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what I think of you, compared to me?’ ‘you are
incapable, absolutely incapable of having an opinion’ ‘all right, but do you
know what I think of you and of me, comparing us?’ ‘spit it out, you little
crook’ ‘I admit that in certain moments I turn into a fascist, I do and I
know I do, but you turn into one too, just like me, it’s just that when you do,
you don’t know it; that’s the only differencebetween us,
just that; and you only don’t know that you’ve turned into one because
– although this is hardly new – nothing is more fashionable today than to be
a fascist in the name of reason’ ‘so can I conclude that our fascist
who’s confessed is actually better, compared to me’ ‘not at all, if on
the one hand it’s a saving grace, on the other hand confession can also liberate
me: to be more of a fascist than ever …’ ‘what are you trying to
say?’ and her eyes pecked at me, challenged me, ‘are you threatening
me?’, but from the corner of my eye I noticed that Bingo was stiffening his body
to a statue, his eyes boring into her, his tail straight as a length of wood, his ears
two antennae, a mongrel yes, but in the poised position of a dog that’s found its
prey, ‘keep out of it, Bingo’ I ordered, hurting his sense of loyalty,
‘don’t get involved’ I murmured as well, dismissing his help without
any consideration, after all, he hadn’t been very loyal in letting the fraud
incite my furious calculations, she had gone so far that my fire was one crackling roar
(it’s easy to work out that two plus two makes four under the shade of a fig tree,
but I’d like to see someone right in the fires of hell draw lines and segments,
create a perfect circle, and even prove theorems), I only know that I collected myself
and, determined, took another step forward, scorching her, saying ‘types like you
drool for a boot, types like you drool for a foot’, perfectly balancing the
ambivalence of what I suspected – her will to power mixed with the sensuality of
submission – but she was flexible, this little miss, throwing her shoulder bag
inside the car she rested her hands on the car’s bodywork as if asking me to hit
her, and it was obvious what she wanted, but I didn’t really want to smack her
‘you think I’m into hitting you, do you, idiot?’ and seeing in this
perhaps a step backwards, a weakness, or who knows what, and making her own
associations, she sparked back, metallic, and her scornful laugh cut me ‘ha ha hah
… you queer!’ was the sharp bite the piranha gave me, trying to castrate me
with asingle swipe of her knife (‘obviously! …’),
yet, like the carnival trannie, the thick hairs of her ideology gave her away, she who
trumpeted her protest against torture while at the same time being a shameless torturer
in daily life, just like the people, made in her image there in the football
stadiums, 3 just like the government, the oppressor, that she fought tirelessly, I only know
that’s what stopped us in our tracks, the circus caught fire (a mask lay on the
ground in the ring), my architecture collapsed in flames, including its iron structure,
and burning myself I said ‘whore’, it was an explosion in my mouth and my
hand flying another explosion in her face, and the good smack in the face wasn’t
part of a ritual, I now intentionally used the palm of my hand together with the
repressive weapons in her arsenal (yes, I’d give her both an outburst and a
beating!), so I said ‘whore’ again and again my hand flew out, and I saw her
rosy skin stain red and her whole face be covered suddenly by a swarm of ants, tears
welled up in her eyes, I watched closely, my eyes burning into her face, she
didn’t move, supported herself on the car, I had steel in my backbone again, she,
savouring the lascivious recoil from the smack, skilfully crystallizing a complex system
of gestures, her hair dishevelled, enjoyed, almost to the point of orgasm, the sensual
drama of