In 2009, I wrote a dystopian book of fiction called Conspiracy!. It was sort of like Dan Brown’s Inferno, if written by a jerk and specifically created for other jerks. You can download it here if you’d like, or wait for the Audible version read by Gilbert Gottfried.
At the risk of spoiling this heady tome, the climax of the plot involves an anarcho-terrorist named Hansel Van Halen (a.k.a. “Franky Garcia Marquez”) threatening to release “monkey virus” that he purchased on the internet. And part of that scheme particularly involved selling surgical masks to a scared populace at a YUGE mark-up.
You know: fiction.
In 2016 I wrote a short story (which you can find here) called The Rat Courier—also about the threat of a pandemic. This time, it’s a fatal virus called “Braineater” that is transmitted by livestock and household pets. Selling meat is banned & carnivorous habits are considered taboo. Thusly, a black-market springs up for eating “pure” lab animals like rats.
Now, I love my cat very much and would hope that a Braineater type virus never comes to pass. I’m also not a big fan of monkey virus purchased on the internet (though I did recently buy a box of latex gloves at a YUGE mark-up, as well as a relatively small $12 bag of Carolina Rice).
A question I have often been asked—pretty much since I learned how to pick up a crayon—is, “why do you have to write such morbid things?”
It’s this sentiment from others throughout my entire life that maybe, if I become old enough, if I become mature enough…I’ll learn to write nicer stories. And yet I have this very distinct feeling that the world itself is “catching up” to the books I write. Maybe that’s not a good thing?
I don’t know, man.