Fiction Ebooks: Free ebook sample of "Boy Zero" by H C (powered by Smashwords)

When it comes to being responsible or human, and especially when it comes to being both at the same time, age turns out to be a defining problem between the old world of death and the new world of me.

The problem stems from the fact that, frankly, I don't know what people are talking about when they talk about age or they say someone is 24- or 37- or 46- or 59-years-old.

When I look out of my self and eyes, or interact with people, the only gut reading I get on age is that I am 20 and everybody else is 30, except old people, who are all 80, and very young people, who are not covered by age at all. And, to be a little more specific about me, I have pretty much been 20 since the day after I stopped being a child, a couplea Superbowls ago, or so.

Now, the 30-year-olds of this world are supposed to be all responsible and settled down so they can take good care of the planet and civilization and also us 20-year-olds, who are still too young to be responsible for what we say and do.

This means that my doing and saying whatever the fuck I want is pretty much ordained by my age and sanctioned by the duties of our 30-year-olds. But, in addition, it's also marinated in evolutionary advantage, up the wazoo.

Because, if I can't do and say whatever the fuck I want, whenever the fuck I want, however the fuck I want, then, sooner or later, the day comes when there's something I could say or do that would save the world, but I don't, because it's not a world where I can (say or do it), and, as a result, the world goes down, taking with it all you rotting 30-year-olds, all those rotting 80-year-olds, all the rotting young, and rotting me and my whole rotting 20-year-old cohort which, apparently, has only one member.

Of course, this puts a great burden on me to, therefore, not refrain one tiny bit from saying and doing absolutely anything and everything the fuck I want. And even some things—the fuck—I don't want.

And it also puts an even greater burden on me to have to be constantly proving that I can handle the enormous responsibility of being the most motherfucking irresponsible fuck alive, anywhere, ever.

* * * * *

2. My Pure, Bitter Hatred

Of course I'm born filled with bitterness and hatred.

But it's a pure bitterness and hatred not based on revenge or prejudice or being cheated or fucked over by a person or by even life itself.

The bitterness and hatred I'm born filled with is pure because it's based on first principles. And on the logical application of those principles to model the rapidly changing—but ultimately finite—space of all possible human circumstance.

So now, when I say "Fuck You, World," it's not the random, emotional "fuck you" of a child or adolescent. It's a totally mathematized "fuck you!"

And, as such, it's got your goddam fucking number, world!

* * * * *

3. Case Clothed: My Support

I'm pretty much a charity case—and have been all my life. But despite making a chunk of money a few years ago, being a charity case is still the only way I feel comfortable interacting with people and institutions.

Fortunately, the many charity workers assigned to my case are unaware of my recent wealth, and continue to treat me like they always have—as not a charity case (wink, wink). So the word "charity" is never spoken in my presence and my un-uniformed charity workers always claim to be people who either just picked me up on the street for sex, or have just been picked up on the street by me for anti-sex.

Sometimes they even claim to be just casual friends or casual relatives. Casual wives or casual sons and daughters. Casual mothers or casual fathers, sisters and brothers.

I also never fill out any forms or visit any official government building to answer anybody's fucking questions about the fucking depth of my fucking impoverishment. Or have to tell any sad stories, or cry.

But this is all just part of what was once called "the new charity" which was started long before I became part of its system and, so, is no longer really "new," but if you are reading this from ancient times, before that system began, you may not understand it, so I'll explain:

First, "the new charity," implemented long ago, has obviously proven successful, just by the fact that it's still around and going strong and everyone is happy with it and everyone is a willing participant.

Its founding principles include much of what I already said: charity should be seamless with regular life and no longer be cordoned off or separated or identified. It should be exactly equivalent to normal interactions between people in any of the 3 standard relationships: friend, family, or pickup for sex or anti-sex.

Of course, in the early battles to stop it, supporters of friendship argued that "the new charity" would devalue friendship to the point where no one would know anymore if people really liked them or whether they were just charity workers who liked them (wink, wink) because it was their job. And then what good would friends be anymore if having them is no longer an indicator of how cool you are? And, instead, is an indicator of how pathetically needful you are.

Oddly, the strongest supporters of "the new charity" were totally won over by this argument, and "the new charity" was never implemented.

Wait... What?!

We are not living under "the new charity" after all?

"The new charity" never happened and somehow I missed hearing about it not happening?

And so my charity workers aren't really charity workers at all, but are the actual friends and family they've been claiming to be all these years?

