Mr. Extreme

By Chaz Gower

His name is Mr. Extreme... and he is! When wandering loner Gipson Extreme accidentally runs into a Presidental Lawyer who's about to commit suicide, it starts him on a life-altering course... with the help of his new found Wiccan Prostitute Girlfriend, they find out that the world may not be any more ready for them as they are for it...
Set in 1993 it's a satire of politics, sex, violence and alternative philosophy!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chaz Gower
• Release date: Feb 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463880173

Chaz Gower

I'm an American Erotica Comedy Writer, traveling the world, looking for stories and adventures to share with you... so much more to come...

Book preview

PRELUDE

It's a hot humid day in Lombard, Illinois as I pull my dirt brown Duster into the Quickie Mart parking lot. As I get out of the car, I'm assaulted by the mid-afternoon sunlight that remains unrelenting. Wearing just a pair of army green shorts and thongs, I rub my shaved head wearily and head for the door.

The cool air-conditioning of the Quickie Mart almost puts me into cardiac arrest, having just spent six hours in a Duster with no A/C. I quickly regain my equilibrium and head for the upright frozen coolers at the back of the store.

I grab my usual choice of bottled soft drink, knowing full well that it contains more caffeine than anything else in the cooler. I hold it's cold glass body to my cheek as I make my way to the counter.

How much, I ask, despite having figured in my head that with sales tax it'll be 94 cents.

A small mouse of a girl behind the counter, looks up at me from her Danielle Steele novel; peering over the top of her pathetic looking retro 'cats-eye' glasses. In between the obnoxious chewing of her gum she says, I'm sorry sir. I can't serve you without a shirt on.

You have a shirt on, I half smile, half punch her face in.

I'm sorry sir, she deadpans. No shoes. No shirt. No service.

She goes back to reading her novel as if I'm not there. I do a slow burn, and then pull out a .45 pistol and hold it up to her forehead. Her eyes bulge, she drops her book and swallows her gum. With my other hand I drop the 94 cents on the counter and grab my soda.

Have a nice day, I deadpan back.

As I walk back to my car, I twist off the top of my soda and take a huge gulp.

My name is Mr. Extreme.

And incidentally, I am.

CHAPTER ONE

By ten o'clock that night I'm in St. Louis. Specifically, Forest Park, where I've staked out a nice tree to sit and relax against. It's a nice spot, where I not only have some light from a nearby street lamp to read from; but it's also shielded from passing traffic in case I fall asleep here. There are few things in life that are as unenjoyable as being rousted by a cop in the middle of the night. I don't really care much for cops.

From my backpack, I pull out my copy of Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer and run my fingers over the freshness of the cover. There is nothing like the feel of a freshly bought book. So much waiting to be read, to be explored and enlightened; and if worthy, even regurgitated as reference. Books are the greatest form of combined entertainment and enlightenment that exist, and I would be a sad, sad individual without them.

No ads to try and sell me anything. No commercials to secretly implant product needs in my head for new and improved better brands; created for the masses to help me be an individual. No feature stories, that are secretly ads themselves, trying to make believe their product or idea is so very important or revolutionary that I MUST have it now.

No plastic looking people with their perfect hair and pretty white teeth to subliminally try and make us all feel inferior; wearing clothes and driving vehicles that we MUST have in order to 'fit' into today's world.

No. It is a book. It is a world within itself. And it is all mine.

I had picked this particular book up in Boston, a couple of weeks ago, at an independent bookstore that actually had it on sale for half price. And though I feared it might be a mistake, (and I would have to pay full price), I nevertheless inquired as to why. Apparently, it had been used as a reference for many years in a college class there, and the owner had bought 'x' amount of copies every year to satiate the demand. But this year, the college course had unexpectedly dropped it from it's 'required reading' list, leaving them with more of the 'x' amount than they could sell. My bargain!

Now, Tropic of Cancer is generally regarded as Mr. Miller's most well known work, even though I, myself, have never read it. But having previously encountered his Rosy Crucifixion Trilogy (Sexus, Nexus, and Plexus), and having enjoyed it as much as I did, I felt the need to search out more of his work. Miller has his critics, but I find the zeal he has for life (which he so flawlessly translates in his writing), to be to my liking.

