Chapter I: Steusel in the Oven

The text cursor. Blinking. Taunting. The archetypal representation of writers block in the modern age. CURSE THE FUCKING CURSOR!

I considered deflowering the page with this sentiment verbatim. But that would be counterintuitive. Hell, it makes for a debilitating self-fulfilling prophesy. But then you’re stuck. Schrödinger’s cat. Is a book in the works still a book? What about a book minus the words but credited potential?

Think goddamn.

It was the red eye, as the pilots say. But for young hedonist writer Ethan, it was 4 hours past when responsible authors stack, clip, and manila envelope their draft to mail on their way to early dinner. 4 hours and Ethan couldn't contrive a sentence. So it was heavy black eyes, as Ethan says, or bonus check bye bye.

“Yes, I had six months to write 50,000 words. Cake even for amateurs and anal retentive tight wads. I may have underestimated my talents and pushed it back for too long, but I did work on it!"

He actually did. Had it not been for a fresh-water trout miraculously reanimating in his small boat, and the lack of foresight in proofreading a hard surrounded by water, he may have well been deeper into his prose than a single blinking line.

“I think better in nature; in the water. It was a clear act of God who just won't let me fucking win!”

Yeah but who the fuck still uses a typewriter? They evolved technology cuz type writers have a major flaw. Take a wild guess what that is.

“It jus- there's only one-“

ONE COPY. That's right Hemingway. UNO! Singular. Hipster prick. Who needs backups when you have antiquated technology to really “experience” the “art”? A practice in impermanence? More like a practice in testing the fates.

Bio piece from The New Yorker

Ethan Matthews. Writer of the acclaimed God Hates Figs and Genuine Genocide! Currently working on his latest novel 8 years in the making! So it has to be brilliant. What else would he have been doing?? Jerking it to borderline incestuous porn in self pity and sleeping more than he is awake?? No way prodigy writer of You're All Bitches I Hate You peaked! He's only 27! Besides this is all he has in life. Law school is out of the question, his parents avoid him in fear of a subsidy request, his drinking makes him suitable exclusively for a reclusive environment, and his resume might as well be this draft. Empty, deprecating, boobs.

Boobs seem like the answer right now.

8============D Jerk off intermission 8===========D

Ethan: Ethan

Bob: Ethan’s internal dialogue

Ethan: Fresh mind! Oh how a release brings so much clarity. Fuck you page. I come to murder your children and rape your wives. HO HO HO

Bob: Damn, that's dark bro. You need the sacraments.

Ethan: It's hilarious! I need to laugh considering I'm royally F-U-C-Kd.

Bob: How about an outline?

Ethan: Not my style. You know this.

Bob: Brainstorm?

Ethan: If you mean get lit and watch Regular Show, I might be down.

Bob: Focus fatass. You're talented. You don't need months for a draft. Just yak your ideas all over the page.

Ethan: So write what you're saying?

Bob: No! I mean yes. Sorta. Try to connect to your subconscious. I dunno what it's doing there. Turn him on or whatever.

Ethan: Not easy if you don't shut up!

Bob: Fine. You have 30 minutes before I get bored and wander somewhere. Make something or we're fucked!

Insert Title bullshit here

By: Ethan Matthews

It was on the verge of Clarissa’s 3rd trimester. Claus knew his door was narrowing for the abortion.

Bob: Woah really man?? Abortion? Right out the gate? You have no chill!

Ethan: Hey!!! 30 minutes shhhhhhh

The love of his life, violated and left with the Fuhrer's now bastard son. The heir to a thrown crushed in the remnants of an empire.

Ethan: Good?

Bob: Ok. I'm interested.

MORNING TIME

Bob: Chiiiiiiiiinkkkk. Heeeeebbbb. Niggggerrrrr Spiiiiiiiiickkkkk. Chiiiiiiiiinkkkk. Heeeeebbbb. Niggggerrrrr Spiiiiiiiiickkkkk. HEYYYYY I said chinkheebniggerspick GODDAMITT!!!!

Ethan: Wha!? Huh? Times it?

Bob: I'm just copying your coffee maker.

#TBT

Ethan's last girlfriend, Darlene, was an MIT dropout who squandered her education in pursuit of welding and found art sculpting. Her best known work was Hammer Bent by Nail (a hammer seemingly bent at the neck by a nail) SeeSawHearHeard (a seesaw with a button attached to the bottom of each side, activating a laugh track and booing track accordingly) and Dildo Raped by Jesus’ Nail (Pretty much a train spike wedged into…well…you get the picture. Did we mention she became an atheist feminist shortly after dating Ethan?). She was very good at what she did.

Christmas 2010 present from her: A coffee pot rigged with an alarm clock that shouts racial epithets (to complicate things). An "ironic representation of commercial America", she would say. But for Ethan, who never buys a damn thing for his home (if you could call it that), it was ironically practical.

Bob: I think the coffee pot wants us to get up! But let's get us mentally ready for the day. Close your eyes again. Nuh uh! No peeking! Eyes closed. Focus on the warmth of your keyboard. You’re on a beach. Tiffany from 24 Hour Fitness is here. It's Thursday so she’s wearing her white yoga pants to her hot yoga class. Mmmmm one puddle I wouldn't avoid if you know what I mean you Chiiiiiiiiinkkkk. Heeeeebbbb. Niggggerrrrr Spiiiiiiiiickkkkk. You hear me? Chiiiiiiinnnnkkk Heeeeb nigggggerrrrr spickkkk jeeeeeww heeeeeeeb niggg--

Ethan: Fuck!!! Times it????

