—It’s why they call it the “Big Easy”…dontchaknow.

—Yes, my dear, “Big” as in “Big Daddy.”
—Yes, “Big Easy” honey…but not easy all the time.
—It don’t come Easy…No “Big Easy” all the time.

—Oh dear me, I know just what you mean…
—Last night that Third Time wasn’t Easy at all.
—That’s when he sprained his Nut, honey.

—Oh my goodness, I’m glad it wasn’t my Lips.
—Sometimes the Look on his face makes me cry…
—Yes, there’s something about a Bad Boy Betrayed…

—That “hurt” look of being Used and Abused…
—Aint it Awful, what Kept Boyz gotta do?
—That Lost Innocence—so Betrayed & Shocked!!!

—That Look on his Face—Down to the Last Drop!
—That betrayed Last Squirt—and Dick Wiggle…
—It’s lucky he’s got such a Fine Big Daddy…

—Such a Fine Sugar Mama like you & me…
—Hush, he’s waking up. He’ll want it again!!!
—So what, honey? I'm simply starved, my dear.

Bad Attitude

Bad Attitude

They say a picture—is worth a thousand words. If that’s true than the Smirk on Elvis Presley’s face—there in Las Vegas at the Riviera next to Liberace says it all.

Elvis the Pelvis—simply oozed with Bad Attitude. You can see it in this publicity photo—the rising Rock ‘n’ Roll Star standing next to the Flaming Faggot Liberace herself.

The way the Ed Sullivan Show censored—Elvis Presley below the waist. Typical of str8t closety Fifties America—back before Bad Attitude became Vogue.

Liberace taught Elvis—how to Flaunt what sold best in Vegas back then. What Ed Sullivan censored—the rest of the world wanted to see!!!

Elvis the Pelvis

Elvis the Pelvis

After her divorce—Mommy Dearest got lonely. She was a small-town girl—a petite little Redhead.

When Elvis Presley—made his Hollywood début. Starring in “Love Me Tender” (1956)—she was still boy-crazy. And I was just a—little pimply-faced Chicken in the Seventh Grade.

The Granada Theater was packed—all the young ladies in town & awe-struck chicks were there. I was the only male in the audience—my mother insisted that I take her to the Special Saturday Afternoon Matinee.

I didn’t much want to go—I was still pretty much in the Closet. Elvis Presley was simply much too much for me—I preferred Queen Bee Liberace & her lovely sequined piano performances.

But I could feel the Excitement though—hundreds of screamy women there to see the Bijou Badboy. When Presley made his first appearance up there on the Silver Screen—it was like one big Screamy Orgasm!!!

Elvis played this stunningly goodlooking Civil War hero—dutifully plowing the cotton field of his family homestead. Talk about a Pussy Riot—I found myself screaming my head off too!!!

Love Me Tender

Love Me Tender

I’d never seen anything like it—it was long before YouTube videos and Disco Night Clubs. Long before Rock Concerts—and all those Rock ‘n’ Roll Bands.

Before Patrick Swayze—in “Dirty Dancing.” I sank into my seat in the Granada Theater—feeling the same exquisite Ecstasy as the adoring Mob of Elvis Fans.

It was like Overnight—suddenly I turned into a Swooning Elvis Presley Scream Queen!!! Suddenly finding myself—a Delirious Devotee to Elvis the Pelvis flaunting it up there on the Silver Screen.

I couldn’t help it—I fell in love with Elvis Presley just like everybody else in the Audience. I felt my mousy little Closet Door—suddenly become unhinged!!! Swinging Open—like the swinging doors to Miss Kitty’s Saloon in “Gunsmoke.”

Everything lined up—like a row of Slinky Dominos. And down I went on my knees—taking a long Detour that surely would end up my gay Dénouement!!!

