Oh it’s so good to be here, or anywhere for that matter. And thank you for celebrating Earth Day. It’s a small step towards saving my beautiful creation. So many people are so fucking oblivious to what is happening to this magnificent planet it boggles the mind, so thank you for the opportunity to shed a bit of light.
It’s been an unusually warm winter here in the United States. What do you attribute that to?
Well, I certainly had nothing to do with it despite what Zeus may have told you. He tried to tell me I was just having a primordial hot flash, but he’s almost as stupid about these things as most of the people on the planet. You people need to get your heads out of your collective asses and get a fucking clue. Do you think that over a century of burning coal and gas while at the same time cutting down my beautiful trees on a massive scale is having no effect on the atmosphere? If you don’t get your act together soon, the Earth is going to resemble Venus.
The world’s population is about to reach seven billion people. How has this affected Earth as you see it?
It’s making it damn hard for me to see the Earth. You know, almost all of the world’s problems can be attributed to one thing – too many people. When birth control was invented I thought you’d at least have the good sense to use it. But noooo. And now, people are a planetary problem. At least most of you seem to congregate in the same areas so there are still a few pristine places where you can experience this beautiful planet in all its glory.
You have quite the following among the New Age Hippie crowd. Which do you prefer as worshipers; the Hippies or the Greeks?
Ahhh, the Greeks – the wine, the debauchery, the bacchanalia – I love me a good bacchanalia. But then the Hippies, and not just the new age Hippies, but the old age ones, too, are all about peace and love and sex and getting high and hugging trees and the music. Yes, I think the music tips the scale in their favor.
I’ve done some research and discovered that you have over twenty children. Which one is your favorite?
I think it was way more than twenty but I lost count of the little bastards long ago. I know most mothers don’t refer to their offspring as little bastards but I never married any of their fathers, so they were all technically bastards. Now I’m not going to give you the standard mommy lie of ‘I don’t have a favorite, I love them all the same,’ because that is such a crock of shit. Of course, every mother has a favorite, it’s just that some mothers are better at hiding it than others. I simply adored Phoebe but Aergia was a huge disappointment.
Which God was the best in the sack?
Ahhh, I had some wild times with Uranus. There was nothing that guy wouldn’t do. And I mean NOTHING. It was SO hot! But he got a little mean in his old age so I got the kids to kill him. Pontus was so much fun, too. We would do some role playing, the pirate scenario was my favorite – always a hoot. Zeus had a huge ego, but sadly his manly parts weren’t so big.
How does it feel to be the original MILF?
Fucking fantastic! Though I prefer GILF or Goddess I’d Like to Fuck. There is fucking power in being so fuckable. Every woman deserves to feel like this. I think that’s what all those poser Wicca chicks are trying to achieve by invoking my name and dancing naked under the full moon.
What does Earth’s future hold for mankind?
I think you have that question backwards. It’s more a case of what does mankind’s future hold for the Earth. If you stay on your current path, the Earth is doomed. Earth is the only fucking planet you have. It is a glorious planet full of beauty and wonder. It can feed you and sustain you. All she asks in return is that you take care of her and nurture her. So get a fucking clue. Recycle, reuse, embrace sustainable farming, find viable sustainable energy, clean up the place. Tread lightly on the Earth and every now and then hug a tree.
CLICK THE RED BUTTON FOR PAST HOLIDAY ICON INTERVIEWS!!!
TODAY IS THE BIRTHDAY OF MY MOST FAVORITE ACTOR OF ALL TIME….TIM CURRY!!!!
I remember the first time I saw Tim Curry on the big screen. It was in a now defunct movie theater in Windsor, Connecticut with my best friend (yes, Quinn I’m talking about you) who dragged me kicking and screaming to see the movie ANNIE. I remember everyone HATING the character of Rooster but I was absolutely smitten. I loved his voice, the way he moved, his eyes, EVERYTHING about him.
It was just a few years later that I was dragged to another movie theater (yes, Quinn this was you again) in nothing but my bra and panties to see Tim Curry in the ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW. Let me digress for a moment here…
Have you ever had an experience as a kid that forever changed your life? That molded and shaped how you saw the world and yourself in it for years to come? Yes, that was what Tim Curry’s FRANK-N-FURTER character did for me. Since then I’ve made a point to either see or hear everything he’s ever done in his career (even Pennywise the clown. That’s how deep my love goes).
Now, I’m not one to go all gushy when meeting celebrities (my life spent as a somewhat groupie kept my Starstruck meter in check) but if I were to meet Tim Curry in the flesh I’d fucking cum in colors, I shit you not (suck on that sentence, Freshly Pressed). So here’s to you, Tim Curry, for another glorious year with you in it!
Determined to get an interview with this elusive holiday icon, I cornered him in his underground den and discovered something I’d not expected. I open today’s interview with the question that should have been asked ages ago:
HE: Say…you aren’t really a bunny, are you?
EB: Well Maybe it is time to come clean, if you wanna call me a Bunny go ahead but being a Bunny is not very useful when you deliver eggs is it! I am a Wallaby, you see, I can put all the eggs in my pouch and then I don’t have to go back and forth with my basket. I am all about convenience, you know what I mean.
HE: What made you decide to color and hide eggs?
EB: Shots. In my College years (I did not do much studying) my friends and I enjoyed colorful shots. So I now pick colors by having a shot, coloring an egg, different coloured shot, and different colored eggs. The hiding part is a long story about my friend and his … well it’s a long story.
HE: How do you feel about children eating chocolate likenesses of you?
EB: As we have just been through, I am not a Bunny, never will be because it will never be practical! So the Kiddywinks can eat as many chocolate bunnies as they please.
HE: How do you feel about sharing a holiday with Jesus?
EB: My mum once told me that story, I did not really understand it, and I mean it’s a bit gloomy for a Holiday all about the Kids, you know? Plus to me, chocolate crosses would be awful to make and color, all that blood and gore is for Halloween, not my holiday.
HE: Is there more than one Easter Bunny?
HE: Did you want to be an Easter Bunny when you were a kid…uh, a joey?
EB: No, as I have said I went to College, I just didn’t do well, this was my fall back, I wanted to be a Football Mascot but I do not think there is much call for a Wallaby, maybe if I was a Dolphin or A Ram! I mean have you ever heard of a Wallaby before today?! Do you even know what I look like?!
HE: What do you do when you aren’t hiding eggs?
EB: Nothing, I drink, I try and think of new ideas for next year but with 5 joeys at home and one on the way, thinking does not happen a lot.
Thank you, Easter Bun–Wallaby, for this timely and insightful interview. Return April 22nd as we celebrate Earth Day with none other that Gaia herself!
There is no easy way to deliver the sad news that our young friend, Libby, has lost her brave battle with cancer. On the evening of Sunday, March 17, Libby spent her last few hours mercifully free of pain, surrounded by the friends and family whom she so dearly loved.
I will admit to struggling for some time with the crafting of this post, wanting my words to do Libby’s life justice. I was desperate to seek out and find the good within the tragedy, to find meaning in the joyous birth, brief life, cruel illness and untimely death of this beautiful young girl. Twenty-four hours later and the words still struggle to come.
My first attempt at a post was meant to be a memorial to Libby’s life and her legacy of positivity despite adversity. Luckily for me I was blessed to know Libby personally, and as anyone who knew her well will tell you her positivity wasn’t hard to find. Both spirited and stubborn, quick-witted and compassionate, Libby’s energy and light drew in everyone around her.
Yet despite being a direct recipient of her love and energy, my words failed me. There just weren’t adjectives enough to describe all that Libby was in life. Every turn of phrase was deemed woefully inadequate. Naturally, I started over.
My next pass at a draft focused on the struggle to seek out the positive in loss, even a loss as tragic as the death of a child. I crafted nearly a page of generic comfort words, each sentence painting a picture that paled in comparison to the miracle that was Libby. Needless to say that draft never saw the light of day either.
I had all but given up when I decided to take a break and update Libby’s Wrists Around The World page, hoping to regroup and get a handle on just what it was I wanted to say. As I read down the list of names on her FRIENDS OF LIBSTRONG page and saw pictures in her GALLERY of wrists of people from all over the world, it hit me-
You. Me. All of us. WE are her legacy.
Strangers who with a click of a mouse became family. Writers who donated their work for her benefit. Readers who bought books for her cause. New friends the world over who donned wristbands and thought enough of a child thousands of miles away to carry her with them, to memorialize her struggle in a snapshot. It became clear to me in that one, glorious moment that the very best way to honor Libby and her life would be to live our lives well, to continue to give of ourselves freely, selflessly, and to demonstrate daily the good that resides in us all.
Libby’s bravery brought out the best in all of us. What better way is there to honor her than to do our very best everyday? As long as we are brave enough to answer that question, Libby’s life will have meaning. Libby, within us all, will live on.
Hello Everyone, it’s me, Hellis, live and in person. Well, in spirit. I’ve been away from our little corner of this virtual Utopia we call Blogworld because I’ve been spending time with the new love of my life. Yes, people I am in love, and have decided to use Edward Hotspur’s ROMANTIC MONDAY post as an opportunity to introduce him to my world.
The latest object of my affection is a man like no other; he is fun-loving, free-spirited and young at heart. His childlike innocence attracted me immediately and before I knew it I was hooked. Today I’d like to introduce you to the man who captured my heart and is sure to steal yours. Without further ado I give you…Randy Pan.
