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    8 Dirty French Shots
    8 Dirty French Shots
    8 Dirty French Shots
    Ebook93 pages1 hour

    8 Dirty French Shots

    By Furious Short Texts

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    About this ebook

    « Olivier, you should try to find a publisher... »
    « Yeah maybe but, you know, I’ve got the feeling no one gives a damn about writing. »
    « That’s because you’re doing things the wrong way. What you need is to create a clearly identifiable writer’s persona. »
    « You mean something like a marketing technique? »

    Furious short texts' marketing technique is to help the freshest French authors to rule the world. A new wind is blowing and we're flying with it, proud and narcissistic, up to cloud bursting heights, to put our literature back in first place.

    Every Furious issue selects the best crop, the purest drugs, the most unusual precious words.
    Also, 8 dirty French shots introduces 8 short and corrosive texts by 8 authors from the new literary French scene translated exclusively for you, into such frenchy English
    Inside
    SNIPER by Thomas SPOK
    HIS METEORIC MAJESTY by Arnaud MODAT
    BENCHMARKING by Olivier BKZ
    WHAT IF NATURE WERE NOT COMMUNIST, DAMMIT ? by Patrick GOMEZ RUIZ
    THE MAILBOX IN THE RUE BARU by Jordi CARDONER
    CLOSE ENCOUNTER OF THE THIRD GUY AT THE BAR OF THE REDFORD HOTEL by Rip
    VIRUS by Clélie VIAN
    THE TEXT OF WHICH I’M THE HERO by NOUNOURZ & NIHIL Team-up
    In these short texts hopes, abandonment, madness and contemporary dreams are the subject of our authors' exhilarating creativity.
    You're expected for immediate take-off

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherFurious Short Texts
    Release dateJun 4, 2014
    ISBN9791092316056
    8 Dirty French Shots
    Author

    Furious Short Texts

    Furious provides the finest selection of the next gen' french writers. Exclusive content, fresh literature, smart and dirty words : here come 100 % angry letters certified from the strikes. Take a look at our books, new talents are burning for you !

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      Book preview

      8 Dirty French Shots - Furious Short Texts

      8 dirty French shots

      By Furious Short texts

      Published by Furious Short texts at Smashwords

      Copyright 2014 Furious Short texts

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes 

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      Short texts

      8 dirty French shots with :

      • Olivier BKZ ~ Jordi Cardoner ~ Thomas Spok ~ Arnaud Modat ~ Rip ~ Clelie Vian ~ Nihil & Nounourz ~ Patrick Gomez Ruiz •

      • Translated from the French by Stephane Normand •

      FURIOUS edition

      http://www.furiousedition.com

      SNIPER

      Thomas SPOK

      My God, having my morning cigarette is better than going to confession, and the smoke blowing through my nose is really a venial sin under the sun. Yes sirree, I'm lighting up a lung dart, waiting at my station. Behind my sights, life seems so simple.

      Except there's this crank, jaywalking as if cars weren't real. I wouldn't mind if one ran him over. Shit. I'd better be drawing a bead on him right now.

      The car grazed him. The lucky son of a gun - he tripped and so dodged the bike. One more stride and bingo, there he is on the sidewalk. A stroller nearly knocks him down, with all the required grace. The guy is floating above clouds supercharged with illicit substances. Why am I taking aim at him? Because he's got Mr. Nice Guy written all over his face.

      Taking a careful aim, against the light while smoking, is of the utmost importance. I've trained for this all my life. The easiest part, whatever people might say, is choosing the target, almost randomly, according to your mood. Since it's about fighting a losing battle, what interests me above all the rest is collateral damage. For instance, take the young brunette waiting in line at the vending machine down there; she will be right in my sights at the very second our asphalt walker eventually deigns to get his big nose off the store window. I'm going to put an end to the poor guy's innocence. All right, here we go – three steps... two... one – crack!

      Seeing their vacant eyes is breaking my heart.

      « So, did you hit? »

      « You bet. Fine couple. »

      « What did you shoot them with? »

      « Lightning bolt of love at first sight. Old school. »

      « You good old Cupid, you! » 

      HIS METEORIC MAJESTY

      Arnaud MODAT

      I could have untiringly racked my neural connections for centuries; it was no good. Since his third move, bishop d4, it had been a relentless aggression. He was weaving his goddam web while sipping his grenadine, hellbent on eating me alive. He wasn't playing one move ahead of me – he had two brains, both bigger than my own cortex. The cameras were focusing on the gameboard. You could see my hairy hands moving vainly over the chessboard, from here to the antipodes, in some shabby bar where boozehounds were hollering to cut the crap and bring back the horseracing channel. Maybe I was out of it. Maybe that kid was different. Some monster. The new generation of wankers who would pick their noses but never eat the product. The microchip childhood, delivered with batteries and free online instructions for use.

      In the labs, they have a good laugh trying to cross semen from non-manual workers, oak-aged (ten years) at high altitudes, with ovaries from javelin throw finalists. A pinch of speed amphetamine, a few links on the chain swapped for some mutant molecule and here you are, pitted against a virgin boy who grabs you by the balls with his queen on h8. Hurrah for sport.

      Fucked up.

      That's me.

      His Meteoric Majesty.

      A.k.a. Prankster Knight, without mentioning that other illustrious alias, The Teasing Bishop.

      Before they started mixing kids with motherboards, I could sit in front of any asshole in this world, you name him, and beat the hell out of him in thirty minutes flat. In the meantime, I could possibly have painted a watercolor with my left hand. On that day, past the first fifteen minutes of that rigged game, I studied our mutual opening moves and I felt as if I were solidly tied up to a totem, with Wild Bison ready to toss all his tomahawks at my balls.

      For a while, I tried to create a diversion. I leant over the chessboard and whispered to the kid:

      « Hey, kid... Have you ever touched anything beside a wooden queen? »

      He must have been twelve at the most. His next move grounded my knight.

      « Hey kiddo, you dirty li'l bastard, mebbe you already tried stuffin' a chessman up your ass. Well, didya? »

      I chose to go for it. I didn't give a damn. He was no real kid. He was just a zombie who knew the moves.

      Besides, any normal kid would have quit. With his next move he killed my bishop, and then he took a big glassful of his still cool grenadine.

      « Check, sir. »

      His glass had left a wet mark on the table. I wished it had been a rathole to disappear down into, once and for all. As it was not the case, I left my chair and waved my fist at the adjudicators, a big bunch of young guys wearing suits and ties and who had my name written in big letters on the list of people to be dispersed as soon as possible.

      « Now, gentlemen, seriously speaking – this kid has got a plug in his neck, or a USB port instead of an asshole, I dunno. Come on, he's gotta smoke RAM modules in secret... »

      I'd felt a mighty club blow on my left temple. All of a sudden, I couldn't tell what it was I had wanted to ask in the first place, so I went back to my chair without causing any further disturbance. Drops of blood were regularly drip-dripping on my white rook, on d8.

      The big idea was to lynch me.

      Too often in the past had I opened my yap. When the new boss had taken office I had said, at the time of the Brive-la-Gaillarde tournament; « If such a guy (as this one) is really fond of playing chess, as you say, well the time has come to arm the braves and kill the fatted calf. Unless it be the other way round, not to mention the fact that this man is as ugly as a horse and not taller than a piss-completed spawn. »

      That's right – the big idea was to lynch me. First, I was going to be defeated by a tuned prepubescent

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