All language subtitles for SalÃ_Â _o_le_120_giornate_di_Sodoma_(Pier_Paolo_Pasolini__1975)

SAL�
THE 120 DAYS OF SODOM

1944-1945
NORTHERN ITALY

DURING THE
NAZl-FASCIST OCCUPATION

ANTECHAMBER OF HELL

Your Excellency.

Mr. President.

My lord.

All's good if it's excessive.

Come on, boys.

Where are you going?

Claudio, your scarf, my son.

Go away.

- Bye, Ezio.
- Bye, Luigi.

Sorry, we were ordered to do this.

Dear friends, marrying
our respective daughters,

we join our destinies forever.

You, Mr. President, take as wife,
Tatiana, His Excellency's daughter.

I marry Susy, your daughter, sir.

My two girls will wed His Excellency,
and my brother, my lord.

Our plan's preparation
has been successful.

Now all's ready.
We can go.

Within a budding grove,

the girls think but of love.

Hear the radio, drinking tea
and to hell with being free.

They've no idea the bourgeoisie

has never hesitated
to kill its children.

Boys, line up quickly.

Line up, quickly.

- What's his name?
- Claudio. Cicchetti, Claudio.

- What's your name?
- Franco.

I knew you'd consider him.

We used a girl to catch him.
He thought he had a date,

but instead ended up
in the bottom of a sack.

What's your name?

Sergio.

- Shouldn't we examine them closer?
- Undress.

Dress.

Come on, make way.

Here, this is Gobbi, Lamberto.

This is Porro, Carlo.

This is Chessari, Umberto.
Look at him, gentlemen.

Not to brag, but it took me
13 nights to catch him.

By God, I made it.

Scardochhia, Angelo.
Cicala, Walter. Bertelli, Romeo.

This one's Tonna Ferruccio,
he's from Castelfranco.

A family of subversives.
- Fine. Fine.

And that one's Orlando Tonino.

You're telling me his name?

Two years. Two years
I've waited for him.

Sir, I beg you.
Help me, please.

His father was a judge, like me.

Southerner, aren't you?
- Yes, sir.

I don't know if I'll be
the one to deflower you.

We'll decide who gets
that agreeable task.

So, Tonino.

Eva, come along.

Hurry and try to behave properly.

Here, gentlemen.

Come, nobody wants to harm you.

Show the men what you hide
under there. Let's see.

Very good.

Look.
See how wonderful.

A delicious little ass.
Never seen one firmer.

A pair of little breasts,
to revive a dying man.

All right, send in another.

Signora Castelli, your turn.

The men are waiting for you.

Albertina.

My God. Madam!

Please, let me go.

Her name's Albertina.
A professor's daughter from Bologna.

To take her from boarding school,
we "convinced" two nuns.

I bet you prefer us to nuns, eh?

I don't know yet.

Fine. Strip her.

One moment.

Nobody had noticed.
Such a pretty child.

Take her away.

If you shame me, God help you.
I know you, I do.

She cries for her fool mother

who jumped into the river
to defend her and drowned

right before this angel's eyes.

They were nine boys,
now they're eight.

Speaking of eight,
know the difference between a train,

these boys and the family?
- Naturally not. Please, do tell us.

A train carries fr"eight"
and these boys carry "bait."

- And the family?
- They're fine, thanks.

Everything is ready
according to your wishes.

Weak, chained creatures,
destined for our pleasure.

I hope you don't
expect to find here

the ridiculous freedom
granted by the outside world.

You are beyond the reach of any legality.

No one on earth knows you are here.

As far as the world is concerned,

you are already dead.

Here are the laws
that will govern your lives.

Punctually at 6:00,

the whole group must assemble
in the so-called Orgy Room

where storytellers, in turn,

will sit and tell a series of stories

on a given subject.

Our friends can interrupt anytime
and as often as they like.

The aim of the stories
is to stir the imagination.

Any lewdness will be allowed.

After dinner,
the men will celebrate

what are usually called orgies.

