What follows is an excerpt from a work in progress, called “Orlando.” It  is the title narrative of a collection of fiction and docufiction. Enjoy.*

* Please leave comments and responses, and – if so inclined – share with other fiction readers.



Orlando: Performer terrorist
Trieste: Performer terrorist / Disciple of Orlando
Catalan Carlos: Photographer / Disciple & Lover of Orlando
Simona: Actress / Disciple of Orlando
Duane Redbone: Pornographer / Admirer of Orlando

Setting: Global village
Time: Five years before the Millennium

The concept was to have a team of  Parisian surgeons recast her face to duplicate the representations (surprisingly few in number) of Joan of Arc. What the representations shared were Joan’s large soulful eyes, delicate features, pointed chin, rapt expression. The surgery would be done with local anesthetic and videotaped. The video would be featured in an exhibition the Pompidou Centre was mounting on “The Body in Pain.”

The surgery took place as scheduled. The surgeons were French, hence appreciated the extravagant claims of art. They kept the surgery theater open, which allowed Carlos, glossy long hair in a braid, to videotape the procedure.

The surgery was projected by satellite to 18 cities around the world, including Amsterdam, Paris, Rome, Berlin, Beijing, Tokyo, Rio, New York, San Francisco. (No techno-upload; this is before manic technology.)

As always Orlando healed rapidly. In 21 days nearly all of the swelling disappeared and she became the reincarnation of Saint Joan, though at six-feet-three she had to be nearly two feet taller than the Maid of Orleans.

Meantime, Trieste and his terrorists were on Wall Street wrapping the NY Stock Exchange in an enormous pelt of human shit. Most of the investors and speculators appeared not to notice the transformation.

Next, Trieste flew to London where Orlando, disguised as a black-skinned male, attended a football “friendly” between Nigeria and Manchester United. She sat among the rabid British fans while rooting avidly for Nigeria. After the match ended in a 1-nil upset win for Nigeria, British hooligans beat the disguised Orlando severely, using lengths of pipe and brass knuckles while singing God Save the Queen.

Catalan Carlos, wearing a maroon watch cap to hide his Latin hair and with his face and hands bleached, captured the bloody beating on vid.

Orlando had her Joan of Arc nose broken in four places, eye socket shattered, retina detached, jaw dislocated, skull fractured. No teeth were knocked out, which was a surprise.

She was treated by a team of surgeons led by a tall Scot who resembled Sean Connery. He refused to let Carlos video the surgery. Moreover he did an inept job of reconfiguring Orlando’s face, which is why she flew to Los Angeles ten days later where cosmetic surgeons re-operated. Here too Carlos was forbidden to videotape, though he got good snaps of her post-operative swellings.

In six weeks Orlando resembled her stunning marmoreal self and was plotting the next outrage. Carlos’s vid of the beating and miscellaneous snaps were forwarded to the Pompidou Centre for their Body in Pain exhibition.

After a performance in which a vengeful band of Quiche children of “the disappeared” locked forty-nine living Guatemalan generals in the Spanish Embassy in Guatemala City and firebombed the building, incinerating every last general, Trieste and his troupe, featuring Orlando, toured the country.

In the ancient Mayan city of Tikal, Orlando contemplated jumping from the top of the central Mayan temple but desisted.


Too high. The ground was too rocky. She wouldn’t have survived. Not that survival was paramount.

She wouldn’t mind not surviving one of her “performances”?

Survival is merely one factor. She’d died so many times in small ways. Shattered bones, ruptured organs, features reconfigured.

What did she do?

Staying with the Maya motif, she cut into her chest with an ancient slate and exposed her heart. Or an area of her chest near her heart.

In Tikal?

In the holy, heathen city of Tikal. At the foot of the Temple of the Great Jaguar.

Though Orlando had studied anatomical templates, she severed an artery instead of a vein. Maybe it was the other way around. The result was she nearly died. A physician-member of Trieste’s troupe stanched the bleeding. She was flown back to Guatemala City on a tiny single-engine prop where they sewed her back together. Carlos videotaped the procedure.

After exposing her heart in the ancient Maya capital of Tikal and getting sutured in Guatemala City, Orlando traveled into the heart of Guatemala.

She rode a bus into the northwest highlands. Squeezed among the poor Indians, campesinos, livestock, animal smells, woodsmoke, Orlando looked different, pliant, almost Indian. She bought a bunch of bananas in the public market. She rode the crowded, bumpy bus, up and around the hairpin turns, occasionally eating a banana.