Strap on Sex With Girlfriend Again

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Strap On Sex With Girlfriend

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The Cloven Foot Review

The Cloven Foot Review

In any event, the Mystery of Edwin Drood will remain a mystery—as incomplete as Charles Dickens’ own life had been to him. Sitting there in his Gads Hill Place mansion—there in his study surrounded by all the ghostly avatars of his previous existences, such adventures he must have had.

Whether or not the incompleteness of The Mystery of Edwin Drood will be accepted and the unfinished novel awarded by the critics—its completeness may well indeed be in its own incompleteness, something that can be questioned by none. Since Edwin Drood is an effort of art in which the artist still lives—surely it has, and must have, another aspect other than just simply lack of closure. What does The Mystery of Edwin Drood’s incompleteness mean?

Drood’s incompleteness may very well be the justification for an exacting commentary—as unprejudiced literary judgments may properly do or not do to any half-published work with a challenging verdict. Others such as Robert Henry Newell aka Orpheus C. Kerr went ahead and did adaptations and continuations of Drood with such works as “The Cloven Foot” (1870).

The half of the novel which Dickens leaves behind—is unmistakable evidence that another half could not possibly have formed a whole in any way equal to the standard which Dickens’ previous triumphs have erected for him. 

If one reads Drood critically, then one can readily believe the current report, that Dickens regarded it with peculiar uneasiness. It is well known that he passed many hours daily in his smoke-infested studio, struggling and trying to  keep down his inherited sanguine tendency of despairing about things. Did it have to do with Ellen Ternan?

Dickens wasn’t confident of Drood’s artistic success, after committing the first monthly numbers to the press, and he expressed this unease to several friends with the fear that it might injure his literary reputation. 

The art of Dickens, like that of many writers, sometimes comes by immediate inspiration of unpremeditated sympathy with what, to others, might seem the most unlikely of human subjects; and it becomes a mere forced and lifeless imitation of itself, when, as in this case, anticipated and pledged for a deliberately complicated plot and what is called a psychological study of abnormal character. 

Edwin Drood, the central personage of the Mystery, is an unwholesome monstrosity, of which the writer of "David Copperfield," even in the fullest flush of his matchless powers, could never have made happy imaginative use; and, from his first appearance in the narrative, there is an overwrought laboriousness of mystification about him which, in illustration of extremes meeting, has very soon the awkward effect of making him no mystery at all. 

The design of representing a man with a dual existence, in one phase of which he intends to, and thinks he does, commit murder, while in the other he confounds the deed and doer with a personality distinct from his own, is kept so nervously apparent at the beginning, as a justification of the plotted denouement, that any reader fairly skilled in the necessary artistic relations of one part of a story to another, must derive there from a premature knowledge of what the designer supposedly wishes to conceal for the time being. 

The author could scarcely have been without some presentiment of this likelihood, while striving to manipulate an artificial type of character so wholly unnatural to his wholesome, straightforward genius; and the depressing effect upon himself is plainly to be seen, not more in furthers spasmodic excesses of shade, than in the falsity of his unequalled Humor to itself, in such a mechanical " side light " as Princess Puffer and her opium den salon.

It is because Orpheus Kerr’s “Adaptation of The Mystery of Edwin Drood” serves, in unavoidable proportion to its fidelity, to make prominent the artistic infelicities of the latter, that the adapter has ventured such a preface as the foregoing to his apology for turning the serious work of an illustrious foreign writer to ludicrous native use. 

As one not without some studious knowledge of the scope and various approved methods of art in Fiction, and practice in the difficulties of American novel-writing, the present writer has more than once employed the sober print of literary journalism to assert his belief, that the notorious lack of the higher order of imaginative writing in this Country is due rather to the physical, social, and artistic crudity of the Country itself, than to its deficiency in that order of genius which has given to older lands their greater poets, artists, and novelists. 

Detour II

DETOUR (1945) II

I was a fool to have given him a ride—but I’d done it. Done, done, done, done, done…

I was trying to coax myself to calm down a little bit—telling myself I’d never let it happen again. But it didn’t calm me down—and I couldn’t forget it.

