Tag Archives: novels

Toilet Gator – Chapter 5

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Like some kind of odd, six legged monster, the trio hobbled their way down a side street and onto the main campus of Sitwell Community College. It was a cool Spring night and students were bustling about, posting trivial nonsense on their Lifebox pages and getting offended over anything and everything.

“Brit,” Paul said as he huffed and puffed. “Where the hell are we going?”

“Beta Zeta Theta,” Britney replied.

“The sorority house?” Paul asked.

“All the other buildings are locked down for the night,” Britney said. “It’s our only shot.”

“They’ll never let him shit there,” Paul lamented.

“Why?” Britney asked.

Chad perked up and burped. “Because I totally nailed seventy-five percent of them and never called any of them back! Woot woot! Party in Chaddy’s pants, y’all!”

“Oh God,” Britney said as she caught a whiff of Chad’s silent but deadly blast. “That smells like a party no one’s going to anytime soon, trust me.”

“Don’t hate the player, babe,” Chad said. His stomach gurgled, he heaved, and the trio stopped. Chad shook his head. “False alarm.” The trio moved on.

“Only seventy-five percent?” Britney asked. “You’re showing restraint as you enter decade two of your quest for an associate’s degree.”

“Nah baby,” Chad said. “It’s cuz the other twenty-five percent were straight up uggos! Chad don’t do no dogs, baby! Woof, woof, arr arr arrrrrwoooooo!”

The trio passed all sorts of student groups. The peaceniks were strumming banjos under a tree. The cool kids were smoking joints. The nerds were playing an elaborate, card based roleplaying game involving dragons, swords, and ill-tempered elves.

“Britney!” Chad yelled.

“I’m here,” Britney said.

“Britney,” Chad said as he farted loudly. “I want you to know I have learned the error of my ways.”

“Whatever, Chad,” Britney said.

“No, really baby,” Chad said. “When I told you that I’d love you forever and then walked right on over to Jenny Sinclair’s room to get a handy that was totally uncool of me. Way, way uncool.”

“It’s all in the past,” Britney said.

“It wasn’t even a good one!” Chad said. “Her hand was all dry and calloused! And she had a bottle of lotion sitting there right there on the nightstand and I nudged my head toward it but she didn’t take the hint so the whole time I was like, ‘This must be like what it feels like to stick your junk inside a tube of sandpaper.’”

Britney sighed. “Just try not to speak.”

Chad ignored the advice. “Babe, if I live through this, I want you to take me back and I swear I’ll be a better man.”

“Not happening,” Britney said.

“Please?” Chad asked.

“Never,” Britney answered.

“Pretty please?” Chad asked.

“No,” Britney replied.

The scene became way more crowded as the trio reached the center of the campus. There, a massive rally was underway. On a prefabricated stage, a young woman wearing thick glasses, a butch haircut, combat boots and a Che Guevara t-shirt was shouting furiously to the crowd.

Britney spotted the banner hanging above the speaker’s head. It read: “The Everything is Super Offensive and Racist and Sexist So Don’t Invade My Safe Space Without a Trigger Warning or Else You Are Literally Hitler Rally.”

“Oh my God,” Britney said. “I forgot that was tonight.”

“It’s the seventh one this month,” Paul said. “After awhile, you lose track.”

“Everything is super offensive and racist and sexist!” the speaker shouted into a bullhorn.

“What about flowers?” a random member of the crowd asked.

“Sexist!” the speaker shouted. “Men try to give them to us to distract us from the fact that they are all scumbag perverts trying to rule our lives because they think their penises give them a God given right to do so!”

“Don’t say, ‘God’ please!” a second crowd member said. “As an atheist, any reference to a deity offends me.”

“I’m sorry!” the speaker shouted into her bullhorn.

“It’s cool,” the atheist said. “Just stay woke.”

“But does everyone see how we are all discriminatory piles of garbage without even realizing it?” the speaker asked. “Like I said, ‘everything is super offensive and racist and sexist!”

“What about pizza?” a third member of the crowd asked.

Without even taking a second to think about the question, the speaker launched into an angry tirade. “Pizza is one of the most ethnically discriminatory foods imaginable. Think about all the hard working Italians who came to this country and put so much hard work and labor to build our cities and infrastructure and how do we repay them? By culturally appropriating their cuisine. It should be a hate crime punished by death if you eat a piece of pizza without showing proof that you are a person of Italian ancestry. If you are not Italian and you eat pizza anyway, then you are literally worse than Hitler!”

“That’s true,” a fourth member of the crowd said. “My Dad eats burritos all the time and he isn’t even Mexican and I’ve always felt he’s literally worse than Hitler.”

Britney, Paul and Chad worked their way through the crowd, bumping into protestors left and right as they tried to pass through.

