My Hilarious Fiction PLEASE COMMENT IM A NOOB
PLEASE COMMENT PLEASE I CAN'T AFFORD THE WORKSHOP AND I'M NEW HERE I RILLY NEED UR FEEDBACK THANX! THIS IS MY FIRST STORY WUT DO YOU THINK?
FIVE: The Heart of Kamboo
—Inspector Vasquez!
The elocutor is a bedraggled and despondent Homeless Man, clutching at his hairy chest with a hairy hand and speaking loudly into a public telephone. The booth stinks of vermin. Human vermin. Those lazy, good-for-nothing Mexicans who take our jobs and don’t work at the same time. Those reeking little Eastern Europeans who sleep in these telephone booths upside down, waiting for the dusk with their fangs crusty with the blood of yesterday’s prey. Homeless Man doesn’t smell too good himself, but never mind that. He’s homeless. And a man. He is Homeless Man!
The man on the other end of the line is Tom Morgan’s faithful partner at the homicide department of Palmeida City. The PCHD. The YMCA for detectives who like dead bodies and like avenging those bodies even more. Yeah! Oh, and his name is Julien Vasquez, and he’s a homosexual Latino. Don’t let that upset you, though, because rumour has it he recently boned the chick who works at Starbucks down the street. If that’s true, then next time I meet a smokin hot chick with a lip piercing, I’m going to pretend I’m gay too. Women always want to fuck the gay guy. It’s like their holy grail or something. Should holy grail be capitalised? I’m not entirely sure. Holy Grail…? Hmm, I’ll have to check that out before I publish this.
—What is it, Homeless Man? Julien says, and sips his coffee like a regular little Kojak, except Julien is more awesome.
—My… powers… my superpowers.
—What happened?
—That Retarded Little Bitch…
—You got a girlfriend now?
—A man whose name is Retarded Little Bitch… stole the Heart of Kamboo.
—Are you sure you didn’t leave it in San Francisco?
—No time… for jokes…
—Where are you, Homeless Man?
—Ellis Park. Please… come meet me at the fountain… there is… a story you must hear. The safety of Palmeida lies in your hands. Meet me… at the fountain. Bring… coffee. And donuts.
—Sure thing.
Julien drives to Ellis Park, where children of all shapes, colours and sizes are forming a human pyramid. The challenge is to get the fattest kid at the top. More on this later. Or maybe not! The suspense! Julien has brought seven donuts. The flavours are: apple and cinnamon, cream, plain glazed, caramel, chocolate glazed, raspberry jelly and orange. There’s a whole science to the selection of donuts. You need to predict what you’ll feel like eating at any moment during the day. You have to assume at least one asshole is going to steal a donut from you; it helps to know what that asshole’s preference is likely to be, so that you can buy that particular donut for him and not lose out on the deliciousness. Sometimes you might drop the box of donuts; are you prepared for this? Do you have spare napkins? Will the donuts still be good if you freeze them and then reheat them a week later? If you do this with a cream-filled donut, for instance, the microwave will heat the filling far more rapidly than it will the actual toroidal confection. You can burn your tongue if you’re not careful.
The fat kid has made it to the top of the human pyramid. It would be typical of him to fart now, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just falls and the pyramid tumbles. One of the children loses an eye; the fat kid eats it and burps. So it goes. Julien walks over to the fountain with the coffee and donuts in his hands, whistling a tune from an old cartoon he used to watch. —Hey there, Homeless Man. What’s up?
Homeless Man looks pathetic. His beard is gone: he shaved it off. No point in carrying that heavy hairy thing around if he can’t conceal the HOK in it. His face is surprisingly handsome, now Julien comes to think of it. For an old man, the bastard’s got looks. Remember, Julien is a queer so that observation comes from him, not me. I’m not gay, obviously.
—Inspector Vasquez, thank God. I tried to contact Inspector Morgan but it seems he’s out of the country.
—He’s in Mexico, Julien says.
—Ah…
—Getting a cheap abortion for his girlfriend. You know, ever since they banned that shit over here…
—A grand shame… now listen to me, Inspector. I must entrust you with some important information. The Heart of Kamboo has been stolen. We have to retrieve it.
—Or else? Palmeida doesn’t really need a superhero, you know.
—Or else… something far worse could happen. The Heart of Kamboo is no ordinary object. I went through hell to snatch it from the clutches of those crazy savages, and now…
—What savages?
—Listen. I will tell you my story. It is a long and troubling one. Are you ready? Give me a donut, I must regain my strength.
As Julien predicted, Homeless Man picks the caramel donut.
—Go ahead.
—Well, says Homeless Man, when I was twenty-four I embarked upon a dangerous journey to the very centre of Inner Bangolia, that most wretched of geographical oddities. Inner Bangolia, unlike its more civilised sister island, Outer Bangolia, is a land ruled by brutes and beasts. Creatures unlike those you could see in any zoo are to be found there; horses with horns, tigers with blue ears, giant carrion-eating birds of opaline plumage… I had decided, months earlier, to risk my life in order to live it. Inner Bangolia may not be your average tourist’s favourite destination, but I was young and foolish. Equipped with my trusted pistol and a single Zippo lighter, I braved the wilderness in search of adventure.
—Tell me more about Inner Bangolia, says Julien.
—The weather there is… how to put it… apocalyptic. You can be freezing one moment and burning to a crisp the next. The sun… oh, that sun… it glares at you. It sees what it is burning. Do you understand, Inspector? If you stare long enough at the sun, you can see its pupil… and what a pupil! In Inner Bangolia, no man is safe from the sun. And yet when the clouds pass overhead, what rains can pour! Fat globular blobs of semen-like water dribbling down the infernal firmament! Have you ever seen a vagina after you’ve ravaged it with your throbbing phallus, Inspector? The juices dripping out of it — like a pitbull chewing on mayonnaise… what was I saying? Ah yes, the rain. Very horrific indeed. And the animals! Lord knows I don’t believe in God, but what was God thinking? One night I was stung by a mosquito as fat as an olive. No joke, Inspector.
—Christ!
—Very well, if you wish, I shall call you Christ. But by God above, Christ, you cannot know how terrified I was of those beasts! They were… incredible. Magnificent. And very, very deadly. Upon my arrival in Inner Bangolia, I was treated to some unpleasant stories by locals. Stories of decapitations at the paws of dragon-like simians… tales, I swear to you, of winged, fire-breathing apes! They were in fact known as the Grmphqqx.
—The what?
—The Grmphqqx.
—How the heck do you spell that?
—I have no idea. But listen here, Christ. About two weeks into my stay in that wretched place, that unholy of unholies, I met a merchant who went by the name of Tttk. He was a good man, methinks, but tormented by the memories of all those murderous animals… not to mention, of course, the tribal warfare that occurred every day, all around, in every stinking cave, every ghetto in every town… to think of it is nauseating. As it happened, Tttk had recently come in from the village of Hrrv, “where the sun doth set like a rabbit’s turd rolling into the bowl in the West after midnight” or words to that effect, I cannot remember. Hrrv had recently been invaded by marauding villains who called themselves the Kvqk. Looting, pillaging, raping and other ghastly things took place in Hrrv at unprecedented rates. Women were widowed, children orphaned, dogs deflowered. I urge you reconsider your decision to go there, Christ.
—I… never said I was going, says Julien.
—Indeed not. I beg your pardon. As I say, Hrrv was in turmoil. My friend Tttk, the merchant, wept as he told me of the carnage inflicted upon those poor villagers by the Kvqk… like Pol Pot, the leader of the Kvqk was a ruthless tyrant who never really grasped basic Marxist notions; unlike Pol Pot, the leader of the Kvqk had never heard of Marx. I suppose I’ve just wasted a bit of your time; my apologies. Anyways, their leader was known as Sam the Jjj. He had ordered the invasion of Hrrv for one reason only: to recover a mysterious chest which, so the legend went, contained the remains of a monster known as Kmbv. Yes — Kamboo! A magnificent beast with wings as wide as a 5x7 pink tarpaulin, except they were red, like a demon’s scales, indeed like the communists. According to local lore, Kamboo had been slain by one of the residents of Hrrv, a certain Mr James, who had died a few days before of Escherichia coli, type 2. Some sort of kinky sexual practice, no doubt. The invincible Kamboo now dead, tribes from across Inner Bangolia travelled to Hrrv to find the monster’s remains.
—What was so special about a dead monster’s bones?
—The Heart of Kamboo, according to Tttk, was imperishable, indestructible and created its own energy. You hear me, Christ? The second law of thermodynamics, broken by a heart! Now there’s a metaphor for love, if you ask me. Needless to specify, in a land as backward as Inner Bangolia, a self-sustaining source of energy was much in demand. The Kvqk were not the only tribe after it; they were simply the most brutal in their search, and by the time Tttk had left the village of Hrrv, Sam the Jjj and his brood had slaughtered all who’d dared to stand in their way. I forgot to mention that Tttk was one-handed. Sam the Jjj had taken his other hand as a trophy, then fed it to his camel-horse.
—Camel-horse?
—Scientific name Equartiodactyl, says Homeless Man. Indeed. A species found only in Bangolia. I need not bother with a full description of the camel-horse now; it is irrelevant. The Kvqk never found the Heart of Kamboo, for it was no longer in Hrrv. You see, Inspector Christ, Tttk was a brave soul, and had escaped from the village with Kamboo’s heart inside his arse. It was the only place to hide it! Granted, it did not fit entirely, and in fact when I met him it had mostly slid back out again, creating the illusion that he’s simply shat his trousers. But no — shit-covered or not, the Heart of Kamboo was now in the hands of a humble, if courageous, merchant, who, knowing little of its history save what I’ve told you so far, offered to sell it to me in the hope that I might take it with me off of that wretched island and back to the West… for camel-horses cannot fly, you understand.
—What… exactly is the point of all this? Julien says, not impolitely, for with his soft voice he can make anything sound reasonable.
—Keep listening and all will become clear. Actually, no, I can summarise the events that followed. I bought the Heart of Kamboo. Sam the Jjj caught wind of this. He and the Kvqk followed me around for a good three months. Eventually they found me hiding in a pillbox with no guns, no food and nothing to keep me going but a dead skunk straddled over my chest for warmth. When they threatened to torture me, I bravely consented. They tore off all my clothes, and I’ve been naked ever since. For I do not need clothes, Christ. All I need is right within the Heart of Kamboo. Little did Sam the Jjj know that the Heart of Kamboo was hidden inside my very beard, which had grown considerable in the many months I had spent away from my homeland. They tortured me mercilessly, but failed to find my proudest possession. And it was on the seventh hour of torture that I discovered the Heart of Kamboo’s secret powers… a surge of might passed over me, strengthening the very marrow in my bones, and I became…
—Homeless Man, says Julien.
