William S. Burroughs, Metaphysical Detective: An Interzone Mystery – Book One

By Jackson Evil

William S. Burroughs, Metaphysical Detective is a genre-defying exploration of the metaphysical, blending elements of detective mystery, science fiction, and surrealist fantasy. The narrative is a kaleidoscope of cosmic mysteries, where the line between reality and the fantastical blurs, and the protagonist's journey becomes a metaphorical dance in the cosmic symphony of existence.
 
In the imaginary city of Interzone, where the neon-lit streets pulse with enigmatic energies, Detective William S. Burroughs embarks on a surreal mystery through multidimensional realities populated with literary outlaws and strange beings. The narrative weaves a tale of satirical metaphors in electric imagery and wordplay that bends the boundaries of language and reality.
 
The story unfolds across 25 chapters, each with a unique blend of hard-boiled detective noir, surreal science fiction, and mind-bending plot twists. Burroughs, armed with a golden gun and guided by the Language of the Dead, navigates the mysterious alleys, celestial gardens, and esoteric cathedrals of Interzone.
 
As the detective delves deeper, he faces a series of cosmic challenges, from an esoteric cathedral to an ethereal gateway and a cosmic apex. The narrative takes unexpected turns, weaving in the cosmic symphony; a tapestry of temporal flux, celestial symbols, and occult mysteries.
 
Burroughs' journey culminates in his rebirth as a cosmic guardian, tasked with safeguarding Interzone's eternal secrets. The beatniks, Lexicographers, and Nova accompany him in the ongoing dance of revelations, and the novel concludes with a cosmic resonance that echoes through the neon jungle that is the Naked City of Interzone.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookRix
• Release date: Dec 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9783755464617

Book preview

The Naked City

The rain fell in Interzone like liquid mercury, a ceaseless downpour that etched patterns on the city's streets, a canvas marked by the footsteps of the desperate and the defeated. William S. Burroughs, a private eye haunted by psychic disturbances and the echoes of past cases, leaned against the doorframe of his office, staring into the wet abyss that was the Naked City.

His office, a weathered haven sandwiched between the neon-lit pleasure dens and the desolate zones where reality itself seemed to fray, reeked of stale bourbon and the ghosts of long-forgotten cases. A single dim bulb flickered above his desk, casting long shadows on the worn carpet.

Burroughs reached for the battered pack of cigarettes on his desk, the edges frayed and worn from countless openings. He lit one with a matchstick bearing the insignia of a black scorpion, the flame dancing in the dimness like a solitary wisp of rebellion.

The door creaked open, revealing a silhouette against the neon glow outside. A woman, wrapped in the shadows of the rain-soaked night, stepped into the office. Her high heels clicked on the worn floorboards, a rhythmic beat that echoed the city's pulse.

Mr. Burroughs? she spoke, her voice a sultry purr that hung in the air like a seductive melody. I've heard you're the kind of detective who can find what others can't.

Burroughs eyed her with a detached curiosity, the smoke from his cigarette curling around his angular features. Depends on what you're looking for, sweetheart. This city's got more secrets than a junkie's needle.

The mysterious woman stepped further into the office's dim light, revealing herself as Nova. Her eyes were dark pools that seemed to absorb the ambient shadows, and her dress clung to her like a promise unfulfilled. I need you to find something for me, Mr. Burroughs, she said, her gaze penetrating his own. Something that holds the key to a reality-bending drug called Naked Lunch.

Burroughs took a drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing in the gloom. Naked Lunch, huh? That's a trip down the rabbit hole most folks don't come back from. What makes you think I'm the man for the job?

Nova's lips curled into a mysterious smile, a blend of danger and allure. Word on the street is you've got a taste for the peculiar, Mr. Burroughs. And this case, it's as peculiar as they come. There's a manuscript, a roadmap to the heart of Interzone. I need you to find it.

