Undesiredverse Question – Men and Women

In Chapter 15 of Undesiredverse: Wanted , we meet Zumani, Roman’s ex-wife or current owner, depending on whether you ask Roman or Zumani.

Zumani is a belladonna, a member of a species of hot supermodel type purple space babes.  Assassination is the number one industry on Belladon (I’m changing the name from Belandria’s Dawn), given that these ladies are able to so easily dupe idiotic men with their…assets.

As we learn in this chapter, a year prior to the events of this story, a cultural misunderstanding occurred.  Zumani asked Roman if he’d like to “tie the knot.”  Roman, an Earth human, took that to mean “get married.”  He loved her so sure, why not.

But “tie the knot” means something very different in Zumani’s culture.  She took Roman’s assent as an invitation to literally tie a damn rope around his neck and drag him to a priestess who performed a ceremony and declared Roman to be Zumani’s slave.

And thus we learn the lowly state of men on Belladon.  There aren’t any natural born males on Belladon.  The belladonnas just kidnap other worldly males and force them into servitude.  Men have no rights at all.

Throughout the story, Zumani never calls Roman by his name.  She just calls him, “property.”

As our story unfolds, Zumani becomes one of the many ne’er-do-wells on the hunt for Roman, hoping that by capturing him, she’ll be able to restore her honor.  After all, a good Belladonna never loses her “property.”

To me, this is funny.  SPOILER ALERT – I only expect Zumani to make one more appearance in “Wanted” but if people become interested enough to see the story continue into a series, I forsee further awkward situations.

Maybe Roman will try to buy himself from Zumani.  Maybe Zumani will protect Roman because, “Hey!  You can’t kill my slave!  He’s mine!”  Or maybe, just maybe, Zumani will learn to have one of those so-called “equal” relationships with our hero.  Ehh.  Doubtful.

My question for you, 3.5 readers is, why is this funny?  Let’s face it.  Reverse the situation.  A race of dudes that enslave women.  That’s like a twisted horror film.  But an alien chick chasing a dude around the cosmos because she believes she owns him…that’s kinda funny.

At least I think it’s funny.  Maybe you don’t.  If it isn’t funny tell me why.


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Undesiredverse Question – Is Age Just a Number?

For the 3.5 readers paying attention, there was a big reveal in Chapter 20 of Undesiredverse: Wanted.

In earlier chapters, we saw Roman, our hero:

  • Punch a dude in the face in a rave club
  • Flirt with a space hooker
  • Fight a duel with an old friend
  • Take on 6 henchmen at once
  • Kiss yet another space hooker (I’m worried he might have a thing for space hookers)
  • Hang in the air from a hook attached to a ship piloted by Alien Jones
  • Fight a robot controlled by a highly evolved and super evil artificial intelligence on top of a ship as Alien Jones flies it all over the place.
  • Dive through the air without a parachute to save an alleged space hooker (though it kind of looks like she’s not a space hooker)

All the work of a young man, wouldn’t you say?  (I know.  There are too many space hookers in this story)

Ahh, but there’s the rub.  In Chapter 20, we learn that Roman is 65 years old.  In the future, humans start taking a drug called Rejuvatrix at age 25, which allows them to retain a healthy, 25-year old looking body for the next 275 years, a 300 year life span in total.

  • Plot wise, it makes things interesting.  There are older, wiser humans but you might debate whether or not they are because they still look 25.
  • But then again, perhaps “maturity” is a relative term.  In theory, most people don’t really want to slow down.  They just do because their bodies are telling them to.  In other words, your 65 year old grandpa would probably fist fight a robot on top of a space ship and kiss space hookers if he wasn’t sleepy all the time.
  • An extended adolescence is created.  0-100 is considered youth.  100-200 is middle age.  200-300 means you’re elderly.  But again, to confuse things, from 25-300, you look like you’re 25.
  • By the time we figure life out, we’re too old to do jack about it.  It amazes me that we expect people to choose their life’s path at 18, an age when they have no idea who they are, what they are capable of, what they’re good at and not good at, and most importantly, what would make them happy?  We need Rejuvatrix so we can all take a century to just go out and find ourselves.
  • For the 3.5 people reading the story, did it change your view of Roman to learn that he’s 65?  He certainly doesn’t act like today’s 65 year old.  In fact, when Alien Jones showed him a picture of what I (Eduardo Ricardo aka BQB) will look like when I turn 65 (a future event for me, or a past event for future Jones, if you sit down to do the math)…Roman freaks out at an image of what a 65 year old looked like in the early part of the 21st century.



