E3’s June Gloom Doom: green eggs and jamón

By Patrick Garratt, Friday, 8 May 2015 09:30 GMT

Ready for E3? Get in the mood with this reliving of the show’s idiocy in 2013, the year Sony and Microsoft’s press conference battle turned ugly.

freeway

This year’s E3 promises to be appropriately ridiculous, but it’s unlikely to top 2013’s show for nonsense. I wrote the following in LA two years ago as part of Deg, a novel I’ve since completed. For the sake of context, E3 2013 gave Sony and Microsoft their last chance to convince America of PS4 and Xbox One before launching that autumn. Jack Tretton and Andy House used the situation to brutalise Microsoft in the press conferences, but Don Mattrick clearly made a greater impression on me. All that green gets under your skin, no?

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       “Wingadingding,” says Billy and associate windows throb shell cubicle now glass total window airport wank hard world watch window Bobo comes through with indica and sativa Charlie Sheen and Afgooey in orange pop pots clownstyle. Sprinkler spurts pudding death birds pentagram candle. Lovely buds very fresh very strong. Pizza, cats and dogs. Xbox One collects awful press, all black and sticky. Difficult for us to say we care enough to buy box when so expensive so closed writing games film on cusp, she says, and she’s right. Need the comic reinvention Batman Gears of War and BioShock movies never made and never will it’s too expensive. The risk is astronomical. Different format never happen Watchmen killed BioShock film guys see no difference return too risky lisky. E3 hot this year’s passes difficult Twin Peaks art festival Hertz men glow red all teeth and fear no GPS where’s my GPS no GPS upgrade. The LA freeway ghosts of twelve-lane liquorice backward bumpy and dumps to Valley gas stations.
       “I flew in from DC this morning,” the potato says. “That’s three thousand motherfucking miles, and that agent is about to have a very bad day.” We giggle and kiss the tips of each other’s penises turn purple and weep with fatigue. His wife looks on all forlorn from over the other side of the touch-screens as he fucks my asshole like a bored bull, four grizzly Germans masturbating in unison behind us.
       “What’s going on?”
       “Just waiting in line.” He pulls out flapping rectum and allows one of the Germans to guide his cock, now neon pink like New York hotdog big as cat, into friend’s toothy mouth.
       “People at the back of the line there getting real sore,” she says. “You hully bully up.”
       I flip on my Malibu and hit the liquorice palms candy skeletons with amethyst eye sockets braziers under open diamond lattice. Beuno flaking paint of Mexico decay to nothing under death bird chirps laments to whipped cream despondency. A strimmer buzzing in the morning. Doesn’t seem so now.
       “BioShock tried for this highbrow thing but just couldn’t make it. Like, at all. Total fucking bullshit. And all that science shit was just fucking wrong,” she says. She covers her mouth when she talks, presumably out of fear of burrito spray nails red manicured to point blood red apart from one finger black white stripe. “Like, I couldn’t wait for that game, and it was all like, what the fuck. That’s fucking games.”
       Roast pork barbecue sour dough French fries medium hot sauce coffee.
       “Like, it just doesn’t work. What the fuck is Microsoft thinking? Supposed to broaden the audience, not fucking narrow it. High-end entertainment. Who the fuck is that guy?”
       “It’s every guy who watches the Super Bowl.”
       “Super Bowl guy?”
       “Dude, millions.”
       “Expensive. Who the fuck cares outside America? Does even America care?”
       “Super Bowl guy.”
       Coffee tofu shepherd’s pie thought OK monotone fucking fights for that spot he’s really going for it, huh? Diet Coke you got it you guys good here yeah check check twenty ten percent doubled yeah green smoke plugs mouth nose covers pool smoke outside light coats mating moths palm fronds dead sky dead night sprinklers walls melt dirty glass: on the other side a middle-aged fat beard labours over an egg-white omelette the size of a six month-old baby. Cicadas swarm legs, eating his fat calves. He cries covers you for everything luggage insurance sagging face peels blood red black white.
       “Like, storytelling in games hasn’t even fucking happened yet. Just fucking kill people and like five-minute story. The fucking films guys are like, fuck you. Like, seriously, fuck you. They can’t make it work. What the fuck. I just want to be fucking excited again. This week is great and all, and it’s nice to see everyone fucking keyed up, but this had better be fucking good. This really had better be fucking good.”

