When two ordinary young men from New York receive a tempting proposal by a mysterious and intimidating person, they hardly expect it will involve them in a bloody mess of power, money, gambling, alcohol, drugs and sex.
Taken to the mansion of an eccentric billionaire with shady past, legendary present and twisted tastes, Jim and Jack encounter luxurious parties, deadly rules, cruel betting, while they are faced with the price to remain themselves… or change forever.
The somber novel “The Auction” brings out of the dust with racing speed notions like integrity, revenge and honor. It also demonstrates that the hangover of any hate lasts longer than that of the hardest love split.
Available at Amazon soon.
Violence has always disgusted me.
Except when the bad guy’s head is smashed with a wooden door in cartoons. I have the same feelings for any type of opiates stronger than Aspirin. Cruelty scares and confuses me and, in general, I would not hurt anyone for the sheer pleasure of it.
But some monsters deserve it, don’t you think?
You would thrust the muzzle of a pistol in Pol Pot’s ass, wouldn’t you? And you would even shoot at that moment, except if you have suspicions that he might enjoy this. You would not have pity on a creature, responsible for the death of several million people.
Or even of a single child.
You hate him! Admit it!
Come on, say it! Not to me now, but in front of the mirror tomorrow morning, during your heavy hangover, following that book.
I suppose, writing about violence is my queer way to try and change the world. But that’s a cliché. If there is something more abominable than clichés, it is using them in Author’s Note with the aim to change the world. Actually, when someone declares he wants to change the world, it is always quite suspicious.
Plus, when this someone smiles at you too much.
Or tells you what a great person you are.
I just want to make this nasty place a little more genuine and honest. Because if we talk about everything, we will be able to share our insecurities, fantasies, pains and madness, hidden deep in our souls.
When we know, we understand. And when we understand, we love.
To love is always easier than to hate.
Or at least it requires less effort.
I say this from personal experience, because, I am afraid, I have felt more hatred than love. I am not sorry about this. At least I have not been bored emotionally, although the hangover from any hatred lasts longer than the hardest love split.
I just wanted to be a normal author of novels with cool guys and terrific chicks between the covers, plus a bizarre ending. I never meant to write about hatred. I intended less even to produce a sloppy love novel. But hatred sneaked among the pages on its own accord, in order to invigorate the dull preaching stories. So, my cliché did not work out.
Clearly, that is for writers of another type. With different hair-cut and shorts with pink elephants.
Because “The Auction” is a book about hatred.
A book, which I love up to the knot of my cheap tie and which fills me with sub-military pride. A book, created during an underground period, I don’t have clear memories about, and, I admit, I am not especially proud of.
My characters proved to be no less contradictory than their bubbling father. Rather weak in the core, than strong in the husk. Suffering in luxury and blind for happiness. Men that you cannot ignore, even in period, and women who you would make sex with even during Great Lent.
Our dark side is not only stronger, it is a lot more exciting than some powdered Christmas trees, made of plexiglass. People condemn hatred and hide it like it is a spiny amphibian in brand silk knickers. Pure and simple: people just hate hatred.
They are lying! Nobody actually hates hatred. Everybody is naturally and secretly professing it. Yet they avoid discussing it in any possible way. It smoulders like traitor embers under the bow-ties of the souls. It rises and boils in the most sinful furnaces of the heart.
Hatred is the most natural and genuine emotion. It is throttled with aggression, which is the bacillus of the instinct of self-preservation. Hatred can be delicate and gracious, arrogant and cruel. But it is always sincere and springs from the bottom of the heart.
In this it differs from love, which often is false and brief, like a moth around a lamp in the evening.
Because in the nappies of hatred love grows and blooms.
I hope it is like that with this book too, and that it will make you a little less hating. Or at least infuse a little more of throbbing adrenaline in the blood. Because the words of hatred not always bring corresponding hatred. Sometimes just the opposite happens.
This book is bad.
Like bad boys, but not at all like bad girls.