My original post in italics.
Amy's thoughts in bold.
My response in normal script.
From this...
to dan it may concern
I dedicate this post to my eldest bro, Dan...who both confuses and inspires.
((1. First of all, explain the ancient Zapotec medical practices you used to cure your Solar Urticaria in June of 2003, and why did you make me travel hundreds of miles through rough, scorpion-infested country to a plywood roadside tienda two kilometers outside of Compuertas, Mexico, and buy seven (seven) dragon fruit from that horrible old snake charmer with the cat-skull bolo tie and pink top hat? She was an alarming women, let me tell you.))
For the Solar Urticaria, it's simple--
I merely kept myself on a regimen of 15 slices of the Zapotec heirloom tomato every 3 hours. Grilled, with a little roosa oil. As you know, tomatoes, when eaten, have protecting properties against the Sun's effects. With some anti-histamine shooters as a cleanser.
I HAD to have the seven dragon fruit because man cannot live on tomatoes alone. The licopene and anti-histamine overload was breaking down my immune system and I needed the antioxidants. Plus, they taste yummy on cheerios.
I'm impressed that you could find any heirloom tomatoes in SLC. The pleated variety are usually pretty scarce in those parts. Let me guess, you got 'em at Good Earth Natural Foods in Sandy, right? I used to deliver there when I worked at Wagner. Nice people; a little weird, though. They like their brownies and their Earth Liberation Front periodicals. And it's humid as all get out in there.
I'd never thought of putting dragonfruit on cheerios. The ermine-colored pulp puts me off a bit, and the seeds cause Ulcerative Colitis in 23% of people, or so they tell me.
((I mean really, I had to RENT a ’79 Ford Granada with gold spinners and an aftermarket spoiler for two-hundred and fifty bucks in Naco, drive that rattling death trap across 110 degree desert, and then I had to pay a cop some hefty la mordida to get those nasty fruits back across the border, and when I finally got back to SLC and took ‘em to your place, you just said, “thanks Dannyboy” and slammed the door in my face. I have to admit, I never saw the red boils on your ears again, so I guess it was worth it, but no explanation at all? Not the first time, either, I might add.))
Why did I send you to the horrible old snake charmer with the cat-skull bolo tie and pink top hat? I just thought that would be funny. And it was. I laugh every time I think about how you came back smelling like the inside of a rotting pork and bean can...which, I might add is why I had to turn you away. I was suffering enough. The stunned look on your face was hilarious. I was especially tickled as I watched you walk away with tears in your eyes, mumbling something about staring into the face of Medusa and being fed cat belly. Ha. It was worth it. After all, laughter was the best medicine.
Oh, let me get this straight. You sent me to El Cazador de la Muerte as a joke?!
I'd forgot about the smell, sort of. I think someone had died in that Granada, and I'm sorry to say that I did drink the water, which didn't help anything.
And it wasn't the face of Medusa--El Cazador just had really thick dreadlocks. But the worst part of the whole thing is when she blew cigar smoke in my face, spit a mouthful of mescal on my left sleeve and said this in an old man's growl...
Agua para la sed la que reclamas
con esa fe que mueve el pensamiento;
con esa majestar que es sentimiento
de todo lo que sufres porque amas.
El olfato de muerte te ha seguido
se respira el incienso de la casa
y en el petate yace lo que ha sido:
Do you have any idea how unsettling that was? And then she made me put on a red heart milagro with fingerbones dangling off the chain, and told me to drive widdershins around the mountain while gulping down some kind of nasty hot corn drink.
The cat belly wasn't too bad, though--it was the salsa mole they poured over the top of it; stuff tasted like unbleached brake cleaner. Yuck.
((2. You could also tell us what you think the REAL cause of death was for Michael Jackson, The King of Pop, and why you think I give a crap.))
You should give a crap because just think of where the world would be without the Moon Walk.
Okay, I'll give you that.
((3. So. What do you think of miniature bibles and haircuts and compressed air pogo sticks? Just curious.))
