Birth or The Exquisite Sound of One Hand Falling Off a Turnip Truck

By S.T. Gulik

How perverse can a man become before he is innocent again?
Maxwell Quick hates life, the world, and everything in it. All he wants is to sit in front of his TV and let waves of alcohol cleanse the shore of his mind. Unfortunately, that's no longer an option.
After defending himself against a group of mutant terrorists, Max is caught in a web of global conspiracies, terrorist networks and esoteric gibberish at the heart of an underground war for global domination. He knows the Iiite shadow-government is a family-pack of dicks, but should he side with the hyper-intelligent, yet socially retarded Riot Nrrds or the secret cabal within the Iiites that’s out to destroy them both? To find the truth, he’ll have to navigate backrooms and battlefields while dodging sexy double-agents, cultists, and aliens with agendas of their own. To stay alive, he'll have to win a game of four-way chess where he’s the only pawn, and to regain his freedom he’ll have to save the world—all before he runs out of space on his DVR.
“Birth...” is an epic genre-bending roller-coaster plunging into an ocean of fun filled bonanzas of horror. This first novel of the Chakra Kong trilogy has people, places and things. Stuff happens! Perfect for fans of money, sex, or food! Explosions! Tender cuddling with bizarre creatures! More explosions!
Buy it now! Or else!

• Language: English
• Publisher: S.T. Gulik
• Release date: Nov 24, 2016
• ISBN: 9780997709520

S.T. Gulik

S.T. Gulik is a magical cockroach.He started life as a common wood roach in 1681, living in a small castle outside of Dublin. One day, a human alchemist blew himself up while trying to brew the elixir of life. S.T. survived the blast, but the fumes cursed him with self-awareness and immortality. A lot has happened in three-hundred-thirty-five years. Everyone he knew and loved has died. Vampire movies make him cry.On the upside, he’s had countless adventures and learned many things. He worked for the goddess of chaos for one-hundred-twenty-three years. About thirty years ago she turned him human and disappeared, which is fine because humans are smart and likable.Oh, and he writes absurdist fiction. That’s important. Gotta mention that.

Book preview

The world had been fucked as far back as Max could remember. Watching the government collapse had been a rare treat for an eleven-year-old, like something out of a comic book. Then it got bad. Society came apart in the hands of the people like overcooked salmon, and there wasn’t enough glue in the world to put it back together. Things had been getting weirder ever since.

Max wasn’t one to live in the past. He did all he could to forget the simpler times; before the zombies--the mutations--before God moved into Bryant Park. In fact, he’d been playing whack-a-mole with his memories so long his own name was growing shy. Thoughts were less perceived than endured. Reality was a disease, which he treated using a variety of over and under the counter medications.

But no matter how hard he tried, sometimes reality would get the better of him. He’d be going along just fine then round a corner and find it lurking like a fat guy in a blood-spattered bunny mask. This was one of those days.

The hammy fist of consciousness reached into his dream and dragged him out by the face. He gasped and flailed, splashing icy water over the edge of the bathtub. His ribs trembled as he pulled himself over the edge. He landed hard on his stitches, which chewed into his side like a greedy leech.

Fuck! he growled through chattering teeth.

The wound drooled thick rivulets of various hues down his right side. His fingers traced the wound on his left bringing it to life, tingling and itching. What is that, dental floss? He brushed away the clinging ice then pulled on the splotchy old robe he used for a bathmat. It smelled like mildew and feet.

Damn it! I knew there was something off about that guy. He stood, groaning and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Joke’s on you, fucker. My kidneys haven’t worked in years.

He glanced in the trash can, and there they were. Max couldn’t help but laugh, remembering the day the doctor had told him he was more or less dead. Not quite as dead as the living dead, but in that general vicinity.

Max preferred to think of it as alive plus. He was as alive as he’d ever been; only now he managed without the crutch of functioning internal organs. The Divine Disturbance was probably the best thing that had ever happened to him, which was pathetic since it had happened to everybody else, too.

What was I thinking? I know better than to be around other people.

He didn’t know what had come over him the night before. Morbid curiosity, he guessed. He’d always loved a freak show, and the Baptastic Revivalicious Cavalcade of Christianity was simply too enticing. Ironically, in that sea of fundamentalist sociopaths it was the friendly drag queen that did him in. He was disappointed in himself for forgetting that the only good human was a dead one.

