A Hero Does What A Hero Does

[So the brief was write something in a style we hate. I don’t know that there are styles I HATE, so I have instead attempted to write something I don’t like and don’t consider to be any good… I won’t say I hope you enjoy it, because, well…]

So in the end it came down to a final showdown, just like in the great westerns; the good, the bad and the ugly, except that the bad was also the ugly, or vice versa. Max and Mr E, facing off, one with a handgun like a black slab of charcoal death, the other with nothing but the sun on his face.

As Max wondered whether there was any way to get out of this, hoping for inspiration to hit like lightning or a even just lightning to hit Mr E, the villain took a step toward him.

He smiled, a wide viscous grin that looked like the Joker as played by Jack Nicholson, and he raised the gun, till the barrel was aimed right at Max’s face, like the bit with Trinity and the Agent in The Matrix.
“Any famous last words?” Mr E asked, and Max shrugged.
“Not really. Are they very famous?”

Mr E smiled even wider, and in a split moment Max thought of a five minute video he’d seen on YouTube once of a snake dislocating it’s jaw to swallow an entire egg, and thought that Mr E was grinning like that, which was not a nice grin at all.

“Actually, I do have two more words, though they also may not be very famous.”

“Go on,” invited his nemesis, his teeth clenched like an ivory wall.

“Safety catch,” said Max, and as Mr E’s eyes flicked to the small black safety catch on the side of the gun Max jabbed his hand out and grabbed the gun, pushing his finger behind the trigger like the move Donnie Yen does in Ip Man and stopping the trigger being pulled. Then he spun, kicking his leg out and driving his heel into Mr E’s temple so hard his skull crunched, and his supposed nemesis dropped lifeless to the concrete.

Max stood looking down at him like Batman with blood on his boot, and smiled his own wide smile.

“Bye bye, bad guy,” he said, and turned. The day was still bright and clear, but if there had been a sunset, he would have been walking into it, towards his new adventure….


The Worst Story Ever Written

Trigger Warning: This story contains everything I hate about writing and may include horribleness that should not be read by anyone.

Authors Note: I’ll also be including some writers commentary so anything in <> should not be considered part of the story.

Rosie awoke to the shrill call of her alarm wailing like a garroted goose. She pulled back the covers and slid sensuously out of the silk sheets and pattered across the room, soft as a kitten, to regarded herself critically in the full-length mirror.

<Oh God I’m really going to do this>

Hands on hips she turned left and right examining her naked body in the mirror. She was thirty five but her diet and gym routine meant that she had the body of a twenty year old. She squeezed her ample breasts and smiled, feeling a thrill run down her flat stomach to her sex as she massaged her nipples. 34DD they were everything a man could want. Happy with what she saw, she turned to check out her perfect butt, which was firm as an under-ripe peach.

She let her hand wander down and brush through the thin line of hair above her clitoris, teasing herself for just a second before drawing her hand away. Much as she would love to she didn’t have time for that. The office was calling and as everyone knew if you didn’t go to work you were the worst kind of parasite. A looter stealing from the genius of visionaries like Mark Zuckerberg and Rupert Murdoch. People who were proven to be better than the average man by their ability to amass their great fortunes.

<Author vomits all down himself>

If she was a man Rosie would have liked to have been a man like Rupert Murdoch. Unfortunately by some terrible twist of fate she had been born just a woman and so she did what she cold to help her own visionary achieve his goals. Whatever it took.

<OK so let’s count the horrors… I make it six counts of terrible writing so far. If you find more I must just be putting the extras in unconsciously I’m not a terrible writer… honest.>

As she brushed her long, blonde hair Rosie turned her mind to the problem at hand. Her Bae was having a hard time at the office. The trade war had, almost overnight, turned into something more significant. It had started with protests in cities that were supposed to be their allies. There were protests wherever he went, effigies being floated above them or burned in front of them. Then the other countries he was bringing to heel like recalcitrant dogs stopped buying US product altogether! Well Bae had done the only thing he could do, he’d threatened to sell them things by force but that hadn’t worked out quite as he’d planned and instead of backing down they had sunk the ships full of iPads he had sent to sell to them. The nerve of those people in shit-hole countries pretending they didn’t want the superior US products…

<Any relation to real people is purely on purpose but this is parody so you can’t sue me you orange mugged goon. Also Bae!? Ugh what kind of word is that…>

To top it all off his wife was now giving him a hard time too. It didn’t make any sense! She should know that such a powerful, impressive man wouldn’t be satisfied with just one lover. I mean its not even like this was the first time,  although she considered herself to be well above some of the porn star, trailer trash scum that he’d dallied with before. Anyway, that was just about relief, this was respect and love he’d told her so himself. Threatening divorce at a time of war? The bitch should be sent back to whatever hell hole she came from, she wasn’t even America after all.

