SAL“ THE 120 DAYS OF SODOM
1944-1945 NORTHERN ITALY DURING THE NAZI-FASCIST OCCUPATION ANTECHAMBER OF HELL
All's good if it's excessive.
Come on, boys.
Where are you going?
Claudio, your scarf, my son.
Bye, Ezio. Bye, Luigi.
Sorry, we were ordered to do this.
Dear friends, marrying our respective daughters, we join our destinies forever.
You, Mr. President, take as wife, Tatiana, His Excellency's daughter.
I marry Susy, your daughter, sir.
My two girls will wed His Excellency, and my brother, my lord.
Our plan's preparation has been successful.
Now all's ready. We can go.
Within a budding grove, the girls think but of love.
Hear the radio, drinking tea and to hell with being free.
They've no idea the bourgeoisie has never hesitated to kill its children.
Boys, line up quickly.
Line up, quickly.
What's his name? Claudio. Cicchetti, Claudio.
What's your name? Franco.
I knew you'd consider him.
We used a girl to catch him. He thought he had a date, but instead ended up in the bottom of a sack.
What's your name?
Shouldn't we examine them closer? Undress.
Come on, make way.
Here, this is Gobbi, Lamberto.
This is Porro, Carlo.
This is Chessari, Umberto. Look at him, gentlemen.
Not to brag, but it took me 13 nights to catch him.
By God, I made it.
Scardochhia, Angelo. Cicala, Walter. Bertelli, Romeo.
This one's Tonna Ferruccio, he's from Castelfranco.
A family of subversives. Fine. Fine.
And that one's Orlando Tonino.
You're telling me his name?
Two years. Two years I've waited for him.
Sir, I beg you. Help me, please.
His father was a judge, like me.
Southerner, aren't you? Yes, sir.
I don't know if I'll be the one to deflower you.
We'll decide who gets that agreeable task.
Eva, come along.
Hurry and try to behave properly.
Come, nobody wants to harm you.
Show the men what you hide under there. Let's see.
Look. See how wonderful.
A delicious little ass. Never seen one firmer.
A pair of little breasts, to revive a dying man.
All right, send in another.
Signora Castelli, your turn.
The men are waiting for you.
My God. Madam!
Please, let me go.
Her name's Albertina. A professor's daughter from Bologna.
To take her from boarding school, we "convinced" two nuns.
I bet you prefer us to nuns, eh?
I don't know yet.
Fine. Strip her.
Nobody had noticed. Such a pretty child.
Take her away.
If you shame me, God help you. I know you, I do.
She cries for her fool mother who jumped into the river to defend her and drowned right before this angel's eyes.
They were nine boys, now they're eight.
Speaking of eight, know the difference between a train, these boys and the family? Naturally not. Please, do tell us.
A train carries "freight" and these boys carry "bait. "
And the family? They're fine, thanks.
Everything is ready according to your wishes.
Weak, chained creatures, destined for our pleasure.
I hope you don't expect to find here the ridiculous freedom granted by the outside world.
You are beyond the reach of any legality.
No one on earth knows you are here.
As far as the world is concerned, you are already dead.
Here are the laws that will govern your lives.
Punctually at 6:00, the whole group must assemble in the so-called Orgy Room where storytellers, in turn, will sit and tell a series of stories on a given subject.
Our friends can interrupt anytime and as often as they like.
The aim of the stories is to stir the imagination.
Any lewdness will be allowed.
After dinner, the men will celebrate what are usually called orgies.
The salon and other rooms will be adequately heated.
All participants, dressed according to ritual, will lie on the floor, and following the example of animals, will change position, intermingling, entwining and copulating incestuously, committing adultery and sodomy.
So we will proceed each day.
Any man found... No servants, drive them away.
Any man found having sex with a woman will be punished by the loss of a limb.
The slightest religious act committed by anyone will be punishable by death.
Now, all inside. Make them go in.
CIRCLE OF OBSESSIONS
I was practically born in a school where mother was a servant.
One day my sister asked if I knew Professor Gentile. I said no.
"Well, look outside.
He's looking for you, to show you what he's already shown me.
