The Rexorcist

“May He keep you warm and well-fed,” Father Longmuzzle intoned, closing the Book of Whispers. He looked down at his pack affectionately, and his panting mixed with theirs to fill the Master’s House with a susurrus of moist breathiness.

The service officially ended by his blessing, they began to chat and sniff one another, or file out in small packs. Some of the pups, who had kept mostly quiet and still throughout the service, now sprang about with the boundless energy they had contained so well. Longmuzzle smiled to himself at their mothers’ fruitless cries of “Heel!” He gathered up the pages of his sermon and stuffed them into the low pack slung about his haunches. He straightened his collar and untangled his ceremonial leash from the microphone stand before moving down the dais to perform the usual meeting and greeting.

He was just about to sniff Sammy Whisktail hello when he noticed Mrs. Oreo standing pensively to one side, her eyes pleading for his attention, tail curled between her legs and still. Longmuzzle’s heart skipped a beat. He knew that look, so common in these days, and it was an act of pure will for him to move toward her rather than the communal hubbub of the pack.

“Mrs. Oreo,” he said quietly. “Are you alright?”

She suppressed a whine, and lowered her head in a gesture of supplication.

“Oh, Father,” she said in a trembling voice. “It … it’s Wiley. I think … I-- I think …” she burst into tears and he embraced her, licking her muzzle soothingly.

“There, there,” he cooed. “It’s all right. We’ll get you sorted out.”

Despite his words of comfort, Longmuzzle could not bring himself to wag, even as he separated from Mrs. Oreo with assurances he would visit her that evening.

His spirits revived somewhat as he greeted the other parishoners, but the prospect of another trial was daunting. When he retired to his crate, Longmuzzle found himself contemplating the Ball and unable to rest.

It wasn’t all right. Not at all, he thought, and licked the patch of bare fur on his right paw -- a memento of his last encounter with the Other.

---

When he arrived at Mrs. Oreo’s home that evening, he greeted her warmly, hiding the cold, unsettled feeling in his gut. The widow seemed both reassured and frightened by his appearance, her eyes taking in his formal priestly garb and leash. She had put out a single bowl on the table and he took a few polite laps before getting down to business.

“Where is Wiley?” he asked, holding the widow’s paw between his own.

She winced, and looked to a door near the pantry.

“In the basement,” she said quietly. “He won’t come out during the day, but he spends all night wandering around the house, knocking things off of shelves, and stalking through the garden.” She hesitated, swallowing hard. “Sometimes he brings ... things back,” she said.

Longmuzzle needed no elaboration on that.

“I will talk to the boy,” he said, stretching and padding over to the basement door. He paused before opening it. “You should probably stay,” he told her quietly, and the widow nodded and sat.

The basement was not well lit. A single hanging bulb with a chain pull seemed dim and weak, barely filling the space and leaving the corners in murky shadow. From one of these shadows, two horribly familiar yellow eyes watched him keenly.

“Ssoooo …” Wiley’s unnaturally high voice bit into the priest’s ears like a whistle, “Ssoooo mother has fetched an ass sniffer to deal with me.”

Longmuzzle gripped his leash, rubbing it silently with his paw for strength. “Your mother worries about you, Wiley,” he said. “She wants you back.”

“Wiley … Wiley … Wiley …” the voice of the boy repeated, and he stretched out on the floor, unnaturally sinuous, seeming to ooze from the shadows into the light from the hanging bulb. The priest felt his gorge rise when there arose a thrumming vibration from the child’s breast.

“Unclean beast!” Longmuzzle snapped at the creature in Wiley’s body. “I tree you, in the name of the Master, I tree you!”

Wiley hissed at him, crouching and arching his back in a painful-looking rictus, his tail bristling like he’d touched a live wire.

“Go dig your holes!” the voice snapped. “Go eat your shit!”

Wiley held up the Ball. “You will be gone from this place!” he declared. “The Master shoos you from His house!”

The boy circled at the edge of the pool of light thrown by the single bare bulb. He wore no collar. Feral. As the priest’s eyes followed him, he noticed small, furry corpses littering the floor.


Mice. And rats. Even a few birds, he noticed with increasing dismay.


“The Master is gone,” Wiley purred, eyes ever locked on Longmuzzle’s. “He’s not coming back for you.”

The priest growled in anger at the blasphemy, even though he knew it could never come out of the poor boy’s mouth without the foulness of the cat within. He began to quote scripture.

“And He shall find thee, when thou art LOST, Thy name and visage upon the telephone poles, And REWARD be his word for thy return.”

Wiley rolled on the ground, hiding his face and mewling piteously.

“And His hand shall stroke thy brow, His fingers find thy itch and scratch it.”

“STOP!” screeched the boy, rolling on his back.

Father Longmuzzle took a step toward him and held up the Ball.

“And, though He find that thou hast overturned the garbage, Or chewed upon His shoe, thou shalt be loved, for thou art His best friend.”

