Live On No Evil, or L.O.N.E., is a novel I’m trying to pimp out to publishers right now. This is the mock up cover I made when I was considering self publishing. Below is an excerpt of one of my favorite parts. It may very well be the most evil thing I’ve ever written:
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No dreams was how Manson Feverjean slept. The noises in his severely trashed hotel penthouse suite fooled him into thinking he was dreaming as they barely rose him above unconsciousness. The drugs quickly pulled him back below until there were hands pulling at him. His head outweighed the strength of his neck, his whole body. The speaking was there but far like underwater whale moans. Even if he could move his head, his eyes wouldn’t open and so he left himself like a beached jellyfish all out of sting for the hands that kept at him and the sounds he couldn’t make sense of.
The hands wrapped him in the sheet, piss and whiskey soaked, and carried him out that way like a cocoon coffin.
It was one hell of a binge. When Lucas had never shown up, Manson got to drinking. It wasn’t enough and since Lucas had all the good stuff, never letting Manson administer anything himself, he went to the hotel phone to call his old hook up. Not remembering a name, let alone a number, he put on a pair of shorts which were actually just boxers because he didn’t know the difference. He slipped on cowboy boots made of real alligator and a fox fur coat, also real with skulls for shoulder pads.
Behind sunglasses, necessary under the serious Luminaut City sun, he walked away knowing his will would find him. And it did. A troop of fans began to follow the normally reclusive superstar and as they walked, joints were passed and pills were swallowed between scribbled and illegible autographs that reopened the stitches in his bandaged hand.
They led him to a club where his flaccid dick was sucked by multiple females that interchanged once their jaws grew tired from a line longer than the one outside to be let in. He snorted mounds of Trap off the tips of switchblades that were raised to his nostrils. Needles punctured his skin sending his veins and then brain into an insane rollercoaster rush.
This temporary revival sent him into a violent fury of destruction, flipping tables, throwing glasses and punching women. He was escorted out from there and went on to the next, repeating the process and leaving a wake of thankful bar and club owners who felt blessed with his presence and the impending publicity, sure to make the damages all well worth it.
This lasted through the morning and next day until the sun went down and he was dragged back to his hotel where it continued. The drugs, sex and violence raged on and with the help of more uppers, Manson pushed through, never really sleeping, just mentally checking out until he noticed someone else fallen into unconsciousness.
Each one he personally kicked awake. “No sleep,” was all he’d say, all he did say, communicating otherwise by pointing or throwing whatever was close.
He chased the last of the departing crowd down the hall with silverware, stabbing a naked ass with a fork, not sure whether guy or girl, and returned to find his door locked. He kicked his scaly boots against it until someone came up with a key and he pulled them in too and ripped off her hotel work uniform only to find a dick in the place of the pussy he was going to rape and so just kicked and kicked at it until it was so bloody and smushed and split that it kind of did look like a pussy, sideways though it was, and so he did rape it and laughed as he kept yelling, “No sleep! No sleep!” at the crying and dying hotel bag boy who was employed illegally, having been driven across the border in a box, but also because he was thirteen and paid only in room and board, working all of his waking hours in Luminaut City and dying with arguably the most famous dick in the world inside his lacerated pelvis.
Once he came, Manson Feverjean showered off the blood and other accumulations of filth and passed out drinking a bottle of whiskey and peeing all over himself.
He wasn’t lucky that Tommy Motts’ people found him before the police could, though he came to believe that he was after they cleansed him of his addictions over the next few days and brought his mind and body back to working health. He wasn’t lucky at all to be a part of Baphom’s latest film production and was wrong in thinking it was God that had intervened to save him from himself.
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