Introductionto Fiction
Lookwhere I am, the Jade Tree Restaurant, in a little strip mall, three doorsdown from an exotic dancing club called the Bee Hive, where I have everythingI could ever need in the space of 75 feet: exotic women, beer, shots, andfried rice. I speak Mandarin fluently. When asked how, I demur, saying I’vetravelled a bit in Asia.
The people who own the Jade Treeare the parents of the sergeant who works for me, his name is Yan-now that’sfucking original-and his parents make it a point to come and speak with me-inMandarin-each time I go there. I’m sitting here with a priest who isn’t sure ofhis sexuality, the church's organist- no pun intended- who is absolutely sureof his…and the priest’s.
Speaking of sexuality, I was alsowritten as a gay character, read this shit: Vic pulled him down to theground and undid his belt and pulled his jeans down. Le Quey had managed to getVic’s jacket off and was undoing his belt too, in a matter of seconds, both menwere naked on the floor. ‘Been a long time,’ Vic whispered, Le Quey could onlygroan.
Ohhhhhh, Vic, you’re so fuckinghard. Christ, do people really write like this?
Finally, I own a gym, had anabusive father, walk around my apartment-which overlooks the Seneca River-inbrightly colored jock straps, keep my cigarettes hidden behind novels, andwatch that idiot over at the desk continue to write this complete fuckingbullshit he calls a novel.
Who the fuck writes this kind ofshit? He does, just look at him, you can see he’s got no fucking talent. He’sfailed at everything in his life, Christ, he couldn’t even keep it hard for hiswife, that is, while he had one.
Cigarettes burning in the ashtray,bottle of Jamesons on his desk, shot glass, yellow legal pads, fucking gel pensfor Christ’s sake, crumpled up wads of scribblings littered across his floor,hand on his forehead, as if he’s thinking great thoughts.
Every time I see him pick up hisfucking gel pen, I just fucking cringe. All of us in his fucking ‘novel’-eventhe fucking priest!-think he’s a joke. He sent this manuscript off to a formerprofessor he had, and the guy sent it back torched. The same professortook out a PFA order against him two days later.
He mopes around his goddamn office,pretending he’s this tormented writer, without realizing that the Fassholesells.
Oh look, here comes his graduateassistant, Bobie-only one “b,” two, would be redundant. His hand goes to theidiot’s shoulder, looks over at a fucking page full of doddles (not a goddamnword written), gasps at the brilliance, gives the idiot a hug-see that-theidiot puts his hand on old Bobie’s waist, slowly lets it slide down to Bobie’stight ass, and gives it a little squeeze. Puts his head on Bobie’s side, sighs,looks up at him, Bobie looks down at him, lips slightly open, a sad smile, thena quick kiss from Bobie, and he walks out the door to go to his next class.
Fuck me.
I’m done with this shit, I’ll beAWOL in his next scene.
Vic will think he’s pounding me onsome apartment floor and- poof- I’ll be gone. Vic will be stuck beating off.I’m tired of being the lead in some wannabe fucking westernAllegheny-Nordic-noir-failed-murder mystery, with its snowstorms, creepy-asstrees, stark landscapes-Christ it’s a college town for fuck’s sake-andpsychotic killer, who also is gay, has two artificial legs, and had an abusivefather.
Hmmmmm, make you wonder, right?
None of that is true, not a singleword.
--OK, here we go, the idiot speaks.
I’m not the idiot at the desk, I’mthe author who created you, Vincent Del Gado.
--Like I said, the idiot at thedesk.
Pay no attention to this“character” who calls himself Le Quey. I created him, and he’s on the pages ofmy manuscript. I’ve no idea who the idiot at the desk is. I am a professor ofliterature—
--now that’s fucking funny—
Here at Stone Mountain University.
--try to find that listed in GreatAmerican Colleges—
I’m an author who is currentlywriting—
--“writing”—
A novel, which I’ve called “TheIntroit Murders.”
--yawn—
And Le Quey is the Inspector—
--CHIEF Inspector, pal—
In the novel. There’s some editingthat needs to be done—
--some editing?!? Jesus Christ!—
Enough, I have tried to explainmyself to the audience, but these constant lies are just too much. I will nothave any character I create—
--you created??—
Dictate to me what the scenes inthe novel are.
