Surprise, Surprise, Surprise

Happy April to all three of my rabid fans.  Nah, I'm just kidding.  I know we're up to like five or six now.  I just like to keep my overly excitable ego very much in check.

Well boys and girls, if you will remember back several months ago I promised that I would post some samples of work for your perusal when we got close to the time for the first book to be published.  We're still a few weeks out but I thought I'd either wet your whistle a bit or totaly embarass myself, depending on how you take it, and post the first chapter of the book for everyone to take a peek and let me know what you think.

There are a few little words of warning I will pass on first and foremost.  This is not a children's book by any stretch of the imagination.  It is not intended for people who find things like sex and profanity offensive.  If that's not your thing, hey, I understand.  I'll catch you with the next book hopefully.  Also, please remember that this is copyrighted material.  This material is exclusively my property and the only rights I am granting at this time is for it to be viewed via this blog with no copying, please.  Link all you'd like, however.

So without further gilding of the lilly... Remember, the purpose of this little exercise is feedback people!!!

Chapter 1 of The Bounce at the Bottom by Brian Pittman c 2012.

It was that same fucking dream again.

No matter how much time I manage to spend existing on this rock I can never seem to get a grasp on how the human mind works.  No, I take that back.  I get how the “human” mind works.  How the so called ‘normal’ members of our herd process things.  What I am in constant amazement of is the byproducts and essential intellectual afterbirth of the pile of fast food, whiskey, cigars bands, and sexual lubricant strung on malfunctioning Christmas lights from 1985 that attempts to pass as my orifice of higher reasoning skills. 

So anyway, I’m dreaming and I know I’m dreaming.  In my mind, earlier comments very much included, I figure fuck it and let’s see where this thing rolls.  It starts out pretty good as dreams go.  I’m lying on my back in the grass with my head turned to the right looking down my arm at my empty hand.  Everything has that soft haze to it that only a fifth of Jack in a third of an hour can produce and between the sunshine beaming down and the apparently unintentional hospitality of the poor bastard upon whose lawn I am currently sprawled naked, things seem to be pretty hunky-dory at the moment.

Then she appears and it turns back into that same fucking dream.

She slides her tanned and toned body on top of me and I can feel her breasts press into my naked chest.  She kisses me deeply and my wondering hands notice she’s totally naked and obviously happy to be on this dude’s lawn with me.  She opens her legs and I slide into her all the way to the hilt in one motion.  That’s when the familiar feeling hits.  She has always been the only one that I really fit with, sexually anyway.  Screwing her always felt like her body was custom tailored by some angelic muff-seamstress to fit my dick exactly, which is weird but cool all at the same time. 

We start humping like Ritalin-addled rabbits on an Ecstasy and Cocaine bender and she starts to scream my name.  I feel her body tensing so strongly that I think she’s about to come hard enough to steal the first orgasm from Eve and simultaneous snap off my manhood.  When she does finally bust that proverbial and in this case near biblical nut she screams out she loves me and collapses on top of me.  I scream out passionately that I love her too. . .

And then I get punched right in the back of my sorry ass head.

“Goddamn you asshole,” my wife screams from beside me in bed, “quit fucking dreaming of other women and either do something constructive with that boner or turn it the hell away from me so I can get some sleep!”

I roll to my other side and deny the wife the courtesy bang she so eloquently   requested, all the while with a brain full of tanned skin and great tits and a perfect tailored vajayjay.  I listen to her question my intelligence and the validity of my parents’ marriage under her breath then roll back over while she resumes snoring heavily.

Thirty minutes pass and I can’t sleep so I get up and wander into the kitchen.  This makes the third time this week I’ve had this dream and consequently also my second near concussion in the same time frame.  I don’t know why I’m having these dreams any more than I can explain them completely.  I’d love to say I’d been having them since I was thirteen but truth be told they only showed up in earnest, granted with the occasional cast change, after about the third year of my marriage.

I guess I should just be happy that there wasn’t a midget in cowboy chaps filming us this time.  I got a little flabbergasted trying to lie fast enough to my ten year old son when he woke me up on the couch the other day wondering who Mr. Bungles was and why I kept yelling at him to watch where he pointed his zoom lens.

Fuck do I need a drink.

