Monday, June 22, 2015

Riding The Centipede: The Nuclear Menace, Rudolf Chernobyl: Creating A Monster.

As much as I love all of the characters in my debut novel, Riding the Centipede, I know Rudolf Chernobyl will draw the most attention.  Sure, the hallucinogenic drug ride Hollywood runaway, Marlon Teagarden, takes should reverberate with real intensity, those chapters are purposely vivid and quite mad.  Without private investigator, Terrance Blake, a man barely holding on, the novel is nothing: he is the glue.  Jane Teagarden lends dollops of passion, her love for her lost brother unwavering. Writer Peter Solon, oh, dear, Peter Solon brings the Weird in heavy doses.  Marlon's star-studded 'girlfriends' (Marilyn...and Rita, Jacqueline, Sean, Lena Olin--oh yes--[an aside: in my first novel {unpublished, as you already know, and called, The Corner of His Mind, which you didn't know until right now}, Lena Olin made an appearance as well; hmmmmm...] Rachel...Naomi...).  And William S. Burroughs...well, let's just say, when we meet up with him, all bets are off.  And that's not all of the characters, but you get my drift.  They all matter, but when you write a character who is of nuclear origin and pretty damned insidious, well...

Well!  Let's not mess around.  How about a sample from the first Rudolf Chernobyl chapter?  Turning off my mind, letting the bizarre roam freely, that's how I created this monster draped in the skin of a man.  Another origin--see previous blog post--this one for a character. Really, though, it's just the opening of a door. Once you get to his follow-up chapters, that's when the real fun starts.  But I had to start somewhere. I mean, HE had to start somewhere, so here's a little history.


Oh, one more thing: the book is out on the 29th of this month which, as I type this, is about a week away.  The paperback and Kindle versions are ready for pre-order.  Just click on the highlighted words in the previous sentence and you can set yourself up for this wild ride.

Anyway.  Rudolf awaits...


The only light in the room came from the man’s glowing, mismatched eyes. The left pupil was a black ink stain abyss, a swirling wasteland devoid even of the promise of starlight. The right pupil was gray as ash, the remnants of hope long dashed. Riding the rim of each pupil, flares worthy of the Sun writhed with furious intensity. The veined white of each eye illuminated the room in a blinding brilliance that ebbed into a sickly, jaundiced hue, depending on his focus, until the man closed the lids and the room went dark.

The eyes may be the windows to the soul. These windows were pitted with cracks, as if pebbles had been tossed for attentions never attained. Furthermore, what resonated within the man in no way resembled what paltry beings usually defined as “soul.” His allegiance was to a higher force bereft of humanity. At least in its purest distillation.

He rubbed his thumb, pointer and middle fingers together, an instinctive practice he used when conjuring the past. Sparks crackled at the tips of his callused fingers.

As he concentrated, he pried the memories from the clutches of time, refurbished as if recent. The initial stage of the ritual delved into the few minutes prior to his conception and included details about the participants as if he were jacked into their thoughts and memories. The room smelled of burned plastic and animal musk, of damp, aged ruins and electrical currents that tweaked the mind as well as the nostrils.

The fragmented mind-field was a flurry of clipped imagery: gagged and bound, a thin woman, flesh stretched taut over a blade-like pelvis, the hollow between her tiny breasts. A man carved out of the same tainted material, though a wiry strength accentuated the muscles of his back, his buttocks. Hours of physical exertion defined by semen, sweat, excrement, misery, torture. The genetic material each contributed the product of generations mired in futility and rife with mental deficiencies. The man in particular spawned from a long, corrupted squiggle of a line of nefarious design, his father and the fathers before him: cruel, sadistic, evil. Though they were all infused with deep intelligence, they were all psychologically broken—a Ming vase shattered into thousands of tiny pieces, chips and shards and miniscule slivers, with no desire or means to mend what’s bred in the bone.

The seated man tilted his head back, remembering the annihilation of the ovum, the vile, dissonant echo that accompanied his conception. A reverberant pulse filled his resting body as water fills a balloon. His core stiffened. His penis stiffened. Passions wrought in immorality were at the root of his being.

It was 4:27 a.m., 26 April, 1986.

