Oh, boy. Don’t let that tantalize you. We’ve got a lot of annoying things going on in this book. Shall we begin?
Richard Francis Burton, esteemed 19th century explorer, geographer, cartographer, culturaler, racister, and sexualar (“master of thirty-nine languages–including pornography” ), dies in 1890 Trieste, and wakes up in this moving tube of slime that rotates like a rotisserie chicken, surrounded by other tubes of rotating naked, hairless people, but he’s mostly noticing the Black guy over there, and the Asian guy over there, and this really pale chick whose breasts move with her breathing, and I guess those would be normal things for an undead 19th century European guy to notice. Then he shoots out of the tube and arrives in the bank of this river, and everybody is naked and hungry, and he winds up leading a group of people.
Our cast of characters: Continue reading