Thongs, by "Carmenicita de Las Lunas" (Trocchi), is among the author's most vibrant and respected works. The book gives us Gertrude Gault, the Grand Painmistress, and follows her career from the ghettos of Glasgow to her rebirth as Carmenicita de Las Lunas, greatest of all painmasters, before finally ending in a conclusion, staggering in its originality, imagination, and explicitness.

Additional kudoes to Trocchi for his ability to remain on topic throughout an entire work.

Excerpt:

“The Painmaster is dead,” the stranger said. “He committed suicide two nights ago. He nominated you as his successor. The Holy Seat cabled its confirmation today. It is my duty to put the seal on you.” He became businesslike. “Are we likely to be disturbed?”

“How long will it take?”

“Fifteen minutes at the most.”

I walked over and bolted the door.

“Your skirt,” he said, “and whatever you wear under it. Then sit on the table.”

I exposed myself for him.

He worked quickly.

First a needle with which he pierced the right lip of my sex. It was not at all painful. He had great dexterity, and with his little bottle of alcohol and cotton wool he was scrupulously clean. Next he passed a gold ring, about the thickness of a wedding ring, through it. This was more painful. I shut my eyes and absorbed the sensation, coveting it. The cross of polished black stone which he now hung from the ring was not heavy. It weighed perhaps an ounce or two. Then he sealed the two rings, the one which passed through the right lip and the one which passed through the top of the cross with a kind of gold metal compound which he sealed with a tiny stamp. I couldn't make out the detail at that distance. And then it was over. He stood back and replaced his instruments in his raincoat pocket.

“Your official inauguration will take place in two weeks' time,” he said. “But Mr. Prentice, whom you have already met, will get in touch with you before that. He will explain to you exactly all the duties and privileges of your office. And now I had better go.”

As he spoke the last words, there suddenly came a rattling at the door.

“Who locked this bliddy door? Open up this bliddy door!”

“Who's that?” the stranger whispered.

I was transfixed with fear.

“It's my father, Razor King!”

“Your skirt, quick!” the stranger hissed.

I stepped into it quickly. But what did that matter? With the locked door my father would think the worst anyway. He might even use his razors!

“Open up the bliddy door before ah break it down!”

I flashed a glance at the stranger. He nodded towards the door. I slipped across the room and opened it.

My father burst in like a gorilla. He reeked of drink and he had a plump black-haired tart with him.

He stared first at me and then at the stranger.

The woman with him had stopped giggling. She guessed that there was going to be violence.

“Who the bliddy hell are you!”

“I came to see you, Razor King,” the stranger said.

“Aye! A likely story! And that's why ye locked the bliddy door on me!”

“I asked your daughter to lock the door because I didn't want to be seen by anybody but you. It would be dangerous if too many people saw us together.”

“What the bliddly hell are you talkin about? Dangerous!”

The stranger took two five-pound notes from his pocket and laid them on the table which stood between him and my father.

“Do you want to talk business or don't you!” he snapped.

My father stared at the money, then at me, and then back at the stranger.

“We need a man to do a job,” the stranger said. “A man who's not afraid of a fight.”

“Who's we?”

“You'll meet the boss next week,” the stranger said. “If you'll come to the corner of Jamaica Street and Clyde Street next Friday evening about seven, we'll tell you exactly what it's about.” He pushed the two notes towards my father. “Meanwhile you can take that on account.”

My father hesitated only momentarily. Then he took the notes and stuffed them into his trouser pocket.

Suddenly he looked sly.

“An whit if ah say ah don't believe ye? Whit if ah wis tae say ah know whit ye were doin here with ma daughter? Whit if ah wis tae bash yer heed in fer ye!”

“You'd be a fool,” the stranger replied calmly. “People who pay our kind of money are dangerous. You'd lose money and you'd end up stiff in the river.”

It was the wrong thing to say to Razor King when he was drunk.

“We'll see who's dangerous!” Razor King snarled and whipped one of his big razors out of his pocket.

Simultaneously the stranger produced an ugly black automatic.

“One wrong move from you, Gault, and I'll shoot you in the belly.”

Razor King, the open razor in his hand, stared at the gun. A look of dawning comprehension passed over his heavy features. In that confined space, he wouldn't stand a dog's chance. The man would shoot him dead before he had moved a foot. He closed the razor and said in a wheedling tone: “This job you were talkin aboot? How much would there be in it fer me?”

“Twenty more next Friday, and forty when you've done the job.”

“Ah'll be there,” Razor King said. “Now get oot before ah change ma mind and mark ye!”

The stranger did so quietly and efficiently, covering Razor King with the gun until he was right outside the door. Razor King kicked the door shut with his foot. He stared at me for a moment, and then, remembering the money in his pocket, his ill-humor left him. He winked at the woman.

“Let's go on oot an get a wee drink first!” he said.

They left a minute after the stranger.

With a sigh of relief, I sat down on the cot.