Literally Horrible (eBook)

A Hellitosis Novella

Joshua Alan Tate (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2022 | 1. Auflage
144 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
978-1-6678-2153-5 (ISBN)

Infos

'I feel dirty after reading this' - Authors ExGirlfriend. Hellitosis: Literally Horrible is a disgusting romp alongside a Serial Killer and their insane quest for a self fulfilling prophecy. A mid 90's era look at the desperate differences that thrust some people into the fringe of society and the edge of humanity. If you have ever listened to loud music and relished in thoughts that you would never express to another person for fear of being thrown into a mental hospital...then buckle up and climb aboard the most Distatasteable thrill ride of a literary journey one could muster. While you are at it, play the companion piece 10 song album titled (Hellitosis: Seshing The TrenchMouth) as a pairing like stale wine and hard cheese. They were written for each other and meant to be experienced together. If you don't feel disgusting for having read this book, you didn't do it right.

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"e;I feel dirty after reading this"e; - Authors ExGirlfriend. Hellitosis: Literally Horrible is a disgusting romp alongside a Serial Killer and their insane quest for a self fulfilling prophecy. A mid 90's era look at the desperate differences that thrust some people into the fringe of society and the edge of humanity. If you have ever listened to loud music and relished in thoughts that you would never express to another person for fear of being thrown into a mental hospital...then buckle up and climb aboard the most Distatasteable thrill ride of a literary journey one could muster. While you are at it, play the companion piece 10 song album titled (Hellitosis: Seshing The TrenchMouth) as a pairing like stale wine and hard cheese. They were written for each other and meant to be experienced together. If you don't feel disgusting for having read this book, you didn't do it right.

Textauszug

DickWitch: Chapter 2

In a slightly decrepit tavern on a snowy New England evening, the conversation begins. “Where the Hell was you, man? Were you hanging out with that Gringa? She tryna get some of her wrinkly titties in your mouth?” Heck asks. He laughs and grabs at his drink clumsily whilst his trademark “Drunk Eye” wanders like a koi fish that’s been swimming in vodka. However, Heck liked the sweet taste of rum more than that bitter bastard of a potato.

“Yeah,” David replies, “I was just, you know, talking her down.” He smiles devilishly and unbeknownst to himself, wipes the last of a sugary-looking powder from the donut of his nostril as it streaks on his sleeve.

“You mean you were talking her outta her panties.” Heck’s talent for poetic malpractice is honed to its usual sharpness.

Heck shakes his head side to side like a puppy shaking off rain droplets. ”That chica seems like a real bitch. She better pay us tonight. I mean there’s nobody in this fuckin’ dive. I’m thinking it was no good for us to drive out here to play this show.” He loudly sucks the last of the drink through the straw.

David does not seem to hear him. He is chewing his fingernails with an almost typewriter-staccato of rhythm. He stares with disdainful fascination through the window to the outside of the club, where winter was doing its silently bludgeoning thing to the sidewalks. David peers through the dark shadow of his reflection in the window, staring through a vacuum of light at the cruel world outside. He stops chewing his nails for a moment and unbuttons his flannel, the white t-shirt underneath scares away the horrible vision he saw in his own image-or lack thereof.

Outside the pub, blue neon threads through the falling snow into an empty street. A brave and solitary vehicle squishes by in the slush and melt of the battering winter storm.

Heck kicks at the grime of old gum and putrefied alcohol sick stuck to the dingy carpet beneath his barstool. “Hey, dude, I was thinking about writing a rap for the band. Maybe I could perform it in-between songs. Something like ‘Hey baby, we’re The Leftovers, we comin’ at you crazy with the crisco verbs. Sweet and sexy, no we ain’t that kind. We’ll punch you in the head, and fuck you from behind’ He thrusts his hips and pretends to slap an imaginary body in front of him. “What do you think?”

David turns to him wearing a stone-cold face, and replies with a dead in the water, “No.”

With a sigh, Heck concedes and pushes on, ”I guess we should start setting up our gear?”

“No way, man, I don’t wanna kill the coke buzz. I can always wind down with the horse after we play. Why waste good drugs? Besides, you know I never sound good when I shoot up before a set. What in Hell are you thinking?” David ticks and tatters along without understanding the question.

“She-ite man, I didn’t mean ‘gear’ like...” Heck mimics the action of thumbing a needle into his arm. “...I meant we should set up the amps and microphones and shit.”

“Right, right, right...” The rapid succession of sped-up speech from Dave is dizzying. “Sorry, I guess my head’s all fuzzed up,” he concludes.

Heck grimaces. “Maybe you should lay off that junk for a while. I know you’re all fucked up about Screamy and all, but she’s not worth it, man. She’s gone, like the Zombie song; you need to get over her. I mean, dude, if you can get a blow job and free drugs from a well-established club owner, who by the way happens to look pretty damn good for whatever age she is, then you don’t need some psycho x-girlfriend haunting your head.”

“Yeah, I know. But,” David protests.

“Butt, ass, or cheek, never mind that Screamy. She fucked around on you and was so Goddamn crazy that she threatened to kill herself when her hair dye didn’t come out the right color. Fuck all to her,” Heck asserts.