Now, before some of you start sending emails to a certain tall, SciFi-loving Cowboy let me explain. Randy isn’t your ordinary, everyday Pan-fan. He’s living his dream everyday in a way that shames me as a writer. It took me a year to work up the testicular fortitude to query agents with my GOA novel while this guy was laying it all out there for the world to see. There was no fear of judgment or harassment on his part. He exposed his life and his soul in an act of bravery that humbles me. And while I will admit that it is taking every bit of self-control to not mock the living shit out of this guy; I have decided a better use of my time would be to honor him here.
So here’s to you, Randy Pan. May your tights not chafe, may your loafers be light, and may every jock who beat you down in high school scratch himself to death because of a raging, unchecked venereal disease.
As Valentine’s Day approaches I thought it only appropriate to interview the most wanted man, uh…boy in the world. I’m talking about the one, the only….CUPID.
CUPID – Pleasure to be here. Despite this being my busy time of year, I can always find time for you H.E., you helped my blog become what it is today and for that my heart is ever at your service…..You know, if you wanted I could set you up with somebody? I still feel bad about your last relationship. In my defense though, you were the one who fucked that up. Cupid’s arrow is rarely wrong and sometimes you got to give a little to get a little if you know what I mean….
***** So tell the readers, what is the hardest part being the God of Desire?
CUPID – The hardest part? My cock.
* silence *
Nah, I’m just fucking with you. Nothing like a little dirty humor to lighten the mood. Seriously though, the hardest part has got to be humanity. Fifty years ago this would not have been my answer, I mean, fifty years ago people knew how to make a commitment to one another. Now everyone is so needy and expects so much from the person they are with, no one knows how to stay in anything longer than a few years. Its sad really. I blame the hippie generation for this. All that free love fucked up real love for the rest of you. Well, that and women’s lib. Give me the days where I just shot a guy with love and never had to worry about what the woman wanted, because if she didn’t go with the guy I shot then he would just take her. It sounds bad but god-damn it made my job easier.
***** What’s with the bow and arrow?
CUPID – Are you serious? They’re fucking magic, that’s what! It brings forth love and happiness and shit to all that the arrows pierce….Whats with the….Look, if you find a magic shotgun for sale then I’ll buy it, but since there is no such thing, I’ll stick to my bow and arrow thank you very much..
***** How does love in the twenty-first century differ from say, the Renaissance period?
CUPID – Two words, E- Harmony. Them and all those other find love web sites that have popped up since the internet began. Back in the good ole days you didn’t have to fill out a twenty questions exam to get shacked up with somebody, you trusted my arrow to make the right connection. Now though, since these computer cupids have shown up, love is down, STDs are up and the murder rate in Juarez, Mexico has skyrocketed.
That last one has nothing to do with what we are talking about, I just got done reading a book about Juarez and that crap just keeps slipping out, sorry. You get my…..shit….what was my point…….Oh yeah, the Renaissance! It was different.
***** Have you ever missed an intended target?
CUPID – (long pause) On the record, no. Off the record, fuck yeah.
Look, it’s not easy, this job I mean. Its a ton of pressure for one God,you people are so fucking needy, especially you women. From now on, why not just say what it is you’re really looking for in a guy. First off, sense of humor is not that fucking important to you, so stop saying it first. It would make my job and your connection to your true love so much easier to make.That being said, I’ve fucked up here and there throughout time….Do I regret doing it? No, I rack it up to learning experiences…….I do feel bad about Whitney Houston though, I never should have introduced her to Bobby. That was my bad and for that I apologize.
Otherwise, mistakes or no mistakes, once that arrow hits you it’s no longer my problem. Love can happen anywhere, but I can only do so much, it’s up to you to make it work. Here’s an example, that teacher that slept with her student a few years back. You remember, right? She slept with him, got pregnant, got busted, got fired, got jail time, had the baby, got out of jail and then, got back together with him. That’s dedication people. It’s also a tale of love through the toughest of obstacles. What she did was wrong, there’s no doubt about it, I messed that one up, but in the end the love prevailed. All you humans see are the bad things in the people that I hook you up with, somehow you stop seeing the good after being with someone awhile. I never understood this, because the second you break it off, suddenly all you remember are the good qualities, the things that were always there but you would look past. Everyone fights, everyone has issues, it’s up to you to work past them and make it last. Not me.
***** Mythology tells us you inherited this job from your mother, Venus. Tell me, how did it feel growing up with the original MILF as your mom?
CUPID- My mother only talked to me when she wanted something from me. She is a vain, manipulative, alcoholic and I hated growing up with her as a mom. Did you ever see the movie Mommy Dearest? Imagine that but in God form, that’s how my childhood was. I’ve got so many issues because of her I had to cancel my subscription. We haven’t seen each other in years.
***** The identity of your father has never been made public, although Mars has been a popular suspect throughout history. How true are the rumors that you are scheduled to appear on an episode of THE MAURY POVICH SHOW with the intent to confront him with a paternity test?
CUPID- What? Where did you hear that? Of course it’s not true! There’s no need. I found out years ago who my real father was and it certainly wasn’t Mars. No, no, my father lives in Florida, his name is Dale Gibbons and he’s a retired nightclub owner from Miami. Cool guy actually.
***** Was it difficult growing up as an obese child with obvious bladder control problems?
CUPID – All those paintings and sculptures were taken when I was going through a growth stage of my life. Look at me now! Fit, tan and with 12 pack abs. Do I look anything like those pictures? No. I worked hard to get past those looks. Jenny Craig helped of course, but it was mostly me and my dedication to get fit that did it.
And as far as the bladder control goes, I don’t know where that got started. I never wore a diaper, I always went in the nude back then. Censorship is a bitch. Some people can’t handle the male nude form so you got to cover it up, that’s where the diaper comes in.
***** Fill us in on your unfortunate accident where you accidentally shot yourself and fell in love with Psyche?
CUPID – You’re getting these questions from Wikipedia, right? See, that’s why you don’t trust a user controlled reference site, they get it all wrong usually. Okay, you want the real story between me and Psyche? Here goes…
My mom comes to me one day complaining about this chick, saying she’s taking all her worshipers and shit. So mom asks me to go over to this girls place and make her fall in love with the most vile thing I could think of. High as a kite and pissed off because I was in the middle of a game when I was summoned, Saints Row 3 I think, we get all the games before humans do, its one of the perks of being a God, I grabbed my bow and arrows and flew over to her house.
As I’m sneaking into her room I’m trying my best to be extra quiet, but you know how when you’re trying to be quiet every sound is amplified, like, a thousand times? Well that’s what was happening in that room. Every step seemed to cascade through the whole house, and me being high certainly didn’t help.
Finally I get real close to her and start to pull out an arrow, as I’m doing this, her little Min Pin comes running up, yapping the whole way. It scared the shit out of me and I dropped the arrow. I hated that dog. Twinkles was his name. Can you believe that? The dog was totally gay too, he used to try and hump one of the guards dogs, a big German Shepard named KrissKross, it was hilarious.
Anyway, I dropped my arrow and it scraped her foot. Not me like Wikipedia would have you believe, but hers. She wakes up, bing, bang, boom, she sees me, falls in love and hasn’t left me alone since.
In the beginning it was cool. I would sneak over for some late night tail and scurry off again, but after a while it started to get a little stale. I think she saw how I was feeling and figured that the only way to keep me around was to get pregnant. When I found out I was pissed! I totally wasn’t ready to be a dad, I’m still not but it is what it is. In the end we are all responsible for our actions and so I had a kid with her. If you’re looking for morals that’s about as good as it gets. Wrap that shit unless you want a world of shit. Either that or stick to stickin’ the back door, if you get my drift.
***** So, is the God of Desire dating anyone at the moment?
CUPID – Jen Aniston. Six months now. It’s nice I guess.
RETURN MONDAY FOR A PRESIDENT’S DAY SPaM AND MY INTERVIEW WITH A MYSTERY GUEST!!!
Yes, you are correct, it is my birthday. I know this to be true because I follow Edward Hotspur’s blog and El Guapo’s blog and Ginger’s blog and Sandy’s blog (as well as kind email wishes from Trask Avenue, LeClown, and many a sweet comment from my good friends John E. and PMAO). All better blogs than mine, because quite honestly I completely forgot it was my birthday until I read them. Wait…more to the truth I forgot again that it was my birthday since my kick-arse British friend Megan wished me a Happy Birthday the night before (suck it, HR and Elias. She beat you to it).
It’s been through these good people that I’ve made even more friends today, and perhaps have even sold a book or two. That being said, I am not sure mere words can describe what all your birthday wishes mean to me. Without knowing me personally, you may not understand what a Dickensian upbringing I had, and how kind words and well wishes I never received as a child mean the world to me now. You have all become my family, and I am grateful for each and every one of you. Thank you for sharing my day.
Is there someone out there?
Can anybody read this?
It’s me, Hellis, texting from deep inside a crawlspace under a house somewhere in Ohio. I don’t know how long I’ve been here or even how I got here. All I know for sure is that Edward Hotspur is not who or what you think he is. He’s something else entirely; something…evil.
My battery is dying and I am growing weaker by the moment so I have decided to use my last blog post to tell the tale of what happened to me, hoping others might avoid the same cruel fate.
It all started a year ago when I asked Edward Hotspur what his attraction to rainbow pissing unicorns was. I mean, there were pics of them all over his blog, so surely they had meaning to him, right? Yeah, well, my curiosity was my first mistake.
He answered innocently enough, stating that this was merely an expression of his quirky sense of humor. I told him I found the pictures humorous as well, and thus began our friendship. It wasn’t long before we were trading emails of pics we’d find on the net, each one more absurd than the one that came before.
