Tag Archives: love

Feb 18 2016
5 Comments
Discussions

Do Rom-coms Create Stalkers?

Hey 3.5 Readers.

I read this column, “The Dark Side of Rom-Coms” on the CNN website by Julia Lippman, a post-doctoral fellow in communication studies at the University of Michigan and thought it would make for a good discussion here.

Go read it.  The gist is basically those romantic comedies might not be harmless as you think.  A guy who stands outside a girl’s window holding a boom box in the air a la Say Anything is weird.  A guy who hires a private investigator to track down his prom date thirteen years later a la Something About Mary is even weirder.

Though in the context of movies, we laugh and have fun, men might be taking cues to relentlessly pursue or even stalk women…that they might get it in their heads that their persistent advances on uninterested women aren’t bad behavior but rather, charming displays of romance a la Lloyd Dobler.

Hmmm.  Well, here’s my first observation:

I am a man and I have zero interest in romantic comedies.  Romantic comedies are made for, geared towards, and primarily marketed to women.

There’s Something About Mary isn’t really a good example.  That’s more of a raunchy comedy that just happens to involve romance.  I liked that one, but any other romantic comedy?  No.  No interest.

I’ve never seen a commercial that went like this…

He was a guy down on his luck. She was the girl who had it all.  This summer, Hunky Guy and Hot Girl in Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah.

…and was like “OMG I MUST SEE THIS!”  No.  Never.  I’ve never seen a rom-com on my own.  Any time I’ve seen one involved seeing it because someone else wanted to see it.

Are there all different varieties of men?  Yes.  Are there some men who like romantic comedies?  Sure.

But I don’t like them and while I don’t know if there’s been a study commissioned on this, I’d dare say the lion’s share of men aren’t spending their days thinking “Oh my God I want to see She’s My Gal or Love in the Time of Love or whatever dopey title the latest romantic schlock is called.

So in my opinion, don’t worry.  Men aren’t going to become stalkers because of rom-coms because we’re too busy watching super hero movies.

Why?  That leads us to my next observation:

As a man, I prefer action movies, super hero movies and so on.

Here is the plot of Avengers 2: Age of Ultron:

A billionaire in an iron suit, a Norse God, a scientist who turns into a green rage monster when he gets mad, an invincible WWII veteran, a Russian assassin and an expert arrow shooter join forces to stop an evil robot.

I loved it.  I enjoyed it.  And do you know why?  Though it was sheer, utter fantastic nonsense, it was more believable than any rom com ever written.

Why?  My next observation:

Love rarely works out as perfectly as it does in the movies.

It really, really doesn’t.  Which leads to another observation:

Personally, I believe if there is any “risk” involved in rom-coms, it is that they encourage women to yearn for highly unlikely Hollywood generated scenarios that could never happen in real life, all the while ignoring what’s around them.

I’m just going by personal experience.  Over the  years, women have basically trained me to treat a first date like a job interview.  What are the job interview rules?

  • Don’t sneeze.
  • Don’t burp.
  • Don’t fart.
  • Don’t scratch.
  • Make a little eye contact but not too much.  Don’t talk about anything controversial.
  • Don’t say anything that resembles your thoughts, opinions, hopes and or dreams.
  • Ask questions and provide a general sense of interest.  However, not too much interest.  Don’t inquire about anything deep or meaningful.  Stick to the weather.  “Nice weather we are having” will prove that you are alive and have a pulse but cannot be construed as being too intimate.
  • Don’t be yourself at all.  You are horrible.  Wait to be yourself until you’re hired and then it is too much of a chore to replace you.

I mean that’s pretty much what dating has become now, thanks in large part to Hollywood convincing women through romantic movies that they should expect pure, unadulterated perfection out of men at all times or bust.

Men can follow all those rules and still be rejected when women jump to conclusions based on harmless stimuli:

MAN SCRATCHES HEAD.

WOMAN THINKS: He scratched his head sixty seven minutes into the date.  That’s a deal breaker.  I’ll be damned if I’m going to be saddled with a head scratcher!

MAN DROPS HIS KEYS.

WOMAN THINKS: He dropped his keys.  Clearly has reflex issues.  I’ll be picking up his keys until the end of time.

MAN SHOWS UP EARLY.

WOMAN THINKS: Must be obsessed with me.  Clearly thought about me all day.  Probably slept over in the restaurant parking lot all night and day just to be here five minutes early.

MAN SHOWS UP LATE

WOMAN THINKS:  What a self-absorbed psychopath to make me wait five minutes.

You laugh!  You laugh, but this is what men are facing now.  Thanks to handsome, hunky men in romantic comedies who always say and do the right thing, we have to deal with women who aren’t happy unless we’re jacked up and all muscly, picking them up on our white horses with the wind blowing our luxurious hair and we never make a mistake or do anything wrong.

I mean, holy shit, if you’re an average man and you’ve got a wife that Hollywood has trained to think you should look and act like early 1990’s Hugh Grant, then good luck to you if you forget to rinse off your dish before you go to bed one night as she’s going to divorce you, take half your shit and go off in search of Mr. Romantic Comedy Man, who does not exist.

And if you have a pimple, or some minor bodily flaw?  Jesus Christ, forget it.  Just forget it.  Wait for the scientific community to invent robot girlfriends because you’re never getting a human girlfriend when Hollywood is telling women to hold on because Bradley F$%King Cooper is going to swoop in and whisk them away any second.

BQB, this column is getting a little one sided.  Surely there are movies that mess with men’s minds too.

There are.  There are probably dudes who see hot actresses and expect that women who have jobs and commitments should look like they spend 24 hours a day working on their bodies the way actresses do.  There are probably even dudes who like rom coms and expect a woman to be perfect like the rom com leading lady.

Anyway, those are my main observations.  Lippman did end her column by pointing out that she isn’t in favor of banning rom coms or anything.  And she does note, as I would point out too, that only an idiot would take love advice from a movie.

And if you take the rom com part of it out, the more debate worthy topic might be when does pursuit cross the line into stalking?

Everyone probably has a different idea on that.  My general argument would be if you like someone and know your friend is a friend of that someone and said friend is throwing a party and you ask to come so you can chat up the person you’re interested in, that’s just an attempt at kindling amore.

But if you know none of those people and just followed a person you saw walking down the street to a party and you spent the whole night in a dark van waiting to catch a glimpse…yeah, you might be a stalker.

All joking aside, if you like someone, be cool, give it a respectful try, but once rebuffed, realize that there are other fish in the sea, so plant your hook elsewhere.

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Feb 14 2016
7 Comments
Things That Really Frost My Ass

Things That Really Frost My Ass – Valentine’s Day Edition

By: Uncle Hardass, Grumpy Old Man Correspondent 

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Renowned Romance Expert Hardassimo J. Scrambler, BQB’s Grumpy Uncle

Hello degenerate 3.5 readers.  Still wasting your time trying to become writers I see. Despite your old Uncle Hardass’ repeated efforts to put you on the straight and narrow path, you’re all still convinced that you’re going to be the next Hugh Howey.

