The Outlandish and the Ego is the first in a new genre of literature: political erotica. This wild and comical satire follows two parallel stories that ultimately converge and blend into a new American reality.
One side of The Outlandish and the Ego plays out with the Aide, who relentlessly seeks to maintain his power as he maneuvers his president for reelection. The Aide's ruthless appetite for victory comes to life in the form of wife swapping, partnering with a corporation hungry for war, endless slandering, and so much more. But in order to win, the Aide must survive an evil secret society-the Brethren.
The other half of The Outlandish and the Ego finds Samuel and Roger: two wild derelicts who are running from demon gnomes that nobody else can see or understand. In order to satisfy the gnomes' demands, Samuel and Roger must solve the riddle of "the signal." The two twisting plotlines crash into each other as the fate of the Aide, Samuel, Roger, and the Brethren come to an unexpected and hilarious close.
|Sold by:||Barnes & Noble|
|File size:||353 KB|
Read an Excerpt
THE LITTLE MEN
And there he goes.
Samuel's hair snapped back against the rush of wind while he felt a spring of fear and excitement run up through his rectum and into the pit of his stomach — he knew the chase was on.
The blur, the streaking frenzy of visuals colliding as he crashed down the hall with panic, with desperation. Escape. Just get away, he's got to get away. He was blitzing forth with hate in each step. The burn — sucking air fails to cool the lungs. The nerves — grinding his teeth away. The panic — fuel for the mad dash. The colors, faces, fluorescent lights mash and converge upon one another — the kaleidoscope eyes. The rush — the walls whiz by the peripheral. Keep it going, Sammy, just keep it going. Escape. Escape it, escape them.
Here they come.
The three men in ill-fitting white scrubs barreled down the hall, their rubber soles squeaking against the linoleum floor. Their cheeks jiggled with each rapid step toward their target, making them remarkably uglier than before. They tumbled down the hall, moving like mad gorillas exposed to tear gas — wild in form but in some peculiar way, tactical all the same. The man on the far left felt his belly jiggle in a circular motion as he cut to the right, narrowly missing an absent-minded nurse with her head down. He began to trail his fellow orderlies as his chest burned with fiery fatigue. He brushed off puddles of sweat that had formed near the crest of his mustache and continued to give chase. All three men turned a sharp corner hard, bowling over an older patient using a walker. The patient's head bounced off the floor, and his eyelids clamped down. He was simply collateral for the chase.
"There he is!" yelled the man in the middle. His biceps popped out of his sleeves, and his knuckle hair flared back as he pointed to the slender man with wild Medusa hair sprinting down the corridor, pushing anyone out of his way with violent shoves. "Get him," he ordered.
The man on the far right, the most sleek and trim of the trio, obediently turned on the afterburners, instantly separating himself from the minimum-wage posse.
Samuel looked back at the determined herd chasing him and saw the smallest one of the bunch closing the gap rapidly. He turned his attention back to the crowd in front of him and saw a nurse in his way. But this wasn't any nurse; this was Nurse Puccinelli — the biggest bitch of them all.
"You violated bedtime hours, Nurse Puccinelli." He held his arm out in a firm, straight line. "Eat this, you Wicken bitch!"
Nurse Puccinelli turned around just in time to see Samuel's forearm catch her underneath her jaw, clotheslining her up into the air and careening back toward the ground violently. As she landed, her spine took the brunt of the force, causing all the oxygen from her body to erupt out of her. The injured woman bellowed in agony as the other nurses rushed to her side and held her arms down to the ground while securing her neck.
"I got him!" The speedy man reached out to grab a piece of Samuel's shirt, extending his arm as far as it could go and decelerating himself in the process. Samuel felt the slight tug, and the opportunity for escape arose like an unexpected erection. This time he turned another corner, going down the treatment hall. It was a drastic turn, and just as Samuel thought he was about to lose his footing, he straightened out and pounded his feet into the ground, one after the other, and regained his top speed. The chasing assailant lost his grip on Samuel's shirt, and just before an immediate turn, the failing orderly slipped and tumbled into the wall, gnashing the side of his head into the hard surface with all the force of his momentum, undoubtedly sending his peanut-sized brain sloshing around his head.