Then came that fateful day when EH would invite me to his home to see his collection of Rainbow Pissing Unicorn figurines. I knew Ohio was far away, but come on people, how could I resist? I mean, who has a collection of Rainbow Pissing Unicorns? Am I right?
Once in Ohio he showed me around his “lair” decorated from floor to ceiling with Rainbow Pissing Unicorn figurines, all hand-crafted from what he described as “bone” china. After viewing his collection he offered me tea which I drank willingly. Soon I felt light-headed and queasy, and the world began to spin in one giant, rainbow swirl. The next thing I knew I woke up here, in a crawlspace, with only a view of his lair through a tiny gap in the floorboards above my head.
Wait…I hear him coming. I can just make out him setting a giant pot of water to boil. Damn, he’s moved out of sight…I can still hear him though…singing to himself as he…he…sharpens something….
CLICK BELOW TO SAVE ME OR…
CLICK TO START FROM THE BEGINNING…
Words can not express the sincere appreciation that I have for Landon Swank and Harmony Swank for taking time out of their busy schedules to come surprise Libby. What a pleasure it was to meet you both.
On Saturday, December 29th Libby had the most amazing experience…Make-A-Wish granted her wish to meet Master Illusionist Landon Swank and his beautiful wif…e Harmony!
For just about two hours my baby girl focused on her new friends and the fun she was having learning some tricks and showing her talents too…fighting cancer was the furthest thing from her mind. It was great to see her smile and giggle and laugh. You both brought so much joy to Libby’s life and for that I will be forever grateful…bless you both.
Anyone who knows Libby knows that she loves card tricks, and anything magic so when she saw Landon perform his audition on the 2011 season of America’s Got Talent she instantly became a fan. Landon finished 5th place; higher than any magician has every placed in the show! She followed the entire season and was thrilled that he made it to the top five but very sad that he did not win.As noted in Landon’s bio, he is referred to by the magic industries insiders as, “Magic’s breath of fresh air”, Swank gives a performance that appeals to the masses. He offers a thrilling journey into the unknown, the unexpected and the unexplainable as it can only be described as The Magic of Landon Swank.
Thank you again “kids” for sharing in our day.
Faith, Trust and Pixie Dust…
FOLLOW LIBBY’S BRAVE JOURNEY AT www.wristsaroundtheworld.com
For those of you who just can’t get enough of the holiday spirit, consider purchasing the collaborative blogger eBook:
ICONIC INTERVIEWS - The world’s most beloved holiday icons presented in a collection of irreverent interviews that take on the backstory of their imagined existences.
Your favorite bloggers are interviewed as iconic holiday characters, each one zanier than the next. All proceeds from the purchase of this book are donated to the bloggers collective project known as Wrists Around The World. For a free copy of this eBook as well as additional works from H.E. Ellis visit: www.wristsaroundtheworld.com
AVAILABLE IN EBOOK FORMAT THROUGH SMASHWORDS
AVAILABLE IN EBOOK FORMAT THROUGH AMAZON
AVAILABLE IN PAPERBACK THROUGH AMAZON
I’D LIKE TO THANK THE FOLLOWING BLOGGERS FOR THEIR GENEROUS CONTRIBUTION:
BrainRants as Santa Claus, Mrs. Claus and Lipschitz the Elf
THANK YOU ALL AND MERRY CHRISTMAS!
Well, blogworld, your faithful Hellis here. We’re coming up on one of my very favorite times of the year. I do truly love Christmas. However, many of my readers might be shocked to learn just how totally-
[Insert News Flash Music][Insert the Attention-Grabbing Alert screen]
(Scene cuts in to our Anchorman, Pennis Stone)
Stone: (perfect, jet black feathered hair and smoldering brown eyes) Ladies and Gentlemen, this just in! North Pole News SkyCam Reporter Chip Swizzle is live with us right now! Apparently Chip has spotted – all on his eagle-eyed own – the notorious red Impala reported to be connected with multiple escaped Santa sightings. Chip, what can you tell us?
[Visual with helicopter noise: red Impala with two passengers, one in a Santa suit, one a woman in a gown]
Chip: Thanks, Dick! Yeah, we’re here just outside the North Pole capital and spotted what we believe is the fugitive Santa Claus, wanted on multiple drug, prostitution, and a smorgasbord of Federal Code violations related to shady business practices and money laundering. I’m told police are on the way now, and … yes, yes, here they come. Our pilot is going to try and fly lower…
Stone: Heh heh, that’s Pennis, Chip! (winks at camera) Can you describe what you believe the fugitives are doing? I see what looks like a man in a Santa suit and a woman. What do you make of it, Chip?
[Shaky aerial visual continues, red hat twirls out over the rear of Impala. Picture tightens, and a white-haired fat man rocks out with a woman face-down in his lap]
Chip: Holy moly! I’m not sure what they’re doing down there, but the police are catching up fas… oh wait, two just skidded off the road in the snow. Anyway, we’re still holding station.
Stone: Chip, it looks like the same thing going on right here under the anchor desk. How close are the police now?
[Continued aerial shot of car, woman now sitting up, face in hand as fat man attempts to run cop off road Hazzard-style]
Chip: Dick, it looks like a struggle down there, and I can’t tell for certain but the woman appears to be Gloria Allred… oh, man! Santa just rammed one cop off the road! And there’s two up the road making a road block! Are you getting this, man?
Stone: (irritated): We’re getting it fine, Swizzle stick. This looks like the fugitive Claus is done running. Swizzle, anything new developing?
[Wide-angle view, red Impala speeding toward two cop cars with lights going]
Chip: Yeah, Dick, you may be correct. Santa doesn’t appear to be doing any evasive moves, and looks like he’s on a cell phone. That’ll be another charge against hi… OH HOLY BEJEEZUS!
[Scene jolted wildly out of kilter, sleigh briefly visible in skewed picture, rumbling of afterburners]
Stone: What’s going on, Swizzle? Talk to us?
[Scene shows Santa sleigh with a burly man in a kilt, a Thai hooker and two black-cloaked passengers swooping down toward the Impala]
Chip: Holy Klingon battle cruisers! We were just nearly blown out of the sky by what looks like a sleigh pulled by reindeer… and … I might need to lay off the rock, but I’d swear there’s a guy with a sword in a kilt and a Thai hooker in his lap… and .. wait… what is this? Halloween on Christmas? I’d swear the two people in back are both dressed as the Grim Reaper.
Stone: Ha! Yeah, Swizz, you need to cut out that smack. What’s developing now?
[Scene now stable, showing the sleigh crossing above the Impala while the two Reapers reach down to pull Santa clear, Allred taking the wheel and snapping a u-ey, and the sleigh rocketing out of sight][sonic boom sound]
Chip: Noooo waaaay! That was totally bitchen!
Stone: Chip! Did Santa just escape?
Chip: (deep inhaling sound)
Stone: Chip? Chip!
WE NOW RETURN YOU TO YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED BLOG…
…and so, after all that heartfelt revelation on my true feelings for Christmas, I wish all of you and yours a truly merry one! (Thanks for the tunes, Frank!)
Imagine you and I in my car driving down a dark, desert highway on one of our spontaneous adventures. I sing Oh! Darling in a gravelly voice just to make you laugh. I take off my shoes and then stretch across the seat, swinging my feet up into your lap. You play with my toes, tickling me. You tell me it’s my turn to laugh.
I lay my head against the window and look up at the stars, asking you questions I know you will answer.You speak eloquently about the stars and the sky, and although I am listening I am very aware of the wonder that is you.
Sleep overtaking me, I grab your jacket and throw it over top of me like a blanket. I snuggle my nose into its collar, breathing in your scent as I drift off to sleep. You steal glances at me while you drive, loving me in silence.
FOR MORE ROMANTIC MONDAYS VISIT EDWARD HOTSPUR
Subterranean Librarian – Flowers That Smell Of Shit And Spoil Your Senses While Maiming Your Thoughts With Foolish Pretenses
Tom Elias – Advice http://tomeliaswriter.wordpress.com/my-work/advice/
1. Go to Google.
2. Perform an image search on the word “coughing.”
3. Witness countless people giving the Invisible Man a blowjob.
Once upon a time (because this a time-honored way of beginning fairy tales), there was a swan, and she was pregnant. She didn’t want to be, because she wasn’t in love with her swan boyfriend, and the egg made her fat and almost totally ruined her bitchin’ prom dress. So after she laid the egg in the bathroom of the Sheraton that her high school had rented, she scooped it up and snuck outside, making tracks for the hospital a couple blocks away.
She’d managed to fit the egg inside her clutch, so no one at the hospital knew what she carried up to the second floor, the neo-egg unit. She also managed to sneak into the nesting room and stick the egg in one of the cribs. Birds aren’t very good at security.
They’re also not very good at math, because none of the nurses noticed that where once there was one egg, now there were two. Luckily for them, the mother was a duck, which meant that she was stupid.
The mother and father duck went home the next day with their two new additions, and the mother duck sat on the eggs until they hatched. The hatching day was a big deal in the duck household. There was cake, and soda, and balloons, and cousins and uncles. When the eggs cracked open, everyone gathered around the nest to watch. The duck, the real duck, emerged from his egg first.
“Aww, he’s so cute,” said some distant aunt. No one really knew who she was related to. She smelled like moth balls, though.
Next was the swan.