But who knew accepting free pills from a stranger could be a bad thing? Ugh. He wanted to slap himself, but he didn’t feel up to it.

The seeping humidity was making the wallpaper sweat and squirm like a fat boy on a blind date. Outside his bathroom window the sky had been turned a hideous plaid of greens and browns to alert the public to the day’s high potential of a terrorist attack. The air hung like green-gray mold, couching everything in a sticky film.

Max wasn’t sure who was in charge of color coding the sky, but he figured they must be a bunch of assholes. If I'm going to get killed by terrorists, they could at least make the weather nice. Even the zombies look depressed.

His stomach gurgled, reminding him that all he’d eaten in the last twenty-four hours was the breading off an iffy corndog.

God, I feel like shit.

He scoured the bathroom for narcotics, but couldn’t find as much as a headache powder.

Fuck!

He wasn’t surprised. He had been vocationally challenged for several weeks now, ever since the misunderstanding that led to the death and/or zombification of three turtles, two penguins, one debutante, and a small group of Klipsch perverts. Or was it months? His savings were almost gone, but on the up side his day was wide open.

He shuffled to the kitchen, guzzled the last of his herbally fortified juice-drink, then dressed and began his daily search for something to speed the arrival of bedtime. It was only 3:00, so he went straight for the hard stuff.

Goddammit! Max kicked the side of his liquor cabinet. His toes and sides sang a tribute to Cannibal Corpse. His urinary jowls weren’t the only things the paunchy poacher had taken liberties with. Take all the giblets you want, but don’t touch my fucking booze!

His wounds would heal, but now he would have to spend the rest of his money restocking his bar, which meant at some point he would have to find a job. Then the worst of it dawned on him.

Ahh shit. It’s Sunday. I can’t even buy booze. Damn you, Baptastics! You ruin everything!

He plopped onto his couch and felt a stitch tear out of his side. He wanted to cry, but he was too dehydrated. It was all getting too vivid. Without anything to dull his senses he couldn’t help but notice the filth. Everything around him was alive and singing derogatory songs like a nightmare on Sesame Street.

I smell rotten meat.

He glanced at the sign by the kitchen door. ‘Abandon soap all ye who enter here’. What’s-his-name’s snarky birthday present had seemed cute at the time. Less so now in light of his having run out of soap weeks ago.

I gotta get out for a minute. Hair of the dog, or some such drivel. I need more juice anyway.

He snatched a T-shirt out of the closet, found his pants and made sure his keys, wallet, and hammer were all in their proper places. He’d added the little red hammer after a brief but unpleasant encounter with a feisty undead lady. Most zombies were content to mope the streets looking confused, but every so often one would get feisty.

He opened the door and scanned the hallway for crackheads. Seeing none, he quickly locked the door and made his way down the stairs to the street. The air hit his face like a fat hooker’s cleavage. He stopped to stare at a zombie who was hunched over with his forehead pressed against the bricks of the complex adjacent. Black saliva dripped from his dangling jaw to pool in front of his mildewed oxfords.

What’s up with you?

Max blushed with embarrassment as a passing woman mistook his words for a quasi-friendly salutation. She forced a weak smile, shrugged, and quickened her pace.

Max smiled in the direction she had come from. He couldn’t stand it when strangers tried to start inane conversations with him. He never knew how to respond. All too frequently, he would mistake rhetorical questions for real ones and answer them in ways that made both parties uncomfortable.

Max made a mental note that he was no longer at home and walked briskly towards the S-District. There were some Neo-Catholistics up ahead, so he shoved his hands in his pockets and crossed the street. Organized panhandling pissed him off on a good day and he was more than usually in the mood to curb someone. His aptitude for repression had kept him from snapping on anyone so far, but it was an inevitability he preferred to avoid as long as possible.

Two blocks from the Mega Sav-mart, he noticed an unusual movement out of the corner of his eye. His eyes darted reflexively after it just in time to catch a glimpse of something pink and lumpy slithering behind a snack-cake display. It looked like an amputee had dragged his boneless stump out of view, but there wasn’t room for a person back there. He forced a smile and walked over to the produce table to get a better view without being rude. The barrel-chested merchant smirked beneath a fat walrus mustache.

