Excerpt: Bring Me the Head of Kabuki Blue

I am discovering something terrible in the darkness. There is a live butchering in progress. And I think I am the killer. Look at me hovering over the body. It’s a novel, but it is not mine. Not yet, anyway. A feeling of dread and horror comes over me. I am gutting a favorite work, John Updike’s “Toward the End of Time.” I am choosing the tastiest cuts even as a globe of jellied fire continues to pulse in the chest cavity. Even now, the heart of the novel pulses on. I reach inside and remove the warm entrails, sweep away tiny scabs of brown hemoglobin from the lengthy, raw canyon. Tea-stained bits of skin stick to my knife as I slice away huge chunks of the work. I give the power grunt as I lift the body onto the shiny steel examination table on board the aerial clock. Look at the corpse. Even in death it is still an inspiring sight. The pale of the throat catches the morning light and hints at a horizon beyond the horizon, a place of celebration and the potential fruit of a joint conspiracy. (It could be true!) Even as a solo effort, I can already detect the vigorous, fertile scent of conception. Sure enough, the fetus of a new work begins to form. The door of a tiny Philip K. Dick clock opens. It’s Kabuki Blue. He comes out fast, straight at me. I am looking down, my brow wrinkled in thought. I glanced up, and the blue head catches me squarely in the eye. Ow. Down I go, knife and entrails and everything, hitting the floor with a tremendous crash. For a moment Kabuki Blue pauses, his jaw set rigidly. Then he goes back inside the manuscript, back to his work. The door snaps tight shut after him. I lay on the floor, stretched out grotesquely, my head bent over to one side. Nothing moves. A slight breeze stirs the ashes that swirl over the corpse. The room is completely silent, except, of course, for the ticking of Kabuki Blue. I look out the window. A new spring has arrived, but way too soon. Tiny insipid insects mistakenly hatch, caught in a constricted band of the space/time continuum on top of the tarmac and under the iron gray winter of dark birds, their plaintive and throbbing cries dry and crumbling like ancient mummy flesh. Their mournful undertones crumble my cinder-smudged brick heart. It can't possibly be springn yet. What have I done? A narrow insipid line of charcoal tarmac heaven heats up the galactic highway, which is beginning to glow and pulse a dull red. I need the companionship of the galaxy of creators. But I have been denied membership in The Brotherhood. So I fall into a flattened black star spiral and see something flicker on the horizon beyond the horizon. Look, the fetus of time. He has no use for entrails. Self doubt is a monstrous concept. My creation has no time for it, no time for me to feel blue. Spring has arrived, even if it is a defective spring. Or perhaps especially so. Nothing can die in his place -- nothing except (I hope) my monstrous doubts. They are consumed in the flames of the space/time insects that swirl about and come over me like a bruised cloud, blue veins of lightening crackling inside like a spirit trapped in a mason jar. No wait, that’s not it. That image does not fit here. I try again. I am gutting a favorite heart. Yes, that’s better. Kabuki Blue leans close and cuts into the corpse. I go at it, too, knife in hand. We are blood stained up to the elbows. Then the eyeball mistakenly hatches. Spring has arrived. But it’s still the false, empty moment. I experience a feeling of dread and denied membership in The Brotherhood. A live butchering in progress. This time I am butchering myself. I am cutting into my own eye. Ow. Down I go, knife in hand. My eyeball mistakenly hatches. Little birds fly out, a beautiful smear of color against the morning sky. I catch a brief glimpse of something beautiful, but then it disappears. I am caught in a constricted horror. It comes over me hard. I am gutting the morning light, hints of pink and gold color the horizon. The clock door opens. It’s Kabuki Blue. He is reading his favorite novel, John Updike’s “Toward the end of Time.” The cover is beginning to glow in the iron gray winter. He comes out fast, straight at me.
.....
