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| Author: |
Steve Finbow interviews himself |
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Q: What's in the bag?
A: A pen, a wallet, a notebook, a paperback, an asthma inhaler and my insulin kit.
Q: Where have you been recently?
A: Berlin, Rome, Tangier, New York City, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Tokyo.
Q: Drink much while you were there?
A: Try the Schwarze Café, Bar San Calisto, Dean's Bar, Grassroots Tavern, Vesuvio, Hank's Bar, Bar Kamiya.
Q: Who should I take on holiday? Woodrell, Nunn, Gutierrez, Miller, Thom Jones and that Acker chick if you like it rough.
A: How long you staying? Until the shrimp cocktail's finished.
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| Submission Date: |
| 05 Jun 2008 |
Category: |
Novel extract
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In Podcast and Chap-book
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nothing matters – chapter one of a novel in progress
Leaning over the coffin-style freezer, I search around the butterball turkeys until I find her. She isn’t quite solid. I pull her out & leave her in the backyard to thaw. While the sun warms her, I iron her outfit & search for her bobble hat, finding it tucked under a pile of muscle mags in her bedroom. The puddle she has made is the shape of Antarctica & I lift her onto the draining board & watch as the great ice continent shrinks & seeps into the dirt. “Fuck those crazy penguins,” I say, licking her stump. She burbles & I take a soggy sponge from the sink & stuff it in her mouth to stop the noise. It’s a Wednesday – our day at the park.
But first, I need a drink. I find some silver duct tape under the sink, cut off strips – inch-thick ones for her eyes & left nostril, a two-inch one for her mouth, up to three-inch for her cauliflowered ears. I insert a rubber cup into her vagina – just in case – & stopper her tight little anus with a wine cork. I look around for somewhere safe to put her while I am out. The oven – dark & greasy, or the microwave – still splattered with tomato juice & mayonnaise, at least, that’s what it looks like. I decide on the oven, open it & remove the grill tray blackened with burned toast, scabbed with grilled Monterey Jack. I roll her in & close the door. Daddy won’t be long, I say, knowing it to be a lie.
The car I stole last night won’t start. I jimmy the window of the car behind, smash the ignition tumbler, yank out the wires, take my knife, strip the ends of the two wires I think most likely, & I’m off, fishboning all over the place until I get used to the car’s heft & speed. Nice. By the time I start enjoying the ride, I’m there. I park the car down a side road – it might come in handy – quick shag, quicker getaway. I look in the rear-view mirror & with my tattooed fingers comb back my long dark locks. The scar above my right eye twitches & I run my thumb along it until it is raw & shiny. I straighten my shark-tooth necklace & undo a button of my white linen shirt. I’m out of the car & striding towards The Slaughterhouse – man, do I need a beer.
The Slaughterhouse – home from home, drum from drum, pit from pit. Some joker’s nicked the S from the sign, so it reads The laughterhouse & I smile as I push open the door. Now, I’m a mean mother but some of the geezers in this place are depleted uranium – hard & dense. It’s early, it’s not even eleven, but the pub is crowded. Blokes lining the bar – a petrified forest of pissed-up drinkers. No one stirs. I point at the Stella tap & behind the barman to my personal bottle of Pappy Van Winkle. I sit down at my table & take a paperback from the back pocket of my jeans. The barman – PT – a one-eyed, one-legged, one-armed, once-upon-a-time & not-very-successful peterman, brings over my drinks. He nods & I nod back. Words are as useful & as rare as hummingbirds in this place. I drink the Stella down in one, follow it with a mouthful of bourbon. PT’s straight back with a refill. I’m settled & I take a look around.
Joey Spit stands by the gangway, his tatts stretched tight over his biceps, one showing a horse sodomizing Alice, the other an American pit-bull Cerberus with three heads & three cocks. Joey’s knocking back slammers. On the bar in front of him sits a draught board & twenty-four glasses, twelve filled with silver tequila & twelve with gold. He plays himself & always wins. Next to Joey is Biggy Bigs, the fattest smack addict you’re ever likely to see. What he lacks in litheness he makes up for in sugar. I can see three hypodermics sticking in the veins of his trunk-like calves. He’s drinking a cocktail of blackcurrant, cranberry & orange juice diluted with peppermint cordial. He reaches down & scratches his leg. One of the needles skitters across the room like a swatted mosquito. Several non-entities & prospects make up the middle of the bar – among them muggers, rapists, & thieves. Staring ahead, yet apparently in conversation, at the end of the bar stands Mr Fleur & Mr Lupe – the owners of this joint. The daddies of sleaze, the godfathers of the gratuitous. Later.
I’m busting for a piss, so spatchcock my book on the table, dangle & drop a huge lugie into my Stella, watch it float to the bottom like a fluorescent octopus, knock back my bourbon & cross the sticky carpet to the Gents. The last time this place saw a mop & bucket, Noah was cross-fertilizing sheep. Mirrors caked with extracted & hardened snot. An aroma more brutal than Brut, more No. 2 than No. 5. I slip on dark yellow liquid as I unbutton. The urinal is full of cigarette & cigar butts &, as I swirl them around in a tobacco soup, I hear the door open. I shake, I fold, I button. As I turn, a shadow falls across my face & I instinctively raise my arm in protection. Fuck! Luckily, the blow catches the muscle & not the bone in my right forearm. That’s gonna bruise. That’s gonna hurt. Whoever did it is trying to do it again & I see a rush of denim & corduroy, a mop of ginger hair, a mouth open & black-toothed where there are teeth, green & purple where there aren’t, warts the size of walnuts. The Gourd.
Slipping about on the piss-stained floor, I pull out my knife & aim for the rushing centre as the thing he’s wielding bears down on me. Baseball bat? Iron bar? Hoover attachment? I dodge sideways & pull my knife across, slice sideways, hear his Whitesnake T-shirt rip, feel the heavy folds of flesh tear. His swing loses energy & his weapon – crowbar – clangs to the floor. He’s down holding his guts. They won’t be held. They spill over the floor. The colours of a drab rainbow. I flip him over. Spit in his face. He’s dying. I unzip his George jeans – The Gourd goes commando – & pull out his cock & balls. He’s raspy is The Gourd. His hands do a little flap as if he’s shaking off water or singing Mammy – & from here, I can tell you, I know where the sun shines best. I pull his cock up so the root is visible & cut halfway through, twist & twist, tug & tug & it comes off. Blood all over the place. I throw it across the toilet floor & it rolls into a corner where it is set upon by cockroaches & giant silverfish. I watch as The Gourd’s eyes roll back into his forehead. That gives me an idea. I cut off his hairy balls. The skin attaching them to the body is wrinkled & thin & smells of toe-jam. I hold them gently in my hand as if I were cradling newborn kittens (ugly fuckers others would have drowned at birth). I sit on The Gourd’s chest & using my knife, thumb & forefinger, pluck out his eyes, slip them into my pocket – a treat for the girl back home. I push the testicles into The Gourd’s empty black sockets, arrange them so that he looks wall-eyed. Stand up, stand back & admire my handiwork. Nice.
I roll The Gourd into the shitter, prop him against the toilet bowl, & close the door behind me. Thirsty work that.
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