A Halloween How-To: Scaring Children

Scaring children is perhaps the most important thing a person can do on Halloween. It’s a way to set the boundaries of the neighborhood, telling kids that they shan’t be roaming the streets like the feral beasts that they are, urinating on fire hydrants and digging holes in your yard. Not to mention it is a tradition dating back to the very beginning of Halloween, when angry beaten Irish mothers would tell their children to behave or the Great Potato of All Hallows’ Even would bust in their knee caps, rendering the child incapable of praying.

Now I bet you’re asking yourself, “How hard can it be to scare little children on a night as frightening and dark as Halloween?” I would gladly explain if you would only stop interrupting me with your schizophrenic outbursts. Though you may think it to be a simple process, it is actually an intricate system comprised of different preparations based on the children’s race, gender, religion, personality, affiliations, and perhaps occupation (if you’re scaring in the 1940’s).

Here enclosed are some tips, tricks and situational practices for you to review before you partake in the Halloween tradition of scaring children.

COMMON CHILDREN-
SCARING TACTICS

The “JUST TAKE ONE PLEASE”
This is easily the most successful way to scare a child. Begin with placing a treat no child can resist (like, an apple or maybe some pennies?) in an unmonitored bucket on your front porch. This is what is known as the “bait.” Place a note on or near the bucket explaining that you’re not home because your eczema is flaring up and you had to go to the hospital. Furthermore, express to the children that they can only have ONE (be sure to bold, cap, italicize and underline this to show you mean it) treat. Since no child can resist not only disregarding an adult’s orders, but having a crap load of candy, they will almost 99% of the time take more than ONE treat. You WANT this to happen, because it leads to Phase Two of your diabolical plan.

Although your note to the snot-nosed ones claims you are at the hospital, you must remain at your home (this is called LYING and is the base of all pranks and scaring of children, so get used to it), hiding in the shadows and observing the bucket. Once you see a child taking more than their fair share, you must act swiftly and quietly. Follow the child while remaining in the darkness, and wait for your time to strike. When their bag of Halloween goodies is unguarded, swoop in and take back the extra candy from them. Place a note in the bag explaining you had been watching the whole time and that you reclaimed what is rightfully yours, and mention how you “got them good” and that they are no match for the wit and will of a grown-up. Throw in that they’re adopted and no one loves them for good measure.

Don’t feel bad. The child deserves it and your harsh, publisher-like criticism will force them to reevaluate their life and they will realize how unruly they were. This is probably the first time the child has been self-aware of their actions, and it is FRIGHTENING. Good job.

“THE MISSING BIKE”
In this elaborate ruse, you must target a child to be scared. Ideally, this child should have a bike, so it is best to stake out your target a few days prior to be sure they have one. Then on Halloween night, break into the garage and take the bicycle. After that, dispose of it properly via car compactor, local riverbed, or give it to your niece as a belated birthday gift.

When the child returns home after a fun night of trick-but-mostly-treat-getting and notices the absence of the bike, they will begin to cry alone in the street. This is when you walk over to the depressed child and ask why they are so sad. After listening to his or her incoherent babbling, assure the kid that it will turn up eventually. After giving them this tidbit of false hope, suggest alerting the proper authorities. Once a police report is filed and things seem to be taking a turn for the better, break out some false statistic about how only 3% of missing bikes are ever found. This will upset the child again. Go on to say that they can never trust the police because they are bad at their jobs. Feel free to instill distrust toward the federal government too (the earlier the better, am I right?).

On that note, leave the child. Now that he or she knows that there is no higher authority to put trust in, the child will lose faith in society and become insecure of their surroundings. Perfect. The child will not be able to sleep ever again, because you have impressed FEAR and UNCERTAINTY in them.