Two hours out of Guatemala City the bus was stopped at a military checkpoint. Soldiers with bayoneted rifles ordered the passengers out, lined them against a walled husk of a church, then fumigated the inside of the bus with two large hoses. The passengers were ordered back into the bus which stank of disinfectant. En route again some of the passengers muttered to each other. Three hours later they were in Sololá.

At the Sololá market Orlando bought a Bat Clan jacket woven by the Cakchikel Indians out of sheep wool.

She washed her hair in the volcanic lake.

She ate tortillas, chiles, beans and roasted corn in a local restaurant then rented a room above the restaurant. She sat on a cushion on the floor of the small room and listened to the night sounds. Laments of drunken men and drunken boys. Crickets sawing. The faint whistlings of a poorwill.

She smoked a cigarette.

She shared her narrow bed with fleas.

The next morning she rode a bus farther into the mountains.

That afternoon she drank beer in the dusty cantina, fourteen Indian or Ladino men and Orlando.

Sentimental music from an old jukebox.

The men stared at her. A Ladino asked her to dance. In the confined dusty space she danced with the man whose head came to her shoulders. Another man asked her to dance and she danced with him. When a third man asked her to dance she said, No, horita me voy.

Two men, drunk, followed her outside, knocked her down, dragged her behind the cantina and brutally raped her.

You expected something like that and so I gave it to you. It didn’t happen.

She left the cantina, walked to the center and rented a room. She washed.

That evening she went to the zócalo and listened to music: brass, a harp, two wooden flutes.

Back in her small room she sat on the floor and smoked a cigarette.

Orlando bussed north from Guatemala through Belize into Quintana Roo, the eastern portion of the Yucatan Peninsula. She got off at Akumal, just north of the Maya ruins of Tulum. She avoided the tourist hotels fanning south from Cancun. She rented a room in a tiny pension in the low lying jungle.

Gazing through the small cracked window of her room at dusk she saw nineteen toucans in single file, one after the other, fly leisurely from the west to the east side of the jungle.

Someone said there were alligators in the mangroves.

Orlando lay nude in a mangrove swamp in the jungle denseness.

The next day she bussed to Cancun. Checked into Hotel Jesús Intercontinental, which was also a theme park. She bathed, made herself beautiful, and that evening at seven-thirty she mounted the six-story Mary Mother of God Barn, filled with theme rides and “recreations,”  facing the ocean, in full view of the St. Paul Plaza dining area. She launched herself into the moist salt air. She lay sprawled, exposed and bloody on the astroturf below.

“Orlando did Mejico and now she’s planning on Cuba,” Trieste said to Simona on the phone.

“Why Cuba?”

Trieste laughed. “She plans to get an audience with Fidel. When that happens she’ll slip on a salt and pepper Fidel-like beard and put a match to it.”

“Fidel’s people will let her do all that?”

“Orlando moves fast. Besides, when Fidel sees her he’ll want to visit with her alone. He’s pushing eighty but he’s still sexy.”

“She sets her face on fire,” Simona said. “What then?”

“Her face burns.” Trieste shrugged. “Her hair. She recovers in a Havana clinic. They do advanced burn work in Cuba. The only thing she won’t have is a video record, or maybe even snaps. Nothing for the new millennium.”

Orlando was resting in the burn clinic of Habana Hospital when Fidel visited her. Because of all the disinformation people don’t know this about Fidel, but he’s a funny man. He appreciates a good joke even at his expense. Plus he has a refined esthetic sense — despite long lip service to socialist realism.

Fidel and Orlando hit it off?

Fidel saw to it that she got class-A treatment. After spending five days in the hospital he had her removed to his own dacha. Fidel was amazed at how rapidly she healed. They became lovers.

What did he do? Take a vacation from running the country?

Not at all. Fidel has enormous zest. He’s always had a raunchy private life.

How long did the affair go on?

A month, six months. Orlando doesn’t look at calendars. She plots her outrages by the phases of the moon. When industrial pollution obscures the sky, she reads coffee grounds.

After Cuba and amorous nights with Fidel, Orlando was flown in Habana 1, Fidel’s private jet, to Barcelona where she regrouped with Catalan Carlos. From Barcelona they drove in Carlos’ indestructible Citroën 2CV through France and Belgium into the Netherlands.

