The Brain Drips Yellow: An Invocation of Madness

By Burn Moor

In his debut novel, Burn Moor delivers on his promise to leave his readers' minds twisted…permanently.
Deep within the confines of his sheltered delusion, Bill Butler is a loving father and husband, and a successful corporate executive, but his reality is far different. Bill is estranged from his wife, detached from his daughter, and is a constant target of ridicule at his job – and he is on a straight path to mental breakdown.
The Brain Drips Yellow is one man's descent into madness.
Along his journey he is introduced to a sadistic dwarf, a magician-turned-priest, and a suave demonic entity – but did he evoke this entity or is it another manifestation of a deteriorating mind? The demon leads Bill into a surreal world that he refers to as the "scent world" – a world where he is free to purge himself of his fears and satiate his deepest desires. But as Bill spirals into madness, the lines between reality and fantasy begin to blur.
Burn Moor philosophically shreds through our cultural mores, our religious fanaticisms, and our concepts of identity while bringing us uncomfortably close to the face of mental illness. The Brain Drips Yellow is a novel that will leave you ruminating long after you've read the final page.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098384289

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Copyright © 2021 by Burn Moor

The Brain Drips Yellow

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording,

or any information storage and retrieval system now known or invented,

without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes

to quote brief passages in connection with a review written

for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

Print ISBN: 978-1-09838-427-2

eBook ISBN: 978-1-09838-428-9

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 1

A lustful sun awoke aside his mistress with throbbing virility. He peeled back the sordid sheets, stained with the lusts of night, and cast his fervent gaze at his beloved. She glowed beneath his heaving passion and, with her back arched in lascivious thirst, she beckoned in the first day of summer.

I ponder these words for a moment and determine that they are rather risqué for a high school reading assignment, but nevertheless these are the exact words I hear coming through the wall from my daughter’s bedroom. Whether she is reciting a poem, or something she herself has written, I do not know. Despite the inappropriateness of it being spouted by my daughter, it seems to capture perfectly the scene that lingers outside my bedroom window. I listen to the ecstatic giggle of children running through the yards and dogs barking in their wake, shepherding the somnolent neighborhood into the realm of first light. Sprinklers chug water into rainbow mist over shimmering green lawns. It is, indeed, the first day of summer.

Despite having bathed and dressed for the day that lay before me, the languidness of recent sleep still hangs thick in the air and seems to embrace me and will me to slide back under the covers. I battle this sensation each and every morning with the knowledge that a fresh cup of coffee awaits me on the breakfast table, and the first few sips will cause the lethargic airs to evaporate. I crack the window to allow the sounds and smells of summer in suburbia to enter. The morning hours are still young and fresh, and the streets are aglow with the yawning sunlight. Upon a saccharine bed of sticky heat, the bursting buds of purple lilac fill my room.

My neighbors stumble out into the streets like animals emerging from hibernation. Their sleep-filled eyes of winter long squint painfully against the new season’s light. I watch my neighbor, two houses down, pull the gray cover off his vehicle and back the car out of the garage with a monstrous rumble. It is time for the 1967 Pontiac GTO to come out from its deep sleep and receive a full detailed cleaning; a cleaning that will persist each day until the end of season where the cover will be reapplied and the winter slumber once again ensues.

I don’t know him all that well. I don’t know any of my neighbors all that well, as is requisite in polite suburban society, but I do know that Jimmy, that is his name, had worked much of his life to afford that vehicle. He is now well into his sixties and drives his vehicle three out of twelve months of the year. Truth be told, he spends more time buffing and waxing, than driving it. I always wonder if Jimmy can feel the same excitement, driving that car, as his younger self would have, or if he simply basks in the nostalgia of his youth -- a nostalgia that will quickly slip away once the gray cover is slung over his one source of machismo. Perhaps, it is a bitter sensation when he looks at his own reflection in the rearview mirror and realizes that he is now an old man trying to feel young. From the rumors that meander the neighborhood, I would have to assume the latter. He is known for being a bitter old man. He despises children, he despises the yapping dogs, he despises people from what I could gather. He has been known to leave nails strewn about his front lawn to deter children from running on his grass, or to severely punish those who did. The purchase and ownership of a beautiful, shiny muscle car did nothing to soften his disposition, but everyone in the neighborhood regards Jimmy Larson’s unveiling of the GTO as the true first day of summer.

