An Excerpt from Sherman Smith's Upcoming "Heaven in Las Vegas"

Smith, carefully maintaining a balance of forces.

Mixx Magazine staff writer Sherman Smith's upcoming novel "Heaven in Las Vegas" is approaching completion. Heavily influenced by Louisville's iconic godfather of Gonzo journalism, Hunter S. Thompson, the offerings thus far have proven both true to the style and a distinct interpretation thereof. 

“[It's] my magnum opus, my personal proclamation to the world." Says Smith of the project. "The novel is written as a series of times spanning four days; Thursday through Sunday."

Today we're excited to be privileged to an exclusive excerpt from the book ahead of its upcoming release:

“Homie I’ll show you a level of disappointment that you haven’t seen since your dad committed suicide because of your whore mother. Fuck you.” Who in the hell did this douche think he was. Both of them for that matter. Only one had spoken so far, the other sitting with a pen and paper. We were all unsure of exactly what they wanted and we were extremely irate in our questioning. “Who in the fuck are you?” I rang, cocaine visible on the tip of my nose. Grabbing my glass of red wine, I was tempted to throw everything in my hand at the fucker that sat taking notes. They both wore white suits, extremely odd for Las Vegas. Who in the fuck would wear a white suit, knowing that you have the chance to get anything from stripper cum to chocolate all over it. They didn’t sit at our table, Santi wouldn’t allow it.
“Hell no. I don’t know who in the fuck these ass clowns are. Jose, bring these fucks another table, a small one. Treat these ass holes likes it fucking segregation time.”
I don’t think that any of us would have reacted to him if we were sober. We all would have sat there and ate crumpets and drank tea like the civilized individuals we were. Yes, the table at which we sat would display nothing but the positive influence that each of us created, held, and dispensed at will. If only that were the case...however it was far from it. We were savages. Disgusting, vile, terrible savages hell bent on committing sins that these mice could not fathom. And we would not apologize. We should not and will not, no one for that matter, should apologize for who they are. Especially if the one in front of them is the one who made them that way.
“Santi! You motherfucker,” William yelled, “turn down your awesome alright. These assholes can’ t think straight. And it’s fucking up my cognition. I’m not rational.”
In this world that we live in, we’ve all got a reason to treat each other better. It’s our duty to be the nicest that we can be to everyone. Don’t be an asshole. But fuck that in this situation. These two assholes, dressed in their white clown suits with wing-tip shoes, blonde hair peeking from underneath the top-hats that sat on the crowns of their head had come to me to offer a job. A job so lucrative and influential that I’d have to already be worth ten figures to decline the invitation into the position. I was apprehensive about going over to their table. Afraid, in a ‘wow, this may not end very well’ type of way...hell, whens the last time you were set up and placed in a situation? A situation that you thought you had the power to control, that you thought you chose to place yourself in...this was foreign. I felt nothing but worry, a jittery coked out worry. My moist palms gripped the handles of my chair as I moved backwards, standing to walk to the ass clowns table. They sat, smug and important looking. One wore a blue tie, the other a red one. The red tie sat to my right, blue to the left. What is it with this is quite odd, that this town, this place that I love and have began to hate is common, as irregular as it is. What do these men want? Why have they sought me? And why in the flying fuck did Santi go along with this mess? I must have tooted an eight ball in the thirty minutes that Heaven, Corey, Shelby and I sat talking...and I absolutely have no idea what in the fuck is going on. I’m lost, obviously out of my league. How did I manage to get myself into this situation, I thought that I had done everything right... Walking over to them proved difficult as the fear that I felt crept from the floor up my legs like vines, my body struggling more and more as I uprooted the vines with each gruesome step. I reluctantly sat, eying them for several seconds prior to doing so. Their dark eyes and crooked smiles, these men sat across from me staring me down as wolves do sheep. Each time they spoke, I saw only sharp teeth and saliva, their voices roaring blasphemy as I had never heard before.
“Sherman, we want you to write. But you’d have to do it our way. You’ll win prestigious awards, make millions of dollars and influence millions upon millions of people tens times over, all over the world.” The creepy bastard to the left spoke, the jerk to the right looked up and down at me and his pad, jotting things down. I wondered what in the fuck he was writing as I sat across from them, their beady eyes piercing into me as they attempted to peer into my soul. People like these two are terrible entities. They aren’t human. They are devilish creatures that roam the lands for souls to entrap and, they wished for me to be one. I looked back towards Heaven, they sat with a dark cloud over their heads watching me intently. “We’d like to take the art of writing in a new direction in America. You’re a rap fan, right? Sure you are. Well, the same thing that happened to them, we want to do to writing.” What happened to them? Who was them? Rap artists? The rap genre itself? Rap music has become as ignorant as any other thing in the world, and just as popular. Rightfully so too. It is a culture. Yet, it has been utilized by numerous people in power to keep a profitable industry thriving. Disgusting indeed, as an entire society has undergone severe brainwashing and psychotherapy, so much so that the action of harming one another is nothing but a reflex. Perpetuating crime in music had been a ploy created by music industry executives and assholes in high profile positions in the private prison industry. This ploy was one that would enhance the evident detriment to minorities, namely black people, that America has had on their psyche and well-being. “The music industry has invested money into privately built prisons for years. Over 25 to be exact. We want to make your writings...we want to take them and use your influence as well as ours, to impact the profitability of these investments. Numerous publishing houses have invested into these prisons. How does it sound?”