“Holy shit,” said the distant aunt, “He’s fucking ugly!” And even though no one was sure if she was supposed to be there, or if she’d wandered in off the street, everyone agreed with her. That second duckling was fugly. Seriously, have you ever seen a baby swan? Bow-wow City.
The swan grew up thinking he was a duck, and he was constantly tormented. At school, he was pushed into lockers. His lunch money was stolen. His head was dunked in every toilet in the school. Ducks made gagging noises when he walked by. No duck chick would date him.
At home, his parents ignored him and doted on his duck brother. This brother was the duck version of David Beckham. When he entered a room, angels sang. Little old ladies helped him cross the street. Even blind ducks knew how good-looking he was.
In a situation like this, it can go two ways: the ugly duckling (even though we all know he’s a swan, let’s stick with this for the time being, hmm?) can rise above his tormentors and graduate and go to college, where things might not necessarily improve, but maybe he’ll turn out to be a whiz with computers and get wicked rich, or he can go on a shooting spree at his school and make the papers.
It went the third way: the ugly duckling decided to cut off his brother’s face, wear it, and take over his identity.
Did I mention that ducks were stupid? Well, swans are fuckin’ crazy. Like Mexican cartel crazy.
One day, the ugly duckling stole a scalpel from his science class. That night, he slipped some sleeping pills into his brother’s milk and waited until sleepy times. Then he cut off his brother’s face. Bill and all. He spent the rest of the night cleaning up the blood and figuring out a good way to attach it to his own vile mug. There wasn’t one. He ended up stapling it on. Then he dressed in his brother’s clothes and ate breakfast looking like Duck Leatherface and his parents had no clue. Ducks are so stupid.
Fortunately, most of his teachers were geese. Geese are very smart. They let him go to his first period class, then called him to the principal’s office, where the police were waiting. The cops were also geese.
His lawyer was a goose, too, and once he got a look at the duckling’s real face, he knew he was dealing with a swan. He also knew that all he needed to do was file a bunch of legal papers and get the trial delayed a few months. Because, you see, teenage swans are butt-ugly, but young adult swans are like David Beckham times a thousand.
And thusly, once the trial finally started, the judge and jury and all the court people saw this gorgeous swan waddle into the courtroom. The judge (a duck) was confused. He wanted to know where the filthy psychopath was.
The lawyer, not missing a beat, said that the psycho duckling had escaped, and this poor beautiful swan had been imprisoned in his place. Injustice! cried the jury (also ducks). So they let the swan go, and a manhunt (duckhunt?) was launched for the psycho duckling. They never found him, of course. But a lot of unattractive ducks suffered some vigilante justice.
And the swan, meanwhile, started a new life, but because he was a swan, and therefore mentally unstable, it wasn’t too long before he strapped a few homemade bombs to his torso and waddled into his old high school. He blew himself sky-high and died a virgin.
As a kid growing up I had lots of crushes on boys and sometimes men, most of them actors on television. One of the earliest crushes I had was on a certain Latin actor named Erik Estrada, better known as Officer Francis “Ponch” Poncherello on a little show called CHiPs.
Anyway, what I remember most about that time were my prepubescent fantasies of a chance romantic encounter with Senor Estrada. Seeing that he is Puerto Rican, I had always imagined learning to speak Spanish in order to impress him when we finally met. I envisioned a mall scenario where my bilingual ability would impress him enough to set me apart from all the other adoring fans. Enough for him to invite me into his van (Note to all you youngsters out there- all sexy guys in the 80′s had vans. And mustaches, but that’s another blog post). So for my weekly offering to Romantic Monday I bring you:
AN ODE TO ERIK ESTRADA
I stand in a line that stretches the length of the mall, sipping my Orange Julius, waiting patiently for the Latin object of my preteen desire to sign my copy of Dynamite Magazine. I size up the competition standing between me and my love while I wait. I count ten blonde heads in all.
They must have known someone to get in line in front of me, I tell myself in consolation. I’ve been here since five a.m. goddamn it. No one loves Erik Estrada more than I do.
I do little to hide my glee as I watch girl after eager girl dismissed with an autograph but without a second glance. Little by little I inch closer to the man who I am convinced will someday make me his bride. Anticipating a kiss, I pop a stick of Zebra Stripe gum into my mouth as I wait patiently for him to notice me.
Finally I reach him- sitting behind a table, his glorious dark hair feathered just so. My heart races as I pass him my magazine, intentionally brushing my hand against his as I do. He doesn’t look up as I ask for his autograph, and I can tell he thinks I am just another groupie only interested in the celebrity that surrounds him.
Oh Erik, my love, I am determined to prove you wrong!
He heaves a heavy sigh as he scribbles his name and without looking up says, “Is this it?”
He slowly raises his eyes to meet mine and we stare deep into each others eyes for what seems like forever…the two of us locked in a gaze of pure intimacy.
“You speak Spanish?” he finally asks, clearly impressed with my dedication to learning all that I can about him.
I answer clearly. “Si.”
In an instant he’s up and around the table. He grabs my hand and pulls me quickly through the crowd of jealous teenage rejects to the exit doors that empty into the alley behind the mall. There awaits a van, his van, the site of my soon-to-be epic deflowering.
He slides the door open and hops in, reaching a hand out to pull me inside. Once I’m in he slides the door closed and tells me to make myself comfortable. I lay down on a purple silk bed built into the rear of the van while he twists the cap off a wine cooler and then pushes play on a cassette tape. David Bowie’s China Girl pours out of the speakers as he hands me my Bartles & James and says, “I want you to be my only Chica…”
My voice trembles as I say, “Si.”
He takes the drink from my hand and sets it down before he pulls me in close to him. The intoxicating scent of Aqua Velva mingled with Latin machismo emanates from his skin leaving me dizzy and breathless. He breathes in deep my own scent of Jean Nate and teenage lust as his hands move slowly to my back, working their way under my shirt. My skin is soft to him and smells “delicious.” He asks if he can taste me.
My breasts heave as I say, “Si.”
Sliding his hands up my body, he brings them to my face and then leans in to place sweet, gentle kisses at the corners of my lips, his tongue working its way into my mouth, tasting me as promised. His kiss is passionate and deep and makes me feel like the woman I am desperate to be. He asks if I want more.
Our breath mingles as I pant, “Si.”
I feel the beat of his heart racing with mine and the intensity of his desire through the denim of his Jordache for Men. My hand finds its way to his manhood straining against his jeans. I let my hand linger, teasing him. He begs me to set him free.
I whisper, “Si.”
I let loose the top button just as strong hands stop me, holding me in place. My beautiful Latin lover stares down at me with dark brown eyes and whispers, “You’re eighteen, right?”
I smile as I lie.
FOR EVEN MORE ROMANTIC MONDAYS VISIT:
Today I’d like to welcome a newbie to our little corner of blogworld, g00dg33kranting with his timely take on the classic THE ANT AND THE GRASSHOPPER. Not only is our new friend a contributor to our F*cked Up Fairy Tale project, but he is also a novelist in his own right. You can pick up a copy of his book, RISE OF THE DRAGONS through a link at the bottom of the post.
KID! Yeah you… get over here. Put that stupid video game down for a few minutes and come listen to me. I have a story to tell you. You and your lazy generation playing video games and texting on your phones and facebooking on everything; it’s SICKENING.
Listen to this story and you will rethink how you act. I’m going to tell you about the Ant and the Grasshopper.
DON’T GIVE ME THAT LOOK! This is more exciting than your Twilights and your Spidermans and your Thors with their actors who are too good looking to be real people.
So you see, there was this Ant and a Grasshopper and they were married as any good Grasshopper will end up married to an Ant at some point in his life. Now the Grasshopper went to work but he mostly slacked off a lot when he was there and then said he was too tired to help out when he got home.
This made his Ant wife very mad since she had to take care of their 437 children all day. Then had to cook dinner, get all 437 children to get their baths before getting them to bed. As you can imagine it is very challenging to get 437 children to bed by 8:30 P.M.
The Grasshopper would drink a lot of beer and watch football. This infuriated the Ant even more. Eventually the weather got cold at the end of the year and the Grasshopper wanted to get intimate with his Ant wife.
But she just ignored him and went to sleep. In the middle of the night she cut off his Grasshopper junk and threw it in a field, leaving the Grasshopper, and took her 437 children to LA and married Matt Damon just to dump him and take half his money.
And I miss your father every day… NOT, now go clean your room or I’ll cut yours off too.
PICK UP A COPY OF HIS BOOK AT AMAZON:
Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, the day is nearly here when we will unveil Book Two of the four book compilation series called REAPERS WITH FANGS. The sequel to Reapers With Issues follows the Grim Reaper on his journey through middle management Hell.
For those of you who have not read Book One of the series entitled, REAPERS WITH ISSUES but would like to purchase a copy visit www.wristsaroundtheworld.com where every purchase donates 100% of the profit to a great cause that you too can be a part of. Don’t forget to visit the REAPERS WITH ISSUES website and sign Grim’s DEATH BOOK. Now onto a preview of:
REAPERS WITH FANGS
Death’s bag landed with a thud, dumping its coconut scented contents and nearly a pound of beach sand onto the cold, office floor. “When was someone going to tell me about this?” Grim asked the three Horsemen scrambling to form a line in front of him.
“What ‘this’ are you referring to?” Famine asked, backing away slowly.
Grim stepped forward and shoved a pink, bubble gum scented memo into Famine’s bony hand. “THIS is what I’m referring to. This memo that’s nearly two weeks old. I count on you three to cue me into this kind of thing when I’m gone. I shouldn’t have had to hear this from Lucifer.”