Wiley’s cries had died to mere whimpers.

“And he shall throw the BALL for thee, All the days it doth not rain.”

The pup’s eyes opened, then, and Longmuzzle’s heart leapt to see the jaundice yellow color and split pupils had faded. Wiley’s eyes locked on the red Ball, and the priest tossed it lightly at the far wall.

The boy rolled and unsteadily got to his feet. He hesitated at first, but then his eyes found the still-rolling Ball and he stumbled toward it. Picking it up in trembling jaws, he brought it to Father Longmuzzle, who laid a hand between the boy’s ears and scratched him affectionately.

“And He shall call thee 'Good Boy,'” he said softly.

Panahenoc and Mehianoc

Once there were two brothers, Panahenoc and Mehianoc by name. They were chosen by the elders of their people for a sacred duel -- ritual combat reenacting the battle between the brother gods of sun and sea. Now, Panahenoc and Mehianoc loved one another and were much pained by the fate that would pit them brother against brother. Against the wishes of their elders, they postponed the ritual for one hour and one day and one month and one year, saying to all that they would walk the earth and swearing that, should the gods still demand that brother slay brother upon their return, that each would at least know that their brother had seen the world and could die with no regrets. And in that time, Panahenoc turned west, Mehianoc east, and each strode away, to circle the world and return at the appointed hour.

The brothers had many adventures, and each grew wise in his travels. Panahenoc rode a ship to the Orient, where he met and loved Que Cho -- a woman who was also a river spirit. He walked the steppes and climbed the mountains of Tian Shan. Mehianoc crossed the great prairies and braved the cities ‘til he reached the deep Atlantic. A ship took him across the steel-grey waters and landed him on the coasts of Africa. In the bazaars of Casablanca he bested an assassin and in the windy canyons of Tunisia he looked upon ancient and forgotten writings in the stone.

The brothers nearly met one another in the heart of Arabia, where both made their way to the holy city of Mecca -- pilgrims in their hearts, if not truly of the faith. Panahenoc was found out and called infidel. He nearly died but for the kindness of an ancient cleric who could see the destiny writ large upon his brow. Mehianoc turned away from the holy city at the last minute, respecting the faith he would never embrace, and was nearly undone by hunger and thirst as he wandered the desert.

Panahenoc walked the streets of ancient Jerusalem and Damascus. He visited the Holy See and the Parthenon, and knew love again in the arms of a Portuguese fisherman’s widow before sailing across the sea to chill Nova Scotia.

Mehianoc learned the art of cobra charming from a poor street performer in Bangalore. He worked to feed himself in the great rice paddies of Thailand, and flew a kite in the shape of an eagle over the Yellow River.

Long were their paths, and many were the brothers’ adventures, but destiny drew them inexorably together again to fulfill their sacred duty. And as Mehianoc stepped into the yellow lights of the CopyCenter parking lot in Riverside, California, and spied his brother, Panahenoc, grown lean and bearded but still the strong figure he once so admired, waiting next to a FedEx drop box, he looked to the sky, a silent question posed to the silent gods. And in that moment, Panahenoc struck his brother down with a used toner cartridge, and did his duty before the gods of his people.

Knowing is Half the Battle

Blue Pencil #8: The Horrors of Love

Technical Note: Xlibris having successfully thrown me off by clever website shittiness, I have moved on to authorhouse.com -- a website much more friendly to this endeavor than Xlibris, technically speaking. Unfortunately for us, authorHouse is a bit higher-profile as well, meaning that a smaller percentage of the content is laughably bad. Luckily, that percentage is still in the high 90s.

For our first foray into authorHouse's library, I have chosen The Horrors of Love, by Jeanne E. McComsey, summarized thus:

Gravesend Castle; six hundred and sixty-six times more beautiful than Westminster Abby, stood openly in Romania’s countryside with an imperceptible cemetery-like quietness; soft breezes ruffled the trees around the lake; Wolves were sporting in the water and a cougar was nuzzling his yellow fur below a weeping-willow tree, Victor, the Vampire, was talking to the animals; "Tis nice in the early evening; is it not, boys?"

That; my friends; is a lot of semicolons.

I had to double-check here, but this is not listed as humor, so I can't help but imagine the thought process that would go into building Gravesend Castle.

"We're going to build a castle here, and it will be beautiful."
"More beautiful than Westminster, Victor?"
"Yes, Abby, six hundred and sixty-six times more beautiful!"
"I see what you did there."
"We'll plant weeping willows and import cougars from the New World!"
"Cougars? Seriously?"
"Yes, they will love it here. And a lake for the wolves."
"Oh, how they will sport! Ravish me, creature of the night!"

The sky was darkening so fast it bruised itself. Love promises us a world made beautiful, then struggles to transform each ugly thing, and in its struggle it grows neurotic, always dreaming of better things, like betrayal or a handsome fanged raucous deceiver of death.

