The illuminatus! trilogy by Robert Shea, Robert Anton Wilson Page B

Garrison: not that Garrison ever came within light years of the real truth….)
    “Here, kitty-kitty-kitty” Hagbard calls
.
    But now we are going back, again, to April 2 and Las Vegas; Sherri Brandi (nee Sharon O’Farrell) arriving home finds Carmel in her living room at four in the morning. It doesn’t surprise her; he often made these unexpected visits.
He seems to enjoy invading other people’s territory like some kinda creepy virus
. “Darling,” I cried, rushing to kiss him as he expected.
I wish the creep would drop dead
, I thought as our mouths met.
    “An all-night john?” he asked casually.
    “Yeah. One of those scientists who works at that place out in the desert we’re all supposed to pretend we don’t know about. A freak.”
    “He wanted something special?” Carmel asked quickly.“You charged him extra?” At times I thought I could really see dollar signs in his eyes.
    “No,” I said, “he just wanted a lay. But afterward he wouldn’t let me go. Just kept jawing.” I yawned, looking around at the nice furniture and the nice paintings; I had managed to get everything in shades of pink and lavender, really beautiful, if that creep hadn’t been sitting there on the couch looking like a hungry dead rat. I always wanted pretty things and I think I could have been some kind of artist or designer if all my luck wasn’t always lousy. Christ, who ever told Carmel a blue turtleneck would go with a brown suit? If it wasn’t for women, in my honest-to-Pete opinion, men would all go around looking like that. That’s what I think. Insensitive. A bunch of cavemen, or Meander Thralls, or whatever you call them. “This john had a lot on his mind,” I said before old candy-bar could start crossexamining me about something else. “He’s against fluorides in drinking water and the Catholic church and faggots and he thinks the new birth-control pill is as bad as the old one and I should use a diaphragm instead. Christ, he’s got the inside dope on everything under the sun, he thinks, and I hadda listen to it all. That kind of john.”
    Carmel nodded. “Scientists are schmucks,” he said.
    I pulled the dress over my head and hung it in the closet (it was the nice green one with the spangles and the new style where my nipples stick out through little holes, which is a pain in the ass because they’re always rubbing against something and getting raw, but it really turns on the Johns, and, like I always say, that’s the name of the game, in this sonofabitching town with all the lousy luck, the only way to heavy scratch is go out there, girl, and sell your snatch) and then I grabbed my robe quick before old blow-job bobo decided it was time for his weekly Frenching. “He’s got a nice house, though,” I said to distract the creep. “He doesn’t have to live out there on the base, he’s too important for rules and regularities. Nice to look at, I mean. Redwood walls and burnt orange decor, you know? Pretty. He hates it, though. Acts as if he thinks it’s haunted by Count Frankenstein or somebody. Keeps jumping up and walking around like he’s looking for something. Something that’ll bite his head off in one gulp if he finds it.” I decided to let the top of the robe hang open a little. Carmel was either horny or he wantedsomething else, and
something else
with him generally means he thinks you’ve been holding back some cash. Him and his damned belt. Of course, sometimes with that I go queer all over for a flash and I guess that’s like the come that men have, the orgasm, but it ain’t worth the pain, believe me. I wonder if it’s true some women get it in intercourse? Really get it? I don’t think so. I’ve never known anybody in the business who gets it, from a man, only from Rosy Palm and her five sisters, sometimes, and if none of
us
do, how could some straight nicey-nicey get it?
    “Bugs,” Carmel said, looking shrewd and clever, off on his usual shtick of proving he was more hip to