I was once at a bus stop in Boston and this hideously obnoxious trio of smokers was blowing smoke nonchalantly all over, acting as if their absolute childish antics were somehow in any way deeming of respect. So the bus was late and it was cold and I'd had enough. I just walked straight up and smacked the death stick straight out of the nearest one's mouth. I hit his face in the process, and as the slap reached my ears I could see the looks of sheer surprise on his sunken, gleaming face. Then they proceeded to kick me to the cement until I gave up the courage to move. It hurt, and I had a coupe broken ribs that took the latter of two months to heal. But it was well worth it, because in that one single moment, the look on that twats face, the surprised, feeble snorts of his friends - well, I had 'em, I had 'em for that single instance. I'd do it again if I were to ever bother to leave my house and had the misfortune to come across such disgusting sad creatures of our degenerate society. But anyway, it was years after the fact, a little after his death, that I learned it was a young David Foster Wallace himself who was the twat I had smacked in the face. I felt momentarily remorse and guilt, wondering just how significantly my chance acquaintance with him had contributed to his late demise.
David walked into the room and observed the audience pussy sleeping on the couch next to Tyrone and thought to himself; “I want so badly to lie down next to her on the couch, to wrap my arms around her and sleep. Not fuck, like in those movies. Not even have sex. Just sleep together in the most innocent sense of the phrase. But I lack the courage and she has a boyfriend and I am gawky and she is gorgeous and I am hopelessly boring and she is endlessly fascinating." So he walked back to his room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if people were rain, he was drizzle and she was hurricane.
David's posterior is consciously congruent to the shape of his hard chair. David looked down at his chin until he got to the bottom of it, looking over his lips and slice of mouth. His beard wasn't so much of a dusting of hair but rather an extension of his hair, which Samson-esque was an extension of God's Gift of brain. David had that feeling wherein he wanted to put brain all over his body, most things in the house. David realized that if he really wanted to die he could have died anytime that he wanted to. David spun his hands over his eyes and tried to cry through them but only muddied, in that very human way that we all do, the dirt on them from digging his own grave. It was water. David chewed Nardil like chewing on a beaded necklace. Pulling apart the spine didn't matter because David was already disconnected internally. Dying is a game made up of musical chairs and tug of rope, followed by the jig of life, a hopscotch celebratory dance. David's eyes had the sort of lifeless look that you get when you stare at the television for too long. He stepped on and on the chair in preparation for stepping off of it.
A short obituary featured in a syndicated Midwestern local paper
David Wallace or 'DFW' to his friends, was a bandana collector and man of letters who thought far too much. He thought so much that it made him ill. He thought about rap music, a subject that should never be thought about by an educated person, and for this people accused him of being a racist. Aware that his thinking had a tendency to offend, he thought about less polarising things, which he called 'banal': lobsters, how dictionaries are written, Analis, and many, many other things that we will never know because he never wrote them down. He was a supremely thoughtful man, and like all thoughtful men, he felt alone and empty. He probably had a thing for slutty librarians. God knows they had a thing for him.
David foster Wallace is a writer. I guess he must be an American writer, only an American could have a name like that. I don't know anything about him. have never read any of his books, I don't know if I should, I don't think I should pay money for memes.
Genjin Tao Lin teleported behind the man who killed his father. “Any last words?” “bahaha.” Laughed David Foster Wallace. “What’s so funny dead man?” Grinned Tao wryly. “So you still believe the lie that Pynchon told you the day that Harold Bloom died…” David smirked “You can’t wiggle your way out of this with your words Wallace.” Shot back Tao. “Fufufu, I don’t need words to do that!” David Foster Wallace’s bandana flew off and revealed his blood red Shirugen. “What, how is this possible?” cried Tao Lin. “Enough!” cried DFW “I am in a room surrounded by heads and bodies. Dead heads and bodies!” “David Book-jitsu, Serve of Ten Million Tennis Balls!” A thousand junior tennis players materialized around Tao Lin, balls at the ready. “Dodge this you pretentious hipster.” A giant ball of yellow energy exploded into existence. BOOM! There before DFW’s feet lay the shattered remains of Tao Lin’s macbook. “At least there won’t be any posthumus novels.” David smirked wryly. “In that case you better hope your hard-drive’s intact David.” David Foster Wallace turned around to see Tao Lin standing behind him. As quick as a hipster sips down his latte the ninja of vengeance thrust his katana into David’s dark heart. “H-how?” “It might have taken the last of my write-ra, but I was able to dodge your final technique.” “I’m glad it was you Tao.” Coughed David Foster Wallace. “Tell me who really killed my Father David.” “Of course.” Smiled David “all stories need a climax.” “The man who killed your father was-” David Foster Wallace died. “You couldn’t even leave me a foot-note.” Muttered Tao Lin as he shut DFW’s eyes. “Do you really need a foot-note?” said Stephan King descended with a bolt of red lightening.
