The Kafka Chronicles ExcerptThe following is an excerpt from The
Kafka Chronicles, part of the new Black Ice Books series published by
Fiction Collective Two. Reviews have recently appeared in the Philadelphia
Inquirer, MAXIMUMROCKNROLL, Science Fiction
Eye, and the San Diego Reader.
Samsa makes his move and doses on more stimulation. In all his dreams he's
being happily nullified by the forces outside himself. His polymorphous
perversity entitles him to multi-orgasmic experiences full of gushing organic
juices filling the mouths of babes. These sexual proclivities are being
broadcast live via satellite to all free countries around the globe. Sometimes
he sees himself in old reruns playing the role of preeminent rock and roller who
gets any chick he wants. Right now his latest music video is being seguewayed
into the MTV rock-around-the-clock rotation. He's a Love God, a carefully
created icon who knows how to manage his entrepreneurial hustle.
All of a sudden the simulated experience of being someone who he's not
becomes too much to handle. He wakes up and finds himself strapped to the bed.
CIA bugs inserted in all his organs he's being read by every amateur critic the
bureaucracy produces. An authoritarian voice comes blaring through the
multi-national superstate's implanted speakers. It says:
"Wake up Samsa, it's time to go to work!"
His whole body shakes as the new pop anthem plays its catchy phrases and
unforgettable hooks forcing him to get his ass out of bed so that he can crawl
to the shower.
"This early morning wake-up call is being sponsored by . . ."
The daily news comes blasting from the speakers in perfect comedy shtick
delivery although the announcer (whose voice may not be real) doesn't wait for
"The swollen slobbering hierarchy rams its pusillanimous predator into her
automotive concave and bureaucratic love codes get tapped on her nymphomaniacal
The frequency rate increases exponentially as she goes down on me and then
after swallowing the entire Big Board immediately opens up her legs allowing all
potential USA-dollars to get distributed throughout the fiber optic network.
According to The State Department, the reactivation of certain buzzwords in
cellular biophonetic theory will now lead to an epidemic of epidermic needle
infiltration inside most GM cars despite earnest attempts by GM to recall all
hairy ignition switches and flaming clit revolvers that have been known to rev
up potentially explosive pseudo-political transmissions.
In Tokyo, lubricants of total immersion cause labia lips to squeeze.
U.N. Peace Command sanctions fossil fuels while antediluvian tongue spills
its Bedouin drool. As black spittle seeps out from her cut gums, a call to war
has apparently recast the rhetoric of appearance.
Meanwhile, inflation slips inside the back door and brutally drills her ass
for more crude. An expert on continental cornholing says domestic reproduction
is at an all-time low and that all turtle-snappin' pussy wasting away in the
Texas region is now on alert for possible remission. Dormant Dora Denaturally
was quoted as saying 'all you boys better git ya selves on down here cuz I'm
achin' for the takin' . . .'
Gushing diarrhea at the mouth leads mad dictator astray while laymen spray
chemical by-products all over the Situationist's anarchic exhibition. The
National Council On the Arts claims 45 casualties and says 'if this doesn't
effect Dow, nothing will.'
An apocalypse of orgasms beads the air while the flames of femme-fatales flee
Gregor simulated his death by going back to the typewriter and making things
up as he went along. He spontaneously created himself while simultaneously
undoing himself so that what you had left was a transient glow, a wafer thin
line of desire dressed up in the latest perspiration-wicking athletic wear
Amerikan money could buy. He was no longer an outcast. He was Down and In, Up
and Coming, Off and Running. He was all Presence. A thought was rolling through
his head: let it be first of all by their presence that objects and gestures
establish themselves . . . He took a deep breath. The typewriter was buzzing
with action, inviting him to join in the fun.
Technology was shooting him right between the eyes. Christmas was just around
the corner and his mother was going insane trying to light the menorah candles.
She ended up setting the Hanukkah bush on fire and Gregor, watching old reruns
of The Sonny and Cher show, ran to her assistance.
"Oh God," said Gregor.
The burning Hanukkah bush spoke back to him.
"Please," said the bush, "don't give me that God crap, just get the fire
extinguisher and put me out of my misery."
