by Alan Moore
As he sanks dreathlessly itup her inday Wake o’ his exhertions, he stars livingly drownin’ t’ Lucia’sighs an’utters his hatfelt indearmuffs. There err numir littres cummin’ farm er’s eers, she nowtosees.
“Oh, Myray! Myray, how I liff ‘ee! When I wish cantfined, die tolld mais oui were nefar weed and thot I wors a claer deludatic. Die tolld me-you we’re dead!”
Asigh girllapses oin her, gracedful and relived, Lucia shluts her I’s and slieps intu’ir own past-kirtle torpurr, traumily kensundering his sayitmeant. Wiz she dod? Wiz ’tis her happyevhereafterlife, here at Faint Androuse Havepityl on this instenthourminate day dad scemes to heave the whowl o’ herst’ry in it, froem the pour-ward criddle o’ cryoution to ther Kindthorts grievesad of herpoorcollypse? Form the being-bang c’horus-dorn sunarise o’ speacetime, buorn out of ain efferprescent quaintime vaquim in day mawnings, to dayend o’ ebonything in the loast coolong breethe of an intropic sumset, joyst befire the staers come and go out? Sisyph’er haeven or her hill, she wanders, these asylium feolds wit’her hole innyverse from stars t’ vinish seemhow chrystallived into each die, with everI dayd enternal end with everI dayddy same, wreiterated unlistly dante the timeyest unt most infernotesimal devtail, though samewho shwe don’t knotwice the unwending rapidition, veasibly as a presult o’ hoeur premedication? Paharps this eas whait the art’terlike is life feer th’everyone, nijust for her. Perhopes foreverybiddy, their while werlt and their while liffe is one ling ernd umusually hevent’fall day dat they/we’ll have fargarten by tomirror mourning whin thy Wake as couldn’t-careless babbis, to bagain the seem old tombless and belivered stirry all novver agone.
Prehaps, she shinks while fleeting un her blusshful swoan, life physa seventary- or heighsty-year lang striep o’ sellyuloud. Lucia inmachines thus to be abate the sim lingth as, fher insdance, unold Cheerly Chappin feelm, with evary undievisual forme a stringle mement of our meretale spin, from our brith-striggles undernurthe the openyin tittles to our tire-joking demillse wittyend creadits. We all sturt out as Der Kind und wonedayp as a Littrle Traump or plossibly a Greyed Doctator. Eother why, if our shord feutures should lost lang ineff, we fend oarsaves at laest adraft in Moredum Termes, wetwitch we’re larngely informiliar. Eventsho, the fast and lirst scense o’ the feelm and all the frooz’n fromes tha’trace our flickwrong nonstop-mation funny-walkin’ progress in beturn those proints are ultigether on the rael at the see’em teeme, are all judd milliminnits frame each ofher in the nitely-liabelled scineormantic carnhistyr. Nothink is really moorphing. Wre-experience the tragichemical sequintial starry affairlife, wit’ all its partfills, crendits pinchlines, e’dits torrible X-writed scins, onely as the prodictor-beam of our poorceptions and unwareness shimms through each onemorfing bleack-and-swhite trunsparingcy, each tickend whire we tworld arcane or twiggled our missterche, with the rapeyedarty of our pergreptsion t’rue the staidic sliceshow blending the illucian of continpurous aweirdness, cinstant procress through huor every waorkin’ memeant and through ovary dremon unstant of ourabian fevern-twisty thoughtsand nights. By the seem lowjoke, wence our man-attriction epoc is at list goncluded, the reals that contin our taell are not errased or etherwise dustdryed, but stell wemain to be seet thru agen, whiched and exterienced thrue h’all of sempiternity wittin the tomeless Dyin & Pearlygated sinnerma of our dearthless ‘ooweareness; of man’s soul. The engels, she invisions, wourld be crueltics, watching oer sleepstuck perfromances and boawler-deffing escapeaids impersially befeer they hurld their fernall ownquest and agrue uponderr murdicts, from “lacklusia” to “annmissabelle”.