Well she couldn’t solve the war or the wife but she could do her bit to spread his message, and that is exactly what she planned to do. She slipped into a fabulous dress that perfectly showed off her curves, grabbed her purse off the counter and headed to out of the door.


Just as she arrived at the coffee shop her phone gave out a little cheap. She slipped it out of her black PVC handbag, and looked at the screen.

The War is on. Jittery Xi Jinping has crossed me for the last time. I’m going to Airforce One now to plan the attack. Don’t worry you’ll be fine we will destroy them in five seconds and anyone who says different is talking fake news. xoxo covfefe

So it was happening. Those traitors in the newsrooms had been reporting that US troops were on the move, denying her beloved his surprise attack, but she hadn’t expected it so soon. No matter, she had a job to do and that job was to drum up support for her Bae, after all it was an election year.

She opened the door to the shop and looked inside. It was a small space with four small tables dressed with flowery tablecloths. The floor was white and black tile in a chessboard pattern that lead up to a petite glass counter. The counter had a plethora of delicious looking pastries behind it including delicate danishes filled with colourful jams and creams that shone in the early morning light like so many colourful pebbles tossed into a verdant stream at sunset on a warm summers day.

<Well that was boring and didn’t add anything to the story…>

Above the counter the news was showing scenes from the war. Fighter jets crisscrossing the sky, tracer fire lighting up the darkness, soldiers pouring out of amphibious vehicles to spill out onto a sandy beach under a hail of fire and in the top corner the president. Smiling and waving as he boarded air force one, his trademark red cap on his flowing locks.

<Talking about a more interesting story than the one we’re telling? Classic.>

Rosie approached the counter where a pale-faced woman in her early forties stood with her eyes locked on the TV.

“I’d like get a coffee,” said Rosie after it was clear the slack-jawed idiot had noticed her.

The woman flinched like someone had thrown a bucket of icy water over her. “Of course, uh… take a seat and I’ll bring it right over.”

Rosie tutted but took the nearest chair where she leaned in to a greying old man who was also engrossed in the TV which was now showing live footage of missile sites in China opening.

“So what do you think about this election huh? The president is bound to win again right? I mean he is draining the swamp, rebuilding the middle class and doing it all while maintaining a handicap of -3.”

“There isn’t going to be an election! Aren’t you watching the TV those aren’t regular missiles the Chinese are firing they’re nukes.”

“Oh that’s fake news. What are you some liberal snowflake? No-one would dare!”

Outside the sky grew dark. The woman from ran out from behind the counter Rosie’s coffee forgotten. When she got to the door she screamed.

“Oh what is it woman?” snapped Rosie.

“Airplanes. There are so many of them.”

“Xian H-6’s by the looks of them,” said the old man now stood beside her looking up.

“Fake news,” snapped Rosie but a little of the fire had gone out of her now as she looked up and saw them for herself.

“It’s not news lady, it’s just happening.”

The lead Xian H-6’s bomb doors opened and mist of tiny black specks started to fall. Seconds later the other bombers started to drop their loads.

“Nothing bad can happen to me!” shrieked Rosie. “Don’t they know who I am? I’m too important. It’s fake news. Fake news!”

The black specks fell faster and faster growing bigger with each second. By the door the old man took the woman in his arms and patted her back.

“It will be OK. We won’t feel a thing,” he whispered into her ear.

“Fake news…” said Rosie with a shiver. “Fake news.”

<Fade to black…>

Just. No.

So we’ve hit a wall, and it’s all gone to hell in a hand cart. Well, you can read and enjoy your pieces from last month’s Hitting a Wall challenge and vote – shortly – at the voting page.

This month’s challenge? Oh, you’re gonna hate it. I did.

Let’s learn about ourselves, writers. I want you to TAKE THE STYLE OF WRITING YOU HATE AND WRITE A PIECE IN THAT STYLE.

I couldn’t think for a while, then realised I hate pretentious writing, but I already do that, so went for political and stereotypical writing. I get the need for the occasional stereotype, but gods kill me if I have to read pieces where every man is in power because he’s a man and they do that and women belong in a kitchen. THAT’S BORING AND RUINING MY ESCAPISM FROM THE CURRENT REALITY WHERE PEOPLE ACTIVELY BELIEVE THIS AND TORTURE ME WITH IT ALREADY.

Anyway, go write. I need a lie down. This sucked.