"Fools!" Samuel yelled back in the direction of the men. "They'll just get you too!"
It was one thing to elude his potential captors when Samuel was darting through the parts of the hospital that were familiar to him, but navigating the foreign halls and corridors became problematic in his escape. His nerves were already pulled taut, and now his lungs burned so badly they were screaming for a break. His stomach crunched with anxiety as he knew the end was near. He turned down another hall, then another — all looking different from anything he'd seen before, all leading somewhere he'd never know. The three men had recovered the ground they had temporarily lost after their speedster had cracked his head into the wall, and now as Samuel turned back once more to check their proximity, they had closed the separation to under ten feet. Samuel grit his teeth and tightened his jaw, looking for something, anything that could lead him away from it all. He made one last turn, curving around the edge of a wall to head down another open corridor, only to find a door marked EMPLOYEE EXIT. He shook the knob of the door rapidly, but it was locked. The hall was only fifteen feet long, and no other hall led into it. This was it. He was trapped.
"You're going to pay for that," the speedy man said while holding his head.
"It's not my fault you're not the athlete I am!" Samuel sidestepped toward the wall as the three men encircled him, creating an umbrella formation around him. "Oh, I get it now. You cronies are agents, aren't you? Working for the little devils, eh?"
"Just get on the ground nice and easy," the big brute said. "Otherwise, we'll be forced to get rough."
"Rough? I knew you male nurses were bent funny, but now this sodomy talk is getting to be a bit much." Samuel examined his chances of escape. There were none. But there was a fight to be had, and he knew which of the three was the weakest. He charged the man on the far left, the one of the bunch who looked the most out of place and the most disinterested. In certain circumstances, there are many outstanding reasons to violently attack another human being, but in the obese orderly's case, Samuel's decision to attack him was only because of his morbid appearance and a feeble look in his eye. Samuel straight-palmed his face, brushing up across his thick black mustache and driving the bulk of his force up and through the ridge of his nose. A small rocket of blood squirted out of a nostril and painted the man's white sleeve crimson red. The simple sight of the man's blood made Samuel growl like a dog announcing its satisfaction after digging its nose into a bitch's genitals.
The man in the middle grabbed the back of Samuel's head and pulled back hard, disengaging the two men while the speedster from the far right came in and landed a few unnecessary blows to Samuel's skull. For Samuel, the fight had turned into a beating. He lay on the floor bracing for more. All three men, including the useless man with a bloodied nose, joined the merciless attack, kicking and stomping away.
"That's enough, gentlemen," a voice from the rear said. The men ceased their brutalization and parted the umbrella, allowing for the man in the long white lab coat to walk on through.
"Do you want us to tie his hands, Dr. Wilson?" the bloodied man asked.
"That won't be necessary, Robert." Dr. Wilson held out a syringe and flicked the end of it. "Samuel just needs to go to sleep. Don't you, Samuel?"
Samuel saw the syringe and grew uneasy. "No, don't do that!" He scrambled to his knees, holding his hands out, pleading with the doctor. "You can't do that! They're coming!"
Dr. Wilson smiled out of the corner of his mouth while examining the volume in the syringe. "And who is it that you think is coming, Samuel?"
"The little men, goddammit! The gnomes!" Samuel's eyes watered, and his mouth curled down as his lips shook. "They'll be here any second now! You're all better off if you just let me go!"
"Tsk, tsk, Samuel." Dr. Wilson shook his head. "We've talked about this. There are no little men around here." He leaned in toward Samuel. "Do we need to send you to the electro-room again?"
"I would hate to do that, Samuel, but I'm starting to think that would be the best thing for you." He nodded. "Yes, in fact, that's what we'll do. You just need a fresh electric head cleaning."
Samuel tugged at the doctor's dark blue slacks. "No, please! I don't want to go there again," he said through his teeth. Small snot bubbles popped out of his nostrils.
