“So how was your movie?” said Kirby. “Squid-Man, was it?”
“Squid-Man 2. Gee whiz, Kirby, shit. You’d have to say it was the perfect movie – I mean, as far as movies go. It might really be the greatest movie of all time. It was so well done, the characters so pure and noble and American, that I couldn’t, you know, help but feel dirty. I was on the verge of tears at the end, real water in my eyes. Even now, sitting here, I feel unworthy – I am not as good as them. Compared to them in this movie, I have blown it. I am ruined, decayed, corrupt, stupid, bloated. . . .”
“Oh, come on!” Kirby sneered. “Any movie such as this cannot be great. It can only be soul-sucking garbage. Come on, man! This is the story of a man with the attributes of a squid, yet who retains human form. What a perversion. It didn’t elevate you, in fact it made you feel lesser. What has happened to you, Mr. Garcia, that you get your soul sucked and you call it high art, the greatest thing ever seen?”
“Hey now, I didn’t say anything about Art. Look, I don’t know – I’m just telling you, having just walked out of there. They know their tricks in the Land of the La-Las, they know how to get you up on the hooks. O.K., they fed me bananas and played me for a monkey. I am guilty. . . .”
“Please. . . . Speaking of which, How’s your book coming?”
“Hard as nails, to be honest. I’m totally lost, coach. It’s spiraled out of control, some kind of 600 page monster. Maybe 700 pages. Every word stays. I can only hope to shoot it now, for my own survival. I really don’t know if I’ll be able to reel it in.”
“Gimme a break, man. . . .”
“It’s not a book anymore. I don’t know what the hell it is – a diatribe, an encyclopedia, a sex manual, a reference work, a tale of personal holocaust and psychological disfigurement. It’s all ‘real,’ yet can only be seen as some kind of frightmare – an absurdist thriller, a brutal satire, a black comedy. An angry book certainly, but also a serious philosophical text – my America-is-dying-but-it’s-hella-funny book. My there’s-an-awful-lot-of-anal-sex-and-political-degeneration book – and the global situation. Know what I mean?”
“You had too many ‘shits’ in your first chapter.”
“Bullshit, it totally worked. Wait till you see chapter seven. Full of shits and cunts, assholes flying off every page. If a few shits get your goat, you’ll really crap your pants over this.”
“I think you can do better. Don’t drown yourself in the sewer.”
“Better than what? The other night I spent four straight hours just staring at the wall. Freaked out, crushed by everything. Unable to move, unable to think. It was like I had turned into a piece of wood. . . .”
“That’s great! That’s what you need. Nothing’s more important than taking the time to think. It’s the endless running in circles, the non-thinking, that kills people. Take a look around the streets some day.”
Kirby spent the next five minutes crapping on a few familiar names, from expat Pragues past and present, whom he said had ceased “thinking” years ago. And boy, they were up to some bad stuff, according to Kirby: The two-faced lying New Jersey-born drunk painter Alexander Koruchick (lying); the drunk lying British journalist and slut-whore Ambrosia Killefer (stealing); the New Mexico-born pot-addict, poet, liar and former part-time Dasha fuck-friend Ray Perkowski (lying, stealing); the slim-wristed French drunk-off-his-ass photographer Dmitry Fausseaut (stealing); the North Dakota-raised lying two-face pill-popping digital-design slut Griselda “Ginny” Mauch (lying, slutting about); the lying two-faced conniving thief and cocaine addict pillhead Hampton Sluccomb (lying, stealing); the drunk and lying sellout Merrill Wehmeyer, who’d promised so very much but had so much failed to deliver (lying, writing badly). . . .
They’d all shat on Kirby at least once – personally, or through their dreadful writing and frightful political and lifestyle philosophies that were so terribly destructive of Art and Truth. Kirby was particularly enraged at the moment at the Todd Oycinda, the meek little teacher from Hawthorn, California, who had recently written an article for Umělec that seemed to seriously propose Czechs as “the Mexicans of Europe” – because of, er, their tendency (expressed by Todd in so many, many words) to burn trash and meat over open fires, have old stone Catholic churches on their territory, and shuffle around aimlessly or bolt for richer towns across the border. . . .
“God, what an arrogant prick!” Kirby seethed.
“Maybe he’s got a point, Kirb. I mean, it’s sloppy, but it’s hard for some people to come up with ideas. . . .”
Kirby lurched forward, his eyes bulging. “Jesus, I’m sorry. . . . I’m sorry. . . .” He got up, holding his hand over his mouth.
“Hold on, Kirby baby, hold on. . . .”
He crossed the floor, staggering toward the bathroom.
Two guys who were sitting at the corner table next to us glanced at each other. They flashed little smiles, sipped from their beers. They must have seen the Kirby. Each had loads of arm hair, leg hair, nose hair. Well-groomed, shorts and sandals, both in white t-shirts, as if they were twins. They looked like a couple of fags. They sipped at their beers, staring at each other. The waitress gal’s boobs didn’t seem to matter at all. Couple of beer sipping fags. The Russian cretin mafia.
Kirby came back after about five minutes. His hair was wet. Drops of water rolled down his cheeks and chin.
“Ahghghghg. . . . Much better now, thank you.” He took a small drink of water. “I was going to say, The waitress looks a bit like Paris Hilton. In her face, I mean. What do you think?”
“You know, Paris Hilton. You don’t know her?”
“Yeah shit, you’re right. Sometimes they all look a little like Paris Hilton, don’t they? Cheers, Kirby.”
I raised my glass for a clink. He ignored it.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know – nothing. Just feeling good. Yeah, sure. She looks a little like Paris Hilton. Why not? Sometimes every chick is Paris Hilton – and every Paris Hilton smiles at you. And every song is Number One. Every gas tank is always full. . . .”
“You are so full of shit.”
“. . . . every boss can’t stop talking about how good you’ve done. Your wife says your dick is the hugest, most amazing thing she’s ever seen. The police are waving you through the checkpoint, no questions asked. Every book is the funniest thing you ever read. Every guy at the bar is telling the most amazing stories. The gay guys are thinking you really have interesting stuff to say. The lesbians are thinking you’re sexy and might want to peek down your shorts. The war might still be up for grabs, but every battle has been won so far. And every fart smells like Easter Sunday. The doorman confirms that you’re on-the-list-plus-two for the after-show party. Gene Simmons is calling you over to his booth, and it’s full of babes wearing lingerie and drinking mint juleps with little umbrellas in them. . . .”
His hand flew across the table. He slapped me in the nose.
“You fucker! Asshole!”
“That’s it, I’m taking you down.”
We lurched out of our chairs.
Farmer Beheads Wife And Son, Cuts Off Own Penis
MANILA – A farmer cut off his penis after beheading his wife and son in the remote central Philippine island of Boho, police said Thursday.
Romeo Pomoloquio reacted furiously when he learned his wife was seeing another man. He barged into his house and decapitated his wife and their one-year-old son, police said.
Overcome by remorse, he then cut off his penis.
Neighbors took him to a hospital, where a blood transfusion saved his life. However, doctors said the penis could not be reattached.
Pomoloquio now faces the death penalty.
published: 23. 6. 2013