Backstage, and in media res, me, myself and, I--
--the one and only John Henry Hamler, male, 36, single, bisexual, 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--
am 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, unapologetically overweight, Jewish, dressed like a neo-conservative game warden with the
camoflauge bulletproof vest and utility belt and all--
and the owner of this dilapidated bookstore and my alleged hostess with the mostest
--the one and only Jackson Jong, female, 33, ostensibly single, heterosexual, trendy bob with baby bangs, martial artist fit, Eurasian hybrid, dressed like a self-aware Spice Girl
with the halter top and leopard-print fuck-me pumps and all--
with my be-gloved hand over the microphone, saying:
"Great shwetty balls of googly-fucking-moogly, Gerry. I never expected such a tremendous and torrential turnout!
Yeah, well... I'm being sarcastic, if not caustic, Miss Jong. 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 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 me. None of them brave or brazen enough to hazard the front
row, the lot of them maddogging my spandexed crotch like I maybe fucked, fertilized, and bad-seeded their precious daughters over the freakin' weekend. As if my puckish spunk
carried the Antichrist gene or something.
On top of that... 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-stained sock and I can't take my fucking Uggs off to fix it because my foot be lathering like a racehorse in the kind of bacterial
frappé would make a Babylonian whore in church shoes wanna slip, break down, and cry havoc...
No, no, no. This hot and messy fucked-up fucking dumpster fire is gonna be my fakakta fucking funeral pyre, Gerry. I know you don't wanna know about how the WASPs and the Royal
We saved your sorry ass chosen soul, my friend, but lemme tell you something good...
Only Christ knows my suffering. You self-loathing hymie, what you are. The Pantocrator Himself is the one and only superjew can commisserate my succotash, you know.
What? Why are you sitting there with that shit-eating grin rying to shit me, fucko? First you put the kike-y fucking kibosh on my brilliant 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 that --what with you being my
intrepid messenger and earthly prophet and whatnot-- you'd be able to see through my artificial humility and make my dreams come true anyway.
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 call the whatever the fuck it is
she's supposed to do before I get here? Slot me an opening act, at least?
Fuck if I know. For the love of the mighty Mucka-Ferguson, motherfucker... 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 is it to book some mosquito bite-titted, chain-wallet wearing, uber-broad who just
self-published a self-help book touting the non-lesbian virtues of her alimentary hot yoga/nonfat yogurt-eating/pussy-diving lifestyle?
Twisted little bitches like that gotta be a dime a dozen this part of the country. Am I right?
Of course, I'm right. But you know what? Fuckit. Don't go doing a goddamned thing for me from here on out. Please. I want the two of you to just sit back on your
shit-caked pussies over there and lemme get my groove on over here.
Although, Gerry; if you're gonna insist on flying in the face of conventional taste, fashion, and overhwelming public opinion... 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?
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, bitch --amazed-- as I go to work prodding and plumbing the depths of these creepy fat-assed cowboy
junkies. Slowly but surely molding their minds and motivating their elementary butts towards the edges of their molded plastic classroom seats...