SWINE

Charles Bukowski hooked up with a buddy at a downtown L.A. bar. He had fucked the ugliest chick of his life the previous night. He had drunk himself into a blind state. He had to get drunk this afternoon in order to feel sober again. He smoked one cigarette after another as he poured double whiskeys down his throat. He didn't feel like talking. He just wanted to growl.

"I didn't know you were a painter. I saw some of your works at a Hollywood show."
"I'm not a fuckin' painter, asshole. I just splash colors on a canvas. We live in a world of idiots who would call a pile of shit a contemporary sculpture and pay thousands for that crap."
"You underestimate yourself. I've been reading your poetry lately and..."
"I don't write poetry. I start typing a bunch of inchoate words and the idiots of the world want to call it poetry and publish books. We live in a world of fucking screwballs."
"Next thing you're going to tell is that you don't write short stories and novels, right?"
"Fuck off, you sorry prick. I'm completely inebriated. I have screwed some whore, but I can't stay in the same bed with her because she stinks. Her worthless pussy is an open sewer. I stumble to the bathroom and vomit. Then I go to the front room and start typing. There are a couple of agents who are making a shitload of money at my expense and they tell me not to throw anything away. Fine. Next thing I know I have a new book that I have no memory of ever writing."
"So you don't consider yourself a writer?"
"I'm spewing bullshit. It's no different than taking a shit or getting a blowjob. I reside in a universe that is nothing more than a concatenation of sensations. I only seek the rush. Every action I take is nothing more than abusing the moment. It may cost me my life in the long run, but I'm already dead. I was born dead. The day I find a subject that inspires me, I might scribble something worth reading. In the meantime, I'm going through the motions."
"Maybe you should go on a year bender and compose a tome as thick as a Tolstoy novel."
"Not a bad idea from an empty-headed fuckface like you. I'll put you in charge of obtaining the alcohol and I'll take care of you with the royalties. Let's go down the street. There's a waitress there that I'm dying to drown in sperm. Take care of the tab. We're opening the Tolstoy account now."
When Bukowski got home at three in the morning, he wrote some of his best shit yet. It was the opening chapter to his best-selling novel entitled SWINE.

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