His codpiece juts straight out and the holographic crest shining above the tip identifies him as Phil Culbreth, Lieutenant First Class of the Bay Area Autonomous Smart City Police Department, badge number 04220212. The codpiece itself identifies Lt. Culbreth as an assassin, surgically modified to kill by hypospray cumshot. A catheter connects his urethra to a rifle barrel that can shoot a lethal carfentanyl-laced load into you from up to 10 feet away.
(One of) Your problem(s) is an inability to stop thinking of literature in terms of very old or very dead hyper masculine white america. No, I’m not talking about fucking diversity. I’m just *saying* that none of your idols grew up with the internet. The medium has been given no lashing or love letter, not even a simple accounting. You said to Gary tonight “Every social interaction now we are staring back at ourselves.” The self has to be the center of the story because it,
There’s a rotten socket inside my hull the hours never break
Listen as every cell pressurizes
Fluffed kernel of a torso giving births
To the hole that holds such warmth I’ve tied my paws
Spittle cascades, split ends of stamen moaning
The forest bends around honking birds
Beasts alphabetizing their antlers
Like moons cut in the door
The chatter of trees shapes the vine
Beneath which I masticate my suit
Sinking all sails,
When the murderer thinks of all the murderers who managed to achieve more than he could in the grisly craft to which he dedicated himself until the bitter end with passion and singlemindedness – the ones who murdered more, or more creatively, or more notoriously, the dissectors and cannibals (blech, but in the mode of Kafka’s “Hunger Artist,” if he’d ever met a dead body that had appealed to him he would not have hesitated to gobble it up right then and there) and skin-suit tailors,