Hello. This is a work of fiction, written to celebrate National Novel Writing Month [http://www.nanowrimo.org], which is "a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to novel writing. Participants begin writing November 1. The goal is to write a 175-page (50,000-word) novel by midnight, November 30." As you may have noticed, it's already evening, November 16. That's not a huge problem, though - what takes lesser people a full month usually takes me two weeks, tops.
One of my goals with this project is to write a novel in less time than it takes to read it. Will I succeed? Probably. Everything I do turns to gold. I am a very successful and handsome person. The only setback I ever suffered in life was the other day, when I bought a bag full of Gorby's piroger (my dictionary says they're called "Russian pasty" in English, but I don't trust it) and the bag said there was a "surprise" inside. And naturally, I'm thinking, "Fuckshit! I'll get a golden ticket to the Gorby factory where Willy Wonka will give me a golden shower and make me his heir!" But you know what? The gift was a fucking reflex that said, "Gorby's: We don't give a fuck about you". Those fucking fuckers, someone should fuck them in the ass.
But that's neither here nor there. Now is the time to put up or shut up, and, as loyal SUPERBLOG!! readers know, I'm not one to shut up. I'm the kind of guy who would gladly show his penis to a stranger on the street, if only someone asked.
I am also doing this to better myself. And make a lot of money. So if anyone wants to publish this novel in paper form, let me know via the usual channels. Random House, I am looking at YOU.
I haven't actually written the book yet, but I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say that it will, without a doubt, be the single best book you'll ever read in your entire life. (I'm guessing it will be around 8-10 times better than the runner-up, which is probably some piece of trash Booker Prize winner you'll pick up in an airport in Hong Kong in 2016.)
Please note that any and all typos is and are the fault of you, the reader.
Now: enjoy. That's an order.
It was a dark and stormy night. Bobo was looking out the window, at all the people passing by way down below. It was October, October 31st, and Bobo was sitting at the window, writing a letter to his friend Jambola. Jambola was a guy who lived in Pakistan, in a town called Sukkur. (AUTHOR'S NOTE: I didn't make that up, there really is a Pakistanian town called Sukkur. I looked it up in the CIA World Fact Book [http://www.cia.gov/cia/publications/factbook/].)
Where was I? Oh yeah, Bobo was sitting at the window. Suddenly, a bird flew by! Bobo was terrified, because he was scared of birds. Plus and also, this specific bird looked to him like... THE RED-THROATED LOON OF DEATH!
It later turned out the bird Bobo had seen wasn't the red-throated loon of death. In fact, it wasn't even a loon, but a horned grebe. What an amusing mistake! thought Bobo to himself, as he was sitting there in the room, looking stupid.
Suddenly someone walked into the room! The room filled with laugher. The laughter came from the person who entered the room, who was... Jambola, Bobo's friend (from Chapter One)!
"Hello Bobo, my friend", said Jambola, Bobo's friend.
"Hello Jambola, what time is it?" answered Bobo mysteriously.
"Time... TO DIE!" screamed Bobo's former friend Jambola as he screamed and also lunged at Bobo with a very, very sharp steak knife that he had sharpened. That's how it got so sharp. He had sharpened it especially to kill Bobo, his former friend from way back. Anyway, Jambola screamed as he LUNGED!
As Jambola was licking the blood from his steak knife (he killed Bobo with it, you see), everything got very ominous. The air, the milieu, even the environment all around him.
"Now", said Jambola to himself, "there is but one thing that could make this a better day, and that would be if my good friend Bobo was here to share it with me." He took a few steps into the wall, and then he disappeared like a shadow.
To be continued.