Kindred gingered ale his stomach hurt just so, laws yes. No eating five sense, any, not even his. Culhane, mocking, Kindred curled fetal.
Eyes, sight, hurt, wait. Eyes, ears, hurt, moist, touched truncated truncheon ask Culhane for help, do it, I'm telling you, not me/him, me!
Culhane bent down, blocking the wall's eye view, whispered in Kindred's ear, sometimes there's a sentient third floor here, Kindred frantic.
Go ahead, talk to it. It won't bite, none of us do. You should see it, big conference room. Seats twelve. What are you going to name him?
Q: ernest. why am i? A: you purchased a brainstream from a viscous living wet database consisting of thoughtwaves, memories, dreams.
Q: thank you, ernest. that's the first straight answer anybody in this joint has given me. and now i'm talking to a sentient motel?
A: yes, mr. kindred. shall i send the cleaning woman in to scrub between your ears? Q: you mean a brainwash? A: very clever, sir.
Q: is my brainstream defective? A: yes, it is laden with corrupt interdata. that is why i suggested the use of the female cleansing agent.
Q: how can that be? aren't brainstreams pre-tested? A: yours was an untested and unverified discount black market brainstream from japan.
Q: my neural net is polluted with twisted thoughtwaves? A: yes. they are now an uneraseable part of your own persona. is that distressing?
Q: i keep losing track of what's now. A: a brainstream from an insane source may contain twisted misperceptions of actual events, dates
Q: you're saying i'm insane? A: perhaps not. but you may be possessed by a corrupt brainstream purchased from an insane uploader. a killer.
Q: i have a worm inside my head, a worm made in japan. A: in tokyo, to be precise. we think it's blue. Q: we? A: the rooms on the 3rd floor.
Q: ernest, this is an illogical conversation. A: you could be dreaming, sir. Q: i'm dreaming about talking to a sentient motel named ernest?
A: no, you're dreaming about a blue worm nested inside your cranium and feeding on your synapses. i am sentient and quite real. eyeball me.
Q: could i be dreaming about the joy motel? A: you are a valued guest in this fine establishment, mr. kindred. is your pillow comfortable?
Q: is my name kindred? is kindred my name? or is it redkind? drinked? ned dirk? dirk end? dr. kiend? dr. e.n. kid? dr. k. n. die? dr. die?
A: are you asking me if your name is kindred? if you will die here in the joy motel? or if you have already died? or if you are a doctor?
Q: yes, ernest. i am asking. i do ask. i have asked. i ask. A: i cannot answer. i cannot. i will not. i am not. ernest. am i? i am. are you?
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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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