And you know what?  Maybe you all ought to shut yourselves up in a big grain silo for a decade or two just to get some inspiration for your next writing project.  God knows the world would be a better place without all you damn hippies in it.

The salt mines are still hiring, by the way.  GET A JOB!

Anyway, it’s Valentine’s Day.  The day of love.  Amor, mon cheri.  I know this comes as no surprise, but back in my day, I was quite the ladies’ man.

Why, when Gertie and I started going steady, I used to whisper sweet nothings in her ear like “Where’s my damn sandwich?” and “My dirty pants aren’t going to launder themselves.”

And Gertie was no slouch either.  Why, I remember one day we were taking a romantic walk through the drug store to pick up my hemorrhoid medication, the kind I like in the tube with the applicator tip, and she said to me, “Well, what the shit, I guess if I could do any better than you, Hardassimo, I’d of done it by now.”

Now that’s love.

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Gertrude “Aunt Gertie” Scrambler – Last seen working her way through every roadie employed by a Grateful Dead tribute band.

Nothing spells love like settling, 3.5 hippy readers.  And for those of you at home stuffing your free Dairy Queen blizzards in your suckholes and reading a blog that only attracts an audience of 3.5 readers, let me ask you this:

Have you considered settling?

Listen, I get it.  You have dreams.  You’re probably young and you’ve been led to believe crazy ideas like “I’m special” and “I deserve good things to happen to me” and “I believe in myself so all my dreams will come true.”

Look, that may all be well and good but lets face it.  Ladies, your Prince Charming is not riding up on his noble steed any time soon and men, a bus load of bikini models is not going to ever hire you to be their towel boy either.

If you’re alone this Valentine’s Day and you’re reading this pathetic excuse for a blog, then there’s a statistically high probability that you are what my nephew Bookshelf Q. Battler might call a C.H.U.D. and he doesn’t mean that in a disrespectful tone.  He’d be the first to tell you that he is one.

Hell, I tell BQB that he looks like a  “Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dweller” all the time and he never thanks me for it.  Don’t blame him for his rudeness.  He’s a blood relative on Gertie’s side of the family, so he never had the chance to inherit his Uncle Hardass’ good manners, looks, hard worth ethic, or his general ability to display kindness and sensitivity.

Look, if you millennials have come to me for advice about your love lives, you’ve come to the wrong place.  Way back when I was a youngster if a man liked a woman he’d ask her out on a date to the malt shoppe and if he had a good job and wasn’t a damn communist, her father would push her out the door like any God fearing American would have done at the time.

Ahh, but you new age young people have it all ass backwards now.  Ask a girl out on a date today and you’ll get accused of intruding on her “safe space” with a “micro aggression.”

Ladies, I’m not saying you have it any better now either.  Women used to be able to bat their eyelashes at a man they liked and that was it.  Now if you do that the guy’s liable to reach into his man purse and offer you a dab of his manscara.

That wasn’t a gay joke.  That was a straight men have become just as bad as women are at primping themselves all the time joke.  My nephew BQB has informed me that one errant gay joke is enough to leave you labeled as being worse than Charles Manson these days and I for one have always been an advocate for the gays.  As long as they work hard, pay their taxes and mow their damn lawns then I could care less what they do behind closed doors. More cooter for me, I say.

But I digress.  Let me return to the topic of settling.

If you’re reading this blog and you are alone on Valentine’s Day….SETTLE!

YOU!  Yes you.  The gal reading this dumb blog while you’re petting a calico cat with one hand and scooping  Ben and Jerry’s into your face hole with the other.

Why aren’t you settling?

You think I’m being mean here but I’m not.  Most of the time I am but not this time.  What was going through your mind when you rejected that geek that you met at your friend’s party last week?  You know.  That loser with the dopey glasses who couldn’t stop talking about the “Settlers of Catan Strategy Club” he’s in.

He called you and left a message.  Why haven’t you called that asshole back yet?

Oh I know.  “Some day things are going to turn around.  I’m going to blossom into a beautiful butterfly and Brad Pitt is going to knock down my door.”

Yeah.  Well.  Look.  One day he might.  One day my dumbass nephew might get a real job too.  Until God starts passing out miracles, call that dufus up and go on a date with him, will you?  What have you got to lose?

Holy shit.  He’s a C.H.U.D.  You’re a C.H.U.D.  Why are you damn C.H.U.D.s at home alone, stroking your ugly pets alone, watching TV alone, when you could be snuggled up nice and tight together as a hideous C.H.U.D. couple, getting a start on your bright C.H.U.D. future together and working on making some C.H.U.D. babies to scare the shit out of the nurses in the maternity ward?

I’ll tell you why.  To quote Marcellus Wallace in that Pulp Fiction movie that my stupid nephew used to watch on a continuous loop when he was growing up, “That’s pride talking.”

Yes.  You’ve convinced yourself that Brad Pitt is just around the corner.  Keep yourself single so you’ll be ready when Brad wakes up one day in his damn mansion, turns to his wife, Angelina Jolie and cries, “Holy shit, Angelina!  I’m sorry but I just realized I’m attracted to she-C.H.U.D.s with a penchant for overweight felines and novelty Vermont based ice cream products!”

Is there anything wrong with you for wanting better?  No.  That’s just human nature.  Shit, the day you stop wanting more is the day they outfit you for a pine box.

Keep wanting better but Jesus, take what you can get in the mean time.  If the bazillion to one shot that Brad leaves Angelina for you ever works out in your favor, then you can let the C.H.U.D. boyfriend you settled for go.  Maybe see if Brad can toss him a few bucks so he can get some plastic surgery to look less hideous so he can find a babe to replace you.

Holy Shit, I’ve dated myself, haven’t I?  None of you dummies know who Brad and Angelina are do you?  Who are the C.H.U.D. millennial girls hoping knocks on their door?  Justin Beiber?  Shit.  I have no idea.

Men, take a knee because your dumb asses aren’t getting off the hook easy either.  All you male C.H.U.D.s at home playing video games in your mother’s basement instead of asking that girl who works at the Arby’s that you visit three times a day to toss big beef and cheddars down your gullet.  Why don’t you ask her out?  What?  Because she has crooked teeth and a hair lip?

Shit.  I’m sure she’s still a nice gal.  Take her out to a few movies then once you get her in the sack you can plant some subliminal messages around the house.  Put a free coupon for lip waxing in the magazine she’s reading.  Tell her you have no idea how it got there.  Put an orthodontia documentary on the TV and blast it on high while she’s sleeping.  Maybe it’ll sink in.

Or just say screw it and learn to love her for her Yeti lip and snaggle teeth because let’s face it, you’re fatter than most planets and you could sell the rights to your face to Halloween mask companies.  Stop holding out for Blake Lively.  Blake Lively would not touch your diseased micro phallus if it was the only option to keep an alien race from exploding a thermonuclear bomb inside the Earth’s core.