I apparently fell asleep naked at the kitchen table, my untouched but neatly poured whiskey out in front of me.  I was awakened ever so softly the next morning by the simultaneous sensations of my wife shaking me by the shoulder and her cat licking the exposed head of my penis.  I know the cat thing sounds kind of cool in theory but when the cat is a monster grey beast with the most enormous nuts you've ever heard of this side of a bull moose and wildly homosexual tendencies to boot, nauscious doesn't even start to cover the sensation. 

“Wake up Marcus,” she nags through somewhat clenched teeth from behind her already perfect Italian suit and matching house payment heels.  “I have to be at the airport in forty-five minutes and you are seriously screwing with our schedule for the day.”

My wife is a fairly big time entertainment lawyer who works with one of the larger firms in Queensburg.  This requires that she catch a shuttle flight every Monday morning three hours before God wakes up and needs to take a piss.  Of course this also means my sorry ass had best be up to get her to the airport.  We live in Portston, but instead of relocating like anyone with better sense might have, we decided to just have dual residences to keep our son in school with the same group of friends he’d had since he started his kindergarten prep classes.  That was five years ago.  Now my wife comes home from her Queensburg life every couple of weeks to spend the weekend playing the disappointed absentee mother and I get to play Daddy on a full time basis to a kid that I am convinced is smarter than I am and knows it.

I drag my ass to the bedroom; throw on jeans, an old concert tee, and my favorite blazer, slap on my best ten year old canvas high tops, and jump in my beloved rust farm that masquerades as a black convertible to take Mommy Dearest back to the life she’d rather have.  I remember a time when we’d take rides over the Iron River Bridge with the top down and her long blonde hair blowing in the wind.  Those days ended right about the same time that the long flowing blond hair got replaced with a seven figure paycheck and a corner office.

We make it to the airport at five a.m. and I have just enough time to hand her bags to a skycap and lean in for the obligatory goodbye peck when she slaps a thick manila folder into my paws. 

“Do me a favor Marcus,” she says matter-of-factly, “read this stuff for me and be ready to discuss it when I call on Wednesday.”

I mumble something that she takes as assent; she promises to call when she lands, then she turns to the airport doors and disappears.  Curiosity overtakes me like the sudden need to take a piss and I open the envelope thoroughly expecting to find some inane chore list or something else obligatorily husband duty-esque.

The top sheet of paper is a handwritten note.  “Marcus, I’m sorry but I can’t do this anymore.  You’ll always have a place somewhere in my heart. – Diane”

The second sheet was the first page of a legal document: 

PETITION FOR DIVORCE

I am suddenly, painfully, and instantaneously completely sober and quite novally as a side effect awake in a microsecond.  That proves to be just long enough for me to actually feel the physical sensation of my world spinning down the shitter directly below my feet.

“Divorce?!” I scream at the airport doors behind her.  “Like this?  That’s some cold corporate bullshit Diane!”

I kick the car's front tire for emphasis, lose my balance and fall flat on my ass on the curb.  Apparently my level of complete sobriety might have been an overestimation, but I continued to rant undeterred. 

“That’s some seriously cold shit you heartless bitch,” I scream out randomly, then continue with a several minute long tirade of profanity that makes a number of elderly tourists in matching t-shirts and Viagra prescriptions blush uncomfortably.  I realize for no apparent reason that I’m actually ranting into the road and not even in the general direction of my now soon to be ex-wife’s rapidly expanding due to age and Krispy Kreme’s in the conference room generous ass as it got on the plane back to her other world.

I laugh out loud for a second, take note of the pile of paperwork in my left hand, and set upon what seems to one of the better ideas of my life.  I fish my sunglasses and lighter out of my jacket pocket as I get up from the curb, dust off my ass, then retrieve a cigar from the travel humidor I keep stashed in the glove box. 

Then just for the pure shit of it I light the whole fucking wad of her legal vaginal secretions on fire and use it to light what turns out to be one of the best cigars I’ve had in a long fucking time.  I drop the top on what now seems to be the only woman to never fuck me over, plop the shades in place on my head and exhale as I punch it and squeal tires into traffic right in front of a similarly not awake yet member of Portston’s finest and his apparently instantly excitable pretty blue lights.

Hi, the name’s Marcus Reynolds but you can call me Mack.  Everyone but the apparently now ex-she witch and my kid does.  He calls me Boss and no, I don’t get it either.

Guess it’s gonna be one of those fucked up weeks.