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This tale is mostly true.
Mostly.
The other night I was out in the garden staring up at the stars minding my own business, when I met Harold the prick badger. That’s the name I’m giving him. Fuk you, Harold. Fuk you for putting me on your hit list!
“Wait, is this true?” I hear you query.
Of course it is.
Shut up.
Go with it.
I’m sure he has his reasons for hunting me. He probably considers me a threat. Or hates my drunken singing. Perhaps it is simply that I’m very hairy and speak with an Irish accent. That shit scares many things. Perhaps, he is a Dellerin fan and I haven’t touched that series in about 5 years and he’s about done with my shit. Thinking about it, I bet he left that 2 star review a few weeks back that simply said “Growl.”
Absolutely, fuk you for that critical review, Harold.
I tried reasoning with him. I was as courteous as fuk, but my badger is limited to the curse words.
At least I understood some of what he threw back at me.
And yes, he did call me the “E word”.
Classy.
Shocked, I was.
Channeling restraint, I wrote him a letter.
He used it to wipe his bum bum.
I wrote him a poem.
He wasn’t into haikus. He sent it back with the grammar corrected. He’d also used it to wipe his bum bum.
I baked him some bread.
He said it was like “dried ash” upon his “beautiful badger tongue”.
Still ate it though.
Asked for the recipe too.
The dickhead.
I even liked a few save the bastard badger sites on Instagram, shared them on my socials with a pic of me weeping for the sadness and all. It didn’t make much of a difference (I really really thought that would make a difference).
I fuken hate him as much as deadlines and editors.
It’s terrifying. I do all my writing late at night, in my little writing cabin away from distraction. There’s a lit walkway all the way up and it’s around here I hear the fuk growling his loudest. Off in the bushes where the light can’t penetrate. I know he’s up to no good in there. Fuken sharpening his nails. Making up bogus goodreads accounts.
And by the way, the fuken sheep are back in the field beside my cabin (but that’s another email for another day when I need to make up something insane again).
Badger is just a prick. He called me a hack the other evening. Claimed I focused too much on relationships over a little bit of badger erotica. I made it back into the house before I started crying. I won’t give him that. I refuse to stoop to his level.
So I climbed below his level altogether. In a fit of desperation, I tried to get him audited. I do that to all my enemies. Is there anything more terrifying than seeing an auditor strolling through the door with their briefcase of leather and that redness to their eyes? That’s right. To kill a demon, I sought out the devil.
Alas, they hung up on me when I said it was outside Dublin.
I suppose they only want to deal with the wealthier badgers.
Go figure.
Now look, I know what you guys are thinking.
“What the fuk is this lunatic on about?”
“How do I unsubscribe?”
“Why am I still reading this?”
“Surely the poor thing is more afraid of you, you hairy, Irish, hack?”
“I could take on a badger no problem, I’ve got the reach and a better defense. I’ll just keep working the body until the later rounds.”
I agree with all of the above and thought as much.
But then I also thought about that mad bastard honey-badger fighting a snake video from a few years ago. Do you remember that lunatic? He gets bitten a bunch of times, but eats the snake anyway and instead of dying from poison, just has a nap.
A FUKEN NAP!!!!!
Can you imagine all the badgers around the world watching that shit and psyching themselves up having to keep up appearances?
Anyway, I’m getting hunted by one of these fuks and it’s such a wonderful distraction from finding myself crushed by the weight of expectation over the launch of the best fantasy book of all time.
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