Joseph Mori, a tortured soul, tries to survive his toxic mindset, his newly appointed trainer, and the unbearable screams inside his head. A novel that defies conventional logic and storytelling.
At forty-two, life had ceased its joy and justification. For Joseph, pedaling through day after grueling day of mere subsistence left him feeling cast aside and cast under the rumbling trailer tires of bustling society. Daily the fumes of life's demise clipped his nose, choked his lungs, smothered him in coal-tar acridity.
No one had ever conveyed the vital information. Nowhere along the path of his meandering youth had those fateful and potent words been offered: life sucks then it blows. But he knew those words now, words so crisp and bloody with newfound pain they had become his motto, emblazoned across his chest, present for all to bear witness, an ironic twist of Hawthorne's masterpiece. Such was his lot.
Lately, he had taken to dining with the dogs; poor, home- deprived creatures nocturnal, wanderers like himself; crushed, broken, pitiful, misery in search of commiserating company.
"Oh, the pathetic lament of being me," he whined, in mock amusement at his deteriorating condition. Yet in the darkest corridors that comprised his deepest concerns, this was true to the mark as an archer's guided arrow.
The dismal fruits of yesteryear returned often to haunt his present life. Another sad reminder of all that could have been, should have been, would have been, if not for the accursed stain upon his soul. One of the forgotten and vanquished, Joseph took all in life as a hunchback takes a load of bricks; his legs squashed into weariness, entrenched in molasses, eyes hanging tired, back giving out sharp wincing cries over its increasing burden, the twigs of his frail structure threatening at any moment to snap in two.
Betwixt and between our poor fellow merely fluttered. A nostril breeze in the wind clusters of the universe. It therefore can be ventured, what on earth can come of such a wretch?
Indeed, it is the author's duty, command, obligation to allow his creations some modicum of dignity in their conveyance is it not?
Be assured, this author has done just that. But some creatures, Joseph key among them, are contumacious beyond recovery. And so, dear reader, our poor, poor, Joseph will be relinquished to his fate…