Ben Peek (benpeek) wrote,
Ben Peek

  • Music:

Nowhere Near Savannah, Art by Anna Brown, Words by Ben Peek

What the fuck is that?


You're awake! Fuck, sorry bout the noise man.

And this, if you must know, is a platypus.

The little bill at the front gives it away.

Where the fuck you get it from?

I have no idea. I just hope I didn't mug a child.

Maybe it belonged to the girl you came in with?

You were awake for that?

I wasn't asleep. I haven't take a shit for three days. Everything inside of me has turned to stone. I touch my stomach and there's no longer flesh there, but a cold surface that reminds me only of the toilets I will never again visit.

I no longer do normal, human things.

I think I'm becoming Post-Human.



I am not—I can't have that conversation right now. I have been drinking.

I see.

So, yeah. You see how this will have to wait.

The girl was cute.


Shame about her friends.

The contempt in their eyes was not concealed at all.

I thought it was a bit more of an over protective vibe. I got that from the guy who followed you both into the room.

I think he's in love with her. That's my theory.

You talk to him?




No, I talked to her. She was interesting and cute. He was just some dude so as you can clearly see, there is no basis in reality for this theory of mine.

Do you want the platypus?

Will it make me regular?

It could have strange powers I don't know about. Perhaps God sent it here to make you take a fucking shit and stop fucking bitching about your ass.

The Shit Platypus?

Robin to your Batman, mate. Catch.


When did you start drinking, anyway?

'Bout the time I went to that Australian Party.

You didn't do shit to Strahan, did you?


But, like, karma settled that anyway.



See, I heard this story, right. 'Bout Strahan.

It goes like this, it goes. It goes: he's got this fancy agent or something fucking like that, right. Big wig dude. And each time at this convention, this agent, his agent, he like has this black tie dinner for all his clients. The gold Amex card comes out and shomp shomp shomp, y'know? It's all about business and getting in tight and all that that shit you see on TV. All you got to do for that is arrive nicely dressed.

'Cept Strahan, he's, like, a fucking dork, man, and he doesn't bring is a black tie get up even though he knows about this thing, and his agent—his agent says, “Well, you can't come to my dinner,” rather like John Wayne, I would imagine.

Was that your John Wayne impersonation?

It not good?

Say it again.

“Well you can't come to my dinner.”

You sound Russian.

It's note fucking perfect!

Fuck you.


Want to hear the end of the story?

Does he throw a tantrum?


He's just not the fuck allowed to go like he's some fucking child, y'know?

Is that even true?

Who knows, but it makes the world even, I say.

You wussed the fuck out, didn't you?

No way.


This is gold.

You let some dick treat you like shit so you didn't rock no boat, man. That's what you did.



When I'm sober, I'm going to argue against that.

I'm sure you will.





It's fucking hard to be in room with people who don't like you, y'know?

It digs inside your skin, man. Makes you full of paranoid bullshit. You figure you got to be on your guard all the time and watch for some fuck who wants to put you down and who wants to score points with their friends off you. Some asshole whose balls got boosted by the numbers of mates they got round them, cause normally they wouldn't say shit. So you watch for them so you can be crueler to them than they are to you so no one fucking assumes you going to lay down for shit opinions.

But it's fucking crazy, that animosity. It's so fucking personal, like they think they know you.

You only got yourself to blame for that.


No maybes, man.

You know how to do this shit, just like I do. You don't talk about another's work, you don't point out the flaws, you don't show them up when they're fucking morons. What you do is have no opinions, no thoughts, unless it's real private, and you're sure that other person thinks the same as you..

That Consulate Party that Strahan and whoever put on is an example of you not doing that cause you didn't want to do it. I mean, what is it, a party at some Consulate for Australian writers to stand round, drink wine and meet people who don't give a shit bout their work, and won't do anything for them after. Not exactly exciting, and you could've said, no, sorry, I don't get in till its started, and no one would have said shit. It was true, after all. But instead, you're like, what the fuck do I want to go to a consulate party? These people don't invite me to parties in Australia, so why would I go to a ridiculous one in the States. Fuck 'em!

That's you making a situation worse.

Is true though.

Yeah, man, but they're trying to be inclusive, and you're just ragging on their show. That's why half of them got the shits with you before you even show.



I'm not saying that excuses treatment from dicks like Strahan, but you got to make a choice, man: you either going to play this shit right, or you going to do what you normally fucking do, and just live with whatever happens cause of it.



I really did wuss out, didn't I?

You were afraid a whole bunch of people who'd buy your work would see you being an asshole and that'd fuck you over.

I got to work on that.

I'm enjoying this though.

I don't suppose you could tell me I was right, could you? I'd like to record that.




Where you going?

First: Fuck you.

Second: In case you didn't notice, the cute girl is gone, and you are a poor fucking substitute for her cause you keep pointing out my foibles. So I'm going find more drink and more girls and hopefully forget this conversation.

Enjoy the platypus, man.

(Cross posted from
Tags: nowherenearsavannah

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