The Bible

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Peaks and Valley's characterized this period of his life. The drugs were good, and good drugs ensured that the limits of reality were pushed on a regular basis. Several of his comrades had left this world for the next, the result of drug overdoses. He half mourned their half lives. To him, death wasn't a ridiculous choice. For if the purpose of drugs was to escape reality, wasn't death just the ultimate escape. But onward he went. Some weeks he would eat only vegetables and not ingest drugs or booze. Other weeks he would consume so much , that friends questioned whether he was a mere mortal. While they had succombed so easily to the slavery of addiction, he seemed impervious.

One night he locked himself in his bedroom and swallowed the key. His room was supplied with a fridge full of beer, an empty jar of pickles, a small mountain of cocaine and a typewriter. He would not emerge, he told himself, until he had written the great American novel, or, he shit out the key.

For seven days he typed madly, day and night. He was fuelled by the deep desire to write something raw and real, and by the mountain of cocaine which now resembled a volcano. He had filled 15 bottles of beer with his urine, which he kept in the fridge for more desperate times. The pickle brine was long gone and he had shit in the garbage can twice; though both times, the feces had failed to bare fruit.

Still, he typed, for this instant masterpiece was nearly finished. When he finally emerged at the end of day 9, the room reaked of shit, and he clung to life by a thin, drug adled strand. But on his coffee table, next to a tiny mole hill of cocaine was a 630 page manuscript ambitiously titled "The Bible".

The book he sent off to the publishers without reading, and soon began mental preparations for a life of book tours and awards ceremonies.

The manuscript arrived at a small publisher in upstate New Jersey 4 days later, and after a brief examination, the publishing executive knew that the story of how this book was written was far more interesting than the book itself. The manuscript was a mess. Spelling and grammatical errors were constant, characters were introduced and killed in the same run on sentences, and vast stretches of the book were filled only with one's and zero's. 3 of the pages appeared to be covered in someones blood, and on pg 296 was a series of crudely drawn penises. Needless to say, the lone copy of what could be the greatest novel ever written was thrown out immediately upon its reception.

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Photos

typewriter
photo taken by k'vitsh (flickr)