doG is a novel which may or may not be set in my home town. It features a character which may or may not be divine, but is definitely a wastrel. He is virtually a down-and-out, and he is certainly a drunkard.
The novel starts with somebody trying to kill him; and it continues with doG trying to find out who wished him harm. He suspects an old enemy, called the Luciftian.
The novel is about bad jokes and beer, and touches on such subjects as religion. It is a novel in which I played around with form and structure; and should not be seen as a particularly serious novel. It was not my intent with this novel to mock religion, but I could imagine how some people who consider themselves to be devout might possibly be able to find offence. I like playing around with religious themes, though, whether God or the Devil or simply the underlying ideas of the different religions which have existed in the world.
Extract from doG
No, not yet.
Staggering down the High Street, a bottle of Coors Light in his hand, despite the High Street (outside of the pubs) having been classified by the police as an Alcohol Free Zone (and who voted on that?).
Staggering, his flies undone, the draught unsensed. He is only concerned for one draught, and that nepenthe is in the cold glass in his hands.
Swearing mentally at the passers-by like some stevedore, as he wove between little old ladies with blue rinse hair and an outraged former colonel, the sort with a pepper and salt moustache and letters whose ink is always green. He cares not. They are only flesh; they will be reaped like the autumn grass. They don’t care for him, anyway. They never have. All the ever did was betray him and his trust. But his insults are only in his mind; and the people are not shocked by all of the words he thinks.
He’s tired. doG is tired. Dog-tired, ha ha ha.
Tired of life tired of death tired of the other options which were no longer left.
All he wants to do is to sleep, and be forgot, like the world which has forgotten him, as though he is some Vestal in a poem by Pope. But his lot is not happy. Anything but.
In his mind he sees silk-screened images of wanton dead women, Marilyn staring out from a thousand walls in a thousand halls, the lure of the corpse bride, wanting you to imagine that she might give you the benison of some kiss. But she’s long gone by now, nothing but worm food. He wonders if he should have saved her; but he can’t even save himself, these days.
A white and pure skirt forever in mid-air, caught from draughts from below, hands pushing it down, a laugh half lewd and half innocent. Except that you cannot hear that laugh. But doG can. He can hear it echo out of the Andy Warhol pictures; he can hear it echo out of that Playboy centrefold; he can hear it echo through time like the lost.
The doG staggers on.
A public house with its worshippers staggering in heeding the siren call of cheap, bad lager, the ones in all of the adverts on the television. It calls out to this victim of circumstance, the one temple where he is still welcome. Everybody is welcome, as long as they have the shekels of Mammon to buy their poison with.
It’s called The Mitre. doG does not reflect on the cosmic joke of that. doG only wants to get drunk. He hasn’t fully managed it yet. But he hasn’t given up trying. The bottle of Coors will be exchanged for something out of Belgium.
Rabbit run rabbit run rabbit run run run
Run from the man with the fun fun fun
He’ll get high
On his acid pie
So run rabbit run rabbit run run run…
Plainsong pavement. Pavement, Earth, the universe is music, if anybody bothered to stop and listen. But nobody does. They are more concerned with the voices in their heads. doG waits for a chance to cross the road.
Watch the traffic slip you by: one car, two cars, three coffins of steel, not one of them the least bit concerned that doG wants to cross the road. The drivers are selfish-safe, locked up in their own little worlds, only dreaming of getting home as quickly as they can, so that they can have their microwave meals and repeated Sky TV. Each driver hates the other, not seeing them as fellow travellers on the path of life, but merely as obstacles to be overcome.
Why did the chicken cross the road?
He sways. Alcohol coursing into his bloodstream, delivering the oblivion which he seeks, but can never get. The alcohol promises so much, but always comes up short, just like modern politicians and Internet porn.
Then he feels a hand behind him, pushing in the small of his back. He’s pushed.
Pushed off the British pavement, the American sidewalk, into the path of an oncoming truck which is taking a short long cut through the centre of the town, the Polish driver all but lost even with the Satnav nagging him to take a left turn the wrong way into a one way street.
He goes under the wheels – that is what people will tell themselves that they didn’t see, as they can no longer imagine one impossible thing before breakfast, let alone in the early afternoon.
He isn’t crushed. But the bottle of Coors Light is. The glass is smashed and ground up, embedded into the rubber of the wheel, turned into so much useless powder. Worse, though, is that what little beer was left is wasted.
The truck comes to a screeching stop. And there is doG, lying on the road, just where it has been. Clatter of a truck door opening. Boots on tarmac.
The wheels of the ambulance go round and round…
doG is available as an e-book on the Amazon Kindle store.