I watch the routine of the neighborhood as it chugs and flows at a precise rate, at a precise time, and I am no exception. I leave the house at 7:15am every morning, taking my rightful place in the wheel of productivity. I must admit, today does feel slightly different, since tomorrow will be my first day of vacation in several years. It gives me a feeling of slight disconnection from the world around me, somewhat detached, as if I already have one foot dangling from the train, so to speak. As a result, I find myself taking closer notice of my surroundings. I live in a very desirable suburban community. It is one of the things I can feel proud of when asked where I live. I have three fine automobiles in my garage: my own, my wife’s, and one that we recently purchased for my daughter when she acquired her driver’s license, but today I also see subtle irregularities. I see a verdant lawn that hides an ugly truth -- it is barren, sterile. Like the symmetrically positioned trees growing along the sidewalk, it is artificially plunged into the earth against its will. It isn’t nature. It is a far cry from nature. It is, indeed, a mockery of nature, and yet, the inhabitants of the community will mow the grass, and trim the hedges, and clip the roses, and bask in the salubrious aromas emitted, feeling somehow healthier and more alive for the experience – but it is more akin to inhaling the fumes of a recently deceased corpse.

I have to shake myself from these morbid musings and shut the window so as not to let the cool, conditioned air escape the room. Humid air has seeped into the bedroom, pressing the salmon golf shirt against my dampened skin. I consider myself fortunate that my eminent position at work exempts me from wearing a full business suit in these sweltering conditions. I saunter down the stairs to join my family for breakfast.

Looks like summer is officially here, I announce. Old Jimmy just took his car out of the garage.

Nobody seems to notice my arrival. I take a seat at the table in the breakfast nook. Katharine has already consumed most of her breakfast and is flipping through the pages of a book, while she mindlessly chews the last remaining bites. I wonder if it’s the book she had been quoting from earlier.

Esther puts a plate of food in front of me. It is different from the meals I had been eating for the past month. I look at the calendar on the wall and note the date. 

I guess the good book has some new dietary advice for us all, I say.

Esther doesn’t reply.

I review the contents of the meal. It consists of one half of a sliced orange and a bowl of, what appears to be, grits. More importantly, I take notice of what is missing from the table – the steaming cup of black coffee, lightly sweetened. I look over at the coffee pot to find it empty, with the indicator light off. One of the few pleasant aspects of my morning routine is the rich cup of coffee that I drink with genuine delight. The aroma, that normally permeates every crevice of the nook, is in abeyance, and all that remains is a lumpy bowl of grits and half of an orange.

The bible says to make the grits with Grade-AA butter and a small sprinkle of iodized sea salt. The combination of the grits with the orange will give us all the energy we need for the day, while helping us to burn unwanted fat, Esther says. 

No coffee? I ask. 

The bible also says that coffee is unhealthy and stains your teeth. Have you even looked at your teeth lately? Esther asks.

I run my tongue across my teeth. I suppose they do feel rather slick with plaque.

Well, naturally, if the bible says so, I mumble, before scooping the grits into my mouth. I want to ask what had come of the prior month’s breakfast suggestion, which included two buckwheat pancakes and a cup of prune juice, but decide against it. I would not miss the prune juice.

I need you to pick me up when you get out of work today. I have an appointment at the salon, Esther says.

Sure, I reply.

Finishing my last few bites of food, I watch my daughter’s spindly fingers and forearms as she flips through the pages in her book. Unwanted fat, I think to myself. Well, so be it. I cluck my tongue and rise from the table to rinse my dishes in the sink and head off for my last day at the office before vacation.