Yeah.  Shit.  When I put it like that you want to call that Arby’s cashier up now, don’t you?

And just as the dopey gal with the cat can drop her C.H.U.D. boyfriend if Brad shows up, you too can show the Arby’s girl the door if Blake Lively falls out of love with her handsome movie star husband Ryan Reynolds and decides she’s been missing out when it comes to the micro genitalia of men that play video games in their mothers’ basements all day.

Yes, I know you young folk have been raised with perpetual pats on your back for doing nothing and participation ribbons for just showing up and you were taught to expect that every one of your wildest dreams will come true, so you may hate my guts for dousing you with this cold water but I’m really doing you a favor here.

I worry about you C.H.U.D.s.  I really, really do.  I’m not just saying that either.  Right now there’s a lonely she-C.H.U.D. and a lonely he-C.H.U.D. reading this and those C.H.U.D.s could be out having a swell time together on Valentine’s Day instead of wasting their time alone, apart, with nothing better to do than read my incompetent nephew’s bullshit blog.

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You ugly people should be together, having a good time, talking, laughing, getting to know each other and should the mood strike, exploring each others’ hideous, disgusting bodies, the types of bodies that Brad and Blake wouldn’t touch with rubber gloves covered in disinfectant.

Look, I wanted Rita Hayworth but I settled for Gertie.  And Gertie wanted Frank Sinatra but she got stuck with me.  We each wanted better but we weren’t dummies.  Like a lousy strip mall insurance lawyer, or a new house on a rickety foundation, we settled and you should too.

But Uncle Hardass, why are you telling me to settle for someone who treats me like shit and is mean to me and steals all my money and hits me and so on?

Jesus.  You 3.5 readers have reading comprehension problems.  I didn’t say settle for someone who’s a total asshole or doesn’t treat you with the dignity you deserve and shit, you don’t even have to settle for someone you don’t like or aren’t interested in.  If, for whatever reason, they just aren’t greasing your spark plugs, you don’t have to seem them again.  Don’t settle for someone if you don’t foresee any possible way of being in love with them.

All I’m saying is, at the risk of sounding hokey,  we’re all God’s children, made as he made us, aren’t we?

Ladies, go on a date with that geek.  Fellas, go on a date with that she-nerd.  Worst that happens is you don’t have a good time, it doesn’t feel right, and you don’t go out again.  Best that happens is you gave it a shot and you end up having a great time with someone you’d like to get to know better and you aren’t waiting around for something to happen.  Something is actually happening instead.

All I’m saying is you might be missing out on the love of your life for some dumb superficial reason, you dumbass.

Eh, but what do I know?  The more I watch the news, the more it seems like everyone’s an asshole these days so maybe all you single people are better off alone.  The world’s falling apart, so no need to procreate just to hand a shitty world to a new generation of losers who will cock it all up even worse than it is now, if that’s even possible.

Happy Valentine’s Day, lonely 3.5 readers.  Buck up, keep a stiff upper lip, and better luck next year.

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Feb 14 2016
3 Comments
Tomfoolery

Happy Valentine’s Day 3.5 Readers

If you have someone, enjoy the day.

If you’re single, you can go to Dairy Queen and ask for a Free Singles Blizzard.  (Article in Fortune Magazine.)

I mean, if you’re not so prideful that you feel like going up to a teenage minimum wage slave and asking for a free ice cream treat to help dull the crippling pain of your seemingly endless loneliness isn’t beneath you and all.

I’m sure this promotion wasn’t created by a beautiful person or anything.

ATTRACTIVE AD EXEC 1 – Let’s give free ice cream to the lonely people on Valentine’s Day!

ATTRACTIVE AD EXEC 2 – Great idea! Ugly people love ice cream and they love deals that require them to admit that they’re single on the most romantic day of the year in order to stuff free food in their face holes!

If you’re in love, celebrate right.

If not, better luck next year and remember, you’re always loved as a member of BQB’s 3.5 readers club.  Why do you need a soulmate when you’ve got free ice cream and an independently published blog to read?  Seriously.  Stop being selfish.

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Feb 04 2016
9 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 18

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After lunch, Slade and Sarah took a constitutional along the banks of the Mississippi River, which flowed just outside Highwater, hence the town’s name.

They arrived just in time to catch “The Belle of the Ball,” a massive red and white steamboat, make its way down river. Happy passengers toured the deck, men in suits, ladies in full length dresses carrying parasols.

“I would love to take a journey on one of those one day,” Sarah said.

Most quick witted men would have seen that statement as an “in” to slip in an offer to take Sarah on a boat ride. Slade, on the other hand, just grunted.

Sarah took Slade’s arm and rested her head on her shoulder. “At the risk of sounding like a ninny I must say I’ve enjoyed the past few days with you, Rain.”

“Mmm hmm,” Slade replied.

“Have you as well?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“I love your quiet confidence,” Sarah said. “Jebediah, oh how awful for me to speak ill of the dead, but he was different…”

Slade just kept watching the steamboat go by, its enormous paddle wheel turning around and around.

“…all he ever wanted to do was talk about his feelings, his worries, his burdens. I did my best as is the place of any good wife but it became so tiresome for me.”

Slade wasn’t sure he liked what he was hearing.

“Men really should be the rock that women lean on, shouldn’t they?” Sarah asked. “All that emotion, so unmanly, don’t you think?”

“Uh huh.”

Slade didn’t mean that “uh huh.” He found himself missing Miss Bonnie more than ever. Deep within his heart, a battle began, between his love for the only woman he was able to drop the macho man act around, and the woman who wanted that macho man. Miss Bonnie took him as he actually was, Sarah was enchanted by the brave face he put on.

But Sarah was there and as the old saying goes, a bird in the hand…

“What are your intentions?” Sarah asked.

“Huh?”

“Rain I know we’ve only just met but time passes by so quickly,” Sarah said. “My child birthing years will soon be behind me, and it is rather unseemly for us to be seen carrying on around town without…”

Slade raised a quizzical brow. Sarah took her arm back.

“Perhaps I’m pushing too hard,” Sarah said. “It’s just that…I’m not a hussy, Rain. Handholding, picnicking…”

Sarah looked around to check if there was anyone listening in. Seeing no one, she whispered, “I’ve seen you shirtless!”

“All these things should mean something,” she continued. “I wouldn’t do them with just any man.”

“Uh huh.”

Sometimes a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Whether its gunslinging or romance, there’s no room for hesitation.

Slade got down on one knee, took Sarah’s hand into his and what came next wasn’t exactly the most theilling proposal ever made, but it got the job done.

“Will ya’?”

Sarah’s eyes welled up. “Yes!”

Overcome with joy, she wrapped herself around Slade, smothering him with kisses, an act she quickly recoiled from.

“We shouldn’t be kissing outside of marriage,” she said. Then after a pause, she pressed her lips against Slade’s for more. “Lord, forgive me just this once.”

They found a rock and sat down. They kissed awhile longer then Sarah began laying out all her plans for the future. The wedding, the children, everything.