Mini bibles are cool. You just can't take a regular sized bible with you on bike rides or to the zoo.
I give haircuts two solid thumbs up and I know Fonzi would agree.
I'm down with compressed air pogo sticks so long as who ever rides one falls off and someone is there to video tape it.
I agree. There really needs to be a whole category of pogo crash vids on Failblog.org.
((4. I’ve been hearing rumors about the Duchesne Redneck Ninja League that’s been training in the mountains north of your house. I hear dey got mad skilz. You seen any around? I hear they prefer lifted Ford trucks and baseball caps and Levis, and they often use dogs as early warning systems and perimeter security.))
These are just the drunk Indians that were thrown out of the Uintah White Trash Spartan Crew. They were mad. I mean, wouldn't you be? They figured since they have the U.S. government in their back pocket that they should be allowed in such groups.
As far as their skills...You would actually be pretty impressed at how well they rassle after downing 4 1/2 jugs of Irish single malt.
Incidentally, if there was ever a battle between a ninja and a Spartan, the Spartan would win every time.
So says Deadliest Warrior.
And they would know (not really).
Now, I've actually heard of the Uintah White Trash Spartans(UWTS). Aside: UWTS--the Utes? No wonder the Indians were pissed they got tossed.
As I recall, the Uintah White Trash Spartans had employed Sean Penn as their celebrity spokesman until the Incident at the Sundance Film Festival of 2008. According to the rumors, he jumped up shirtless before a crowd of dozens, his tank-top tan blowin' in the breeze, a bottle of Mythos Fine Lager in one hand and an orange flag in the other, and screamed, "This! Is! Uuuuuuutaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" before kicking Michael Moore off of a ski lifthouse which set off the small avalanche that buried Matt Damon and Janeane Garofalo for an hour and a half.
Perez Hilton thought it was quite the scandal.
Good news, though. I hear the UWTS now have Kid Rock as their spokesman, to general applause.
((5. And you know, thinking back, I never heard the story of what happened when you were attending Westminster College, and took that excursion to the old pirate haven of Amelia Island in Florida, to do research with the anthropology department and the Westminster College Mustache Club. The Mustache Club!?
What was it that you found on that creaky old Victorian plantation? And why did you spend a week after you got back curled up in the fetal position on the couch, mostly asleep and talking about the Dry Tortugas and Kingfisher sloop in your fevered dreams? What do parched turtles and little birds have to do with anything?))
Look. It wasn't a big deal. I was in the Enviro Bio class. We went on one of our weekly field trips up the Wasatch Mountains. There was this guy all dressed in khaki at the top asking for volunteers to search for the glass eye of his great-great-great-great-great grandma--who was, coincidentally, the great pirate queen Iron Eliza Sophie McPhearson. He promised 500,000 doubloons to whoever found the eye.
I was the first to volunteer. You see, I had been to Amelia Island before. The Man in Khaki didn't remember me. Right after high school, I was recruited by his uncle to make the same excursion. We had gotten so close back then and I had a pretty good idea of where the glass eye was.
Our group needed to be secretive. With Cuba to the south and Georgians to the north, we had to be sneaky. The Stache Club (as we called it back then) came because, really, men in mustaches are creepy and people generally stir clear of them. The fact that they had a couple women in the club was even more to our benefit. Plus, they didn't get invites to many places.
Maybe it was pity.
Maybe it was just a clever ruse.
You can put the rest together. Yes, I did find the glass eye of Iron Eliza. I decided I could get more than the Man in Khaki wanted to pay. So I planned on taking it to a private collector I found in New Jersey. Unfortunately, I lost it in a Poker game to a guy named Crazy Burt Bellamy.
Four of a kind over my straight.
Strangely, the next morning, the Man in Khaki was polishing up the eye and wearing Crazy Burt's snake skin handkerchief around his neck.
Crazy Burt didn't make the trip back to land of Deseret with the rest of us. But we all knew what happened to him.
The Dry Tortugas...the Kingfisher sloop...the pieces fit.
