Stream of Consciousness (Narrative)

...when they found him, he was in pieces in a garbage bag Jesus Christ, they'd used a nail gun on him Crime Scene Analysis took less than 40 minutes Detective Llewellyn fits a cheroot into its holder, sniffs the foggy morning air as if sensing guilty eyes upon the crime scene... Stream of Consciousness (Narrative) refers to a style of writing endorsed by the American Cavity Association nobody would have cared except some arty types who were actually douche bags in street clothes they went to Bolivia at the behest of the FBI, but ended up becoming another minion of Satan, which would mean he's made up of ten parts the Swedes power up their own writing with paintings substrated into the collective unconscious of the Academy "Smrchmfnl" thought the gerwish as he wiped graham cracker crumbs from his expansive belly then the supreme smoker stood up, gazed at the billowing clouds gathered over Klingon wheat harvests no sooner had they settled down then Kurt Schopenhauer stopped in to tip a glass with us right on schedule, the ruffian glancing poet regarded us with murky, banyan eyes he was as always nonminused disreputable as a humidor, ullulations presented a new vista verde, so to speak, against the contraindicated doldrums... CACK cackers cack, as they all went down to the docks arm in arm and three sheets to the wind alert poll takers halted their retreats obsessively using the least practical means... A STRICT DIET OF BULGARIAN-GROWN SOY PRODUCTS

...available to Queen Victoria's agents proffering no defense for his misdeeds, the anonymous criminal simply sat at his table, head in hands and not looking at anyone directly he's the one who assaulted a 12 year old girl, no matter that she was his "wife" the judge was a woman, naturally the whole system is stacked against the lunatic self-righteous psychiatrists may call it some fancy mental condition, but in truth it is a (perceived as aberrant) manifestation of the human condition, in a specific instantiation... STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS AS A GENRE

...a general statement might be to say that much of this literature falls into the category of science fiction/fantasy exemplified by such writers as Samuel Delany, Jon Brunner and others, rambling pseudo-sentencial paragraphs emenating the zeitgeist of not only the writer itself, but a melange of the writer's BIOS for instance, ambivalent sexuality, the growing realization that science is not all, but religion is of no use save as an artifact worth study, the least of which it can inform us as to what it means to be human Naked Lunch is an example of the just all weirdness of things when you let some weird person make a movie or people read his book again undertones of vaguely homoerotic meanderings, but in and of itself, like spirituality, something worth studying I get the feeling reading this sort of thing that I am more prepared for the only of all possible futures having read them, because I am already used to weirdness as a child in the 1960's, I could not ever have conceived the notion of same-sex marriage THEMES OF DEMONS AND JUNGIAN ARCHETYPES , something the Mormon Mafia would not countenance, no sir, not in the least witness the Proposition 8 uproar in California during the early 21st century Jimmy came in from the rear of the store while we weren't looking he had the look of a man who had just been goosed by his horse

it was a magical sight Jules would gladly have paid to observe the irony of his situation as prisoner condemned to summary execution failed to escape him, which perhaps, explained the slight grin he'd been sporting for the last few weeks "The Bishop is not pleased", Kevin said in his

best priesthood holder's voice, burying the memories he shared with his victim going back 38 years they were best friends, or almost best... Jules was always reaching out to new people, giving and curious at once, thirsting for new things and so would go weeks sometimes off giving precious attentions to another, say some kid who was spending summer vacation at his grandfather's house back then, there could never have been conceived such a thing as the Mormon Mafia, the ultimate if-you-can't-beat-them-join-them expression (who's not beating and who's joining is not clear, as always) in point of fact, it was Jules that was about to catch a beating, at the behest of the Bishop of Oregon not by his hand, of course Moroni forbid but at the conveyance of behest through the intermediary my one-time sometimes best and oldest friend I didn't know the greasy dark fellow, leaned back on his chair in the yellowed incandescence from overhead, eyes and higher in the shadow of the lampshade it was one of those old ones like from World War Two, made of steel, a layer of porcelain and several coats of paint I watched, lulled by the slow rhythms of his left hand, up to his mouth... drag from the cigarette (fine Turkish tobaccos, of course), slow arc down, down, down to rest on the knee... either knee,

doesn't matter... the glow, the trailing smoke arc conspiring to seize my attention... almost missed the soft golden glint of old brass where the knuckles of his other hand should be soon my blood would add to the array of DNA' samples collected by this glinty metallic object of supreme utilitarianism a simple shaped object to perform a simple task, crushing bone, gushing blood, shattered teeth (with the attendant nerves screaming) and gravity teasing me with it's attractive promise of embrace, sleep, rest... death? maybe better to be shot in the brainpan IMHO no LOL then I spotted the nail gun, heard the hisss-thp! of a pneumatic hose being connected, the whining little roar of the Honda air compressor gave me the feeling it was going to be a long night BODY DUMP the last thing Jules saw was a sweet arc of deep purple painted across an otherwise brilliant sunrise sky he had stopped breathing two minutes and some seconds before, but now he was really gone, and his remains, his corpse is changing a subtle but swift (swift as compared to the life time of a star, I suppose) ...and so the Bishop stood, witnessing the execution of his will, a delicious anticipation of the afterlife when he would rule his own planet "Give me one of those, would you" he asked of the Albanian man that had deftly delivered the coup de grace to Jules with hundreds of Watts (it's the amps that kill ya, ya know?), gesturing his thumb and index fingers in the direction of the pack of Marlboros in his shiny shirt shirt pocket without hesitation the gangster complied, handing a lit cigarette to the such clergy as was available Kevin and the mobster humped Jules' remains into the trunk of a 1968 Camaro with an LT1 small block, slipped into the raceway monster and roared off down Church Street, milky smoke in tendrils pulled in the car's direction from the Bishop's nostrils exhaled like sin from a desperate sin-eater who'd just found a priest a moment before dying, realizing he can confess his acquired sins and still have a shot at Heaven as the Pope promised, disappearing into the low pressure system in this infinitesimal accelerative moment of movement of man and machine it was a full three day and some hours later...