Don't run off, dear.
Let him do as he wants. He'll pay well."
Without further thought, I flew straight to Prof. Gentile.
I couldn't believe it.
He stops me and says: "Where are you going?"
"To put away the chairs. "
"Your sister will do it.
Come, I'll show you a thing you've never seen. "
I follow him inside. He shuts the door.
"Well, my dear. "
He takes a monstrous penis from his pants.
"Tell me," he says, masturbating.
"Have you ever seen the like?
I've showed it to your sister, to all the girls your age.
Give it a hand.
Help it shoot the semen from which we're all created.
I'll make it spurt on your face.
This is my passion, child. I've no others.
You're about to see it. "
At that moment, I was covered by white stuff that soaked me head to toe.
One moment, Signora Vaccari.
You mustn't omit any details.
It's solely how we draw from your stories the types of stimulation that serve us.
It's what we expect from them.
My dear sir, I know I was urged to omit no detail, to go into the least particulars, whenever they can clarify the human personality, or a given kind of passion.
I don't believe I've overlooked anything.
Well, for example, I know nothing of the size of your professor's penis.
I know nothing of his type of ejaculation.
I don't know if you touched his genitals or if he obliged you to hold it.
My dear Sra. Vaccari, a bit more clarity.
I beg your pardon. I promise to be generous with details.
May I continue? One moment.
Time to give the rod of my old age some fun.
One day, not long after reaching the age of seven, accompanying a girlfriend to the professor, we found him with a colleague.
The two men drew us inside and one, looking at me, said to the other, "Didn't I say she was a beauty?"
"Yes, yes, you're quite right.
She's pretty, a real gem. "
Goffredo said this affectionately, taking me on his lap and kissing me: "How old are you, little one?"
"Seven, Professor. "
"My, 50 years younger than I," he said, kissing me again.
Meanwhile, the other prepared a strange syrup.
They made me drink it, saying it was good for doing peepee and they added:
"To be honest, dear child, we just want you to urinate.
And the event must happen before me, alone in my bedroom. "
On your knees!
Inflict an exemplary punishment on this scoundrel.
We are entirely at your disposal. Not only is he incapable, but he had the impudence to refuse himself.
Pick one of ours, if none satisfies you.
No, thank you.
The efforts to satisfy me now would be immense, far beyond the devilish ones required a moment ago.
You know to what we're driven by a frustrated desire.
I only ask of you that an exemplary punishment be given that bastard.
I feel ready to satisfy you.
You don't have to teach me anything.
No. Leave me alone.
You should know there are a thousand occasions when one does not desire a woman's anus.
Let Signora Vaccari go on.
The matter was organized so that the professor swallowed my piss to the last drop at the moment when his penis, bewildered in victory, wept tears of blood on me.
At this point, the passion consumed, the professor seemed to realize he no longer felt for his idol the same religious fervor that had dominated him thus far.
Indeed, quite brusquely, he slipped 10 lire in my apron and threw me out.
God, the boy's hopeless at masturbating. Steps must be taken.
You'd think he'd never seen a male member. It's outrageous!
Well, men, without a doubt, Sra. Vaccari will turn them into first-class whores.
Nothing's more contagious than evil.
I feel you're mistaken. Some can only do evil when their passion drives them to evil.
Some are always unhappy and their entire lives regret, each morning, their actions of the previous night.
- The day had finally come. When I was a pig.
I tried my teeth on tree bark.
I studied my snout with delight.
Umberto, Franco, Look.
What do you say?
Rinaldo, please look. Look carefully.
Claudio, Bruno, you too look at the marvel.
Efizio, do me.
On the Perati bridge A black flag The mourning Julia regiment That fights the war The mourning Julia regiment That fights the war On the Perati bridge A black flag The best young men Lie under the earth
Giuliana, Eva, Graziella, Doris, Renata and all the others.
There, lie down.
The gentlemen are dissatisfied with you.
The first thing to learn, is how to hold it.
You, come here.
Hold it tighter.
With the other hand, touch it below.
Whore, see how it's done!
So the girls are eight instead of nine.
