Cookie Monster, C is for Cookie (that’s good enough for me).
This jumble of letters lacks the sophistication, mouth-watering images and hors d’oeuvres that grace the menu of that quaint little restaurant on the High Street, the one you would both love to dine in but… well, it’s just a bit too pricey.
If the beautifully laminated sheets of the menu and these sorry, dog eared pages have anything in common it is the simple fact that they both use words to convey their message.
Another similarity is that the menu in the cute little eatery may suggest a cheeky ‘98 Beaujolais to compliment the poulet au poivre, in a similar vain, this novel will encourage you to listen to a Damned track to enhance the reading pleasure of Chapter 36. Each chapter of this book opens with an artiste and title that, if listened to as you read, will add to the enjoyment of the words on the page.
Eels, Last Stop This Town.
The ground’s vibrating…
Washing machine spin cycle?
No, this doesn’t smell like home.
Or are my eyes closed?
The noise is overbearing, there’s shouting, banging, alarms, something heavy, metallic clattering near my head.
I don’t like it.
I can hear music, Eels, I think?
Just a burst, Last Stop This Town, then it’s gone again.
I try to open my eyes but they won’t budge.
Fuck it, it feels like they’ve been stapled shut.
Through the hazy lids I can make out flashing lights.
Red, blue, red, blue, red…
Moisture seeps through my clothes, it’s warm, or is it cold? I can’t tell.
It’s wet, I know that. It’s uncomfortable, it’s not pleasant.
I picture a dirty brown fountain lifting me from my feet.
Panic begins a slow circuit of my mind, it’s knocking on mental doors, shaking shutters and smashing windows.
“You’re broken,” it’s shouting into the grey matter, “you’re body’s fucked up, dude,” it adds.
I feel like I’ve been diced, a master butcher, an artist, has cut me into bite sized chunks with his practised knife work, removed and blended my sweet meats and minced my eyeballs and toenails into sausages.
I’m trying to move, to sit up, the effort induces dancing stars.
I can’t move.
I attempt to lift my arms, kick my legs, do that boingy thing with my knob that is usually an involuntary action.
What the fuck is going on?
I try to speak…
I try to shout…
I try to fucking scream…
But nothing comes out, not even a fucking groan.
What the fuck is happening?
Why the fuck can’t I speak?
Why the fuck can’t I move?
Am I dead?
Is that it?
That’s it isn’t it, I’m dead, I’m as dead as a parrot in a Python sketch.
Fuck it all to puss ridden hell.
It’s not that there’s still so much I want to do, I’m not really bothered that I never got to see the pyramids or do a parachute jump or got a head job on a transatlantic flight. All of those things were on my “that’d be sweet” list, but…
It’s just that… well, though much of life sucks, all of the scummy mother fuckers you have to deal with on a daily basis, they suck. The forever scrabbling for the next penny, that sucks. That smell that comes from the sewers, you know the one, the one that smells like a fat guy decaying beneath your house, that sucks. Public transport, burger chains, knob-heads suing knob-heads for farting in the middle of Avatar. All of these things and much, much more suck that decaying fat guys cock. The world is a festering shite hole but…
Truth of the matter is, I’m not ready, there are many things here that give me untold pleasure, many things that I cherish and am not ready to say goodbye to just yet.
An atom in my left shoulder goes supa-nova.
OH MY… FUCK!
A shower of molten sparks is sent shooting through my body, burning everything in their many and varied paths.
This eruption of pain causes my eyes to spring open…