Hey folks, Bryan here, and I've got something special for you. Even more special than the time I drew Hitler milking himself in a seedy back alley.
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| I affectionately call him "Titler." |
That something special is my debut solo novel,
Demetri and the Banana Flavored Rocketship. It's a love story between a man and a blowup doll, and I guarantee it's unlike anything you've ever read before.
What it's about:
This novel is a comedy/drama about a lonely, frugal young man named Demetri and his disabled sister, Laney. Demetri has 1 million dollars in cash, but has to live like a poor person because he can't get a job and needs that money to last him and his sister the rest of their lives. When some local HOA nazis dig up an archaic law that states a wholesome, married couple is required to raise a disabled child, Demetri needs to find a wife, fast, otherwise he's going to lose his sister.
So like any sane, reasonable person, Demetri sends away for a mail order bride that he sees advertised on a very poorly worded website. Her name is Mai Keungern, she's from Thailand, and she's advertised as the perfect wife: won't cause trouble, won't talk back, and won't spend his money. And when she comes to him, he discovers that that's because she's a blowup doll. Mai Keungern simply means "no refunds!" in the Thai language.
This leaves Demetri with no choice but to pass off Mai as his wife in an attempt to allude the HOA nazis, but things get even more confusing when the doll actually starts talking back to him. Worst of all, she's kind of a bitch. Is it Demetri's overactive imagination, or something more? And will Demetri be able to keep his sister?
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| The cover, which I designed in something that's definitely not MSPaint. Also, as another friendly reminder, my last name isn't pronounced Peedus. It rhymes with 'lettuce.' |
This book was written 4 years ago, and it even landed me a big time literary agent. Unfortunately, that agent turned out to be a huge douchenozzle who wasted years and years holding this book hostage while he screwed around and sold mindless, ghost-written celebrity tell all novels. But it hasn't left me bitter. No, it's left me optimistic that this can finally get into the hands of the readers it deserves.
Below is a sample, not just to show you the writing style and the humor, but to show you how politically incorrect it is. If this part offends you, then you will absolutely hate this book. However, if you enjoy what you read, you should really consider buying it.
I promise that it's worth your time, and for $2.99, you're getting a whole lot of book for the money.
Also, for those of you who don't have a Kindle (hell, I don't even have one) you don't need an E-Reader to read this story. You can read it right on your computer using your browser, and the interface is actually really nice. Just click where it says Available on your PC, which will direct you to the Kindle for PC software. Then, when you buy the book, you can read it on your computer.
Onto the sample. To set the scene, Demetri the recluse is about to go on a date for the first time in almost 10 years, and he needs to find a way to preoccupy his sister, Laney, for a couple hours.
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Laney noshes her oatmeal, slapping wet oats between her teeth and gums in a way that sounds like two fat people having sex (simultaneously ruining both oatmeal and sex for her older brother) as Demetri sits staring blankly into the TV. He’s not focused on the machine-gun laughter of an anthropomorphic sponge or the girl who’s running in circles with the energy of a thousand Jack Russell terriers, but rather the endless possibilities of what could go wrong later: What if he says something stupid? What if she hates his car? What if she sees him in direct sunlight and realizes he has the complexion of spoiled milk?
“Today can only end badly,” he announces to Spongebob Squarepants and Alaina Gainer, neither of whom are paying attention.
Today he has a date. Oh shit, he thinks, he has a date, and the Jack Russells need to be put down first—tranquilized, not euthanized, though the thought’s certainly floating around somewhere in the darker alleys of his mind. This means a trip to the medicine cabinet.
The sedative is now locked firmly in his hand as he marches from the bathroom, internally strangling the soft spoken conscience that is telling him this isn’t a great idea. Of course it’s not—it’s never a great idea—but on those rare occasions that he needs a moment to himself, or needs to catch up on his sleep, or (today) needs to go on a date for the first time since high school, he has enlisted the help of the most viable babysitter six dollars and fifty six cents can buy—Nighttime Nyquil.
“Want some juice?” Demetri asks, in a lulling tone that would not trick most but will snare his sister easily.
