Story Time: Pour, Know…Poor, No

😀 Welcome back, Dear Reader, for another amazing tale from the Okie Devil of Text US, Cade F.O.N. Apollyon. Like ‘Hee Haw Hockey‘, the following short story appeared in ‘Underdog Anthology V: Six in Five in Four‘. It’s kinda…

*Oh it’s definitely saucy, Clicky…*

… adult in it’s theme, and is called ‘Pour, Know…Poor, No’…

Olyphant sounds like Elephant

*It is that, Clicky…*

… So if you’re the type to be easily triggered, Dear Reader, then… Enjoy! 😉

*Jet aim… /rolls eyes…*

*******

‘His throbbing cock rose like a submarine going through and emergency surface maneuver. She gasped in delight at the sight of the meaty ship of bounty that had suddenly appeared. Almost as if by instinct, she threw herself onto the bed and spread her legs to expose the moist ocean of delight that was now eagerly awaiting his fleshy meat torpedo to submerge it’s shadowy depths.

‘He approached her confidently as she lay on the bed, his errect cock swinging like a penduluum as he walked. He glanced at the crux of her wide-spread legs and noticed her casm had began to slowly ooze her white juices in a steady flow that ran straight into the crack of her ass. His meaty cock was already standing straight up, and yet the sight of her vagina’s juices flowing made his rod pulse to an even more errect state.

‘As he joined her on the bed, there was no need to take his cock in-hand…destiny and desire would guide the target home at this point. Their bodies uniting was both a metaphysical and physical certainty at this point…and sure enough, like a submarine sailing into The Grand Canyon…’

The author paused in his writing.

Wait…if her vagina is “The Grand Canyon”…and his penis is “a submarine”…there ain’t much going to be going on there, he thought to himself. He continued his inward observations and critiques of his own writing…I mean, can you imagine what a submarine would look like in The Grand Canyon? He imagined himself standing at an observation point in Grand Canyon National Park, and then trying to find a 560 foot long Ohio-class nuclear submarine located within the 277 mile long, 18 mile wide, 1 mile deep canyon.

If sighted, what would that look like? he wondered. If his penis was a submarine, and her vagina was The Grand Canyon, the submarine would fucking disappear alright, and not in a good way.Men don’t like to think of their massive meaty manliness suddenly going from a mighty man-o-war, to completely invisible. Men? Who in the fuck am I writing this for anyway? Surely I’m not writing it for men…am I? No, I’m not. I’m writing it for no one. I’m writing this for no one in particular, but I only have the male perspective, and really have only my own male perspective based on my own experiences.

A long pause ensued in his being as to exactly what that meant, and to whom. More importantly, when. What do my experiences even mean anymore? he further wondered to himself as he contemplated jerking off, going to bed, and forgetting the whole thing.

Holy FUCK this is confusing. Subs are all about stealth and being able to disappear. But submarines don’t necessarily go away when they disappear. You just can’t see them, and usually can’t hear them either. No wonder dicks are usually referred to as “love rockets” or “heat-seeking moisture missiles”. They are big, noisy, overt and there’s little doubt as to a rocket’s intentions and purposes. It’s much easier sticking to what you know and running with the crowd than it is trying think outside the box and come up with something new. Box? Fuck!!! Women’s vaginas are sometimes referred to as a box. Inside the box, outside the box…sounds sexy…except not.

He sighed as he contemplated the energies devoted to symbolism in writing as it pertained to sex. Why is everything so distorted? So misplaced? Submarines and canyons? Oceans? Birds? Bees? Flowers? Vesica piscis and missiles? “Misplaced parts” is kind of ironic considering how well all of the parts mesh together without all of the symbolism and hype. Yeah…like…”the real thing”. Fucking. Intercourse. Getting freaky. Doing the nasty. Bumping uglies. Ten toes to Jesus. No one is thinking geometry or horticulture when grinding naughty bits together. He continued his inward rant. There are no chasms, nor is there any subversion in sex. All of those gaps have already been bridged and crossed by the time any actual fucking starts, so what it is I’m missing…other than a partner? How can I write about sex if I’m not having any? Is that my problem? Why can’t I just say “he proceeded to maneuver his being into position within close proximity to her being, so as to facilitate the timely entry of his penis into her vagina”…that works…doesn’t it?

He had started his first attempt at “an erotic story” the previous night, writing a brief story in his head after searching the local classified ads looking for a “real” job. An advertisement under the “writing” section had caught his eye and sent his mind to spinning yarns.

‘$$ Erotica authors needed for short story submissions’

After some quick thoughts on smut and “erotica” that he had read as a youth, he began to concoct a story line in his head. It started with the fucking parts of course, because this is erotica after all. He wondered if working backwards was really the way to go. No one is going to want to read some sensual and intimate romantic bullshit,are they? Doesn’t romance and intimacy always end in tears of the “bad” variety? He decided to stick with the sticky stuff to start.

The next day, he sat down and tried to type out some of his ideas which were then passed along to a friend, his editor, for her thoughts. She seemed to get a good laugh out of it. If for no other reason than the horrendous spelling. But a laugh was not what he was looking for. If he had wanted a laugh, he could have just taken a picture of his own pathetically inadequate and unused penis, posted that as his profile picture on Twitter, then sauntered off into oblivion in search of an adequate rock to bury his inadequate being under. He was trying to write an erotic story here, not a fucking comedy piece. A fucking…comedy…piece. I wonder if that would work, he mused to himself. No…stick to the basics, and see what you can do before sauntering off elsewhere. I can do this.

“She gasped in delight at the sight of the meaty ship of bounty that had suddenly appeared on her horizon”…is how that should likely read. It kinda goes with the whole “fringe” and “verge” vibe,all while staying with the “ships” and “oceans” kinds of vibe(s). Also likely should be a “metronome” instead of a “pendulum” since it’s standing up rather than flopping around like a wobbly plumb-bob seeking center in the middle of an earthquake.

Chasm not casm. FUCK!!! How many typos do I have in this fucking thing? I guess I should re-read again before dumping any further ideas on my editor. “My” editor. Since when did she become mine? Relationships are tough to figure out when you start slapping labels on them. I thought labels were supposed to create these clearly-defined barriers and boundaries that helped us to survive the tempests that seem to rock our worlds. Maybe not. Maybe they help to create and even facilitate these storms.

Lemme try again, don’t change a thing. Just make some corrections, and rewrite without rewriting. He wished himself a good luck, but noted that getting lucky would likely help more. Maybe I should go watch some porn, and watch everything except the fucking parts? The intro bits, although typically corny, can be quite hot sometimes. Not yet…let’s keep writing…

‘His throbbing cock rose like a submarine going through an emergency surface maneuver. She gasped in delight at the sight of this meaty ship of bounty that had suddenly appeared on her horizon. There will be no mutiny on this bounty. Almost as if by instinct, she threw herself onto the bed and spread her legs to expose the moist ocean of delight that was now eagerly awaiting his fleshy meat torpedo to submerge its shadowy depths in anticipation of the explosion to cum…’

She’s not wanting him to cum already is she? She wants him to come, not cum, not yet. He’s not wanting to cum already is he? I mean yeah, I intentionally changed that from “come” to “cum” in order to be racy. But “the explosion to come” is the passion of the actual coupling, and not his spooging the USDA recommended daily allowance of semen all over the room. And yeah, he’s gotta cum anywhere and everywhere except inside her vagina…right? He again paused in his thinking and attempted to correlate his own personal experiences, with that which is typically depicted in pornography or some other form of erotica.

Women seem to be fascinated by a particular penis that they have unrestricted access to. And by unrestricted access, we are talking about a man who had shed all pride and pretense, both flaccid and erect, and given the green light for his lover to perform any and all tests and observations they deem necessary on this particular package, its contents, and states. And while we ponder this package,let us not forget the testicles and scrotum. The penis, even in and at the height of its glory, pales in comparison to the fascination that seems to be generated by this oft orphaned accessory pack…sack…thingie.

‘He approached her confidently as she lay on the bed. His erect cock pointing ever skyward, and swinging back and forth like a metronome that kept time with his steps as he walked. Counting down the fleeting seconds until its ample girth would be delivering its timely pleasure load to her wet pussy palace…’

Pussy…Palace? Sounds like a topless bar. And topless bars have absolutely fuckall to do with the vulva, except for the g-strings that cover the one place you won’t be going in a topless bar. You get fucked in a topless bar…not laid. His personal philosophy was really starting to boil now. And what about “the pussy”? Not to mention “the vagina”? THERE’S NOTHING THERE!!! he mused to himself almost aloud. Yeah, ok, with respect to the vagina there is something there, but not really. The vulva is actually more apt description with respect to getting to where you want to be. The “Bermuda Triangle” lays atop, hiding the waiting dangers to be explored, and the clitoris lay hidden within the lush and hopefully musty and damp forest.

Let’s take it from the top…wait…top. Here I am talking “titty bars” thanks to my “pussy palace” reference, and I’ve not even given a second thought to this woman’s breasts. But why should I? A woman’s breasts aren’t sexual organs. They’re cake on top of a pie that is served with ice cream and beer in a restaurant that you just can’t get enough of no matter what is being served. She is both your hostess and waitress in a joint she herself owns, and no matter how bad her breath stinks nor how bitchy she gets when menstruating, I want to eat there all the time. I can even tolerate the pre- and postmenstruating bullshit. Those are simply temporary “irritations” which are actually just more things to talk about. Or at least, they certainly can be. So…center and centers. Center. It’s really not “all about the pussy” is it? If so, wouldn’t that make all women…lesbians? Nope. Can’t be. Not even close. You’ve also forgotten…kissing.Fondling. Buildup, and breakdown. Arcs…plural.

He stared at the cursor blinking on the screen for a long time. He didn’t mind using “sassy” vernacular within the scope and confines of a relationship, but it didn’t make sense outside of that and those realms. To write a story is one thing, but to write a story that caters to some group or groups in particular? Greek. All of it…Greek. Swahili. He had trouble relating to a single person, let alone relating to several. Perhaps the brush is too big, he wondered to himself. I’m not trying to please every woman. I’m trying to please one woman. And I’m trying to do that via my own short penis which, despite it’s lack of numerical significances in the plus column, actually gets quite hard. Or it used to anyway.

He glanced at the clock on his computer…23:47. He decided to wander outside to see if the moon was up.

