~~This is a poem by Michael G. Verses, printed recently in The Alchemist, a weekly mini magazine from Corvallis.~~
She is a soft melody,
A sensual song.
I've admired her tune
For so very long.
My heart longs for her,
Tearful as a Gypsy violin
That cries for romance,
A deep longing within.
She is like a heavenly chorus,
A symphony of lovely sound.
When I hear her music play
There is magic all around.
Her touching concerto,
Each note I can feel
All through my soul,
It inspires me in so many ways
In my cruel, lonely nights
And my sad, empty days,
I recall the way
Her sweet music plays.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
The Philosophy of Sebastian Trump
This short story comes from the book "Devils and Demons", which is a compilation of stories about the devil and other demons (as you may have surmised from the title), all by various authors and selected by Marvin Kaye. The story I'm posting here for your pleasure is outrageously funny, and if you have the right sense of humor you will love it. Alas, not all of you can be witty enough to enjoy this particular brand of humor and will probably think this story is very random and odd. Either way, broaden your horizons and read it. Leave any abusive comments out, though, or I'll track you down, tie you to a chair, and make you listen to "The Mamas and The Papas" for hours on end.
~~William E. Kotzwinkle is the prolific author of short stories and several critically acclaimed novels, including The Fan Man, Fata Morgana, and Doctor Rat, which won the world Fantasy Award for Best Novel of 1976. Robert Shiarella has written articles and humor for Argosy and other magazines, as well as a brilliantly satiric cult novel, Your Sparkle Cavalcade of Death, which began as a Kotzwinkle-Shiarella novella. Now meet their Melmothian madman, Sebastian Trump, who gleefully espouses the dark side of the farce. Would you believe that a major men's magazine once reluctantly rejected this humorous piece as too shocking? O tempora! O mores! (For additional comment, see Appendix I, page 577.)~~
The Philosophy of Sebastian Trump
or
The Art of Outrage
By William E. Kotzwinkle
and
Robert Shiarella
Stepping from his townhouse, he paused to adjust the fit of his calfskin gloves. It was early evening; it was time. Flipping one end of his cape over his shoulder, he stepped lithely to the sidewalk. He walked--slim, delicate and dangerous--humming an obscure passage from Dargomijsky, tapping his cane lightly upon the cobblestones. His face carried no expression, save a crooked, lemon-twist smile.
A handsome woman approached through the semidarkness, clasping the delicate hand of her angelic blue-eyed little girl. He ignored the woman, but paused briefly to bow to the child. Her azure eyes bulged like agates as she watched a hideous obscenity form on his sensitive mouth. The woman gasped.
He smiled and spake. "The first lesson of history, madam, is that evil is good. I quote from Emerson". So saying, he bowed and walked on. He heard the woman hiss through trembling lips: ".... outrageous, loathsome man!"
A delicious tingle cascaded through his body. Outrageous. With a hiss of exaltation, he struck out with his cane, but the hummingbird he aimed for had already backed out of the flower and flown away. No matter. The flower, the last from a widow's garden, was soon impaled upon the tiny steel point of his cane. He plucked it off and inserted it in his button-hole.
Though it was evening for the world, Sebastian Trump had just begun his day. With his accustomed Style. Grace. Wit. With any kind of luck, he might be able to defile a nanny before the rising of the moon.
Does this brief passage stir your soul? Does it nibble on the dog-ends of your imagination? Does it ring an elusive chord in the darkest corners of your bowels, as if struck somehow by the blackest muse of Hell?
Of course it does.
Every man carries the dry seeds of bestiality within him. Each of us, however splendid our virtue, dreams once of being a splendid bastard, a sniggering swine, an outrageous ruin of time. It is an ancient memory of our race, cherished by all men, nourished by few.
Come. Let me water your Child's Garden of Contempt. Let me throw the Obscenities Ball, where the couples shall whirl, dream-like and delicate. The music will build, caress, climb to incredible crescendos. And then--You shall appear. The crowd will draw back. And beneath your goat's mask, you shall commit the many Outrages which have too long been festering within you.
Let me, Sebastian Trump, draw examples from my own life and show you how!
It is difficult to be truly Ourtageous before the age of eighteen, which is to say, before one enters college, although occasionally one runs across the grammar school child (such as myself) who exposes himself at Mother's Tea, or tortures a little playmate, or, perhaps, ignites a beggar. Such occurrences have been recorded, but usually they are nipped in the first splendid bud and all pride and inventiveness are quickly stripped from the promising youngster by civilization's watchdogs. Therefore, work in this area being so rare, we shall commence our little lecture with the conquering of the universities--known alternatively as The College Outrage, or The Academic Atrocity.
ARRIVAL--PHASE ONE
"I begin to smell a rat." Cervantes, Don Quixote.
