One
of the things I'm determined to do in 2018 is finish one of the
novels that I've been diddling around with for the last several years.
There are several of them, and now that I'm over sixty, I'm more
interested in doing what I want rather than beating myself bloody trying
to figure out what some publisher would be willing to pay me an
advance for. And it would be nice if I could finish these chingaderas
before I die.
So
I've decided to make a heroic attempt to finish Zyx; Or, Bring Me
The Brain of Victor Theremin. Some of you may remember Victor as
an alter-ego character that I created as I adapted to the brave new
world of 21st century publishing. Of course, he got out of control
and grew into something that doesn't resemble me very much. Honest.
He's
a Chicano science fiction writer who's lost track of where his
life ends and the science fiction begins. Mysterious AIs who have
taken over his life complicate things. When in doubt, I sci-fi it up.
There are
even some serious concepts woven into the madness.
Anyway,
here's the first chapter:
Victor
Theremin woke up in the middle of the night needing to piss. Ms.
Mali’s lovely chocolate-colored hand was resting on his bladder. He
had drunk a lot of Cerveza de Los Muertos Blonde Ale, and it was
taking its toll. Careful not to wake her, he slipped out of the inflatable bed.
The
electronic gadgets printed on the interior of the latest SmartTent –
this one currently shaped like a geodesic dome -- sputtered and flashed. The AIs, as usual, tracked his every move.
He grunted, flipped a middle finger, slid his feet into his chanclas, and
quietly unzipped the door.
The
Milky Way blazed across the sky. He bowed his head in almost
religious respect. He had lived most of his life in places so
light-polluted that he rarely got to see it – or very many stars.
As a science fiction writer, he needed to see his own galaxy.
He
made a mental note to put a scene like this in his current opus, Let
‘Em Suck Supernovas:
The hero could have an epiphany while pissing and looking at the
galaxy, imagining that he was pissing on the galaxy . . . and to piss
on the galaxy was to become one with the universe . . . Where was
that gadget that the AIs gave him to write with? Probably back in the
tent with Ms. Mali . . .
This
was an undisclosed part of Arizona, where geological anomalies made
electronic surveillance difficult. Local tribes warned of a dense
population of supernaturals. And UFOs were a common sight.
Victor
saw a peculiar light streak across the star-choked sky as his
urine stream disturbed a scorpion near his feet. His ragged
chanclas offered no defense against a scorpion – or much else.
The
scorpion hid under a nearby cholla – AKA jumping cactus. The spiny
little chunks only seemed to leap out and attach themselves to your
foot, leg, or whatever you were stupid enough to leave exposed.
Victor contemplated that while holding his penis, taking careful aim,
while singing, “Where the vegetables are green/and you can pee
right into the stream . . .”
There
was another flash of light. Victor looked up from the reflection of
the Milky Way in his fresh puddle and scanned the real galaxy.
Below
it, over the nearby, gnarly mountains, hovered a light, like a
helicopter, except it made no sound.
His
urine dribbled to halt as the thought of Ms. Mali. His penis
became slightly erect as he shook it out. Maybe he wasn’t getting
old after all.
“Good
golly, Ms. Mali,” he sang.
The
light sent out a beam that swept over the desert, looking for
something.
“You
sure love to ball,” Victor continued, as he pulled in his dick, and
wished he had a zipper to zip, just for the illusion of security.
The
scorpion dashed under some rocks.
The
beam found Victor, and became blinding.
He
cried out, “Hijo de la chingada!”
©
Ernest Hogan 2018