“What about staplers?” a fifth member of the crowd asked.

“What?” the speaker asked through her bullhorn.

“Staplers,” the protestor asked as she pantomimed using a stapler with her hand. “You know, the thing you keep on your desk to attach pieces of paper together.

“Oh!” the speaker said. “Staplers are by far the most offensive of all office products. I mean, why are we trying to bind pieces of paper down when pieces of paper, just like people, shouldn’t be tied down. If you use a stapler then you better start goose-stepping yourself out of here because you are literally worse than Hitler!”

The crowd cheered and clapped.

“And who decided that pieces of paper have to be white, anyway?” the speaker asked. “We’re all so used to writing on white pieces of paper with black pens, but why can’t pieces of paper be black and pens be white? Everyone in the office supply industry should drop whatever they are doing and address this injustice of epic proportions but they won’t because they’re all literally worse than Hitler!”

More applause. The trio had almost reached the edge of the crowd and were about to break free when Paul had to go and open his mouth.
“The ink,” Paul said.

The crowd gasped. The speaker looked toward Paul and raised her bullhorn to her mouth. “Excuse me?”

Paul coughed into his hand to clear his throat. “Umm…the ink?”

Britney closed her eyes and winced. “Damn it Paul, now is not the time!”

Chad burped and farted in unison.

“What about it?” the speaker asked.

“In order to make paper black, you’d have to dip it in a black dye,” Paul said. “That would not be cost effective and also a waste of precious resources. Further, white paper is one of the most easily recycled materials, but if the paper is covered with ink then that makes it more difficult to recycle, thus generating unnecessarily damage to the environment.”

A quiet hush consumed the crowd. Everyone stared at the trio.

“What have you done, Paul?” Britney asked. “What have you done?”

Paul swallowed hard. “I’m so sorry.”

The speaker’s nostrils flared. She gritted her teethed and seethed with rage. “He exercised independent thought! Get him!”

Chad hurled his guts all over the grass, but before he could wipe off his mouth, he was being dragged across campus but his friend and ex. Over a hundred irate protestors were in hot pursuit, shaking their fists and hurling expletive laden threats sprinkled with the words “tolerance” and “understanding.”

“You and your big mouth,” Britney said.

“I said I was sorry!” Paul cried.

“My feelings were hurt beyond repair!” a sixth random protester shouted. “I’ll suffer from post-traumatic stress syndrome for the rest of my life now!”

“I’m sorry!” Paul shouted back to the random protester with alleged PTSD. “Your feelings are valid and I was inconsiderate!”

“What about me?” a seventh random protester yelled. “I’ll need to pet a therapy dog and stay within the lines of my therapy coloring books for the next six months before I begin the healing process over this!”

“I’m sorry!” Paul shouted back. “I’ll buy you some crayons, I swear!”

“Come back here!” the speaker shouted into her bullhorn. “Making me run is offensive to me because I don’t identify as a runner and that makes you literally worse than Hitler!”

The trio reached the entrance to the Beta Theta Zeta sorority house. The front door was locked, but through the glass they could see a blonde sitting at the front desk, bebopping her head back and forth as she listened to music through a pair of earbuds in her ears.

“Oh thank God, it’s Lilly!” Britney said as she banged on the door. “I have English Lit with her. Lilly! Lilly, let us in!”

Lilly was too far into her jams to pay attention to the door. She mouthed the words to Stank Daddy’s latest single and swayed her head back and forth. “Stank Daddy in the house, gonna smack a bitch…”

Paul turned his head and died a little inside as the crowd of unruly protestors drew near. Somehow, they’d managed to get ahold of flaming torches and pitchforks.

“Incoming social justice warriors!” Paul shouted as he joined Britney in banging on the door. “For the love of God, Lilly, let us in!”

Chad farted, then pulled out his cellphone. “I got this.”

The drunk thumbed through his contacts, then handed the phone to Britney.

“Her too?” Britney asked as she pushed a button on the phone marked, “Hot Blonde, Decent Face, OK Ass.”

“Yup,” Chad replied.

“You’re a pig,” Britney said as she waited for Lilly’s phone to ring.

“I know,” Chad said.

Lilly’s voice came through on Chad’s phone. “Squee! O-M-G Chad, you finally called me back!”

Britney mustered up all of her lung capacity and shouted into the phone, “Let us in, bitch!”

Lilly looked at the front door. She spotted the trio and the incoming unruly mob. She hit a button under her desk.

The door buzzed open. Paul, Britney and Chad ducked into the sorority and shut the door just in time to watch one protestor after another slam themselves up against the glass.

“I am offended by this!” a seventh random protestor said.