Burroughs eyed her for a moment, considering the request as he released a plume of smoke into the room. The heart of Interzone, you say? That's a dark alley to wander down, lady. You sure you're ready for what you might find?

Nova's eyes glittered with a mixture of determination and something deeper, something that hinted at a hidden agenda. I'm prepared for whatever comes, Mr. Burroughs. The manuscript is the key to unlocking the mysteries of this city, and I need it in my hands.

Burroughs stubbed out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray, the room suddenly heavy with the weight of unspoken truths. Alright, sweetheart. You've got yourself a detective. But I'm warning you, this journey might lead us places even the rats in this city fear to tread.

As Nova left the office, her silhouette melted into the rain-soaked night. Burroughs stood alone, the echoes of her request lingering in the air like a haunting melody. The Naked City awaited, a maze of shadows and secrets, and the detective with a penchant for psychic disturbances was about to navigate its treacherous depths once more.

The Junkie's Lullaby

Days blurred into nights in Interzone, where the rain seemed to fall incessantly, a rhythm that synchronized with the city's pulse. William S. Burroughs, the private eye with a penchant for navigating the labyrinth of psychic disturbances, embarked on the quest Nova had set in motion. His footsteps echoed through the narrow alleyways, a solitary figure blending with the shadows of the Naked City.

Burroughs' first lead came from a beatnik poet named Allen Ginsberg, a disheveled wordsmith who sought solace in the Smoky Mug, a dimly lit café tucked away in a forgotten corner of the city. The air within was thick with the scent of espresso and the heady fumes of existential musings.

As Burroughs pushed open the heavy door, a bell jingled overhead, announcing his entrance into the smoky enclave of poets and intellectuals. The low hum of hushed conversations enveloped him as he approached the counter, where a barista with disheveled hair and a soulful expression prepared espresso shots with the precision of an alchemist.

Ginsberg, recognizing Burroughs from the tales of the city's underground, beckoned him to a corner booth with a wave of his ink-stained hand. The poet's eyes, bloodshot and weary from nights of literary exploration, peered through thick glasses.

Burroughs, my man! Ginsberg greeted, his words infused with the rhythmic cadence of a man forever chasing the elusive muse. What brings you to the Smoky Mug? Seeking inspiration or a refuge from the neon chaos?

Burroughs slid into the booth, his angular features softened by the dim light. Looking for answers, Ginsberg. Got a line on something big—a manuscript that might hold the key to Naked Lunch.

Ginsberg's eyes widened, the weariness momentarily replaced by a spark of intrigue. Ah, the manuscript. The city's been whispering about it, a lullaby sung by junkies and poets alike. It's said to be the siren's call to the heart of Interzone.

Burroughs leaned in, his gaze intense. You know where I can find it, Ginsberg? This quest leads through the shadows, and I need every clue I can get.

The beatnik poet took a sip from his coffee, the bitterness lingering on his tongue. I heard whispers from Tangier Tom, a spectral guide through the veils of perception. He hangs out down at the Crossroads Bar, a haven for those seeking more than just a drink.

As Burroughs prepared to leave the Smoky Mug, Ginsberg's voice followed him like an echo through the haze of the café. Be careful, Burroughs. The manuscript is a key, but it can unlock doors to places you might not be ready to face.

The Crossroads Bar lay hidden in the labyrinthine streets of Interzone, a nondescript establishment with a flickering neon sign that hinted at secrets buried within its dimly lit confines. Burroughs pushed open the creaking door, entering a realm where the air hummed with the discordant notes of a jazz saxophone.

Tangier Tom, a spectral figure with eyes that held the weight of cosmic knowledge, sat at the bar nursing a glass of amber liquid. His presence, both ephemeral and profound, seemed to ripple through the smoke-filled room.

Burroughs, Tangier Tom acknowledged without turning around, as if he had been expecting the detective's arrival.

Burroughs slid onto the barstool next to him, the worn leather creaking beneath his weight. Word is you've got the lowdown on the manuscript, Tom. I'm in the market for information.