Pestilence flinched at the word “Lucifer,” but said nothing. War looked to Famine who, after returning a stony glare, reluctantly answered. “No one wanted to bother you. We all agreed you needed the break.”
“So you thought waiting until I got back from vacation to walk into this mess was the better idea?” Grim asked as he snatched the memo from Famine’s hand and tossed it atop a monstrous stack of waiting paperwork.
“No, that’s not what we thought at all,” Famine explained. “We agreed we’d do some recon first and get a handle on who this Ashli person was before we decided whether or not you should worry.”
Grim startled. “Worry? Why? Who is she?”
Without saying a word Pestilence slowly lifted Grim’s mug off his desk and then went for coffee just as Famine produced a silver flask from deep inside his cloak.
“That good, huh?” Grim asked, not convinced he wanted to know.
“I’m not sure “good” is the word you want here,” Famine said as he poured a stream of red, viscous liquid into the steaming cup of coffee. Pestilence blew the billowing smoke away before handing the mug to Grim who promptly set it on the desk behind him.
“I’m not a Cherub, Fam. You don’t have to pussy foot around me. Just tell me straight out who this Ashli person is.”
Famine took a quick sip from the flask, steeling his courage before he spoke. “From what we’ve been able to gather Ashli is…well, let’s just say word around the Cloud is that the boss has got himself a new girlfriend.”
Grim stood frozen for a moment before he snatched the flask from Famine’s hand, tipped it back and sucked it dry.
“We’re still not sure what this is, so I see no reason to assume the worst,” Pestilence said in an attempt to put Grim at ease.
“Bunch of bullshit is what it is,” War blasted. “Give me five– no, four thousand real Reapers and we’ll take care of business no problem I guaran-fucking-tee it. We don’t need no Bible bitch tellin’ us how to do our jobs. We–”
Famine backhanded War into silence just as Grim dropped the flask to the floor. “Wait–what’s he talking about?” Grim asked, wide eyed. “What did he mean by, ‘telling us how to do our jobs?’”
Famine hung his head and sighed. “Yeah…I hadn’t gotten to that part yet.”
“So what are you saying?” Grim asked. “That I finally got Skippy and his shih-tzu out of my department and now….now I’ve got the girlfriend setting up shop here? Are you telling me she is actually in command of the OHD??” Grim’s shocked reaction forced his eyeballs to pop out of his skull and roll along the floor.
Famine picked the eyes and his flask up and set them all on the desk. “I’m afraid that’s the way it looks,” he reluctantly replied.
“Well that’s just fucking great,” Grim said as he ripped off his best tanned meat suit, stopping short of revealing a heart-shaped tattoo with the words Fran Forever emblazoned across the bicep. A tattoo that for the life of him Grim could not recall getting. “I need to sort this shit out so give me a few minutes alone, please. Pronto.”
Famine nodded and then led the Horsemen out of the office. As soon as he was alone Grim headed straight to the closet to change into his regular uniform. His official cloak, Grim decided, would put him in the right frame of mind to deal with the fact that once again, God pulled the rug out from under him.
As Grim slid on the heavy, black robe he set to putting this new dilemma into perspective. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, he thought. Anything had to be better than Jesus and his Reaper disaster. After all, the Big Guy never kept a woman for long, and he was sure it would only be a matter of time before this new one grew tired of his continued absence. Running the Universe for an eternity isn’t the nine to five job most women think it is.
Still, there was reason for concern. Even though this wasn’t the first time God took a mate, it was the first time in at least two thousand years he’d been this public about it. As Grim could recall, Lucifer was the reason behind God’s last romantic debacle. Grim wondered just how deep into Ashli’s pie his demon colleague’s fingers were, and just how bad the blowback to the OHD might be if God found out.
His mind racing with new concerns, Grim threw open the office doors and called for his Horsemen. “Have any of you spoken to Lucifer yet?” Grim asked once they arrived. “He’s the one who forwarded the memo. He’s got to know how this happened.”
“We…didn’t think it was such a good idea,” Famine tentatively began. “We didn’t know how much of this action originated from the Southern offices, you know, considering how Jesus’ Reaper solution went down.”
Grim ran a bony hand back and forth along his spinal column. “I do know what you mean, but it seems like a lot of risk, even for Lucifer. This isn’t Jesus and his shih-tzu we’re talking about, this is the Big Man and his woman. Anyone remember Lilith?”
“Come on, Boss,” War interjected around a wad of chew. “You know you can’t trust ol’ whistle britches, especially when there’s a female involved. Don’t matter who she is. He nails ‘em faster than Jesus to a cross.”
Hearing his Horseman echo his thoughts reinforced Grim’s suspicion of Lucifer’s role in Ashli’s sudden appearance at the OHD. Determined to get answers, Grim reached for a phone that rang as he grabbed it. “Hello?”
“Why Grim! You’re back!” Lucifer announced with mock cheerfulness. “What’s the good news?”
“You tell me. I’ve been skull deep in sand for the past two weeks.”
“Hmm…how very odd. I’d have thought your ponies would have alerted you to the magnitude of the situation by now.”
Grim shot his Horsemen a look of death as he spoke. “Never mind all that and just answer a question for me. Did you have something to do with this Ashli bullshit or not?”
“Hold your Horses,” Lucifer snickered. “The answer’s no, I had nothing to do with this. Although I wish I had, because this is more glorious than any plan I could have concocted.”
“Plan? What fucking plan are you talking about?”
A sudden, thunderous crash resonated throughout the office followed by a sulfurous puff of smoke. Lucifer appeared at Grim’s side. “Sorry about the theatrics Grimmie old boy, but I just had to be here when you got the news.”
Grim rubbed his skinless temples in exasperation. “Fuck the news and just get to the plan.”
An expression that was both gleeful and menacing at once took hold of Lucifer’s face as he stared into Grim’s and said, “I can sum up the plan in one word-
FOR MORE REAPERS VISIT:
TO BE PART OF A GLOBAL PROJECT AND GOOD CAUSE VISIT:
For those of you who may not know, the great Edward Hotspur hosts a weekly blog-wide post-off known as ROMANTIC MONDAY. As someone who isn’t much of a romantic, I wasn’t sure I’d have anything remarkable to post on this topic. But something about the Halloween season inspired me to write the following tale of love and devotion gone wrong. For my first Romantic Monday offering I give you:
ODE TO EDWARD HOTSPUR
How I wish I had the courage to kill you, my darling. Oh, to have the strength to give you what you ask! Alas, my beloved, I am weak. You cannot imagine how it pained me to remove your feet. Surely you understand the sacrifices we must make for our love!
It all started so beautifully, did it not, E.H.? That glorious day when at long last you noticed me! I hardly believed it myself. Oh how you teased me, renaming me “Hellis” and coordinating our blog posts. How did you know the pleasure I would receive, seeing your words intertwined with mine? So why, oh why did it have to end?
Did my novelty wear off after only a year? Did you think I wouldn’t notice you had moved on to another? Did you think I wouldn’t recognize your words on another woman’s blog?
I recognized you. I recognized you because you belong to me.
I do not blame you for straying, my darling. You are just a man, after all, easily swayed by blog stats and sparklines. I forgive you your frailties. But I see now that I have to protect you and our love from the seductive, literary succubi who covet you for themselves.
Please do not cry, my sweet. You shall not miss your hands for long!
Just as you gave yourself to me, I shall become you, E.H. I will sacrifice my own identity and assume yours as a testament to our devotion to one another. I will destroy these usurpers of our love with your own beautiful, words. Oh how it will pain me to mingle my words with theirs. But love is pain my darling, as you well know.
FOR MORE ROMANTIC INTERLUDES VISIT:
Now that I’ve got your attention I’d like to make you aware of an ongoing project I’ve been spearheading that I am hoping you’ll want to be a part of. It’s a project to benefit a cause that’s close to my heart called LIBSTRONG, a community of friends who have gathered together in support of Libby, a dear young friend who is battling cancer.
We’ve put together a surprise project called WRISTS AROUND THE WORLD not only to raise money but to raise her spirits as she battles her illness. Keep reading to find out what it’s all about and to learn how you too can be involved:
From the WATW site:
Our latest endeavor is called WRISTS AROUND THE WORLD- a fun global project designed for people everywhere to show their support for Libby and her battle against cancer. Bloggers and non-bloggers alike are invited to purchase her LIBSTRONG wristbands and then snap pictures of their wrists against an iconic landmark of their city, state or hometown. Once the photo is taken it is emailed to us and then posted to our GALLERY.
The message behind our project is to show the world how Libby’s strength and determination touch more than just those around her. Her positivity reaches around the world!
When sending a picture please include information noting where the picture was taken. We would be happy to post your name or a link to your blog, although that is not necessary and we will respect all wishes for anonymity. We are requesting snapshots be of wrists wearing wristbands only, so even the most camera shy supporter feels comfortable enough to be involved.
LIBSTRONG wristbands are available for sale individually or in package deals combined with items donated from various blog supporters. Visit our MAKE A DIFFERENCE page for information on how to purchase the package that’s right for you!
To be a part of WRISTS AROUND THE WORLD send your snapshot to:
I am asking my fellow bloggers everywhere to purchase at least one wristband not only to raise some much needed money for Libby’s cause, but to show her your support from your very own hometown. Package prices include shipping within the United States only. Since I would like the wristbands to actually go around the world, I would be willing to donate both of my ebooks for free to anyone outside of the United States who purchases even just one LIBSTRONG wristband to offset the cost of shipping which would be the responsibility of the purchaser.
