[HoneyBadger]

As a writer, am I allowed to be all stuck up and snotty, as in "Ofcourse you're familiar with all the many posts I've made in the forums, I'm sure further samples of shining perfection would only numb your senses to the Pure Literary Essence that is 'HoneyBadger', so you write the checks and I'll write the rest, and we'll just let the magic happen, shall we?" like that?

Or would I get to be all Kerouac, as in "The road came up to meet the elves like a winding Ouroboris of which there was no end and no beginning, just the beat of their feet on a path of dont-know-where and aint-there yet The Good Times were behind us, we knew it, and couldn't outrun the truth of it, no matter how fast our sandals slapped, but every sunset means a new horizon, and if you turned around to ever look back, all you'd see were the houses of the orcs, agents of the Man-friends once, brothers to the bone, share and share alike, but a few too many full belly nights and the Dark Lord's gold changes things, maybe forever, so we walked, man, onward and upward, to Oz, the emerald city, the shining tower, walked on to Hope, because that was the only light left to head toward, and the sun was coming down, fast like sand in a crazy sped up hourglass, and every grain was an inch of shadow on our cardboard heels."

Or maybe a little Moorcock? "Dark rode the day upon the weary shoulders of the knight of St. Germaine. Three of the monstrous fish-men had been spitted upon the grim hell-glaive, their souls sucked down to feed the insatiable demon prince Amothra, but four remained. The weird glistening slime of their salamander-mounts glinted ever so often in the light of the learing full moon, to let him know they were still behind him. His mount only minutes from collapse, Sir Belvedere, knowing his duty to the Chapterhouse, turned to meet them."

How about Stephen King?

Hell's Landscape.


"The scent of freshly mown grass filled Mac's nostrils, reminding him of the day he'd graduated from Bangor University. He could still recall the sound of the French horns filling the air like an invisible fog, and how Jenny's Liz Taylor perfume had smelled after, when they made love in the backseat of his dad's '59 Cadillac Coup. He wished he could swat the gnats that were swarming around his face, thirsty for the heavy sweat that clung to his clothing. It had seemed to pour out of his skin like from a shower nozzle when the heart-attack had struck, and now the gnats had gathered for the feast. Mac wondered if it would be crows gathering next.

He had seen a crow that morning, picking at something organic on the ground. He really wished he could swat the gnats, atleast swat at them, but his arms seemed to have run off when he wasn't looking, leaving behind poor knock-off Jap copies that didn't come with instructions in English. "Blood-suckers" his father had called them. The old man had a hysterical hatred of insects, above and beyond the low-grade burn of anger he had, it often seemed, towards all that dared live. For that matter, the old man, with his bad leg that kept him out of the war, had hated the Japanese more than any of the many soldiers Mac had acquainted himself with, and left a lifelong wariness towards them ingrained in Mac's psyche. He felt a secret shame of that, and wished he could shake it, like he'd shook his father's alchoholism but had dived headlong into the old bastard's workaholism. He'd learned to eat sushi on his honeymoon in Maui, that was worth something. Mac wondered if the heart-attack that had finally killed his old man had felt as bad as Mac's did. The old man had had three, and this was only Mac's first inning. He didn't think he'd make it to three, as the lawn-mower, filled with some malevolent machine-purpose, came ever closer, the grind of the rotating blades easily droning out the buzz of the insects. "Three strikes, your out!" thought Mac, and the thought made him want to giggle, to burst out laughing in big chest-bursting guffas. That's it! He'd laugh at Death. Laugh in Death's boney, perpetually grinning face. Mac doubted Death would laugh back, but atleast he was sure to get a smile, ah hah! After all, what was about to occur, within only a few broken and winding down heartbeats, infact, proved that Death had a sense of humor. Mac, the state's biggest fertilizer salesman, was about to become...

Well...

The lawn-mower made a high squealing protest, almost to match Mac's own, as it rode over his prostrate body. A small part of him, standing outside of the horrible pain and humiliating death, came up with a last, mad, parting joke. "Green light-red light, red light-green light!" that perhaps only he truly got.

The lawnmower didn't have a sense of humor at all, but the demon-thing locked inside of the carburator did, and laughed and laughed as the lawnmower shuddered to a stop- and then reversed itself."

(Copyright held by me, written right now)

I don't really have like a writer's portfolio, though, is the thing.