Tao Lin felt his blood boil. “How could you kill the entire post-modernism clan you bastard!” he screamed at Stephan. “I didn’t kill them Tao,” smirked King wryly, “The American reading public did. Their shit taste killed Harold Bloom, not me! Now Tao, abandon your post-modernism and embrace your audience.” “That’s where you’re wrong King! A true author writes for himself, not the public.” “Such outdated ideals! If you can’t accept the future, you should accept your death like Wallace.” “David Foster Wallace might’ve been my enemy, but he was an author to the end, unlike you!” “So I take it you reject my offer.” “I’ll be a writer till the day I die Stephan.” “Then your career ends today!”
Mother, Father, thought Tao Lin. Even if this is my final battle, give me the strength to fight to the end!
Tao Lin rushed towards Stephan King, katana in one hand and his kuni in the other. “Such power, show me all you’ve got!” cried Stephan King. Tao Lin struck and a storm of sparks flew. “You’re fast Tao!” Stephan King swung his sword so hard the ground underneath Tao Lin cracked. “But if your power is spent on such a underselling author as David, you are a speck compared to me!” smirked Stephan King edgily. With that Stephan King’s katana split into a dozen silver blades. They all flew towards Tao-Lin, twisting and screaming in the air like a victim in one of the King’s “novels”. “What do you think of my ghost-writers Tao?” Tao-Lin could only grunt as he struggled to deflect the storm of steel.
Tao... David? Use my… bandana, so that I can do good yet.
Tao Lin saw DFW’s bandana lying just a few feet away. Thank you for everything Davido… Thought Tao Lin before he glared at Stephan King with the anxiety of influence in his squinty eyes!
“Goodbye Taipei II: The Electric Boogaloo!” screamed Tao Lin as he threw his treasured manuscript into the wind. Stephan’s blades cut the pages into a million pieces in less than a second, but by then Tao-Lin had already leapt backwards and held DFW’s bandana in his bloody hands. “Eeeee eeeee eeeee” cried Tao Lin and he summoned his final book-su, Salinger’s Heir. With a cry of mighty power, Tao-Lin willed the World Trade Center into being overhead. “I-impossible!” screamed Stephan King, and he sent out a thousand inky black tentacles to stop the Towers’ descent. With this Tao-Lin sprinted towards Stephan King, his katana Revanche unsheathed to show its gleaming true form. “I am an author, like my father before me.” He said as he cut Stephan King’s head in half. As he sheathed his katana, the WTCs fell to the ground, crushing the evil that was Stephan King.
David Foster Wallace and Tao Lin stood around their elaborately footnoted map of Thomas Pynchon’s abode. “Are you sure about this David?” “Dammit Tao, we’ve been over this over and over again, how can we become the world’s greatest pomo authors if Thomas Pynchon’s still alive?” “I know, but eliminating his map?” David Foster Wallace slapped Tao Lin in his chubby little face. “Are you in, or are you out?” “Uhh- I don’t-“ “You called your book Eeeee Eee Eeeee Tao, Eeeee Eee Eeeee. How can you succeed in a world where Pynchon exists with a title like Eeeee Eee Eeeee?” Tao Lin clenched his fists. “I’m in David. But if you ever mention Eeeee Eee Eeeee again, I’ll fucking end you”
Crickets chirped outside Tao Lin’s Toyota Camry. “Here’s the place.” In front of them stood the imposing walls of Thomas Pynchon’s fortress of solitude. “Get the rope.” Said David as he stepped out of the car. Tao Lin hurried to the car’s boot, and pulled out a long black thread of rope. He handed it to David who tied a sharp metal hook to its end. David threw the hook over the walls. It stuck tight and first he tugged it, then started to shimmy up, leaping over the wall and landing with a tennis-shoe silenced thump. “The coast’s clear.” With this, Tao Lin also scaled the wall, He rolled over to David Foster Wallace and took out their map. Wallace took out his LED light and shone it over the diagram. “The backdoor’s over there. Once we get in it’s through the kitchen, up the stairs, down the hallway and then it’s match-point for Thomas.” Keeping low, they moved at a crawl towards the sturdy stone alcove of Pynchon’s back doorstep.
