Her mouth made that little "O" shape, the one that you see cartoon characters have when they finally Get It. This woman had an overblown accent that waved like a tattered British flag - trying too hard, shabby. Her mouth made that shape when she said words like "tool" or "tall" or "told", all pronounced in what sounds like exactly the same way.

"I say, what dooo you dooo?"

That little "O" floating from her mouth like a puffed smokering, coming closer. It did feel like leaping a hoop, telling people what I did for a living. So instead I saddled poetry with a silly lie, and let it run:

look ma'am look

[I dropped spaces and put rhymes in when it felt right]

blah blah

"dazzle" metaphor

stray song lyrics

backup "water" metaphor

emergency comparison with a shakespeare sonnet, to test their knowledge of the field

and tie up the package with couplet of lies that burn holes through your language

dear misdirection: please reload aim fire gun of choice

your target is alive

I suppose at this point her father's monacle had leapt from his head in surprise, the butler had simply passed out, and the woman of the home stood wozy. Their accent had blended, surreal, like gasoline in the sun, to some dizzying diagram of UK slang dry-humping the phonetics of Wilde. From that came such a clatter that I had to leave at once. Never in my life had I heard such a din."

That was part one from my new book. It runs a total of 329 parts, with a brief period of "intermission" in the novel which consists of 15 blank pages in the middle. The mind must rest to be in proper shape to handle the sheer awesomeness of my new book. There's no title yet and I guess it's not on my "list of priorities" as there's been a lot of other great things happening around me. Whatever, a title; it's like a goddamned word or two. I just finished a 389 part book. You can't beat that for endurance. Maybe I'll just name it "endurance". No, no, I'll name it "The Pelican Brief" and proceed to crank out dusty courtroom drama copies of themselves in each book! I should just name it "The" so I turn up on every title search in the goddamned world. No press is bad press, after all. Or I suppose I could name it ` or 1a or somesuch so I can find it at the top of an alphabetized search result list.

The point of the book is that there's about four hundred and sixty-four randomized characters that interact with eachother, and there's really no coherant plot or structure. It's total gibberish, but I just have to wait in the right places until the greedy little avante-guardists decide to get their mits all over it and dissect it as geneius It's just a matter of time. Cheerio!

what

Jared