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Monday, 23 March 2015

Day 1286 -

See in me the side of you
That sometimes makes you jump with fright
Smiler with knife, it’s your big night
Sinking bed all warm and clean
Only sadness waits for me
Smiler with knife, you’re just in time
Press the blade against my skin
Never to make love again
Smiler with knife, it’s alright
Surrendered will I am before you
I am sick to death of life
Smiler with knife - alight
If such things weren’t meant to be
Then they would never come to me
Smiler, oh, don’t worry so
Slam-in one-shot gentle pain
Someone calling out my name
Sex and love are not the same
Time has frittered long and slow
All I am and was will go
But where to?
And why now?
When my last breath falls away
Smiler trust me when I say
You’ll be OK
You’ll be OK
Morrissey (“Smiler With Knife”)


The sun blazed down from a sky of Azure silk, folded and dusty with wisps of cloud. His table was shaded by a garish green umbrella and his eyes by sunglasses that were large and black.
He gave a nonchalant signal, a barely perceptible movement of the hand, as his eye caught the waiter’s. The dark-haired lad with a gold stud in his left ear drifted over as though carried on the constant flickering breeze.
‘Can I help you sir?’ He asked with a winsome smile.
‘More coffee please,’ murmured Albrecht.
‘Coming right up sir’
The café occupied the ground floor of what was probably once a large house. It was immaculately whitewashed with large square windows and a sign above the entrance, which gave the name of the café in illuminated italics. In the brightness of day, however, the pink glow of the twisted glass tubing hardly registered. Leonid Albrecht liked to sit outside among the palms, which he thought quite pretty, and the dusty paving stones in cooling grey. The tables were on an elevated level, overlooking a swimming pool. The pool was full of tourists in the afternoons and he tried to avoid looking at it. He had been in Rio for almost a month. He had spent innumerable afternoons in Ronaldo’s, either reading or writing, or both. He was thumbing lazily through ‘The Silence of the Lambs,’ though he had already seen the film twice. His next novel, he had already decided, would be a thriller.
The waiter returned with another cappuccino and offered a sprinkling of dark chocolate flakes. He declined with a hand gesture.
‘What’s the time?’
‘It’s three forty five sir,’
‘Thank you,’ he said, gazing back at the creased page of the novel he had picked up in some dusty, cheap second hand book store. ‘Oh,’ he added after sipping the coffee. ‘May I have a teaspoon of cool milk please?’
The waiter smiled helpfully and left. He returned about forty seconds later with some cold milk in a small porcelain jug. It was white, all the crockery was.
‘Thank you’
‘You’re welcome sir’
‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ said Albrecht listlessly as the sun drifted out from behind a cloud, causing him to cup his fingers over his sunglasses for a moment.
‘What is it sir?’
‘Are you doing anything this evening?’
The lad looked uneasy and brushed his forearm with the back of his hand. ‘No. Why do you ask?’ His voice remained rich and strong. His dark eyes squinted in the bright light.
‘Would you like to go out for a meal?’
‘I’m sorry sir, I-’ he said, stumbling slightly in hapless broken English. ‘I have a girlfriend.’
‘That’s fine, just don’t bring her along,’ said Leonid with a faint smile on his lips.
Then he placed two twenty dollar notes on the table for the coffees. The lad regarded the money with greedy eyes. ‘Is it for me?’
‘Yes, take it’
‘Thank you sir,’ he said, glancing round before he picked it up.
‘Meet me here at seven O’clock this evening,’ said Leonid. As he spoke, he placed a twenty dollar note on the table, and then nine more in a neat pile; he took a final small sip of coffee and picked up his tatty novel. ‘I’ll see you at seven?’ he asked, raising his eyes.
‘Okay,’ replied the lad. ‘But can we meet at Sorrento’s?’
‘Yes. I’ll see you at seven’
As Albrecht traipsed down the steps to the high street, the waiter shovelled up the notes with his fingers and slipped them furtively in his back pocket. The sun drifted behind a cloud and the nearby clock struck four times with its coppery ring.
Leonid Albrecht spent the late afternoon on the beach. He was twenty one years old and it seemed like the most sensible thing to do. As waves crashed in the distance and men in speedos played volleyball on the bone dry sand he simply closed his eyes and thought.

