ANTAGONY...

Status: 2nd Draft

ANTAGONY...

Status: 2nd Draft

Content Summary


Yes, this entire novel is basically one big book-length prologue to a story that may never actually get totally told. Deal with it. Or not. :)

Author Chapter Note


INTRODUCTION: TO BE READ BEFORE PURCHASE

Chapter Content - ver.0

Submitted: January 21, 2019

Comments: 3

In-Line Reviews: 3

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.0

Submitted: January 21, 2019

Comments: 3

In-Line Reviews: 3

A A A

A A A

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The scene is set in media res...

An author reading and book-signing event

taking place at

Polonious Penmanship 

A bookstore in Seattle, Washington,

On June 15th, 2019.

 

It's me, myself, and I 

--the one and only John Henry Hamler, male, tall, 36, single, bisexual, and purposefully bald, praetorian fit, African-American, dressed like a Mighty Morphin Power Ranger with the intimidating red pleather suit and inscrutable motorcycle battle helm and all--

onstage but not "on" quite yet. Speaking in electronically modulated, but clearly exasperated, sotto voce; to both my literary agent

--the one and only Gerry Leonard, male, 49, married, straight, unwittingly bald, and unapologetically overweight Jew dressed like a neo-conservative game warden with the camoflauge bulletproof vest and utility belt and all--

and the owner of this dilapidated bookshop; my ostensible hostess with the mostest:

--the one and only Jackson Jong, female, 33, ostensibly single, heterosexual, and martial-artistical Eurasian hybrid dressed like a self-aware Spice Girl sporting a trendy/flattering bob with bangs, halter top and leopard-print fuck-me pumps and all--

with my be-gloved hand over the microphone, saying:

"Great shwetty fucking balls of googly-moogly Virgin Mary toast points, Gerry. You never prepared me for such a tremendous and torrential turnout!

Yeah, well, Miss Jong. And now that you ask... I'm being sarcastic. If not caustic as fuck, Miss Jong. Or Miss Jackson, if you're nasty. Do you happen to be nasty, by any chance? Because enquiring minds would like to know what your plans might be for later tonight.

So you say, naturally, but... Look! There's all of six --six!-- goddamned souls up in this piece come to listen to my sorry lips move. None of them brave or brazen enough to hazard the front row, the lot of them maddogging my spandexed crotch like I maybe/mighta fucked, fertilized, and bad-seeded their precious little princess over the freakin' weekend. As if my puckish spunk is carrying the satanic Antichrist gene or some shit.

On top of that shit; the air-conditioning is busted, on top of the cat piss miasma I'm inhaling, on top of the fact that my big silly biggest toe is sticking out of a hole in my smelly cum-addled sock and I can't take my fucking Uggs off to fix it because my foot be in a lather like a spiked thoroughbred slogging thru the kind of bacterial mud would make a Babylonian whore in church shoes wanna slip, break down, and cry havoc for hairspray...

No, no, no. This hot and messy fucked-up fucking dumpster fire is gonna be my fakakta fucking funeral pyre, Gerry. Can't you see that? I know you don't wanna know about how the WASPs and the Royal We saved you and your sorry-ass chosen souls from holocaustic oblivion, but...

Lemme tell you something good for once: Only Christ knows how I suffer. You self-loathing hymie, what you are. The Pantocrator Himself being the one and only Super-Jew who can commisserate my succotash.

What are you doing, dude? Are you sitting there with a shit-eating grin on your face trying to shit me, fucko? I mean... First you put the kike-y fucking kibosh on my transcendent audio-visual prelude and now you wanna--

Yeah, yeah. I'm well aware about what I said when I said I didn't want to go through with the whole hyperbolic cinematic rigamarole, but I just assumed --you being my agent, intrepid marathon messenger, and earthly prophet and whatnot-- that you'd be able to see through my artificial humility and make my nocturnal emissions come true. Make my sodden satin-sheeted night sweats go away, too.

Now the fuck am I supposed to do?

Cocksucker, what? Didn't you tell pretty Miss Jackson over here to put out a media kit or a press release or a whatever-the-Hell else you people call the whatever the fuck it is you're supposed to do before I get here? Slot me an opening act, at least?

Fuck if I know? For the love of the almighty Mucka-Ferguson, motherfuckers. I'm the talent, you're the help. It's y'alls job to make the baby-kissing/butt-seating arrangements around here, no? Opening act, people. How hard could it be to book some mosquito-bitten, tiny-titted, chain-wallet wearing, uber-cunt self-published a self-help book about herself touting the non-lesbian virtues of her alimentary hot yoga-doing/nonfat yogurt-eating/vagina-monologuing lifestyle?

Twisted little twat-divining cops like that? They gotta be a dime a dozen this part of the country. Am I right?

Of course, I'm right. But you wanna know what else? Fuckit. Don't go doing a goddamned thing for me from here on out. Please. I need me some motherfucking lebensraum over here is what I want. So why don't the two of you sit back on your shit-caked pussies over there and lemme get my gentle groove on?

Whispering to my agent, specifically, I say: Although, Gerry; if you are just gonna sit there and insist on flying in the face of conventional taste, fashion, and overhwelming public opinion? Well, then why don't you own that dopey-looking Caesar ring you got ringing around your rosy fucking dickhead and gimme a hearty and heartfelt --Hey Now!-- introduction?

Whispering to nasty Miss Jackson Jong, specifcally, I say: You starting to feel me, baby girl? No? Well, you will. In time. Trust me when I say I'll blow your mind and glow-up your mons venus in equal measure. Just watch me --amazed-- as I go to work prodding and plumbing the intellectually-shallow depths of these creepy fat-assed cowboy junkies you brung me. Slowly but surely molding their minds and motivating their elementary butts towards the edges of their molded plastic classroom seats. Bitch.

 

(...continued...)

 

 

 


© Copyright 2019 John Hamler. All rights reserved.

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