“We’ll need a ring to make this official,” she said.

“I got one,” Slade replied, thinking about the ring he once intended for Miss Bonnie. Now it was just gathering dust in his desk drawer back at the Marshal’s office.

Slade ran his off the cuff decision through his head. Was he an idiot? Had he just ruined any chance of ever being with Miss Bonnie or was he smart to shore up a sure thing rather than hold out for a long shot? He did feel affection toward Sarah, but he wasn’t sure if it was love or just appreciation for a woman making it clear she loved him.

The Marshal’s concentration was shot by the blaring of a train whistle. From his vantage point, he could see a locomotive chugging in over the Sturtevant Bridge, pulling a long line of cars behind it.

Emblazoned on the side of each car in bold black letters was one word. “LEGION.”

The door of one of the cars rolled open. Three men cracked open one barrel after another, dumping a steady stream of red liquid straight into the Mississippi.

Sarah was too busy dreaming to pay attention. She missed the whole spectacle.

“If it’s a boy, I’ve always been partial to ‘William.’ What do you think?”

“Huh?”

Sarah kissed Rain again. “You’re overwhelmed, aren’t you?”

“Something like that,” Rain said.

The train headed to Highwater Station. Sarah carried on for awhile longer until Slade interrupted.

“You need to leave your spread for awhile,” he said. “It’s not safe.”

“Not safe?”

“Something’s going on,” Slade explained. “I’m not sure what but I’ve got a bad feeling.”

Sarah grinned and patted Slade’s hand. “You’re incorrigible.”

“What?”

“You’re a man,” Sarah said. “You…desire…what all men desire but we aren’t married yet, Mr. Slade. Unmarried men and women living together under the same roof would be an abomination in the Lord’s eyes.”

“It’s not that,” Slade said. “There really is…”

Sarah put a finger up against Slade’s lips. “Shhh. I won’t have it. Not another word. Our special day will arrive soon enough and we will get together between the bedsheet and…”

Sarah’s face turned red. “It’s very inappropriate to talk about this.”

Slade felt the situation called for more words than he usually spared. “I’m not talking about that at all. Something sinister is in the works and…wait. Bedsheet?”

“Marriage is until death but there is an interpretation of the good book that indicates that…this is so embarrassing.”

Now Slade wanted to know more than ever.

“That my sinful parts still belong to Jebediah, but the Lord will always approve of a married couple engaging in sexual congress for the purpose of procreation…”

There was a momentary lapse in Slade’s cool demeanor. “Will you spit it out already?!”

Sarah bit her upper lip. “Hence, a hole in a bedsheet.”

Slade felt the bottom fall out of his stomach. A little voice in his head told him to back out of the proposal. Did he really want to limit himself to sex through a hole in a bedsheet for the rest of his life?

But then again, another voice in his head reminded him that sex through a hole in a bedsheet, bland as it sounded, would still be a lot more interesting than the zero activity happening in his boudoir at present.

He went with that voice.

“You’re displeased?” Sarah asked.

“No,” Slade replied.

Sarah’s head was back on Slade’s shoulder. “Such a wonderful man.”

Call it a failure to prioritize, but Slade became so focused on the bedsheet issue to insist any further that Sarah stay in town.

He sucked it up. Maybe in a few years he’d be able to talk her down to a hole in a pillowcase.

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Feb 03 2016
4 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 17

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No makeup. No fancy hairdo. Not even a garter or lingerie or a frilly dress. Miss Bonnie strolled out of the Bonnie Lass wearing a simple white blouse and a blue prairie dress, her hair tied back in a pony tail with the help of a pink ribbon.

She carried a tin of blueberry muffins, purchased from Anderson’s General Store, of course. It was the thought that counted.

“Rain,” she mumbled to herself under her breath. “I’m sorry. I’m very sorry? No. I’m sorry’s good enough. Hell, what do I have to be ‘very’ sorry for?”

As one might expect, the local brothel keeper turned a few heads as she walked by. No one had ever seen her dressed in a respectable manner before.

For the first time since her divorce courtesy of Smith and Wesson, Miss Bonnie felt ready to give her heart to another man. Well, to allow him to take up space in it at least. She wasn’t about to roll over easy and she still wanted Slade to work for it but she figured a tin of muffins was a good investment to get things started.

Alas, her hopes were dashed when she spotted Slade eating a piece of fried chicken whilst being chatted up by his new love interest.

Miss Bonnie spoke to herself much louder this time.

“Who in the HELL is that cu…”

An old man who managed to sneak up on her cut her off mid-sentence, er…insult.

“Bonnie Lassiter, as I live and breathe, is that you?” Gunther asked. He was fresh from the telegraph office with an envelope in his hand.

“Who is that?” Bonnie asked.

Bonnie and Gunther watched as Slade quietly ate lunch and Sarah beamed at her new beau.

“Who?” Gunther asked. “The Widow Farquhar?”

“The Widow Who-quar?”

“Farquhar,” Gunther said. “The new proprietress of the Olmsted property. Taken a real shine to our fearless leader.”

“What in the…” Miss Bonnie was livid. “Has HE taken a shine to her?”

“Hard to say,” Gunther said. “I’ve seen more talkative cacti than the Marshal but I suppose he wouldn’t have spent so much time fixing up her place if he wasn’t sweet on her.”

“Sweet on her?” Miss Bonnie protested. “She looks like a damn broom stick with tits!”

“Miss Bonnie,” Gunther began but was cut off by Miss Bonnie, who felt it necessary to opine whether or not the Widow Farquhar was “lousy with syphilis.” She leaned toward the affirmative but she may have been biased.

“Miss Bonnie,” Gunther tried again. “Seeing you without your can can girl outfit on… without all the fancy straps and bells and whistles and so on…”

“Shut up, Gunther.”

“…dressed like a school marm with a handful of muffins. I’m liable to deduce you’re on your way to court our illustrious Marshal.”

That deduction was met with a spontaneous raspberry. “Pbbbhhht!”

“Like I’d ever give a hoot about that worthless jackass,” Miss Bonnie said.

She looked over just in time to catch Sarah laughing as she brushed some crumbs off of Slade’s cheek.

Ophelia Hutchins, the corpulent, elderly wife of local banker Ed Hutchins walked by.

“Afternoon, Deputy,” Ophelia said, ignoring Miss Bonnie, as most who disapproved of her profession tended to do. “I say, did you happen to peak at the Marshal and the Widow Farquhar?”

“Yessum.”

“They make a handsome couple, don’t they?” Ophelia asked.

Gunther opened his mouth to answer then closed it when he saw Miss Bonnie’s scrunched up face. That was her signature move whenever she was doing her best to hold back tears, or rage, or whatever emotion was on the way, rage being more likely in this case.

“I’ll have to uh…study that topic and back to you Mrs. Hutchins,” Gunther said. “Good day.”

“Good day, Deputy,” Ophelia said and then as she waddled away, “Whore.”

