Hopeless romantic? You decide…

Years ago, way before I wrote “Kick”, I went through a period where I published in the little known “horror/romance” genre (a.k.a, hormance).  I know what you’re thinking: why’s the surprisingly tough and rugged Monkmeister General writing spooky romance stories?  You’re gonna laugh, but the truth is, I have a sensitive side. Not a day goes by I don’t see a woman at my job and think, “Now that’s a nice blouse on that one.” Or maybe I’m out gardening, with my shirt off, and a bunch of ladies walk by and I’m all like, “How you ladies doing?”

Recently, I was going through some old boxes when I found a scrap from one of my hormance novels. Sadly, the book is no longer in print. But it got me wondering: has the time come for me to, again, unleash my hormance talents on the literary world?

As always, I leave these weighty decisions to you, my adoring fans…

Trixy Chestity goes to England (chapter 7):

Oh how I ran that night from my athletic lover Kent, high-tailing it down the darkened, foggy streets of that nameless, tiny English town the locals called Peppergrove Hampshireton. My footsteps pounded softly on the ancient cobbles that had once been trod by Napoleon himself during his bloodthirsty conquest of the British Isles so many years before… Oh how my bosoms bounced as I bounded down that ancient, bloody thoroughfare of English sorrow, weeping tears of unfettered despair into the unforgiving night.

“Damn you Kent, you bastard!” I simpered longingly, with my bosoms still heaving rancorously. “Damn you to hell!”

It was when I was shouting these profundities that a strangeness tainted the English air. Verily I slowed down and looked about in wonder, because the English fog had somehow gotten foggier than ever, and soon I couldn’t see the street nor even my bosoms.

“Misssstressss Trixy,” came a slithering voice from the foggy darkness of what used to be a nice little town, yet now was more sinister and suspicious…

“Yes?” I asked, outwardly.

“I am a friend, you need not fear me,” the slithery thing in the darkness said.

“Great, can you please kill Kent for me? He needs to pay!” I cried.

“Uh, wait, that is, sssssure, I can do that, pretty easily…but first you musssst…”

“Yes, oh please yes, where do I sign, oh satanic envoy from the darkest reaches of the imagination?” I muttered.

The ancient, formerly conquered cobbles of Peppergrove Hampshireton seemed to vibrate, transmitting the energy (from the vibration) through my stiletto pumps, up my surprisingly slender legs, around and about my fine ass and then up my sleek, aquiline back, where it encountered my mesmerizing rib cage and created a strange, harmonic disturbance that sent my fluffy bosoms heaving and rattling around.

Then the sinister voice in the dark asked, “How did you know I wanted you to sssssign something, lovely mistresssssss?”

That was my biggest problem with men and evil voices in general: they seemed to forget that on top of being pretty and mysterious and delicate, yet bold and intelligent and funny and a crack shot with a six-shooter, I was also psychic (due to women’s intuition). It was how I was able to overcome that lost tribe of barbarians that had attacked me like four chapters ago. But I digress…

“Just give me the paper so I can kill Kent!” I opined. “Now, or I shall lose my nerve…”

“Yes, yessss… I sssshal do that… But I wonder, lovely Trixy, why is it that you want to kill this Kent character?” the strange voice shouted.

“Because I’m pretty sure he’ll cheat on me,” I said, and heaved my sexiest sigh that day.

“Nice ssssigh,” the sinister voice whispered, approvingly.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Well, just ssssign your name here,” the voice said, and a weird parchment/form slid across the still important cobbles. “Do you need a pen, Trixy?”

“No, but thanks,” I said, because I appreciated the offer.

I held up my hand in front of my mouth and bit down with my vampire teeth (because I’m also half vampire) and a thin trickle of blood oozed from the wound, glinting in the pale moonlight which streamed through a small opening in the fog. Then I dipped a long fingernail into the blood and leaned down to sign…

Out of the darkness, through yet another opening in the fog, someone whistled.

“Take a picture, it lasts longer!” I shouted with a smirk and a wink and a bouncy shake, which got a laugh and another whistle. Then I signed the form and slid it back toward the evil voice.

“Foolish mortal woman!” the slithery voice said. “I have tricked you! You did not read the form! Clearly it ssssays, Any name below this line will be destroyed by SSSSatan himself!”

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a death ray shot out of the moon through the oddly circular hole in the fog. The light from the death ray scintillated madly across the exposed cleavage of my bosoms, which were now wet from the condensation of the fog, and slammed into a shadowy form about twelve feet away.

“Noooooo!” it screamed. “You have tricked me, you ssssigned MY name on the bottom of the form…!”

“Now you know why they call me Trixy,” I said. “Your evil ways are numbered, Satan. I have finally destroyed you for good. Did you really think you could outwit a particle physicist and six time world champion chess master?”

“Yessssss…” Satan screamed, and was never heard from again.

Out of the darkness, in the deep gloom of that quaint little English town, which is situated on a lagoon on the upper east side of the island of England, someone hunky whistled and said, “Nice body, m’lady!”