As of the writing of this post, Libby doesn’t know about this project. We’d like to get as many pics around the world as possible and then reveal her site as a gift.
As for my part in the WRISTS AROUND THE WORLD project I’ve decided to donate both my REAPERS WITH ISSUES and THE GODS OF ASPHALT ebooks and paperbacks to be included in wristband package deals. I am also including the blog compilation project F*CKED UP FAIRY TALES for donation once it is completed. Each contributing author’s name of that work will receive an honorary mention on the FRIENDS OF LIBSTRONG page with links to their blogs.
Additionally, if you are an author you can contribute by donating your own books for package deals to be included on their site. For ebooks simply donate a free coupon for your book that others may purchase to raise money for our cause. For information on paperback donations, please contact firstname.lastname@example.org for more details.
Thank you everyone for taking the time to stop by Wrists Around The World!
I’d like to take a moment to step outside of the humor box and use my blog post today as an opportunity to spread awareness for a cause I truly believe in.
There comes a time in the lives of all bloggers when we find a need to step back and reflect on our journey through the virtual utopia that is Blogworld. Some of us have come here to broaden our horizons and to find inspiration within the photo or travel blogs that pepper the Freshly Pressed page. Many of us find comfort and community amongst the animal lover or mommy blogs of WordPress. Still others use their blog to extract humor from the banality of the workday life and to share their plight with the blog world around them.
But once in a great while there comes a blogger who stands out among the rest- a blogger who effortlessly straddles the line between tragedy and comedy. A blogger who bucks convention with his often times controversial opinions on the validity of religion or the sanctity of marriage or the awesomeness of Star Trek. A blogger who challenges the status quo, strives to enlighten both men and women alike, and who boldly laughs in the face of clowns.
It is this singular blogger who I believe can deliver us all into an era of change and lead us down a path of righteousness and light. That is why I, Hellis of Bloggerland, am asking its citizens for their support and their vote for EDWARD HOTSPUR as champion of the BLOGGER IDOL contest.
“Amongst the weeds of the world, a flower grows…”
CAST YOUR VOTE FOR EDWARD HOTSPUR HERE:
We are going to switch gears here for a take on a classic fairy tale brought to us by author in residence and my writing companion, Tom Elias.
Although Tom may be new to blogworld, he is no stranger to the SciFi genre. So sit back and enjoy a version of Beauty and the Beast that is truly out of this world.
Bika Carlton stared out the widow port at the austere Lunar landscape. One of the wealthier residents of Luna Seventeen, he enjoyed the luxury of this view because he could afford the monthly payment. The view would end soon, Bika knew, because he could no longer haul enough water for the payments.
Were he alone and responsible for nobody but himself, this problem would be simple to overcome. As a self-made shipping success, Bika understood what it meant to go without, tighten his belt, and continue to struggle on toward success. No longer could he take refuge in the ease of self-reliance. Around him, the trappings of wealth and comfort mocked him for his complacency and foolishness.
Out on the stark surface, someone in an enviro suit bounced along in the familiar gait particular to Lunar dwellers, and Bika thought, “Probably a repair crew, now that it’s safe.” The massive, unpredicted solar flare that wrecked his shipping fleet also caused significant damage to the unprotected portions of the Lunar infrastructure that had been turned sunward at the time. Thoughts of the revolving Moon reminded him of the time, and Bika collected his personal effects and stepped out of the apartment just ahead of Belle’s morning alarm.
He had resolved to not broach the subject with his daughter until he knew for certain that he could lay out a coherent plan of action for her with confidence. He wanted her to feel taken care of, no matter what, because that is what daddies did. Bika loped through the hallways of Luna 17, steadily connecting downward to levels below the gray and airless surface. He was surprised that his meeting would be in The Below. Anyone rich as The Beast could surely afford a domed office with a fountain.
“Bika Carlton,” he said to a receptionist who barely acknowledged his existence in The Beast’s Spartan offices.
She barely nodded and continued to subvocalize dictation into her desktop AI. Bika lingered momentarily and then seated himself. After close to thirty minutes past his appointment time, a group of executives dressed in the latest nanofiber enviro suits. Their clumsy stride told Bika that they came from a deeper gravity well, but he guessed Mars because they didn’t walk like complete Earthlings.
As if choreographed, a flock of administrative types disgorged from a side door as it dilated open. The receptionist stood up and indicated that Bika would follow her. She stood at least four inches taller than Bika. Willowy-thin like Belle, the woman showed all the signs of being a Lunar native, her moves effortless and unconscious.
If the reception room he sat in had little by way of decoration, The Beast’s office displayed even less. Bika thought it looked more like a cargo hold than an office. A simple credenza sat centered on one unadorned concrete wall and held only a box that clearly functioned as a speaker. The receptionist touched a pendant communicator at her neck and her mouth moved silently. A light on the box lit green.
“Mr. Carlton, thank you for coming,” the disembodied voice of The Beast sounded.
“Thank you for having me,” Bika answered with a knot building in his gut. The Beast, wildly successful beyond what Bika earned in his life, wielded massive power. Always the shrewd businessman, The Beast frequently extended help in the form of financial assistance to smaller freight companies like Bika’s. The Beast earned his company’s success as well as his nickname. Reflecting on the man’s cutthroat reputation did not help alleviate Bika’s nausea.
“All right,” The Beast’s voice echoed in the spare room, “Tell me the background.”
Bika nearly launched a soliloquy on the misfortune of the solar flare and his fleet sitting in tatters in high Martian orbit. Sadly, those fine vessels now had more in common with Mars’ two lumpy moons than they did with flight-worthy spacecraft. Around him, the dour flock of administrative specialists ran through a litany of dry data on balance sheets, profit and loss tables, and estimates on targeted markets around the Solar System. Each one spoke in turn as if rehearsed. Clearly, they performed this number often. Soon enough, they concluded the flow of raw data, and a silence hung in the office air.
“Carlton,” The Beast’s gritty voice sounded, “You know what all that means. You’re dead in the water, and what’s more, I own the papers on most of those hulks. They’ll take at least a year to overhaul, and what I just heard tells me you cover one month with what you make the previous one. Nothing wrong with that. It’s ballsy. Not many like you anymore. But facts are facts. You could ship twice your annual haul for five years and not come close to being in the black with me. You owe me.” The man let the statement hang.
“Yes,” Bika said, “Yes, I do. I don’t know what to say.”
“Oh I know how you’ll pay me back, don’t worry,” The Beast said with humor in his voice. “You have one old bucket left, and I have just the project for it.”
Bika swallowed and prepared himself for the worst.
Belle finished setting the table while dinner sat in the warmer unit of the tiny kitchen behind her. Meals on Luna, regardless of relative wealth, were not elaborate, flavorful or large. Overeating in low gravity could have embarrassing side effects. Belle managed to keep up her share of domestic tasks while she finished her university schooling. She knew her father would be home within minutes since he remained a creature of habit.
In spite of being absent for long periods after her mother died when Belle was small, the young woman turned out remarkably well-adjusted and bright. She made honors marks in her courses to be sure, but remarkably never took the wealth her father earned for granted, somehow driven by the same innate need for personal achievement that her father used to carve out his life.
She whipped her thick, black braid over her shoulder and returned to the kitchen unit to retrieve the plates of warm food. She met her father just as the apartment hatch cycled.
“Hi Daddy!” she enthused.
“Hi, Peanut,” Bika answered, dejected.
Belle immediately sensed the trouble in her father, set the plates down, and hugged him. Bika felt relief, and held his daughter tight until his eyes dried. Later, each of the two had mainly pushed their tasteless food around their plates, and Belle understood the entire problem. In spite of it all, she could see hope.
“Daddy, this isn’t so bad,” she soothed, “I mean, we’ll just get a different apartment, and cut back, and while you’re gone on the mission for this Mr. Beast person, everything will be fine. I’ll finish school while you’re gone.”
“I know you will, Peanut,” Bika agreed, attempting a smile and a convincing glance into Belle’s bright green eyes. “I just have to make sure I get everything set up for you. The rent and such, I mean.”
Belle nodded in agreement and much later, Bika stared out the same window port. The scenery scarcely changed, but in the darkened apartment, the light pouring in highlighted the tracks of tears on his face. Nobody could ask for a better daughter. Bika told her most of his plan, but not all of it. In his mind, there could only be one workable solution.
The Beast had arrayed the facts and then put down his trump card that morning. Bika would commit his one remaining functional ship to a special mission for The Beast. He claimed he needed the old scow because the plasma jet engine would not interfere with the cargo he planned to haul. The hitch was, Bika would pilot the ship, alone. Relativistic effects of the old bucket’s drive included, Bika would age almost twelve years, and his Belle would wait for fourteen on her side of Einstein’s frame of reference, at the least.
None of this truly concerned him, though. Bika had much to do, because he planned on engineering this imposed duty upon him. He would start tomorrow and talk to all the people he needed to. He saw his solution as the only way out, and Belle would be taken care of for life. The Beast would get his due, his project destroyed for trying to take away the rest of his life. For Bika, it only meant dying.
One week later, Bika again stood in the undecorated office of The Beast, again regarding the speakerbox.
“Carlton,” the voice of The Beast came clear from the device, “Do you think I got where I am by being a fool?”
“I don’t think you’re a fool, and I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Bika said, nervous.
“Try and bluff me all you want, it makes no difference. Did you think I wouldn’t find out about you blowing up your ship and the additional insurance you’ve bought up this week? Hmm?” The Beast said with cutting sarcasm.