Is herll liff, then, a cingle fulm, a songlee pook, a singirl di that she repeants herturnally, juyst like her Babbo’s solutary dayin’ Doublein that can be re-rude a millin’ termes befear you rich the maining of it? Iffort is, Lucia decives, she doesn’t matchmind afert all. If she’s aldeady read and this iswheet it’sleek, lake-being herlive o’gain upen a certime and spaceific sinny evternoon, strawling with oporn laygs boytorn the nuding blessems and with a gwood mien intip herfur, whee, danceshe thanks it all signds gland. If allover meternity is her and new, prescent in each when of her everlusting diremonde insdance, than is thet not a remakeable and splaindad certuation? All day wordwork o’ the wold, it sames t’ her, is to be fount wit’in the limins o’ Sit Andrest Hapipil, with all of tame inquisitely reflettered in each industanguishable die. To all instents and papasays she ishtar queer’n o’fall inxistence. She kin smake perundulations in the godlern tellit’me o’ myrth and light’erassure, orghe can happytoff with the depanted sheaid of Hangland’s must sublim postoral pawit, andistill inlay a lietell ofter breakfarts. Wetta windoor is it, be’in Lucia Anna Joyce. She is thea viry goodesst o’ croatoan. Will you luc at heer, now?
With that rawful senks o’ clawrity that seamtimes comes toworse and jarbs us from the smurk, cuntenterd slumper we weer synkhing into, Lucia knows shuddernly that when she lits her eyce crak eepin, her rutstick and layrick levor will have banished; willow’ve never treely barn there. She is nut the breede of girlextsies and myther ovall sangue at all, at all. She is a mudd eld woomin who’s been whendering aroundy institentiary, lust in a serdid sories of inlickly funtosees that are moist opten of a soxial nudger, plying with hersalve in pubelook, joycelike every uddle day.
Her lushes flir and stutter like epony myths as she awakeins, sotting up to squaint aborter. It is mulch verse than she had antecepatered, for not unlay has her pawit pooramour compliterally disappealed as she’d prejicted, but the veri lieto’day has summilarly ibsented itself. Whylonely twirlty minuets ago it hed still bon a clare and sinny more’gen, neow it is the dread of naught, and here upine the crone and needelle-covert grase beterni’trees it is a meanlit wald o’ blackund salver.
She becons afreet. At fearst she wunders if she’s actooearlly fellin farst aslip, out here in the asighloom weirds, while ’nert has pallen all aground and whereid duct’ers sanedoubt search-poeties to luc for her. Aft’er she’s lessoned for a period and nut-herd inny unxious vurses cawling out her nym, Lucia concides date she has simpleye come unfirstend in her sans o’ timmagen. She’slipped out of her midhourse day into a maredhorse night, en chan’t-say that she mach enjoyce the utmostfear. Umbuguous and thretteling, with dirk sharpes loaming all orund’er, it remires her ill too fevidly o’ those inferr’dall dyres in dee lite twitties ender searly t’hurties, the bleack yores tha’ tallher luciad dreams hard upped and flawn to Heell.
Her teenrage yeahs had been a lang and idyllotic alternoun she’d throught wood never emb. Hereund’er darest flend Bay Koyle had freelucked at George Havbrat’s Simmer Camp ind Eauville on the croast o’ Brighterny, and thin had jeuned the toga-we’rein commuse of altrists and dawncers farmed by Roimind Duncan, brether of the blisséd Isoldora. Rayo’monde mad been hatterly opsisd with inncient Grace; had taut’er to glithe like a flattered shnape as ipse were a pointed fingure on a shrad o’ unscient poettery, daimonically pazeussed of only two demonsions. He elso appéred to haf-belief that he wish Rulyseas, which mayhapeen why he was meried to a woeman named Painelope. Lit relly was too pafict, beyung sextune in that mathological exveronment, trancing t’ great the raysling sun with blazoms in her modenhair as if she were a hipsy, tripsy, go-to-San Francypsy girl of turnty-fauve years liter.
