Stop Praying, Kanye is Not Going to Help You - Extract

I dearly hope that I will get to finish the final draft for this someday, because, if I may say so myself, it is honestly one of the most unique novels to ever have been produced and will surely revolutionise YA fiction in a post-Trump era where real news feels like fake news. Its satire is hilarious and all the characters are fascinating. It will win every literary award to ever have been invented and will be studied in schools for centuries to come.




The extract is a critical moment in the first part of the novel. Russian Roulette is a harmless game played by the teenagers of the Root-seeking camp that has only directly resulted in the death of one person so far. However, the game of Truth or Dare played alongside it is about to claim a victim... Which is worse: death or having to eat someone's disgusting hair?

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“Oh,” Banksy said. “Right. Dare.”

“Eat Ruttemark’s hair.”

“Baboon,” Banksy said, rolling his eyes. “You say that every time. This is getting old.”

“Just like you,” Frog said.

“You’ve been telling people to eat his hair since this camp started. What, like, three years ago? Every. Single. Time. Could you please be more original? Literally nobody wants to have Ruttemark’s greasy-ass disgusting hair anywhere near them.”

“Woo!”

“Preach!”

This time the whole room laughed, but it died down quickly. We’d realised too late what we’d done. I turned my gaze anxiously towards Ruttemark and watched as, steadily, his eyes began to swell up with tears. They soon spilled down his cheeks. His nose became red and snotty. “This is so,” he sniffed, “cruel, guys.” He sniffed. “You’re all just jealous!” His voice cracked and he began to sob. “I hate you!” He hiccupped and wailed. Someone passed him a packet of tissues and a bottle of petrol. He wiped his nose, but threw the bottle to the side. “I’m just so ––” he hiccupped again, and took a deep breath. “I can’t –– this is absolutely inhumane. I’m being ––” he sniffed –– “bullied. I hate you all!”

“Ruttemark, oh, no. Take a chill pill. We’re not bullying you. It’s just that… well, nobody wants to eat hair!”

“My hair isn’t greasy! It’s great! I eat it all the time.” Ew.

“Ruttemark,” Frog said. “Shut up.”

“No!” he screeched, clawing at his face. A cascade of dandruff fell onto his shoulders. “My feelings are hurt! They are ––” hiccup ––”so hurt! You don’t know how much this hurts! I’m hurt! You’re hurting me!”

“Baboon, look what you’ve started.”

“It’s not my fault!” Baboon protested.

“It is so your fault. You keep asking people to eat his hair, and we always refuse because, obviously, literally nobody wants to eat hair. And even if we did, it would definitely not be Ruttemark’s.”

“Frog! Don’t say that so loudly!” Banksy hissed.

We all looked over at Ruttemark, who had quieted down for a second, just to start again. Louder this time. He began to beat his fists against his chest, screaming, “My feelings are hurt! Stop it!”

There was a collective sigh. “All I wanted to do was play Russian Roulette,” A$$hole said. “This is ridiculous. Only one person has played so far. Can we please continue?”

“No!” Ruttemark said. “We will not continue until somebody eats my hair. To prove that you guys aren’t discriminating against long-haired people… no. Against mixed people! You guys hate me because I’m half-white. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Ruttemark, I’m mixed too, but everyone loves me because I’m not a big fat baby,” Frog said. “So shut up.”

“That’s true.”

“I agree.”

“Frog rocks. You suck.”

“Woo!”

Baboon clenched his jaw. “Banksy, give me the gun. We’re going ahead with this.”

“Aaargh!” Ruttemark screamed. He lunged at Banksy and grabbed the gun, shoving it under his armpit. “I said, We aren’t continuing until somebody eats my hair!”

A silence fell upon the room.

“Yeah,” Ruttemark said, quieter this time. He glared at us all with a wild look in his eye. He had begun to sweat profusely, and he panted, crouching, gritting his teeth.

We were all thinking the exact same thing.

I could feel my heart pounding, my blood roaring behind my ears.

“Guys,” Banksy said quietly. “Someone take one for the team.”