The way one arrives at college is of the utmost importance. Remember, this is to be your very first Outrage. You must choose your rhymes carefully. You are a freshman and you are, therefore, dirt. It is tradition. You, however, shall break tradition and emulate Sebastian Trump, arriving at college dressed as the Archbishop of Canterbury.
ARRIVAL--PHASE TWO
"Tom's no more, and so, no more of Tom." Lord Byron.
Very well. You have created a minor stir on the first day and people are uneasy in your presence. There are still barriers to surmount. The first of them is, or course, the life of your roommate. As a freshman, you will undoubtedly be assigned to a dormitory and you will have a roommate. This is clumsy, but is easily turned to good use. Remember--you are building a legend. Therefore, the first thing you must do upon entering college is to drive your roommate to suicide. Nothing could be more impressive, nothing could be easier. Observe:
"You had quite a dream last night, roomie."
"I did?"
"Yes, frightfully amusing. Kept calling me 'Mommy' and tried to crawl in bed with me. I suspect you'll get over it in time. I've written to your parents and your pastor for advice."
After your roommate has committed suicide, you, of course, embellish the event. Make it known that he took his life because of an unnatural love for you.
By now, you must begin wearing a black cloak and start collecting dark rocks. Take your meals in your room and rarely be seen in daylight. Carry a single shred of paper with you and read it over and over until it finally comes apart in your hands.
Then disappear for three days. When you return, discontinue the above, burn your bedsheets in the open air, act as if nothing has happened, and never mention your roommate's name again.
This should do nicely as a beginning at college.
THE SCANDAL SYNDROME
"Get thee to a nunnery, go." Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act III, Scene 1, line 142.
Now you have truly begun. People are starting to avoid you. Stories have been circulated that you cast no shadow, or that cloven hoof-prints were discovered in the snow beneath your window. You, of course, are the one who has initiated these stories. (If, however, when you pass, young women make the sign of the cross, you have overdone things a bit.)
You must surround yourself with scandal. This can be nothing so ordinary as getting some silly coed pregnant, although, of course, a few of these thrown in each semester can do no harm. No, you must strive for the Higher Scandal, that which sets teeth on edge, and makes lesser men shout out with rage and fear in the night.
For instance, at some student-faculty function, you might walk up to the Dean of the Philosophy Department and ask him to dance, remarking something about "You and I being the only ones to truly appreciate the Greek culture." Before he has a chance to answer, sweep him into your arms and begin to reminisce tenderly about your father: "Yes, papa has existed for the last forty years on checks from the government. Interesting story, really. Happened in the Argonne Forest during World War One. He was shot in the gluteus maximus while bolting in the face of the enemy. Of course, father kept that fact to himself by shooting the only Allied witness to his unfortunate retreat, one Toby Whistler, a young British officer. My father carries with him to this day the last words of Toby Whistler, which were, I believe, 'A bit thick, Yank.' Well, I've got to run now. It's been delightful. Thanks for asking me." Whereupon you quickly fling yourself away from the Dean, declaring in a loud voice that you wish to be released immediately. Retreat from the room backwards, fixing him with a frosty eye.
Major Outrages such as the above may be lent perspective if augmented by minor atrocities, such as sending your soiled laundry to an Oriental exchange student. With any sort of luck, you might create an international incident. ("The king has sent me some of his dirty linen to wash." Voltaire, Reply to General Manstein.)
Also, you might care to attempt the interesting little pastime of dressing up as a Cardinal and excommunicating yourself in the chapel on the Sunday of Homecoming Week.
While we are speaking of it, let us pass on to the crucially important subject of how to dress Outrageously.
OUTRAGEOUS UNIFORM
"How then was the devil dressed?" Robert Southey, A Devil's Walk, A Ballad, Stanza 3.
The way you attire yourself must be both remarkable and thoroughly outlandish. You must always appear to be on the way to a duel, immaculate, contemptuous of custom, and ready to die. Vienna, at the turn of the century, is always suitable. Grey top hat, ruffled sleeves and collar, grey gloves and spats, the entire ensemble graced by an ebony cane, would do nicely. I found such an habit admirable, and was adjudged both mad and dangerous. To one constructing a legend of Outrage, nothing better suits one's purposes.
THE OPPOSITE SEX
"I think this piece will help boil thy pot." Wolcot, The Bard Complimenteth Mr. West (c. 1790).
Now we must concentrate upon the handling of women, in this case college coeds, and thus sub-designated The Cardigan Conquest. Needless to say, your behavior shall be loathsome, but the finer points must be discussed. Dialogue is of the utmost importance. Example:
SHE: What do you plan to do when you leave college, Sebastian?
I: I'm thinking of becoming a professional rapist.
Example:
SHE: Do you mind my asking what your religion is, Sebastian?
I: Not at all. I am a Druid, my dear. Sacrificing virgins, that sort of thing. A dying practice.
