Dystopian Haircut

By Verge Le Noir

In this satirical work, the author plays a misanthropic character by the name of Enrique; a writer hailing from East New York, Brooklyn who names you—the reader—Monty. He takes you into his free-floating, gonzo-style, curio collection of imaginative punk ethos laced with humor and hard-hitting truisms.

 

Visit a world where Crypto currencies are quickly becoming worldwide legal tender. A robot called Drakaris serves the three richest men in the world as they make their way to Mars. The Big Beautiful Wall has gone up, prompting the quick exit of those Americans who can afford to do so. The author gets invited to Hollywood by a famous movie star he's never heard of before. A Taliban warlord invites a popular TV program into his new home in Kabul. The Greatest Nation on Earth visits Saint Peter.

 

The author finds himself in the most unlikely situations, such as a bar conversation with a guy who may or may not be a deity. And a trip into the hinterlands of New Jersey has him landing on a neon-lit world, this and so much more! Dystopian Haircut is an absurdist time capsule that paints a vivid picture of a bizarre 2020 (if such a thing is possible). You'll never laugh so hard at humanity's impending doom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fire Point Press
• Release date: Feb 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9781737663300

Verge Le Noir

Verge Le Noir is the ridiculously on- the- nose pen name of writer Virgilio Feldman. He is the author of the short story collection Shell Casings the novella Two Iguanas Lounge and the short novel Desperados. He has been, among other things: a laborer, a house painter, a bracero, a busboy, a bar back and a failed chordophone-lyre-plucker. In other words: He’s a jerk of all trades; master of none. In lieu of becoming a pornographer or a sommelier to the stars, and having a gift for spinning a tale or two since he was a wee lad, and at a time when art is quickly becoming a commodity, he foolishly decided to become a writer. His meager writing output has been described as dirty realism infused with sophisticated comic flair, gritty, dark, breezy, and peppered with true to life characters. Despite his cog in the machine status and a touch of misanthropy, he enjoys a great read, a good laugh, and a great fish taco. He currently lives in East New York, Brooklyn.

Book preview

* Praises for Dystopian Haircut

"Dystopian Haircut possesses a strong satirical aftertaste and balls-out derring-doo." –Dominick Fanrarrel, Fulton Street preacher.

If you like MAGA. You won’t like this book.—Robert D.

My grandfather is ninety-three. He’s constipated and hates the Yankees. He only loves four things: cars, guns, Jimmy Durante and this f***ng book.—Derrick B.

A Molotov cocktail disguise as satire. Or is it the way around?—Jay Gravatar Noted Provocateur. 

I don’t know who this mother***r is, but he is one funny mother***r. –Pruno the local drunk.

"The reader will do well to keep in mind; Dystopian Haircut is comedy/satire and not advocacy."—Anonymous.

Cabron don’t know what he’s doing. He’s kind of funny tho.–Juan Van Berga; cashier at Tito’s Bodega. East New York, Brooklyn.

For a writer whose main foray is contemporary pulp-y crime fiction; this is a refreshing slight departure into humorist gonzo-style-fictional territory. If the crime fiction gig doesn’t pan out, he might just want to stick with satire. –Jay Platypus Willy (Cartoonist at Large).

Buy this book. The bum owes three-month’s rent. –The Author’s angry and sexually frustrated land lady.

Funny, appalling, infuriating. F**k this guy. –Terry. Member of the O9A extremist group.

"Anytime I’m stressed out, instead of burying my head in controlled substances, I just switch off, unplug, and pick-up Dystopian Haircut. I’ve read it three times already!"—Ronald C. Wall Street Shark.

I don’t read books written by minorities.—A local racist shit bag.

Angry. Zany. Surreal.—Debbie D.

"Dystopian Haircut will most certainly put some—much needed—satire in your diet son."—Ca$hanova. Celebrated Underground Rapper.

*Editor’s Note: Although every single one of these reviews is surgically precise; they are in fact all fictional. The reader is advised to take them with a grain of salt. Thank you for understanding.

Dystopian Haircut

Verge Le Noir

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FIRE POINT PRESS

This congee is a satirical work of gonzo style fiction. While it makes reference to actual events and people; some names, characters, and incidents are entirely the product of the author’s imagination. All locations and products are used to lend authenticity to the stories. Disclaimer: This is a work of satire, a humorist work of parody. This book should not be taken as defamatory or derogatory in any way. With the exception of some public figures, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. In several instances, the author has relied on publicly-disclosed information, and news reports. Therefore; the opinions expressed herein are those of the characters and should not be confused with those of the author. Don’t sue the author and please do refrain from any violence against the author. He is a writer not a fighter.

