Disintegration of the Mind: A Comedy for the Confused

By Mark A. Schempp

In an upscale high school classroom, somewhere in Beverly Hills, California, Dr. Corpusel is teaching math to his gifted students. Dr. Corpusel grabs the nearest student, drags her from her seat and asks her a story problem. She answers the question quickly and correctly, which is not what Dr. Corpusel wants her to do. He pulls a handgun from his jacket and blows her head off.

During Dr. Corpusels incarceration, he writes the following to his wife, Bridget Corpusel:

I have come to the realization that I alone am the founder of conversational reality. A term with no boundaries. A bicycle with four pedals. A salt shaker with no holes. Yellow paper with, HELP written in yellow ink. I have discovered the link to the past by thought and contemplation. No student of math with ever be competent enough to make reference, or judge a conclusion by scientific theory or fact. I alone have endured the pain that much be acknowledged before the truth is discovered. The wasted years of lying to students about their talent is over. The Nobel Peace Prize is all about mine. Countries will bow to my immediate presence.

The main character is Dr. Corpusels son, Nicholas Corpusel. Nicholas is a well-established writer in his late 30s, who wants to give up his writing career to become an actor. To achieve this transaction Nicholas has to (1) get rid of his quirky girlfriend, Leeza; (2) deal with his neurotic cat (named Dr. Travesty); (3) sell his latest and last novel entitled, The Brown Bag Stereo; and (4) keep from losing his mind.

Throughout the novel, Nicholas finds himself in various predicaments which usually requires the assistance of others. The following occurs when Nicholas innocently tries to visit his father at Shady Lanes, a mental therapy house:

The guards left him alone to wander down through the maze of hallways. Nicholas assured them that he knew where he was going, even though he had no idea. He found himself in the middle of the women's isolation ward. He was a bit nervous being around hundreds of extremely mean, horny women. He had read about women in prisons before and had pictured the carnage in which could have erupted at any moment, but he wasnt exactly sure how it would or could take place. Just as the thought faded, the door locked behind him and Nicholas realized he was trapped. Trapped in a room with at least twelve women. Then, the thing that Nicholas had feared most happened.

"You hold him down and I'll fuck the living shit out of him!"

Nicholas freaked at the way that the women were looking at him.

"HELP!" screamed Nicholas as he pounded on the door. The women kept circling him like terriers circling a baby lamb before the slaughter. The smell of blood was in the air.

"Help, you fucking morons!"

The Leader of the pack lunged at Nicholas as the door flew open. The guard on duty in that sector had saved Nicholas. The guard just happened to be making his Prozac rounds.

"What the hell were you doing over here?"

"Lost," replied Nicholas in an extremely relieved voice.

Nicholas had fantasized about having multiple women at one time, but this was entirely different. These women were mean and reminded him of the clientele of a northern Michigan Wal Mart store on a twenty percent off Sunday. Nicholas loved women so much that he even considered himself a lesbian trapped in a man's body. He was not into forced sex by any means. All fantasies aside.

Despite numerous times where Nicholas slips into incoherent babbling, reminiscent of his father, Nicholas lands his first role

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 20, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462839612

Mark A. Schempp

Mark A. Schempp is a writer living in Los Angeles, California. Mark grew up in Ann Arbor, Michigan and attended Eastern Michigan University, where he received a Bachelor of Science degree in Telecommunication and Film with a minor in English Writing. He later attended graduate school at Eastern Michigan University earning his Master of Arts degree in Creative Writing. Mark has written television scripts for Seinfeld as well as for the latest Cosby show. In his spare time he enjoys writing letters of disenchantment to local governmental officials as well as to ex-girlfriends while trying to follow in the footsteps of his idol, Dr. Hunter S. Thompson. Mark is continually searching for solace in a world of psychotic, self-proclaimed intellectuals.

Book preview

DISINTEGRATION

OF THE MIND

A Comedy for the Confused

Mark A. Schempp

Copyright © 2000 by Mark A. Schempp.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,

or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing

from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to

any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-7-XLIBRIS

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

PROLOGUE

Every so often here in the midst of suburbia lives a family so American that it could drive a university professor to stand up, pull out a loaded .45 and blow the remnants of a shattered career clean out the other side of some mediocre university student who proclaimed: they knew what socialism was and why it should have been enforced.