Can I help you with anything, sir? asked the man in a thick Savanian accent. We have a special on porcupine kabobs, only $7.99 a pound.

Savanians spoke like W.C. Fields and did business like used car salesmen. He tried not to hold it against them, though. Nah, I’m just browsing at the moment. I’ll let you know if I need anything.

The merchant eyed him with a queer smile.

Max tried to sneak around the display for a closer look. Just as he was able to see a sliver of something fleshy behind the box, the thing shot out in the direction of the merchant. Before a warning could form on Max’s lips, a giant worm-like thing had clambered up the merchant and wrapped around his head.

Hoping a distraction would allow sufficient time to escape, Max grabbed a handful of snack cakes, hurled them at the creature and winced as the floss chomped his side again. The creature caught one of the snack cakes, and unwrapped it with its nubby under-thingies. The man smiled and scratched its head. There was a conspicuous absence of blood and screaming.

No need to be frightened, sir. This is my cheekworm, Cat.

The thing was horrifically cute, adorably monstrous. It nibbled the little bar like a contented toddler with long pointy fangs.

I named him Cat because I had a cat named Cat when I was a kid. He was a good cat. It may seem strange, but I’ve named every pet that came after in honor of him. My name, incidentally, is Cecil.

It certainly is different. Max’s eyebrow twitched.

They’re something new. In fact, it was my own brother who discovered them only a few short weeks ago. He was on an expedition to a sunken city off the coast of Cobya. He went under and they came up. The whole area was crawling with them, so he brought some back to brighten the lives of his friends and family.

Max’s brain shifted out of fight-or-flight mode. He took a few steps forward and examined the creature. It was a little thicker than a grown man’s arm and covered in what looked like baby cheeks that had been pinched repeatedly, amputated, and sewn on to some sort of short, fat snake. Its underside was lined with little plungers, which could protrude on stalks like fingers or contract to nearly unnoticeable ridges according to the creature’s needs. With its big black eyes near the top of its face and the mouth and nose of a kitten, Cat was simultaneously the cutest and most nauseating creature he had ever laid eyes upon.

He reached a hand out, but immediately took it back when Cat dropped the snack and hissed, revealing six rows of pointy teeth, dyed an ominous red by food coloring. A loud guttural howl swelled within the creature’s throat. Max jumped back, and the growling slowly subsided.

The merchant gained Cat’s attention by humming what sounded like a polka. He looked the pissed off little creature in the eye and blinked rapidly until it was smiling and licking his face. He wiped a smear of icing drool from his cheek and went on to explain.

Unfortunately, in addition to being highly intelligent, they tend to be a touch territorial. They bond instantly with the first person they see and protect them from anything they perceive as dangerous. My brother learned that the hard way. He pulled the thing down and cradled it in his arms like a baby.

When he brought the first few to his ship, they immediately became hostile towards the other passengers. Imagine his surprise when one of these cute little guys twisted his first mate’s head off like a cheap plastic doll. Mind you, they only attack defensively. The first mate tried to pick one up that had already bonded. The little guy felt threatened. It did what was natural, and neutralized the threat.

Max looked skeptically at the creature. Shouldn’t it be on a leash, or something?

No. I believe we’ve learned enough about them now to avoid further incidents. Eventually they may be as common as cats or dogs. In many ways they’re superior to both. One hundred times more effective than guard dogs. They are sweeter, smarter, and more loyal than any other household pet. They don’t claw the furniture. They eat almost anything, but nothing they’re not supposed to, and you don’t even have to worry about having them fixed. Watch this.

He placed Cat on the table, removed a butcher’s knife from his apron, and placed it about a foot from its tail. With smooth even strokes he sawed his way through the creature, which coiled in ecstasy. It trilled and cooed as though in the throes of passion. Once removed, the merchant picked the segment up with a piece of butcher paper and tossed it to him.

Max was too shocked to do anything but catch it. His hand tingled as he was flushed with warmth and an overall sense of well-being. Taking hold with all its suckers, the peppy nugget squirmed and oozed a thick yellow custard, which dripped through his fingers and onto his shoes. Max’s stomach churned like an Amish porn star. He tried to free himself, but six powerful suckers were all but fused to his flesh.