‘He glanced at the nexus of her wide-spread legs, her own hands under each of her thighs to assist in holding them spreadeagle and aloft, her legs shaking slightly in what was surely her anticipation of his mounting and penetrating her with his meaty fuckrod. He began to inspect the ample hair piled atop her love nest, and then followed the trails of pussy hair downwards with his eyes to where the hair covered the meaty gates of perdition that beckoned him forward to enter. A sudden glint on her pussy maze caught his eye, and he noticed that the waiting chasm hidden by her engorged and meaty pussy lips had began to slowly ooze a river of her white love juices in a steady flow that ran straight into the crack of her ample round ass.’

Great. Now her ass is “ample”. No honey, your ass isn’t big, it’s ample. But, when you are given access, isn’t any woman’s ass “ample”, irrespective of actual dimensions? I’m not going to have the guy break out the calipers in order to get a Body Mass Index on her ass. Would that be a Body-Ass Index? Booty-Ass Index? He reached into his shorts, then grabbed the head of his penis…manipulating it back and forth between his thumb, index and middle fingers. He could feel a slight wetness on his fingers, stopped typing for a moment, and then used his other hand to pull his shorts aside, exposing his entire penis and testicles.

Hmmm…pre-cum. I guess I’m getting myself kinda hot thinking about licking this woman’s vaginal cum out of her ass crack, he thought to himself. There was a moment of contemplation as to locating a ruler to measure his drooping penis as it hung in anguish in one hand, while the other hand continued to hold the shorts aside. But what would that add to the story? What could that add to the story. A detraction? Is the addition of a detraction… an addition, or a detraction?

He was firmly entrenched in “average” and had been so for as long as he could remember. The guy that we are writing about is hung like a stallion, has a heart that can pump enough to blood to keep his boner skyward for days, likely has giant muscles, great mug, a good job, plenty of cash, big house, cool car…the works…right? We’ve none of that. Not any more anyway. How can I possibly write about something that I know nothing about? I can’t relate to this guy in any way.

Another staring contest with the blinking cursor on his computer screen. “You are never going to finish this,” he said aloud. The cursor did not respond nor reply. Simply continued it’s mechanical blinking shortly after each and every character typed.

The moon is beautiful though, he thought to himself. High in the midnight Texas sky, and so bright that it casts shadows. Plenty of stars too, he added. The only thing missing is someone to gaze at the stars with me. That’s romance dipshit. This is a fucking erotic story about fucking.

‘His meaty cock was already standing straight up, and so erect that it almost hurt. And yet the sight of her love canal’s juices flowing made his rod begin to pulse to an even more erect state that he only previously would have thought impossible. As he neared joining her on the bed, he caught the briefest glimpse of her scent with his nose. Almost on instinct, he suddenly had the desire to shove his face directly into her love trap, now glimmering with pussy juice, so as to lap up every drop.’

Women…don’t…smell. I mean…yeah…most of the time they don’t. But even when they do, they don’t. Got it? He briefly contemplated counting the number of times that the cursor would need to blink before it was considered a prompting to get back to typing. He found this odd, as usually when writing, he didn’t give the cursor a second thought except to it’s location on the page. He stopped typing again, and once again pulled his penis from his shorts. This time, he pulled the shorts further to the side, and then pulled the entire length of his scrotum from his shorts so as to expose the entirety of his scrotum and both testicles.

He shoved his left hand at the very base of his scrotum, and lifted the enclosed testicles upwards while holding his penis to the side with the other hand. As the testicles remained elevated with his left hand, he used his right hand to push back the hair at the top and base of his penis to get a better idea as to the dimensions. He could suddenly feel something in his urethra, and at the same time, a large clear drop emerged from the head of his penis. He let go of his scrotum, letting the testicles fall rather unceremoniously as they retreated back into their more natural state of hanging. His now free left hand wiped the large clear drop away before it fell from the tip of his penis, then with the same hand he transferred the contents now resting mostly on his thumb to a nearby paper towel. That shit will stretch forever, he thought to himself. I’m just going to leave my junk hanging out of my shorts while I write, and if another drop comes out, I’m just going to let it drip. I’m betting it will reach all the way to the floor and still stay connected.

‘As he joined her on the bed, there was no need to take his cock in-hand…destiny and desire would guide the target safely home at this point. Their bodies uniting as one in perfect harmony was both a physical and metaphysical certainty. There was no going back, and as much as he desired licking the sweet glimmering pussy nectar from her asshole so that not a single drop was wasted, he knew that she wanted his cock inside her..post-haste…again and again.

‘He placed his knees on the bed, then leaned over and positioned himself on top and above her, simultaneously taking one of the supple nipples of her ample breasts into his mouth. He felt something emanating from the head of his engorged cock…pre-cum, lubricant, and none too soon. He felt the warmth of her pussy on the head of his cock, as her wild and raspy pubic hair reached out to tickle the head of his rod. He pushed his hips forward as she simultaneously wrapped her legs around him, urging his penetrating thrust forward…and sure enough, like a submarine sailing into her grandest of canyons…’

Isn’t The Grand Canyon also kinda…dry? I really need to work on these associations. There was that comedy angle too. Not sure what happened there with the comedy angle, but I’m pretty fucking sure what didn’t happen with the comedy angle. But isn’t comedy actually, typically anyway, kinda…tragic?

His eyes once again turned to the steadily blinking cursor. Perhaps it’s the poetry? he thought. The blinking cursor continued its profane rant. The poetry of the moment. Perhaps the poetry of a moment. A moment that was. A moment that is. A moment to come. He pondered his own thinking, and wrestled inwardly with the desire to substitute “cum” for “come” Would such trivialities matter in that moment?

“Where in the FUCK am I going to take this story?” he said aloud. He’s entered her, she has enveloped him, do I now give a play-by-play of every grunt, groan and grimace? And if so, what clock do I use? Seconds? Milliseconds? Hours? We want this shit to last don’t we? WAIT!!! Maybe that’s it! Maybe the phone rings mid-coitus, she’s a world famous rocket scientist, and her scientific research group has just detected a mysterious signal from deep space. They need her to get busy on designing and building a new rocket to explore the part of the Universe from whence this signal doth emanate. She slips out of character, into her clothes, vaginal drippings and all, leaves a gooey trail all the way to her sassy BMW convertible, but not before telling him to lock the door behind him on his way out. Genius. I think it’s time to send this piece of shit story over to other eyes, and see what they think.

The response via email was quick. Well that didn’t take long, he thought to himself. “That’s what she said,” he chortled aloud.

‘I’ve spaced it out and put indents in. A couple of typos corrected. Changed the editor to a she from the start, but if you want to change that back, no biggie.

‘I look forward to reading the rest :D’

He stared blankly at the email for a moment. Um, that’s all there was dear lady. That’s all there is. Should I take the opportunity to be risque here? Nope. I think I’ll pass on that. Read what she’s sent back, see what’s she done with this monstrosity, and continue to fuck it up completely from there.

Also in lieu of taking the opportunity to be cheeky, I wonder perhaps if maybe I should instead take some time to explain what a Ohio-class submarine is? While I’m doing that, maybe I can even work out the logistics involved in somehow getting a 16,000+ ton, nuclear powered ballistic missile submarine into The Grand Canyon. Sixteen-thousand tons is 32,000,000 pounds. The largest flying machine that we currently have, The Antonov An-225, can only lift around 500,000 pounds, so we’re going to need 64 of them. A submarine would never fit inside of 64 different aircraft cargo bays without a chainsaw and a shitload of petroleum jelly, so how in the fuck can I get this thing into The Grand Canyon? Launch the submarine into space via some giant heat-seeking moisture missile, and then parachute the submarine safely back to Earth where the submarine would land safely in The Grand Canyon?

‘The massive fleet of dirigibles took flight in unison in order to hoist the gigantic submarine aloft and towards its new home, based somewhere in The Grand Canyon. Here, the submarine could prowl the ever rising moist and willing waters of The Colorado River, searching for prey. These waters were, as of yet, devoid of predators or any other unseen threats…but that would soon change.’

“That has a nice Steampunk ring to it,” he said to himself aloud.

*******

the-reason-for-the-mop

*Indeed. For synchronous ocular and genital secretions, Clicky… Proper paw gno…*

Come back on Tuesday, Dear Reader, for the third of Cade’s Underdog Anthology V stories. And don’t forget, the sixth is coming soon… Have a Song ❤

mop-dance

Story Time: Hee Haw Hockey

😀 Welcome, Dear Reader…

…We have a very special treat in store for you this evening…

… From the (literally) glowing pages of ‘Six in Five in Four‘, a short story from the Okie Devil from Text US, Mr Mars himself…

*Okay Clicky, enough of the organ music already…*

slapshot organist taken out

…’Hee Haw Hockey’ by Cade F.O.N. Apollyon. Enjoy! 😀

*******

Monday 29 May 2017

Dear Mr. Coburn,

In response to your repeated inquires as to my interest in writing my memoirs in conjunction with your co-authorship, I would first like to say that I appreciate your interest in my story. I really do appreciate your interest by the way, as well as your offers of assistance. As to my own personal intentions, over the years, I have had many offers to write my memoirs or an autobiography of some kind. But none of these outside interests have even remotely come close to showing the level of persistence and determination that you have shown in attempting to coax me into telling some of my personal tales. Most suitors simply talk numbers or money, and almost all suitors seem to have come with checkbook in hand, figures in mind, and little else.

I’ve never really had an interest in, nor any experience with writing, except for the occasional poem that I jot down on paper. I’m not very good at typing, although I do own a computer. That said, two nights ago I began to give serious consideration to your proposal. I opened a bottle of Scotch that I’ve been saving for the past four years, and I began to pour through some memories while simultaneously pouring through the bottle. When I had reached the halfway point, and the amount of Scotch remaining was equal to the amount consumed, I garnered the courage to sit down and start typing a bit. I’ve enclosed the first sample chapter that resulted from this writing, and it is included along with this correspondence for your perusal and consideration.

Feel free to let me know what you think, and if you like what you read, perhaps in the future we can work together further.

With Regards,

Daniel “Danno Kerblammo” Kerkhoff

Maybe it’s time we discussed my missing tooth.

I had been a professional hockey player for most my career until I retired at the end of it. I was the top scoring goalie of all time, averaging an average of 16 touchdowns per game…on average. Our team was on its way to our third consecutive NASCAR Winston Cup Championship, and if we could win this final game, we’d achieve it. However, we were playing our old nemeses on their own turf, which was actually ice and not turf, but whatever.