Speaking of eight, I know a joke.
It's about a man who had a friend named Six-times-eight.
One night, going home together, they got lost.
So our man sought his friend groping, looking everywhere.
Finally, he thinks he sees something move.
Overjoyed, thinking he's found his friend, he cries, "Six-times-eight. "
And a voice answers: "48."
Now, Sra. Vaccari, another story.
Something stimulating to instill vigor for further battle.
So, gentlemen, I was nine, when Sister took me to Milan to Sra. Calzecchi, who examined me and asked if I wanted to work.
"Yes, Signora," I replied. "Any job that's well-paid. "
Half an hour later, I began.
A corpulent man appeared who studied me from head to toe.
His name was Vaccari.
Once in the room, I showed him my pussy which I considered precious.
Horrified, he covered his eyes.
"Out of the question.
Nothing to do with your vagina.
Hide it, please. "
He covered me, making me lie prone... and said, "These poor whores have only vaginas to display.
Now, to feel pleasure, I must dispel the ghastly image. "
He wrapped me in a sheet from head to toe, like a mummy, leaving only my behind exposed.
First he handled it gently, then opened it, closed it, sucked it greedily, then again.
Then he took a stool and carefully put his member between my buttocks.
His movements became fast.
"There's the adorable behind, the sweet little anus.
Now I'm going to wet it. "
He said that three or four times.
I never saw him again.
This Vaccari, your first client, has an idea of women most of us don't share.
Often, truly, the homage paid this temple is more ardent than the incense burnt at the other.
This is a debate I propose to this company.
How could we determine the true sex of a boy or girl, their best part, in other words?
I believe it's masturbation of the respective body areas.
Let's take the youngsters about whom we have doubts then go at once to the last room to verify.
Observing, as we do, with equal passion and apathy.
Guido and Vaccari masturbating the two bodies belonging to us inspires a series of interesting reflections.
Be so kind as to tell them to us, dear Duke.
We Fascists are the only true anarchists, naturally, once we're masters of the state.
In fact, the one true anarchy is that of power.
The obscene gesticulation is like deaf-mutes' language, with a code none of us, despite unrestrained caprice, can transgress.
There is nothing to be done. Our choice is categorical.
We've to subject our pleasure to a sole gesture.
Hurrah, he's come! He's a man.
Good, very good.
Our Sergio's behaved well.
And here's a woman. The first couple's formed.
Come on, Sergio, you've proven you're a man.
Here's your prize.
As the gentlemen are pleased to grant you this privilege, we will solemnly celebrate your marriage.
What a fine thing.
What a whore.
Make way, fools.
We'll resume the interrupted ceremony.
Do you take as wife, Renata, present here?
Yes, I do.
Will you have as husband, Sergio, present here?
Yes, I do.
In that case, I declare you man and wife.
Everybody, get out! Disappear!
Leave your guru's parampara alone.
You, too, out.
Come now, go on.
Are you newlyweds, or not?
You can give free rein to your feelings.
Get busy, idiot.
That flower is reserved for us.
The principle of all greatness on earth has long been totally bathed in blood.
And still, my friends, if my memory doesn't betray me, yes, it's so. "Without bloodshed, there's no pardon.
Without bloodshed. " Baudelaire.
Pardon, I must tell you that text is not Baudelaire, but Nietzsche, and is taken from Zur Genealogie der Moral.
It's not Baudelaire or Nietzsche.
Or even St. Paul, Epistle to the Romans. It's Dada!
Oh, sing the captivating thing That pleased me so, da-da Charming creature, do you want my dirty underwear?
My old underpants? It's incomparably refined.
You see how sensitive I am to the value of things.
Listen, my angel.
I've the greatest desire to grant your wish since you know I respect tastes, whims.
However baroque, I find them respectable...
both because we're not their masters, and because the most singular and bizarre when you study them always stem from "L'esprit de delicatesse. "
Yes, old buggers. "Spirit of delicacy!"
One day, the madam of the bordello sent me to the home of another libertine.
He received me, in a ground-floor room covered with splendid Chinese carpet.
