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Shane Jesse Christmass is the author of the novels, Napalm Recipe: Volume One (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2017), Police Force As A Corrupt Breeze (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2016) and Acid Shottas (The Ledatape Organisation, 2014).

1 story by Shane Jesse Christmass


On the day the bomb explodes you are inside the hidden staircase at the Roosevelt Hotel on E45th Street. You leave no clues in your diary. Modern aeroplanes with technical improvements over Manhattan. Polar icecaps in the Atlantic. Drugged in the afternoon sun. Sadistic dances performed beneath subway. You’re a test pilot for tiny scout planes. I’m a postal clerk, but have previously worked as a mutton chop salesman. I’ve also spent time in the oil fields as a newspaper man. Footprints under the window. A crack rifle shot across Morningside Heights. Human ashes with pictures. The 24-hour photo lab stinks of petrol fumes. Hotel guests talks about their long voyages. I’m wrapped in a big bath towel. Bull Moose in the Rocky Mountains. River barges on the Hudson. Mysterious swamps. You wear a strawberry tee shirt. I relocate to a cruise ship due to tax evasion. I lay on a chaise lounge reading sordid tales. I don’t hate you anymore. Coca-Cola in a plastic straw. You drive your Jaguar XJ12. A hungry man eats beer nuts. You’re bored, uninterested. Your mouth’s edge on anus. Advertisements for pastel clothing. Sexual machination. Skeleton crushed by rock. Your work-worn hands. Your eyes shine. Your future prison life. Storm clouds coming. Hot dog stands on Staten Island. Unwelcome police laze in my easy chair. Soft whine from the muddy inlet. Filth in the toilet bowl. Nasty smears in the cubicle. Spew on the doorway floor. Full moon behind dark clouds. A sordid colony where the washlines are strung. You can’t stomach fruit. Campfires surrounded by coyotes. Human bones in a wooden box. Condoms contain rats. Unpleasant sex acts. A soft night breeze. You’re dead. Turbid air. Smoke in great columns. You’re maniacal expression on a large face. Huge chunks of household furniture. Fearful heat in the subway. A red glare inside the entire sky. Seroquel on a summer afternoon. Your evil smile. Bed sheets cover large brains. Blow-dryers in the toilet. Motor boats in the Bronx Kill. Dynamite planted in the police launch. A grimy hand on your face. Tourists in horse carts. HIV bodies. Tortured corpses. Lips. Big round skirt. Saliva. Income tax fraud. Bombs. Cheekbones litter the escape routes. Murdered by gangsters. Padlocks on the shower stall. Soil engulfs West 124th street. Bottlecaps full of liquid deodorant. Wastepaper basket full of fine French steak. Biologic mutations initiated by scientists. Lightning on windy streets. A girl enters. Dollar notes. Underage death. Rectal nausea. I’m sound asleep. Coins in the hands of pretty little men. Muscle car. Brains in a two-gallon jar. Extra-special cocaine. Blonde hair. Cardboard cut-outs of police officer. Body suit. Tight-fitting. Green mucus and blood on bathroom tiles. Urine in coffee mugs. The bones of a humorous woman. The entire NYC covered in steam. Apelike tumours on the spinal cord of séance followers. Somatic sex during a religious service. Drinking brandy and ice in your hotel room. Pockmarked bed sheets at the Gramercy Park Hotel. The isolation of hotel cleaners. Ideas and brutal ideas. Present imagery basks in sun. Slight insanity mixed with lies. You drink beer in the water fountain. Casual business meeting interrupted by mass telepathy. A clean car seat of green leather. Yellow light beams in humid dusk. Two studs fuck on television screens. Facial expressions. US$ on kitchen table. Making a business call on the subway platform. Vomit on underage guy. Frantic homeless men fuck. Your attractive complexion hidden by gauzy scarf. Scars on my soft little chin. Reindeer bones buried beneath soft stones. The virulent communism of Buddha. The dismantling of computer systems everywhere. The human brain doused in high tension ideas. Seaports strung together by steel cables. Automation of the modern landscape. Lounging in the luxury suite wearing a silk leisure suit. You’re the cynical type, confined in a high-strung condition. A large reddish orangutan from uptown Borneo dressed in white flannels. Two gypsy musicians fuck on a mechanical bull. One wears a pink jockey’s cap. The other wears a Chinese silk robe in American colours. On the day the bomb explodes, I am eating a Trump Steak.

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