I enter the garage and depress the button on the key fob in my pocket to chirp the alarm. Yellow marker lights flash twice like a cordial greeting. I look at my disfigured reflection in the smooth black sheen of the hood. The garage smells of gasoline and freshly cut grass; grass that is quickly becoming stale, but when I slide into the seat of the BMW, I am saturated by the scent of leather. Tan leather to be precise. I press one button and the engine roars to life, another button and the news broadcast fills the cabin. It is an orchestra of engineering precision that is the 5-series BMW. I’ve owned it less than a year now, but I still recall the day I purchased it. Esther had given me permission to purchase the 3-series, which is still a fine automobile, but when I saw the 5-series sitting on the lot, I knew that was the car for me, no question. Esther was opposed to it, as it was a great deal more expensive, but it was the rare occasion where I put my foot down. I told her that, for a man in my position with a big corporation, it was important to keep up appearances. When it came to my career, I could usually win her over.

The BMW does exactly what it is intended to do -- what all cars in suburbia are intended to do -- attain the envy of thy neighbor. Jimmy has a fine automobile, without question, but the GTO is the blue-collar counterpart to the white-collar sophistication of the BMW. It is the brute force to my refinement, and I make it a habit to drive slowly through my neighborhood streets and catch people turning their heads to take notice of my car in my peripheral vision. I can rarely suppress the faint smile as I accelerate onto the freeway towards my place of employment.

A horizontally-striped building of brown stucco and black glass rises into the sky. It sits at the heart of the business park and, despite it not being the tallest of buildings, its gravity is evident by way of reputation. The building that proudly houses and exemplifies The Willis Corporation glimmers with haughty elegance.

I enter the building through a revolving glass door, give a slight nod to the head security guard, whose name to this day I do not know, receive the same nod in return, and enter the elevator. As a rule, I arrive earlier than most of my subordinates, not as a reflection of industriousness, but rather to avoid interaction with anyone as I walk along the corridor to my corner office. Moments after my arrival, I sit in my office and listen to the bleary-eyed employees shuffle into the building trying desperately to awaken. Like a composer building up a crescendo with an orchestra of computer terminals, the momentum of the morning increases, fueled by caffeine and cocaine, the keyboards tapping with a fury of empty productivity.

In full defiance of the bible’s teachings, my office wafts with the scent of coffee, burnt and sweet. It is an unpleasant brew, but I sip it with a rebellious smirk. The murky coffee leaves a thin, dark film on my teeth that I lick between sips. I allow the final few syrupy droplets to slide down the inside of the cup onto my tongue and then place the white, foam cup upon the desk. The red plastic stirring rod, having completed its one obligation of thoroughly mixing the contents of the cup, is now being victimized by the gnashing of my molars. Chewing and twisting it until it is deemed unrecognizable, I then flick it into the trash, along with the cup, to take their place in a graveyard of foam cups and mangled stirring rods. I lean back in my chair and feel the remnants of slumber dissipate under caffeine’s command.

Mark raps on the door, despite it being open, to announce his presence.

Hey buddy. Ready for your vacation? Mark asks, leaning against the edge of my desk. His dress shirts are always rolled up to the elbows, exposing dense, hirsute arms. He has hands that would look more appropriate carving slabs of meat in a butcher shop as opposed to tapping away at a keyboard in the Finance Department of The Willis Corporation. Despite an unruly appearance, Mark is a genial man and, quite literally, the only man that I can consider a friend. We have never socialized outside of work, never shared a meal, nor met for a beer, but I still wouldn’t hesitate to call Mark a friend.

I still have some last-minute packing to do, but I guess I’m looking forward to some time away, I answer. 

You guess? Mark asks. A whole week away on the island, and ‘you guess’? Mark chuckles to himself. Buddy, if I was in your shoes, I’d be sitting there getting absolutely nothing done, daydreaming about palm trees, sandy beaches, and women with tanned skin and skimpy bathing suits running by. His body bounces with laughter. But don’t you go repeating that to my wife. She’d kill me. He slaps me, lightheartedly, on the shoulder.

