From the tribuna Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart applauded and whistled emotioned, in front of the angelical or tremendous spectacle of his own oeuvre, the "Aria K295 for tenor and camerata: Se al labbro mio non credi" being sung by a German midget tenor called Manfred Schoenfeld.
Schoenfeld was a dwarf but his chest was so ample, and his vocal cords were so elastic and long, that allowed him to reach the most unexpected, powerful, thundering and rare notes ever heard in a human voice.
Schoenfeld -who always sang standing on a chair- could shift in one second from an extremely high-pitched falsetto to the lowest tone, so groovy and deep that made the walls of the theatre tremble like a miserable papirola.
The gala had a brief introduction with the "Divertimento No. 8 in F for cor anglais & oboe K213", during which Amadeus Mozart devoured an enormous baked magdalena or pastel replete of cream with his ocular spheres bombastically open.
Known was by the societé of Vienna of its time the fragile nature of Wolfgango Amadeo Mozarto, his erysipelas attacks followed by virulent inflammation of the salivary glands, especially the parotids, which ended with the genius rolling nervously on the Vienna's sidewalks like a crazy spinning top or like an insane poronga voladora.
But this was not an obstacle for Moza to compose and compose, so that in his atrociously short life he composed so many andantes, minuets, rondos, variations, piano concertos, sonatas, quintets for cornet, cantatas, arias, adagios, allegros in G, string quartets, motets, symphonies, contrapuntal studies, canons, operas, operettas, zarzuelas, serenades, larghettos, contredanses, incipits, ariettas, divertimenti, bagatelles, gigues, kyries and missas that he left us full of music, replete of music, fed up of music... actually, Mozart's legacy is a torture in a hell where the violins and the cellos never stop playing.
This is the reason why he paid for his sinful prodigality in life, with a feeble osseous structure, scarce semen, pain in the testicles, gout (the disease of kings), bonified cartilages, dry tongue, curvaceous and thin fingernails, hyperpyrexia, yellow rictus, erect eyebrows, oblong abdomen, poker face, glassy eyeballs, notably short torso, unusually long legs, atypical nanism, alarming cumulation of liquid in the ankles, delirium furens, aerophagia, myopia, acne, insupportable pruritus, allergy to everything, and priapism.
But there was something particularly recurrent in the skin of Mozart, it was an unhealthy physiologic process that started with the eruption of painful pustules in his chest, neck, face and penis, which exploded spontaneously a couple of hours later, emitting a transparent and aquose serum.
Once the liquid stopped flowing, a brown coagulated scab covered every pustular hole, which is a normal process, of course, but Mozart couldn't wait, and he scratched the scabs furiously before they would fall naturally, and new bodily humor flowed from the re-opened holes, but this time it was like a milky and thick whey, or liquid buttermilk, with horrible pain.
When this whey got dry, it formed a sort of cheese scabs on every pustule, the ardor was unbearable.
Mozart was experiencing these sick and nauseating cutaneous processes the previous days, but he had to attend the gala, so he narcotized his mind with a succulent soup of laudanum before the concerto.
The opiated potage provided him an extraordinary peace of mind, and he forgot his repugnant pain and suffering completely, while the drug was effective, but, in the middle of the operatic singing of Manfred Schoenfeld, something happened...
... perhaps it was due to the iron voice of the midget which reverberated in that small theater, but as the aria progressed, the insufferable itching returned to the skin of Mozart, with brand new pustular eruptions, especially in his genitals.
After 25 minutes of aria, the scarce ventilation and the impossible hotness of the venue opressed Mozart so much that he couldn't stand it anymore and took his pants off.
After this scandalous temerity -fruit of his desperation-, and seeing that everybody looked at him, and his reputation was already pulverized, Mozart simply went ahead and started scratching and chafing his cock with vigorousness, seated at the balcony of the especial guests, where he was surrounded by il Condottiero di Catanzaro, the Duchess of Cúmberland and the Provost of Chantillý.
But the ardor of Mozart's dick was so vivid that he begged the Duchess to give him bucal sex, to find some alleviations from his embarrassing situation:
the Duchess accepted, because Mozart looked very distressed, and started sucking his cock, but as the cock slid into the lips of the Duchess of Cúmberland, her teeth, carelessly scratched the new pustules, which exploded into her mouth, filling it with an abundant and caseous liquid.
The Duchess was brave, so she swallowed the cheese-like juice of Mozart's pustules and continued sucking, while Amadeo Mozarto exclaimed some loud "Aaaahhhhs" and "Oooooohhhhs", until the right moment when the celebrated composer realized he was about to cum, and exclaimed a notorious and echoing "AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH BHHWAAAAA" so loud that the dwarf tenor Manfred Schoenfeld stopped suddenly his vocal subibajas, and the hall got buried in a complete mutism.
Now everybody, but every body was looking at Mozart, even Manfred Schoenfeld from the stage, standing on his chair, all the perplex eyes were fixed on the indecorous and abundant bukkake that Mozart cum on the face of the Duchess, while the composer still was shaking his cock and vociferating resounding "Ahhhhhhhhhhh"s and "Buuuuuufffffff"s and "Mmmmmmmmm"s.
Manfred Schoenfeld, indignant, reproved Mozart severely from his stage (and his chair) asking the composer to explain all this immodest and lamentable spectacle.
And Schoenfeld ended every phrase with an "o", like "Can you explain this, o?"
Or "Whate the fuck is this shit, o?"
Or "You fucking bitch come to suck cock at the Opera, o?"
