Well, me too, but you'll just have to settle for a clip of my own ramblings today, I'm afraid. In particular, I'm adding a quick piece of my first novel "The Screaming God" here. A small piece that I'm inordinately fond of for some reason. There's just something about rudely frustrating a lady that pleases me to no end (just ask my wife, I'm an endless source of frustration for the poor woman!)
So why the clip? Well, once again I'm shamelessly asking all my family, friends, and readers (who, let's face it, are pretty much the same people at this point!) to "share" this post with all their family, friends, etc. in the hope that I'll someday become a famous author who can spend his days spinning more yarns like this one for your entertainment. So, if you wanna help a fat old man out . . .
Enjoy the clip!
I left, my newfound shadow trailing along behind me in silence. That did me just fine. The longer she kept her tongue still the happier I was gonna be. I made my way up through the Quarter, seeking out a particularly seedy dive I knew by the name of The Pig Bucket. Don’t ask how it got the name. Trust me on this one.
“Where are we going now?”
“We? Don’t know where you’re headed, but there’s a bottle of fine Irish whiskey in there with my name on it.” I gestured toward the door of The Pig as I stepped over one of its customers who’d managed to stagger into the street before collapsing in a puddle of his own vomit. She looked at the door and noticed –-for the first time-- the condition of the entire area we were in.
“Here?” Her words dripped scorn and disgust. “If this is all you can afford, maybe you should ask the Council for a raise!”
“Raises are always good, and if you’d care to recommend me for one, I’d be obliged. As far as The Pig goes, I drink here because I choose to, not because I have to. The whiskey’s not watered down, the musicians can carry a tune, the customers won’t slit your throat --if they know you-- and none of the whores will give you the itch! Well, almost none anyway,” I added, recalling Big Alice.
“I realize it’s not your type of tea-shop, but it does me fine. Tell ya what: you head on home now and have your servants pack your bags and I’ll meet you on the wharf in the morning. We sail at high tide, with or without Your Ambassador-ness!”
I left her standing there, jaw hanging open as I made my way into The Pig. She didn’t follow, so I assumed she’d taken my advice. To be quite honest, I really didn’t care. Within moments I’d settled into a friendly dice game, with a bottle in one hand and a nice, plump, bit of girl in the other. Soon enough, all thoughts of Chakar and the uptight wench I’d been saddled with had disappeared in a haze of whiskey and soft, willing, flesh.
Now, that is what being the Godslayer is all about!
JA Coppinger, all rights reserved