The Highwayman and the Gallows - From Broetry

I stand upon the wooden gallows

noose around my neck, soon dead.

I dove in deep; avoiding shallows,

and now I see I've made my bed.

Standing here do I regret,

the evil that I've said and done?

Only that which I've beget,

Standing there below; my son.

A highwayman, I robbed for him.

I murdered, stole and took with need.

And though my soul is stained with sin,

For him I did each evil deed.

And as they ask for final words,

I see his face, ashamed of me.

Though this may seem quite absurd,

it pleases me to see.

Last Rights - From Cattywompus

“I don’t care if the pope’s doing it. It ain’t right and it’s not for me. A man wasn’t meant to have his brains stuffed into a computer.” Carol looked embarrassed at her father’s outburst, but the young doctor smiled and stepped in.

“Mr. Stevenson, I assure you, Upload is a completely safe procedure. We-“ Wilbur Stevenson began pulling the electrodes off his scalp and the doctor frowned.

“Daddy, please be reasonable!” Carol said, trying to calm her father.

“Live in a damn cartoon world? No sir!” The doctor smiled and reattached the electrodes.

“That’s a gross oversimplification. The grid is a virtual space, but it’s far from a cartoon. I’m sure some of your friends are even there-“

Gorilla Jet-Pack Knife-Fights: From Cattywompus

See, bitch!

That's what you get!

You pull a knife on me?

A knife?

What is this, 

the eighteenth century?

Do you see me wearing a fucking bowler hat?

Keep kicking him, Bobo.

The Deflowering of Chastity St. James - From Cattywompus

Chastity felt a warmth in her belly as the stallion and the mare coupled in the field.

 

"He's not hurting her, is he, Edward?" she asked breathlessly.

 

"No ... he's not." Chastity ran a hand across Edwards bare chest, tracing the rippling muscles. She sighed wistfully. She knew that it was wrong, she was a St. James, after all. A woman of her station could never be with a common stable boy, no matter how true their love was.

 

She didn't care.

 

"I could teach you," Edward whispered quietly into her blushing ear.

How to Play Clever: The Betting Game of Mars City is Burning.

So I needed a somewhat unique gambling game to use for me and Ben Hummel's upcoming Steampunk Graphic Novel, and I wanted it to be something men might play in a world where Cleverness was more important than morality.

A Clever board. Note how you can see everyone else's life at a glance.
That's important tactically.

I came up with Clever. It's a real game and you can really play it, and it's a game that puts your intellectual money where your mouth is with both actual intelligence, and the ability to judge others. It's for 2-unlimited players. And you can put money on it.

My feelings on personal use piracy as a content creator.

I'm a "content creator" so I struggle where that line is. I'm for OPEN. What I'm not for is giving big companies a tool to kill competitors on technicalities. I'm not for hurting people who's crime was liking my art.

What it comes down to for me is two things:

1) If you steal my book today, you might buy my next one. Had you not stolen it, that wouldn't happen, so it DOES give me an extra chance to hook you. Writing is like hacking the mind, and I get a free shot at you if you steal my book. We both win if I hook you.

Genuine Class: From Cattywompus

"Excuse me, Mr. Squib," the stewardess (- sorry, flight attendant), said, causing me to look up from my SkyMall catalog. I had been pondering buying my valet one of those delightful shirts with the tuxedo on it, and I resented the interruption.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but you're eligible for a complementary upgrade." I raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"I'm in First Class Premier Premium Plus already."

"I understand that, sir. However, Squib-Co stock went up two points today. You're now a billionaire." I nodded coolly. I wasn't surprised by this. I'd know early on that investing in that social networking sight linking well-to-do pedophiles with children in need of school supplies was win-win-win (boy, do those NAMBLA guys click on ads for 'Nick Jr!') What I was surprised at was her knowing my personal worth.

No shirt, no freedom, no service.

Every man is a finger. That finger can flip something larger off, and that's cathartic but it's not productive. OR that finger can lose it's ego and join with other fingers to become a mighty fist of awesome populist dickpunchery. Ayn Rand once postulated those blessed with lucky talent would go on strike to fuck the little people.

Today, we proved that hyberbolic hack wrong. We're going on strike because the little people deserve an internet that lets ANY of them become exceptional. Today Atlas doesn't shrug; he puts down everything of little importance, and then shoulders the load that matters.

-W

How to Take Down a Christmas Tree

If you're one of the many American's who haven't taken down their Christmas Trees before MLK day (as is the Christian custom,) here's a quick way to take care of it. You're welcome.

Before

1. Cover walls and furniture with asbestos sheeting and insulation. 
2. Open all windows for nice cross breeze. 

The Legend of Jango Stevens - From Cattywompus

(Dear Freemont, this is 90% in fun. This was written to address a friend's tall tales about a blackbelt Übermensch barfighter who could beat any human being alive regardless of circumstance and also came off as a facepunching lunatic and was intended to rile him.  /end pussy ass disclaimer- Will)




Years ago, in the little town of Fremont, Nebraska, where the pleasant aroma of the hog-rendering plant blankets the city in it’s sweet perfume, and the wind doesn’t blow, it sucks, lived the greatest warrior the world has ever seen. His Christian name was Jango Stevens. 

Nine feet tall he was, with biceps like kegs of Pabst Blue Ribbon and legs so powerful he could tip cows two at a time. During the daylight hours, majestic in his flannel shirt and Peterbuilt hat, he spent his days at the meat packing plant, stunning cows not with an air hammer, but with the power of his glare alone.

But when the day ended and the moon was high in the sky, Jango Stevens would comb back his mullet just so, slip on his biggest, shiniest belt buckle, and drive down to Scooters pub. There, he was the drinkenist, fightenist man the town ever seen.

He’d fight men six at a time, they say, until the wee hours, when he would retire to his glorious doublewide with the waitress of his choice, and celebrate his victory until dawn. Such was his life... until one fateful night.

Almost! (And why I've been busy today.)

Book is at the formatter and when it comes back it's ready to proof and print. Keeping it brief because I'm working on some SOPA shit.

If you want my opinion on it, fuck SOPA/PIPA. These bills need to die forever and never come back.

I won't say anything else about it, cause I'm a soldier, not a general.

But I will DO something about it.

Hope to see you in the foxholes.

-Will.

Looking like Monday.

Draft done, doing final prep for formatter tomorrow. Book drops Monday.

More tomorrow after I get the draft sent off. A LOT happening.

-Will