“Glass is offensive!” an eighth random protestor said. “It allows me to see who victimized me and ruined my life with inappropriate speech but doesn’t allow me to kick their ass. Whoever invented glass is literally worse than Hitler.”

The speaker pushed her way through the crowd and tried the door handle. The door was locked once more. She lifted up her bullhorn. “Sorry everyone. It looks like we won’t be able to rip those three limb from limb and bathe in their blood tonight. Everyone go home, get some sleep, and meet back here tomorrow morning for the anti-violence rally.”

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#31ZombieAuthors Rewind – Day 27 – Jake Bible

With Your Host: Schecky Blargfeld, Zombie Comedian

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Hey there, 3.5 readers.

I hope you’re ready for a little music because I’m about to put my zombie pipes with a little birthday ditty.

“Happy Birthday to you! Whoa, uh oh, Happy Birthday, to you! Happy Birthday, Dear Jake Bible, Esteemed Inventor of the Drabble Novel! Whoa, uh oh, Happy Birthday, to yah-uh-uh-ooo!”

Yep, that’s right, 3.5. Last year BQB’s buddy Alien Jones reached out to Jake to wish him a Happy Birthday (and if you’re following the logic, it’s Jake’s Birthday again!)

AJ and JB also talked zombies and other assorted monsters.

Check out that interview here.

And don’t forget to check out Jake’s Amazon author page.

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Undead Man’s Hand – Chapter 41

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“You’re quitting immediately and that’s final,” Martha said.

Maggie was having a good time, sitting on her father’s shoulders as she watched fireworks explode in the air in all sorts of pretty colors.

Bullock, on the other hand, was feeling and looking exceptionally morose.

“A man can’t go back on his word,” Bullock said, the matter not being anywhere near final in his estimation.

“Oh don’t give me that,” Martha replied. “You’ve held the job less than a day. Quit tomorrow and no one will say a word about it.”

“I signed up for a year,” Bullock said. “I’ll give this town a year.”

Maggie clapped as a firework burst into a bright green blaze.

“You’ll give this your life,” Martha said.

“Maybe,” Bullock replied.

Another burst. This one orange.

“And ours,” Martha said.

“I’ll never let that happen,” Bullock said.

A purple burst.

“Seth,” Martha said. “I know you. You’ll never turn a blind eye to this Swearengen man’s crimes and yet it sounds like the entire town will turn on you if you ever cross him. If remain the sheriff and avoid doing the job, you’ll hate yourself. If you do your job, we’ll all be dead. Take…the…star…off.”

Bullock smiled as he felt his hat lift off of his head. He couldn’t see it but he could tell by the giggles that Maggie had swiped it.

“You really think that will fit you?” Bullock asked his daughter.

“Where did the boom booms go?” Maggie asked, the hat covering her entire head.

Martha grinned as she took the hat off of Maggie’s head and returned it to her husband’s cranium.

Six bursts, one right after the other. Purple, green, orange, red, white, and blue.

The husband and wife joined hats.

“Why are you making me be an ogre?” Martha asked.

“I’m not,” Bullock replied. “That’s not you, just like me backing down wouldn’t be me.”

“Ugh,” Martha said. “Mule headed stubbornness.”

“Its what you love about me,” Bullock said.

“Says you,” Martha replied. “You’re fooling yourself if you think you can be the sheriff you want to be in this town and still keep us all alive.”

Bullock looked up at the veranda of the Gem Theater. Al was down to the last butt of his cigar. Across the night air, their eyes locked.

Al straightened out his hand and brought it up to his forehead in a mocking salute. Bullock nodded.

“It’ll be slow,” Bullock said. “And it will take a long time, but somehow, I’ll turn this town around.”

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Laziness

I’m failing you miserably, 3.5 readers.  I think this novel and the next one are going to go well though.  Taking characters out of history helps me keep it grounded and organized so I don’t go completely off the rails.

I don’t seem to have time to blog and write the book, though I don’t want the blog characters to go by the wayside.  I’ll have to get them back on the blog soon.

I have a tendency to judge and/or push myself too much.  I don’t know. I feel like life is short I try not to think this way but I do it anyway – I often beat myself over the head that I haven’t like, accomplished anything really great.  I hope these novels will be it, though I know maybe that jinxes it.

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How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 122

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J. Wellington Willoughby, the esteemed and elderly president of the First National Bank of Chicago sat behind his oak desk and buried his face in a newspaper.

The main headline -“The West Has Been Zombed!”

Sub-headline One: “Wall Erection Efforts Along the Mississippi River Underway”

Sub-headline Two: “Legion Corporation Denies Allegations of Impropriety”

Willoughby lowered the paper. His head was bald, yet the white hair stuffed in his ears was quite lush. He licked his finger and turned the page. His eyes were giving out on him, so he studied the small print with a magnifying glass.