In Amsterdam they got a room on Achterburgwal in the Red Light district. After settling in, they had dinner at a creperie close by. After dinner they dropped in on the mafia office which controlled access to the windowed prostitutes’ compartments in the area around Oudekerk.

The next evening Orlando, sleekly radiant in magenta chemise, matching G-string and ivory velvet slippers, was posed in the neon light of her whore’s window near Oudekerk. It was Friday, teeming with tourists.

When a successful transaction was arranged, the red drape was pulled closed. Orlando opened and closed her drape half a dozen times at intervals which averaged thirteen minutes, having entertained one Sikh, two Indonesian business-men en menage, a nineteen-year-old American marine, good for twenty-three seconds, an Armenian drug merchant, and a Lutheran minister from Antwerp. After the Lutheran she locked her door, took her place in the illuminated window and commenced to strip.

The gawkers, hugger-mugger in front of the window, watched her recline naked on the plush red divan and masturbate herself with a pearl-colored dildo. Suddenly a burly man with an Afrikaans look carrying a metal crutch burst into her compartment from an inside door and attacked her, whacking her with the crutch across her face and breasts and buttocks, then when she was in a bloody heap on the floor, pulling down his pants and mounting her from behind.

He’d just thrust into her and arched his back, moaning coarsely with his head held high, when Orlando pulled away and in the same motion produced a straight razor and hacked off his genitals.

You’re making this up. Where’d she get the straight razor?

From under the divan cushion. Every working girl keeps a weapon close by.

She hacked off his penis and . . .

The whole monkey business.

What were the gawkers doing while this was going on?

Gawking. They assumed it was part of the performance.

Was it?

Sleeping alongside Carlos in the large walnut bed, designed by the school of Gaudi, in their flat in the medieval quarter of Barcelona, Orlando dreamt of a dwarf with a hump under his left shoulder and a comically large erection. With his black head thrown back he blew rhythmically on a wooden flute. Naked, she danced to the music. Cobra-like she wound around the dwarf and as she closed herself onto his penis the flute he blew became her cobra mouth. She could feel every one of her scales which were her wounds. The flute player blew into her mouth, the music was the sound of whales surfacing.

Orlando woke, drank some water, went back to sleep. Not yet dawn.

Outside the Bundesbank in Frankfurt five theatrical Nazi skinheads gassed Chancellor Helmut Kohl, all 333 pounds of him, in a replica crematorium. After this “performance” the German authorities detained Trieste the terrorist.

Four days later sixty-six other terrorists led by Orlando converged outside the Frankfurt prison which was holding Trieste in isolation. The temperature was two degrees centigrade with slushy rain. The terrorists commenced to undress and when they were entirely naked held hands and formed a wide circle around the prison. Each of the sixty-six had the initials DM, for deutsche mark, tattooed, large and black, on their chests. On their backs each wore a large, black swastika.

Beneath the windowless second-story confinement area where Trieste was held, the Terrorists formed a naked-bodies pyramid two stories high. From the apex of this pyramid the naked Orlando suspended herself from her left ankle, like the Hanged Man of the Tarot.

First, reading from a script in her upside-down hand, Orlando recited Heine in German. Then, loudly, in chorus, the sixty-six terrorists with their tattooed deutsche marks and swastikas, repeated:

Night lay upon my eyelids,
Upon my mouth lay lead,
With rigid brain and breast-bone,
I lay among the dead . . .

Since the international newspapers and TV channels had been forewarned, the performance was taped, photographed, video’d, and beamed by satellite around the globe. The German authorities gave way, announced they would release Trieste at midnight with the condition that he leave Germany straightaway. Trieste rejected that condition. He was released in any case, filtered through a tight cordon of police to shield him from actual Nazis.

While Catalan Carlos followed Trieste to Asia and mischief at the expense of the Japanese and brave-new-world Singaporeans, Orlando flew to Jamaica, West Indies. Deplaning in Montego Bay directly behind Orlando, perspiring in a size 56-long seersucker suit and size 16 triple-E cocoa wingtips, was the pornographer, Duane Redbone. Turned out they were staying in the same hotel and, at Bone’s suggestion, shared a taxi. In the taxi he introduced himself.

At dinner time Bone rang Orlando’s room. She didn’t answer the phone. Bone came by in person and knocked at her door.

