The pogo stick cluttered his head as it fell to the ice machine below, a dessert oasis. Words became others unwanted, where was the center?
Wasn't he writing a memoir once? A monograph on a phonograph about skin grafts and radiation wafting through veined curtains? RCA, Victor?
Of course he wore armor as he counted flowers from the hall.An Atomic Knight, the round table an unblinking orb, a novel? Murkey, try later.
Meeks poured him some a ladle of destiny booze from the punch cauldron, enough to go around, little to make sense, himself, Dank, Janssen...
Mitch, Sid Skin, Mac the Rant, & in the corner, the guy everyone knew as The Man Who Always Drew Red. He was a failed artist/card shark.
It was too late in the night to talk. Kindred watched the Nicotine Fits duke it out on the blond colored Philco w/ a blonde who drank Bosco.
False dawn showed up silent. 5 AM, the time most souls plead for redemption or another day's rental on the Dodge Polara they all shared.
Kindred in the lobby, paging through the phone book, half blinded by the sunspots on his retina. Burn baby burn. Peripheral vision cloudy.
Professor Deedle space needle. Parcel bomb for the birthday boy. Pop goes the weasel. Disciple 3. God fearing, Dodge gearing, cod earring.
Man with no name meets man with no luggage. Traveling show traveling slow. Joy Motel welcomes all. Don't I know you? Kindred blinked. Flash.
Kindred tied the front doors shut with a string from Mac the Rant's guitar. No more guests tonight. Full house loses to straight flush, red.
Kindred ducked low, hiding from the existential banditos who seemingly wanted only to converse; conversely, Kindred only wanted existence.
Another name, whispered as if in a silent dream, Calumet. Remy Calumet. Disciple#4. On the floor. War, what is it good for, good god jaw!
Calumet & Deedle & their necessary evils, Kindred blinked, retinas full of discordant sites, a trinity of sorts, three times four is twelve.
Time dilating back, unwrapping the guitar string, unblinking the eye & undotting the i i i an implosion of kinetic psychosis, a frayed knot.
the 12th remember the twelfth, I can't I I I I'm Kindred tried to think was it yesterday again, a bad night's sleep, naked corpse in a tub.
A bathtub, was it his? Or Room 223, nearest the turbines,an easily muffled scream,Mac the Rant's guitar garrote turned her face red to blue.
Meeks slammed the register shut on his last sale of the last night, while Kindred was unstuck in time. The spigots coughed ropes of blood.
He turned to Janssen who twitched in his scars, hotboxing a deck of generics. Hmn, drowning victim again in Room 223, wash our hands please.
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A twitter novel
The Boston Phoenix says: "Joy Motel is a microblogging book worth scrolling upward for."
Joy Motel is an unconventional sci-fi narrative that was written in real time in 140 character bursts on Twitter, the Internet's fastest-growing social networking platform.
It takes its freeform, disconnected style from the randomness of the Twitterstream itself.
This is a novel for the 21st century, captured in quick bytes by a 5-time Bram Stoker Award Finalist and a Gold Award winning adman, who are transcribing the 'brainstream' flowing inside the neural net of its lead character, Kindred.
He has unknowingly purchased an untested, corrupt brainstream from a black market uploader, which has become an uneraseable part of Kindred's persona as he grapples with an ever-shifting sense of reality, dreams that twist into nightmares, and unreliable perceptions of time and space.
At the center of his struggle, a psychiatrist he calls Psychdaddy is attempting to resolve Kindred's repressed childhood memories of the 1945 Trinity nuclear blast in New Mexico and decode his father's role in a radical collective of bomb-worshippers called the 12 Disciples.
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