My insanely weird short story “Outside the Box” is featured in the most recent anthology from SCARS Publication. Apparently they liked it, since they named the entire collection after it.
It’s written in the first person, very unusual for me. I’m not sure why but I typically feel more comfortable writing in the third person.
I can’t say what inspired it. I’m not using hallucinogenic drugs. As it says on the back cover of my book on life here in Japan, which will be out early next year, I feel like I’m living in a fairy tale. Other than the complete disintegration of my homeland, the prospects that climate change will make the Earth uninhabitable, the class warfare being waged on the vast majority of us by the sociopathic ultra-wealthy — which apparently now even includes mass extermination to “cull the herd” — and what is increasingly looking more than likely, the annihilation of all life on the planet via a nuclear war, I’m as happy as a butterfly in spring on Bora Bora.
Here’s the real skinny on “Outside The Box” . . .
This is how my brain sometimes works. I make no excuses, offer no apologies, and certainly lose no sleep.
Celebrate it, condemn it, put out a call for intervention or institutionalization, whatever floats your boat . . . it’s what I do.
It’s what I like to do!
While I recommend you buy the anthology itself, if for no other reason than supporting independent publishers like this seems like a good idea and truth is there are some other great pieces in this collection, I’ll save you a few dollars. Yes, you can read my story below.
Have fun with it! Or skip it and go rollerblading. Your choice.
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OUTSIDE THE BOX
I was surprised how easy it was to find the grave, and that it was unguarded.
I dug up the body, dragged it to just the right spot.
Then I kicked the shit out of Hunter S. Thompson.
He didn’t stand a chance. I punched, pounded, kicked, scratched, twisted his limbs, applying the most excruciatingly painful wrestling moves.
I kept this up until I literally fell over from exhaustion.
After resting a while, I rolled Thompson back into the grave, then shoveled the dirt back over him and left.
Of course, no one could know. And without it being public knowledge, I wasn’t sure exactly what advantage my cathartic corpse thrashing might achieve.
I guess I was thinking more spiritually – you know, big picture.
And let’s face it. We really don’t know how these things work. Sometimes we just have to let fly and hope for the best.
I have always felt a strong connection with Hunter S. Thompson. Especially when I was vomiting from too much to drink.
But it was deeper than just binge camaraderie.
I could feel his giddy acid in my veins. I guess my arteries too. I can’t imagine him without a sneer. And I can’t stop sneering.
So what was with the need for my posthumous pugilism?
Simple. The old bastard was becoming a thorn in my side. Holding me back. He was like having a brother with elephantitus. Or a sister who fucked the whole football team.
I didn’t stand a chance. My karma was like belly button lint in an ancient mummy.
People didn’t ignore me. To ignore someone, you have to know they exist.
Luckily I figured out exactly what had to be done.
I needed to settle the score. Level the playing field. Credit where credit is due.
I needed to beat the shit out of Hunter S. Thompson.
Think I’m crazy, right?
Well, suck on this: It worked!
It was like the Beatles … the fall of the Berlin Wall … MTV … 911 … Trump.
Everything changed!
Well, for me personally it did anyway.
I stopped at the dry cleaners to pick up my laundry. A shirt and a beach towel. I gave the lady a ten. She gave me change for a twenty. I kept it. Not my problem.
I noticed in my rear view mirror I looked conspicuously more handsome than usual. Others noticed too. A pretty girl, maybe mid-20s, pulled up next to me at a stop light. She looked over, smiled, winked, then made a jacking-off motion with her free hand. A come on. I just laughed. I would have loved to but too many STDs around these days. Never know where something like a simple hand job might lead.
Then I got a text message. Aunt Elizabeth – poor old soul – finally kicked the bucket. We’d been waiting forever. I already knew I had over $23,000 coming to me from the long-past-her-expiration-date spinster. She’d been in the hospital for over a year-and-a-half. What a relief!
The real game-changers were in the inbox of my gmail account. I could see on my iPhone I had messages but waited to read them on my computer at home.
Holy shit!
Three literary agents were interested in my novel, 50 Shades of Pubic Hair. They even attached contracts to their messages.
Granted, I have much better novels than this gratuitous piece of garbage. But you go with the flow. Maybe a little commercial success would grease the skids for next year’s Booker or maybe even Pulitzer.
I’ll skip all the rest of the glory details for now. It’ll just make whoever is reading this envious.
Besides, I’m running a little late. I’m speaking tonight at the Washington Press Club comedy roast of Julian Assange.
Never saw that coming. But why not?
All thanks to you, Hunter S. Thompson. And my taking charge of the situation.
Sorry about caving in your eyeball socket. Not that it should matter.
You were never much one for glamor and glitz.
Never a member of the glitterati. Me neither.
