Crossing the Rubicon
So I was sitting around pondering these stupid books I keep writing and thinking to myself, "Self, how would you go about making your second novel even more ridiculous than the first one?" Because the first book has psychedelic dream sequences, hardcore Japanese amputee fetish porn, faceless children and boxes made of flesh and teeth. There's a certain standard I'm going to need to uphold as I follow the further adventures of Casey Way, career insomniac coffee-junkie and sarcastic jackass with a heart of gold.
The answer: Introduce a morally gray detective character, who swaggers around like he's just fallen out of a pulp book but he's just a few bubbles off. Except make him a German priest who doesn't believe in the Devil, reads too many Ian Fleming novels and likes tequila. Bit of a dry sense of humor, that one, smiles a bit too much than could otherwise be healthy for a guy of his occupation. Have him Obi-Wan Kenobi his way all over Casey's useless self and get him to do something constructive with the hand he's been dealt, no matter how crappy. Watch him constantly make Cold War references and smoke cigarettes, and slowly become the kind of guy you'd like to go pub-crawling with, because you could throw up in his car and he wouldn't give you a hard time about it. Because he's Karl. Fun Karl. He'll be the God-father to your children, and still not mention Tijuana in the Best Man's speech at your wedding.
Then give him these bony, ridge-like scars on his back, like the spines of some big beastly thing hiding under his skin. Make sure he doesn't like to talk about them, because of this time he doesn't really remember, because they may or may not be the lasting evidence of something that crawled out of him when he was twelve and killed his abusive father.
So. That's one way to go about it.