I kept driving thru the night—feeling more and more miserable. I was a sucker for guys—at least certain guys like this one. I didn’t even know his name—we were both on the run.

I didn’t know what he was running away from—and I didn’t care. All I know is that he was like me—on the run from somewhere or somebody.

Does anybody know what they’re running away from? Does anybody know they’re actually running away from something in the first place? What was it we were running away from—ourselves?

“Pu-lease” he said to me. “Get real. You and I both know you’re not running away from anything. You’re running toward something—somebody who left you.”

“I’m not that kind of girl,” I said to him. But I knew I was—I’d been ditched by my boyfriend back in New York. Playing the piano just to be around him. But he ditched me for a nightclub break in LA.

In the end I didn’t exactly give up on him—like he gave up on me. He was the lead singer in our nightclub band—every night draining me dry with his crummy Marlene Dietrich drag act.

His cabaret swan song routine—I was a sucker for it every time. He wasn’t very convincing to anybody else—except sucker me. His crummy weltschmerz was right up my alley—he had me wrapped around his little pinkie.

In the end, I didn’t exactly give up on him—he took me for everything I had. And now here I was—broke, down & out, driving a hot car, speeding my way to LA, just to be back around him. And get some more.

Don’t ask me why or how or when. I gave up the guilt game a long time ago. I didn’t love him—I knew that for sure. I didn’t even like him anymore—I knew that too. He was awfully handsome though—a good actor like most goodlooking hustlers.

Yeah, he was also vain—the vainest, most self-centered guy I ever knew. No wonder he was vain—with a snaky tool like he had. I was addicted to it—I needed it bad. But I didn’t hate him—even after it was all over with. I hated myself instead—I was ashamed of myself being on the road going after him again..

I wasn’t very surprised to discover the truth—the build-up to it had taken a long time. There was plenty of hints—all of them hardly the size of postage stamps. More like sledge-hammers—him sneering at me. Knowing I needed it really bad.

How could I have been so foolish—realizing how little he thought of me. He treated me like a tramp—he said he was after bigger fish. Some Hollywood Sugar Daddy pushover. That’s when he left me.

I was ashamed I’d been in love with him—what a waste of time. But I couldn’t help myself—here I was following him to LA. He had a plane ticket—and I only had this dumpy Cadillac convertible.

I kept telling myself—how could I fall for such a conceited guy over & over again. I sat driving in the car—angry with myself and him.

I glanced over at the kid—he smirked at me. He knew what my story was—he knew I was a sucker. Well, never again I said to myself—but I felt it happening again. What a loser I was—and this hitchhiker hustler was going to take me for everything I had.

I needed some sleep. I pulled into the next crummy motel. A cheap joint off the highway—but it had a bed and a shower. I got the kid in the room—he looked around.

“You could’ve picked a better motel,” he wise-cracked.

He turned to look at me blankly, every inch the fake hoity-toity one.

“What’s the matter with this joint? It’s got a bed. And a shower. At any rate, there aren’t many places along the highway at this time of night, you know.”

He took out a cigarette and lit it. He shrugged.

I didn’t even know his name—later I found out it was Raoul. He didn’t tell me his last name.

“And take a shower too—you stink.”

Raoul had nothing more to say to me. When he finished his shower he crawled between the sheets. He laid there looking at the ceiling—smoking and running his fingers through his silky, black hair.

He was only too aware of the fact that he was handsome—acting like he didn’t care about his appearance. I noticed he was always careful though—not to ruin how pretty he was posing for me.

He had his arms behind his head—letting his goodlooks ooze and spill outta him like he was a Greek god instead of a two-bit highway hustler.

I couldn’t help it. I turned out the lights—and crawled into bed with him.