The salon and other rooms
will be adequately heated.

All participants,
dressed according to ritual,

will lie on the floor,

and following the example
of animals, will change position,

intermingling, entwining
and copulating incestuously,

committing adultery and sodomy.

So we will proceed each day.

Any man found -
- No servants, drive them away.

Any man found
having sex with a woman

will be punished
by the loss of a limb.

The slightest religious act
committed by anyone

will be punishable by death.

Now, all inside.
Make them go in.

CIRCLE OF OBSESSIONS

I was practically born in a school
where mother was a servant.

One day my sister asked
if I knew Professor Gentile. I said no.

"Well, look outside.

He's looking for you,

to show you what
he's already shown me.

Don't run off, dear.

Let him do as he wants.
He'll pay well."

Without further thought,
I flew straight to Prof. Gentile.

I couldn't believe it.

He stops me and says:
"Where are you going?"

"To put away the chairs."

"Your sister will do it.

Come, I'll show you a thing
you've never seen."

I follow him inside.
He shuts the door.

"Well, my dear."

He takes a monstrous
penis from his pants.

"Tell me," he says, masturbating.

"Have you ever seen the like?

I've showed it to your sister,
to all the girls your age.

Give it a hand.

Help it shoot the semen
from which we're all created.

I'll make it spurt on your face.

This is my passion, child.
I've no others.

You're about to see it."

At that moment,

I was covered by white stuff

that soaked me head to toe.

One moment, Signora Vaccari.

You mustn't omit any details.

It's solely how we draw
from your stories

the types of stimulation
that serve us.

It's what we expect from them.

My dear sir,

I know I was urged
to omit no detail,

to go into the least particulars,

whenever they can clarify
the human personality,

or a given kind of passion.

I don't believe
I've overlooked anything.

Well, for example,

I know nothing of the size
of your professor's penis.

I know nothing
of his type of ejaculation.

I don't know
if you touched his genitals

or if he obliged you to hold it.

My dear Sra. Vaccari,
a bit more clarity.

I beg your pardon.
I promise to be generous with details.

May I continue?
- One moment.

Time to give the rod
of my old age some fun.

One day, not long after
reaching the age of seven,

accompanying a girlfriend
to the professor,

we found him with a colleague.

The two men drew us inside

and one, looking at me,
said to the other,

"Didn't I say she was a beauty?"

"Yes, yes, you're quite right.

She's pretty, a real gem."

Goffredo said this affectionately,
taking me on his lap

and kissing me:
"How old are you, little one?"

"Seven, Professor."

"My, 50 years younger than I,"

he said, kissing me again.

Meanwhile, the other
prepared a strange syrup.

They made me drink it,
saying it was good for doing peepee

and they added:

"To be honest, dear child,
we just want you to urinate.

And the event must happen before me,
alone in my bedroom."

On your knees!

Excellency!

Inflict an exemplary
punishment on this scoundrel.

- We are entirely at your disposal.
- Not only is he incapable,

but he had the impudence
to refuse himself.

Take another.

Pick one of ours,
if none satisfies you.

No, thank you.

The efforts to satisfy me
now would be immense,

far beyond the devilish ones
required a moment ago.

You know to what we're driven
by a frustrated desire.

I only ask of you that
an exemplary punishment

be given that bastard.

My lord.

I feel ready to satisfy you.

You don't have to teach me anything.

No. Leave me alone.

You should know
there are a thousand occasions

when one does not
desire a woman's anus.

I'll wait.

Let Signora Vaccari go on.

The matter was organized

so that the professor
swallowed my piss to the last drop

at the moment when his penis,
bewildered in victory,

wept tears of blood on me.

At this point,
the passion consumed,

the professor seemed to realize
he no longer felt for his idol

the same religious fervor
that had dominated him thus far.

Indeed, quite brusquely,
he slipped 10 lire in my apron

and threw me out.

God, the boy's hopeless at masturbating.
Steps must be taken.