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Jessica Jones

I’ve seen the first two episodes on Netflix.  Enjoying it so far.  Very noir.  Very cool.  Stylish but also with super heroes.

What say you, 3.5 readers?

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PSA: Lightning Infused Toaster Pastry Toilet Death

Hello 3.5 readers.

I’m Bookshelf Q. Battler, a World Renowned Poindexter, Reviewer of Books, Movies and Assorted Cultural Happenings, and a Champion Yeti Fighter.

But today, as we prepare to give birth to our Thanksgiving food babies and slowly ease ourselves out of our tryptophan coma (preferably in reverse order so you don’t have to clean your sheets), I’d like to talk about a cause that’s near and dear to my heart:

Lightning Infused Toaster Pastry Toilet Death.


Right now, as we’re kicking back and enjoying seconds and thirds of pie and karate chopping each other over the limited amount of technological gadgets at our local stores, let’s take a moment to remember those less fortunate, the people who aren’t here to take part in festive holiday frivolity because…

…they’re dead.  Yes.  They’re friggin’ dead.  They were powerless against the allure of a giant, lightning infused toaster pastry so they ate it then died on the can whilst trying to expel a trapped lightning bolt from their nether regions.

Every year, 942 million Americans die on the toilet while trying to eliminate a pesky lightning bolt.  What?  Those figures are suspect because at present there’s only roughly 321 million Americans.

Well sir or madam as the case may be, if you want to quibble with the fine folks at the Fake Institute for Bogus Research’s findings on Lightning Infused Toaster Pastry Toilet Death then you’re free to do so, but personally, I think you’re being just a tad insensitive.

To date, I am the only known survivor or LITPTD.  And that’s only because I met William Shakespeare in the afterlife and he told me that God gave me a second chance so that I can search for the meaning of life.

Come to think of it, I do need to finish that story and let you all know how it worked out.

3.5 readers: But Bookshelf Q. Battler, what can WE do against the LITPTD scourge?

I’m sad to say, not much, 3.5 readers.  You see, the so-called, quote unquote “medical professionals” don’t recognize LITPTD as a real condition.  Most inflicted people just shoot the bolt out their butt and then croak and then the EMTs who arrive just assume the deceased had a brain spasm due to over zealous pushing.

In fact, had I not returned from the dead to alert you fine 3.5 readers of this affliction, I don’t anyone would ever be aware.  Who knows just how many individuals have died in the throws of a lightning infused toaster pastry expulsion only to have it mislabeled as a random butt straining death by incompetent medical professionals?

I’m here.  LITPTD is real.  Get used to it.  Oh, and also, steer clear of it.  Far away from it.  Seriously, if you know someone who has eaten a lightning infused toaster pastry, get out of the house and drive to the next state over.

Thank you 3.5 readers.  Enjoy your weekend and remember, stay away from lightning infused toaster pastries.  Sure they taste good going in, but they’re make a terrible mess on the way out.

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Things I Am Thankful For


Happy Thanksgiving, 3.5 readers.

Here are some things that I, the great Bookshelf Q. Battler, am thankful for:

  • That I’m alive.  I’ve heard the alternative sucks.
  • Technology, and how it’s grown to the point where self publishing is possible.  Part of me wishes it was there when I was 20 and able to stay up all night running on nothing but Jolt Cola and blind ambition but oh well, better late than never, right?
  • Video Game Rack Fighter.  I’ll tell her as soon as she pauses Fallout 4.  It’s only been three days.  She’ll need a bathroom break sooner or later and…oh, wait.  THAT’S why she keeps that jug by the couch.
  • Bookshelf Q. Battle Dog – he may not look like much, but he’s devoured over a hundred intruders.  How he does it I have no idea, he’s so tiny.
  • The Magic Bookshelf – It’s a magic bookshelf.  What else can I say?
  • Not the Yeti – You suck, Yeti.
  • Not Dr. Hugo Von Science – You really let me down when you caused the East Randomtown Zombie Apocalypse.  Shame on your sir.  Shame.
  • The #31ZombieAuthors – Thank you for coming to my aid when I needed your zombie advice.  More importantly, thanks for seeing something in me that led you to say to yourselves, “Yeah, sure, this guy who calls himself ‘Bookshelf Q. Battler’ seems trustworthy enough.  I’m game for an interview.”  Whatever it was about me, my blog, my writing or whatever that convinced you to take a chance on me, thank you.  I’ll keep working on being worthy.
  • Alien Jones and The Mighty Potentate – Oh Mightiest of Potentates, thank you for sending your emissary, Alien Jones, the Esteemed Brainy One, to help me in my blogging endeavors.  May we one day inspire the masses to abandon the menace that is reality television.
  • Pop Culture Mysteries – Thank you, Jake and Delilah.  I swear, your time is coming ASAP and I will do all in my power to make it awesome.
  • Aunt Gertie and Uncle Hardass – You both drive me insane but I know you mean well.
  • Bernie “MC Plotz” Plotznick – best of luck in your efforts to go out on your own as a solo Funky Hunk.  Honestly, I’m tempted to join you but my 3.5 readers need me.  Speaking of..