“Why does everyone call that bitch ‘The Widow Farquhar?’” Miss Bonnie asked.

“I don’t rightly know,” Gunther said. “It’s a title I suppose. Like ‘President Hayes’ or ‘Governor Montgomery’ or ‘The Widow Farquhar.’”

“So that’s all you have to do to get a title?” Miss Bonnie asked. “Just marry some asshole who up and croaks on you and then everyone considers that the best achievement a woman can ever have so you’re ‘The Widow Whatever-Your-Dead-Husband’s-Name-Was for the rest of your days?’”

“Her first name’s Sarah,” Gunther said. “I don’t think most folks call her ‘The Widow Farquhar.’”

The white haired, good natured, ever smiling Reverend Cavanagh happened by.

“What a glorious afternoon,” he said. “Hello Gunther. Hello Whore.”

“Reverend,” Gunther and Miss Bonnie replied in unison. She wasn’t lying to Slade earlier when she told him she was used to being called a whore.

“Ahh!” the Reverend said as headed to the church. “Excuse me but I must introduce myself to the Widow Farquhar and welcome her to our humble community. Take care, Gunther and Miss Bonnie, I’ll continue to pray for your blackened soul.”

“Yeah,” Miss Bonnie said. “Thanks for that.” Then to Gunther she added, “See?”

“I don’t what to say,” Gunther said. “I’m sorry you’re miffed, Miss Bonnie, but I’m not sure it’s my place to get in the middle of something.”

The muffin tin was spiked on the ground and its former handler stormed off back to her house of ill repute. Gunther picked it up.

“You want me to give your muffins to Rain?” the old man asked.

“He can have that slut’s muffins!” Miss Bonnie cried back.

Gunther helped himself to a muffin, chomping down on it like it was the tastiest thing he’d ever eaten.

“He won’t miss one.”

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Feb 02 2016
4 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was ZOMBED – Chapter 14

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To say that the Olmsted property was a dump would be an insult to dumps. Without old Frederick looking after it, the log cabin had gone into disrepair and the few acres became overrun with weeds and tall grass.

“Oh my,” Sarah said. “I knew enough to be skeptical when the advertisement described it as ‘luxurious’ but this isn’t how I pictured it at all.”

Sarah and Slade walked into the cabin where they found cobwebs, dirty dishes, and dust, dust, and more dust.

“I have my work cut out for me,” Sarah said. “So be it. As the good book says, ‘idle hands are the devil’s handiwork.’”

Slade nodded.

“Thank you, Marshal.  I don’t want to keep you from your duties any longer.”

Slade tipped his hat then headed for his horse, only to stop abruptly. He had something to say, and without Gunther around, it was going to be difficult for him, especially since Sarah was new to him.

“Is everything all right, Marshal?” Sarah asked.

“I don’t…”

Sarah removed her bonnet as she waited for the words to come out of Slade’s mouth. All that long pretty hair didn’t help the Marshal connect his brain to his voice box any faster.

“I reckon I don’t feel it’s right to…”

Big brown eyes. Staring. Blinking. That’s all Slade saw.

“…to leave you all alone out here…because you’re a woman and all.”

Sarah smiled. “Oh, I know,” she said. “This certainly is unorthodox. Ever since he passed, I’ve come to realize how much I relied on Jedediah for everything.”

“I’m sorry,” Slade said.

“It’s all right,” Sarah said. “He slipped away peacefully in his sleep. Such a kind, gentle man. It would have been nice to have known him a bit longer but seventy-four years is more than anyone can ask for.”

Slade felt a burning need to check to see if he heard that correctly.

“Seventy-four?” he asked.

“Unusual, I know,” Sarah said. “But father needed a loan and Jedediah had the money. Can’t say anyone ever asked my opinion.”

Fortunately, Slade’s stoicism prevented him from sharing his opinion.

“But you need not worry about me, Marshal,” Sarah said. “I’ve come to accept that no man will ever want a once married old maid of twenty-six so I shall persevere and learn how to survive on my own.”

Slade was only two years older. And he was alive. He was beating old Jedediah on two fronts.

“I’ll lend a hand,” Slade said.

A rusty axe was buried in a tree stump, surrounded by logs Olmsted never got around to. The Marshal went to work splitting them.

“You’re too kind, Marshal,” Sarah said.

“Rain.”

“Pardon?”

“Call me Rain.”

“Very well,” Sarah said. “Rain.”

Sarah retreated to the cabin and went to work on tidying up. An hour later she poked her head outside to check on her helper only to find him shirtless, his sweaty muscles gleaming in the sun.

“Oh my Lord,” she said. Good church goer that she was, she averted her eyes and walked back inside.

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Jan 28 2016
3 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was ZOMBED – Chapter 8

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“EVERYBODY HATES ME!!!”

The rasp in his voice disappeared, the scowl lifted, his tongue was no longer tied and the words flowed out of Slade’s mouth like the choppy waters of a roaring river. As if that weren’t bad enough, the lawman’s face was covered with snot and tears.

“Shhh baby,” Miss Bonnie said softly as she stroked her fingers through Slade’s luscious brown hair. “I got you. Hush that fool talk now, no one hates you.”

Yup. Men have needs and sometimes one of them is the shoulder of a good woman to cry on, or in this case, an ample bosom to cry into. Why? What did you readers think Slade needed?

Perverts.

“YEPH DEY DOOTH!” Slade’s voice was muffled by Miss Bonnie’s copious assets. He turned his head to the side for purposes of pronunciation and better air inhalation.

“Who?” Miss Bonnie asked. “Who hates you?”

Somehow in a town filled with nosey gossips, Slade and Miss Bonnie had managed to keep their arrangement secret for six whole months. Once a week, Slade would head up to Miss Bonnie’s room, plunk down her full fee, and then unload all of his burdens.

They never did anything beyond that. Miss Bonnie wasn’t against the idea but Slade didn’t think it proper. So the pair would just lie in bed, Slade taking a break from his tough guy persona while Miss Bonnie played the role of a discount head shrinker.

“Gunther.”

“What?” Miss Bonnie asked. “He does not hate you!”

“He doesn’t believe in me I know that much.”

“And what makes you think that?” Miss Bonnie asked as she took Slade’s hand and interlocked her fingers between his.

Slade sniffed and blew his nose into a hanky. “He wanted to run. He didn’t think I could handle the Buchanan Boys on my own.”

“Well shit, Rain, there was thirty of them and only one of you!” Miss Bonnie said. “Maybe if you’d of told him your plan. Don’t you think you should share these kinds of things with your deputy?”

“He second guesses me on everything,” Slade said. “He always tries to talk me out of whatever I want to do. I’m the boss! He should just do what I say and like it!”

Miss Bonnie rested her cheek on top of Slade’s head. “Oh honey. Bosses and employees bicker all the time. That’s natural.”

Another sniff. “It is?”