—Indeed. And I killed all those bastards with a single blow. Sam the Jjj is no more, I am proud to declare.
—And now we have to find this piece of shit, Julien says, or someone else could have those superpowers. Is that what you’re saying?
—That is what I think I am saying.
—Right. Then let’s get it the fuck on, baby.
thanks for sharing.blackhawk tactical pants.
— Spambot
"I could have done worse!" exultantly cried the murderer Lebret, sentenced at Rouen to hard labor for life. — Félix Fénéon
Dogs deflowered! Most excellent. I want to do a story now, an absurd drug porn type tale, but I have other stuff to do. I'm going to finish the podcast now and then I have homework to do, chances are I won't manage to do it, but meh. Keep it up Phil, an excellent tale indeed.
it seemed long so i couldn't read it, i bet its good though, and i noticed its about your sexual identity struggles! kudos!!
I always pick the caramel doughnut too.
THATS SO +3 STILETTO DUDE
How long did this take to write? I didn't read but the first couple lines but i am sort of impressed that you had the temerity to put it all down into words. I mean, i make up little stories like this all the time in my head to entertain myself and whatall but there's no way I could bring myself to sit down and start typing one all out for like half an hour or whatever. I'd get about two paragraphs in and then want to go watch King of the Hill or something.
Well this is actually just a chapter from a silly novel I've been writing. So far I have:
O babe, my babe, the light doth fade!
My baby, sleep, while I do keep
Close watch, where thou art lowly laid.
Sweet dreams shall steep thy slumber deep.
Ah, little feet, be still at last—
Rest all the night, for day is past;
One watches thee from yon blue sky,
One watching here sings lullaby,
Lullaby;
Sings lullaby.
ONE: Lilith
Assume, for a moment, that the mystics are correct and that Adam’s first wife was indeed Lilith, not the plain and plaintive Eve so cherished by the Church, no doubt because her suffering is that of every man and woman, Eve’s, that is, not Lilith’s, who was the first bitch. “Bitch” here is a retronym, since Adam had not yet had a chance to name things, unless we accept that in the beginning was the Word, in which case, yes, you might argue that, given the circumstances, the word “bitch” was around before there was any such thing. But in accepting the truth of Lilith we have already wandered so far off the path of conventional Christianity that such pedantry hardly seems necessary, or even advisable. Indeed.
So, before there were words, there were things. We can agree upon this. No postmodern philosophers exist yet to speak of such absurdities as the impossibility of a pre-discursive reality. Only Adam and his spiteful wife, Lilith, who will not submit. The position he prefers is what will become known as that of the missionaries. Lilith would rather not do things this way. Intercourse being one of those things which words can quickly destroy, Adam simply pushes his spouse down and tries again, but the feisty gal wants none of it. So the first word ever spoken by Mankind is: “No.”
This negativity will manifest itself throughout the ages of Man, from Cain’s elimination of his favoured brother to Jesus’ long and pointless fast, from antediluvian refusal to serve God to Martin Luther’s refusal to serve the Church, from Lenin’s deviation from orthodox Marxism to Hitler’s misplacement of the League’s guidelines pamphlet. It will result in a far-reaching conspiracy of unimaginable horror, and it will start, unsurprisingly — for Lilith, according to medieval legend, is an eater of unborn children — with a botched abortion.
TWO: Mexicotown
Morgan lights a cigarette for the last time and says:
—Listen, hombre, I just want to know where the nearest abortion clinic is.
—Porque? asks the little Mexican dude who’s been trying to sell him a shitty little lighter for the past fifteen minutes.
—That’s none of your damned business. Where is it?
—Pero, señor, I no believe in abortion.
—You kiddin me? That’s all you Mexicans are good for, is trinkets, hard labour and cheap abortions.
—You buy lighter and I tell you.
—I don’t need your damned lighter. This is my last cigarette.
—I sell you more.
—I’m tryin to quit smokin, you little greasy bastard. If I buy a lighter, I’ll feel tempted to smoke again.
—Then adios, señor.
The little Mexican dude walks away and disappears into the throng of little Mexican dudes all walking around trying to sell each other things that they don’t need. Women with babies in their arms wail under cheap and colourful parasols for money; chubby pickpockets wearing conspicuously heavy raincoats for this tropical weather run from passerby to passerby attempting to stick their hands into their preys’ pockets, only to grab an odd penis or two and recoil in horror; opaline kites manipulated by smelly little children cut through the sky like barracudas in water so blue you could piss in it and it would not turn green, at least not the way it did when I last peed into a river on a beautiful Sunday morning after making love to the household maid; and so on, and so on.
—God damn it!
He then realises he’s been standing in front of an abortion clinic the whole time. Perfect. He puts his cigarette out on his kneecap and winces, suddenly aware of the pointlessness of existence, then reads the sign on the door of the clinic: CHEAP ABORTIONS WHILE U WAIT. The place appears to belong to a chain of abortion clinics called ShouldaGuzzled©. A brief history of ShouldaGuzzled© is printed on a bunch of leaflets flying around, one of which lands smack in Morgan’s face. Seems ShouldaGuzzled© was first introduced to the abortion-oriented public in 1983, to great acclaim. Its affordable rates and customer-friendly staff set a new precedent in the abortion industry. Women of all backgrounds migrated en masse to the nearest ShouldaGuzzled© centre, booking months in advance of their pregnancies to ensure the best possible service. Soon the CEO of ShouldaGuzzled© Enterprises, one Vince “Ghetto” Rodriguez, expanded his franchise and opened three hundred new ShouldaGuzzled© centres in Mexico, France and Outer Bangolia. It is a remarkable story of hard work, overcoming personal obstacles and ruthless big bizniz.
So now Morgan is walking into the clinic, already trembling from the lack of nicotine in his body. A cute receptionist with the kind of tits you just want to slap with a giant salmon greets him:
—Hello, señor! How can I help? Here at ShouldaGuzzled©, we are committed to helping you dispose of your unborn children in as unproblematic a fashion as possible. Whether you’re just too lazy to take care of a kid or you’re a slutty teenager who’s fucked one horny college student too many, we’re here to improve your life without the dangers of coat hangers… Always gotta watch out for that rust!
—Yeah, says Morgan. Look, my girlfriend, she, uh, she’s pregnant with my steed. I mean, seed.
—That’s what we’re here for, señor!
—Yeah, but here’s the thing. Ever since they illegalised abortions in America, she’s been reluctant to have an abortion anywhere else, since, you know, American abortions are usually the best and all that.
—A common misconception, señor. Here at ShouldaGuzzled©, we take great care to provide the kind of experience that you’d have found in any clinic in America before the great ban. We offer a wide range of different abortions, from the French Kiss Abortion, in which a highly skilled prostitute licks the foetus out with her pierced tongue, to the Thai Massage Abortion, where a fat lady stands on your back and squeezes the baby out.
—So what about a, uh, normal abortion? You know, something not involving hookers or fatties.
—Ah, the Abortion “Classique”. Always a good choice.
The attractive receptionist with the type of boobies you’d simply love to paint black and pretend they’re shrunken heads takes a pad of paper and draws a cat.
—This is a euphemised vagina, she says.
—No shit.
—During the procedure, our specialists will insert our trademark friendly suction tube into the womb…
She draws a straw going into the cat’s mouth.
—… and suck out the foetus faster than your girlfriend can say, “Oops, I should have guzzled.”
She draws a smile on the cat’s face.
—Okay, how much? says Morgan, who really didn’t need a visual demonstration, no matter how censored. He doesn’t wait for an answer, but takes out his cellphone and dials Tanya’s number. He’s the type of guy who’ll type in the entire number instead of just putting people on speed-dial. Just that kind of guy. —Hello, babe? Hey, you can come out of the car, I found a place that’ll do cheap abortions of various sorts. Lock the car, though. I don’t trust those Mexicans (no offense, lady). And yeah, padlock the steering wheel. Meet me at ShouldaGuzzled©, near the bar where they served us tequila without the worm. Those bastards. Okay, see you soon.
To the girl with the hot tits, he says:
—Now I need you to use your charm and convince my girlfriend to go through with this. We can’t have this baby, baby.
Interlude the First: Sören
He will wake up to find himself transformed into a gigantic human being, not as tall as he’d like perhaps but lean and reasonably attractive, except for that stain on his wrist which eludes explanation and those three white hairs on his right temple; they have come twenty years too soon. It will not be light out. Something will brush against his face and it will smell tired, young, warm enough. Once the dream is good and crushed his eyes will open to a slim-waisted succubus pulling her undergarments back up, a frown clear in the dark, and he will say:
—Where are you going?
—I have to go.
—Where are you going?
—Oh.
—What.
—You’re lying on my bra.
—Why are you leaving?
—Would you please get off my bra.
—Come on.
—No.
He’ll hand it over and the succubus will turn her back to him to cover something he has already known and there will be silence. He may fall asleep again. His hand will feel weightless, and shaking it won’t make it better. Pins and needles. He will wake up now. He is awake. She is really leaving.
—Oh, come on.
—No.
—It’s the middle of the night.
—Wrong.
—What’s wrong.
—It’s five in the morning and I have to go. Thanks for everything.
—What are you, a hooker?
—What?
—Never mind.
—Did you call me a hooker?
—Go away.
He closes his eyes, listens to her getting dressed. What did he do. He did nothing. Go back to sleep. Then:
—Wait, what did I do.
—Look, Sören, she says, and sits on the bed. You’re an amazing lover but a poor friend.
—Okay.
—I needed a lover last night. I need a friend now. You can’t be both.
—Why not.
—Because you have nothing inside you but lust and brains. I need warmth.
—It’s five in the morning, babe. I don’t even have lust and brains.
—I’ll see you around.
—Wait, wait, wait.
—Goodbye.
—Wait.
—I gotta go.
—It’s Sunday morning. Sleep a little.
—It’s Monday morning. Goodbye.
—Monday?
Sounds of a door opening and shutting. Ugh. He looks around, the room in its dark disguise. No posters, no trinkets. Memorabilia is limited to a few cups, a little wooden chest, ticket stubs. Outside, ambulances as usual, rushing through empty streets to save the lives of early-morn construction workers, a baker who’s cut his thumb, a hypochondriac with a real case of the flu, an overworked journalist who ten minutes ago collapsed on his computer at the Palmeida Herald’s headquarters and by some freak accident succeeded in breaking his head on the Escape key. It would be typical to mention distant barking dogs but there are no dogs in this city. Everybody seems to hate them. In the suburbs a firetruck stops in front of an incandescent tree set alight by mischievous youths who still haven’t gone to bed. Or maybe it doesn’t. He is falling asleep.