As the smoldering .45 sat motionless on the comic wood floor, the professor jumped on one of the many vacant student desks spitting and screaming . . .

THE DECLINE OF THE WESTERN CIVILIZATION IS UPON US!

He then jumped down to retrieve the still smoldering .45. He reminisced to the class about his childhood pranks. About how he would set fire to his brother’s cat, and how he would take his Grandmother’s antidepressant medication in high doses. He spoke of these things while waving the gun frantically toward the class of overachievers.

Shaking, Dr. Corpusel grabbed the closest female student and removed her from her seat.

"If train A left Chicago at six o’clock while another train sporting the exact same attributes as train A, thus identified as train B, left Fayetteville, Arkansas at four o’clock in the afternoon and both were traveling at seventy-five miles-per-hour . . . which of the two trains would arrive first at the Los Angeles train depot?"

The student shook with nervous anticipation and horror.

"Train B . . . there are less stops en route from Fayetteville."

The blast that came next was muffled by the closeness of the gun to the head. Blood dropped from Nietzsche and Kierkegaard. The stillness was perfect, almost resourceful to the students who gazed with wide wonder. Thoughts of, what to do next, were had by everyone. Suddenly, from the back of the room, a silent stoned Snoop Dog/Eminem type stood and walked to the front of the class where the girl’s lifeless body was spread out in a pool of blood and brain matter. He proclaimed with great authority:

This, my friends . . . is the disintegration of the mind!

CHAPTER ONE

The sun was going down over the bleak smoggy city, which is known world wide as Los Angeles, California. It seemed as if God was throwing a blanket over the disgusting scene that had recently taken place. Whatever scene was being played out in Nicholas’ mind was sure to have mystified any psychotherapist’s list of rational thinking patterns. Nicholas had made up his mind to give up his writing career and become an actor. He was at one with his decision. The only problem facing Nicholas was that of his mind. Nicholas had recently begun noticing that he could only write prose and sometimes only speak it. He had noticed his father slipping into his own world of prose for quite some time. Nicholas believed that his father’s problem was with his wife, Bridget Corpusel. She was a crazed woman that had too much time and money at her disposal. Nicholas respected his mother, yet did not trust her mental capacities in dealing with everyday life. He trusted his father’s mental capacities even less. Nicholas was beginning to feel his own mind slip into some parallel bizarreness with that of his parents, especially that of his father. The unconsciousness of writing in prose, speaking in prose and even his dour view on human life, were all similar to that of his father. Nicholas was thirty-eight years old and knew that he would have some signs of the aging and possible memory loss. He was not prepared for total uncontrollable bouts of blackouts, in which he would write prose and even speak prose. Everyone around Nicholas just thought that he was going through some sort of thirties crisis. They weren’t prepared to deal with a man who was beginning to lose his interest in life and become an actor.

Sitting alone in his condo’s garage, Nicholas laughed aloud to a syndicated Twin Peaks. He had just put the finishing touches on, what was to be, his last novel. It was entitled, The Brown Bag Stereo. Nicholas had described it as a story of one man’s search for happiness in a world of corruption and love hysteria. A fairly over-exaggerated trend, but with the pen of a genius at work, time would only be surpassed by the extremes of a life lived in madness. Madness is a way of description, thought Nicholas as he analyzed his public image. Analyzing the truths or the myths is only a patronizing duty put forth to confuse the common folk . . . most too. Nicholas grinned to no one over his last thought.

In the past of life. Nicholas’s life. A structure had been set in place to abide by and to look forward to. Nicholas, during one of his late night drinking binges, told a reporter working for the New York post, structures are as everyone should be aware . . . demeaning and destructive. Some can handle it. Some lie and pretend to enjoy the gifts and the surprises. Others challenge and besiege the idea to the ultimate earthly examples. The simplest form of this comes in the form of writing. A way of expression in which one can live and have rejoice. There is also the one who writes for no other reason. A way of no other means. Expression from within. Enjoyment for the masses. Screenplay writer on acid. Is this a good thing? Some, if not all, would have questioned the authority of a man with ulterior motives. The reporter had no idea of what Nicholas was rambling about, but he quoted him anyway. Nicholas later denied that the interview had ever taken place.