Item 13-1-25

Councilman Quentin Mason’s eyes rolled back and his collar rubbed against his recently shaved neck; irritation seemed to be the theme of the day. The morning had been draining, a full two hours of back to back inane cases put forth by the lower classes. He was an older man with fading white whisps that constituted for hair, liver spots on his face, and a verge of flesh that wrinkled worse than his shirt between his chin and his collar line.

How droll, he thought to himself as he looked away from the other council representatives to the window at the edge of the courtroom. The sun was shining and he would have loved nothing more than to sack off the afternoon for a drive out of the city in his convertible and see his secretary in that summer dress again.

“Mr Mason,” the voice called, pulling him back to the present situation.

For Christ’s sake, must I deal with another petulant busy body? Her tits seem less perky than my Doberman. He thought to himself as he turned back to Alison Geralt; the head of the Neighbourhood Watch in her area who seemed to own more sickly coloured pant suits than common sense according to Mason.

“Yes, Miss Geralt…”

“It’s Ms, if you wouldn’t mind.” She interrupted curtly. He sighed and ground his teeth a little further into the next dentist’s holiday he’d be paying for.

Ms Geralt, apologies, I thought we had concluded your last item of the day?” The strain of politeness in his voice seemed to be waning more and more as the heat and the boredom loomed upon him.

“No, Councilman, I have one last item on my agenda.” The woman’s shrill and lisped voice cut through him like a knife.

Agenda? Who the bloody hell do you even think you are? He thought to himself, the rising resentment boiling in him, causing him to sort his collar once more. This is the local council, you daft bint, not the god damned Court of King Solomon.

A strained attempt at a smile crossed his face as he adjusted his perch in his seat. “But of course, Ms Geralt. What would this item be? Curfew on the youth passing through the parks at lunch time?”

The two or three other councilmen, similar in age and appearance to Mason, stifled chuckles and continued to stare through morose eyes at the young lady in front of them.

“No, Sir, it is a far more serious matter than your ribbing. The district of Hecton-on-Sea would like to file it’s independence from the City and, indeed, the country.”

The stifling stopped and the four men sat on the board roared with laughter for a few minutes or so. Alison stood, stern and resolute. As the laughter subsided, Mason – wiping tears from his eyes – saw that she was deadly serious.

“Young lady, this country is on the verge of taking back it’s own independence and, indeed, it’s dignity. Why would the local district of Hecton-on-Sea not want to join the rest of the country in such a momentous occasion?”

The other councilmen jeered with approval.

“You see, Councilmen, we don’t agree wholeheartedly with the higher powers that there would be much dignity regained in such an action. As a matter of fact, as a district of the country where the average household income is dwarfed by the population of the area, we’d very much note that our dignity would be struggling to keep up with those more well off than ourselves.”

The laughing slowly started to build again but was quickly abaited. Mason leaned forward and steepled his fingers in front of his face. This was a stong move, he thought to himself, she can see your authority and overall superiority in this stance.

“Now now, my dear. No need to get so worked up. We all know that you ‘remainers’,” he did the air quotations then quickly returned to steepled dominion, “would like nothing more for the righteous masses to stop saying such hurtful things and go back to our Guardians and whinging about the old days, but here’s the thing! It’s better this way!”

Another round of jeered acknowledgement, and another round of her piercing stare.

“Better for whom, councilman?”

For Christ Almighty, he strained in his head.

“For your generation and those to come, my dear. When you get to hand your piny down to your daughter, you’ll be able to tell her that the country has returned to an Empire and we are ruling once more.”

“Or that some old men who couldn’t bare the thought of dying without leaving the next generation in tatters wanted one last ride?”

The clucking of the councilmen irritated Mason further.

“Young lady, we do whatever is best for our city, which therefore is best for the country. You honestly think that I would allow the fringe minority of Hecton-on-Sea to affect the progress of the rest of that district?”

A slam as the file in her hand hit the desk in front of her.

“Here are the signatures of 90% of the public in that district agreeing with the request.”

“You can’t seriously be asking for such a thing? We’ve given you so much!” His shock giving him away.

“Like what, councilman?” Her eyes like flaming arrow heads.

“The parks…”

“Overrun with rodents and drug addicts.”

“The leisure Centre…”

“A cesspool and known paedophile haunt.”

He flustered once more, “You’ve been given the right to air your opinion, you left wing tyrant, what else do you want?! What else can we give you that could possibly wave a hand to? We’re lead by democracy!”

She straightened herself and cleared her throat, knowing full well that her requests upset the Conservative stronghold that was the Council of her area was like a grain of sound in a clam’s mouth. She leaned low and close to the microphone, recording the meeting and breathed…

“For The Many, not The Few.”





I hated writing this. Have fun.