Loud jazz burbled around Sorrento’s in the twilight of a gorgeous day. A tall young man with shaved black hair styled into the shape of a small quiff was sitting forward at a wooden table outside chattering to two plump girls, gesticulating with his hands, and a scattering of others stood about with friends or perhaps acquaintances sipping cocktails. The waiter from Ronaldo’s emerged from inside, milled around the façade for a few moments and then leaned against the wall. He was wearing black leather shoes, dark trousers and a light blue shirt with the collar open.
Albrecht checked his watch. It was five past seven. As he ambled over, the lad recognised him and started towards him. They met in the middle of the street, which was quiet at that time.
‘Hey,’ said the waiter in a pleasant voice.
‘Hi, I’m Leonid’
‘I’m Paulo.’
‘I’m glad to meet you properly Paulo. I hope you like French food.’
‘I do, I really do.’
As they strolled along the shop fronts, traffic rumbled by; there sounded the yap of a hungry street dog, faint laughter and chuntering voices. Street lamps buzzed and threw off an amber glare. As they turned silently into a dimly-lit avenue, Paulo looked at Leonid.
‘What is it that you do?’ he asked as they continued down the road.
‘I’m a writer,’ replied Leonid breezily. ‘I write novels.’
‘What kind of novels?’
‘Well,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’m writing my fourth at the moment. It’s a thriller.’
‘You’ll have to show me,’ replied Paulo casually. Then he flicked a coin up with his thumb and caught it. ‘But tell me, what do you do for money?’
‘Writing is my job. My third novel sold a few million copies.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty one’
‘It’s incredible. Is it why you always wear those? So you aren’t-’ he said, pointing to his shades. ‘-how you say, recognised?’
Albrecht laughed. ‘If anyone in Rio recognises me, it’s probably for an unpaid restaurant bill.’
‘But you’re a famous writer,’ he remonstrated with a flick of the wrist and a jocular smile. ‘You must get some people wanting your signature in the street, you know.’
‘It has happened before, especially in London. But when they look at the autograph they mostly say they thought I was somebody else.’
‘Like who?’ asked Paulo innocently.
‘The American tourist/Prince William thing happens sometimes. And, of course, any young boy in sunglasses runs the risk of being misidentified as Posh Spice’
‘That’s funny,’ said Paulo.
‘It’s not funny for Posh Spice. She’s sick of being told to wipe her nose.’

The meal was delicious. Both lads gaily immersed themselves in each other’s company. They both had a starter and a main course. They shared a magnum of champagne. Leonid found out Paulo was twenty four, an only son and hoped to be an actor. He liked James Dean, listened to thrash metal and did not like television. Paulo found out little about Leonid, but they did chat about his best-selling novel, which the author insisted was not his best work, and discovered they both liked ‘Brighton Rock’ by Graham Greene. Paulo resolved sincerely to pick up the novel and give it a read. At ten O’clock Leonid led Paulo into his suite. It occupied four rooms in one of Rio’s most elegant hotels. The view through the window was of the ocean. The sky was a morass of black velvet and faint stars. Paulo stepped gingerly into the centre of the reception room behind Leonid, looking unimpressed.
‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘No thanks,’ murmured Paulo. He seemed a little unsure of himself now. ‘What is it you want?’ he asked.
‘Well it’s really quite simple,’ replied Leonid gently. ‘But I want you to think carefully about it and not simply reject my suggestion.’
‘What suggestion?’ he asked.
‘Paulo I’ve enjoyed spending time with you. I like you, and I hope we can be friends. But I also want something else from you, as I’m sure you realise.’
‘You want me to sleep with you’
‘I want you to rape me,’ he said quite gently. He gazed softly into Paulo’s dark eyes. They winced a little.
‘Yes, I’m sure you know what it is’
‘I do,’ replied Paulo without any sarcasm.
‘Here’s what I’d like,’ said Leonid quite calmly. ‘I’ll get showered and you will sit in here as you are. In exactly thirty minutes you’ll come to my bedroom and rape me. Do you understand?’
‘Yes. I-’ he stuttered. ‘I think so.’
‘Good. If I beg you to stop, whatever I say and however I say it, you make it more violent. It has to seem real. Do you understand?’
‘Yes. How much will you pay me?’
‘How much do you want?’
‘One thousand dollars,’ he replied with in a tense voice, brushing back his hair.
‘Okay. I think you’ll enjoy it, maybe next time you’ll do it for free’
‘You think?’
‘I hope so’