Detour

DETOUR (1945)

Near the airport at Desert Center, I pulled over for gas. There was a young guy standing outside the gas station—exercising his thumb.

Now most smart motorists pass up these young male hitchhikers—because usually they’re plenty tough and not exactly innocent, svelte debutantes. They have a reputation for stickups, hustling and blackmail— depending on how hard-up they are.

But what can a guy expect to find on a lonely public highway off from the major freeways? I was sticking to the offbeat routes, because the car was hot.

Anyway this particular one looked okay to me—I put him down as just some local kid. He looked okay to me. Probably only going a little ways to see his girlfriend—so I decided to give him a break. “Hop in, kid,” I said.

He came running over to the car, opened the door and jumped in. “How far you going?” I asked him.

“How far do you wanna go?” he said.

That surprised me and I turned to look him over. He was facing straight ahead so I couldn’t see his eyes, but he was young, not more than twenty—and dirty.

I mean I don’t think I ever saw a hitchhiker as dirty as him in my life. He had a pair of torn bluejeans, his shoes were rundown at the heel, and he wasn’t wearing any socks. He looked like he’d been thrown off the crummiest freight train in the world. About the only clean part of him was his face, what a bored expression he had.

He wasn’t just dirty—he smelled like shit. The kind of shitty smell that young males have when they haven’t had a shower in a million years. His jeans just plain stunk with the rank odor of sweat and smeg—and gawd knows what else.

Definitely not safe sex material—but I felt sorry for him. Plus he was ugly as sin—in a primitive animal way. He could have been a movie star version of a young villain like Jack Palance, I suppose. Or a rough trade version of Tommy Cook outta “Panic in the Streets.”

That’s what attracted me to him—he had this kind of natural noir male beauty. He was real not fake—he was down and out and showed it. He was a real case of unfinished business—still incomplete as far as his male hormones were concerned. He had a lot more growing up to do—in the next couple of years.

Then, suddenly, he turned around to face me and I took it all back. His mouth and eyes were enough to give a man the jitters. His lips were thin and cold—almost a slit across his face. And his eyes—well, they might have been pretty if they hadn’t had that glassy shine to them that meant only one thing. He was higher than a kite—and wasn’t coming down for a long time...

He kept looking at me—and I had a strange, peculiar feeling run through me. The kid wasn’t goofy—he was dead serious. And if I didn’t watch out—then maybe I’d be dead too.

“How far did you say you wanna go?” he repeated.

Was that a proposition? I just smiled and off we went. This kid was smarter than I thought.

I was already keyed up pretty high—after ditching Haskell. His stash of reefers I found in the glove compartment—had kept me high for the last couple of hundred miles. Plus the bottle of amphetamines in there too.

So the kid and I were pretty much on the same wavelength—speeding down the highway high as kites. That was the problem with Haskell—taking too much of the stuff and having a heart-attack.

He’d been sleeping in the passenger seat—with me driving after he picked me up. But it was a snooze that he’d never wake up from that’s for sure. So the kid and I were both hitchhikers—and what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. I didn’t off Haskell—he offed himself. I wasn’t the killer type—at least not yet anyway.

I nodded to the glove compartment—he read my mind. Pretty soon we were both toked-up just fine—with the moon coming down outside Las Vegas.

I didn’t wanna get stuck with a dead body in the car—plus everything else. So I dumped Haskell on a side road outside of Salt Lake City and kept driving. Haskell or no Haskell—I was gonna get to LA one way or another. Hopefully without a hitch or a homicide charge.

We drove awhile longer—and my pants felt sticky. I realized I’d been squeezing my butt tight together for who knows how many miles—feeling that familiar knot tightening in my stomach. A balmy, sickish sensation tightening my balls—making my nutsac ache and hurt really bad.

My temples were throbbing—I felt kinda dizzy. I looked over at the kid—he was slouched down in the seat. He looked passed out to me—or maybe he was just sleeping it off.