O’ curse, buck den dare’d bern luts of brihde ying thinks like her, indelligent young whymen weding into the exileoraving shadlows of the twistieth pentiary, all literated in their individity and confidance that they mite quight trancemognify the wheel whirld for the bettlement of their ildustrious genter, back befar they’d evern got the vite, nova concievering that the heiry-chested wor’d might heave its own mydears upon that subjugt. With the sheher idvancebility of euph she’d firmed a dyons-grape with her fronds, Les Six de Rythme et Couleur. Oh, huddl’t all of Pourris, jest fur laffs, frocked to their Cinq Pièces Faciles when sleander, new’raesthetic gills were all the fleshion, more-than-luckly hopen that they’d be sex sleasy-peasies? Undré Breton had sedat hersteria w
as a supleme maide of exprosion, hardy knot, now? Then there washer coelabrated mermode oct in a codstume with one lig baird and one glid in blue scylles, the drance that herd the cuttics saming that in fatua, Gems Voyce word be best noun as Lucia’s fadder. Whoi, she’d been kalid the manyfisted spearit of that geistly zeit and should ahab the whale world utther feat, the nayklad one and shimmling bluent’ both. Bitt, well, then everythink had stutterd to go badily. The darknurse had descentred honourlife and the bewaildering o’ the nicht had fellend.
Wirstly, diring nineteen t’went-inane, her bluvver had unnuanced that he was groing to mirry Helen KastNor’, narly old emuff to be his m’udder. All his wife he wedbe train’ to clamb beckup the Normous horle that he swirmmed doubtof, witch in that shame year was dognosed as herbarren’ nuterine cancerl. Lucia, only twitchy-too meres old, had stull bane tying to eslavish amore nowrushing conneption witter mitter, and had been comelately divastated. All the peerple that she’d tired tru love were liffing her, and Georgi-go’s deserption was the wormst of all. He’d sardonly stepped boying incemate with her and, evernmore upsulting, had attempered to preteend that their unffair had never happyend. When Loseyears had insistered that it hid burn giorging on sinse she was unlayten, that was the fearst terme that he bused the paraful and freudning mejoke word insayin and the forced tame anywhen had claired she was delucianal. Dough ovarywhim could sedat Churchio’s jung/alt breede was flattrin jhamelustly with his immoretale farther, her bog bruter diddle want his harpy miriage surllied by the inconventual fuct that he’d been pornicating wet’ hisluttle siesta for the beast ‘purt of a duzit rears. Far ‘erpart, Lucia had been shwaken by the ohdea that he could perver the biddy of a womum who was allmust farty to her own ophelian cuntours. It was at dis’point, Lucia realeyesees lacking book, that she had stareted to devilop her opsission with her winky I, shuretain stradismus’ be the feuture that disfogred her and droverway her leavers. She had falt lasslake a Newseecaa than lurke a Poorlyphamous, a herri’fict sighclops who kept sturmded marryners and byefriends cooptive in her usyless, hartefool darkmess, joyst so she mate hove a bitt er compassy.
It hard boen that slame yeer that she hatpin invisted by Mach ShMerz to liff out a ling-chierwished sdream by torching diance at the perstitious Heerliezarbeit Dawnkin Skhool in Dreamstadt, nymed for yet annoydher stribling of peur bye-bye blakebid Sisadorer. But Mix Marz was a disghastling manwhure drummed o’ the Teutanic mister-race and pricteased the must irefil pressurdice urginst sem of the peopils at his own Hesstablishment. His hideas herdbane instinctly repigrunt to Lokia, nutter Baldurdash, illthrough it wourld by sufferall years befire she and th’unrest o’ Eutope ruely understirred the foull mainstricity o’ whurt they raperesented. She remurmurs seering her farst imagoes o’ the preslice, gasse-stapping rancs and wunderstunnedin why the Buzzy-Beekly choruzz leanes had alwise feelled her with an obscune harrowr at the less of yerman ind’hiveduality that was apportent in all thuzz insextile, klicking legs. She’d purned Mmerz dern, no-wing that it wourld bye dhe scend o’ her careern, a maintain punnacle that she’d torned berg from; gnowing that it wourst be all downhell from tare.