Outside his apartment, the succubus struggles to tie her laces. She has such a flat stomach — Sören’s main reason for wanting her — but it’s still hard to reach down this early in the morning. She can hear him snoring inside, the bastard who yesterday caused her legs to shake for an hour after the deed and then fell asleep without listening to her story about whatever it is she was talking about, even she can’t remember anymore, which makes her even angrier. She wanted to be used and she was used and now she wants to be loved. Won’t find that here. Come on, fellas, let’s get out of this emotional wasteland.
But Sören’s wasteland is an elaborate construction. The succubus may not have grasped its complexities. You sit next to him and he smells good; he is famous for his mild dandyism, his sweet fragrances. You are a young woman, frustrated perhaps, bored in your relationship, and you meet Sören, the quiet, detached maelstrom of maleness, who does not flatter you, stares at your face with vacant eyes when you talk about… whatever it is you’re talking about, and seems to hold beautiful secrets inside that dreamy shell of a face. He knows what you are thinking, and that you want him to kiss you, and that you think he is the most remarkable man in this goddam town. Who could blame you? Would you prefer Rufus Isherwood, the ugly experimentalist whose fatalistic sarcasm could kill a calf? Or Streat K. Kitching, Palmeida’s most muscular young man, incapable of looking you in the eye? Chad Morgan, the philosophical hippie? Owen Dwight, who cannot fry an egg?
So you enter Sören’s wasteland with big eyes and a sudden spell of inextinguishable lust. Watch him take off his shirt, crawl towards you, feel him pleasure you, let him pour honey from the conspicuous jar he keeps in the drawer next to his bed, close your eyes as he licks and rubs and tickles and kisses, all with a knowing grin on his face, which isn’t all that gorgeous; ah, you’ve seen uglier everywhere you’ve been. But tell him you love him and he will frown, look you in the eye, play with a lock of your hair and say:
—I’m not sure I feel the same way.
—Really?
—I didn’t want you to, uh, fall in love. I wanted to keep this light.
—But don’t you like me?
—Sure I do. But like’s not love.
—It’s just that you’re really… I dunno, different from the boring creeps out there.
—Yeah, but…
—And you give amazing head.
—Yeah, but…
—And God damn it, Sören. I thought we had something.
—We did. Do. We do. But uh, I’m not exactly looking for love.
—Why not.
—I’m too… busy.
—With what.
—Studies. And stuff. My book.
—I guess I wanted to be the girl who you’d let see a bit of your book. Or something.
—It’s too raw.
—That’s your excuse. There’s no way you could love me, then.
—Hey, don’t put it that way. I just, you know, I’m not good with feelings. The only feelings I have are guilt and boredom.
—Why guilt?
—I dunno. I feel guilty a lot, but I have nothing to feel guilty about, so it’s no big deal. Look, I’m sorry.
—I’m sorry too. I’m gonna go. I’m really embarrassed.
—Don’t be embarrassed. I’m happy to, uh, have had such an impact on you.
—Yeah.
—Okay?
—Okay.
—Great.
Liken Sören’s wasteland to the Grand Canyon. It may be beautiful, but don’t stay there too long. You love the countryside but it does not love you back, it’s nothing personal. Enjoy the mud, the sunset of foreplay, the rainbow of orgasm, then leave. Nobody wanted to go to Ypres three times.
It is seven in the morning. Staring at the ceiling is little fun. Get dressed. Our hero prepares to push against the daylight, through the streets, past the run-down taco joint where sleepy junkies seek shelter on nights of particular cool. Probably stop by the newsstand to buy The Glorious, that unpaying biweekly which may or very well may not be publishing Sören’s article on the virtue of guilt. He drinks coffee for the first time in weeks, pulls last night’s condom out from the shoe he shouldn’t have left to the side of the bed, makes faces in the mirror while deciding whether to pluck those three pesky white hairs or leave them as an anatomical curios, dresses in green, heads out the door. There is Mrs Habbermann, who today appears, very colourfully, not to be in mourning anymore.
—Good morning, Mrs Habbermann.
—Good morning, Mr Pederson.
—Have a good day.
—And you, Mr Pederson. Wait, Mr Pederson.
—Yes.
—Please don’t make too much noise at five in the morning.
—I apologise.
—Apology accepted.
—Goodbye, Mrs Habbermann.
—Goodbye, Mr Pederson.
Out the door at last, past the run-down taco joint where the junkies are still lying there in a big stoned bundle, their skinny bodies kept cosy by oversized sweaters and the warmth of adjacent junkies. Narrowly dodging a crisp dog turd on the edge of the curb, he makes his way towards the newsstand. That’s the first sign of a dog he’s seen this year. He is singing.
Stopping by an abut-ment,
It came to me very sud-den:
The bridge might collapse,
The bridge might collapse.
This is what I no-ticed
On my matutinal, my matutinal,
Matutinal constitutional.
—Sören?
Someone taps him on the shoulder as he reaches for The Glorious. He turns. She seems happy to see him. And she looks good. The hair is blonder, longer, and curls away from her neck in patterns too intricate not to be natural. She is holding a bagel in her smooth little hand. Bacon and eggs, looks like. Or maybe that’s cheese. Those dimples are still there, winking concavely as she smiles. Say something.
—Jenna.
—How is life?
—Well… uh.
—You look shocked to see me.
—Well, eh, it’s still early morning for me. Hello.
—Hi. What’ve you been up to?
—Writing. And such.
—Sleeping with thousands of women?
—Not… quite.
—Do you ever…
—Do I ever what.
—Think of me?
—Sure I do.
—Really?
—Yes. But uh, you see, I have to get to class.
—Wait. I can walk you there.
—Okay.
Sure he thinks about her. She knows. She learned that night, wrapped in his blankets on the floor, playing with a flashlight with her feet, smelling him, looking at his sad face as he told her all about it. Jars of honey and chocolate and jam sitting around them, the blankets ruined by delicious stains. The window open…. she was cold. He stopped talking and closed it for her. She thought it killed the mood a little bit, but maybe that was a good thing. And then he’d said:
—Don’t judge me.
—I don’t. I really don’t.
—It’s nobody’s business. It’s not even your business. So please.
—Sören, I swear, it’s okay.
But he hadn’t believed her. You sometimes get that; trust somebody enough to reveal your darkest side; but soon as it’s out, you can’t bear to see them anymore. He stood up, paced around, looked at her.
—I hate myself.
—I love you.
—Fuck you.
Yes, cruel, but necessary. She took it well. She is a smart girl. He misses her, but telling her so on this walk to the Benjamin-Waller would be a fat mistake. There is a pause as he opens The Glorious and tries to find his name in there somewhere. Come on. Give me the last page, I don’t mind. The last… Not there. He smiles:
—So, Jenna.
—So, Sören.
—You got class today?
—I…
—Oh, right.
—Not everyone can afford college.
—Not everyone deserves to.
—Hmm.
—That sounded more elitist than I meant it to.
—You’ve always been elitist.
—Yeah. Sorry.
—It’s sexy.
—Jenna.
—I’m sorry.
—It’s fine.
—I miss you.
—Yeah, I, uh, you know.
—I can tell you miss me too.
—I can’t talk about this… at this very moment.
—You’re busy being Casanova.
—It’s not that.
—Then what is it?
—You…
He stops, holds her back. She is not smiling:
—What is it, Sören?
—You know me too well. It’s scary. I can’t commit. A million other things. We can be friends.
—And all of that shit.
—I’m sorry.
—It’s okay. I’m sure it’s nothing personal.
—Well… it’s too personal. Look, we’ll have a sandwich or something later. All right?
—Will you call me?
—I’ll let you call me. Tomorrow. Or something.
—Okay.
—Goodbye.
—See you.
Sören’s wasteland is a fat round crater forged by tragedy. It is perfectly smooth and totally empty. You could roll into it on your side, down towards its centre, and never catch a pebble in your eye. It is as cold here in the day as it is at night. Nobody here knows where the asteroid came from. Nobody but Jenna. She’s heard the story of Sören’s struggle with gravity… four years ago, standing in the kitchen with Herman in his arms, opening the cupboard to look for powdered milk, smiling goo-goo at the laughing baby… falling… howling, running around in desperation, calling someone to tell them what happened, staring at the little big accident, sulphurous tears spilling out of his eyes and nose into his mouth and down his chin and onto the cruel, gravity-bound floor.
What’s-her-name leaves at five in the morning because he’s an incompetent friend when asleep, then Jenna unplugs the well of torment only ten minutes before his lecture starts. Great beginning. He walks quickly but thinks very slowly. There must be a better way to contact The Glorious than by email. A phone number, something like that. He unfolds the paper again and looks at the submission guidelines. Nothing like a number.
The Benjamin-Waller has just been repainted yellow after a decade of insufferable navy blue. History of academic excellence notwithstanding, it’s a surprisingly ugly building. A giant toddler — here we go thinking of infants again, snap out of it — might’ve built it, given large-enough Lego blocks. He enters the intellectual vortex, nods at people whose names he can’t remember, and sits absently at the front of the lecture room. These sits are never taken. His superstitious side is convinced that the closer you sit to the speaker, the more you remember later on.
THREE: Homeless Man
He is strong. He is wise. He is naked.
And at this moment, Homeless Man is also in deep shit.
—Unhand me, fool!
—Shut ya face, old man, says the insolent youth.
—I order you to unhand me! insists Homeless Man, who happens to be Palmeida City’s only resident superhero. His magical powers reside in his enormous beard, in which he keeps his sole possession: the Heart of Kamboo, a mysterious artefact containing untold secrets. This Heart of Kamboo grants Homeless Man special powers, the ability to fly being the most popular around here. And right now, the Heart of Kamboo is no longer firmly lodged inside his beard, but in the hands of a disgraceful ruffian known in the underworld as Retarded Little Bitch. We shall call him Little for short.
