The following excerpt is taken from the pages of Heart Killer, an erotic, time tripping crime thriller by Andy Nowicki, now available for purchase from ER Books (www.erbooks.com), the legendary London publisher of elegantly racy and ribald literary fare. Heart Killer is Nowicki's fifth novel, with close thematic links to his controversial 2011 novella The Columbine Pilgrim (www.counter-currents.com/the-columbine-pilgrim) . See www.erbooks.com/books/heart-killer to find out more about Nowicki's new novel.
In the passage below, we visit the mind of the novel's anti-hero Johann Salvadous-- a former high school geek, outcast, and loser turned ruthlessly successful pickup artist. Johann has travelled back in time from the present to the 80s, having been mystically transported away from milddle-aged paunch and baldness and returned to the skinny 16-year old body of his youth. Revisiting the hallowed halls of his hated high school, he sets out to seduce Mary Wasteborn, the beautiful girl who spitefully rejected and humiliated him the first time around.
Little does Johann know the history-altering chain of events which will follow in the wake of his vengeful, seductive depredations...
It was a Friday. Mary, like the rest of her ilk, was decked out in ostentatiously fastidious, yet contrivedly tarty, cheerleader gear. There was a football game that night, but it hardly mattered; the sport, be it football or basketball, was nothing but an excuse. Fridays at Cordelia Academy weren't really about celebrating any sports team; that was a mere facade. No, Fridays were all about working our blazing adolescent hormones into a frenzy, the better to exploit our adolescent ardor and direct it towards worthless ends: "school spirit," and all of that contemptible rot... School-spiritedness is simply the foolish "patriotism" of one's youthful years; being "true to your school" leads seamlessly into all of the brainless Fourth of July rah-rah hooah when the latest little war ramps up against the newest conveniently nefarious, terroristic, freedom-hating foe it becomes necessary to invade and conquer.
The loins, in turn, are the means through which such foolish sentiments enter one's consciousness, and the barely-disguised Dionysian orgies of the Cordelia High "pep rallies" were the means through which this reprehensible swill was pumped into our collective crotch.
The fact that it was Friday already lent a savory air of promise to the morning (and when you're a teenage boy, "promise" usually reduces to prospects of carnality). Naturally, the administration chose to throw us all together in one big, hot, horny, sweaty pile in the dank high school gymnasium-- for the purpose of watching a group of sexy girls in revealing clothes do a bunch of suggestive chants accompanied by gyrating moves and leg-splaying leaps in the air... Yeah, that "peps" things up, all right. And it did indeed juice my loins that morning, as might be imagined, to witness my big-haired, long-legged, tawdrily tempting obsession cavorting about on the hardwood, holding a fuzzy pair of pompoms with a coy little grin animating her face, one which cruelly holds you at a distance, even as it teases and titillates.
In my previous incarnation as a teenage boy, such performances both inflamed and cowed me, left me feeling simultaneously energized and enervated, keyed-up and used-up, excited and depressed. My solitary orgasms were thus ever infused with a spasmodic despair born of knowing that I'd been born into the "less fortunate" caste; when it came to girls like Mary, I could look but never touch... Of course, I'd get regaled with scorn even for looking, while soccer jocks with poofy new-wave hairdos could openly grope her in the hallways with utter impunity, with Mary's own gleeful, only half-disguised complicity and barely-concealed delight at being the object of such bold lechery.
Yes! But in my reincarnation as a teenage man, I'd managed to transcend such petty limitations. I'd beaten up the poofy new-wave hairdo boy and had drained out his essence in the process, furtively absorbing his suave confidence into my own guts before digesting it, then disdainfully flinging it from my system as vile refuse, unworthy of my attention. I'd ascended from my low caste status; now I'd become an avenging dalit with an attitude. There was nothing I wouldn't do; nothing I couldn't do.
Though she didn't yet know it, Mary Wasteborn was pretty putty in my hands, just waiting to be twisted every which way, to be ferociously torn apart, put together differently, then torn apart yet again. I couldn't, wouldn't be impeded from my destination-- I would plunge right into the dark heart of the matter; I'd penetrate ruthlessly to the fiery core, upsetting the crust and the mantle and uprooting all that now lived peaceably on the face of the earth. No one and nothing would be the same afterwards, least of all poor Mary, who'd wind up buried under the charred, smoking rubble before she'd even known what had hit her.
Of course, I snuck up from behind. How could I have proceeded differently?
That day, sitting alone in the lunchroom after the pep rally, I was bold to catch Mary's eye as she swept past my table; her glance met mine briefly, as before in Coach Sallow's class, and then her eyes immediately turned disdainful and indifferent, coupling two seemingly irreconcilable sentiments in one glance before finally deciding to forget the entire unpleasant but trivial matter of my gaze, because an insignificant nub like me wasn't worth the outrage she'd briefly contemplated... I witnessed all of these thoughts flash across her lovely face, which today was crowned by hair arranged in a garishly elaborate bun, with numerous "scrunchies" in various places, the better to keep her lustrous locks from falling into her eyes while she leapt and high-kicked in her skimpy, fetishistic costume. Her breasts, I recalled, had bounded lasciviously in her tight, midriff-baring top like two highly-inflated footballs, ripe to be plucked out of the air...
I shook myself. Mary had disappeared through the cafeteria doors, and I knew she must be headed to the bathroom. This was my cue. Without a second's hesitation (why delay what was proper and inevitable?) I arose, flung away my mostly-unconsumed lunch and strode in the direction of her exit. I entered the hallway just in time to see the turn of Mary's hip and the flutter of the hem of her cheerleader miniskirt as she spun gracefully-- flowed, really-- into the girls' room doorway, vanishing like a sacred vision into the foul, unredeemed ether.
After she left my line of vision, I suddenly felt fatigued and nauseated, awash with vertigo. The distance between where I now stood in this hallway and where Mary dwelt beyond the bathroom door, I became aware, was all that stood between what I knew of history and the thrilling and terrifying unknown. If this distance were traversed, and Mary and I connected with one another, formerly parallel lines would now intersect, disturbing the universe mightily, reversing polarities, sending everything lurching down a path of divergence. What was more, I sensed that souls stood in the balance-- not just mine, but those of numerous other people as well. Was this all some kind of test? If so, did the Almighty not already know that I'd fail it, demonic as I was, predestined to choose evil over good?
Briefly, I hesitated, mentally faltering outside of that girls' bathroom door like a man marooned in a nightmare, wistfully wondering if I could be saved, if any divine, redemptive power could restore my innocence after I'd finished what I now hungered and thirsted-- actively salivated, like an infernal Pavlovian dog-- to carry to completion.
What had been, had been, I dazedly determined. What would be, would be. And what will be, will be. I'd gamely play my part. If I were indeed damned, I'd get at least some hellish payback, instead of going out like a chump to face my fixed reward. With a flourish of unrelenting fatalism soaking through all the pores of my body, I strode through the doorway to meet my destiny.