“THE ARNOLD PALMER”
Dress up as Arnold Palmer on Halloween night. Sit out on your front porch and wait for kids to come up to you wanting candied treats. If one of the ignorant children asks who you are supposed to be, answer the question truthfully. They will most likely reply with, “Who is that?” If that happens, rest assured everything is going as planned. Explain who Arnold Palmer was: pro golfer, 2-time winner of the British Open, 92 victories, and other fun facts. Odds are, if you are boring enough, the children will be completely disinterested, and state, “Golf is boring.” This is when you strike! Say, “Well, maybe it is boring to you now, but when you’re older, you will enjoy it.” The children will then proceed to run away screaming at the top of their lungs.

Terrifying, is he not?

The “UN-HAUNTED HOUSE”
Fix up your garage as a haunted house for Halloween night. Put a sign up enticing locals to come see it if they dare. You should dress up accordingly: Frankenstein, Dracula, or Arnold Palmer… any of those will do fine. Use fog machines and strobe lights outside to get them on edge and also to weed out the epileptic kids. This is where you must gather a group of them outside and start selling your haunted house as the scariest thing ever. Be sure to get their hopes up really high (don’t be afraid to throw in some lies here).

Now, when the garage door opens, the kids will find the entire haunted house destroyed. Surely their disappointment will be palpable. You must act surprised, and say “It must have been my pet puma! He is always ruining my haunted houses!” The children will understand, as they know how ornery pumas can be. You know you’ve done a good job of disappointing them when one kid says, “This is Halo 3 all over again!”

The children will go on with their night, unable to shake the cloud of letdown over their heads. Nothing will be fun, and the night, ruined. Seeking solace, the children will ask their parents why such a thing happened. If they’re good parents, they will tell their kids disappointment is a part of life and to get used to it. The prospect of further letdowns as big as the haunted house and Halo 3 will surely rattle their tranquil foundations.

TIPS FOR
BEGINNERS

PREPARATION
As I mentioned before, preparation is vital to this system. The tactics described above will not always go as smoothly as illustrated. You should practice every situation imaginable, even the ones that seem absurd. If you are unable to successfully execute a tactic, you will lose all respect and authority within the neighborhood. If this happens, you are best off MOVING to another city or state and starting over from scratch.

Another extremely imperative aspect of child-scaring is to NEVER underestimate the children. You must be wary of groups of children who could be the Little Rascals reincarnated. These children will be slick and tricky, and probably be expecting you to try to scare them. Probably they have slingshots just in case. If you feel like you can handle them, go on with your tactics, but be CAREFUL. If you end up tarred and feathered, don’t come crying to me.

IMPROVISATION
This goes hand-in-hand with preparation. If you are prepared, you will be able to improvise mid-scare. For example, if you are trying an “un-haunted house” and you notice a group of Rastafarian children, don a bald cap or shave your hair on the spot and claim it was a lion that ruined the garage to further impress fear into their dreadlocked heads. It pays to do research and tend to details.

Also, if you are doing a “missing bike” scare and you see a group of children together dressed as football players, don’t be afraid to call and audible by scrapping the current scare (even if you are in the late stages of it. Remember: it’s best to scare as many children as possible. If you feel you have time, you can come back to the “missing bike” scare later) and changing into your Arnold Palmer costume to initiate an “Arnold Palmer” on the football players.

TEAMS AND GROUPS
If you’re feeling nervous about going out on your first child-scaring Halloween, feel free to invite friends in order to “spread the wealth.” This is highly encouraged, as it will cover more children in the area and therefore spreading more fear.

For additional fun, form teams to compete with your friends to see who can scare the most children. Construct a trophy or use a fear-paralyzed child as a token of victory. It’s all about fun, after all!

Again, Halloween isn’t just for children. It’s really for adults who wish to scare children senseless. The smart kids are the ones who join in with the adults next year while others learn the hard way. (I recommend using children to scare other kids, but don’t overdo it, because soon enough those greedy bastards will want to start getting paid.) Just remember what has been taught to you and you will be scaring children in no time!

