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 miss you, motherfucker, is what I'm saying, and can only trust you're still the ruddy, robust, hale, and wealthy fellow well met that I left in a drunken stupor and tripping DMT in that derilict Nicaraguan bordello six months ago. Hopefully you've been 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 chained under a rock whilst keeping your kept mistress in shoes, champagne cocktails, and insatiably nude under mirrored chandeliers?

Of course, you are. It goes without saying that you're a maladjusted and 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 and therefore I can always count on you to double-down on your decadent debauchery. As opposed to taking those ginger-footed thirteen steps towards redemption. Which is precisely why I want you and need you and dare I say... Love you, too?

Well, two out of three ain't bad, I guess. Nevertheless, and enough with the politesse, it's probably high time already we come together (dark and light in tandem at last!) and focus our respective powers of persuasion on the task at hand. Because 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 offa Middle America's id (castigating all them rootin-tootin-shootin right-wing duck-billed/deer-skinning/shit-kicking laypeople out there who irrationally resent education and reject labor unionization to no end but suspended animation and spatial insignificance) while knocking the fakakta fucking socks offa the godforsaken coastal elites (berating all the satisfied non-combative hipsters out there 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 and alliterative joie de vivre-savoir faire that engages both audiences while inviting exuberant empathy and great expectations.

Well, lo and betold, yo: I believe I've got the solution. For I'm thinking about waging this culture war like a rockstar. Doing something along the lines of shredding a face-melting 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 (like American baseball bunting on a baroque balustrade) and tie their kangaroos down wherever we go, sport.

We're gonna hafta do it through the tight and insightful and inciteful execution of exciting prose, of course. You know; as opposed to utilizing music, sports, art, or architecture. But, no matter the medium, all wars end well when they end. Conflict and resolution, Gerry. That is the name of the rather dangerous game we're about to play, no? 

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 them other rednecked bastions of bedraggled banjo-dueling dissipation like the Wyo-Kentucky-Buttfucky Georgia Pines, for instance. I dunno how to proceed because I do know,how these heavily-armed evangelical wingnuts love to shoot on sight and then shout out loud about how much they loathe being preached at. Right before turning their two-faced cornfed fat asses about-face in order to genuflect a preacher's pew before accidentally shooting themselves in their Habsburg clubbed feet as they hang free-thinking niggers like me up in trees...

Naturally, it's gonna be up to my beautiful black ass to bring the noise, tear the roof off these suckers, and burn their plebian houses of the holy down wherever we go. That's a pretty tall task for a tall glass of water like me, but... I'm pretty sure I can wrap my bee-stung semantic lips around that socio-political clit and kiss the slow molasses piss out of it all.

I suppose I'm more worried about you, Gerry, is what it is. While I certainly want you to have fun, too, I don't want hafta worry about you out on the road. If you know what I mean. Lest you forget, as you tend to do, that everything else (literally everything but the actual act of fornicating with my fans) will be down to you circumsizing your Semitic pride and pretending to be WASPy for the sake of procuring me some phat white girls and frat boys to inseminate and/or decimate. So that we may begin to create a united Benneton nation of John Henry Hamler Heralds hanging on my every word of antagonistic advice, tough love, and worldly wisdom.

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

Still, I've got great faith in your ability to be there and be square for me, Gerry. You're not just my literary agent and loyal dogsbody, you're not just my balding hermano from another meshuganah madre, and you're not just my shorter/fatter shadow who probably still wishes, to this day, that he could've maintained his Studio 54 Jew-fro while mainlining cocaine into the new Millenium.

In another life, perhaps, you could've been that kind of contender. Instead of, say, a mere minion clearing the fast lane and providing higher hogs for bigger and better heroes than yourself to live large upon.

Niggerish champions of life like myself and the likes of Richard Sherman, for instance.

No. That shit simply wasn't in the cards for you, was it? In this particular life, you were meant to be my monomaniacal nigger because that's just the way the big booger happened to bounce. In this particular dimension of reality, anyway. Just be glad the booger didn't bounce you out of the loop altogether and be sure to do your diligent duty, dude.

Got it, Gerry?

Good. So don't resent me or regret me or look so askance at me when I suggest you satisfy my every last sordid, sleazy, or sycophantic want and need. For I'm pretty sure I'm gonna want and need copious amounts of psychotropic drugs, alcohol, sex, anabolic steroids, stimulating media exposure, emotional support, and positive reinforcement. Not to mention lavish room, gourmet board, de rigeuer livery, and message-sending bijouterie. And also massage therapy, for that matter. Essential services and accoutrements that will go miles toward refining my mind, defining my muscles, and re-aligning my alternative cock-of-the-walk chakras with philosophically-deep Deepak Chopra canards.

Reckon every contingency, cover my ass, and clean up my shit. In other words, Gerry, you've gotta be ready, stable, willing and able to facilitate some oddjobs, blowjobs, and underhanded snowjobs. All while under stress, duress, and in case of sudden-death emergencies.

Furthermore; 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 my illicit but prodigious appetite for destruction. Do your goddamned bestest to 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, I want you to be yourself. However; after you're all done being yourself? Well, 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 irreverent respect, irrational aversion and rational derision, that nobody/everybody (regardless of color, creed, or constitution) actually deserves.*

*All of these people respectively 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 sudden. Now I realize this might all be a bit too much, a tad last minute, and terribly late in the gameplan, but...

Work with me here, Gerry.

How's about we make landfall in Seattle next weekend and...

We open up proceedings with a cinematic screening? A little sumpin'-sumpin; goes a little something like this:







© Copyright 2019 John Hamler. All rights reserved.

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