A Greater Monster Read online

  “Brilliant, insane and utterly unique, A Greater Monster offers pure sensory stimulation, verging on sensory overload. The graphics, concept and narration are pause-worthy, and they all combine to create literary indulgence at its best—its most interactive. The narrator in A Greater Monster doesn’t hold your hand and guide you; he doesn’t ask you to like him. Instead, he delivers a sharp uppercut to your chin and asks you to stop cowering, open your eyes, and fight back. You will. He’ll make you.”

  —Jen Knox, author of To Begin Again

  (2011 Next Generation Indie Book Award winner)

  “I can’t express how brilliant my favorite scenes in A Greater Monster are. In this extraordinary work, Katzman pushes language to do things, which are truly astounding. This is where Artaud meets Williams S. Burroughs meets Lewis Carroll in an obscene, violent dissolution of character, plot, and setting. A Greater Monster dismantles the foundations of narrative, of the human subject as master and center of time and space, reason and language, and the word is transformed into image, into an indigestible thing that both resists easy consumption and is utterly entertaining.”

  —Carra Stratton, Editor Starcherone Press

  “Beautiful mystic-schizo DayGlo wordage. Poetic, peripatetic, and diuretic prose that befuddles, enchants, and amuses the reader at the same time.”

  —Lance Carbuncle, author of Grundish & Askew

  “This is bizarro fiction at its most intense. It contains scenes and unique designs that seem engineered by some Mad Hatter and Chuck Palahniuk cross-breed.”

  —Lavinia Ludlow, author of alt.punk

  “After David David Katzman’s brilliant first novel, Death by Zamboni, a masterclass in the uses to which comic writing can be put, comes a novel that couldn’t be more different. A Greater Monster opens in a world that’s immediately and recognizably ours, a world of profit potential and financial files, before spinning off into a spiritual (and carnal) quest that reads like Alice on acid, while channeling every trash sci-fi nightmare Creepy Tales had to offer. ‘A book is a special idea’ explains one of the characters, and this book is certainly special, with language that doesn’t so much describe as enact the constant dislocation undergone by the narrator as he spins in the vortex of his own mind’s making. ‘Let us visit the imaginarium.’”

  —Charles Lambert, author of Scent of Cinnamon and Any Human Face

  “A Greater Monster is a highly creative and original story combining poetry, imagery, and prose—all working seamlessly without a break in momentum.”

  —Charlie Courtland, author of Dandelions in the Garden

  Also by David David Katzman

  The Kickstarter Letters

  Death by Zamboni

  KINDLE EDITION

  Due to the nature of ebooks, this edition of A Greater Monster does not retain all the formatting found in the print edition.

  Copyright: © 2011 by David David Katzman

  ISBN: 978-0-9838644-2-4

  Library of Congress Card Number: 2011913638

  Katzman, David David.

  A greater monster / by David David Katzman. -- 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  LCCN 2011913638

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9838644-0-0 (acid-free paper)

  ISBN-10: 0-9838644-0-3

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9838644-1-7

  ISBN-10: 0-9838644-1-1

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9838644-2-4

  ISBN-10: 0-9838644-2-X

  1. Apocalyptic literature. 2. Fantasy fiction, American. I. Title.

  PS3611.A82G74 2012

  813’.6

  QBI11-600162

  A Bedhead Book

  [email protected]

  Chicago, IL 60613

  Reach the author at DavidDavid.net, goodreads.com/daviddavid or

  [email protected].

  Cover Art by Mike Wilgus

  Book Design by Mike Wilgus

  Author’s photograph by Abraham Velázquez Tello

  Interior art by Caitlin McKay

  Music composed by Mark Messing and David Katzman

  Music performed by Larry Beers, George Lawler, and Jonathan Steinmeier

  Music player developed by Ryan Ore

  Graphic elements within the book by Valerie Enzenbacher

  Animation by Al Nicolini

  Ebook development by APTARA, aptara.com

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are sprung from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely in your dreams.

