Kronk

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Time passed, and Camilla began to put on weight — at first in the most delicious places. In theory, the promiscuous phase of the P 939 cycle should have waned as the compulsive eating phase became dominant. And the compulsive eating phase should have waned as the third phase, the condition of hypersensitivity and tranquillity, took over. The separate phases had been reasonably well defined in Eustace Greylaw’s animals; but evidently they were not so well defined in the case of human beings.

Gabriel had also now reached phase three; but although P 939 had inhibited the aggressive instinct, both he and Camilla continued to be mildly promiscuous and to eat rather more food than they needed.

The third phase, however, brought changes — sometimes subtle, sometimes startling — in their attitudes and relationship. In the matter of love-making, for example, aggression had formerly played an important if not entirely indispensable part. Now, Gabriel could no longer bear to hurt, ill-treat or assert himself with Camilla, even though her female body — with all the secret age-old programming that lay in its erectile tissue — cried out to be submitted to the pleasure of tolerable pain and the delicious indignities of controlled torment.

Love-making could no longer be a violent contest, a primitive act of aggression, a demonic blend of sadism and sweetness. Now it was no more than a gentle stimulation, a careful caressing — almost an act of mutual masturbation.

Gabriel found it mildly frustrating. They both did. At times, he tried to minimize the effects of P 939 by drinking enough whisky or vodka or whatever to make him forget that he was fulfilling dark needs by doing dark things to a real, living person. But then the love-making was not very successful simply because there was not any awareness of love. And, anyway, Camilla had only to squeal a little, or a wince of pain had only to penetrate the alcoholic mists, for Gabriel to break down and cry.

In desperation, he tried to distract himself by dabbling once more in book sculpture. He went round to his studio to collect a few of the materials he had forgotten on the last visit.

Messalina was still in residence, but things were different. Vastly different. She, too, had reached phase three.

The studio was clean and tidy. The graffiti had disappeared, and on the wall there was a large picture of somebody called Brother Peter in a monk’s habit.

Messalina had changed greatly. She now wore a simple linen shift and looked more like a Hans Anderson waif than a five-star nymphomaniac. She explained to Gabriel that significant things had been happening to her and to the world.

After a vast sexual orgy that had seemed to last for about ten years but could not have really lasted more than two or three weeks, she had become so hungry that she had spent days and days just gorging. She had in fact made herself so ill with over-eating that she simply couldn’t bear the thought of making love for a time. And when she could face it once more, all the terrible urgency seemed to have gone. She didn’t want the impossible kicks, she only wanted to be nice to people; and that meant trying to give them what they really needed.

Besides, she had discovered that Brother Peter had revealed himself at Geneva airport, and that he had performed miracles in the process. And, no matter what Romaprot said, he really was the Son of Man. Because he only wanted everybody to love everybody. Which was exactly how Messalina felt.

These days, she confessed, she rarely made love more than ten or twelve times a week. And then only for money.

She spent very little of the money on herself, of course. The bulk of it was devoted to good works and creative projects among the prepubes and the prollies.

Gabriel had already heard of Brother Peter, but he knew very little about him. Except that everybody had denied everything, and that consequently a Perfect Universal Love movement was developing rapidly on the continent.

He did not have the heart to explain to Messalina that what had happened to her was more a result of P 939 than of the revelation of Brother Peter. Besides, she probably would not have believed him.

Sadly, Gabriel collected some of his book-sculpting materials and left the studio. But even in attempting to take up book sculpture once more, he was frustrated. Art itself, apparently, was a kind of aggression. And Gabriel was no longer sufficiently aggressive to create imaginative visions and startling forms out of such as the works of Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

Time passed, and the late Eustace Greylaw’s home-made spirochetes continued to spread their seeds of non-aggression even more rapidly than Brother Peter’s now large band of followers could spread the message of Perfect Universal Love. Perfect Universal Love began in Geneva and spread out. P 939 began in London and spread out. Eventually, the venereal disease and the sublime philosophy commingled, reinforced each other, and in the process disconcerted large numbers of startled people.

The great audience in the Vanessa Redgrave Stadium was briefly silent. Round one of an international heavyweight wrestling contest was about to begin. The contest was between The Terrible Doctor Mayhem, one hundred and thirty kilos, of London, and Krakatoa, one hundred and nineteen kilos, of Indonesia.

The bout was fixed, and Krakatoa was supposed to take his dive in round four. But there were complications. Although he did not know it, Doctor Mayhem was playing host to P 939.

And he was just entering the third phase of the cycle.

The bell rang. The two giants advanced on each other, circling. Krakatoa opened proceedings with a fore-arm smash. Doctor Mayhem blinked but did nothing. Krakatoa then tried to arouse interest with a flying head butt. His opponent grunted and sat down. There was a look of infinite patience, tempered with resignation, on his face. Normally, at this stage, he would have been foaming at the mouth.

Next Krakatoa tried an Irish whip, two postings and a drop-kick. Still Doctor Mayhem did not retaliate. His look of patience had given way to an expression of complete bewilderment, as if he simply could not understand why Krakatoa should be so beastly. The spectators began to boo. Debris was thrown into the ring.

Krakatoa tried a bear hug, during which he whispered the following quiet encouragement:

“Listen, swine, I wasn’t paid to do all the work. If you don’t start something, I’ll stamp on your face.”

Doctor Mayhem was still reluctant to start anything. Krakatoa dropped him with a throat chop and stamped on his face. Doctor Mayhem cried a little and took a count of seven. The bell rang.

During the interval between rounds, a white-haired old lady threw an empty whisky bottle at Doctor Mayhem. She missed, and the referee had to retire for minor surgery.