The clothes I had on were the only ones I owned—the same with the kid. I made up my mind we’d stay at the next motel—both of us needed a nice hot shower and a good night’s sleep.

I was completely fagged out—but I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t help but notice it—a long slithery snake going down the side of his leg. It stayed that way for mile after mile and didn’t move. I reached over and felt him up.

Nothing happened so I unsnapped his jeans and eased down the zipper. He wasn’t wearing any shorts—so down my hand went. All the way down to the tip—it was all moist too.

He raised his hips—and with one hand I slid his pants down to his knees. I kept my eyes on the road. He kept his eyes closed—like he didn’t really wanna see my face. I can’t blame him—there’s nothing worse than “that” kinda look. That kinda look on a grown man’s face—looking for some serious action.

Talk about stink!!! The stench was bad enough to gag a maggot—he had enough smeg down there to start a cheese factory. I didn’t do that anymore though—I was into safe sex like everybody these days. So I just jacked him off…

It didn’t take long for him to spluge all over the dashboard and windshield—it was like trying to control a spastic gearshift gone crazy. What the car needed—was a pair of extra windshield wipers on the inside too. It took a long time—it was just awful.

I had to pull over—to wipe the windshield off. It was all slimy and covered with goo. I couldn’t see well enough to drive safely—so I wiped everything down as best as I could. 

That was the first time. Little did I know though—that it was just the beginning of a long drawn-out noir nightmare movie. “Detour” had come my way—and it wasn't gonna stop. It was like that depressing Edgar Ulmer classic ‘40s movie—with downbeat Tom Neal and sullen Ann Savage. 

And sure enough—Ann Savage was what the kid was like. Sullen and savage. And I was definitely downbeat Tom Neal. Caught up in a modern neo-noir Detour that wouldn't quit...

The Mystery of Edwin Drood

Introduction: The Study

After the Staplehurst rail crash while returning from Paris—how could I write anymore? The whole train plunging off the cast iron bridge under repair into the abyss—all except the last carriage dangling on the cliff in which I was traveling.

Why was I spared? Down below the smoke and fire—and a strange ominous silence. And then slowly at first and then gaining horrible ferocity—the screaming began. Six carriages packed with human beings—writhing and suffering in agony.

I had never been in a train accident or shipwreck—not even a cab accident on the streets of London. And yet there I was—working my way down the steep sides of the ravine to aid and comfort in whatever way I could any of the poor injured people dying down there.

When I got back to Gads Hill Place, after many traumatic and sleepless nights—I turned into a recluse like Miss Havisham. Without any Pip or Estella to entertain me—to play cards for my vain enjoyment. Nor did I ever again write about desiring anyone’s heart to ever be broken for revenge—not after the Staplehurst nightmare.

I stopped writing and became an opium addict. I locked the door to my study and kept to myself for days on end. I no longer had any Great Expectations for anything—nor was I interested in any mock-heroic Tale of Two Cities. I spent long jaded nights at a disreputable opium den run by a certain aging witch Princess Puffer.

I escaped from myself—like so many other writers had done before me. I did what they did—Coleridge, De Quincy, Baudelaire, Poe. I tried to forget about Staplehurst—but my mind had turned dark and moody.

I brooded on death and murder mysteries, revenge and unrequited love, the kind of themes that had always been in the background of all my stories—lurking in the dark corners, fashioned around the usual human failings. Greed, jealousy, deception, lies—I had become one of my own characters.

And that’s how “The Mystery of Edwin Drood” came into its nefariously precocious existence—knowing it would be my last novel. And yet I kept writing at it in my study—writing as I’d always done. But this time with a pipe—letting the story tell itself without me. My only guide being—the exquisite illustrations by Luke Fildes…

The Mystery of Edwin Drood

The Study

Sitting there in my study—I don’t actually feel like a great Master of modern English Fiction at all. I feel more as if I were engaged in what would surely happen once death claims all of me that could die, the half-finished Mystery of Edwin Drood manuscript there on my desk.