You'd think he'd never seen a male member.
It's outrageous!

Well, men, without a doubt,
Sra. Vaccari will turn them

into first-class whores.

Nothing's more contagious than evil.

I feel you're mistaken.
Some can only do evil

when their passion
drives them to evil.

Some are always unhappy
and their entire lives regret,

each morning, their actions
of the previous night.

- The day had finally come
- When I was a pig

I tried my teeth on tree bark

I studied my snout with delight

Umberto, Franco, Look.

What do you say?

Look, boys.

Rinaldo, please look.
Look carefully.

Handsome.

Claudio, Bruno,
you too look at the marvel.

Efizio, do me.

On the Perati bridge

A black flag

The mourning Julia regiment

That fights the war

The mourning Julia regiment

That fights the war

On the Perati bridge

A black flag

The best young men
Lie under the earth

The best young men
Lie under the earth

Giuliana, Eva, Graziella,
Doris, Renata and all the others.

Come on.

There, lie down.

The gentlemen are
dissatisfied with you.

The first thing to learn,
is how to hold it.

You, come here.

Now!

Go ahead.

Up, down.

Hold it tighter.

With the other hand,
touch it below.

Whore, see how it's done!

So the girls are eight instead of nine.

Speaking of eight,
I know a joke.

It's about a man who had a friend
named Six-times-eight.

One night, going home
together, they got lost.

So our man sought his friend
groping, looking everywhere.

Finally, he thinks
he sees something move.

Overjoyed, thinking
he's found his friend,

he cries, "Six-times-eight."

And a voice answers: "48."

Music.

Now, Sra. Vaccari, another story.

Something stimulating
to instill vigor for further battle.

So, gentlemen, I was nine,

when Sister took me
to Milan to Sra. Calzecchi,

who examined me
and asked if I wanted to work.

"Yes, Signora," I replied.
"Any job that's well-paid."

Half an hour later, I began.

A corpulent man appeared
who studied me from head to toe.

His name was Vaccari.

Once in the room,
I showed him my pussy

which I considered precious.

Horrified, he covered his eyes.

"Out of the question.

Nothing to do with your vagina.

Hide it, please."

He covered me,
making me lie prone...

and said, "These poor whores
have only vaginas to display.

Now, to feel pleasure,
I must dispel the ghastly image."

He wrapped me in a sheet
from head to toe, like a mummy,

leaving only my behind exposed.

First he handled it gently,

then opened it, closed it,

sucked it greedily, then again.

Then he took a stool

and carefully put his member
between my buttocks.

His movements became fast.

Then frenzied.

"There's the adorable behind,
the sweet little anus.

Now I'm going to wet it."

He said that three or four times.

I never saw him again.

This Vaccari, your first client,

has an idea of women
most of us don't share.

Often, truly,
the homage paid this temple

is more ardent than the incense
burnt at the other.

This is a debate
I propose to this company.

How could we determine

the true sex of a boy or girl,

their best part,
in other words?

I believe it's masturbation
of the respective body areas.

Let's take the youngsters
about whom we have doubts

then go at once
to the last room to verify.

Observing, as we do,
with equal passion and apathy.

Guido and Vaccari masturbating
the two bodies belonging to us

inspires a series
of interesting reflections.

Be so kind as to tell
them to us, dear Duke.

We Fascists
are the only true anarchists,

naturally, once we're
masters of the state.

In fact, the one true anarchy
is that of power.

Nevertheless, look.

The obscene gesticulation
is like deaf-mutes' language,

with a code none of us,

despite unrestrained caprice,
can transgress.

There is nothing to be done.
Our choice is categorical.

We've to subject our pleasure
to a sole gesture.

Hurrah, he's come!
He's a man.

Good, very good.

Our Sergio's behaved well.

- And here's a woman.
- The first couple's formed.

Come on, Sergio,
you've proven you're a man.

Here's your prize.

Get moving.

As the gentlemen are pleased

to grant you this privilege,

we will solemnly
celebrate your marriage.

