The previous text I posted, a day or two back, came with a warning about its difficulty. This one… FIRE PAPER GUNS THE INTERNET and ALL WHO FOLLOWED AFTER (an excerpt)… makes that look like a book by John Irving or Erica Jong in comparison. It’s Sumo Class stuff in the hierarchy of obscure narratives.
Chapter One: SUMMER OF NONE
The splendors of existence are so near. Smell them, taste them, they are yours, right there, in thick liquids or crunchy solids or blown twinkling on your face in a highway mist through the passenger-side window of a secondhand clot-red car in the night, an emergency road trip, a quest, a sacred journey to the Mexican neighborhood down whining interstates and mumbling roads where cakes are purchased on the cusp between waking and not. D kept thinking how he was not an inanimate object. I am not an inanimate object. He stretched his hand out the window against the misty night. Tomorrow thirty. Not a devil-cold mineral-prism tumbling senseless in deep space away from the sun. Thirty. Not a pebble on a stain on the road. D could think yes or no, say yes or no, do yes or no, could also be either or both, which is Maybe. Thirty. He could breathe and shit and reproduce. He could take a 5-week correspondence course in Scat Singing or sign up for scientific service in a super-cooled bunker near the core of the Earth for a contract covering most of his adult life or fuck a cripple in the morning sun or say “tine”. It was the morning. D held his own head as the highway stripes blurred under the car and D’s head beheld It Self holding It in the oblong rearview that might have saved his life if Moog hadn’t just then reached up to make an inexplicable adjustment to center his own noir eyes in the oblong. Moog then asked D to roll up the window. The word Moog used was crank. D suddenly realized tomorrow was already today and D was suddenly thirty and wealthy and famous and D said,
“Are you cold? You never get cold.”
Moog said what Moog meant was that Moog couldn’t hear the stolen 8-Track proper with the window down. Moog (who had killed) said what Moog meant.
Moog was pale fat pre-morph transsexual with teats installed but pre-pumped I mean stembud-boobies and the cockadick still on (not yet chopped and pickled for some sicko doc’s collection) so in six more weeks there’d be a pronoun change and anal amnesty with new port for (imaginary) lovers to pummel with gargantuan cockadicks of Swiftian fiction. Clinicians were planning to fashion slick red long clitoris from cultured divot out plumpunderside of Moog’s hot tongue which Moog said was every kind of wrong laughing. D did not roll up D’s widow but reached over and batted Moog’s meticulously-manicured, garishly-ringed and sweetly powdered hand from where it hovered near the 8-track and twisted a knob to woofer-distorting max until Moog could only grimace. Super-loud Gordon Lightfoot. The yardless stumble-down houses careening by while the red and orange and green logo on the side of Moog’s clot-red secondhand car as Moog and D enjoyed Lightfoot melodies of chesty puissance. The car was guided by a bootlegged dog brain in copper cases of positronic oils which Moog had said was every kind of wrong but what can you do? You take it or leave it as is is how the World works now. There were crashes sometimes when the Inhibitors fritzed and the cars chased cats across the sidewalk.
A convoy of huge Ojibwa Copwheels roared by on the left shoulder of the highway under a vast hologrammatical turret-light and a glowing headdressed chief towered gold on the dark with arms outstretched above the highway.