“Sure. Whenever I tell Waldo to water down the drinks he always gets all high and mighty with his, ‘I can’t lower my integrity just so you can save a buck’ routine but I always ask him ‘Are you going to pay for the extra liquor then?’ and sure enough, he shuts his trap and waters the hooch down.”

“So what the hell does that mean?” Slade asked.

“It means that the boss/employee relationship is give and take. You want your employees to feel like they’re free to tell you when they think you’re wrong because sometimes you might be wrong. Like that time Eleanor told me the girls didn’t want to entertain the circus folk. She was right. All those freaks had gangrenous peckers and the little money I would have made off them would have paled in comparison to the money I’d of lost if all the girls got sick for weeks after.”

“This…this is getting off topic.”

Slade rolled over on his stomach and Miss Bonnie knew that was her cue to hop up on the Marshal’s back and give him a shoulder massage.

“Honey, if you think you’re right and you put your foot down, then a good employee will still back you up out of loyalty,” Miss Bonnie said. “Gunther stood up for you, didn’t he? You should have heard the way he was talking about you in here, like rainbows were popping out of your backside and all.”

“Really?” Slade asked.

“Really,” Miss Bonnie answered. “Holy…you’ve got a big knot here.”

The Marshall let out a sigh of relief as Miss Bonnie worked her magic.

“Standing Eagle definitely hates me,” Slade said. “No way around that.”

“That is a sad situation,” Miss Bonnie said. “But stop beating yourself up about it. Sure, maybe you could have explained yourself better but everyone makes mistakes.”

Miss Bonnie moved her hands lower and started working on the kinks in Slade’s back.

“Ohhh…yea,” Slade said. “Right there.”

“Here?” Miss Bonnie asked.

“Yessum.”

As far as Slade was concerned, kinky sex was all well and good when it came to relieving a man’s carnal desires, but when it came to his wounded soul, there was no better balm than a woman willing to rub a man’s back and listen to his litany of complaints without thinking less of him afterwards.

“I’ll tell you what,” Miss Bonnie said. “You give the Injuns a few days to cool off then after the judge gives his verdict, I’m going to make the biggest, yummiest cake ever and you’re going to ride on out to the Injun lands, give the cake to the Chief and invite the whole tribe to come watch those Buchanan Boys twist in the wind.”

Miss Bonnie stopped the rubdown when she heard a snicker.

“What?”

“You?” Slade asked. “Bake a cake?”

The madame slapped a light one upside the back of Slade’s head. “Shut your mouth! I can so bake!”

The massage ended and the unlikely couple spooned. Miss Bonnie was the little spoon, though on occasion Slade had been known to take that position. He would have surely committed hare kare had any of his numerous enemies ever found out.

“I can see it now,” Slade said. “The Chief takes one bite then pulls out his tomahawk and scalps me.”

“Rainer Slade! You take that back! I’ll have you know I’m very handy in the kitchen.”

“Uh huh,” Slade said.

“Fine,” Miss Bonnie said. “I’ll get one of the girls to make it. The point is just because people argue doesn’t mean they can’t make up. As soon as Smelly Jack’s six feet under Standing Eagle will talk to you again. You’ll see.”

“You know he said that if Jack doesn’t die I’ll wish I had died?”

“Well, that’s just plain rude,” Miss Bonnie said.

“And that the land will be useless for farming and everyones’ lives will be filled with torment and…oh! Get this…”

“What?” Miss Bonnie asked.

“He said that if Jack doesn’t die, then whenever anyone else dies they’ll…I forget how he put it…they’ll come back to life and start eating everyone for dinner or something.”

Miss Bonnie snuggled herself closer to Slade. “Injuns say the darnedest things.”

Briefly, as Slade nuzzled up to the all the red hair in front of his face, he allowed himself to be happy. But like most of the good times in his life, it was abruptly over.

WAM! A fist pounded on the door.

“Shit,” Miss Bonnie said. “Has it been an hour already?”

“Damn it,” Slade said.

More knocks, followed by the unceremonious voice of Roscoe Crandall, who returned for a second go-around.

“SLADE, YOU GONNA BE ALL NIGHT OR WHAT?!”

“Can we just tell him to get lost?” Slade asked. “I’ll pay for another hour.”

Miss Bonnie sat up. “No baby, that wouldn’t be fair.”

“COME ON, SLADE! OTHER PEOPLE ARE WAITIN’ FOR THE WHORE!”

Those words burned like acid in Slade’s ears. He put on his Stetson, then took his gun belt off the night stand, strapped it on, and pulled out his Colt.

“Stop it,” Miss Bonnie said.

“I ought to shoot him where he stands for calling you that,” Slade said.

Miss Bonnie took a seat at her vanity and primped herself in front of her mirror.

“It’s what I am,” she said. “People call you a Marshall because you get paid to catch crooks. People call me a whore because I let men have their way with me for money. There’s no shame in it except for what people attach to it. We all have to make a living somehow.”

Slade holstered his steel. Then, with his back to Miss Bonnie, he reached into his pocket and pulled out an old ring. It was a scratched and scuffed heirloom. Not much to look at. But it once belonged to his mother and he hoped it would do. He gulped, choking back the anxiety that rolled up his throat.

“Bonnie…”

Miss Bonnie was busy inserting a hair pin into her elaborate do when she stopped. The distinct lack of the word “Miss” stood out to her. She knew something was up.

“Yes?”

In his travels throughout the West, Slade had stared down the barrel of many a gun pointed his way and lived to tell the tale but somehow this endeavor proved more difficult than anything he’d ever done before.  For weeks, he practiced what was going to say but now that the moment arrived, it wasn’t any easier.

“What would you say if someone offered to take you away from all this?”

Miss Bonnie turned to her makeup, adding just a touch of rouge to her cheeks. She didn’t need much. They were naturally rosy.

“Away from what?” she asked.

“This place,” Slade said. “What you do. Who you do it with. All of it.”

Still facing the closed door, Slade heard Miss Bonnie scooch out of her chair, then felt her arm on his shoulder. Slade palmed the ring as his paid companion turned him around. She put one hand on each side of Slade’s face, pulled his head down, then kissed him on the lips.

Oh how Slade dreamed of that. He wanted it for so long but never tried for it on his own. Paying for company was ok in his book but paying for anything more intimate was out of the question for him.

“You are adorable,” Miss Bonnie said as she brushed her hand alongside Slade’s cheek. “But you ought to know better than to fall for a…”

“What?” Slade asked.

“WHORE???” Crandall shouted from outside. “WHAT KINDA PLACE YOU RUNNIN’ HERE MAKIN’ A MAN WAIT LIKE THIS?!”

Slade tightened his fist around the ring. The scowl returned. The vein in his forehead popped out again. He turned the knob with his left hand and opened the door to find Roscoe Crandall with his dopey toothless face and stringy hair.

“Finally!” Crandall said.

POW!

Like a cannon at the Battle of Gettysburg, Slade launched a clothesline punch that connected with Crandall’s jaw with a bone shattering crunch, knocking his lights out instantly and sending him down for the count.