He salivated as he pictured the man starring in the mad play in his head stuffing a urine saturated rag into the woman’s mouth. He didn’t delight in the thought of the foul taste, but he thrilled at the depth of sadism he assimilated from the man.

The woman was simply a means to an end, a born victim, human refuge, a whore, a junky. The man was a junky as well, but he was a functioning addict. He could fit into society without notice. Nobody ever thought much about him as he worked the swing shift janitorial job at the plant. Though he understood much more about how things worked within the plant, he chose to immerse himself in his insidious lusts rather than the higher aspirations his intellectual gifts would have allowed him to pursue.

He didn’t aspire to be human. He fixated on the black malignancy that corroded his every ideal.

As the seated man with the sparking fingertips continued along the diseased path of his origin, his memories splintered, as they always did.

Loudspeakers filtered into the womb, voices tonally different than the harsh tones of the man, or the muffled grunts of disapproval from the woman. Those voices he felt as much as heard. The other sounds were surging floodwaters and fluttering jackhammers and a flailing salmon pawed by a grizzly bear—the body in revolt—and then silence. Days of silence.

During this time, he sensed something within the speck of fleshy self, the idea of his being: radiation.

Some moments roam outside the realm of possibility, outside the laws of nature—what a comical assumption, nature adhering to any arbitrary laws—and miracles that join those moments as they roam.

A smile illuminated the darkness.

What meager aspirations and understanding humans had when it came to the immeasurable potential that was life. Humans believed they understood it, but they constructed their theories within a limited mindscape. Their egotistical certainty disgusted him. They were rather pathetic.

This much the seated man knew. He was evidence of what a concoction of radiation, region—hence, nature—human potential and unyielding desire could be. He was a hybrid of flesh and foible: radiation infused with radical intent; with whim and impossibility.

He was a miracle.

Behind his sealed lids, the luminosity from his smile creamed the black to orange, a distant fire. He tamped it all back, pulling on the reins. After years of training, it was easy to control that which resided inside him. Easy, yet necessary, for his existence relied on restraining the chaos within, only tapping into it when required.

Radiation with a sentient foundation. Radiation with a nuclear heritage. Radiation acclimating to its birth with a whisper of phantom consciousness and a dream of life as melded with the fertilized egg.

Converging on a moment, crystalline and clear as the immaculate merging of sea and sky into a lush, electric blue horizon.

Not a radiation to destroy, but one to create, to carry on with his and, hence, its creation.

In the now dead womb of the woman, radiation blanketed him with soothing, tingling warmth, and a desire for improbable survival.

For life.

The radiation accelerated his formation. Neurons and electrons bristled impatiently while axons and dendrites jolted into corporeal conspiracies, into a jitterbugging frenzy. Hotwired channels within the sticky web of fresh tissue that was his being prompted a profound topographical transformation fused by revolutionary synaptic hardware, enhanced muscularity and heightened gray matter development.

Yet, within, his roots—demons cackling for attention, strapped with subversive, generational binds—would always play tag with his potential.

Bony, talon-like fingers scratched at the viscera as he took it into his toothless maw and absorbed all he needed from it, and then continued on, until he tore a hole out of the womb, out of the stiffening carcass.

He didn’t cry as the stale, infected air entered his lungs for the first time. He only yearned for more.

It was dark but his vision glowed much as it does now, in the vast art gallery that covered the walls around him, only with less control.

All of the fundamental elements of the third and most prominent participant in his creation had taken hold. The man and woman of flesh were only a means. Radiation from the exploded fourth reactor at the power plant nearby served as the most vital ingredient. The itchy trigger finger squeezed hard, prompting mischief of an inconceivable audacity.

He survived by sheer will, living on the remains of the mother, then gumming insects and rats, suckling them as surrogate breasts in his eager mouth; and sucking on torn wires and cables, draining them of whatever was left to fuel his being.
Okay, enough of that. Can't post the whole chapter.  But there he is, Rudolf Chernobyl, conceived and born the day of the Chernobyl disaster...and within range of the nuclear plant.  See what a warped imagination let loose can...birth.
A monster.
But there's more to Riding the Centipede than Rudolf Chernobyl.
You'll see...


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