Further articles included, “Scientists Currently Researching the Causes of Zombification” and “U.S. Government Urges Citizens to Turn In All Suspected Vampires and Werewolves.”

Thomas Sinclair, Head Clerk, knocked on the door then let himself into his boss’s office. He was a young man with dark hair who wore a bow-tie and a green eye-shade.

“Mr. Willoughby…”

“Incredible,” Willoughby said to himself. “Sinclair!”

“Right here, sir.”

Whether it was deafness or dementia, no one could be certain, but Willoughby continued to shout. “Sinclair!”

“Here, sir,” Sinclair said as he waved his hand in front of the octogenarian’s face.

“Oh!” Willoughby said as he clutched his heart. “Are you trying to kill me, Sinclair? Announce yourself next time, will you?”

“I will, sir,” Sinclair said as he laid out a pair of documents on the desk. “Sir, I need your approval on…”

Willoughby tapped on the newspaper. “Have you read this?”

“Yes,” Sinclair said. “Dreadful business.”

“Are you kidding?” Willoughby asked. “This is wonderful business!”

Sinclair waited for the proverbial other shoe to drop.

“My holdings in the construction industry are going to surge in value thanks to this wall!” Willoughby declared. He strained to smile as much as the spent muscles in his face would allow. “Oh happy day.”

“I uh…suppose that’s one way of looking at it, sir,” Sinclair said.

“Buy up all the raw materials you can my boy,” Willoughby ordered. “Lumber. Stone. We’ll sell it to the government at triple the price and make a killing.”

“Very patriotic of you, sir,” Sinclair said as he pointed to the documents. “Now if I could just get you to look at these for a moment.”

“I swear even though my genitalia hasn’t functioned properly since Andrew Johnson was impeached it feels as though I’m experiencing a phantom erection right now.”

Sinclair choked back a touch of indigestion and avoided thinking of that image any further.

“Right then,” Sinclair said. “Sir, I need you to review a rather irregular transaction.”

“Irregular transaction you say?”

“Quite,” Sinclair replied. “In the lobby I have a woman who has identified herself as one Mrs. Annabelle Faraday. She has presented me with a certificate of marriage purporting that she is the wife of our client, Dr. Elias T. Faraday. You’ll note that the certificate has been signed by Marshal Rainer Slade as a witness.”

“Why do those names sound familiar?” Willoughby asked.

Sinclair turned the page of his boss’s newspaper to reveal two additional headlines. “Western Refugees Laud Marshal Slade as Hero Who Saved the East” and “Incompetent Doctor Who Unleashed the Zombie Chaos Presumed Dead.”

“Right,” Willoughby said.

“She also presented me with this Last Will and Testament, naming her as the sole heir of Dr. Faraday’s property, including any and all funds in his account with our humble institution.”

“It all seems to be in order,” Willoughby said. “The paper says the man’s dead. She has paperwork signed by a hero no less. What’s the problem?”

Sinclair nudged his head toward the door. “You’ll need to see for yourself, sir.”

“Oh for the love of…”

Willoughby’s bones creaked and cracked as he stood up. He reached for his cane and hobbled to the door. “You know how I feel about unnecessary movements, Sinclair.”

“I know sir.”

Sinclair escorted his boss out to the teller’s desk which overlooked a large lobby, decorated with two large marble columns and fancy works of art.

“What am I looking at?” Willoughby asked.

“There.”

Sinclair pointed out Annabelle, who sat on a bench, twirling a lock of her blonde hair around and around in her finger. Her face and dress was covered in a thick layer of dirt. When she grew tired of twirling her hair, she stuck her finger into her ear, whisked it around a bit, then pulled it out, sniffed it, and winced.

“Where?” Willoughby asked.

Sinclair pointed again. “There, sir.”

Willoughby pulled a pair of spectacles out of his pocket, put them on and squinted.

“Her?”

“Yes.”

“She looks like an unwashed prostitute,” Willoughby said.

“She is an unwashed prostitute,” Sinclair said. “Three customers have already lodged complaints that they were propositioned.”

Willoughby stepped up to the desk. “You there! Young woman!”

Annabelle looked around and then made a face as if to ask, “me?”

“Yes,” Willoughby said as he waved her over. “Come, come.”

Annabelle stepped up to the desk. Even Willoughby, with his failing eyesight, was able to scope out her heaving bosom.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Young lady,” Willoughby said. “Are you an unwashed prostitute?”

The blonde’s brain cranked and sputtered. What to do. What to say? Finally, she took a stab at it.

“Um…no?”

“Good enough for me,” Willoughby said as he hobbled back into his office. “Pay the lady, Sinclair.”