The hunk grew slowly, about a centimeter per second, each new sucker gripping as tightly as the first. The growth wound its way slowly up his arm, and soon he held a fully grown cheekworm. Its head bloomed cooing on Max’s shoulder. It opened its big black eyes, and all the shock and revulsion melted into fatherly pride. It wasn’t long before Max was cooing back.

Amazing, isn’t it? Notice the resemblance? the merchant asked proudly. You now have a friend who would kill or die for you. He’s literally a part of you, built from your own DNA. That’s why he looks like you. He’s your son.

Dude, that’s some fucked-up shit. Let me guess, here comes the part where you tell me how much I owe you for him.

Oh, no, I’ll do nothing of the sort. I couldn’t take him away from you now if I wanted to. He’s yours for life. If you’d like to show your gratitude by purchasing something from my store, that’s totally up to you. They do love snack cakes. How about a treat for your new friend?

The creature slithered up his arm and rested its head on top of Max’s.

Sure, why not? Do you carry Juicetastic XXX by any chance?

What flavor?

Mango ecstasy?

I’ll just go get it for you. The merchant waddled through the doorway. The already reformed Cat poured himself off the table and followed close behind.

Max tossed a few snack cakes on the counter and called after him, Two gallons, if you’ve got it.

The merchant returned a minute later and rang him up. What do you think you’ll call him?

I don’t know. They really seem to like these cake things. I guess I’ll call him Cakey.

That’s just adorable.

Max didn’t care that Cecil was patronizing him. It is a he, isn’t it? He seems like a he. I guess it could be a she.

You can call it whatever you want, but it’s neither. No genitalia, you see? These little guys just latch onto the first DNA they come into contact with. You might say you played the role of the father, making Cat here the mother, so I suppose they’re kind of metaphorically female. I don’t see what it matters, though. You aren’t going to try to fuck it, are you?

Eww, no. Of course not. I was just curious.

Only joking, sir. Only joking. Be good to the little guy and he’ll be good to you. Now, if his feathers get ruffled and you need to calm him down, just do as I did earlier. They seem to enjoy polka the most. Blinking at them repeatedly conveys love and trust, and puts them at ease. If you have any problems or questions, feel free to come by any time. You have a nice day now.

The merchant handed him his bags with a big smile that said their business was concluded, and he was free to fuck off. Max smiled politely, not quite sure what had just transpired, and quickly returned home before anything else could mate with him.

THE 39 WHELPS

As the months rattled by, Cakey wormed his way deeper and deeper into Max’s heart. The damage his reclusive lifestyle had done to him was growing more apparent by the day. He’d forgotten what it was like to have a pleasant interaction with another living thing, but with the help of his new friend he was beginning to feel human for the first time in years.

Again? Fuck! Max said as he tipped over his king for the third time in under an hour. Maybe it was fatherly pride, maybe he was simply happy to have a friend, but he didn’t mind. He was amazed something so special had come from him. He reached across the couch, and put his finger in Cakey’s sucker. Good game, you little bastard. I am going to beat you one of these days. Who the hell taught you to play, anyway? Remind me to kick their ass.

Cakey giggled like a humored child. Max was a terrible chess player and he knew it. Sometimes he got the impression Cakey was drawing the game out to make him feel better about losing.

Max picked up the chessboard and looked for a steady place to put it. His coffee table was a thriving ecosystem where all forms of garbage were free to return to their primordial roots and eventually re-imagine themselves as new forms of life. He transferred the set from the middle cushion to a small plateau of old magazines, which accepted its weight with minimal sliding. As all the king’s horsemen and all the king’s men mingled happily with their new neighbors, Cakey surged in to fill the void of Max’s lap; curling inside out and upside down to peer up from a position of blissful vulnerability.

Max beamed at him with almost romantic love. He wondered how an animal could validate him so thoroughly. Was it possible for a human and a worm to be soul mates?

Their eyes remained locked in a tender vacuum until the pointed pitch of the doorbell burst their bubble. They both stared at the front door, wishing it had been equipped with a snooze button.

