Zombie Wastelands


Suggested Audio Candy

[1] Soil “Breaking Me Down”

[2] One Minute Silence “Food For The Brain”

[3] Megadeth “Skin ‘O My Teeth”

[4] Rammstein “Feuer Frei”


Yee to the haw Grueheads. I shall commence this communication by stating the downright obvious. Hot diggity damn it’s hot! That’s right, it’s a scorcher today in Texas and my latest escapade takes me to a seedy bar miles from civilization for an exclusive tête-à-tête with none other than horror icon Mad Brad Potts. Sounds like a mouth-watering prospect right? That it may be but events have taken a turn for the worse en route after I ignored the surprisingly sound advice of an aging gas station attendant named Cleatus. Now I’ve watched enough horror movies to be aware that I should take anything from a gas station attendant with a hefty pinch of salt and, when his name is Cleatus, well that pretty much cements it. The dude had a grand total of three decaying teeth in his face and none of those looked like they’d seen a spot of toothpaste since the seventies. As Cleatus rattled on about how foolish it would be to continue my expedition, my focus instinctively returned to that minimalist fender of gnashers. Indeed, I became so mesmerized by those wildly flapping lips of his that I practically ignored his stark warning and scuttled off back onto the dirt track. I may well live to regret that one you know.


Barely a few kilometres down the beaten track and, would you believe it, my back tire has just blown out. That leaves me smack bang in the middle of nowhere, a good 35 km from my destination, with absolutely no fluids that don’t consist of my own piss and vultures ominously circumnavigating my coordinates, readying their talons for the imminent swoop. Fuckers aren’t getting any of my coulis and any such attempt will culminate in my size eight-and-a-half deeply burrowed in their balloon knots, big toe first. However, it is fast becoming clear that these scavengers are to be the least of my concerns as a ravenous militia of famished flesh-eaters are currently advancing on my position, hell-bent on sinking their incisors into whichever hunk of gristle they can get their hands on first. I have plentiful time to plan my escape as these are good old-fashioned American zombies, shuffling like arthritic pensioners and groaning as if their hemorrhoids are beginning to chafe. Poor dumb bastards, their only requisite is for a light snack but they ain’t going to find it in Keeper. Like the cyclops from Krull, I already know how I will meet my maker, and that will be a myocardial infarction, not being torn limb from limb by the undead.


Now anyone who knows their zombies will be only too aware that they pose the greatest threat when they approach en masse. Unaccompanied they’re a thorn in one’s side at very worst but, should they attack in sufficient enough quantities, then they can really fuck up your afternoon. Fortunately for me an old Chevy pick-up truck has just rattled past, making a welcome pit stop to assist me in my perilous quest for escape. Inside are a couple of mercenaries, Bubba and Clint; redneck types armed to the nines with double-barreled shotguns and electrified cattle prods. Both appear to be mildly perturbed by the horde of skin-crawlers re-enacting the video for Thriller before them although, in Bubba’s case, there clearly isn’t much going on behind the peepers. I’ve taken dumps with a higher I.Q. than this chowderhead and they smelt better too come to think of it. Will someone teach this numpty how to apply roll-on or a swift bullet to the back of his head would save us all the misery.


“Get the fuck in boy…NOW”

Firstly, I’m no boy you inbred turd, I’m the Keeper of the Crimson Quill and you may want to scribble that on your hand so you don’t you forget it. That said, while Clint’s opening statement has rattled my cage some, his associate Bubba can only offer up a boar-like grunt while dribbling all over the upholstery. Thus I shall take Clint’s advice and jump on in before shit gets any more real. Needless to say, after several minutes of watching Bubba scratch his hairy beanbag like a flea-bitten mule, I’ve begun to question that decision along with my fast fading sanity. Meanwhile Clint sits game-faced next to me stroking his barrels, presumably in wait of some more zombie heads to shatter like adolescent hymens and I’m assured he does plenty of that too in his downtime. I’m reasonably certain that both men have engaged in intercourse with a billy-goat at some point and, in Bubba’s case, he even has a photo in his wallet to prove it. I’m starting to ponder whether I was actually safer with the zombies you know. There’s certainly not a great deal between them with regards to I.Q.