“What?” Gross Hair Anime Guy said. He knew what she meant, but refused to acknowledge it. “You don’t mean…”

“Yes. Someone has to eat his hair. It’s for the greater good.”

“Any volunteers?”

We all looked down, finding a sudden interest in the carpet. Some grabbed their phones and began scrolling on social media. Others noisily ate chips. Some just stared into space with empty expressions. Not one of us made eye contact with the other –– we were cornered. The only person making any noise was Ruttemark, who kept sniffing and staring at us all defiantly.

The clock on the wall was ticking, each click another second of strained tension. We all knew that someone had to do it, but nobody was ready to make such a sacrifice.

Suddenly, there was a heavy knock on the door. ToulouseDidi and his older brother ToulouseGege -– the weird French brothers who wore the same pair white socks and sandals every day so that by this point the socks were gray and filthy –– peeked through. “Hi,” ToulouseGege said. “Did it already start? Sorry we’re late.”

Silence.

Who would be the first to speak? Who would act as Judas and force ToulouseDidi/Gege into becoming a martyr?

After a prolonged silence, I decided to take the fall. This, I thought, was a moment for me to display my leadership skills. I could even write about it for my application to Lindt® University. I cleared my throat. “You’re late,” I said, faking a cheerful tone. “Shame on you.”

“Yeah, sorry,” ToulouseGege said.

“You’re very late,” A$$hole joined in. “We’ve been playing for five hours now.”

The immediate expression of guilt and anxiety that appeared on the French brothers’ faces made me feel sick. But I went on. “There has to be a punishment.”

Ruttemark frowned. “But what about me?” he yelled.

“Oh, shut up. We’re getting to it. Jesus Christ!”

Frog and I sighed.

“Anyway, as a punishment, we decree that you must eat Ruttemark’s hair––”

“Punishment? That’s not a punishment!” Ruttemark interrupted. His mouth was wide open, and snot was dripping into it. His face was bright red and streaked with tear marks. “It’s a goddamn privilege!”

ToulouseGege looked queasy. “C-come on, Marathon. You don’t have to do this. It’s not that bad, right?” He forced a laugh. “We were –– we were just a little bit late. W-we have an excuse! A good one. A great one. We were left behind at the restaurant. The counsellors didn’t notice until just now, so they came to get us. But by then we had already begun to walk back to the hotel and had gotten lost. So they called the police and there was a citywide search, and ––”

“Quit stalling and just do it, ToulouseGege,” Banksy said.

“Yeah, man, it’s just for kicks. Don’t make it a big deal,” Frog said, sweating.

“It takes, like, two seconds.”

“Do it, and then you can play. Otherwise, we’ll...” Baboon paused to think. “Uh…”

“We’ll excommunicate you!” A$$hole said. “From all root-seeking camps! For the rest of your life!” He crossed his arms and leaned back onto a poofy pillow. “I have the power to do that. My dad is a counsellor.”

“Look,” I said. “I’d do it if I were in your position. Except I’m not. Just play along, okay? It’s no big deal.”

ToulouseGege. “Will I really be excommunicated?”

“You and your brother,” A$$hole said.

“No, A$$hole,” I said, swatting him away. “Alright, you can play twenty rounds of Russian Roulette all by yourself. Take your chances.”

“That’s even worse!” ToulouseDidi said. “Isn’t it?” he added in a small voice.

ToulouseGege sighed. “Fine.” He sounded as though he was vomiting his words, forcing himself to pronounce those four letters.

His little brother looked at him in awe. “Really? You’d do it? You’re going to eat Ruttemark’s hair?”

Grim-faced, he said, “Of course not. You are.”

“Wait, what?”

“Hey, I walked in here first. You were behind me. So technically, you arrived later than I did. So you can take the punishment.”

“Are you serious right now?”

“Have you heard of Kong Rong Rang Li? Take one for your big bro. It’s filial piety, man. Or… fraternal piety.”

“B-but––”

“Do you know what Mom would say if I told her you didn’t do this?”

