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.“You have to understand,” he said, “that Sandra invented this exquisite routine when she was still a boy.When she removed her scanties at Elle et Lui, or the Carrousel, or the Schmuzekatze Lounge in Berlin, it begged one all-important question—was something hiding under there? Was this gorgeous creature hung? That was the turn-on.Yari told me about her—begged me not to miss her act when I went to Paris.I was enthralled.I saw her ten times in a week and began to make inquiries.I discovered that she lived as a woman, longed to be one.I made up my mind to make her an offer.Someone had once provided me with the means to change my life, and I decided to do the same for her.Of course, the person who sponsored me didn’t extend his generosity purely out of the kindness of his heart—he was rewarding me for services rendered, and one in particular that helped secure the honor of his family.When I arranged, through a third party, for Sandra to undergo surgery, I too expected something in return.”He returned his attention to Sandy.“I still do,” he said.“The moment I had dreamed of has been snatched from me, but I still expect something in return.”The word “something” snapped out of his mouth like a cross between a shout and a snarl.The icy poise dissolved in an instant and the crazed look returned to his eyes, which now were fixed on Sandy’s face with an intensity that recalled that day in Little Italy when he appeared to see nothing but her.I had listened to his monologue, but at the same time my mind was working overtime, breaking down the elements of his story.He said he had seen her perform many times, in Europe and at Aladdin’s Alibi.Given his graphic description of her act, that rang true—yet how could a creature with such a disfigured face be a frequent member of Sandy’s audience without her being aware of him? I had heard that some clubs provided private viewing rooms for privileged patrons who liked to party with a couple of hookers while keeping one eye on the show, but I couldn’t quite buy into that explanation.And why had a man who could afford to sponsor Sandy for costly sex-reassignment surgery—and presumably who had supported her at considerable expense through the long months involved—never turned to a plastic surgeon to fix his own scarred features? There was something off about that, but I had no time to pursue the line of thought because his behavior toward Sandy was becoming increasingly threatening.“I hope you realize,” he said to her, “that I own you.Every inch of your body, every hair, every fingernail, every sweat gland.Your breasts, your cunt—everything—but far more than that, because there is not a cell in your body that has not been transformed by treatments I paid for.By hormones and whatever black magic potions were administered by the good doctor in Morocco and those spooky endocrinologists.”As he said this, the biker placed his hands on Sandy’s breasts.She looked helplessly in my direction.The biker ripped the bodice of the bridal gown open.I was on my feet by now, stumbling toward him.He had put away his knife, but he reached for something else in his leathers—it was a small semiautomatic pistol.He turned it in my direction and fired a single shot that hit the tarmac inches in front of me, showering me with dirt.It stopped me in my tracks.Now the biker, laughing maniacally, used his free hand to rip the bridal gown from Sandy’s shoulders.She screamed.He slapped her across the face, then grasped her throat.Taking advantage of his distraction, I jumped on his back.This made it difficult for him to threaten me with the gun, and I managed to get both arms around his neck—since my hands were still cuffed together, I had him in a stranglehold.As I jerked the cuffs back into his throat he fired two shots into the ground, trying to hit my feet or to at least scare me off.Then he tossed the gun aside so that he had two hands available to throttle Sandy.He was entirely obsessed with choking the life from her, seemingly unaware of me even as I continued to claw at his throat.“Bitch! Cunt! Bitch!” he screamed.Sandy’s face was turning purple and her eyes were threatening to pop out of her head.“Scratch his fucking eyes out!” I yelled.For a moment Sandy didn’t seem to understand what I was telling her to do, but then she responded, tearing at the biker’s face with her nails, ripping at his eyes and at the terrible scars.Suddenly he went limp and slumped to the ground, slipping from between my arms [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]