SHE: Have you ever been in love, Sebastian?
I: Not since Mother died.
It is a well-known fact that women secretly dream of being Outraged, but the average man withdraws from the use of this knowledge. You, however, will feel quite free to heap endless humiliations and perversities upon them. For this bestial behavior, you shall be adored. In spite of themselves, they will dance the goat's dance with you, flinging themselves willingly; yea, desperately upon your Altar of Outrage.
SHE: Hello, Sebastian.
I: Let me touch it.
For dates, you will generally have women calling at your room for you. Always receive them in bed. A suitable remark might be, "Oh. You're early. You probably passed the Dean of Women on the staircase. Interesting lady. Wanted me to dress up as a chicken."
If you should call on your date, always arrive at least one hour late, giving some excuse such as, "....couldn't tear myself away from the splendid sunset."
Next, you must take her where she has never been before and most certainly would never care to go. Example:
"Some farmer boys I know are having a cock fight. I know you'll love it."
Throughout the evening, intimate that you are actually a woman. (NOTE: An excellent variation on this I once employed was to lead a young woman to believe that I had been castrated while serving with the Peace Corps in Casablanca. She was consumed with curiosity, pathos, and desire.)
At this point, all that remains for you to do is to desert her in the middle of the evening. Example:
If walking down the street together, wait until you come to an alley. Then, without a word, tear yourself from her arm and dart down the alleyway, an imprecation on your lips. Disappear into the shadows, your shoes tapping a faint but sinister progress through the bowels of the night. Utter a single maniacal laugh, but cut it off at its peak.
The next time you see her, you will, of course, act as if nothing has happened. Your name will soon be on every lip in every girls' dormitory in the school. We have only to observe the conversation which undoubtedly must take place when your date returns to her room that first night:
SHE: Well, first of all he took me to a cock fight....
OTHERS: (gasping) A what?
SHE: ....and then he told me how he's actually a woman, but then some crazy doctor in Casablanca cut off.... I mean.... well, you know, castrated him, and....
OTHERS: Do you know for sure?
SHE: .... well, no.... you see, he was too busy applauding the sunset, and then he hit a little girl with his cane.... and then.... well, he disappeared.
OTHERS: He what?
SHE: (embarrassed and confused) He.... disappeared down an alley.
OTHERS: Oh, God, I hope he asks me out!
Touche!
An interesting little added touch in the handling of women (actually a confusion tactic) that I found most amusing was to go steady with a dwarf for a period of time, letting it be known that I was only dating her for her body.
THE DEPARTURE
"Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result." Winston Spencer Churchill, The Malakand Field Force (1898).
Thus does one pass one's days at college. At the conclusion of one's academic career, one reflects how splendid a time it has been. One has trampled and ravaged. One has eaten all the flowers. There is, of course, but one stroke yet to be delivered--the last.
Sebastian Trump, Valedictorian.
Impossible? But Graduation Day finds you on the outdoor stage, waiting to be received. To those faculty members you have blackmailed, to those students you have compromised, to the army of innocents you have tricked, cajoled, and forced to do your work for you, it comes as no surprise.
You deliver a Major Oratory, filled with platitude and hypocrisy patterned on the Sermons of Joseph Butler. Then you step forward to receive the precious sheepskin. You smile and bow to the Dean of your college. Then you stride over to the President of the University. Standing directly before him, you proceed to tear up your diploma and fling it in his face. Then you walk to the edge of the platform and, standing above the draped banners of the school which bear the colors of the institution, you urinate carefully upon them so the damp stain emblazons on the hallowed crest your name:
SEBASTIAN TRUMP
With an arm raised in a final obscene gesture, your lips curled about a last vulgar, withering phrase, you stride contemptuously off the stage and into the sunset. You await the knife thrust in your back. It does not come. You have won.
You are ready to face life.
CAREER
"You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again." Isaac Watts, The Sluggard, Stanza 1.
Now you are faced with a small unpleasantness. How can a man, so finely wrought, so highly strung, so delicately balanced--how can such a man be expected to join the ranks of the gainfully employed? Therefore, you must join the ranks of the gracefully unemployed. The procedure is simple. You must find yourself a patroness.
TO-GRANDMOTHER'S-HOUSE-WE-GO-TRA-LA-LATERAL-OFFENSE
"Great fleas have little fleas upon their back to bite 'em." Augustus De Morgan, A Budget of Paradoxes.
Situate youself in the most fashionable bar in New York City. Cough frequently into your handkerchief. Tremble your glass. Faint briefly. Rave to yourself of unpeakable native rites. Call the bartender Abdul. Wear a single black glove on your left hand. Do this daily until she comes into the bar and is seated at a table. Then walk slowly past, stumble, and fall into the chair beside her. Speak in a whisper: "Forgive me.... Your Grace. The.... fever."