Dr. Wilson looked down upon Samuel and, without hesitation, turned to the three men standing around Samuel. "Hold him down."
"NOOOO!" Samuel screamed. "Please, no!"
The three men pinned him to the ground and pressed his arms against the smooth white floor. Dr. Wilson knelt near Samuel and stuck the needle in his bicep. "There you go, Samuel. Just go to sleep, and in no time flat, we'll clean up that head of yours nice and good."
Samuel felt the burn run through his arm and around his chest. The adrenaline faded back, his eyes fogged over, and his arms became numb. There was only one move left — defeat. He gave in and felt his eyes close. He took one last breath before he was out.
* * *
There were herds of miniature men inside Samuel's head, who, without a second thought, started working away at his brain. Bands of bearded freaks yielding picks and hammers doing away with every synapse and brain cell his cranium had to offer.
"Over here!" a foreman yelled as he gestured to a part of the brain that needed tampering. At his command, a troupe of these tiny demolitionists scurried over to the spot picked out by their leader, and their meticulous pillaging started all over. Each one of the men looked exactly the same. Their eyes appeared bloodshot from the determination that only insanity could create — the same insanity that spawns that harrowing, dull shadow in the pupil, just screaming with madness. The bags hovered underneath their eyes, indicating a history of countless nights full to the brim with insomnia. Pools of drool rolled off the corner of their mouths as they waited in grueling anticipation for their turn to lay waste to the brain. The blue overalls they donned were caked with perspiration, and their hands were covered in sweaty fur as their fingers tightened their grip on their hammers and picks. Their red gnome hats shook slightly as they scrambled around in a frenzied manner. The undefined line of workers thinned out to where each worker got their own shot at Samuel's brain. These weren't your normal tiny construction workers or demolitionists; these were the seven dwarfs on high-octane sexual stimulants and steroids, then multiplied by thousands to give them strength in numbers.
And the sounds — it was the sounds that scrambled and toyed with the most sensitive and ripe parts of the brain that oozed fear and paranoia; it was the sounds that blistered the brain with icy, shrill terror and instinct. Bones snapped and shattered from the pressure the mounds of men created from piling on top of one another. The growling. The gnawing. The screaming. The sounds overwhelmed the action.
But it was the constant chaos of blazing fury that erupted a thunderous trauma inside of Samuel's head. As the parts of the brain that hadn't been conquered grew scarce, the aggressiveness and tenacity in these men grew to a staggering boiling point. They were now moving with greater urgency to find new parts of the brain that they could rape with their picks and hammers.
"Move the fuck out of my way," growled one of the men as his shove sent another small comrade flying through the cranial space and off into oblivion. He rushed through a cluster of men, sidestepping and pushing his way to the promised land where he first paused to gaze at the target he would soon destroy and then thrashed away at the soggy tissue with his hammer. With each blow to the brain, his passion for destruction only grew larger. The muscles in his shoulders pulsated with each heartbeat. His arm movements emulated a windmill, smashing into the tissue over and over again without mercy, without a second thought. But he grew impatient with his progress. He launched his hammer out of his hands and took his long, razor-sharp, triangular fingernails and dug into the brain, blindly scraping whatever his hands landed onto. His lust for his own personal calling climbed out of control, and he sunk his shark-like teeth into the brain, ripping away at the flesh and savoring every salty, moistened bite.
And then boredom set in.
It consumed him. The brain no longer offered up the thrill, the rush he sought so desperately. The little devil had but one option left to quell his lust. He dropped his pants around his hairy ankles and plopped down against the surface of the brain and, in the most primitive of ways, humped away. However, this savage did not stand alone, and soon the sounds of scratching, biting, mouthing, and deviant sexual acts upon the surface of Samuel's brain overtook the space, and all hope was lost for now.
* * *
"I've got ten minutes to spare. What do you say we get inside that closet over there and you let me motorboat those blouse clowns?" Dr. Wilson grabbed the tip of Nurse Felton's chest zipper, slowly pulling it down.
"Doctor ...," she whispered, all aflutter. "Your wife is somewhere around here, isn't she?"
