DBC Pierre - Vernon God Little

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The surprise winner of the 2003 Man Booker Prize, DBC Pierre's debut novel, Vernon God Little, makes few apologies in its darkly comedic portrait of Martirio, Texas, a town reeling in the aftermath of a horrific school shooting. Fifteen-year-old Vernon Little narrates the first-person story with a cynical twang and a four-letter barb for each of his diet-obsessed townsfolk. His mother, endlessly awaiting the delivery of a new refrigerator, seems to exist only to twist an emotional knife in his back; her friend, Palmyra, structures her life around the next meal at the Bar-B-Chew Barn; officer Vaine Gurie has Vernon convicted of the crime before she's begun the investigation; reporter Eulalio Ledesma hovers between a comforting father-figure and a sadistic Bond villain; and Jesus, his best friend in the world, is dead-a victim of the killings. As his life explodes before him, Vernon flees his home in pursuit of a tropical fantasy: a cabin on a beach in Mexico he once saw in the movie Against All Odds. But the police-and TV crews-are in hot pursuit.
Vernon God Little is a daring novel and demands a patient reader, not because it is challenging to read- Pierre 's prose flows effortlessly, only occasionally slipping from the unmistakable voice of his hero-but because the book skates so precariously between the almost taboo subject of school violence and the literary gamesmanship of postmodern fiction. Yet, as the novel unfolds, Pierre 's parodic version of American culture never crosses the line into caricature, even when it climaxes in a death-row reality TV show. And Vernon, whose cynicism and smart-ass "learnings" give way to a poignant curiosity about the meaning of life, becomes a fully human, profoundly sympathetic character. -Patrick O'Kelley
Pierre takes a freewheeling, irreverent look at teenage Sturm und Drang in his erratic, sometimes darkly comic debut novel about a Texas boy running from the law in the wake of a gory school shooting. Vernon Gregory Little is the 15-year-old protagonist, a nasty, sarcastic teenager accused of being an accessory to the murders committed by his friend Jesus Navarro in tiny Martirio, "the barbecue sauce capital of Texas." Vernon manages to make bail and avoid the media horde that descends on the town after the killings, but he's unable to get to the other gun-his father's-which he knows will tie him to the crime, despite his innocence. His flight path takes him first to Houston, where he unsuccessfully tries to hook up with gorgeous former schoolmate Taylor Figueroa; the crafty beauty, promised a media job by the evil Lally, who's also duped Vernon 's mom, follows him to Mexico and efficiently betrays him. Most of the plotting feels like an excuse for Vernon 's endless, sharply snide riffs on his small town and the unique excesses of America that helped spawn the killings. Unfortunately, Vernon 's voice grows tiresome, his excesses make him rather unlikable and the over-the-top, gross-out humor is hit-or-miss. Pierre 's wild energy offers entertaining satire as well as cringe-provoking scenes, and though he can write with incisive wit, this is a bumpy ride.
Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information, Inc.

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' Vernon, are you okay ?' Feel the blade chop and dice.

'I'm fine, Ma,' now my voice goes all small and stupid. It's a subliminal plea for her not to be pathetic, but it works like pussy to a fucken dog.

'Did you use the bathroom today?'

' Hell , Momma…'

'Well you know you get that – inconvenience.'

She ain't so much called to turn the knife, as to replace it with a fucken javelin or something. You didn't need to know this, but when I was a kid I used to be kind of unpredictable, for 'Number Twos' anyway. Never mind the slimy details, my ole lady just added the whole affair to my knife, so she could give it a turn every now and then. Once she even wrote about it to my teacher, who had her own stabbing agenda with me, and this bitch mentioned it in class. Can you believe it? I could've bought the farm right there. My knife's like a fucken skewer these days, with all the shit that's been added on.

'Well you didn't have time this morning,' she says, 'so I worried that maybe – you know…'

'I'm fine, really.' I stay polite, before she plants the whole fucken Ginzu Knife Set. It's a hostage situation.

'What're you doing?'

'Listening to Deputy Gurie.'

'LuDell Gurie? Well, tell her I know her sister Reyna from Weight Watchers.'

'It ain't LuDell, Ma.'

'If it's Barry you know Pam sees him every other Friday…'

'It ain't Barry. I have to go now.'

'Well, the car still isn't ready and I'm minding an ovenful of joy cakes for the Lechugas, so Parn'll have to pick you up. And Vernon…'

'Uh?'

'Sit up straight in the car – town's crawling with cameras.'

Velcro spiders seize my spine. You know gray areas are invisible on video. You don't want to be here the day shit gets figured out in black and white. I ain't saying I'm to blame, don't get me wrong. I'm calm about that, see? Under my grief glows a serenity that comes from knowing the truth always wins in the end. Why do movies end happy? Because they imitate life. You know it, I know it. But my ole lady lacks that fucken knowledge, big-time.

I shuffle up the hall to my pre-stained chair. 'Mister Little,' says Gurie, 'I'm going to start over – that means loosen up some facts, young man. Sheriff Porkorney has firm notions about Tuesday, you should be thankful you only have to talk to me.' She goes to touch her snatch, but diverts to her gun at the last second.

