“What a piece of shit.”
~ Oscar Wilde on Winnepeg
Winnepeg is a 1988 book written by Mr. Soot Gremlin. The plot is crude, and follows the adventures of Winnepeg, a young man of childish complexion. It is often referred to as "vulgar", "what a piece of shit", and "whore-like". It gained considerable success, especially in Denmark, where anyone will read anything and enjoy it. Winnepeg is the first novel in the Winnepeg Series, a series of books that, surprisingly, revolves around a character named Winnepeg. The novels will be released in a box set in 2013, the year the entire population of the United States will be dumb enough to read anything thrown their way. Huzzah!
Introduction by the Author
The writing of Winnepeg began back in the fall of 1986, when the last of the hippies were being exterminated. I was sitting in my cheap mud house, watching the telly and drooling from my mouth when the realization struck me: I needed money. After searching Monster.com and realizing that it offered no help, I turned to writing. To write is to breathe. To write is to live. To write is blah blah blah.... For assistance in writing, I met with Oscar Wilde, bringing along a kitten in case an offering was to be needed for the great Wilde. He met me in front of a pub, stone drunk, and gave me these now epic words of wisdom:“I think I'm gonna throw up all over your prissy little shoes...gargle gargle belchhh...”
I went home, wiped off my shoes, and realized just what Wilde had told me. To write, you must throw up all your emotions and experiences on a piece of paper. You can do it into a toilet, too. So I immediately took to writing, and came out with Winnepeg. I hope you enjoy.
Winnepeg woke up with a twitching eye, which he took as a bad sign. The apartment that he lived in was still as bare as it had been yesterday. By the looks of the sky, it was nearly two in the morning, and Winnepeg didn't like it. He felt angry at everything, and everyone. He felt like Sarah Palin, where nobody understands you. Last night he had had quite a bit to eat, at a fancy place called Butternuggets. With a sore throat, Winnepeg clambered slowly out of bed and walked silently over to the balcony, peering out over his city. It was at that moment that a sudden realization hit him. It hit him like a big freight train. The train of the realization collided with his mind and mercilessly crushed it, scraping it along the tracks of counter-realization; bloody juices of neo-realization dirtying the surrounding gravel of realizationness. The realization was something along the lines of the fact that at that moment, Winnepeg had to get out of the city. He could not remain here and watch people walk all over the streets. Goddammit, he needed to be free. Free as a bird. With no intention of staying any longer, he hurtled around his apartment, scooping up everything he might need and throwing it onto the living room floor. This proved to be somewhat damaging to his stereo system. Then, with a flourish of the arms, Winnepeg announced like a ship captain on peyote: "Oh, thou scavernous mag!" He needed some fresh air. That much was clear.
Winnepeg clambered into his convertible Toyota Camry, a rather small, preowned vehicle. The city was there before him, except, as that famous Captain Obvious would state, "It was from a ground view". Winnepeg started his engine, feeling the shuddering vibration, smelling the classic Camry exhaust, and felt a funny feeling come over him.
"You know," he said aloud, causing a small old woman passing by to jump, "Why should one need to turn a key to start the engine of a car?" He reached for the keys and was about to turn off the car, when he stopped and said, "For that matter, why should one have to turn the key to turn off the car? Why should I have to push the gas pedal to make the car move?" He pushed the gas pedal and the engine roared but nothing happened, since of course the car wasn't in gear. A passerby glanced over at Winnepeg sitting in the convertible and said loudly, "Dumb fuck. Put the car in gear, ya n00b." Winnepeg watched the man move on, contemplating the vibration of the vehicle. He then put the car in gear and began to slowly accelerate towards the passerby that had referred to him as a n00b. The man seemed to realize what was happening, and bolted for safety, screaming. Winnepeg missed him by a few inches.
"God damn!" the man yelled. "N00b! Learn to drive!" Winnepeg sighed and watched the man return to his feet.
"N00b!" The man screamed, kicking Winnepeg's bumper. Good God, thought Winnepeg as he slammed the car into reverse and backed up into the man. With a screech and a shudder, the man's body compacted and was caught instantly inside Winnepeg's right wheel well. For another moment, Winnepeg stopped moving. He sat in the car and thought for a bit. There had been nobody around to see the murder. He fumbled around in his glovebox, and found an ice scraper, which he put back in. He would need it later. That much was clear.
Winnepeg headed out through the web of construction areas, head shops, liquor stores, and deserted warehouses that made up his beautiful city. On impulse, Winnepeg pulled up in front of a large, bulbous Dick's Sporting Goods, a ten-story sports emporium. The cold wind that slashed through the air bit Winnepeg's cheeks and face. He thought he might want to pull up the convertible top, but was vaguely afraid that it would be soiled by a bird.
"It is a black convertible top, after all," Winnepeg said to himself. "And if a bird was to soil it, who knows how I might be frowned upon by the respectable society?" He exited the car, leaving it unlocked. Nobody even looked at him as he entered the department store, clutching his brown Men's Wearhouse jacket close to him. The air in the store smelled of artificial lemon and orange, the really strong Airwick kind. As Winnepeg turned his attention away from the air, however, he realized with a sudden pang of panic that he had just walked into a real, steaming American apartment store. He didn't belong here. What the hell did this place offer him? But there was no way he would return to the car. Not yet. He began moving along the aisles of patriotic clothing, the sport-team oriented jackets. The whole building had this musky, American smell. The air had a sticky feeling on his skin. Working his way deeper into the building, he left the aisle of American clothes, and instead found himself amid shelves of horridly miscellaneous items. Peanut butter jugs were leaning against chocolate, Old baseball bats were mixed in with ancient football artifacts... nothing had any order! Winnepeg began to get frightened, seeing so much of the major society mixed together in this unnoticed garbage heap. Winnepeg was going to have to have a serious talk with the manager. He spun on his heel, and began to march back to the front desk, when he realized that a wall had somehow appeared between this aisle and the one previous. Winnepeg froze. Had he ever encountered anything like this before?