Round two was similar to round one. Except that Doctor Mayhem accidentally tripped Krakatoa while trying to defend himself. He instantly helped Krakatoa to his feet, apologized and accepted another fore-arm smash. Fights broke out in the audience. Three fat women battered a young man unconscious (he was also in the third phase) for cheering Doctor Mayhem.

In round three Krakatoa tried a hammer lock, two back-breakers, a posting, several whips and a Boston crab. Doctor Mayhem sniffed copiously but took it all. During the round and the following interval nineteen women, seven men and five prepubes had to be carried by meds and procs from the stadium.

In round four, Krakatoa again tried a bear hug and whispered: “Smash me, bastard, or I’ll break three fingers.” Doctor Mayhem did not smash him. Krakatoa broke three of his fingers.

Doctor Mayhem howled.

Finally, in desperation, Krakatoa tried a high speed charge. If that did not inspire his man, nothing would. Fortunately, Doctor Mayhem at least tried to protect himself. He crouched.

Krakatoa went sailing over his back, over the top of the ropes to take a ten foot fall to the ring side. He collected a broken arm, a broken collarbone and severe concussion. Doctor Mayhem was the winner by a knock-out.

He sat in the ring and wept and wept. Eight procs were hospitalized after defending him from his recent admirers.

Humphrey Bogart Jones was a professional sadist. For several years he had made an excellent living out of beating, whipping, drugging, humiliating and ravishing a number of unfortunate women whose social position prevented them from obtaining such pleasures in the normal domestic environment.

Humphrey Bogart Jones unfortunately had a client who was infected by P 939 and so passed on the bacterial blessing during the consummation of her own special fantasy, which began with her being anointed with oil then wrapped tightly in polythene sheeting and laid on a tiger-skin rug.

When he was hit by the third phase, Humphrey lost all his clients except three, who were themselves latent sadists. But then they, too, contracted the disease. Presently, Humphrey exhausted his savings. Presently, he was suffering from malnutrition. He tried to commit suicide — but failed because the act required some aggression.

One day he was lucky enough to overbalance while sitting on the edge of his balcony and feeling dreadful about all the unchecked violence in the world and also dizzy with hunger.

Fortunately, he had occupied a fifteenth floor apartment.

His Excellency, Mikhail V. Strogov, Ambassador Extraordinary of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics to the Court of St. James, was recalled to Moscow and then exiled to Siberia, where his brutal treatment by two notorious women guards occasioned further dissemination of P 939.

Comrade Strogov lost his diplomatic status and was recalled to Russia to face charges of temporary insanity, crimes against the Russian people, conspiracy to overthrow the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, and of being an agent of Western Imperialist Policy.

These charges were occasioned by unauthorized activities in London. During his brief but spectacular career as Ambassador Extraordinary, Comrade Strogov had offered His Majesty’s Government a one-thousand year non-aggression pact, six rocket-launching submarines (since the United Kingdom nuclear deterrent was sadly below par) and the Red Army Choir. He had also voted for Miss China in the Miss World Contest, led a protest march on the Indian Embassy for the rehabilitation of the sacred cow and had broken down and wept when interviewed by the venerable Lord David Frost on his NaTel Late Grill Show about the expulsion of two guitar-playing drug addicts from the Soviet Academy of Sciences.

Dame Ariadne Cymbeline-Smith, actress of distinction, retreated into incurable schizophrenia when she discovered that she was no longer able to play Lady Macbeth, Joan of Arc, Lucrezia Borgia and Jocasta in the dramas by William Shakespeare, G. B. Shaw, Edmond de Ritz and Euripides respectively. But what chiefly unhinged her, perhaps, was the knowledge that Peter Pan — the title role of which had rocketed her to fame — was nothing more than a drama of violence, racism and infant depravity.

Dame Ariadne retired voluntarily to the Royal Festival Home for Disturbed Professionals and hardly noticed when, after gentle sedation, she yielded P 939 to the occasional male nurse or doctor in their good-hearted attempts to help her re-establish contact with the real world.

For many years, the Right Honourable Theodore Flower, O.B.E., M.P., Minister of International Security and Race Harmony, and the only English Jewish Negro in the Cabinet, had been accustomed to compel his high-born Scottish wife to massage his neck, scratch his back and kiss his feet before going to bed to submit to the mild marital buffetings it was his pleasure to bestow on her.

Unfortunately, the Minister of Insect Race collected his dose from a mere chit of a girl he had met in a strip-it-’n’-slip-it joint in Soho, while entertaining the vice-president of the U.S.A.

Eventually, the girl had taken them both to some bizarre little apartment full of odd bits of paper sculpture. But in the end, it had turned out surprisingly jolly, with each of them taking turns to hold down the other.

Eventually, the vice-president continued on his good-will tour of the world, taking his ration of P 939 with him and giving it a splendidly inter-continental spread.

The Minister of Insect Race stayed in London, discovered after a few weeks that he no longer wanted to have anything at all to do with his high-born Scottish wife, became depressed and applied for the Chiltern Hundreds.

On leaving politics, he started a soup kitchen in Regent’s Park for homeless prepubes and was most horribly drowned late one night in his own tomato soup by a bunch of ten year olds high on methylated spirits.

Sir James Fytte-Morris, surgeon to the king, could not bring himself to make the incision necessary to deal with the Marquis of Middlehampton’s sudden and acute peritonitis. The Marquis died, the king cancelled polo for two days, and Sir James Fytte-Morris, who had blamelessly collected P 939 from the wife to whom he had been faithful for thirty-seven years, died of a heart attack when rebuked by the British Medical Association.

Time passed. And Professor Eustace Greylaw began to make his posthumous mark upon the world.