CHAPTER_6_SAFE VIDEO Every Curve Is a Fetish or a Pearl

CHAPTER_6_SAFE VIDEO

Every Curve Is a Fetish or a Pearl 

The city hung like a wet watercolor abandoned in the rain, its edges bleeding neon into the gutters where Inspector Hannibal Lecter suffered his polished Oxfords clicking against the pavement in a rhythm mimicking the distant Morse code of a malfunctioning traffic light. In his pocket, he carried a single pearl, stolen from a mollusk that once whispered prophecies to Captain Ahab, and now it vibrated against his thigh—a resonance attuned to the curvature of the universe. Every streetlamp bent like Quasimodo's spine, every alley coiled like the intestines of Norman Bates' mother, and every passerby swayed in a way that fogged the inspector's monocle with something between desire and indigestion. 

At home, the Lecter family dinner table was a tribunal of the absurd. His father, Don Vito Corleone, presided, methodically dissecting a pomegranate with a stiletto, its seeds bursting like tiny screams. His mother, Nurse Ratched, buttered her toast with the precision of a lobotomy—as in the film One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, where Randle McMurphy, played by Jack Nicholson, is punished for rebelling against authority and subjected to a lobotomy, becoming a submissive shell at the mercy of the asylum staff. Each stroke was calculated to inflict maximum silence upon the room of court-ordered inmates. The twins, Fred and Rosemary West, played footsie beneath the table, their toes intertwining like the roots of a poisonous plant. Aunt Annie Wilkes clucked over the gravy, muttering about filthy beasts who didn’t appreciate proper narration, while Uncle Patrick Bateman admired his reflection in the salad bowl, adjusting his tie as if it were the noose from the Hanged Man card of the tarot deck, known for heralding fate. 

The central disagreement had begun, as all great catastrophes do, with a simple observation. Every curve is a fetish, Hannibal—the one from the TV series—had declared, swirling his wine glass so the Burgundy climbed the crystal like a desperate lover. The room froze. The grandfather clock, which once belonged to Count Dracula and still occasionally dripped crimson liquid onto the Persian rug, let out a groan of approval. 

Nonsense, snapped Grandfather Medea, knitting what appeared to be a noose from yarn the color of dried viscera. A fetish is a straight line, something rigid, a spine snapped over a knee. He should know—he’d broken enough of them. But the curve, Hannibal insisted, is where madness lives. The curve is the grin of the Cheshire Cat, the arc of the hangman’s rope, the contour of a hip disappearing around a corner. To worship the curve is to worship the inevitable collapse of order. 

This was too much for Cousin Alex DeLarge, who promptly smashed a gravy boat over his own head, howling about the tyranny of geometry. Meanwhile, Uncle Anton Chigurh flipped a coin—heads, they all agreed with Hannibal; tails, they eliminated him on the spot. The coin never landed. It spun in the air like a planet refusing to choose its orbit. It spun like the top from Inception, and the family descended into chaos. 

Outside, the city continued its slow melt. The streets sagged like the jowls of an old crimson, and the police station—a Gothic ruin staffed by Officer Buffalo Bill, who filed his nails with the edge of one of his flamboyant bone collection’s ribs, and Nurse Ratched, who prescribed lithium like candy—was flooded with reports of rogue curves. A spiral staircase in an old hotel—possibly from The Shining with Jack Nicholson, or maybe The Grand Budapest Hotel (I always mix up my mental archives)—had begun unscrewing itself, Escher-like, sending guests tumbling randomly into the lobby in a tangle of limbs and spatial lawsuits. Meanwhile, in the suspicious night, a furious baker who had once lived comfortably off his trust fund was arrested for kneading his baguettes françaises into provocatively suggestive shapes inspired by the tax-free free-love movement. Worst of all, at the moment of his arrest, the local rivers had begun unspooling sinuously from their beds, slithering through town like liquid serpents hunting prey. 

Hannibal, ever the detective, traced the epidemic to its source: the old funhouse on the edge of town, where the mirrors, tired of reflecting, had begun refracting souls. Inside, the walls pulsed like a ribcage, and the floor undulated beneath his feet like the tongue of some great beast. At the center stood Tyler Durden, shirtless and grinning, his body a roadmap of bruises and soap burns from a venomous chelating acid, spinning a carousel of hula hoops. 