Um. Okay. Miss McComsey is making it very difficult for me to write anything funnier than her prose. Now I'm pretty sure it's supposed to be comedy after all. But is the grammar supposed to be comical in and of itself, or did she get her commas and semicolons at a clearance sale?

Horsemen cantered around the castle’s five-block perimeter, chasing away tourists, bug-infested beggars and homeless tramp-children wearing burlap sacks.

Now I'm totally confused, but I have to say that "homeless tramp-children wearing burlap sacks" is a phrase that I am determined to find daily use for.

"Lift up your throat to my lips and welcome the treasured kiss of an infamous amorous lover, there’s no pain; the Horrors of Love permit me to drain your blood!" Victor went into his basement, preparing to jump into his coffin and keep the Blonde Assassin’s daylight faraway.

Nice segues: Homeless tramp children, Horrors of Love, shitty metaphor for the sun. I don't even know who Victor is talking to, by the way.

He slumbered unbreathing wrapped in luxury ... Victor; the ancient one; slept the hot days away like a dead thing. He kills not for sport or profit, but to live. He finds his wives in New York City and wow’s them deeply with bitter divine passion; then takes them home to live a rich life they never dreamed of, but, with his inborn obsession to hurt and maim, he’ll forever be a night creature; a walking nightmare who frightens souls, wives, heroes and the Gods with the unleashed mayhem he alone knows; it was secretly said he wrote poetry, traveled, and aimed for the stars ... he’d be a tad more human if it wasn’t for the fact he’s related to the most dangerous beast ever; CERBERUS: the three-headed dog that guards the Gates of Hell!

Holy shit. It's ... it's the longest, worst-punctuated run-on sentence I have ever read. It hurts! Make it stop!

So I guess this is modern day, based on the pesky tourists and periodic wife-shopping in the Big Apple. Maybe an "About the Author" section will reveal that this is an intentional farce, with bad grammar used to wink at the reader slyly, letting one know that Miss McComsey is in on the joke. Ah yes:

Throughout my three year love affair with Victor the Vampire; and him, disappearing into the pleasures-unto-death, all I recall is the madness of the moonlight! He’s now orbiting through centuries in long deep sleeps ... is it permanent or am I nightmaring? Victor and I cared nothing about savoring memories, and now my hand is writing the real thing; He loved his life but I saw it as THE HORRORS OF LOVE. I loved more the terrible deaths and births occurring in his life; I even treasured the red spittle on his sharp teeth, it was the foam of love; he told me! But this can’t be true ... because I was never loved.

So much for that theory. I note here that this is McComsey's fifth book, so the idea that practice makes perfect clearly doesn't apply to punctuation. Browsing some of her other selections, I wouldn't be at all surprised to see them appear here at some point.

Note to self: Remember to use the phrase "Foam of Love" when conversation gets dull.

Blue Pencil #6: Into the Dragon's Maw

Sorry if I've left you jonesing for the comedy fix that only vanity publishing can provide.

By way of apology, I offer you Into the Dragon's Maw, by Timothy S. Robinson.

The saga begins ...

A warrior-monk is chosen for a final test, one that will propel him into a series of life-threatening situations time and time again.

While there may not be anything technically wrong with this sentence, I have to wonder why one would need to be propelled multiple times into multiple series of situations. Aren't you just propelled once, into a series of situations?

Along the way, the pacific martial artist develops some curious friendships with a little gnome thief you love to hate, and a stubborn old dwarf that has a way with words.

At the same time, a Herculean elf is searching for his roots and for the creature that slaughtered his friends and family. His perilous quest will unknowingly unite him with a beautiful half-elven druid and a host of magical creatures that help guide him along his dangerous journey.

Gnome thief ... check. Dwarf ... check. Elf ... check. Half-elf druid ... check. Hmm, no Half-Orcs or Halflings? What kind of D&D campaign is this?

Inevitably, these two parties unite and join forces to face a common threat -- one that will unlock the past for the monk, and unlock the secrets of the giant elf’s origins.

I'd be interested to learn about the origins of a giant elf. It's only a hair less oxymoronic than a giant dwarf or jumbo shimp.

By the way, if I gave these books ratings, I would give this one high marks for one thing: the excerpt is cut-and-pasteable. You wouldn't believe how much retyping I've had to do in these posts, and how traumatic it is for me to replicate the unique grammar, punctuation, and spelling they are so very fond of.

The ancient monastery sat atop the highest precipice of a cloud-cutting mountain in the remote northern region of Di Jow, an Asiatic peninsula acquired long ago in the Old War.

Acquired by who? And I think we can safely assume that the Old War didn't happen last week.

It took a minimum of ten days on horseback to reach the derelict mountain from the nearest village -- assuming the horse maintained its footing throughout the journey, and avoided any predators along the way.