Having made me undress, he made me get on all fours like an animal...
and stroking my head two or three times, said...
"I want to see if you are as quick as my dogs. "
He threw two roast chestnuts on the floor, saying, as if I were a bitch:
I thought the best thing was to go along with the game.
I ran on all fours, but two dogs ran past me carrying the chestnuts to their master.
You've lovely eyes to look with? Look then.
"Sewer! Muck! Whore!"
"Filthy bitch," he cried, again coming toward me and ejaculating on my back.
So the episode ended. The man vanished.
I stood up and found 25,000 lire in my cloak.
You, too. Eat.
Eat, eat, eat!
Excellency, are you convinced?
It's seeing those who don't enjoy what I do, and who suffer the worst, that provides the fascination of telling myself I'm happier than that scum they call "the people. "
Wherever men are equal and there isn't that difference, happiness cannot exist.
It aids neither the humble nor the unhappy.
«a va sans dire.
In the world, there's no voluptuousness that more flatters the senses than social privilege.
The moment's come to narrate the passion of Minister Missiroli.
I presented myself at his house, around 10:00 a. m.
The moment I entered, the doors closed.
"What are you doing here, little bitch," the minister said, inflamed.
"Who allowed you to disturb me?"
Nobody had warned me what would happen.
You can imagine I was frightened by the welcome.
"Strip then. Hurry," the minister yelled.
I can't go on.
"When I get my hands on you, filthy whore, you won't save your skin.
Oh, you're going to die. "
Crying, I fell at his feet, but nothing moved him.
He tore off my clothes, ripping them.
And what truly scared me was seeing them thrown into the fire one by one.
So I remained naked before him.
He, who had never seen me, stared at my behind a bit, uttered some curses as he caressed me, not moving his lips closer, sank into semiconsciousness, flung himself into a chair and ejaculated, making his sperm fall on the charred remains of my clothes.
CIRCLE OF SHIT
Allow me a suggestion, Sra. Maggi.
Wouldn't it be opportune, before beginning your stories, that you show us your best part?
Of course. With the greatest pleasure.
I told you, such an excellent behind deserved to be seen.
I guarantee you, few are more beautiful.
Thank you, gentlemen. You are too kind.
We declare ourselves content. You may begin.
Since you gentlemen have appreciated what I myself consider my best part, in my story, I'll try to stay as close as possible to the subject.
I'm sure my story will be far from displeasing to the president.
He must allow me to tell of a passion that enthralls him and won me the honor of his acquaintance.
You won't tell my depravities to these innocents?
I'm eager to hear Sra. Maggi's voice.
I'll spare you the tale of my childhood.
Years spent endowing my body with the capacity to satisfy the basest, most outrageous desires.
I quickly became an expert in that difficult art and my reputation spread throughout Italy.
My clients included many celebrities.
And to all I gave the best of myself.
First, I'd like to tell an unusual episode in my life.
Sra. Evola, the madam I worked for, sent me one day to a client, having stuffed me with food, with which she mixed a laxative.
I got to the home of the client, an old Carabinieri general, who wanted to be undressed then diapered like a baby.
Used to such fixations...
Soon I had awful belly cramps.
The man made me defecate before his eyes, and I did without embarrassment.
Then, stammering, like an infant, he made me collect my excrement with my fingertips so he could swallow it like pap.
All went according to plan.
My man, swallowing everything, imitated a baby's crying and ejaculated in his diapers.
I knew a man capable of quite diverse refinements of the sort.
We expect the best from you, you know.
I've saved what you want.
What I'll tell now, happened in Verona.
The waiter who came for me said that the client waiting was an old noble, well-known in the region for his depravity.
My curiosity, as you can imagine, was enormous.
My mother, that evening, was more intolerant than usual.
She begged me not to go, to change my life and...
I couldn't resist temptation.
I killed her.
It was the only thing to do.
What awaited you, stronger than anything in the world, was worth, then, some sacrifice.
It's folly to think one owes anything to one's mother.
Must she be thanked for having felt pleasure while a man took her?
That alone should suffice.
I recall long ago, I also had a mother who aroused the same feelings that you felt for yours.