After Willoughby slammed his office door, Sinclair picked up a large, leather-bound ledger and thumbed through the pages.

“Let’s see,” Sinclair said as he reached the “F” section. “Fanning…Farmington…and ah! Faraday. How do you wish to settle your account, Mrs. Faraday?”

“Settle?” Annabelle asked.

“What would you like to do with the money?”

“I’m sorry,” Annabelle said. “Good old Elias and I never talked business. How much did he have?”

Sinclair pointed to Doc’s line in the ledger. It read, “Dr. Elias T. Faraday…$50,000.”

Now you, the modern reader, might look at that sum and not think it to be a big deal. Sure, you wouldn’t scoff at it. You might use it to pay off some bills, buy a new car, or tuck it away in the bank for a rainy day, but your life wouldn’t change all that much.

But the thing you have to remember is the year was 1880 and back then $50,000 would be the rough equivalent of being handed somewhere in the ballpark of $1.5 million dollars today. Doc sure had sold a metric shit ton of his Miracle Cure-All.

And thus, Annabelle briefly lost control of her legs and grabbed the side of the desk to keep from falling. Her eyes rolled back into her head as she achieved full orgasm, making unseemly sounds for all the customers to hear.

“Holy shit,” she said as she caught her breath.

“Are you all right?” Sinclair asked.

“Mmm hmm,” Annabelle said as she struggled to regain control of herself. “I’d like to take some with me. Walking around money.”

“A hundred dollars?” Sinclair asked.

“Shit no,” Annabelle replied. “Someone will conk me on the head for a hundred dollars. Better make it fifty.”

“Very good then,” Sinclair said as he handed Annabelle a fifty-dollar bill. She tucked it right into her bra.

“I have some business in Boston,” Annabelle said. “Can you send a thousand there?”

“Of course,” Sinclair said. “We regularly trade with Edgemont Savings and Loan. You’ll be able to draw upon it there. And the rest?”

“Can you send it to England?” Annabelle asked.

“It will take some doing but yes it’s possible,” Sinclair said.

“Hold onto it and I’ll send for it,” Annabelle said.

“I’ll put your name on this account and await further instructions,” Sinclair said.

“OK then,” Annabelle said.

The blonde returned to the bench and sat down.

“Was there anything else, ma’am?” Sinclair asked.

“No,” Annabelle said. “I just need a minute.”

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BQB Breaks the 60,000 Word Mark on How the West Was Zombed

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Zombie BQB

Hey 3.5 readers,

BQB here.  I have a small milestone to celebrate.

With Chapter 77 of How the West Was Zombed, I have, for the first time ever, written 60,000 words of a novel.

Yup, all it took was a snippet about a lesbian vampire getting assaulted by a goblin pervert on her way to see a Chairman who may or may not be Satan to put me over the top.

Aunt Gertie would be so proud if she still read this crap.

Further, there are writing experts who will differ on what the key parts of a novel are, but for example, if you figure that the main three have to be:

  1.  The Set-Up – Who is everyone, where are they, drop some seeds of what’s in store for your 3.5 readers.
  2. The Conflict – What will happen to trouble your characters?
  3. The Resolution – How is that conflict resolved?

I have written two out of three of those.

1)  The Set-up – Cowboys vs. an Evil (Literally Evil) Railroad Corporation.

2)  The Conflict – Evil Corporate Lawyer/Vampire (Redundant) wants to conquer America with the help of werewolf henchmen and an army of zombies.

Those parts are done!  And now I must write:

3) Resolution – How will the cowboys stop the zombies?  (Or will they? Muah ha ha!)

If the standard novel length is around 100,000 words or so, then I am beyond the point of no return and closer to being finished than starting.

Is there more to go?  Yes.  It still needs a major rewrite.  Then various pros to give it the ole look see.  Then all the formatting.  And honestly, I might just write the first three just to make sure they all go together continuity wise.

So…time…so much time.  But it is starting to look like persisting in writing a little bit now and then does build up and eventually puts you in the right direction.

So thank you, 3.5 readers, for your support and your 7 eyes.  For the first time ever, I actually believe a BQB has a good chance of being published.  And with sales to my 3.5 readers, minus Jeff Bezos’ cut, that mozzarella cheese stick basket at Applebee’s is calling my name.

Mmmm…mmm…that’s good eating!

 

 

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Top Ten Warning Signs Your Boyfriend Might Be a Shirtless Alpha Male in a Romance Novel

Romance novels.

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For Christ’s Sake, put a shirt on Chad.

Not only are they the fuel that keeps the fires of many a female reader burning, they keep the wheels of the publishing industry turning as well.

Ladies of all ages like a good story about a woman swept off her feet by the perfect man.

Said perfect man usually defined as being a) long haired b) muscular and c) shirtless.