After what seems like an age, we have now finally arrived at our destination, The Monkey Spanker, and it couldn’t have arrived any sooner for my liking as there’s only so many times I can sniff Bubba’s fingers before it ceases being funny. From the outside, this ramshackle establishment doesn’t appear to be the sex palace I’d envisaged or has been reported but it has to be better than sitting in silence with Mungo and Charlie Manson right? A small posse of pulse-free planks have congregated around this fortified den of iniquity and, no sooner has Bubba’s free hand pulled up the hand brake (while the other still rummages around down the front of his dungarees), than his compadre begins dropping smoking shells on the dusty ground. With heads popping around me like punished pimples, I make my way up to the boarded up windows and peek through the small opening between the boards to grab me one of those look-sees.


“Open the motherfucking door Otis or I swear to God” appears to be the secret code to gain entry as Clint harasses the owner of the bar into hastily shuffling over with a jailer’s set of keys to allow us entrance. Alas, there is no sign of the legendary Mad Brad Potts as yet and the tiny peep-hole only reveals only one corner of the establishment and the heady aroma of Tequila, sweat and cum that I’m pretty sure is customary. However, once the door swings open and I step over the pile of twitching carcasses fashioned by my new “acquaintances”, I am greeted by a sight for the sorest of eyes. Evidently it is business as usual as an ample-chested and mercifully 100% natural vixen slides up and down a greased pole clad only in a Stetson. That is all the invitation I require to scurry inside for closer scrutiny and hopefully a confabulation with the man himself. I do believe that makes it game on.


I have found myself in some increasingly perilous situations before whilst on my travels but, as far as fixes go, things could actually be a helluva lot worse than the plight I find myself in currently. Granted, hundreds upon hundreds of ravenous walkers frantically clawing away at the wooden fortifications is not the warm welcome I had in mind when I set out on my current expedition but is counter-balanced by the oily vixens sliding up and down numerous greased-up poles before my eyes so I’m more than willing to take the rough with the smooth on this occasion. I guess I do have something in common with these redneck hicks after all although I’m guessing (and praying) any similarities end there.


Okay so I’ve spotted Bubba amidst all the cigar smoke and man-sweat. He is currently perched glazed-eyed within sniffing distance of one particularly hot honey with panties round her knees and her back rack gyrating in his face. His tongue is fully unraveled and dangling from his mouth like a neck tie. I don’t really hold out much hope for the poor fucktard as his entire almanac of sexual enlightenment consists of a night of passion with a billy-goat and a rolled up issue of National Geographic he discovered in his brother Clint’s truck. At least he is contented, although I fear for his right hand which still hasn’t materialized from the front of his pants. Now let’s not get this twisted, I’m fully aware of the joys of fondling one’s testicles once in a while, but there’s a time and a place for everything and ordinarily that time and place is somewhere quiet when nobody else is privy. Not Bubba, he clearly takes great pride in giving his globes a good scratching and, if he’s happy, then I guess I’m happy too. Mildly nauseous but happy nonetheless. I have the whiskey to thank for that.

neon dancer

Clint, on the other hand, is faring somewhat better in the back bar having a private lap dance whilst still clutching his boomstick excitedly. Prepared like the proverbial boy scout for the eventuality that the barracks become breached, it’s evident this dude can handle any shitstorm brewing outside even if he hasn’t sussed out the art of wiping front to back yet. Indeed, he’s in good company, as folk at the bar seem only too glad to make mention of the main man, Mad Brad Potts, and seem unperturbed by the undead horde steadily breaking through the defenses board by board. This dude knows how to handle such outbreaks and pisses nitric acid and shits plutonium, if rumor has it correctly. This should be a cakewalk. You see, I’d like to think myself not too shabby either in a fracas, and know how to swing a few knuckles when push comes to shove. Whether they actually make contact is irrelevant as, what matters most, is that I’ll look like I mean business and we’re hardly talking about the smartest of opponents are we?


Were you aware that females can kick ass too? Indeed they can and this is attested by Ebony and Ivory; two pole-dancing sex kittens, unsurprisingly one black, one white, and both hot as fuck, perhaps more so. The darker vixen is apparently a crack shot with ranged blades, which she keeps stashed down the side of each cowboy boot, (her only attire I might add), while her pale-faced associate brandishes an elongated hand-scythe which is stored behind the bar I hear. Judging by the speed in which all blood is currently draining from my upper torso, I believe I may have just passed through heaven’s gates as there are few things than please me more than a two-for-one deal. Alas, I am informed that I’m barking up the wrong tree with Ebony and Ivory, not that the heaving erection digging in my ribs seems to mind. Perhaps I’ll leave it until later to break it to the little guy as I’d hate to play party pooper.