As soon as I could, I sent her to the next world.
I've never known a subtler pleasure than the day she last closed her eyes.
Why is that child crying?
I'll tell you why.
Your talk has reminded her of her mother.
Recall, she died trying to protect the girl.
Are you crying for your mama?
Come, I'll console you!
Come here to me!
Come, little darling to your good daddy He'll sing you a lullaby Heavens, what an opportunity you offer me.
Sra. Maggi's tale must be acted upon at once.
Pity. Respect my grief.
I'm suffering so, at my mother's fate.
She died for me and I'll never see her again.
At least God, whom I implore, will pity me.
Kill me, but don't dishonor me.
This whining's the most exciting thing I've ever heard.
Kill me and free me from this torment, seeing and hearing such horrors. You heard her.
She called on God.
Write her name at once in the punishment list.
She deserves a terrible one.
Yes, but the most terrible, so I can meet my mama again.
Not so fast.
We know well what we'll do with you.
You'll be punished and deflowered at the right moment.
Don't think to escape me or think to restrain my desire by your despair.
On the contrary.
Come, little one. It's ready.
On your knees!
Go on. Eat.
Take this spoon.
It's intolerable, the silly thing.
A friend from Ferrara insisted I give him excrement from an old beggar-woman so it'd be more stinking and tasty.
I found him a woman of 70 covered with tumors and sores and made her defecate for him.
He pronounced it excellent, and I found, in time, how to make the dish even more appetizing.
- How? Simple.
By provoking minor indigestion.
Pointless to make a subject eat things he doesn't like, though frequently, spoiled foods produce excellent diarrhea.
Just have him eat fast, at odd hours, when he's already digesting.
We must do that as soon as possible.
Dear Mr. President, I'm really eager to know how you became acquainted with Sra. Maggi.
Wait! I want her to tell it.
After His Excellency's marriage to Sergio, you'd laugh behind my back.
I wouldn't deprive you of that pleasure.
The subject broached by our narrator demands, I feel, a rectification of our laws.
If we wish to enjoy the fruit of our stay behind these walls, our rule should be revised.
Install in the lavatories a large tub to collect the feces of our guests.
It's been said here that nothing must be wasted.
Let's follow Sra. Maggi's example and advice and give our beloved president the joy of seeing his dream come true.
Good day, Sra. Castelli. Good day, Mr. President.
They'll soon be ready.
I just wanted to make sure. Come. The chamber-pots.
You know the rule!
Yes, sir, but...
What's your name?
Please, with the muck we're made to eat.
What's your name? Her name is Doris.
She's one of the most unruly.
Good. She'll be company for those already listed here.
Whose is that? Mine. Want some?
Is that how you obey the rule?
Rino, kindly show me his behind.
You even had the impudence to wipe it.
You'll get what you deserve.
We're ready. Excuse me.
In preparing this boy I was unable, for once, to watch these rogues.
You men know that for us your instructions are law and every wish a command that we are happy to obey.
I've taken the trouble to feed the most apt creatures the way I was taught so they would provide for this wedding feast the most exquisite foods.
The girls have refrained from acting on their needs privately, as your law demands, to give you this.
Let us begin the rite then.
Sadeian atheism restored the divine character of monstrosity by reiterated acts: In other words, rites.
You know, no more intoxicating dish exists.
Your senses will gain new vigor for the combat awaiting you.
Eat, my dear bride.
You must keep your strength.
You must prepare for our night of love.
Nothing's worse than a breath without odor.
Eva, I can't go on.
Offer it to the Madonna.
Do this with your fingers.
And say, "I can't eat rice with my fingers like this. "
I can't eat rice.
Then eat shit.
The things I'm to tell you concern Cupid in person.
I refer, as you must have understood, to our illustrious president.
After having satisfied him, I was impressed by the special tastes in one so young.
that clearly belong to the theme of my story.
Well, my friends, once freed of my mother, I found life rich in all its delights.
The woman for whom I worked introduced me to the libertine I mentioned.
His passions will seem to you somewhat unusual.