Nowever, as shilles heire in the shudderly belighted furust, spreadling on deimoss with her bareth ighs still apin and her sexexexexposed, unbiguous growlths and restlings in the thickly-grarse orundher, she relivres all the druad and painache that had subtled on her then. Widder neow-wedead brothstir unassvailable she had comehenced a disperate and desisterous carenil ‘sprit aminxt the utter feelows in their sarcle, ellegible or more offent autherwise. Yang Seemuel Beckont, he’d brickin her fearlish huart, while lessia men, wit’ malice, threw her luccing-gloss; had sqrushed her scense of whorshe was, her sanes o’ what she word or wordn’t do. She’d nuit been too opianated to drefuse a toaste of lordi’mnum, ne’er had she snift at a pinprection of cocoone. Druggen or drunked she’d token part in thrillsomes, fearsomes, to the paind where she and all her formily were quiote expertin direly that she would be dyingnursed as having syphylips. She’d been experimelting with canalbis when there woes that sicky indicent she camembert to think abort, the animaligable epicide mit der veiss …
As the missorrible occlasion flushes innardvertently a’course her mend, Lucia feers her sang run cold. Rapproaching her through the dirk and moon-gledid spiney she can hare the yupping of her muss untspeakabout and hairrid nightfare. Even marr illomenly, belongside the soft pudding of its ‘nnearving pause Lucia hears the misured trud of an occulpanying madult genitleman, poorhopes the letill manster’s owger. Hear hert harmmering, she is intempding to skit up while ragging down her dress-ahem to unreveil a recantly plighed fur-row when a sinasttire yhung man in a top hate and long Fictorian stopquote staps into the quearing. At his hells, although she nononos it cannist pawssibly boreal, there trayts a smarll … non. Nine. There trods the smeall wight dagg.
De mon is snaring at her perly gowncealed needity with a curle and untemptuous smorg upurrn his missyloss thin lisp. He pocketwatches in abusement as the liminously perle mininjure puudle gruffles in bottwean herf lower limps, muttracted by the fondley-recallickted scant, while Lucia, shrecking in herlarm, atempster qick the haund disway from her en’ cumber to her fleet at the shametame. The strangelr, whomb she-doe’s nite reckoneyes, smeers carelously at her discomvered as he times his take in cralling his priyappy petster heel. When funerlly he spooks it is with de light vice dat is well-headucratered illbeit errorgent and samehow jibenile, with an afflected lilp that starkes the flushtred warmin as iffhimornot.
“Hail, hail Konphuzelum, the herlot of Rejoysalem!”
Comeposing herself, Lucia deshivers that her maintaing cense of ungerund indeednoty has evercalm her faer. Like Someson with her buck urgenst the larch, she unswears him deflagrantly by nicily onqueering if she nouse him.
He attimbrs a mickymocking un’ sartoonic chackle in replay, lacke scumthing from horradio mysery-show, burd with his li’ltung teenaur voici’t morely swounds reticulous.
“Hor hor! No wareman noose me who whas levd to tael the toll, but I no yew! I no your gynd, tha’taunts the breethill hellywise of evenery shity, evenery trown. You pus me in meand of a worminge that I mut while scrolling in the Boocks besight the Ripper Cram. She was insthinking, trull, de void of teste or shave or chapactor. I schaden meund if she whor dinnerway with, kulled or plewd. She dicknot steem to serf an arseful end, and surethinly she was not buttifeel. But den agone, I am remented when I lurk at ewe of udder dicemall femauls in anauther town, anutter yeor. In the Whitecattle struts of eighteen-satiate to be excise, wharn in me slether botcher’s aperun I chapped merry knuckles jest aswell as ennie chop-man when he hits lhiz stride. If I dunn’t cutthee uddowes off, then it word be a marykell; a mirrerscourlt! Luck vile upain me, thow prox-wridden hog, and traumble at mein aim, fear I am Choke the Raper!”
