The terrible news is that today's post is full of words and light on comics, so to those who only come here for the "purdy pictures", who don't give a shit about our actual words, feel free to get back to that rousing Buzzfeed quiz, "What Potato Is My Spirit Animal?", that we temporarily distracted you from.
The great news, for everyone else, is that we're one step closer to obtaining a big fat publishing contract.
See, this is us without a big fat publishing contract, as we currently are now.
But this is us with a big fat publishing contract.
Most people don't realize that even if you sell thousands of books per year that with royalties being something like $1-2 per book, you're still not left with enough to live comfortably on. Or support your family. Not by a long shot. So we're looking to change that.
Our lovely agent, Holly, recently finished reading our newest novel and loved it enough to instantly put it out on submission. For those who aren't familiar, that means she's sending it to editors at big publishing houses who she believes will love it as much as she does. And since our first agent was a lazy dipshit that we fired, this marks the first time that we've ever been on proper submission with an agent. That also means that we're hopefully one step closer to achieving our dream of becoming successful writers.
The novel is called Tuck Watley: The Freedom Fighter Fighter and it's the first novel of a multi-book series about a lowly government phone tapper who must infringe the rights of everyone around him to protect us all... from ourselves. It's a satirical look at the NSA and how they spy on us in the name of so-called "freedom", starring a call center employee who fancies himself the American James Bond. He... is definitely not. If we do say so ourselves, it's pretty fucking hilarious.
So today we wanted to celebrate with you (or punish you, if you're one of those ingrates that just stops by for the pictures and glazes over the words while you drool Mountain Dew remnants onto your keyboard) by giving you a little taste of our new character, who we hope you'll be seeing more of in the near future. Enjoy!
Tuck Watley: The Freedom Fighter Fighter
It was just one of those days.
You know the kind, where the coffee in the break room’s a bit burned, and the air conditioning is a little low so the whole office is cold and clammy, and your coworker is bound and gagged in your cubicle, trying to shriek beneath her makeshift mouth-gag that she’s not a terrorist.
Yeah, one of those kind of days.
“Pleeb,” Gabby pleaded, “leh muh goo.”
I couldn’t understand the deranged girl, but she was probably saying some kind of anti-American, jihadist prayer, pleading her maker to strike me down. Or at least that’s what I assumed. After all, she had enough wadded Post-It-Notes in her mouth to choke a hippo. That was my idea, by the way. So was the thick wall of rubber bands that held her arms to my office chair, and the tall manila envelope stuffed over the top of her head, covering her eyes and the top of her nose.
The girl was tough. Unbreakable, even. Her forearms were covered in binder clips pinching down into her skin, and she had enough glue sticks up her nostrils to break a hot glue gun. But I wasn’t done. No, I was just getting started.
“Now listen carefully. If you don’t tell me who you work for,” I said, holding my stapler before me like a black plastic revolver, “I’m going to waterboard you.”
“FUGH. YUH,” she spat. “I wohk foh yuh, yuh idjit.” It was times like this I wished I had spoken Arabic so I knew what she was saying, but perhaps it was better I didn’t know what kind of hoodoo curses she was putting on me. Shaking her head violently, the envelope tipped off and toppled to the floor. She then spat one of the sixty-seven pieces of Post-It-Note out of her mouth like a wad of soggy paper tobacco, straight into my face. Her eyes were ablaze with venomous defiance.
Ugh, and to think at one point I had put my tongue in that mouth.
“Then waterboarding it is,” I said, loosening my tie. My once neatly-combed jet black hair was strewn across my eyes, my face was sticky from where I had been Post-It-Note spit-balled, and my button up dress shirt was soaked in sweat—the sweat of a man who was serving his country by the seat of his pants and delivering sweet after-hours justice.
I grabbed an ‘I’ve Got a Case of the Mondays’ mug off of my desk and threw water into her face.
“There,” I said, uncertainly. “You’ve just been waterboarded. Had enough?” I guess I really didn’t know or understand what waterboarding was.
She started to scream again, and I threw another mug of cold water into her face. Then another, then another. She stared daggers back at me as her mascara ran down her cheeks. This girl must have been expertly trained in torture, because I was waterboarding the crap out of her and she was taking every face full of cool, purified drinking water like a champ.
I took one of those mugs of water, held it up to my lips, and took a long, hard sip. Fighting terrorism was exhausting work. I then splashed the remainder into her face.
“Where’s the bomb, Gabby?” I asked, but Gabby and her sixty-six Post-It-Notes weren’t talking. “Terrorists always have bombs. Where’s yours?”
Behind us, Jerry the janitor was mopping up lazily, and when he saw Gabby bound by office supplies, he arched his eyebrows at me. “Hey, Tuck. Do I want to know?” he grunted.
“Oh, hey Jerry. She’s a terrorist,” I explained flatly. “I’m waterboarding her. Or at least I think I am.” I took another mug off my desk and dashed the liquid against her face.
Oops, I thought, as my scalding hot coffee burned rosy red patches into her cheeks. Wrong mug.
But Gabby wasn’t talking. No, she was just screaming, something about fire and agony and third degree burns. I had tried to waterboard her, and instead of breaking down and confessing all she could do was threaten to bomb me. Classic terrorist.
I held my hands against my hips as I examined my bound, soggy prisoner. “Hey…do you know what waterboarding is, Jerry?”
Jerry shrugged. “If I knew how to waterboard, you think I’d be cleaning up piss all day? I’ll tell ya, you guys can hit a perp from a hundred feet away, but you sure can’t hit a damn toilet.”
We both shared a hearty laugh, and then he went back to mopping. And me, I gathered up all of the empty mugs, cradled them into my arms, and waddled toward the break room to refill them via water cooler. It was going to be a long night.I’ll tell you, it was just one of those days.
Cheers and stay classy, friends,
Beer: Ska Brewing True Blonde Ale