  • The 3.5 readers – Not gonna lie.  I wish there were more of you.  Even 30.5 would put a bigger smile on my face.  But as long as 3.5 of you keep showing up to read my nonsense every day, I’ll keep churning it out.  I couldn’t have done it without you.  And I know that one day when I price my book at $3, I can count on you all to show up and send a cool $10.50 my way.  That’s dinner for Video Game Rack Fighter and I at Swanky Burger.  Not bad.  Not bad at all.

Enjoy your day and stuff your pie holes, 3.5 readers.  Feel free to tell me what you are thankful for in the comments.

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Undesiredverse: Wanted – Chapter 22

Jones wasn’t wrong. I needed to quit huff. It gave me heart palpitations. Made me sweat. Wore me out. I wasn’t about to tell him all that though. I didn’t need another lecture from my little green mother substitute.

Quit huff? Sounds easy…until you realize that for an addict, giving up halminotrin is like giving up water, air, or a spot of the old slap and tickle with a tri-breasted space babe. Don’t even get me started on the quadruple sets. That’s almost too many.

I’d scored a new inhalator and a huff slab from my host’s warehouse. I sat on a cot and stared at them. They were inanimate objects and yet it felt like they were calling me, luring me, drawing me in, making me feel like I couldn’t do anything else until I got some of that good stuff into my body.

No. I pushed them away and laid back. I freed my mind and let it wander. Unfortunately for me, it never failed to make three stops on memory lane:

1. Me, as a little boy, staring helplessly as a man that looks exactly like my father shoots my mother, then ransacks the house, looking for my sister and I. I’m confused as there is another man who looks like my father lying dead on the floor. I sit there for what feels like forever until a man with a handlebar mustache takes me away.

2. That man leaves me with Master Ashakti, who trains me in Umquai, the greatest of all shai martial arts. Best part of Umquai? It turns you into an all out bad ass fighting machine. Worst part? It also turns you into a depressed nihilist. “Everything in life is fleeting so stop caring.” That way of thinking makes you a good killer but a useless being. It also led me to killing someone I wish I hadn’t, so much so his dead eyes haunt me in my dreams. Sometimes I care too much. Not all that nihilism rubbed off on me. I wish it had. I could sleep like a baby.

3. Handlebar Mustache Man returns when I’m a man, recruits me to his unit and my incompetence leads to first woman I ever loved being killed.

What you need to understand, noble reader, is that other than to explain why I’m a hopeless junkie, these recollections have little to do with the story at hand. If you’re moved by my words, maybe one day I’ll explain how it all ties in together.

As for Handlebar Mustache Man? He is a recurring player from my past who still makes the occasional cameo in my present. I’m torn as to whether or not that’s a good thing. I try not to think about it.

Scratch that. I try not to think about any of it. Thus far, huff is the only substance I’ve discovered that allows me to do so.

I sit back up. The inhalator and the white, gritty halminotrin slab are still there.

And the dance begins.

The thoughts that get me in trouble:
No one has a right to tell me to stop. No one but me could ever possibly understand what I’ve been through.

I need it. I deserve it. I’ll be fine. Of the 97.5 percent of huff/rejuvatrix mixers who die horrible deaths, I’ll be one of the lucky 3.5% who survive.

I’ll just have a little bit.

