Novel Extract

CHAPTER 1 

What’s up, guys? The name’s Sean. Nice to meet you! I’m a 34 year-old New Yorker and happily married to my high school sweetheart. I’m black and Jewish, kind of like Lenny Kravitz and Drake minus the musical talent, plus I might be a little nerdier. Actually, I own a comic book store – a Mecca for Trekkies, Forcers, and the likes – so I guess that makes me a lot nerdier, even though I do like to consider myself a cool nerd. Hm, what else can I tell you about myself? Oh yeah, one little thing: about ten seconds ago, a robber broke into my car and blew my lung out.

BOOM!

How’s that for an introduction, eh? I would say that I killed it but coming from somebody with a gaping hole in his chest, I can see how that could come across ironic. Some might argue that you ought to have more build-up to things like blown out lungs in your opening paragraph, but I find it’s better to skip all the crap and cut straight to the chase because in this game of Hungry Hungry Hippos that is life, time is too limited for small talk, pleasantries, and other types of beating around the Groot, says I, and never have I ever meant that more than I do right now.

Just so there’s no confusion, I am dying. And I don’t just mean eventually like all of us, or in a couple of weeks or months, or temporarily like the original Spock who kicked the half-Vulcan bucket in Wrath of Khan only to rise from the dead in the next movie and live long and prosper ever after. What I mean is, I’m a redshirt, and this is my final curtain. I knew it the second the bullet flew through my chest and landed on the back of the car seat. What’s weird is that I was less bummed about it than I would have expected. In fact, I was quite the opposite of bummed, and it wasn’t weird at all. Think about it: if the sensation of orgasm is described as la petite mort, the little death, then what do you suppose the actual dying process is like? Let me just say that you the living do not need to worry one bit about us dying ones. We’re good.

The one who’s not doing too hot at the moment, though, is my poor robber. As he’s standing in front of me in his ugly-ass Hawaiian shirt – the loudest cry for help ever ignored – with the ridiculously big gun in his hand – a classic case of compensation – and an utterly horrified look on his face, I’m completely convinced that this is a man who just popped his killing cherry. My visibly deteriorating state seems to take him by surprise and as the blood starts pouring out of my mouth, he lets out a scream, turns pale, and doubles over to hurl in the bushes. In a way, the whole situation is like straight out of a Key and Peele sketch, and if my mouth weren’t so goddamn drenched in blood, I would probably laugh. “I’m sorry, man, I’m so sorry,” he says as he wipes his mouth on his sleeve, and I say, “Well, at least the color matches your shirt,” to lighten the mood, but that’s when I realize that no sound is coming out of my mouth and the more I try to speak, the more blood I end up spewing, and it almost makes me laugh again how miserably my plan to sooth him is failing, that instead of lightening the mood, I look like one of the less fortunate characters in the Walking Dead. So far, I’m happy to report, dying has been a surprisingly amusing experience. At least for me. Sadly, the comedy seems to be lost on my robber, who again doubles over to hurl in the bushes. 

After he’s done readjusting fluids, my robber/killer musters up enough courage to search my wallet and, upon finding that I only have 16 dollars on me, decides that he needs to take the car, too. Which I full-heartedly condone because, quite honestly, croaking over 16 dollars would just be bad for my ego. The only problem is that this guy doesn’t seem to be too fond of dead people, and unless he wants to sit me up, put Ray-Bans on my eyes, a bottle of vodka in my hand, and be prepared to scream at every turn when his dead passenger moves his body from side to side like he just don’t care, he needs to drag my ass out of the car. 

He draws a deep breath to compose himself, then takes hold of my right pant leg and gives it a tug, but as soon as my leg moves half an inch, he screams, lets go, and takes a step back. Another scream erupts from him as he turns his palms upward and realizes that they are blood-stained. 

“Jesus Christ!” he cries and wipes his hands on his pants in such a Monty Pythonesque manner that this time I can’t help but laugh out loud. Unfortunately, my laughter translates into some ominous-looking body spasms, which seems to be the straw that breaks the robber’s back, because he suddenly drops on his knees, buries his face in his arms, and shakes his head as if trying to erase the mental image of the monster he created like an Etch-A-Sketch. 

“Man, stop doing that!” he pleads, his voice breaking. “I already said I was sorry! Why you gotta torture me like that, man?” 

I stop spitting blood for a second. Hold the phone. Did this clown just accuse me of torturing him? Really? I mean, is it just me or does he have some cojones playing the martyr when I’m the one dying here? Yeah, really sorry that my body got in the way of your bullet, bro. Next time I’ll try to die a little less bloody for ya, I think and then, the ridiculousness of the situation makes me laugh again. I can’t help it. This guy, man, this guy’s hysterical. You’re killing me, dude! Literally. 

I finally stop laughing when my robber bursts into tears. I might not have much of a heartbeat, but I’ve still got a heart. I stay as still as I can until the crying slowly becomes less and less intense and then stops altogether. When he finally lifts his gaze up, there’s determination in his eyes. He forces himself up from the ground now, dusts his pants off, slaps his cheeks, says, “Come on! Come on!” not to me, but to himself, then takes hold of both of my pant legs, lets out a groan as he pulls with all the strength he can muster, with his eyes welling up again, and now, sure enough, my body starts to move, inch by inch, out of the car seat, and then there’s a sudden drop and a sharp hit on the back of my head.