Crimes of the Future

I am Adrian Tripod, the Director of this place,

the House of Skin.

In a sense, my present incarnation was generated

by the mad dermatologist Antoine Rouge.

The House of Skin began its existence

as a residential clinic for wealthy patients

who were treated for severely pathological skin conditions

induced by contemporary cosmetics.

Antoine Rouge, who at the time,

was considered little more then a gifted technician

seized control of the house many years ago

and guided it towards a more fantastic species of research.

There was much opposition to the Rougian ascendancy

in certain high places.

The House is undeniably in decline.

Somehow, without my direct comprehension of it,

it has fallen into the hands of my two sullen interns.

Their purposes

are entirely opaque to me.

As are the purposes of so many others.

Before the disappearance of Antoine Rouge,

there were many strange creatures in residence here.

But for some time now, there has only been one.

And he...

...I believe, I have noted

a whitish, aerated amorphous affluence

oozing from his ears.

I am not quite certain.

My interns have also noted the deadly emergence

of this secretion which we call Rouge's foam.

It has been mandatory to cremate all those

who have died from Rouge's Malady.

Although during the period of secretion and haemorrhage,

the various pathological fluids are relatively harmless,

even essentially attractive.

These fluids soon develop

a virulence which can be devastating.

There was a time when Rouge's Malady appeared

only in post-pubertal human females.

It is perhaps natural that in my present confusion

I should find my way to the Institute of Neo-Venereal Disease.

In the exhilarating days of Rougian administration,

there was much collaboration between the House and this institute.

My former colleague has somehow withdrawn.

He himself has contracted

a species of venereal disease from one of his patients.

He was once a fierce sensualist

but he has now become a pure metaphysician.

His body has begun to create puzzling organs.

Each one very complex, very perfect,

unique yet seemingly without function.

As each is surgically removed,

it is quickly replaced by another equally mysterious.

He has taken to breaking into the specimens room

and stealing the jars containing these organs.

His body, he insists, is a galaxy.

And these creatures are solar systems.

He becomes melancholy when they are far from him.

His nurse says that his disease

is possibly a form of creative cancer.

I believe that this is what they have said.

It is difficult to recall so many dialects

when one has remained so long in isolation.

I have found a position as a therapist

with the Oceanic Podiatry Group.

They support their theoretical structure,

in part, by a grossly distorted interpretation

of the later evolutionary writings of Antoine Rouge.

Still the closeness of certain Rougian concepts is comforting.

The technique I am to attempt is the invocation

of the genetic history of feet.

That is, tentacles, lobed fins, flippers and so on.

By these and other more esoteric means,

I am to reverse the psychic relapse, now so common,

which can occur under intense genetic pressure.

I am, thereby, to encourage patients

to bear the burden of a suddenly alien gravity.

To walk, for example,

when they would prefer to revert to more primitive oceanic forms.

I have achieved a sort of equilibrium

in my anonymity here at Metaphysical Import-Export.

It has been simple to remain aloof

from the internal workings of this corporation

because as a minor intramural courier

I am not required to communicate

with many candidates for executive positions with whom I deal.

As a consequence, however,

I am uncertain as to what constitutes

the significance of their incessant exercises and competitions.

When Antoine Rouge disappeared

soon after he had himself contracted the disease

which bears his name,

we believed that he had preferred to die alone