Yes, assuming the horse didn't fall down and break a leg or get eaten by hyenas. That might cause delays. Your mileage may vary.

A cursory view of this foreboding place imparted the name of Dansu to the fleeing adventurer, or "death" in the Asian dialect.

Ah, to hear again the dulcet tones of the Asian dialect. Those Asians have a beautiful language. How I wish I'd learned to speak Asian! I am a bit confused as to how a cursory view of a place can impart a name, though, unless the name is on a big sign.

Throughout the ages, the mountain lived up to its name. Drawn by the prospect of untold riches and magic, many assailed it and disappeared without a trace.

How can you be drawn by the prospect of something untold? And if people are disappearing without a trace, who's telling the untold stories?

The ethereal monastery, even more mysterious than the mountain, was rumored at one time to house a handful of monks who possessed extraordinary powers. Legends were passed down from generation to generation on the abilities of these monks -- abilities that hinged on the supernatural. These legends had died off though, mainly due to the missing element of actually bearing witness to one of these monks. No one had actually seen such a monk . . . ever. The latest rumor was that the monastery never existed to begin with.

So ... at one time the legendary monastery that no one ever saw was rumored to house monks that no one ever saw, and those legends have since died off, but the non-existence of the monastery is now the most popular rumor? That is mysterious!

Isn't a rumor that a legend isn't true more of a lack of a rumor?

"You know what I hear? That Loch Ness Monster that nobody can prove exists? I hear that it doesn't exist!"

Xin was just a young boy when he had first heard the rumors about Dansu.

Wait, which rumors? That it doesn't exist, or that it does exist but no one's ever seen it?

Seeking to put an end to them, he had set out haphazardly to climb the mountain and discover the truth. The mountain had never faced an adversary quite like Xin before. The Asian youth hadn't come for magic or riches.

Oh, those plucky Asians!

He was there to conquer its heights and dispel the growing myths it hid.

If it actually hides something, isn't that something the thing that you're trying to dispel myths about? This is getting pretty goddamn convoluted.

Surprisingly, Xin finds out that the rumors are true! (Not the ones about there not being a legendary monastery, though -- those turn out to be false.)

We rejoin him twenty years later, as he is being sent away from the Monastery that May or May Not Exist for his "Final Test." This test mainly seems to involve finding a way out of the monastery that he took so much trouble to find.

The long corridor was like any other in the monastery: rough-hewn walls chiseled out of stone encompassing a smooth, gray marble floor. There was nothing in particular about the corridor, but Xin knew better.

How can there be "nothing in particular" about the corridor, when we've just been given the particulars of its construction, finish, and length?

He took an inexhaustible amount of time examining the floor, walls and ceiling, moving perhaps a foot every ten minutes.

If it was an inexhaustible amount of time, wouldn't that indicate that he was still looking today? Wait, how can you "exhaust" an amount of time?

In any case, he soon finds a magical door with a rather complex description:

The bolts were equidistant and equilateral to each other. The Master had said that when faced with a system in which forward and reverse reactions occur at equal rates, so that the concentration of the reactants do not change with time, whatever action that was chosen would change the balanced system and cause failure.

Wait a moment! The sum of the square roots of any two sides of an isosceles triangle is equal to the square root of the remaining side! Wait, no, that only applies in Ozian geometry, and doesn't take into account things like formulas and ... and compositions ... and ... uh ... things your primitive mind wouldn't understand!

Eventually, Xin comes to a strange room ...

The walls were not of ordinary stone - but of precious stone. Two walls came together and were made of obsidian, and in stark contrast, the opposite walls were made of pearl.

I don't know much about mineralogy, but I'm pretty sure that obsidian isn't precious and pearl isn't a stone.

Upon them were millions of sigils, glyphs, writings and drawings carved into each wall with infinite precision.

Millions? They must be pretty damn small. Hence the infinite precision, I guess.

I'm skipping a lot here, and becoming progressively more convinced that this is not so much an "excerpt" as a "free book."

Eventually, Xin comes upon a dragon who is black on the left side and white on the right side (Which, as all Star Trek fans will be happy to explain to you, is inferior to one which is white on the left side and black on the right side.)

Man, I can actually feel myself getting geekier for having made that joke.

This dragon tests Xin, tells him about his destiny, fetches him drinks, et cetera, while Xin spends his ample free time trying to read the indecipherable runes on the chamber walls.

I'm pretty sure other things happened here, but my eyes are starting to cross.

A Blog that Speaks to Me

"It's funny, because it's true!"

Stuff White People Like

Blue Pencil #5: The Anger of Modbyedelig

When one peruses Xlibris's fine bookstore, it is not unheard of to encounter "creative" spelling, and the title of this novel initially struck me as one of these. I'm not even sure how to pronounce "Modbyedelig," but at first glance I thought it was supposed to be "Molybdenum" and, as I am a huge fan of transition metals with an electronegativity of 1.8 on the Pauling scale and an atomic mass of 95.9 g/mole, I just had to check it out.