"Well," Winnepeg said aloud, "This is quite a pickle." But he immediatly wondered why he had used that expression. He had always hated it when people had said stuff like that. Perhaps he was turning into his grandfather.
Winnepeg was not a man to be beaten, though. He immediately took to examining the wall for any weak areas, poking and prodding the bricks like a plastic surgeon manipulates stuff. Winnepeg was just trying to figure out how to poke the wall's upper areas when a voice behind him said, "This is not drywall, you know."
Winnepeg spun around, holding up his hand as if he had a gun in it.
"Put it down!" yelped the man, stumbling backwards. His foot caught a wheel of a tricycle, and he went tumbling into a shelf. Winnepeg kept his invisible gun ready and cautiously stepped over to the fallen person. He was obviously unconscious, judging by the way his eyes were fluttering, and Winnepeg almost felt bad. Just for a moment. Then the guy came to his senses, and Winnepeg readied his nonexistent gun again.
"Please!" the man screamed, looking fearfully up at Winnepeg. "That's a Magnum! Do you even have a license?!"
"It is... unclear..." Winnepeg responded. He pocketed the invisible gun, and helped the other guy to his feet. Winnepeg observed him. He was a human male, of about 35. He looked and smelled like dog shit, which symbolized a normal, healthy American. His face was saggy, like a dog's, and his hair was all fucked up.
In turn, the man inspected Winnepeg. He (Winnepeg) was a human male, of about 24, with the face of a small child. He looked and smelled like a bar of exotic soap, which symbolized a normal, healthy European. His face was smooth and clean shaven, like a cat's, and his hair was all nice and permed and shit.
Winnepeg put away his firearm, and immediately began to inspect the wall again.
"Aren't you going to ask me who I am?" the American sputtered.
"I was," Winnepeg said without turning, "But then I thought better of it. Why dwell on a thing when you can dwell on another thing?"
"How true!" the man exclaimed. He scratched his flea-ridden hair, and drew a small notÈbook from his coat, and wrote in something. "You know, my fellow, being you must be amazing. You are so handsome and youthful, you understand hygiene, and you are smart!"
"AH!" Winnepeg suddenly spun around. "BUT WHAT IS INTELLIGENCE WITHOUT UNDERSTANDING THE BACK OF YOUR HAIR??"
"Right again!" the man screamed, as Winnepeg returned to the wall. "How often does one gaze upon the back of his head? That's really deep! Do YOU ever really see the back of your head? And who knows what secrets might lie there? If only... if only there was a way to see the back of our own heads..."
Winnepeg smiled to himself. He turned back to the wall, which was very strong. "Well," he said absently, "Perhaps there is a back door."
"There is always a back door." the other man said softly. Winnepeg swept past him and headed off on his own. He left the shelves of disorder, and entered a low-ceilinged atrium. He looked around, a bit unnerved. The atrium seemed to expand for many miles in every direction. He turned and walked back to the shelves of disorder. The man had vanished, probably to a coffee shop to tell the world how Winnepeg had come and enlightened him. So there Winnepeg stood, in a bit of rabid confusion. He sat down on the plastic floor, wondering how much money Dick's generated in a year.
"What am I to do?" Winnepeg suddenly cried, feeling pretty sad. All his life had been a joke. Nothing he had ever done or said meant anything to himself or anybody. This realization hit him now; it was like when he had realized that he had wanted to go out in the first place. Here he was, like a foolish little bitch. Here he was, all at the mercy of nothing other than a wall. Suddenly he spied something on the shelf. A sledgehammer. American made. No, wait.... That was the Chinese flag on the label. But what did it matter? A sledgehammer magnified energy, and much more than a regular hammer! Winnepeg wiped his sweaty palms on his sweaty brow, and nervously gripped the sledgehammer's handle. With a tug, he tried to lift the thing, but it would not move. He grunted and roared, but the thing was just too heavy. Winnepeg left the hammer to examine his arms. He was skinny, and his muscles were just not ready to lift something that heavy. Or were sledgehammers really supposed to be that heavy? Winnepeg racked his brain for answers, and, unsurprisingly, found none.
"I need only a moment to think." he said to himself, and sat on a Fisher Price tricycle, massaging his nose. His father had been quite powerful, arm-wise. But how had he achieved it?? Winnepeg simply failed to remember. It was really hard, thinking about your childhood! You unconsciously block out all those terrible times in school, during your induction into the capitalist society, when you were learning ways to craftily "blow up Nazis" and "smoke out them tourists". And then! And then! And then And then And then And then And then And then! Winnepeg had it! He rose from his tricycle, mouth curving into a grin. His matted hair trembled as he raised a finger, and pointed up to that old man up there. His father, the drinker and the scoundrel, the war hero and the mechanic, the butch and the daddy, had used none other than A UNIVERSAL WEIGHT SET TO BUILD UP HIS MASSIVE ABS AND HIS TONED BICEPS! It was finally clear. It was simple. Winnepeg needed a weight set. The more Chinese the better. He had much time. He had ambition. He would train his muscles. He would soon be strong enough to lift the sledgehammer. He would soon be free.
That much was clear.