You see, neither have as much as a whiff of interest in males no matter how alpha the packaging and instead they get all their kicks and licks from each other. Both can reach climax by gaining a scalp, multiple via their awesome finishing move which entails Ebony pinning said victim with her serrated blades while Ivory completes the combo by lopping off the top box. The punters seem to think it something of a joy to behold, especially when the pair conclude with a bloody embrace and dozens of knees commence trembling in unison. Otis runs the bar and has done since his mama succumbed to a zombie bite a decade ago. Would you believe she’s still around; locked away in the cellar where she is chained to the back wall. I hear she’s starting to look a tad weathered now as she was 72 when she got infected, and has decomposed considerably over the past few years. Always the momma’s boy, Otis takes a tray of entrails to his dear mother daily. Evidently, his staff dread changing the barrels!


At any rate, outside of a few inconsequential locals who pretty much have the words FRESH MEAT tattooed across their foreheads, that’s the entire personnel of The Monkey Spanker accounted for I do believe. I have to say I’m a little perturbed by the absence of Mad Brad Potts as I still haven’t seen hide nor hair of our burly hero and that’s a bone of mild contention as I’m chomping at the bit to chew some gristle with the man himself. I mean, it’s not as if he’s difficult to misplace. Brad is built like an ox and with corresponding might, and cuts an imposing figure on any a barren landscape no doubt. After the long journey I have embarked on from the United Kingdom just to break bread with him, perhaps he’s just planning a grand entrance for little old me. I do love me one of those and all will be forgiven once he graces me with his immeasurable presence.


Suddenly there is a blood-curdling scream from the only place not yet traversed by the Keeper – the games room. The dark heart within me beckons me forward with the promise of potential splatter on the platter, something I never could pass up. Never one to shy away from such a delectable invitation, I stride briskly forward, armed with my own intimate weapon of choice – the Crimson Quill. As I turn the corner to survey, I’m greeted by the aroma of liquor and a dense cloud of fine Cuban cigar smoke. Once the hanging mist begins to dissipate, my dark heart gets exactly what it has been hankering after. One of the locals is against the breached window, restrained by a multitude of grabbing feelers and something tells me this is about to get decidedly messy. Goody gum drops.


It would appear that I couldn’t have timed my arrival better as a set of gnashing teeth sink into the poor unfortunate’s cranium, sending a sickening spray of deep red jettisoning forth and all over the felt of a nearby pool table. This hapless fucker is way beyond assistance and, as the incisors clench down on his thought-box, they force his scalp free along with fragments of splintered skull from above his eye-socket. I do believe that makes it game over man. However, the undead aggressor gets barely enough time to savour that first bloody bite when a pool cue is sent hurtling across the room, finding a soft abode in his right eye-socket, pushing the orb back into his brain with a sickening squelch as it bursts in a spew of retinal fluids. Following the cue’s trajectory backwards, I am finally presented the main dish I came here for – Mad Brad Potts.


“Ya fucked up mah shot!!”

That appears all she wrote for now as he has nonchalantly returned to his game, sinking the eight ball off three cushions to be precise. Ignoring the crescendo of crimson curd emanating from the dead man’s face, I calmly make my way over and, shadow casting over his line of sight, he looks slowly up to greet my appreciative gaze. I could dance a jig right now if it weren’t for the fact that I’m far too cool to do so. Actually, the jig isn’t my specialty, but I assure you I’m doing one on the inside. I do hope Brad doesn’t have X-ray vision.


Okay so time for that bad news. You see, the once peaceful den of iniquity I find myself within has now descended into utter chaos. One of the patrons has just had his skull bitten into as if it was a fleshy nectarine and, while a small congregation feasts upon the remnants of his cranium, countless others are attempting to clamber over the top and in through the fissure their buddy hand-crafted. I can hear Otis frantically firing off rounds in the main bar as it appears as though a second breach is being fashioned. Even Bubba has removed his hand from its rummaging space to lend it to the cause (not before taking a crafty sniff of his digits mind). His brother is maniacally cackling as he advances to get his hands dirty, boner leading the way as he has just abandoned his private dancer. In fact, in all the hullabaloo the only folk who appear unperturbed are Ebony and Ivory who continue to gyrate up and down their poles, regardless of the fact that there are no punters and soon to be a fair few dozen famished zombies sniffing around their heels. Indeed, it appears as though the madness is only serving to moisten their gussets further. What a pair of rippers.


