warrenellis

A bit of the novel I'm writing right now, LISTENER:


Drugzilla was outside my door, smoking a joint the size of a baby's arm and striking sparks off the kerb with the steel caps of her big stompy boots.

Drugzilla is six feet tall even without the immense black boots she lives in. The mass of fused-looking black and purple cables that may once have been her hair falls to her arse. Drugzilla is technically bulletproof, in that she was shot once and didn't notice for three days. Her job, as she and a surprisingly large number of other people see it, is muse and icon. She simply has the greatest tolerance for narcotics that anyone has ever seen. I first met her at a media party four years ago. It was supposed to be very exclusive. She lurched in, got bought drinks by everybody, stuck a straw into a bag of cocaine and sucked it down like a milkshake, punched out a waiter, fucked a screenwriter until he cried, made a female installation artist give her a hundred pounds and then jumped out a closed window, went boot-first through the roof of a parked police car and walked away. Singing.

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