Brutal Word Wrangler: Overlook Fever



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Béla Bartók “Music For Strings, Percussion, & Celesta”


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At long last I can finally say that things are looking decidedly more rosy. It has been a helluva few weeks and anything but relaxing but this time I simply cannot go wrong. I was flicking through a brochure and it jumped off the page at me. The Overlook Hotel in the Colorado Rockies, looking for a caretaker no less, to keep things ticking over through the harsh winter off-season. It couldn’t be more suited to my needs, solitude for weeks, valuable time to work on my writing with not a soul about to break my concentration. Well, I say not a soul, apparently the correct suitor would be accompanying a mother and her child as the father has cried off but that is dandy with me. It’s a gargantuan estate and there has to be plenty of places for me to grab the sanctuary I require.


I applied the moment I saw the advertisement on Craigslist and, lo and behold, I made the shortlist. The interview went swimmingly, although Bonus Brain did admittedly have to bail me out on a couple of occasions, and before I could straighten my tie the position was offered to me. I snapped it up, there was simply no choice to make and I’m now the proud seasonal owner of a plush hotel miles away from anywhere. Haven’t met the wife and ankle-biter yet but how bad can it be? I’ve watched Wife Swap and it looks like a doddle to me. Anyhoots, even if they begin to grate I’ll just find a quiet spot where I can scribe in peace. That Jack guy doesn’t know what he’s missing out on but his loss is most definitely the wrangler’s gain.


It has been two weeks and I’m beginning to understand why Jack’s persistent migraines got the better of him. The little kid is alright, a little weird, but most of the time he’s peddling around the perimeter on his tricycle so our paths don’t even cross half the time. It’s Wendy that’s the problem. What a trout-faced Muppet she is, reminiscent of Olive Oyl and nothing to shoot your spinach over. Wherever I go she’s never far away, loitering in the doorway trying to get a look over my shoulder while I’m busy trying to write. It’s exhausting. She has one of those voices which sounds whiny even when she’s contented and that’s not very often. What an absolute fishwife, it’s a good job there’s an on site bar to go and drown my sorrows or I’m convinced I’d go doolally.


I can imagine the Gold Ballroom is ordinarily the hive of activity but, right now it’s dead in here, just what the doctor ordered. Not a soul in sight other than a kindly bartender who goes by the name of Lloyd, the ideal getaway should I need a few hours away from the old ball and chain. I can still hear her sniveling voice in my head and even Bonus Brain is sick to the back teeth of hearing her harp on. Lloyd gets it, I can tell by the look he gives me as I bend his ear. I’m glad there’s someone here that I can let a little steam off to as Bonus Brain is barely even talking to me at present.


Got woken up by Wendy snoring again, she sounds like a fucking boar that woman. The walls are way too thin here and it’s beginning to send me slightly loopy so I moved room. I looked for the farthest chamber, right across at the polar opposite coordinates to here in the hope of getting just one full night’s sleep. Room 237 should suit me fine, it looks like the maids haven’t given it a clean in a while but at least it’s secluded. here I can focus without her incessant meddling and, better yet, I don’t have to look at her haggard face every other minute. I kid you not, I can see how a man could lose his marbles spending too much time alone with her. I’ve had two weeks and mine are beginning to scatter.


Another week has passed and things have gotten pretty bad if truth be known. Wendy had a little too much cough mixture last night and come on to me. Ordinarily I would be rather flattered by the attention but something inside me just desired to smash her face in with a baseball bat. She made an effort and dressed up in her best corduroy dungarees and snow boots but made the mortal error of tying her hair back, leaving her hideous mug totally open to the elements. Lloyd always comments that my credit is good so I went down to the ballroom and sank a whole bottle of bourbon just to take the edge off. It didn’t work and when I returned from my bender she threw herself at me.


I must be going crazy because at first I reciprocated her advances. All work and no play makes the Brutal Word Wrangler a dull boy after all. It has been so long since I sowed my oats so I entrusted her with my harvester, knowing that my crop is in harvest and hoping the burlap sack I placed over her head wouldn’t fall off. It did, right at the pivotal moment, and I was presented with a bird’s-eye view up her congested nostrils. There’s nothing like an intricate web of snot to dampen one’s erection and I was flaccid before the sack hit the floor. Naturally I was mindful of being too harsh so I made my excuses and scuttled off back to my room. On my long, dejected walk back to my quarters I discovered the lift is out-of-order. Just my poxy luck.


I’ve tried throwing myself into my writing but it’s hard getting inspired right now and, looking over my work, it appears I have been culpable of repetition which suggests I’m in entirely the wrong head space. Getting desperate, I called the head chef Dick who agreed to head over and bring his bong. He did say he would be a few hours as the weather is pretty torrid out there so I decided the best way to pass the time was with a nice relaxing soak in the bath. It all sounded delightful in theory and, when I dropped my towel, there was a stunning woman splashing around in the tub. At first this startled me as there isn’t meant to be anybody else on the premises but I considered that she may be something to do with the twins that Danny keeps going on about seeing and she looked like she really wanted it bad.


I must have pondered too long as, by the time she climbed out and made her way over, she had shriveled up something chronic and resembled a soggy leather boot. I should have run a mile but considered my options as I knew Wendy was the only other person on site in possession of a vagina. It was horrible, she was older than I first imagined and hardly had an active muscle down there. After slipping about like an eel in a foot spa for five minutes I could take no more and left with my dignity in tatters. It was in the foyer on my way to the ballroom that I come across Dick, stamping the snow off his boots on the front doormat. I lost it for a second and am not proud about what happened next. Wrong place, wrong time Dick.


I’ve been feeling pretty guilt-stricken about poor old Dick. I seem to have had some anger management issues of late and I don’t know what’s getting into me. It’s Wendy, I swear it is. Honey do you want some tea, honey don’t stay up too late, honey I can’t shake this cold. Fuck off already will you, I’d had it up to there a week ago and now I’ve had it up to here! I’ve been having thoughts, dark ones. Thoughts of Mr. Potato Head. I know, I know, sounds kooky right? The thing is with Mr. Potato Head, you can move all the features around on his mug. That’s kinda what I feel like doing with Wendy. Actually with Wendy I just feel like wiping the slate clean and melting all the pieces down.


She’s insufferable, the only thing I can think of that would be more aggravating than Wendy would be two Wendies. Old Danny boy is even starting to grind my gears. I almost tripped over his discarded tricycle earlier and he blamed it on his invisible friend. What does he take me for, a loser? If I had a death list right now his mother would be right at the apex and he would be a close second. Actually, not that close, but you get the idea. She’s the real parasite and I just know I’d get a lot more done without her around, sticking her snot-loaded hooter in my personal beeswax. I don’t think I can resist these urges much longer. It’s just so enticing. A couple of well-aimed blows with the woodman’s ax that’s lying around in my room and I’d be on easy street with golden silence at my disposal.


Bitch! She locked me in the freezer. That was totally uncalled for and I plan to make her pay for her insolence. She’s cowering away right now in the upstairs bathroom and has Danny with her so I figure two birds, one stone. I’ll have my piece of peace even if I have to blow down her house to get it. I’ll give them their dues here, the doors are rather sturdy. I’d have given up by now but I can hear her whistling nostrils behind that door and it’s shit or get off the pot as far as I’m concerned. I’m choosing to shit and if that means I drop one in her throat tube then so be it. At least it will act as a temporary muzzle until which time as she bites down.


Finally. That took forever. Alas for me, it gave her ample time to bundle herself and Danny out of the quarter-light and out into the hotel grounds. I can smell her fear like a menstrual wolfhound and I’m going out after her. This has to end now. I think I spot Danny running into the hedge maze. Stupid little bastard will freeze to death and I ain’t going to be the one dishing him the Intel. I figure he’ll last about half an hour in the current climate and he’s bound to get lost in the labyrinth. What should I do? I have two options: the first is to find him and his cursed mother, hack them into iddy-biddy pieces and use them as firewood and the second is to call it a night and go and have a nightcap with my old pal Lloyd.


I know, I’ll consult Bonus Brain. Shitty little heathen has been getting a free ride while I lose my mind and it’s about time he pulled his weight. As always his advice is on the money. “Fuck betting on black, mine’s a Rum & Red ” is his solitary retort and that’s good enough for me. I go inside, lock up, visit Lloyd, knock a couple of shots back, take one for the road and sit by the window by the old log fire watching those clueless imbeciles slowly freeze to death. It takes nearly an hour before quietude is achieved and, now it has been made so, I think I’ll get back to finishing my novel. Suddenly this ain’t looking like being such a bad gig after all.




Click here to read Wrong Turn to Texas



Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,


Keeper of the Crimson Quill


Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014





  1. Why is that I always come away from these with a huge smile on my face saying my god he’s done it again?!
    This just simply makes my day, every day. Especially after a rough days work.
    Here is where I find my saving grace. My wind down and relax moments.

  2. she was older than I first imagined and hardly had an active muscle down there. After slipping about like an eel in a foot spa for five minutes I could take no more and left with my dignity in tatters

    That finished me off. Think I died of laughter brother

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