The following afternoon Leonid was just finishing ‘The Silence of the Lambs.’ He was sitting in Ronaldo’s wearing a tight white t-shirt and faded blue jeans. His coffee was cold and his head ached a little more than usual. His shades were perched on his button nose.
As he read the final paragraph, he smiled and placed the book down on the table. He gazed up. Paulo was wiping a table. Leonid gave a hand signal. Paulo came to him just the same as ever.
‘What can I do for you sir?’
Leonid stood up. As he turned to leave he casually dropped a $20 note on the table and whispered, ‘Seven O’clock, at the main entrance of the hotel.’
‘Yes,’ murmured the waiter without returning his gaze.

As he sat at the bar on the beach front supping cocktails, he could think only of what had happened the previous night. He stepped out of the bar and wandered over to the sand. It felt heavy under his toes. Stripping off self-consciously, he cast his clothes down in a messy heap and strolled in white speedos over to the sea, which lapped coolly against the sand. He walked just by the water’s edge, getting his toes and his soles wet. He saw children playing and a bunch of youths in a dinghy. Then he found an empty stretch and swam for a few minutes.

At seven O’clock he walked with Paulo back up to his suite without saying a word. Once inside he offered him a drink, and this time Paulo asked for a glass of Pepsi. Leonid smiled.
‘Coke OK?’
‘Yes, thank you’
He poured a Coca-Cola with ice and a Baileys on the rocks for himself, with a splash of chocolate milkshake from the refrigerator.
They sat down together on the cream leather sofa in the reception room with their drinks. Just then Leonid pointed the remote control at the large television in front of them.
‘Watch this,’ he said, taking a sip of Bailey’s.
‘What is it?’ asked Paulo.
Grainy images shot on a cheap video camera answered his question. Paulo acting out last night’s fantasy. His muscles were contorted by the sheer physicality of the acts he was performing and his facial expression was quite extraordinary – cruel and brutal. He felt a curious sense of satisfaction as he watched himself, as though immersed in some remarkable acting performance, but this soon gave way to erotic excitement.
Leonid slipped to the floor like a deliberately dropped handkerchief and knelt at his feet. Their eyes met; but the images drew Paulo’s gaze back like a moth to the flame. Leonid opened up his trousers without a hint of protest. Paulo’s large, serious eyes did not leave the screen as he reclined lazily and held his right hand like a crab on its back, his thumb sticking right out. At last he threw his head back and closed his eyes, groaning from the base of his spine.
A couple of hours later they lay side by side on the bed, naked on top of the Jasmine-scented linen. Leonid Albrecht was smoking a cigarette with his feet parted, closer at the heels, and Paulo was resting on his back with his eyes closed. Leonid tapped the cigarette ash into his hand and dropped it sharply into the ashtray by the bed. He marvelled at Paulo’s exhausted body lying there beside him, glistening in the artificial light. He loved the way that big body looked when it rested: unguarded and vulnerable like a lion snoozing.
Leonid took a long shower under the three shower heads, which were on the hottest setting. He stood there like a statue with his spindly fingers hands resting on the back of his head amidst the scentless spray. He gave a sad smile. As the water seeped between his lips and splashed about the floor in big hot gulps, a few tears fell and swirled among the hot water and bubbles over the cold marble floor.

