Thu, 19 May 2005

interlace workprint one
“Lobjan was invented by gay Nazis who want to eat all the placentas and foreskin!” -C. Flink

Casual readers may not know that the incoherent and narratively retarded pile of woodge known as Interlace is actually the edited version, with hundreds of sub-stories, faked IRC transcripts and halfwritten freakouts passed between authors and ultimately deemed inappropriate for the story at large. Not long after the whole thing fell apart, I burned all that material to cd and promised myself never to look at it agian, but the past week has been particularly boring and I’ve been jacked up on cold medicine, so in order to once again spit in the faces of the scrytch audience at large (and also as a way to kill time during another round of bookwriting impotency) I present the interlace workprint, unedited and without cohesive stability.

Shelly Harmful, safe within a womb of quilts, attempted to wish the ringing telephone into the cornfield to no avail. Taped to the bottom of the bed was a foot and a half long meat cleaver which would solve the telephone situation permanently, but the telephone was all the way across the room, and while Shelly was certain she could kill the telephone with one well-placed throw it would leave her defenseless against attacks by The Devil, so she crawled out of her bed and kicked the phone to death with the heel of her bare right foot. The outside world may want to cast Shelly as the next postglam antihero, but she would have none of it.

“I’m a monster”, it said, standing on the gas and throwing bricks out the window. Like some motion-sick jump-cut, we were on some cross-country burn, the Heroin 900, truck stop gunfights and blowing toll booth guards to get back on the interstate. I’ve got a teddy bear full of coding beads and the remains of a dozen nazi bikers in the grill of my Chevelle. Gangs of hippychick cannibals wander the parking lots of all-night diners, slashing tires and luring stranded truckers into VW vans with blood sluices in the floor. Speed-jagged drivers with IR goggles and cut brakelights race down blacktop access roads until state troopers hit them with high-powered strobes. An army of reanimated roadkill. Prayers to failed new gods smeared in blood on empty billboards.

Teams were assembled to provide a series of scenarios in which the participants fully believed closure had been achieved. Hidden loops, abrupt service termination, false history and time-delayed neural unprogramming all proved to be useful tools in the struggle to close certain doorways, put the period at the end of specific stories. Research funds well spent, obviously.

It has to be admitted that he did not always directly vomit blood onto his canvasses, that sometimes he could not get out of bed fast enough, and in those cases he simply sold his stained bedsheets.
(12:24.05.19.2005) [/scrytch] #