The Rooster Trapped in the Reptile Room: A Barry Gifford Reader
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"Everything I have to say about race and religion and politics is in the novels," declares Barry Gifford. The Rooster Trapped in the Reptile Room gathers generous portions of all thirteen novels and novellas, as well as first-person essays, generous helpings of poetry, journalism, and a new interview with the author. The broad contours of an episodic output emerge—a full-length view of the freaks and freakish incidents that populate Gifford’s unique human comedy. A world, as Lula, the author’s favorite of all his characters, reflects, "wild at heart and weird on top."
The Rooster Trapped in the Reptile Room provides essential reading for anyone after the soul of American writing.
women, both ex-convicts, claim to be brides of Jesus, whom the suspects insist was also a woman. ‘Miss Jesus,’ they say, ordered them to rid the world of the male species. ‘Men is beyond the point of being reeducated. The disease has spread too far,’ said Ms Stalcup. ‘It is midnight everywhere for them.’ ” Easy Earl shook his head, pulled a Kool from his shirt pocket, stuck it between his lips and punched in the dashboard lighter. “Mm, mm,” he mumbled, “sure as shit some righteous bitches out
can deliver them in person. All for now. Sincerely, your friend Marble Lesson THE GOOD SAMARITAN WESSON LESSON STAGGERED out of the Saturn Bar into the street. After losing his job in New Roads, Wes had come to New Orleans to visit his brother, Webb, only to learn that Webb had been arrested and jailed for operating a tax scam involving false bills of sale for automobiles. This swindle landed Webb a ten spot at the Atchafalaya Correctional Facility, to which he was sent a week after Wes got
before he could turn on a light, a blunt object—a chunk of heavy glass with the word MIZZOU decaled on it in gold letters over a black and gold drawing of a snarling tiger—permanently wrinkled the unsuspecting owner’s right temple, causing his immediate collapse onto the brown-stained cedar board floor. “Wad you hid ’im wid?” “Ashtray.” Ice D knelt next to the prone pawn king and closely inspected his head. “He fix, Spit. Fix permanen’. Maybe bes’ we carry ’im out back way we come in.” “No,”
To her fans, Irma remained forever in character. The band segued into a waltz-like treatment of “The Fat Man” and several couples, some of the same or similar sex, rose to dance. Hypolite dipped a hand between her gooey thighs and closed her eyes as she massaged herself, holding in her mind the impossibly beautiful image of Irma Soon and the python locked in their forbidden embrace. TWO FOR THE ROAD “YOU GONNA HARM me?” Carjack Jack looked back over his right shoulder at Parshal, wrinkled
downtown—though Weidmann’s restaurant, which has been there since 1870, is still pretty good. I don’t mind leaving—even Jimmie Rodgers left as soon as he made some money. We cruise past Forest, birthplace of Arthur “Big Boy” Crudup, Elvis’s early idol—Elvis’s first record was of Crudup’s tune “That’s All Right, Mama”—on to Bovina, near Vicksburg, to see Earl Wayne Simmons, a black folk artist—not unlike Simon Rodia, who built the Watts towers in L.A.—who has constructed a domicile called EARLS