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The History of the World

The History of the World

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Published by P. H. Madore
This is a vague story about a revolution that I wrote during the same period I wrote SH!T. I paid fifty dollars for the cover art. From both books I grossed a little over eight dollars after more than a year on the market. Big money. Nonetheless, I cherish this as one of the first things I ever really felt I'd made it with, despite its rudimentary and drug-prone prosaic nature. At times during composition, I thought, "I am Norman Mailer or something."
This is a vague story about a revolution that I wrote during the same period I wrote SH!T. I paid fifty dollars for the cover art. From both books I grossed a little over eight dollars after more than a year on the market. Big money. Nonetheless, I cherish this as one of the first things I ever really felt I'd made it with, despite its rudimentary and drug-prone prosaic nature. At times during composition, I thought, "I am Norman Mailer or something."

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Published by: P. H. Madore on Jul 19, 2009
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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09/30/2012

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The History of the World
by P.H Madore
© 2006 byNo part of this text may be altered, reproduced, or distributed without the written consent of thepublisher.Cover art by: Miles Fitzsimmons
 
I: The Street
One 
Before I go on to tell you everything, I want to tell you about this fucking guycoming down the sidewalk. We got history—grew up together in a ruddy Italianneighborhood belied by filth you wouldn't believe. Which is now beside the point, asso many things have become, because it's what the bugger did later in life that I wantto tell you about.Both in our early twenties we were—green to worldly ways and in little worlds of our own, sick and sad as they may have been, getting along as every man must, andone day collided, again, for the first time since our high school graduation.Recognized each other, spoke, and things became interesting when this mansaid the most insane thing—he'd just come back from killing a man, it hadn't been hisfirst, and there was a good chance, he went on, that it wouldn't be his last. Heexplained he was a Goomba from birth to death, claimed it was beyond his control,further that he had no fear of the death or hell since neither were very real in thehere and now. Which was the point, after all, if beside
this 
point.The kill had taken place in a park, I decided, by the look of him: windbreaker,sweatpants, bandana, all that. Not that I gave much of a damn. I'd once seen a personkilled and was unfazed—I'm not lying.I didn't even blink.Which was what you were supposed to do in a situation like that, notimmediately react. The point was that that was what they wanted from you, and if you gave it to them you were weak. Very. They'd attack if you weren't on your guard. Which was why most people, regardless of if they actually were weak, didn'tgive in right away. I may come off as having trouble expressing my thoughts becausesometimes my thoughts get ahead of my words and the things I'm trying to expresscome out all wrong because many of them seem,
seem 
beyond expression but reallyall they need is the right speaker to work them. But it's hard to find the energy,courage, to do that. This is why you don't often bother with the idea—what you'drather do is stay away from it.That's not me at all.Nor is that all there is to the man now close to approaching me. The point I'mmaking about him is simple: he doesn't feel guilt, shame, or fear. He plays like he'sbreathing air, lives like life's drinking water. He fears no man, feels guilty for no act,and won't be shamed into anything. If Stubborn were his middle name, it would passunnoticed.He walks at me and I'm not sure how to react, what to say. You see sometimes,during the day when there's nothing to drink, I get this heartache inside and I'munable to speak very well. I thought I felt that coming over me just now, but I waswrong and it's just the ulcer in my stomach pulsing—something I don't enjoy but
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