You get it, don’t you, Inspector? Tyler laughed, his voice echoing as if spoken through a drainpipe. The world’s too straight. Too orderly. Too full of right angles. I’m just giving the meaning a little twist. 

Hannibal’s monocle cracked. By the time he stumbled back into daylight, the city had become a funhouse mirror of itself—buildings leaned like drunks, lampposts twisted into obscene gestures, and the citizens had all developed a strange, swaying gait, as if their skeletons had been replaced with overcooked spaghetti. Even police reports now arrived in italics. 

Back at the family manor, the debate raged on. Don Corleone insisted this was a family matter, best resolved with cement shoes and a midnight boat ride. Nurse Ratched proposed straitjackets and a strict regimen of right angles forged from cold steel. The twins just giggled and sharpened their imaginary knives, gripping the blades between their perfect, identical teeth. 

Hannibal, for his part, sat on the porch with his pearl and watched as the horizon itself began to warp, the sun melting into the sky like butter in a hot skillet. Every curve is a fetish. Or a pearl. What does it matter? he murmured. And the city moaned in agreement. 

Then the moon winked at him—a slow, lascivious curve of an eye—and he knew it was far, far too late. 

When That Pouch Begins to Grow and, Through Sweet Friendship With Gravity, Allows Its Vertigo to Reach the Surface 

The first thing Inspector Clarice Starling noticed upon entering the residence was the chandelier—not for its grandeur, but because it hung upside-down from the ceiling, directing the eye toward the floor, its crystals dripping wax like frozen tears, defying gravity with the same casual indifference as the rest of the Vornoff-Addams clan. The crime scene, if it could be called that, was less a setting and more a living diorama of controlled chaos: a grandfather clock marking time as if reluctantly, almost straining against the weight of infinite time; a taxidermied raven wearing a tiny detective's hat; and a coffee table carved from what appeared to be the fossilized femur of a minor Greek god of amusement. 

At the center of it all, slumped in a velvet armchair that seemed to sigh under his weight, was Hannibal Lecter, the family patriarch, delicately dissecting an imaginary face with a scalpel of pure, sharp crystal. The segments, when separated, revealed not fruit, but tiny, gleaming gears, each humming a lullaby from some forgotten music box. He did not look up when Clarice entered, but his smile widened just enough to suggest he had been expecting her. Or perhaps someone very much like her. Or maybe her long-lost twin brother, born shortly after Clarice M. Starling. 

The twins, Norman and Norman Bates (a redundancy that had never bothered anyone except the postal service), were crouched in a corner, whispering in Umbilicus, their private language. It sounded like a mix of Morse code, dental drills, and the static between radio stations. They had invented it at age three, after their mother, Morticia Addams-Vornoff, read them Kafka as a bedtime story between sleep and perverse insomnia, deciding that reality needed subtitles in fluorescent colors. Now, at twenty-seven, they used it primarily to discuss the viscosity of nightmares and the best way to fold time into origami swans. 

The pouch in question—the one that had begun to grow—was suspended above the fireplace, pulsing gently, as if breathing. It was not exactly a pouch, nor exactly a hidden womb, but something in between, its surface shimmering like oil on water. It had appeared three days prior, according to Uncle Anton Chigurh, who had been flipping his signature coin (heads you live, tails you reconsider existence) when the air split open and the thing descended, silent as a hangman's thought. 

Grandmama Lector, who had once tried to distill the essence of melancholy from a sigh, insisted it was a cosmic being. Patrick Bateman, the investment banker uncle, argued it was a leveraged buyout from heck. And Wednesday Addams, the youngest daughter, had simply stuck a fork into it to see if it was done. The fork had not reappeared from the depths of its flesh. 

Clarice M. Starling, whose training had covered everything from fingerprint analysis to the proper way to sigh during bureaucratic meetings, had no protocol for this. She reached for her notepad, only to find it had been replaced by a vellum scroll listing the ten plagues of Egypt from the vast memory of A.I., Artificial Intelligence, annotated in what appeared to be a virtual pencil. Probably the work of Catherine Tramell. The novelist aunt had a habit of rewriting reality as perpetually corrected drafts. 

