Did I ever tell you about the man. . .

«. . . who taught his asshole to talk? His whole abdomen would move up and down you dig farting out the words. It was unlike anything I ever heard.
This ass talk had sort of a gut frequency. It hit you right down there like you gotta go. You know when the old colon gives you the elbow and it feels sorta cold inside, and you know all you have to do is turn loose? Well this talking hit you right down there, a bubbly, thick stagnant sound, a sound you could smell.
This man worked for a carnival you dig, and to start with it was like a novelty ventriliquist act. Real funny, too, at first. He had a number he called “The Better ‘Ole” that was a scream, I tell you. I forget most of it but it was clever. Like, “Oh I say, are you still down there, old thing?”
“Nah I had to go relieve myself.”
After a while the ass start talking on its own. He would go in without anything prepared and his ass would ad-lib and toss the gags back at him every time.
Then it developed sort of teeth-like little raspy in-curving hooks and started eating. He thought this was cute at first and built an act around it, but the asshole would eat its way through his pants and start talking on the street, shouting out it wanted equal rights. It would get drunk, too, and have crying jags nobody loved it and it wanted to be kissed same as any other mouth. Finally it talked all the time day and night, you could hear him for blocks screaming at it to shut up, and beating it with his fist, and sticking candles up it, but nothing did any good and the asshole said to him: “It’s you who will shut up in the end. Not me. Because we dont need you around here any more. I can talk and eat and shit.”
After that he began waking up in the morning with a transparent jelly like a tadpole’s tail all over his mouth. This jelly was what the scientists call Undifferentiated Tissue, which can grow into any kind of flesh on the human body. He would tear it off his mouth and the pieces would stick to his hands like burning gasoline jelly and grow there, grow anywhere on him a glob of it fell. So finally his mouth sealed over, and the whole head would have have amputated spontaneously — (did you know there is a condition occurs in parts of Africa and only among Negroes where the little toe amputates spontaneously?) — except for the eyes you dig. Thats one thing the asshole couldn’t do was see. It needed the eyes. But nerve connections were blocked and infiltrated and atrophied so the brain couldn’t give orders any more. It was trapped in the skull, sealed off. For a while you could see the silent, helpless suffering of the brain behind the eyes, then finally the brain must have died, because the eyes went out, and there was no more feeling in them than a crab’s eyes on the end of a stalk.»

(O cânone ocidental, mesmo nas prateleiras mais remotas, está repleto de canalhas, misantropos, sádicos, anti-semitas e tipos que atravessavam fora das passadeiras. Tal como no Martim Moniz, há também um ou outro assassino discreto. William S. Burroughs nasceu a 5 de Fevereiro de 1914. Em 1951, saiu-se com a pior desculpa de sempre para um incidente de violência doméstica. Não foi certamente o primeiro marido a premeditar a morte da esposa; as estatísticas garantem-nos que o impulso é comum. Mas quando acontece, quer na realidade, quer na ficção, espera-se no mínimo algum esforço por parte do assassino na composição de um alibi plausível. Burroughs, em vez de elaborar um esquema envolvendo bilhetes de teatro, relógios manipulados, chaves duplicadas, etc, limitou-se a colocar uma peça de fruta em cima da mulher, antes de lhe dar um tiro na cabeça. Foi condenado in absentia pela justiça mexicana a dois anos de prisão, com pena suspensa. Quarenta anos depois, ainda andava a divertir amigos e discípulos com relatos do incidente, arrematados com frases do género «The voice said, 'Kill the bitch, write the book'. That's what I did».

O talento, como o gato, escolhe os lugares mais estranhos para se enfiar.)