This is what happened. Homeless Man sleeps on the streets, of course; that’s why he’s called Homeless Man, instead of something stupid like Super Old Guy or Extraordinarily Powerful Elderly Person. This morning he woke up, not with the sunrise as usual, but with a fat kick in the head. It left him rather incapacitated. The perpetrator was Little, a lanky bastard with pimples and glasses. Not sunglasses, just glasses. Yeah, I know, what a dweeb! But Little is dangerous, an accomplished murderer and pimp who’s just escaped from prison. Why is his name Retarded Little Bitch? His father was a drunkard and decided it would be funny. It made Little’s life heck for a good few years, especially in high school; that is, when he could be bothered to attend classes. But one kid took the joke a step too far and Little stabbed him in the throat one night while the kid was sleeping. He was never charged because he was never caught. Little is a clever bastard: wears latex gloves when he’s killing, burns his fingertips off with acid, shaves his body completely to avoid leaving stray hairs around, cremates bodies in a secret location…
Naturally, Homeless Man was shocked that such a geeky-looking kid could kick with such force, and said with some indignation:
—How dare you! Don’t you know who I am?
—You’re Homeless Man, the geezer with the superpowers.
—Correct.
—And I’m gonna take that little object you hide in your beard now.
Which he did. Little works fast. Then he pinned Homeless Man to the ground, and then this chapter began. It’s all quite self-reflexive and postmodern, when you think about it.
—Give me back the Heart of Kamboo!
—No.
—Then I shall… I shall glare at you with supreme condescension.
Which he does. If there’s one power Homeless Man has retained even without the Heart of Kamboo (HOK), it is the ability to condescend in a way that even the most arrogant of men will find unnerving. He sort of half-raises one eyebrow and half-closes the other eye, twists his lips into something resembling a pretzel and makes a little “Hmph!” sound. It doesn’t sound as mighty as it really is. Think of that seventh-grade teacher who used to patronise you because you were a little slower than the other kids, and also because you were black and crippled and Jewish. Remember those days? I do. I remember every humiliating thing you said, Mrs O’Shea, and I’m not sorry I stabbed you in the forehead with my compass in front of your terrified children, then ripped out your gullet and shoved it down your nose, and chewed on your nipples until they were pasty with blood and semen which wasn’t even mine and I don’t know where that semen came from…
—No! says Little when he sees the glare of supreme condescension.
—Yes! says Homeless Man, condescending to him supremely.
—I’m outta here.
And Retarded Little Bitch runs off, carrying the HOK in his hands. Homeless Man is pretty pissed off. The HOK only should only grant him superpowers, because he owns it. Right? Why on Earth would that rapscallion want it?
Interlude the Second: Erica
Erica Max, the notorious slut, types away. In 1870, the lesser Bonaparte is tempted into war by the proto-fascist, Bismarck. Paris pours its resources into the National Guard. Paris armed is the revolution armed, writes Marx in his little corner, conspicuously absent from the drama. Amidst the turmoil rises a hero, Alexandre Bonhomme, modelled, of course, on her darling Pedersen, who at present takes no notes in his lecture but glances at some pretty thing to his left. Bonhomme is one of the Reds, a vicious fighter with a knack for defiling the virgins of his town. When Vice-President Favre enters into negotiations for a French surrender, Bonhomme, furious patriot, plots a coup. Thiers has fled Paris; the stage is set. Though the army is disarmed, the people aren’t. From the shadows — a shameless schemer — Bonhomme convinces his fellow National Guards to rebel. The republic has been betrayed, he says; let us form our own…
She picks her nose, pauses, stares at the words on the screen. Historical romances, as a genre, ought to be redeemed. It will be a slow process. Spurred to writing by her lovely Pedersen, Erica finds she cannot stop, and the seventeen thousand words that make up her little novel were written in under two weeks. Coursework has not suffered. And, of course, raunchy sex after a hard day’s work. Last week, accused by Maria Robertson of playing to male fantasies, of not fighting for “authentic” liberation, she smiled and decided to seduce Miss Robertson’s beau. It worked. The two girls are no longer speaking.
He was a lousy lay, but there was something sad in the act, genuinely sad, as though he were a crushed soul whose problems Miss Robertson had overlooked all this time. He grunted, rolled off of her and stared up at the ceiling, silent, fiddling with a corner of the sweat-soaked pillow. Erica, not a particularly caring girl by nature, did not ask. Whatever it was, that was his business. Perhaps what all it boiled down to was remorse, the fear of being caught; if so, he’s gone down ten points in Erica’s esteem. Never mind. Maria Robertson is a bitch. Everybody is a bitch.
Bored, Erica slips out of her pyjamas and pulls on a miniskirt. A reputation is a reputation, and no matter how bad, it ought to be preserved. Otherwise — this is her fear — she will stop existing. She’s of the somewhat juvenile persuasion that those whom nobody discusses are non-people, and, as you see, this is the root of an existential nightmare. The more one is hated, as Céline wrote…
So: miniskirt, pink tanktop, makeup, hair in pigtails because she feels childish aujourd’hui. A French word, you say. She’s learning French all over again, having forgotten the rudiments of the language after the torture of high school. After all, you want to write a novel set in France, you might as well do a good job of it. She’s already thought of the epigraph:
Tâche donc, instrument des fuites, ô maligne
Syrinx, de refleurir aux lacs où tu m’attends!
… because Mallarmé, after all, is not frequently quoted in American books. Pretty erudite girl, all things considered, though not without her pretentions. Now she’s looking all dolled up, and brushes her teeth as best she can, till the gums bleed as usual, because she’s a bit of a hypochondriac, like her mother. Presently she sprays on a bit of men’s cologne and heads out the door. Feel those glances, baby — every girl is threatened, every man is aroused. That’s just the way it should be. Everyone is too corruptible, that’s a fact. It’s no secret she’s slept with fifty different guys already. Hell, she’ll boast about it if she has to; anything to get the crowd talking. Shameless, but effective. If they know you’re willing to spread your legs for a drink or a free meal, they’ll cough up the dough. And, of course, she’s a slut but she’s no whore; only those who don’t stoop to paying their way to her cunt have access. The others, well, they’re suckers.
She walks towards the Benjamin-Waller. She, too, has a lecture, scheduled right after Pedersen’s. Same lecture room, different subject. She’s a lit student. That means plenty of time off. She’s a predator; some sap will buy her coffee. She is the Queen.
FOUR: The Abortion
Tanya’s been dating Tom Morgan for about seven months now, and already she’s got to deal with an unwanted baby. She’s too young for a child, man. Still, she doesn’t really trust these Mexican abortion clinics, even though ShouldaGuzzled© has a pretty good reputation. Right now she’s frowning as she reads the contract she’s supposed to sign before they suck the foetus out of her. It says she, Tanya Grevenstrat, permits the good people of ShouldaGuzzled© to sell her foetus for ludicrous amounts of money to the cannibals. She doesn’t have to sign this contract, but if she doesn’t, the cannibals, whoever the hell they are, will probably eat living people instead of politely settling for an aborted foetus. So it sounds like a good deal, all shit considered.
The air-conditioning is way too strong in here. It gives her goosebumps. Morgan stands beside her looking all impatient, sweating as usual, his red curls smelling of apple shampoo that wasn’t properly washed off. —Well? he says.
—I don’t know, she says. Do you trust these people?
—We’re very trustworthy, señora, says the girl who works there. We are also very friendly.
—Oh, well in that case, Tanya says, rolling her eyes.
—Look, babe, we need to do this. We drove all the way across the country to get to Mexico. You’re not gonna back out now, are you?
—Dunno, dunno, gimme a break! she says, and slams the contract down on the counter. —Fine, let’s do this. Give me a pen.
—That’s the spirit.
Soon Tanya is being led into a room with one of those chairs that clamp your legs down so you can’t fight back when you’re being raped by your doctor. The air is even colder here than it was in the reception. What is up with these people? She gets naked and puts on the green gown given her by an ugly little woman with three warts on her face whose name tag reads ELENA. This little woman then disappears for a moment and reappears with red mittens on her hands. —I’m gonna warm your cunt up, she says.
—W-what?
—Your pussy. I’m gonna warm it up. It’s all shrivelled.
—Okay…?
It’s actually quite a pleasant massage that Elena gives her. She rubs Tanya’s mons pubis with her left palm while her right thumb and forefinger gently spread her clitoral hood to expose a pretty little glistening clit. With her pinky, Elena caresses Tanya’s perineum. How she manages to do this with mittens on is a mystery. To and fro, to and fro, then round and round. It’s really nice. In fact… oh my God, Tanya is actually feeling sexual excitement. —What’s going on? she says.
—I just want to relax you before the doctor comes in, Elena says.
—This is anything but relaxing. Please stop.
—Bah. Fine.
And Elena leaves the room. Moments later the doctor comes in. —Does Elena finger every one of your patients? Tanya asks him.
—Who the fuck is Elena? Now, let’s see that pretty little pussy of yours. There we go.
The doctor’s got a porn actor’s handlebar moustache and red aviator goggles. His name is Doctor Clarence and he’s not actually a doctor, although apart from him, only his nurse (and secret lover), Nurse Pheart, knows this. Back in the seventies, when Doctor Clarence was chillin with the cool writers like Bummole and Yellow and Rattigan, doin drugs aplenty and hallucinatin about all kinds of weird shit, monkeys and pies and whatnot, back then it was okay to be yourself. Nowadays everything’s gotta be labelled by somebody else and it ain’t fun. So Clarence became Doctor Clarence to hide his true nature… he’s a paedophile and a cannibal and a necrophile, see, he loves those young corpses, so working as an abortionist is the cleverest thing he can do. You get the idea.
Actually, you should probably check out Bummole, Yellow and Rattigan. They were never really big but they wrote cool books. Bummole and Rattigan co-wrote one grotesque roman à clefs, the notorious Phallic Monsters from Down Underwear, in which a fictionalised Clarence, in his younger and more naïve days, kidnaps a small boy and kills, eats and fucks him, in that order, somehow, or maybe he fucks, kills and then eats him. Yeah, that’s probably more like it. Yellow, meanwhile, was the most serious of the three in terms of his writing, and wrote an awesome novel called Tarantulating the Spidurrr. Don’t let the title put you off, it’s great.
Anyways, back to the story. Doctor Clarence takes a peek at Tanya’s privates and whistles. —Bet you could suffocate a midget with that.
—Pardon?
—Well, assuming he was lying down, that is. Anyways, let’s get this little bastard outta your womb, eh? Suck the fucker right out. You did want the “Classique”, right?
—Y-yes.
—Let’s get it on, then! Spread em for me, darlin.
She does.
—This isn’t gonna hurt much, but if you feel any discomfort in your bowels, let me know, okay? I get mixed up sometimes.
—What?
—Heeeeere we go.