OK. I’ll have a lot. But I’m going to quit tomorrow, I swear. And since I’m quitting tomorrow, I might as well live it up with one last huff.

F%$k it. I need to sleep. Stop debating yourself and huff that shit already.

I grab a bottle of water from the table by my bed and pour it into the tray. I break off a few crumbles, smash them up and drop in the dust. I swirl the tray around, mixing it all together nicely. The tray goes in. The switch is turned. The little motor chugs. Mask on face. I do look like a fighter pilot with sleep apnea but who gives a shit?

I’m like a stranger in my own skin. Lighter than air. No cares. No worries. I’m the nihilist Master Ashakti always told me to be.

There’s even a unicorn bringing me a cake on its back. Mmm. Don’t mind if I do.

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Things That Really Frost My Ass – Thanksgiving Edition


Happy Thanksgiving 3.5 readers! Have you got Thanksgiving complaints? Share them on Twitter (or your preferred time wasting social media site) with the hashtag #Complaintsgiving

Originally posted on Bookshelf Battle:

By:  Uncle Hardass, Grumpy Old Man Correspondent

shutterstock_159396938 Hardassimo J. Scrambler

Hello Degenerate 3.5 Readers,

I see none of you have taken my advice to give up on all this writing horse shit and get a job at the salt mines yet.

Salt Mines Inc. is waiting there, ready to pay you good money for every chunk of salt you pull out of the ground but are you clowns interested?


“Look at me!  I’m a blogger!  I’m super smart and special and the whole entire world needs to know!”

Baaah!  Who needs ya’?

Wait, wait.  Come back.  Don’t leave yet.  I have to bitch about Thanksgiving first and then you can go.

This is a holiday about “giving thanks” but if you people have been paying any attention (and why would you because this blog sucks with the gale force wind of a thousand Dysons) then you know I don’t give…

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Undesiredverse: Wanted – Chapter 21

Jones ran a Health-Metrix Scanner over Mystery Woman. She had a penchant for shiny things and with all of the blinking lights involved, she was too busy staring at them all to repeat anyone.

“Running her vitals,” Jones said. “Skeletal mapping…organ mapping…checking for abnormalities…”

Mystery woman went crosseyed as Jones held the device between her eyes. He then ran it over the top of her head.

“…recording brain waves….and…finished.”

“About time,” I said. “What’s her deal?

“Based on the information in this report,” Jones said. “And after conducting a critical analysis of all variables at play…”

I was hooked on every word coming out of the little dude’s mouth.

“…and taking into consideration all relevant medical data.”

“Enough already!” I said. “What the hell is she?!”

“A completely healthy adult human female.”

I slapped my forehead. “I could have told you that.”

“But you didn’t,” Jones said as he held up his scanner. “And besides, now we have scientific confirmation.”

“So she’s definitely not a mongo?” I asked.

Mystery Woman turned to Jones and mimicked me. “So she’s definitely not a mongo?”

Jones pressed a button on his scanner, turned the lights back on, then handed it over to the woman.

“Here, play with this,” Jones said.

Mystery Woman took the device and repeated, “Here, play with this” but with a sense of childish wonder, as though she were staring at a work of art. She was healthy and she liked blinky lights. That’s all we knew about her.

“So you’re not able to discern any medical reason why Sourcemind wanted her?” I asked.

“Not at all,” Jones replied.

“Why is she bald?” I asked. “Does she have that dark age disease? What was it? Prancer? Dancer?”

“Cancer,” Jones said. “It was no laughing matter. There was a time when heart disease, cancer, and driving your vehicle into oncoming traffic while texting your girlfriend were the top causes of human death. But no. She does not have cancer. She just does not have hair.”

“Do another scan,” I said. “She can’t be completely healthy. She’s a hooker, for Christ sake, she’s got to have something. Your doo dad is malfunctioning.”

“It’s state of the art and accurately calibrated, thank you,” Jones replied.

“So she doesn’t have the clap?” I asked.

“Nope,” Jones answered.







“Arzorkial lesions?”


“Zamenzium itch?”


“Tullux sores?”


“Upper Crimombolite Fungal Fusion?”


“Saturn’s Ring?”

“Rekolakian Crotch Rot?”

“No,” Jones said. He was getting testy. “Roman, I don’t have time to listen to the results of your last physical.”

“You’re going to stand there and tell me that a working girl doesn’t even have a case East Pamalorian Cooter Flies?”