What a fine thing.

What a whore.

Make way, fools.

We'll resume
the interrupted ceremony.

Do you take as wife,
Renata, present here?

Yes, I do.

Will you have as husband,
Sergio, present here?

Yes, I do.

In that case,
I declare you man and wife.

Everybody, get out! Disappear!

Leave your guru's parampara alone.

Everybody outside.

You, too, out.

Come now, go on.

Are you newlyweds, or not?

You can give free rein
to your feelings.

Down!

Well then?

Get busy, idiot.

That flower is reserved for us.

The principle
of all greatness on earth

has long been
totally bathed in blood.

And still, my friends,
if my memory doesn't betray me,

yes, it's so.
"Without bloodshed,

there's no pardon.

Without bloodshed."
Baudelaire.

Pardon, I must tell you
that text is not Baudelaire,

but Nietzsche, and is taken
from Zur Genealogie der Moral

It's not Baudelaire or Nietzsche.

Or even St. Paul, Epistle
to the Romans. It's Dada!

Oh, sing the captivating thing
That pleased me so, da-da

Charming creature,
do you want my dirty underwear?

My old underpants?
It's incomparably refined.

You see how sensitive I am
to the value of things.

Listen, my angel.

I've the greatest desire
to grant your wish

since you know
I respect tastes, whims.

However baroque,
I find them respectable...

both because
we're not their masters,

and because the most singular
and bizarre when you study them

always stem from
"L'esprit de delicatesse."

Yes, old buggers.
"Spirit of delicacy!"

One day, the madam of the bordello

sent me to the home
of another libertine.

He received me,
in a ground-floor room

covered with splendid Chinese carpet.

Having made me undress,

he made me get on all fours
like an animal...

and stroking my head
two or three times, said...

"I want to see
if you are as quick as my dogs."

He threw two roast
chestnuts on the floor,

saying, as if I were a bitch:

"Go fetch!"

I thought the best thing
was to go along with the game.

I ran on all fours,
but two dogs ran past me

carrying the chestnuts
to their master

You've lovely eyes to look with?
Look then.

Piss. Piss.

"Sewer! Muck! Whore!"

"Filthy bitch," he cried,
again coming toward me

and ejaculating on my back.

So the episode ended.
The man vanished.

I stood up and found
25,000 lire in my cloak.

Eat, eat.

You, too. Eat.

Eat, eat, eat!

Excellency, are you convinced?

It's seeing those
who don't enjoy what I do,

and who suffer the worst,

that provides the fascination
of telling myself

I'm happier than that scum
they call "the people."

Wherever men are equal

and there isn't that difference,
happiness cannot exist.

It aids neither the humble
nor the unhappy.

�a va sans dire

In the world, there's no voluptuousness
that more flatters the senses

than social privilege.

Eat. Here.

Eat! Eat!

The moment's come to narrate
the passion of Minister Missiroli.

I presented myself at his house,
around 10:00 a.m.

The moment I entered,
the doors closed.

"What are you doing here, little bitch,"

the minister said, inflamed.

"Who allowed you to disturb me?"

Nobody had warned me
what would happen.

You can imagine
I was frightened by the welcome.

Eva.

"Strip then. Hurry,"
the minister yelled.

I can't go on.

"When I get my hands on you,
filthy whore,

you won't save your skin.

Oh, you're going to die."

Crying, I fell at his feet,
but nothing moved him.

He tore off my clothes,
ripping them.

And what truly scared me was seeing them
thrown into the fire one by one.

So I remained naked before him.

He, who had never seen me,

stared at my behind a bit,

uttered some curses
as he caressed me,

not moving his lips closer,

sank into semiconsciousness,

flung himself into a chair

and ejaculated,

making his sperm fall
on the charred remains of my clothes.

CIRCLE OF SHIT

Allow me a suggestion, Sra. Maggi.

Wouldn't it be opportune,
before beginning your stories,

that you show us your best part?

