by G. Arthur Brown
Lazar Jones. Lazar Jones. LAZAR JONES! We’ve all heard the buzz, but most of us are probably thinking that everyone is talking about this guy:
Turns out THIS IS NOT LAZAR JONES.
But THIS is:
Family resemblance? A home DNA test will be the judge.
Recently this tantalizing little ebook appeared on my radar: After School Ball Busting Babes #1 (also at Smashwords and Barnes and Noble). It was advertised to be 99 cents, which made me wonder how good it could possibly be. But since I had just spent my last 99 cents on a bit of overdone mutton (which, in retrospect, was not a wise choice), I didn’t buy it. Miraculously a free copy arrived in my email box, and I swear, I’ll get around to reading it ANY MINUTE NOW. But the mystique surrounding the book’s lustful author would not let me sleep at night, so I, G. Arthur Brown, took some time out of my busy Horatio Hornblower marathon to meet up with the myth that is Lazar Jones. Was he really raised by feral parents as the legend has it? Is he really as tall as George W. Washington? Can he write porn worth reading? I could read his blog to find out, but I decided to meet up with Lazar in his ramshackle farmhouse in Hayes, Kansas to get the scoop.
I arrived at a rundown house decorated like a bachelor pad on a Diff’rent Strokes/Three’s Company crossover episode. Lazar’s taste was exquisite, with nothing but the finest prints of sad clowns and poker-playing dogs adoring his walls, and deep pile shag padding his floors. He took me into a little room that I can only describe as a kitchen-dungeon (or dungkitchen, as the kids will be calling it). Then he asked me to sit on a stool, the sort that usually comes with a funny conical paper hat. I told him I preferred to stand, and began the interview process, which went something like:
GAB: Okay, Lazar. Tell me a little about yourself.
LJ: Well, I’m a gambler for the most part. Shuttlecock and blood sports are my drugs of choice. Also, I’m a compulsive liar. One time, a feral pit bull chased me down the street and I was inspired to write a story about a feral pitbull moving to Vegas and starting a family. That’s when I knew I could make a living as a writer. Sorry, I meant badminton. Shuttlecocks are what you use in badminton.
GAB: I’ve heard they have other uses, as well. But moving on, where did you meet up with this life-changing pit bull?
LJ: Trinidad, Colorado. I was en route to Vegas (that’s Las Vegas, New Mexico, by the way). Had me on the run for near twenty minutes before I remembered my stash of “emergency pizza.” Circled around back to the car, sacrificed one of my pant legs (and a lot of skin) while I rooted around in the glove compartment, then promptly blew the mongrel’s brains out. The glove compartment’s where I keep the gun. Then I limped to the trunk and had a slice of victory pizza. Wish I hadn’t eaten it because I could have used a slice later on, but that’s a story for another time.
GAB: Fascinating. Is Las Vegas, NM like the little sister of Las Vegas, Nevada? Can I gamble there and make more money? Basically what I’m driving at: do smaller casinos equal less risk to my person if they suspect me of superior math skills, sometimes referred to as “counting cards?”
LJ: I’m glad you asked that, Gary. Honestly, I could not in good conscience recommend the casinos in Las Vegas, NM. For one thing, they don’t use cards—against their religion or something. No, what they use are bleached cow hips, which they toss in the air and call “heads” or “hips.” Then they flip a coin, roll a die, and take your money. I must have played that game a hundred times, sampled every regional variant as well (bleached horse hips, bleached mule hips, department store mannequin hips), and I didn’t earn a dime. No, if you want to make money gambling, I would just stick to armed robbery. Also, Elko, Nevada.
GAB: I’ve never heard of such a crazy game, but I’m going to assume you wouldn’t lie to me in an interview. That would be like pissing on the Bible while chanting something in Latin, or listening to Milli Vanilli while looking into a photo of the haunting green eyes of the dead one…Vanilli?
LJ: You mean Rob Pilatus? Better not be talking shit about Rob Pilatus. I was raised Armenian Orthodox, so I find the very nature of this conversation offensive.
GAB: Um… moving on. How did you become seduced into the underworld of pornographic fiction? And how can my children avoid that path?
