badbadbad a multimedia novel by jesús ángel garcía
badbadbad p. 1
It started with a hamburger. Whopper, large fries, Diet Coke. No, something with more meat. A political
exchange, at the bus stop outside Piggly Wiggly.
“You’re a fan,” I said, pointing at her badge, The President Is the Commander-in-Chief. It was pinned
at quarter-thigh where the denim fringe of her Daisy Dukes peeked out like tendrils. This girl was live.
“The president know what good for us,” she said and I believed her. I gazed at her belly ring, a simple
hoop, fake gold, then down to the button fly, unbuttoned, her candy cane triangle below. “We should
trust every decision he make. He know right from wrong.”
“I’ll take your word,” I said. “Me, I’m not much into politics.”
“Me neither,” she whispered. “This for work.”
I zoomed in on the red-white stripes of her two-piece. “You’re a lifeguard.”
She poked me in the chest. “Yeah right.”
“Life’s a beach,” I said.
She had never been to the beach, if we’re to believe what she told me, and I don’t see why we
shouldn’t. I talked big on my full tank of gas, tried to persuade her to get her feet wet, but she insisted
she was on the clock.
“You could call it training,” I said finally. She stared at me with anime eyes. “I’ll drown and you can
save me.”
“Shut up,” she said, taking my hand in hers.
I was fortune’s son.
Now there’s French fries in her teeth, between her lips, glossed with orange, outlined black like her eyes,
and her hair, streaked with fire strands, midnight at the oasis. She glanced up at me, switched the radio
to Nelly, rocked her blouse off her shoulder, mocha cream, silk with sweat, pink glitter. Her top too big
for her size, I expected she’d tumble out at the next speed bump. I punched the pedal, stopped short at a
crosswalk, apologized for the rock ‘n’ roll.
She grinned, digging her fingers into the bag, peeling the wax paper from the meat. Her nails were
long, slick with swirls. Sparkly letters spelled R-O-Y-A-L on each hand. She bit into the burger with a
girlish eyeroll. Her appetite was man-size, her cheeks chipmunked. I’d never before seen such freckles.
She was a saint who didn’t know it, hadn’t yet answered the call. A superhero at nineteen, she tagged
herself a whore. “I’m just a hoe,” she said.
So naïve, out of practice, I didn’t realize, didn’t let myself know. I pegged her for a bop, that’s all. She
was at the bus stop, had never been to the beach. She said she was hungry. At least I could feed her.
Copyright © 2009 by Jesús Ángel García
About the Author
Jesús Ángel García is the author of badbadbad, a multimedia novel about sex, God, rock ‘n’ roll and the social web. A fair encapsulation of this 280-page narrative appeared as a one-sentence story in the December 2009 issue of Monkeybicycle. The first excerpt from the novel, "Lesson for My Son III," was published in January 2010 as a short story in 3:AM Magazine, and "Finnegan's Wank," a bawdy parody of James Joyce via an HTMLGiant "When Writers Get Off" contest was recently posted on Annalemma's blog. Under another name, García has published widely as a journalist and critic. He is also a freelance editor, writing coach, and multimedia artist.
+ + +
Jesús Lives! "Dirtier in the Alley"
10th Annual LitQuake's LitCrawl
Mad Props to Evan Karp
"ticktockclock meets jesusangelgarcia"
East Bay on the Brain: New Bay Area
Reading Series
Mad Props II to Evan Karp
(please click link above if video glitches)
Missionary Works
In its final form, badbadbad will be an unprecedented literary-audio-visual mashup with much of the non-book content posted right here online. For the latest news, please follow us on Twitter @badbadbad or Facebook. The author intends to be on other social-media networks soon. Once the project is fully up and running, we here at 3xbad hope to recruit an apostolic army to stage readings and present the multimedia works of badbadbad across the planet in the name of Jesús. Stay tuned...
Please CONTACT us with any interests or inquiries.
back to top
It started with a hamburger. Whopper, large fries, Diet Coke. No, something with more meat. A political
exchange, at the bus stop outside Piggly Wiggly.
“You’re a fan,” I said, pointing at her badge, The President Is the Commander-in-Chief. It was pinned
at quarter-thigh where the denim fringe of her Daisy Dukes peeked out like tendrils. This girl was live.
“The president know what good for us,” she said and I believed her. I gazed at her belly ring, a simple
hoop, fake gold, then down to the button fly, unbuttoned, her candy cane triangle below. “We should
trust every decision he make. He know right from wrong.”
“I’ll take your word,” I said. “Me, I’m not much into politics.”
“Me neither,” she whispered. “This for work.”
I zoomed in on the red-white stripes of her two-piece. “You’re a lifeguard.”
She poked me in the chest. “Yeah right.”
“Life’s a beach,” I said.
She had never been to the beach, if we’re to believe what she told me, and I don’t see why we
shouldn’t. I talked big on my full tank of gas, tried to persuade her to get her feet wet, but she insisted
she was on the clock.
“You could call it training,” I said finally. She stared at me with anime eyes. “I’ll drown and you can
save me.”
“Shut up,” she said, taking my hand in hers.
I was fortune’s son.
Now there’s French fries in her teeth, between her lips, glossed with orange, outlined black like her eyes,
and her hair, streaked with fire strands, midnight at the oasis. She glanced up at me, switched the radio
to Nelly, rocked her blouse off her shoulder, mocha cream, silk with sweat, pink glitter. Her top too big
for her size, I expected she’d tumble out at the next speed bump. I punched the pedal, stopped short at a
crosswalk, apologized for the rock ‘n’ roll.
She grinned, digging her fingers into the bag, peeling the wax paper from the meat. Her nails were
long, slick with swirls. Sparkly letters spelled R-O-Y-A-L on each hand. She bit into the burger with a
girlish eyeroll. Her appetite was man-size, her cheeks chipmunked. I’d never before seen such freckles.
She was a saint who didn’t know it, hadn’t yet answered the call. A superhero at nineteen, she tagged
herself a whore. “I’m just a hoe,” she said.
So naïve, out of practice, I didn’t realize, didn’t let myself know. I pegged her for a bop, that’s all. She
was at the bus stop, had never been to the beach. She said she was hungry. At least I could feed her.
Copyright © 2009 by Jesús Ángel García
About the Author
Jesús Ángel García is the author of badbadbad, a multimedia novel about sex, God, rock ‘n’ roll and the social web. A fair encapsulation of this 280-page narrative appeared as a one-sentence story in the December 2009 issue of Monkeybicycle. The first excerpt from the novel, "Lesson for My Son III," was published in January 2010 as a short story in 3:AM Magazine, and "Finnegan's Wank," a bawdy parody of James Joyce via an HTMLGiant "When Writers Get Off" contest was recently posted on Annalemma's blog. Under another name, García has published widely as a journalist and critic. He is also a freelance editor, writing coach, and multimedia artist.
+ + +
Jesús Lives! "Dirtier in the Alley"
10th Annual LitQuake's LitCrawl
Mad Props to Evan Karp
"ticktockclock meets jesusangelgarcia"
East Bay on the Brain: New Bay Area
Reading Series
Mad Props II to Evan Karp
(please click link above if video glitches)
Missionary Works
In its final form, badbadbad will be an unprecedented literary-audio-visual mashup with much of the non-book content posted right here online. For the latest news, please follow us on Twitter @badbadbad or Facebook. The author intends to be on other social-media networks soon. Once the project is fully up and running, we here at 3xbad hope to recruit an apostolic army to stage readings and present the multimedia works of badbadbad across the planet in the name of Jesús. Stay tuned...
Please CONTACT us with any interests or inquiries.
back to top