* * * * *

4. My Surface

If there can be suicide bombers then why can't there be suicide promoters?

That is the question I'm trying to answer, though, as you can probably tell from its nature, the question appears nowhere in my surface behavioral acts.

So anyone guessing at my motivation based on my overt behavior, would guess wrong:

Yes, I am definitely attending Suicide Bomber School, but I am definitely not attending Suicide Bomber School to learn to be and then actually be a suicide fucking bomber—as my surface behavior claims.

No. My deep motivation is here to learn (hopefully without instructors or classmates knowing) the meta-knowledge of how to mold any kind of suicide occupation I want.

So, not just suicide bombers—but suicide plumbers and suicide doctors, suicide teachers and suicide waitresses, or, in this case, suicide promoters.

You know, people who are ready and willing to kill themselves on the spot, any time, any place, and in any way necessary, in order to get you to buy my goddam fucking book! For example.

* * * * *

5. My New Foundation

So my new foundation, when I found it, will have as its motto: "Things stay the same; only the claims people make for them change."

It'll be housed in this massive building, but will actually only use a few spartan rooms for living and experiments. So there'll be this enormous echo.

Thanks to our motto, which also happens to be totally true, we'll be able to move freely from project to project without regard to logic or causality.

But mostly we'll just take people who come to us with complaints about everything in life being totally wrong and how there must have been some mistake that put them in this fucking alien world.

Based on our research conducted on our own totally wrong lives, we'll totally agree with them that mistakes are rampant and that they, like us, may well be more than one of them.

"That'll be $875,000 please," we'll then say. And that's how we'll pay the foundation's day-to-day expenses.

But my new foundation will not be in it for the money or for its own sake. No. My foundation will be about bringing hope to the hopeless—because hope is a lie and nobody knows this better than (almost by definition) the hopeless. So they won't be expecting shit from my foundation, and that's exactly what they'll get. Or not get. Whichever.

So the best thing about being mostly about hope is that my foundation won't really have to fucking do anything at all in order to be able to say it's totally following its mandate and vision statement which promises lots and lots of expensive, high-quality hope going out to virtually everybody in all causes big and small, true and false.

Which turns out to not only be highly cost-effective, but also precisely mirrors the personality of my foundation's founder, me, in always striving to be the laziest fucking foundation it can possibly be under the circumstance.

And so, to be honest, that's the real and only reason I'll be fucking founding my fucking foundation in the first place, when I do.

Because I will have reached the point where I'm just too fucking lazy to even come up with one more way to be a total lazy fuck—except for just sit there on my ass in the lobby of my fucking foundation, taking your fucking donations, so we can go on lying about hope, and hoping our lies don't accidentally turn out to be true, and shut my motherfucking foundation down.

* * * * *

6. About a Baby: My New Film

But before I can really get things rolling on the foundation, I learn that if you want your wife to come to your film (and not just because she has to, but because she wants to) then you better fucking have a baby born in it in the first few minutes and preferably during a massive crisis on screen and then that baby grows up to be the male lead of your fucking sci-fi film.

Of course, once your wife is hooked, you can return to your regularly scheduled hi-testosterone guy movie.

In it, living next door to the couple who just had the baby in the first scene, there's some guy who goes around saying "you goddam motherfucking cocksucking piece of motherfucking shit" all day long, real loud, and so the couple makes the painful decision to move out of an otherwise great place, so their child's first words won't be "you goddam motherfucking cocksucking piece of motherfucking shit."

But then in their new place, there's a crazy woman across the street who screams "you motherfucking cocksucking douchebag" in Ukrainian all day out her window—and the neighbors, after 15 years, just treat it as quaint and a tourist draw for the local shops.

Of course that's the formula for dramatic tension I learned years ago that you have to use if you want to get everyone other than your wife—for example your wife's other husband, son, father, or secret lover—to come see your fucking movie.

OK, but now that you've got all these egregious losers in the theater, staring expectantly up at the screen, it's time to decide what you really want to do to them.

So will your fucking movie be a story about possession or a story about loss?

A story about possession always winds up being a story about the object possessed, and then the only people who wanna hear that story are fetishists of that object, and so, if that object isn't money, then only 10 people will bother seeing your fucking movie and your box office is screwed.

On the other hand, everyone wants to hear a story about loss, because we live at a time in history when understanding and freedom are just fucking sitting there, an inch away, waiting to be had and held.

