Hello lovely. How the devil are you? No wait, hush, don’t answer, there’s no time for your yawnsome yarn-spinning. There is a more pressing matter at hand: my own yawnsome yarn-spinning! Huzzah!
Now, perhaps you think you don’t have time to read four hundred and sixteen words typed by someone you have never met. But listen: take that attitude of yours and sling it, pal. Because this shit here, this shit is great.
Below we have another wee extract of my book-to-be, about 50 pages in, wherein our heroes have found themselves abducted by a pirate captain, Selladore, who has a surprise in store. Aye.
When evening fell, Selladore had his crew prepare a feast for us on deck, under the watchful moon and stars. My companions and I scrubbed the desert grime from our bodies and awaited the captain’s emergence from his chambers. We watched as dish after silver dish of exotic delicacies was wheeled out and placed before us, until the entire table groaned under the weight of myriad cheese wheels and roasted chicken legs and juicy porkers and weasel feet and ostrich arms and googleberry pies, all accompanied with copious quantities of lovely wine. The captain had gone to change out of his daywear, and had requested we await his arrival to tuck in.
Our quivering salivations were quenched by Selladore high-kicking his way out of the cabin. We turned in unison to behold the captain, and saw that the swarthy stab-spleen that kidnapped us that morning had transformed. Gone was the leather, gone were the skulls and gone was the grog-soaked coat; gone was the tricorn, gone were the frills and gone were the billowing cuffs. Selladore was wearing a glittering yellow dress.
The dress clung to one scarred shoulder and tumbled over his muscular form, down to his matching six-inch heels. In place of his hat, he wore a spectacular wig, swept upwards into a staggering fireball bouquet, coalesced with streaks of red and orange like veins of magma. His cheeks were shorn of their stubble, instead adorned with bronze foundation and scandalous contouring. Selladore smirked at us with golden lips and pearly white teeth, winked, and blew a kiss. Edgar waved back. My mouth hung open.
The captain swept across the deck, pausing to bollock a young deck-hand who wasn’t scrubbing properly, and sat at the head of our banquet table. The ship’s chef filled his goblet to the brim with sloshing red wine, and he took a long, slow sip.
Hear that? That sound on the breeze? That’s the sound of ya boy killin it. Call me Daniel Scott Hubris, dude.