The Hermaphroditic Contortionist

by D. L. Mangles

Overview

The genre of this literary work may be too easily described as an adventure novel, but it would be more accurate to categorize it as a philosophical adventure. The main character is seeking redemption for a past mistake and also trying to find a lost premise that was omitted from our Constitution. Not only do I challenge the prevailing jurisprudence of victimless crimes, but I also redefine the role of our government, as I believe our founding fathers thought it should be. For those who wish an end to our Leviathan bureaucracy, an end to political action groups or lobbyists, and an end to the search for a “just tax,” this is the book for you to read. The main character has been called upon to repay an old debt of honor. While he readily acquiesces, repaying this marker plunges him into his friend’s world of smuggling marijuana.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781637670699
Publisher:	BookTrail Agency LLC
Publication date:	11/21/2021
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	742
File size:	824 KB

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

PAYMENT TO THE PIPER

Haphazardly, and without regard for the basic air safety standards that nature benevolently bestows on all its winged creatures, a solitary mosquito drifted across the stale morning air and lingered in Leslie's bedroom. Like a glider seeking an upward-moving current of warm air or, perhaps, as a sputtering single-engine plane frantically searching for a makeshift runway on which to land, the mosquito inscribed an erratic flight pattern overhead. The winged warrior of countless disrupted backyard meditation sessions had recently dined at a favorite locale: just behind Leslie's left earlobe. This time, however, hidden in this early morning repast, the red corpuscles had slipped the predaceous winged leech an intemperate gift. Unknown to the diminutive vampire, Leslie's blood was substantially diluted by an abundance of Dewar's Scotch, following a night wholly devoted to carousing and thinking in wounded revelations that ended in vagrant revelry.

This one-man bar-hopping soiree had not restricted itself to the backyard — the usual venue for Leslie's drinking habits. It had only begun there. Instead, the nocturnal foray had reclassified the entire nightlife of the city as Leslie's backyard. This past evening had demanded great thoughts to be culled and categorized; willpower and inner strength had to be painstakingly evaluated, catalogued, and classified.

Initially, Leslie sought a quiet atmosphere of understated decadence. But the first place of refuge proved flush with tacit stagnation, and the quiet discord that emanated from Leslie's inner turmoil soon urged him on to a livelier environment. Once found, the next sanctuary of fermented and distilled liquids was too chaotic, however. Incessant loud talk, surging above immature music, soon drove him out. Caught in a Goldilocks syndrome of vague wants and surfeit needs, a troubling cycle commenced and Leslie became a one-man tribe, seemingly sentenced to wander the wastelands of inebriation forever. From quiet solitude to overwhelming confusion, each oasis consumed more of his diminishing mental prowess. Each scotch promised a solution, a resolution, and a homologous state of mind. Yet in the revolving finale, as Leslie laid his head upon his pillow, the recurring theme of man's lack of foresight and his deficiency in everyday problem-solving skills doomed him to awaken to the same conundrum.

Leslie unconsciously swatted at his left ear and continued his sonorous drone. The mosquito spun away, adjusted its course in accordance with its internal gyroscope, and commenced a satisfied buzzing. The two sounds — the baritone snoring and the whiny, sibilant buzzing — welded their grating notes into an onomatopoeic chant as the forced-air furnace slowly pushed up a blast of heat to counteract the cold morning air. It was late spring in Michigan, and the intestinal ductwork of Leslie's pre–World War II home crackled noisily as the metal arteries expanded. The fragile body of the mosquito, laden with a blood alcohol level of 0.21 percent, was blown upward by the hot, dry air coming from the register in the bare wooden floor. The insect instinctually made drastic flight decisions, but a dilemma soon arose: it could no longer manage to do two things at once. If the mosquito concentrated on keeping its wings in motion, it soon forgot both its purpose and its direction. On the other hand, if it focused on calculating a flight plan, it absentmindedly voided the flapping of its wings. In its unprecedented confusion, the winged warrior found itself at the mercy of the heat register. It was a classic confrontation of millions of years of natural selection versus blended scotch.

Even the most efficacious of gene pools would have been overwhelmed. With a final upward gush of warm air, the mosquito was promptly deposited into the ensnaring confines of a large spider web that had been constructed in the corner of the ceiling to take advantage of the register directly below. A common brown spider awoke from its torpor at the first hint of vibration, and eagerly went on the alert. Within seconds, the emotionless spider was glaring at the insect du jour as it struggled in vain. Everything was to the arachnid's advantage. The now-fettered aviator, buzzing furiously, sealed its fate in a fatal tug-of-war with the silky noose. Buzz ... uzzz ... buzzzzz. The frantic opus reached a crescendo as the arachnid jerkily approached; then the deed was done, and the sounds in the room all gave way to Leslie's graceless snoring.

Leslie awoke in staccato advancements of consciousness. A plumb bob of excruciating pain swayed between the cleavage of his cranial hemispheres, and an indescribable fuzziness pulsated across his closed eyelids. His first impulse for physical salvation was to consume strong coffee, but his olfactory sense failed to detect that scent. Labor would be required.

