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John said, “When they get here, let me do all the talking.” I said, “Amy, when they get here, I want you to do all of the talking. I’ll be busy restraining John.”
But, of course, I couldn’t just ignore his calls because there was always the chance it was something apocalyptic. That was the hell of knowing John.
You don’t have to go with Christian symbolism, but not all religions work (for reference, at the end of this book I have included an index of which religions are true and which are false—there are some real surprises).
I said, “I’m David Wong—” “I know. I remember you from your involvement in every single horrible thing that has happened in this town for the last several years.” “What about the mayor’s bestiality scandal? I wasn’t involved in that.” “That we know of.”
I glanced at the picture. It was a little girl, all right. Elementary school age, long blond hair. The type of missing kid the news media actually notices.
Too true. 😥
NOTE ABOUT THE FOLLOWING: The accounts of events that occurred while I was not present—particularly those submitted by John—should not be accepted as wholly or even partially true. They are included here only to help fill in some gaps in the timeline of events, but in retrospect I now feel like they only add to the confusion. For this I apologize.
No matter who you are or where you’re from, we can all look upon the raw, energetic creations of children and agree that they are very shitty artists.
I walked among the shelves in the bookstore’s basement, smelling that old-book scent that would probably mean nothing to future generations.
Ironically, I'm reading this on a Kindle.
I heard a guy on talk radio go on and on about how people on food stamps are living the good life off the government teat, and all I could think was, Yes, it’s such a party that sometimes we blow our fucking brains out rather than get humiliated by another government aid employee.
Depressingly, too true.
Thunder clapped as John stepped through the entryway, shirt cannon at the ready. A half-dozen doves flew past him out the door.
“Is this conversation going the way you planned it in your head? Do you sound clever, like an evil mastermind? Because if this was a video game cut scene I’d be skipping past all this shit.”
See, one thing John had learned about the various creatures they’d faced over the years was that almost none of them liked being sawed in half by motorized metal teeth. Simple biology, really.
(listing: $$$ ACTUAL SHROUD OF TAURINE—STAINED WITH SWEAT OF JESUZ—GOOD CONDITION—FREE SHIPPING—WOW!! $$$).
John said, “Well, we know it plays on fear. Ted is a father and he saw a pedophile. I saw a Wall Street type because, as you know, I am concerned about issues of economic justice and class exploitation. Dave, what did you see? A clown? Your landlord? Fred Durst? Vegetarian meatloaf? Your own sexual inadequacy?”
I’ve been cut, I’ve been burned, I’ve been chewed on, I’ve been Tasered. So yeah, you want to fight, I’ll give you a fight. I won’t win, you’re a trained soldier and I’m a sack of guts designed to convert beer into piss and depression.
A stench hit me so hard that I thought my brain had shit my sinuses. I tried to breathe through my mouth but I swore I could taste it.
“No idea. Maybe it’ll come back to me. And nobody has come after you?” She said, “Not so far. Maybe they don’t work weekends.”
I made eye contact with John and said, “I just want you to know, if it turns out you’re a fake person inserted into my memory, my whole life will make so much more sense.” “I was just thinking the same thing.”
“Society is nothing more than people cooperating with other people they’d much rather murder.
They were in John’s Jeep, parked outside Taco Bill on a street hidden under a sheet of rippling water in a neighborhood that looked like it had dressed up as Venice for a costume party and then woke up in a dumpster.
It might have been my imagination, but I thought I could sense something as I got closer, a heaviness in the air, kind of like when you walk into the room and can sense that you just missed a bitter argument, or some illicit porking.
I squished toward the quivering orifice, now about twenty feet in front of me, and muttered, “I’ve got to get a real fucking job.”
I want to find the jerk who convinced males that martyrdom is cool and kick him in the teeth.”
Because that depression, it’s the most comfy bed in the world and you will say whatever you have to say to stay in it for one more minute.
