Welcome to another installment of If My Book, the Monkeybicycle feature in which authors shed light on their recently released books by comparing them to weird things. This week Timothy S. Miller writes about City of Hate, his debut novel published by Goliad Media Press.
If City of Hate were a city, it would be angry. It would despise being permanently attached to the assassination of John F. Kennedy. It would say that it has so much else to offer, yet you continue to hover its past indiscretions over it without remorse.
If City of Hate were an addiction, it would be fatal. It would not let you go. You would lose your job, your house, and your girl. You would be homeless. You would curse the day you let it into your veins, but you would long for nothing more.
If City of Hate were a photograph, it would be unapologetically lurid. It would be hard for you to look at, but you couldn’t turn away. You would feel both aroused and full of shame. You would put it in a manila envelope and slide it into your bedside nightstand hoping you will forget about it, but of course, you can’t. Not now. Not ever.
If City of Hate were a conspiracy theory, you would be obsessed with it, searching madly for clues on the interwebs. You would spread its lies to your friends and revel in its truths. You would eat, breathe, and sleep it until you were stark raving mad. And then you would do it again. And again. And again.
If City of Hate were a job, it would not be a nine to five. It might say it was a nine to five, but it would make you work overtime. It would also demand that you come in early and stay late. It would force you to skip your lunch break. Your spouse would complain because you put your job first. You rarely even see your kids anymore. She would finally leave you. And now—if City of Hate were a job—it’s all you have left.
If City of Hate were a femme-fatale, she would be conniving and relentless. She would be dressed to kill in her cocktail dress, an evening gown, and her killer heels. She would lure you into her lair, she would demand complete devotion, she would promise you the world, and she would never let you go.
If City of Hate were a seedy detective, he would wear a classic gray three-piece suit, unbuttoned for easy access to his snub-nosed revolver, a fine fedora with a thick band, topped off with a beige trench coat to repel the ferocious rain. And he would stalk you in the deepest recesses of the blackest alleys, knowing your every thought, and your darkest secrets.
If City of Hate were a song—and not a moody jazz tune—it would be something by the Ramones. And while it might demand sedation, it would never leave you satisfied, demanding replays over and over, until you were singing it in your sleep.
If City of Hate were a piece of clothing, it most certainly would be a slinky piece of lingerie—a strapless design featuring lace up sides for more exposure—stuffed in a bag that you use only for your major indiscretions.
If City of Hate were a gun, it would be a revolver. It would not, however, be a 6.5×52mm Carcano Model 91/38 infantry rifle (described by the President’s Commission on the Assassination of President Kennedy as a “Mannlicher–Carcano”) with a telescopic sight. That would be too convenient. But regardless of the type of gun, if City of Hate were a gun, it would fire into your subconscious, leaving fragments that are long-lasting and eternal.
Timothy S. Miller lives in Dallas, Texas with his wife and daughter. He’s been a ranch hand, waiter, contract driver, professional clown, and spent over ten years working in office services for two prestigious Wall Street-based firms. He is currently a business instructor who enjoys designing board games in his spare time. He graduated with his B.A. in Literature and Writing from the University of Montana, Western.
