If all it takes is some gritty, asinine, I wannabe Hunter Thompson writing to get published, I thought I'd try my hand at it:
Every time we went down this road, the squirrels would run out and play chicken with the car. So I made up this game. Every time I saw one in the road, I would slow down until I was up close, looking into its beady little eyes, then I would hit the accelerator, jamming the car into first gear and smoking the front tires as I aimed my beat up, faded, front wheel drive Pontiac right for them. This one squirrel dodged away so I jerked the wheel to the right at fifty miles an hour on the little two lane, switchback road with ditches on either side trying to catch it in my all weather treads.
It ran into the ditch on the driver's side, just as the neighbor's SUV came over the hill. I didn't let that stop me. I knew, if I timed it just right, I could catch that mangy rat and escape from the oncoming path of the Escalade before it had time to turn my car into an accordian. I rammed the gear shift into third, twisted the wheel to the left as I jammed on the emergency break causing the crappy little Pontiac's left front tire to slide into the ditch and catch the flea infested rodent's tail in my treads. Then I yanked the car back to the right, slammed the emergency break to off and stomped on the accelerator, causing the front tires of my front wheel drive car to burn rubber, throwing smoke and smelling like a barbecue in the ghetto.
My neighbor in his SUV barely had time to stomp on the breaks and swerve away, honking as he passed me. I gave him the finger as I masterfully swung the car back into my lane, dragging the squirrel into my rotor by its tail, listening to it squeal before I heard the satisfying crunch of bones. "Yeah!" My yell echoed through the car, "That's three. Man, isn't war beautiful?!"
I rolled to a stop and dug through my purse, looking for the little black agenda book that I kept all my "kills" in. The ball point pen ran out of ink so I jumped out of the car and dipped the tip of the pen in the bloody remains of the squirrel to mark the book. Looking at the remains of the squirrel, I felt nothing. I kicked it's carcass as I lit a smoke, watching the tendrils curl up into the hot, muggy air of a Missouri summer day. I saw my neighbor get out of his SUV, pulling bags of nuts from the rear hatch. I flipped him the bird and he ran screaming into his house. I got back into the car. All the kids were giggling so I squealed like a squirrel and they laughed even harder. Just another day on the way to church.
What? It could happen. If you didn't know that front wheel drive Pontiacs don't "burn rubber", the ditches on either side of the road are two feet deep and the car would probably roll over, the car is an automatic, the front air spoiler would be ripped off, the neighbor owns a Ford F-150, I prefer gel pins to ball points, I have no children and I haven't been to church in so long my mom has me on the permanent prayer list.
I mean, we do have squirrels who play chicken. I do own a Pontiac. And I do have an agenda book in my purse to mark down my "kills". Doesn't everybody?
Disclaimer: No squirrels were actually killed or injured in the making of this story.
John Barnes on Writing Style
Commenter at blackfive trying to convince that this is "normal" and "could happen" because there are idiots everywhere
The Armorer sticks to the details that are implausible and leaves the morality of soldiers to other bloggers.
Way down in the comments, Trias makes an excellent observation:
I don't understand why he is interesting. It sounds like a cheap money spinner to me.
Hence, my original comment about all it takes to get published. He is now just an amusing parody.