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A Darker and Longer Brick Bronson
posted Tuesday, 22 May 2007
Some of you may have guessed this already, but what started out as a fun little blog diversion has developed into something much more ambitious than a collection of 100 word nanofiction stories. Once I came up with the Brick Bronson Bibliography I started thinking more and more about the Bronson-verse and--more significantly--the man who created it. With these thoughts I plan to put together a project I'm currently calling The Annotated Bronson: A Stoney M. Badess Reader, which will combine elements of a fictional biography of the author along with longer and thematically important excerpts from his 39 novels. With the project I want to explore the idea of telling the most important parts of a story subtextually rather than explicitly--to show the depths of Badess' loneliness and self-loathing through his work rather than the normal biographical details. I also look forward to tackling the many different kinds of pulp fiction I have woven into the Bronson-verse and all of the satiric possibilities they will provide. Plus, like 250 Words, it's an idea that will allow me to work in short bursts, which suits my current state of mind. To give you an idea of what I'm talking about, here's a longer than usual excerpt from 1975's Brick Bronson and the Homosexual Menace:
Petra was awoken by the sound of running water.
“Brick?” she sat up in their bed. “Is that you?”
There was no response, but from behind their bathroom door she heard the sound of her husband weeping.
“Brick?” she asked as she got up and threw on the flimsy, translucent robe she had taken out that evening in the hope that it might provoke him into committing a long overdue passionate gesture. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
He did not answer her. The water continued to run.
“Brick? Answer me!” she demanded through the door.
Only water.
The door wasn’t locked and when she opened it she found her husband sobbing as he lathered his hands with soap in what was now scalding hot water. His skin was red and raw, but Brick continued washing his hands, apparently certain that they would not be clean again until he reached the pure whiteness of his bones.
“What are you doing?” she asked him, frightened by what she saw.
With this she finally caught his attention.
“It won’t come off,” he explained to her. “No matter how hard I scrub it won’t come off.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I saw him. With them. At first I thought he was undercover as a part of our mission, but then I saw him,” Brick shuddered, “kiss one of them. On the lips. Like a man does with the woman he loves, but there were no women there. Not a one, including the ones that looked like women.”
“Brick, you’re babbling. What happened? Who did you see?”
“Timmy!” Brick shouted. “HE WAS ONE OF THEM!”
“One of who?”
Brick could not bring himself to say the word.
“There were no women there,” he repeated instead.
“Brick, what did you do?”
“I couldn’t let him live like that. They had done something to his mind. They had brainwashed him. Confused him. He was one of them. It was an act of mercy.”
Petra didn’t like the sound of this.
“What did you do?” she asked again, terrified that she knew the answer.
“It won’t come off,” Brick sobbed as the scalding water began to blister his hands.
“Where is Timmy?” asked Petra. “Where is he?”
“Where I left him. He’s not one of them anymore. I made sure of that. I cured him. I made him right again.”
“Brick,” tears started streaming down Petra’s face, “what did you do to Timmy?”
“It won’t come off,” Brick repeated. “The blood won’t come off….”
“Brick?” she sat up in their bed. “Is that you?”
There was no response, but from behind their bathroom door she heard the sound of her husband weeping.
“Brick?” she asked as she got up and threw on the flimsy, translucent robe she had taken out that evening in the hope that it might provoke him into committing a long overdue passionate gesture. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
He did not answer her. The water continued to run.
“Brick? Answer me!” she demanded through the door.
Only water.
The door wasn’t locked and when she opened it she found her husband sobbing as he lathered his hands with soap in what was now scalding hot water. His skin was red and raw, but Brick continued washing his hands, apparently certain that they would not be clean again until he reached the pure whiteness of his bones.
“What are you doing?” she asked him, frightened by what she saw.
With this she finally caught his attention.
“It won’t come off,” he explained to her. “No matter how hard I scrub it won’t come off.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I saw him. With them. At first I thought he was undercover as a part of our mission, but then I saw him,” Brick shuddered, “kiss one of them. On the lips. Like a man does with the woman he loves, but there were no women there. Not a one, including the ones that looked like women.”
“Brick, you’re babbling. What happened? Who did you see?”
“Timmy!” Brick shouted. “HE WAS ONE OF THEM!”
“One of who?”
Brick could not bring himself to say the word.
“There were no women there,” he repeated instead.
“Brick, what did you do?”
“I couldn’t let him live like that. They had done something to his mind. They had brainwashed him. Confused him. He was one of them. It was an act of mercy.”
Petra didn’t like the sound of this.
“What did you do?” she asked again, terrified that she knew the answer.
“It won’t come off,” Brick sobbed as the scalding water began to blister his hands.
“Where is Timmy?” asked Petra. “Where is he?”
“Where I left him. He’s not one of them anymore. I made sure of that. I cured him. I made him right again.”
“Brick,” tears started streaming down Petra’s face, “what did you do to Timmy?”
“It won’t come off,” Brick repeated. “The blood won’t come off….”
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