The Greatest Novel Never Written
This is my unfinished project to write a novel similiar to Bill
O'Reilly's "Those Who Trespass" with bad allusions to certain
individuals and a street-smart, tantric lover, anti-semitic, ladies'
man/party animal, sociopathic detective much like O'Reilly's "Tim
O'Malley". This may reflect poorly on my mental health.
A breeze passed through the opening in the window, with the shade
waving it in. The cold swirrled and mixed the darkness of the room. I
laid in bed a total schizophrenic caught between two minds - one that
wanted to know where I was and the other that rested so soundly in the
bliss of my colorless ignorance. I held my breath for a moment, to
listen for any sounds the heaviness of my being were muffling.
"Fuck..." words fumbling quietly over my gritty lips. Sounds of
slumber placed across from me, lurking on the other side of the bed
like some nefarious enemy waiting quietly for my next move. "Where the
fuck could I have possibly ended up?" I playfully ran through my mind
as if this had never happened before.
No, perhaps, this isn't the first affair - if I'm going to begin this
I should start with something earlier; the worst night of my life when
I met Shazine at that hole-in-the-wall bar on Crowning street. Maybe I
should introduce myself, too. My name is Landon - Landon Rogers. I'm a
private detective, though that is pending as my credentials are
unverfied. You see I got my degree in Portugal, but that's another
story all together. So I guess technically I'm a middle school gym
teacher, since that's how I earn a living - yeah, you can save me all
your PC bullshit; I'm a gym teacher, and there's no getting around it.
To keep my life interesting, I do some survelliance and tracking work
on the side. Some people, they say I'm a daredevil, but I'm not going
to get into how cool I am - I'll leave that up to you to decide - what
I'm doing here is expressing one man's story. There's no more or less
to that because frankly I'm not going to pretend that any of this
makes sense or even needs to. It's just my story.
And the shade snapped startling me from my internal world. The wind's
caress had turned violent in an unpredictable spat. The springs
creaked - shrill warning cries, but this monkey had no tree to scury
up, and the tiger was closing in. This damned ape didn't even have any
pants on. I knew she was awake before she said anything; I heard the
noise cooking in her before it even bounced out of her mouth.
"Hey stud..." I could barely see her but felt her warmth as she
reached over to bring us closer. I knew this was trouble; I wanted
"Hey," I said in a tone that vaguely suggested emotion. To be
painfully honest I had no idea who this woman was, and to further
extend that painful honesty, I had no intention of blaming myself for
my clearly deviant behavior. When a man is constantly drunk, he
doesn't even owe himself explanations. I don't drink because I can
deal with my problems; hell, this shit is getting too ironic. There's
few things I hate more than irony - well except maybe Jews because
that's just part of my absurd character, but I digress...
She got especially closed to my ear with her hot breath and moist
tongue, darting around in her mouth, and whispered loudly "Mmmmm, God
Vince, that was so good what you did to me tonight. I didn't think I
could ever feel like that - at least not outside of paradise. I've
never seen a man orgasm so many times. You're such a skilled lover." I
knew I was good, but not that good, so I assumed Vince was my name to
this sultry dame. One point for the L-man. I guess even the most
plastered can still be kniving. That liquid charisma is long gone now;
its corpse looking a bit like my dying liver. My head ached, perhaps
on cue to my realization (I use that word loosly) of last nights
"Baby, do you mind if I turn on the lights?"
"Whatever." I wiggled out of her oppressive heat and fumbled with the
dark swirls of the room. Keen eyes don't run along the y chromosome in
my family - the questions whose room this was and how would I know
where a light switch was clung to the womb, too heavy now for my mind
to push out. But, sooner or later fools get their break; I hit
something nearly knocking it over, grabbing it quickly to discover it
was a lamp. I turned it on. I looked over. I had no idea who this
woman was, but she was smiling at me - a big, ugly smile. The kind I
would expect to see on a sweaty-handed youth peeling through his dad's
dirty magazine. I felt exposed like I was spread eagle on a glossy
page for anyone, and I didn't like it. The smile moved to the words
"come here" and her finger reaffirmed it. God, the way she said that
was all tongue. She seemed reptilian to me, and my libido did protest.
It didn't matter how she looked. I won't even describe that to you.
Fat or thin, hard or soft, any color you can name - trifles really to
any honest man. There really is no visualization to passion - taste,
smell and touch are what matter. Who knows when man became an infant
in regard to his sexual being; thought I can't say I hold much
concern. "Hold on" I muttered taking note of where my pants where -
draped across what looked like a box of wine - embarassing. "Carlo
Rossi?" I thought - well at least it was a cheap date.
She crossed her arms and peered - defensive. I heard her mouth move
"well, you best be hurring it up." I grabbed the lamp like a tomahawk,
and threw it pulling the chord out of the wall right at her. Instantly
as soon as the lamp left my hands the room went pitch black. Swirls of
black rubbing up against crashes and screams of horror. I had slain
the beast; I think she had one ear. I wondered if that would make her
like a "aurclops" or something - I don't know. I grabbed my pants and
ran out the door of the room. Pants in tow, I booked it down the hall.
"Fuck, my shoes!" slipped between gasps, and I was running to
hopefully any destination other than here. Yeah, I should have
mentioned I have sociopathic tendencies; I seemingly lose my scruples
as much as I loose articles of clothing after a night of this
bullshit. I'm sure she's fine though....
This project failed as it was too ridiculous, and the character was
very bothersome. I did however write this death scene for him just
"Jim, what are you holding in your hand?" I asked in curious amusement
Jim looked down and saw what he was holding, "Looks like a knife, Lando!"
"Cool, I hope I don't accidently fall onto it." rang from Lando's
mouth as he moved forward to trip on a small stone and began falling
over for what felt like a very long time. The knife pierced his chest,
ending his life a little later when his own blood closed his coffin.
"NOOOOOO!!!! MY BEST FRIEND!!!!" Jim screamed while sitting in his
chair watching American Idol two months later when the realization
that Lando wasn't around anymore really sunk in.