The Drood story possesses a quality far beyond all my other novels—even beyond the estimation of all the literary critics. There is a sympathetic eloquence to any incompleteness I suppose—more preciously suggestive of myself as an incomplete man more than anything.

I have none of the supposed immortal Writer's grand personality that is in so many other novelists—my own lowly genius has never been able to complete anything. I’ve always been hopelessly incomplete.

Perusing my work with an understanding of the intimate relations existing between intellectual endeavor and physical and moral passivity has never got me anywhere. It’s a positively painful interest, trying to find some revelation of the tired Worker slaving away at his Work.

It’s a noble dream, I suppose—striving to encompass the round fullness of a living reality from a dying dream. I suffer from the occasional unconscious despair of having no prophetic instinct—involuntarily showing fate-struck Nature upon the page as the evening shadow of faltering Art.

But after Staplehurst, I realize everything is purely chance—the words I write down here in my study are simply spontaneous dribblings of chance and circumstance. A toke of my pipe does only one thing—bringing all of my Characters back into this room with me. I am a Fiction—as surely as them.

This Story, opening with an elaboration of masterly purposeless pursuit of opiate fantasy and escape, took a great deal of strength and intense writerly concentration for long hours enduring counterfeit emotions, supposedly spontaneous but not really.

Opium is more an escape from myself and them—than simply losing myself in another set of imaginative adventures and devious characters. This time with Edwin Drood all the characters have come back to visit me—here in my study in Gads Hill Place. All of them critical of my choice of Drood—all of them warning me of the halting power of the Story-teller that surely will be the end waiting me.

My pen turns intractable and prone to wander beneath my relaxing hand uncertain of its former cunning. Edwin Drood shows my once indomitable mind—unconstrained almost convulsively fleeing to a greater light because of the approaching shadow of my body's dissolution.

Darkening premonitions are throwing a shadow of another deeper guilty shade on me—defining the wavering mimic scene that terrible day when the first seven carriages of the train plunged over the cliff—while the only first-class carriage to remain on the track was the one I was traveling in.

But with me was Ellen Ternan who had lived with me secretly for 13 years of my life. I managed to avoid an appearance at the inquest and avoided disclosing that I’d been traveling with Ternan and her mother which would have caused a scandal.

I later used this experience as material for my short ghost story “The Signal-Man”—in which the central character has a premonition of his own death in a rail crash. I also based the story on several previous rail accidents—such as the Clayton Tunnel rail of 1861.

But nevertheless, even though physically unharmed, I never really recovered from the trauma of the Staplehurst crash—and my normally prolific writing shrank to trying to complete The Mystery of Edwin Drood. It too will remain incomplete like my whole life subsequent to the Staplehurst tragedy. Feeling guilty for having survived the crash—and feeling guilty for my shamelessly illicit relationship with Ellen Ternan.

The Mystery of Edwin Drood

Chapter I

Stoned on Opium

Edwin Drood woke up from his opium stupor among the groaning groins of arches and imaginary beams of Chartres—with the muttering refrains of thunder off there in the distance.

The massive gray square tower of some old Cathedral rose up above him—a bleary sight for the stoned eyes of a jaded traveller. The bells were gonging away for daily vesper service—the hunchback was busy as usual humping the bells up in the gargoyle belfry.

The pretty choirboys were getting into their sullied white robes—in a hurry to avoid being fondled by the nelly gay priest. Then they fell into a long procession—filing into the service.

Drood found himself locked inside the iron-barred gates of his mind—dividing the sanctuary from the chancel. He scuttled under a nearby pew—hiding his wicked face from the passing angelic choir.

Drood felt his teeth chattering and clattering—but not because he was chill. Whenever he tried to enunciate a distinct word—it flung itself into the void, making no sense at all & having no sequence whatsoever.