In the games room however, the tranquility has been well and truly shattered. Blind panic has set in for the remaining occupants as they frantically endeavor to uphold the fortifications. It’s looking as though it will turn out fruitless as the sheer wealth of walkers scrambling through the wooden orifice is causing the surrounding barracks to weaken considerably. Still appearing unfussed about the bedlam and more bothered by the fact that his game of pool has been so rudely interrupted, Mad Brad Potts finally looks up to meet my eye-contact. Now unless I’m mistaken, the ball’s in my court now, and I believe it is customary to offer a drink when so soundly starstruck.

“What’s Your Poison?”

After a short silence, presumably as he sizes me up, he replies with a slight smirk which accommodates the matchstick he has been chewing on the whole time.

“Bourbon with Beer Chaser”


Jesus this guy is hench. Strapping and built to last; he has clearly seen his fair share of bloody melee and it doesn’t appear to faze him in the slightest. Indeed, I’m feeling much less harassed by the flesh-crawlers after seeing his frame fully unfurled. Making my way back through the thick Cuban smoke and into the bar, I am instantly greeted by the sight of hapless Otis having a hefty fresh cavity fashioned into his forearm and, somewhat unsurprisingly, he looks a little jaded as he attempts to pull himself away from the gnashing incisors that have already nestled in around the marrow and appear to be making themselves more than at home.


“Someone fucking help me!”

It would appear that his cries have fallen on deaf ears as Clint has already reached for the blade which he keeps tucked inside the same socks he has worn for nigh on a week now.

“We gone have to take it off Otis”

I’d imagine that is not the solution he had hoped for but Otis knows it is the only feasible way of stopping the infection from spreading. Still grimacing, the bar owner offers up his limb for dismemberment, placing it down on the bar reluctantly.

“Now you be careful Clint, ya hear?”

No sooner has the last word been uttered than Clint begins carving through the tendons as though a thanksgiving turkey. His subject’s gargling screams do not perturb him, in fact, it appears he is gaining more than the necessary amount of glee from slicing through the cartilage.

Mongo copy

“Hey, hey Clint? You’re cutting it a bit high ain’t cha?”

It’s good to see Bubba intejecting although still with two digits resting underneath his flared nostrils.

“What have I gone told you before idiot, you gotta make sure”

With that, the hunting knife finally makes contact with the bar surface. He flicks the spurting appendage along the bar, firing a slug into it before it reaches the opposing end. Otis appears to have gone into catatonic shock, has pissed his slacks and, judging by the sudden aroma of undigested sirloin caked in feces, he may well have shit too.

“Bubba, take him to the basement. There’s no goddamn way he’s staying up here”

These words seem to pull Otis free from his frozen state as the grim realization sets in that his mommy dearest isn’t going to be the only cellar dweller in this establishment.


I stroll over to the bar as Bubba hoists Otis away and proceeds to kick him down the stone stairwell back into mommy’s welcoming bosom. Calmly I pour two drinks: one Bourbon with Beer Chaser for the man and Tequila on the rocks for me. I grab a salt shaker and lemon from the bar and walk around the vast puddle of cruor on my journey back to rejoin my compadre.

“That’s a lot of blood for just one iddy biddy scratch ain’t it?”

Very perceptive Clint. I provide him a half-hearted smirk which is about all I can muster at this point. I can see us coming to blows and wouldn’t trust this fucktard as far as I could wank him across a field but I shall remain poker-faced, for now at least, as there are far bigger fish for the frying.


As I once more enter the dense mist of the games room I give a cursory glance to Ebony and Ivory, who both appear totally indifferent to the events of the past few moments. I say that, when Ivory has her head burrowed into her lover’s snatch like a pig at feeding time and by the looks of Ebony, whose pupils are fluttering in the back of her skull with groaning glee, her etiquette leaves something to be desired. I’m tempted to leap into the fray like a gay salmon and honk me some hooters. However, after recalling Chasing Amy, I remember what a headache it proved for Ben Affleck trying to turn the tide and reluctantly decide to leave the girls to their feeding time. Thank the heavens for my photographic memory as this need not be a wasted venture after all and this exchange will play out somewhat differently in my imagination later.


