ANTAGONY or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Prologue

Status: 2nd Draft

ANTAGONY or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Prologue

Status: 2nd Draft

Content Summary

Yes, this entire novel is basically one big book-length prologue to a story that may or may not ever get written. Deal with it. :)

Author Chapter Note


Chapter Content - ver.0

Submitted: January 12, 2019

Comments: 1

In-Line Reviews: 2

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.0

Submitted: January 12, 2019

Comments: 1

In-Line Reviews: 2



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Thanks for turning the page, babe. And congratulations, too. You made it, sucka! Not that I ever doubted or disdained you, of course.

Guess that means you're ready for a mea culpa now?

Well, don't hold your breath for some solemn and forthright self-effacement because, while I'm sure it wasn't entirely painless having to suffer my purple mendacity and menacing self-indulgence --all that psychological arbitrage and whatnot, not to mention all the other and sundry sanctimonious literary sins I may have committed on paper already in your face-- in my defense I ain't the only demagogue who's struggled to restrain or restrict the whimsical whims of his vainglorious muse before idle-threatening to throw an inconsequential fit of divine and violent retribution over his perceived lack of attention and fear of inadequacy.

Think about it. When the Torah itself (written by the cardinal baby in the bulrushes, mind you) implores you to recognize the sole and only Moses (writing about Himself, mind you) as the humblest mucka-ferguson on the face of the Earth? Lest you tempt the Fates and face the formidable wrath of an Almighty and already quick-tempered, self-hating, super Jew?

Well, you can't help but wanna question the messenger. Right?

Of course, I'm right. And yet you just don't do it. Do you? Because you're a nobody, aren't you? And there ain't nobody wants to throw shade upon their own prophets and paragons because our prophets and paragons were made in the shade of cultural fiat in the first place. For you to turn around and denounce the religious embodiment of a sound body, soul, and mind (a Burning Bush, for example) would be akin to turning around and burning down the religious freedom of your own body, soul, and mind.

Am I right?

Of course, I'm right. Again. But fuckit and so be it. Question me all you want to, esteemed Reader. Just be sure and do yourself a kindness and not expect the kind of answer you might expect will reinforce all of your deeply held beliefs and come-natural practices so far. Fair enough?

Listen. The vast and woefully uninformed majority of you simply won't recognize my name. You won't remember that the name John Hamler was all-the-rage/front-page/above-the-fold/lead-if-it-bleeds headline news for a number of months a few years back.

Okay. A number of days a few years back.

Alright, fine. So I was a cock-of-the-walk celebrity for only a few short hours. Back in early 2011. Stuffed between the lines of Superb Owl coverage, and all the googoo-gaga-gobbledygook surrounding the royal nuptials, I occupied a thin slice of the zeitgeist right before the cyclonic news miasma gobbled me up and then gagged on the bitter aftertaste of my disengaged and disenfranchised fat black erection before spitting out my spunk into turmoiled obscurity again.

It was the very same day Prince William and his mistress Kate got wedded together, is what I'm saying.

Still, nevertheless, and for sure... I must have left a lasting impression.

fleeting impression, then?

Jesus. For the love of Sinatra, dear Reader; do you not recall how President Obama reluctantly (but immediately) dispatched a Navy Seal team into upper Mesopotamia in order to rescue my narrow black ass from the terrorist-infested ruins of an ante-Islamic ziggurat crumbling outside Nineveh? Don't you remember, how a mere three days later, Osama bin Laden wound up buried at sea? His black-hearted corpse obliterated in utter ignominy?

What, did you think that was mere coincidence or something? Shit. Even for those of you averse to letting current events become igneous history, the story of my harrowing trials and tribulations surely rang a bell in the hearts and minds of every smartphone-carrying American citizen that weekend. And what you know about me (if you know anything at all about my six years of captivity) ain't even the half of it.

I became a viral internet meme, for chrissakes. A gif on par with Zidane's Headbutt and the Dramatic Chipmunk for a New York minute. Surely you must've seen the sensational (if stocky, shaky, and granulated) body-camera footage of me falling to my buck-nekked hands and knees atop an Assyrian sand dune. Beaten bloody and betraying my emotions, posed like a bronzed and low-blown Boxer-at-Rest gone the distance without a jockstrap, I could be seen sending a mixed message of rage and relief and revolutionary resignation towards the heaven-sent rotor wash of a descending Apache helicopter as it swirled and worked together with the Simoom Wind to turn my belligerent afro as nappy as cotton candy while tens of jihadi freedom fighters pursuing my battered black ass stopped, dropped, and disappeared into the desert floor like bug-zapped mosquitoes chasing their infidel bloodlust under a cannonade of consecrated American ammunition.

Indeed... Only minutes after my deliverance from that primeval cradle of uncivilized goatherds, while being strapped to a gurney, I begged the intrepid medic attending me with intravenous therapy to transcribe an abstract but incisive verse concerning my belated liberation.

The poem went a little something like this:


*We've been roller-skating through viscous puddles

of Tapioca pudding

heading for a tower that

will lead us to a dungeon that

will imprison us, briefly.

We're tired and fucked and

we're fucking being followed by perfumed Hong Kong gangsters

wielding items from the Crate and Barrel catalog

that they've whittled and modified into crude implements of primitive warfare.

They are gathering troops,

gaining on us,

and garnering the high ground.

We are spilling blood, sweat, and tears for fears

as we scream for ice cream and dream of sudden death when


Susan remembers to insert the performance enhancing suppository our Uncle gave us,

just before he left us,

renouncing his pedantic speech about opening the refrigerator door with something in mind

(as opposed to just standing there

like a jabroni

letting out all the cold air)

staring at all of the food

and none of the food

while at the same time smacking our lips with our mouths wide open

going: "Hmmmm?" 

as the sustenant spoils of war

conspire to spoil the innocence of our impossible mission

once and for all

but not for once in our lives.*


Groovy, brilliant, and unforgettable. Right?

Of course, I'm right. But go ahead and use your own superlatives to describe my impromptu poem and then go to and type --Wartorn American Negro Rescued in Northern Iraq by SEAL TEAM 4-- into the search box. Watch the forty-six second clip of my ordeal (with the sound up full blast) and you just might be able to (barely) make out the brave Navy SEAL who rescued me --name classified-- rick-rolling Tik Tok on the clock by KE$HA as he Gatling strafes the desert floor from the helicopter door.

Then, if you will, check out the top-rated public domain comment exchange just below the YouTube video (it's got 14,759 views so far, mind you) abridged here, for your pleasure:





© Copyright 2019 John Hamler. All rights reserved.

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