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Preview — Bubba Ho-Tep by Joe R. Lansdale
ELVIS DREAMED HE HAD HIS DICK OUT, checking to see if the bump on the head of it had filled with pus again.
Oh God, it came to him instantly as he slipped out of sleep like a soft turd squeezed free of a loose asshole
Christ! He was almost convinced he was too old to be alive, and had to be dead, but he wasn’t convinced enough, unfortunately. He knew where he was now, and in that moment of realization, he sincerely wished he were dead. This was worse than death.
the cancer gnawing at his insides like a rat plugged up inside a watermelon.
My God, how long have I been here? Am I really awake now, or am I dreaming I’m awake? How could my plans have gone so wrong? When are they going to serve lunch, and considering what they serve, why do I care?
Is there finally, and really, anything to life other than food and shit and sex?
The Blue Yodeler was stuffing a carrot up her nose while she expounded on the sins of God, The Heavenly Father, for knocking up that nice Mary in her sleep,
Elvis had heard it all before. It used to offend him, this talk of God as rapist, but he’d heard it so much now he didn’t care. She rattled on.
Not Sebastian, but Jack
“Excellent. You wear
Superfluous line break
A thrill, like a shot of good booze, ran through Elvis. He had once been a fanatic reader of ancient and esoteric lore, like The Egyptian Book of the Dead and The Complete Works of H. P. Lovecraft, and straight away he recognized what he was staring at. “Egyptian hieroglyphics,” he said.
The top line translates something like: Pharaoh gobbles donkey goober. And the bottom line is: Cleopatra does the dirty.” “What?” “Well, pretty much,” Jack said.
“He was after my soul. You can get that out of any of the major orifices in a person’s body. I’ve read about it.” “Where?” Elvis asked. “Hustler?” “The Everyday Man or Woman’s Book of the Soul, by David Webb. It has some pretty good movie reviews about stolen soul movies in the back too.” “Oh, that sounds trustworthy,” Elvis said.
The Everyday Man or Woman’s Book of the Soul.
“Every kind of soul eater is in that book except politicians and science-fiction fans,” Jack said.
Sweets, fried foods, late nights and drugs had been the beginning of his original downhill spiral. He had to keep himself collected this time. He had to be ready to battle the Egyptian soul-sucking menace.
But Jesus and Ra, this was different from what had been going on up until now! It might all be bullshit, but considering what was going on in his life right now, it was absorbing bullshit.
Probably should be a comma after "on"
Period, not comma
Always the questions. Never the answers. Always the hopes. Never the fulfillments.
It wasn’t much of a home, but it was all he had, and he’d be damned if he’d let a foreign, graffiti-writing, soul-sucking sonofabitch in an oversized hat and cowboy boots (with elf toes) take away his family members’ souls and shit them down the visitors’ toilet.
Elvis leaned over and got hold of his telephone and dialed Jack’s room. “Mr. Kennedy,” Elvis said when Jack answered. “Ask not what your rest home can do for you. Ask what you can do for your rest home.”
The sun, like a boil on the bright blue ass of day, rolled gradually forward and spread its legs wide to reveal the pubic thatch of night, a hairy darkness in which stars crawled like lice, and the moon crabbed slowly upward like an albino dog tick thriving for the anal gulch.
Elvis said softly, “Come and get it, you dead piece of shit.”
“Eat the dog dick of Anubis, you ass-wipe!”)