Of course.
With the greatest pleasure.

I told you, such an excellent behind
deserved to be seen.

I guarantee you,
few are more beautiful.

Thank you, gentlemen.
You are too kind.

We declare ourselves content.
You may begin.

Since you gentlemen have appreciated

what I myself consider my best part,

in my story, I'll try to stay
as close as possible to the subject.

I'm sure my story will be far from
displeasing to the president.

He must allow me
to tell of a passion

that enthralls him

and won me the honor
of his acquaintance.

You won't tell my depravities
to these innocents?

Enough.

I'm eager to hear Sra. Maggi's voice.

I'll spare you the tale
of my childhood.

Years spent endowing my body

with the capacity to satisfy
the basest, most outrageous desires.

I quickly became an expert
in that difficult art

and my reputation
spread throughout Italy.

My clients included many celebrities.

And to all I gave the best of myself.

First, I'd like to tell

an unusual episode in my life.

Sra. Evola, the madam I worked for,

sent me one day to a client,

having stuffed me with food,
with which she mixed a laxative.

I got to the home of the client,
an old Carabinieri general,

who wanted to be undressed
then diapered like a baby.

Used to such fixations...

Soon I had awful belly cramps.

The man made me
defecate before his eyes,

and I did without embarrassment.

Then, stammering, like an infant,

he made me collect my excrement
with my fingertips

so he could swallow it like pap.

All went according to plan.

My man, swallowing everything,

imitated a baby's crying

and ejaculated in his diapers.

I knew a man capable of quite
diverse refinements of the sort.

We expect the best
from you, you know.

Of course.

I've saved what you want.

What I'll tell now,
happened in Verona.

The waiter who came for me said

that the client waiting
was an old noble,

well-known in the region
for his depravity.

My curiosity, as you can imagine,
was enormous.

My mother, that evening,
was more intolerant than usual.

She begged me not to go,
to change my life and -

And then?

I couldn't resist temptation.

I killed her.

It was the only thing to do.

What awaited you,
stronger than anything in the world,

was worth, then, some sacrifice.

It's folly to think one owes
anything to one's mother.

Must she be thanked for having
felt pleasure while a man took her?

That alone should suffice.

I recall long ago,
I also had a mother

who aroused the same feelings
that you felt for yours.

As soon as I could,
I sent her to the next world.

I've never known a subtler pleasure

than the day she last closed her eyes.

Why is that child crying?

I'll tell you why.

Your talk has reminded
her of her mother.

Recall,

she died trying to protect the girl.

Splendid!

Are you crying for your mama?

Come, I'll console you!

Come here to me!

Come, little darling
to your good daddy

He'll sing you a lullaby

Heavens,
what an opportunity you offer me.

Sra. Maggi's tale
must be acted upon at once.

Sir, Sir.

Pity. Respect my grief.

I'm suffering so,
at my mother's fate.

She died for me
and I'll never see her again.

Undress her.

Kill me!

At least God,
whom I implore, will pity me.

Kill me, but don't dishonor me.

This whining's the most exciting
thing I've ever heard.

Kill me and free me from this torment,

seeing and hearing such horrors.
- You heard her.

She called on God.

Write her name at once
in the punishment list.

She deserves a terrible one.

Yes, but the most terrible,

so I can meet my mama again.

Not so fast.

We know well
what we'll do with you.

You'll be punished
and deflowered at the right moment.

Don't think to escape me

or think to restrain my desire
by your despair.

On the contrary.

Come, little one.
It's ready.

On your knees!

Courage.

Go on. Eat.

Take this spoon.

Eat!

Eat it.

Eat.

Eat more.

It's intolerable, the silly thing.

A friend from Ferrara insisted

I give him excrement
from an old beggar-woman

so it'd be more stinking and tasty.

I found him a woman of 70

covered with tumors and sores

and made her defecate for him

He pronounced it excellent,
and I found, in time,

how to make the dish
even more appetizing

- How?
- Simple

By provoking minor indigestion

Pointless to make a subject
eat things he doesn't like,

though frequently, spoiled foods
produce excellent diarrhea.

