This is the first draft of the first chapter of a first person novel that I've had lying around my "manuscript" folder. Realism need not apply. No clue what genre either, it's pretty much freehand and random. The title is from an offhand statement that's made later in the story, I'll try not to post anything too disturbing.

---Rabid Hippo on Aphrodisiacs---

From the inner leaf This is an adult novel with adult material, intended for adults.
Take it to your Mommy if you don't know what that means.

The fictional people, fictional places and fictional events in this work of fiction are made up. Any nouns or verbs that seem familiar should be considered funny, a horrible coincidence, or possibly, your own dumb fault.

Oh yeah, don't try to imitate or duplicate any of it. Ever.


Chapter Won
Going for broken


I'm David Guy and I was fixed by being broken. No kidding, right?

Some people never get a chance to completely think over their life and decide how to chart their own personal course. Hundred page self-help books have been written, hit the best seller list and in the end it boils down to taking a few minutes when you're on the toilet to plan your strategy. If you don't make it, just love yourself.

No.

If I'm ever satisfied with where I am in life, shoot me. I'll have absolutely nowhere to go and nothing to do. Bliss is ignorance. Happiness is appreciating what you get. That's the part I've always had an issue attaining.

Well, here's my self-helping, free time finding, life-rethinking secret in a nutshell. I'll sum it in three simple words: full body cast.

Like anything worth having, there's no easy, wait, no fun way to get a full body cast, short of a spectacular member of the chosen sex that's high as a kite.
That didn't happen. I didn't do it in the line of duty, saving anyone's life or at work. Actually my jobs were pretty safe, that was the problem.

I started out working part time in a book shop pushing a broom, moving boxes, resorting things into the correct order and answering requests for dirty magazines so that that the bewildered elderly owner didn't have to say “no” to underage children and college kids who couldn't read the “No Pornography” sign.
To help with expenses, I became a water delivery guy. I drove a company truck that made for friendly faces at the gas station, a regular route and a predictable place to go to work. It was tedious some times and carrying water bottles up stairs got old. I lived in a decent apartment, hobnobbed with the guys across the street and drove a ten-year-old Honda Civic.

I bought the Civic for reliable transportation. Honda calculated metal grades and part design to make a little economy box that's not exciting but if you take care of it, it'll be around forever. It was painted royal blue and had stock wheels. My only splurge was on a pair of fog lights for the morning commute. It's like a toaster. I wake up every morning and use it without ever worrying if it's going to break but it doesn't really excite me.

Great. I'm set. Thanks to the water job I'm flirting regularly with the cashier at Mega Gasser and I'm about to ask her out one night when I'm working late when her husband and kids show up.
That's when it hits me. I don't care. I don't care about my jobs, my apartment, my so-called friends or my reliable car. They're a means to an end that I'm not taking advantage of. I didn't care enough to live.

I did something different. I changed things up. I was a reckless bonehead.

The last delivery of the night and I was caught up in a small group of office workers that were moving into an ad agency's press conference. I couldn't get away. Oh, they were going to pay for that.

The PR honchos were trying to calm several angry reporters down and make them listen. While on the perpetual hunt for new and edgy material, they'd released some dud commercials that got them in hot water with several minorities, political groups and wildlife activists. All at once. I still don't know how they managed that.

I'd taken off my identifying uniform shirt before making the last delivery. I was another anonymous stooge in a black t-shirt and dress pants standing by the microphone, tired, grouchy and being paid by the hour.

Just as the last reporter stopped asking the same recycled questions, a couple of young employees burst through the door. Wheelchair racing. They skidded to a stop to avoid mowing reporters down.

My job's safe? Check.
I could leave? Check.
Stuck in a horrible situation? Check.
I could make it worse? Check.

I ignored the rationality screaming bloody murder in the back of my head and stepped into the limelight. Sure, dipstick. Just wing it. The surprised looks that I was getting didn't even compete with the shock running through my own system.

“They're a little early but these are volunteers in our new sensitivity research program. In addition to standard sensitivity training, random members receive random assignments... be it wearing a fat suit for the day, changing race via makeup or covering every inch of the complex with a wheelchair. It gives a sense of what people outside our race or ability range are facing every day. These pencil pushers will be sore in the morning, I guarantee you.” I gestured toward to the wheelchair racers and stepped out the way to the sound of laughter. The change of mood was palpable.

Honcho even made some points by assuring that the company was moving forward, on to bigger and brighter things.

“Who's the new PR agent? He's not on your employee list.” A tiny woman with a big voice asked from the front row.