“I… I don’t know,” Bika said.
“You’re the fool, Bika, for signing the contract you did without reading it well, and for assuming my absence would insulate you from my awareness,” The Beast lectured, his tone now cutting. “You have some balls, though. I can’t deny that. I also can’t let you out of this so easily.”
“What now?” Bika said with anger and a sense of nothing to lose.
“Change in plans. To ensure you don’t pull something funny, Carlton, your daughter will travel on the ship with my cargo, not you,” The Beast explained.
“You bastard,” Bika whispered.
“I hear that a lot,” The Beast said, “I know what you’re thinking. I’m not without a soul. She will ride in stasis. I’d take the rest of your life for squandering my investment, but not hers. Have her at the Luna spaceport tomorrow.”
Bika, overcome with a dizzy spell, teetered and then repeated himself, screaming, “You bastard!” The indicator light on the speakerbox, however, was dark.
Belle wore her concern well-hidden. Only the smallest of creases between her eyebrows gave away her emotion. Bika, her father, read it clearly, and the tiny furrow might as well have been a furrow cut into his heart.
“I have failed you,” Bika said, eyes wet and boring through the deck plating of the port’s shuttle dock.
“Daddy, you always tried hard. Nobody’s lucky all the time. I’d rather sleep for twelve years to be done with this than lose you,” Belle said.
Bika shook his head, unable to speak in the face of his daughter’s kindness and grace.
“Besides,” Belle continued, “This is the least I can do to repay all you gave me until now, Daddy.”
Belle hugged and kissed her father, took her small bag and walked into the shuttle’s airlock. She turned and smiled, and that image of Belle remained burned in Bika’s mind for the guilty years that followed.
Bika’s remaining freighter powered through deep and unforgiving space. Being old and outdated became an advantage on this journey, and it also meant that the components rarely failed out of wear. The deck plates and deep structures vibrated with the power of the engine that rammed them along at a large percentage of the speed of light.
Magroodian pulled himself along one access corridor, trailing his ruined leg behind him. His opposite arm, twisted and weak, provided a stabilizing point and occasional anchor despite its apparent ruin. Magroodian tended ships in flight and the low gravity in the older model freighters proved ideal for him for this and other reasons. He could tend on newer and slower interplanetary routes, but those often involved other passengers. Magroodian preferred solitude because he could avoid the stares and the questions.
One year into the journey to Centauri Alpha II, Magroodian felt the comfort of a well-worn routine. He exited the cargo bay after checking the precious device it held. His next task involved checking the telemetry and guidance. All of the panels indicated that systems onboard were ticking along perfectly. He logged all of this faithfully, and turned his attention to his favorite task.
The stasis unit self-diagnosed and rendered a report of nominal metrics. Magroodian peered through the glass, trying to see past the fog. He purged the interior atmosphere, clearing the viewplate. Inside slept the Angel. Magroodian had seen beautiful women, even slept with a few before the accident, but this creature plucked every heart string Magroodian possessed. Belle Carlton’s raven hair and porcelain skin remained unchanged, of course. Only the occasional lead stuck to her head in places disrupted the perfect vision of beauty. Magroodian felt pangs of hunger, and realized he had stared at her again for hours.
Two years later, Magroodian’s routine had evolved. One task taking several months’ time enabled him to speak with her, in a way. Cobbling components of unnecessary or redundant systems, he had devised an input channel to the stasis machine, and by reading a message he could communicate in a way with the perfect beauty laying wrapped in cold, artificial sleep. The improvised device would feed her these messages back through her monitoring leads, slowed for her reduced awareness. Magroodian’s first love letter, when read, ran to ten recorded minutes and then required his agonized patience for over a week while it slowly trickled into her mind.
The fact that Belle could not answer never slowed Magroodian down. From his lonely, disfigured point of view, having half of a relationship to him was more than he had hoped for to begin with. He wrote poems, random thoughts, and love letters to her, not knowing if his words registered or were merely expressed as slow, cold dreams. Today he carefully read a short but deliberately-crafted note to her.
“My Perfect Little One,” he read, “My mind is filled with thoughts of you. They are thoughts of nothing but love, caring and kindness. In my mind, we are together, and we have finally found our Someday. I cannot tell you how much joy these thoughts bring me, and I have them because of you in my life.”
Magroodian wiped the saliva from his mangled jaw, not wishing to slurp it back into his mouth while reading. He fed the file to the device he’d built, and set about waiting. At the moment the slow-trickle device finished an unknown, random chunk of interstellar matter struck the hull, detonating a maneuvering thruster fuel unit.
Months passed, and Magroodian struggled mightily to keep the freighter intact and functional. He felt tired in his bones, unable to recall a night of rest not interrupted by a new crisis. Ever resourceful, Magroodian shifted power sources, rewired entire systems, and kept the engines humming. Yet, system failures moved through the ship like a malevolent poltergeist.
Now he feared that he could save no more systems. He had already cut life support to much of the freighter, and what the remaining areas had ran at minimal levels. Nonessential computer systems were offline. What remained beyond navigation, stellar drive and life support were the circuits for Belle’s stasis pod and the cargo package. With mysterious faults cropping up still, Magroodian could choose between maintaining the cargo or Belle.
He agonized this before realizing that the system load for the stasis unit took more resources than an additional, conscious human would. Magroodian realized while he watched the stasis unit cycle down that the fear of having to face Belle for real outweighed the fear of having to sacrifice her outright. While she slowly floated up to consciousness, Magroodian moved his possessions from his room into the galley.
Belle slowly realized that she no longer slept in stasis. In fact, someone moved her to a comfortable bed and saw to her recovery regimen before she regained consciousness. She felt cold, deep down, and she shivered. Something in the room smelled funny, and it took Belle several minutes to understand that she caused the odd odor. Her limbs felt heavy and rubbery, and sitting up caused pain everywhere. Breathing deeply caused her to rack herself coughing.
Gradually, though, she felt a little better. She thought standing might be useful, but somehow doing that was impossible. At the hatch to the room, a chime sounded. She could barely croak out a sound, and the door opened. The ugliest man she had ever seen stood there holding a tray. She quickly realized even with her eyes that refused to focus well that this poor man had suffered a grave injury somehow. His hair grew in patches, and his face hung misshapen and jumbled on his head. One eye drooped, sightless, and ropy scar tissue laced up his neck. Belle’s heart broke for Magroodian simply looking at him.
“Here is some food,” he said, placing a small tray with a smaller cup of broth near her. “You should eat very slowly. Your stomach has not processed food for three years. I will explain everything when you’re ready.” He turned awkwardly on his atrophied leg to leave.
“Wait,” Belle managed, stopping Magroodian. “Tell… me… please.”
Magroodian sat in a chair – his former furniture – with his face mainly averted. He told her of his struggle to keep the ship under power, save the cargo, and her life. Belle absorbed it all. She had missed so much, and the few ounces of broth in her stomach felt like gallons. She grew sleepy, and Belle later recalled broken images of Magroodian bent over her, gently tucking her under a blanket and arranging her pillow.
“Tell me your name,” Belle said at some point days later. She recovered quickly, and the two of them walked the decks to build back her stamina.
“Magroodian,” he answered, looking down and away. “I run the ship while it flies.”
“My name is Belle,” she said, “I bet you know why I’m here.”
“Yes,” Magroodian said.
They walked together a bit. The induced gravity made each of them tired in spite of remaining low. Belle, used to half what she struggled with now, felt exhausted. Magroodian mentioned it would be good practice for Centauri Alpha II, and then remained silent while Belle breathed hard and thought.
“You don’t ever look at me when you talk,” she said, and Magroodian did not answer. Belle lunged ahead and whirled in front of him, preventing him from limping further. “Look at me, please.”
He did, reluctantly turning his mangled face to her but keeping his working eye locked on the floor. Belle said nothing for a long moment.
“It hurt very much,” she finally said, more a statement than a question.
“Yes, very much,” he answered and wiped his chin. He felt something like a pressure on his cheek, and looking up saw that he sensed Belle’s perfect, graceful hand touching his face. He felt dizzy because of this act of gentleness. He dared to look at Belle’s face, and stopped breathing when he saw the tears flowing down her soft cheeks. In that moment, he would have given his own organs to keep her alive, or sacrificed himself for her, merely for her touch and her tears.
Later, the freighter was only months out from Centauri Alpha, and Magroodian managed to get the deceleration phase configured in spite of the patchwork quilt of circuits and fixes. He grew comfortable with Belle, and she with him. They shared an easy friendship. He never mentioned the love notes or the system he devised to communicate them. Over dinner, without warning, she alarmed him with a statement.
“I had such beautiful dreams while I was in stasis,” she said, then asking, “Is that a common phenomenon?”
“Dreams? How do you mean?” Magroodian said, defensive.
“Oh! They seemed to go on forever,” Belle smiled, “And there was this amazing man who read me beautiful poetry. Sometimes he wrote love letters. It was so vivid that I can’t get it out of my head.”
“Well, I will check the library, but I’m sure it’s connected to the stasis effects or the medications,” Magroodian said.
“Too bad, almost,” Belle giggled, “I would love to meet whoever could say those wonderful kind of things to me.”
“Perhaps someday you will, or someone like him,” he answered quietly.
The lights went out at that instant and the entire freighter shuddered. Magroodian, twisted and bent, sprang into action like a cat.