Those wild coke-fuelled eyes burning simultaneously with hatred and lust; the whispered abuse in Portuguese; the big clenched fist pressed heavily against his nose, or otherwise against the floor or the mattress - these things filled Leonid’s dreams now, like a cat silently stalking some innocent bird, driven by a need that transcends all else. He was compelled to continue playing with Paulo by something that he did not quite understand. Paulo’s boyish face aged just a little in those first days, and that lucid smile faded into something more complex, drained of vitality perhaps but imbued with luxurious sensuality. Leonid told himself nobody changes that quickly and he decided Paulo had merely been unmasked. It was hard to believe the benign lad who waited tables at Ronaldo’s with effortless, inarticulate charm had accomplished sexually all that he had done.
As the weeks passed, Leonid Albrecht continued visiting the café. They would behave as though nothing had happened between them and they did not know each other. Leonid would deliver his orders with the cool precision which characterised his speech. Paulo would respond diligently to all requests with immaculate manners and a warm smile. Every night without exception Paulo would arrive at the suite, meeting Leonid at a time agreed the previous day. They hardly spoke except when they greeted each other and, of course, to arrange the next session. Occasionally ‘Vauxhall and I’ by Morrissey would swirl gracefully about the suite. At the end they would kiss and Leonid would hand over another thousand dollars in cash; Paulo would say thank you and leave unceremoniously. There seemed no point in saying anything else. No point at all. Their actions said everything quite succinctly.
During the days Leonid would write in cafes, or on a bench by the sea, and occasionally holed up in his hotel suite, undressed with a glass of champagne and some olives. The spare, terse prose flowed creamily like full bodied French red. He sighed periodically at the beauty he had so carefully mapped out during those stolen moments, like a navigator plotting an improbable route through an impassable and treacherous land. Some heroically athletic body on the beach or a blissfully white sun, or perhaps an imagining of what Paulo might do to him next would trigger a kind of mental equation with perfect symmetry, and the result would be a new twist in the plot or a rare magical adjective. And the evenings, of course, were spent with wondrous, cruel Paulo. At night Albrecht would sleep soundly in the large double bed which would often smell of Paulo’s semen, damp and warm like a rainforest. That scent came to comfort him like warm milk at bedtime.
Paulo would do such things as would cause Leonid’s eyes to fill with hollow tears; for they were tears of physical suffering rather than of sorrow. Albrecht was not sure of this distinction, but he believed it to be thus; not least because the physical suffering seemed to cleanse his sadness. He began to feel content for the first time, smug even. He felt appreciated and adored. He was happy.
The pain bonded them tightly. The shared depravity, like blood rituals or killing, meant there were ties between them which could not easily be undone. It was true that Paulo had been the violent one, always, but Leonid had procured him for the task, had rewarded every transgression with pleasure and money. It was romantic too, in its own strange way: Paulo’s fingers would interlock with his lover’s slender fingers as they forgot momentarily about the studied cruelty, or Leonid would hear Paulo’s heart thumping against his chest wall like a military drum. They would pass like the brief episodes of rain in Rio. One of them inflicted and the other was inflicted upon. It was tantalising and entirely wrong, and both knew it. It filled their hearts and it choked their thoughts. It seemed more important than the rest of life.
Paulo always looked tired these days; and he always smelled freshly showered and doused in cologne. Eventually he quit his job as a waiter. He did not need to work anymore. Leonid missed him at the café and encouraged him to return, but he did not. Instead he got a tattoo on his chest, which ran up to his left shoulder with its interlocking greens, reds and blues. When Leonid’s pink lips first kissed that inky skin one evening, as though it were some precious religious symbol, Paulo got more. Each was done according to some inexplicable law book of sexual chemistry. A spider’s web appeared on his neck, swooping down to his collarbone, a red rose on the left ankle, butterfly over the groin, and scorpion between his shoulder blades.
His days and his nights had become utterly devoted his new role. He had his head shaved so that it was like suede, and he allowed a little stubble to flower on his chin. He looked a bit rougher. The stubble seemed to Leonid to represent a kind of perfected masculinity, just as carnations at a funeral indicate death. And Paulo lifted weights and rowed for hours each day in the gym, a drag made bearable only by thoughts of the pleasure it might bring; he ate more lean meat and less fat; he wore better aftershave; and he began to wear a black leather jacket, shades and dog tags, inscribed with the words ‘You Need It’ One evening as they showered together in silence, Paulo wrapped his arms around Leonid’s slender waist like a pair of great hungry pythons and whispered that he had dumped his girlfriend. Leonid said nothing, but he turned and nuzzled his nose onto his lover’s hot wet neck. He knew what the effect would be, and so it was. And he adored it.
Paulo’s masculinity evolved endlessly in the squalid blackness of those violent evenings, like a fungus that had always been there, simply waiting and waiting for the opportunity to sprout and multiply. He came to dominate his lover ever more completely as the days went by. In transforming himself into someone else’s fantasy fuck, Paulo was altered both mentally and physically. His skin turned paler and cooler as he grew familiar with brutality, cocaine and exquisite pleasures. His face seemed sharper, chiselled and dashing. His eyes looked black by now and seemed to pass through to the back of his skull like deep wells of crude oil; his demeanour became languid and masterful; and his smile took on a cynical twist.
He knew he could do anything at all to Leonid; fresh lusts formed like condensation, they took a hold of him and he acted them out slavishly and without question. Leonid would only adore him the more for doing it, whatever it might be. As crescendos of dark pleasure flooded into great waves one balmy evening, Paulo’s soft, smug laughter echoed about the shower like a terrible childhood memory. He stood tall over his victim with bulky arms folded, grinning self-assuredly; Leonid swooned, kissing Paulo’s large wet feet with his soft lips as the hot water rained down upon his face like nectar. He decided this must be heaven. He closed his eyes and wished to God the moment would last forever.