I try to return the amiable smile that is being shone upon me, not out of any genuine feelings of contentment, but rather from a habitual mimicking of the emotional state of my interlocutor. Mark smiles, so I smile. If Mark were to delve into a topic of seriousness, then I would knit my brows pensively. For the moment, Mark is in good spirits and smiling broadly, and I follow suit.

Guys! A young man barges into my office. Guys, take a look at this!

Good morning to you too, Frankie, Mark says to his intern.

Oh…sorry about that. I just…good morning, Mr. Makowski. Good morning, Bill. 

His name is Mr. Butler, Frankie.

I nod to Mike’s intern.

What is it you’re so worked up about now? I can’t imagine it has anything to do with accounting. Nobody should ever get that worked up over accounting, Mark chuckles. 

Well, here, look. See, I’ve been creating this logarithm. Or is it an algorithm. I always get those two confused. Maybe it’s just a template after all. No I think it’s an algorithm, Frankie says.

Kid, what exactly are you getting at? Mark asks.

Right. So anyway, I go to thinking, Frankie starts, I know I’m not as old as you guys, but I’ve been thinking a lot about my life lately, and I’ve come to the conclusion that very little of my life was really of my own choosing. I mean, maybe some of it was my choice, but very little of it was anything I really wanted to do, for myself, you know? Maybe this doesn’t make much sense, but I started creating this algorithm to try to calculate how much of my life was really my own and, well, I’m not done with it yet, but the outcome doesn’t look too good. I started by just entering basic information, like my day-to-day activities. Look at this, he shifts toward Mark, pointing to particular figures on the page. "Here. From the moment I wake up, to the moment I go to sleep at night, I mark off the time and the template categorizes it; from my morning routine, to my time here at work, even the time that I’m asleep, where I’m not really ‘living’, and do you know what I’ve come up with so far? Zilch. Hardly any of my life is of my own desire. It is an accumulation of activities that I either need to do or should do -- going to school, attending to chores, brushing my teeth, taking a bath, eating, being told when to wake up or when to go to bed -- but none of that is anything I necessarily want to do. Then, as I track through my past, I’m finding that just about my entire life was lived the same way, but it gets worse. I’m also marking moments in my life that stood out as being enjoyable or profound in some way. And I’m realizing that, out of the moments I can actually remember, the parts that meant something to me add up to a matter of seconds at best. How did all that time slip by with nothing more than a matter of seconds’ worth of lifetime having a deep enough impact to make it into my memory banks?"

Frankie, is that what you’re doing on company time? Mark asks.

Well, no…I…maybe, Frankie says.

Right. 

I guess I should probably get back to work, Frankie says. 

Probably a good idea, Mark says.

His intern exits the room. Mark turns his attention back to me and we share a snicker.

There goes the future of our company, he says. I’ll be back in a minute. Let me find something for this kid to do before he implodes thinking about the pointlessness of his life. 

I pull out a pad of paper from my desk and jot down some rough figures as to how I spend my days. Twenty-four hours in a day. I awake at a predetermined hour each morning to engage in my quotidian ritual of bathing and dressing, then I haphazardly consume breakfast for some sustenance, and commute to the office for a 9am start to my workday. I perform this routine religiously for five days of the week. I remain in the office for eight hours per day, plus commuting time, thereby determining that roughly eleven hours per day, out of twenty-four, are taken from me by my career. I sleep for eight hours each night, as is recommended by the bible. This now accounts for nineteen hours, out of twenty-four, that are not of my own choosing. This leaves five hours remaining. What did I do with those five hours? Run errands? Stop at the grocery store? Prepare dinner for the family? Five hours out of twenty-four are my own and they seem less than extraordinary. Weekends would arrive and the fatigue from the tedium of the work-week would zap me of any motivation to engage in any enjoyable activity and, before I knew it, Monday had again fallen upon me. I think back through my memories to see how many moments stand apart on the timeline of my life -- very few, apparently -- too few. Is this the trajectory my life is determined to be on? My life is a blur of non-existence with random blips on the radar of significance that amount to zilch in the grand scheme of things. I guess the kid was onto something.

