Excerpt from a completely made up book that Bret Easton Ellis could have written:
On the freeway, zooming away from the airport, Broderick looks at me. His tan impeccable, Nokia brand cell phone pressed to his razor sharp cheekbone thanks to the diet pills he’s been taking since going to Barbados.
“Dude, should I make reservations?” he asks. I knock on the window of the cab.
“Can you hurry up?” I yell to the driver. He turns back to us — some kind of fat ethnic, prominent nose, sloping shoulders — and mumbles an indecipherable reply.
“Dude, I’m making reservations,” Broderick decides, sitting back against the seat, his tailored Brooks Brothers shirt making contact with the cheap vinyl. We pass several homeless cats fighting over a hamburger bun.
“I don’t care what you do,” I say, but Broderick raises his finger and cuts me off.
“Can I get two for eight? For eight? Sh-t, he hung up. I’m calling back.”
He hits redial on the phone. I stare out the window. A giant billboard on the side of the road has been defaced. In huge red letters it says “you’re muther likes it,” misspelled, grammatically incorrect. I stare until it’s hidden behind some trees, at which time Broderick pulls out an envelope of coke he scored back in the city. We snort some wordlessly. When it’s gone Broderick looks at me. He’s never looked so serious. He reaches for his phone.
“If I have to sit at the bar I’m going to f-cking cry.”
Excerpt from a completely made up book that Kurt Vonnegut could have written:
Americans believe in justice, so they say. What they really believe in are jiggling boobs and explosions.
I saw my first pair of boobs in a magazine. Bucky Largo brought it from home. “Hey Charlie, have a peek,” he said. When I looked over I saw them, two udder-like things drooping down the smiling woman’s belly.
Roscoe Brown didn’t like boobs. He didn’t like much of anything else either. The other boys called him a queer, he didn’t like that.
“I oughta pop you one,” he threatened, shaking his huge red fist. One of the boys laughed to humor the old man.
“Take it easy on us now, Roscoe, we were only funning.”
“I’ll show you fun,” Roscoe said. But instead of showing us he shuffled along down the street. The boys looked at him go.
“What an asshole,” Ray-Ray muttered, spitting onto the sidewalk after the old man. I drew a picture of it, it looked like this:
Excerpt from a completely made up book that Martin Amis could have written:
There are billons of stars in the universe. A conservative estimate is 100 sextillion. That’s a number of no real consquence to you or I, unless it is our job to count the stars in the universe.
The stars have been there before you or I were born and will continue to be long after we’re gone, and our children are gone, and their children, until we are all just dust.
The listing doe eyed girl doesn’t think about the stars in the sky as she traipses down the verminous street. She thinks about the grey sedan, windows tinted black, like the kind American gangsters drive, that has been following her since she left home that afternoon.
She is a doe in the eyes but also in the face and legs and feet. She looks like a dewy woodland creature set loose on a city street, that someone deigned to dress in a mini skirt and skimpy top to amplify the effect. Her delicate beauty invites brutality for some reason. Her paramours like to make hamburger of her on occasion, perhaps in an attempt to quell the beauty that so entices other men.
As she turns the corner the car follows suit. She stops and looks over her finely boned shoulder at the vehicle. The car idles at the corner. It then passes by slowly, the driver unseeable in the murky glass. Instead she sees her own sad eyed reflection. When it’s gone she continues her jaunt. She is going to die. She just doesn’t know it yet.
Excerpt from a completely made up book that Oscar Wilde could have written:
Lord Farthington scoffed, as he did any time dear Dalcott spoke. “You old fool, don’t you know anything. Polite society is indeed impolite. It only stands to reason.”
“Sometimes I think you just prattle on to hear the sound of your own voice,” Dalcott sniffed in reply, causing raucous peals of laughter to elicit from deep in Farthington’s bosom. “I merely called into question the boy’s depth of emotion. He is rather shallow.”
“You say that as though it’s a bad thing. Of course the boy is shallow. He’s beautiful. Beauty by definition is shallow. Only the very ugly care about depth.”
“And what are you proposing?”
“Oh Dalcott, such seriousness does not suit you. It’s unbecoming.”
“According to you I am deeply unbecoming.”
“Only when you ruin afternoon tea with such grave chatter. Come, let’s adjourn to the salon, I hear Lady Hearthworn has taken up drinking again.”