Happy Mutant Baby Pills: A Novel
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Lloyd has a particular set of skills. He writes the small print for prescription drugs, marital aids, and incontinence products. The clients present him with a list of possible side effects. His job is "to recite and minimize"—sometimes by just saying them really fast and other times by finding the language that can render them acceptable. The results are ingenious. The methods diabolical.
Lloyd has a habit, too. He cops smack during coffee breaks at his new job writing copy for Christian Swingles, an online dating service for the faithful. He finds a precarious balance between hackwork and heroin until he encounters Nora, a mysterious and troubled young woman, a Sylvia Plath with tattoos and implants, who asks for his help.
Lloyd falls swiftly in love, but Nora bestows her affections at a cost. Before Lloyd clears his head from the fog of romance, he finds himself complicit in Nora's grand scheme to horrify the world and exact revenge on those who poison the populace in order to sell them the cure.
Together. Join today. I “fellowshipped” on this with Jay and Riegle after fixing again—a special treat for a special occasion!—in a men’s room stall in the Denny’s down the street from the office, then went back in and hammered out the kinks. Jay lay on top of his desk and dangled one stonewashed jean leg off the end of it. “There’s only one thing lonelier than a horny twenty-eight-year-old Christian,” he said. “Yeah,” Riegle interrupted. “A horny twenty-eight-year-old gay Christian.”
car. Behind the wheel. A sleek, bullet-headed African-American fellow, his right cheekbone sporting a crescent scar. (He resembled Paul Robinette, the handsome, high-cheekboned black assistant DA in the early days of Law & Order. Then I saw his name tag and the coin dropped. This was Detective Dustin. This was Jay’s Dusty. The mythical Dusty, in the flesh, with a wedding ring and a stare that burrowed into the back of your head. “You still here?” he said. “What? Am I supposed to—” “Shut up,
Hemingway. But a generic brand. Its cover some kind of shiny fake. But big enough for her hand to disappear inside. So she could write without her seatmate knowing either what she was writing or that she was writing at all. My future friend did not acknowledge me, so I (quietly) rifled her bag. I wondered if she was “journaling.” But she didn’t look like somebody who’d use that word. Unless she was mocking it. The first card had a picture of a respectable suburban lady nailed to a crucifix on
less heroin it had been fed—while I watched, and wondered, as the bard said, What the fuck? Listen. Some people play sports and some people watch them. We grow up, here in America, watching death. Our favorite form of recreation. Death-watching. Violence-savoring. All Nora and I had done was turn professional. Join the big leagues. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them the dark wood grain in the walls had begun to quiver. Nora shoved the panties deeper in the deputy’s mouth and zapped him
me a look so single-minded it was like having a laser aimed directly through my unibrow. “You know what I’m going to do. I’m going to have the baby. And then, you know . . . ” “No, I don’t know.” A rare and beautiful smile. “I’m going to make it an event. I’m going to show it off.” “To who?” “His creators. If this were NASCAR, I could have a sponsor’s patch on every deformity, one per tumor. Monsanto. Johnson and Johnson. Merck, Bayer, Kellogg’s . . .” I had to interrupt. “Kellogg’s? Now