But between us and them there's this impenetrable fucking wall made up of all the fucking agendas in the world, knotted together.

So everyone wants to see a movie about loss because, knowing we'll never have an ounce of fucking freedom or a millimeter of fucking understanding, at least for 90 fucking minutes we can pretend we still have a goddam motherfucking soul.

* * * * *

7. My Fucking Life: The Movie

If all you care about is narrative structure, I suppose you could see my life as a series of fast-cut reaction shots: Whaa! Whoa! Whoo! Whaaap! Etc.

Unfortunately, in the movie now showing of my life, each of these reaction shots comes at the end of a sequence of events that's supposed to be the absolute fucking cause of my totally sickass reaction.

As a result of this structural decision by the filmmaker, however, my life, the movie, becomes, not the hilarious, slapstick, physical comedy that it's billed as, but a disingenuous infomercial for causality itself.

And worse, the movie of my life is not even one tenth as funny as its trailer, my actual life.

The movie of my life just shows me sitting there, trying to come up with why the movie of my life should be anything more than just static shots of me sitting there, trying to come up with the shot list for the movie of my life.

Then, after agonizing over this for ten minutes of screen time, I hear a sound and instantaneously and uncontrollably emit one of the vocal reactions listed in the first sentence of this press release.

Now, I've never disapproved before of totally fabricated, utterly absurd, and even profoundly stupid things being said about my fucked-up life (because they tend to be slightly better than the actual reality). But depictions of me as being subject to the chain of fucking causality don't only do serious damage to you, and to the concept of causality, and, by extension, to everyone else on earth, but they also hurt me.

So, if there's any more of these piece of shit movies placing me in the same room or even on the same fucking plane, at the same fucking time as fucking causality, then I'll be forced to just have some emotionless press agent issue a notarized statement giving every single, motherfucking, last, precise, fucking mathematical detail of my life, so there'll be absolutely no leeway whatsoever left for anyone to be able to make up anything at all about my fucking life, ever again.

Of course, admitting to a single, blow-by-blow life will mean that, no matter how many rooftops I jump across naked in sleet and freezing rain, no matter how many small animals I swallow alive and whole, no matter how much Nobel Academy Pulitzer World Series Superbowl Olympic Gold I win and no matter how many top world celebs I chain fuck per hour, my life will ultimately just melt back into the noise of time and have been for utterly fucking nothing—once it stops being massively ambiguous and made of many mutually contradictory and blatant lies.

* * * * *

8. Proof of Life as Dream

When I look back on it now, I'm embarrassed to realize that, for most of my life before age 20, I lived under the delusion that life is not a dream.

Therefore, in order to help people like my former self, who still blindly accept and live this childish, egocentric lie, I deliver the following brief lecture whenever there are no police or armed citizens nearby:

Hello.

If you don't know that life is a dream, well, it is. Unfortunately for all of us, however, it's my fucking dream, and you're fucking in it!

But how do we know that life is just a dream and that we're not just dreaming that it is and then one day we wake up and it isn't?

So in this series of lectures I propose to explain to you the many proofs, one at a time, of how we know that life is just a dream, and then, at the end of the series, I'll explore what life's being a dream actually means for the conduct of daily life.

Proof #1: The Human Species Cannot Exist

Studies conducted by living next door to couples with newborn babies for several years, prove conclusively that actual human beings can not possibly tolerate the constant screaming and whining and time necessary to bring a crying, wailing infant through the first 2 years of its life. The concept of the situation happening can be understood in the abstract, but it's not something that can actually happen in a concrete reality lived moment by moment.

And, therefore, the human species we think we know and we think we're apart of, cannot successfully reproduce, and so cannot have kept existing long enough to still exist now. And yet we experience it and ourselves as existing constantly, all the time, so this experience must be some kind of dream.

This has been the first installment of my 25-part series: Proof of Life As Dream.

* * * * *

9. Learning To Love World Economic Collapse

Since the day I first learned there was a world, I have been dreaming of the day when there would be a world economic collapse. But now that it's actually here, and all my dreams have come true, it's just like with the Superbowl: I really just don't fucking care, anymore.

So I ask my doctor.

"Why is it, doctor," I ask him, "why is it that, after struggling to come here to the land of opportunity, where everybody has an equal chance, and after having struggled and worked and achieved and proven myself and picked myself up after falling down and never given up—why is it that, now, now that the old world of death is collapsing and I have finally fucking unequivocally won, why is it that I couldn't fucking care less?"

