by Jack Kilborn
“There’s something I don’t understand,” Phin said. “You keep jumping into other J.A. Konrath books, but what’s the point?”
“I like to think of it as a Harry McGlade Greatest Hits collection,” I replied.
“But Konrath fans have already read these scenes. Like this monkey scene from Cherry Bomb”
“Sure, but in that book, it was Jack’s point of view. Now we’re in my point of view.”
“It looks pretty similar,” Phin said, taking out his Nook and paging through Cherry Bomb
“Trust me. It’s vastly different.”
“I dunno. Seems like a lazy way to write a book. All of Konrath’s fans are expecting new content, and he’s just giving them rehashed old stuff.”
“Hey!” I said. “Don’t knock Konrath. Without him, none of us would be here.”
“Actually,” Jack said, “This would qualify as metafiction.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Use your Nook dictionary.”
I whipped out my Nook and read the definition. “Yeah, I guess this is metafiction. We’re really breaking the fourth wall here by acknowledging we’re in a story and directly addressing the reader.”
“More like directly ripping off the reader,” Phin said. “How much of this $2.99 epic is actually new material?”
“A lot, probably,” I said. “But you have to read through it sixty or seventy times just to find it all.”
“Fuck that,” Phin said. “I’m just going to read the whole thing, page by page.”
“It won’t make sense that way.”
“Who cares? This is nothing but an endless parade of jokes anyway. It’s not like structure is important here.”
“Exactly!” Slappy said. “I’ve been thinking the exact same thing!”
We all stared at him.
“You can talk?” I asked.
“No,” Slappy answered.
None of us had a reply to that.
“So what next?” Jack said, crossing her arms.
“I’m going back to the Amish story,” I said. “I want to see how it ends.”
“Or if it ends,” Phin said.
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I opted for the sex.
“I will make love like an Olympian!” I declared. “In record time!”
I wondered about the chicks they had in heaven. Was Marilyn Monroe here? Or Lynn Redgrave? I loved Lynn Redgrave in the movie The Happy Hooker. But I didn’t want to nail the old one, who died of cancer. I wanted the young Lynn, when she was still pretty and had both of her boobs.
“The human has chosen sex!” the angel bellowed. “Bring forth his mate!”
The gate opened. Imagine my surprise, when instead of Marilyn or Lynn, a fat old man waddled out.
“Is that Mickey Rooney?” I asked.
The fat guy was wearing a thong, which clung to his junk like an Italian family reunion.
“You want to sex him up?” The angel nudged me with his shoulder.
“I think my penis just got smaller,” I said. “What’s the opposite of a hard-on? Because that’s what’s happening with me, biologically.”
“You will not need an erection, puny human. You’ll be catching, not batting.”
The fat guy stood next to me, clapping his hands in front of him. “Let’s do this!”
My eyes were irrepressibly drawn to his thong. I believe the current term for it was banana hammock. For an old, fat guy, his banana was formidable.
“Look,” I said. “I’m really not into guys. I mean, I experimented a bit when I was younger, for ten or twelve years. But that was just curiosity. We’re all guilty of that. These days, I dig the ladies.”
“Me too,” said the fat old guy. “Which is why I want you to moan in falsetto. Also, I’m using this black marker to draw breasts on your back.”
He held up a black marker. I held up my sword.
“I don’t think so, pal,” I told him. “I think I’m getting out of here instead.”
If Harry should fight, click here.
If Harry should just let it happen, click here.
If Harry should play Combville, click here.
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Naturally, I picked the bananas.
Well, I didn’t actually pick them. They were already picked. But few hundred pounds of them were brought out, in a big cloth sack that looked like a hammock, strung up between two stegosauruseses. Stegosuari. Dinosaurs with spiny tails.
“Eat it, Bitch Tits!” goaded the angel. “Eat it all!”
Seeing so many bananas in one place reminded me of my former pet monkey, Slappy. He loved bananas. He also loved malt liquor and pissing on my floor. Currently, he was loose in the suburbs, sexually preying on small dogs.
I missed him.
As the banana hammock was set down in front of me, I formulated a plan. If I quickly ate five hundred bananas, I could throw the peels all around me, and then escape while my captors humorously slipped and fell during their attempts to chase me.
Or I could use my sword to slash my way out of there.
But which was the better plan?
To eat five hundred bananas, click here.
To fight, click here.
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Clearly, the only way to get out of heaven was the same way you got into heaven—by slaughtering as many of your enemies as possible.
One, two! One, two! And through and through: The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
And then, with verve, I pinched a nerve, in my galumphing back.
Immobilized by pain, I dropped the sword after only killing a few big-headed green angels. Then I curled up into a ball like a hero and triumphantly whimpered for mercy.
“I am Callooh Callay, leader of the Reptiloids!” said someone named Callooh Callay. “You have fought valiantly, Bitch Tits! As a reward, you shall be returned to earth.”
This green angel had a bigger head than most. He also had a crown on his head.
Could this be God? Was the true name of God really Callooh Callay? If so, couldn’t He have picked a better name for himself? Like Steve? Or Rick?