“What kind?” Laney asks, as she savagely ends the life of her oatmeal. It’s a rhetorical question she’s asking, because her lips are already stained red with the cherry elixir; Demetri has to pluck the plastic measuring cup away from her before she swallows it whole. “Cherry, Meechie? Is it cherry? It tastes like cherry!”
“It’s cherry,” he confirms, as he washes out the cup and slaps it back on top of the bottle.
“I want more,” she whines, and lusts for it with her hands. He escorts it back to the bathroom and has to slam the door shut to keep her out. As he’s hiding it behind the other chemicals, cleaners, and toiletries she would happily drink given the chance, she’s still calling from outside: “Meechie? I want more!”
He has considered giving her more. He imagines a softer, more anticlimactic rendition of Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men—Lenny is sitting by the river, thinking happy thoughts of Bugs Bunny, Dora the Explorer, and Elmo, shortly before George pulls the metaphorical trigger and puts him out of his misery… sending him into a drooling, glossy eyed coma with a big, fat double dose of Nyquil.
“What’s in there?” Laney asks, trying to paw into the door that Demetri closes behind him. “Meechie, what’re you hiding in there?”
“My self respect,” he says, as he ushers her to the couch and changes the channel. “It’s right next to the cold medicine I just doped you up with. Look, Blue’s Clues is on.” He points a finger at the little blue dog that’s jumping up and down beside the presenter whose enthusiasm could strip wallpaper. Laney is instantly sucked in.
“There’s a clue!” she chirps. “Oh, lookit Meechie, he just found a clue!”
“I already saw this one,” Demetri remarks over his shoulder. “It’s the one where Blue helps Joe find his dignity—it’s hiding behind a green screen and a big, fat sack of money.”
She is blinking her eyes at him, confused, but is quickly pulled back into the program when a song breaks out about the mail.
The Nyquil will take about fifteen minutes to tranquilize her, which is just enough time for Demetri to wander back to the bathroom and study the tangled shrubbery on top of his head.
“What do I do with this?” he asks his sallow reflection, as he pins a lock flat that springs right back into place. He eyes the economy tub of hair gel on the counter and considers how terrible he would look with wavy hair plastered to one side like a lacquered combover. Instead, he parts his hair with his hands and then lightly tousles it. Good enough.
He gargles from the economy jug of mouthwash that tastes like gasoline and leaves his breath smelling like… well, gasoline, and then swabs some unscented dollar store deodorant under each arm. The pièce de résistance is the dollar store cologne typically reserved for a thoughtless last minute Father’s Day gift, which is now surrounding Demetri like a musky, pheromone-filled cloud that permeates the trailer upon his return. Laney, who is right on cue, is bobbing her head in sleepy frustration as she struggles to catch Blue’s last clue.
“Go to your room and get ready for nap time,” Demetri instructs, as he checks the clock on his PC. Right on time.
“Don’t wanna.”
“Come on,” he says, and is now guiding her by the hand toward her room.
“I wanna know what happens,” she says softly, eyes rolling back in exhaustion. “Tell me what happens, Meechie.”
“It was a murder-suicide,” Demetri replies. “Mr. Salt smothered Mrs. Pepper with a pillow. He then opened fire on the police, so the SWAT team came in and dropped mustard gas. Mr. Salt had no choice but to use Mr. Kitchen Knife and end it.”
She giggles. She doesn’t understand it, but his tone is funny. “Okay Meechie, it was Mr. Salt. The clue was salt.” She’s dropped into bed and is peering up at him sleepily as he slowly closes the door.
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Don't lie. Those of you with kids are considering this now.
Thanks to all who purchase or even just consider purchasing this book, and as always, if you buy it, please leave a review on Amazon.com. This isn't just to massage my ego and kiss my ass, it's because every review, whether good or bad, helps this book get into a few more hands. And with books like Fifty Shades of Grey at the top of the charts, I think it's time another fucked up book claimed that particular throne.
Cheers and stay classy, friends,
Bryan
Music:
Porcupine Tree
Beer: Newcastle
