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letterhead file, looking for something appropriate for correspondence with Orgasm Research.
    THUGGEE SOCIETY, DIVISION OF HASH IMPORT AND AFROGENEALOGY, said the handsomest letterhead; this was illustrated with a three-headed Kali. But that one he reserved for correspondence with prominent white racists, informing them that the Afrogenealogy Division (Alex Haley, researcher-in-chief) had discovered that their great-great-grandmother was black. Chaney always invited the recipients to come to the next Thuggee meeting and bring their wives and sisters.
    FRIENDS OF THE VANISHING MALARIA MOSQUITO (COMMITTEE TO BAN D.D.T.) was a good one, but not good enough for Dr. Dashwood. Chaney reserved it for correspondence with President Lousewart.
    Finally, the midget selected CHRISTIANS AND ATHEISTS UNITED AGAINST CREEPING AGNOSTICISM, a Nonprophet Organization, Reverend Billy Graham, President; Madalyn Murray O’Hair, Chairperson of the Board.
    In a few moments Chaney produced a letter calculated to short a few circuits in Dr. Dashwood’s computeroid cortex:
    Dear Dr. Dashwood :
    When you are up to your ass in alligators, it’s hard to remember that you started out to drain the swamp .
    Cordially ,
    Ezra Pound,
Council of Armed Rabbis
    P.S.
Entropy requires no maintenance.
    That should make the bastard wonder a bit, he thought with satisfaction, stuffing the enigmatic epistle in an envelope and addressing it.
    Markoff Chaney loathed math because it contained the concept of the
average.
    Chaney not only loathed, but hated, despised, abominated, detested, and couldn’t stand the thought of Dr. Dashwood, not just because Dashwood’s work involved statistics and averages, but because is was concerned with orgasms.
    That was a tender subject to Chaney. He was a virgin.
    He was never attracted to women of his own stature—that was almost incestuous, and, besides, they simply did not turn him on. He adored the giantesses of the hateful oversized majority. He adored them, lusted after them, and was also terrified of them. He knew from sad experience, oft-repeated, that they regarded him as
cute
and even
cuddly
, and one of them had gone so far as to say
adorable
but absolutely
ridiculous
as a sex partner, damn and blast them all to hell.
    He had tried building his courage with booze. They thought he was
disgusting
and
chauvinistic
and not even
cute
anymore.
    He tried weed. They thought he was
cute
again, and even hilarious, but even more absurd as a possible lover.
    He tried est. The trainers spent the first day tearing him down—telling him he was a no-good shit and everybody knew he was a no-good shit and things like that, which he had always suspected. The second day they built him up and convinced him he could control his space as well as any other mammal. He was flying when he came out.
    He went at once to a singles bar and sidled up to the most attractive blonde in the place.
    “Hi,” he said boldly, swaggering a bit. “What would you say to a friendly little fuck?”
    She gazed down at him from what suddenly seemed an enormous height. “Hello, friendly little fuck,” she drawled with magnificent boredom.
    When Chaney slunk back to his YMCA room and his pornographic Tarot, he vowed more vehemently than ever that he would be the meanest fuck on the planet.
Nobody
would ever call him a friendly little fuck again.
    He still adored the giantesses and feared them, but now he hated them too; in short, he was really stuck on them.
    Their
cunts
—those hairy, moist, hot, adorable, inaccessible, rejecting, terrible, divine, frightening Schwartzchild Radiuses of the dimension of Manhood—were the Holy Grail to him.
    He knew their cunts were hairy and hot and moist, etc., despite his virginity, because he had read a lot of pornographic novels. *
    *
Galactic Archives:
Pornographic novels were novels about the things primates enjoy most, namely sexual acrobatics. They were taught to feel ashamed of these natural primate impulses so that