“Hello there,” from Bone. “How about dinner?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Well how about a drink?”

“Perhaps later.”

“How’s ten-thirty? We can meet at the patio pub. It’s a nice spot.”


“See you then,” Bone said.

Did she show up for the drink?


What’s she doing in Jamaica now? It would have made better sense to go there from Cuba.

She’s not a sensible traveler.

The next morning at about 8:30, Orlando rented a beige Toyota Corolla from the hotel rent-a-car and pulled out of the driveway. A taxi was blocking the exit with rawboned Redbone about to get in. He saw her.

“Hey, where you going?”


“Coincidence,” Bone said. “I was going there myself. Daytrip. Can I ride with you?”

She motioned for him to get in.

“As she pulled onto the road Bone said, “I would’ve rented a car but driving on the left side of the road’s a hassle. What’s your name?”


“Nice name. How long you going to be in Negril, Delphine?”

“I don’t know.”

“So I guess you didn’t make it for the drink last night?”

“I was tired.”

It takes about two and a half hours to get to Negril and Redbone did most of the talking.

“Have you ever heard of “Freak da Virus,” Delphine? It’s a film company. Actually video. I’m a cameraman and director. We do porn flicks. Some of the best around. Do you like porn? Pornography?”

“Love it,” she said.

This simple affirmative surprised and aroused him.

“What do you do?”


“You mean . . . Like where?”

“Maybe you will get a chance to see,” she said.

Just outside Negril, with the placid blue Carib to the west and dense tropical bush to the east, Delphine was accelerating to pass a lorry on the single lane road when she suddenly blacked out, losing control of the wheel. Redbone with quick reflexes snatched the wheel with one large hand and guided it into the correct lane seconds before an oncoming lorry. He steered onto the narrow shoulder and stopped the car. Delphine had regained consciousness.

She was all right, she said, and took the wheel again. She drove to the new, expansive Hotel Tafari. It was a few minutes past noon. Redbone arranged to meet her at two for a drink on the penthouse patio.

He was sitting at a table overlooking the sea nursing a Red Stripe when he saw Delphine open the door. At first he wasn’t sure it was she. Her black hair was arranged in intricate dreadlocks. She wore a floor-length periwinkle batik skirt and beige halter top. She was smiling.

Redbone finished his beer and ordered Jah cocktails for himself and Delphine. A Jah cocktail is three parts white rum to one part fresh coconut water. With a sprinkle of freshly grated nutmeg.

“So where do you do these performances of yours, Delphine?

“You wish to see one?”

“Sure. You bet.”

“I will go for a bathe [that’s how she said it]. You stay here, watch from the patio.”

“Aren’t you going to drink your drink?”

She was gone. Seconds later Bone saw her on the white sand stripping off her clothes. She did this deliberately. There were maybe a dozen other people on the beach in her vicinity, sunning white tourists. Lifeguard tower but no lifeguard. Bone watched her, lithely naked, move toward the water and wade out beyond the coral reef. He watched her swim, not fast but gracefully, freestyle then breastroke, farther out. Too far . . . Redbone was racing down to the beach tearing off his clothes on the run. By the time he stripped down to his fuchsia briefs, she had disappeared. He plunged into the water and propelled himself in her general direction, swimming — it occurred to him — faster than he’d ever swum, because he was not an expert swimmer. When he stopped, breathing hard, treading water, there was no sign of her. On the shore, distantly, the sunning tourists continued sunning. The water was mild, clear, sun-dappled; he dove but didn’t see her. He dove again, swimming and twisting under water, gasping for air as he surfaced. Again he glanced toward the shore and this time he shouted: Help, Help, flailing his arms. People heard, they moved slowly toward the shore craning their necks.

Redbone sucked in breath and dove again, swimming farther out underwater. A school of gold and purple fish swiftly swerved out of his way. He was about to resurface when he felt a strong tug at his left ankle. Thinking shark, he panicked, pulled away toward shore. As soon as he slowed he was tugged at again, hard around the waist, actually pulled under water. Delphine, her long hair on his chest pulling him down. He fought her, he was 247 pounds, he surfaced dragging her with him, keeping her head above the water. And now a lifeboat was motoring toward them . . .

One Jamaican lifeguard gave her mouth-to-mouth on the boat while the other maneuvered the boat to shore. Mouth-to-mouth was continued on the surf, the Jamaicans taking turns. She was breathing. They covered her and transported her in a stretcher to the ambulance with its red roof light rotating slowly parked on the sand near the hotel.