Their lead-defenseman was somehow this old goalie’s personal nemesis, but only because I played more offense than defense, and it pissed this guy off no end that a goalie was scoring all the goals and setting all the records. As a matter of fact, the only scoring record that I didn’t hold, was scoring against myself, which they don’t have a record for. Interesting footnote here – the League considered creating such a category to make things a little more fair for anyone playing us, but the League never did create this rule. Even if they had, I don’t know that I would have started attempting scoring goals against myself out of boredom, nor how that would have helped the other teams if I had.

Anyway, match day finally arrived. It was raining heavily just prior to the game start, and there was concern as to how it would affect our performance as a team. There was even discussion amongst the League officials as to whether the game should be played at all, or postponed until later when the weather cleared. But once we got indoors and inside the enclosed and climate-controlled arena, those fears faded. The game…was on.

The game had been going on since the starter shot a hole in the green flag with a flare gun. It was a massacre. We had scored so many touchdowns in the first 3 first-halves of play, that the officials stopped keeping score. This angered our nemeses who, having not scored a point all night, felt like they were being taunted by the “999” that reflected our score on the three-numbered scoreboard. But that’s as high as it went…so if you’ve got a complaint, contact the manufacturer’s customer service in the off-season.

There were only seven more quarters or so left to play and we were winning. Seeing as to how the score was no longer being kept, I just hovered by the beer cart near the net at my end, where my nemesis couldn’t get at me. Besides I was getting pretty fucking drunk by that point anyway, and the last thing we need in a hockey game is a rugby scrum. Little did I know that’s exactly what we were about to get. I had been averaging over 17 minutes of play-time per quarter during the game, which is weird because there are only 15 minutes in a quarter of play. And now that the game was all but wrapped up, I was averaging 18 beers per quarter, which is pretty cheap for beer.

Anyway…their main forward spun out in turn two, hit the retaining wall at full-speed, but was able to hit the eject button on his roller skates just in time. He was now dangling from his parachute in the rafters, rendering him out for the remainder of the game when they could safely drag the ladders out onto the ice so as to retrieve him without anyone being in danger of getting hurt.

As a result, their team called for “the double-substitution”, which allowed them to switch a defenseman for offense. They were doing so badly by this stage that this was really the only option they had. But since they called the double-sub, this also meant that the player’s stick has also suddenly somehow become defective and/or unusable, and had to be replaced. If no suitable replacement equipment is available, the player in question can use whatever is handy in which to replace the defective hockey stick. Had I known that a rugby tournament had been held in the arena the night before, well, then perhaps what happened next probably wouldn’t have been so confusing to me.

Apparently the night before, one of the rugby players had accidentally left some of their equipment in our nemeses’ pit stall area when their tournament was over. My nemesis hastily grabbed whatever was available from the pile of rugby equipment, and so as you likely have already guessed by now……he came at me with a cricket bat.

I mean, the guy didn’t even have the puck. He just came at me, full speed, with that big ass cricket bat’s business end pointed right at me. I was already so drunk that I assumed it was some sort of trick play. Plus, I had almost half a beer left, so it took me a moment to decide whether to set the cup down and finish it later, or if I had time to slam it back and throw the cup at him before he got to me.

I opted for the latter, and don’t remember much after that. I hear there’s a video of it on YouTube tho. I dunno. I haven’t re-watched it in a long time.

Anyway, I lost a tooth in the process.

—

Monday June 5th, 2017

Dear Messrs Vosler and Planck,

Please find the enclosed copy of a response received from Mr. Kerkhoff dated May 29, 2017, along with a copy of a sample chapter that Mr. Kerkhoff himself wrote and further included in the correspondence.

I urge your careful consideration in the following:

1. The sample chapter took me aback upon first reading. It appears to be the drunken rambling of an angry person who is potentially bitter about being retired and no longer in the limelight, and constantly harangued about recounting tales of “the good ol’ days”. Admittedly, the more I read, the more my heart sank as I read the sample chapter, figuring it nothing more than a clever exclamation point on an otherwise innocuous rejection letter.

However,

2. I received the letter on Friday (June 2, 2017 – now 4 days ago) and over the weekend, I put my despair aside and I read the “sample chapter” several more times. Admittedly, mostly in disbelief, but I must also admit that I found the writing hysterically funny…like a talltale; nestled in truth, but laced with embellishments to better relate to a particular audience.

It occurred to me,

3. As human beings, we’ve more than “just and only” going on in our lives at any given time. No matter how singular and poignant a particular event may be, much has transpired up to, much transpires during, and much will transpire after. As such, it further occurred to me to consider the difference(s) in…

A) telling a story that had not been told,

B) telling a story that has been told,

C) telling a story that has been told, but has not been told from a certain perspective.

And finally,

4. I was there.

As such, I am now quite encouraged by the response, and think that Mr. Kerkhoff is decidedly on-board with further exploring the idea of writing his biography.

I look forward to hearing from you, and will make no further contact with Mr. Kerkhoff until I hear from your office as to your intentions and/or how I should proceed.

Sincerely,

Stanley Coburn

—

June 13, 2017

Dear Mr. Coburn,

My services have been retained to represent the firm of Volser & Planck publishing, et. al., regarding the pending matters at hand.

I have been instructed to inform you that:

a. the contract between yourself and Vosler & Planck Publishing has been terminated effective immediately;

b. the terms of the non-disclosure agreement are still in effect and legally binding;

c. you are to surrender all source materials effective immediately;

d. you are to have no direct contact with any employee of Vosler & Planck Publishing, and any/all future correspondence should be directed to my offices.

Please enclose and return original copies of any/all correspondence between yourself and Daniel Kerkhoff, as well as any/all source materials and correspondences between yourself and my clients, and return them to my offices at your earliest convenience.

Once the materials have been submitted to this office, this matter will be considered closed.

Thank you for your attention to this and these matters.

Yours sincerely,

Rafael de Gunst Esq.

Raleigh & de Gunst LLC, Attorneys at Law

—

June 20th, 2017

Dear Mr. de Gunst,

If you want them, come and get them.

Regards,

Stanley Coburn

—

Tuesday 27 June 2017

Dear Mr. Coburn,

Just checking in to see if you had received/read my earlier correspondence, and if so, what your thoughts were.

Sincerely,

Daniel Kerkhoff

—

Monday July 3, 2017

Dear Mr. Kerkhoff,

I appreciate your taking the time to respond. I admit that I was a bit taken aback to get a reply after my previous unsuccessful attempts at contacting you.

After stifling my joy at originally getting a response from you, and after further attempting to cease both my almost endless howling laughter at your included story, as well as my confusion as to it’s meaning, I quickly repackaged your correspondence and sent the contents along to my publisher, as per their instructions.

I do not know if you are aware I was under contract with Vosler & Planck Publishing with a preliminary agreement to publish your memoirs, should you choose to write them. I can only assume at this point that if you were previously unaware, you have likely been made aware of my association with Vosler & Planck by now. While it is true that I would have potentially co-authored the book with you and the book would have actually been published, in many regards I myself am quite lost as to the particulars of where everything in this endeavor became so shady.

I had been instructed by Vosler & Planck via their representatives to speak to no one of these goings on, as to do so will violate the nondisclosure agreement that I had signed with them. I assume that “not speaking with anyone” also includes you, and that is why I never mentioned my association with them to you in the first place. They were adamant that I tell no one of what I was doing, and since you never responded to any of my queries, it never occurred to me to perhaps mention that there were publishing houses interested in my idea and your story. But as stated, I’m still a shade in the dark as to the particulars of how things became so muddy. Being a novice writer, and also being a hockey fan who has followed your career, I just wanted to write a story that no one else had written, nor did anyone else seem to have any interest in writing.

Several years ago, I simply wrote a proposal along with several sample chapters of my own based on your Hockey career, and shopped that around to several publishing houses. I was undecided at the time as to whether to attempt a biography, and also included within the proposal that perhaps an autobiography co-authored by me might also be a potential option should I be able to court you into writing one. I heard nothing back from any of the publishers to whom I submitted the proposal. But eventually, Vosler & Planck did respond. Within days, several other publishing houses had responded, and I even began receive letters and offers from publishing houses to whom I did not even submit proposals. I went with Vosler & Planck simply because they were the first to respond, as well as their reputation of being a somewhat large but reputable establishment.

I will save your further grief by attempting to explain further at this time. But irrespective of whether or not I wind up in prison for willfully violating my confidentiality agreement, I will attempt to pass along any new information, assuming that it becomes available and appears noteworthy of mention.

I don’t necessarily doubt Vosler & Planck’s integrity at this point; however, I admit to questioning my own, although I am still unsure exactly as to why. I did feel it prudent to warn you in advance that I may have somehow stirred up a hornets nest, for lack of a better term. I am unsure what this means to you, nor could mean to you, but felt that a heads-up might be the right thing to do.

At a minimum, you won’t be getting letters from me every few weeks, and I hope that in itself at least brings you some measure of relief. I apologize for pestering you for these last four years.

Sincerely,

Stanley “Won’t Be Writing You Anymore” Coburn

P.S. – I’m sorry about your lost tooth. I was actually in the crowd watching the game the night that happened. I don’t recall most of the events transpiring as you’ve described. But I also admit that, as far as I remember anyway, your “fantastic” description of events is not that far off-base from what actually happened. I was thrilled to see you win The Cup, even though I am actually, at heart, a Red Wings fan.

—

Friday 21 July 2017

Dear Mr. Coburn,

In a few days, you will be receiving an envelope in the mail. This envelope will contain a round-trip plane ticket from Detroit, where you live, to Toronto, where I live. The ticket is open-ended, and should you consider accepting my proposal, you may travel at any time you so desire, should you decide to entertain my proposal.

If I may be so bold as to call you Stanley, I would like to do so now, as should you agree to entertain my proposal, I would appreciate your calling me Daniel when and if you arrive in Toronto. It’s at this point in this letter that I’m going to take a leap of faith, break some protocol(s), and quasi-start this correspondence over.

Stanley, although my name is not on the door, I am a partner in Vosler & Planck Publishing and have been for some time. I also own interests in several other publishing firms, and even own several small book stores in The USA and Canada. A man has to do something after hockey, right? And I’d already spent plenty of time in that particular circus. A few years before that game we both attended in Detroit, and as retirement approached, I began to weigh and consider my options.

Books and reading are a love of mine. As such, a friend of mine named Clive Vosler suggested that perhaps I get involved with his firm, but suggested that perhaps I first find a small book store in which to invest or purchase. “Help prop up some starving book lover who is teetering on the verge of financial ruin, and you’ll find out whether or not you actually love books or not,” is what I recall Clive saying to me.

