Inman (csinman) wrote,

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Reader's Digest Condensed versions of books I haven't read..

I'm feeling grouchy that I cannot have my pre-ordered books from Amazon right this very second. So I decided to write them myself so I can enjoy them now. These would probably be more accurate if I knew anything about the books besides that they have pretty covers and authors who are hoping they never meet me at a book signing. (Except blackaire, who has already been tortured by my odor in person twice and has probably built up a tolerance.)

Here are the condensed books.

Night Life by Caitlin Kittredge:
"So I've seen some crazy shit in my time on the force, but I've never seen a Xenu. I doubt it exists," said the werewolf cop, whose name would probably be really bad-ass if I could remember it.

The representative of the Church of Filling the Wallet of Deceased SF Author L. Ron Hubbard Dianetics Foundation laughed nervously and insisted the werewolf cop take a personality test to determine some crap about alien ghost monsters and volcanoes. Because she wasn't an utter tool, she lost interest LONG before he could finish explaining. Fortunately, to fill time in her doughnut break, a bunch of Anonymous showed up and totally whupped the scientology recruiter with a barrage of LOLCATZ signs and children's nursery rhymes featuring the word "cult" at the end of every line.

The werewolf cop didn't realize they were from the Internet, however, and just saw a crowd of psychos with nothing better to do, milling about in disturbing masks and chanting together. Assuming they were witches bent on destroying Nocturne City, the werewolf cop went überferal on their asses. She used the sticks from their protest signs to skewer their hearts and slow-roast them over a nearby hobo's burn barrel, like giant bloody marshmallows.

Then she ate the scientologist because he wouldn't stop crying.


Happy Hour of the Damned by Mark. D. Henry:
Amanda Feral was looking all hot and dead in a zombie bar when suddenly a man in a striped suit walked in. Not again--was nowhere safe from this creep? Amanda had broken off their relationship months ago when she caught him picking the bugs out of her comfy dirt-filled mattress and sniffing them like a messed up thirteen year old digging in his older sister's panty drawer. I totally don't know what that would be like, because I certainly never did anything like it. I'm just saying maybe it could happen.

"I've come for your--"

Amanda scowled. "Beetlejuice, this is my hangout. Go back to Cap Hill."

"I can't, babe," Amanda's ex whined. "Everyone looks at my suit, thinks I'm a fag, and beats up on me."

"Doesn't it tip them off when they notice you're filthy and trying to pork their girlfriends?" Amanda asked. She sighed.

In response, Beetlejuice started singing a politically incorrect jingle about picking bananas. Amanda was done with being stalked, especially in front of hot-ass Ricardo, and she drew on all her skills as a secret ninja, so secret that I bet even her author didn't know she is a practitioner of the ancient art of being a stagehand. (Who also kills.)

Amanda did a backflip into the air, flinging shuriken at Beetlejuice until she'd cut his name into his chest three times. He cursed, disappeared, and she brushed her hands together to symbolize the end of the ordeal. Then Amanda slapped the counter for another drink.


Dead To Me by Anton Strout:
One day, Simon Canderous was tempted by the greatest evil on the planet: employment with the IRS. After all, he already dealt with bureaucratic red tape and a towering pyramid of stupider and stupider superiors--why not be feared the way he deserved?

Simon accepted a position in the secret department of the IRS, the one where they send you out to collect debts. Believing himself free of supernatural hibbery jibbery, Simon was confident that the job would be easy. The first name on the list was B. Tel Geuse. Simon didn't speak German or Israeli, but maybe the first name would be Berto--he'd taken two years of Spanish in high school.

When he arrived at a graveyard made of rubber, however, he realized things might not be so simple. B. Tel Geuse's mausoleum echoed with the sound of sobbing. When Simon knocked, a tear-stained little fat man in a suit stolen from Tim Burton's closet and sporting 80's rockband hair cracked open the door, his Robert Smithy makeup smeared in sorrow.

"Er, what's wrong?" Simon asked.

"I got beat up, and I wasn't even on Cap Hill, and it wasn't even a redneck with a penis," the man sobbed.

"Well, can I have your taxes?" Simon said. He hefted a tire iron to show he meant business. Moments later, he ran from the cemetery with a giant striped snake chasing him, his screams inexplicably translated to embarrassing songs about asking someone to tally his bananas. No wonder the jerk got beat up all the time.

Recovering in the bathroom of a Burger King, Simon finally calmed down and pulled out his list again. He'd have to tell his boss he failed on that one, but what were the chances he would have a second collection go supernaturally wrong in one day? No, it should be easy as long as this next guy spoke English. Simon wished he'd taken Hebrew when it was offered in college.

He drove to a volcano to talk it over with this "Xenu."


You know how you know I'm a big queer? Every one of those stories involved the participants randomly bursting into song. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go listen to the Cats soundtrack and look at the month and date every few minutes, in case it's changed and I suddenly can haz book.
Tags: amusement, cat vacuuming

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