THE GREAT GADFLY:

Forgive The Odor Of Mothballs...



Here's a piece of the novel I've been working on since last November, when I took part in the National Novel Writing Month thingamajig - I didn't wind up writing a novel in a month, but I did wind up with a project that I've been working on ever since. Anyway, I wanted to let a piece of it come out and play this weekend, cuz every once in a while ya gotta let your ideas come out and breathe a little, yeah? Anyway, here's a little excerpt from my work-in-progress, tentatively titled The Diary Of Trevor Paige. There's not much to explain, except that the story takes place in a dystopian future, the main character is a famous public relations guru, and Shelbyville, Indiana has become the new cultural center of the world. Enjoy.

* * * * *

The afternoon of the Garnish awards found me in a cavernous soundstage dramatically under-decorated in severe blacks and greys and the occasional decorative earthtone. I was sitting in a television interviewee�s chair, having my face airbrushed and my hair shellacked by high-strung make-up artists who appeared to be half-elf, half-mule. In my pre-honors daze, I wasn�t able to, or particularly interested in, discerning the gender of these make-up whizkids, as sped up as their helium voices registered and as bleak and formless as their khaki get-ups appeared. Nora Bora sat opposite me, meditating silently with eyes shut as the make-up drones buzzed back and forth between her and me.

�Did I tell you about my boyfriend�s accident?� one of them chattered to the other, brushing what felt like spackle on my cheeks.

�Incidents?� the other burbled, tying festive holly to the ornamental fishhooks piercing Nora�s cleavage.

�He slipped in the shower and got amnesia,� the spackle drone volleyed back, on cue. �He doesn�t remember me and insists I don�t love him anymore.�

�That makes sense,� the other one said.

�Then we got drunk over at the Jack O�Tavern and entered that new amateur porn karaoke constest they�re doing.� More spackle on the bridge of my nose.

�They rig that shit,� the other said. More holly, over Nora�s left nipple.

�Well,� spackle drone said, �we won. Fixed or not.�

�So are you two still together?�

�No,� spackle drone said, �but we still sleep together.�

As if she were triggered in a hypnotic trance, Nora then said, with eyes still shut, �the days of violence will make themselves known when the belly of chaos is starved and can no longer eat from its own muscle. Locusts and hyaenas and bad men and wolves will rain from the skies and take the children first, so the parents may look on in horror. Technology will rot with the cancer of our parents� parents� parents, and blood will run black against the gnarled and tattered screen of what once once beauty and spectacle. We have run into a debt that is larger than our resources and the end is only the beginning of something that cannot be measured in language.�

The drones looked at each other. I sighed.

�Abstract trance,� spackle drone moaned with a dismissive roll of the eyes.

�Again,� the other replied.

Spackle drone slapped Nora on the side of her head with a large paintbrush. Nora jumped and started. �Candlewax!� she exclaimed.

We then prepared for Nora�s interview with me, as the make-up drones scurried off into hidey-holes unknown and fat, unwashed technicians filed in to toy with their filming equipment before our taping.

�Trevor,� she spat, staring at me as if trying to focus her eyesight after a blinding flash, �is that you?�

�With a two inch layer of make-up, yes,� I replied.

�My goodness,� she yawned. �You look so amazingly lifelike.�

�What can I say,� I replied. �Those make-up wraiths do a good job.�

Nora dabbed at her face with her fingertips. �I feel so supple and spongey,� she chirped. �Just like a fresh birthday cake.�

I smiled patiently at her. �Let�s do this thing,� she said, cocking a multiple-pierced eyebrow at the camera crew.

The interview started with the obligatory introduction of my stunning career, featuring the obligatory facts and obligatory highlights. Blah-blah-blah eccentric parents, blah-blah-blah failed Scientologist mother and fursuit-fetishist politician father, blah-blah-blah public relations hotshot who turned his profession into a vehicle for celebrity, blah-blah-blah, my EconoChrist publicity campaign made religion as accessible and casual as grabbing a hamburger on the way home from work, blah-blah-blah Vatican calling me �the Second Coming...of advertising, that is�, blah-blah-blah spearheaded the family-friendly-porn craze, making anal penetration safe and fun family viewing, blah-blah-blah the First Lady called the �Pearl Necklaces� series �not just gang-bangs and oral sex, but a muff-fest with a message for us all�, blah-blah-blah gives money to charities and has a modest life and has a fuzzy little puppy, blah blah blah blah blah.

The interview mewled on about how well-deserved and overdue my award was, how I truly embodied its titular �Five-Minutes-From-Now� honor, and how I possessed the singular superpower of being able to sell anything to anybody, anytime, anywhere.

�Yeah,� I replied. �I�m like that.� My inflection implied humility.

�And we hear you have a very special presenter tonight,� Nora chirped.

I wanted to stop the interview. I wanted to insist that the camera crew stop the tape. I had no idea who would be presenting me with my award.

�Who?� I spat, catching my excited state and covering with a bland smile. �I wasn�t told who would be presenting,� I snarled through a clenched teeth grin.

�Really?� Nora chimed with a playful tilt of her hook-laden head. �I might be letting a very thrilling cat out of a very pre-orchestrated bag here.� She smiled a wide, shit-eating, cheshire-cat wound of a smile. �Forget I said anything, Trevor. It�s hard being an insider sometimes.�

A hot flash psychic image popped in my head, that of Old Gladhands cradling my trophy in his trembling arms, knees buckling, teeth chattering as he glared at me with those big ancient creepy cow eyes of his. I smacked my lips and blinked the thought away, and endured the remainder of Nora�s bubbly questioning.

As the taping wrapped, Nora asked me if there was anything I needed. �You look like a dehydrated frog,� she mewled.

�Thanks,� I said. �I need to nap.�

�I have a fold-out siesta coffin in my office,� she said. �It pumps in white noise and ether. I have a meeting in ten minutes, but I can just drape a scarf over you and nobody would be the wiser.�

�Deal.�




2003-10-14 - Last Haiku
2003-10-09 - Don't Cry Out Loud
2003-10-09 - Sit Down, You're Making Me Nervous
2003-10-08 - I'm Sure Miss Thing, I'm Sure
2003-10-07 - Carbonated Water, Caramel Color, Aspartame

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