He suggests that maybe world economic collapse isn't enough for me. That I need a bigger thrill. Like the extermination of all time or all space, or something.

But that's just fucking like a doctor: always blaming sickness on the patient. So, I argue back that maybe it isn't all my fault. That maybe the world economic collapse we're having just isn't really living up to it's end of the bargain, and that maybe we're stuck with a defective world economic collapse and that's why it's a lot less cool than it fucking oughta be.

"I thought there'd be riots and people jumping off roofs and out of windows," I say in final desperation, "but so far it's just people lying awake at night trying to figure out if they have what it takes to kill and eat their neighbors. Or fucking cooperate with them."

* * * * *

10. My Search for Jesus Satan Jr.

In order to leave no stone unturned in the search for descendants of the sex between Jesus and Satan, I go from home to home, break in, and wipe the spit off people's webcams and nearby surfaces.

People are always spitting at their webcams these days in the hopes of striking it rich like the guy who had a few hundred thousand base pairs in dead common with not only Brad, but also with Angelina. But few are ever this lucky or lucky at all.

At the same time, while buying a lottery ticket costs money, spitting at your webcam lens and letting the Spit-to-Genome Project read your DNA remotely and determine your ancestry for you, is free. Apparently because some wacko once thought if everybody knew their complete family tree, everybody'd turn out to be related and there'd instantly be world peace and love.

Of course it never quite works out this way, but, instead, a few websites spring up that can take your Spit-to-Genome DNA map and compare it to the long available black market DNA maps of the world's leading celebs, world leaders, personalities, business, military, and political people.

If they find a serious match, they give you half of the tens of millions of dollars the celebs are willing to pay to suppress the cold hard mathematical fact that some random asshole out there is somehow closely genetically related to them. (Esp. someone beyond the family they already know about.)

Some people with powerful matches even opt against the standard multimillion dollar failed-kin guilt-package and, instead, try to use their genome to con the entertainment or world-celebrity industry into thinking they're the next whoever—whoever their DNA matches.

Of course, this highly promoted celeb DNA match happens to virtually fucking nobody, but facts don't do shit to hope, and DNA is so complex and devious that there's always some tiny chance that pieces of Brangelina's, or whoever's, just might fucking match pieces of yours.

So, thanks to this pathetic hope, apparently common to all mankind, there's now this vast database of human DNA sitting on standard household surfaces everywhere, and available in exchange for just a little gentle B and E.

So please don't stop having hopes and dreams—especially the kind that leaves spit all over the walls and windows near your webcam, and provides employment and focus for people who, without the search for descendants of the sex between Jesus and Satan, might otherwise be totally lost in life.

* * * * *

11. Lesbian With a Cock 1

I know my new docu-auto-bio-fiction novel, Lesbian With A Cock, will break new ground and smash all convention, if I can only write it.

But I'm stuck at the point where, in the docu-novel, the main character (me) has to describe his last lesbian relationship to the police or he (I) will spend the rest of his (my) life labeled as a totally unabashed heterosexual, and no one will ever believe his (my) autobio-docu-novel Lesbian with a Cock—which readers will realize is not only a novel being written and described in the novel they're reading, but also the same novel they're actually fucking reading.

So I go out to a lesbian bar, where I have to first convince everybody, one at a time, that I'm not just another male looking for a 3- or 4-way with 2 or 3 lesbians, but rather that, even though this is research for a book, I am still an authentic male lesbian looking for a simple 2-way with only 1 female lesbian at a time.

Eventually someone, who asks to remain anonymous and undescribed, agrees to participate in my research for the sake of science, not sex (which doesn't fucking need another fucking thing done for its sake—every fucking thing possible already having been done for its fucking sake and has it even fucking said thank you yet?).

A textbook lesbian relationship then ensues—despite one participant being the eponymous "lesbian with a cock"—and, after a few weeks of simple, hardcore, by-the-books lesbianism, my research is complete.

But there's a funny thing about research that non-fiction authors always tell you at their book readings when someone asks how they got the idea for their fucking book.

Rather than just admit they stole it from another, far better writer and then had him killed, they always tell you the lie about how they were researching a totally different and unrelated book when they accidentally stumbled on the idea for the book you're now holding in your hand—and better motherfucking buy—and instantly decided to drop the original idea, despite years of work already invested, and do this new one, instead.

