An excerpt from my new book. The anti-war book… so it goes

My new novel, titled The Thirteen Lives of a Television Repairman, will be out soon, and I wanted to get a bit of it out into the public, in order that it might marinate a bit.
Here are some things which you will not know without reading the earlier chapters of the book, as this scene comes late in the book, but is not impacting to the storyline in any major way.
ARG stands for Alternate Reality Generator. It shows you all possibilities throughout time.
The narrator is the man who created the ARG.
The entire story is told from the perspective of this man who sits in an underground nuclear fallout shelter after his ARG device has caused the nuclear holocaust. When it comes to use in his bunker after the bombs go off, it shows the protagonist all of the possibilities that can no longer be, because the world has been destroyed, and the one fate that the world shall have in a million and a half years.
This is the only scene in the book which touches upon the giant nosed people and is only in there for satire and anti-war sentiment.
Enjoy—
Cover sketch 1Now the machine doesn’t show me the future The future doesn’t exist any longer, not for humans. Instead, the ARG shows me two things: futures that could’ve been, futures from the past, and sometimes it shows show me a future that will happen in a million and a half years, after a new life has evolved.

***

This future is filled with strange creatures that have no money, nor any need for it, they have no bills, because they get what they need from the planet. There is no such thing as rent, or a mortgage, because no one owns anything. Why would they? They didn’t create the earth with divine purpose or mastery of the universe. There is also no need for money because these creatures, which have replaced us as the dominant form of life on planet Earth, have no eyes. They evolved this way because of the radiation, maybe, but also because they thought it best when evolving, to refrain from looking at things covetously, so they killed their eyes. That’s one way to do it.

They also have no ears, so they cannot argue over music, or politics, or improper language.

They do have an exquisite sense of touch, which, incidentally, is exquisite only because it doesn’t tell them if something feels bad or good, but only that it’s there. Much like they themselves, the deaf dumb and blind creatures… they are neither good nor bad, they simply are. They eat and shit, and reproduce asexually, so there is no jealousy or infidelity and so on. They do not understand religion, because they haven’t any need for it.

Their main sense, where ours is vision, is smell. They have tremendously big noses. They conduct nearly all of their business by smell. The part of their brain that interprets olfactory is very large indeed, and is directly linked to the part of the brain that deals in pleasure. There is no part of their brain that deals in pain. If one dies, they simply die, and are happy up until the point when the do. And why not? After all, they are perfectly fine as far as they can tell. And the part which deals in memory is very limited. So where a smell might remind you and I of a person, place, or a thing, a smell simply reminds them of the last time the smelled that smell.  They never get sad or lonely, because they need nothing they don’t have.

The only eat one thing: gardenias. And they have no natural predators, because they and the gardenias are the only remaining life forms on Earth. They eat the gardenias, and secrete the seeds and manure two days later. They use their fantastic sense of smell to guide them to fresh gardenias to eat, and then to depleted areas to void their waste. They never spread manure where they eat, or sleep. They circle and circle year after year, but they aren’t aware of this. The simply smell food, and go eat it, then smell where food should be, but isn’t, and go shit there.

They sleep somewhere in the middle.

They’re quite perfect.

Incidentally, though, they do make a great deal of noise, braying like a pack of old women at a bingo hall, and are absurdly gassy, which could also be represented at bingo. They don’t notice any of this and aren’t offended, because they haven’t the faculties to notice, other than the obscene smell. But they don’t think its obscene at all, in fact, in their brains doesn’t exist anything to represent negativity at all, and all smells are pleasant and bring them exquisite joy, and the only indication of how pleasant something is, is how strong or pungent a particular aroma is. They can tell the difference in one odor or the next one—or else how could they find the gardenias?—but have no preference, unless its meal time or time to void. Other than that, they fill their lives sucking the odors of farts and seawater and dirt and gardenias and lack of gardenias and so on into their enormous bulbous noses.

You and I would think this world to be perfect and beautiful, with all the gardenias and with the giant walking noses on small furry feet, and we would like very much to live there in peace. But inevitably, we will become offended by all the noise and the smells and the carelessness with which the giant noses rubbed up against us blindly, and sneezed gardenia pollen all over our legs and feet, and we would become so offended that we would insist on carving out a patch just for us.

Eventually, That patch would become somehow smaller and no longer suitable to our needs, and we would need more land, where we would trample and kill more gardenias and more of the little big-nose people. And then it would all go to pot.

That’s what we do. We covet something, then we take offense to it, and we steal and kill and take and take and take. That’s certainly one way to do it.

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