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The Hero Chronicles

Chapter 2.

Here it comes again. Flowers burst open. Birds sing new songs to celebrate the coming of the season. It's the time of year for beauty, tranquility, insects, and love. Makes you want to sigh, doesn't it? Go ahead. Take in a deep breath of that fresh, tingly air, let it fill your lungs, the oxygen, the peace, sit back, relax, it's time to let it all go.

Now if you're wondering why I have chosen to write such a lame introductory paragraph (you motherfucker) it's because certain parties who shall remain nameless have complained. Yes, they have complained because apparently Chapter 1 of The Hero Chronicles had violence against women in it. After I heard about this violence I reread Chapter 1, and do you know what I realized? I am really a fucking good writer. I also realized that there are a million fucking retards out there writing absolute shit, clogging up the internet, and that I can help them, I can do my bit for humanity, and at the same time I will appease those chicks who don't like it when bitches get what's coming to them. Enough of this crap, here's the story:

Our hero, is a woman. (Note to writers: use commas for effect, but don't overdo it)

She was the one who made sure the ice trays were always full. Her husband would come home and the whiskey would come home, and as he sat in his chair staining his breath she'd be preparing his dinner in their small home. The oven door screeched open, the pot was slid off the stove, they ate. Dishes, laundry, toilet, floors, door handles, windows, sex, flowers, television. To him they were roommates who fucked. She felt no love, yet she gave all her love. This is why she is the hero. This is a bit sad, so I'm going to pour myself a whiskey before I continue writing so well.

She wrote poetry. Here is one of her poems:

In Autumn leaves
Are lots of things
That will help you find
Excuses for dreams
Geranium petals
Hardly noticeable
Will fill my soul
I'll take a walk

Jesus Christ what a sweet thing. (Note to writers: You might be sitting there marveling at the skill with which I have just used in writing this poem in just ten seconds flat, but it's ok, don't beat yourself up, poetry is impossible. No living person can write good poetry, because poetry is stupid) Back to the chick... You're probably still confused... How can a woman be a hero? Remember Sigourney Weaver in Alien? That chick had balls! Bear with me. Damn this whiskey is good.

She painted her fingernails every so often. She liked to look good when she went out, when the occasion arose. It was a Sunday. Her cousin lived about twenty-five clicks up the coast, and even on a good day it was a bit of a drive for her.

Always overcome with fear behind the wheel she started her car, and waved goodbye to her husband who was standing in the doorway holding their little puppy. (Note to writers: Everybody loves puppies) She drove for a bit, then it started to rain. On that particular Sunday morning there were no other cars on the road. The was the kind of person who only turned her windscreen wipers on when she saw that other people had their windscreen wipers on. She's adorable. Anyway, so she crashed her car into a ditch and tow-truck driver guy hauled her back to her house where she walked in on her husband fucking the puppy.

They had to have the dog put down, for a hundred bucks, and she told her husband that she was sorry she crashed the car, when any normal person would've pulled a steering lock out from behind their back and belted him one in the throat. She made him tea and gave him a backrub, then she washed the teacup.

A couple weeks later, forget about the puppy, she was watching one of those movies they make for chicks. It was near the ending and all sorts of shit just happened, (I won't elaborate, because I don't watch those sorts of movies) and she was sitting there laughing and crying at the same time when the phone rang. The dust particles swirled up in a slight maelstrom as the sun shone though the half open window. (Note to writers: suck my balls) She picked up the phone and spoke to her mother for a while, but nobody wants to read about that shit, so fast forward to a couple of hours later when her husband was fucking her in the shower and he slipped and hit his head and died. He always did struggle to come while standing up.

She met her childhood best friend in the whole world ever at the funeral and he was looking good. He was now a successful businessman, and had lots of material possessions, which chicks really like a lot, he also knew how to do his tie, could whip up a fine salad, and he was always clean shaven handsome. So, you guessed it, the poor guy had to court our hero for five long years before he got any because she was still grieving.

Then one day she was walking through town and Ass Rocker kicked her head off. (Note to writers: If you want more people to like your story it helps to have a happy ending like this.)


I am so fucking happy I can beat myself with a stick
Sticks: Is there anything they can't do?
Argh. I'm fucking hungry and I can't walk
All I have in life are tazos and a massive collection of disease inducing condoms.

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