Or "Cagu en mi mantu, o"
Because, actually, Schoenfeld was from Asturias.
In sudden attack of fury, Mozart jumped from the balcony falling with his butt exactly on the head of the dwarf.
The next scenes were beyond ignominious and degrading:
pugilism, hyperviolence, catch-as-catch-can, destroyed seats, broken bones, the dwarf ejected through a window and, finally, someone who burned the theater to the ground.
Only Mozart survived, rescued by the Masons.
Days later Amadeus, who was pious, returned to the burned place, the ashes were untouched, and he picked the residual parts of Manfred Schoenfeld -or something that looked like Manfred Schoenfeld- and put it in an amphora, which was deposited at Schallplatenblatterbletzengröttusgrüberplatz, a cemetery for dwarves.
Anyway, Mozart died eight months later, knocked down by a horse:
while ascending to the Heavens, the genius lost his antique skin, and was invested with a toga of pure oil, vanilla and fast alcohol by Santa Rosa, La Pampa.
And at his energumenic elevation all the choruses played
and all the organs sang... and what did they sing? What did they sing?
Something terrible and azul.
And a god, and all the Atlantic Occean was in his eyes.
Open mouth, Mozart, like a jubilado in ParqueAstur
like a moron watching the television of death.
Once the liquid stopped flowing, a brown coagulated scab covered every pustular hole, which is a normal process, of course, but Mozart couldn't wait, and he scratched the scabs furiously before they would fall naturally, and new bodily humor flowed from the re-opened holes, but this time it was like a milky and thick whey, or liquid buttermilk, with horrible pain.
When this whey got dry, it formed a sort of cheese scabs on every pustule, the ardor was unbearable.
Mozart was experiencing these sick and nauseating cutaneous processes the previous days, but he had to attend the gala, so he narcotized his mind with a succulent soup of laudanum before the concerto.
The opiated potage provided him an extraordinary peace of mind, and he forgot his repugnant pain and suffering completely, while the drug was effective, but, in the middle of the operatic singing of Manfred Schoenfeld, something happened...
... perhaps it was due to the iron voice of the midget which reverberated in that small theater, but as the aria progressed, the insufferable itching returned to the skin of Mozart, with brand new pustular eruptions, especially in his genitals.
After 25 minutes of aria, the scarce ventilation and the impossible hotness of the venue opressed Mozart so much that he couldn't stand it anymore and took his pants off.
After this scandalous temerity -fruit of his desperation-, and seeing that everybody looked at him, and his reputation was already pulverized, Mozart simply went ahead and started scratching and chafing his cock with vigorousness, seated at the balcony of the especial guests, where he was surrounded by il Condottiero di Catanzaro, the Duchess of Cúmberland and the Provost of Chantillý.
But the ardor of Mozart's dick was so vivid that he begged the Duchess to give him bucal sex, to find some alleviations from his embarrassing situation:
the Duchess accepted, because Mozart looked very distressed, and started sucking his cock, but as the cock slid into the lips of the Duchess of Cúmberland, her teeth, carelessly scratched the new pustules, which exploded into her mouth, filling it with an abundant and caseous liquid.
The Duchess was brave, so she swallowed the cheese-like juice of Mozart's pustules and continued sucking, while Amadeo Mozarto exclaimed some loud "Aaaahhhhs" and "Oooooohhhhs", until the right moment when the celebrated composer realized he was about to cum, and exclaimed a notorious and echoing "AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH BHHWAAAAA" so loud that the dwarf tenor Manfred Schoenfeld stopped suddenly his vocal subibajas, and the hall got buried in a complete mutism.
Now everybody, but every body was looking at Mozart, even Manfred Schoenfeld from the stage, standing on his chair, all the perplex eyes were fixed on the indecorous and abundant bukkake that Mozart cum on the face of the Duchess, while the composer still was shaking his cock and vociferating resounding "Ahhhhhhhhhhh"s and "Buuuuuufffffff"s and "Mmmmmmmmm"s.
Manfred Schoenfeld, indignant, reproved Mozart severely from his stage (and his chair) asking the composer to explain all this immodest and lamentable spectacle.
And Schoenfeld ended every phrase with an "o", like "Can you explain this, o?"
Or "Whate the fuck is this shit, o?"
Or "You fucking bitch come to suck cock at the Opera, o?"
Or "Cagu en mi mantu, o"
Because, actually, Schoenfeld was from Asturias.
In sudden attack of fury, Mozart jumped from the balcony falling with his butt exactly on the head of the dwarf.
The next scenes were beyond ignominious and degrading:
pugilism, hyperviolence, catch-as-catch-can, destroyed seats, broken bones, the dwarf ejected through a window and, finally, someone who burned the theater to the ground.
Only Mozart survived, rescued by the Masons.
Days later Amadeus, who was pious, returned to the burned place, the ashes were untouched, and he picked the residual parts of Manfred Schoenfeld -or something that looked like Manfred Schoenfeld- and put it in an amphora, which was deposited at Schallplatenblatterbletzengröttusgrüberplatz, a cemetery for dwarves.
Anyway, Mozart died eight months later, knocked down by a horse:
while ascending to the Heavens, the genius lost his antique skin, and was invested with a toga of pure oil, vanilla and fast alcohol by Santa Rosa, La Pampa.
And at his energumenic elevation all the choruses played
and all the organs sang... and what did they sing? What did they sing?
Something terrible and azul.
And a god, and all the Atlantic Occean was in his eyes.
Open mouth, Mozart, like a jubilado in ParqueAstur
like a moron watching the television of death.
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