"Mike O'Driscoll - The Future Of Birds" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'driscoll Mike)

As Heinrich sits me up to arrange my jet black hair into a dazzling
coiffure, one that, like my body, will impress Spengler's important
friends, I think: they lied to us.

Heinrich guides the Mercedes through rain slick streets, along Kanstrasse
past shabby, smoke-filled kneipen, into Kurf№rstendam, past sidewalk cafes
with glassed-in terraces where unblemished middle-aged women sit alone
with their drinks, past the KomЎdie theatre till it pulls up outside the
'The Blue Angel'. Young Babes - sexually precocious girls of nine or ten -
flaunt themselves outside the entrance, some of them menstruating so
profusely that, even through their heavy padding, blood streams down their
stockinged legs. Images of Sally Bowles and Marlene Dietrich fill their
minds, feeding the awful need that has drawn them here to plead with
implacable doormen, seeking to gain entrance to the scene of their
mentors' former glories. One crumbling, anaemic beauty falls to the
pavement. The others start bickering over her as she crawls away to die.
Then the doormen step out on to the pavement and form a cordon around
Spengler, who comes out into the rain to greet me. The Babes try to grasp
his arms and legs, but he strides through them, all lean arrogance and
efficiency clothed in a black lounge suit. I get out of the car and he
holds me at a slight distance, surveying my array of scarlet feathers and
blue chiffon as if I were some prized possession. I move past him, into
the club where a troupe of Birds re-enact a Sapphic orgy on the main
stage, while in the discreet alcoves an assortment of Birds and Babes
provide a range of sexual favours for the rich clientele.
Backstage, I pop an Aktive 'poule against my neck to blunt reality. A
house null leads me down a blue corridor to Spengler's private suite,
reserved for the entertainment of important friends. The null clips wires
to my costume as Spengler introduces the queen of The Birds of the Crystal
Plumage, and then a taped barrage of Brazillian drums heralds my entrance.
There are twelve men in the room, seated on leather couches, their desires
caged in refinement and respectability. I ruffle my feathers in time to
the music as I strut across the marble stage, offering them glimpses into
hidden dreams. Then Claudio swoops into view, suspended over the stage
like a magnificent condor, the twelve inch penis that Dr Kleinfeld has
crafted for him, erect beneath the black plumage that adorns his laburnum
flesh. He sweeps me up in his arms and lust thrums in the air like the
sound of swarming insects, hot and feverish, no different from the lust of
the dockworkers at Maua who came to be blown by a half-formed Bird. We
glide over the stage, Claudio and I, borne on sensuous rhythms as we act
out an improbable seduction. Until finally, in mid-air, he plucks my
feathers with exaggerated care and then plunges his meat into me. Whatever
perfunctory pleasures I once might have derived from these performances
has been worn down by soulless repetition. We fuck like birds on the wing,
Claudio's precision tool grinding against the template of my vagina. The
only thing I feel is numb. He withdraws before he comes so that the
audience may appreciate the bounty he showers over my breasts, a seemingly
endless rain of semen; another of Kleinfeld's miracles.
The applause is thunderous as Claudio flies from view, while I wait
without curiosity to see which of his guests Spengler has selected for