  Profound thanks to

  Locke Peterseim, Jason Pettus, Oriana Leckert, Charles Lambert,

  Michelle Herman, Barbara Katzman, Caitlin, Al, Mike, Mark, Larry, George, Jonathan,

  Ryan, Valerie, and, most of all, Elizabeth and Zoë.

  Additional thanks for generous support provided by

  Frances Patricia Winkler, Ronaldi Ess, Ruben Beurskens, Norman de Greve, Antal T. D. Szabo, Michael Galluzzo, Carey D. Keller, and George Webeck in honor of his lifetime friendship with the great mOnSTer, Hell(en).

  I have never seen a greater monster or miracle in the world than myself.

  —Michel de Montaigne, Essays, book III, ch. 11

  A Greater Monster

  I jerked awake from my half-sleep, still clutching Ganesh in my right fist, when I heard the moan. The room smelled of ashes and rosemary. Hit the power button without shutting down and clenched the action figure tighter as my computer whined to its death.

  Nothing.

  Put my ear to the floor.

  Perhaps I hadn’t heard it.

  I returned to my chair and considered the elephantine god in my hand. I’ll take him to work as a sentinel to keep me company, I thought. The rich olive color would bring some energy to my office, which was a black box within a large black loft designed to simulate a warehouse (while incidentally honing paranoia and cruelty).

  Papers strewn across my desk. My financial files. Had a moment of disorientation—thought I was hanging weightless above them, a dancing spirit. All those numbers representing all that I have.

  Could be erased in a flash.

  “Take,” he said, holding out his hand. I inspected his dirty, wrinkled palm and the small black lozenge that sat upon it. A gift. The least I could do was allow him the honor of giving it. Better living through karmaceuticals.

  We stood at the mouth of the alley, dead still. My clients would not have been pleased. eEye would not have sensed anything. Everything needs to keep moving. A breeze rippled across my face, curled down the back of my blazer. A freakishly warm December 21st. Mid-60s. The old man did not move. A monument to homelessness, a statue of failure, wearing a postman’s jacket over a shirt with the outline of a horse on it. Work pants, a dirty baseball hat with the swoosh logo, and sandals covered in what appeared to be dog shit completed the outfit. Better him than me. I grabbed at the pill. Turns out, I wasn’t as quick as an action-movie star. The moment I contacted his palm, the old man close-fisted my fingers and spit a glob of phlegm violently at my feet. His acid-green eyes met mine—“Why’d the chickens cross the road?” I scooped the pill and yanked my hand from his. “Why’d the chickens cross the road?” he repeated more urgently. I backed away, thrusting the pill into my coat pocket. The rough wool fibers rubbed like a Chinese finger trap. As I turned the corner back to the street, he bellowed, “Cuz he’s a goddamn backstabbin’ chicken’s why!”

  I swiftly trod the well-worn sidewalk dirtied with graf and excrement, noting the quote near Halsted: Then further east a couple blocks: Mmmh, sorry you couldn’t make it like I did. Welcome to natural selection, loser. Shifting the pavement beneath my feet by walking in time. In a timely fashion. In my black custom-made suit. Took the fl
aunt way round. At Halsted and Belmont, a silver SUV almost hit me as I stepped out with the walk sign.

  “Fuck YOU!” I screamed while flipping the bird at the slut behind the wheel. The blond-ass bitch looked straight through me. Indeed. On second thought, perhaps the angry proles were onto something after all.

  Assailed by a syncopated rhythm: hammers echoing from a courtyard, scuffing of shoes, buzzing insects, a bus’s roar, distant sirens, dog’s bark, staccato overlapping of two languages, five conversations. An impassive blue sky looked down upon me as I marched ahead penned in by concrete. Mangy mutt stopped in my way, craning up at me. Move along, rabid thing. It scampered off.

