Any minute now, the blowflies will hatch. They've been breeding in a scrap of kidney next to my foot. I cannot bend down or move from side to side in here, and must remain standing with my face pressed to the thick glass. Still, I am lucky. When Susie found me, I had been stranded on a traffic island for four hours. And when she suggested that she take me home and have me walled up as an art installation, I agreed straight away. So here I am, in an alcove in her living room, being exhibited behind glass next to a plaque bearing the name "Berence Oslo." Berence Oslo is the artist that did me. There is a copper tube to help me breathe, and I am naked except for a string vest. Some of my lower parts have been painted yellow. I think the cleaning lady pushed the kidney in through the tube, but it missed my mouth and fell to my feet. Susie is having a sort of dinner to open me officially. It seems to be a great success. Her face is all blotchy with anticipation as she waits for guests to react to me. I am a great hit when one of them taps on the glass and says "Susie, you are a genius. This is what art should be like - moving, an a relevant way." I have instructions to reply to these comments by saying "I am very sorry. This art is crap." Of course the guest is flabberghasted, because they have no idea I can hear them. Only very recent Berence Oslos come fitted with a ticket office intercom. They start raving about the magnificence of a piece of art that is capable of criticising itself. "That's amazing," they say. "This art is capable of criticising itself." As I continue to slag myself off, there is a buzz of expectation as Will Self arrives with his special pillow and a miniature chicken. He spots me, and immediately delivers himself of the opinion that he has never seen a more klepto-masturbatory entropoid. He kneels, and says that now he has glimpsed all our hypocrisies in a neuro-plastic ellipse. There follows a period of silent eating, with occasional sobs, and the passing and gradual filling of a tear thimble.
I've been here for a couple of hours now. Susie summons the guests into an adjoining room. She is an excellent hostess. One girl stays behind, because she is trying to chase the dragon, and it keeps getting away. In the adjoining room there is a hatch, which allows access to my back parts. Susie opens it up, and the guests take it in turns to put their hands through. I gather from their language that they are attempting to read my arse. There's a kind of binary Braille encoded in the relative temperatures of my buttocks. Extra verbs are in the roughness, and adjectives in the formation of folds around my daisy. Presently I can hear squabbling. Apparently my arse has declared that one of them is the slavemaster, but hasn't revealed which one it is. I am beginning to feel ill. There is no-one to notice me except the girl with the foil. She sees that I am in distress, and walks slowly up to me with a very unintelligent look on her face. She empties a lungful of dragon into my tube. My next action is caused by the combination of poppy smoke and the new development taking place next door which some of the guests are calling "Feed the arse." A high-pressure jet of old stomach emerges from my tube, just as Will Self is passing on his way home. "We are all Huxley's babkins," he says, and vaults through a closed window.
The truth is that events continued in pretty much the same way for about a week. I think the girl who had shown herself clumsy with the horse may have died. The blowflies certainly did hatch, and blocked my view completely, so that my abiding memory is of sounds heard through buzzing - mainly the rhythmical slamming of bare skin on alabaster, as Susie succumbed with grunts to the meaty pleasure of each new slavemaster. I was eventually extracted by six men in contamination suits. They were extremely distressed. This happened two days after Susie went on holiday.
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WTA vs PPSC
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