I did so, found that my love of books was not diminished and eventually bought-into Vosler & Planck, becoming a partner with the understanding that the name of the firm remained the same. As a professional athlete, and especially as “an athlete of note”, my name and likeness had already been printed, stamped and otherwise splattered all over commercial products of all kinds. I had no desire to see my name on yet another product, even if it was a non-hockey related product or enterprise. Hence, there was no fuss over the name and names nor ordering, nor was there any instability implied due to change, and the firm remained firmly Vosler & Planck Publishing.

As you are likely aware, I’ve been retired from hockey for some time now. When my wife suggested that I write my memoirs, I was suddenly presented with a paradox: can a publisher publish his own story? I said nothing to my business partners, but ironically, just two days after my wife’s suggestion, I got a phone call from Albert Planck stating that something come across his desk that might interest me. I told him to send it to me, and as it turns out, it was your sample chapters and proposal.

I did not know what to think of this coincidence at the time, but I found it quite strange to the point of almost being unnerving. I had only recently watched a documentary on television about the life of U.S. General Ulysses S. Grant, and there were stories about Grant being taken advantage of throughout his life due to his trusting nature, and perhaps some naivete on his part. Needless to say, the road has been a strange one these past four years that you’ve been corresponding with me. I’ve stayed pretty much to myself and my home contemplating and writing. And yes, unbeknownst to you, I’ve been writing my memoirs these past four years. I would very much like for you to begin reading them and let me know what you think.

Hence, I would appreciate your coming to Toronto to meet with me personally and perhaps we can figure out if we can actually do this and how.

I also feel it necessary for me to mention that there has indeed been some shady goings on, but none of those affect you and I know that you were not involved in any way. In fact, it’s becoming increasingly clear that, even though you most assuredly did not know it, you are one of the few friends that I’ve actually had over the past few years. I grew to know that I could count on your letters, and have looked forward to each and every one. Even though I never sent them, I’ve responded to each and every one, and you are free to read those/I will make them available to you if you so choose. They may not only shed some light on the current goings on, but might make an interesting story in and of themselves.

I again apologize that I cannot go into too much more detail in the space available here. But if you decide to come, I have included a phone number in this correspondence, and ask that you contact my assistant so that she can let me know when and if you are coming. Her name is Rossalyn.

Sincerely,

Daniel

P.S. – If you keep your eye on the news, and certainly if you’re are a member of an online writing community, it’s likely that by now you’ve already seen some of the goings on with not only Vosler & Planck, but also some other related and seemingly unrelated businesses, so hopefully, that will help make some of this rambling of mine make more sense. But there’s much more to tell.

P.S.S. – It’s quite the story you’ve blundered into here Stanley. Me, too.

*******

*/claps hands…*

Many thanks to Cade for allowing the LoL to post ‘Hee Haw Hockey’. We hope you enjoyed it, Dear Reader, and just to let you know that the next Underdog Anthology will be published in time for Halloween…

hockey goal

*That is the goal, Clicky…*

…Have a Song ❤

The E-Motion Potion

*Interesting choice of Song, Clicky… /pat snout… ‘Cos of what Frank wrote me last night in the Red universe? …/rolls up…*

Merovee Selfie with Frank and MJ 1

*/puts rollie to lips… Welcome to the Jung Gal? …/flicks lighter… Don’t. You’ll make me laugh… /lights up… and that’ll make me cough… /drags… and I don’t need the wee seepage right now, thank you very much… *

*Clicky! That’s Jeremy Irons singing… /taps ash… He’s in one the the double bill of movies Cade and I watched last night… /puffs… and what this post is supposed to be about… /rolls eyes… If I ever fuckin’ get round to start writing it…*

Dear Reader, I am on holiday now for the next two weeks. Underdog Anthology VI: The Gallows Stone – is due out for Halloween and I haven’t written anything for it yet…

Roob catches Legs up her evening 1

… Last night, instead of writing, I accepted Cade’s invitation to watch some movies. Well, I am on holiday 😉 We each picked a film that we’d really enjoyed watching, but that the other hadn’t seen. First up was Cade’s pick of ‘Moneyball’, ostensibly about baseball…

‘In the film, Beane (Brad Pitt) and assistant GM Peter Brand (Jonah Hill), faced with the franchise’s limited budget for players, build a team of undervalued talent by taking a sophisticated sabermetric approach towards scouting and analyzing players.’

*237 eh, Clicky? …/smokes… Kinda Shining…*

… Followed by my flick pick of ‘Margin Call’…

‘The principal story takes place over a 24-hour period at a large Wall Street investment bank during the initial stages of the financial crisis of 2007–08.In focus are the actions taken by a group of employees during the subsequent financial collapse.’

Both movies were released in 2011, and both movies were about the same things: interpretation of numbers, risk management and being first with a paradigm-shifting break through…

… Or breakout…

…And the logistics required to build something up, or to tear it down…

*Sullivan… /final drag… I spent 16 years as a PA to a Construction Logistician called Sullivan… /stubs butt… He definitely had some paradigm-shifting ideas… /streams smoke…*

I can highly recommend both movies, Dear Reader, especially if you have time to view them in one sitting. Tomorrow I shall start writing a story for the UAVI, but for tonight, Cade has recommended a horror film for us to watch. To help get me in the mood, so to speak…

*No, I can’t believe I’ve never seen it before either, Clicky… /pats snout… Now be a love and get something suitable to end with…*

I’ll be certain to let you know how the stories are coming along, but until then, Dear Reader… Have a Song 😀

Someday Girl

someday (adv.)

“at some indefinite date in the future,” 1768, from some + day.

MISS SOMEDAY.

Poor Charley wooed, but wooed in vain,

From Monday until Sunday;

Still Cupid whisper’d to the swain

“You’ll conquer Betsey Someday.”

[“The Port Folio,” June 1816]

*Hello, Clicky… /lights up… That’s a good quality vid… /drags… Who uploaded it?*

MadFranko008 posts Blondie Sunday Girl on YT

*Figures… /rolls eyes…*

Good afternoon, Dear Reader. Yesterday I received a care package from my friends Legs and Poppy. Fortunately, I knew it was coming…

Leggy tweets Roob about a mystery gift

So one parcel, Dear Reader, containing three items, one of which was a mystery thing, and two were signed. Let’s look at each in order…

Samuel’s Girl

I’d recently given a copy of ‘Six in Five in Four‘ to my IT Director at work. For his holiday; he was going sailing for a week, and so in desperate need of a collection of short stories, for dipping into when not doing important things with ropes and sails…

Roob tells Leggy about Nick

Samuel's Girl Signed To Nick

*/puffs… Kit Kat does take nice photos with his phone, Clicky…*

Mad Men

Mad Men Expanded

Although Poppy’s DVD gift was not a mystery, Dear Reader, it did have an element of surprise…

Mad Men in Danish

*/flicks ASH… Utter madness, Clicky… /drags… Still the play’s the…*

‘Mystery Thing‘

The third item in the care package was indeed signed, Dear Reader, but it wasn’t a book…

Hi Ruth

Final got this posted! The book and DVD are in the bottom of the box. On top is something I had no idea what to do with, so I thought “I know, I’ll lumber Ruth with it.” So here it is 😀

Six in Five in Four Original Artwork Signed

Do with it as you will, it probably burns well 😉

Kevin

Leggy had sent me his original artwork for the cover of ‘Six in Five in Four’! On the reverse, written faintly in pencil, were the names of all six Anthology authors, alongside their alchemy symbol. Thing Two, a.k.a. Kit Kat, was most intrigued by this; he even took a copy of the book away to read…

snoopy faint

*I know! …/stubs butt… That’s all it fucking took to get him interested, Clicky…*

Leggy tells Roob to go hang

I’ve hung Leggy’s book cover artwork in pride of place, Dear Reader, above the place where I lay down… my head to sleep… perchance to dream…

Bedroom Wall

Have a Song ❤

Missive From ‘Merica: With ADDED WOO

Been on a bit of cultural exchange these past two weeks, Dear Reader…

Adventure Time

*Indeed, Clicky! …/pats snout…*

… Whereby I’ve been introducing The Okie Devil of Text Us to Doctor Who…

*It’s been an Utter joy, Clicky, bouncing around time and space with Cade… /lights up… Seeing things anew…*

… And in return, he has introduced me to Doowdaed…

*No shit! It’s called Deadwood?! …/rubs eyes… Actually, Clicky, that does makes more sense… /drags…*

… And we’ll continue with more of that later today…

*/coughs… I ain’t shown him that one yet! …/taps ash… Mind you… /smokes… touch and hearing in one clip, Clicky? Fucking clever!*

Woo Hoo

In the meantime, Cade has very kindly sent a missive for us all to enjoy, Dear Reader…

*******

giphy

Where have I been?

Where have YOU been is likely a more appropriate question.

I've been taking a break.

Getting my bikini figure into shape for Bikini Season.

Let’s remedy that.

^DJ Shredda – Chainsaw (The Crow Mix)^

Let me come clean. I’ve been avoiding anything and everything on the web, except Twitter, and I’ve been doing that for the last few months. I don’t care what it is, I don’t want to see it, and I don’t want to hear it. Those “pokes from else and/or elsewhere” have gotten too numerous. My feet, legs and hips are cramping almost non-stop, and it fucking hurts.

So yeah...vacation.

I keep thinking about some 16 year old girl shooting herself. Can’t get it out of my fucking head. That, and this goddamn anti-smoking bullshit. Oh, and I’m trying to write. So there’s that. I also keep swirling around swirls. That has led me to some interesting thoughts on “flat space(s)”, so I’m gonna ramble about some of that…

assuming it's A-O-fucking-K with you.

^Acid Fighter (DJ Crow Remix) – Soundgrabber^

So what’s up with you where you are? It’s snowing outside here. Gonna put my cold weather gear on in a bit, go outside, and make a video. I doubt very seriously that most fucks are going to believe that it’s snowing in North Texas in late April, but it is. Once I make the video, we’ll have proof, the case will be solved forever, and there will be no reason to argue about the truth of spring snow(s) in Texas. I’ll keep you posted on where you can view the video.

^DJ The Crow meets DJ Arne LII – The Speed (Überdruck Mix)^

Why in the fuck would anyone care if North Korea/South Korea reunified? You running low on shit to talk about? Running low on shit to worry about? East Germany and West Germany got back together.

Maybe if you fucks would stop thinking in terms of big and small, you could actually focus. Or at least, make some discernment(s) as to what focus is.