  Touched my L card to the turnstile pad. Up the stairs. Had to squeeze past two deaf white-trash mullet-heads signing furiously at each other, almost coming to blows with their signs. On the platform. Checked out where the girls were. Over there, stood near the most attractive one. Breasty McSweater, if you knew how much money I make, you’d want me, I thought. But she ignored me. An ugly girl looked over at me, and I could sense her searching for eye contact—I gave it; she smiled tentatively. I put on my fat glasses. I could see through Fatty’s clothes, skin, blood, and muscle. Nothing but a jiggling pile of creamy snot. Could I bag this fat? All the kids are doing it. The biggest bag of fat wins prizes, big fat fucking bags of fat prizes. She looked down.

  Later: a client meeting discussing the strategy brief for the eEye launch. Skull-crushing boredom interspersed with hyperventilating fear.

  “As we all know,” I said, “security is big business, and this product has huge profit potential. Since 9/11 and even further, with the popular acceptance of global warming as a trend, people have two options. Those who can afford it invest in both directions at once to hedge their bets. The first behavior is a ‘conservation’ or so-called ‘green’ direction where they attempt to ‘make a difference.’ As miniscule as that difference may be, our research shows that people find it psychologically satisfying because it makes them feel like it’s other people who are part of the problem. In addition, they feel they are contributing to future safety needs by trying to reduce the dislocation that will be caused by environmental catastrophe. It’s important to note that—except for a few Luddites here and there—this is self-interested and often halfhearted behavior in the average consumer.

  “The second track is to protect themselves from those who may be angry and in fact economically at risk due to the new poverty caused by environmental degradation and economic collapse. While green technologies are doing well in the market, these security products are doing even better. Personal safety comes first. There’s nothing but upside here. Further consumer research shows eEye is best targeted at the six-figure-and-up demographic—individuals whose psychographic profiles wed them to the faith that money can buy safety. Of course, we don’t say that. What we do is, we play upon their fear of the unknown and position eEye as the solution. We’re recommending the following brand positioning: eEye is knowledge and knowledge provides security—or, more concisely, eEye equals knowledge equals security.”

  So why is it … the more I know, the less safe I feel? I reached into my pocket for a tissue and touched the gummy pill. Had forgotten it was there.

  “We’re going to need to review concepts for our sales meeting at four tomorrow.”

  “But you just approved the brief. There’s not enough time. At least … let us come back to you with a mood board,” I found myself dredging out of the job bin.

  “No, we’re going to need to show them a full ad campaign. Can you deliver or not?”

  “No problem, Christopher. We’ll have the creative for you.”

  So many meetings, I couldn’t get any damn work done. Shut myself in my office with a paper plate and a knife from the kitchen. I retrieved the black lozenge, set it on the plate. It looked like a gum drop or the inside of a black Chuckles, with an oily consistency and an odd phosphorescent sheen. Perhaps this was where all the bitter black Chuckles go when they die. Or perhaps it was glue soiled by the hands of Mr. Homeless Guy, Esquire.

  I clicked open an email just delivered from the GM.

  You’ve been doing great work on eEye …—blah-blah-blah—… account worth 500 but with growth potential …—blah-blah—… let you know Ed has decided to move on to other opportunities—fired—and I’d like you to take over his account for now. You’ll have to continue managing eEye but this is a great opportunity for you. I’ll be out of pocket tomorrow but Ficks can begin your download.

  Please. Strap some electrodes to my temples and sear my brains.

  I raised the plate to my nose and sniffed. Nothing. I stuck the plate in a drawer with the knife and proceeded with the fiction of the day.

  “I want a fucking life!” The cry echoed from somewhere in the warehouse outside my door. The creatives were getting restless. It was 12:21. Third night in a row I’d been at work past 10:00.

  “So lose the account and your job, fucker!” I shouted back and stuck my head out the door. No one. Just a cleaning guy sweeping the floor. He didn’t even look up or acknowledge my presence … perhaps because we don’t speak the same language. I retreated to my office. Back to my laptop—email from the art director. How much of my life has been eaten up by this machine? What is that, masturbation into a vacuum?

  ill be back at 8am if youv got comments

  I opened the PDF and reviewed the creative. One good idea, two mediocre. Oh, you spineless jellyfish sons of bitches.

  Gotta grab this bull by its balls. Bounced a koosh off the wall for an hour and pulled a couple smarter headlines out of my ass. Fired them off to the art director with some comments, and it was done. The presentation was at 4:00 so we’d be fine.