“I hurt my back in my frenzy to kill in your name, oh mighty one. Can you heal me?”
“Don’t be such a mimsy,” he burbled. “Quit your jabber and walk out of my coliseum, my beamish boy.”
So, like Alice through the rabbit hole, I walked out of heaven and back to the cornfield. Once safely back on terra firma, I made a vow to never drop acid again. Especially in Indiana.
And let that be a lesson to all of you. On the surface, drugs may be a lot of fun and transport you to magical places like heaven. But under the surface, they’re illegal because the government wants control over your body. Who do you think you are, believing you should be able to make your own decisions on what you consume?
Once I was feeling suitably beamish again, I decided to go forward with the Amish adventure. But what should I do next? How could I get to the bottom of this perplexing mystery, the very nature of which I’d forgotten?
Should Harry call a town meeting? If so, click here.
Should Harry hop into another ebook? One with vampires? If so, click here.
If you enjoyed the Jabberwocky reference, and would like to read more poems, click here.
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“Okay, we’ll get busy,” I said, unzipping my pants. “But no rusty trombones, or donkey punches, or Cleveland steamers.”
“How about a brass clown?” the fat guy asked.
I considered it. “Yeah, I’m fine with that. Do you have a name, by the way?”
“Does it matter?”
“No, not really.”
The unnamed fat guy pulled off his banana hammock, and the crowd cheered. That’s when I realized this was all a dream. It had to be. Nothing else made sense.
�
��It’s not a dream,” the green angel said, reading my mind.
“How do I know?” I asked, wide-eyed and innocent.
“You’ll know in about eight seconds, when he starts violating you. He’s going to tear you open like a Christmas present.”
That was an image I didn’t need in my head. Like imagining the Golden Girls naked.
“Look, you’re an angel, right?”
“No. I’m a Reptiloid from—”
“Yeah, yeah, blah blah blah. But if you are really an angel, would I be able to do this?”
Swinging my sword, I neatly cut off the angel’s bald, round head. If I were really in heaven, that would probably be a sin, and God would crucify me or something. But the only thing that happened was the crowd screaming and running out of the stands, trampling over each other in their hurry to exit. I hadn’t seen so many people running out of a theatre since the premier of Gigli.
“See?” I said to the old naked fat guy. “It’s only a dream. Watch.”
I turned the sword on myself, stuck it into my belly, and promptly died.
To start over at the beginning, click here.
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At 7:35 that evening, they gave me a lot of bananas.
Then I began.
I liked bananas, but not a bunch.
By 8:15 I couldn’t eat any more.
By 9:28 I was finally dead.
The end.
To restart the adventure, click here.
To return to the previous section, click here.
“I’ve called this town meeting to get to the bottom of the mystery of who is screwing Lulu’s husband,” I said. “After carefully following the many clever clues seeded throughout this ebook, I’m ready to make a startling accusation.”
The Amish people gathered around me in the cornfield murmured to each other. Then the unholy Stephen King monster that lived in the corn came out and ate everyone.
The end.
Start the adventure over, click here.
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The problem with having so many naked women trying to hump me senseless was…
Actually, there was no problem with it at all.
While I can’t admit to being in the peak of physical condition (I get winded tying my shoes, which I can’t see unless I suck in my gut), I’ve got a spring-loaded pelvis and can crack walnuts with my butt cheeks. In fact, I’ve done the walnut thing on a bet before. Watching the guy eat them afterwards was priceless.
That said, I was in good form when the Olympic Copulation began. I’m not quite porn star material, but what I lack in size I make up for in speed.
I figured out early on that not much was required from me in the reciprocation department. Everyone wanted a Bit-O-Harry, and I was happy to oblige. I just laid back, closed my eyes, and let the ladies take what they wanted.
There was a bad moment, when I felt someone with a mustache kissing me, but it turned out not to be a mustache.
Yes, there was sucking. And groping. And fondling. And pulling. And thrusting. And lots of other ing words. And by the time it was finally over, I had to admit that it was indeed the greatest thirty seconds of my life.
“That’s enough, baby.” I forced back an overzealous Harry fan. “No use trying to prime a dry pump.”
I disentangled my legs, pulled my fingers out from wherever they’d been, and shoved away some tattooed vixen writhing on the floor, because she was writhing on my pants.
“Any of you ladies know where the back door is?” I slapped away an intrusive hand. “Not that one. The exit.”
“Aren’t you enjoying yourself, Mr. McGlade?”
It was Vlad. He’d taken off his leather ensemble, and stood naked in the doorway. The last time I’d seen anything that small, it was stuck in a hors d’oeuvre.
“I’m having a blast, Vladdy old boy. But all good things must end, and frankly, you’re all a bunch of psycho freaks. So I’m afraid that—Jesus!”
The vixen nearest to me had sunk her bridgework into my ankle, and it hurt like…well…getting bitten on the ankle.
I pulled back, then felt a similar pain on my left hand. And then on my right arm. I kicked away my attackers and limped over to an empty corner of the room to finish pulling up my pants.