Just have him eat fast,
at odd hours,

when he's already digesting.

We must do that
as soon as possible.

Dear Mr. President,

I'm really eager to know

how you became acquainted
with Sra. Maggi.

Wait! I want her to tell it.

After His Excellency's marriage
to Sergio, you'd laugh behind my back.

I wouldn't deprive you of that pleasure.

The subject broached by our narrator

demands, I feel,
a rectification of our laws.

If we wish to enjoy the fruit

of our stay behind these walls,

our rule should be revised.

Install in the lavatories a large tub

to collect the feces of our guests.

It's been said here
that nothing must be wasted.

Let's follow Sra. Maggi's
example and advice

and give our beloved president

the joy of seeing
his dream come true.

- Good day, Sra. Castelli.
- Good day, Mr. President.

They'll soon be ready.

- I just wanted to make sure.
- Come. The chamber-pots.

Hurry.

You know the rule!

Yes, sir, but...

What's your name?

Please, with the muck
we're made to eat.

- What's your name?
- Her name is Doris.

She's one of the most unruly.

Good. She'll be company

for those already listed here.

- Whose is that?
- Mine. Want some?

Is that how you obey the rule?

Lmpertinent thing.

Rino, kindly show me his behind.

You even had the impudence to wipe it.

You'll get what you deserve.

We're ready.
Excuse me.

In preparing this boy I was unable,
for once, to watch these rogues.

You men know that for us
your instructions are law

and every wish a command
that we are happy to obey.

I've taken the trouble
to feed the most apt creatures

the way I was taught

so they would provide
for this wedding feast

the most exquisite foods.

The girls have refrained from
acting on their needs privately,

as your law demands,

to give you this.

Let us begin the rite then.

Sadeian atheism restored
the divine character of monstrosity

by reiterated acts:
In other words, rites

You know, no more
intoxicating dish exists.

Your senses will gain new vigor

for the combat awaiting you.

Eat, my dear bride.

You must keep your strength.

You must prepare
for our night of love.

Nothing's worse than
a breath without odor.

Eva, I can't go on.

Offer it to the Madonna.

Do this with your fingers.

And say, "I can't eat rice
with my fingers like this."

I can't eat rice.

Then eat shit.

The things I'm to tell you
concern Cupid in person.

I refer, as you must have understood,
to our illustrious president.

After having satisfied him,

I was impressed by the special tastes

in one so young.

Tastes...

that clearly belong
to the theme of my story.

Well, my friends,

once freed of my mother,

I found life rich
in all its delights.

The woman for whom I worked

introduced me to the libertine
I mentioned.

His passions will seem to you
somewhat unusual.

The scene took place
in his house in Rovigo.

I was shown into a dark room

where I saw a man lying on the bed

and a coffin in the center of the room.

"You see before you,"
the libertine said,

"a man on his deathbed.

But he doesn't want to close his eyes

without paying a last homage

to the object of his adoration.

I adore the posterior.

And although I am dying,

I want to die embracing one.

When life has left my body,

you'll set me in the coffin,

and wrap me in my shroud yourself,

then close the lid.

I must be served scrupulously

in this supreme moment

with the only object
of my lewd desires."

"Come, Come," he continued,

his voice broken, sobbing.

"I'm at death's door."

I went to him, turned

and showed him my buttocks.

"Ah! Marvelous ass," he cried.

"I shall carry to the grave the sight

of such a beautiful ass."

And he fondled it,

opened it,

played with it and kissed it

as the healthiest man would've.

Then he made me rid myself

of what my intestine contained.

I did so, quite unabashed.

"There, now I must die," he said,

the death-rattle in his voice.

"The supreme moment's come."

At that, he heaved a deep sigh.

He stiffened...

and played his role so skillfully

I thought him truly dead

As I nailed the lid on the coffin,

he squeaked, "I'm coming!
Get out whore, or else "

Here. Piss.