Which reminds me, I got to thinking about the nature of focus with respect to membranes, and it got me to thinking about what is required to stretch a something so thin, that it results in the reduction of mass in certain sectors of the stretched membrane in such a way as to detract/reduce scale. Meaning, the reduction in mass does not cause a fundamental change in anything except scale.

Shrinking.

Basically, a chain of say…Oxygen atoms…have become so stretched, all while retaining their relational bonds, that some atoms begin to shrink in scale. Methinks we are stumbling into/onto some gravity/anti-gravity kinds of things here.

^Norman Bass – How U Like Bass? (Warp Brothers Club Mix)^

Thinking more in terms of contextual processes that are created for the purpose(s) of creating something that does not currently exist, there are certain things that we can accept as being, for the most part…normal. Like say, the creation of a house using wood, that starts with the chopping down of a tree, and is followed by the chopping down of more trees.

Pretty normal sounding right?

Welp, what about slamming sub-atom particles together at near the speed of light using the machines that we build in order to achieve this? Is that normal? Or can we consider it “normal” to qualify these activities as…abnormal.

Q: Is “sawdust” considered waste?

A: ???

Do we have processes in place to adequately deal with the ongoing sawdust issue(s)? Have we taken steps? Addressed concerns? Is the matter settled?

^Crash Bass – Hardshake^

Let’s focus

Focus (Optics)

Let’s get more focused

Focus

We on the same page?

Let us turn it

^Gary Beck – Say What (Adam Beyer Remix) [SAVED RECORDS]^

I wonder how many membranes are breached in order to perform an “average” surgery.

Fascia

Fibromyalgia

Crystal Habit (Redirected from Fiberous habit)

Fiber

Dietary Fiber

Biodegradable Waste

Tortuous

Tortuosity

Tortious Interference

Tortuosamine

What Is a Tortuous Artery?

Twisted Blood Vessels: Symptoms, Etiology and Biomechanical Mechanisms

So can we assume that there is a difference between a perforation and a cut/incision? What about a stretch or strain? Wouldn’t an incision by a laser be both a perforation and a cut? No to mention the burn(ing).

^Hanayo – Joe le Taxi^

It’s just passed noon on Saturday April 28, and I’ve not been sleeping well. I’ve been dreaming non-stop for months now, but I guess its the season change that is currently fucking me up. I went on a 5 day drinking bender last week, and it did me some good. But still not sleeping very well. Guess I’m sweating heading to Austin a bit. Leaving for Austin soon, and looking forward to it, but also kinda nervous. The dynamics of the trip have suddenly changed. I’ll survive it tho. May even have some fun.

/me shrugs

On the up side, I’ve got the fever to write.

On the down side, I’m gonna be without my computer for a while.

I guess it's time to break out the pen and paper.

OH! I’ve got three stories in the new Underdog Anthology which was published this last week.

UAV front cover all named

I guess I need to write a post on it on my own goddamn blog.

^M83 ‘Midnight City’ Official video^

Got to thinking about the referential dynamics of gene sequences the other day, and the numbers went from “ridiculous” to “incomprehensible” almost immediately.

Picture This: two identical strands of DNA. One of these strands is located in the heart, and the other is flowing within the bloodstream. Now, imagine these two strands in relation to one another. Now think about the sequence in each strand. Do the sequences remain constant? What about in relation to each other?

I mean, we are talking more about cryptography/cryptology than we are about relationships or gene sequences/gene sequencing, so what about discretion, distinction and/or discrimination? Is there potentially some magic in the spacial relationships and orientations of identical things? What about like things? Similar not same kinds of things?

Cryptography

Discernment

Discernment of Spirits

Discrimination

So yeah, if you get two identical things together, what are they now?

Spooky action at a distance?

Or does the action always and forever need to follow a predefined path?

^Boy Harsher — Pain^

Was talking to a certain someone this week about “GUT”, and espoused that this particular pursuit is going to have to include multiple elements, and that the omission of a simultaneous “constructive/destructive” is likely why these efforts to construct a unification continues to fail and/or be elusive.

Grand Unified Theory

Whatever this “GUT” winds up being will have to have contextual nature, and I added Earth/Terra and Sun/Sol distinctions.

EX: The GUT on Earth/Terra will not be applicable on Mars, and the GUT on The Sun/Sol will differ from the GUT on Earth/Terra. We are in motion, and the only constant state appears to be that of “change” and/or “changing”, depending on where you are and when.

Perspective(s).

So yeah, there is likely a metric shitload of fucktons of galactic considerations that also need to be made. Maybe The Zodiac ain’t such a stretch afterall, eh? I mean, if these distant gamma ray bursts are suddenly of global concern because we can now see/detect them, that means that they’ve always been a concern. So I got a question for you…

Q: What’s your fucking hurry?

A: ¿?¿

Maybe if you fucks weren’t so goddamn wrapped up in the fatalistic ends of the more modern interpretations Darwinian theory/theories, you wouldn’t be so fucking anxious to win your very own Darwin Award, and take the rest of us with you in the process.

^Kiesza – Hideaway (Official Video)^

Yes, I am suggesting that certain sectors of science seem to be pretty goddamn fatalistic. I mean fuck, we can get that fatalism bullshit from religion. We don’t need it from you too.

But you’re free to do what you want.

Blow it all up.

😐

^Azari & III – Hungry for the power (Jamie Jones remix)^


 My brain hurts.

Imma go get something to eat, then video the snow for anyone who wants to see it.

^’I FINK U FREEKY’ by DIE ANTWOORD (Official)^

cYa | cFa

^Hey Boy Hey Girl (Soulwax ‘2 Many DJ’s’ Remix)^

*******

Feeding time

*Yeah, I’m hungry too, Clicky… /stubs butt… Let’s get sumfin to eat…*

Dear Reader? CYL… 😉 …and have a Song ❤

137: Pointlessly Exercised

Seams, Dear Reader, that the Dez Rez Prez of Trump Town is to pay a visit to Old Blighty on 137…

*/lights up… Hey, Clicky, didn’t I see sumfin ’bout spoons earlier? …/drags…*

If you're being taken abroad against your will for;

▪Forced Marriage
▪Sexploitation
▪FGM
▪Child Abuse
▪Abduction
▪Honour Based Violence
▪Human Trafficking

🥄 HIDE A METAL SPOON IN YOUR UNDERWEAR 🥄

Metal detector will alert airport security who will secure your safety! pic.twitter.com/pV6yZFRFsF

— PC Dave Wise (@CopThatCooks) April 27, 2018

*Sounds like a good idea… /exhales smoke… Butt it DON’t say ‘working visits’…/coughs… He probably DON’t have to go through those detector thingies anyway… /taps ash…*

The Owen Jones Army prepares for the visit of Trump… pic.twitter.com/2TavUFEm72

— Gareth (@GarethSoye) April 28, 2018

*Heh! …/reflects on curling smoke… You know, I used to go out with a Gareth Jones, Clicky… /drags… 1985… Year of Five Boyfriends… /streams smoke… He came from Wales…*

Kit Chien Sink

*Oh fuck yeah! …/grins… He gave me a loving spoon… /slurps cherry Coke… Still got it, overlooking the Kit Chien sync…*

… Sew, I was chatting to my friend and Welsh Dragon publisher, Leggy, about the visit last night on Twitter…

Roob and Legs convo 1

*Flashback eh, Clicky? …/drags…*

Merovee selfie 090315 Roob telling Vik Roof was robbed

*…/blows smoke… The burglars were much tidier than the car thieves… /flicks ASH…*

Roob and Legs convo 2 Roob and Legs convo 3 Roob and Legs convo 4

*/shakes head… Funny how he’s all up for exercising ‘free speech’ when it comes to stuff… /final drag… he don’t like himself… /expels smoke…*

Roob and Legs convo 5 Roob and Legs convo 6

*/stubs butt… If the mercury’s rising, Clicky… /rolls eyes…*

UAV About Roob page Mercury Rising

*Ah! …/beams… Nice way to promote Underdog Anthology V, Clicky… /pats snout…*

Dear Reader… Have a Song 😉

Crossing the Date Line

*Coming out of what, Clicky? …/lights up rollie and drags…*

UAV front and back cover

*/puffs contentedly…*

At last, Dear Reader, the Underdog Anthology V is published…

*Knot a graphic novel, Clicky… /streams smoke… Short stories, many authors…*

… I’d been speculating with Leggy late on Friday as to the date it might appear…

Legy and Roob talk UAV and dates 1

… The first ‘event’ listed in the Wiki link – ‘The Year of SIX Emperors’…

*Five pointed star! I was thinking of The Okie Devil of Textus… /flicks ash… Cade’s got stories in the book. I didn’t even think of that, Clicky… /pats snout… What did I list next?*

Legy and Roob talk UAV and dates 2

*/drags… 19 Four-Tees… /blows smoke ring… Nineteen stories…*

*Three? …/squints… Sew, inadvertently, Leggy and I counted down six, five, four three… /final drag…*

Legy and Roob talk UAV and dates 3

*2, 1… /stubs butt… Hey, how about that ‘wolf trap‘, Clicky?*

Legy and Roob talk UAV and dates 4

Strangely enough, Dear Reader, if you go check out UAV’s listing on Amazon – and I suggest you doo 😉 – it’s published date is 20th April…

facepalm

*Oh I dunno, Clicky… /lights up… 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, 0… /grins…*

Have a Song 😉

Who Noob Tales: Nine Lives… No, Really

I am having a long weekend, Dear Reader. I spent yesterday daytime making final edits to stories in the soon-to-be-published ‘Underdog Anthology V: Six in Five in Four’. Leggy has a preview, in which he includes one of his stories from the book…

*/grins… How peculiar, Clicky… /lights up…*

peculiar (adj.)

mid-15c., “belonging exclusively to one person,” from Latin peculiaris “of one’s own (property),” from peculium “private property,” literally “property in cattle” (in ancient times the most important form of property), from pecu “cattle, flock,” related to pecus “cattle” (see pecuniary). Meaning “unusual” is first attested c. 1600 (earlier “distinguished, special,” 1580s; for sense development, compare idiom). Related: Peculiarly.

wiki peculier

*’Also KT and KH’…/drags… No shit! …/streams smoke… *

Then last night Cade and I resumed his introduction to Doctor Who, and also caught up with Leggy and Poppy… Les amis…

Poppy and Roob discuss Cades Who Introductory Course 1

Poppy and Roob discuss Cades Who Introductory Course 2

rare doctor who hand flap

*/flicks ash… Knot a favourite episode, Clicky… /drags… although, excellent use of a jammie dodger… /blows smoke rings… I’d forgotten about that…*

Poppy and Roob discuss Cades Who Introductory Course 5

Poppy and Roob discuss Cades Who Introductory Course 6

*Like the villain, House, in The Doctor’s Wife, Clicky, Daleks are a bit like a sea anemone… /puffs… “hard on the outside, squishy on the inside”… I hadn’t made that connection before… /taps teeth…*

Anyhoo, in honour of Old Peculier’s neighbour’s cat, Dear Reader, and seeing as a ‘cat‘ won today’s Grand National, I thought I’d take a leaf out of Leggy’s book – pun intended – and post one of my stories from UAV. It’s short and called ‘Nine Lives’. The Knot-Sew confidential making of it can be found here. Enjoy!