“Stay here, Belle!” he said and hobbled through the dark by memory. His instincts told him the engine main power relays were failing, and he headed that way. The emergency lighting finally kicked in, flickering and red. In the drive compartment, Magroodian saw that he guessed correctly. He brought the main power grid off line. He now owned about two hours of time to spend on figuring this out before the backup generator systems expended their chemical fuel. The backup battery system he disconnected long ago in the process of saving the freighter.
Magroodian quickly determined that it came down to a choice. He used the standard procedure and added key systems one by one to the recoupled power grid. No matter how he did it, or in what order, it still came to a choice. He left power to the cargo bay and its cargo online. The life support systems remained on backup. Belle found him hunched over a computer much later.
“You fixed the problem,” she said with amazement.
“No, far from it,” Magroodian spat.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“Life support is on backup power, and that system can run life support by itself for about…” he glanced at the computer, then finished, “Six more hours. Then the backup system is out of fuel.”
“That would give you six hours to find the problem, right?” she asked.
“Yes, but the fuel runs out. We don’t get more. If something bad happened later, we would have no backup power system at all. Besides, the support system damage is in part of the ship I have sealed off. We don’t have suits that support that kind of vacuum work anyway.”
“Oh,” Belle said.
“Our cargo takes power, but I cannot even uncouple it from the master relays or it will be worthless,” he explained.
“So what do we do?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Magroodian lied, thankful for the fact that his twisted, ugly face could not convey deception.
The next hours contained few conversations. Magroodian existed in an agitated state of activity, most of it spent at the helm. He sat in earnest silence, only wiping his chin and surrounded by technical manuals. He had some piloting experience because the job required it. Because of this, he knew there were some operations a navigation program could not execute. Planetary orbital insertion happened to be one of them, so Magroodian did the best he could.
Belle saw him many times, limping along as quickly as he could in his race against time. He went in and out of the cargo hold frequently. She assumed his task of saving the ship consumed him completely, and willingly stayed out of his way. She distracted herself by investigating the ships’ systems using the computer terminal in her room. Magroodian did in fact have most of the ship completely shut down. She wondered why he had not just taken the cargo hold off line months ago. Looking for anything to answer that, Belle found some audio files, hundreds of them. She only played three before she bolted from her small berth to find Magroodian. When she found him near the airlock, their eyes met and both knew what the other thought.
“Why?” she said with a quavering voice and tears on her cheeks.
“It is the only way one of us will survive all the way to Centauri,” Magroodian answered, now suited up and clearly set to walk out of the airlock.
Belle shook her head. “No, no. Why didn’t you tell me? About the recordings? It was you all along. My poet.”
Magroodian’s world stopped. Tempted to just walk into the airlock and cycle it without a word, he ultimately dropped his hand to his side. He felt defeated.
“You could never love anyone as… hideous as me,” he said, indicating his face with his good hand. “It was easier.”
Belle was speechless for a moment, tears flowing. Then she shook her head again, a puzzled look on her face. “You’re wrong, but what were you about to do?” she asked.
Magroodian explained the trade-off quickly, concluding the explanation by saying, “So I’ve cut the life support down to accommodate one person, programmed the insertion at Centauri Alpha, and I was about to… walk out.”
Belle dissolved into waves of hard, sorrowful tears. She staggered against the bulkhead, rocked to her core. Magroodian had no idea what he had done or said that caused this. He only wanted to save her life. She stopped sobbing abruptly and wiped her face. She looked into Magroodian’s eyes and strode to him. In an instant, she stood inches from his face with hers. The fire in her eyes softened, and he felt the sensation again that meant her hand rested against his ruined face. Then she leaned in and placed one soft, loving kiss on his lopsided mouth.
“You silly man,” she said in a whisper, “I’ve loved you for months now. And if I had known you wrote me such beautiful words, that those were more than dreams… that they came from your heart…”
She cried again, softly, and this time into his neck. Eventually his arms took her and held her. They stood that way for a long time.
Later, Magroodian decoupled the cargo hold power system from the main junction. Belle watched as he reconnected the life support and recalibrated it to account for two humans instead of one. Then she asked to see the cargo, and Magroodian walked with her on his uneven legs to the hold. The backup lights illuminated the device in a surreal red light.
“It’s a kind of communication device. I’ve been sending reports back to the owner with it,” he said, and Belle saw the keyboard and screen, now dull black.
“Why is it special?” she asked, intuiting the uniqueness of it.
“It uses entangled quantum particles. Whatever messages I type here, or whatever data I send, is instantaneously reflected back on Earth with no delay.”
“Oh God,” she gasped, seeing the point.
“Yes,” Magroodian said, “It’s one of a kind and took trillions of credits to research and build. But it takes a lot of power. It would have made the owner richer than any man in the Solar System.”
“He’s going to be furious with you,” Belle said.
“You could say that,” he answered, wiping his lip.
Some months later, Magroodian initiated the braking and entry sequence. Both he and Belle struggled under a full Earth gravity for weeks, and then he increased the braking thrust. By the time the external cameras showed them the bright, yellow disk of Centauri Alpha, both had adapted to two full Earth gravities as best as they could. They helped one another, adapted to each other, and grew close.
Magroodian maneuvered the freighter manually now, Belle watching in fascination as he caressed the controls with his one good hand and expertly put the ship into a stable orbit of the second planet, an Earth-like world far from home. Planetary systems detected and relayed a standard query message. When the colonial authority learned their identity, the next message was a sharp and directive. The Beast’s Centauri office expected him to come in person, immediately.
“You’re in trouble,” Belle said.
“Oh yes. I ruined the company,” Magroodian explained.
Belle, catching her breath loudly, said, “Oh no! You should have pushed me out the airlock, stasis thing and all.”
“I could never have done that, Belle,” Magroodian said, “You know that.”
His words seemed to calm her. Then she stated without room for debate, “I am coming with you.”
“All right,” Magroodian acceded.
Within two hours, a corporate shuttle hailed them and instructed them to extend the docking posts.
Magroodian sat in the office, sweating and breathing heavily under almost twice Earth normal gravity. Beside him, Belle reclined in a gravity chair designed specifically for offworlders unused to such a deep gravity well. Her breathing came hard, and some motions made her groan, but never once did she complain.
An administrative functionary breezed into the room on muscular legs. This functionary collected the bills of lading and other necessary documents, to include each of Magroodian and Belle’s identification files. The man broke the electronic seal on the case, flipped casually through the packet, and then pulled a scanner out to upload the identity information on their cards. It matched the logged mission data, and he then swiped a special, textured area of the device first down Belle’s arm, then Magroodian’s. Belle’s swipe earned a green diode light, as did Magroodian’s. The readout for Magroodian, however, made the functionary double-take and then fly from the room.
Seconds later, a cadre of other administrative types flooded the room. Belle lay there confused as the team made her more comfortable and brought food and drinks. More teams arrived, these equipped with data pads and earpieces. Magroodian sighed and then groaned as he stood. He whispered something in the ear of one aide, who vanished. All of the rest he waved away. He and Belle were alone again in seconds.
“What is going on?” Belle asked.
“Belle, you may hate me for this, because I’ve not been totally honest with you,” Magroodian said.
“Go on,” she said with hesitation.
“Belle, I am The Beast,” he said without decoration and waited for whatever response he earned. None came, and he continued, “Everything else is true except I don’t work for the man, I am the man. The company is now in the red, this destruction of my face and body is not makeup. I was and still am a hard and shrewd businessman, but once I fell in love with you, and you returned it to me so well, I changed completely. I’ll understand if you leave and hate me. I can have you back on Luna on one of my fold ships in two weeks. I regret making you my insurance for our trip. I do not and will not regret falling in love with you, Belle.”
He finished his statement and stood ready for whatever Belle had to say. Minutes passed, and tears again brimmed in her eyes. Then, slowly shaking her raven-haired head, she raised her arms to him, inviting him to her for an embrace. The Beast, Magroodian, accepted it gladly
Attention all you shiny folks from the ‘Verse! Today is the tenth anniversary of the first episode of the uber series that hardly was, FIREFLY. You don’t have to be a Joss Whedon fan to appreciate his dystopian western turned cult-classic.
For anyone who’s read my novella REAPERS WITH ISSUES and enjoyed the antics of a horseman named War, you may want to pay close attention to a character named Jayne Cobb.
Here’s a big thank you to a young uber fan-friend of mine for her awesome video below.
I got this idea from fellow rockin’ chick Darlene at THE DAILY WOMAN. Make sure you check out her post which is witty and insightful as opposed to mine which is…well, you’ll see.
You know how you are absolutely certain that you are going to take off to New York and become a dancer/artist/photographer after high school? Or how you are NEVER going to get married or have children, ever? Well here’s some advice I’d like to give you from the future to make your impending reality bearable.
1. Get off your high horse and date a nerd. Trust me on this.
2. Start studying for the S.A.T.s NOW.
3. Yeah, don’t get attached to all the awesome. Or to your ass, because in twenty years it is going to expand into epic proportions.
4. Your English Lit teacher is NOT correct. What you write will not forever be considered, “the sub-moronic ramblings of a semi-functioning illiterate.”
5. Teenaged boys lie. Even the nice ones.
6. Don’t listen to your father.
7. No, your hair does NOT look cool like that.
8. George Michael is gay. Don’t waste your time.
9. What makes you popular at fifteen doesn’t mean shit when you’re forty. Grow a personality now.
10. DO NOT MARRY THE HOT ROMANIAN GUY BECAUSE HE LOOKS LIKE ONE OF THE LOST BOYS!!!!!
For more “Dear Me” letters visit CHATTING AT THE SKY.