In John Lester Gartland's mind, he had given his most.
Or at least he had promised his most.
He had to be off his fucking head when he did.
I never wanted my book under his control.
Lizardville Productions was just another paper house publishing house.
The only activitiy that happened in this establishment was the flashing of ghosts and a collection of dust from the past, a past that Gartland had reinvented.
He had escaped working the coal mines by getting an education.
The lazy bastard, reinventing his past.
'The guy never lifted a finger,' said Jack Burns, his childhood neighbor.
So much so that he never finished his studies either.
'Another Gartland embellishment,' said Jack.
Just like the Forbidden Garden, designed on the digestive system.
'Yep, just another out their fiction.'
I fancy that he shitted himself out of the Forbidden Garden.
The offal that has gone through it reminds me of a bad day on the pills when the piles are squirting blood mixed with dehydrated shit that just tears another rip in my asshole.
'I told you to get off the pills,' said Gartland.
But I stayed on them, just to deal with the shock of being conned by the Poet Noir.
No one saw it coming.
'Everyone saw it coming,' said Max, 'but Gartland had control of you, in his protective cocoon he weaved around you. You wouldn't dare mention Gartland to his enemies. Apostolics don't work that way. Gartland demanded 100 percent commitment, anything less was considered heretical.'