*******

NINE LIVES

Karl sat at his kitchen table, smoking and observing the tendrils of early morning mist gently tickle the tops of the garden hedge, before continuing their soft creep to the ground. It was dark outside but the lawn glittered with stars; pregnant dew drops nestling in the grass caught the thin, amber light that spilled from the kitchen window. He stubbed out his cigarette and gulped back the last dregs of cold tea from his mug with a grimace. Not long now, Karl thought, she’ll be home soon. Outside the mist started to swirl and pool.

He stood up and stretched, bones creaking and knees popping as if to salute the end of his vigil. He fleetingly considered that he was getting too old for this malarkey, but she needed a watcher – someone to light the way back. He could bear the discomfort; it was only for the night. Karl rubbed his eyes under his glasses, and dragged his hands down over bristled cheeks to wipe any tiredness away. He contemplated putting the kettle on when he heard the first high pitched bark puncturing the dark. The second got him moving. “Not the foxes again!”

As he opened the back door, the wet slap of morning air to hit Karl’s face was accompanied by a rude crash and skitter of a dustbin lid falling, somewhere in the mist. She’s coming from the right, he thought, opening the door wider to peer out into the murk. More barks, louder this time, and a fiery hiss, were followed by the sound of clambered wood, as the garden fence shook violently. Karl held the door further ajar, and a white streak shot out of the mist and between his legs, into the kitchen.

Karl closed the door on the mist and the foxes who, by the sound of it, were now rummaging through next door’s bin for tasty scraps. He turned to the slight figure, lying on the kitchen floor. “For goodness sake, Lara, do you have to tease the foxes? It upsets the neighbours.”

“It upsets the bins,” Lara replied, lightly panting as she rolled over and attempted to sit up. “No, they were waiting for me. Foxes are not called cunning for nothing, Karl.”

“Yes, but they usually leave you alone when you’re hedge riding.”

Lara sighed. “It would seem witches aren’t held in much esteem these days. Not by people or wildlife.”

Karl surveyed the flush in his wife’s cheeks and her glittering eyes, and thought she still looked pretty formidable considering her advanced years. He also noticed the shudder in her arm propping her up. “You should get off the floor. What would you like, sofa or chair?” he asked, scooping her up, with barely a tremble from his own geriatric limbs.

“Sofa,” Lara replied with a wan smile. “Thank you, dear. And a cuppa and a ciggie wouldn’t go amiss either.”

“Funnily enough, I was just about to put the kettle on,” Karl replied, before lowering his wife, so she could reach out and pluck the cigarette packet and lighter from the kitchen table. A fat bead of blood splashed onto the surface below, quickly followed by another. “You’re injured?”

“Damn foxes.” Lara winced and drew her arm back toward her chest. “One of them managed to get a mouthful of armpit. I don’t think it’s too deep. Just stings a bit.”

“But you’re bleeding,” Karl said gruffly. Too gruffly, he feared, from the look his wife shot him. “Okay, let’s get you comfortable and then I can clean that up,” he continued in a more conciliatory tone, before carrying her through to the front room.

Karl noticed that Lara was already on her second cigarette when he returned five minutes later, to set out a bowl of hot water, soap, flannel and towel on the carpet before her. “Kettle’s on for tea,” he said kneeling down. He adjusted his glasses and gingerly started to lift Lara’s elbow. “Can’t let it get infected, how would we explain that to Dr Patel?”

“I can always change back so you can take me to a vet,” Lara replied sharply, pulling away from his grasp.

She must be in great pain, Karl thought. “Come now, dear, we don’t have pet insurance. We don’t own a pet.” Lara’s eyes briefly flashed at his riposte, but her body relaxed and she allowed him to lift her arm. “So apart from getting into a fight with some foxes…”

“Ambushed by some foxes,” Lara quickly corrected him.

“Sorry, ambushed by some foxes on the way home, how was the rest of your night?”

Lara took a deep drag from her cigarette. “Well it started off okay,” she said, billowing a great cloud of smoke. “I went to see Annie and girls down at Saint Michael’s.”

“And how are Annie and the girls?” Karl asked as he cleaned her wound of blood.

“Dead.”

“Naturally.” Any bleeding seemed to have stopped, but the swelling around the punctures had already started to bruise, turning an angry black mauve that only truly flourished on elderly skin. Karl stopped himself flinching at the sight. “You’d think they’d get themselves a spirit cat.”

“They’ve got a spirit cat,” Lara gently rebuked him with a chuckle.

“A ghost cat, then.” Karl smiled at her mirth. “You know what I mean.”

“Oh a ghost cat would be just as stuck as they are. Graveyards are lonely places, Karl. The residents like the company and the gossip. Especially the newly interred. Once the funeral is over, they rarely get more than a yearly visit from any family. If that.” Lara finished her cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray perched on the arm of the sofa. “How’s it looking?”

“Ugly but clean. It’ll need some arnica,” Karl replied, rising carefully to his feet. “That’s in the kitchen. Besides, the kettle must have boiled by now. No, no. You stay there. I’ll go.”

Lara laughed and shooed him away with her good arm before reaching for the cigarettes and lighter.

Karl could hear swearing from outside the back door; Jim must be up and found the aftermath of the fox fracas. Karl popped the kettle on and grabbed the arnica and some aspirin from the medicine cupboard, chuckling at the string of expletives emanating from over the garden fence. He glanced out the window to see that sunrise was already burning off the mist that had been so thick an hour or so ago. It looked like it could be a lovely day.

The sound of the front doorbell caught him off guard. Who would be calling at this hour? Karl wondered and went to open the front door. Through the frosted glass he could make out the shape of a woman in a bright pink dressing gown. What could she want? Karl thought as he unlocked and opened the door. “Morning Celia. Is everything alright?”

“Oh Karl,” his next door neighbour cried, her face puffy and contorted with distress. “Karl, I’m so sorry if I’ve woke you,” Celia started to apologise. “There was some trouble with foxes in our garden last night. I don’t know if you heard any of it.”

“No,” Karl lied. “But I heard Jim swearing earlier. Did they make much of a mess?”

Celia looked distraught at the suggestion. “Well yes, but…” she trailed off with a sob. “Karl, it’s Lara. I’m so sorry. They killed your cat.” Celia had not come empty handed; she held out a bundle, wrapped neatly in a towel, out in front of her.

Karl felt an icy chill bloom from the crown of his head and cascade down his body. “Thank you,” he said numbly, taking the bundle from Celia’s shaking hands.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Celia continued but Karl had already shut the front door. He felt the lightness of the bundle in his arms. It felt so slight.

“Lara?” Karl called as he carried it through to his wife, but the front room was empty. He laid the bundle on the sofa and sat down next to it. A spiral of smoke floated up from the ashtray perched on the arm. Karl turned and picked up the last of the burning cigarette and with trembling fingers, finished his smoke.

*******

I’m off now to introduce Cade to Thoughtful Man’s favourite companion, Dear Reader…

Clara

*/winks…*

Have a Song ❤

Five Alive? Defo!

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— Jay stray (@7ay_stray) March 29, 2018

*Ah cool image, Clicky… /pat snout… Actually my hair hasn’t looked like that once this week… /lights up…*

Dear Reader, I have been on holiday these last couple of days, and have finally managed to write my short story about a hedge riding hag…

*I am pretty happy with the result, Clicky…/puffs…*

…and have submitted it to Leggy for inclusion in the upcoming ‘Underdog Anthology V‘. The story is called ‘Nine Lives’…

*I’ve still got time to mutilate a poem for the Afterword before I go back to work, Clicky… /drags… If I can find the right one… /billows smoke…*

I was also able to spend some time yesterday in the Blue universe. Frank Davis had been snooping around New York, after reading about the proposed bill to stop people from smoking whilst walking the streets of that fair city…

*They’re fucking unbelievable! …/flicks ash… First you can’t smoke inside, and now the utopian dreamers are trying to dictate where and how you can smoke outside… /deep drag… Nasty Not-sees indeed… /sighs…*

He was looking at street signs there and came across one that had him perplexed…

‘Just a few yards away was another really weird sign. I think it was some sort of aphorism. But I couldn’t make out what it said, because it seemed to be written in bleeding, dripping letters that said something like Afraid And Dead. I guess that if you were crossing 2nd Avenue and you stopped to try to figure out what the scary sign meant, you’d find out when you got hit by a truck.’

It puzzled me, too; however, the photo Frank included was somewhat fuzzy, so I sent Clicky off for a closer inspection…

*Much better but it still looks like worshipers or sumfin’ to me, Clicky… /drags deeply… In sinister black… /snorts smoke…*

… and find an answer.

*Those are hands!*

*/reads slowly… School For Deaf …/squints… Dept of Transport… /final drag… Oh! The yellow buses! It’s a bus stop sign, Clicky! … /streams smoke…*

*Alright, don’t take the piss… /stubs butt… Well done you, though, on working it out… There’s a good assistant… /pats snout…*

It was a sign for deaf school children, Dear Reader…

…As my good friend, Cade, might say…

‘MYSTERY SOLVED! NEXT!’

*Okay then…/lights up… And as you’re such a clever Clicky, you can choose…*

Dear Reader… Have a Song 😀

Breakfast Embed Part 2 – Sun E Sighed Up

Hello again Dear Reader. In case you’ve forgotten, my name is Mr. Slimey, you are indeed at The LoL, but RooBeeDoo and her assistant Clicky are currently…indisposed.

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*first doors, now windows. A flying carpet would not be out of place here /me taps foot and ponders…hmmm, when and where is a flying carpet “in-place”? /me wonders*

Actually, I’ve no clue whether Roob and Clicky are indisposed, outdisposed, or striking any other dis or dat pose(s). As far as I know, they are in the same place and places they’ve always been. But who really knows where that is? Who really knows what they are up to?