So I relaxed and began to read, the night air having considerably cooled down. It was one of those perfect summer nights, and I was set to enjoy it. I began to feel drowsy around page 47, when I looked up to see a man walking towards me. Startled somewhat, I lifted my head up to let him see I was aware of his presence. He didn't seem to be aware of mine.

He was wearing an old suit, kind of like what you'd expect an accountant in an old gangster movie to wear; and he was carrying a briefcase. I started to think about getting up and running (you never know what kind of people you can run into in the middle of the night in Forest Park), but he seemed more surprised to see me than I was of him.

Oh...Hello. he said as he stopped, seeming somewhat pale and spent.

How's it goin'? I sort of say.

Oh...fine. Fine.

He's sweating. And looking around. And making me pretty fuckin' nervous if you want to know the truth. He sits down Indian style and puts his briefcase on his lap. He has this tremendously constipated look on his face, which disappears almost immediately when he says to me, I've come here to kill myself.

***

Well...why d'ya wanna do something like that? I say in a rather naive way. Not being the naive type, I hope he'll realize I mean it in an inquisitive sort of way. Because I am sort of curious.

Do you know who the President is? he says real spooky.

Uh, yeah..., I actually have to think for a minute, that Clinton guy. He grunts and looks at me as if I'm seriously not sure. I AM seriously sure it's Clinton, it's just not something I think about on a day to day basis.

Well...I work for him, he says matter of factly.

That must be a pretty good paying job, I say, nodding my head and trying to think like a business guy.

Well...it's not. He says in a very curt manner, just staring at me. And I'm going to blow my head off. I just can't deal with all of the...the shit.

He says it in a way that makes me think he might just get up and shoot me too, so I try to remain very calm.

I can deal, man, I say, getting into a philosophical mode. I used to have a job. Slavin' day in and day out. Workin' paycheck to paycheck. Feelin'...feelin' like a fuckin' number. I thought about killin' myself many times, my friend.

He bows his head. I continue. But you know what? One day I just said 'fuck it'. I'm gonna go live off the land, travel the back streets and parks and REALLY live life. Why kill myself? I mean…I figured, if I'm so miserable that I'd go and do that, why not just live life as freely as I possibly can. What've I got to lose? I tell ya man, since then, all my stress is gone.

I admire that, I really do, he says, finally seeming a little bit at ease. What was your name?

Gipson. Gipson Egstreme.

He smiles, Extreme?

And I am, I smile back.

He smiles even wider and enjoys the moment. But then he quickly starts to look serious again.

Gipson, I have a lot of different things to worry about than you probably did. I have access to a lot of...a lot of important information. Top Secret things. The...you see...the government is an ugly monster, and having been wrapped up in it for so long...well, I'm as good as dead, one way or another.

You got people out after you?

In a way, he sighs. Sometimes, Gipson...a man can get himself into something, that he never meant to be in. Just by...just by letting life take him there.

He looks down and puts his hand up to his cheek. He looks constipated again. There is so much evil in the world, Gipson. More than people can even imagine. It RUNS the world. And believe me...it's not the evil that people think. It's not the evil they see on television, dressed up as gangbangers and cartoonish bad guys...and... No. This evil has disguised itself very well as what is normal and regular and wholesome and moral and everyday. It's not one person, or one group, or organization...it's almost everything. All of the things that we see as normal and everyday...is born out of the perversion of those who manipulate it all. There's...there isn't any purity left in the world.

Yeah...the world's fucked up, I oversimplify.

He sort of half smiles and sighs at the same time, but in a painful looking way. He looks down almost as if he's getting ready to sob. Just as suddenly, he's as calm as can be.

Are you a street person? he asks in strangely kind way.

Um...yeah, I guess I sort of am. I say, not having completely accepted that as my life description.

Well, you've freed yourself from so much of it. How ironic that you would be the last person I meet. He starts to chuckle in a very natural way. "You're probably more