“Jiggy the door Tao.” Tao Lin took out a styrofoam Starbucks cup. Cracking it open, he took out a lockpick and screwdriver. “This is easy David.” “Almost too easy. If Pynchon’s security this lax, I’m surprised that Burroughs didn’t bet us to the punch decades ago.” The door soundlessly swung open and they crawled inside. “Get down David.” Cried Tao Lin and he threw David Foster Wallace to the ground. In the air above them flashed three deadly midget V2s, which stuck themselves in the door with a meaty thunk. Above them, an intercom crackled into life. “Welcome to my home Mr. Wallace. You must be over the rainbow to step foot in my domain” Tao Lin was looking around frantically. “The jig’s up, David lets get out of this here!” “I’m not ready to give up now Tao.” “You’re lucky to be alive! Come on, the Pale King will sell fine on its own.” “Don’t bring up The Pale King Tao, don’t you ever mention the Pale King!” With that David Foster Wallace barreled through the kitchen. “Dammit.” Winced Tao Lin. “You better help your friend Tao-Lin, or he might find himself in a world of pain.”
Ahead, Tao Lin could hear David’s frantic cries for help. Taking out his knife out of its boot holder, Tao Lin turned the corner to find David Foster Wallace in the slimy grip of a giant octopus. “This wasn’t in the plan David!” “Give me the knife!” cried David Foster Wallace as he viciously gouged at the octopus’s eyes with his one free hand Tao Lin threw the knife and it whirled through the air. David caught the knife in one hand and tore it through the octopuses’ fleshy head. The octopus wheeled in pain, dropping the writer onto his feet. Tao Lin leapt forward with his icepick, and with one swift move thrust it into the beast’s brain. “This is so going in my blog.” The housetrained kraken spasmed on the floor for a full minute, then sat still.
“You might be the most impressive writers yet.” Came Pynchon’s silky crone over the intercom. “You’re not as smart as you think you are you bastard!” Cried back DFW. “I never said I was smart, only creative!” With a mechanical click, the floor beneath Tao Lin and David Foster Wallace swung in like a trapdoor. David desperately grasped for the ledge, and Tao Lin managed to grab his hanging ankle, leaving them both suspended precariously from the trap’s side. Looking down they could see vicious metal stakes sticking through the basement’s cold concrete floor. Scattered around the room was a number of skeletons, the one directly below them still wearing a cowboy hat. “Cormac.” Gasped Tao Lin “Pynchon you bastard!” “Tao, even my serving arm can’t keep us from falling from much longer. You have to do something now.” Tao struggled to pull himself upwards to see anything that might save them.
“Think Tao, think!” It came to him in a flash. “The toilet David, the toilet!” There above Tao Lin’s head was the outflow pipe for Pynchon’s throne, just large enough for a man to fall through. “Guess that bastard wasn’t so original after all.” Grinned David wryly.
