|20.20|21|22|22.2|22.22|22.222|23|24|25|Those Extra Four…|1|2|3|4|Back Cover|
For every nothing that begins, there must be an every- and anything that follows; similarly, for every prologue, there must also be an epilogue; don’t you know that things work in cycles?
C’mon, you’ve made it this far; I dare you to read the rest. It may feel like a smak in the face, the story ending like that, but if you feel that way then you’re likely a human. And if there’s one thing to be learned from all this, it’s that the aliens are smarter than the humans. You’ll get it eventually; practice makes perfect, just like in anything and everything else. With that lesson learned, I have one last thing to say: welcome home.
Yes, welcome home Jack Monta; although this home may look more like the waiting room with the carpeted hardwood-tile floor you sit in whilst the psychiatrist tries to convince the ‘mando ahead of you that the drug-smoking hairless mammalians have not, in fact, infiltrated the United Salamander’s Government than it does a place you would rest your head at night, worry not. Just upstairs there are some kooky purple aliens with some Psychedelic space drugs who will doubtlessly try to convince you to get high with them before undergoing some interspecies mingling. And who knows, maybe one of these iterations, you’ll let them.
While you may not have guessed the true intentions behind this version of an extraterrestrial invasion of Earth, you may have skipped breakfast before undergoing this trip. I get it, you wanted the experience to be more intense, but you’ve just wound up even hungrier than you were before you went into it. But now it’s the end of the day; go have some dinner; you’ve earned that much. Then go to bed and get some rest.
Ah, you’re awake! Time for some breakfast with bigfoot, as it were; eat up, before he nabs the mushroom cubes off your plate. Good, you’re nice and full now, all caught up on your sleep… and you’re still mad at the ending? Don’t take this the wrong way, but uh, have you ever tried psychotherapy? I mean, this is just a novel, after all; if your coach sends an email to the principal of your school about your shitty attitude, then you need to learn to deal with your vicarious living syndrome in a way that benefits you, lest you find yourself stranded on Planet Hymarc. Yikes. Hey, if you think you can write a better story, then please, for the love of Cannabis, take the time to write a book. I’d read it.
No? Don’t want to waste your time writing? Then you’re in for a rude awakening, bucko… if writing is your purpose, that is. I’m not saying that it’s mine, why would you think that? Like, what the fuck? All I’m saying is that I tried everything besides writing this tome and got introduced to failure over and over and over again – I’ve been both The Hobo and The Prisoner; they’re one in the same, if you ask me. But anyway, then I wrote this book and now you’re reading it, so… think about it. The job is done. Question for you though, hypothetical reader, if you even exist: how’d you find out about this book? Word of mouth? Physical, mental, and existential exhaustion brought me here, while a turn in conversation, the flap of a pair of lips, human lipsno less, brought you to this page. If you’ve even come to this page in the first place, that is… Existence is weird, isn’t it?
Fine, I’ll address the ending. First I welcomed you home, but now I say: happy birthday Jack Monta! That’s all you get; sorry, can’t hear you, I’m busy chilling with two aliens smoking drugs on the edge of the atmosphere.
That’s seriously all you get. If you really don’t understand the ending, then re-read the final chapter; hell, re-read the whole story. It’s all there for you. Epilogue, fin.
About The Author
The author is a man who “out of the blue” decided he wanted to write a long-ass novel about aliens that do Psychedelic drugs.
Then, he fucking did it.
What else do you need to know?