Jarett Kobek - Only Americans Burn in Hell

“These are the two functions of a prick?” asked Rusticano. “These are what define a prick, and you say that having a prick is what defines me as a man?”

“Yes,” said Celia. “I put this to you as the reason why you must die.”

“And will you swear by this definition?” asked Rusticano. “Will you swear by it before the hospitality under whose banner I now march?”

“I swear it,” said Celia.

“And you speak that oath with the full force of your reign?” asked Rusticano. “This definition is the law of Fairy Land?”

“It is,” said Celia.

“If the two functions of the prick are to piss on the earth and make shame in a woman,” said Rusticano, “then are not all women of Fairy Land halfways a man? For do not all of you piss the same as me? You may claim that your piss issues forth from a different place than my own, but Rusticano says that the piss is defined by itself in its own state of being and not its source. When someone speaks a word, do you concentrate on the teeth and the tongue? Nay, you heed the final issuance. When my piss is on the ground, does it demonstrate any difference from your own puddles? Nay, lady, I suggest that this cannot be a function that defines a prick.”

“You are right,” said Celia. “A prick is a prick because it goes into a woman.”

“Then lady,” said Rusticano, “I ask you to find a single woman here on Fairy Land in whom I’ve entered. I’ve pricked none of your island. I’ve pricked no woman anywhere in the world. How often did you laugh when the Red-Rose Knight made sore jests about my untried virginity? I submit to you that by your own definition what hangs here is no prick. I know not what I am, lady, but I further submit that Rusticano is no man.”

Rusticano stayed on Fairy Land.

Centuries ticked off.

He was transformed into an immortal supranatural creature, but he never developed the ability to cast spells.

Rusticano was not accepted as a full member of Fairy Land’s society.

He was just this person who lived in a cave near the Babbling Brook of Sorrow.

Rusticano developed a reputation.

He was someone who could talk his way through anything.

Sometimes the women of Fairy Land relied on Rusticano to solve problems.

Like when Freita Muscleback and Bianca Findlay both fell in love with Youna Shifa.

Love affairs on the island were especially fraught with peril.

If something went really wrong, everyone would be stuck dealing with the consequences for centuries.

This model of old lovers’ inescapability was something that the mortal world would later duplicate in the form of Facebook.

The social media platform had doomed everyone in the mortal world to the worst possible fate: living in a small town where they never ever lost contact with the people whom they’d fucked in high school, and worse yet, seeing the people whom they’d fucked in high school post daily updates on the topic of White Supremacy.

White Supremacy was a rhetorical device that’d been developed to describe the unfathomable social advantages that allowed the dominant social group in America to experience hereditary social wealth, primarily at the expense of people descended from African slaves who, once upon a time, literally had been that wealth.

The very expression of the concept drove a lot of people crazy.

They denied that it existed.

They stamped their feet and put their fingers in their ears.

But c’mon.

Of course White Supremacy was real.

The author knows better than anyone.

He is nothing but the product of White Supremacy.

He was raised in a single-parent household!

Child of divorce!

Rhode Island!

Traumatized by an early violent death in the family!

And his father was a Muslim!

And an immigrant from the Middle East!

And a member of the proletariat!

And an alcoholic!

#MENA!

And even with these obvious deviations, White Supremacy still carried me to the promised land of a commercial failure published with Nazi money by Penguin Random House.

Meanwhile, Byron Crawford, who is the best writer that you’re not reading, was self-publishing his own books.{Technically, Byron Crawford shares the title of the Best Writer That You’re Not Reading with Fiona Helmsley.}

And Ernest Baker had to do the same thing with Black American Psycho , one of the previous five years’ most interesting novels.

Published through fucking Amazon.com!

Print on demand!

So, yes, fucking obviously.

White Supremacy is real.

But the fact of its existence in no way alleviates the tedium of Facebook updates on the topic. Particularly those written by your high-school sweetheart.

On the day when Freita Muscleback and Bianca Findlay realized that they were both in love with Youna Shifa, they approached Rusticano.

Rusticano was in his cave by the Babbling Brook of Sorrow.

“What is the nature of the problem?” asked Rusticano.

“We both love Youna,” said Freita. “Has anyone ever told you about Boadicea Thrumpguts?”

“The bloody story,” said Rusticano. “I know it well. I wonder if the nature of your problem is not love, but rather something else. You would agree that love is predicated on an object of love? If one loves, then one must necessarily love something?”

“That is right,” said Freita.

“Would you also agree that if love is predicated on an object of that love, then one cannot love nothing?”

“Yes,” said Bianca. “It is impossible to love nothing.”

“If the lover must necessarily love something or someone, then does the lover love the beloved based on contingent actions, or does the lover love because she recognizes a quality in the beloved that is a mirror of a greater love?”

“I am not sure that I follow, Rusticano,” said Bianca.

“Do you love your mother?” asked Rusticano.

“Yes, Rusticano,” said Bianca.

“On what basis do you love her?” asked Rusticano. “Is it because of an action that she performed?”

“No,” said Freita. “One is born with a love of her mother.”

“If this love is not contingent,” said Rusticano, “then may we say that it is based not on the actions of the beloved, but rather some quality that the lover can recognize even before she speaks words?”

“You are correct,” said Freita.

“Then why are you worrying over whether the actions of the beloved affect the nature of the lover’s love?”

“I don’t understand,” said Freita.

“When your beloved is occupied with something other than yourself, such as preparing a meal or hunting a deer, do you stop loving them?”

“No,” said Bianca.

“If you agree that the beloved does not impede the lover’s love with the performance of tasks unrelated to the lover’s love, then why should the lover’s love be affected by the beloved’s love of another? Do you fault your beloved when she expresses love for her sister? Does the lover’s love diminish because the beloved loves a family member?”

“No,” said Bianca.

“If you say that a beloved’s love for another does not detract from the lover’s love, then would you admit that when the lover experiences jealousy, it cannot be from any diminishing of love that is reactive to the beloved’s actions?”

“Yes,” said Freita.

“Rusticano would suggest that this jealousy is not above love, but rather its opposite, which is the fear of loving nothing. When your beloved loves another, and your fears rise up, you must remember that your fear is not of a fear of your own diminished love, but rather fear that you are loving nothing. But as we have proven it is impossible to love nothing, then this fear is without base and is a meaningless thing.”