Sheriff’s Blotter, Woodview County, California – December 2003. Helen Mayo, resident of Upper Sweet Dog Lane, reports that her neighbour, Bob Honey, is doing weird stuff.
Cactus Fields, a care home in the desert that has been deserted – summer 2016. A man takes out a mallet and kills three old people.
Meet Bob Honey. He lives alone after his wife left him. A woman who concentred candy smells to her crevices offering him only her identity-infidelity and her abhorrent ascensions to salacious sessions of sexual solitaire. Bob doesn’t know what any of this means. Only that he thinks it sounds tough and grown-up. He now wakes up to the thrum of his throbbing thesaurus in search of ever more woeful whimsy, ever more aggravating alliteration.
It wasn’t always like this. Previous he did other stuff. The hyper-reality of real estate, the pandering picnic of commercial waste. In 2003, Bob went to Baghdad to breathe the Muslim air, feverishly figuring the faeces of Iraqis would be flowing in the streets. There he met the Guineans, foot soldiers of the Bilderberg Group-funded Scottsdale Program, aimed at reducing the methane in the atmosphere by wiping out the sharting seniors who were prone to frantic, feral flatulence.
The doorbell never rings. The doorbell rings and Bob answers. “Hi,” says an unmanly male man. “I’m Spurley Cultier. A jobbing, jotting journalist jizzing with journalust. I’d like to talk.”
They talk and Spurley leaves. Bob thought back to the last time he felt like he wasn’t just doing stuff. It had been with Annie. They had met on a park bench. She may have been young. Too young. But Bob never bothered with those distinctions. Annie was airless with alopecia. For reasons known only to Annie, she decided to have sex with bouncing Bob.
“You have a magical vagina,” he said, the sensation of Roman arrows careening chaotically within his skull. “Though I could do with a bit more Vietnam.”
“Next time I’ll wear my moistest merkin,” she replied with tantric teasing.
Whenever he felt these collisions of incubus and succubus, he punched his way out of the proletariat with the purposeful inputting of covert codes, thereby drawing distraction through Scottsdale deployments, evading the viscount vogue of Viagratic assaults on virtual vaginas.
Three days later, while Bob is moulding his molecular mallet, a text arrives from Annie. A photo of a black dildo. He drives to Vegas and finds it lying on the pavement and takes it out to the sand where he subatomises it with Semtex. When he gets home, Spurley is waiting for him. The journeying journo makes notes about Bob’s monumental mono mentalism unaware Bob can decode the script by sacred sense. Next door, a helicopter hovers over Helen Mayo’s house, before helicoptering hellishly into the ravenous roof and incinerating all the insipid inhabitants into crispy creme croaks.
“I guess I’d better leave,” Spurley shrugged. Neither man was that concerned about the conflagration. Bob left to do more stuff. Both with his marvellous mallet and without. On one trip back from brachycardiac Bolivia, he sailed on a boat with a drug dealer who later absquatulated alone into the varietal void.
There was another ring on the doorbell that never rang. This time it was Sean’s editor. “We need to talk, “ he said. “The confluence of cosmic conversation,” Bob curlewed. “Thing is, this book just isn’t working,” said the editor. “Worse than that, it’s an embarrassment. Stringing together random words under the impression you’re a latterday Hunter S Thompson isn’t writing.”
“How about I put some drugs stuff in then?”
“Have you listened to a word I’ve said?”
Bob believes Scottsdale has been infiltrated by Loodstar. Don’t ask. Unaware that only one person is still reading, he stops off in New Orleans to take seven tabs of litmus-red lysergic acid before heading to Florida. “Are you Annie?” he asks, having taken his magnificent mallet to 17 shuffling snivelling geriatrics.
“No, I’m Anasmyrma.” Really, don’t ask. It’s not worth it. An operative pulls out a Magnum and shoots Bob through the head. Rarefied resins liquefied during a life languishing unloved were beginning to create new free radical initiation of polymerisation. Or, to put it another way, Bob wasn’t badly hurt.
“You will still publish this shit?” he beseeched beggingly.
“Of course. You’re famous.”
“Cool. While I’m here, I’d also like to write a poem.”
Things can get worse
When Bob turns to verse
He rises real early
To do in spod Spurley
Digested read, digested: Sean Honey Who Just Wrote Stuff.