With a discontented snort, Cakey crawled over to his spot on the couch, allowing Max to greet his date. He’d all but forgotten about the bookish brunette from the park. She was a Klipsch and well out of his league except for her level of intelligence, which gave her a sexy but slightly creepy Gestapo-like demeanor. He was pretty sure she was a sexual squirrel. Getting six months or maybe a year’s worth of sexual tension directed at him at once was sometimes more than he could handle, but his nerd fetish made it worth the risk.

He ushered her in and sat her next to Cakey, Can I get you a drink or something? I’ve got just about everything; beer, wine, a full bar...

The woman made a face like she was insulted by the insinuation that she would be the sort to indulge in the devil’s nectar. No thank you. She glanced curiously at the dubious life form beside her.

Max took Cakey’s Really? Her? expression to mean it was bathroom time. He opened the door and snapped his fingers in the usual way, ignoring his friend’s pleading eyes and silent promises to be good. Cakey dismounted the couch and began his walk of shame, but stopped on a dime as a second chime sounded.

Now, who the hell could that be?

He smiled apologetically. "Probably another one of those schmucks from the NAADP looking for a handout. I’ll get rid of them."

Max returned to the door to find Scarlet decked out in green leather and fuck-me pumps. She had little pins over her nipples. One said, Stop looking at me, the other Pervert. Her immoderate accessories sounded like jingling keys as she brushed him aside and let her neo-steampunk handbag clatter to the floor.

What’s up Maxie-pad? She noticed the woman on the couch and smiled. Ooh, somebody’s been busy. I like her. Good job! She pressed her body against him and bit his cheek affectionately.

Hovering an inch above the couch, Miss Quantum Physics’ expression wavered between hurt and angry. As if looking through a microscope, her cold blue eyes bounced between Scarlet’s bountiful bouncing baubles trying to define what phylum to file her in. Her face hardened into a mask of disgust. She must have pegged Scarlet as a Savanian.

Max panicked. Being a Sonian, he was immune to most of the tension between classes, but the Klipsch and Savanians reacted to each other like bleach and ammonia. This social situation was several levels above his training.

Hi, Scarlet. What are you doing here? His voice vacillated between annoyance and fear.

I thought I’d surprise you. I didn’t know you’d have guests. Fine with me, though. Her voice sounded even more like a phone sex worker than usual. Well, are ya surprised?

Uh…yeah.

Scarlet strode over to Max’s guest, pushed her back into a sitting position and straddled her. So, what’s your name sweetie?

Miss Quantum Physics shoved her off and stood to leave, her mouth forming a jumble of apologies and outrage. It seemed this social situation was several levels above her training as well. She was in possession of a hole that she had hoped to fit a peg into, but brazen gutter-slut was the wrong shape, and the force with which Scarlet was attempting to insert herself was threatening to break the frame.

No, don’t go, Max pleaded, as she tore across the carpet.

Scarlet pleaded as well, but she was gone before either of them could make their case. Side by side they stared at the gaping door.

What’d a girl like that want with you, anyway?

I got the impression she wanted to borrow my penis.

She wrapped her arm around Max’s waist. Sorry about that, I guess it’s just you and me tonight.

You really should call before you come.

But you can usually tell when I’m about to cum. She wrapped herself around him like an octopus. Come on, don’t be mad. Let’s make the most of a sorry situation.

As Scarlet peeled his clothes away, Max found himself less concerned with the intrusion than he was with the crowd of voyeurs gathering in the hall. He was relieved to see Cakey, eyes rolling like bowling balls, slam the door in their faces before any of them had a chance to make off with his TV. He removed his tongue from Scarlet’s throat, and thanked his little friend before shooing him into bathroom and slamming the door.

******

Cakey made himself comfortable in a nest of mildewing underwear as the lock on the bathroom door slid into place. He took a deep breath of bathroom air, letting the familiar sickly-sweet chocolaty funk coat his little lungs like rotten tootsie rolls. There was nothing to do now but curl up and endure the groans of the chalky usurper while she played with Max’s monkey in ways he never could.

Here we go again. Cakey made the bed for Max. Now Cakey have to listen to Max lie in it. Cakey hates sharing! He snorted angrily. Why monkeys need squishy time with other monkeys? Use Cakey to get phone numbers then lock Cakey in the bathroom. Stupid monkey! Cakey should go toss bitch-monkey like wet confetti.