There was still no questioning in anyone’s mind, the amount of success that one man could achieve with only minimal effort. He was, after all, a famous person. An idol to many American college students. The most refreshing writer to come along since Kitty Kelly, stated Mark Gorman of the New York Post. He had nonetheless become the highest paid novelist, screenplay writer and lobbyist (for whatever group that would pay him enough) in the entire country. This was not enough for Nicholas. The dream, since he had been young, was to become The Great Actor. A Robert DeNiro of sorts.

The moment, in which Nicholas decided that he was to tackle his fear and become the loved actor he so longed to be, was when he began showing signs of his inability to fit in. He tried to fight the inability, but after making numerous crank phone calls to his ex-girlfriends and writing letters of disenchantment and disbelief to his local congressman, he decided not to fight his flippiness . . . just go with it.

He had discovered that most, if not all of the people in which he had been associating with, were merely figments of society and not much more.

Average makes for commercialized lives, spoke Nicholas to his latest girlfriend named, Leeza, who had just walked into the garage to see if Nicholas needed more sugar free gummie bears. Nicholas had not noticed her presence. He was too busy thinking about his publicist and his continuous royalty problems.

My publicist was created by our government bureaucrats to adjust the common man into an acceptable piece of flesh. One who drives an American made car, drinks excessively and smokes intensely.

His girlfriend laughed. She wasn’t funny, thought Nicholas as he started to gurgle and shake.

Doing things stressed to my brain, might complicate my arrival.

What? Leeza blurted out.

Coming from the past, such as I and arriving beyond my destination could really hinder a man’s place in society. It could create a social disturbance in a community of over-eaters and neurotic misfits.

Nicholas suddenly realized that he had been rambling about something; what that may have been, he wasn’t quite sure of. He had decided that this was to be the last day of self-torture. He had to break from the reality of reality.

CHAPTER TWO

Approximately six o’clock am, Nicholas awoke to the sound of someone being raped in the park just outside of his window. A sound like no other on the planet, thought Nicholas as he stuck his head out of his window to discover that it was a change in the typical rape scenario. It was a man being raped. Nicholas could feel his hidden feminist side appearing. He felt horrified. He felt the need to help. So, after ten minutes of watching intently, Nicholas reached into his trusty holster, which was resting next to his mattress, smiled at the shine from his German made assault pistol, spun the cartridge, cocked the hammer, aimed and shot the rather large rapist in the back of the head with one pristine bullet. After the smoke had cleared, he had discovered this his shot hand not been as clear as he had thought. The rapist pulled his pants up and took off running. The mess was a bit much for Nicholas to deal with at that time of the morning. Nicholas caressed his silver pistol for a moment to feel its warmth and brought the barrel to his nose to experience the inhaling ritual of spent gunpowder.

VICTORY! yelled Nicholas out of the condo’s window to a gathering group of onlookers.

At that point, Nicholas remembered his upcoming interview with Frank Beringer, a prospective publisher. Nicholas believed that this publishing company could and would create a better image of himself, while continuing to promote him as the genius that he so thought he was. Nicholas was pushing for the disturbed artist promotion. Nicholas exited the bedroom and stumbled in the dark toward the living room, or Think Tank, as it had been termed by Nicholas and his close knit group of friends.

That son-of-a-bitch, Nicholas said, while clapping on the light switch. The cat, Dr. Travesty, had gone crazy during the night and had shit all over the Think Tank, including the only copy of The Brown Bag Stereo. He was planning on showing the first chapter to Mr. Beringer, in hopes of convincing him to use some of his publishing power to further establish Nicholas in the minds of the quasi-intellects who tended to spend their Friday evenings hanging out at Borders awaiting that chance meeting with a fine actress, but to no avail because this is Los Angeles. No one reads . . . unless forced at gunpoint. Nicholas had written the novel in a record four days. It was mostly during midnight writing frenzies, which consisted of slamming Rolling Rock beer, munching on Pop Tarts and a quick bong hit utilizing the Honey Bear. The novel was basically a story of a wild boar and the death of the Republican Party.

The shit-covered cat was huddled in the corner of the Think Tank shaking and making strange noises that were similar to that of a person with bad asthma and similar to that of Nicholas in his progressively worsening state of mind and soul. Nicholas decided to spread Liquid Paper over the shit smears and hope that Mr. Beringer would not notice.

Nicholas showed up fifteen minutes early, as was specified by Mr. Beringer’s secretary. Nicholas stumbled through the front door of the suite, while noticing the red headed receptionist giggling and