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They reminded me very much, so humped and dismal, of the little old ladies working on piecework I used to deliver cloth to, working my way up through rope hand-pulled elevators full of rats and stink, one hundred years old, piecework ladies, proud and dead and neurotic as all hell, working, working to make a millionaire out of somebody-in New York, in Philadelphia, in St. Louis. And these, for Open Pussy, were working without wages, and there was Joe Hyans, looking a bit brutal and fat, walking up and down behind them, hands folded behind his back, seeing thateach volunteer did his (her) duty properly and exactly. Hyans! Hyans, you filthy cocksucker!" I screamed as I walked in. You are running a slave-market, you are a lousy pewking Simon Legree! You cry for justice from the police and from Wash- ington, D.C. and you are the biggest lousiest swine of them all! You are Hitler multiplied by a hundred, you slave-labor bastard! You write of atrocities and then triple them yourself! Who the fuck you think you're fooling, mother? Who the fuck you think you are?" Luckily for Hyans, the rest of the staff was quite used to me and they thought that whatever I said was foolishness and that Hyans Himself stood for Truth. Hyans Himself walked up and put a stapler in my hand.
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