I shall never forget the unspeakable horror that froze the lymph in my glands the day that baleful word went searing through my reeling brain; I — was a POET. I walked the streets in a daze, like a man with a light concussion. I thought of the painted, simpering poet-impersonators I’d seen in a Baltimore nightclub. Could it be possible that I was actually one of those subhuman things? I would have destroyed myself, but a wise old pulp fiction writer, BOBO, we called him, taught me that it was my duty to live and to bear my burden proudly for all to see.

But poor Bobo came to a STICKY end. He was riding in the back seat of the Count de Ventre’s Hispano-Suiza when his falling hemorrhoids blew out of the car, wrapping around the rear axle. He was completely gutted. Even the eyes and the brains went, with a sickening schlupping sound, leaving only an empty shell sitting there on the giraffe-skin upholstery. The Count says he shall carry that ghastly “schlup” with him to his mausoleum.

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