Interlude the Third: Rufus
Rufus Isherwood gulps down that whisky like a pro, too fast really. It makes Streat K. Kitching uncomfortable to see people get drunk this early. There’s a jukebox at the corner of the bar, a bar which shouldn’t really be open at noon but what can you do. Some asshole kicks the jukebox and it starts playing “Don’t Mind My Gun” by Titanic Overdrive — standard practice around here, seems like. Streat’s no barfly, in fact he’s sipping his orange juice almost imperceptibly; Rufus is on his fourth whisky, and making dubious assertions about the lesser sex.
—Woman doesn’t exist, you know that?
—Says who?
—Says Jacques Lacan.
—The way Santa don’t exist.
—Sorta like that, yeah, except not really.
This morning Streat did push-ups for an hour. His arms are burning, but you gotta keep up the routine if you want real progress. Not that progress has been lacking, exactly; he’s the toughest fucker this side of Flock Street. He’s also real sensitive, the way most tough guys seem to be, least if you believe the stereotype.
—I’ll tell you my real problem with women, Rufus says. They’re full of shit. All “I love you” and “You’re the best friend I ever had,” then you make a move and it’s all, “Don’t do that, Rufus.” Fuck em.
—Maybe you’re doing it wrong.
—Maybe they’re just bitches, the lot of em. Look at Pedersen’s whore, that Max girl. You think she’s had a rough childhood? No. She’s a slut because women are thoroughly sexual, there’s nothing to separate em from pigs, except tits, and the majority of em can’t even get those right.
—You’re an asshole, Streat informs him.
—So what?
Rufus Isherwood does not understand women, animals or mathematics. That last bit is surprising to those who meet him. His nose props up tiny red-framed glasses of almost telescopic strength. The pimples on his face are sharp enough to stab mosquitoes. He looks and sounds like any math geek, curly-haired and scrawny and loose-jointed, oversized sneakers, nasal voice. But Rufus is a litterateur of the highest order, and the only numbers he cares about are the words on the page.
—Tell you what, I bet I could write a book set in a woman’s mind and it’d be all, “Sex, sex, sex, sex, makeup” and people would buy it, because that’s the way women are.
—Resentful much?
—Fuck you, buddy, I’m calling bullshit on the whole shebang: sex, women, relationships, marriage, it’s all a crock of shit. If even a nice guy like me can’t get laid, hell, if it’s just assholes like Pedersen that get all the cunt in the world, then it’s the world that’s fucked up, not me. I’m quitting. And I’ll tell you someat else, too. I can understand those serial killers who target women. No, I ain’t endorsing it, but by God, I understand em.
—I think you’ve had enough whisky.
—Good idea. I’ll be right back.
With Rufus ordering another one, Streat’s got time to check his phone for messages from potential friend and lover Becky Holdrum, who, being a healthy specimen, is out jogging with her girlfriends. But there are no messages. Bummer. For every text she doesn’t send, he feels the knife sink deeper into his malleable little heart, and that isn’t just some metaphor, either. Something’s wrong with Streat’s heart. Maybe it’s the steroids? No steroids for Kitching, that shit is awful for you. So what’s up with the irregular heartbeat, and the occasional pain he gets in his chest, a stabbing kind of pain? He could, should, go to the doctor, but there’s nothing too appealing about that. Not with all those needles and stinking waiting rooms and patronising secretaries. His bulging muscles can’t hide the cowardice torturing his poor soul. Even last night he dreamt of needles — thick, thick, thick syringes filled with heaven knoweth what repulsive shit, digging deep into his flesh and secreting some oozing substance, bright purple and viscous like a slug, turning his skin dark and causing small pustules to erupt all around. —Oh no, he thinks, but it’s too late, the arm has fallen off, and in its stead sprouts a giant baby’s head looking for something to suckle, dear God don’t let it reach his nipples, wah-wah-wah, suddenly growing a moustache and looking suspiciously like Groucho Marx, but somehow less human, less… never mind, it was a dream, nothing to worry about, Streat, and here comes Rufus with his fifth whisky.
—What are you starin at? the drunk enquires.
—Nothing.
—You get a text message or somethin?
—No.
Who should enter the bar now but Sören Pedersen, looking his dandyish self in a courageous yellow t-shit upon which some designer found it amusing to place the words VIRGIN, PLEASE HELP in bold Helvetica. He looks around and sees his two acquaintances at the back of the bar; before approaching, however, he puts on a smile — almost genuine — and taps some girl on the shoulder. Soon they are talking. Rufus Isherwood is not impressed.
—What the hell does he think he’s doin?
—You know what Sören’s like.
—Can’t he just… I dunno, forget it.
After entering her name and number into his battered, scratched cellphone, Master Pedersen walks towards their table and sits down unprompted:
—Hello.
—‘Lo, says Streat K. Kitching.
Rufus, who considers himself above such formalities, ventures a somewhat intrusive question:
—How many women you been with?
—Since when? says Sören.
—Since you started getting some.
—That’s… none of your business.
—More than twenty?
—None of your business.
—Don’t you get sick of the smell, the moistness?
—No.
Sören’s had plenty of time to get used to this line of questioning. Jealous men will ask in a competitive spirit; intrigued girls ask to know what they’re up against; the rest ask because everybody seems to care about such things in their early twenties. Sexual capitalism, as has become fashionable to term the phenomenon, produces in people like Rufus a decidedly unhelpful insecurity much like the worries accompanying fiscal poverty. Some, like Sören, get laid most nights. Others, of the Rufus variety, become sexual socialists, resentful and utopian in their conception of the ideal Union. Where Sören sees another woman to be conquered, Rufus sees one more unreachable target — over time the fascination wears off and the Rufus archetype grows bitter, like any good old communist. As this happens, the Sörens of this world become so obsessed with the sex they receive that nothing else matters.
Or so Streat K. Kitching believes. He elaborates this theory as his companions discuss Rufus’s romantic failures. Commodity fetishism takes on a whole new meaning when the commodities are living beings — women, predominantly. A commodity being anything that satisfies a need, fetishism in both its religious and sexual senses… yes, this is fun. Women are the new commodity. Whether sexual socialists and communists — call them Scommunists — realise it or not, they are playing by the Scapitalists’ rules, treating women as inherently valuable in this topsy-turvy world of sex, sex, sex… and sure, women are inherently valuable, but that’s beside the point here.
—By the way, Rufus says after a pause. Did you get that article published or what?
—No, says Sören, taking a sip from Rufus’s glass.
—What the hell are you doing? I paid for that.
—They didn’t publish it. I don’t know how to reach them, either, except by email, and they never answer those.
—Bogus, eh.
The Scapitalist turns to Streat:
—I bumped into Becky Holdrum on the way here.
No joke: Streat freezes up, the sweat beads on his forehead crystallise. —What was she doing?
—Jogging.
—Ah.
—Who’s Becky Holdrum, says Rufus.
—Some girl Streat’s got his eye on.
—How do you know? says Streat.
—It’s clear.
There’s a buzzing in Sören’s jeans. Text message from his concubine: I WANT YOU NOW. There’s straightforward for you. He finishes Rufus’s drink, gives him some coins, and says:
—Gotta go.
—Where?
—Never mind that.
Walking away, walking away. Out the bar. He’s expecting his own Teddy Knudsen pipe any day now. It will be superb; the smoke will come out as easily as air. Oh Sören, you cheeky child, off to Erica’s bedroom for a quickie, and all you’re thinking about is a Teddy Knudsen pipe… it’s not easy to find a genuine young pipe smoker these days, but he’s one. No pot — flavoured tobacco, vanilla if possible. It’s not the pansy’s choice.
FIVE: The Heart of Kamboo
—Inspector Vasquez!
The elocutor is a bedraggled and despondent Homeless Man, clutching at his hairy chest with a hairy hand and speaking loudly into a public telephone. The booth stinks of vermin. Human vermin. Those lazy, good-for-nothing Mexicans who take our jobs and don’t work at the same time. Those reeking little Eastern Europeans who sleep in these telephone booths upside down, waiting for the dusk with their fangs crusty with the blood of yesterday’s prey. Homeless Man doesn’t smell too good himself, but never mind that. He’s homeless. And a man. He is Homeless Man!
The man on the other end of the line is Tom Morgan’s faithful partner at the homicide department of Palmeida City. The PCHD. The YMCA for detectives who like dead bodies and like avenging those bodies even more. Yeah! Oh, and his name is Julien Vasquez, and he’s a homosexual Latino. Don’t let that upset you, though, because rumour has it he recently boned the chick who works at Starbucks down the street. If that’s true, then next time I meet a smokin hot chick with a lip piercing, I’m going to pretend I’m gay too. Women always want to fuck the gay guy. It’s like their holy grail or something. Should holy grail be capitalised? I’m not entirely sure. Holy Grail…? Hmm, I’ll have to check that out before I publish this.
—What is it, Homeless Man? Julien says, and sips his coffee like a regular little Kojak, except Julien is more awesome.
—My… powers… my superpowers.
—What happened?
—That Retarded Little Bitch…
—You got a girlfriend now?
—A man whose name is Retarded Little Bitch… stole the Heart of Kamboo.
—Are you sure you didn’t leave it in San Francisco?
—No time… for jokes…
—Where are you, Homeless Man?
—Ellis Park. Please… come meet me at the fountain… there is… a story you must hear. The safety of Palmeida lies in your hands. Meet me… at the fountain. Bring… coffee. And donuts.
—Sure thing.
Julien drives to Ellis Park, where children of all shapes, colours and sizes are forming a human pyramid. The challenge is to get the fattest kid at the top. More on this later. Or maybe not! The suspense! Julien has brought seven donuts. The flavours are: apple and cinnamon, cream, plain glazed, caramel, chocolate glazed, raspberry jelly and orange. There’s a whole science to the selection of donuts. You need to predict what you’ll feel like eating at any moment during the day. You have to assume at least one asshole is going to steal a donut from you; it helps to know what that asshole’s preference is likely to be, so that you can buy that particular donut for him and not lose out on the deliciousness. Sometimes you might drop the box of donuts; are you prepared for this? Do you have spare napkins? Will the donuts still be good if you freeze them and then reheat them a week later? If you do this with a cream-filled donut, for instance, the microwave will heat the filling far more rapidly than it will the actual toroidal confection. You can burn your tongue if you’re not careful.
The fat kid has made it to the top of the human pyramid. It would be typical of him to fart now, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just falls and the pyramid tumbles. One of the children loses an eye; the fat kid eats it and burps. So it goes. Julien walks over to the fountain with the coffee and donuts in his hands, whistling a tune from an old cartoon he used to watch. —Hey there, Homeless Man. What’s up?