Bob: Ten-thirty or as they say in military time, Ten-Thirty.

Ethan: Christ man!!! Draft was due on Philips desk an hour ago! DRAFT! DUE! Awwww please say I did it!

Computer:

Hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…

Ethan: For fucks sake! Apparently my face is a brilliant novelist! What am

I going to do with this drek?

Bob: Uh dude. Look at the count! 54000 words!

Ethan: Oh shit! You're right!

Computer:

CTRL+HOME

Ethan: Please please please…YES! Fuck yeah. I'm still in the game baby. Too good at this! FUCK YEAH!

Computer

"Spontaneous slam on desk indicate delete. Deleting document. Your life is a fucking nightmare. Good bye"

Ethan: Whattttttt???? Cmon really???? Son of a bitch!

Bob: Ay, gimme some credit fatass. I saved it.

Computer

-File

-Open

--"Streusel in the Oven"--

Ethan: Whoooo. Thank you, me!!! A working title obviously, but no time to read the rest.

Computer

-Print

Santa Monica, CA 10:48 A.M. Offices of Dick-Bonner Coq Publishing

Ethan flew through the office doors; unkempt; on a mission.

“Hello Mr. Matthews”, he was greeted calmly in contrast to his bewildered demeanor. Skyler was a temp secretary for the office who seemingly floated into a more permanent position. She may as well have been excellent at her job, but her stunning body prompted a possible ulterior motive for her employment. Ethan found her absolutely gorgeous, but counting himself out already, never even entertained the possibility.

“Hello you fine piece of ass”, is what he wanted to say.

“Morning Skyler. Phillip is...?” he managed in between breaths, haphazardly gesturing toward Philip’s office.

“In his office. Did you have an appoin-“; before she could finish, Ethan was making his way to the office door.

“Thanks Skyler!” he sang as he disappeared inside.

Office of Philip Feinstein. Editor-in-Chief of Dick-Bonner Coq Publishing

“Ahhhh Ethan my most piece of shit cleeuhnt (sic)! Or shall I say chianti which will pair well as I eat your fucking balls you son of a bitch!” Philips charming smile and energy did not match his words. Ethan knew better than to attempt to discern what type of mood he was in. Philip was a proud Jewish man of medium build and salt &pepper hair combed under his Yamaka. Starting as a copy editor at a now defunct publishing company, he came across Ethan's manuscript of You're All Bitches, I Hate You, independently mailed with the simple note, "Please Read. Love, Ethan Matthews. P.S. My Real name is Ethan Campbell. Just in case that's important." 
Seeing his old company crumbling away, he made off with the script and sponsored the 14 year old from Irvine, California. The two of them rocketed to the top with record book sales. Philip went through it all with Ethan: From his hot rise to fame, to the cooling off period, to Ethan's heroin addiction, through his recovery and now. Now he wasn't Phil's golden egg anymore. Phil used Ethan's early fame to build his Rolodex, subsequently getting him a job at the dominant publishing company of the United States, Dick-Bonner Coq. He loved Ethan like an uncle...a very disappointed uncle.

Ya. Never mind what I said earlier. Phil has no chill. Why does this douche have to pay the bills? Ethan thought behind a cordial smile.

“Good to see you too Phil”, Ethan replied robotically, dismissing Philip's archaic greeting. He crossed the room to Philip's desk, immediately tossing the script in front of him.

Philip’s face lit up at the sight of the manila envelope.

“Seriously? Fuck you! Is this what I think it is? Get outta here! Really??” He took Ethan’s silence as tacit confirmation. “All right! This is what I'm talking about! This is what you do!” His voice became inviting but his hostility seemed to remain on his grip, as he reached over the desk and finched Ethan's face endearingly. Like I said. Phil's a real character.

“Sorry it's a little late I—“, Ethan was cut off.

“Fuck it. Didn't even think you'd show! Seriously, the Chianti is chilling in the fridge." He inverted the envelope, letting the pages slide out. Without a moment of hesitation he began reviewing the manuscript, “Meh, we need to work on that title. Fuck does that even mean?” He flipped through the pages briskly. “What is this? Nazi zombie epoch?”

“Consequential multiverse on Hitler's son.” Ethan came up with that on the spot.

“Hitler had a son!?” Philip flipped thorough the script more thoroughly, looking for some historical context.

“Nooo. Hence 'multiverse'.” Ethan had his doubts to whether or not the genre BS would stick to the wall.

“Hmm. Ok. Ok.” Philip was half sold. “Wait What's this?? The fuck Ethan! There's like three pages of Hs. What am I suppose to do with that?? What is that? Heil Hitler for three pages! It's Yom Kippur for Christ sake and you pull this on me?? I shouldn’t even be working right now!” He threw the manuscript back to Ethan.

“No no no, Mr. Finestein. That was a typo.” Ethan reassured, shuffling the pages back in order, “I fell asleep on the h key—“

“H key?? Is that what you kids call it these days??? I thought we put you through Passages Malibu?” Philip was beside himself.

“No NO! Phil-- Mr. Feinstein. Lemme finish! I fell asleep on the letter h on my keyboard. I was rushing to get here and forgot to delete that.”

Philip wasn’t fully convinced, “I don't know Ethan. You're always dabbling in these anticultural phases with those hippie communist anti-semites. Why are fucking with neo-nazism? What did the Jewish community do to you?”

"Philip...I'm black...", Ethan responded, outlining the obvious conflict in Philip's thought process.

"What does that have to do with anything? You can hate Jews if you want. Free country."

I need a new editor