Go, go on.
- It won't come.

There.

I've finished.

That cloud of disgust

that comes to disturb
the libertine's spirit

when the illusion fades

The limitation of love
is that you need an accomplice.

Your friend well knew
that the libertine's refinement

lies in being at once
executioner and victim.

My sister knew a gentleman,

an official in a bureau,
a little, pig-like man

with a very unpleasant face.

He put a pot under them,

she and he sat back to back

and defecated together.

Then he took the pot
stuck in his fingers,

stirred, and swallowed.

My sister said he'd only
to see her soiled behind

and he ejaculated.

But, Sra. Maggi,
had your sister a beautiful ass?

You must judge by this.

A famous painter,

commissioned to do a Venus
with beautiful buttocks,

asked her to model after he'd
consulted all the madames of Italy

without finding her equal.

And how old was she?

Fifteen.

Now we are curious.

You should hold a contest

among the behinds
of these dear children.

I'll do it.

I'm an expert.

Excellency, does this
situation give no ideas?

Well?

Sra. Maggi, ready?

One moment

The act of the sodomite
is the most absolute

in the mortality implied
for the human race.

The most ambiguous,
as it accepts the terms to break them.

There is something
still more monstrous.

The act of the executioner.
- True,

but the sodomite's act
can be repeated thousands of times.

A way can be found
to repeat the executioner's.

Here, gentlemen
We're ready

Lights out.

It is my masterpiece.

Wait.

Before beginning,
I have a proposal.

Speak.

We haven't decided what prize to give

to him or to her whose behind
is declared the most beautiful.

This is what I propose:

He or she

whose behind is judged most beautiful

will be immediately killed.

Agreed.

Thus, not knowing which is whose

we'll be sure of being impartial.

Fair observation!

Knowing an ass is a boy's
rather than a girl's

could influence our decision.

We must be free in our choice.

That's right.

It's a trap I don't want to fall into.

When one clearly prefers men,

it is hard to change.

The differences between
boys and girls are enormous.

One cannot go seeking
what is obviously inferior.

As for that!

But judging by the tales heard so far,

one could conclude

that often a girl
is preferable to a boy.

All the same,
let's try to be objective.

Wait. Gentlemen,
note the beauty of this groove,

the elasticity of this ass' skin.

There can be no doubt.

Wait. Forgive me,

but I'd like another look
at one that struck me.

More light here.
- We're glad to please you.

I don't think the heaviness
of these hips can compare

to the grace I pointed out
to you earlier.

That, to me,
is the loveliest ass in the villa.

It's only my personal opinion.
I submit to the majority.

I'll vote with the Duke.

I give my vote to the Duke's candidate.

Dear President, you see:
Three against one.

I bow to the majority,

but I would ask to be
given my candidate

to finish him off
at the appointed time.

So be it.

Lights!

Let's unveil the mystery.

It's Franchino.

Shoot!

Fool, how could you
believe I'd kill you?

Don't you know we'd want
to kill you a thousand times

to the limits of eternity,
if eternity has any.

I'd like to tell the story
of a mysterious client

whose passions are like those

that will be the object
of Sra. Castelli's stories.

And for this I apologize.

The man in question

wanted only women
who had been sentenced to death.

The closer they were to death,

the more he paid them.

He insisted visits take place
only once sentence had been passed.

Thanks to a lofty social position,

that enabled him to pay any price,

he managed never to miss one.

He did not possess them casually.

He wanted them to show their hips
and defecate before him.

He maintained there
could not be better stools

than those of a woman

who has just heard
her death sentence.

CIRCLE OF BLOOD

Bishop, we're ready.

We want a marriage
with all the frills

First, the president
He's the one most in heat

That's true I admit it

Sons of bitches.

It's funereal!

These parasites are
doing nothing for the party.

Yell with joy!
Do as you like, but laugh.

Go on, idiots!

Show how happy you are.

Go on, laugh!

You!