The scene took place in his house in Rovigo.
I was shown into a dark room where I saw a man lying on the bed and a coffin in the center of the room.
"You see before you," the libertine said, "a man on his deathbed.
But he doesn't want to close his eyes without paying a last homage to the object of his adoration.
I adore the posterior.
And although I am dying, I want to die embracing one.
When life has left my body, you'll set me in the coffin, and wrap me in my shroud yourself, then close the lid.
I must be served scrupulously in this supreme moment with the only object of my lewd desires. "
"Come, Come," he continued, his voice broken, sobbing.
"I'm at death's door. "
I went to him, turned and showed him my buttocks.
"Ah! Marvelous ass," he cried.
"I shall carry to the grave the sight of such a beautiful ass. "
And he fondled it, opened it, played with it and kissed it as the healthiest man would've.
Then he made me rid myself of what my intestine contained.
I did so, quite unabashed.
"There, now I must die," he said, the death-rattle in his voice.
"The supreme moment's come. "
At that, he heaved a deep sigh.
He stiffened... and played his role so skillfully I thought him truly dead.
As I nailed the lid on the coffin, he squeaked, "I'm coming! Get out whore, or else. "
Go, go on. It won't come.
That cloud of disgust that comes to disturb the libertine's spirit when the illusion fades.
The limitation of love is that you need an accomplice.
Your friend well knew that the libertine's refinement lies in being at once executioner and victim.
My sister knew a gentleman, an official in a bureau, a little, pig-like man with a very unpleasant face.
He put a pot under them, she and he sat back to back and defecated together.
Then he took the pot stuck in his fingers, stirred, and swallowed.
My sister said he'd only to see her soiled behind and he ejaculated.
But, Sra. Maggi, had your sister a beautiful ass?
You must judge by this.
A famous painter, commissioned to do a Venus with beautiful buttocks, asked her to model after he'd consulted all the madames of Italy without finding her equal.
And how old was she?
Now we are curious.
You should hold a contest among the behinds of these dear children.
I'll do it.
I'm an expert.
Excellency, does this situation give no ideas?
Sra. Maggi, ready?
The act of the sodomite is the most absolute in the mortality implied for the human race.
The most ambiguous, as it accepts the terms to break them.
There is something still more monstrous.
The act of the executioner. True, but the sodomite's act can be repeated thousands of times.
A way can be found to repeat the executioner's.
Here, gentlemen. We're ready.
It is my masterpiece.
Before beginning, I have a proposal.
We haven't decided what prize to give to him or to her whose behind is declared the most beautiful.
This is what I propose:
He or she whose behind is judged most beautiful will be immediately killed.
Thus, not knowing which is whose we'll be sure of being impartial.
Knowing an ass is a boy's rather than a girl's could influence our decision.
We must be free in our choice.
It's a trap I don't want to fall into.
When one clearly prefers men, it is hard to change.
The differences between boys and girls are enormous.
One cannot go seeking what is obviously inferior.
As for that!
But judging by the tales heard so far, one could conclude that often a girl is preferable to a boy.
All the same, let's try to be objective.
Wait. Gentlemen, note the beauty of this groove, the elasticity of this ass' skin.
There can be no doubt.
Wait. Forgive me, but I'd like another look at one that struck me.
More light here. We're glad to please you.
I don't think the heaviness of these hips can compare to the grace I pointed out to you earlier.
That, to me, is the loveliest ass in the villa.
It's only my personal opinion. I submit to the majority.
I'll vote with the Duke.
I give my vote to the Duke's candidate.
Dear President, you see: Three against one.
I bow to the majority, but I would ask to be given my candidate to finish him off at the appointed time.
So be it.
Let's unveil the mystery.
Fool, how could you believe I'd kill you?
Don't you know we'd want to kill you a thousand times to the limits of eternity, if eternity has any.
I'd like to tell the story of a mysterious client whose passions are like those that will be the object of Sra. Castelli's stories.
And for this I apologize.
The man in question wanted only women who had been sentenced to death.
The closer they were to death, the more he paid them.
He insisted visits take place only once sentence had been passed.
