Friday, October 8, 2010

The Sinus Infection Of Boner City (And Other Exciting Titles)

"The Sinus Infection Of Boner City (And Other Exciting Titles)"
based on a conversation with Non Talbot Wels, by Jake Kilroy.

John stepped into the apartment, out of the cold, away from the chill of the world. He removed layers of clothes like they were a colorful costume. The apartment was warm and he saw the bruised sky disappearing into moonless darkness from the window. He was home, and it felt good after a long day at the warehouse. He went to make some oatmeal for dinner when he noticed his roommate sitting like a statue, eyes drawn in a blank stare, at the dining room table as if he was too mesmerized to move.

"Mike," John began slowly, "you've moved from the table at some point, yeah?"

"No," Mike said with all the words sounding the same ringless bell. "No, I haven't."

"You're joking, right?" John said, approaching the table like it was booby trapped. "I worked a full shift and you've just sat here, doing nothing. You're even staring as blankly as you were when I left this morning."

"Yes," Mike replied. "This much I know is true."

"Well, what the hell, Mike?"

"I'm writing a masterpiece, John."

"About what?"

"That's the thing about masterpieces...you don't know they're masterpieces until they're masterpieces."

"Jesus Christ, guy, do you even bother to listen to yourself sometimes?"

"Always, John. I am always fascinated with what I am saying. That's why I must write my masterpiece."

"What's it about?"

"What isn't it about, you know?"

John took the notebook that sat in front of his friend and read the words at the top of the page.

"The Sinus Infection Of Boner City," John read aloud, before flipping through the hundred blank pages that followed.

"It's a 'tragicomedy,' like Shakespeare meets Ted Danson," Mike said with the forlorn dig of a gravedigger's shovel.

"Mike, I love you, man, but," John said, as the honest shakes of the truth rose in his voice, "this is one of the dumbest goddamn things I've ever read and it's only six words."

"Oh, I'm sorry I'm not Mark Twain, John," Mike bitterly remarked, snapping out of his trance. "It's just a working title."

"Yeah, I know. And it's stupid."

"Oh, whatever. You don't know. You don't know shit about shit. They said the same thing about Faulkner!"

"They did?"

"Probably!"

"Mike, have you ever even read Faulker?"

"No," Mike answered calmly. "Rumor has it that he was pretty stupid."

"Ah," John said, nodding his head in condescending agreement. "Ok, well, God help me, I'm too curious. I think you're an idiot and a lazy one at that, but I have to know," John said, dropping the notebook on the table. "What's the plot of this insane piece of crap you're going to write?"

"I don't know," Mike said. "I only have the title."

"You only have the title."

"I only have the title."

"And this is the best one you've got?"

"Well, I have two more, but, again, they're just working titles."

"Oh, Jesus, what are they?"

"The Ku Klux Klan vs. The Half-Dead Math Professor."

"Wow. Spectacular. And the other one?"

"The Steamboat Rapist Strikes Again."

"The Steamboat Rapist Strikes Again."

"The Steamboat Rapist Strikes Again," Mike repeated, nodding absently.

"Christ Almighty, dude, so what's the deal there? Does he or she rape steamboats? Do they live on a steamboat or something? Or do they just like to travel by steamboat?"

"Nope," Mike said, as a childishly sinister grin snuck onto his face. "The rapist is a steamboat. It's a twist! But you don't find that out until the end."

John sighed intensely, bringing out all the wind of his lungs.

"I'm inventing a new subgenre called steamboatpunk," Mike said.

"So it's like steampunk with boats," John added.

"No! Why does everyone think that?" Mike said, making the first rise in his monotone ramble of a voice. "It's a horror sort of thriller genre with eclectic non-people murders. Think about it, anything can be a murderer! This particular subgenre just happens to stick to boats."

John made a violent groan.

"You're an awful fucking writer, Mike," John said, as he headed into his bedroom.

Mike continued to sit at the dinner table with an empty notebook and a pen in front of him instead of a plate and fork, as his eyes rolled into a nothing glance, unfocused in every worldly aspect, and he was soon left confused in the very terrible waking laughable disaster that were his his thoughts.

1 comment:

jason daniel said...

Oh double post by jkorn!!!

Uh, the steamboat rapist is perfection. purely.