So, we’re not doing a cover reveal yet…but The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal is finished.
I wanted to share an excerpt from our beloved suicidalist on one of his many escapades. In addition, here are some other points to address.Paperback may be the only print format available—at first. If anything, there would just be a limited amount of hardcovers, which would include a little something extra about Bob. If you like the story and how it goes, trust me, it’s something you’ll love.
Format: Paperback may be the only print format available—at first. If anything, there would just be a limited amount of hardcovers, which would include a little something extra about Bob. If you like the story and how it goes, trust me, it’s something you’ll love. As always, if you buy a print copy, you get a digital copy for free with us (and Amazon).
Pricing: $3 flat. It could be less or it could be about the same. The chances are high that it’ll just be $3 flat.
Cover: It’s gonna be sexy. At least in our eyes.
Surprise! If you want a digital version of Lilah’s Guide to Hoyle for free, just go to the store, set out to buy it, and enter in the coupon LILAHFREE. Boom. Done. You can then download it as many times as you want…or even gift it.
You can also nab The Lodestone Files: The Things in the Shadows and Abnormal Side Effects for free too.
Anywho, without further ado… Here’s a brief excerpt from The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal.
Episode One: The Chronic Suicidal
Have you ever had those moments where you’re sitting there (or hell, driving) and just thinking, “Man, I could totally kill myself right now.” Or maybe—and work with me here—you’re sitting at the dinner table with your family. You know, your spouse, perhaps your parents, kids, siblings, whatever. Then the moment you break bread you’re just like, “Fuck it!” You slam your palms down (or fists, or do a table flip, I don’t fucking know), grab that steak knife, and . . . slit. You know? Slit your own throat? Literally. Right there. At the dinner table. You got blood spraying, gushing out, dripping down your clothes, all over the furniture, the walls, the fine China, the mashed potatoes, on your folks, in your kid’s eye.
Well, if you’ve ever had moments like these, where you’re compelled to do the unthinkable, you’re not alone. Hell, I do it all the time. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Bob Barnen, and I am a chronic suicidal.
Christ, it sounds like I’m at some AA meeting, or in the confessional or something. Yeah, well, I’m not. The truth is, I dunno where I am. I mean, I do, I just don’t know where exactly I am. I guess I could be dead, dreaming, in a coma. I tried asking others: my wife, my kids, my folks, my friends—hell, even my dog! No one has a goddamn clue what the hell is going on. What I do know is this: every time I commit suicide, I’m put right back in bed, safe and cozy.
I guess I could start by telling you about the first time I had the impulse, and why I did what I did.
Now, lemme tell ya, I had no regrets. Not even a letter. I loved my family, an’ hell, I still do. It wasn’t their fault that I wanted to end it. I was just done. Just done with life. I couldn’t handle the stress of a transfer out of state, of meeting people who were culturally different, and honestly, of not knowing a single goddamn person. I mean sure, the pay was good, yeah, but what good is the pay when you bust your balls and ask all the boys at the cooler—“Hey, Pete, Bill, Shaun, guy—to get a drink after work and don’t get a single goddamn word in reply? Instead, they give you this look like, who the fuck are you? Oh, it’s the new guy! Bah, fuck ’em. I’ll tell you what, those sons of bitches who say that they’re there “if you need help,” or some “reasonable accommodation,” or their “door is always open,” they’re lying sons of bitches. They don’t care about you. They don’t care about no one except their own goddamn selves and their fat fucking wallets.
I do apologize, I seemed to have run off there.
So here’s the deal: job transfer out of state. I’m a desk jockey at a firm that deals the stock market. Been married for thirteen years, four kids. I have a nice house, decent pay, fucked-up neighbors. I got a car, dog, and some cats. What’s there to be wrong? Probably absolutely nothing, and I get that. What happened was pretty simple. I jumped. I jumped right off the roof of the office building right smack onto the cars and curb below. I say “and curb” because I think—I’m pretty sure at least—that my feet snapped on it and shattered. I dunno. I can’t say I remember anything other than a giant forceful knockout that, well, knocked the shit out of me.
You might be asking, “What were your final thoughts?” Well, for starters: “Oh shit, oh shit, bad idea, bad idea.” Followed by, “I’m flying!” Then, “Holy shit the ground is coming up fast.” Next, “Why am I doing this? Who’s going to take care of the kids, and my wife? What the hell am I doing?” And then, some guilt, anger, sadness, love, happiness. Finally, nothing. Pow! Lights out.
Now, hindsight being twenty-twenty, yeah, it was pretty fucking stupid. Do I regret it? Yes and no. Yes, because I was dumb to leave my family alone in this fucked-up world. And no because, well, I can’t die. OK, I can die, but I can’t die. I’m like Bill fucking Murray in an extreme, uncensored version of Groundhog Day, but it’s been going on now for . . . fuck if I know. Either way, nothings working, and truth be told, I’ve started to actually enjoy it. If this is how I get to spend the rest of my days, so be it, I guess. I get to see my wife, my kids; that’s good enough for me. Still, I can’t shake the thought of there being more to this. For now, I’ll just get dressed.
By the way, if you haven’t figured it out yet—I recently killed myself at the dinner table.
So there you have it, folks. I hope you enjoyed this sampling of Bob’s meaty loins.
Until next time,
— RJM and Friends