"How pale and thin you look, young man." She sits before you, kind and wise and rich. She is fifty and covered with jewels. Your eyes glaze as you look at her. You mumble:
"You shouldn't come here, Your Grace! We.... are .... being watched. Don't turn! Just remain.... perfectly still. The idol's eye is in the coachman's hat.... placed it there.... myself."
Then you leap to your feet.
"I'LL SAVE YOU, OLD MAN!.... filthy devils!.... I shall not die unaccompanied! Steady, Your Grace, steady now...."
"Waiter! Waiter! Help me! This poor man is ill!"
You touch her knee and smile boyishly. "It's mother's milk I miss," you say shyly.
"Young man!"
You rise, shaking in every joint. "Since my conversation.... distresses you, madam, allow me to withdraw."
"Oh, no! Please stay."
"As.... you.... wish."
Then you collapse to the floor.
This, at any rate, was the initial gambit of my first successful career exploit. I awoke in a marble tub. She stood over me, adminstering. Slowly, she nursed me back to health.
If it worked for Sebastian Trump, it will certainly work for you!
But then, you may correctly observe, the day will come--perhaps in a month, possibly in a year--when she will enter your wing of the house and ask this monstrous question:
"Sebastian, when do you think you might.... begin looking for some sort.... of work? I mean, what do you intend to do with your life?"
What then, Sebastian, I hear you demand, what then?
Ah, then it is time--to leave.
You look at her a long, quiet moment. "Very well. Sebastian will go away.... and play with the Dark Women. And the panda." Than, bowing quickly, you walk out of her life forever.
For you are Sebastian Trump. You are the Master Juggler, the Gypsy Prince, the Genie in Milady's teapot. You move on--leaving your glove in a face or two.
"Oh, yes, Trump. Deposed royalty, I think. Insolent as the devil. But they're all that way, I suppose."
"I saw Sebastian fighting a duel in the Governer's mansion. Cut off the butler's arm with a flaming shish kebob."
"Oh, I've devised many ways of killing him. I should rather like to rip out his throat with a band saw."
"Forgive me, father, I have erred. It was Sebastian."
"Saw Trump falling down drunk in the toy boat lake. Shouting something about swans dying in private."
"Have you read Sebastian's new book? Famous Ladies I Have Mounted. Positively incendiary, my dear! He's being sued for billions!"
"They say Trump was behind that revolution in Bombay!"
".... derailed the Prime Minister's train."
".... spent a year on Devil's Island. Made a brilliant escape."
"Forgive me, mother, I have erred. It was Sebastian."
"I'd never have expected the Queen Mother to be so indiscreet.... especially with an American!"
".... denounced by the Vatican. But they were only returning the favor."
"The natives have erected a statue to him. He's one of their gods now. They have some sort of virgin offering to him on his birthday."
".... of course, I wouldn't be against seeing him devoured by mad dogs, mind you."
"Forgive me, son, I have erred. It was Sebastian."
FINALE
"A chill snake lurks in the grass." Vergil, Eclogues, II, 93.
The world is your opponent. You parry, you thrust. You disappear. You tell the virgins, "Sebastian has no time. He never did." You are a rotting beautiful fruit. You are the dying Pan. You are the single greatest Bastard in the world, and the world is chasing you, intent upon cutting out your liver and frying up your jibs....
HERE THE MANUSCRIPT OF SEBASTIAN TRUMP ABRUPTLY ENDS. HAPPILY, CONTEMPORANEOUS REPORTAGE SUPPLIES THE FINAL EXAMPLE THAT THE AUTHOR WAS UNABLE TO FURNISH.
---THE EDITORS.
"Well, the bastard finally got it! Shot in the back with a crossbow. Happened in the Maidhead Castle. Trump was going out the window in a bit of a hurry. His Lordship had just enough time to get off a shot. Trump tumbled into the moat. Nasty drop."
"No, I don't regret having done Trump in! But I shall never forget his last words. Oh, yes, he cried out just before he fell from the battlement. 'I have upset my applecart; I am done for! Lucian, Pseudolus, 1-32!' Then he fell. The man was mad as a hatter."
And so it ended. But Sebastian Trump's final words were reserved for the ears of Her Ladyship as she knelt beside the broken body.
"To live to be thirty, madam, is to have failed at life. I am quoting from H. H. Munro. And so, goodbye."
As His Lordship approached, she rose and fixed him with a steely eye, then spoke to him defiantly:
"I shall name the child Sebastian."