Opium had a way of making everything slightly unintelligible—yet somehow reassuring to the phantom speaker inside his head. Drood nodded knowingly with a gloomy smile—groping his way sullenly down the broken stairs.

Drood said good morning to some of the doorkeeper rats—hunched away beneath the stairs. Then he passed out—leaving the rats rather puzzled.

”What did he say?” one of the rats asked.

A watchful pause.

”Unintelligible!”

__________________

Slowly reviving myself, loosening myself from listening to the rambling opiate conversation inside my head—I tried to think straight-forwardly with an attentive frown in the first person present tense like most people do.

I turned to the Rat—as it stood before me in a half-risen attitude, glaring at me with his distrustful eyes. It battered its eye-lashes at me—as if it were a woman getting ready to take possession of me by making a lewd inhuman proposition.

For heaven’s sake, I said—feeling startled and trying to wake myself up. Expostulating with my better more sane other half—before giving up and drowsily dropping back into another stupor.

The Mystery of Edwin Drood

Chapter II
Mr. Grewgious Has His Suspicions

“An ancient English Cathedral Tower?” scowled Mr. Grewgious shaking his head by the fire. Obviously Edwin Drood was stoned once again—having imbibed much too much evil opium for an evening’s entertainment.

“How can there ever be an ancient English Cathedral Tower there inside Drood’s dull head? His stupid, gnarly little Pea-Brain—it can’t even encompass a tiny cup of tea!!!”

And yet, there it was! A strange unknown massive gray square tower—a tall vast mysterious old Cathedral? How can that be there inside Edwin Drood’s head! Sprawled out stoned so rudely—there in his living room by the brooding fire?

Mr. Grewgious was the one & only infamous visitor from Porlock—whose job it was to have interrupted the great opiate vision of Kubla Khan in the dizzy mind of Samuel Coleridge. 

Except Edwin Drood was a much more difficult case—nothing could ever possibly discombobulate the already severely discombobulated mind of Mr. Drood’s obviously stoned reverie tonight in front of the compy fire.

There was no use even trying to poke a spike of rusty iron into the flaming inner fire—the fiercely burning one between Drood’s fluttering cross-eyed pair of bloodstained stoned eyeballs. 

No magic words, no sobering reprimand—not even the Sultan’s orders or a horde of Turkish robbers could awaken Edwin Drood from his fantastic meanderings. 

One by one—and two by two. The cymbals clashed and the Sultan fled the palace in long procession. Ten thousand scimitars flashed in the sunlight—and 
thrice ten thousand dancing-girls strewed flowers on poor Drood’s pale feverish forehead.

A dozen pink elephants caparisoned around and around—in countless gorgeous grotesque contortions. And an infinite number of nude attendants—danced their way obscenely through the hallways of the uncouth  Cathedral Tower rising from the ashes of Drood’s writhing prostrate figure on the grim floor.  

Mr. Grewgious was simply disgusted—how could everything have gotten so screwed up and tumbled all awry? Far beyond any gentleman's sense of normal decency—devoted instead to the disreputable consideration of vague impossibilities?

The Mystery of Edwin Drood

Chapter III
On Dangerous Ground

Shaking from head to foot, Drood whose scattered consciousness had thus fantastically pieced itself together once again—at length rose up and yawned by the fire.

“I feel better now—and more together” Drood said—giving skeptical, scowling Mr. Grewgious a knowing wink. He supported his trembling frame upon his weak, wobbly feet—looking around.

They joined Mr. Coleridge in the study—one of the meanest and closest of small rooms in the mansion. Through the ragged window-curtain—the light of a late moonlit evening stole into Drood’s miserable mansion.

First Drood had lied, stoned and dressed, across his large unseemly bed—then he’d fallen onto the Persian carpeted floor.

Then he’d made his way into the livingroom—only to pass out again by the fire after a couple of tokes. That’s where poor disgusted Mr. Grewgious—had to endure Drood’s long poetic monologue about Kubla Khan for a long prostrated hour.