Leslie remembered his college days, when he frequently awakened at a particular fraternity house in a similar condition. Back then, he could use an oxygen tank that had been confiscated by a premed student to stifle the residual effects of alcohol. He did not have his own tank now, but perhaps several deep breaths, slowly exhaled, would accomplish the same thing. The first deep inhalation produced nothing; the second was too quick to be effective. By the time Leslie inhaled a third time, the veins surrounding his temporal lobes were screaming, "No more!"

Nothing in Leslie's room provided a focal point upon which he could maroon his intoxicated state. Then he noticed the quivering cobweb dangling in the corner above his headboard. Without being aware of the process, he remanded the silky annoyance to his things-to-do list under the heading of "housecleaning". This insignificant mental note became a bridge of mobility for his limbs, and as excruciating as it could be to propel one's self to perform even the simplest of tasks — such as standing upright while experiencing the full weight of lethal alcohol poisoning — the feat was somehow accomplished, but the housekeeping reminder was forgotten.

Leslie's first stop was the bathroom. He did not bother to aggravate his eyes further by turning on the bathroom light. Instead, he opted to apply several splashes of cold water to his face. It felt good and seemed beneficial, but at this time of the morning, he could not say what advantage it provided to which part of his being, if it were still morning, that is. He looked in the mirror as drops of water trickled off his chin. He felt older than he looked, but not wiser.

Leslie was the type of person who could either blend into the mainstream or join an obscure genre, but he lacked any unique, qualifying self-style or, as Victor Hugo would say, the force of an ideal. Leslie was above average as far as looks, but this was counterbalanced with an introverted personality. If the opposite sex were a seeker who did not require a deep conversation as foreplay, then one could say that Leslie was both physically and socially attractive.

He was more comfortable in a library than a crowd. When he graduated from college five years previously, his vocation as a teacher of English literature at the local high school had long since been a foretold destiny. Being a bibliophile, he had relegated his alter ego to living vicariously in the society of his favorite fictional heroes. He dwelt between the covers of others' literary accomplishments, and he became the tutelary genius who befriended Winston Smith, whom he saved from loving Big Brother. He fashioned himself as the guiding companion to Larry Darrell as they sought the ultimate truth of life. But when the last page was finally read, Leslie shrank back into his comfortable, old self.

Leslie wished he could be the adventurer, the fearless explorer who ascended the highest mountains and shouted his triumphs from their summits. Wishing was all he would ever execute in such venues. If Leslie had stood at the apex of those tallest mounds, to him, the view would have only been of the depths from which he had come and of the equally dark valley that always lies on the other side from the ascent. He unknowingly avoided having his life traverse both landscapes. He could not see that every person's life would one day return from either the mountain or the valley to rest at sea level with the final beating of his or her heart. It was as if he were living the inert life of a recluse who had shut his door to the outside world and wondered why people would ever leave their hometowns. Taking chances was not part of his intangible makeup. Even on an emotional level with his girlfriend, he was simply waiting for someone else to scribble a final script so he could live happily ever after. It was not a matter of feelings left wholly unexplored or of not believing in their relationship when listing the seesaw ledger of virtues versus defects. The ledger always tottered to the side of her purity and goodness anyway. Rather, it laid in his unconvinced judgment of himself that he truly knew of his love for Cindy, the girl he had been dating since they were both college sophomores. While he professed his love to her romantically, he still could not define a certain undiscovered annoyance about their relationship, and this confused him. Whispering sweet nothings in Cindy's ear was just that, and Leslie kept his confusion a secret. A hundred times in a hundred arguments with himself, he still concluded she was a wonderful person who met his every need. His wants confused him. He felt comfortable with her, but there was no wanting on his behalf to move the relationship forward. He could not even say why he could not grasp that next step. Perhaps a pleasing conformity had settled upon his life. Had he hung out the "Do Not Disturb" sign? Did this explain the true essence of his muddled reverie? What about their relationship? Leslie's emotions were only a hodgepodge of ersatz feelings for Cindy. When he used the word "love," it always came framed in conspicuous quotation marks.

Leslie could never be classified as a dreary pessimist or a bubbling optimist. "Abstaining avoidance" would be the closest clinical description for his personality. The Omegan triumph for his life was unconceived, either on paper or in a grandiose illusion sponsored by his wandering mind. If he spoke in a philosophical vein, Leslie's ideals would shed no light on his character either. For Leslie, it was not whether the glass was half-full or half-empty, instead, he was far more concerned with what the glass may or may not contain. Leslie thought that making plans could seal his fate and forever close the door of mischievous chance. He preferred to be the patient waiter, hoping that fickle Providence would someday take a place at his table. Irresolution and indecision became his motif, and his drug of choice was solitude. Coupled with this was the adage 'never rattle the status quo'. Leslie was thus armed with the potential to be a cure for many insomniacs.