~~Appendix 1, page 577.~~
"The Philosophy of Sebastian Trump, or The Art of Outrage" by William E. Kotzwinkle and Robert Shiarella (pp. 367-77)
More years ago than I wish to acknowledge, Bob Shiarella, Bill Kotzwinkle and I were students together at Penn State. When I was editing Brother Theodore's Chamber of Horrors for Pinnalce Books in 1974, I asked Bob, an accomplished humorist, whether he had anything in the nature of black comedy for my collection. He showed me "The Art of Outrage", for which he and Bill had never found a market. In its original third-person form, I was was afraid it didn't quite fit my anthology, either, but it was too amusing to pass up, so with the permissions of the authors, I revised it to become the present first-person memoir by Sebastian Trump himself. I confess to adding a few of my own gags to the piece, not without deserved trepidation, but Bob did not object and when he passed them on to Bill, his only comment was that he "always suspected Marvin is as mad as us."
~~William E. Kotzwinkle is the prolific author of short stories and several critically acclaimed novels, including The Fan Man, Fata Morgana, and Doctor Rat, which won the world Fantasy Award for Best Novel of 1976. Robert Shiarella has written articles and humor for Argosy and other magazines, as well as a brilliantly satiric cult novel, Your Sparkle Cavalcade of Death, which began as a Kotzwinkle-Shiarella novella. Now meet their Melmothian madman, Sebastian Trump, who gleefully espouses the dark side of the farce. Would you believe that a major men's magazine once reluctantly rejected this humorous piece as too shocking? O tempora! O mores! (For additional comment, see Appendix I, page 577.)~~
The Philosophy of Sebastian Trump
or
The Art of Outrage
By William E. Kotzwinkle
and
Robert Shiarella
Stepping from his townhouse, he paused to adjust the fit of his calfskin gloves. It was early evening; it was time. Flipping one end of his cape over his shoulder, he stepped lithely to the sidewalk. He walked--slim, delicate and dangerous--humming an obscure passage from Dargomijsky, tapping his cane lightly upon the cobblestones. His face carried no expression, save a crooked, lemon-twist smile.
A handsome woman approached through the semidarkness, clasping the delicate hand of her angelic blue-eyed little girl. He ignored the woman, but paused briefly to bow to the child. Her azure eyes bulged like agates as she watched a hideous obscenity form on his sensitive mouth. The woman gasped.
He smiled and spake. "The first lesson of history, madam, is that evil is good. I quote from Emerson". So saying, he bowed and walked on. He heard the woman hiss through trembling lips: ".... outrageous, loathsome man!"
A delicious tingle cascaded through his body. Outrageous. With a hiss of exaltation, he struck out with his cane, but the hummingbird he aimed for had already backed out of the flower and flown away. No matter. The flower, the last from a widow's garden, was soon impaled upon the tiny steel point of his cane. He plucked it off and inserted it in his button-hole.
Though it was evening for the world, Sebastian Trump had just begun his day. With his accustomed Style. Grace. Wit. With any kind of luck, he might be able to defile a nanny before the rising of the moon.
Does this brief passage stir your soul? Does it nibble on the dog-ends of your imagination? Does it ring an elusive chord in the darkest corners of your bowels, as if struck somehow by the blackest muse of Hell?
Of course it does.
Every man carries the dry seeds of bestiality within him. Each of us, however splendid our virtue, dreams once of being a splendid bastard, a sniggering swine, an outrageous ruin of time. It is an ancient memory of our race, cherished by all men, nourished by few.
Come. Let me water your Child's Garden of Contempt. Let me throw the Obscenities Ball, where the couples shall whirl, dream-like and delicate. The music will build, caress, climb to incredible crescendos. And then--You shall appear. The crowd will draw back. And beneath your goat's mask, you shall commit the many Outrages which have too long been festering within you.
Let me, Sebastian Trump, draw examples from my own life and show you how!
It is difficult to be truly Ourtageous before the age of eighteen, which is to say, before one enters college, although occasionally one runs across the grammar school child (such as myself) who exposes himself at Mother's Tea, or tortures a little playmate, or, perhaps, ignites a beggar. Such occurrences have been recorded, but usually they are nipped in the first splendid bud and all pride and inventiveness are quickly stripped from the promising youngster by civilization's watchdogs. Therefore, work in this area being so rare, we shall commence our little lecture with the conquering of the universities--known alternatively as The College Outrage, or The Academic Atrocity.
ARRIVAL--PHASE ONE
"I begin to smell a rat." Cervantes, Don Quixote.
The way one arrives at college is of the utmost importance. Remember, this is to be your very first Outrage. You must choose your rhymes carefully. You are a freshman and you are, therefore, dirt. It is tradition. You, however, shall break tradition and emulate Sebastian Trump, arriving at college dressed as the Archbishop of Canterbury.
ARRIVAL--PHASE TWO
"Tom's no more, and so, no more of Tom." Lord Byron.