“Blood is the elixir of life, Mr. McGlade.”
Vlad bared his own fangs, and I noticed Little Vlad waking up to see what all the excitement was about. Even turgid, it was more appropriate for picking locks than satisfying the ladies.
“You’ve got a real tiny rodney there, Vlad. No wonder you’re a power-mad sadist. The shrinkological term is ‘overcompensation’.”
Vlad squeaked his squeaky squeak-laugh.
“You’re to be the ultimate sacrifice, Mr. McGlade. We’re going to eat you alive, then deliver your corpse to the president of the network.”
“I’ve met him. He’d prefer tranny hookers.”
I zipped up and glanced around the room. Naked, drooling vampires were closing in from all directions. There were at least a dozen. The only door to the room was the one Vlad stood in front of. The wall behind me felt solid, final.
“They didn’t listen to our letter writing campaign,” Vlad whined. “Or our Internet petition. So maybe your drained, lifeless corpse will show them we aren’t fooling around.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“What the hell are you talking about, dinky?”
“Fatal Autonomy. We want it back on the air.”
I had enough bravado left to fake a belly laugh.
“You’ve got to be kidding! You lured me here, humped me dry, and now want to kill me, all to get my show renewed?”
Vlad got a crazy look in his eye. Well, a more crazy look.
“The whole warren loved the show. We watched it every Thursday night.” His voice became school-teachery. “What is your favorite TV show, children?”
“Fatal Autonomy,” they droned in unison.
I pinched myself. I’d had this dream before. Usually, though, there were a few recognizable actresses in the orgy pile. Like the chicks from Friends. Or the Golden Girls. And no fat naked vampire guy who was hung like a Smurf.
“Look, Vlad, we’re all upset when our favorite shows get cancelled. I had to see a therapist for a while after Xena ended. But killing me won’t…”
“We have a script,” Vlad said. I half expected him to pull a sheaf of papers out of his ass and show me. “It’s called Fatal Autonomy, The Rise of the Vlad Pires.”
Everyone thinks they’re a writer.
“In the script, do you have a bigger Johnson?”
“Get your jokes in now, Mr. McGlade. When your body is found, the media frenzy will ignite a resurgence of interest in your series. The public will demand to know what really happened to Harry McGlade. And next season, they’ll find out—in the first half of a two-parter.”
“You’re crazy. Television doesn’t work like that.”
Actually, it kinda did. But I didn’t want to encourage the fruit loop.
“Children of the night…ATTACK!”
Even though they’d sexed me up, I’d had enough of Vlad and the Snuggle Bunch. Two Pires with lunging fangs got a Moe-style head-crunch, which sounded more like a dull thud than two coconuts hitting. I planted a heel onto the nose of a some nude skinny guy, drilled an elbow into the cheek of a chick who moments ago was making me sing soprano, and then sprinted right at Vlad, stepping on legs and spines and necks, and giving him a swift kick in the peanuts.
Vlad cradled his delicates like a child holding two raisins and a bran flake, and I pushed past and ran into Crazy Chainsaw Goon, just as he was yanking the cord.
I couldn’t hear my screams above the roar of the saw, but I could guess they oozed machismo and self-confidence. I took a quick left through a doorway, another left down a hall, yanked open
another door, and flew into a room filled with Vlad and a dozen angry, naked vampires.
I hugged my knees and Crazy Chainsaw Goon toppled over me, falling face first onto his appliance. He must have pinned down his trigger finger, because the saw revved and came up through his shoulder blades like a shark fin, misting me with blood.
I pushed backwards, bare feet sliding in the gore, and scrambled back down the hall with a flock of Pires on my heels.
Which is where I met up with Crazy Knife Goon and his Big Ass Knife.
He slashed. I ducked. But I didn’t duck far enough, and the blade dinged off my scalp. The pain was painful. I fell onto my butt, and he raised the blade for the coup de grace.
“Hold on!” I said, showing him my palm. “You’re not really a vampire! You’re just a freak with fake fangs!”
He shrugged. “No shit.”
“Well, when readers clicked on the link to come here, they were expecting real vampires. This is just an excerpt from Suckers, where the vampires are decidedly not real.”
“Wasn’t Suckers co-written by Jeff Strand?” Crazy Knife Goon asked.
“He wrote the adjectives.”
“Did you get his permission to use this excerpt?”
“Nope,” I said. “I doubt he even knows about it.”
“What about giving him royalties?”
His face was serious when he said it, but after a moment we both started cracking up.
“Royalties!” I howled. “You kill me!”
Crazy Knife Goon raised his blade again.
“Wait!” I said. “I meant figuratively! I was talking about royalties. As far as Strand knows, Suckers has only sold six copies.”
“What sold six copies?”
I turned and saw a man standing next to us. It was Andrew Mayhem, star of Graverobbers Wanted (No Experience Necessary ), Single White Psychopath Seeks Same, and Casket For Sale (Only Used Once), all by Jeff Strand and available on Nook.
“I thought you were in the Pit, being horribly murdered,” I said to Mayhem.
“Does Konrath owe Strand money?” he asked.