Barefoot Running Tales of the Undead Sole. Twilight Finally Put to an End.
A friend of mine, Jerry, had a great idea for a novel.
“It’s entitled Tales of the Undead Sole,” he said.
“It spins around a pre-teen vegan boy. The boy’s name is Balthazar Gracian (aka Baltasar Gracián),”
I almost slapped his face for choosing such a proto-existentialist name. But I just listened instead,
“One day, Balthazar suddenly wakes up to find that he can no longer wear shoes and that he is also a deadly vampire. It’s a real Harry Potter-meets-Dracula-with-a-little-Teen-Wolf-action type deal. “
“Indeed!”, I replied in a very classy tone of voice.
“Well,” Jerry continued, “After much vomiting of ridiculously over-priced, microwavable soy products and some nasty third degree sun burn, Balthazar learns to live off the warm, salty, noctural life juices of mortals. But he misses the sun, surfing, and the whole going from being a hardcore vegan to a bloodthirsty supernatural cannibal is slightly distressing. But the poor lad has no choice but to resign himself to his lifeless life. As time tic tock tic tock tic tocks onward, Balthazar falls desperately in love with a mortal girl, Rebecca Black. Yes, the same one who wrote every so popular song about the days of week in which her world class dilemma is choosing in which seat, front or back, she will rest her firm teenage hiney. Aside from her inability to choose seating, there’s another problem. Her dad hunts vampires for a living! And he’s on to Balthazar.
Worst of all, Rebecca isn’t what she seems; she wears striped socks!!!! And is also a powerful black magic evil witch who eats toenails–many time has she been caught with her foot in her mouth
Can Baltazar discover who turned him into a life sucking vampire and thereby reclaim his humanity? Will Rebecca find her way into his heart or will her father’s wooden stake beat her to it?”
In the end, I did manage to slap Jerry in face. I used his blood to season my quinoa (everyone’s a cannibal some of times); it tasted a little less bitterer than the bestselling, box office smash, The Twilight Saga.
As you may have guessed, Jerry works at the cheap theater–you know the kind of theater that shows regular movies that are a few months old during the day and those other movies–the ones you watch alone, online with your privacy set to “a weird guy wearing a fedora, a trench coat and over-sized sunglasses”–at night; it was he, Jerry, who set me up with a bag of nutritional yeast and pop-corn before allowing Stephani Meyer ‘s terrible writing to feast on the very life force of my brain cells. To say the characters were one dimensional and drab would be to give them four dimensions more than they deserve and twice as much color.
Jerry, you owe me 999 IQ points and a few more drops of your delicious blood.