Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Move Under Ground by Nick Mamatas (books to read romance .TXT) 📖
- Author: Nick Mamatas
- Performer: 0809556731
Book online «Move Under Ground by Nick Mamatas (books to read romance .TXT) 📖». Author Nick Mamatas
I turned away. Memere, living in a faraway anthill, trudging about with the other drones, moving underground in pre-cut paths. But humans aren’t ants, there’s an order there, a serenity, a determination. People are worse in some ways, full of explosive passions ready to pop like cheap champagne, only a cross word away from fangs or just shitting themselves from the fear of it all. Memere, I couldn’t even think of my own mother anymore—not without seeing her as the rutting sow she was, eating and sweating and fucking in the shit of the world, scratching at fleas, finally falling into the rot useless and dead. Animals! And to the Dreamer Of The Deep, dead Cthulhu risen again to bring the world under his sway, we were the fleas on Its back, the shit on Its heel. Jed was wrong, the train wasn’t evil. It was that sky that was evil, the vault of heaven stretched over this great country just to mock us all. Hopes, dreams, poetry, the open road, the divine fool Neal, just specks of time and flesh. God damn the sky, God damn the depth of it. I cried deep salty tears, but that wasn’t the only salt on my cheeks and tongue. The train was nearing the bay, finally. Sweet, sweet Frisco, Jack is back. The old crew of beat-pigs would surely gather around the pushole metropolis to pay tribute to me, the King Flea, Head Speck Of Flesh In Charge, Bard of the Reeking Shitheap.
I rolled off the tarps before the train even stopped, and I wasn’t the only one with that bright idea. The flatbed exploded into a flood of black, red-eyed rats—they tore through the tarpaulin and ran out past the train yard and into the streets, all wiry hair and hot muscle up to my ankles. I ran too. I wasn’t sure where I was, what neighborhood. There were hills, crazy-painted houses, palms, empty streets and empty buzzing buses. My lungs were empty husks but I ran, and my hot tongue tasted of day-old beer. I veered right, then left, cutting across streets, legs pumped full of my dead blood. I couldn’t see anything but starry lamppost lights for a long time. My feet slapped pavement like Gene Krupa.
Nothing looked familiar until I finally hit the curving streets of North Beach. I ran past Larry’s bookstore, didn’t even care that it was still open, and barreled into Vesuvio’s. The few patrons, all at the counter, turned to look at me. I’d been running for maybe forty minutes and was soaked in sweat, I probably looked like a junky who’d spent a week taking pissy showers and jumping out windows.
I slowed down to a casual swagger of a walk and reached into my pocket, just in time to remember that I’d blown most of my money in San Santo.
So I told them. “I’m Jack Kerouac, the famous Beat author, and everyone here has to buy me a round, or I’ll die.”
Five rounds later, I was feeling a little better. Someone sent for Larry, someone sent for Allen, a few girls wormed their way into the booth and fitted themselves under my arms, all warm and alive. They were good girls too, moral and clean. I wiped my face with a towel and let the spirits settle me down. They told me later that I mumbled for a bit in some crazy holy roller language and then slept heavily. They even swept and closed around me, and left a Guiness for me to wake up to.
Neal. Neal is … Neal is the smile on Buddha’s lips. Neal is not free. Neal is freedom. Running around and writing and loving and drinking and even sleeping. He’s a man who can sleep the hell out of a day if chooses to. I’d watch him wile away an hour on a couch and I’d be the one who felt well-rested afterwards. Neal is truly free; it doesn’t matter if he’s doing time or doing shots, breaking rocks or making time. A childhood spent suckling the poison teat of the state in juvenile halls and reform schools did everything but reform him. The roar of a motorbike, that’s Neal. The steam over soup on a cold winter’s day, that’s Neal. The ball-choked squeal of a maniac undergoing the shock treatment, and the wise old glare afterwards, that’s Neal too. And walking away from it all afterwards, that’s Neal too; every girl, every drug, every desert wind or smelly city block, the senses lie when they promise either agony or ecstasy, and Neal knows that too and in his starry wisdom he can just walk away from it all.
It had been years since we criss-crossed the country, blessing it like an old woman making the sign three times on Sunday. I was just the midwife for this whole beatnik thing. Neal was both Madonna and Child. If there was anyone who could shake America by the shoulders, and wake it up to the threat it faced, it’d be Neal. He was a bodhisattva himself, I was sure of it then, the one man left who had something to teach me. Neal, sweet Neal who spent two years in prison for marihuana, Neal who had wife now and kids so I heard last night at the bar (or I heard something like that), the last thing you’d expect would be the first thing he’d do. Riding the rumble of the absurdity contraption, the good ol’ U S of A, Neal was the one who could do that. All I had to do was find him.