It’s ok ladies.  I won’t point out that your love of these novels is more or less the equivalent of your boyfriend scoping out risqué sites on the Interwebs.

And romance authors, though I’ll never read them, keep churning them out as the more people who are reading anything, the longer the publishing industry stays afloat.

From BQB HQ in fabulous East Randomtown, here are the Top Ten Warning Signs Your Boyfriend Might Be a Shirtless Alpha Male in a Romance Novel:

10.  Always shirtless so as to show off his rock hard abs and other assorted muscles.  No matter the occasion.  Working out?  Shirtless.  Doing yard work?  Shirtless.  Trip to the store?  Shirtless.  Attending a state dinner with the Queen of England?  Shirtless.  Hell, the Queen probably digs that shit.

9.  Has a douchey name.  Examples include: Brodie, Body, Cody.  Chad, Brad, or Tad.  Lance. Guy. Trent. Blake. Basically, if you hear the guy’s name and can picture him as a blonde haired bully in a 1980’s movie with the arms of a fancy sweater tied around his neck while hassling Anthony Michael Hall then you know he’s got a douchey name.

8.  Has long, flawless locks of hair and wherever he is or whatever he is doing, they’re always blowing in the wind.  Even when there is no wind.  Put him on the Moon and his damn hair will still blow around.

7.  Ladies, let’s face it.  Whenever he bosses you around, you look up to him as a strong, take charge kind of guy.  Whip a pair of glasses on him and an extra thirty pounds and you’d bust out the pepper spray the instant he asks where his dinner is.

6.  Has tons of money but exhibits no visible signs of employment.  He’s just one of those miracle dudes who has tons of money to spend on his lady but still has plenty of time to keep those abs up.  Also, his muscles are always greased up, as if there’s always an assistant with a bucket of lotion following him around.

5.  Speaking of, you’re tired of being held up to the Barbie doll standard, but you also believe every man who doesn’t look like a shirtless alpha male is a loser.

4.  Rides a motorcycle.  Everywhere.  Except when he’s not riding a damn horse.  And if you try to tell him what to do, he’s going to ride that motorcycle or horse in the sunset, baby.

3.  You’re pretty sure you can change him into a nicer person through the awesome power of your vagina.  But let’s face it, if he were to become nicer, he wouldn’t be an badass shirtless alpha male anymore.  He might even start covering up with a collection of those polo shirts with the little alligator on the pocket, denying the world the sight of his muscles.

2.  Wherever he is, there’s inevitably a pile of wood he can chop in a gratuitous display of his manly muscles.  In a logging camp?  There’s a pile of wood.  In a forest? There’s a pile of wood.  On a beach?  Wood. In a desert? Wood.  Stop making jokes about wood.

  1.  Yup.  Nerdy men hate him about as much as nerdy women hate those supermodel chicks.  Maybe all the nerdy men and women of the world should just get together and read some comic books while all the good looking people of the world do it on beaches with the wind blowing through their hair.
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Top Ten Warning Signs Your Girlfriend Might Be a Young Adult Novel Heroine

 

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Tessa Fireswarm – YA Novel Protagonist/Attempts to Destroy BQB’s Magic Bookshelf Often

If you’ve been one of BQB’s 3.5 readers from the very beginning (my condolences to you for that is precious time out of your life that you will never get back) then you’re aware one of the characters living on BQB’s magic bookshelf is none other than a tiny version of Tessa Fireswarm, protagonist of the Arrowblast series.

What?  Up your nose with a rubber hose, Suzanne Collins.  Tessa is a true original.

Wait.  This just in.  Attorney Donnelly informs me that Tessa is a parody.  Whatever.  Just no one sue me please.

Anyway, when Tessa isn’t busy attempting to blow up the other characters living on BQB’s magic bookshelf in an ongoing war for shelf space, she occasionally advises BQB on the Young Adult genre.

Here now, with Tessa’s help, are the Top Ten Warning Signs Your Girlfriend Might Be a Young Adult Novel Heroine:

10.  She can never decide between you and some other dude because you’re both so perfect and dreamy.  Fear not because eventually one of you will do something douchey to make her decision a cinch.

9.  Always wears black but oddly is not a goth.

8.  Has never served in the military, engaged in combat, or even fired a gun before.  Miraculously, still capable of overthrowing a cruel dictatorial regime set against the backdrop of a futuristic dystopia.

7.  Politicians, generals and other heads of state are always interrupting your dates to consult her about every little thing.  Talk about rude.

6.  Her family has bought the farm courtesy of the evil dictator, thus motivating her hatred of whatever oppressive regime you happen to be living under.  But hey, look at the bright side.  No in-laws to drive you nuts on the holidays.  Am I right? (What?  Too soon?)