“I’m going to stand her and tell you she’s not a working girl,” Jones said.

Mystery Woman waved the blinky gadget around and giggled.

“Yes she is,” I said. “I found her in Izok’s harem.”

“She may have been there,” Jones said. “But she wasn’t working there.”

“And how could you possibly know that ya’ big green nerd?”

Jones coughed to clear his throat, then quietly mumbled, “Because she hasn’t, you know.”

I didn’t know. The look on my face made that clear.

“The petals are still on the rose,” Jones said.


Jones rolled his eyes.

“Her factory seal has yet to be broken, so to speak.”

“Stop talking in riddles, man!” I shouted.


Jones was too loud to be ignored. Mystery Woman looked at me and on cue, screamed, “SHE’S A VIRGIN, DUMBASS!”

“You are?” I asked. Why I expected anything other than the “You are?” she asked me in return I have no idea.

Jones handed her a tongue depressor. She didn’t find it as interesting as the scanner, but she checked it, ignoring our conversation again.

“How is that even possible?” I asked

“Not everyone gets it on with anything that moves, Roman,” Jones said.

“Oh what do you know about it you asexual freak?”

The look on his face. Jones rarely got mad but when he did. Wow. He walked away.

“Aw, come on, Jones,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

Without looking back at me, Jones extending the middle of the three fingers on his right hand at me before leaving the room.

“What are you looking at?” I asked Mystery Woman.

You know the rest.

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SPOILERS!!!This Week’s The Walking Dead

Hello 3.5 readers.shutterstock_225100087 copy

What did you think of this week’s Walking Dead?


What did you think about Glenn?  I need to cut out the pizza because I couldn’t fit under a dumpster in a zombie apocalypse.

What was up with those balloons?  Why was there a helium tank and green balloons on the side of the road?  Did a wandering clown abandon them?

The wall is down!  Is it me or do Rick and the gang screw up wherever they go?

I have a theory that someone else will die.  Our emotions were toyed with vis a vis Glenn for too long for it all to be wrapped up that neatly.

Will they save Alexandria?  Is it done for?

Theory: Abraham saves the day by blowing all the zombies sky high with his newly found rocket launcher.

What say you, 3.5 readers?

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#31ZombieAuthors – Day 12 Interview – Joe McKinney – Legendary Zombie Master


Hi there 3.5 readers.

The #31ZombieAuthors were wonderful and helpful. I’m loathe to single out any of them because they were all so good to me.

That being said, Joe McKinney is one of the biggest names in the zombie fiction game and he was a pretty cool dude to interview.

My favorite part was the Q and A about time management. Joe’s a police officer and a family man, yet he still finds time to get his writing done. Amazing.

I pointed out that while Joe’s a model of efficiency, I have a tendency to get distracted from my writing and have been known to let my pages remain blank while I stuff my face with Oreos and watch Steven Seagal movies.

When I submitted the question, I thought for sure Joe would tell me to snap out of it and stop being a crybaby or something but he was cool.

Instead, he discussed how the diligence of a writer “defies human nature” i.e. that life is all around us and we want to experience it and at the same time we need to be in that chair writing to get our work done.

In other words, write every day, get your words in, but don’t let life pass you by and don’t feel bad for embracing life.

You need to be in that writer’s chair but you can’t spend every minute of your life in that chair.

I don’t want to put words in the guy’s mouth but that’s a synopsis of what I took out of it anyway.

It’s a great interview, 3.5 readers.  Check it out.

Originally posted on Bookshelf Battle:



Amazon           Website

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Bram Stoker award winning novelist Joe McKinney is to fans of zombie fiction what Elvis is to rock and roll.  Simply mention Joe’s name to zombie enthusiasts and they’re likely to swoon and pass out.

If a zombie invasion were to ever go down, Joe could handle it.  After all, in his day job, he’s a Sergeant with the San Antonio, TX Police Department, where he’s a patrol supervisor.  He’s also worked as a homicide detective and a disaster mitigation specialist.

51CTSWUWJzL__SX302_BO1,204,203,200_As if that weren’t impressive enough, he’s also the author of the Dead World series.  The action begins in Dead City.  After a series of hurricanes rocks the Gulf Coast, a zombifying virus spreads to San Antonio, where police officer Eddie Hudson has to brave a zompoc in order to get his wife and…

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