And even though this story is always a total fucking lie when everybody else tells it, that lie, by some weird irony or reversal of nature, turns out to be absolutely true for my own work: in the course of trying to have a simple, heartfelt lesbian relationship so I can more authentically write my docu-auto-bio-fiction novel, Lesbian With A Cock, I totally accidentally stumble on the real topic for my next (i.e. current) book.

Although, maybe "stumble" isn't the exact right word since all that really happens is, after the female lesbian and I complete our lesbian relationship, she informs me that, in her professional opinion, I will never be accepted as a true lesbian and so will never be able to write an auto-bio-docu novel called Lesbian with a Cock with any authenticity and so maybe I should stop trying.

"How about a career in the sickening lie called 'the exciting new field of cloud computing'?" she says, by way of semi-ironic consolation.

And so, as a result of her saying that to me, I start writing and keep writing and finish writing my new book, The Mendacity of Hope—a shocking exposé of the industry that promises to take your unrealized hopes and dreams from this lifetime and store them away "in the cloud" so your reincarnation, when it arrives, can immediately access this stored memory and pick up right where you left off, trying to realize your (by then probably outdated and irrelevant) hopes and dreams.

Of course when that incarnation still fails to realize your hopes and dreams, they remain stored in the cloud so your next incarnation and the incarnation after that and the incarnation after that and so on, can keep trying to fucking realize them.

And, because "the cloud" is so inscrutably virtual and otherwise impenetrable and can only be disrupted at all by billions of black holes slamming together simultaneously, your succeeding incarnations, the industry claims, will probably be able to go on trying to realize your current hopes and dreams, till well near the end of time itself.

So, in The Mendacity of Hope, the book I write instead of writing Lesbian With A Cock, I go undercover and secretly record industry leaders and insiders getting shit-faced at strip clubs.

The book breaks new ground in that the first 150 pages are blank and then, in the exact middle, I print the only quote that comes through clear on the digital recording, which is otherwise (oops!) totally distorted and incomprehensible because of all the crazed screaming and whooping at the strip club.

So the quote, "...Man I just love the smell of cashing in on the delusional hopes and dreams of the 7 billion pathetic losers out there, in the morning!" comprises the entirety of the text of my new book The Mendacity of Hope. (And the remainder of the audible quote: "...and we still have everybody's filthiest secrets to use for pure, brute blackmail and its twin sister, complex socially-networked power cons,"—will likewise comprise the entirety of the text of its sequel, The Mendacity of Hope II.)

And so the moral of my book is: Please stop having hopes and dreams and, instead, in their place, please buy my fucking book, The Mendacity of Hope, even though it's not the long promised, and much would have been beloved Lesbian With a Cock that I still know will smash all convention if I can only write it.

* * * * *

12. Lesbian With a Cock 2

In my autobiography, Lesbian With a Cock, I write about all the great new stories and novels I'm gonna sit down and write just as soon as I stop endlessly coming up with more mind-blowing, ass-kicking ideas for still more great new stories and novels and movies and plays and songs and concept albums and software and nations and world tours and political parties and societal organizational structures and food preparation techniques and video games and genomic website service groups and cell phone form factors.

But, unfortunately, I never do stop endlessly coming up with great new original ideas for all these great new things and so I never get to actually do any of them and the book I'm writing about doing them therefore almost never ends.

Until, finally, on the last page, I talk about my lesbianism.

But, whoa! Recently, while re-re-reading it, I am suddenly stricken with the realization that instead of calling this book Lesbian with a Cock, I should definitely call it Cock Man With Lesbian Brain.

But it's too late. All the books are printed and the tour dates begin tomorrow with no let up.

So this mistake means I'm gonna be traveling all over the world being introduced as the author of Lesbian with a Cock and I'm gonna have to therefore start off all embarrassed and say how sorry I am that the name they've just been told isn't the real title and the real title is Cock Man With Lesbian Brain—which is the name they should call it by and do articles about it using, and create the buzz about it with.

But now, as I think this, I realize that by retitling Lesbian With a Cock with the title Cock Man With Lesbian Brain after the books have all been printed and the tour dates set, what I've actually also done is open up vast new doors of public discourse.

Like, for example, on TV shows where one commentator is saying, "Wow! This hot new auto-bio-docu novel, Lesbian With a Cock is really incredible..." he can suddenly be interrupted by the opposing commentator saying, "You worthless asshole. The real name of this incredible hot new novel is Cock Man with Lesbian Brain, so why don't you get your fucking facts straight, you ignorant loser!"

Purchase this book or download sample versions for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-30 show above.)