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NOTE: Over the past couple days I've had 60,012 people ask if I'm related in any way to James Frey, author of A Million Little Pieces. I am not. I have, however, met him. Yes, indeedy. You can read all about it in my upcoming memoir, Fabulation Penetration, which The New York Times has already called "a refreshing throwback to stagnant '90s attitude bolstered by fey Gonzo granny-shots." Until it's publication date in June, enjoy the following excerpt. I cannot and will not vouch for its veracity. It may have happened but probably didn't. Well, most likely didn't. Although you never know. Who's to say? You be the judge. Then keep your smoking guns to yourself.

It's 1992. December.

Brrrr.

Cold outside.

Cold inside.

Unless you turn up the muthafunkin HEAT.

Which is what a cool dozen cops are trying to do to me. Flicking me fecal. Razzing me to the rafters. Like I give a wrought-iron fuck about their kindergarten jibes.

Shit. Seventeen of 'em are already dead by my hand.

The rest?

No reason to live.

I'm in a holding cell. Granville, Ohio. Got picked up for some Bullshit. Being a Bad Motherfucker in Desperate Times. The local Flaccid Boys in Berry Blue are sending me a message. Whatever dibs I have on the alpha-male trip are about to be mad-quashed. A flurry of nightsticks. Swift Daniel LaRusso cranes to the cranium. They think this intimidates me.

It only makes me mad.

Sgt. O'Hoggyssey and his Skinned-Knee Bitch Brigade. They ain't Hip to the Enlightenment. Your boy. Your boy. Your boy. Your boy. He ain't no sucker. He don't take no mess. I may be a slight 20. But I ain't nobody's punk. They're about to about to find out what the Weatherman already knows. Sky 'bout to shit rivers of Pig. Thunder 'bout to roll.

O'Hoggyssey's sniffing up in my grill. Some self-righteous Oink about finding traces of substances in the glove compartment of my Merkur. I laugh up his sooey snout.

You dumptruck. You pussy-assed, bacon-licked bitch. The interior of the steering column is filled with Cocaine. I lick it out the Keyhole. The car itself runs on Street-Grade Heroin. And if you run tests on my Kike White Deeeek you'll find traces of ecstasy. Your Wife's.

Oh. Smart guy, eh?

O'Hoggyssey. Thinks the display of some Gnashed Teeth stained with tobacco and failure as a Human Being, along with a Cagney Clutch at my lapel, is enough to turn me into Mr. Tree during a windstorm.

Me.

Ha ha hFuckinga.

Dude.

Don't you

know

Example:

High School.

Senior Year.

I Refused a Senior Picture.

You heard me.

You see. I didn't want to look like no photographer's bitch. All that fucking fuzzy Mood Lighting. Those Faggy Sweaters. Out in the fucking Woods somewhere.

And that's just an eyeblink at my Laundry List.

Boss Hogg's riding my last nerve. Bag O' Ho-Nuts don't got scintilla one of what it takes to survive Rodeo Frye.

I yawn.

Smart guy. Tough guy. Pick your Irish cop cliché. Doesn't stop the fact that from this position I know of 34 possible ways to Incapacitate you. Sixty-four ways to ice your Punk Ass completely. But I'm sympathetic to your Plight. You are a Police Officer.

Therefore, you have Nothing going for you. SO. I have selected Mercy Beating 12. It will involve the following in this order:

First. Your fingers will snap with a hollow, sickening pop.

Second. I will feed you your own fucking Nose.

Third. You will involuntarily soil yourself until you drown.

And that's exactly what happens.

If you remove the part where I set him on fire.

But I allow myself space to improvise.

His surviving fuck-buddies can only watch in awe. I take their leader to school. Watch him graduate scream laud. Whip out my pen. Write him a chin check. Then Johnny Cash his ass.

He scurries about the building. Squeals for an extinguisher. I help myself to a six-pack of secretary. We rut in his dying glow.