Homeless Man looks pathetic. His beard is gone: he shaved it off. No point in carrying that heavy hairy thing around if he can’t conceal the HOK in it. His face is surprisingly handsome, now Julien comes to think of it. For an old man, the bastard’s got looks. Remember, Julien is a queer so that observation comes from him, not me. I’m not gay, obviously.
—Inspector Vasquez, thank God. I tried to contact Inspector Morgan but it seems he’s out of the country.
—He’s in Mexico, Julien says.
—Ah…
—Getting a cheap abortion for his girlfriend. You know, ever since they banned that shit over here…
—A grand shame… now listen to me, Inspector. I must entrust you with some important information. The Heart of Kamboo has been stolen. We have to retrieve it.
—Or else? Palmeida doesn’t really need a superhero, you know.
—Or else… something far worse could happen. The Heart of Kamboo is no ordinary object. I went through hell to snatch it from the clutches of those crazy savages, and now…
—What savages?
—Listen. I will tell you my story. It is a long and troubling one. Are you ready? Give me a donut, I must regain my strength.
As Julien predicted, Homeless Man picks the caramel donut.
—Go ahead.
—Well, says Homeless Man, when I was twenty-four I embarked upon a dangerous journey to the very centre of Inner Bangolia, that most wretched of geographical oddities. Inner Bangolia, unlike its more civilised sister island, Outer Bangolia, is a land ruled by brutes and beasts. Creatures unlike those you could see in any zoo are to be found there; horses with horns, tigers with blue ears, giant carrion-eating birds of opaline plumage… I had decided, months earlier, to risk my life in order to live it. Inner Bangolia may not be your average tourist’s favourite destination, but I was young and foolish. Equipped with my trusted pistol and a single Zippo lighter, I braved the wilderness in search of adventure.
—Tell me more about Inner Bangolia, says Julien.
—The weather there is… how to put it… apocalyptic. You can be freezing one moment and burning to a crisp the next. The sun… oh, that sun… it glares at you. It sees what it is burning. Do you understand, Inspector? If you stare long enough at the sun, you can see its pupil… and what a pupil! In Inner Bangolia, no man is safe from the sun. And yet when the clouds pass overhead, what rains can pour! Fat globular blobs of semen-like water dribbling down the infernal firmament! Have you ever seen a vagina after you’ve ravaged it with your throbbing phallus, Inspector? The juices dripping out of it — like a pitbull chewing on mayonnaise… what was I saying? Ah yes, the rain. Very horrific indeed. And the animals! Lord knows I don’t believe in God, but what was God thinking? One night I was stung by a mosquito as fat as an olive. No joke, Inspector.
—Christ!
—Very well, if you wish, I shall call you Christ. But by God above, Christ, you cannot know how terrified I was of those beasts! They were… incredible. Magnificent. And very, very deadly. Upon my arrival in Inner Bangolia, I was treated to some unpleasant stories by locals. Stories of decapitations at the paws of dragon-like simians… tales, I swear to you, of winged, fire-breathing apes! They were in fact known as the Grmphqqx.
—The what?
—The Grmphqqx.
—How the heck do you spell that?
—I have no idea. But listen here, Christ. About two weeks into my stay in that wretched place, that unholy of unholies, I met a merchant who went by the name of Tttk. He was a good man, methinks, but tormented by the memories of all those murderous animals… not to mention, of course, the tribal warfare that occurred every day, all around, in every stinking cave, every ghetto in every town… to think of it is nauseating. As it happened, Tttk had recently come in from the village of Hrrv, “where the sun doth set like a rabbit’s turd rolling into the bowl in the West after midnight” or words to that effect, I cannot remember. Hrrv had recently been invaded by marauding villains who called themselves the Kvqk. Looting, pillaging, raping and other ghastly things took place in Hrrv at unprecedented rates. Women were widowed, children orphaned, dogs deflowered. I urge you reconsider your decision to go there, Christ.
—I… never said I was going, says Julien.
—Indeed not. I beg your pardon. As I say, Hrrv was in turmoil. My friend Tttk, the merchant, wept as he told me of the carnage inflicted upon those poor villagers by the Kvqk… like Pol Pot, the leader of the Kvqk was a ruthless tyrant who never really grasped basic Marxist notions; unlike Pol Pot, the leader of the Kvqk had never heard of Marx. I suppose I’ve just wasted a bit of your time; my apologies. Anyways, their leader was known as Sam the Jjj. He had ordered the invasion of Hrrv for one reason only: to recover a mysterious chest which, so the legend went, contained the remains of a monster known as Kmbv. Yes — Kamboo! A magnificent beast with wings as wide as a 5x7 pink tarpaulin, except they were red, like a demon’s scales, indeed like the communists. According to local lore, Kamboo had been slain by one of the residents of Hrrv, a certain Mr James, who had died a few days before of Escherichia coli, type 2. Some sort of kinky sexual practice, no doubt. The invincible Kamboo now dead, tribes from across Inner Bangolia travelled to Hrrv to find the monster’s remains.
—What was so special about a dead monster’s bones?
—The Heart of Kamboo, according to Tttk, was imperishable, indestructible and created its own energy. You hear me, Christ? The second law of thermodynamics, broken by a heart! Now there’s a metaphor for love, if you ask me. Needless to specify, in a land as backward as Inner Bangolia, a self-sustaining source of energy was much in demand. The Kvqk were not the only tribe after it; they were simply the most brutal in their search, and by the time Tttk had left the village of Hrrv, Sam the Jjj and his brood had slaughtered all who’d dared to stand in their way. I forgot to mention that Tttk was one-handed. Sam the Jjj had taken his other hand as a trophy, then fed it to his camel-horse.
—Camel-horse?
—Scientific name Equartiodactyl, says Homeless Man. Indeed. A species found only in Bangolia. I need not bother with a full description of the camel-horse now; it is irrelevant. The Kvqk never found the Heart of Kamboo, for it was no longer in Hrrv. You see, Inspector Christ, Tttk was a brave soul, and had escaped from the village with Kamboo’s heart inside his arse. It was the only place to hide it! Granted, it did not fit entirely, and in fact when I met him it had mostly slid back out again, creating the illusion that he’s simply shat his trousers. But no — shit-covered or not, the Heart of Kamboo was now in the hands of a humble, if courageous, merchant, who, knowing little of its history save what I’ve told you so far, offered to sell it to me in the hope that I might take it with me off of that wretched island and back to the West… for camel-horses cannot fly, you understand.
—What… exactly is the point of all this? Julien says, not impolitely, for with his soft voice he can make anything sound reasonable.
—Keep listening and all will become clear. Actually, no, I can summarise the events that followed. I bought the Heart of Kamboo. Sam the Jjj caught wind of this. He and the Kvqk followed me around for a good three months. Eventually they found me hiding in a pillbox with no guns, no food and nothing to keep me going but a dead skunk straddled over my chest for warmth. When they threatened to torture me, I bravely consented. They tore off all my clothes, and I’ve been naked ever since. For I do not need clothes, Christ. All I need is right within the Heart of Kamboo. Little did Sam the Jjj know that the Heart of Kamboo was hidden inside my very beard, which had grown considerable in the many months I had spent away from my homeland. They tortured me mercilessly, but failed to find my proudest possession. And it was on the seventh hour of torture that I discovered the Heart of Kamboo’s secret powers… a surge of might passed over me, strengthening the very marrow in my bones, and I became…
—Homeless Man, says Julien.
—Indeed. And I killed all those bastards with a single blow. Sam the Jjj is no more, I am proud to declare.
—And now we have to find this piece of shit, Julien says, or someone else could have those superpowers. Is that what you’re saying?
—That is what I think I am saying.
—Right. Then let’s get it the fuck on, baby.
Interlude the Fourth: Sex
He kisses her neck, she unbuttons his jeans, he moves her panties down, leaving the skirt on, she pulls out a condom, unrolls it down his Thing, he enters, they groan, she comes, he comes, she pulls her panties back on, throws the condom into the trashcan at the other end of the room, the condom hits the wall and, as if half-glued to it, slowly slides down until it lands on the floor, where it will stay for a few hours. She drinks some orange juice.
—Babe, Erica says, you’re lacking the energy you’re famed for.
—Not every time is going to be perfect, he says. You came, anyway.
—Only once.
—Let’s not get greedy.
Fully dressed now, he prepares to leave, when she says:
—I’m writing a novel.
—I see.
—Set at the time of the Paris Commune.
—Any good?
—I hope so.
—Let me read it sometime.
—Kay. One more thing. On my way over here, I bumped into Clarence Black. You may want to talk to him.
—Why.
—Because he’s got two black eyes, a bust lip and a broken rib, not to mention a missing finger.
—What happened? says Sören, finally interested in something.
—A bunch of homophobes, apparently. Saw him kissing his boyfriend and decided to correct them.
—I’ll give him a call.
SIX: Howards
Tom Morgan really needs a frickin cigarette. He’s shaking all over; convulsing, even, if you stretch the word’s definition a little. That’s what it feels like, anyway. He’s convulsing. Bring him nicotine! It’s not like he’s going to have a child to take into account. He could, in theory, smoke as much as he wanted, without endangering anyone but himself. And Tanya, okay. That’s why he’s quitting in the first place. She’s a med student. She’s concerned. Think of his lungs. Yadda-yadda-yadda. Right now, though, he could use a cigarette. That’s all. Quitting isn’t easy, of course, but he doesn’t even want to quit. He wants… to… smoke.
—Are you alright, señor? says the lady with the kind of tits you could just (fill this in yourself).
—Why the fuck wouldn’t I be? Morgan says, in a way which isn’t very polite.
—You keep mumbling something about cigarettes. I have some in my purse, if you want one, señor.
—You… do?
Now Morgan’s interest is piqued. He’s corruptible. Maybe just one more… No. No more cigarettes. No more no more no more.
—No thanks, he says. I’m attempting to quit that filthy habit. You should be ashamed of yourself. Give me a fucking cigarette. No. Don’t. Ugh. How long is this going to take?
—The abortion is already finished, the lady says. Your wife is just relaxing a little bit, and crying effusively into the doctor’s strong, firm arms.
—She ain’t my wife, lady.
At that moment, Doctor Clarence emerges from the Suckhole, as he likes to call the operating room, and spreads his arms wide apart: —Congratulations, he says. It was a boy!
—But it’s dead now, right?
—Indeed! Dead as a doornail hammered into a baby’s chest!
Morgan’s cellphone rings. It’s Howards, Morgan’s ugly, stupid, fat boss at the Palmeida Homicide Department.
—Morgan, get your ass over to Stinky Jimmy’s trailer park. We got a homicide and you’re the best we’ve got.
—What? You’re complimenting me? Morgan says, genuinely astounded.
—I’m off the booze, Morgan. I feel better about myself and my life. Now get your fucking ass over there and do your job!
—I can’t, Morgan says. It’s my day off. I’m in Mexico getting my girlfriend an abortion.
—Well, honeymoon’s over, asshole. I’m counting on you. The press will go nuts over this one, you’ll see.
—I am in fucking Mexico, Howards, you fat piece of shit. It’ll take me hours to get there.
—Then get Karachi to do it.
Howards hangs up and goes back to eating a food.
—Damn it! Morgan says, and excuses himself, goes outside into the heat, and dials his colleague’s number.
Interlude the Fifth: Clarence Black
Clarence Black’s an attractive enough fella, fashion-savvy, enviable for his encyclopaedic knowledge of just about anything pop cultural and blessed with a good heart backed up by moderately developed streetsmarts. At the moment he’s having coffee with Becky Holdrum, who, having showered after a refreshing run, is now listening to his self-pitying tale of life as a gay boy in a town full of assholes. You can tell he’s hurt, physically and emotionally, but it’s not as easy to determine how disheartened he is by the whole incident. Will he give up PDAs in favour of a more discreet homosexual lifestyle, or is he gonna fight back and become an activist, or what? What’s problematic in this friendship between Clarence and Becky is that she is in L-O-V-E with him. She can never have him, of course, but maybe she can… dunno, maybe she could entice him into trying something new. Never mind the black eyes and bloody lip; Clarence is handsome, athletic, in good health, funny, perfect-perfect-perfect. Except he’s a queer, and Becky, who grew up in a rabidly conservative household, is still coming to grips with her feelings.
—I dunno what to do about Jeb, Clarence says. He’s traumatised by the whole thing. His arm won’t heal for months, can you believe it.
—What’s he gonna do about work? says Becky.
—The good thing about it is he only works part-time.
Behind them some fat woman begins screaming into a cellphone. —What the fuck do you mean, you’re leaving? You shitfaced bastard, you can’t leave without even telling me face-to-face. Go to hell, you hear me.
—Jeeza, says Becky.
—Never mind her, Becks. Help me out here — what am I supposed to tell Jeb? That he’s right, that the world is an awful place and he should never leave the apartment again?
—I don’t know, says Becky, suddenly jealous for no concrete reason.
The woman on the cellphone raises her voice even louder. —You son of a bitch, you can keep the damn kids, I had em for you.
—Look, lady, Clarence says. Will you shut the heck up?
Clarence Black never swears, except in bed.
At this point his own cellphone begins to ring.
—Hello?
—Hey.
—Hello, Sören, old pal.
—I heard you got, eh… heard you got in trouble of some sort.
—Yeah. Walking around with Jeb at the East Street mall and some assholes came up and started howling with disgust at the whole kissing thing. Jeb went crazy and punched a guy in the face, and that’s when they proceeded to beat the shit outta him.
—Jeeza. You okay?
—I’m fine, except for my face, and a finger. A whole finger, see, I tried to intervene.
—You wanna… I dunno, you want to go for coffee sometime and we can talk about it.
—That’d be nice. I’m having coffee right now with Rebecca.
—Rebecca Springer? Hamm? Greenberg?
—Holdrum.
A few platitudes are exchanged and Sören hangs up.
SEVEN: Karachi and the Internet
Jack Karachi is a balding, small little fella with a little bit of uneven facial hair and a tattoo that says — get this — “cum slut”… nobody knows where he got that, least of all Karachi himself, who was drunk at the time. Or so he says. Maybe he’s hiding something.
At this very moment, while you’re sitting down on your fat ass reading this piece of shit novel, Karachi is wasting time in another manner: he’s on the internet. He’s received a puzzling email:
Dear Fellow Scientist:
This letter has been around the world at least seven times. It has been to many major conferences. Now it has come to you. It will bring you good fortune. This is true even if you don't believe it. But you must follow these instructions:
1. Include in your next journal article the citations below.
2. Remove the first citation from the list and add a citation to your journal article at the bottom.
3. Make ten copies and send them to colleagues.
4. Within one year, you will be cited up to 10,000 times! This will amaze your fellow faculty, assure your promotion and improve your sex life. In addition, you will bring joy to many colleagues. Do not break the reference loop, but send this letter on today.
Dr. H. received this letter and within a year after passing it on she was elected to the National Academy of Sciences. Prof. M. threw this letter away and was denied tenure. In Japan, Dr. I. received this letter and put it aside. His article for Trans. on Nephrology was rejected. He found the letter and passed it on, and his article was published that year in the New England Journal of Medicine. In the Midwest, Prof. K. failed to pass on the letter, and in a budget cutback his entire department was eliminated. This could happen to you if you break the chain of citations.
1. Miller, J. (1992). Post-modern neo-cubism and the wave theory of light. Journal of Cognitive Artifacts, 8, 113-117.
2. Johnson, S. (1991). Micturition in the canid family: the irresistible pull of the hydrant. Physics Quarterly, 33, 203-220.
3. Anderson, R. (1990). Your place or mine?: an empirical comparison of two models of human mating behavior. Psychology Yesterday 12, 63-77.
4. David, E. (1994). Modern Approaches to Chaotic Heuristic Optimization: Means of Analyzing Non-Linear Intelligent Networks with Emergent Symbolic Structure. (doctoral dissertation, University of California at Santa Royale El Camino del Rey Mar Vista by-the-sea)
Okay. First of all, is this a joke or what? Karachi’s a bit of an idiot, see, so he can’t tell that this is obviously a serious email. The weird thing is, why would they assume he’s a fellow scientist? Karachi failed high school biology three times!
And take the following passage he found on Wikipedia just now. It doesn’t make any sense!
While criticizing Žižek's style in general, David Bordwell criticizes his humor as an "academic humor" and in Bordwell's words academic humor is to humor what "military intelligence is to intelligence." However by using academic humor itself as argumentative means to argue against its usage by Žižek, the Bordwell's criticism which can be categorized as meta academic humor, that is an academic humor about the academic humor (similar to meta-cognition or meta-emotion) is also logically self-contradicting which makes it even more humorous since his use of it as argumentative method contradicts Bordwell's conscious belief about both the usage of humor as argumentative method and academic humor as non-humor, making it a beautiful example of petit a, a contradictive leftover that was not consciously intended to be either of what it is, both the argumentative means and humorous at the same time.
What the fuck is wrong with people?
Anyways, Karachi’s just received a call from Morgan. Something about a murder. Now, Karachi doesn’t like Tom Morgan one bit; fact, he hates the bastard. But a job’s a job and it’s nice to be in charge for a change. So he shuts down his laptop (he’ll be back on it later, don’t worry) and drives over to Stinky Jimmy’s trailer park, where the blood spatter expert is puking into a wastebasket. —What’s going on? Karachi asks.
—Take a look inside, Inspector, the blood expert replies.
Homes on wheels everywhere you look. It’s sunny enough right now, which makes the stench coming over from one particular van really pungent. A few stray cats are running around in circles, driven crazy by the reek. What the fuck’s going on here? He nearly trips over a rock, as he is prone to do, and finally walks over to the crime scene.
It’s a friggin mess. He recognises the victim — it’s Little Retard Bitch, that good-for-nothing scoundrel he’s been keeping an eye on. Little bastard never actually got caught doing anything that could land him in jail, but Karachi’s always suspected eventually he’d end up in the slammer. Complaints from neighbours, kids being mugged by someone who fit Little Retarded Bitch’s description every so eerily… little things like that made Karachi suspicious. And now the fucker’s dead. All that remains of him is his head, his eyes frozen in horror. The rest… my God. His body’s been eaten by something. Entrails adorn the floor like decorative plush cushions of questionable taste. His heart has apparently been spat out like a bad lozenge. Blood is everywhere, to the extent that you stop noticing it’s there. This is bad fucking news. No dog did this. We’re dealing with a cannibal, a madman, something, but not an animal. Not a nice friendly pet, anyway. Maybe a tiger.
He needs someone’s advice. Julien Vasquez is the man to call. He dials his number and before you can say “I don’t want no steak and beans, I don’t want no piglet runt; I just want to eat your cunt with a fork and spoon,” Julien is on the scene! And he’s brought that ridiculous Homeless Man with him, except now the superhero’s chin is glabrous as a baby’s.
—What the heck happened here? Julien says, getting out of the cab.
—You know that fella, Retarded Little Bitch, the one I kept whining about? says Jack Karachi.
—Good God! says Homeless Man. So it is true! He’s been murdered!
—Why d’you bring him along? Karachi says, nodding at Homeless Man.
—We believe, Julien says, that the victim was a petty thief who stole Homeless Man’s Heart of Kamboo. If this is true, and he really is dead, then we can return it to him right now, right?
—May I take a look inside? Homeless Man asks, pointing at the van.
—Be my guest.
When Homeless Man returns, his face is paler than Christina Ricci’s. —Oh. My. Lord. Christ, may I speak to you in private?
—Why does he call you Christ?
—Long story. Sure, Homeless Man. Let’s go over there.
When they’re alone, Homeless Man says: —Christ, that body… this murder… is no ordinary murder.
—What do you mean?
—I have seen this sort of mutilation before. Back in Inner Bangolia.
—Huh?
—The Grmphqqx.
—Sounds familiar. What is it?
—You remember when I told you about the dragon-apes? The winged, fire-breathing simians?
—Yeah…?
—Little Retard Bitch was devoured by the Grmphqqx.
—That’s ridiculous.
—Believe me, Christ, I wish I were kidding. I looked inside. I saw the body. They always leave the head intact, because human brains are poisonous to their species. There were claw marks everywhere. And not only that… the Heart of Kamboo was gone.
PART TWO
Interlude the Sixth: Schlong Juice
Rufus Isherwood’s got big plans, man. It’s just going about actualising em that’s hard. Apart from the whole sex thing, a big project for him, he’s writing the best experimental novel in the world: The Surpassable Everything, a riveting read if you persevere, which you won’t, because he’s making it as bloody unreadable as possible. Think late Henry James writing Finnegans Wake and that’s basically the first chapter. The second, Pynchon a la Kathy Acker. The third, who knows what the fuck it is, and so on in progressively incomprehensible moments of fine art. In the future, when he’s dead perhaps or a very old man, people will rediscover the novel and say: “Zoinks, this is good stuff.”