LJ: Yeah, “seduced” is probably the best word you could use. You ever read any of those Calga Publishers books? “The Adult Version of the Escapades of Caesar” or “The Adult Version of Robin Hood” or “The Adult Version of The Three Musketeers?” Well, my father had a whole stack of those filthy things, and I tell you, it tore our family apart. My mother couldn’t stand it—she was not a strong woman. Now, my older, adopted sister on the other hand—THERE was a woman. She taught me how to pee standing up, gave me my first erection, and introduced me to the wide world of testicular torment. If she’d been just a little bit less smart, we might have gotten married. Fortunately, she lives in Honolulu with her snorkeling instructor boyfriend and the two of them are very happy. I don’t know WHERE in Honolulu per sé, but I digress. Writing porn reminds me of my childhood. Memories are the basis of narrative and the one active ingredient in time travel. I am convinced that, by writing enough of smut, I can go back in time and alter my past. I will make my family happy—I need to believe that I can help them, even if it’s already far too late. Also, I got rent to pay. The thing is, you can’t tell children what to be—you have to guide them toward discovering who they already are. Nurture plays a role, certainly, but at their core, some children are meant to be smut writers and some are meant to be actuaries.
GAB: That was just a test. I don’t have any children. Am I doing something wrong, do you think? I put my Winkie in her Lulu, but no baby comes out. I imagine you are a specialist in the baby-making field. Here—have a look at my Winkie and tell me if it looks functional.
LJ: I’m actually sterile, so, you know. And THAT’S just a picture of a pit bull.
GAB: Yes, another test! Winkie here was the very pit bull from your Trinidad, CO tale. He misses you very much. He cherishes your pant leg.
LJ: Oh snap. I always suspected that I was attacked by one of those Forever Dogs in Trinidad, but no one believed me. “There’s no such thing as immortal, quantum leaping dogs,” they said. Well nuts to that—up yours, Conan O’Brien. You look like a fucking idiot now.
GAB: Oh, that reminds me. There was a rumor going around that Karl A. Fischer was going to interview you. Do you know why that arrangement went south?
LJ: Who? Oh. Yeah, he was being problematic. Something about kidnapping his loved ones and denying him food. The head doesn’t always know what’s in the heart, know what I’m saying? But yeah, he’s in my trunk.
GAB: Is that a metaphor?
LJ: Haha, like “junk in the trunk?” Haha, classic. But seriously, your friend or whatever is tied up in the trunk of my Pontiac. I don’t know how long a person can go without water, but I suspect it’s less than ninety hours.
GAB: The rule of thumb is 72 hours. But let me check my handbook. Ah, yes. Anything over 80 is generally fatal. How long have you had the young man in there?
LJ: Well, it’s noon here. February 8th, right? Possibly ten minutes. Hard to say. Does having an enormous johnson make one MORE or LESS susceptible to dying of dehydration?
GAB: I wouldn’t imagine that’s a very relevant factor in Karl’s case, but let me check the handbook again. “Not of significant consequence”, it claims. I’ll tell you what would be fascinating: let’s get him out here and see what he has to say about the whole experience.
LJ: Oh, well alright, if you think that would make for a more captivating interview. Hold on a sec, let me just go out to the shed.
GAB: I thought he was in your trunk.
LJ: I have him in a trunk, in a Pontiac, which I keep in a shed. It was a bundled package.
Lazar left for a moment and returned with Karl A. Fischer, mostly naked, blindfolded, and gagged. It was my opinion at the time that he had been mistreated by Jones, but without a full investigation, I couldn’t be sure. I was certain of one thing, though. Fischer’s johnson was average in size and turning blue from the strangulating bonds. Jones then undid that particular binding, and Fischer heaved an audible sigh of relief. A playful slap was given to the shaven scrotum of the cowering man.
LJ: Okay, I’ve untied the ropes around his wrist, ankles, and johnson, but I’m keeping him tethered to the fridge. Not sure if I should take the gag out, though.
GAB: Quick, Karl! I’ve tricked Lazar into releasing you now’s your chance!
Still blindfolded, Fischer took off running toward my voice, but his tether was only a yard long, tripping him. He smashed his face gracefully into the linoleum flooring. I couldn’t help but admire the wonderfully intricate floral pattern of the linoleum. It reminded me of my grandmother’s house. All the times I was locked in the guest room while she played with my Star Wars figures. The good years before she went batty.
