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up she'll have to wipe up. The Direktor strips off the rest of her clothes and watches her wiping and weaving. One moment her breasts hang forward, the next they bobble about in front of her as she scrubs, making things as new. He pinches her nipples in thumb, index and middle finger, then twists, as if he were trying to screw in a minute light bulb. His raging and weighty entrail slaps out at the window that opens in his trousers and whaps against her thighs from behind. When she bends down she has to spread her legs. Now he can cop hold of her whole fig tree with one hand and set his fingers angrily a-roving. Oh and while she's at it with her legs apart like that she can stand over him and piss in his mouth. What, she can't? Let's see. Up with her knee. There we are (applause, applause!) — the tender lips of her cunt, well part them with a soft smacking sound and we men'll be banging our tankards down on the table with a thump. If she still can't pee we'll drag her privates down by the
    short and curlies till she bends the knee and splays across the Herr Direktor's chest. By the hairs he holds the lips of her cunt parted like a handbag and slushes it across his face so he can drive his tongue inside, an ox at the salt-lick, the mountain is on fire. The men bear the load. Her waters murmur incomprehensibly. And the women even soak it up with absorbent rags and clean the place with Ajax.
    The woman drinks the cold dregs of coffee from her dismal cup. As if preparing to flee, she has pulled on her wispy tights again. There isn't a woman anywhere near who has it anywhere near as good as she does. Her lordandmaster's claw rests upon her head, to make her feel at home in the cage. That evening the Direktor will be smiling at his weary wife again and setting his sights on the target. Later his surging banks of foam will crash against her yet again, his Austrian bank safe against any crash. The woman reaches into nowhere, where the food's spoiling, as if she wanted to shake him off the place of her slumbers. And so they will always be passing each other by on the broad and perilous highway, the terrifying mountain railway of marriage. This woman is envied by the villagers for the fine clothes she wears. The dirt in her house is vacuumed up by a woman hired as a cleaner from the catalogue of villagers, who wanted nothing but to live in brotherhood. The child was born late, but not so late that he hasn't the time to turn into a griping adult. The Man shouts out loud with pleasure, and the woman's voice snuggles against him so that he will wave his magic wand and produce nice expensive things for the home. Such as a three piece suite that can be used at the stations where the two of them go to rub off their blessed sex. But no one can do magic. When the Man sobers up he is obliging towards the woman and good-natured, of course he'll buy her whatever she wants, he bought everything you see here
    in full colour, ladies and gentlemen. So dry your cheeks! There, now.
    In the evening, their plates will offer a refuge to food without a home. Fleetingly the dishes are introduced to each other. Then off they go to mingle. In the bodies. What must things be like beneath some people's roofs! Food is of no consequence in this house, all that matters is that there be a lot to eat, so that the stronger of the two can smile and yield in his largesse. Sausage and cheese of an evening, wine and beer and brandy. And milk for the child, to guarantee his growth. That is how the middle class works: safeguarded below and legally protected above. The protection of Nature is done by the ones underneath. So that the whole class doesn't go plummeting into the bottomless depths.
    Early in the morning, the Man has already relieved himself. Big are the heaps he dumps, and he's been busy with his pitchfork heaping up more. And how the urine splashes from him! Everywhere under his roof he can be heard. His articulated penis roaring to a standstill in the lay-by