Very well. You have created a minor stir on the first day and people are uneasy in your presence. There are still barriers to surmount. The first of them is, or course, the life of your roommate. As a freshman, you will undoubtedly be assigned to a dormitory and you will have a roommate. This is clumsy, but is easily turned to good use. Remember--you are building a legend. Therefore, the first thing you must do upon entering college is to drive your roommate to suicide. Nothing could be more impressive, nothing could be easier. Observe:
"You had quite a dream last night, roomie."
"I did?"
"Yes, frightfully amusing. Kept calling me 'Mommy' and tried to crawl in bed with me. I suspect you'll get over it in time. I've written to your parents and your pastor for advice."
After your roommate has committed suicide, you, of course, embellish the event. Make it known that he took his life because of an unnatural love for you.
By now, you must begin wearing a black cloak and start collecting dark rocks. Take your meals in your room and rarely be seen in daylight. Carry a single shred of paper with you and read it over and over until it finally comes apart in your hands.
Then disappear for three days. When you return, discontinue the above, burn your bedsheets in the open air, act as if nothing has happened, and never mention your roommate's name again.
This should do nicely as a beginning at college.
THE SCANDAL SYNDROME
"Get thee to a nunnery, go." Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act III, Scene 1, line 142.
Now you have truly begun. People are starting to avoid you. Stories have been circulated that you cast no shadow, or that cloven hoof-prints were discovered in the snow beneath your window. You, of course, are the one who has initiated these stories. (If, however, when you pass, young women make the sign of the cross, you have overdone things a bit.)
You must surround yourself with scandal. This can be nothing so ordinary as getting some silly coed pregnant, although, of course, a few of these thrown in each semester can do no harm. No, you must strive for the Higher Scandal, that which sets teeth on edge, and makes lesser men shout out with rage and fear in the night.
For instance, at some student-faculty function, you might walk up to the Dean of the Philosophy Department and ask him to dance, remarking something about "You and I being the only ones to truly appreciate the Greek culture." Before he has a chance to answer, sweep him into your arms and begin to reminisce tenderly about your father: "Yes, papa has existed for the last forty years on checks from the government. Interesting story, really. Happened in the Argonne Forest during World War One. He was shot in the gluteus maximus while bolting in the face of the enemy. Of course, father kept that fact to himself by shooting the only Allied witness to his unfortunate retreat, one Toby Whistler, a young British officer. My father carries with him to this day the last words of Toby Whistler, which were, I believe, 'A bit thick, Yank.' Well, I've got to run now. It's been delightful. Thanks for asking me." Whereupon you quickly fling yourself away from the Dean, declaring in a loud voice that you wish to be released immediately. Retreat from the room backwards, fixing him with a frosty eye.
Major Outrages such as the above may be lent perspective if augmented by minor atrocities, such as sending your soiled laundry to an Oriental exchange student. With any sort of luck, you might create an international incident. ("The king has sent me some of his dirty linen to wash." Voltaire, Reply to General Manstein.)
Also, you might care to attempt the interesting little pastime of dressing up as a Cardinal and excommunicating yourself in the chapel on the Sunday of Homecoming Week.
While we are speaking of it, let us pass on to the crucially important subject of how to dress Outrageously.
OUTRAGEOUS UNIFORM
"How then was the devil dressed?" Robert Southey, A Devil's Walk, A Ballad, Stanza 3.
The way you attire yourself must be both remarkable and thoroughly outlandish. You must always appear to be on the way to a duel, immaculate, contemptuous of custom, and ready to die. Vienna, at the turn of the century, is always suitable. Grey top hat, ruffled sleeves and collar, grey gloves and spats, the entire ensemble graced by an ebony cane, would do nicely. I found such an habit admirable, and was adjudged both mad and dangerous. To one constructing a legend of Outrage, nothing better suits one's purposes.
THE OPPOSITE SEX
"I think this piece will help boil thy pot." Wolcot, The Bard Complimenteth Mr. West (c. 1790).
Now we must concentrate upon the handling of women, in this case college coeds, and thus sub-designated The Cardigan Conquest. Needless to say, your behavior shall be loathsome, but the finer points must be discussed. Dialogue is of the utmost importance. Example:
SHE: What do you plan to do when you leave college, Sebastian?
I: I'm thinking of becoming a professional rapist.
Example:
SHE: Do you mind my asking what your religion is, Sebastian?
I: Not at all. I am a Druid, my dear. Sacrificing virgins, that sort of thing. A dying practice.
SHE: Have you ever been in love, Sebastian?
I: Not since Mother died.
It is a well-known fact that women secretly dream of being Outraged, but the average man withdraws from the use of this knowledge. You, however, will feel quite free to heap endless humiliations and perversities upon them. For this bestial behavior, you shall be adored. In spite of themselves, they will dance the goat's dance with you, flinging themselves willingly; yea, desperately upon your Altar of Outrage.
SHE: Hello, Sebastian.
I: Let me touch it.