This fucker really asked me how it sounds? This is insane and down right frightful. My head spins as confusion befalls me. How did I get into this situation? I didn’t ask for this shit, fuck this. I gazed in amazement, mouth open wide as the man to the left continued his sales pitch. “The more motherfuckers we get in these prisons, the more the government pays. We’ve got it down to a science now. We even buy stocks. It’s fucking incredible” the bastard says slyly, his voice low and smooth.
“What?” I ask slowly, my mouth still wide open. “You want me to write about criminal shit so I send more black people to jail?”
“Yes, in a nutshell.”
“Is this a fucking joke!”
Suddenly the man to the right, the one that had been looking me up and down, jotting notes as if he were a stenographer in court, pulled a small revolver from his waist band and sat it onto the table. I glared at the man, wondering what the best possible scenario of this situation was. I didn’t want to cause a ruckus and I surely did not want to be sitting at this table with two lunatics. What in the world is happening? I’ve got to be dreaming, asleep...that’s it. That’s got to be reality. Why in the fuck does it have to be my day? How does this type of bullshit happen? Twice in one hour? God damn it and whoever loves it to hell!
“It would be in your best interest to agree.”
I leaned back into my chair, dazed and confused. I wondered what the outcome of the night, hell, this meeting, would be. I understood the enormity of this situation and it made me feel as small as a grain of sand in a 100 gallon aquarium. My nerves were shot. A crude sense of desperation welled over me. Run. Run fast and far. You’re jacked up on cocaine Sherman, a ridiculous amount of it. I’m sure you could make it to Mandalay Bay, as long as pedestrian ped-way traffic is minimal. The weekend cocaine binge that I was on was doing a number on me. I had become reacquainted with the devil and become a godless heathen. This substance, the wretched and vile creator of mania that halts the catalyst that begets suffering from hate. The substance that makes borne from hate, anger and from that, fear. Fuck fear. Cocaine was my savior for the moment and with it coursing through my body I transmuted into a being more than human. I am the god with the goods and everything in the world be damned, conquer I shall. The cocaine had made me more aware of the situation and everything that surrounded me. As waitresses galloped speedily, pouring red wine into the seven challis’ standing royally at the table, I began to hone on the music that was being played in the background. It sounded distant, yet I was able to feel the sounds as if they were being blasted in a vehicle that I was merrily cruising in. No longer was the voice of an imposter little Richard coming from the speakers throughout the front of the restaurant. No, it was an angelic voice, one that comforted your inner being with a sweet serenade and attracted you to it as a magnet would its opposite. A voice that was syrupy and soothing, a nectar that pleasantly over-powered the bitter state of affairs that enclosed me at the present moment. I could not see with my own eyes the woman whose voice was rippling through the air, affecting me in the same way that the sun and the water affect the plumage of a rain forest. Seductive and lovely, it drew me in with such vigor that I was forced to rise from the table and get a visual of the Siren and her beauteous melody.
“Where are you going? We’re in the middle of something” was faintly heard by my ears, yet I was so enamored by the peace that I was receiving from the sounds vibrating through the air that I paid whoever spoke no mind. Exiting the back dining area in which we politicized, I gasped, dropping my Challis’, particles of glass strewing everywhere. My leather dress shoes had taken the brunt of the wave of red wine that escaped the challis but that was no matter. Several people turned in their chairs upon the smashing of my crockery, yet I felt that they were miniscule specks of sand in a universe that had immensely grown in the past three minutes. Fuck them. The voice that I was hearing was not one that I knew, yet it sounded eerily familiar. As I stood outside of the doorway of the backroom dining area of the restaurant, the stage directly in front of me and rows of tables positioned throughout, I did the only thing that I felt I could do. There was no more time to think, hell, I had neither the want or the ability brain may very well have short-circuited if I even tried. My body began a slow strut down the middle of an aisle that resembled the passage way of the Israelite’s during their gallivanted march through the Red Sea. I made an undeviating straight line towards the alluring vocalization of the woman on stage, giving no care to any other patron inside. From afar I gazed at a single light shone from the rafters on an illustrious indigo sequined dress contouring this woman with the angelic voice. Could it be? Had I found her again at last? Had she come back to haunt me once more? Heaven cannot be far away, I am sure of it. I walked down the aisle, approaching slowly as a lion would a gazelle in African grassland. She seemed so far away. My heart beat rapidly as my breathing increased and, a slight fear came over me as I wondered if I could die from a welling of emotion inside of the heart. I thought that I would never see her again. The closer I got to her, the more a wondrous feeling that I had never once in life felt gained control of me. It was glorious and orgasmic, and seeing this woman standing in front of me so elegantly and unattached made this feeling escape through my pores. Her blonde hair placed in a style reminiscent of the 1950’s up-do, with rolled bangs and full lips of beguiling red lipstick, I was utterly astonished by the glory that I saw. Standing at the base of the stage, the crowd to the rear of me and a miracle staring down at me, I watched and listened as Melody sang an opus of love to me so sincere and pure that a virgin would taint it. Her light shone onto me and mine onto her and we stared into the others eyes. I came to the senile realization that I was in fact in love. A real love, a perfect love. Not a love as one would a scar, growing to love a damage or an imperfection. No, this was real. A love of pure matter and one of no attachment.

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