Wake up and pay attention! See, I am ripping it off from some super classified sources and dishing it out for you. Just for you, my lovelorn, weak-knee sweet heart. The name on the book you are holding is Martha Rosy but the real writer is he, not she. His real world name is Stutsmith Quardlone Marlott Fefferblum and he hails from a semi-industrialized town called Dobermanville. No, you won't find it on the Google Earth. And yes, he writes with cool, cutting precision of a computer-controlled assembly line; accurate and fast and no nonsense and no coffee breaks and no whining and no nothing. No, he doesn’t get off his butt without chewing up his daily target of 1248 words. Not a comma more, not a period less. All iron clad routine and no room for error.
Not that he cares anymore; but no one can tell him why his writing doesn’t have an ounce of life, an iota of emotional energy, or a drop of passion. No offence, but I am talking about that pink jacketed book with a realistic photo-illustration on the front half. It’s a dead book with dead characters meant for dead readers. Dead reviewers will write about it in some dead papers and you can buy it from some dead end departmental store like the one you are standing in.
Now be a doll and do me a favour. Don’t zip off to the hot climax pages straight away. Instead, take a deep monoxide flavoured breath, and sample this cute sex scene that starts on page thirteen, para three. A seventeen year old collage going tooty fruity with an improbable name like Roserush Rebecca. She, this girl, who is armed with a sexy blunt cut, a brass nose ring and matching bracelets, finally tangles with an insurance salesman too old, too fragile, too flatulent for her. He is thin, seriously dandruffed, moderately desperate and down on his luck like a lame dog in a deadend street.
Ho ho and behold, careful now. The writer kicks this odd couple together and they do a mating dance in a deserted public park during a full blown working day. Note this. It can happen on Sunday too if the Rebecca girl doesn’t want to cut classes at the nearby college. Whatever. Now let’s have some atmosphere in the park. Bright sun, clear blue sky, cool breeze, swaying trees, buzzing butterflies and colorful humming birds making out and all in the back ground. What else?
The teenage girl is lithe and clever and has all the right moves like an expert acrobat in a performing circus. She looks down at the freshly watered grass, takes in the flower pollen in the air and stumbles over an imaginary frog. Hoops! She takes the awkward insurance salesman down with her, she on top. That hot button babe! She with long limbs and short fuse can do it. She does it and how! She grabs his sweat-smelling yellowed collar and rips it off in that heat of wanton passion we are familiar with since the days of Helen of Troy. Her legs locking him in a place tight and tolerant, like sweet vice of a dear devil. Flakes of mud in their hair, their hormone pumps in full flow, blood boiling in their veins and the salesman’s zipper bursting for freedom. They kiss, both for the first time in their fast and furious fictional life. That slobbering, kinetic kiss between the two artless animals, none too proficient, none too perfect, saliva dripping from the corners of their mouths and lips doing their clumsy, crass motions. Logic demands that the hotter than the flames-in-furance couple remembers the incredible, earthshaking moment of their passion till the end of the story. Okay, dokay. They do. They remember it, like you remember the top item on your forgotten grocery list.
So, to put it crudely, Mr. Stutsmith Quardlone Marlott Fefferblum from Dobermanville, that fellow with rigorous work ethic and vigorous typing speed; he hunches over his fancy computer with a foldable keyboard, and churns out crude little stories. He scratches out a story like you scratch out a grocery list. There. What a way to end romance.