'Ma'am, I was behind the gym, I didn't even see it happen.'

'You said you were in math.'

'I said it was our math period. '

She looks at me sideways. 'You take math behind the gym?'

'No.'

'So why weren't you in class?'

'I ran an errand for Mr Nuckles, and got kind of – held up.'

'Mr Nuckles?'

'Our physics teacher.'

'He teaches math?'

'No.'

' G-hrrr . This area's looking real gray, Mister Little. Damn gray.'

You don't know how bad I want to be Jean-Claude Van Damme. Ram her fucken gun up her ass, and run away with a panty model. But just look at me: clump of lawless brown hair, the eyelashes of a camel. Big ole puppy-dog features like God made me through a fucken magnifying glass. You know right away my movie's the one where I puke on my legs, and they send a nurse to interview me instead.

'Ma'am, I have witnesses.'

'Is that right.'

'Mr Nuckles saw me.'

'And who else?' She prods the dry bones in her box.

'A bunch of people.'

'Is that right. And where are those people now?'

I try to think where those people are. But the memory doesn't come to my brain, it comes to my eye as a tear that shoots from my lash like a soggy bullet. I sit stunned.

'Exactly,' says Gurie. 'Not real gregarious, are they? So Vernon – let me ask you two simple questions. One: are you involved with drugs?'

'Uh – no.'

She chases the pupils of my eyes across the wall, then herds them back to hers. 'Two: do you possess a firearm?'

'No.'

Her lips tighten. She pulls her phone from a holster on her belt, and suspends one finger over a key, eyeing me all the while. Then she jabs the key. The theme from Mission : Impossible chirps on a phone up the hall. 'Sheriff?' she says. 'You might want to attend the interview room.'

This wouldn't happen if she had more meat in her box. The dismay of no more meat made her seek other comforts, that's something I just learned. Now I'm the fucken meat.

After a minute, the door opens. A strip of buffalo leather scrapes into the room, tacked around the soul of Sheriff Porkorney. 'This the boy?' he asks. Like, fucken no, it's Dolly Parton. 'Cooperational, Vaine, is he?'

'Can't say he is, sir.'

'Give me a moment with him.' He closes the door behind him.

Gurie retracts her tit-fat across the table, turning to the corner like it makes her absent. The sheriff breathes a rod of decay at my face.

'Bothered folk, son, outside. Bothered folk are quick to judge.'

'I wasn't even there, sir – I have witnesses.'

He raises an eyebrow to Curie's corner. One of her eyes flicks back, 'We're following it up, Sheriff.'

Pulling a clean bone from the Bar-B-Chew Barn box, Porkorney moves to the picture on the door, and traces a line around Jesus' face, his bangs of blood, his forsaken eyes. Then he curls a gaze at me. 'He talked to you – didn't he.'

'Not about this, sir.'

'You were close, though, you admit that.'

'I didn't know he was going to kill anybody.'

The sheriff turns to Gurie. 'Examine Little's clothes, did you?'

'My partner did,' she says.

'Undergarments?'

'Regular Y-fronts.'

Porkorney thinks a moment, chews his lip. 'Check the back of 'em, did you, Vaine? You know certain type of practices can loosen a man's pitoota.'

'They seemed clean, Sheriff.'

I know where this is fucken headed. Typical of where I live that nobody will come right out and say it. I try to muster some control. 'Sir, I ain't gay , if that's what you mean. We were friends since childhood, I didn't know how he'd turn out…'

A no-brand smile grows under the sheriff's moustache. 'Regular boy then, are you, son? You like your cars, and your guns? And your – girls?'

'Sure.'

'Okay, all right – let's see if it's true. How many offices does a girl have that you can get more'n one finger into?'

'Offices?'

'Cavities – holes.'

'Uh – two?'

'Wrong.' The sheriff puffs up like he just discovered fucken relativity.

Fuck. I mean, how am I supposed to know? I got my fingertip into a hole once, don't ask me which one. It left memories of the Mini-Mart loading-bay after a storm; tangs of soggy cardboard and curdled milk. Somehow I don't think that's what your porn industry is talking about. Not like this other girl I know called Taylor Figueroa.

Sheriff Porkorney tosses his bone into the box, nodding to Gurie. 'Get it on record, then hold him.' He creaks out of the room.

'Vaine?' calls an officer through the door. 'Fibers.'

Gurie re-forms into limbs. 'You heard the sheriff. I'll be back with another officer to take your statement.'

When the rubbing of her thighs has faded, I crane my nostrils for any vague comfort; a whiff of warm toast, a spearmint breath. But all I whiff, over the sweat and the barbecue sauce, is school – the kind of pulse bullyboys give off when they spot a quiet one, a wordsmith, in a corner. The scent of lumber being cut for a fucken cross.

two

Mom's best friend is called Palmyra. Everybody calls her Pam. She's fatter than Mom, so Mom feels good around her. Mom's other friends are slimmer. They're not her best friends.

Pam's here. Three counties hear her bellowing at the sheriff's secretary. 'Lord, where is he? Eileena, have you seen Vern? Hey, love the hair!'

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