Why aren't you yelling for joy?
Go on, sing!

Laugh! Split your sides.
You don't laugh?

You two?
What are you doing?

Excellency, please, take note.

Yes, ladies.

If you like to whimper,

we'll make you whimper
for the rest of your days!

Few as they are!

Mr. Royal, you should've paid your rent!

- Of course, Mr. Juju.
- Did you think you'd pay my rent?

- Why, Mr. Juju?
- Because I've got no money.

- You must earn money.
- How does one earn money?

By working with his hands.

But I can't do that.

So you should act.

Oh, it's so difficult.

So you should write...

anything.

What are you doing?
Are you serious?

Wait till I've done my duty.
I'll be with you.

You've only to ask.

My friend and I are always ready.

Listen to me, please.

Speak, speak.

- What will you do to me?
- It'll be decided tomorrow.

Many things will be decided tomorrow.

I know one thing none of you knows.

Someone betrays your laws.

Graziella has a photo under her pillow.

Give me the photo.

Give it.

Give me the photo.

If you spare me, I'll show you

what Eva and Antoniska do
disobeying your rule.

So that's it. Bitch!

If you kill me,
I can't tell you what I know.

Speak, dirty whore.

Each night,
Ezio goes to the black maid.

I can take you there.

There they are.

Hey, faggots.

You're a mess.

Susy, Giuliana,
Liana, Tatiana.

Sergio, Lamberto.

Claudio, Carlo,
Franco, Tonino.

Antoniska, Renata,
Doris, Fatima.

Giuliana.

Those will wear a blue ribbon

and can imagine what awaits them.

The others, if they collaborate,
could come with us to Sal�.

What've we done?
What'll you do to us?

You'll see. You'll realize
how serious your misdeeds are.

To begin my story,

I've chosen a character

mentioned in the earlier stories.

A man of 40, of enormous stature

endowed with a stallion's member.

He's also a very rich gentleman,
very powerful,

stern, cruel,

a heart of stone.

He has a house near Milan

used only for his pleasures.

At each party,
he wants at least 15 girls

between 15 and 17 years old.

Those who're chosen

must first show themselves
to him, totally naked.

He touches them, gropes,
strokes and examines them

then makes each
defecate in his mouth.

He doesn't swallow.

At the end of the first operation,
with fearsome gravity,

he brands each on the shoulder

with a number, on the tender flesh.

After these preliminaries,
he opens the window,

sets the girl in the center
of the room, standing, erect,

her face towards the panes.

Then he gives her such
a hard kick on the behind

that the poor thing
flies across the room

through the open window

vanishing into the cellar.

Surely our man knew
not only Nietzsche,

but also Huysmans.

An executioner with a mask
and the devil's emblems

presides gravely over
each of these horrible rites.

And when all the girls are gathered,

our man...

is terribly aroused,

for after 30 contacts
he has never released himself.

He is naked, his member
as if glued to his belly.

All is ready.

All the machines go into action.

The tortures begin all at once,

causing a terrible racket.

The first is an enormous wheel
fit with razors

to which a girl is bound
to be flayed alive.

Another has a mouse
sewn into her vagina.

God! Why did you abandon us?

As you well know,

killing the same man
many times is not enough.

It's advisable instead,

to kill as many living beings
as possible.

Umberto, come here.

Good, you were ready.

Umberto, come here.

Know how a Bolshevik goes,
when diving into the Red Sea?

No.

Ah, you really don't know?

Tell me.

He goes, "Splash!"

Poetry corner:
Ezra Pound, the Cantos

Canto 99

Rail, scold and ructions
Manesco, the whole family suffers

What other way can you think of it?

The surname, and the nine arts

The paternal word's compassion

The son's, filiality

The brother's word: Mutuality

The younger's word: Deference

Small birds sing in chorus

Harmony in the proportion
of branches as clarity

- Can you dance?
- No.

- Let's try?
- A bit.

- What's your girlfriend's name?
- Marguerita.

THE END