Status: 2nd Draft


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

Hello! These first two (PRELUDE) chapters consist of a one-sided e-mail exchange. With the other side (Gerry's side) only implied. While I loathe to spell it out on paper (I want the reader to
connect the narrative dot himself, you see) I do wonder and worry if it's just not clear enough from the prose alone. I dunno.

Chapter Content - ver.0

Submitted: February 20, 2019

Comments: 2

In-Line Reviews: 2

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.0

Submitted: February 20, 2019

Comments: 2

In-Line Reviews: 2



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Dearest Gerry,


How you holding up there, pal? It's been a little bit of a bitch staying in touch lately and quite a while since we actually touched one another. I trust you're still in good health? Still a ruddy, robust, hale, and wealthy fellow well met? Steering clear of Fox News and staying out of trouble with the sweet stuff? Doing right by the common folk while keeping the wife and kids under a rock and the mistress in shoes, champagne cocktails, and insatiably nude under a mirrored chandelier?

Of course. It goes without saying that you're an irredeemable fucking parasite, Gerry. A dark-prince of a douchebag with bedbugs for blood. Everybody knows it and nobody gives a sharing Care Bear shit in the woods what you do, whatever you do, one way or another fucking 'dother, but...

You already know all these things about yourself already. Which is why I need you and, dare I say... Love you, too?

Nevertheless, and enough with the politesse, it's high time we come together (dark and light in tandem at last!) and focus our respective powers of persuasion on the task at hand. Probably the most important existential thing we need to consider (as we get set to embark on our continent-conquering summer roadshow adventure tour in support of ANTAGONY) is exactly how we're gonna go about blowing the silly lids off of Middle America's id (castigating all them bedraggled right-wing duckbilled deerskin hunters who irrationally resent education and unionization to no end but suspended animation and spatial insignificance) while knocking the fackakta fucking socks offa the godforsaken coastal elites (berating all the satisfied hipsters who routinely blame their feckless parents for fucking up their privileged purviews and incorporating their corrupted base inclinations to no end but hollow frivolity and untapped potential) while at the same time maintaining an entertaining and magnanimous savoir-faire that both engages the audience and invites unreasonable empathy?

Well, lo and betold:I think I've got a solution. Because I'm thinking about doing something along the lines of shredding a facemelting heavy-metal guitar solo above the footlights; followed by a tender and saccharine acoustic serenade --under a spotlight-- that will string everyone's sappy-ass hearts together and hang them UP wherever we want.

Like American baseball bunting on a baroque balustrade.

We're gonna hafta do it through the tight and insightful and inciteful execution of exciting prose, though. As opposed to utilizing music or sports or architecture. Nevertheless... Conflict and resolution, Gerry. That is the name of the rather dangerous game we're about to play, no? No matter the medium.

I've gotta admit, however; that I'm feeling rather more anxious and apprehensive about how well we'll be recieved in the Bible Belt and the Snowbelt and all the other rednecked bastions of banjo-dueling dissipation. Like the Wyo-Kentucky-Buttfucky Georgia Pines, for instance and whatnot. I dunno, because I do know, how these heavily-armed evangelical wingnuts love to shout out loud about how much they loathe being preached at (right before turning their cornfed fat asses around to genuflect a pew before a sermon while accidentally shooting themselves in their Habsburg clubbed feet) and so...

Naturally, it's gonna be up to my beautiful ass to bring the noise, tear the roof off these suckers, and burn their plebian houses of the holy down. Wherever we go.

Tall task for a tall glass of water like me, but I'm pretty sure I can wrap my nigger lips around the socio-political morass and kiss the piss out of it all. I guess I'm more worried about you, Gerry, is what it is. While I certainly want you to have fun, too; I don't want you to forget that everything else (literally everything but handling the girls, that is) is gonna be down to you and hard to manhandle.

I'm talking about tending to my wounds while handling all the procurements and logistics and surety bonds from here on out. Figuring out the financial, environmental, and political loss/cost matrix of this monumental book tour --while figuring out a way to keep me happy, relaxed, and raring-to-go-- is gonna be a full-time feckless fucking mission, I'm afraid. Full of frightful misgivings and misplaced compensation.

(Let's face it, bro... We've both got sordid habits that need to be sorted out.) 

Still, I've got great faith in your ability to be there and be square for me, Gerry...

My literary agent and loyal dogsbody...

My balding hermano from another meshuganah madre...

My shorter/fatter shadow who still wishes, to this day, that he could've maintained his Studio 54 Jew-fro while mainlining cocaine into the new Millenium... Instead of, say; clearing the fast lane for bigger and better niggers than himself.

Niggers like myself, for instance.

In another life, perhaps. Eh, Gerry? Because in this life, you be my monomaniacal nigger now.

Got it, Gerry?

Good. So don't look so askance at me when I say I'm gonna need copious amounts of psychotropic drugs, alcohol, sex, steroids, stimulating media exposure, emotional support, and positive reinforcement. Not to mention lavish room, gourmet board, de rigeuer livery, and message-sending bijouterie. Essential services and accoutrements that will go miles toward refining my mind, defining my muscles, and re-aligning my cock-of-the-walk chakras with Deepak canards.

Reckon every contingency, cover my ass, and clean up my shit, is what I'm saying. In other words, Gerry, you've gotta be read, stable, and able to facilitate some oddjobs, blowjobs, and underhanded snowjobs. Under duress and in case of emergencies.

As my agent, and producer, I would also appreciate it if you exhibited some homespun humility and extenuating grace in resigned regard to my transcendent sophistication and illicit/prodigious appetite for destruction. Do your bestest to try and set an example of obsequious carb-cutting decorum so that I may humbly follow suit and not get too carried away with my own hard-rock/rock-hard/love-gunning stardom.

That doesn't mean kill yourself. By all means, Gerry, be yourself. But after you're done being yourself I want you to try and set yourself apart. I'm gonna need you to set a noble human-being bar that's just a little bit higher than mine so that I can eventually best you as a human being who --through mental discipline, spiritual enlightenment, and intravenous threapy-- finds it in himself to treat the honorable judge on the stand and the Thunderbird-struck wino on the stoop with the exact same measure of indifferent reverence and respect, irrational aversion and derision, that nobody on earth (regardless of color, creed, or constitution) really deserves.*

*All of these people measured by their respective buying (or not buying) of my awesome motherfucking novel, of course.*

In the meantime, and having said all that, here's what I've got in mind all of a suddenly. Sure, I realize this might all be a bit too much, a tad last minute, and terribly late in the gameplan, but...

How's about we land in Seattle next weekend and --work with me here, Gerry-- open up proceedings with a cinematic screening?

A little sumpin'-something goes like this:







© Copyright 2019 John Hamler. All rights reserved.

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