Neil Randall is delighted to announce that his new short
story In the Addict Colony has just been published by U.S. literary journal
Blood+Honey.
The story was
written in a whirlwind burst of activity towards the end of last year, and was
inspired by the criminal amount of misinformation, scaremongering, and conveyor belt of faceless naysaying drones who are continually
lecturing the public on what is good and what is bad for them – avoid alcohol,
drugs, food, laughter, sex, fresh air, et cetera.
Perhaps this was
best illustrated during Randall’s recent sold-out reading at Belgrade Youth
Centre. In a lively Q&A session after the author had read selected extracts
from forthcoming novels The Professional Mourner and The Belgrade School
Shootings, the general direction of the discussion turned towards personal
choices and freedom. In a scene reminiscent of Michael Douglas’ ‘Greed is Good’
rant from Oscar-winning classic Wall Street, and cherry-picking from
JFK’s famous ‘Ask not what your country can do for you…’ speech, Randall
launched into a blistering attack on social media, screen time, the homogenisation
of culture, and the paralysing effect it’s having on the intellectual
development of people of all ages.
“Ask not what
you can do for your body, but what your body can do for you…” he proclaimed.
Shortly followed by: “Addictions are good. You just need to know how to control
them.”
In what was
described by one local journalist as ‘rabid invective fusing the worst elements
of coprophagia and cynophobia, Randall talked at length about his own creative
process, likening it to Johnny Cash strolling into a dark forest with a fierce
arsenal of potent hallucinogens, losing his mind for a few days, only to emerge
from the forest with a handful of soaring melodies and beautiful lyrics.
“We all need to
get away from ourselves from time to time. You should always go with your
instincts, and do the things that get the most out of yourself, whether that’s
locking yourself away, writing for months on end, running a marathon every day,
devouring the greats of world literature, perfecting the yoga headstand,
inserting small pieces of furniture up your arsehole, or cracking open a bottle
of fine mezcal and drinking to the dregs in one sitting. Go let it in, go let
it out.”
Here’s the opening scene from the story:
“It’s an unorthodox approach to addiction treatment,” said
the Minister for the Interior. “I’m not sure anyone in our administration
understands your methods or the true purposes of your programme.”
“Understanding is
an overrated concept, Minister.” Professor Stojanovic came to a stop outside
the first addiction booth on their tour of the facility. “For who can
understand why an individual will consume so many intoxicants they suffer major
organ failure, why they gorge themselves on various foodstuffs, only to stick
their fingers down their throat seconds later, nor why a young person lacerates
their forearms with a razor blade until they bleed so profusely they need to be
rushed to an emergency room. Understanding is not what we’re about at the
addict colony.”
“But to give
patients access to the one thing that’s most damaging to them is tantamount to
medical heresy, surely!”
“We only study,
not treat, and certainly not cure or offer any kind of solution to their
problems. Our firm belief is that when, and only when, the addict wants to
leave their own personal addiction booths will their own personal treatment be
over. Now, let us commence with our tour. Behold.”
Stojanovic
beckoned the minister over to a high and wide rectangular window that looked in
on a white-walled, cell-like space illumined by harsh overhead lighting. All
the booth contained was a plank bed, table, chair, and television set. But it
was undoubtedly the sight of a painfully skinny, almost naked young woman (she
wore only basic bra and panties), with bruises up and down her arms and legs,
crouched on the tiled floor, bent over almost double, repeatedly forcing two
fingers down her throat which caught his attention. Even more so when the
stricken addict, eyes clouded with tears and phlegm dangling from her chin,
finally succeeding in making herself sick.
“This particular
addict – and we call them addicts here at the institute, not patients or
clients – has just concluded a particularly epic eating binge. Four hours,
twelve minutes, and forty-eight seconds to be precise. Bulky carb-rich main
meals, red meat, junk food, chocolate desserts, a whole host of cookies and
candy bars. You see how violently she is vomiting now, the convulsions which
wrack her wasted body, how the regurgitated food is barely masticated.”
Wincing, the
minister had to look away. “But do you not intervene in a compassionate, if not
medical sense?”
“No. Never. We
provide for the addict’s specific needs. In this case, an extensive menu of
food, and then record everything that happens in the booth afterwards. If you
look closely, you’ll see cameras positioned in each corner of the room.”
“But this is
barbaric! Surely you review the addict’s medical notes, their case histories,
and try –”
“Only the
addict’s current behaviour interests us here. It’s our firm belief that we will
never succeed in understanding addictive, repetitive, compulsive, and
ultimately self-destructive behaviour unless we let each individual addict
under our care see their own personal journey through to the end. If we
intervene – as the medical community has done since time immemorial – then we
can only ever offer temporary solutions and partial curatives. Six months later,
the addict will resume their self-destructive activities. But if they’re
allowed to continue on the addictive path, they might just be able to arrest
their behaviour and find longer-term solutions for themselves.”
The minister
blew out some air and shook his head. “Well, I suppose that makes some kind of
sense. But I’m still far from convinced. Not just by your theorising, but this
facility’s reason to exist.”
“Then perhaps we
should move on to Addict #2. Please, Minister, come this way.”
If you want to read the story in full, head over to the
Blood+Honey website.
And if you’re interested in Neil Randall’s published work,
why not check out his amazon page.
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