Wednesday, March 14, 2018

Insomnia: The Gift That Keeps on Giving

The ceiling in my bedroom is completely uninteresting. I know this because I spent an inordinate amount of time last night staring at it. It’s off-white and slightly textured. Some sort of entertainment value would have been nice, such as a light show or a spider. Two spiders would have been great, especially if they did a little dance or something. Like ‘Puttin’ on the Ritz.’ The larger spider would be Peter Boyle and the smaller one Gene Wilder. It would be amazing.

And I’m rambling, as I’m very tired and all the still-functioning brain cells are focused on keeping me awake, continent, and breathing. Clever is way down the list of necessary functions, so yeah.

I did, at one point, lapse into a dream where people were being murdered and I figured out that the entire thing was related to a comic book series, where if you could just decipher the codes in the issues, it would tell you who was next. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the whole series, so cue a frantic journey across town to comic book shops to buy the back issues and thus prevent a series of murders.

Unfortunately, I woke up before I could solve the case. Sorry, dream people, insomnia is a harsh mistress.

Now, if there were three spiders, they could do the whole ‘Sedagive’ scene.

At around seven or eight-ish, I could hear my neighbors start to get up and prepare for work. Due to the thin walls, I got to listen in on one side of a phone conversation that my upstairs neighbor was having. Apparently, Ray called in sick and my neighbor needed to get there earlier. She was not happy. I do not blame her.

At some point, I had another dream where I had to deliver packages, but there were zombies all over the place, so would have to roar up in my car, sprint to the door, fight off the zombies while the homeowner signed for the package, and then fight my way back to the car. Waiting for the signatures seemed excessive, but those were the rules.

Anyway, I hope to get a decent night’s sleep tonight so that I can actually, y’know, think tomorrow.

Maybe I’ll sew some tiny outfits for the spiders.


Tuesday, March 6, 2018

Yet Another Evil

I have bad handwriting. I choose to blame the ubiquity of word-processors instead of any particular laziness or the fact that I had to stab a zombie with my good pen and now whenever I use it, it will only write ‘brains.’

I do take notes on a pad of paper I keep by my computer, but those are generally things like ‘+2 sword at 345,-88, 148’ or ‘spam? Immune to fire?.’ Pretty much I write down things that seem important and then reread it days later and wonder if the government is pumping weird chemicals into my apartment again.

Now, this is the point of the blog where I’m assuming you, the reader, will heave a sigh and wonder why I’m telling you this particular bit of information.

It’s because I found another dagger. Under my bed.

It’s a well-made dagger. About a foot of blackened blade on a leather-wrapped handle. Batwing-esque hilt. A big, eye-ball looking gem in the middle of the hilt that seems like its watching you. Some sort of rune on the pommel that screams when you touch it. A pretty typical ‘evil’ dagger, probably made by some guy with ‘the Cursed’ or ‘the Hateful’ or ‘He Who Shops at Hot Topic’ at the end of his name.

The troubling part is that there’s a tag attached to it that reads, as best as I can make out. ‘Cors?d Dagr of S???s??xyr. DESTR?Y ASAP IN FORG OF D?-smudge-?C.’

I have no idea.

Obviously, it was important enough at the time to label it, but not quite important enough to, y’know, write legibly. So, now I have yet another cursed dagger of some importance that I need to destroy in some specific way or in some specific place and I have no idea where or how or why.

Yes, I have several. In my hall closet, which also contains a cursed sword made out of vampire bones, a bunch of wands I keep in an empty Quaker Oats tube, one gauntlet that keeps trying to strangle me when I open the door to get the vacuum, and this bulbous yet pointy thing that pulses and seems to promise untold power if I just let it stick itself to my face.

All of which, I should point out, have some sort of tag or similar that I can’t read, because my handwriting sucks and/or it’s got blood all over it.

So, if this dagger sounds familiar and you know what I should do with it, let me know. Otherwise, it’s going in the closet.

And on second thought, maybe I shouldn’t keep the vacuum in there.


Tuesday, February 27, 2018

A Curse Upon Our Toes: Part 2

This is a continuation of the blog post, A Curse Upon Our Toes (click the link to read it). Otherwise, this post might not make any sense. Well, in all honesty, I can’t guarantee it’ll make sense anyway, as it’s about a sorcerer with a magic accordion who cursed someone with generational toe-funk. So, yeah . . .

I needed to find the descendent of the sorcerer and defeat him if I ever wanted to cure my toenail and thus be able to wear sandals in public without causing a panic. I had no idea where to start.

First, I tried the internet, where searching for ‘sorcerer with accordion’ didn’t get me any hints. Yes, I did this. I then decided to try a music store, assuming that the sorcerer would need to get his accordion oiled occasionally.

NOTE: I have no knowledge of accordions. I don’t know if you oil them, tune them, set them on fire, or put them in a warmth bath with a glass of wine while playing smooth jazz. In all honesty, I keep spelling it ‘accordian’ and only fix it because Word has trained me to react when the little red line appears under things.

I strode into the music store, potato in hand, and made a bee-line to the kempt young man at the counter.

He glanced up. “Hi, how can I help you?”

“I’m looking for the descendent of a sorcerer in possession of a magic accordion. Do you know anything?”


I leaned against the counter, placing my potato between us. “Long story short, a sorcerer put a curse on my family and I have to break it. His descendent has his accordion and I need to wrest it from him. What do you know?”

The young man seemed confused. He kept looking from me to my potato and back again.

“Ignore the potato.” His name-tag said ‘Jeff.’ I wasn’t sure if that was the name of his name-tag or his name, so I let it slide.

“I don’t really-“

I leaned in and slid the potato a few inches towards him. “Don’t play games, kid, I wasn’t born yesterday. Though if I was, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Sir, I think you’re going to need-“

“What’s your name?”

He pointed at his name tag. “Jeff.” It made sense.

“Okay, Jeff. You’re playing hard ball. I can respect that.” I stuck my hand in my pocket. “I gotta fistful of Abraham Lincolns here. You tell me what you know, they’re yours. What do you say?”

“Abraham Lincolns?”

“Yeah. Sixteenth President of the US. About seven-feet tall, if you count the hat.”

Jeff glanced around. “So, if I tell you what I know, you’ll give them to me?”

“That’s the deal.” I spun the potato around.

Leaning over the counter, Jeff dropped his voice. “Well, you see . . . “


Jeff pointed at the sign behind him. “This is Guitar Land. We don’t deal in accordions.”

I frowned. “Good point.” I picked up my potato. “I guess I’ll be going.”

“Wait,” Jeff held out his hand. “I told you what I know.”

With a sigh, I pulled my hand out of my pocket. “I guess you did, Jeff. I guess you did.” I dropped seven pennies into his palm. Jeff stared at the pennies. I stared at Jeff. I don’t know what the potato stared at.

“These are pennies,” Jeff said.

“And they’ve got Abraham Lincoln on them.” I shrugged. “I spent all my money on the potato.”

Look for the continuation in a couple weeks.