Gregor went in search of the readily accessible fire extinguisher but it was
nowhere to be found. His mother, meanwhile, had run from the Miami Beach condo
in hysterics. She was in a tattered peach bathrobe with an ancient schmata on
her head. Gregor, looking out the sliding glass door at the back entrance to the
condo, saw his mom run uncontrollably toward the swimming pool. She was picking
up speed as she approached the water and for some ungodly reason, she kept going
at full speed when she hit the water so that she ended up running across half
the pool's length before allowing the better part of herself to take over and
sink her into the deep end.
She didn't know how to swim. She had lived in Miami Bitch all her life but
swimming was out of the question. Are you kidding? That would mean she'd have to
get wet. Why get wet when you have showers for that? Or so the logic went. But
there was no logic gonna save the yenta from drowning so Gregor, forgetting
about the burning bush as it spread to the sofa and the Lay-Z-Boy chair, ran out
to save his mom from a death spiked with chlorine.
He dove into the pool but his mom was gone. There was a floating life-size
mom made of plastic. He pulled the dummy mommy out of the water and without
thinking ran with it back to the condo. His adrenalin was flowing so intensely
that it started slowly seeping out of his penis hole. Soon his adrenalin was
literally pouring out of his penis hole so he pulled off his shorts and on
instinct forced the gushing penishead into the dummy mommy's mouth where an
opening the size of a wooden nickel suddenly appeared. Once the dummy mommy was
filled with his adrenalin he then started spraying it on the fire. He didn't put
the fire out but he did manage to contain it until the firemen came bursting
through the front door and finished the job.
"What exactly happened," asked the fire chief once the fire was completely
out and the charred remains of Gregor's existence blew around the place in a
warm sea breeze.
"I don't have any idea," said Gregor, "I don't even know where this place
Transient hypestar feeding off the quick-change scenery of somebody else's
memory gone blank, G left the typewriter and went out for a swim. Later he'd go
to the mall and finish his Xmas shopping.
Somewhere in Boulder, Colorado, his sweet sister, the tainted Barbarella,
painted her way back onto his canvas-mind and he told her her timing was
perfect. She seemed less timid then the last time he saw her. Apparently she had
just gone to see his experiential psychologist. When Gregor asked her if Quasar,
the experiential psychologist, assisted her in finding her roots, Barb simply
stated that Quasar was emphatically doing nothing of the sort and had, in fact,
deregulated the level playing field so that Barb could create a whole new
network of underground wiring to feed off of. Gregor nodded in understanding.
She was lush and lucid. The snow she dripped in was glistening on her face,
God's icy come melting both in her mouth and in her hands. She wasn't really
dressed for the weather. Some unforeseen arctic blast had collided with Gulf of
Mexico moisture causing severe upslope conditions. It was one of those days when
you wondered what the fuck you were doing in such an unpredictable environment
and cursed the day you moved here. But Barb's barbaric beauty and easygoing
headtrip made things better. Much better.
"My eyes hurt," she said to her older bro. "Would you gently massage them for
Gregor's response was ineffable. An erotic sign language using only the tip
of his tongue. Running through the letters of the alphabet, he flicked his
budding red nerve over her eyes. In this senseless tracing of instantaneous
ecstasy, he purveyed enough love-energy to ignite the surface tension laced
across her body. The near-fractal lacework that had somehow made her entrance
seem so strong and stable was now coming apart at the seams. Seems as though his
sensual dynamic, totally out of his control and part of his physical make-up,
was conscientiously turning her aura of aggression into an endless string of
orgasmic opportunities. The pin-plug method wasn't out of the question but they
both preferred utilizing the mechanism on batteries. It was good practice. In
case of emergencies. Was this an emergency?
Gypsy mouth traversing the parent culture in absentia.
Immediate realignment with previous vestige of erroneous self zoning out on
Psychopharmokinetic reaction to the sun reflecting off the snow while he
simulates a rock and roll self catching rays inside the beach of her viscous
THIS IS THE HOUSE THAT FRANZ BUILT.
Psychotic energy transforming the self into a living pest.
Indigents indigenous to the area being scrawled on the wall.
He crawls on top of her.
Mutters the words gimme shelter.
Mark Amerika's first novel, The Kafka Chronicles,
is part of the new Black Ice Books, an alternative paperback imprint from
Fiction Collective Two. For more information on the new series, contact
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