Now it was time to relax in Drood’s study—where the air of leisurely patronage and indifference made anything possible to be said.

Edwin Drood throws himself back in a chair and clasps his hands at the back of his head—as for Mr. Grewgious, he’s still rather exasperatingly excitable and excited by Drood’s stretched-out body.

Samuel Coleridge looks observantly from one to the other—slightly smiling and enjoying the conversation. 

Here is yet another side of the opium addict—the affable host and mentor of youth, himself not out of his twenties. 

The presence of the wine glasses and decanter would seem to suggest—that Drood has anticipated that he would have more young visitors this evening.

Facilitated by his administering some opium—to some of the local hustlers who patronized certain London wealthy queens.

This interior scene, with fireplace and table, recalls a very different scene with which the narrative-pictorial sequence began—the stoned bedroom scene and passed-out fireplace scene.

Edwin Drood seems taller and more slender—while his costume is much the same as in the first plate. His waistcoat sits higher, his neck seems thinner and longer—his shoulders more bent and less broad. 

Indeed, we can scarcely tell that this is the same man—which seems to surprise Mr. Grewgious to no end.

However, one catches little or nothing of Mr. Grewgious smoldering resentment—of the opium addict Edwin Drood in this illustration. 

Edwin Drood exudes an air of leisurely patronage and indifference"—which is hardly provoking in his self-confidence in this third scene.

We should be alert, however, to the fact that behind the smiling visage and easy pose of Edwin Drood, affable and gracious host—lurks the cunning schemer and depraved drug-addict with highly irregular literary motives. 

The Mystery of Edwin Drood

Chapter IV
Confessions of an English Opium-Eater

I thus give the reader some slight abstraction of my Oriental dreams—which always filled me with such amazement. The monstrous scenery of Serpentine horror—that absorbed me for awhile in sheer astonishment.  

Sooner or later came a reflux of feeling that swallowed me up astonishment—leaving not so much in terror as in hatred and abomination of what I saw.  

Over every form, and threat, and punishment, and dim sightless incarceration—brooded a sense of Reptilian eternity and Crocodile infinity that drove me into an oppressive madness.  

Into these dreams, with one or two slight exceptions—that’s where examples of sheer physical horror entered.  All opium fantasies before that—had been moral and spiritual terrors.  

But here the main agents were ugly snakes or blood-curdling crocodiles; exceptionally evil and phallic creatures. The cursed anacondas, vipers, cobras and water moccasins became for me—the ultimate object of more horror than almost all the rest.  

I was compelled to live with them though—as if seemingly for centuries. I escaped sometimes—only to find myself with them in fetid swamps and jungles. 

The abominable phallic head of the crocodile—with it's straining, leering eyes. Looking at me, multiplied into a thousand repetitions—as I stood there loathing and fascinated.  

So often did this hideous reptile haunt my dreams that many times the very same dream was broken up in the very same way—I’d hear gentle hissing voices speaking to me. I hear everything when I’m sleeping—and instantly I’d wake up.  

It would be broad noon—and there was a brand-new pair of shiny crocodile-skin shoes at the foot of my bed. I was simply and totally horrified.

I’d open my bedroom closet door—and there would be a crocodile-skin leather belt waiting for me. I was completely freaked out.

I simply hated the awful transition from the damned crocodile and snake dreams—to the even worse wide-awake, unutterable monsters and abortions of real life.

The sight of something previously seemingly innocent since infancy—suddenly became the sight of something unutterably creepy and full of revulsion. 

I’m talking about standing nude in front of my bedroom mirror—my once human appearance now something I simply couldn’t forebear. 

The sight of that snakeoid, phallic, reptilian Serpent Thing—hanging semi-erect down there between my legs. Staring and grinning at me—with its jagged teeth and Jurassic crocodile eyes staring at me.