Or watch the republican primary news. Heh.
( this is where the novel revision is at - four chapters to go... )
I like to be harsh with myself; I want to always be my own worst critic.
Still, I can't deny it's good. Best I've ever done, actually.
Considering I've been working on it for nearly five years now, off and on, It should be, eh?
Still, I think I may've finally taught myself how to write novel length stuff.
Beware. Be very ware.
"NO," I didn't mean it to come out so forcefully, to ring from the trees nearby, to echo faintly from the wall of the horrible little shack we'd just left.
"No. No, I am not like you. I don't mean that I don't - or couldn't - hell, I've never cared what people think of who or what I do. No. It's not like that. I'm not like you. I don't get to...." I trail off, and the world is silent around me as everyone listens.
Fuck it. Let 'em know.
"I once loved somebody. It's only important to me who it was, to everyone else, the important thing is... well. You saw what I do. What I'm saddled with. I fight the monsters, no holds barred. You know what they do when they figure out they can't take you, face to face?"
I lean in close to the young man, letting him see the hate and pain in my face, the lines, the years I've spent killing myself slowly because I'm too chickenshit to do it all at once.
"They come after those you care about. Those you love. They take them in the night, hide them where you'll never find, then they - they hurt them, and... they send them back to you... a piece at a time. The heart last. So you don't get love. I don't get to love. The best thing for anybody I care about, or could care about, is to stay the hell away from me, as far as you can get."
He nods, not accepting, just thinking. Then he holds my silver-edged Bowie up between us, light dancing from the razor edge into my eyes for the length of a breath.
Faster than I could blink, he plunges the knife into his stomach and crumples to the ground.
I'm already feeling dizzy, this makes it worse. I fall to my knees and pull the knife free; what I'm saying to the boy who just killed himself shouldn't be the last thing he hears, so I shut up so fast my teeth click. His packmates howl, long and low, behind us.
Then he looks up, grimacing in pain, and slowly, carefully, unfolds his body. "I'm durable," He says, almost shyly.
Good thing, because I'm going into shock. He'll need to drive. What happened to were-cat-things, er, lycan... er... shifters being hurt by silver?
And what is it with the younger crowd, that none of them seem to know how to drive a stick shift? Christ's balls, all the way to Hollywood in first gear.... bucking all the way... traaa laaa laaa...
Then everything went dark for a while.
"You need to listen to your messages more often, Nephew," My uncle says, smoke curling from the shotgun's short barrels, "This hadda be -
A lightning fast, almost casual, sidekick from Billy Cuentes shuts him up, sends him tumbling right back down the concrete stairs he'd popped up from.
Time to play what little hand I have. I reach out, grip invisible puppet strings, and yank hard.
Bodies retain something even after those that lived in them have left; the wet, steaming corpse that had been Dana Susan North swarms up Billy Cuente's side. He screams. She leans into his face and growls, "KIZZ ME", even as the pale, cold body that once belonged to Nunzio Grappeli grips Billy's head in both hands.
Billy's neck thumps softly, like a firecracker wrapped in wet velvet, as it snaps. I understand, even empathize, when Paddy Glumb loses control of his bladder.
He's not facing me; I use the Louisville Slugger as a brace, half climbing it to sway on my feet, distracting Paddy by raising the still-twitching body of William Jueges Cuentes to its feet. Head rolling at an angle that would make vision impossible, it steps toward Paddy anyway; he backs away, moving perfectly into the batter's zone.
"Hey, Paddy," I say, very quietly. He turns. I swing.
When I was a child, back in the hills, the day after Halloween was almost as fun as the night itself. Being a poor section of the world, we had very little other decorations than pumpkins and candles, which meant that there were a lot of rotten gourds after All Hallows had come and gone. We boys would target them with feet, clubs and baseball bats; they'd fly apart, splattering and spraying a gruesome mess that was somehow very satisfying to cause.
Paddy Glumb's death is something like that. I smile and, wheezing from my collapsing lungs and broken ribs, turn to face the man who'd killed so many, including those closest to me.
I've been on LJ for eleven years or so; with the retirement of Spanky from local ranks, that leaves me, Scix, JayJay and a handful of friends in a pack with early adoption dates - but not any of us are really posting often anymore.
Doesn't mean I'm leaving; I hate Facebook, absolutely detest it. And there's really no other alternatives.
That's all for now. More later... much later.
Authors out there, brace yourself for offers of free reading material in exchange for blurbs. And artists? I'm going to be hittin' y'all up for cover art, maybe.
Posit: the mysterious summons is from a time-traveler. Why? Much was made about the envelopes being in 'TARDIS blue'. There is concern about The Doctor being hurt, injured or possibly caused to die/regenerate (despite clips from episodes up the line); a mysterious "Impossible Astronaut" was seen in a clip from tonight's episode attacking/causing turbulence for/admiring the dental work of/shining bright lights A.K.A. causing a danger for The Doctor.
Extrapolate initial posit per Occam's Razor; the most prevalent time traveler in the Doctor Who universe is Who? Not Bud Abbot, but the Doctor.
Thus, at some point temporally downstream, the Doctor sends the summons into the past; technically, he cannot loop back on his own timeline - assume that Televised Flexible Physics comes into play and that 'cannot' is downgraded to 'should not as it will cause grave repurcussions, probably death', add that an astronaut's space suit is extremely protective, providing a seperate, free-standing environment, and I believe we can thus hypothesize with middling accuracy that the mysterious "Impossible Astronaut" is The Doctor from a future point.
I like Matt Smith as the Doctor, btw; I've seen two episodes or so, but intend to get caught up. Eventually.
So, kind of got delayed in wordsmithing by being sick; that bronchitis thing turned out to be more of a pneumonia thing. Anyway, I'm down to three variations on a theme for the short story compilation - are you feeling influential? Hee. And, yes, for some reason there are a number of cats invovled in the stories... just turned out that way.
Possibly have a hotel stay over; invited evil-doers for this run are as follows:
Driver and Operant Misoperator: satyrix
Moll and waifish destructionist: jenmur
Machineguns, mischief and General Patton: patzilla
Tour Guide and Kills-the-big-bad-in-the-final-scene-