I took a piece of pilfered writing and an excerpt from my own writing. I ran them together through a cut-up engine, deciphering a new text. Then I took a page of William Burrough’s writing, and lined it up with what I already had, and did the same thing all over again. What’s that? No, I do not copy other writers' words. I RECYCLE other writers’ words. I use the same words used by many other writers, but I put them together in a new and unique way. Burroughs said “words don't have brands on them the way cattle do. Ever heard of a word rustler?” I agree. Who can lay claim to the word “of” or “and” or “dream”? They belong to everyone. Writers just borrow them for a little while. I can borrow Beckett’s “Waiting for Godot” and mix it up with the newspapers. I can and I did. Well, I didn’t, but I plan to. Soon. You may be a writer who objects to this technique. Perhaps you feel it is not writing in the normal sense. No problem. We could call it something new. The idea for a cable TV show is beginning to form. How about this: “Pimp My Novel.” First installment could be a hot rod makeover of “Naked Lunch.” Why not? Burroughs was a word rustler. It's widely known that he used sections of text lifted from various copyright-protected works, ranging from pulp sci-fi novels to newspapers to T. S. Eliot. I could appropriate the work of an appropriator. Actually, I already have. But I don’t really like the good stuff by the famous writers. I am drawn to the flawed. The first drafts of the bad, awful writers and the broken world of chat rooms where they hurl themselves against the unmovable wall of the Pimp My Novel technique. People in pain, killers of good moods. That’s where I find my inspiration. And fan fiction! What could be better raw material for a word rustler than a work that is based on another writer’s original creation? The result of rustling words that have already been rustled is a unique literary creation. With that said, all of you are certainly free to mix it up with me, insisting that I am not engaged in a process possessed of moral correctness. The defender of the victims of appropriation says I am not a genuine writer. I do not create. My work is nothing. Not a bit. Not an iota. Not literary reality. I claim the appropriation method is ideal for applying to the work of others who claim such moral superiority without room for doubt or another equally valid truth. I turn their words against them, creating something totally new and unique. Change it up, make it my own. They’ll never know. Well, maybe they will now.
This is the way cattle rustlers do it. Create a brand that can incorporate the original brand. Put your own brand on top of the old one. You get a new and unique creation. I know I can take Beckett’s Godot brand and make it my own. In fact, the pilfered writing has already been rebranded several times. That’s right, I rebrand my rebrandings! Soon there is nothing but jibberish. And yet – perhaps a new meaning leaks out of the seemingly unreadable mash. You may say you don’t really like the grammatical errors. You must put aside your school marm sensibilities. Look beyond the subject-verb mismatches. Explore the deeper truth of the method, the result of the rustling and rebranding of words. Find the truth that was not part of the other writers' herd. I delve into the insanity of the chat rooms where they hurl themselves against my stolen lunch. Why not? William, I think of you and I smile. It doesn’t matter if the truth is not recognized. I am certain it will leak out of the mash of words. The truth is in here, somewhere in these 250,000-plus words. I turn their words into a new truth. I am actually drawn to the copyright. It provides me with the guidance to know when I am done with the rebranding process. Can the original writer see his or her own work in my writing? If not, then I am done. Stop here. Another episode of Pimp My Novel is over. Next week: “Godot’s Lunch.” Actually, it is a thinly veiled Frankenstein story. The mad scientist is actually a kind man, but terribly misunderstood. A flashback to writing class. This is the place where they hurl their epithets, a room for the superior argument that leaves no room for competing views. That is the only truth for them. There is nothing new and unique. They do not realize that the novel they worship is dead. It no longer functions. They are performing CPR on a corpse. But I am creating life out of death. I stitch together the amputated ghost parts, strap it to the steel lab table and hook up the electrodes. A jagged bolt of blue strikes the metal tower on the roof, sending the life-giving charge down the wires and into the body. The spark of life! Hands and arms twitch, eyes open. My creation rips free of the constraints, goes on a killing rampage. But it’s really not so bad. If only it had a mate. Perhaps a work of fan fiction. I manage to work in some other writings, too, as my modus involves grabbing and pilfering. And certainly I do claim the equivalent result as my say, my final word of the moment, for any works I select. This is my form of fan fiction, folks. This is the sane way to pay tribute to the writings of others while creating something totally new and unique. Change it up, make it your own. Parody helps, but the best defense is to ensure that the final product is substantially different from the original source materials.

This is the story: I am a full-size pilfered robot man. I am the monster created from ghost novels AND I am the creator of the monster. I have made myself. Who knows? It may even be true...