The Marshall fished his cigar out of his pocket and returned it to its usual resting place in the right corner of his mouth. The rasp in his voice was back and he was Mr. Tough Guy once more.

He look over his shoulder to Miss Bonnie. “Do I owe you for his hour too?”

Inside Miss Bonnie’s heart brewed a perfect storm of emotion. A little bit of fear, mixed in with some joy, pride and…she thought maybe love? No, it was more than love.

It was butterflies.

Miss Bonnie’s face scrunched up. “No…I’ll just take it out of his pants later.”

Slade grunted his ascent, then tipped the brim of his hat at the lovely lady.

“Miss Bonnie.”

“Marshal.”

Miss Bonnie watched as Slade stepped over Crandall’s oily hide then made his way downstairs. She shut the door, locked it, then returned to her vanity. She couldn’t hold it back any longer. Her face unscrunched and a few tears started to roll.

Why would a madame, the owner of a brothel, sell her own body? That was a question that loomed large on the lips of Highwater’s gossipy gadflies. The general consensus was that Miss Bonnie did it because she was appallingly promiscuous, but then again, no one ever bothered to ask her why.

Had they done so, they would have learned that she was married once, to a man who presented himself as loving and kind only to eventually turn loathsome and cruel. One black eye too many convinced her to grab her husband’s revolver and respond to his challenge of, “You don’t got the guts” to empty every last round in his chest.

Seemed like a good idea in the heat of the moment but when her good sense returned, she snatched what little money her husband had stuffed under the mattress, fled Illinois for good, and earned her keep as a working girl until she managed to save enough to buy a place of her own.

As anyone who’s ever been down on their luck will attest, when good fortune returns, the mind doesn’t set itself at ease. Thoughts are never happy but rather, they become focused on how to never go back to the dark, dirt poor times of the past. She’d given up on men, forgotten all about love, and money was her only friend.

Money meant power. Money meant respect. Money meant never having to cow tow to another man ever again. As far as she was concerned, she was never able to get enough of it and while she was happy to take her cut from her girls’ earnings, she was even happier to take a full fee on her own.

Rainer Slade. No man had ever defended Miss Bonnie’s honor like that before. And while she was’t exactly a damsel in distress in search of a man’s protection, she did appreciate that someone cared enough to rearrange a scumbag’s face in her honor.

Poor Miss Bonnie. She sure had a lot to think about.

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Nov 28 2015
1 Comment
Undesiredverse

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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Nov 18 2015
1 Comment
Undesiredverse

Undesiredverse: Wanted – Chapter 15

Along the outskirts of the eastern rim of the Milky Way lies a planet referred to the locals as Belandria’s Deine.

Translation: Belandria’s Dawn.

The belandrians are a species of absurdly, ridiculously, borderline supernaturally attractive females. There’s no such thing as an ugly belandrian, or a fat belandrian, or even just an average, run of the mill, plain jane belandrian.

They’re all hot…and they’re all purple.

And I’m not going to lie. I am partial to them. As the old saying goes, “once you go grape, you’ll never escape.”

We earthlings call belandrians by a different name. “Bella donnas.” True, Italian for “beautiful woman” is “bella donna” and “beautiful women” is “belle donne” but at some point, “bella donnas” just stuck for them. It had a lot to do with the famous earthling space explorer/journalist Giuseppe DeNunzio, who reported the existence of Belandria’s Dawn to Earth years ago, then never returned.

Poor guy. Had no idea what he was up against. Never stood a chance.

Zumani. I’m not ashamed to say that I met her in a bella donna strip joint. Belandria’s Dawn is lousy with them. Modeling, stripping, and assassinations are actually the top three industries on that planet. You scoff but when you keep in mind that we’re talking about a world filled to the brim of jaw droopingly foxy purple chicks, it makes sense. Especially that last one.

We had a whirlwind romance. Long walks on the beach. Holding hands. Lovemaking by a cozy fire. We felt safe enough with one another to share our hopes, dreams, fears, and aspirations. I’d never been in love before. I wasn’t sure I was capable of it until I met her.

She asked me to tie the knot. Since it’d only been a few weeks, it seemed a bit forward, not too mention out of line with my old fashioned ways. I was the man, after all. It should of been me popping the question. But once it was popped, I felt an overwhelming desire to spend the rest of my life with her so I said yes.

Funny thing about interspecies love affairs. There’s a tendency for things to get lost in translation. Turns out what bella donnas and what earthlings mean by “tying the knot” are two entirely separate and distinct concepts.

As soon as I accepted what I thought was a proposal, she gave me a deep, passionate kiss…then tied a damn leash around my neck, dragged my butt naked carcass all the way to a high priestess who, in the name of the Goddess Mother (the bella donnas’ deity), anointed my forehead with some purple berry juice and declared me to be Zumani’s “property.”

I thought she wanted to get married. She just wanted me to be her slave. Insert joke about how there’s no difference here.
Days later, I managed to escape the cage she locked me in but she refused to let me go without a fight. It was a firefight, in fact. An intense skirmish that took out half a block of Modala City. I caught a break when she wasn’t looking and hijacked a cab out of there. I still feel bad for pulling a gun on that hot purple cabbie but I’d run out of options.

That was a year ago and word had it that she’d been hunting me ever since. Did I forget to mention that she moonlighted as an assassin for ILL Sector? Headed by the wealthy and powerful Lady Illyria, many a male being has met his end in the arms of this vast network of lethal seductresses.

“You never cease to embarrass me,” Zumani said.

“What did I do now?”

“You tell me,” my ex-lover (or owner?) said. “A bounty of one hundred trillion credits has just been placed on your worthless head.”

I clutched my chest. I wasn’t so much scared as I was thrilled. Touched even.

“Get out,” I said. “That’s got to be a typo.”

“No property,” Zumani said. “The order was handed down by Lady Illyria herself. All agents are to drop whatever they are doing and destroy you. I shall very much enjoy wrapping my hands around your throat and strangling you until your eyes pop out of their sockets and gush puss all over the walls.”

“Yeesh,” I said. “Thought about it much?”

“Everyday since you humiliated me,” Zumani said. “A belandrian is nothing without her honor. Men were made to serve women. Such is the belandrian way. By the Goddess Mother’s divine law, your place is under my foot, licking my boot heel!”

“I thought I was getting married,” I said. “I didn’t know I was agreeing to become a slave!”

With a deadpan expression she asked, “There’s a difference?”

You probably think she was kidding. She wasn’t. On her world, slavery and marriage are the same thing.

“A belandrian who can’t keep her slaves in line will never have a place in high society,” Zumani complained. “There has been no end to the scorn and ridicule I have been subjected to by my peers since I let you get away.”

I grinned. “Since you…let me get away?”

Zumani got all huffy and indignant. “What? Preposterous! Why would I LET you get away?”

I batted my eyelashes. “Because you luuuuuuurrrve me baby!”

