J grew bored in his cell so he began playing with his own shit. He’d sort of squelch his fingers through it, eat the peanuts out of it and so on. For this he felt the crash of half a dozen vicious batons all over his body. He would usually have enjoyed this sadism, but since it was in a police brutality/victim of the state/totalitarian regime context, it panged a bit.
  “Kiss my big sexy bottom, pond scum!” he would shout to them with frivolous and naughty glee.
  With the inevitable drifting by of days in captivity came the usual acts of strangeness, like a freckle-faced boy discovering the terror of his first erection on a raft on a beautiful river. The drawing of little faces on his knees was a common and indicative action of his straining mental condition. They would ask him if he was hungry and he would answer: “Burn baby burn. Disco Inferno!” with a funky resonance. The guards would dance around in little circles and in some ways it made the stay a little more pleasant.
  In the cell next to J was a scarred transsexual who called herself Trevorina. She was a reject from the Joey Silvera casting couch. She’d often try to talk J into a date once they were “on the outside.” J always refused on the grounds that he was studying to enter a seminary upon his release, and that his celibacy was an issue that neither of them could choose to ignore.
  They had many long conversations on the role of the modern day celibate in today’s society and both resolved to set up a colony for celibates upon their release. J always felt Trevorina was trying to lull him into a false sense of celibate security and then would rape him when he was off guard. It was not that J did not find Trevorina attractive. He did. But he felt cheapened when his values were compromised by her lust.
  Trevorina would occasionally annoy J with her frequent blues playing on a harmonica and the clanging of her empty metal cup across the bars of her cell, baying: “I wanna fucking cup of red vino now!” Her voice sounded like a hormonal discharge. Most of the time, however, J was busy devising an entire rock ballet based on his armpit. He would parade around in graceful circles showing off his hairy underarm with the pride of a demented flasher. The ballet was broken into three parts:

     I The Nakedness
     II The Shaving
     III The Death.

  The scene involving the death of the armpit was very moving and often brought J to tears. He had written the whole thing in his head and included a most unusual instrument in the orchestra: a child with its head in a vice.
  Trevorina considered herself to be an “executive consultant” for the ballet. She began to plead to J to write her in as the second performer. J initially rejected her request. However, as J points out fifteen years into the future, in his autobiography (My Autoeroticasphyxiography): “Trevorina was a lethal source of inspiration. I had to include her in the end.”
  The astonishing two-person ballet premiered in cells C-Sixteen and C-Seventeen of the remand centre. It was a small crowd, made up entirely of the depraved inmates that inhabited Cell Block C, watched over by several drunk and disinterested prison guards.
  The ballet began, not at the furious pace that common rumour had spread, but as a slow melancholic expression of the first movement: The Nakedness. The ballet was a simple obscure piece of avant-garde genius. The two performers, in separate cells, walking around naked, bar the yellow gumboots of Trevorina and a Miss Teen Whore Bendigo blue sash draped over J’s left shoulder.
  The floor of Trevorina’s cell was covered in used toilet paper, with spots of red wine blotted around the floor. J’s cell was a quite different matter all together. The walls were painted black, offering no life to the world - only darkness. The floor was a mess of broken bottles, thumbtacks and lots of sea salt. The background music was sheer aural brilliance. The beat consisted of J’s own erratic heartbeat. It had been amplified and layered numerous times to create a grating sound as painful as death. Added to that were the sounds of childrens’ tears (using a close miking technique), the sound of a man banging a metal cup against his cell and the moans of pain from a weakened inmate forced to play the passive. Rii. Amongst all this sound, interlaced to the fullest effect was J’s monotone voice, repeating as if the needle was stuck in a groove, “Corpus Diem - delecti deli dali delicious. Rub cartum nos sibose mas en francaise - bon a nifeswar.”
  This made no sense whatsoever.
  The Shaving involved J, naked save for a frilly apron captioned with “Kiss the Cook,” lurking menacingly toward the naked Trevorina with a straight razor. Trevorina tries to scream but can only bray a few bars of ‘La Triviata Pursuit.’
  “What... is the main port upon... THE CASPIAN SEA?”
  J replies: “Armpit! Armpit!” and then proceeds to shave Trevorina’s body while she sobs quietly for her departing crufts.
  The Death was represented by the then, completely hairless, naked body displayed on a rotating dance floor complete with disco balls, lasers, go-go mobile dancers, vomit, and two forty year old slags with caked-on makeup.