Summer Antics

Summer. That wonderful time of year when schoolchildren roam free, no longer tethered to the binding restrictions of learning and scheduled activities. This time of year, unshackled teenagers take to the streets, filling up coffee shops, malls, and alleyways where they drink ICED coffee, SPEND money, and SET FIRE TO homeless people. They drive their over sized vehicles and get into car accidents, all the while learning life lessons, and hopefully, the rules of the road as well. The crackling voices of the young adults in the midst of puberty fill the air of drive-thru restaurants, as they work their "summer jobs."

Yes, summer is a beautiful time to be alive, especially if you are a teenager. Most of the greatest experiences of your young lives occur in this season (I could impress you with statistics, but I know I don't have to). It's the perfect time to get out and live, since you won't be able to once school starts again, and most definitely not when you are an adult.

How can one achieve summer greatness? One worthy of bragging to your friends and writing "What I Did This Summer" essays about? The answer is simple: Poorly thought out and planned spontaneous activities, better knows as SUMMER ANTICS.

We all know the best spur-of-the-moment endeavors are the ones we fail to plan out ahead of time. But a season full of SUMMER ANTICS does not just simply happen; you must get the ball rolling by partaking in activities that are sure to produce lasting memories and conversational topics once school rolls 'round again. If you're having trouble thinking of some SUMMER ANTICS, I present to you a helpful list of SUMMER APPROVED SUMMER ANTICS FOR SUMMERTIME:

Take a Trip
One of the best ways to not waste your summer is to take a trip. The best trips to take are the ones involving cars, roads, and long distances traveled in/on them. This may sound uncomfortable and mind-numbingly boring, and it usually is. But in hindsight, it will seem like the greatest times of your life were spent on a lonely highway in the middle of Arkansas.

Road trips are a breeding ground for SUMMER ANTICS, because of all the things that can and usually do go wrong: You can get lost, run out of gas, stay in a motel you're fairly sure only passed any sort of inspection because the owner offered sexual favors in exchange for a satisfactory grade, as evidenced by the inspector and owner having sex on the bed in your room.

Road trips are only as spontaneous as you make them. You can do research and find the best places to stay and a great destination and have a "schedule" and "planned activities" along the way, seeing "sights" like the World Largest Ball of Who Cares, but that goes against everything SUMMER ANTICS stands for. To plan your trip CORRECTLY, grab a map of the continent/island/underground maze you live in, take a knife out of the kitchen, blindfold yourself, then have a friend or loved one pick out a spot on the map randomly. Use the knife to make a sandwich or something. See if you can do it blindfolded (another great SUMMER ANTIC).

Once you have a destination (which, let me remind you, is the least important aspect of the trip), get in the car and drive. Don't forget to bring as little luggage as possible, and more people than the car you're driving allows. The more crowded the car is, the more likely your friends are to become angry or psychotic, thus adding to your ANTICS of a SUMMER variety.

If you manage to make it to point B on your journey without dying or meeting inbred people playing banjos on their front porch, congratulations are in order. If you feel it necessary, explore your destination and take a tour or stay the night, or you can spend as little time there as possible and immediately turn around and begin the trip home.

The longer the trip is, the better. If you can, leave your state, province, or even country. Go someone where you are out of your element and your accent is foreign and confusing. Also, try not to learn anything about yourself along the way, because that is just a cheesy cliche people use to justify the hardships they encountered on the trip. Also, do not sit at home and take an "inner-road trip" or whatever, where you explore who you really are and what your purpose is. That just comes off as pretentious, and no one wants to hear it.

Commit a Crime
Let me clear on this: Commit a crime that won't result in a long jail sentence. Although having the right to say you "did a nickel in the big house" is cool and a great SUMMER ANTIC, I do not recommend pursuing it.

At the same time, do not do something that is wimpy and lame. Stepping on the grass where there is a "Don't Step on This Grass" sign* or jaywalking shouldn't even be considered crimes. Also, no ponzi schemes.

The crimes I'm talking about usually entail vandalism, but a certain kind of vandalism. Any dope can grab a spray can and tag a wall or sidewalk. It takes real gumption to graffiti a city hall, police station, or courthouse.