Granville, Ohio. A globular bag of donkey pus.

I hate it.

I fucking hate it.

I.

Fucking.

Hat

E.

It.

I wish it were a person. So I could kick its ass. I wish it were a Small Dog. So I could ignore its persistent yaps for Food, Attention. I wish it were my prom date in High School. So I could dump it for a sluttier town.

There's a voice behind me. I hear it. That was a very simple sentence. Free of pizzazz. But I have no time to change it. I am in the holding cell. With another Man. Couple years older than me. He's Fresh Scrubbed. Nice Hair. Tall. Thin. Friendly.

Approachable. I greet him. The same way I greet everybody. I light a match under his right nostril. Then I put out the match by punching him in the nose.

What's your name?

If it's any of your business. Prick. My name is Cory Frye. I'm the baddest sold-soul Motherfucker to be Shat outta Perfection's Ass.

Frye?

Hm.

How do you spell that?

F-R-Y-E.

Hm.

My name is James Frey. F-R-E-Y.

Ha.

That's pussy.

Where are you from?

That was him talking. Except the Ha. That's pussy. Part. That was Me. The following is my reply.

I was born in San Diego. I've lived in Oregon most of my life. Locked among Pissants and Drunks in Ruin. That depresses me. I think I will take Acid now.

You do acid? How much?

Enough to erode nine Chevy Luvs to the rubber. Weekly. I have been fucked up. Big Time. I have seen God. I have licked His eyelash. Very erotically. Just this morning. I consumed so much acid. My mind dragged me to the beginning of time. Peeled my skin over myself like a Blanket. Toasted me to a pale blue. I was shuttled to The Future. I was wept out the cosmic Eye of a My Little Pony. I tumbled wet into Oblivion. I tasted like syrup. My fingernails felt like potatoes. At this moment I'm not sure that the English language has been invented. I am speaking as Dust.

James Frey. He is impressed.

Wow. You sound like a professional wrestler.

I take offense.

Professional wrestler.

I'm Hot White Dolemite, bitch.

How do you get to be So Cool?

Genetics. I was born of Hurricane, Fire, and Earthquake. I had a worldwide APB issued the day I was born. I vowed to kill the bastard who swatted my new ass that day. He was not safe from me. I used what was left of him for the filling in my first birthday cake. But I do not wish to brag of my Badass Achievements. I am not just a Vulgar Violent Misogynist. I am Misunderstood. I have a Sensitive Side aching for release. I have been to Hell. My feet stink like Jack in the Box after Lockdown. I was born Rich White & Male. All the Odds were stacked against me. I sought Solace in Drugs, Alcohol & Dismemberment. I'm tired of pounding Local Cops into Mountains of Kiwi Lime Slurpee. I'm tired of capitalizing Random Words when I Speak. I'm tired of being a Super Mondo Badass from Around the Way. I need Change. I want to play Acoustic Guitar. I need the reassuring arms of the One Woman who can cure my ills. Some men need music to Soothe their Savage Souls; I require only Honey-Blonde Hair and a Smile that could blind Wyoming.

James Frey is quivering. Panting. Fistfuls of saliva are running laps down his chin.

My God Man. Is all of this Real?

I shake my head.

At times.

It doesn't seem real at all.

Sometimes it feels like I'm Making It Up.

My General Indifference and Romantic Celebration of Excess makes it feel like I'm Trivializing the Honest Efforts of those who would effect Change in their own Lives, who don't use their Addiction Battles as a Selling Point, or a Launching Pad to advance My Own Career. I feel like I'm broadcasting Rebellion as Sexy Cash-In Attitude and not as an Honest, Genuine Response. Like I'm selling a Rich White Boy's Wet Dream—and that's All it is.

Frankly, It makes me Queasy. Like I should be Ashamed.

James Frey produces a notebook.

Do you mind if I take This Down?

James Frey.

I should've killed him when I had the chance.

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