Black morphodite

This is long, so I've had to cut it into pieces. The forward is here in the main message, plus some of the story. The rest of the story is in the comments.

Forward

I've written a number of Tarzan pastiches and also a biography of the lord of the jungle, known inEngland as the very cosmopolitan and cultured nobleman, Lord Greystoke. (Yes, Virginia, there is a real Tarzan.)
Edgar Rice Burroughs wrote highly fictionalised books about Tarzan, and it is his name that leaps to the mind when Tarzan is mentioned. (Unless you're one of those people who know Tarzan only through the movies, and if you are you don't know the real Tarzan.) I became hooked on Burroughs' Tarzan books when I was very young and haven't quite overcome this addiction yet.
But in recent years I've read and admired (though I'll never get hooked on them) the works of another Burroughs, first name William. His stories, if you can call them stories, are composed in a wild absurdist style and put together with some very unconventional techniques. I especially recommend his Nova Express.
Almost all his works contain large elements of homosexuality, drug addiction, violence, sadism, masochism, paranoia, an aversion to and contempt for women, and an emphasis on the more nauseating aspects of this world (and other worlds, too).
The mixture of these sounds very unattractive, but his vaulting imagination and wild metaphors make his unique works mentally stimulating.
Unfortunately, even the most erudite reader is often puzzled by many of the references. They're too subjective. Many of these can be understood by reading William Burroughs' autobiography, Junkie. A reader shouldn't have to go to this to comprehend William's fiction. Nevertheless, even if the reader fails to grasp these references, he or she may find that his fiction is well worth reading and, in fact, mentally stimulating.
And so, one day, while rereading Nova Express, thought: What if it had been William Burroughs, not Edgar Rice Burroughs, who had written the Tarzan books?
I was sure that there would be no market for such a double pastiche if I wrote it. The so-called obscenity and pornography in it would not keep it from being published. This was 1968. Henry Miller and William Burroughs were being published, and my own 'Riders of the Purple Wage' had appeared in Harlan Ellison's Dangerous Visions the year before. But the pastiche would not be accepted by any science-fiction magazine. For some reason I didn't think of sending it to Playboy magazine. However, I doubt they would have taken it. The editors might have enjoyed it but would have thought it unsuitable for the majority of their readers.
Despite the lack of a sale, I wrote it because it seemed as if it would be fun doing so, and it was, and I wanted to find out if I could emulate William Burroughs' style. It took three hours for the first writing. Two days later I went back to it and did the second and final draft in an hour.
Well, it did sell and almost immediately. But to a very strange publication. I mean by strange that it was the very last place I would have thought it would be sold to.
Roger Lovin, an editor for the American Art Agency publications, all porno, was also a science-fiction fan. He'd heard about the pastiche, asked to see it, read it, and arranged that it should be printed inBroadside. This was, according to Norman Spinrad, a very raunchy girlie magazine, godawful. But he laughed and added, 'And it's the best of theAmericanArtAgency 's line, their class production.'
Lovin didn't care. He wanted to ensure that the pastiche was in print. So it came out inBroadside in the midst of huge naked breasts and stockings with garter belts filled by some pretty-faced but too-mammalian women. The other featured fillers were 'French Girls For Sale' and 'My Love Affair With 60 Starlets,' both nonfiction. All but 0.01 percent of the readers must have been very puzzled by my story, if they bothered to read it at all.
I'm looking through that issue now. The photos of the women and the prose of the nonfiction items seem rather inhibited and innocuous. Almost innocent. Standards have changed much in eleven years.
Two years later, Charles Plan got the 'Kid' reprinted inNew Worlds Science Fiction, an English magazine devoted to 'new wave' experimental writing. Quite a leap.
In 1971 Norman Spinrad put together an anthology titledThe New Tomorrows, a work which contained some of the best examples of the 'new' type of science-fiction. He included 'The Jungle Rot Kid On The Nod' and wrote a preface to it which credited my pioneering efforts in the field of science-fiction.
A few years ago I tried to write a pastiche in which Edgar Rice wroteNova Express. It didn't work, so I threw it away. There's a lesson in this failure somewhere, though I don't know what it is. Perhaps it is that you shouldn't push things too far. But you have to try. Otherwise, you get no place at all.
If William Burroughs
instead of Edgar Rice Burroughs
had written the Tarzan novels...