Bone rode with her to the small hospital a few kilometers away. She lay on her back, the white cotton blanket up to her chin. Her eyes were open, she looked like a Madonna, she gazed at Redbone as she had in the car on the shoulder after she’d blacked out while trying to pass the lorry.

Did Redbone have any idea he was part of a performance? In the rented Corolla? In the sea?

What do you think?

I think he might have sensed his contribution. In some unspoken way. But does that matter to Orlando? Does she care whether people who “perform” with her know they’re performing?

Redbone was told she’d be in the hospital overnight. And he was booked to fly out of Montego Bay to LA the following morning. One of those non-cancellation tickets. You forfeit, it’s your ass, you pay anyway. When he tried to extend his stay with the travel agent at Hotel Tafari, he was advised to deal with the airlines in Montego Bay. So he got a note from the physician at  Queens Hospital, drove Delphine’s rented Corolla back to Montego Bay, persuaded the Airlines to re-write his ticket, packed his belongings, checked out of his hotel, and returned to Negril that same night, late.

Orlando was gone.

Yes. The physician said she was a good deal better and insisted on checking out. She left Bone a note and a few hundred dollars to pay the rental fee on the Corolla.

What did the note say?

“Je regrette”

Orlando was in Naples. She’d sent 40 invitations to the movers and shakers of that extroverted city to attend a formal-dress premiere “installation” in the Silvio Gallery. Invited guests included pols, industrialists, mafiosi, art bigs.

The installation was called Vino da Pasto (tablewine). It consisted of Orlando wearing a couture-designed business suit, crucified on a teflon cross, within reach of the guests who stood beneath her around a large rectangular oak table. The table included these implements: gardening shears, four rubber dildos, three anal plugs, five packets of razor blades, two butane lighters, seven wax candles, three serrated kitchen knives, one rattan cane, a length of steel chain, two pairs of faux-ivory Ben Wa balls (one pair containing a drop of mercury and the other a tiny vibrating metal tongue), a Beretta nine millimeter semi-automatic with full magazine, and a Sony high resolution monitor with remote. Also a Mason jar containing Orlando relics from previous performances: skin, tears, blood, mucus, urine, discharge, assorted teeth, bits of bone, toenail parings, matted clumps of hair.

When everyone was settled Orlando pronounced six words: “Give me pain. Give me pleasure.”

In Italian?


Where was Catalan Carlos?

Carlos was operating the concealed vidcam.

So what happened?

Not much at first. A few cuts and burns, her pantyhose cut away, dildo probings. Tentative sniffing of the relic jar. Actually three or four of the guests tried to leave but the doors were bolted from the outside. After an hour or so they got into the spirit. They ripped and cut off her clothes. Administered razor cuts to the tender insides of the thighs, candle burns, whippings about the breasts and thighs, liberal use of the anal plugs, they sniffed and licked the relics.

The Ben Wa balls?

Forcibly inserted, front and back.

Pressing the buttons of the Sony remote shocked the nerve endings in her breasts and genitals.

A row broke out when one of the guests forced the loaded Beretta into her mouth.

Someone tried to keep him from killing her?

No. Someone argued for killing her by degree.

The one who wanted to shoot her in the throat ended up shooting the one who wanted to kill her by degree.

Effectively terminating the installation?

Hardly. The distinguished guests ripped off their clothes and took it to the next level. The killing grooved them. They jacked into overdrive. They gave Orlando what she asked for.

By the time Orlando healed she was in Budapest. So was Simona, informed by Trieste that Orlando was planning an “installation” in the voguish Soros Gallery in Pest on the east bank of the Danube. Orlando and Carlos were staying in a flat in the Buda hills and Simona taxied there directly from the airport.

Carlos opened the door. Orlando was in the sitting room on the floor playing with a frisky Abyssinian cat. She looked up with a mild smile.

In French, Simona said: “I admire your art. I’d like to work with you. I’m prepared to do anything you ask of me.”

That was Tuesday. The premiere was scheduled for Friday. Again, forty movers and shakers — pols, the so-called Russian mafia, industrialists, art bigs — received invitations. Called Judas O, the installation consisted of Orlando and Simona, naked, each mounted like a caryatid on one side of the narrow opening that led to the exhibition space. Together they constituted an arc, connected to each other by sticky transparent tape:  Simona’s left earlobe to Orlando’s right nipple; Orlando’s clitoris to Simona’s nose bridge; Simona’s vulva to Orlando’s left big toe; Simona’s tongue to Orlando’s unshaven right armpit; Orlando’s right eyelid to Simona’s right nipple.