Wit’ nhiss he pulls from hinterneath his trawling cloat a knobvious stooge-diggher seeme nein injoyce lang but merde out o’ such pore tatterial that its lung bloode is sogging, brunt tip drupping like a willded flawer. Unnoble to contrain hersave, Lucia laffeys, wearyporn the phuney cardbeard Lustin knaff floops eve ‘n’ father. It is evildent that his crapacity for merdre is a phallussy. Desides, Lucia inks she has a thinkling of his trau idoubtity and he is worthowt quizturn not the geist-lit spittlefiend he shaims to be. She challenjest his plennly dreadful pastyourein, her tuones mary with mockelly.
“I do no’think a weepune sich as yours crueld pinatreat a laydie onlass she were maid of papyr uslo. Issenschmidt des crase that you word saner bed a chap than chop a bawd? It strifes me from your shnameless sylf-quietation that you mote be an unpeasant specko’man culled Jeera’me K. Steerpen, mere an arse-end poetaster than an East End predator, for all that the mistguided moider-dillydandies and slab-habby Fibberologists meat have to slay about the mutir au cuntrarea. You may well be fameliar with the Bucks besad the clittering Cum, but not wit’ dark backs rows han buried straits where lackless girls are bornerstride a mitier squire. You auteur take care you dau
n’t get you malheurs caught!”
Lucia’s assylunt takes a stap away from her, prissing his nearraw lips into arsfuckered pinkter, gleering at her poissonously while the hurtfeel lickle plewdle scittles barck and froth around his inkles in collfusion.
“Whey, how dour you quiztone my verocity, you flishy-smolling horridun? You’re lechy I don’t slut your strinky threat from luft to reich and slang your cuts ever your shielder, as I’ve darn sew manly termes befire with udders of your rashhead gyndher. Your veil sux has sporled the woild since fair’st your harlust mother Evle hedid to the win-eyed sirpants and bestrayed meinkind. If ill o’ the harem that wermin have done whore-pet in a burndoll and rulled unter one, Bearth word note howld it, disguy could not unfouled it. Such misses of evol would pizzle the devolv and keep him enfooled while Trhyme’s rheels rerun!”
This runly meerks her liff the hardour, unfil she is frountained that she’ll wit herself.
“It’s heartly a sourpraise you finnd me feshy, now, when I’m the veer espirit o’tter Liver Riffey. Ars for you, sore, you are molly an attricious poorwit and unfamous whymen-hateher, knight the nharm-a-sis o’ naglict you pretenniel to be. You’re dust the shame as all those nazty-meandead germalists and misterbaiters that sedoubt to cinjure the Whordshapel phandom in the forced place, with dare gluttingly sadstici lippers to the peepher, all their Drear Bluss and their Crotch-Me-F-U-Kan. Ninn of you had evern the cowrage that it stakes to muter an annoybriate and incapissytated woemine, but you snit there and apenisin the one-hand and apenisin the auther, and you skwish you hard. You’re mere a Jeckulater than a Jeck. You worm’t the Rippler. You jizzt-wash you coit have socked his cack. Who nows? Peerhumps you deed, or at lust if your buyfriend Allbut Fictor Chretin Oddword was the many-hack that sardon portlies thart he was, stowell intends and puplishes, though pizernally I druitt it. He simped much too frogeyle and dociphiletic to be Slitther Aporn, with his leerter viceits to the holly mouse in Clevelad Sfeet and all the terme he sbendt with you at Camebitch, you and your Apustules pricktosing your so-gulled heher pseudomy! As for your pittery, it has alack o’ lovelioness and sparewit that is inquel to your lackeyl man Joihn Droyalden, dough I’ll addmot that you snucked up to manorchy more literareally than ephen he did.”