It could have been me...
...if I had been better at Poker.
Holy crap!! That's what was going on?
Oh, Amy, no! If you had only called me, you'd be a half a million in Spanish doubloons richer. Gosh, if only. This is much bigger than you think. Much. Bigger.
First of all, thanks for explaining about The Man in Khaki and Iron Eliza. I'd suspected as much. The memory of that clever SOB has haunted me for ten years.
But I can't believe you played poker with Crazy Burt Bellamy. In Atlantic City, no less--his town! My gosh, Amy, you have no idea what was at stake, here! Let me guess, he beat your strait with four Jacks, right? I know I'm right.
That guy is one of the Underground's most frightening figures. I mean really, when he's in Vegas, he plays Assumption, with Tarot cards, at the freakin' Flamingo! That takes big brass ones. And they say he wound up owning Blind Joe Biscuit at the game in Louisiana in August of '05. He just hasn't collected yet, or maybe Joe made some kind of a deal with him; I don't know. Ken Hite isn't saying, one way or another.
Not even the Beulay Boys or Radio Guy in Mexico want to mess with him, and you go playing poker with the man?
I understand he played in the Assumption game on Lake Mead in '89, and lost, which is why he only comes to Vegas now during the fall. I know for a fact that he's a contender (a "jack") for the throne of the Fisher King of the American West, which is currently held by Scott Crane, out of Northern California. It's been twenty-one years, though, and the whole shebang is due to blow up next year. 2010 is gonna be a doozy.
You can find everything you need to know in The Wasteland. Eliot knew everything.
Stayed tuned here for all the news that is news. And lets us mourn for lost doubloons and snakeskin hankies.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
The Christmas Noun, and Other Tales
I know it's the wrong time of year for this, but I feel the need to inject a little Holiday cheer into my June, and I stumbled on to some excerpts from a sweet and uplifting little Christmas story by my fellow forumite and nearly prominent Mormon author Larry Correia, of Draper, Utah. A mountain of a man who I greatly admire.
His work has always been inspirational and brings out the teary, maudlin side of me. So here it is, scenes from the heartwarming Yuletide tale,The Christmas Noun. Read it. You'll be glad you did.
THE CHRISTMAS NOUN
By Larry Correia
I’ve noticed a trend. Richard Paul Evans wrote The Christmas Box and The Christmas Letters. Then there was the Christmas Jars by Jason Wright. Now we’ve got the Christmas Sweater by Glenn Beck. Notice anything? All best-selling novels. All written by Mormons!
So as a novelist and a Mormon, I too am entitled to write a best-selling Christmas novel. Now I’m a slightly different type of novelist than the gentlemen above, so I’m not sure how this is going to work out. So I am proud to present to you, gentle reader, excerpts from the upcoming, as of yet untitled, Larry Correia Christmas novel project: THE CHRISTMAS (insert noun here).
I will, of course, come up with whatever the noun is as I go along. I’m thinking cookies. Or maybe a tree… or something. Inevitably however, everything I write seems to turn back into rampaging monsters or terrorist plots. Go figure. So here are some excerpts from my rough draft of THE CHRISTMAS NOUN:
***
From Page 2 Prologue Flashback sequence: “Well, I’m really sorry about Christmas being so tough this year, little Timmy. After your father was crushed to death cutting down that Christmas tree, and your mother lost both of her hands at the candy cane factory, and your brother died from that rare mistletoe allergy, and…”
“That’s okay, Grampa. I understand. I’m eight years old. I’m sure this will be the best Christmas ever!” Little Timmy said, just knowing that he was going to get that limited-edition Millenium Falcon he had always wanted.
Grampa paused to wipe the tears from his good eye. He had recently lost his other eye in a freak reindeer accident. “Well, here’s your present, Timmy,” he said, pushing the wrapped package forward…
Young Timmy ripped it open. It was a rock. “But, Grampa. It’s a rock,” he said sadly. “Where the hell’s my Millennium-Falcon? You could have at least got me the Optimus Prime with laser ax and eyeball cannon!”