David sniffs loudly, “I know, I KNOW. Anyway, fuck it! Let’s get on stage and rock this fuckin’ two-bit tavern. This bar doesn’t know what I’ve got in store for them.” He slaps the bar counter with the flat of his palm. A resulting thunderous clap echoes off of all the walls and sports memorabilia.

“We’ll baptize this place in the Hell-fire of our sound, eh?”

As David turns toward the stage, the loose strand of his trailing wallet chain catches on the corner of a bar stool and pulls it over onto the Achilles tendon of his leg, tripping him. David hits the floor, and the stool follows suit, becoming entangled in his thrashing legs. Then, not unlike an MMA fighter, or an embarrassed cheetah who tripped on his prey, he springs up from the wreckage into a cocaine-fueled recovery. “FUCK, WHAT THE SHIIIITTT!!!”

Grabbing the barstool, he hurls it across the floor. It throttles into a table, the wood sounds of knocking, cracking, and crashing. This clamor causes the two locals inhabiting the joint to rise from their well-trained, slumped, bar-rail posture and pay heed to the fray but for an instant. They peer over their collective shoulders, sneer, and return to their entombed TV trance. After all, they would not be led astray from a Bruins game by some childish temper tantrum.

The saloon doors behind the service station swing outward with smashing palms. From out this portal erupts a golden-sheen’d helmet of hair, it crowns a voracious set of piercing eyes, carried by thighs, like carved marble, and these were squeezed into tight, white Levi’s. Eons of time have held that wondrous line of architecture, in which was first designed Eve’s drop-dead mold.

“Hey, what the fuck is going on out here?” she hollers.

David’s rage slowly subsides, and composure straightens his tall frame. He continues, “You need more well-behaved bar stools. That one has a bad attitude—it just picked a fight with me.” He taps a cigarette out from a soft pack that was in his over-shirt pocket and grins behind the flame upon ignition.

The woman’s face reddens like the skin of a sun-drunk tomato. The air of vindictive ownership and landlady authoritarianism juxtaposed against the soft feathery features of this post 80’s era rocker was noxious. Nobody there doubts her power, as if it were enforced with a titanium fist, bejeweled in poisoned ruby spikes.

Feeling the tension drifting in the air, Heck can surmise that David and this female vixen are on the downslope of some very good blow.

A wisp of a female grunt rumbles from her throat. “You’re treading on thin ice kid,” and she waves a red-tipped finger toward him. She steps back through the wooden doors, like a stage villain exiting the scene. The air thins in her absence as her cold heart vacates the threshold.

David spins on his heel, the Chuck Taylor squeaking against his un-socked sole, and he trots toward the foot-high stage where the bands perform. He surveys it with a seasoned musician’s eye before heading outside to rally the equipment and plot his musical onslaught. The envelope of the room loses its bluster as the storm of drama goes out to sea.

Heck strides down the length of the polyurethane bar and clunks his glass down with a thud.

“Play it again Sam,” he remarks with a stupid grin.

“You want another Rum and Coke?” the bartender asks. “Why do you keep calling me Sam? You know that nobody else does that right?”

He smiles at her and nods awkwardly.

Reaching into his trench coat, Heck retrieves a slightly disfigured and partially melted chocolate bar, one of the many junk-food snacks he always seems to have stashed somewhere on his person. He unwraps the confection and shoves it in his mouth, chewing as if starved and smearing chocolate all over his lips. He then wipes his sticky napalm hands on his camo-pants which are stained dirty and glossed over with grime. Heck called them his “vegan leather” because of their slick, perm-a-gross. He rarely wore any other outfit.

The cantankerous bartender, residing quietly behind the wooden barrier, watches him with a look of disgust that curls her lips into a slight snarl. She dubiously decides to humor him as she lets loose a long sigh. Giving Heck a look worthy of Spock’s over-logical Vulcan gene pool, she grabs a bottle of rum from the counter. Manicured fingers deftly toss cold cubes into clanking glass as preparation for the volatile cocktail begins. Adding some battery acid-style soda to the brew, she watches the foaming crest of liquid with a hand on her hip and bats her long lashes.

Heck taps the top of the bar with his fingers while waiting for the delivery of his drink. He hums along to a song in his head. Then, stoic and determined, with bottom lip jutted out and face crinkled in the most heavy metal of candy chewing faces, he bangs his head as if he were on the stage himself. As the bartender slides the drink in front of him, she winces as he loosens a fistful of change that promptly slides across the lacquered landscape. Heck grins with yellow teeth at her. He is a jackal; she is a lioness. The bartender huffs and Heck quickly skulks off. He makes his way to the table where Cassey and Betty are sipping drinks and making idle chit-chat. The two girls are trying to gal pal “it” out but have clearly arrived at an impasse; Cassey stairs at her nails and Betty is picking at a scab on her knee. Both look up and smile as they see Heck approach.

Cassey is blond and built like a David Bowie Barbie doll. She has a beautiful set of high cheekbones and a slim figure. She also has a killer fashion sense to boot and is...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 5.3.2022
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-10: 1-6678-2153-9 / 1667821539
• ISBN-13: 978-1-6678-2153-5 / 9781667821535