Through the cloud I discern that Mad Brad Potts is no longer where I left him and all remaining regulars are strewn around, all missing one vital organ or another. One poor guy sprawled across the pool table has had his throat ripped open and his bloody splintered windpipe juts forth, crimson glugging out of the rather painful looking aperture. As for our zombie friends, well lets just say I may have to queue for the jukebox. I’m jolted by a blood-curdling scream from behind me and, as I spin around 180 like Chris Redfield, I spot Ebony convulsing. There don’t appear to be any breaks in her skin and the walkers aren’t even in her vicinity. Then it dawns on me, Ivory is clearly endowed with particularly strong tongue muscles. If that’s her cumming, then I perish to think of what would denote real fear or pain. Again, I peel myself away from Babette’s Feast and make my way deeper into the dense smoke, careful not to wander into the path of any famished dead heads.


I see the silhouette of Mad Brad Potts at the back of the room, signalling me forward with a nod and naturally I do not procrastinate in joining him. The survivors have all exited the main bar now and are heading upstairs to the attic as the odds are stacking against us fast. Evidently it looks the wise choice to follow, so follow I do. As I reach the comparatively quiet newly formed panic room, Potts kicks the door shut behind me and Bubba begins to hurl anything weighty enough in front of it to buy us some time. While dumb and dumber fortify the barracks and Ebony returns the favor and chows down on her partner, this gives me the exclusive opportunity to pitch my posers to Mad Brad. I hand him his requested tipple, take a seat facing him and fire away.

“I’m honored to make your acquaintance. Before we proceed, I’ve gotta ask you…why do they call you Mad Brad?”

I reckon I may be just about to find out you know.


Conducting an in-depth interview when famished zombies are hanging from the door frames, gnawing through ply board to get to the brains the other side, is never going to be a particularly fruitful pursuit and it appears my moment may well be passing, temporarily at least.

“Excuse me son. We may have to pick this up later on down the road”

I shall have to wait to find out why folk call him Mad Brad as more pressing matters are at hand. He pulls his hunting knife from his boot and makes his way over to Clint and Bubba who are coming a cropper due to the sheer wealth of dead heads pressing against the barricade. Presumably the aroma of fresh cerebellum for the chow down isn’t being emitted from Bubba’s microscopic throb-box as he barely has twin cells to rub together. Poor bastard, he could take a bite and throw the whole operation into chaos as we would have no conceivable way of detecting the signs.


He moves aside when he sees Brad approaching and even his brother, who is cantankerous to the core, offers the wide berth necessitated for the destroyer to pitch camp.

“Whatcha gone do madman?”


He puts his chopper to work, trimming away any flailing limbs as though they were excess trimmings on a warm apple tart. Blood sprays across all three men but it is Brad who takes the splash damage the most willingly. His nerves are like steel, nothing fazes him, and he actually appears to be relishing the gory hornet’s nest which he is single-handedly fashioning. I’m mightily impressed, overawed to be honest, and witnessing true leadership from a man who doesn’t buckle under pressure. His actions alone are giving me answers to so many burning questions like how does one look away from a pair of sexually entwined lesbian pole-dancers? The answer is Mad Brad Potts. I sure am thankful to have him around right now. Do you think he’ll mind if I give him a hug?


Speaking of the lusty ladies, they appear all-square on the chewing fat front and have finally separated from one another’s embrace, albeit momentarily. Goddamn that was a sight for weary eyes. Neither of these vixens shows any sign of inauguration, just two good old-fashioned shapely Southern hotpots with enough meat around the marrow to feed a zombie family for a month. Hell, they may even be enough left over to compile me a little take away nose-bag. I’m in two minds here as part of me has spent the last five minutes pondering over offering my services as spotter and that’s the half containing my dick and balls. The other half? Well that just ain’t that important now is it? If zombies are about to overrun our asses at any given moment then why not go out with a faint twitch in your sack right?


Notably no percentile of my being wishes to join Brad at the doorway. This isn’t cowardice and certainly isn’t a mean play on my part. He just has it covered, I’d only end up getting in his way and, besides, the only spot currently available is less than a foot away from Bubba’s armpit and that dude can’t even spell roll-on, let alone apply it. At any rate, it’s his brother who really gets my goat and the sole reason I’m not wearing his face as a mitten right now is because he offered me a lift in the first place. Nevertheless the ice he skates upon is perilously thin and I’m just waiting for the first opportunity to wipe that shit-eating grin off his smug face. On the plus side he is brandishing that sawn-off shotgun so, with a little luck, he’ll blow his own dick off at the root and bleed to death ever so slowly. Sure, we’d be another slug down but that seems like a fairly astute way to use it all things considered.