Tangier Tom swirled the remnants of his drink, the liquid catching the dim light like liquid amber. The manuscript is a map, Burroughs, a cartography of the mind. To find it, you'll have to dance on the razor's edge between reality and illusion.

Burroughs, never one to shy away from the brink, leaned in, his gaze unwavering. I've danced on worse edges, Tom. Lay it on me.

Tangier Tom spoke in riddles, weaving a narrative that transcended the boundaries of conventional understanding. The Crossroads Bar is more than it appears, Burroughs. It's a junction point in the cosmic web, a convergence of paths where destinies entwine. Seek the Red Queen's Gambit—the game within the game.

The detective absorbed the cryptic words, a puzzle forming in the recesses of his mind. As he left the Crossroads Bar, the echoes of Tangier Tom's guidance lingered, guiding him toward the next move in the cosmic chess match.

Burroughs traversed the neon-lit streets, each step a beat in the rhythm of a city that never slept. His destination, the Red Queen's Gambit, revealed itself in the heart of Interzone—a clandestine club where power players engaged in a high-stakes game of intrigue.

The entrance, concealed behind a crimson velvet curtain, opened to a world where shadows whispered conspiracies, and the air hummed with the tension of clandestine dealings. Burroughs navigated the dimly lit corridors, guided by the rhythmic pulse of the city's heartbeat.

In the shadows of the club, he encountered a scarred chess master named Rabelais, a man who had witnessed the ebb and flow of countless cosmic games. The Red Queen's Gambit unfolded before them, the pieces moving with a cosmic precision that hinted at a grand design.

Rabelais, with a conspiratorial glint in his eye, whispered to Burroughs in the hushed tones of a man privy to the city's deepest secrets. The manuscript, detective, holds the threads of the cosmic tapestry. Its significance transcends the boundaries of mere words. It's a cipher, a code to the hidden realms of Interzone.

Burroughs, his senses heightened by the pulsating energy of the club, absorbed Rabelais' words. Where do I find it? This city's a maze of mysteries, and I'm running out of breadcrumbs.

Rabelais leaned in, his breath carrying the weight of ancient wisdom. The Oracle of Delphi holds the next clue. Seek her in the Whispering Gallery, where the walls themselves speak in the language of cosmic truths.

As Burroughs left the Red Queen's Gambit, the labyrinth of Interzone seemed to shift and rearrange itself. The quest for the manuscript had become a journey through the hidden dimensions of the city, where reality and illusion danced in a perpetual waltz.

The Whispering Gallery, a place where the walls spoke in hushed tones and the echoes of forgotten conversations reverberated through the air, revealed itself as a nexus of secrets. Burroughs entered the enigmatic space, the ambient murmurs guiding him through the labyrinth of hidden lore.

In the heart of the gallery, he encountered the Oracle—a cloaked and enigmatic being with eyes that glowed with otherworldly insight. The Oracle spoke in cryptic prophecies, each word a riddle that hinted at the destinies of gods and mortals.

Burroughs, the Oracle whispered, the voice resonating through the gallery like a haunting melody. The manuscript you seek is not just a drug recipe—it's a map to the hidden dimensions of Interzone. But beware, for those who seek the secrets of Naked Lunch dance on the edge of madness.

Burroughs, his mind a tapestry of enigmatic visions and cosmic whispers, absorbed the Oracle's words. The quest for the manuscript had taken a turn into the surreal, and the detective stood at the crossroads of revelation and insanity.

As he left the Whispering Gallery, the rain continued to fall, a cleansing deluge that washed away the dust of forgotten realities. Burroughs, guided by the cosmic currents of Interzone, embarked on the next phase of his journey, where the manuscript held the promise of unlocking the city's deepest mysteries. The Naked City pulsated with secrets, and Burroughs, a detective on the edge of reality, moved through its streets with the determination of a man seeking truth in the heart of cosmic chaos.

