Unfinished Novel
by Marc Hirsh
The Explanation
Hi. Way back in 1994, some friends and I decided to play a game wherein we would each take turns writing chapters of a novel. There were a few rules: we each had to create a main character, who was required to have a sidekick with some sort of special powers. We could do anything we wanted to everybody's main characters or sidekicks just short of killing them off: cover them in 20 feet of concrete, send them up against a firing squad, trap them in a rocket headed toward the sun, whatever. Only the creator of the character could kill them if they saw fit. We could, however, kill off as many incidental characters as we wanted in the process of screwing over the other guy. Also, the characters had to be searching for something elusive; we ultimately decided on Respect (no points for guessing how I worked it in). Beyond that, free reign in rotating order. I'd just started doing TheatreSports, and although I hadn't yet figured out that this was basically just a highly literary form of improv, I took to it with a lot more gusto than my compatriots. It lasted one round before everybody gave up. I've attempted to write more chapters with little success so far, but every now and then, I think about doing it again. At this point, there's a actually a fairly detailed plot outline worked out in my mind.
Two notes about the title. "Prologue 3" simply refers to the fact that I was the third and final person in the writing cycle. "Sober" refers to a rule that I had intended to impose upon myself during this little experiment. I was in fact dead sober in writing this, and I had intended to have one additional drink before writing each chapter (i.e., one drink for chapter 2, two drinks for chapter 3, 25 drinks for chapter 26, etc.). I've since dropped this, partly since I haven't really continued the project but mostly because this would be a dumb way to die.
Anyway, my sister thought this was funny.
Chapter 1
Prologue 3 - Sober
The dog was dead. It had been dead for a long time and was likely to remain dead for even longer. Most dogs were not dead and this particular dog had the appearance of being one of those other dogs. Because of this, Jesus Monticello called it angrily. "Cuthbert! I'm not going to call you again!" No response. Jesus kicked the dog as he always had done, in the manner that had probably caused it to cease being alive and begin being dead.
Jesus actually knew that the dog had passed on, but he didn't much care. Cuthbert had always been a pain in the ass, and Jesus wasn't going to let him have the last laugh by dying. He hurled the carcass through the window and into the passenger seat of his car. It was an old car and, unlike the dog, very much vital but with the distinct appearance of being seconds away from ceasing to be, those seconds away being the seconds after, not before.
Jesus followed the dog into the car, taking the more traditional route of the driver's side door. He felt the leather of the seat stick to his skin. He liked that. He had chosen leather seats precisely so that, on hot days like today, someone else's skin would caress his own and endeavour to become one with it. He got out of the car and headed back into the house, not so much because he wanted to go back in but rather so he could feel the leather tug at his skin once again. "Stay, Cuthbert!," he yelled, and smacked the canine with a fury that had it not been dead, it most certainly would be.
Today was going to be a crappy day, and Jesus was determined to experience it in all of its squalor. He went into the lone bedroom in the well-appointed house and began to search frantically through his desk. The letter that had been there the night before was still there, as there was no reason for it to be otherwise. He picked it up and read aloud, to himself.
"Dear Sir or Madam: We regret to inform you that as of the day of October 15th, the City Council has decided to reject your proposal to add 18 stories onto your existing property. The Council decided this because it was deemed an unnecessary, unwholesome and irreconcilable conflict of interests in the community. Please do not waste our time like this again. Yours etc., The Council" |
Jesus often read things aloud to himself, not because it helped him understand any more but precisely because it didn't. Jesus didn't like understanding things. Comprehension meant responsibility, and if there was one thing Jesus wanted to avoid, that was it. His desire for complete prostration at the hands of Fate was part of the reason he was glad he'd killed the dog. He hadn't wanted it before it happened, but the turn of events had given him a decidedly strong buzz, and he killed other neighbourhood pets in trying to recapture the bliss of creating Cuthbert's nonexistence, but he had never been able to experience it again. He decided that as long as he'd understood exactly what had caused the euphoria, he'd never be able to reproduce it. Because he'd comprehended it, it became lost to him. He'd tried in vain to abandon comprehension, but the harder he tried, the more he knew, and the more he knew, the harder it was to get his wish.
With the letter in hand, Jesus went back to his car. He glared at the dog, which looked back at him with dead eyes, and turned the key in the ignition. The stereo had been left on and Otis Redding blasted through the automobile. Jesus smiled. He'd bought the tape because he'd liked it, and because he liked it, he'd listen to it even as it sent his eardrums down the uneven road to Permanent Damage. As sweet soul music filled the air, Jesus stomped on the accelerator and tore out of his driveway, decimating a rabbit fatefully making its way across the road. Jesus liked it, mostly because he didn't understand it. He realised why he'd enjoyed it, and he promptly stopped. "This is your fault," he remanded the dog and smacked it as he tore through a red light.