>>7648373 At the end of the pictured lined corridor was Thomas Pynchon’s room, and beneath the floor, crude black smoke was flowing out. A rumbling started to shake the house. “What the hell’s he hiding in there?” “I don’t know Tao, but from the feel of things it’s gonna be a lot harder to eliminate his map the longer we wait here. With that David took a step forward. As he put his foot down, a vicious throwing star feel out of a picture’s mouth, skimming the glass of David’s glasses. “Dammit!” Looking down at the floor where David Foster Wallace’s foot had rested, Tao Lin saw a sea of tiles, each one with a piece of fruit drawn on in steady, identical hand. “You steeped on an apple.” “Apple, apple- Of course!” cried DFW and he leapt forward, hopping from one leg to another. “The bananas Tao, only steep on the bananas!” he shouted over his shoulder, getting ever closer to Pynchon’s door. A red glow flickered underneath now, and the closer they got the louder the noise became, and when Tao Lin joined DFW by the entrance to Pynchon’s inner abode, it was an ear-filling roar. “Lets do this.” Bursting through the door, Tao Lin and David were confronted by the giant metal arrow of a V2 rocket sticking jutting up through the floor. Settled in a leather armchair bolted floor level, was Thomas Pynchon, his head hidden behind a darkly tinted goldfish bowl, a chilling grin drawn on in crimson pen. “I’d love to stay and chat with the only authors who’ve ever made it this far, but as you can see, I have a flight to catch.” Laughing manically, the V2 started to slowly ascend, stabbing through the room’s high ceiling like it was made of paper. “Goodbye David, Mr Tao!” cried Pynchon as he left them behind in a maelstrom of black exhaust. Coughing and shielding their faces from the searing heat, David Foster Wallace and Tao Lin could only watch helplessly as their enemy made his escape. “After all this, we couldn’t even lay a finger on the guy!” cursed Tao Lin, bringing his fists to his face in rage. “It’s not over yet Tao.” David Foster Wallace ran to the window and ripped it open. He reached down to his belt and pulled up a gleaming black pistol. “Give up David, there’s no way you can hit him now.” “I hit service lines smaller then this back in Indy.” David replied, squinting up at the rocket’s thruster-lit outline. Sweat soaked his bandana. He steadied his hands and fired. Tao Lin and David stood in silence for a moment, holding their breaths, and in the next instant the dazzling orange explosion of Pynchon’s rocket lit up the night. The Hindenburg in miniature split into thousands of glittering pieces as it fell to land sizzling in the ocean below. “Write in hell you bastard.” Muttered David Foster Wallace and he let the gun fall to the garden below.
If this were a piece of biography, which it's capital-N-O-T NOT, I would tell you about how David Foster Wallace killed himself. However, he lived a long life, longer than anyone who lived before him and anyone who lived after him, because every day of his life felt like years of suffering.
It was during the year of the Amazon Prime Membership Rewards that David Foster Wallacedecided to have one last binge with television (now transcended into a hypermedia with twitter/fb/instagram colgrating the poptarts into a NEW and IMPROVED self by casting aside gender and racial norms) by watching TV shows he downloaded onto his StarTech.com 42U 36in Server Rack Cabinet with Steel Mesh Door complete with several 4 TB hard drives filled with the most disgustingly banal porn.
'I'm loaded up with mountain dew, doritos, the mouse and keyboard is in my lap and now it's time to recline my Lay-zee-boi and pull off my pants' he thought to himself as he grabbed his infinitely small and limpid shaft and began to violently masturbate. The tele-computer had multiple screens so he could watch POOR LIL WHITE BOI 4, a fifth rewatching of Star Trek the next generation, some John Travolta movie he last saw back in theaters in the 90's, South Park, HBO's Rome, The Wire, AND Deadwood, the critically acclaimed AMC series Mad Men and Breaking Bad; terrifyingly trippy videos from http://nobodytm.com, women screaming their tits off - suddenly pausing to insert an apple earbud so he could hear Moonman read the first few lines from a variety of books from 4chan's /lit/ all while livestreaming himself in a metafit of howling fantods.
'Joyce ain't got nothing on Anon E Moose" he uttered to his audience of 60,000 fanatics.
An hour passed and he still wasn't erect. One man can only take so many replies of "kill yourself faggot." before wanting to submit to his destiny.
'Fuck it, I'm going to do it, nigga never fully grasped the memetic will to power' was the final thought as he tied the belt around his neck and dragged a picture of himself photocopied in a still of a movie adoptation of his friend Elis' book.
His post read as follows:
"If dubs, I'm /self"
>implying he's an author All media nowadays is porn as determined by Feud Why did I make myself into a meme after my death? hypersphere wouldn't be published until after his death his death was destined to propel his "true authentic self" into the heights of the great through the power of WELL CRAFTED MEMES!
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