It’s all irrelevant anyways as Mad Brad Potts has the situation firmly in hand as always. As much as the walkers are desperate to find a route in, it appears he is carving an opening out. Considering these are the walking dead we are dealing with and they only require one light nibble to fuck up your piss water, it could be construed as a foolhardy approach but, if I have learned one thing in my time at the The Monkey Spanker, it is that this dude ain’t nobody’s chow down. All their best efforts will ultimately be in vain as death tastes even nicer second time round in Brad’s eyes and he’s all about the giving. It appears as though I may be surplus to requirements here as the threat that originally appeared so ominous is now little more than a distraction to the single-handed judgement this guy casts.


It’s as though no effort whatsoever is being expelled, like this is a leisurely stroll across the desert sands for him. Let’s not forget the threat that a zombie ordinarily poses. On their own they may be little more than shuffling bullseyes but in a posses they pose a pretty potent threat. If you need any convincing on that point then take a mooch about downstairs. It’s actually a darned shame as this is the kind of establishment I would gladly frequent and I feel like I’ve never gotten the chance to fully experience the true delights The Monkey Spanker has to offer. That said, what I have witnessed has shown me that Texas is gonna be just fine.


Finally the whole door frame splinters into sawdust at Brad’s feet and the expected glut of bloodthirsty zombies doesn’t materialize from the other side. He’s only gone and hacked away every last one of them and any “survivors” are in no fit state to do anything but gnaw his boot laces. I came here primarily to learn something about the enigma that is Mad Brad Potts and, although we haven’t yet been afforded time to chew the fat, I’m going away with a trailer-load of answers. Hopefully soon we will be able to finish our tête-à-tête as I’m still fascinated to find out more but maybe not in an environment so overrun with decomposing flesh. Any stragglers are dealt with in turn either with that colossal serrated blade or the heel of his boot which compacts any skulls littering the exit way.


Sensing the safe passage required to bolt with their tails between their ass cracks, Clint and Bubba are first down the stairs and on their way back to their battered Chevy pick-up, presumably to sniff one another’s digits as zombie slaying sure does make your balls sweat. As for Ebony and Ivory, well side-by-side on a piano isn’t the only place these two are effective. Heck, I didn’t even get to see them fight and am assured that would have been some sight to behold. One thing is for damned sure; if they put the same elbow grease into eviscerating the undead as they do flossing one another’s Fallopian funnels then this zombie outbreak will be nothing more than a teensy weensy flash in the pan.


These girls despise men and all that they stand for so nothing that has occurred really caused them to break sweat. Should another dick stop swinging then there’s always a trusty vibrator looking to take its place. It’s just superfluous to their requirements and it’s hard arguing with that logic when their connection is so fierce and extensive. Despite their loathing of the male sex I still notice a nod of appreciation aimed at Mad Brad as they exit the bar and prepare to climb aboard their single Harley customized with black and white trim. I have a feeling I may just run into Ebony and Ivory again further on down the trail and I’ll certainly be seeing them again on the inside of my eyelids as I thrash one out the moment I arrive home or likely sooner. Alright you’ve got me, I’m headed straight for the restroom the very second I’ve ceased my communication with you lot.


Eventually it is just Potts and I and it suddenly dawns on me that the ruckus has died down somewhat. The dead are even deader than before and the only other folk for miles of here are Otis and his mother who are busy catching up in the basement from the groans I discern. Now would actually be the ideal time to grab those few minutes alone with the big man. Actually, it would appear that Brad has precisely the same idea.

“I never did get that Bourbon with chaser”

Thankfully, he makes this remark with a warm smile. I make my way back to the bar and slide over the counter to prepare our poisons a second time. I actually very nearly come to mischief as it is coated with a deep red sheen since Otis surrendered those digits but nothing is going to spoil this proud moment dagnabbit.

“Coming up my brother, coming up”

Now how’s about one for the scrapbook?


Truly, Clearly, Really, Sincerely,

Keeper of the Crimson Quill

Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014



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