“It’s all we could afford, Timmy. I’m sorry. Just remember that Santa Claus still loves you. Just not this year. Because we’re poor.”
Timmy looked out the window to where the neighbor kids were playing with their new ponies or flying around on rocket sleds. “You suck Grampa! Christmas killed my entire family, and I still get a friggin’ rock. I hate Christmas FOREVER!”
Grampa raised his fists to the sky and theatrically shouted, “NOOOOOOOO!” kind of like Darth Vader at the end of the last Star Wars movie, but without so much reverb. Then he died.
***
From Chapter 1.
Young Timmy grew up until his friends just called him Tim. But he was a bitter young man, who had sworn a blood vendetta against the spirit of Christmas. One year Tim got a job as a mall Santa as a condition of his parole.
On Christmas Eve morning, Tim was working at the mall, when he happened to bump into Sally Love-Interest.
“Well, hello, Tim,” said Sally. “Do you have any plans for Christmas Eve?”
“No, Sally,” said Tim sadly. “I figure that I’m going to loaf around my slum apartment, shoot rats with my .22, then drink Thunderbird until I pass out in a pool of my own vomit. If I’m lucky I might live through the night. How about you?”
“Well, I’m going to the protest. Industrialist-billionaire-Republican-capitalist Chuck McScrouge is trying to bulldoze the Orphanage/Old Folk’s Home/Teddy Bear Hospital and evict all of those orphans, old people, and teddy bears… on Christmas Eve!”
Tim shrugged. “Whatever.”
***
From Chapter 2.
Tim’s Mom was really glad to see him when he came to visit her at the Orphanage/Old Folk’s Home/Teddy Bear Hospital. “Oh, Tim. I’m so glad you could come.” She waved at him with her stainless-steel hook limbs. Tim noted that she had gotten into the season by painting them with red and white stripes, like pointy stainless-steel candy cane hands. “You look so handsome in your Santa suit!”
“Hey, Mom. I hear Mr. McScrouge is going to bulldoze this place today. You and all of the old folks will probably freeze to death or something I guess.”
“Oh, no. I believe in the miracle of the Christmas (Noun),” she said.
“The Christmas (Noun)? Well that just sounds stupid.”
“No stupider than Jars, Letters, Boxes, or Sweaters, and look how many books those sold!” his mother admonished him.
***
From Chapter 3.
“Bwa Ha Ha Ha Ha!” Mr. McScrouge laughed with the laugh that only industrialist billionaires can produce. “Foolish Sally Love-Interest. You really think that your feeble protest can stop my fleet of bulldozers?”
“You’ll never get past the Christmas (Noun)!” Sally shouted from across the picket line. “Because it represents goodness, redemption, forgiveness, and puppies!”
“I’ve bulldozed a leper colony, three hundred acres of old growth forest, a spotted owl habitat, and a homeless shelter before breakfast.” Mr. McScrouge said around his Cuban cigar. “Your orphanage/old folk’s home/teddy bear hospital is next.”
“Never, Mr. McScrouge!”
He held up his hand. “It’s pronounced Screw – Jay. It’s French.”
“Oh, sorry.”
***
From Chapter 5.
Tim ran into the room, his fake white beard twirling dangerously above his padded belly. “Wait! Where did that old book go?”
Sally looked up from Tim’s Grandfather’s chest of secret Christmas memories. “You mean that big ancient scary one bound in what looked like human skin and inked in blood? I gave it to those carolers.”
“That was Grandpa’s book of forbidden mysteries and Cthulu summoning!” Tim shouted. “He had it buried under the town nativity scene. When those atheists burned it, they freed the book!”
Sally was embarrassed. “Oh, I thought it was ancient Summarian Christmas carols.”
“The only song in that book is the song that ends the world. It will rip open an unspeakable hole in the fabric of space and time and turn everyone into zombies. Which way did they go?”