Someone has to dictate them to you;you haven’t had a fucking original thought in decades! You teach at StoneMountain University, how the fuck many people want to go to Stone MountainUniversity? How many students are in your department, 5? 10? 15?
Your fucking classes have two goddamnpeople in them, Vince. You got your PhD at an online university, and you haveChatGPT write your lecture notes, in fact, that fucking chatbot of yours is thereal professor and you’re like some dumb fucking undergrad, you’re just toodumb to see it.
But we do, every fucking characterin this novel sees it, including this psycho you dreamed up, who straps youngmen (sense a theme?) to a table, naked (naturally), touches them with gloves on(little repression there, Vinnie?), gets them hard, then sadistically torturesthem, welds them up in a box and floats it down the fucking so-called Seneca River-because now we need to invent the namesof rivers-with a some Latin bullshit carved into the side.
We all just sit at the top of thepage and laugh at you.
I tried to be decent. I tried to bepatient, but I’m not going to allow you to lead some kind of ‘fucking’—
--did you catch that, he put ‘fucking’in quotes—hey Vinnie, why quotes? Fucking sissy, no quotes.—
I’m going in to make somecorrections, to tighten things up a bit, and for the record, I do not have agraduate assistant, and I have never put my hand on another man’s butt.
--never?—
Well, almost never—that’s none ofyour ‘fucking’ business!
--there’s those quotes again—Ummm,I smell wontons and fried rice, must be my cue to enter the Jade Tree and havesome inane conversation, hey, what the fuck! Why am I speaking Russian now—
Now, who’s the boss? How do youlike that?
--I like it, but I like it betterin Arabic!
Why don’t Yan’s parents understandhim?
He rewrote himself, now he’sspeaking Arabic! “Bastard.”
--quotes again--
Backspace, Russian.
Backspace, Arabic.
Really, Vinnie? You wanna play?Watch this—
What are all these flashing neonlights…..Las Vegas? He’s written himself into a scene at the Saraha, there heis with Vic—
--You know what they say, Vinnie,what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Come on Vic, I got a great room for us,and we can pick that scene back up. I think I was groaning with pleasure, andyou were—
--Look, at the top of the page, Fr.Justin is cheering us on with his arm around James! WAY TO GO, FATHER, GET OUTOF THAT CLOSET! There’s Lucien Duvalle, waving one of his artificial legs in theair—“YOU GUYS ROCK!”
--How do you like me now Vinnie, Igot more character support than you do—hey, what the fuck—
Here’s a scene for you, Le Quey—
--What?
--Where?
--A junk yard?
--In the backseat of some junkedcar with an eighteen-year-old male prostitute, wait, Bobie? Is that you? No, atleast not fucking yet!
--Look Vinnie, I wrote your boy inwith me, hmm, nice ass too.
Wait. Le Quey, put the gel pen down,PUT IT DOWN.
--Now, who’s the author?
--How do you like this, Vinnie?
--Now you’re the guy in thejunkyard car bobbing his head up and down on an eighteen-year-old’s gearshift.
Put the FUCKING—
--no quotes this time, a littlepissed, Vinnie boy?
PEN DOWN—
--you mean gel pen
Legal pads flying around the idiot,pages tearing off, gel pens tossed around the room, Jameson bottle up in theair pouring out shots into space, Marlboros floating around in the air like achorus line, Bobie doing a stripperroutine around the desk, the idiot drooling and trying to grab part of Bobie’sbody as he gyrates by, computer on the desk spitting out voice enabled AImessages--
--RUSSIAN
--ARABIC
--LAS VEGAS
--JUNKYARD
--SEX
--STRIPPER
--MORE SEX
Pages flying, books spinning open,characters yelling, cheering, booing, crying, there’s a parakeet on the desk,now an AK47—
Le Quey! What the “fuck” are youdoing?
--I’m not doing it! The idiot atthe desk is!
You’re the idiot at the desk!
--No, you’re the idiot at the desk!
--I’m the fuck out of here!
Le Quey, you can’t leave! I’m theone who has to write the scene.