 Dystopian Haircut Copyright © 2022 Verge le Noir.

F I R S T   E D I T I O N

General copyedit & proofread by Wendy Janes

Beta & proofread by Benay Stein.

e-book ISBN: 978-1-7376633-0-0

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7376633-1-7

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.  This book is copyrighted material and must not be copied, reproduce, transferred, publicly performed or use in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the author and or publisher, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly. permitted by applicable copyright laws.

To my brother Pablo Miralda

Common Sense is not so Common.

François-Marie Arouet A. K. A Voltaire

Contents

1. Hoodwink LLC

2. Duck-Sized Horse

3. Breaking News

4. Hollywood in Fabula

5. Rusty Cage

6. Non Sequitur Ⅰ

7. Folie à Deux

8. Breaking News

9. Wastetoid

10. Non Sequitur Ⅱ

11. NYshittyC

12. Lèse-Majesté

13. Less than Zero

14. The Can-Can Dance

15. Breaking News

16. A Boorish Dystopia

17. Non Sequitur Ⅲ

18. The War on Tomatoes

19. Sunshine

20. Of Stents & Stones

21. Ye Olde Basic Bitch

22. Note to Selfie

23. Breaking News

24. Toolbox Fallacy

25. Non Sequitur Ⅳ

26. Tear In My Beer

27. Territorial Pissings

28. Dystopian Playlist

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Hoodwink LLC

Sitting on a private beach, enjoying the summer sun and sipping Kahlua margaritas (no one has ever accused a rich politico of having good taste), Scarecrow Peridot congratulates his colleague Scarecrow Fappiano on his recent victory at the polls, their full halibut-complected bellies and fulfilling lifestyles shining brighter than the Caribbean sun. Even though both Scarecrows play for different teams, they reap the same rewards.

What will you do for your constituents? asks Peridot.

I will promise and never deliver. Hahaha, says Fappiano.

But of course, you will, says Peridot. For it is what we do.

Hahahahaha. Their pork bellies bob like shrimp-colored Jell-O against the vast blue sky.

What did you do before running for office? asks Fappiano.

I owned a small car dealership. Which I inherited from an uncle. Now, I own a couple of strip malls, a yacht, and I’m currently working on building a third home here in the Caribbean. Oh, and I own a small condominium on the French Riviera. He then says conspiratorially, Nobody knows about the condo because it’s where my current paramour resides.

Oh, you bad dog, you. I do believe the Scarecrow from Maine has the same arrangement.

Cat’s out of the bag then, says Peridot, for he was the one who gave me the idea for the condo in the first place.

What’s your plan for infrastructure?

Glad you asked. Scarecrow Peridot clears his throat. I will place as many resources into it as humanly possible. The taxes are high enough. The state is none the wiser and my corporate donors will be safe and protected. We don’t want them mad at us.

No, says Fappiano. "We do not want them mad at us."

Do you mind if I ask you a personal question? asks Peridot.

Sure. Go for it.

How did you manage to get that sexy young intern in the sack?

That personal, huh? says Fappiano. Very well. I used my powers of persuasion and convinced her into turning a No sir into a Yes sir. I opened a world of possibilities for that young lady. In no time, she was raging three kinds of Yes sir, yes sir, yes sir.

Oh, you dog you. Champion of the feminist movement is what you are. Careful with those moves, your constituents will think of you as a leftist-feminist-radical loony.

God forbid, says Fappiano. Hahahaha.

I still can’t believe, says Peridot, some assholes ruined tiki torches for those of us who enjoy tiki torches.

C’est la Vie, sighs Fappiano. What is your honest opinion of this Tangerine Hitler?

Everyone knows he’s a world-class moron, but people love him. I asked him once if he was as racist as people peg him to be, and do you know what he said to me? He said, and I quote: ‘Why do you think they got Lincoln on the penny and Jackson on the twenty-dollar bill?’

Scarecrow Fappiano is a bit taken aback that a somewhat eloquent phrase came out of the pie-hole of their mouth-breathing Commander-in-Chief.

Don’t give him all the credit, says Peridot, sensing his colleague’s surprise. He was probably fed that line by his immigration advisor. That guy. What’s his name?

Oh yeah, the self-hating Jew. Goldfish Miller-Time Slooshberg.

Yeah, Bat-Boy, eh, I mean, yeah that’s the guy.

Cult of personality.

"Emphasis on cult."