5.  Her life’s story sounds like a Schwarzenegger movie except the adults are replaced with kids.  Creepy!

4.  Whenever she tells you her life’s story, she drones on and on.  You don’t have the heart to tell her that she could cut it down into one book.  In fact, you have a sneaking suspicion that she’s going for the trilogy.

3.  Has a special power.  Expert marksmanship.  Telekinesis.  Magic.  Whatever her power is, it’s not “making sandwiches for boyfriends 101.”  (Psst, women don’t have that power in the real world either so get used to it, kids!)

2.  Zombies or zombie-like creatures seem to get crowbarred into her adventures for no other reason than hey, people like zombies!

  1.  Whatever war she’s fighting, she didn’t want to start it, but she’ll end it.  Try not to let her warrior skills make you feel like a girly man.  (Even though, yeah, they kinda do.
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How the West Was Zombed – BQB’s Mockups of Chapters 64 and 65

Hey 3.5 Readers.

BQB here.  As you all know, I’m a perfectionist.  I need everything to be one-hundred percent genuine.

If you read Chapter 64 and Chapter 65 of my Zombie Western novel, you know that Becker, a damn werewolf, charged at Miss Bonnie.

In turn, Miss Bonnie shot Becker in the head with a silver tipped bullet.

Slade opened the front door to the church, pulled Miss Bonnie out of the way in the nick of time, but alas, Blake was not so lucky.

In the last few moments of his life, Becker kept running, only to fall and crush Blake under his massive werewolf weight.

But that’s ok because Blake was a douche.

There was a lot of science involved in this scene.  Newton’s laws of gravity and such.  I needed to sketch it out to see if it all worked on paper and low and behold, it all added up.

Check it out:

ILLUSTRATION #1

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Nope I didn’t have a kid draw this.  This was all me.  OK, so here we see a stupid werewolf who is running.  Miss Bonnie has a gun (I felt the need to make a note of that because some have suggested, if you can believe it, that my artistic skills are lacking).

Everybody’s a critic.

Meanwhile, as you can see to the right, Blake and Gunther are arguing with each other, not paying attention to their surroundings.

ILLUSTRATION #2

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Here, we catch our first real life glimpse of the macho stud muffin that is Marshal Slade. As you can see above, he grabs Miss Bonnie and pushes her out of the stupid werewolf’s path just in time.

ILLUSTRATION #3

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And finally, we see the untimely demise of the group’s agitator, Martin Blake.  He was too busy getting the last word in during his argument with Gunther to pay attention to the oncoming werewolf and alas, ended up being crushed underneath the hairy remains.

You can see Blake’s head sticking out.  The rest of Blake’s body is crushed underneath the stupid werewolf.

Doc, a believer in the curative properties of cocaine (because it was 1880) offers Blake a sip of his Miracle Cure-All but it is of no use.

OBSERVATIONS

  • Clearly, this all checks out and none of it is far fetched at all.  If anything, this all seems so plausible I now live in fear that I might get crushed underneath a stupid werewolf.
  • Miss Bonnie looks way too happy during all of this.
  • Damn Slade is sexy.  No wonder he has chicks fighting over him and shit.
  • Doc is truly a dedicated medical professional.

MOST IMPORTANTLY…

Money is tight around BQB Headquarters but luckily, this exercise has made me realize that I am a gifted artist.  I can save a bundle on what I was going to shell out on a cover illustrator and just design the book cover on my own.

Thank you for reading How the West Was Zombed, 3.5 readers.  If there are any other chapters you’d like me to illustrate, let me know and I’ll put pen to paper.

Shit, I’m so good at this I might turn this entire thing into a graphic novel.

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How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 65

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“Simmer down, Martin.”

Inside the church, Blake ignored Gunther and rested his hands on his big brass belt buckle.  “You two shit heels knew this was coming and you didn’t warn anyone.”

“No one knew anything,” Gunther said.

“Oh, I see,” Blake said.  “Go on, old man.  Keep telling me I didn’t hear what I just heard and act like I’m stupid.”

“It wouldn’t be much of an act,” Gunther replied.  He pointed out the broken window.  More and more of the undead were congregating in the road, bumping into one another, searching for flesh to devour.

“Do you really think there was any way that either of us could have predicted THAT?” Gunther asked.

“Doesn’t matter,”  Blake said.  “You two knew something bad was coming…”

“We were told by the government that it was bullshit,” Gunther interrupted.

Blake poked a finger into Gunther’s chest.  In his youth, Gunther would have laid Blake out on the floor for doing that, but the old man took it.

“You knew the government was full of shit,”  Blake said.

“What does it matter now?”  Gunther asked.  “You want to blame us?”

“Yeah I do!”  Blake shouted.