Leslie also knew that change was the only permanent structure a person could expect in life, and that for him to continue his relationship with Cindy in blissful indolence was ultimately impossible. Signs of entering the inevitable region of confrontation were creeping ever closer; stagnation was becoming yesterday's norm. His emotional stratagem was based on not divulging too much too soon, as if the discovery of a genuine emotion akin to real love might end the give-and-take of their self-made reality. Theirs was an intimacy whose correlation would sway back and forth as if it were an election-year politician trying to garner votes from all sides. The contest was played with both guilt and praise as weapons. One may call it a game of emotional ricochet, but in reality, it was an ambiguity for both and annoying to each. Their intimacy was a pestering point of aggravation that produced an irritating itch to their coupling. The irritation was not as harmful in the daylight, but on occasion, each might awaken at midnight with bloody fingers and skin under their nails.

It was solely Leslie's blame to shoulder. He was the one who could not commit. His idle oh-so-comfortable lifestyle was his nemesis, not the occasional confrontation with Cindy. The sooner the emotional catharsis occurred, the sooner he could break out of his cocoon and maybe, for the first time since his early college days begin to embrace and enjoy a real life again. Could he possibly change? Become a different, improved, and better man? Never be afraid again? Afraid of what? He did not even know.

As a youth, one could not say Leslie was exceedingly different from his peer group. He was just complex enough to be mildly interesting, nondescript enough to blend into the nouveau generation with whom he identified. Leslie grew up with the traditional Protestant work ethic and a working definition of what constitutes a capitalist. This economic upbringing had been socialized into his psyche by a blue-collar father who believed that hard work leads to just rewards. His father was present during the infancy of the automobile unions, although he eventually retired from a responsible position as a nonunion salaried employee.

Leslie's parents believed in a Malthusian economy of procreation; therefore, Leslie was a solitary seed. He was not spoiled with a non quid pro quo allowance. Summer was spent mowing neighbors' lawns, and winter was for shoveling deep Michigan snow from his neighbors' sidewalks and driveways. His teenage years were typical of any working middle-class offspring. There were the obligatory sports endeavors that produced a balanced agenda of memorable highlights and humbling moments. Leslie survived an adolescence marred with the usual awkwardness with regard to the opposite sex and a simultaneous search for the cure for acne.

Leslie's college years coincided with the turbulence of that generation — the antiwar years of the late sixties and early seventies. College introduced him to new and mystical ideas, religions, and philosophies that were only superseded by his association with other radical youths who pursued a varied course of experimental lifestyles and altered realities. Of the couples he knew in college, some moved to Morocco for the obvious advantages, some joined communes in California, and others lived on abandoned or remote areas of land or even lived in a tree house, as one eccentric couple did in one of the many canyons outside Los Angeles. All the couples eventually became transitory as permanent pairs and transient as unique individuals.

Politically, everyone (peer pressure, again) embraced socialism as if it were a lovely traditional Viennese waltz in three-quarter time. Even the professors were able to wrap the pioneer work ethic around Marxism, and students learned that equality would be achieved only when people would forsake their own goals and would take care of their fellow creatures, regardless of their worth to society.

"Sounds just like living in Erewhon, doesn't it?" a fellow student said to no one in particular as Leslie exited his freshman philosophy class one spring afternoon.

Now, five years removed from the finest party of his life, Leslie was a teacher at a West Michigan high school. He taught English composition and literature, although that did not define him. Who Leslie was, had not yet evolved into the definable. He was still metamorphosing — but into what? He had never been certain of others' beliefs, and he did not completely know his own because he had not fathered the tenets of original thinking, but rather had only adapted some here and there, based on the convenience of what sounded right at the time. His philosophy — or what he could muster as one — was like an orphanage of thoughts with no known lineage. His un-synthesized extraction of beliefs was what led to uncertainty in his relationship with Cindy, as with everything else in his life up to this point.

Uncertainty led him to role-playing games both with Cindy and with himself. He concocted different personas to present in various situations, and they became like clothing ensembles for a variety of social events. It was rather like a rich man choosing a new sports car as each one was given the cursory test drive around some imaginary friend. This affected shifts in Leslie's personality patterns, yet any residual changes or lingering traits were eroded quickly when he donned the next persona. Nothing was permanent. It was a whimsical process at best, similar to the art of weather prediction for the great American plains. However, being an English major, and having read the majority of what are revered as the classics of literature, Leslie was able to conjure any character from his vast reservoir of fictional adventurers and fit him into a particular social venue without straining his imagination. Befitting of Leslie, if it was not a strain upon his imagination, then it was an accomplishment in itself.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "The Hermaphroditic Contortionist"
by .
Copyright © 2017 D. L. Mangles.
Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Author's Introduction, ix,
Prologue, xi,
Chapter 1 Payment to the Piper, 1,
Chapter 2 On Slippery Ground, 61,
Chapter 3 Statistics Do Not Lie; Statisticians Do, 110,
Chapter 4 Two Dreams, 135,
Chapter 5 Desire and Definition, 175,
Chapter 6 A Meeting of the Minds, 223,
Chapter 7 Three Deceptions, 282,
Chapter 8 La Cucaracha, 305,
Chapter 9 Hobson's Impromptu Choice, 325,
Chapter 10 Vision Quest Revisited, 351,
Chapter 11 Redux, 383,
Chapter 12 The Trial, 418,
About The Author, 471,