His penis. The sweating man, as befits a highly eloquent man of action, has a lot of sex. He has on overly tight pants, which stretch across his overly voluminous posterior; he’s wearing light brown welted semibrogue shoes, a must for assholes; his sports jacket, Savile Row, opens over his bottom like little wings. His hair, once pale red, has yielded to a very high forehead and these days he dyes it a striking rust tone. He can’t get an erection anymore, or rather, for a week now he has had no desire for anything. That is, neither for his work nor for women. He looks at the naked bodies lying before him and thinks: So, what now? What good does it do me to ejaculate into this orifice? He looks at the white bodies before him—humans really aren’t overly aesthetically pleasing. The red spots caused by epilation in the pubic area; the wetness, probably created artificially in the bathroom, that makes the slit glisten; the makeup, the ears, my god. Puzzling, this absence of desire. But even more astonishing is that he has occasional misgivings about his occupation. “Yes, I get it,” he says to himself. “Humans are a herd of absolutely moronic animals. I can’t even think of another animal that is so moronic that you can make them do anything—well, no, we can go further, to the stirring event in New York, which must be seen as the beginning of new era. As the accelerant for the reconfiguration of the structure. After the event the entire world spoke of Islam, which up to then nobody had given a shit about, to put it charitably. What successful linguistic fireworks were sparked there. Islam, Islamist, fundamentalist, doesn’t matter, all the same, the enemy. But it’s so boring, so simple.” The sweating man is no longer excited by his occupation. The parameters are always the same—specify an enemy, disparage, ridicule, generate fear, have bots programmed. Dull.

The sweating man has for some time been downright crazy about wormies, as he playfully calls them. He loves videos of people showing any sort of worm infestation in their bodies. Worms in their feces, tapeworms that have been removed, worms in infected wounds.

But even fear and disgust no longer reach the sweating man’s arousal center. Nothing gives him a feeling of being alive anymore.

Who cares.

Thinks

THOME

He has nodded off on the toilet of the café. From outside he hears the excited breathing of one of the workers behind the bar. Is it possible to complete a visit to the bathroom including proper hand washing in under a minute? Fast excretion raises one’s point count. Was as little water used as possible? The use of less water is achieved by a solid consistency of stool. That can be achieved with a good, fiber-rich diet.