To my dismay, it turned out that this was not a treatise on the emotional state of the element with the sixth-highest melting point at all, but rather a fantasy tale by Margie L. Lauritzen-Hussey about ... well, I'm not entirely sure, but here's the synopsis:

Intrigue! Terror! Modbyedelig, the evil one, will use any means to achieve it’s dominance of OtherWorld. It is the disruptive influence in an otherwise peaceful land. A young Lace, sent Cosmos to protect OtherWorld and its inhabitants, is unprepared for the demonic force waged against her.

Yikes! Intrigue! Terror! Molybdenum!

Without reading further, I'm guessing that Cosmos is the hero? Sent by someone named Lace? OtherWorld is clearly the land of the Noun people. Judging from the cover, Molybdenum is some kind of tree (or possibly it's just angry at trees -- I'm not sure).

Lynn, William and Sara, her young friends from Human-land join in the conflict. They, along with the Centaurs, Wonkies and the indomitable Elves, encounter the wickedness of Modbyedelig.

Wonkies? Centaurs and Elves (particularly the indomitable ones) I can get behind, but I'm not sure if an alliance with the Wonkies is in the best interests of OtherWorld. Thank god the coalition is strengthened by three human children, as any Narnia fan will tell you that children are dynamite on the battlefields of fantasyland.

Destruction of OtherWorld is imminent. A story of friendship, courage, and loyalty.

I thought Molybdenum wanted to achieve dominion over OtherWorld? Perhaps these Pixie-fairies, Wookies, and assorted fae riffraff would prefer annihilation over obedience to a silvery-white metal. (To be fair, Molybdenum is very hard, though it is somewhat more ductile than tungsten.)

Well, on to the excerpt! Let's see ...

An illustrated excerpt! Very classy.

I can only assume that these are the aforementioned Wonkies. Clearly the double-line of Wonkies is headed off to war against Molybdenum and the two in the lower-right corner are either deserters or conscientious objectors.

Probably deserters. I mean, I'd chicken out, too, if my unit was sent to fight a dragon on a stick, as these guys apparently are.

War is hell.

The Wonkies marched two by two past the gate. The A's came first: Alfred, Amy, Albert, Alfonso; then the B's: Bernard, Bobby, Barbara.

"Bernard?" "Amy?" These aren't exactly names I'd expect to see attached to exotic creatures like Wonkies.

Quickly, without giving notice, three groups of two scattered off to the underbrush, hardly breathing, as the others passed them.

Ah, so they're prisoners, I guess? It would make sense, then, that they didn't give notice to the guards before fleeing (Though that would have been the courteous thing to do, they are Wonkies, and thus can't really be held accountable for their manners).

The C's were driven past. Charles, Chester, Carl; not one escaped.

Come on, Cs! Half the As and Bs just took off and you're still too chicken to make a break for it? Grow a pair!

The D's, less organized, stumbled down the path. Dagmar, Don, and Doris crept to the side of the road, scooting through the brush into the dark forest. Dave paused, raised his hand to wave good-bye to his friends. The guard was on him in an instant.

"You wanna escape? Fine! But if I see you wave to anybody, your ass is grass!"

The author continues to regale us with the struggles of Frank, Gina, Harold, Irwin, June, Liz, Montgomery, Nathan, Oswald, Patricia, Quentin, Randall, Steve, Theresa, Uriah, Vincent, Walther, Xavier, Yancy, and Zebediah Wonkie, but sadly runs out of excerpt before she can completely bore me to death.

I did learn a thing or two about Wonkies -- they are short, have stubby little legs, and are covered in fur which provides them with no protection from brambles or stray twigs.

I bet Molybdenum quakes in fear at the thought of an army of Ewoks Wonkies marching in and kicking the ever living shit out of it, despite its low density and stable market price or its ability to withstand extreme temperatures without significantly expanding or softening.

Actually, I rather envision Cosmos (who gets surprisingly little attention in the synopsis or excerpt despite apparently being the main character) as being about as impressed with the Wonkies as I am.

"I've just received word that the Wonkies are with us, sir!"

"Oh? Er ... excellent. Well, uh ... any word from the Elves or Centaurs yet?"

Blue Pencil #4: The Last One Standing

At Xlibris, science fiction is almost as big as self-help books and collections of poems about cats. It is from this deep well of imagination that I draw the latest subject for my snarky dissection: The Last One Standing, by Anthony L. McLaughlin.

In the year 2085: the moon has been colonized and renamed Gaia and a conglomerate known as the Kage Ninja Tenkai has become known worldwide both on Gaia and on Earth.

Who but the sly and wily ninja would rename the moon after the goddess of the earth?