  Warm and stuffy. 1:35 a.m. A dead zone. Discontinuous, discontinued from life outside the walls. I’d rather sleep here than take my work out. Inside and outside reverse so easily, separated by nothing. The outside falls in, the center will not hold. What shambling chimera slumps out of the office?

  I turned off the light and sat in my ergo chair with the glow from my laptop spilling across the desk. Lifted the plate from my drawer and placed it in front of me. The object on the plate seemed to have darkened since I last looked. Gotten blacker. I put it back in my drawer. Searched for “free hardcore” and clicked a random link that led to a garish porn site featuring teaser images of topless women. I closed it, triggering a horde of pop-up windows to swarm across my desktop. Who would be quicker—me or the interstitial masters of the universe? Eventually they got the better of me, so I rebooted. For a brief moment, my office was completely black. I pulled the drawer open and touched the gummy shit, pinched it in half between two fingers. It was jelly-like.

  Popped it in my mouth. Tasted like chicken. No, hah. Tasted like bone and asbestos. Like death. I swallowed and gagged, but it went down. My tongue went prickly and started to burn as if I had eaten too much pineapple. I gasped as it oozed a trail down my throat, taking its time. Mistake. That was a mistake. Oh yeah, shit. Why’d I do that? Shit. I closed my eyes. The computer monitor reversed itself, a black square in silver frame. I got up and grabbed my jacket from the door hanger then put it back.

  I touched the wall of my office. It was cold. Industrial. Metal rivets. Grey. The floor black and oily. This was fashion. This was marketing.

  Ganesh was there on the shelf next to my desk. If I’m really going on a trip, I might as well pack my totem. Joke. Stashed him in my pocket anyway.

  Some time passed. Sweat ran down my forehead. I felt alternately hot and cold. I gripped the armrest. Desire is not pleasure. It’s fever. I picked up a folder of project timelines and emptied it across my desk. Aimlessly flinging and crumpling presentations, turning things over without looking at them, dumping shit on the floor, pulling open drawers and emptying their contents. There went my paperclips. Binder clips. Spare change. Taxi receipts. Business cards. Seven Habits of Highly Effective Cuntholes.

  I was hunting. For what? For courage?
Need to tell a new story of myself. The born-agains do it. They let someone else write the plot for what they become. Boring. If I had courage, I would write my own fiction. Become someone interesting.

  I was having a hard time wrapping my head around … why I was doing what I was doing. And what exactly was I doing? Outlines softened. Surfaces went foggy. What was I supposed to be doing? I was caged in solid smoke, sharp smoke. I saw it settling in, filling the space. A skintight dream with hard corners, corroded metal defined space. I shaped the proportions when I could to avoid the spikes. The heartbeat of work. Pain and pleasure cannot be argued with. They demonstrate me. Touching is just electrons repelling. Nothing can touch. Ever.

  I passed my arm before my eyes and watched it skip past me like slowed frames in an old movie. Life was stop-motion.

  Realization: We render time by stitching together moments—flipping pages in the book of consciousness presents a continuous stream. Our senses too slow to realize the separation of moments, like a strand of pearls through eternity.

  Time is terrifying, time is unspeakable. Clock-time lies down between moments … but distance warps with velocity, time bends with velocity. Frames of reference. Are not absolute. Are selfish. A private reality. Clocks have a life of their own. Framed by references.

  Speed separates: the faster I go, the faster everything moves away. At light speed, time accelerates to infinity; a catapult to end-time, light is the end. Within a singularity, density is infinite, gravity is infinite, light cannot escape. Light has zero mass. Time ends at both ends.

  Time, you bastard, what are you? An allergy? A sickness. My body aches. I need to become completely still—my insides, I need to stop them, enter the singularity. But what are you? A reflection into matter of speed? Velocity’s unconscious. Time is velocity’s dance partner. Movement changes our angle through time. Time and space are trapped together, live together. Space trades places with time. Light is the crease where space and time, matter and energy fold.