“They were going to sing to the old folk’s home,” Sally said. Tim spun and ran from the room. “Wait, where are you going?”
“To get my shotgun!”
***
From Chapter 7.
BOOM
Tim used his Santa hat to wipe the gore from his face. “Man… who would have thought that old people still contained that much blood! They look so dried out, but it’s like they’re pressurized or something…”
“Tim!” Sally screamed. “The portal is getting bigger. Something is coming through! Something big and evil!”
There was a scream of incomprehensible terror from the portal to hell. “HO HO HO” Then a sleigh made of bone and chaos exploded into our world in a flash of fire and a stink of corruption, pulled by eight tiny Hell-Deer, being whipped onward by a horned demon in a jolly red suit wielding a cat-o-nine tails made of Christmas lights and barbed wire.
“On Stalin! On Hitler! On Sodom and Fred!” shouted the demon at its hell-deer. “On Carrot-Top! On O.J. Simpson! On Rosanne Barr! Move your lazy ass, Ted Kennedy! Ho Ho Ho!” His belly shook like a bowl full of jelly. Poison jelly-fish that is!
“Santa?” Sally asked stupidly, as Sally was actually pretty dim-witted, but she was really easy on the eyes.
“No,” Tim said as he pumped another 12 gauge slug into the chamber. “It’s the Anti-Clause.”
“I’m checking my list, and checking it twice, and now I’m going to swallow your souls,” bellowed the Anti-Clause.
“Not if the Christmas (Noun) and my Black Tiger Style Kung-Fu can help it!” Tim shouted.
***
From Chapter 8.
The last of the zombies burst into flames and collapsed around the mall.
Tim slowly lowered the dripping chainsaw. “I think we did it!” he shouted. “We saved Christmas.”
“What!?” Sally shouted.
“Oh, yeah.” Tim shut off the chainsaw. “Sorry about that.”
“I love you, Tim,” said Sally as she kissed him passionately. At the beginning of the book she had looked kind of nerdy, and had been wearing glasses and had her hair in a bun, but by the end she was just in a torn tank-top and was looking pretty hot, in classic B-movie tradition. “Especially now that you have the spirit of Christmas and stuff.”
“I couldn’t have done it without the Christmas (Noun) and that extended dream sequence from the last chapter.”
Then it snowed. And the orphans, old folks, teddy bears, and special guest star Hulk Hogan had the happiest Christmas ever. Cthulu was displeased.
THE END
*Sniff*
It's so beautiful.
His work has always been inspirational and brings out the teary, maudlin side of me. So here it is, scenes from the heartwarming Yuletide tale,The Christmas Noun. Read it. You'll be glad you did.
THE CHRISTMAS NOUN
By Larry Correia
I’ve noticed a trend. Richard Paul Evans wrote The Christmas Box and The Christmas Letters. Then there was the Christmas Jars by Jason Wright. Now we’ve got the Christmas Sweater by Glenn Beck. Notice anything? All best-selling novels. All written by Mormons!
So as a novelist and a Mormon, I too am entitled to write a best-selling Christmas novel. Now I’m a slightly different type of novelist than the gentlemen above, so I’m not sure how this is going to work out. So I am proud to present to you, gentle reader, excerpts from the upcoming, as of yet untitled, Larry Correia Christmas novel project: THE CHRISTMAS (insert noun here).
I will, of course, come up with whatever the noun is as I go along. I’m thinking cookies. Or maybe a tree… or something. Inevitably however, everything I write seems to turn back into rampaging monsters or terrorist plots. Go figure. So here are some excerpts from my rough draft of THE CHRISTMAS NOUN:
***
From Page 2 Prologue Flashback sequence: “Well, I’m really sorry about Christmas being so tough this year, little Timmy. After your father was crushed to death cutting down that Christmas tree, and your mother lost both of her hands at the candy cane factory, and your brother died from that rare mistletoe allergy, and…”
“That’s okay, Grampa. I understand. I’m eight years old. I’m sure this will be the best Christmas ever!” Little Timmy said, just knowing that he was going to get that limited-edition Millenium Falcon he had always wanted.