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*/me does double-take. At first glance, that window actually looks kinda…normal. But it it?*

We’ll continue to work on the pertinent and relevant as we proceed. But now, and for your continued reading enjoyment, may I present the next installment of RooBeeDoo’s… The Inchoate Egg.

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*No, the beginning is on the last post, Clicky… /lights up…*

Many thanks again, Cade, for the lovely intros and exits ❤

And now, Dear Reader, the story continues…

As it happened, I ended up arriving late for the County Business Awards at the Civic Centre. Very late as I’d overslept from the afternoon nap I’d taken, with the intention of being fresh for the evening ahead. Now I felt frazzled; I hate being late.

Despite the area outside the building being clearly designated ‘No Smoking’, there were a good number of glammed up people loitering by the entrance, taking a last puff, as if their lives depended on it.

I felt a hand lightly tap my shoulder and turned to see a vision in shimmering gold in the warm evening sunshine. “Harry! You’re late too. Thank goodness, I didn’t want to arrive on my own!”

Josie fair took my breath away, stood there lithe and tanned in a floor length gown that she appeared to have been poured into. Her thick black locks were piled high on her head, loose tendrils curled down, emphasising the slenderness of her throat and shoulders. And her make-up was as smooth and flawless as the skin tight dress she wore, emphasising her jaunty breasts, flat stomach and lean thighs.

“Whoa! Hi Josie, you look…” It’s difficult to keep the awe out of your voice when faced with utter perfection. Then another thought occurred to me: where’s Alfie? I scanned the road but couldn’t see his car.

“You scrub up nice!” I joked, trying to play it cool and prevent a drooling incident.

Josie giggled nervously, twirling girlishly. “Is it too much? I wasn’t sure, I haven’t been to one of these events before.”

I felt my jaw start to drop at the sight of the satin material clinging to her righteous arse cheeks. Jesus! She can’t be wearing any underwear!

An appreciable number of smokers’ heads turned in our direction, although I could tell none of them were looking at me. “No, you look absolutely stunning. In fact if we win tonight, you should definitely go up on stage to collect the award. It could get us on the front page of the local rag.”

She has no idea how gorgeous she is, I thought, as Josie blushed at my suggestion. I lightly grabbed her elbow, steering her toward the main entrance, unable – and unwilling – to remove the huge smile now plastered across my face. “Come on, we’re really late. We should go inside and find the others.”

More posh frocks and penguin suits milled about inside, quaffing champagne and munching canapés in between small talk. We made our way to the bar area, zeroing in on the sound of booming laughter. For once the Fat Kontroller was already in attendance; he usually liked to make an entrance, but from the ruddy colour of his cheeks I’d say he’d arrived a while ago.

“Harry! Over here!” the Fat Kontroller called out, beckoning us over. “You’re late.”

He was sat at the bar, flanked on one side by Simon and Katrina from our newest client, Clovis International, and on the other by Lol our friendly bank manager. Next to him was Shazza, showing far too much flesh in a low cut dress and braying like a donkey at an amusing anecdote being told by our final guest, who stood with his back to us. I hadn’t met the famous Zander Rhodes yet, but from the look of his slim hips, broad shoulders and slicked back hair, I could tell he was cut from the Alfie mould of manhood. Then I saw the wolfish look flash across Zander’s chiselled features, as he turned to see Josie sashaying toward him. My heart sank, only to be further compounded when I saw the look Josie gave him as hellos and introductions were made.

“Bad luck old girl,” Lol whispered in my ear as he kissed my cheek and squeezed my arse. “Good evening, Miss Egg. You’re looking radiant this evening.”

“Lol Williams, what have I told you about trying to grab my assets,” I replied with a smile, moving his hand up to my waist. “Honestly, you bankers…” I said with an exaggerated eye-roll, loud enough for the others to hear. It was a charade of course. I’d known Lol a lot longer than I’d worked at FAK. You could say we were kindred spirits and he was the only person I’d confided in over my longings for Josie, what really happened at Christmas and the loathing I felt for Shazza and her antics.

Lol laughed at my playful rebuke and quickly shifted his eyes in Shazza’s direction, urging me to look.

As unhappy as I was that Josie and Zander were hitting it off, Shazza looked positively crestfallen at the fizzing chemistry between the two best looking people in the place. She must have thought she was in with a chance with Zander. What a fucking pair of jokes we are, I thought, feeling a rare sense of camaraderie with the dope. It lasted all of a second as Shazza decided to open her mouth.

“Yeah, you look nice, Harry. Is that the same outfit you wore to the Christmas party? I thought that got ruined.”

“Oh no, what happened at the Christmas party?” Katrina asked innocently. She was a recent addition to the Clovis management team, so probably wasn’t aware of the gory details, just eager to join the conversation.

“A chocolate incident,” I replied smoothly, shooting a reassuring look in Josie’s direction. But she wasn’t listening, being totally absorbed in whatever Gaia-saving bollocks Zander, with his designer stubble was feeding her.

I downed the whisky proffered by the Fat Kontroller, who clapped me on the shoulder and stood up. “Right then boys and girls, now we’re all here, let’s get this party started.”

The main room set up with about 20 tables and was filling fast with the Great and the Good of the county’s business community. The level of chatter was high as we picked through the crowds to table four, positioned close to the stage. I decided I should take that as a good sign for award success but, to be honest, I was clutching at straws considering how the rest of my hopes for the evening were panning out.

Shazza had been busy in my absence as the place settings on the table were arranged boy/girl and she’d placed herself between the Fat Kontroller and Zander, with me opposite sandwiched between Lol and Simon. With Katrina sat between her colleague and the Fat Kontroller, Josie had been placed the other side Zander, and the suave environmentalist was availing himself of the opportunity to be as attentive as possible.

Lol gave my knee a reassuring squeeze under the table. “I’d offer to swap seats with you, Harry, but I don’t think you’d get a look in,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth.

“Don’t sweat it, love,” I reassured him, “I’m here to work. Here, have some some wine.” I poured him a large glass of Barolo before filling my own and grabbing a bottle of Chardonnay. “Simon? Katrina? Red or white?”

And so the evening progressed, through three passable mass catered courses, made more palatable by my excellent selection of wines. The Fat Kontroller and I worked on Simon and Katrina, the only actual clients at the table, whilst Lol tried his best to engage Zander and Josie in conversation. He was fairly successful too through his keen interest of in cycling and holidaying in Asia. Bless him, he’d even tried to include Shazza in their conversation with less success – she was finding the evening hard going, fidgeting in her seat, shifting from one conversation to the other, unable to contribute to either. She could drink though. Warily I watched her find solace in her wineglass, looking more and more miserable. I didn’t know whether to feel concern at what she was capable of after a skinful, or sheer delight at her self-imposed discomfort. But on the whole, I sided with delight – at least she wasn’t gobbing off.

Eventually the awards presentation began, starting with several dull but worthy eulogies of the strength and diversity of the county business community. We sat and clapped through numerous categories of award before they got to the one we were shortlisted for. I don’t mind admitting to a jolt of nerves as ‘Green Business of the Year’ was called out. My submission was F A Kontrell’s first attempt at winning any business gongs. Writing it up had been a doddle and success would mean more brownie points for me. As much as I liked my recent pay rise, I still preferred to earn it than get one for being merely non-litigious.

Under the table I felt Lol’s hand cover my own as I squeezed and scrunched the napkin on my lap. I lent across him toward Josie, “You’ll come up on stage won’t you, if we win?”

“Ooh can I come up too?” Shazza suddenly piped up, visibly brighting at the prospect of a bit of reflected glory. She turned to the Fat Kontroller, “If Harry and Josie are going up, can I go up too?” she squealed.

“Tush, Sharon, it’s not the Oscars,” he replied calmly, patting her on the arm. “And we haven’t won anything yet.”

It seemed to take an age for the presenter to read through all the names and for the nominees’ logos to appear on the screen behind him. You could cut the tension around our table with a knife.

“And the winner is…” He opened the envelope and pulled a card. “F A Kontrell!”

We erupted in a chorus of cheers and whoops. We’d only fucking won it!

With scraped back chairs, the four FAKkers got up to collect the award, receiving congratulatory hugs from the rest of our guests. Zander seized the opportunity to kiss Josie full on the mouth. She kissed him back. Slut! You’ve only just met him!

“Oi! Don’t smudge your lipstick,” Lol playfully chastised Josie, pulling her from Zander’s embrace.

I grabbed Josie’s hand and tugged sharply. “Come on! Let’s get you on the front page.”

Despite the huge quantity of alcohol he’d knocked back during the evening, the Fat Kontroller was steady and measured ascending the stairs, whereas Shazza was bouncing around like a demented yoyo. Josie and I joined them under the bright spotlights, standing behind our Glorious Leader while he made his acceptance speech. We posed with our trophy for the official photographer with beaming smiles, arms wrapped around each other’s backs. I could feel Josie’s right boob pressed up against me, my hand lightly resting alongside her satin covered left. This is probably the closest I’ll ever get to touching her tits, I lamented whilst we all shouted “Cheese!” at the camera.

Lol had procured a bottle of Bollinger and was already pouring it out by the time we returned to our table. “A toast to F A Kontrell,” he said, handing me a bubbling champagne flute. “And to Miss Egg and her award submission writing prowess!”

“Oh give over, Lol,” I said punching his arm, but loving his efforts to big me up. “It was a team effort,” I stated magnanimously.

“Oh no, Harry,” Shazza said slyly, handing me the trophy we’d just collected. “You definitely deserve this!”

It might have been the nervous anticipation or the excitement of winning, but I hadn’t fully appreciated the trophy’s shape until that moment. It was a heavy, crystal egg on a pedestal base. “Because it’s the shape of my name?” I asked.

“No,” Shazza hooted maliciously. “For your enormous butt plug collection!!”

Jesus fuck! What the hell?!

Undeterred by lack of laughter from the rest of us, Shazza cackled wildly and dug in. “You know, to go with one you got for Chrissmass!” she said oblivious to the shocked faces around the table.

Josie pulled away from Zander and stood up. “Sharon! Take that back,” she reprimanded her.

“An’ you can shut up, you snobby bitch! Or will Alfie beat me up, too?” Shazza sneered. A red flush crept from her chest, up her neck and flooding her contorted face. She pawed at Zander’s sleeve, “You know her boyfrien’ beat ‘arry up, doncha? Thought she was trying it on and tried to drown her in chocolate. Didn’t kishy prisshy pants tell you?”