“I have to eat Ruttemark’s hair?” ToulouseDidi was only 3 years old, but nobody protested. Someone had to eat Ruttemark’s hair. As long as this person wasn’t me, I didn’t really mind. It was obvious that all the others felt the same. ToulouseGege, though… to think that he would throw his baby brother to the lions. I made a mental note never to trust him.

The silence in the room wore an air of agreement. That was it, then. ToulouseDidi would be the wear to bear the burden.

Gross Hair Anime Guy took out a pair of scissors from his pocket and snipped off 30 centimeters of Ruttemark’s hair. The strands stuck together with grease. “Here,” he said, flinging it at ToulouseDidi. It landed on his head and began to slip down his face.

ToulouseDidi screamed. It was a blood-piercing sound that chilled my very bones. But I forced myself to see it through. This was the only way.

“Come on, man, I’ll buy you ice cream for the rest of your life. I’ll even get you green pea-flavored popsicles. You know how rare those things are these days. Even in China,” ToulouseGege whispered.

ToulouseDidi gulped. For a few seconds, we were all tense, fearing that he would back out of it. But finally, he nodded. “For the popsicles,” he said.

And then, as we all watched, jaws open, leaning forward, eyes wide, he tilted his small fragile head backwards and put the strand of hair into his mouth. I could see his flaring nostrils trembling. He slurped it all in like a piece of spaghetti, and then began chewing, slowly at first, his young innocent eyes full of determination as they looked downwards at his trembling lips. I had been holding my breath for so long that I thought I might burst. I could hear the crunching sound of the oily hair being crushed under his weak little teeth. Then, taking a deep breath, he swallowed it all. I heard the hair go down his throat quickly, like a snowball rolling down a hill, gaining traction as it went. I imagined the hair making its journey down his esophagus and into his stomach, where it would be gradually dissolved by acid, floating around amongst mounds of green pea-flavored popsicles. Each strands would disintegrate and travel down to his intestines, where they would be absorbed by the epithelial cells. Hair was made of keratin, a protein, so it would probably need to pass through the partially permeable cell membrane by means of facilitated diffusion, such as with the aid of a protein pump, or through active transport like co-transport or phagocytosis. It certainly couldn’t pass through gaps between cells, which were sealed by tight junctions. ToulouseDidi burped a loud burp like the roar of a lion, disrupting my train of thought.

We looked at Ruttemark. He was nodding approvingly. He looked content.

I finally let go and allowed myself to breathe again, spluttering and coughing as air returned to my lungs. I cleared my throat and looked at Frog with relief.

“Hold on a second,” Ruttemark said. My heart skipped a beat. He turned to ToulouseDidi, whose eyes were glazed over. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Oh, dear,” X said.

ToulouseDidi seemed not to register the question. He looked at Ruttemark with a dead, empty expression.

“Hello? Did you hear me, MarseilleDidi?”

“It’s ToulouseDidi,” ToulouseGege said fiercely. Oh, so now he was defending his brother.

“What?” ToulouseDidi said faintly. “Yes. Sorry, I just feel… really, really sick.”

“But did you enjoy it?”

“I, uh ––” ToulouseDidi looked at his brother. His brother looked back. This was now a critical moment –– if the child said anything that Ruttemark didn’t like, all the progress we’d made would be undone. We would fail and be forced to start again at the beginning, with another victim. That victim could be me, for all I knew. We were so close, yet so far. Please, please, please.

“It was good, right?” ToulouseGege said slowly.

“Uh ––” ToulouseDidi pursed his lips. I prayed that he would know to say the right thing. “Yes!” he said. “It was the most –– d-delicious thing that I’ve––” he belched––”ever had. Ever.”

“Cool,” Ruttemark said, satisfied. He returned the gun to Baboon. “Continue the game.”

“Finally!” Baboon said, raising his arms to the ceiling. He aimed, and clicked. Chrysanthemum petals leaked from the barrel of the gun and landed onto the ground. People began gathering them. Around the room, the din began to rise again as people started talking and joking, putting everything behind us. In the distance, ToulouseDidi snuck away to the bathroom to vomit.