Then the pouch shuddered. A sound emerged—not a voice, but the idea of the sound of a voice, the shadow a scream casts on the padded wall of a cell. The twins stopped whispering. Hannibal set aside his illusion-clock. And the walls, which until then had been a respectable mauve, the color of an American movie funeral parlor in green, began to bleed pinstripes. 

It was Norman Bates, imaginarily identified (i(a))) with his unknown double Ed Gein, who broke the silence, though not in any language the others could understand. He spoke in Umbilicus, a series of clicks and hums that made the chandelier's wax flow upward. His brother nodded, then produced a protractor and a spool of catgut, as if preparing to perform a difficult surgical operation on the air itself. 

The pouch swelled further. The room tilted—not enough to spill the teacups, but enough to make the grandfather clock chime in a key that had not yet been invented. And then, with the grace of a trapeze artist who had just remembered their fear of heights, the vertigo reached the rounded surface of the trapeze bar that had recently been erected on the outskirts of the city. The structure, built without municipal permission between a field of Vincent van Gogh's withered sunflowers and the old clock factory that always read 3:17 from nowhere, trembled like a sleepwalker with mild epilepsy on the brink of a tremor of waking discomfort. The wooden slats creaked in a language only trees drowned in varnish in the depths of the forest could understand; meanwhile, the rivets, rusted with nostalgia, began to hum a ballad about the fleeting nature of support points in the Brotherhood of Iron, created when they studied at the University of California, San Francisco, there by the shore of the immense sea of peace. 

On the upper platform, the clown Rinaldo—dressed in a suit made of losing lottery tickets and sighs accumulated in the waiting rooms of rehabilitation centers for illusions—adjusted his fingerless gloves, which never quite unfolded. He had woven them from the spider threads that fell from the Vornoff-Addams chandelier, each strand infused with that vertigo now sliding down the trapeze like thick honey dripping from the edge of a sharp object. 

Below, the audience consisted of: three vultures disguised as art critics (wearing sunglasses made from broken microscope lenses) and Aunt Catherine Tramell, taking notes in a notebook bound with the skin of breached contracts, and a child who claimed to be the reincarnation of a dog that had passed away of perfectly human sadness and carried a bone that, upon closer inspection, turned out to be the fossilized femur from the coffee table in the mansion of broken bones from the long battle species had waged over millions of years of evolution. 

The trapeze, now gleaming like the edge of a broken mirror, began to swing. Not to the rhythm of the wind, but to the beat of a Viennese waltz (Wiener Walzer) that could only be heard if one paid attention to the silence between heartbeats and the lapses of time itself, this same time that had unsubscribed from the unconscious. With each swing, the vertigo dripped onto the ground, forming puddles that reflected not the sky, but the reverse side of the clouds—that side no one had signed and which, therefore, held no legal value in the court due to the constant of the foreclosure function. 

Rinaldo leaped. His body traced a parabola in the sustainable air that Euclid would have dismissed as "in poor taste," while the vertigo, now solidified in the air like stretched caramel, whispered in his ear instructions for falling upward in a satisfactory position. The vultures applauded with their greed-worn wings, shattering their sunglasses in the process. Aunt Catherine noted "metaphor of a sunny afternoon in the late system" in her notebook. The dog-child buried his bone in the neighbor's garden soil with the wicked intention of leaving the evidence of the crime in another's land, a Persona like that from the Odyssey who had been questioned. 

And then, just as gravity, offended by such familiarity, decided to collect its due, the trapeze split into two perfect halves, each falling with the artistic juggling of gymnastics in opposite directions: one toward the past, the other toward a future where clowns wore neckties made of unsigned passing certificates of laughter. 

Rinaldo, suspended in that moment that exists between error and consequence, realized he had never learned to fall. Only to fly incorrectly, for he ignored how to take advantage of the warm air currents due to his constant mockery of them. The vertigo, satisfied, liquefied again and slipped through the cracks in the floor, heading toward the next attra