For dates, you will generally have women calling at your room for you. Always receive them in bed. A suitable remark might be, "Oh. You're early. You probably passed the Dean of Women on the staircase. Interesting lady. Wanted me to dress up as a chicken."
If you should call on your date, always arrive at least one hour late, giving some excuse such as, "....couldn't tear myself away from the splendid sunset."
Next, you must take her where she has never been before and most certainly would never care to go. Example:
"Some farmer boys I know are having a cock fight. I know you'll love it."
Throughout the evening, intimate that you are actually a woman. (NOTE: An excellent variation on this I once employed was to lead a young woman to believe that I had been castrated while serving with the Peace Corps in Casablanca. She was consumed with curiosity, pathos, and desire.)
At this point, all that remains for you to do is to desert her in the middle of the evening. Example:
If walking down the street together, wait until you come to an alley. Then, without a word, tear yourself from her arm and dart down the alleyway, an imprecation on your lips. Disappear into the shadows, your shoes tapping a faint but sinister progress through the bowels of the night. Utter a single maniacal laugh, but cut it off at its peak.
The next time you see her, you will, of course, act as if nothing has happened. Your name will soon be on every lip in every girls' dormitory in the school. We have only to observe the conversation which undoubtedly must take place when your date returns to her room that first night:
SHE: Well, first of all he took me to a cock fight....
OTHERS: (gasping) A what?
SHE: ....and then he told me how he's actually a woman, but then some crazy doctor in Casablanca cut off.... I mean.... well, you know, castrated him, and....
OTHERS: Do you know for sure?
SHE: .... well, no.... you see, he was too busy applauding the sunset, and then he hit a little girl with his cane.... and then.... well, he disappeared.
OTHERS: He what?
SHE: (embarrassed and confused) He.... disappeared down an alley.
OTHERS: Oh, God, I hope he asks me out!
Touche!
An interesting little added touch in the handling of women (actually a confusion tactic) that I found most amusing was to go steady with a dwarf for a period of time, letting it be known that I was only dating her for her body.
THE DEPARTURE
"Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result." Winston Spencer Churchill, The Malakand Field Force (1898).
Thus does one pass one's days at college. At the conclusion of one's academic career, one reflects how splendid a time it has been. One has trampled and ravaged. One has eaten all the flowers. There is, of course, but one stroke yet to be delivered--the last.
Sebastian Trump, Valedictorian.
Impossible? But Graduation Day finds you on the outdoor stage, waiting to be received. To those faculty members you have blackmailed, to those students you have compromised, to the army of innocents you have tricked, cajoled, and forced to do your work for you, it comes as no surprise.
You deliver a Major Oratory, filled with platitude and hypocrisy patterned on the Sermons of Joseph Butler. Then you step forward to receive the precious sheepskin. You smile and bow to the Dean of your college. Then you stride over to the President of the University. Standing directly before him, you proceed to tear up your diploma and fling it in his face. Then you walk to the edge of the platform and, standing above the draped banners of the school which bear the colors of the institution, you urinate carefully upon them so the damp stain emblazons on the hallowed crest your name:
SEBASTIAN TRUMP
With an arm raised in a final obscene gesture, your lips curled about a last vulgar, withering phrase, you stride contemptuously off the stage and into the sunset. You await the knife thrust in your back. It does not come. You have won.
You are ready to face life.
CAREER
"You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again." Isaac Watts, The Sluggard, Stanza 1.
Now you are faced with a small unpleasantness. How can a man, so finely wrought, so highly strung, so delicately balanced--how can such a man be expected to join the ranks of the gainfully employed? Therefore, you must join the ranks of the gracefully unemployed. The procedure is simple. You must find yourself a patroness.
TO-GRANDMOTHER'S-HOUSE-WE-GO-TRA-LA-LATERAL-OFFENSE
"Great fleas have little fleas upon their back to bite 'em." Augustus De Morgan, A Budget of Paradoxes.
Situate youself in the most fashionable bar in New York City. Cough frequently into your handkerchief. Tremble your glass. Faint briefly. Rave to yourself of unpeakable native rites. Call the bartender Abdul. Wear a single black glove on your left hand. Do this daily until she comes into the bar and is seated at a table. Then walk slowly past, stumble, and fall into the chair beside her. Speak in a whisper: "Forgive me.... Your Grace. The.... fever."
"How pale and thin you look, young man." She sits before you, kind and wise and rich. She is fifty and covered with jewels. Your eyes glaze as you look at her. You mumble:
"You shouldn't come here, Your Grace! We.... are .... being watched. Don't turn! Just remain.... perfectly still. The idol's eye is in the coachman's hat.... placed it there.... myself."
Then you leap to your feet.
"I'LL SAVE YOU, OLD MAN!.... filthy devils!.... I shall not die unaccompanied! Steady, Your Grace, steady now...."
"Waiter! Waiter! Help me! This poor man is ill!"
