Original subtitles

I am Adrian Tripod, the Director of this place,

the House of Skin.

In a sense, my present incarnation was generated

by the mad dermatologist Antoine Rouge.

The House of Skin began its existence

as a residential clinic for wealthy patients

who were treated for severely pathological skin conditions

induced by contemporary cosmetics.

Antoine Rouge, who at the time,

was considered little more then a gifted technician

seized control of the house many years ago

and guided it towards a more fantastic species of research.

There was much opposition to the Rougian ascendancy

in certain high places.

The House is undeniably in decline.

Somehow, without my direct comprehension of it,

it has fallen into the hands of my two sullen interns.

Their purposes

are entirely opaque to me.

As are the purposes of so many others.

Before the disappearance of Antoine Rouge,

there were many strange creatures in residence here.

But for some time now, there has only been one.

And he...

...I believe, I have noted

a whitish, aerated amorphous affluence

oozing from his ears.

I am not quite certain.

My interns have also noted the deadly emergence

of this secretion which we call Rouge's foam.

It has been mandatory to cremate all those

who have died from Rouge's Malady.

Although during the period of secretion and haemorrhage,

the various pathological fluids are relatively harmless,

even essentially attractive.

These fluids soon develop

a virulence which can be devastating.

There was a time when Rouge's Malady appeared

only in post-pubertal human females.

It is perhaps natural that in my present confusion

I should find my way to the Institute of Neo-Venereal Disease.

In the exhilarating days of Rougian administration,

there was much collaboration between the House and this institute.

My former colleague has somehow withdrawn.

He himself has contracted

a species of venereal disease from one of his patients.

He was once a fierce sensualist

but he has now become a pure metaphysician.

His body has begun to create puzzling organs.

Each one very complex, very perfect,

unique yet seemingly without function.

As each is surgically removed,

it is quickly replaced by another equally mysterious.

He has taken to breaking into the specimens room

and stealing the jars containing these organs.

His body, he insists, is a galaxy.

And these creatures are solar systems.

He becomes melancholy when they are far from him.

His nurse says that his disease

is possibly a form of creative cancer.

I believe that this is what they have said.

It is difficult to recall so many dialects

when one has remained so long in isolation.

I have found a position as a therapist

with the Oceanic Podiatry Group.

They support their theoretical structure,

in part, by a grossly distorted interpretation

of the later evolutionary writings of Antoine Rouge.

Still the closeness of certain Rougian concepts is comforting.

The technique I am to attempt is the invocation

of the genetic history of feet.

That is, tentacles, lobed fins, flippers and so on.

By these and other more esoteric means,

I am to reverse the psychic relapse, now so common,

which can occur under intense genetic pressure.

I am, thereby, to encourage patients

to bear the burden of a suddenly alien gravity.

To walk, for example,

when they would prefer to revert to more primitive oceanic forms.

I have achieved a sort of equilibrium

in my anonymity here at Metaphysical Import-Export.

It has been simple to remain aloof

from the internal workings of this corporation

because as a minor intramural courier

I am not required to communicate

with many candidates for executive positions with whom I deal.

As a consequence, however,

I am uncertain as to what constitutes

the significance of their incessant exercises and competitions.

When Antoine Rouge disappeared

soon after he had himself contracted the disease

which bears his name,

we believed that he had preferred to die alone

in an exile only partially self-willed.

Still, he on one occasion remarked that Rouge's Malady

could not possibly be fatal to Rouge

though it had already killed hundreds of thousands of women.

And it is true that his death was confirmed only

by certain authorities who had long wished for his death.

Yet, the Rouge, as my mentor, and I

were preternaturally close.

And I feel sure

that he no longer exists.

I have been studying the stereoscopic card

delivered to me by the man with webbed toes.

Though his manner was brutal, the card he left me

was both inviting and peculiarly flattering.

Yet it was perhaps because of the perverse sexual nature

of the card's images,

so reminiscent of those which had gained an odd popularity

at the House of Skin

which decided me against contacting these subtle colleagues

as they describe themselves.

I fear, however, that if I remain here much longer

my hard won equilibrium may become a morbid stasis.

My former difficult patient now welcomes me with open arms.

He no longer limps

and claims that as a result of my abortive attempt at oceanic therapy

he feels he has come to terms with his mutant toes.

He adds something elaborately philosophical

about sea creatures, air and water,

but his idioms are extremely obscure.

As I had anticipated,

I have been invited to join a gathering of conspirators.

Their purposes are, as yet, opaque to me.

As are the purposes of so many others.

It is, however, quite clear

that they are heterosexual paedophiles.

A group specifically outlawed

though increasingly pervasive, nonetheless.

We are now all disciples of a new master it seems.

He is called Jomkin.

He describes these provocative spheres as his aquaria

and directs me to engage psychically

any aquarium for which I feel empathy.

I cannot deny my attraction

to certain of these perverse multi-dimensional images.

Jomkin suggests that there must evolve

a novel sexuality for a new species of man.

An emergent genetic biochemistry

for a most innovatively reproductive form of life.

He mentions Antoine Rouge.

But... I cannot

seem to see the connection

between

Adrian Tripod has been accepted by the Board of Directors

of the Gynaecological Research Foundation.

The Liaison Officer complains

that his feet and legs are most unpredictable.

He is afraid that they will give out on him entirely some day without warning.

And so when he is alone, he does not walk.

He notes the vastness of the Foundation's quarters

and the difficulty in reaching aid

for those suddenly rendered helpless.

In this connection, he mentions the Foundation's hired gunman

who apparently has a tendency

to misinterpret subtle social confrontations.

Adrian Tripod is to be directly introduced

to the subject of his study.

She is a research import

brought at great expense from a great distance

across several most contentious borders.

The Corporation Metaphysical Import-Export

has been involved in the venture.

He stresses the complex nature of prematurely induced puberty

which leaves such a subject vulnerable to Rouge's Malady

and is unable to guarantee

that she is not already somewhat defective in this respect.

At an obscure hotel for transients,

the same one some had said, that the faded mad dermatologist

Antoine Rouge occupied during those last years in exile,

Adrian Tripod secures temporary accommodations

for himself and his fellow subversives.

The concierge speaks at length about a root-like excrescence

which has begun to grow from one of his nostrils.

He believes it to be an extension of certain cerebral nerve cells.

A modified antennae, perhaps, a delicate sensing organ.

Attuned to what?

I ask him about Antoine Rouge

but he does not answer.

Although for safety's sake,

we shall be without Jomkin's guidance for some time,

we have agreed among ourselves

that there must be no delay

in attempting to impregnate our strange, unfathomable captive.

Adrian Tripod senses

the presence of Antoine Rouge.