I ball up the paper and exhale the mantra that keeps the world turning. Everyone has bills to pay. Everyone has to make a living.

I shift my weight in the chair and, sitting upright before the monitor, I set out to complete the few tasks I have pending before leaving for the day on my week-long vacation. Opening and closing my hand, my attention is drawn to the thick, blue vein writhing beneath my skin. Opening my hand, the vein shifts left. Closing it, the vein shifts right. The slithering vein beneath my skin repulses me and leaves me unable to divert my attention away from it. I stretch out my fingers before laying them on the keyboard. A memorandum streaks across the screen in a barrage of clicks, punctuated by the squirm of a thick, blue vein. With each tap of the keyboard I feel the vein slither across the back of my hand and, finding the sensation disturbing, I shake my hand in the air to rid myself of it.

Mark pops his head in the door. Hey buddy, I have a few things to attend to. Be sure to stop in my office before you leave today.

Before I can answer, the black square intercom on my desk squawks and resounds, Grandma, can I see you in my office?

I clear my throat to soften my voice before depressing the talk button. Be right there, dearie. 

I rise to my feet, numbly and routinely, and reach for the periwinkle blue cardigan sweater that hangs on the coat rack in the corner of my office. Buttoning it up and straightening the collar, I exit the office. Walking across the hall, I pass rows of drab beige cubicles with employees manning the keyboards anonymously. I notice how each employee tries to inject character or personality into his or her space by decorating the walls with colorful calendars that reflect their hobbies, notecards with witty sayings, and posters with motivational maxims. Each one failing miserably, unable to combat the prosaic scene that is the corporate office. Each employee unable to battle their own anonymity.

I have a corner office with a window that opens to the parking lot and a mini-fridge which gives me some semblance of importance in the corporate hierarchy, but I wonder, while passing the cubicles, if I am no different from them. They each sit with dull eyes fastened to their computer monitors. Some are working, most are not. Their skin has long been drained of whatever pigment it may have possessed in a battle lost to the fluorescent lighting above -- lighting that hums, and buzzes, and slurps the life and vitality out of each employee below. The muscles in their faces have grown slack and emotionless, and their lower eyelids all share the same streaks of crimson. Catching my own reflection in the glass door leading into the CEO’s office, I realize that I, too, share those same traits.

Knowing that I am just out of view of the man awaiting me behind his desk, I use this same reflection to pull a wig upon my head. It is a quality wig of long, gray hair, but that doesn’t make it itch any less and, in summer months such as these, I sweat quite a bit underneath it. So, I wait until the very last possible moment to pull it on. It is parted neatly down the middle and I make certain to set this part accurately to the center of my forehead. There are two thick braids hanging down from either side and I pull them over the front of my shoulders. Clearing my throat one last time, I open the door and enter the office of the CEO, Mr. Edgar Willis.

Grandma, I just checked the schedule. It says you’re going on vacation today?

Yes, dearie. You’ve known about this. Grandma needs a rest sometimes too, you know, I say.

The CEO stands from behind his desk; a slight man, two years my junior. But who is going to keep my appointments?

Not to worry, dearie, I say, as I walk behind the desk and lower him back down into his seat with my hands resting on his shoulders soothingly. Now, I will only be gone a week, and I gave Marcy your schedule so you won’t miss any appointments. You have tennis with Fred on Monday, golf with Edward and Trent on Tuesday. You have a dinner at Vilavio’s on Wednesday with the Ritzbough family. Thursday and Friday you will be relaxing at the spa. So, you have nothing to worry about.

I don’t like it, Grandma. I don’t like it at all, the CEO pouts. 

Shh, shh. I press my fingertip softly against the boss’s pursed lips. Don’t worry, my dearest. I will be back before you know it.