The following morning Leonid Albrecht remained in bed. He did not go down for breakfast, nor did he request breakfast in bed. He lay with his eyes closed and tried to think. Something about last night’s adventure had shaken him. He felt fidgety and angry, and he did not know why. He reached over to the bedside cabinet of polished mahogany, and slid open the top drawer. There was his notepad.
‘What have I done?’ he scrawled.
And then he went back to sleep.

Paulo arrived at seven. He was wearing boots, jeans, a t-shirt and a leather jacket, all in black. The hotel staff knew by now who he was, though they were too discreet to acknowledge this fact, and they simply ignored him as he waited at the lift. The lift operator took him to the top floor without comment or facial gesture.
Paulo knocked on Leonid’s door, and slipped his hand into his pocket. They exchanged muted greetings. Paulo immediately took a seat and waited to be offered a drink.
‘Paulo we need to talk,’ murmured Leonid.
‘About what?’ replied the Brazilian, repeatedly flicking a coin up in the air with his thumb, as was his habit.
‘The time has come when you have to decide what you want,’ said Leonid. He was wearing only a freshly laundered white dressing gown as he stroked his neck softly and glazed pensively into the distance. ‘You can take $50 000 and we’ll never meet again,’ he said in a low voice without detectable emotion. ‘Or you can continue to see me but I won’t pay you.’
Paulo stopped flicking the coin and looked surprised. ‘You’re serious?’
‘You have to decide now’
‘You want to see if I’m only doing it for the money?’
Leonid did not comment. He merely gazed at the floor.
Paulo stood up and came closer. ‘You’re crazy, Leo. You’re crazy. It’s not the money, it’s you. You’re beautiful. You’re the most beautiful boy I’ve seen.’
Leonid said nothing. He turned and walked to the bar, before pouring himself a Bailey’s. ‘Do you want something to drink?’
‘Yeah I’d like coke,’ said Paulo. He moved up behind his lover, placing his fingertips onto his abdomen and sliding them in one soft motion up to his chest. He leaned forward and whispered, ‘It’s you, you, you. I’ll give you the money back if you want,’ he flicked his tongue into the lad’s ear. Then he growled sensually: ‘You got that?’
‘So that is your decision?’ asked Leonid coldly. He sipped his Bailey’s, winced slightly and reached into the fridge for the chocolate milkshake.
‘Don’t pay me, yes that’s my decision. Let’s stay together, or maybe even move in together.’
There was no milkshake left, so he added a little milk and sugar. ‘Yes, let’s,’ murmured Leonid as he stirred his drink. ‘Let’s move in together.’
Paulo shuffled in behind him and pressed his jeans against Leonid’s bum. He was already hard.
‘I want you more each night,’ he whispered, biting his lover’s earlobe. ‘Leonid, you know I think I love you.’
Leonid froze. ‘Love? You think what you’re doing to me is love,’ he stated with Paulo’s hands encircling his neck and shoulders and his lover’s wet lips pursed against his flesh.
‘Yes, it’s love,’ whispered Paulo. Then he stopped, realising his lover was angry at something. ‘Did I go too far yesterday?’ he asked sweetly.
‘No, you didn’t go far enough,’ Leonid replied. Then he paused and went on. ‘I’ll offer you $200 000’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ll offer you $200 000 if you leave’
Paulo stood up and brushed his short velvety hair. ‘Why do you want me to leave you?’
‘I didn’t say I want you to leave. I’m just offering you $200 000 to do so.’
‘I won’t take it,’ replied Paulo instantly.
‘$500 000’
Paulo was angry. He turned and walked off, kicked a chair with his boot. It shot forward but did not flip over. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he spat.
‘$500 000, take it or leave it.’
Paulo sat down. He looked like he was thinking. Leonid studied his face in the mirror and could see he was interested now. Half a million was a lot of money to a Brazilian waiter. It was also a lot to him.
‘Are you serious?’ asked the lad, standing up again. He wiped his face with both hands. ‘Fuck it,’ he smiled quite suddenly. ‘I know what you’re doing.’ He grabbed Leonid by the hair and yanked his head round, gazing into his eyes and raising an eyebrow. ‘You want me to be angry. You want me to fuck you even better, right?’
‘No, I want you to fuck off, and I’m trying to spare your feelings. But it’s your decision.’
‘You bitch,’ Paulo smiled, pushing himself against his friend’s body and ripping off his dressing gown. His eyes were burning and his trousers were already down by his ankles.