Grampa paused to wipe the tears from his good eye. He had recently lost his other eye in a freak reindeer accident. “Well, here’s your present, Timmy,” he said, pushing the wrapped package forward…
Young Timmy ripped it open. It was a rock. “But, Grampa. It’s a rock,” he said sadly. “Where the hell’s my Millennium-Falcon? You could have at least got me the Optimus Prime with laser ax and eyeball cannon!”
“It’s all we could afford, Timmy. I’m sorry. Just remember that Santa Claus still loves you. Just not this year. Because we’re poor.”
Timmy looked out the window to where the neighbor kids were playing with their new ponies or flying around on rocket sleds. “You suck Grampa! Christmas killed my entire family, and I still get a friggin’ rock. I hate Christmas FOREVER!”
Grampa raised his fists to the sky and theatrically shouted, “NOOOOOOOO!” kind of like Darth Vader at the end of the last Star Wars movie, but without so much reverb. Then he died.
***
From Chapter 1.
Young Timmy grew up until his friends just called him Tim. But he was a bitter young man, who had sworn a blood vendetta against the spirit of Christmas. One year Tim got a job as a mall Santa as a condition of his parole.
On Christmas Eve morning, Tim was working at the mall, when he happened to bump into Sally Love-Interest.
“Well, hello, Tim,” said Sally. “Do you have any plans for Christmas Eve?”
“No, Sally,” said Tim sadly. “I figure that I’m going to loaf around my slum apartment, shoot rats with my .22, then drink Thunderbird until I pass out in a pool of my own vomit. If I’m lucky I might live through the night. How about you?”
“Well, I’m going to the protest. Industrialist-billionaire-Republican-capitalist Chuck McScrouge is trying to bulldoze the Orphanage/Old Folk’s Home/Teddy Bear Hospital and evict all of those orphans, old people, and teddy bears… on Christmas Eve!”
Tim shrugged. “Whatever.”
***
From Chapter 2.
Tim’s Mom was really glad to see him when he came to visit her at the Orphanage/Old Folk’s Home/Teddy Bear Hospital. “Oh, Tim. I’m so glad you could come.” She waved at him with her stainless-steel hook limbs. Tim noted that she had gotten into the season by painting them with red and white stripes, like pointy stainless-steel candy cane hands. “You look so handsome in your Santa suit!”
“Hey, Mom. I hear Mr. McScrouge is going to bulldoze this place today. You and all of the old folks will probably freeze to death or something I guess.”
“Oh, no. I believe in the miracle of the Christmas (Noun),” she said.
“The Christmas (Noun)? Well that just sounds stupid.”
“No stupider than Jars, Letters, Boxes, or Sweaters, and look how many books those sold!” his mother admonished him.
***
From Chapter 3.
“Bwa Ha Ha Ha Ha!” Mr. McScrouge laughed with the laugh that only industrialist billionaires can produce. “Foolish Sally Love-Interest. You really think that your feeble protest can stop my fleet of bulldozers?”
“You’ll never get past the Christmas (Noun)!” Sally shouted from across the picket line. “Because it represents goodness, redemption, forgiveness, and puppies!”
“I’ve bulldozed a leper colony, three hundred acres of old growth forest, a spotted owl habitat, and a homeless shelter before breakfast.” Mr. McScrouge said around his Cuban cigar. “Your orphanage/old folk’s home/teddy bear hospital is next.”
“Never, Mr. McScrouge!”
He held up his hand. “It’s pronounced Screw – Jay. It’s French.”
“Oh, sorry.”
***
From Chapter 5.
Tim ran into the room, his fake white beard twirling dangerously above his padded belly. “Wait! Where did that old book go?”
Sally looked up from Tim’s Grandfather’s chest of secret Christmas memories. “You mean that big ancient scary one bound in what looked like human skin and inked in blood? I gave it to those carolers.”