“That makes you feel like a big man?”  Gunther asked.

“Yeah it does!”  Blake replied. 

Slade heard some strange noises coming from outside.  He looked through the broken window only to be amazed by the sight of a large wolf man barreling through the undead, flinging them out of his way as if they were rag dolls.

And behind him?

“Bonnie,” Slade said.

Gunther and Blake were too busy exchanging unpleasantries to notice.

“Son, if it makes you think you got a big swinging dick to point out other people’s mistakes then go right ahead,” the old man said.

“Don’t think I won’t,” Blake said. 

“Just finish up quick because we all need you to get the fuck over yourself, man the fuck up, and stop running your mouth,” Gunther said.

“Don’t turn this around on me, Grandpa,” Blake said.  “You two idiots have killed us all.”

“We all look pretty damn alive to me,” Gunther said.  “Maybe if you shut up and stop being a jackass we’ll get out of this alive.”

“I’m the jackass?”  Blake said.

“Yeah you are,”  Gunther said.

A fist pounded on the door.  Slade heard Miss Bonnie’s muffled voice coming from outside.

“Rain!”

“You had no right to keep this shit to yourself,” Blake said.

“Oh and you’re just so perfect, aren’t you?”  Gunther asked.  “You just know everything, don’t you?”

Blake thumped a fist on his chest.  “I do!”

Slade fished through the drunken reverend’s pockets and found an iron key.  He shoved it into the lock.

Bonnie pounded on the door again.

“Rain open up the door and get the hell out of the way!”

Blake and Gunther were oblivious.

“You really think you could have done any better than we did?”  Gunther asked.

“Yeah I do!”  Blake hollered.  “I’m not some dumb son of a bitch who can’t tell when danger is headed right at him!”

Slade turned the key and opened the door.  Miss Bonnie fired her shot. 

Now noble reader, perhaps you’ve heard of Sir Isaac Newton’s First Law of Motion.  In case you haven’t, it goes like this:

An object at rest stays at rest and an object in motion stays in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force. 

Miss Bonnie had fired true and a silver tipped bullet was lodged in Becker’s brain.  In the last few moments of his life, the beast, or rather, the object, kept running anyway.

Slade acted quickly enough to grab Miss Bonnie and pull her out of the way.  Even old, worn out Gunther looked up in time to dive out out of the aisle.

Blake, on the other hand, an unbalanced force if there ever was one, was slammed by an oncoming furry freight train, only to have each and every one of his bones crack under Becker’s gargantuan weight.

Doc, who had been resting in a pew at the front of the church, stood and walked over to survey the damage.  He wasn’t feeling very steady on his feet, so he leaned on Annabelle.

The only part of Blake that remained visible was his head.  The rest was pinned underneath the hairy corpse.

To Doc’s surprise, Blake was gasping for breath.

The physician’s nausea was getting worse.  He coughed as he leaned down and pulled a bottle of his Miracle Cure-All out of his pocket.

“Take this,” Doc said as he poured a few drops into Blake’s open mouth. 

“Will he make it?”  Annabelle asked.

“Doubtful,”  Doc replied.  “I fear even the mighty power of cocaine mixed with spider eggs for texture will not be enough to save him.”

Slade and Miss Bonnie, the Good Reverend, and Gunther all gathered around.  Even Sarah timidly walked over.

Blake’s face turned purple.  “Tell…” 

“Hush my good man,”  Doc said.  “Conserve your strength.”

“Tell Gunth…”

Gunther knelt down and brushed his wrinkled hand over Blake’s hair.

“It’s ok, son,”  Gunther said.  “No need to tell me you’re sorry.  You’re…”

The old man wasn’t big on emotion, nor was he even sure he believed what he was about to say, but under the circumstances, he felt it was appropriate.

“You’re my friend and I love you,”  Gunther said.

Blake’s eyes looked toward Doc.  “Tell Gunther…to go…fuck himself.”

And with that, the victim drew his last breath and his eyes rolled back into his head.

The group of survivors remained quiet for a few moments until Doc broke the silence.

“Deputy,” Doc said.  “This man wished for me to tell you…”

“I know!”  Gunther said as he stood up.

“Well, it was his last wish,” Doc said as Annabelle helped him up to his feet.

Speaking of feet, a pair of two very large ones entered the church and creaked across the floor boards.  Slade turned around to see another werewolf.

This one wasn’t acting very dangerous.  He was nonchalantly walking in on two feet, carrying another Winchester, and a shotgun, and a bag of ammo in his paws.

Instinctively, Slade yanked the rifle out of Miss Bonnie’s hands and took aim.

The redhead jumped in front of the werewolf and put her hands up.

“Don’t shoot!  He’s really just a nice little negro boy!”

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