An hour later Paulo was lying in the bath tub with a knife through his aorta, exsanguinating in a state of semi-consciousness. His blood flowed thick and fast down the plughole until he stopped breathing; after this only a few squirts of increasingly watery blood shot out of the stab wound, heralding cardiac arrest. He lay there with his eyes open and his mouth ajar, dead. Leonid Albrecht sat in his chair, observing the body from a distance and smoking quite calmly.

(published on August 24th 2011 on

 When the blood runs, the white rose becomes a red rose. 
Log Lady (October 9th 2011)

     Ten US dates for Morrissey will be announced this coming Monday. 
    Morrissey (August 19th 2011)

       Right I’m off now. […] I have […] a US tour to plan. 
      Our Mozzer (August 13th 2011)

         Naturally my birth almost kills my mother, for my head is too big, … 
        Morrissey (“Autobiography”, 2013)

         And thence, as though from another world entirely, emerges… Steven Patrick Morrissey. His jaw wouldn’t quite slide out, of course, necessitating a forceps delivery; … 
        Our Mozzer (“Excerpt from the Autobiography”, 2011)

         It took me a while to pump up the bus fares to come to Miami, but a slight saving here, and a slight saving there, and here I am… 

         With any luck I won’t even have to cancel an encore to save on lighting costs, which you may recall one was forced to do in 2011 on financial grounds… 
        Our Mozzer

         Beautiful people don’t know they’re beautiful. Ugly people know it only too well. 
        Our Mozzer

           I am NOT Morrissey. 
          Our Mozzer

           I would like to stress that I do not have either a Twitter or a Facebook account. I gather that a Twitter account has been opened in my name - as ‘It’s Morrissey’ - but it is NOT Morrissey. 
          Morrissey (May 15th 2014)

           Morrissey would like to stress that he has absolutely no affiliation with the site called Morrisseysworld, and that the views expressed on Morrisseysworld blog and Twitter page are not Morrissey’s views, and do not come from Morrissey. Morrissey has no connection with this site. Please beware. 
          Morrissey (September 14th 2011)

           Morrissey has no connection with the site called Morrisseysworld.blogspot. Whoever is on this site/page claiming to be Morrissey is certainly NOT Morrissey. Please be warned. Thank you. 
          Morrissey (August 19th 2011)

           Morrissey would like it known that the site known as Morrisseysworld.blogspot is fake. Morrissey has no connection with the site and is therefore not the author of anything written on the site. 
          Morrissey (May 14th 2011)

                   I don’t even know if I exist offstage. 

                   The best mysteries are made never to be solved. Mystery is the soul of art, just as certainty is the soul of science. 
                  Our Mozzer



                  1. I love this collection of everything all in one place

                    the owl eyes GIF is epic

                    but where's my pic of the blue rose in manc that you've used before?!!!

                  2. Whoever is behind this tumblr has captured the essence of the MW journey very nicely. Thank you, whoever you are.

                  3. sssshhhhh!!!!!! is the word (not grease)

                  4. I really like this tumblr. It's a great snap shot of the mighty MW voyage.

                  5. Sneaky way to slip the Leonid tale in there!

                    1. yeah I thought Leonid was not to be published, although on the blue rose site it was always called Brazil, not the Leonid Albrecth Story.. still a great read, as I once told moz59 in the chat room, hhhmm!!! indeed

                    2. I guess what Broken doesn't see, Broken doesn't know.
                      The excerpt was called Brazil on MW. It was from an unpublished novel titled "Make me a Monster, but Don't Kill Me For Being Monstrous". Had to dig deep into my drawers for that one for you :))


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