Another excerpt from my upcoming novel Narcisa: Our Lady of Ashes to be released by Heartworm Press this summer.
Journal entry — Love House Hotel. 2:00 am 19 February – Carnival Monday
CARNIVAL – The streets were littered with odd clusters of somnambulant jaywalkers tonight. Fucking Zombies. I dunno if they were all drunk or just so tired, drained of all will to live that they began wandering carelessly like stray chickens right out into the road. Their overall demeanor and body language seems to say Just kill me, I don’t care anymore. I just want to lay down somewhere, anywhere. Anywhere. Even the morgue…
Strange thing this fucking Carnival, I’m thinking, maybe people just aren’t made to have a whole week of license like this with nothing to do but fuck off and drink and raise Hell.
People seem to need to be caged up in factories and offices, put through their paces like lab rats, worked half to death in order to just fucking function in some civilized fashion.
Take that away for five whole days, and they seem to quickly degenerate into savage, unruly, destructive creatures, diving right into the gutter like depraved, masturbating monkeys to wallow in their lowest common shit like lazy, unprincipled savages.
Just look at Narcisa. Her whole life is like some Dark Carnival.
Shit.
No wonder she’s so hot to fuck off back to Alpha Centauri. The fucking Human Race sure ain’t all that.
I’m looking at people scrambling around drunk, incoherent, stupid.
And suddenly they just look to me like rats milling around a big fucking garbage can.
Then it occurs to me. That’s an insult to Rats.
I’m thinking about Narcisa now and I’m picking up on her rage, her hate, her revolt as if it was my own.
And it is my own. It is me.
Like some dark electric current flowing between us.
Because it is us. Twin Flames.
Rats. Shit.
Rats are better than people.
Rats don’t neglect and abandon their young. They may eat them sometimes…
So do people, I’m thinking.
Like Narcisa’s people.
Shit.
Rats don’t smoke Crack.
Rats don’t have to sell their pussies.
Rats don’t get abortions.
Rats don’t have to build jails to incarcerate other rats.
They just eat their young and be done with it when they can’t take care of them.
Not people. People eat their young for fun.
People just keep cranking them out, making babies, throwing them away.
Cranking them out. Throwing them away.
The streets are teeming with them tonight.
So are the whorehouses. The Crack spots.
The prisons.
Hospitals. Morgues.
The nuthouse.
Shit.
Rats just eat them.
Not people.
People just keep cranking out the Meat.
The streets are swarming with the Meat tonight.
And now they are bored to stupidity.
Bored. Idle Hands.
If Idle Hands are the Devil’s playground, then this fucking Carnival is His amusement park Coney Island Magic Mountain Disneyland Knott’s Berry Farm and Sea World all rolled into one…
Copyright 2008 Jonathan Shaw. All Rights Reserved.
NOTIFIÇAO: Os eventos neste site são contos de ficção – registrados na Biblioteca Nacional com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor, Jonathan Shaw. Os personagens mencionados são interamente ficticios. Certos eventos, personagens, lugares e relatos foram baseados em fatos reais, porém qualquer semelhança a qualquer pessoa vivo ou morta se trata de pura coincidência.
As vários fotografias apresentadas se encontram com o rosto distorcido para preservar o anonimato das modelos que representam personagens fictícios.
mindless, masturbating monkey chickens squawking their oblivious swan song for no one but the abyss to hear.
“That’s pretty good, Tasha! I’m gonna steal it for my next book. Thanks, baby! Xx js”
“Steal” away!