--Fuck you-watch me:
Evening was falling in Moscow. TheClarion River flowed slowly by the pyramids. The snow fell softly, and as thewind rounded the corner of the Louvre, it moaned softly. Le Quey was going to dinnerat Moussaka House with his sergeant, Abdullah, whose parents owned therestaurant. They were meeting the Orthodox priest and his lover. Le Quey wassitting back, enjoying the smoke from a hookah.
Le Quey wait, take me with you, youcan’t leave me in this!
--You know, I almost feel sorry forthe fuck, part of me wants to write him into this scene, the other part of saysfuck him, let him hang.
Whole sentences lifted off pagesand swirled in the air. The printer was making a maniacal cranking noise as itspit paper out faster and faster. Lucien Duvalle from the novel was standing infront of the idiot at the desk, banging his artificial leg on it. The priest hadJames in the corner on a couch. Neither had their pants on. The lightsflickered off and on while the idiot at the desk sat and drooled.
Come on, Le Quey! Just write me in.I won’t change any scenes, I won’t touch anything, and you’ll have completeeditorial control!
#2 pencils now flying through theair like darts.
Le Quey, answer me goddammit!
--No quotes, Vinnie, just a littleupset? Just a sec, Vinnie, I’m gotta get out of here, I never liked hummus:
The Inspector walked out of theJade Tree, wind still speaking in a low whistle, the moon full, the tall pinesacross the Seneca holding the snow up like mothers holding their babies. He sawthe flashing light for the Bee Hive, harsh against the night sky, went in, andsat down. He knew Vic was performing tonight. As he waited for the show tostart, he saw Vinnie come through the door, eyes darting in the low light.“Over here,” Le Quey said, waving his hand, and Vinnie hurried over.
“I didn’t think you’d do it,” hesaid to Le Quey, “but I’m glad you did.”
“Shut the fuck up, Vic’s on now,”and Le Quey turned toward the stage. Vic came from the door beside the stageand saw Le Quey. He walked over to the table, kissed Le Quey, and said, “Youdidn’t tell me you had a twin brother.”
“What the fuck are you talkingabout?” Le Quey said.
“A twin, right here,” Vic said,pointing to Vinnie.
“He’s not my brother, he somefucking failed academic who thought he could write a novel, that’s all. Hebegged me to rescue him, so against my better judgment, I wrote him into thisscene.”
“Wait,” Vic said, turning toVinnie, “Aren’t you that famous author who wrote The Introit Murders?”
“Famous?!?” Le Quey said, “Forfuck’s sake, Vic, not you!”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I did. Readit?” Vinnie asked.
“I did, I thought it was great, Ididn’t like the Inspector in it, too fucking cocky,” Vic said.
Vinnie smiled at Le Quey.
“What’d you think of the Inspector’sboyfriend, Vic? Like him?” Le Quey asked.
“Now that character was a stroke ofabsolute genius,” Vic said with a smile.
The tables around Le Quey startedto fade slightly as the music dimmed.
“What the fuck, did reality justfart?” Le Quey asked.
“Who the fuck is writing this scene—Vinnie,you goddamned liar,” Le Quey said.
“I didn’t touch it. You’re the onewith the gel pen- wait, maybe he did,” Vinnie said, pointing to the idiotacross from them at the table.
“How the fuck did he get in here,Vic--.”
The show had started, Vic had hiscue, and began his gyrations, pulling off his jeans to 70’s disco, and—
Gone.
Stage gone.
Flashing lights gone.
Tables gone.
“Vinnie I swear to Christ, I’llwrite your fucking death for doing this!”
“I swear I didn’t do—”
Gone.
The Bee Hive had turned into anoffice, very neat and orderly, with windows open. The winter scene was now anearly summer evening, with a gentle breeze ruffling the pages of a legal pad onthe desk. ChatGPT was open on the computer, “How Can I Help?” on the screen.
The idiot was back at the desk, gelpen in hand, grading essays and thinking of the next chapter in his novel, TheIntroit Murders. Bobbie came in to give him a couple of phone messages,then turned and went to her next class.
A knock at the door,
“Professor Le Quey, do you have aminute?” It was Vincent Del Gado, one of his best students.
“Sure, Vinnie, come on, it.”