Previously, we had a rough day, meeting new friends in familiar places. We're now off to a midnight party at the house of Godehard Wagner (family), dragged along by one of our new friends. Charles is back from the bathroom, where he had a difficult time (he was defecating a lot of blood, as he tells John).
As Maurice is saying this he's grabbing my shoulder. His knees fold, his body folds. He's falling to the ground, now he's just lying there, eyes shut. I touch his shoulder,
"Maurice, Maurice," I say. No reaction. I slap his cheeks. No reaction. He's unconscious.
"He's unconscious," Neill observes, "a bad fuck probably." This will be the last time that anybody uses those words at the party.
"Gohard," I shout, "we need an ambulance."
"We need an ambulance," Godehart answers.
"Somebody must call an ambulance," he continues.
"What's the number?" the rent waiter asks. Godehart doesn't know, of course.
"Nine-one-one," somebody suggests helpfully.
"No, no," I plead, “that's the police, we need an ambulance. Call them directly, that's faster."
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| The party that isn't going to happen |
The police would take Maurice directly to the landfill, better still, they would take his unconscious body to the hospital, with RapeDick in the back blocking Maurice’s neck artery expertly with his thumb, leaving no marks. We’ve seen this in the movies. Maurice will arrive dead on arrival at the hospital, having died of badfuck, a contagious disease, and the night shift directs the body to the morgue where it can chill forever.
I am thinking this very quickly. "Please call an ambulance," I plead in Neill's direction while squatting next to Maurice; I'm trying to feel his pulse. Neill must have been through this before as a restaurant owner, not to mention bad fucks in the upstairs department, he must know how to avoid the police.