The Interzone Shuffle

Interzone, a city where the rain fell like liquid mercury, had a heartbeat of its own. William S. Burroughs, the detective on the edge of reality, navigated the neon-lit streets with the rhythmic determination of a man following the cosmic currents. The quest for the manuscript had become a dance—a chaotic waltz through the hidden dimensions of a city that thrived on secrets.

His next move led him to The Neon Siren, a pulsating nightclub where the air hummed with the thumping beats of a jazz-infused electronic symphony. The entrance, guarded by a towering bouncer with cybernetic enhancements, parted for Burroughs as he slipped through the flickering neon doorway.

Inside, the atmosphere was electric. Holographic projections painted the walls with vibrant colors, and patrons moved in rhythmic synchrony with the music. The air was thick with the scent of exotic cocktails and the elusive promise of revelations.

Amidst the swirling mists and neon glow, Burroughs spotted her—a seductive holographic figure named Philipa K. Dick. Her form undulated with a grace that seemed both real and ethereal, and her voice echoed through the club like a siren's call.

Burroughs, she whispered, the digital tones of her voice carrying a provocative cadence. Reality is but a construct, a tapestry woven with the threads of perception. The manuscript you seek holds the key to unraveling the illusions that bind Interzone.

Burroughs approached, the music pulsating through his veins. Philipa K. Dick, they say you hold the secrets of the virtual realm. What do you know about the manuscript?

Her holographic form shimmered, a play of light and code. The manuscript is a gateway, detective. It opens doors to realms beyond the boundaries of the flesh. Seek the Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test—a clandestine laboratory on the outskirts of Interzone. There, the chemist Dr. Vonnegut is the keeper of the next clue.

As Burroughs left The Neon Siren, the music lingered in his ears like a haunting melody. The city had become a labyrinth of cosmic dances, each step leading him closer to the heart of the mystery.

The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, a clandestine laboratory hidden in the outskirts of Interzone, beckoned Burroughs with the promise of revelations. The journey through the rain-soaked streets brought him to a warehouse shrouded in mist, its exterior adorned with psychedelic graffiti that seemed to come alive in the dim light.

Inside, the laboratory hummed with an otherworldly energy. Dr. Vonnegut, a chemist with a lab coat stained with the colors of a thousand hallucinations, moved amidst bubbling flasks and humming machinery. His eyes, sharp and analytical, met Burroughs as he entered.

Burroughs, Vonnegut acknowledged, his voice carrying the echoes of chemical formulas and metaphysical theories. Philipa K. Dick sent you, didn't she? Seeking the manuscript, no doubt.

Burroughs nodded, the air heavy with the scent of chemicals. What do you know about it, Vonnegut? I've been tangoing through this city, chasing clues like shadows.

Vonnegut motioned for Burroughs to follow him through the labyrinthine rows of vials and apparatus. The manuscript, my friend, is not just a recipe for Naked Lunch. It's a formula that can rewrite the fabric of reality itself. It contains the essence of a drug that can turn the mind inside out.

As they reached a corner of the laboratory, Vonnegut unveiled a holographic display, showcasing the intricate patterns of molecular structures. Naked Lunch is more than a trip, Burroughs. It's a journey through the corridors of perception, a key to unlocking the hidden dimensions of Interzone.

Burroughs leaned in, his eyes fixed on the holographic dance. Where does the journey lead, Vonnegut? I've seen the cosmic chessboard, danced in the neon glow, and now I'm here.

Vonnegut's gaze bore into Burroughs, the weight of cosmic knowledge reflected in his eyes. The manuscript holds the coordinates to the Dune—a psychic wasteland where the sands of memory shift with the winds of forgetfulness. There, you will find the Oracle of Delphi, a seer who holds the next piece of the puzzle.