It wasn’t as though he hadn’t tried to fill that role in Max’s life. He simply didn’t have the right play-set. Max hadn’t even seemed to know what Cakey was trying to do on that occasion. That made Cakey very sad.

Cakey doesn’t like all the attention Max is getting lately. Cakey wants monkey to be the best monkey his monkey can be. Whether Cakey likes it or not benefits are benefits, and it benefits Max to get his sloppy time. Cakey just doesn’t understand what so special about shedding skins, and writhing monkeys in the squishy place without Cakey.

Why always without Cakey? Cakey squishy too. If Max wants fleshy squish, why Cakey’s not as good as top-heavy money-pit? Cakey loves Max. Cakey knows how treacherous these creatures can be. Why it so wrong to want to be there to protect Max?

Rejection sours Cakey’s inner goo.

Nevertheless, he tried to put Max’s needs above his own. Cakey would let him have his sloppy time, and Max would eventually get bored and come back. That’s how he preferred to think about it anyway. In truth, any time a female came around he got tossed in the bathroom faster than an inflatable party sheep.

Deep down Cakey knew it was his fault for having interfered in the past. Just like they both knew he could tear through the flimsy bathroom door in two seconds if he decided to. Bathroom time was a punishment that held him at bay with an invisible barrier of shame.

He was comforted by the fact that the women rarely appeared more than once. Dozens of women had come and gone over the course of a few months, and none of them formed a bond with Max deeper than the length of his penis. None of the multitude had ever posed a threat-- until now. This woman, with her tattoos and her corsets and her ridiculous crayon-red hair, had come by for the third time.

Cakey couldn’t understand why Max would choose to couple with a woman he had already explored over a new conquest. He didn’t even seem to mind that she showed up uninvited and chased away a sexy librarian. Very worrisome indeed.

When the screaming finally came to an end and the door opened, he was shocked to find the woman was still there. Instead of being gone as was right and proper, she sat defiantly in his spot, sipping beer from a green bottle and slowly dragging her fingernails across the upholstery in an insulting attempt to lure him to her. This was simply too much. The redhead had crossed the line this time, and Cakey was now burdened with the task of restoring the natural order of things. He shot over to her feet, made himself as large as possible, displayed his teeth prominently, and issued a guttural hiss of warning.

Maybe Max like squishy time with Cakey more once Cakey makes head and butt warmers out of monkey chest-flaps.

The woman laughed, as though he was being cute. I don’t think the little guy likes me anymore.

Max hum-paed, and moved in to intercept him. He was blinking hard and fast, but Cakey was beyond the reach of such simple offerings.

Cakey sprang forward, but Max’s arms intercepted him. He climbed around Max’s back and wrapped himself around his head. Cakey took hold of his monkey, and made an unmistakable declaration of ownership. Max yelped in pain as the powerful suckers latched on and the hiss gave way to a territorial growl. Never in the history of man had two species communicated so clearly with one another.

Unable to blink or hum, Max stroked him gently and scratched him behind the ears. Cakey wanted to melt into his arms and have his belly rubbed, but he’d gone too far to turn back now.

The enemy remained seated, but shifted forward looking equally amused and horrified. She was obviously considering some sort of intervention, but didn’t know what to do. Cakey continued to growl at the transgressor as he rode his stumbling steed into the kitchen.

Cakey had inferred Max’s plan before it had even formed. Cakey is a jealous God, he screamed inside his head. Cakey’s altar is vast and barren, and all the snack cakes at Sav-Mart cannot fill it. No cake, no icing, no fluffy cream will satiate my wrath!

Groping the countertop, Max slapped the box of treats off the counter scattering his last resort amongst the garbage and groceries residing at his feet. They popped and squished between his toes as he stumbled under the shifting weight of his mad hatter.

Max danced awkwardly in the pastries as though he was pressing them for wine. The room was filling with the sweet smell of Polysorbate 60, diglycerides and whey. Scarlet’s laughter was almost as loud as Cakey growl, but she managed to snatch the last untrampled cake and offer it up in all its artificial glory.

Cakey, whose jaw had been dropped in a gesture of aggression, commenced gently masticating the air as he chewed over his options. Artificial treats had a way of mesmerizing his species. The subtle aromas of intertwined chemicals sang with a complex harmony more beautiful and overwhelming than any composer’s dream.