“Sharon! It’s time you went home. I’ll call you a taxi,” the Fat Kontroller said, placing an arm around her shoulders to shepherd her away from the table.

“And get your hands off me!” Shazza shouted angrily, squirming out from the Fat Kontroller’s, causing a bout of rubber-necking from the surrounding tables. “I’ll do you! I’ll tell HR!”

Josie pulled herself upright. She looked magnificent, eyes glittering with righteous fury. “I am HR, Shazza! Duly noted. Now go home, you’re drunk!”

Shazza suddenly looked confused at the turn of events. The room had descending in silence at her outburst. Even the presenter had stopped speaking and was peering down at our table. Talk about snatching defeat in the face of victory!

“Oh Mishter K, I’m sorry…” Shazza slurred, allowing him to lead her away but the drunken cow wasn’t quite done. “Call me!” she sloshed back at Zander. Fat chance, you never pick up the fucking phone!

Zander shifted away from Josie, “You have a boyfriend?”

“Oh, um, I…” Josie faltered, losing her composure.

“Harry dear, what was all that about?” Katrina asked open mouthed. “Was that about the chocolate incident?”

“Erm,” I hesitated, “There was a misunderstanding with a chocolate fountain someone had bought Josie for Christmas.”

“You have a boyfriend and a fountain of chocolate?” Zander accused Josie indignantly. “Do you have any idea of the environmental devastation wrought by intense cocoa farming in West Africa?”

“Katrina. Simon. I am so sorry for the upset,” I apologised, refilling their glasses. I slumped back in my seat and drained my Champagne flute. “Oh god! What a fucking disaster,” I said under my breath.

“Don’t sweat it, love,” Lol said laughing and gave me a hug. “Just look at this way, Harry, not only did you win an award tonight but it looks like you might be getting shot of Shazza at last.”

“Heh,” I scoffed sceptically and looked over at the perceptible rift opening up between a suspicious looking Zander and Josie, guiltily gnawing at her bottom lip with pearly white teeth. Yeah, I conceded, things could have turned out a whole lot worse.

*******

There may or may not be a Part 3 Dear Reader. I don’t yet know, as I’m only writing the top and bottom portions, and RooBeeDoo is filling in the middle bits + doing any formatting/making any all decisions. A tough job I’m sure.

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*can we effectively operate without knowing the particulars of what others are doing and/or might be doing? Or does the veil need…some assistance?*

I guess we’ll know, when and if we know. If not, we’ll know. Don’t worry…I’m not eggzactly sure what that means either.

Queue song. 😉

*******

Shithead Jen

*Snot shit… /facepalms… The quote is, “It’s not shit”, Clicky… /rolls eyes… Couldn’t find a slightly long gif? …/stubs butt…*

Clicky and I decided we couldn’t not include an, um, Epi-chocolate-logue to end, Dear Reader…

fire screen

*Fanks, Clicky… /pats snout…*

The elevator journey up to the office the next morning was interminably long and extra bumpy, rattling my brains and turning my stomach. Shazza wasn’t manning reception but that was nothing new. I strolled round to my desk clutching our trophy in one hand and my head in the other. The Fat Kontroller was waiting for me, looking as fresh as a daisy. How does he do it?

“Good morning, Harry. We made the press,” he said handing me a copy of the local paper. “Front page.”

I placed the trophy on my desk and sat down, spreading the newspaper out and tried to focus. Josie had indeed made the front page, but so had Shazza – the awards photographer had captured the commotion. He’d even managed to capture the line of spittle streaming from Shazza’s spiteful mouth.

I read out the headline, “’Fracas at Local Business Awards. What a FAK Up!’. Oh bollocks!”

“You’ll be able to sort won’t you, Harry,” the Fat Kontroller said, picking up the trophy and polished it with his sleeve. “There’s a Good Egg.”

Happy Easter, Dear Reader. And don’t forget to stuff your faces with as much chocolate as you can because, next year… who know?

My Sweet Lord! Academic charged with assessing Sugar Tax ‘told by God to push for it’ https://t.co/cJwElTQkPP

— Christopher Snowdon (@cjsnowdon) March 23, 2018

Welcome to the LoL

😀 Welcome back, Dear Reader, for another amazing tale from the Okie Devil of Text US, Cade F.O.N. Apollyon. Like ‘Hee Haw Hockey‘, the following short story appeared in ‘Underdog Anthology V: Six in Five in Four‘. It’s kinda…

… adult in it’s theme, and is called ‘Pour, Know…Poor, No’…

… So if you’re the type to be easily triggered, Dear Reader, then… Enjoy! 😉

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‘As he joined her on the bed, there was no need to take his cock in-hand…destiny and desire would guide the target home at this point. Their bodies uniting was both a metaphysical and physical certainty at this point…and sure enough, like a submarine sailing into The Grand Canyon…’

‘$$ Erotica authors needed for short story submissions’

*******

Come back on Tuesday, Dear Reader, for the third of Cade’s Underdog Anthology V stories. And don’t forget, the sixth is coming soon… Have a Song ❤

😀 Welcome, Dear Reader…

…We have a very special treat in store for you this evening…

… From the (literally) glowing pages of ‘Six in Five in Four‘, a short story from the Okie Devil from Text US, Mr Mars himself…

…’Hee Haw Hockey’ by Cade F.O.N. Apollyon. Enjoy! 😀

*******

*******

Many thanks to Cade for allowing the LoL to post ‘Hee Haw Hockey’. We hope you enjoyed it, Dear Reader, and just to let you know that the next Underdog Anthology will be published in time for Halloween…

…Have a Song ❤

Dear Reader, I am on holiday now for the next two weeks. Underdog Anthology VI: The Gallows Stone – is due out for Halloween and I haven’t written anything for it yet…

… Last night, instead of writing, I accepted Cade’s invitation to watch some movies. Well, I am on holiday 😉 We each picked a film that we’d really enjoyed watching, but that the other hadn’t seen. First up was Cade’s pick of ‘Moneyball’, ostensibly about baseball…

… Followed by my flick pick of ‘Margin Call’…

Both movies were released in 2011, and both movies were about the same things: interpretation of numbers, risk management and being first with a paradigm-shifting break through…

… Or breakout…

…And the logistics required to build something up, or to tear it down…

I can highly recommend both movies, Dear Reader, especially if you have time to view them in one sitting. Tomorrow I shall start writing a story for the UAVI, but for tonight, Cade has recommended a horror film for us to watch. To help get me in the mood, so to speak…

I’ll be certain to let you know how the stories are coming along, but until then, Dear Reader… Have a Song 😀

someday (adv.)

Good afternoon, Dear Reader. Yesterday I received a care package from my friends Legs and Poppy. Fortunately, I knew it was coming…

So one parcel, Dear Reader, containing three items, one of which was a mystery thing, and two were signed. Let’s look at each in order…

I’d recently given a copy of ‘Six in Five in Four‘ to my IT Director at work. For his holiday; he was going sailing for a week, and so in desperate need of a collection of short stories, for dipping into when not doing important things with ropes and sails…

Although Poppy’s DVD gift was not a mystery, Dear Reader, it did have an element of surprise…

‘Mystery Thing‘

The third item in the care package was indeed signed, Dear Reader, but it wasn’t a book…

I’ve hung Leggy’s book cover artwork in pride of place, Dear Reader, above the place where I lay down… my head to sleep… perchance to dream…

Have a Song ❤

Been on a bit of cultural exchange these past two weeks, Dear Reader…

… Whereby I’ve been introducing The Okie Devil of Text Us to Doctor Who…

… And in return, he has introduced me to Doowdaed…

… And we’ll continue with more of that later today…

In the meantime, Cade has very kindly sent a missive for us all to enjoy, Dear Reader…

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^DJ Shredda – Chainsaw (The Crow Mix)^

^Acid Fighter (DJ Crow Remix) – Soundgrabber^

^DJ The Crow meets DJ Arne LII – The Speed (Überdruck Mix)^

^Norman Bass – How U Like Bass? (Warp Brothers Club Mix)^

Q: Is “sawdust” considered waste?

^Crash Bass – Hardshake^

^Gary Beck – Say What (Adam Beyer Remix) [SAVED RECORDS]^

^Hanayo – Joe le Taxi^

^M83 ‘Midnight City’ Official video^

^Boy Harsher — Pain^

Q: What’s your fucking hurry?

^Kiesza – Hideaway (Official Video)^

But you’re free to do what you want.

Blow it all up.

^Azari & III – Hungry for the power (Jamie Jones remix)^

^’I FINK U FREEKY’ by DIE ANTWOORD (Official)^

cYa | cFa

^Hey Boy Hey Girl (Soulwax ‘2 Many DJ’s’ Remix)^

*******

Dear Reader? CYL… 😉 …and have a Song ❤

Seams, Dear Reader, that the Dez Rez Prez of Trump Town is to pay a visit to Old Blighty on 137…

… Sew, I was chatting to my friend and Welsh Dragon publisher, Leggy, about the visit last night on Twitter…

Dear Reader… Have a Song 😉

At last, Dear Reader, the Underdog Anthology V is published…

… I’d been speculating with Leggy late on Friday as to the date it might appear…

… The first ‘event’ listed in the Wiki link – ‘The Year of SIX Emperors’…

Strangely enough, Dear Reader, if you go check out UAV’s listing on Amazon – and I suggest you doo 😉 – it’s published date is 20th April…

Have a Song 😉

I am having a long weekend, Dear Reader. I spent yesterday daytime making final edits to stories in the soon-to-be-published ‘Underdog Anthology V: Six in Five in Four’. Leggy has a preview, in which he includes one of his stories from the book…

peculiar (adj.)

Then last night Cade and I resumed his introduction to Doctor Who, and also caught up with Leggy and Poppy… Les amis…

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NINE LIVES

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I’m off now to introduce Cade to Thoughtful Man’s favourite companion, Dear Reader…

Have a Song ❤

Dear Reader, I have been on holiday these last couple of days, and have finally managed to write my short story about a hedge riding hag…

…and have submitted it to Leggy for inclusion in the upcoming ‘Underdog Anthology V‘. The story is called ‘Nine Lives’…

I was also able to spend some time yesterday in the Blue universe. Frank Davis had been snooping around New York, after reading about the proposed bill to stop people from smoking whilst walking the streets of that fair city…

He was looking at street signs there and came across one that had him perplexed…