As Burroughs left the Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, the rain fell with an almost hypnotic rhythm. The city had become a chessboard, and each move unveiled a new layer of the cosmic game. The Dune, a place where memories shifted like sands, beckoned him.

Navigating the labyrinthine streets, Burroughs reached the heart of the Dune—a desolate expanse where the echoes of forgotten thoughts whispered through the air. In the midst of the psychic wasteland, he found the Oracle of Delphi, an enigmatic seer who dwelled in the recesses of the cosmic consciousness.

The Oracle, veiled in mystery, spoke in cryptic prophecies that resonated through the psychic winds. Burroughs, seeker of truths. The manuscript you seek is a map to the Singularity—the convergence of analog and digital, the threshold between the organic and the synthetic.

Burroughs, attuned to the cosmic currents, absorbed the Oracle's words. The city had become a canvas of ever-shifting probabilities, and the Singularity awaited, a cosmic event horizon where the boundaries between man and machine blurred into an indistinguishable singularity.

As he ventured toward the Singularity, the city transformed. Buildings became digital constructs, and the streets pulsed with the energy of quantum algorithms. Burroughs, now a wanderer in the virtual landscapes, faced the convergence of the analog and the digital.

In the heart of the Singularity, he encountered the Strugatsky Paradox—a cosmic conundrum that challenged the very fabric of reality. Anomalies and distortions manifested, creating pockets of alternate dimensions within the city.

Burroughs, grappling with the paradoxical threads that wove through the cosmic tapestry, encountered beings from parallel worlds and alternate timelines. The city itself became a nexus of possibilities, and the detective navigated the corridors of the multiverse.

As the Strugatsky Paradox unfolded, Burroughs reached the Singing Bone—an artifact of cosmic resonance that emanated melodies transcending the boundaries of sound and silence. The bone whispered tales of forgotten epochs, cosmic wars, and the eternal struggle between creation and entropy.

Listening to the haunting tunes, Burroughs sensed the vibrations that echoed through the city's collective memory. The Singing Bone, a relic of cosmic significance, held the key to understanding the harmonic frequencies that intertwined with the eternal rhythm of Interzone.

As the rain continued to fall, Burroughs stood at the precipice of the Singularity, contemplating the implications of the cosmic merger. The city had become a digital kaleidoscope, its architecture a manifestation of quantum possibilities.

In yet another chapter of his cosmic odyssey, Burroughs reached the Omega Point—a singularity of infinite density and cosmic convergence. The city, now a canvas of ever-shifting probabilities, pulsated with the energy of creation and dissolution.

As Burroughs stood at the Omega Point, he glimpsed the culmination of the city's narrative—the alpha and omega of Interzone. The detective, a witness to the cosmic drama, contemplated the paradoxical nature of beginnings and endings in a city where every story was a reflection of the eternal cosmic cycle.

And so, the surreal detective mystery in the imaginary city of Interzone continued, leaving behind a tapestry of cosmic enigmas, existential revelations, and the indelible imprint of a detective who had traversed the boundaries of reality and imagination. The journey through the interdimensional dance of Interzone had become a symphony of cosmic proportions, and Burroughs, the detective on the edge of reality, moved through the city's kaleidoscopic streets with the determination of a man seeking truth in the heart of cosmic chaos.

A Barroom Serenade

The rain fell relentlessly in Interzone, a city where the boundary between reality and illusion seemed as blurred as the neon lights reflecting on the slick streets. William S. Burroughs, the detective on the edge of reality, emerged from the surreal landscapes of the Singularity, finding himself once again in the heart of the city.

His journey had taken him through cosmic dances, virtual realms, and the enigmatic Singularity. The manuscript, the Singing Bone, and the Omega Point—all pieces of a puzzle that seemed to rearrange itself with each step he took. The city, now a digital kaleidoscope, pulsed with an energy that hinted at both creation and dissolution.

Burroughs wandered through the rain-soaked streets, the echoes of the Singing Bone's melodies still reverberating in his mind.