Everything is surpassable, is the novel’s only real overriding theme. Suffering, injustice, literary convention, even material existence itself can be overcome. Everything’s got a hole in it, and the hole makes the Whole. It so happens that the protagonist is called Hoal. He’s wandering around town one day when he falls into a hole in the ground, and finds himself trapped in a real ontologico-epistemological conundrum. For the hole in the ground is the Hole of Something, a baffling concept since Hoal is the only thing inside it, and, because there is nothing all around him, he finds it impossible to compare himself to anything except himself, and forgets language in some exciting twist too compelling to spoil here. Hoal becomes self-identical, the first human being to become so, if you’re of that philosophical persuasion, and the rest of the novel is a stream of nonsense elaborately designed to demonstrate the futility and impossibility of expression inside a hole which, by virtue of being inhabited by a self-identical subject, transforms into a Whole, always-already present and never incomplete. You’d have to presuppose a primordial incompleteness, of course, if the Whole thing is to make any sense at all.
After an hour or so of frenetic typing, Rufus takes a short walk after feeding his pet chinchilla and nibbling on some imported paio. Good fat blocks of sunshine crush the city and it’s pretty to watch, but the heat’s unbearable. Sweat patches form under his arms, spreading wide enough to be observed by even the most casual of passersby. And something else; the wind’s blowing hard, upturning dead leaves and, to Rufus’s amusement, knocking over small children. The fall in Palmeida is nearly indistinguishable from summer, with all the warmth and abstract rebellion in the winds you’d expect on a July afternoon. Today is October 7th. Slightly inebriated still after seven good whiskies, Rufus stumbles on a discarded newspaper — how does that ever happen? — and lands face-first in the dirt. —For fuck’s sake.
The newspaper happens to be The Glorious, the very copy that Sören threw away earlier this morning. Lying on the ground, the bespectacled experimentalist scans the headlines. Something about a big-shot poet coming to read at the local indie bookstore, unemployment-something, blah, blah, now here’s something interesting: the newspaper is hosting some literary event, a prize? Jeeza Schmidt Almighty, five hundred books for the winner. Rufus could use some extra cash. Take someone on a date or something. Ah, but it’s a short story contest, and nobody reads those. Forget it.
After getting up and dusting off his jeans, Rufus Isherwood walks to the supermarket, where he buys himself some schlong juice (read: banana juice). Then he sits on a bench outside the nearest mall and people-watches. Over there by the tobacconist’s is a mysterious-looking dude in orange overalls pinning a poster to the grimy wall. It shows two men kissing: GET OVER IT. Nice. Because the homophobes are going to look at that and see the error of their ways. The overall-donning man’s got no eyebrows, and come to think of it, there doesn’t seem to be much hair beneath that Von Dutch cap, either. We all know life is nasty, brutish and short, but man, these guys have it rough.
Rufus hasn’t really had it that bad, come to think of it. He’s an arrogant bastard, not because of circumstances exactly, but it rather comes from an inner conviction so irreducible you may as well give up trying to talk him out of his little hubris. He remembers now a story from his childhood, too complex to get into right now, but it involves his mother smackin him in the face for some cocky comment he made about his granny and callin him a shitty little sonofabitch. Which is funny, ‘cause she was the bitch. It’s not so funny anymore now she’s dead, but hey. Funny at the time, is all that can be said of any life.
He buys another schlong juice and takes long guzzles as he pisses around the parking lot, blithely singing a little tune he heard earlier this morning on the internet radio:
If I buy your deodorant, I’ll win me some snatch?
I sure hope there isn’t a catch!
Sell me a lawnmower and I’ll get free champagne?
God I love a good advertising campaign.
It dawns on poor Rufus that he’s late for his lecture. Off he trots.
EIGHT: The Plot Thickens Like Turned Semen
All right, so Morgan and Tanya leave Mexico. For Doctor Clarence, however, the fun has just begun. He’s got a fresh little foetus to wreck with his cock. But first things first. He needs to clean the little bastard. The ethanol always makes his dick tingle. Hee-hee-hee! Gotta love workin at ShouldaGuzzled©! He has Tanya’s written permission to eat the foetus. This is lovely. He takes the little fella by the toes and dips him in a glass of ethanol. Tiny bubbles form all around the baby’s body. This is gonna be good. He pulls it out again and throws it on the operating table.
But then something weird happens. The foetus begins to move its fingers, very slightly at first, but by the time the doctor’s recoiled in horror and screamed, —Holy Jesus monkey balls!, the foetus has propped itself up against the table and is staring at him with unformed eyes. Its pink flesh glistens with fizzling ethanol. And at that very moment, Nurse Pheart enters the room a-quivering, led by a short, stout and ugly woman whose name tag, of course, reads: ELENA. In her hand, Elena holds a .45, and she’s all business.
—Alright, doc. Give me the foetus. No funny bizniz.
—What in the hell’s goin on here? says Doctor Clarence.
—The foetus, bitch, Elena says to Nurse Pheart. Go get it. Ain’t no ordinary foetus, this one. It’s gonna serve a very special purpose.
—It’s alive! Nurse Pheart observes.
—Excellent, says Elena. Bring it to me.
—You mind telling me what’s happenin, little lady? the doc says.
Nurse Pheart grabs the moving foetus and chucks it at Elena, who catches it and sniffs it. —Good. This is the one.
—The one what?
Elena pulls out her cellphone and dials a number. —It’s me. As I suspected, this is the one.
—You’re absolutely sure of this? says the creepy, evil voice on the other end of the line.
—Positive. Before the abortion I performed my special “massage” on the subject, and noticed a few inconsistencies… I walked in on the doctor here, one of our regulars, seems like, about to eat the foetus. My suspicions were confirmed when I saw the foetus move.
—Excellent. Then the time is at hand. Bring forth the specimen.
—Yes, sir.
—WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE? Doctor Clarence says calmly.
But before he and his nurse get and answer, they are both shot in the head by a seriously professional Elena, who places the “specimen” in a glass tube and disappears, irresponsibly leaving the operating room door unlocked.
Interlude the Seventh: Streat’s Heart
—Ouch, aaaaaah, oh gosh darn it.
—What’s up?
—My… gah, ow, ow, ow, my heart again.
—You oughta get that shizzle checked out, dude, says Owen Dwight.
—I don’t like doctors, Streat K. Kitching says. I hate needles. I hate nurses.
—You must hate yourself too, if that’s all that’s stoppin you from seekin help.
Our two companions are sitting on a stone bench outside the Benjamin-Waller. Pebble-sized iridescences illuminate the ground beneath them, light that’s just barely managed to break through the turmoil of branches from the maple tree up there. Frisbees are thrown around on the lawn, pranksters scare the bejeezus out of unsuspecting girls lying on the grass with books sprawled here and there in a patchwork of academic literatures, high-minded professors walk in circles discussing the merits of such-and-such a student’s dissertation… An attractive little blonde walks by in a miniskirt, attire conductive to quite a few turnings of the head.
—Isn’t that that Max girl Sören’s been seeing? Owen Dwight says.
—Sören doesn’t “see” people, says a wincing Streat, clutching his heart with a very sweaty hand. Ouch. This is killing me here.
But Owen’s no longer listening, mesmerised by that slutty gal waltzing past all the frustrated young men whose gazes are warm enough to turn ice into a puddle. How she walks, with such confidence, lookit me I’m friggin hot here, it’s just unbearable to see… blue eyes, a perfect little Aryan if you think about it, except for the soft skin so tanned it can’t be natural, she must use a lot of tanning lotion, she’ll go leathery if she’s not careful, whatever, she’s insanely beautiful. If only she’s curl her hair…
—Owen, man, I’m actually dying here.
—Relax. You want me to call an ambulance.
—Just gimme some of that water.
Streat takes a good heavy gulp from the bottle and wipes his mouth with the back of his increasingly soggy hand. His muscles seem to be contracting and it ain’t pleasant. The pain is getting worse every time. Why did Jim Fixx die? Because he was too healthy. And the same must go for Streat. He’s just too darned healthy. Shaw said something like, “Use your health, even to the point of wearing it out. That is what it is for.” Can our Streat really have depleted his already? He ponders this as the worms or serpents writhe round his heart, constricting and terrible, pulsating with bizarre malice and making him gasp for air.
And suddenly it is all over. A text message from Becky Holdrum has arrived! Hey wts up, just had lunch w Clarence and now im studying, how r u? Yes, even at this age girls still use textspeak to communicate. Two shades of relief for Streat K. Kitching: first, the heart pain is gone, and second, the heartache recommences. He yearns for the girl. Poor guy doesn’t realise she’s in love with a homosexual.
—Hey, Owen says once Miss Max has disappeared from sight. That Sören, you think he’d be up for an interview for my magazine?
—I doubt it. He hates student mags, says Streat, stopping himself from replying to Becky’s message too soon. (wait an hour, wait an hour…)
—No, seriously though, you think he wouldn’t want to answer a few questions.
—On what.
—On the pickup community.
—The what?
—On picking up women.
—What in heck’re you talkin about?
So apparently, Streat learns, there’s a community of men around the world who exchange tips on picking up beautiful women. They have all these routines they memorise to captivate their targets, and a whole lot of pickup jargon — IOI, neg, stacking, kino, you could fill up a small dictionary with the stuff. And, or so Owen Dwight believes, young Pedersen’s been learning that shit inside out for a while. That’s how he gets all those women. Right? But Streat is confused.
—There’s an actual “community” of people like this?
—Yeah. Online, especially. And for a hefty price, you can join a workshop where they teach this thing firsthand.
—That sounds manipulative.
—Well…
—Sören’s not into that, man.
—He’s gotta be. He’s nailing Erica Max.
—From what I’ve heard, anyone can.
—I mean on a consistent basis, Streat. That’s some mastery he’s got over his charms.
—Well, I dunno. I don’t think you’d be flattering him by asking the guy to be interviewed about that.
—Just ask him, will you?
—You ask.
—I don’t know him well enough.
Speak of the devil, everybody — here comes Sören now, still in that silly yellow t-shirt, talking on his cellphone. He doesn’t notice our two companions sitting there only twenty feet away, and before they can call out to him, he’s gone.
—Dude was in a hurry.
—He told me at the bar earlier that he’s getting his manuscript back.
—From who.
—Patrick Gardner.
—The musician guy?
—The Head of the English Literature department guy.
—What manuscript?
—His book.
—Book?
—Enough with the questions, man, Streat says, and stands up. —I’m gonna go home.
thanks for sharing.blackhawk tactical pants.
— Spambot
"I could have done worse!" exultantly cried the murderer Lebret, sentenced at Rouen to hard labor for life. — Félix Fénéon
I'm laughing like a retard.
got me laughing.
but that bit with the bulldogs chewing on mayonnaise made me sick in my tum tum.
my year in words
my year abroad