“That was Grandpa’s book of forbidden mysteries and Cthulu summoning!” Tim shouted. “He had it buried under the town nativity scene. When those atheists burned it, they freed the book!”
Sally was embarrassed. “Oh, I thought it was ancient Summarian Christmas carols.”
“The only song in that book is the song that ends the world. It will rip open an unspeakable hole in the fabric of space and time and turn everyone into zombies. Which way did they go?”
“They were going to sing to the old folk’s home,” Sally said. Tim spun and ran from the room. “Wait, where are you going?”
“To get my shotgun!”
***
From Chapter 7.
BOOM
Tim used his Santa hat to wipe the gore from his face. “Man… who would have thought that old people still contained that much blood! They look so dried out, but it’s like they’re pressurized or something…”
“Tim!” Sally screamed. “The portal is getting bigger. Something is coming through! Something big and evil!”
There was a scream of incomprehensible terror from the portal to hell. “HO HO HO” Then a sleigh made of bone and chaos exploded into our world in a flash of fire and a stink of corruption, pulled by eight tiny Hell-Deer, being whipped onward by a horned demon in a jolly red suit wielding a cat-o-nine tails made of Christmas lights and barbed wire.
“On Stalin! On Hitler! On Sodom and Fred!” shouted the demon at its hell-deer. “On Carrot-Top! On O.J. Simpson! On Rosanne Barr! Move your lazy ass, Ted Kennedy! Ho Ho Ho!” His belly shook like a bowl full of jelly. Poison jelly-fish that is!
“Santa?” Sally asked stupidly, as Sally was actually pretty dim-witted, but she was really easy on the eyes.
“No,” Tim said as he pumped another 12 gauge slug into the chamber. “It’s the Anti-Clause.”
“I’m checking my list, and checking it twice, and now I’m going to swallow your souls,” bellowed the Anti-Clause.
“Not if the Christmas (Noun) and my Black Tiger Style Kung-Fu can help it!” Tim shouted.
***
From Chapter 8.
The last of the zombies burst into flames and collapsed around the mall.
Tim slowly lowered the dripping chainsaw. “I think we did it!” he shouted. “We saved Christmas.”
“What!?” Sally shouted.
“Oh, yeah.” Tim shut off the chainsaw. “Sorry about that.”
“I love you, Tim,” said Sally as she kissed him passionately. At the beginning of the book she had looked kind of nerdy, and had been wearing glasses and had her hair in a bun, but by the end she was just in a torn tank-top and was looking pretty hot, in classic B-movie tradition. “Especially now that you have the spirit of Christmas and stuff.”
“I couldn’t have done it without the Christmas (Noun) and that extended dream sequence from the last chapter.”
Then it snowed. And the orphans, old folks, teddy bears, and special guest star Hulk Hogan had the happiest Christmas ever. Cthulu was displeased.
THE END
*Sniff*
It's so beautiful.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Happy Birthday, Bonster
Since I didn't realize it was the 18th until about five minutes ago, I didn't get to call today. I won't call you so late, but instead will immortalize your birthday with the printed word.
Happy Birthday, Bon! Now you can buy a handgun. Woo hoo!
You are 21 now, and how old does that make me feel?
Pretty old.
It's all downhill from here.
Happy Birthday, Bon! Now you can buy a handgun. Woo hoo!
You are 21 now, and how old does that make me feel?
Pretty old.
It's all downhill from here.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Why?
It is now 6:01 in the morning, and I still haven't been to bed. I'm not capable of sleeping right now either.
Even vampires get to sleep once the sun comes up. I've got a knot of tension in my gut. I don't know why. Probably something bad is going to happen. Or maybe it's something I ate.
I just thought I'd share.
I'm tired.
Good night everybody. I'm gonna go lay down.
Even vampires get to sleep once the sun comes up. I've got a knot of tension in my gut. I don't know why. Probably something bad is going to happen. Or maybe it's something I ate.
I just thought I'd share.
I'm tired.
Good night everybody. I'm gonna go lay down.
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