Within the same year a young man named Mac Karasagi joins the group and is immediately accepted in among its elite. However, one year later, Mac finds himself knee deep in the Kage Ninja Tenkai's dirty secrets and a large plot that is much deeper than anything he has ever been involved with. Now it is up to this young man to bring down the larges organization the world has ever seen, and it seems as if he must do it alone.

Wait, our fate is in the hands of Mac, who is involved in a plot which, while it is much deeper than anything he has ever been involved with, is nonetheless only knee deep?

Who checked this guy's references?

I suppose I'd better hit the excerpt and find out if this story is as riveting as its brief synopsis would suggest...

The Kage Ninja Tenkai Headquarters was a rather large building that stuck from the surrounding structures. The entrance hall, however, made up the bulk of the headquarters, about sixty five percent of it...

What? Oh, sorry. I must have fallen asleep. Where was I?

It was grandeur and perhaps the most memorable thing of the building.

More memorable than the fact that it's full of ninjas? That must be one hell of an entrance hall!

The floor was made of many large tiles, each cut out in measurements of three feet by three feet, all made of a very expensive granite-marble mixture. The texture was also very distinct, a large mass of dark swirls with the occasional calligraphy-like swoosh of white.

Ninja HQ also sports four bathrooms, spacious walk-in closets, and an attached garage.

Mac made his way across the large floor and up the grandeur staircase.

I'm beginning to suspect that Mr. McLaughlin doesn't know what "grandeur" means. He sure is fond of it, though.

Skipping a bit, as the author has established the impeccable eye for interior decoration that is the hallmark of the ninja, we find Marc approaching the receptionist:

She looked up behind her crescent spectacles, she wasn't an elderly lady but the glasses she wore made her seem a bit more elderly then she really was.

Wait, she's not elderly, but her glasses make her seem more elderly than she actually is? How does that even ... oh, wait. Ninja.

"Are there any more missions lined up for me?"

The receptionist looked back down at the monitor and clicked on a few things with the wireless mouse.

A wireless mouse? The future is even more awesome than I had imagined!

"Hmm, it doesn't seem so. We'll call on you when you're needed." Mac smiled and nodded to show thanks as he turned away and quickly headed out of the headquarters.

What the hell? A treatise on the aesthetics of ninja decor, a building full of ninjas, and we're leaving already?

Mac's house wasn't too far from here, he could easily make it from this distance.

Don't strain yourself, warrior of the future.

Mac waited for a red light to come up on one of the busy intersections and ran across the street so he could continue on to his house. Mac made a few more turns and crossed over one more street before he came to the street on which his home was.

I don't know about you, but in my imagination, ninjas frigging jaywalk. Any cop on the street will tell you that if you try to give a ninja a ticket, the ninja will kill you with it.

Despite the close distance his home was in a neighborhood that seemed like a suburban far away from any city. Neon City was well built like that, though, there were several neighborhoods that seemed like suburban areas which were blocked off by large concrete walls to reduce the sounds of the city.

Jesus. I wonder how the schools are.

Mac's house wasn't too large only one story but it seemed to make up for it with length.

Hehe.

As he approached it he could see that his wife wasn't at home, her car wasn't in the driveway.

A married ninja who lives in a nice suburban subdivision? They really don't make em like they used to. In the future, I mean. They don't, in the future, make them like they used to ... forget it.

And that's pretty much it for the excerpt. An exciting sampling of a science fiction ninja adventure, featuring neither ninjas nor anything resembling science fiction. It's right up there with the L.A. Times' home buyers supplement.

Blue Pencil #3: The Jihad:Islams[sic] War In The West

For the third installment of Blue Pencil, I have chosen to move away from science fiction/fantasy for a bit, and bring you the inimitable The Jihad:Islams[sic] War In The West, by Wylie Burnett and Alodi Annis:

FOR DECADES, GREAT SECRECY CLOAKED THE ACTIVITIES OF THE RADICAL FOREIGN AND DOMESTIC MUSLIMS AFTER THEIR 20TH AND 21ST CENTURY ARMED CAMPAIGNS AGAINST WESTERN SOCIETIES. RELIGIOUS ZEALOTS FROM THE MIDDLE-EAST AND WORLD WIDE MIGRATED LEGALLY AND ILLEGALLY TO THE INDUSTRIAL NATIONS OF THE WORLD TO FORM COALITIONS WITH TERRORIST GROUPS THROUGH RELIGIOUS AND FRATERNAL ORGANIZATIONS. IN THE UNITED STATES THESE DIVERSE GROUPS BUILT CHURCHES., MOSQUES AND FAMILY ORIENTED ASSOCIATIONS THAT SERVED AS CONTACT POINTS AND PROVIDED FINANCIAL SUPPORT FOR DISGRUNTLED MINORITEIS AND ENEMIES OF THE CHRISTIAN MAJORITIES. THROUGH CAREFUL COORDINATION THE SHUR COUNCIL BROUGHT THE GROUPS TOGETHER WITH A PLAN TO SEIZE THREE WESTERN STATES. INTIMIDATION WAS BACKED BY MASSIVE WELL TRAINED GUERILLAS TO FORCE NEGOTIATION UPON A SADLY DIVIDED GOVERNMENT. THE STORY IS ABOUT THE FIVE ISLAMIC GENERALS AND MILLIONS OF FOLLOWERS WHO THROUGH YEARS OF PLANNING ARE NOW CAPTURING AND ISOLATING LOS ANGELES AND ORANGE COUNTIES IN SOUTHERR CALIFONRIA., TO FORCE THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT INTO A NEGOTIATED SETTLEMENT FOR THE FREE ISLAM NATION.

