This is a transcript of an interview between esteemed journalist Trentle Win, esq, and rising fiction star author Trent Lewin.
WRITING IN THE AGE OF COVID
TW: Very nice to meet you, Mr. Lewin.
TL: That remains to be seen.
TW: I see. You don’t seem to give many interviews. May I ask why?
TL: Yes, you may.
TW: Do you care to elaborate?
TL: I’m not that kind of guy. You’re attractive, but a little dirty for my tastes.
TW: I assure you, I’m quite clean!
TL: That remains to be seen.
TW (shakes his head): First off, I’d like to ask how are you faring in the COVID age?
TL: Oh, quite well. I always wore masks as a matter of course anyway, and have never used a public restroom in my life.
TW: How does that work, Mr. Lewin? Surely you need the facilities outside your home at some point.
TL: I have made a long practice of training my bladder and bowels. We have been together for years and have had many conversations. Occasionally, I sing to them. Mostly hardcore rap and Christian ballads.
TW: You sing to your bowels and your bladder?
TL: Yes. They are prominent characters in my writing.
TW: Very well. May I ask what you do for fun these days, given that we cannot engage in routine activities?
TL: Oh, I’ve had a smashing time. Often, I peel garlic in the nude and groom the legs of a peacock I’ve befriended. In the evenings, I work on my design for invisible underwear. To some extent, my collection of ass hair has dwindled somewhat, though I am not sure why, so I’ve diverted my attention to crushing eggshells and inserting them into my body, usually anally. When I’m peckish, I rub myself on lampposts; but if they are not agreeable to the activity, I condemn them. I have recently created a line of wigs for nuns, and am looking for models to demonstrate my aptitude. Occasionally, I even write.
TW: My God.
TL: What, is She here too?
TW: God? No, God is not here, Mr. Lewin. Perhaps we should get to the writing. You’ve been doing that for quite some time. Why do you persist?
TL: Writing is better than squeezing my testicles.
TW: That’s probably true. Any other reasons?
TL: Well, when I was a boy, I discovered the delicate pleasure of ironing my clothes underwater, and soon after, flatulated copiously on a mailbox. This began my journey as a writer. When my grandfather made known his fondness for swimming in cheese, it made me seriously reconsider the place of crackers in my life. I then interned at a gym for cats, and developed considerable erectile strength as a result. But in the end, every night, I came home to my underground lair, and after fondling my dragon, sat at my computer and put a few words together. It seemed like a reasonable thing to do. Still does.
TW: And do you drink while writing? Or imbibe of any other substances?
TL: Why do you ask? Who have you been talking to?
TW: No one, Mr. Lewin! It’s just that there have been rumours about you…
TL: When people discriminate against me because of my sorcercy, it makes me sad, but if anyone wishes to enlist me to help them with their wart problems, I can clean them up with a simple mixture of cow intestine, used feces, and dead skin from an aged white male politician. These substances are plentiful, pleasantly pungent, and remarkably good for your complexion.
TW: I don’t have any warts that I know of, Mr. Lewin, but thank you. And I hesitate to ask you further about any of those ingredients…
TL: You really aren’t very good at this, are you, Mr. Win?
A LEGACY OF INSANITY
TW (sighs): Perhaps we can leave the subject of your wart sorcery for another interview and get back to your writing. I’ve noticed short stories on your blog about the following: a child soldier comedian, a modern-day cavegirl, a black girl who turns white, a monkey that lives in an airplane graveyard, God having a lesbian affair with a peasant girl, a nun who saw an angel that hates Russia, a several minute period in history when no one died, an obese girl and a hedgehog, and stalks of celery that make your vigilante dreams come true.
I have also seen stories about a child genius that invented the internet a thousand years ago, a girl who has a wedding ring accidentally implanted in her during surgery, a babysitting incident that results in a child zombie, a professional cuddler who lacks empathy, a self-abortion, a precocious refugee on a boat trying to save a baby, a midget who magically gets taller due to royalty, an exchange of letters about a dildo in a heat wave, a hat-maker superhero in Victorian times, a terrorist accidently getting into Heaven, and an abused girl who meets a music-seeking alien. Amongst others. Can you tell us how you come up with these ideas?
TL: I was hoping that you could, actually.
TW: But Mr. Lewin, these are your stories! They are your ideas!
TL: You can’t prove that.
WHO REALLY IS TRENT LEWIN?
TW (sighing): Well, asked in another way, what do you think might be the pathology of the person that could write stories of this nature? I certainly didn’t write them, and neither apparently did you. But someone must have – who are they, and what are they about, do you think? (points to laptop screen which displays Trent Lewin’s blog)
TL (pondering): I believe such an individual may be disconnected from reality.
TW: You don’t say… can you elaborate?
TL: Well, you are starting to look attractive…
TW: Mr. Lewin! You are a rising star author and a bit of a celebrity! I have no interest in you personally and am merely trying to bring your insights to our viewers.
TL: Are you sure?
TW: Mr. Lewin. Why are you removing your pants?
TL: Behold, viewers of the world, my invisible underwear!
TW: But sir, you are simply not wearing any underwear at all…
TL: Do you have a squirrel hereabouts, upon which I may flatulate? Long ago, I swore never to flatulate again unless it was upon a squirrel. I find that rodents quite appreciate the attention, not to mention the heat and the exotic composition of my intestinal gas.
WORK IN PROGRESS
TW (head hanging low): No, Mr. Lewin. We have no squirrels upon which you may flatulate. Can you perhaps tell us about your new book? Can you at least do that?
TL: Absolutely. It’s a novel. It has words. It has punctuation, at least sometimes. I think there may be paragraphs, although I still haven’t determined if it’s worthy of page numbers. Now and then, I indent.
TW: The topic, Mr. Lewin. The topic! What is it about?
TL: Well, in my estimation, there are about 195 countries in the world, all of which were created without any of my involvement. Does that sound fair to you? So I set about writing about how a new country might be created, and how it would make its own rules and make other countries acknowledge it. I call it Girl Island, because it’s mostly about the greatness of girls. Really, Mr. Win, writing it was a bit like smearing bicycle lubricant on your nipples while ingesting smoke from the combustion of thesauri.
TW (shaking his head): What do you have against thesauri?
TL: Do you really want to know?
DONALD TRUMP AS LOVER
TW: Mr. Lewin, a final question. I understand that you have an intimate relationship with the President of the United States of America?
TL: Donald? Oh yes. I often wrestle with him after liberal application of several jars of mayonnaise, and while I usually let him win, it’s the after-meal of pickles and hamburger patties that truly arouses us both. We have held hands on a scooter, surrounded our naked flesh with the thin mountain air of Nepal, painted murals with the engorged liveliness of our lower extremities, and rewritten the history of caves. We can be found together sensually kneading the flesh of old people on church pews, or driving through infested areas of this fine country using nothing but the high-hitpoint strength of my latent sorcery to protect us from invaders.
TW: I don’t understand. I just don’t understand!
TL (produces something): You will, Mr. Win. You will.
TW: Mr. Lewin. Why do you have a jar of mayonnaise at an interview… Mr.Lewin… please sit back down. No no, you really don’t need to open that thing, it’s quite unnecessary. Mr. Lewin, no, I would prefer to stay clothed! Oh the horror! The horror!
(Interview concludes. Mr. Trentle Win was subsequently taken to a hospital and treated for mayonnaise poisoning. Meanwhile, Mr. Lewin eluded the police and escaped to the open road, where he pauses on his erstwhile travels to occasionally write more uncelebrated nonsense.)