I was in the john, my head leaning against the cool tile. I had a good night’s sleep on a hard wooden table, but the hangover was still outboxing an evening of rest and sweet camaraderie. I had a mind to call Memere, long distance even, or at least sit down and write her a letter when I heard a disembodied voice calling my name. Jack, Jack it said, an echoed whisper in the small room at first, then it got louder Jack! and happier, a ghost glad to haunt me. I turned, zipped up my pants and looked around quickly for a heatwave apparition or a pink elephant, but saw nothing but grimy tile, myself (that startled me, a flash of my hair in a warped mirror looked like a shoggoth to my bleary eyes), and the firmly shut door.
Jack! The sound was coming from the floor. I looked into the small drain stamped into the floor and saw the glint of glasses. “It’s Allen!” Allen said and then he giggled, “Hahahaha, fancy meeting you here.” I blushed, then frowned; Allen liked flaunting it sometimes. I reached down, stuck a finger in one of the holes in the drain and lifted the drain cover up. “Just reliving some old glory,” Allen said, offering me a toothy woodchuck smile. “Come on in, the water’s fine! Hahahaha!” His beard was dry.
“How am I supposed to fit down the drain?” I was still a little woozy. Reality had been giving me the silent treatment for months now, since my breakdown, and the unblinking stare of the Great Old One had done away with the rest of what I thought of as the present actual now. I put my foot against the drain, but Allen smacked my shoe away. “Oh Jack, you’re such a card! Hahaha, just go to the closet in the hall and lift the grate. C’mon, we’re all down here now. I’ll meet you.” And he walked out of sight, but I could still hear him under the door, walking out of the space under the bathroom. The hallway had a closet, the closet had a grate, and under the grate was Allen, in tweed jacket and baggy pants.
“Hey Little Tramp,” I said, “I’m coming down.” He moved out of the way, I leapt down and hit the concrete of the tunnel a little harder than I thought (it wasn’t even remotely wet, that’s why I didn’t hear Allen splashing around beneath me) and hugged Allen. He smiled, hahahahaed one more time, stuck his flashlight under his chin for the scary camper look and then put his fingers to his lips. “Have you been outside,” he asked softly, and I told him I hadn’t. Had I seen the Beast in the sky—the tentacles, snaky scales, the deep burning eyes? Oh yes, under the full moon and everything, “All the hipsters can see him,” he said. “Squares can’t, and that’s the trouble. That’s why we have to move under ground now,” Allen told me, and he led me on. There was a downward slope, and the smell of old wet mulch. It was a sewer, but smaller and hotter than I’d always thought sewers would be like. And after we walked a few yards and went down the slope, the walls were old brick and the supports fancy arches.
“Pre-quake sewers,” Allen told me. “There’s not one system, but dozens, all messed up, running into one another, or into walls of petrified shit. A lot of the tunnels are collapsed, but in North Beach, most of them are okay and connect to all the streets.”
“What do you know of Cthulhu?” I asked and he laughed again. “Ahahahaha, I always called it cthew-loo. He’s on the money.” With that he dug into his pants pocket and pulled out a bill, then shined his flashlight on it. The dead president faded away under the light, replaced with the hideous tentacled head of the Great God, and in an alien font, one barely English, I could see his name carved into the depths of the flat bill. And Cthulhu turned to me, his tentacles dripping off the cameo frame and the borders of the money to reach out to me.
“Where did you get your pronunciation?” Spontaneous enlightenment in a honeybee’s buzz, I told him, and then repeated the inhuman name; it was only the second time I’d said it aloud, and realized how weird it was, like my diaphragm had rolled up like a blind and started flapping around. And that was just the syllable with the K in it! Allen tried it and choked on his tongue; I patted his back hard. “Not for the poet’s lips, I guess,” he said, then he waved the flashlight in my face. I don’t think he ever liked my poetry. He shoved the money back into his pocket. That worried me.
Allen led me through a circuitous route under the city. The sewers were a wide shimmy, back and forth and stupid corners built around god-knows-what; and we danced under the whole town it seemed, but at times I wondered if we just weren’t walking a dark spiral under North Beach. Even under ground, I could smell the Pacific after a while, when the tunnel began to cool. Allen stopped me in front
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