GAB: Just kidding! It’s a little joke me and Lazar cooked up before the interview. Okay, Lazar, you can put him back in the trunk now.
Upon attempting to apprehend his fallen captive, Lazar experienced a reversal of fortunes.
LJ: Ow! Sonofabitch hit me with his johnson, karate chopped the tether, and took off!
GAB: Sometimes one gets away. Oh well. I’m sure highway patrol will pick him up soon, seeing as he’s naked with the words FUCK PIG written on him in shoe polish.
LJ: He smacked me right in the eye! I don’t even understand how he did that. Christ, we spent hours capturing him. And I spent hours drinking until I forgot that you helped me capture him so that we could do this interview.
GAB: So, tell us all about your latest release, After-Life Gals Breaking Through the Thresholds of the Spheres.
LJ: Do you mean After School Ball Busting Babes #1?
GAB: Ah, yes. My bad. My mistake. My bad mistake. So tell us what the spooky ghosts in this story do to the unsuspecting lad that stumbles into their haunted abode.
LJ: That’s really not what happens at all. It’s about a club for sexy coeds who enjoy ballbusting, domination, and CBT. In this first installment, one of the girls entices her asshole boyfriend to attend a meeting and they work him over. Despite the pain, he discovers how much he enjoys it, although the story isn’t really about him.
GAB: Is this tale based on personal experience?
LJ: What is “personal experience” anyway? The late, great Philip K. Dick asked us to question the very nature of reality and the various ideas that make it seem immutable.
GAB: Oh…kay… And by CBT, you clearly mean Cognitive Behavior Therapy, yes?
LJ: I hadn’t considered what any of the girls in the story might be majoring in, but psychology seems like a great choice. But no, CBT stands for Cock and Ball Torture.
GAB: And this tidbit of indecency that you’ve written, is it to be the first of many?
LJ: With a title like “#1” how could I not? I dream of having ten different installments of After School Ball Busting Babes, two collections, and a blog filled with outrageous free smut. I’ve already paid my cover artist by finishing a sordid tale by the name of “Sock Party” for him. The artist, by the way, is a gentleman and fellow pervert by the name of Knave—you should check him out.
GAB: I heard he stole some tarts, but other than that, I’m unfamiliar with his work.
LJ: He is a fetish cartoonist and purveyor of ballbusting and orgasm denial illustrations. (http://ballbustingcartoons.com/)
GAB: What was this “Sock Party” you mentioned?
LJ: Sock Party was sort of upsetting to write because it’s about a shrimpy brother who gets busted by his sister’s friends at a slumber party. It ends with testicular rupturing. Not pretty. What I really want is to write a story called Wizard Buster, a comedic fantasy wherein evil wizards maintain the source of their power in their “magic balls” and it’s up to a wandering, voluptuous, badass heroine to bust them for the safety of her kingdom.
GAB: I think that’s something we all can believe in. The opposition to sexual perversion seems to lie mainly in the fact that it is perceived to be frivolous and impractical. But if a creep’s foot fetish could save the Olympics from terrorists, then maybe all that would change. Would you ever write a story in which a creep with a foot fetish manages to save the Olympics from terrorists? And what royalty split could I get on that?
LJ: Exactly! I would definitely write that story. And I would silence you to keep the earnings all to myself. I am not a well man.
GAB: In that case, I shan’t lower you into the well. Is there anything else you would like to say? Perhaps in case, this is used as evidence in criminal proceedings?
LJ: I won’t suggest that not spending a mere 99 cents on my work will result in an unmitigated tragedy, but I will suggest that it could be the smartest dollar you ever spent. If Karl is reading this, possibly because of truck stop wifi or unusually lenient arresting officers, just know that I didn’t mean to hurt you.
GAB: Well, I think that about says it all. You are clearly a genius with a good heart and a true leader for a generation of kids who grew up without fathers or—even worse—without Xbox. Every time I read Artificial Ballstrade Bob #1, I will think of Rob Pilatus’s haunting eyes, and how much you like punching nuts.
LJ: Hugs, not drugs, Mr. Brown
GAB: Don’t I know it. Hugs killed Philip Seymour Hoffman. Not a doubt in my mind. I’m glad you said it and not me.
LJ: I am the eternal scapegoat. The government actually pays me for it.
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