I want to be able to call you while you’re gone. Make sure you take one of the company phones with you, the CEO says.

Call me? I choke, and my voice momentarily deepens before I regain my composure and my Grandma persona. Call me? The blood drains from my face as I imagine having to take a call from the boss in front of Esther. She would never understand.

You don’t have a problem with that, do you Grandma? He says it more as a pleading child rather than a challenging superior.

No, I stammer, no, my dearest, not at all.

Okay, just make sure I know which line you have before you go, the CEO says.

Of course, I say. The sweat pools up on my lower back, the cardigan now stifling and suffocating. Of course, my dear.

Can you bring me back a souvenir?

A souvenir? I repeat absently. Oh, yes, a souvenir. Maybe a nice t-shirt from the island? Wouldn’t that be nice?

His phone rings, which is my cue to exit. I do so with legs wobbling beneath me. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, I try to convince myself. If the boss calls, I can always run into a restroom or hallway where I can be alone. Nobody would hear me. It would be okay. I exhale deeply and walk intently back to my office. I just want to close up shop and go home.

Chapter 2

I was fortunate to have been permitted to begin my vacation an hour earlier than usual, but made certain to stop in Mark’s office to wish him well as I departed. By 4:45pm, I had pulled up in front of my house to find Esther waiting and conveyed her to the beauty salon. I am uncertain as to why she insists on dragging me to these appointments, but I comply without a fuss.

Betty’s Beauty Salon is strategically located in the heart of the suburban community, pinched between the Star of India restaurant and the Sinful Addictions candy shop. As clients enter the salon, they are inundated from the left with the scent of spicy curry, from the right with velvety chocolate. They can turn their heads either hither or thither, depending on which scent they find the more appealing. I am quite familiar with the candy shop and will often stop in for a treat while Esther is being primped.

Within the salon, the smells of deep-fried hair made extra crisp are far removed from the succulence of the neighbors. Yet, from far and wide, the women of the community flock to Betty’s for weekly preening; perhaps more so for the deep camaraderie of their female cohorts.

The yellow walls of the salon are decorated with black and white portraits of women with chic and modern hairstyles, none of which any normal woman would have the audacity to appear wearing in public. But their presence establishes Betty’s as being on the cutting edge of fashion, thereby giving the patrons an extra boost of confidence when emerging from the salon. Several women sit in chairs, awaiting their turns, while fanning through copies of the Better Woman Bible. With each page turned, a sickening array of perfumes is conjured up. The women had long become immune to it, but at times, they catch the aroma of a perfume that tickles them profusely, and they drag the pages across their skin hoping to absorb much of its essence.

Esther’s hair had already been trimmed into delicate curls and is now allowing her freshly polished nails to dry under the ultraviolet light. I take a seat in the waiting area and examine the various beauty products that Betty has displayed on glass shelving. Shampoos and conditioners, styling gels, and hairsprays, all stand in tall bottles with imagery that expresses health and beauty and refinement. The top shelf holds a line of glossy black bottles with labels that read: For Women with Naturally Straight Hair, This Product Will Give You the Curls You’ve Always Wanted. The second shelf holds a line of bottles in deep forest green with labels that read: For Women with Naturally Curly Hair, This Product Will Give You the Straight Hair You’ve Always Wanted. The third shelf holds a line of bottles in an earthy brown that read: To Repair Naturally Straight Hair That Has Been Damaged by Curling. The fourth and final shelf in the display case holds bottles of honey gold that read: To Repair Naturally Curly Hair That Has Been Damaged by Straightening. I make a mental note to purchase a bottle of the shampoo and conditioner from the third shelf since it is the one that Esther most commonly uses.

Conversations in the salon are not traditional in nature. They do not have a precise beginning nor a definitive end. They ride upon a perpetual current, like a river that experiences ebbs and flows and breaks off into tangents, but never expires. Clients, upon entering the salon, inadvertently step into the current and are swept up into whatever topic of discussion happens to be flowing at the moment. The beauty salon is fueled by gossip the way the devil is fueled