"Don't be silly." Dr. Wilson glanced around the hall. "I had her transferred to the third floor last week." He pulled the svelte nurse closer to him and made sure his semi-erect penis pressed up hard against her crotch.
"I guess ten minutes in the custodian's closet can be accommodated."
Just as Dr. Wilson was sliding his hand down the back of Nurse Felton's spine and onto her buttocks, Nurse Puccinelli walked up. Her neck was held firmly in a brace. "Dr. Wilson, Samuel Salimone needs to be prepped for the electro treatment."
"It can wait, Nurse Puccinelli."
Her jaw tightened up slightly. "I'm afraid not, Doctor. The sedatives you gave him should be wearing off by now, and he must have the electrodes placed on him." Her curly red hair was especially frizzy around the ends and puffed out around the neck brace. She passed a judging look toward Nurse Felton as she curled her lips inward. "I do not take this afternoon's assault lightly, and the sooner we put some sense into this patient, the better I will feel."
"Jesus," the doctor sighed. He felt the pulsing urge from down below but tried to ignore it for the time being. He knew ignoring it wouldn't be easy and he feared blue balls immensely, but now was not the time to dispose of genital pressures. "What a job," he muttered. "One more batty loon to treat." He let go of Nurse Felton.
"The patient is in room 201, Doctor." Nurse Puccinelli turned and walked away, clenching her butt cheeks.
"What a cold bitch that woman is."
"I've never liked her," Nurse Felton scowled. "What is the matter with this patient, anyway? He is always pulling crap like this."
"He's a lost cause," Dr. Wilson explained. "He's a schizophrenic who suffers from a mild case of mysophobia." He shook his head. "I just wish we could euthanize bastards like him."
Nurse Felton grinned back at the doctor.
"It would sure save the state a lot of money if we could just clean this hospital out."
"They'll cut our budget anyway."
"They can cut all they want," the doctor whispered. He leaned in near the nurse's ear. "Just as long as we get to finish what we've started, I'll still be grinning as wide as a rooster trapped in a hen house."
"Well, hurry up and prep this guy then," she said in a husky whisper. "And, Doctor," she said, touching his chest delicately, "I'll be waiting for you later."
"And I look forward to that." He turned and headed down the hall after adjusting his crotch, counting off the door numbers until he reached room 201. He grabbed the medical chart out of the holder on the wall and opened the door.
There is a tenderness that greets a person that awakes from trauma and leaves a dizzying burn on the eyes. As Samuel awoke in an angled hospital bed, shackled to the metal bed rails, the weary eye burn was no different from any other time.
As he lifted his head off the white pillow, his messy brown hair fell to the back of his neck, instantly dampening the skin with grease. He shook his head as if he was trying to knock the grogginess from his mind, but instead, the heavy pull on his brain only intensified.
Samuel rolled his head over to his side, facing the bed rail. The chrome silver bounced off the ceiling light, and in the heart of the light a reflection was born. He looked into the rolling silver reflection of himself, looking at it as it curved around the bar and elongated his own portrait. The creases in his forehead seemed more pronounced than the last time he had looked at himself. Samuel blinked slowly as he examined his nose — it hooked drastically and flared out at the nostrils. It was Samuel's least favorite part of his face. His lips were cracked in the corners of his mouth but didn't hurt, at least not anymore. He stared at the reflection intensely, as if he thought that if he stared hard enough, his image would go away, fading into the nothingness that we all create for ourselves, that place where we hide our secret parts, the place we hope that nobody will ever find.(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Outlandish and the Ego"
Copyright © 2017 O. Ryan Hussain.
Excerpted by permission of Xlibris.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
The Little Men,
The World Was Shaking,
The Campaign Manager,
The Bombing Of Wilson Park,
The Brown Stain Of Pain,
The Rage Of Arty Steinbach,
Wigs And Weiner Dogs,
Haskins And Dutra,
Fun In Argentina,
The Subterraneans Arrive,
The Call For Suppression,
Release The Toxins,
The Signal Of The Little Men,