Alice Liddell's Adventures In Dadaland

Baboons at the art gallery she came to see
Entitled, she thought, at age 153
Her old lover, Lewis Carroll, long dead
She tired of carrying her withered spirit under her curls
And gathered skirt and apron
Curiouser and curiouser
Pornmeisters from Russia sought her for a lolita series
She told them to frig off--she was too old
She smoked Camels in the kitchen while the dishwasher ran
So many memories
When she finally saw the baboons, they had shat on the carpet
And were swatting each other with the guard ropes
One yanked down Le Belle Dame Sans Merci
And proceeded to stomp it
She roiled with mirth
Reminiscent of the circus at Albert Hall

The Marquis Arrives

He did not know what escort to expect; but he was bemused to endure a shower of sand that drenched his blond locks as the chopper set down outside the gate, in a blur of cresents and crosses. He immediately recognized that he was overdressed and over-coiffed; the troops on either side of him had several days of stubble and the hard tack look of soldiers whose clean-pressed decorum had been inevitably ground down from years of combat. These were mechanics, office men, bureaucrats who had been plumetted into the abyss, and had survived on the other end by becoming efficient machines. Nothing in his fantasies had prepared him for this.

When the blades stopped whirring, the Marquis crept to the rear of the machine and retched, holding his cape so as to not stain it. It was the stench that did it. He rose, recovered, and apologized to his charges.

"I am quite fine," he said. "Lead me."

After passing the gate, he felt entombed. He noted the barbed wire running the expanse of the concrete walls and thought, "Well, prisons must have walls." But this was merely the first gate. Beyond lay a second, of rusting steel, at the end of a large courtyard crammed with humanity: dark figures in robes, many dazed, sitting on the ground, some wailing, some attempting to snatch the attention of soldiers who could not, or would not, comprehend their language. Some clutched indistinct papers, or waved small books. He recognized that most were apparently female.... all sweltering under the fire and the stench of the courtyard.

"Who are these people?"

"They are the relatives," someone answered.

He likened the courtyard to some outer rim; as Stygian as this predicament seemed on the surface, he rationalized that they were at least free to come and go. But he felt his fantasies vanish; blanched from him by acid. His fantasies had fled, leaving a white skeleton, and a robe.

He wondered what to tell Madame Doucette.

Adventures Of The Marquis--Techniques In Torture

Madame Doucette--Tell me: What are you thoughts at being reborn in this century?

Marquis de Sade--I have primarily desires, and secondarily thoughts, at finding myself plopped on this century. Souls are attracted to those who are kindred spirits, and then to those who desire instruction. Behind many a suit and tie lies a libertine.

Madame Doucette--Where will you travel?

Marquis de Sade--They do not want for instruction in the Capitol. I believe that the depraved are not necessarily hedonists; merely dead souls. A dead soul cannot revel in the delight of sensation, or yield to brimming lust.

I will travel East, to the far-flung gulag of the Americans.

Madame Doucette--I see... you seek those in bondage?

Marquis de Sade--Yes, young men in bondage, and those who hold them. I have heard stories.... many stories. But the Americans are crude, yet, in their craft. What I offer them is refinement, and pleasure that can be found in torture. I have what they lack, and they have what I desire. I will travel this week.

Madame Doucette--And you will write me of your adventures?

Marquis de Sade--You, Madame, shall be the first to know. And when I return, you shall be the beneficiary of my education.

Announcement By The Department Of Homeland Security

On The Beach, Continued

When the first season of The New Bewitched was wrapped, Darrin had a few weeks off to think. In his basement, he had sought to create an object of terrible beauty, an object not seen since the first act of the play, The Demiurge. He created to destroy. He became a slave to the wheel until it ground him under, and in a fit of pique, he obliterated it.

"Why?" asked the Woman of the Photographs, when he called her while she was in Missouri.

"I don't know," he said.

"Can't you get Samantha to twinkle her nose and reconstruct it?"

Darrin thought a moment. "Hmmm... maybe so. But I can't tell her what for."

"Lie, you doofus! Ask her to reconstruct the *area* that it was in."

He thought about asking Tabatha to do it... but he knew that she was just tell Samantha, anyway. So, that night, Darrin slid up behind Samantha as she was washing the dishes.

"Loved the meatloaf," he said.

"Oh, Darrin, you *hate* my meatloaf," Samantha sighed. "Whadda want? You want me to pimp your Toyota?"

Darrin explained that there was, uh, a problem with his workbench, and could she progress it back, say, three months?

"Only if you get me that solitaire that I saw at Viandries this weekend."

What's a few grand? Darrin thought. So, Samantha wiped her hands on her apron, twinkled, and went back to her dishes.

Darrin waited a few discrete minutes, then traipsed downstairs to find the object of terrible beauty, magically reconstructed, still sparkling with fairy dust.

He had a year to finish it. A veteran of the insurance business, he worked best when there was a dealine... except that this deadline was literal. The New Bewitched would run only two seasons, and he would be gone.

"You must have found another floozy," the Woman of the Photographs wailed one night, her voice crackling in and out on the cell phone.

Darrin sensed a trap, and said nothing. Implicit in her wail was the assurance that he would always return to her. And his object of terrible beauty would suck the world into itself.