"Jason Gould - The Seven Wonders Of The Modern World" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gould Jason)

Mrs Copeland sent in the following account:
No matter where you stand on the surface of planet earth you are never far
from the rustle and clink of a Midas Pit. Amble along the main street of
any town and soon you will hear the familiar cry of the green-suited
barker, coaxing the crowds through those emerald doors and into fantasia.
Like all Midas Pit's staff the street-barkers' tongues are hundred dollar
bills, painstakingly tattooed on their day of induction or sometimes
pasted with the melted-down collections of dead numismatists. Their breath
smells of loose change, as if they've caught mouthfuls of pennies from
heaven and are too greedy to spit. Their language is rich.
You stand inside the plush foyer and stare up at the menu. You immediately
disregard the family room (you're on your own this evening), and also the
communal hall where the hoi-polloi bathe and dream of a day when they can
lounge there forever. You decide eventually to pay a little extra and rent
your own private chamber for thirty heavenly minutes, including the
take-home special. You hand over a thousand dollars and take a seat in the
waiting area.
After a few minutes an old Shylock beckons for you to follow. He leads you
along a verdant corridor and into a narrow cubicle in which you undress.
Your heart beats faster than it has since you were here last. You think of
how long it has taken to save up for this visit, how many days you've gone
without food, nights without shelter. But as your guide unlocks the door
to the chamber you decide it was worth it. Oh was it worth it!
He closes the door behind you, reminding you not to forget your take-home
special. You gawp round the room, suddenly unable to catch your breath.
Your eyes ache at all they see. You cover them a moment with your hands in
a bid to calm yourself. Beneath your palms your eyes are wet with delight.
But even sightless the room has you, largely through the dull metallic
aroma in which you are engulfed. It is impossible to fend off. Alive like
you have never been alive before, you tear your hands from your face and
dive headlong into the twinkling lake.
It is the size and shape of an average swimming pool, and is filled in the
main with dollars and cents, plus the occasional Deutschmark and ruble
flung in for the tourists. At first the notes scrape your naked body and
the coins are cold and uncomfortably shaped. But soon you remember their
touch, and soon you are massaging the cash against your chest, washing
with it, collecting up handfuls and allowing the notes and coins to
cascade on to your upturned, bliss-becalmed face. It is a fantastic
sensation; part sexual, part spiritual. Several orgasms arrive unexpected:
one! two! three! four! You are in paradise.
Lost in your love, you lose track of time and are startled by the five
minute alarm. The buzzer indicates your session is all but over, and you
frantically start grabbing as much money as possible for the take-home
special. You swallow coins until you are out of saliva, then you stuff a
fistful of notes into your mouth. You insert a coin into each nostril and
ear, and a dozen or more into the wound in your leg that you deliberately
gashed open three nights before. You are too in the moment to feel pain.
If you collect enough you might break-even on the day, but like a true
addict notions of your original thousand are miles from your mind.
The Shylock appears at the exit and motions for you to leave. You stand up