art; burgers

leBRADburg: le novel

leBRADburg: le novel is a novel BRAD NICHOLLS is writing.

The process of writing the novel will be here for the world to see; to be a witness to the progress of the process.

'...' notes the start of a separate part of the writing

Parts will likely be further edited and changed.

Morning, early, morning, Berlin. Grey skies close in. Brad Nicholls has a hammer in his hand. He's looking in the mirror. It's a small mirror, the size of a hardbound book. It's a dirty mirror, smudged, ketchup stained, broken at the lower right corner.

Brad Nicholls squeezes the wooden handle of the hammer. He squeezes it so hard his hand turns red. His face is somewhere on the scale of fury. He's naked, and his naked body tenses at the sound of the footsteps marching past his door.

'Why won't they just fucking die!' he thinks as he grips the handle of the hammer, 'DIE!' ricochets in his skull.

Brad Nicholls loosens his hand from the hammer and drops it to the floor. He has a bigger mission, something that can't be ruined by a shitty apartments shitty neighbours.

Nicholls kicks the hammer underneath the bed and moves to the window. Light is already finding its way in through the gaps in the old yellowed blinds. Nicholls hates natural light, but the hour is still blue, he'll have at most an hour before that changes.


Two american tourists are arguing in the ancient metal box of an elevator as it makes its way up floor by floor.

"Eat shit Wilson." one of the men screams, "Eat turdle SHIT Hank." the other man screams back.

Brad Nicholls is calm, nothing new, humans being humans, nothing new, humans being humans, nothing new, humans being humans...

'Nothing new humans being humans.'

Brad Nicholls watches the red digital display on the wood panel counting floor by floor as the elevator ascends. The box is getting slower, struggling to complete its part of the plan.

The building is weeks from being torn down and replaced by a shining example of German capitalism, a skyscraper of boring business and shit hotel rooms.

"I fucked him Hank." Wilson mumbles under his breath.

"WHAT DID YOU SAY?" Hank aghast, trembling, a great fear confirmed.

"I fucked him, I said." Wilson says barely louder than his original mumble.

'He fucked him.' Brad Nicholls thinks, now enjoying himself, a smile dances.

"How, could, you?"

As the question jumps from Hanks lips, the lights go out, and the box stops dead. With barely a noise, hardly a creak.

The world can't see it but that smile no longer dances. Brad Nicholls has a serious problem.


Brad Nicholls moves his left arm up and bends it behind his neck, he grabs at his backpack, unzipping the main compartment with one swift motion, reaching in he grabs hold of the hammer. He sees the next five seconds playing out and then the next twenty and then the hour and then his life, done. Done if he gives in to impulse. He cannot give in.


Scabby removes her last piece of clothing, a shining, pink lace skirt.

The dust swirls through the dim light and slowly drifts towards her. Her body is slim, but not a stick, mounds of fat push from her chest and point upwards, anti-aircraft guns searching the skies for a target.

Brad Nicholls sits on the bed, reaction non-existent. Not a thing betrays his thoughts. He sits on the bed, staring through her.

'I'm too old for this, maybe not too old, no, but I'm fucking tired of it.' Brad Nicholls thinks.

Wilson sits paralyzed in the chair by the window.

Wilson stands from the chair and grabs a blanket off the bed and walks towards Scabby.

Scaby doesn't move. She's clearly upset the tactic has failed. She grabs the blanket and punches Wilson in the face.

"FUCKING BITCH!" Wilson screams.

'Ha, fucking bitch' Brad Nicholls thinks.

Scabby throws Wilson against the window with a squeeky thud.

"Stop fucking around Brad Nicholls, stop playing these games, fuck me or I'll kill him."

Brad Nicholls turns his head towards the action by the window.


"Seriously, that worked?"


"If you don't follow through I will kill him, don't try me."

"Don't worry about it."

Scabby loosens her grip on Wilson, Wilson slides down the window and then the wall.

Scabby, walks over to Brad Nicholls. Her body walking thunder. The effects of adrenaline and the female body can be felt, can be smelt in the dim, dusty room.

Brad Nicholls stands.

Scabby lays down on the bed. Spread eagle.

Wilson is crying a qiuet cry.

A hollow skipping hum of unknown origin rises from the wet streets below the window.

Brad Nicholls reaches inside his jacket and wraps his left hand around the handle of his hammer.


Scabby lunges for the hammer but it's too late. The poison has already slipped inside her heart.

Scabby knows she's dead.


Brad Nicholls has a lot of freezers. This is 17.

Nicholls takes out a sharpie, scans the front of the fridge, and decides where to place the 1 and the 7.


Brad Nicholls opens the fridge door and takes out the pack of Lucky Strikes. He rips a stick from the cold cardboard box and slides it slowly under his nose taking a long, deep sniff.

Feeling better, Nicholls takes the phones reciever off the wall and punches in 1 4 7 8 1 1 1

"I can't help you anymore, you're on your own."

"You think it's ever been any different."

Nicholls slams the phone back against the wall, so hard the device is forced through it.


Anna takes the pepsi bottle in her hands and raises it towards her lips, she opens her mouth, unlocks her jaw and relaxes her throat, the bottle enters.

The plastic bends and flexes as Anna takes the hammer and whacks the end. It takes until the third whack of the hammer for the bottom of the bottle to disappear into Anna's face.

"What the fuck is she doing?" Wilson whispers.

"Swallowing a two litre pepsi bottle." Brad Nicholls whispers.

"Is this necessary?" Wilson begs.

Brad Nicholls ignores him.

"I am guessing you've never killed a human."

"That would be correct." Wilson says, the last syllable hovers in the air as fear.

"Wilson, we're going to leave the cupboard now."


Broken glass sticks out of Shelly's forehead. Shelly always thought she had the biggest, dumb, fucking forehead. It was now not much of a concern to Shelly, the only concern was the shard, quite a large shard of glass, sticking out of her big dumb fucking forehead.

Shelly positions herself, back against the refrigerator, and looks at the piss-stained cream wall on the opposite side of the Kitchen.

Shelly takes one deep breath, and then another. She raises her left hand to touch the end of the shard, even this end, the end not stuck inside her head proves vicious. Shelly lets out a screach, a louder sound than when she had first discovered the shard in forehead situation. Something about a sharp prick. A little annoyance. During a hurricane is sometimes even more painful for the human.

Shelly thinks about how to spell the word 'refrigerator' for a moment, a long moment, her mouth opens, in an O


"How the fuck do you spell re frid jer a tor?"


Wilson removes the dildo from the Frogman's anus and examines it. The contents of Frogman's internals cover the little rubber pole. Brown and black and yellow and yes, green.

"Okay Wilson, how did I do?" says the Frogman.

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