She scoffed. “What is this? What is this ‘luuuuuurrrrvvve’ you speak of? Is that an earth word for ‘love?’ I do not love you! I never will! Damn you, property, when I find you I will rip open your jaws, shove my foot down your throat and kick your heart out of your asshole!”

Alien Jones looked over to me and whispered, “That’s love.”

“WHO IS THAT?” Zumani barked. “Is that the little green man? I will collect the billion on his head as well!”

Jones was offended. “Why are you worth a hundred trillion and I’m only a lousy billion? I’m a legendary scientist!!! I’m an accomplished explorer! I’m a…I’m a…”

I held up a hand, bidding him to talk to it. “He isn’t wrong, baby,” I said to Zumani. “You’ve still got it for me, and you’ve got it baaaaaaaddd.”

“I won’t dignify your pathetic suck hole any longer. I despise you.”

“You do?” I asked. “Then why would you call me to warn me that you’re coming for me?”

Zumani sighed. She looked down. “You’re right. Of all the property I have owned, you were the most handsome, the most charming, and the most gentle. My honor will be restored as soon as you are dead by the hand of a belandrian. It does not matter which one but for what it is worth…”

“Yes?”

“I hope it isn’t me.”

“I hope it isn’t either baby.”

A single tear streamed down her cheek. I never knew she had it in her.

“Please don’t do anything obvious,” Zumani said. “Don’t go to your home or any of your old haunts. Stay out of the strip clubs…”

“That’s crazy talk,” I said.

“…don’t make it easy for me to find you, property. Please. At least do this for me.”

“I will,” I said.

The holographic image of the love of my life flickered. She kept talking but her voice transmission became garbled. I couldn’t make out what she was saying. Her face was replaced by a static horizontal line that bounced with every word uttered by a familiar voice.

“Awww…how adorable.”

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Oct 20 2015
5 Comments
#31ZombieAuthors

#31ZombieAuthors – Day 20 Interview – Rachel Higginson – Zombified Romance

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FIND THIS ZOMBIE AUTHOR ON:

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Today’s guest is Rachel Higginson, author of the zombie apocalypse romance series, Love and Decay.  Currently in Season Three, it’s the story of Reagan, whose dreams of a happily ever after go up in smoke when she’s forced to run her zombified high school sweetheart over with her mother’s car to keep herself from becoming zombie chow.

Born and raised in Nebraska, Rachel spent her college years traveling the world, the highlights of said journey including Eastern Europe, Paris, Indian Food and the beautiful beaches of Sri Lanka.

She came home to marry her own high school sweetheart, who luckily, has yet to become zombified.  When she’s not writing, she’s either raising her four children or reading.

BQB: Rachel, thanks for taking my call.

RACHEL: Thank you! I’m so excited to chat.

NOTE:  BOLD=BQB; ITALICS=RACHEL

Q.   Love and Decay is serialized in a television-esque style.  Season Three came out in May of this year and you expect Season Four in December.  As you describe on your website, during a season, each episode comes out in the form of a novella of around 20,000 words.  When all of the novellas are out, you put them together in a seasonal omnibus.

Thanks to streaming media and the ability to watch whatever you want, whenever you want, television has drastically improved in recent years.  What inspired you to serialize your work and is there any benefit to doing so as opposed to releasing the entire season in one novel up front?

A.  It was my husband’s idea actually. He thought it would be a great way to get more content to my readers faster. 20,000 words seemed easy to him. While it’s not actually easy, it is so much fun. And the 20k setup forces me to write in a different way than I would a full length novel. These episodes are intense and action packed. The plot-building is stripped down to bare bones to allow everything that needs to happen happen in a four chapter novella. If I were to write the same story in a 100k novel, I would write it completely different. It would be the slow build to the climactic moment. And while a zombie apocalypse book can be nothing but action-packed and exciting, the build-up would still be stretched out over time and chapters. The novellas give me permission to pack a punch with each episode. The story arc is still there, but it’s less of a consistent rise. It’s more like taking a roller coaster up the side of a mountain- you’re always going up, but it’s the most exciting way to get to the top.
 
Q.  I have to admit the idea sounds interesting.  We’re all so busy these days that the idea of sitting down to read an entire novel can be daunting for me, whereas the idea of perusing 20,000 words every two weeks seems doable.  What do your readers think of this approach?

A. They love it. They also hate it! They love it because they get to stay engaged with a fictional world they adore for six entire months. I finish a novel in a few days, a week at most. And then I fall into book depression because I have to leave that story behind. With the novella setup, my readers don’t have to leave the Love and Decay World. They get to stay involved for six entire months. And with how the episodes are set up, each read is exciting, each novella propels the plot forward. There isn’t time for slow, calm, world-building chapters. Each novella has to be an adrenaline-pumping ride through the zombie apocalypse. They hate it though because they really are short reads. Some of my readers can finish them in an hour. And then they’re forced to wait for two weeks to find out what happens next. They don’t like that part- and I really don’t blame them. But I secretly think they love the anticipation. That’s half the fun! 

Q.  Reagan falls for one of the Parkers, the brothers who come to her aid.  Love is hard to find even when the world is running smoothly and the damned aren’t trying to crack open your skull just to feast on the sweet, juicy innards.  For  cynics like me, is there any way you convince us that love in the time of a zombie apocalypse is possible?

A. Oh for sure! I think it’s human nature. We’re not meant to be alone, live alone. Even at the end of the world. The greatest goal of humankind is to be known and understood. And there is no greater way to know and understand a person than by loving them. I would think even more so in a zombie apocalypse where fear and uncertainty rule the day. Sure, there’s also a lot of killing and running for their lives, but love happens in all those in between places. Even if it’s not convenient, it’s something we can’t stop. We are designed to love. But then again, I’m a romantic. 

Q.  The undead aren’t the only ones after Reagan.  Not to give too much away, but threats come in the form of a stalker and bounty hunters, just to give some examples.  What is it about a zombie apocalypse that brings out the worst in people?  Can anyone be trusted when zombies are afoot?

A. In my vision of the zombie apocalypse, men and women are ruled by fear. Sometimes that manifests in helping others survive and sometimes that manifests in grappling for control in any way that you can. In our world today, there are bad and good people. I think circumstances in a zombie outbreak would only amplify those roles. Without standards or authority, bad people are free to do as they please, free to find control anyway that they can. If they can control a situation, there is nothing to fear. That makes it nearly impossible to trust people. You can’t predict how another person will react to their fear or living with fear on a daily basis. But I can’t believe everyone would turn to their darker instincts. There will always be good people in the world or maybe just people who cope better. Trust can happen, but slowly. Or very quickly, depending on the life-threatening situation you find yourself in. 🙂 

Q.  Thanks for taking the time to speak with me today.  Before I go, do you have any last minute advice that might help my friends and I survive the East Randomtown Zombie Apocalypse?

A. Stick together and get creative! You’re going to need a lot of weapons, so you might have to be flexible with the definition of “weapon.” But whatever you end up using, make sure that sucker is dead before you turn around. 

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