Broken Pieces

Elliot C. Mason Journeys Inside the Mind of the #Author @ArthurRay44 #AmWriting #AmReading

Thursday, January 23, 2014

Inside the Mind of the Author
Psychiatrist: Hello. Sit down [smiling falsely, like a dentist preparing the drill, airport security guards stretching the wristband of their rubber gloves]. Make yourself comfortable [holding left hand out invitingly, too openly to be honest].
Patient: Hi. How’s it going? The doctor said I should just come and have a chat with you [slumping into the chair, right leg crossed over the left, causing right leg of trouser to raise and reveal a shameless lack of socks, instead shoes topped only by bed of entwined hair]. I’m not mental... obviously. The doctor said to just come and chat. I’ve been stressed, and... you know...
Psychiatrist: Yes. So, tell me why you think the doctor would recommend you to come and speak to me?
Patient: Look, don’t psychiatrize me, I’m not an alcoholic or a bar-fighter or a wife-beater, I’m not even vegetarian anymore – not really, anyway. I heard, I don’t know if you heard about it, but I heard that beer isn’t vegetarian. Isn’t that strange? I just picture them slitting the poor, useless beast’s throat and hanging it over the barrel whilst all the masked murderers hold its legs and laugh, puffing profusely on perpetual cigarettes. I’ll tell you what, I learnt most of my infinitely wide vocabulary whilst taking drugs in a swimming pool in a town I’m sure you’ve heard of [now sweating, leaning forwards into right knee, pumping upwards and downwards, occasionally wiping sweat from forehead, grinning] but I wouldn’t want to repeat it because you know what people get like around celebrities who have been places. 
Oh, it’s such a drag. It’s been so hot today, I almost felt like loosening my tie but we all remember what happened the last time I did that. Anyway, I’m Poor Richard and I live in Battersea, at the bathtub hotel between the green sugar plants where the Polish badger shelter plays the jazz trio whose name I can’t remember, and upside down is in my pants who stalk the bait that the hippy fishermen with eggs and mohicans use to comb their slender silver sausages up in rainbow haven maven. 
Hi, sorry about that. Shut up! Sorry. I’m Pete the Boiler, can you turn me down? I’m sweating. Oh shiny hole driven beetroot soup, I need the plant and my cane to walk up the synagogue and tell God that He’s not mine and I don’t care where He goes anymore, since He left me waiting for Him at the turnpike in Bedford by the crane-shaped flamingo who had feathers just like a peacock. And it’s such a funny word. And your beatnik juice smells like Arthur syrup. 
Stop it. Shut up! Terribly dismaying interruption, I know, but they’re always at it. I’m Jane the Jerusalem Recital – pleasure to meet you [sticking out soggy hand into stagnant air, waiting, bait waiting to be snapped by the piranhas]. All that Smiley Anne ever says is ‘giddy up your snowball or fall into the ice age and terrorise the foul-mouthed pigeons who spit on your carrot laser beams,’ which I don’t understand at all so she’s the one who should be in here – not me. 
What exactly have I done? What is my crime? Huh? Because these bastards shout from my mouth and torture me endlessly with false pretences of release from this miserable prison, I must be punished yet further! This is ridiculous, unnecessary cruelty and my own hands ache trying to touch myself because the pleasure of the uninvited inhabitants will equally be executed.  
Vete a fuera de esta mente ocupada, tu n’es pas bienvenu ici! Cercare un’altra mente per tormentare! Ich hoffe du finde Hass und Tod!  
Out of this wretched abode! We shall find you a place to live, once I can relieve the drains of the metal slaps that enclose them, oil you up and slip you straight down there! Hang on to the sides and your punishment will double, little bitch friend! And the sore reality of constantly worshipping false deities in cups and cans is revealed when the story is unfolded, and alcohol streams into the conscience of those brave enough to listen, and that’s how it all started.
A stark dystopian world of insatiable greed and ceaseless distraction is that of young Gustav Klein, a German twenty-three-year-old who has just sold his hotel in Munich. He is looking for nothing more than escape. The modern gadgets which flash their endless advertisements are locking society inside brick houses, allowing them to be dumbed-down further by the money-hungry gremlins in the high towers. 
Gustav Klein, meanwhile, begins a journey over the myriad terrains of Europe, through countless bottles on the corner of morbid winter streets, coloured by the peculiar characters he encounters, some who bestow upon him their wisdom, some who fuel his disdain, some who ignite his desires, and some who merely drink with him until they hit the floor in a merry temperament. But the hedonistic, aimless rambling must come to end, for life calls. And Gustav lands on a mountain in Scotland, searching for release, for total nature, untouched by the destructive hand of man. 
But, it seems, it is too late... In this harrowing tale of youthful rebellion, dark nihilism on the road, heavy drinking beatniks, political adversity and the capricious desires of the gluttonous modern man, the reader is taken by the hand firmly and hauled into a bleak world where every man lives for himself. Close your eyes if you are scared, but you cannot escape.
Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords
Genre – Travel, Political, Dystopia, Romance
Rating – PG15
More details about the author
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