Thanks to a lofty social position, that enabled him to pay any price, he managed never to miss one.
He did not possess them casually.
He wanted them to show their hips and defecate before him.
He maintained there could not be better stools than those of a woman who has just heard her death sentence.
CIRCLE OF BLOOD
Bishop, we're ready.
We want a marriage with all the frills.
First, the president. He's the one most in heat.
That's true. I admit it.
Sons of bitches.
These parasites are doing nothing for the party.
Yell with joy! Do as you like, but laugh.
Go on, idiots!
Show how happy you are.
Go on, laugh!
Why aren't you yelling for joy? Go on, sing!
Laugh! Split your sides. You don't laugh?
You two? What are you doing?
Excellency, please, take note.
If you like to whimper, we'll make you whimper for the rest of your days!
Few as they are!
Mr. Royal, you should've paid your rent!
Of course, Mr. Juju. Did you think you'd pay my rent?
Why, Mr. Juju? Because I've got no money.
You must earn money. How does one earn money?
By working with his hands.
But I can't do that.
So you should act.
Oh, it's so difficult.
So you should write... anything.
What are you doing? Are you serious?
Wait till I've done my duty. I'll be with you.
You've only to ask.
My friend and I are always ready.
Listen to me, please.
What will you do to me? It'll be decided tomorrow.
Many things will be decided tomorrow.
I know one thing none of you knows.
Someone betrays your laws.
Graziella has a photo under her pillow.
Give me the photo.
Give me the photo.
If you spare me, I'll show you what Eva and Antoniska do disobeying your rule.
So that's it. Bitch!
If you kill me, I can't tell you what I know.
Speak, dirty whore.
Each night, Ezio goes to the black maid.
I can take you there.
There they are.
You're a mess.
Susy, Giuliana, Liana, Tatiana.
Claudio, Carlo, Franco, Tonino.
Antoniska, Renata, Doris, Fatima.
Those will wear a blue ribbon and can imagine what awaits them.
The others, if they collaborate, could come with us to SalÚ.
What've we done? What'll you do to us?
You'll see. You'll realize how serious your misdeeds are.
To begin my story, I've chosen a character mentioned in the earlier stories.
A man of 40, of enormous stature endowed with a stallion's member.
He's also a very rich gentleman, very powerful, stern, cruel, a heart of stone.
He has a house near Milan used only for his pleasures.
At each party, he wants at least 15 girls between 15 and 17 years old.
Those who're chosen must first show themselves to him, totally naked.
He touches them, gropes, strokes and examines them then makes each defecate in his mouth.
He doesn't swallow.
At the end of the first operation, with fearsome gravity, he brands each on the shoulder with a number, on the tender flesh.
After these preliminaries, he opens the window, sets the girl in the center of the room, standing, erect, her face towards the panes.
Then he gives her such a hard kick on the behind that the poor thing flies across the room through the open window vanishing into the cellar.
Surely our man knew not only Nietzsche, but also Huysmans.
An executioner with a mask and the devil's emblems presides gravely over each of these horrible rites.
And when all the girls are gathered, our man...
is terribly aroused, for after 30 contacts he has never released himself.
He is naked, his member as if glued to his belly.
All is ready.
All the machines go into action.
The tortures begin all at once, causing a terrible racket.
The first is an enormous wheel fit with razors to which a girl is bound to be flayed alive.
Another has a mouse sewn into her vagina.
God! Why did you abandon us?
As you well know, killing the same man many times is not enough.
It's advisable instead, to kill as many living beings as possible.
Umberto, come here.
Good, you were ready.
Umberto, come here.
Know how a Bolshevik goes, when diving into the Red Sea?
Ah, you really don't know?
He goes, "Splash!"
Poetry corner: Ezra Pound, the Cantos.
Rail, scold and ructions Manesco, the whole family suffers What other way can you think of it?
The surname, and the nine arts The paternal word's compassion The son's filiality The brother's word: Mutuality
Small birds sing in chorus Harmony in the proportion of branches as clarity
Can you dance? No.
Let's try? A bit.
What's your girlfriend's name? Marguerita.