Le Overgivers Au Club De La Resurrection (Mannequin Haus, publisher)
Chapter 0 - Ye who enter here; what to expect here; a taste of a preface
Many too many too many too years. We both wonder, you know, how they’re going to do it. This is why we decided to join the Club de Résurrection. It’s not spelled out in the contract, per se; they just said they had to work out the right way to do it without invalidating the experiment. I was reading the wrong kind of paper my spouse had never seen so I saw this ad supposedly placed by the Club de Résurrection. Yeah, that’s right. It said, hey there! That’s how they talk, that’s how they tell us we should talk. Hey you! That’s the official word they use in the contract and they said that’s the word we should always use too. They’re going to, ahem—process us. Tired of living, and just can’t admit it? Not to use, you know. Well you can admit it to us. That other word. You can admit about anything you can form your lips and tongue and will around to say out loud, to us. No, I can’t even hint. Hey! Are there things you think of every five minutes that are secret that you just realized you have never said even once out loud in your life? If I accidentally give off any impression except what the company wants, they’ll dump my contract. If yes, come join us. The Club de Résurrection; yes yes yes, join us. The Club de Résurrection. That would be really bad news. If you can say yes to the question are there things you never ever said aloud that boom in your ears day after day moment after moment how about actually all the time, eh? I mean, then I’d probably have to move back in with Mom. Want to know what it would feel like to let all those things go? Get a job, all that? Come join the Club de Résurrection, we will show you how to die having said it all, which is why your creator gave you speech, to begin with. You know. There’s a word to shut it all off, all off. All that shit stuff. Come on and find it. Know what I mean? Sure, you know what I mean. Because you got to do shit stuff to survive, and I don’t. Why the face? You’re paying me to be frank. Yes, frank. Yeah, yeah. Okay, sure ‘nuff, there you go. There’s Frank for you, okay? All Frank. Hey, hey, hey—Lord God thank you Jesus that I never got named Frank. Huh? What? Tested? You mean the tests they give before entering a contract? Sure, we took them. We took them all. Despite that, we got there anyway. Just took about twice as long. You know how I mean huh? Yeah that’s right. How I mean. And we signed the baby up too. What the hell, as in kids eat free.
Chapter 1 – O Dear
We shouldn’t have pissed off all our money when we were starting out, when I was still at the drug warehouse and smoking pot and all that shit. If we had our own place right now, we’d have it made. I’m sick of this shit. Smell that stink in the air! If we quit using this room for twenty years this room would still stink to shit—what you think Wendy, why you not answering Me? Wendy! Wendy! Wendy, you, you; I just can’t get through to you. Look here here’s what you should do, and do it now. Go to that casket. And, eh; roll the body lift over. Set it in place. Pull the straps under and around the body to be resurrected. Carefully activate the lift, raise the body clear of the casket, roll the lift over and lower the body on the preparation table—huh, wait—what, Wendy?
Here’s what, asshole! God! What-Jesus Christ is got into you? What the fuck you screaming at me for why you got to scream like that you scared the shit out of me, you know; what the fuck was the question, huh? It better be a good one for me to forget you scared me to high Heaven and I almost nipped this guy’s aorta with the trocar. It’s still aorta, isn’t it James? Do we call these fucking things still aortas when they and everything else is dead? I know the intention is to wear down and destroy the English language, but—right here and now I got a guy with a shredded aorta, lord thank God, he’s dead and all, you know, I won’t get into trouble, that’s the great thing about this business—you can do whatever you want to a corpse and no one will ever know because you cannot kill them, but—butt—haw, Jamed you fuck! Sure, I can kid, and along with that, I can mother-fucking dream too. Yeah, I know how to live, and I know how to die, too. Just like that bad cop in Runaway Train said. Remember that great inspirational movie Runaway Train? Highly spiritual religious and all ho, hum. But, let’s put that aside and stay on track. It’s your fault, Jamed—because you married me. Yes, it is, so let’s do what’s right. Swipe off all the shitty cream and lotion we put on the dead body, swipe it all off the face, neck and hands. See how shitty we are? We only give a damn about the parts that show. We use shit like hair dye and baby oil to do it all up nice up there, that’s got no business smeared and wasted on a resurrected person, so we towel and rinse and rub it all away. We sop up the baby powder from what we were taught were the smelly parts. We pull out the wax we used to puff out the face from the inside. We care about what shows and what shows only, in our filthy fake humanitarian job—you know what I mean my fine master of a husband who has pulled me into this hellhole job. And don’t forget Jamed, about little Janie. How will she wind up, uh? How will she be brought up, if life turns us off so?
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Listen, Wendy. Little Janie will be fine. She’s not been dropped in some hellhole yet, you know? If she ends up a hellhole it’ll be because we haven’t done our job as parents. Being parents is a responsibility you must hold up, hellhole or no hellhole. But hey, don’t mind me Wendy. We got to care about ourselves too. We need to care about that even more than we do about Janie because without us standing stronger than she, Janie will lose her grip and end up in one of the billions of fatal bottomless pits lining the road from the start to the end. The way to prevent that is to not acknowledge that life’s hidden pits exist at all. I can’t stop pushing for answers, Wendy. I just care about where we are when we’re nearly thirty. This has all been just like being born a slave to have your filthy-rich parents raise you a slave like their filthy-rich parents raised them a slave and so forth and so on with over four generations of hidden incest packed up inside hot and cold and stuffed squashed and all. You know what I mean, Wendy? To have it handed down to you is not an honor it is a command to be what you’re probably not really meant to be—we pumped all the shit into our lives for almost fifteen years, now we’ve got to suck it back out. Yes, suck out all the disinfectant and germicidal solutions we smothered the poor devil down with, and—now it’s like a workout gym with no equipment, that’s right, no dangerous bend not break kind of pull your legs and arms against great force kind of shit, no weights, no medicine balls, no elliptical rowing machines, no stationary bikes, no, there’s just body after body laid out in this enormous foul-smelling room, and our workout which we do several times a day consists of bending, flexing, and massaging the arms and legs of the dead to break down the rigor amortinis and pull up the body back into itself that we intend to resurrect. It is all a fucking joke it is when you think of it all turned upside down and turned inside out. You know, Jamed?
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