Read Online Fuckness by Andersen Prunty - Free Book Online Page A

with red dripping fangs and crazy angry eyes. The Jackthief forces the man to watch his house imploding and disappearing into the ground, his wife fucking another man, images of him dancing around the house with the fetus. Then the Jackthief takes the man’s soul and Blackwell has this really great description that goes on for a few pages about what it feels like when the man’s soul is being ripped from his body. It ends with the man waking up on the subway in New York and all the faces in the windows streaming by look like his wife’s. He wants to scream but he can’t. He doesn’t even remember much about who he used to be. It’s almost like he’s only a body, which I think is the best metaphor for somebody being a blob.
    Lying there, cotridden, I didn’t feel like screaming. I was starting to feel comfortable. I wondered what it would be like if I could never move again. I could lie there and try to be a blob, without the twitching or fidgeting to separate me from the rest of the blobs. I wouldn’t have to go to school. The mother would bring me food because she’d feel sorry for me. I would read The Jackthief over and over and maybe try and get the mother to bring me more books by Blackwell. I didn’t think anyone could write books like him. Maybe he had a short story collection because really, short stories were much easier. To be honest, I thought there was a lot of stuff in the big books that didn’t really need to be there. Maybe I could even get a more comfortable bed to read those books in. Something adjustable.
    Who was I kidding? Actually, this is probably what would happen: the parents would forget I was in the room at all, they’d think I had run away or something. I imagined lying there, getting thinner and thinner, too weak to yell. The parents would find me a few months later, one arm totally devoured, my mouth pulled back in a horrible bloodstained rictus. Or would the parents look for me at all? For some reason, I didn’t sense their presence in the house. Even though they wouldn’t have been awake yet. I found it odd that I couldn’t even hear Racecar snoring. I got that sinking feeling in my stomach again, except this time it didn’t seem so much like it was for a missed opportunity. No, it was for some other reason. But I couldn’t tell what. My brain still popped and sizzled.
    The only other thing in my room was a giant poster of Bobby DeHaven that hung on the wall beside my cot. While reading The Jackthief showed me how horrible life could be, looking at the Bobby DeHaven poster made me think of how glamorous life could be. Bobby DeHaven was a true inspiration for me. Until I got that poster, he was a complete mystery to me. I’d heard his songs on the radio, when I still had one, and I loved his music. They played two or three of his songs all the time. There was something about it that really made it stick in my head. It got to where I’d be sitting in my room, all alone, and one of his songs would come on the radio and I would get up and start doing this elaborate dance routine.
    One time, I was dancing to one of his songs, the one called “Little Heartmaker,” when the mother opened my door and caught me at it. I think she’d been standing there a little while before I finally noticed her. I immediately stopped, waiting for some punishment to follow. She just laughed and strumbled, “What the fuck kind of fit was that?”
    She called it a fit because I did that sometimes, rapidly jerking my body back and forth. Only, most of the time, there wasn’t any music. My natural movements were more impulsive. Stare at someone too long and I had to whip my head to one side so I didn’t go on staring. When I heard DeHaven though, I wanted to move. It was great to be able to move to his music like that. To feel something so deep inside it forces you to move. To move in response to something that came from outside of my rotten body.
    “ I was just dancing,” I said.
    “ Well it