“He wouldn't be. The man that you just heard is a private contractor. He's a genius that swoops in to reconnect companies with reality, usually in secret. I'm a broker...” He hesitated, trying to decide where to go with the sentence, “...And I'll tell you straight, I've been looking at the business expansion side and not the connections. That's what we're doing now. We're reconnecting and we're hiring some real geniuses to serve our clients and their quality products. Thank you.” He waved toward a snack table, “Of course, we'd be remiss if we didn't offer free samples for the road.” Another laugh.

The word genius not only padded my own ego, I knew that it would sound good for the company. I knew that he wasn't giving me a compliment as much as following my lead.

People scattered in their own directions and the honcho followed me out into the hallway. “Uh, Mr. Contractor man. Can I speak with you please?” He beckoned to me, scratched his beard and smiled at a reporter.

Drat. I just wanted out of the conference room. The executive was recognizable from the oil paintings that I'd seen in the hallway. He was an imposing man six foot five or so and built like a refrigerator, he had a full beard and thinning gray hair. I'd never seen him wearing anything but a three-piece suit, even in the newspaper photos of his vacation.
I'd seen a bronze statue of him in a park somewhere and I'd seen him on morning shows. Now I was walking beside him officiously, pretending to be someone while the boss grinned like an idiot, pretending that he knew what had just happened.

He put his coat on a rack by the door, strolled around his desk and affectionately patted the back of his worn leather chair. “This was my first chair, from my home office,” He explained. “I took a leap and struck out on my own. They say that the first year is the hardest but this is advertising, every year is the hardest.”

He held up two pieces of plain white paper that were stapled together. A speech. “I've handpicked everyone that works in the firm and this was the grand scheme to bring things back on track until those two knuckleheads came through the door. I just have one question. Who the **** are you?”(Dot-dot-dot)

To be continued if anyone's interested.
Comments and constructive criticism welcome.

Ah, I thought you might be talking about a mind-sucking soulful smoke tent, for smokin' th' funny weed n' stuff.

I don't like the city either. I like oxygen.

My Appalachian origin automatically blocks any smart remarks about you doing your crazy relatives.

The big smoke?

I think I'm gonna go take some Taco Bell hot sauce packs and make Dad's leftover zero alarm pinto beans and rice into chili.

Edit: ...and other ingredients.


What's got me ticked off? The Tulsa Lowe's did a Children's Hospital drive over a year ago and my company name is on one of TWO plaques tacked up beside the door.

You'd think that was a prideful statement but all that was required was a $10 or $20 donation.

People are freakin' cheap.

Yes, but the legend of your silent wisdom will only last so long. No one ever quotes "'...' to the original author."

They do, but it's not legally binding without a marriage license.

...Which you can fill out online, in some places.

Exactly

<---That's really me, as of this week.


No, I don't look exactly like that in person.

The only person who can make me "complete" is the one who signs my death certificate. Then I'll be completely completed, whether I'm in one complete piece or not.

A little ray of sunshine from the TM.

First, welcome

Your best bet online is patience. Internet people are wary of anyone new because of players and scammers. Once you get past the initial hazing and henpecking, you'd be surprised at the quality of friendships that can be found.

If you haven't discovered it yet, scrolling down the forums page, there's a regional forum. They're usually slow but if you're determined to find locals, that's the place.

Also, I wouldn't worry about the uniform. Most men could spot boobs through a concrete wall.

...And feeding people.

Make auction houses compete against one another for the right to sell tickets. Sell the vids on iTunes later. Sell highlight images to T-shirt companies.

Capitalism could be used for good.

I like it.

It'd be a different world if politicians had to lead the charge to war, wouldn't it? If they dishonored their country they'd have to commit suppuku?

The world might be more peaceful.

In some places the gun, specifically heritage rifles, are the trappings of family history. There's an ethical responsibility element that's passed down from generation to generation much like family swords.

The point is not the use of it, it's the respect and care that's required to own one. That's what Thomas Jefferson told his nephew, that guns taught ethics and discipline better than ballgames.

In places where it's taboo or against the law, they're made or stolen and by people who haven't earned the right. Why? Because, like drugs, the cool factor outweighs rationalization.

That's my opinion anyway.

Only the fun women.

My Monday morning is going swimmingly, as did Sunday. Yourself?

A rational equal with similar interests and better tatas.

But I'm not average (or looking).

Sure thing, soon as I find the camera. 'Bout time to update, anyhow.