On Writing, Chapter 69: Climax
Folks, your old uncle Steve has seen some hardscrabble times and some hard-partyin’ times, but if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that once you have an exciting premise and compelling characters, brother, you’re off to the races. From there you can just let the situation escalate and heighten to a climax. For example, take this scene from one of my more beloved and famous novels:
A mommy, a daddy, an alcoholic writer, a naive nineteen-year-old woman with psychokinetic powers, a reanimated dead cat, an ageless malevolent cowboy, a morally conflicted prison warden, and a wise old black man who’s suffered a great deal of prejudice in his day but has only become stronger and wiser as a result… walk into a talent agent’s office.
The father undresses the mother and starts fucking her on the floor. Then the ageless malevolent cowboy whips his dick out and the father starts sucking him off. The morally conflicted warden takes out his dick and jacks off quietly in the corner. Then the naive nineteen-year-old woman levitates a broom from out of the talent agent’s closet and, using only her mind, shoves it about two feet into her cunt.
Then the undead cat climbs on top of the father and starts shitting and pissing all over him, and the excretions cover both the mother and the father.
“That ol’ cat just ain’t the same since it returned,” says the mother.
“Ayuh,” says the father.
At this point, the wise old black man who’s suffered a great deal of prejudice here in this bad old New England town, but who has nonetheless only become stronger and wiser, almost magically so, as a result of his struggles, says, “This is some disgusting-ass white people shit. I’m out of here,” and leaves.
Then a bucket of pig’s blood falls down from the ceiling and gets all over everyone.
Then the ageless malevolent cowboy takes out a mysterious and ancient obelisk and shoves it up the alcoholic writer’s urethra. This releases an eldritch horror from beyond the stars, which to contemplate its evil for even an instant would induce madness. Without speaking out loud, the ancient evil entity penetrates everyone’s minds with the words, “Kind of a big deal. Always down for an adventure. Swipe left if you don’t love to travel. I will pet every dog I see on the street. I speak the language of sarcasm. Looking for the Jim to my Pam. INTJ. Whiskey. Tacos. Dad jokes.” The groans and cries of the innocent reverberate as each cursed word projects through the collective mind-space. Outside, the trees start to wither and die. A grown man in Bangor suddenly becomes overwhelmed with sadness and starts weeping in front of his family. An old lady in Portland finds herself unable to stop stabbing the cutting board after she’s finished chopping a carrot.
So then the morally conflicted warden busts his nut and sprays his cum all over everybody. Then they all smear the cum and the pig’s blood all over their faces until they look like some fucked-up circus clowns having an orgy, in an act that can only be described as “still not as troubling as that one infamous scene towards the end of ‘It.’”
Then they all have a blueberry pie-eating contest. The zombified cat eats so much pie that he pukes a thick stream of hot blueberry liquid all over the alcoholic writer. The sight and sour-sweet smell of the half-digested fruit pastry causes the alcoholic writer to hurl all over the ageless malevolent cowboy, who ralphs on the morally conflicted warden’s cock. The morally conflicted warden barfs on the telekinetic nineteen-year-old, and she in turn spews on the mommy, who chucks all over the daddy, who chunders on the ancient, unknowable evil from a realm that to even speak for an instant of its abyssal inhabitants and their immoral ways is to risk losing one’s soul. The horrifying being made of pure, otherworldly malfeasance then says, “Umm, I just threw up in my mouth a little bit?” Crows start falling out of the sky.
Through all this, the group remains horny as fuck, and so they all just fuck and suck each other to completion while lying in a pool of cum, pig’s blood, cat piss, cat shit, blueberry pie vomit, and also a bunch of fucking pus that just keeps coming out of the walls to symbolize the many brutal murders that have happened in this unassuming yet insanely dark and twisted Maine town. The men shoot their cum everywhere, the women both squirt, and the mysterious force of unspeakable evil greenlights a reboot of “Children of the Corn” starring Jake Paul and Logan Paul.
Once it’s all over, the talent agent thinks for a moment, then says, “That’s quite an interesting act you’ve got there. What do you call yourselves?”
The mommy, the daddy, the naive but psychokinetic nineteen-year-old woman, the undead cat, the ageless malevolent cowboy, the alcoholic writer, the morally conflicted warden, and the arcane evil from beyond our dimension all say, in enthusiastic unison: