And on to the next one!
This is total blue-balls material. Might even cut it, not sure. First draft, so will definitely be editing it. But the opening KH rant is kind of tradition at this point...so...
Also, hey, real coverage this time around!
Or at least, ya know, coverage that took longer than me spending an hour on it...that's an important step!
Did I ever show you guys the Vicky cover btw?
Yup, I am totally trying to trick romance readers into checking this series out and having their world rocked, yes I am.
But here's the opening rant...subject to edits and removal and who knows. Plan to disappear for a few months writing away, so...know that your writer is busy and happy and using his bed-desk-thingy. Might pop in to chat about stupid movies or tv shows or video games, but don't expect the plethora of teases to start up for a while and release will be much later this year (OCT/NOV) if it does sneak into 2022. The annoying usual delays of back problems, new COVID variants, and nuclear armageddon making this estimate extra special who-knows-but-probably--ya know, just typical 2020 The Trilogy of Suck events we've all come to accept as the new normal.
If you want to talk about EVERCHANGING DILEMMA, go chat in the spoiler allowed discussion thread. Again thanks to everyone who stuck around, purchased, typo hunted, reviewed, and spread the word. We are alive once again!
*copyrighted by me, Richard Raley, all rights reserved, do not copy and paste but please link back here*
Anyone still listening out there?
Apparently I’m still yacking my big ol’ foul mouth of mine.
King. Fucking. Henry. Fucking. Price.
Seventh year.
Hep.
Guess you could say I was more a King than ever before.
Seventh year and the last year.
Almost finished, kiddies.
Almost free of this piece of shit recorder.
Almost free of YOU.
Get back to my shop.
Been months now, ain’t it?
Months.
Months of talking to you, you spoiled fucktards got to have yourself a bedtime story before you even think about joining the Asylum. Special bunch of jackasses, ain’t ya?
Seriously, which one of you fuckers out there still doubting about joining up with the Asylum Assimilation Plan? Want to go Mad that damn bad, do ya? Want to eat your own toenails for snack time? Want to dance with the fairies in the invisible moonlight? Want to off yourself with a spoon you named Gary? Or worse, maybe pull an Isabel Soto and make your best friend’s brainpan go crack, leak all that nasty gray goo out on your pretty clean corpusmancer colors?
Really need fucking more? Really?!?
You just the special one percent, ain’t ya? Not the good one percent. Don’t got no yacht with television C-list actresses all over your dick. I’m almost thirty and they’re gonna cancel this pure shit CW show soon, I need to trap my ass a billionaire! Nah, talking testing scores, not wealth. Test scores go backwards. Ninety-nine percentile: best colleges in the country. Ya know, the ones with all the Asians in ‘em. First percentile: don’t let them breed! That one percent only get’s any points for managing to write their name down on the paper. Such a fuck-up dipshit mouth-breather you guess randomly on a multiple choice test and still don’t get a single question correct. So fucking stupid you defy odds and chance and the Bitch-Queen Fate herself.
Please tell me that you’re just listening cuz I’m funny.
Please.
Cock jokes make me pee my panties, King Henry!
Or I killed Magic Hitler or something accidentally heroic and this is historical record about how big my cock is.
Cuz…if you still need convincing…tell ya what?
Hope you fucking die.
Yup.
You need to die.
Dumb motherfucker like you don’t need anima in your life.
No way the world can trust you with that shit.
World shouldn’t even trust me with this shit. Even if I did kill Magic Hitler with my six inch cock. FYI. Six inches. Very respectable. And I’m totally five foot eight. Anyone else says otherwise and they’re lying. I rigged the tape measure just to make sure.
So all you dumb shits click off the tape, go eat some crayons. I bet the blue ones taste like berries!
For the rest of you just think I’m funny…and for the Magic Hitler slayer historians…
There is a little tiny sliver more to be told, I do admit.
Blah fucking blah for months and still it ain’t all told.
Almost though.
Close, so close.
One year left.
One good story left to tell.
The penultimate performance. Spread your arms in front of you and say it with me, kiddies. The penultimate performance. The crowning glory of the King Henry Price’s legacy at the Asylum as the greatest troublemaker and schemer and BAMF the school ever seen in all its years. Got some sentimental graduation all touchy-feely shit wrapped up in it too, but…that’s not the good shit!
Since we already clarified that you’re attending the school and you’re just hear for me to make you laugh, we got to go out with the good shit!
Maybe just be a story for me this time around, more than for you. My past, not your future.
Seventh year. Hep. The swan song. The last ride, last dance, and last hoo-fucking-rah all rolled up into one!
The War to End All Wars.
A transitional year for the most part. Like that for all students, ain’t it? The college or the high school variety. Just want to graduate and move on by the time you get to your last year. Normal school you can maybe even kick back, take a few less credits and get a part time job, all that Full Growing House of Pains sitcom shit. College too, start thinking about job offers, whether you gonna sell your firstborn’s left nut to pay for a master’s degree, or maybe even you gonna go wageless intern slave for some Hollywood producer, work as the replacement chode tickler when his favorite actress is out of town. Hey…someone got to do it. If producer chode don’t get tickled then we don’t get awesome comic book movies, so fucking get in there and tickle it like a superhero, champ!
Asylum has some of that…well, not so much the tickleage as the life decisions. Doesn’t slow down to let you give yourself over into rumination or contemplation though. Full fucking steam ahead at magic school. Not that you’ll ever be totally free, Mancy being a life sentence, but…
Well, for whatever reason, during your last year at the place they load you down with all these new responsibilities.
Cuz when you think King Henry Price…you think responsible.
Responsible for drugging the waffles.
Responsible for getting Naomi Gullick grounded for six months.
Responsible for turning the Winter War into a complete fucking disaster.
Ain’t talking about burning down the Mound that one time neither, Boomworm should get the blame for that one, don’t care how many times she plays that ‘who me?’ act when the subject gets brought up. Her, Miss Fucking Perfect, not the screw-up! So there!
Nah, instead I’m talking about the Winter War of 2016. The War to End all Wars. All me. Think it’s named that cuz it will never be topped? Like Wrestlemania Seventeen? Stone Cold versus the Rock…the Sequel! You can’t top that shit! Just give up. Nah, that ain’t why. Why it named that then? Well…guess you’ll see, won’t ya?
Still some spoiled, impatient little shits, ain’t ya, kiddies?
See, wasn’t just the year I graduated from the Asylum. Was also the year that the Asylum faculty, in all their glorious wisdom, upholding the traditions of the past, decided that yeah, we should go ahead and let Class ’09 be student-advisors.
What could possibly go wrong?
That’s a bad idea, kiddies. Asking Mary O’Connell to scrub out your pee-hole kind of bad idea. Kind of bad idea that—after Class ’09 had inhabited the place for six whole years—should’ve made someone think.
But tradition is just such a thicc bitch, how you gonna take your eyes off that curvy, plump booty?
This ain’t a story of death, not a story of love won or a story of love lost, just…a few ideas that got carried a little bit too far, collided, and then…we dropped the baby, he cross-eyed for the rest of his life, fucking my bad!
A story of competition, of gossip, of betting, and of tradition, all the shit makes that school well and lubricated, able to ignore its crazy. All bundled up around the event where it lets the Crazy out for one lone week.
A story of rivalry.
A story of generations.
But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.
Don’t start with the action scene, do ya?
Only hack bastards do that type of shit.
Nah, told enough of these now to know the key is in the buildup.
Slow buildup.
Like a woman biting her bottom lip.
Ohhh, saucy!
What you gonna bite next, baby?
Why we ain’t starting with the Winter War itself. Nah, we’re starting all the way back six months before the battle was joined.
Nah, starting before I even knew about the shit coming at me like a dripping, brown heat-seeking missile.
Starting when I still thought there was no fucking way the Asylum could possibly be that obtuse.
Starting before I had my proof that tradition is an insanity beyond all other insanities.
Hope on the ride with me, kiddies, cuz…
Away! We! Go!
