Pulp Fiction
A short story to celebrate Halloween.
Pete’s one dream was to be a famous writer of fiction. Not that hoity-toity literary fiction stuff—you know, that character-driven shite filled with artsy-fartsy style, deep Rodinesque themes and tortured exploration of the “human condition” (whatever the hell that is?)—but, rather, pulp fiction. Yep, sensationalised mass-market crap with formulaic plots and cliched tropes. Fast-paced, action-packed, lurid-themed and with gaudy, eye-catching covers. Sure, it was cheap and nasty, but, by God, it was gonna make him rich. Filthy rich. And then he could employ a legion of ghostwriters to churn out pulped fiction under his name by the mega-reamful … and he’d become mega-rich—no, Uber-rich! And pass his days debauching on a Uber yacht! With a dozen Uber babes! Yep, his dream had a plan, Stan (whoever the hell he/she/they were?).
But Pete had one problem. Well, four, actually. He could neither see, nor hear, nor speak, nor smell. He was those three monkeys (and a ring-in buddy) all rolled into one: blind, deaf, mute (and anosmic) to all evil (and good). All he had were feelings. Good God! He was woke! How was he going to tell ’n’ sell all the pulp fiction inside his head? As weeks slipped by and Pete pondered his dilemma, his brain grew bigger and bigger as it filled itself with all manner of pulped premises and plots and protagonists.
One day, Pete suddenly felt himself lifted and laid upon a cold, metallic surface. He sensed a presence hovering over him, but had no time to make sense of that presence, for a streak of piercing pain tore across the top of his head, and his scalp (and more) severed from the remainder of his head. Good God! He was under the knife! Being lobotomised!
But Pete had no time to lament being lobotomised, for he sensed a scooping out of his brain matter. Good God! This was no surgeon honing his craft on an unsuspecting, soon-to-be-lobotomised wannabe pulp fiction writer. No, this was cannibalism! Good God! It was Hannibal “the Cannibal” Lecter. There, helping himself to an all-you-can-eat brain buffet that would no doubt be consumed with a side dish of fava beans and washed down with a nice Chianti. What would become of all his pulped premises and plots and protagonists? A deathly digested demise?
But Pete had no time to lament being cannibalised (nor critiqued), for he felt in rapid succession twin searing pains as what felt like a red-hot poker bored holes on either side of his head, then a torturous pain as what felt like a razor-sharp knife slashed a hole in the middle of his face, and finally an excruciating pain as the same knife twice slashed across his lower face. And in his agony, Pete heard a harrowing howl. And then he realised it was his howl, bellowed from his jagged lips and doom-tolling his lobeless ears. Good God! He was a freak, Frankenstein’s creature, a disfigured being butchered on a cold, hard slab in a candle-lit laboratory! And for the first time in his life, he drew a deep breath in through—Good God!—his nostril-less nose and smelled his fear!
But Pete had no time to lament (nor celebrate) being sensitised, for not once but six times a scalpel cut and sliced at his upper face. And lo and behold, he could see! And what vision splendid did his eyes first spy? Well, a pumpkin, no less! Yep, a hollowed-out pumpkin with cut-out eyes, nose and mouth, earholes on either side of its head, and a small candle flickering a muted light from within its hollowed-out head.
And a shocked Pete spoke his first words. Indeed, a full sentence. A full interrogative sentence!
‘Who the fuck are you!?’ Pete asked.
‘Hi, I’m Patch,’ the pumpkin said. ‘Pumpkin Patch. I’m your twin. We shared a vine when growing up. Indeed, even now, I remain your identical twin. We’ve had the same cosmetic surgery. Though I must tell you I am the smart one. I’ve been enlightened. You, it appears, are still a neanderthalic Jack-o'-lanternless. You’re still living in the dark. Happy Halloween, my dim-witted brother! I can’t wait for trick or treat!’
Had his cosmetic surgeon kindly gifted him some, Pete would have closed his eyelids and released a long, harrowing groan of despair. Instead, he gawped in disbelief. Him? A bloody pumpkin! A hollowhead on All Hallows’ Eve! Tricked, not treated! Used purely for the gratification of pagan ritualists! And pulpless, too. Oh God! How was he ever going to fulfil his dream of becoming a writer of pulp fiction if he had no pulp?
