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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'Drop it!' barks a voice. It's Vaine with her SWAT team. She shields her eyes against dust from the settling chopper.

Lally reels in a wild circle, confused, caressing the rifle, erasing Mom's fingerprints, and her worries, forever. As Taylor Figueroa ducks out of the helicopter with a news cameraman, Lally raises the rifle and cries in an unearthly tone. 'M a -mi,' he bawls, finding the trigger with both hands. ' Mamá !'

Watch out Taylor, like – oh my God !

' Open fire !' Vaine screams to her team.

Lally's face is a mask I fucken adore, suspended in time forever as slugs whistle and pierce the evening sky. He dances mid-air as chunks of his body pelt down like rain, before the bulk of him thuds twitching to the ground. Leona Dunt's Eldorado has to swerve off the track to avoid him.

'Wow, but is it supposed to be hidden, like – in the shit?' asks Leona, pouring out of the car in a cloud of tobacco smoke.

'I think Nancie means the story about the shit is what's valuable,' coughs Betty, ashing a cigarette into the dust. 'Just the evidence of the shit, the story rights…'

'Honey,' says George, 'a bonanza is a bonanza, whether it's in or on or about the shit, now hand me that flashlight…'

'Golly,' says Betty, scraping through the bushes around my den. 'Looks like somebody's been here already…'

My vision dissolves, my mind shimmers back to the gurney and I find myself still alive, teeth clenched into a smile. That's some fucken anesthetic, boy. I look over to see the guards nod to each other in readiness. As the day's first thunder crackles outside, I turn to wink at Ella through the glass. Then I close my eyes. I wait for the deep to claim me, for the cool in my arm to turn icy, or not to turn at all, to just vanish through the glare with everything around, including lumpy ole asshole me.

Sailing
Takes me away
To where I've always heard it could be
Just a dream and the wind to carry me
And soon I will be free…

Suddenly, a cannonade of noise swells through the windows and cracks, down the stairs and ducts of the jail, a thousand voices and fists and feet triggered by some invisible cue. My eyes pop open to see if God, or the devil, has come to claim my slimy soul. Instead, Abdini bursts into the witness area, followed be a horde of cameramen. The whole jail must be watching it live on TV. Abdini has a dirty brown ball of paper in one hand, and a melted candle in the other. He holds them up to the glass, singing, jumping. It's Nuckles's notes, the ones I used to wipe my ass that fateful day. 'Test prove it!' he cries.

A phone rings out back. After a moment I crane to see Jonesy toddle into the chamber, shaking his head. He leans over the end of the gurney, cups his hands to his mouth.

'Little – your pardon came through.'

twenty-seven

The ladies study the envelope like it was the body of a dead baby.

'Definitely one of those Italian cars, a Romeo and Juliet or whatever,' says George.

'I know,' says Betty, 'but why send the brochure to Doris 's?'

'Honey, it doesn't say Doris on the front, it says Leona . Just the address is Doris 's.'

'But why ?'

George shakes her head. 'Loni wants us to know she's getting one of those sports cars, I guess.'

Betty tightens her lips, and tuts awhile. 'I know , but why doesn't she just come over, like always, or even just call? Maybe she went to have the implants after all…'

George blows a plume of smoke, finishing with a ring that travels up and over the Central-Vac box on the rug. 'Betty, don't piss me off, okay? You know damn well why.'

'Oh Lord ,' scowls Betty. 'But that's her ex-ex-husband, the tragedy was nothing to do with her. ..'

George rolls her eyes. 'I know, I know , but some people might question the quality of a marriage that left a man chasing teenage boys for kicks – you have to admit that's out there even for Marion Nuckles , never mind the phony shrink he hooked up with. And goddammit to hell, Betty, now you've got me saying "I know."'

'I know .'

George clicks her teeth. Then their eyes meet, and they start to froth with helpless laughter.

'Girls, it's here!' calls Mom through the kitchen. 'It's the side-by-side!' She tries to keep her mouth pointed down, in mourning for Lally, but her eyes give her away. My ole lady just loves being in mourning. It's one of her needs, I guess. Bent ole kitten.

I hear Brad hollering up the hall, so I slink into the kitchen where a pile of media paperwork sits on the bench, along with some contracts from my agent. On top of the pile is a faxed cover of next week's Time magazine – the headline reads: 'Stool's Out!' The picture shows the dried remains of my crap, wrapped in Nuckles's class papers, sitting in a scientific laboratory. Behind it, Abdini proudly holds up the note Jesus left in the den, for Nuckles and Goosens, the lovers and internet entrepreneurs. 'You sed it was love you batsards,' reads the note, in his ole baby scribble. My eyes drop for Jesus. One thing, though: his note inadvertently granted a big ole want for Nuckles and Goosens. Now they'll have all the boys they could wish for, up there in prison. Somehow you sense they might be doing a little more receiving than giving, though. But hell. As Nuckles himself would say – 'Beggars can't be choosers.'

Farther along the kitchen bench lies a copy of today's paper, with the headline: 'Old Familiar Feces.' The picture shows Leona out at Keeter's, holding lumps of shit in her hands. Farther down still is an article about Taylor. She'll be fine. Just maybe not filling her panties the way she used to. Maybe they can implant a silicon butt-cheek or something, who knows?

Mom bunts me over the porch and down to the wishing bench, where the man from the morgue hovers. 'Let me shake your hand, son,' he says, 'your daddy would've been mighty proud.'

'Thank you,' I say, breathing in the clear blue day.

'Yessir, that was some turnaround. What's your secret?'

'I went down on my knees and prayed, sir.'

'Mighty fine,' he says, turning to Mom. 'And ma'am – I think we can process that earlier insurance matter just now – the body clearly can't be found.'

'Well thank you, Tuck,' says Mom, running a hand over her wishing bench.

'Mr Wilmer!' calls George from the porch. 'See what you can do for that poor woman in Nacogdoches…'

'Be my pleasure, Mrs Porkorney – you take care now, y'hear?'

After he turns away, Mom frowns at the fridge box being wheeled up the driveway. She frowns extra-hard, not just on account of being a double widow, but because Leona taught her not to show too much joy over new goods. You have to pretend they don't matter, that's what she taught her, that and how to throw her head back when she laughs. Doesn't fool me, though.

I lean over the bench and soak up Mom's clammy warmth. When the ladies join us, Mrs Lechuga comes to her window across the street. She sends a little wave, and I realize who's missing, for the full set of dice in my life – Palmyra. But, hey – I guess it ain't every day you get to play pinball on Oprah .

'Vern,' says Betty, 'Brad's just desperate to show you his birthday present.'

I try to nod politely, but my eyes snag on some dappled pink flesh behind the willows up the street. It's Ella with her suitcase. She wears a wool sweater over a loose cotton dress that swishes full of honey breeze. She grins when she sees me watching her. I told her I'd send a car, but she insisted on taking one last walk through town, crazy girl. Anyway, we'll be back. Mexico ain't so far.

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