You touch her knee and smile boyishly. "It's mother's milk I miss," you say shyly.
"Young man!"
You rise, shaking in every joint. "Since my conversation.... distresses you, madam, allow me to withdraw."
"Oh, no! Please stay."
"As.... you.... wish."
Then you collapse to the floor.
This, at any rate, was the initial gambit of my first successful career exploit. I awoke in a marble tub. She stood over me, adminstering. Slowly, she nursed me back to health.
If it worked for Sebastian Trump, it will certainly work for you!
But then, you may correctly observe, the day will come--perhaps in a month, possibly in a year--when she will enter your wing of the house and ask this monstrous question:
"Sebastian, when do you think you might.... begin looking for some sort.... of work? I mean, what do you intend to do with your life?"
What then, Sebastian, I hear you demand, what then?
Ah, then it is time--to leave.
You look at her a long, quiet moment. "Very well. Sebastian will go away.... and play with the Dark Women. And the panda." Than, bowing quickly, you walk out of her life forever.
For you are Sebastian Trump. You are the Master Juggler, the Gypsy Prince, the Genie in Milady's teapot. You move on--leaving your glove in a face or two.
"Oh, yes, Trump. Deposed royalty, I think. Insolent as the devil. But they're all that way, I suppose."
"I saw Sebastian fighting a duel in the Governer's mansion. Cut off the butler's arm with a flaming shish kebob."
"Oh, I've devised many ways of killing him. I should rather like to rip out his throat with a band saw."
"Forgive me, father, I have erred. It was Sebastian."
"Saw Trump falling down drunk in the toy boat lake. Shouting something about swans dying in private."
"Have you read Sebastian's new book? Famous Ladies I Have Mounted. Positively incendiary, my dear! He's being sued for billions!"
"They say Trump was behind that revolution in Bombay!"
".... derailed the Prime Minister's train."
".... spent a year on Devil's Island. Made a brilliant escape."
"Forgive me, mother, I have erred. It was Sebastian."
"I'd never have expected the Queen Mother to be so indiscreet.... especially with an American!"
".... denounced by the Vatican. But they were only returning the favor."
"The natives have erected a statue to him. He's one of their gods now. They have some sort of virgin offering to him on his birthday."
".... of course, I wouldn't be against seeing him devoured by mad dogs, mind you."
"Forgive me, son, I have erred. It was Sebastian."
FINALE
"A chill snake lurks in the grass." Vergil, Eclogues, II, 93.
The world is your opponent. You parry, you thrust. You disappear. You tell the virgins, "Sebastian has no time. He never did." You are a rotting beautiful fruit. You are the dying Pan. You are the single greatest Bastard in the world, and the world is chasing you, intent upon cutting out your liver and frying up your jibs....
HERE THE MANUSCRIPT OF SEBASTIAN TRUMP ABRUPTLY ENDS. HAPPILY, CONTEMPORANEOUS REPORTAGE SUPPLIES THE FINAL EXAMPLE THAT THE AUTHOR WAS UNABLE TO FURNISH.
---THE EDITORS.
"Well, the bastard finally got it! Shot in the back with a crossbow. Happened in the Maidhead Castle. Trump was going out the window in a bit of a hurry. His Lordship had just enough time to get off a shot. Trump tumbled into the moat. Nasty drop."
"No, I don't regret having done Trump in! But I shall never forget his last words. Oh, yes, he cried out just before he fell from the battlement. 'I have upset my applecart; I am done for! Lucian, Pseudolus, 1-32!' Then he fell. The man was mad as a hatter."
And so it ended. But Sebastian Trump's final words were reserved for the ears of Her Ladyship as she knelt beside the broken body.
"To live to be thirty, madam, is to have failed at life. I am quoting from H. H. Munro. And so, goodbye."
As His Lordship approached, she rose and fixed him with a steely eye, then spoke to him defiantly:
"I shall name the child Sebastian."
~~Appendix 1, page 577.~~
"The Philosophy of Sebastian Trump, or The Art of Outrage" by William E. Kotzwinkle and Robert Shiarella (pp. 367-77)
More years ago than I wish to acknowledge, Bob Shiarella, Bill Kotzwinkle and I were students together at Penn State. When I was editing Brother Theodore's Chamber of Horrors for Pinnalce Books in 1974, I asked Bob, an accomplished humorist, whether he had anything in the nature of black comedy for my collection. He showed me "The Art of Outrage", for which he and Bill had never found a market. In its original third-person form, I was was afraid it didn't quite fit my anthology, either, but it was too amusing to pass up, so with the permissions of the authors, I revised it to become the present first-person memoir by Sebastian Trump himself. I confess to adding a few of my own gags to the piece, not without deserved trepidation, but Bob did not object and when he passed them on to Bill, his only comment was that he "always suspected Marvin is as mad as us."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)