don

       June Gloom Doom Mattrick legs twenty feet long props himself falling forwards with a spread of walking stick fingernails lime green knives stabbed into the front of the stage. Each hand is car-sized and bursts with flashing pustules noxious gas rises from sores flap skin when he opens his mouth his head chickens horizontally razor teeth gnash and he wails, a sound of multiverse pain, a scream from the depths ski lift network clambers over green mountains a million to one. Doom cracks his spine exposes hairy vertebrae and his skin leaks green flame bellows forward and plucks a hand from the stage audience stapled to the floor. His fingernails fuse to a point slice lamp bugs moths and cicadas eddy thick press conference air around his clamping nails forge a green rapier of truth. He pushes it through the eyes of a double-sized journalist in the front row pop like grapes he cries like little baby and Doom’s hell roar vibrates grasshopper leg, his feet dancing through the bug shit. The crowd has a little clap. Eats bug shit expands the green cracked nails through the journalist’s soft head (it falls apart like an artichoke orange) before eating his black liver with a fork of crushed discs, a sparkle of good old DVD with webcam eyes. Journalists eat bug shit Doom laughs bug shit elephant stilt legs. He clacks stage like Donkey Doom spider lays green eggs. Doom is great green spider, a pregnant tarantula with finger knives razor teeth. His eyes point quiver. There is no reflection in the pupils as if they are dead.
       Cage bars yellow paint open fish tacos. Six dollar special machaca and eggs.
       “Hello, señor.” Black angel beams up from a bosom encased in plastic.
       A vaquero with shining eyes cropped hair and boot black skin, sandpaper smooth and winter dark, follows from table window corner without signal Spanish TV breaks face lines green black expressions torn green black for here? Sí. Ponytail piss sweat back pulled pork scrambled egg hot sauce and tortillas finger burn. Kitchen gleams silver Diet Coke for here? Bars windows white paint onto the lot, LA Downtown blisters for here? Bars window green black then it picks a signal as I eat with shining eyes fish taco six dollar machacha. Plastic peppers onions radio from kitchen drums Spanish. Seems sensible, this Californian burrito.
       The Mexican pulls the plastic seat plastic knife fork packet salt chilli sauce. He shines eyes toothpick fish taco.
       “Let’s go, señor. Party start.”
       That stink, man. It’s the good stuff. Thought it was off: it’s back on. Purple hair glitter eyes, all eyes and cleavage look broken señor, tired show fucking hate LA up to Seattle New York wicked yeah. I’ve always wanted to do it. Completely different. Can play PS4 whenever want whatever want can’t get fucking near Xbox One. Doom Matrix ass-fucked those guys with spider cock. Fuck spoke Dave never happen again you remember señor? Stink that good stuff interview aggressive alright man yeah fucked tired have to fucking go you going yeah. You’ll never see it. It’s underneath the carpark. Spider cock.
       “Deg up.”
       Umbrella settles purple death on the monkeys in the white concrete shell, coming to America wall of deg stink good stuff. The beams open to the southern United States a yellow deg ceiling. The monkeys tear grey skin from each other’s backs melt to monkey glue before the taco stand.
       “You look broken, señor.”
       I fucking hate LA. The sat nav crashes cry in deg car cast magic freeway filming for six to eight weeks. I’ll see how it goes.
       “Power is a rare thing. A rare resource.”
       Quin Benko returns from his meeting, his heart in his hand and blood on his chicken breast lips. He smells all Brazilian and nice his pockets full of spiders clutches two pieces of paper one in each fox hand.
       “He wants you to come,” says Quin. “He will take you to Brazil.”
       A black afro hardbody in peach striped bikini bottoms hulahoops in a heat haze. Window MILF doesn’t come when she fucks and the nice blonde waitress, white lace on CA tan, shows her how. Tiny tits squeak white as blonde licks her cunt. Miami Vice, nice cut cock, leans in the doorway till she sucks his bell while blonde lady, nice lady, licks her cunt toilet speaks Chinese in my ear not Kindle, not passport, just shoes all laptop all belt Chinese in the stall head over stall cock wrapped in tissue, my head over the top of the stall in the space where the Chinese woman speaker blue come split tissue grunts like pig. Grey Miami Vice American blonde woman earrings pearl lace tits teen. Billy rolls his eyes and shits in the teen’s mouth. Record traffic, and so great to see you. I love the concept. Best E3 ever. Great E3. Will definitely come again next year. Dairy free ice cream meatball sub Culver City. We call them bobbleheads. Same doctor shaves down below the doctor shaves them stick-thin then pumps up chest with pump cock. Pump it up. Make top-heavy bobbleheads shit in mouth. Teen hug pink pig spread legs iPhone. Charge your mobile devices thank you for recognising it’s not the time I’m not going to say anything. Thank you, sir. Buck teeth teen cunt Hollywood. Billy shits mouth teen cunt. Old white French women black hair shoe white. Teen sucks spider cock mature ass fucks French grandma ass. Regime plus tards relax.
       “I’m glad we’ve reached a point of clarity,” says Billy.

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Image credits: “Down the 10,” by Timothy Tolle; Don Mattrick.

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