The red velvet Tookie bar was

Reviews for Birth or The Exquisite Sound of One Hand Falling Off a Turnip Truck

[havingfaith-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Birth or The Exquisite Sound of One Hand Falling Off a Turnip Truck is quite a challenging mouthful, but still within the scope of anyone who’s dated Brazilian. What is the name of this freak style anyway? One of the reviewers here calls it Bizarro, so I’ve looked that up and learned something. I would have previously associated it with gonzo journalism (unobjective experiences and emotions, overlapping with the hallucinogenic) but it isn’t first person author or set in a real enough place for a travelogue. Bizarro it is then. So, what the heck is that?A diligent fourteen seconds of research tells me that Eraserhead Press, Raw Dog Screaming Press and Afterbirth Books started the genre off in 2005, with Eraserhead since 2008 hosting the BizzaroCon (convention). Wikipedia (don’t trust this source) says the genre typically includes “elements of absurdism, satire and the grotesque, along with pop-surrealism … to create subversive, weird and entertaining works”. It also says “the first Bizarro Starter Kit describes it as literature's equivalent to the cult section at the video store" and Rose O'Keefe of Eraserhead Press says "Basically, if an audience enjoys a book or film primarily because of its weirdness, then it is Bizarro”. There is a Mondo Bizarro Forum for the fans of the style.That’s enough quoting – what did I think of it? Well, there’s a surreal setting to it but I’m into that because Spike, Monty Python and their million funny impersonators were all surrealists. Death is much easier in this place though, with plenty of splat and no fussy investigations or legal nuisances afterwards, so most of the characters and species seem only in this game to be killed in ever more entertaining ways. There are some set-piece battles for clearing out swathes of people at a time, along with the paying audience, then individual little bijou deaths when the hero’s pet gets possessive. Let’s avoid discussing Cakey. He’s very mucked up, with a capital F. Very strange things happen all the time in this, of course, and the author forms what can only be described as spectacularly bizarre connections of mental imagery, so must have an inventive brain with very few working brakes in that skull-thing of his. Yes, the blatant shambolic weirdness is entertaining.The protagonist is a dislikeable, shallow hog of a man who doesn’t care about other people unless he has to, changes sides on a whim and doesn’t feel a lot of shame even when naked, covered in splashed guts or forced to wear baggy rapper trousers (please, no). The grotesque horror of sudden, messy deaths doesn’t upset him, even when they’re together in a confined space and the munched-up victim is his current squeeze. The most strikingly unlikely thing of all is the ease with which he pulls women – more accurately, he doesn’t even try. They just seem to meet him and unpack the inflatable mattress. From the repressed librarian who knocks on his door to the dominant cyber-punkette* and then the wily princess of espionage, they all seem much too attractive, easy to access, unrealistically disposable and their mindset that the whole gambit of human relationship culture can just be reduced to giving it up to this particular dropout is, frankly, a purely male fetish fantasy way of approaching the world which the author has flipped onto his female characters because he thinks a future where that happens would be nice, like a fast food delivery to save learning to cook. I mean, with this low-achieving layabout protagonist, what exactly is the incentive? Why do the girls in this make all the running? Ok, I remember – because that’s convenient to the man. Even if he were the only realistic offer in town and the women of the world had intimate cobwebs, I’m pretty sure none of us would ever need a cheap run through with a hoodie that badly.He’s got me over a barrel here because all the weird random stuff, casual abdominal infiltration and cartoon horror in this book is officially supposed to be in this genre, which makes it an authentic example of its type – which, in turn, is the core criterion I’m meant to be assessing it on. The male, female and mutant characters behave more like expendable action figures though and the zombies have no character at all, so I’m docking a star for that two dimensionality, but otherwise it conforms to the gore and garbage spunk splatter plan that defines this foolishly entertaining genre and it is an undeniably entertaining road crash of the imagination. It isn’t Lewis Carroll’s idea of a dream and I want to say three stars out of five for literature but if it is supposed to be fun, bizarre and shocking – it obviously and intentionally is, that’s four stars. I also haven’t read anything else like this with which to compare it, so I’m still confused, wide-eyed, backing away and recommending that single young women don’t go anywhere near convention.*My spell checker tried to change this to pancetta.