Do you think, says Peridot, We will ever tax the church?

Careful there, warns Fappiano. Thin ice, my friend. Thin ice.

No, I mean, I’m just asking, you know, says Peridot, backpedaling. Because when it comes down to it, I would tax the beautiful for being beautiful, I would tax the ugly for being ugly. I would tax the living hell out of nude beaches and fornicators, but I would never ever tax our churches.

Good, says Fappiano. Say it again for the people in the back. We will always protect the sanctity of our Lady of the Perpetual Pedos, eh—well, you know what I mean.

Sure, sure. Say, you ever get the sense that Covid is nothing but a test run for a full alien invasion so they can exterminate us humans and they can take our precious, oh I don’t know…our women?

Or, God forbid…our dogs? says Fappiano.

They both laugh it up.

You are fucking hilarious, says Peridot. I was warned about you.

Covid, says Fappiano, shouldn’t be of our concern. It’s been overblown.

Peridot agrees. It’s only a China thing, it’ll never hit our shores. We are the most powerful nation on Earth. The thought of it doing us any harm is preposterous.

There will be no mask mandate in my state, says Fappiano.

I’ll do the same thing. It creates unnecessary panic, and we don’t want unnecessary panic.

Amen, says Peridot. You want another drink?

I could use another drink.

Scarecrow Fappiano rings a nearby buzzer. Behind them, the fabric of their reality silently rips from top to bottom. Much like a zipper on a satin dress. The smell of days-old rotten flesh hits their nostrils.

You smell that? asks Peridot, shrinking his face as though he just sucked on a lemon.

Did you cut the cheese? asks Fappiano.

Fuck you. I was going to ask you the same thing.

What in the holy hell is that smell? asks Peridot.

They stand up and look behind them. They see twin fiery-eyed black wolves, each the size of a small SUV, growling at them. Their bladders open the floodgates. Their colorful Bermuda shorts become warm, wet, and sticky. Their mouths agape. An almost transparent twenty-feet-tall Pale Man wearing an all-black three-piece suit, walks toward them, flanked by the giant wolves. The ripped hole behind these creatures slowly parts like a theater stage curtain revealing a fiery panorama behind.

What’s going on? asks Peridot. His entire body is involuntarily trembling.

What is this? asks Fappiano, shaking like a dry leaf.

Don’t mind my puppies, says the Tall Pale Man with gravel in his voice. They are mostly for dramatic effect. Merely to instill terror into you mortals.

Who are you? asks Peridot. Where’s the hottie with our drinks?

Yeah, says Fappiano. Where is Shannon?

Oh, she’ll be here with your drinks shortly, says the Tall Pale Man. Matter of fact, the bartender is currently blending the ingredients, but I’m afraid you will not get the chance to indulge in your tasty beverage because you both will be coming with me. He clicks his yellow-black-ish teeth as though it’s one hundred degrees below zero at the beach.

Your time has come, continues the Tall Pale Man. You both will follow me. If you refuse, I’ll get my friends here to give you a nudge.

The wolves growl at the wrinkly politicos. The old men want to flee but gravity is holding them in place. They can’t move.

Just out of curiosity, says Peridot with a trembling voice. Where are we going?

To a meeting across the hall, says the Tall Pale Man. Where the fuck do you think?

That’s impossible, says Fappiano. We are baptized!

We are God-fearing Christians, says Peridot.

That’s not what I heard. The Tall Pale Man, clicked his teeth again. You do insider trading while being a member of Congress?

Who are you asking? says Fappiano.

I’m asking you, says the Tall Pale Man.

No, I don’t do such a thing, says Fappiano.

You’re a lying sack of shit. The Tall Pale Man spits on the sand. The spittle sizzles away. He then points his long scrawny finger at Scarecrow Peridot.

Same question, bugger.

No, I don’t believe I do that sort of thing.

Lying rancid sacks of shit, says the Tall Pale Man. He then orders his Foo Dogs from hell to sit. They do. He continues.

You both are in bed with the national scam known as the health insurance industry. You are so easily corruptible. So damn pathetic. When you choose to run for office, you are supposed to help people whether they voted for you or not. Instead, you choose to look out for number one, you choose to become insanely rich at the expense of the suffering populace. Speaking of which; your apathy, your general hubris toward Covid-19, will kill millions. He clicks those yellow-black-ish teeth again. He points at Scarecrow Fappiano and asks if he is a lawyer.

In another life, said Fappiano, before Washington DC, I was a damn good lawyer—

Then, says the Tall Pale