I’m trying to envision the configuration.

To enter the exhibition proper the invited guests had to squeeze past the mounted, fastened-to-each-other women, get entangled in the sticky tape, hence cause multiple abrasions and bleedings in the womens’  bodies where the tape aggravated the skin — and get their own fine clothes soiled and bloodied in the process. Carlos videoptaped the fortuitious assemblage of performers and invited guests.

What was in the exhibition proper?

Nothing. The exhibition space, a high-ceilinged, well-lit, L-shaped room, painted chartreuse, was empty.

Trieste and his terrorists mounted a performance in Singapore in which virtually the entire population of toilets backed up and overflowed into the antiseptic WCs, down the building walls, onto the sanitized streets, flooding the biosphere-city in hard sewage.

For his pains, Trieste and Catalan Carlos were arrested, with the prospects of caning and a substantial prison sentence.

Although officially refused admittance into the country, Orlando slipped into Singapore with a gang of four, made it to the detention center where Trieste and Carlos were being held. Three of the four, all in black latex executioner suits, were either fems or slender males; the fourth was burly. They surrounded Orlando while she stripped and slipped into her Trieste mask while wearing 6-inch red stiletto heels.

One of the latexfems draped Orlando over a trestle which projected her buttocks. The burly one caned her four hard times. She groaned loudly from deep in her throat. At that point the authorities moved in with their own rattan canes breaking up the party, forcing a robe on Orlando, arresting the participants.

Nonetheless, Orlando’ performance had been videotaped by technicians from CNN, BBC and Agence France-Presse. Beamed by satellite to fourteen different locations, including the Centre Pompidou in Paris and the McLuhan Center in Toronto.

That same afternoon everyone, including Trieste and his lieutenants, were released and ordered out of the country.

Pious Singapore gave in?


But only after Orlando took four lashes on her arse.


I can understand the Trieste mask but why the red stiletto heels?

Did you like them?

I did. In any case, she didn’t pass out?

On the contrary.

Oudekerk, the oldest church in Amsterdam, dating from the early 14th century, is in the very groin of the Red Light district in a small cobbled square overlooking an ancient canal. Brown rats are in the canal and hundreds of used condoms. Though the area is less violent than you’d expect, body parts and the odd corpse sough in the scum. A drunken sailor on leave toppling into the inky water. A prostitute from Morocco or Senegal or Borneo or Manila, 18-years-old and alone utterly, throwing herself into the bloody water. Mallards and mute swans, resourceful feeders, in deliberate transit from linking canals.

Orlando’s concept was to gargoyle herself to the easternmost turret of the Oudekerk, open her veins, bleed into the canal.

The performance was scheduled for Saturday, midnight, when the area would be thick with whores, johns, windowshoppers, bussed-in tourists. Announcements were posted:

Will Perform “Kuan Yin”
Oudekerk, East Facade
Saturday, May 1, Midnight

Midnight, Orlando is lashed by the waist to the easternmost turret of Oudekerk overlooking the canal. Her waist-length hair is gathered into an elaborate top knot.  She is incandescent, naked, tattooed.

What kind of tattoo?

An image of Kuan Yin in green on her torso. Kuan Yin is the Buddhist goddess of mercy and she is holding a vase of “sweet dew.” Orlando has a scalpel in her hair.


She slits both wrists and ankles and bleeds slowly into the inky water.

And Catalan Carlos is vid–

Carlos is not videotaping this one. He’s down below on the ancient cobblestone sucking it up. Along with Simona, Trieste the terrorist, Redbone . . . It’s an overflow “audience,” the largest since five years before when Mother Teresa performed an outdoor Xmas mass for the Red Light-district prostitutes. Orlando’s admirers have not yet spotted each other. French Channel 4 is beaming the performance by satellite to sites all over Europe, Asia, San Francisco.

I have a feeling Orlando is not going to make it this time.

Ah. She bleeds to death. But she has left this verse behind to share with her admirers.

You are crossing the ocean
Hunting for white jade
If you wish finally to reach the other shore
Be mindful of Kuan Yin


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