Whoa, there, you don't have to shout! .

Judging from this blurb, I suspect that Xlibris charges extra for paragraph breaks and lowercase letters in the ad copy. Spell-checking seems a likely candidate for extra charges as well.

An intriguing aspect of this no-holds-barred assault on reality is the notion that the goal of radical Islam is not, as you might expect, the fiery destruction of infidel society, but rather a "NEGOTIATED SETTLEMENT FOR THE FREE ISLAM NATION."

"Now that we have toppled the godless Americans from their position as a world power and seized key sites in Glendale, Irvine, and Norwalk, we will force the imperialist swine to NEGOTIATE! Yes, brothers, soon we will have brokered an amicable arrangement with the great Satan!"

I was surprised and alarmed to see this book classified as "Political Science," rather than "Fiction." If the forces of radical Islam are on the brink of seizing control of Los Angeles County, I really ought to buy my wife a Hijab.

Here's an excerpt:

The four Generals, three with bronze to deep brown skin and a black, sat silently absorbing the last words of a long and heated debate.

Amazingly, for non-fiction, the authors can actually describe in detail the proceedings of top-secret meetings of the radicals planning to overthrow America.

Then a concerned voice interrupted, "But the city is so vast, so spread out, it will take thousands of soldiers to be effective."

Considering that they apparently have "millions" of followers in Southern California, I don't see this as a big obstacle.

He studied each of the men's faces intently looking for support and acceptance but never doubting their commitment.

Whoa! They can even tell you what these people are thinking!

Thank God they're on our side.

Blue Pencil #2: A Deerhunter meets T-Rex

After the nail-biting intensity of G.E.E.N.I.E in a Bottle, I felt I needed something a bit lighter from the world of vanity publication. Hmm ... How about A Deerhunter meets T-Rex, by Rex Downie, Jr.? Sounds pretty good to me:

The Piper Comanche bored along at 160 knots over the Canadian bush, over the Little Current River, it’s destination Okogi up toward James Bay. But it hit instead a cosmic flight plan that changed it landing point to a sandy beach on a lake that existed ten thousand years before. The pilot was slain by the tusk of a Mammoth, and the passenger Harry Spragg then slew the Mammoth.

Well, this synopsis certainly is specific. Most synopses would leave the reader wondering, "exactly how fast was that plane going?" or "yes, the pilot was killed, but which part of the mammoth killed him?" None of that here.

Spragg then endured the great wrenching force of paradox and lived with people native to the lake area for two years, entering into combat with Sabre Toothed Tigers, Mammoths, the vorple T-Rex and a few Velociraptors thrown in to boot.

I'm not sure whether this is an introduction to the story or a description of what happens in it. I am interested in whether a vorple T-Rex goes "snicker-snack," however.

What is the Achilles heel of the T-Rex? How are Velociraptors like deer? The answers to these questions lie within, and, moreover, if you wish to escape these times for a new world in a primeval wilderness, with some excitement thrown in to boot, this book is for you.

How is a velociraptor like a deer? Neither one can whistle!

I don't know about you, but I'd find escaping these times for a new world in a primeval wilderness pretty exciting, but this book throws even more excitement in! What kind of excitement, I wonder?

I know, let's look at an excerpt!

CHAPTER SIX

The last battle; our Hero fights hand to hand.

Wow, Chapter Six and he's already on the last battle? These are truly savage times!

Harry sensed as the months passed after the Trex hunt that Yarthu had something on his mind, but his pre-occupation with Bluebird engaged him wholly, for she wanted to know his language and they spent hours exchanging word and ideas, that often left him exhausted.

I don't know about you, but talking rarely leaves me exhausted. I'm pretty sure there's more going on here with "Bluebird."

Harry's not much of a friend if he knows his friend has had something on his mind for months but he can't separate himself from some babe for five minutes to talk it over. Bros before hos, man!

He had scrawled out an alphabet with charcoal on hide and thought she'd grasped the huge chasm that lay between spoken and written word. They went together to the village nightly fires and feasts, and gradually Harry regained enough strength to go on hunts, but he couldn't pull a heavy bow and felt for awhile that his shoulder was so damaged that he was permanently injured.