The Jungle Rot Kid on the Nod

Tapes cut and respliced at random by Brachiate Bruce, the old mainliner chimp, the Kid's asshole buddy, cool blue in the orgone box from the speech in Parliament of Lord Greystoke alias The Jungle Rot Kid, a full house, SRO, the Kid really packing them in.
–Capitalistic pricks! Don't send me no more foreign aid! You corrupting my simple black folks, they driving around the old plantation way down on theZambeziRiver in air-conditioned Cadillacs, shooting horse, flapping ubangi at me... Bwana him not in the cole cole ground but him sure as shit gonna be soon. Them M-16s, tanks, mortars, flamethrowers coming up the jungle trail, ole Mao Charley promised us!
Lords, Ladies, Third Sex! I tole you about apeomorphine but you dont lissen! You got too much invested in the Mafia and General Motors, I say you gotta kick the money habit too. Get them green things offen your back... nothing to lose but your chains that is stocks, bonds, castles, Rollses, whores, soft toilet paper, connection with The Man... it a long way to the jungle but it worth it, build up your muscle and character cut/
...you call me here at my own expense to degrade humiliate me strip me of loincloth and ancient honoured title! You hate me cause you hung up on civilisation and I never been hooked. You over a barrel with smog freeways TV oily beaches taxes inflation frozen dinners time-clocks carcinogens neckties all that shit. Call me noble savage... me tell you how it is where its at with my personal tarzanic purushana... involves kissing off dharma and artha and getting a fix on moksha through kama ...
Old Lord Bromley-Rimmer who wear a merkin on his bald head and got pecker and balls look like dried-up grapes on top a huge hairy cut-in fold-out thing it disgust you to see it, he grip young Lord Materfutter's crotch and say – Dearie what kinda gibberish that, Swahili, what?
Young Lord Materfutter say – Bajove, some kinda African cricket doncha know what?
...them fuckin Ayrabs run off with my Jane again... inter-solar communist venusian bankers plot... so it back to the jungle again, hit the arboreal trail, through the middle tearass, dig Numa the lion, the lost civilisations kick, tell my troubles to Sam Tantor alias The Long Dong Kid. Old Sam always writing amendments to the protocols of the elders of mars, dipping his trunk in the blood of innocent bystanders, writing amendments in the sand with blood and no one could read what he had written there selah
Me, I'm only fuckin free man in the world... live in state of anarchy, up trees... every kid and lotsa grownups (so-called) dream of the Big Tree Fix, of swinging on vines, freedom, live by the knife and unwritten code of the jungle...
Ole Morphodite Lord Bromley-Rimmer say – Dearie, that Anarchy, that one a them new African nations what?
The Jungle Rot Kid bellowing in the House of Lords like he calling ole Sam Tantor to come running help him outta his mess, he really laying it on them blueblood pricks.
...I got satyagraha in the ole original Sanskrit sense of course up the ass, you fat fruits. I quit. So long. Back to theDark Continent ... them sheiks of the desert run off with Jane again... blood will flow...
Fadeout. Lord Materfutter's face phantom of erection wheezing paregoric breath. – Dig that leopardskin jockstrap what price glory what? cut/
This here extracted from John Clayton's diary which he write in French God only know why.. .Sucre bleu! Nom d'un con!Aliceshe dead, who gonna blow me now? The kid screaming his head off, he sure don't look like black-haired grey-eyed fine-chiselled featured scion of noble British family which come over with Willie the Bastard and his squarehead-frog goons on the Anglo-Saxon Lark. No more milk for him no more ass for me, carry me back to oldNorfolk / / double cut
The Gorilla Thing fumbling at the lock on the door of old log cabin which John Clayton built hisself. Eyes stabbing through the window. Red as two diamonds in a catamite's ass. John Clayton, he rush out with a big axe, gonna chop me some anthropoid wood.
Big hairy paws strong as hold of pusher on old junkie whirl Clayton around. Stinking breath. Must smoke banana peels. Whoo! Whoo! Gorilla Express dingdonging up black tunnel of my rectum. Piles burst like rotten tomatoes, sighing softly. Death come. And come. And come. Blazing bloody orgasms. Not a bad way to go... but you cant touch my inviolate white soul... too late to make a deal with the Gorilla Thing? Give him my title, Jaguar, moated castle, ole faithful family retainer he go down on you, opera box... ma tame de pisse... who take care of the baby, carry on family name? Vive la bougerie!c ut/
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