Now, don't get me wrong: There's nothing I like better than time travel stories involving prehistoric times that somehow place humans and dinosaurs in the same era, but where's the battle we were promised?

Oh, here we go:

They moved on, crouching, waiting, moving, crouching, butting the spears in, as the soft grunts drew closer on either hand.

(If I was there, I'd have done more crouching. Crouching is key.)

After the third move, soft coughs came from front and rear, and Yarthu said "They charge now".

"Ahem. Ahem!" The sabre-tooth cleared its throat, informing the humans that it was about to attack. It hated Yarthu for his poor punctuation.

This warning gave Harry the eye to see a shift of color and shadow not ten feet distant in the bush to his right, and he swung the spear point right just as the massive head and outstretched paws loomed above him, and he raised the spear point into the throat just below the gaping maw, released his grip and rolled away from the beast as it flew over him, its' left paw tearing into his left shoulder.

Holy run-on sentence, Batman!

Wait, the warning gave him the eye to see? Clearly there is a supernatural aspect to the story that I'm not picking up on from this excerpt.

Voices in the Wilderness

I subscribe to the very wittily-named Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, a generally high-end market for short speculative fiction. Over the years, I've read many an entertaining short story and been inspired to look up other works by some of the authors.

However, there is a dark side to F&SF -- an aspect that simultaneously repels and draws
me in with its strange wordplay and unique artwork. Horrifying and amusing (often at the same time), I have found myself looking through back issues just to find more of these bizarre nuggets of entertainment, as they are elusive and rare.

I speak, of course, of the ads for self-published novels from independent publishers. Here shining examples:

To Live Without Warning [by Timothy LaBadie] is a story set in a future San Francisco, where public transportation is the only way to travel, and people with colds are required by machines called breathe-eraters[sic] to wear masks. ... There are aliens who disguise themselves as homeless people, and there are twins from an alien abduction, one human, one not, plus a virtual couple who live in a bungalow on the beach in a virtual Costa Rica who mix up their computer code to have a virtual child, and then there is a cat woman who can do all sorts of erotica with her tail, and a drummer who leads more than a band called Death, Ax and Grind.

Man, that sounds totally rad!

Honestly, though "To Live without Warning" sounds kind of like a cautionary tale about a world with no pregnancy tests.

But what if I was in the mood for something a little more magical?

Paraworld Zero, by Matthew Peterson: Earthling, Simon Kent, stumbles upon a secret that thrusts him into a bizarre adventure filled with magic, technology and deadly out-of-this-world creatures. He discovers a true friend, confronts his inner demons and becomes the savior to a peculiar race of people, when all he truly wants is to find his way back home.

George Lucas, eat your heart out!

According to one of the endorsements, this book features, "The exciting action of Star Wars with the humor of Napoleon Dynamite." So says Diana Pharaoh Francis, author of the Path and Crosspoint series.

I'm honestly surprised no one mentioned Harry Potter, since the crappy Poser art in the ad is pretty clearly supposed to (and utterly fails to) evoke the cartoony covers of Rowling's books.

Drunken History

And now, a guy who just drank a bottle of scotch discusses Aaron Burr:

Cautionary Tale

Did you hear about this? How frightening!

This lady has changed her habit of how she carries her baby after her stroller was stolen. Her stroller which contained her purse, mobile, baby, etc., was stolen and she was distraught. She called her husband from a pay phone to tell him what had happened and he says "you were just here and asked for your PIN number, our safe-deposit-box key, and a big tongue kiss, at least I assumed it was you because the person was carrying our baby, but now come to think of it he did have a serious moustache."

They rushed down to the bank and found out that all of their money was gone and that all of their accounts including their mortgage had been put in their baby's name and the baby had been labeled as a roll of quarters and deposited. Moral of the lesson: take a good look at anyone you're going to kiss to make sure that they're not just a hairy stranger with your baby.

Warning: Potentially Offensive Video Alert

This is funny, to me. It may not be funny to you, particularly if you believe that nativity scenes should not involve combat.

Freeman's Mind

Even if you've never played the original Half-Life, this is a pretty funny video:

Zombie '08

It's also a good excuse to play with embedding video without resorting to wuxia clips.

There is only one person who is going to understand that reference, so don't try.

Those Were the Days

As you may or may not know (and almost certainly don't care), my formative career years were spent in the service of that stalwart cornerstone of American commerce, Kinko's. That's right, I was there. I was there when they came up with the slogan, "Kinko's: A New way to Office." And it made as little sense then as it does now.

Ah, those were good times: getting accosted by insane drifters who want to photocopy their poorly-worded manifestos, being exposed to tuberculosis, spending a relaxing lunch hour in the half-flooded, flea-infested basement with the rats, and earning a hefty $9.25 an hour in New York City.

Well, times have changed, and Kinko's is now part of Federal Express, but it's gratifying to know that, deep down, they really haven't changed that much.