Do not get me wrong, I support law enforcement, local government, and all that jazz. That's why when tagging these places, it would be appropriate to voice your support. You can write on the police station something like, "Keep up the great work!" or instead of "Fuck the police," "Hug the police" would be more fitting. Words of praise for your mayor or judiciaries might include "I agree with your policies!" or "That new law prohibiting cell phone use while driving will make the roads safer for all!"

Of course, if you are into a more traditional type of vandalism, toilet papering and egging the houses of people you despise are always great for SUMMER ANTICS.

In both these cases, you will have challenges to face, an accomplice to share the experience with, and someone to run from when the job's done, whether it be cops or that bitch Trudy's pit bull.

Additionally, other small crimes are worth your consideration too. Things like shoplifting and public nudity are all really good producers of ANTICS.

You can also use your crimes to make a statement, like if one of your neighbors has about seven Confederate Flags in their front yard, each of them labeled "I AIN'T COMING DOWN," a good plan would be to remove the flags from their stands or poles and set them neatly on ground, perhaps with a note that says, "Yes you are" or something similar.

Fall in "Love"
This is a fairly simple and straightforward SUMMER ANTIC. First, meet someone special. Second, spend time with them, going on dates and enjoying the company of one another. Third, when summer is nearly over break up the relationship. You can say you are moving to another country, like Australia or something. Then, when school starts and someone asks you what you did over the summer, break into song about your relationship, exaggerating details and tweaking facts to make you sound cooler.

Sure it's heartless and maybe even a ripoff of a musical from the 1970's, but it makes for great conversational topics, plus you get to sing, which is always a plus.


There are, of course, several other ways to have SUMMER ANTICS, but those are for you to find out on your own. Do not waste this valuable time by staying inside watching TV or writing guides to SUMMER ANTICS. Get outside and LIVE IT UP.

*Granted, if the sign says "Don't Step on The Grass, Or Else" or "See What Happens if You Step on This Grass, Tough Guy," that is slightly more than a wimpy crime. But then again, it can also be categorized as a dare.

The Made-Up Truth about Mother's Day

Happy Mother's Day, everyone! Today, I'm sharing with you something rather old that I wrote last year for Mother's Day. It was the first thing I wrote since being re-inspired to write more often. I've written a lot over the last year, especially in the last month, but no matter what, this will always serve as my starting point or maiden voyage of the type of writing I do now. So enjoy it. I haven't changed that much from its original draft, so it could actually be kind of bad, but it's the thought that counts.

Go spend time with your mom!

The Made-Up Truth about Mother's Day

The origin of Mother's Day has always been a mystery. Many theorists say aliens brought along the holiday from their distant universe. Others will argue that Vladimir Lenin conjured up the idea while implementing communism in Russia. The misguided suggest it's just a nice gesture toward the ones who gave birth to us. I'm here to tell you all those theories are wrong. So wrong, in fact, that the truth must be revealed to you before we all drown in a sea of fallacious facts.

The year was 1903. The bustling town of St. Louis lay in the mid-west as a beacon to those who feared oceans and opportunity. In those early years of the 20th century, St. Louis was not the unglamorous, under-achieving city that it is today. Actually it was; it just didn't have that fancy arch.

Donald Mother was a local businessman who took residence in St. Louis. He was a simple man, with hopes and dreams for the future. He was a thinker and a self-proclaimed inventor. He even took credit for thinking up the automobile. But, alas, Donald Mother was a nobody and therefore no one believed his incoherent rambles about engine parts and combustion chambers. In reality, Donald Mother was the biggest crack-pot in St. Louis.

Mother lived in the attic of the mayor of St. Louis, unbeknownst to the mayor himself. Donald was a near hobo, though he was never classified as such since he technically had a home. But the general public and even the mayor believed he slept in cardboard boxes in the humid allies of town. Mother didn't own a razor, so shaving was rare. But he tried to keep himself presentable by stuffing his overgrown facial hair into his shirt. The townspeople appreciated this gesture.

When he wasn't making up conspiracy theories of stolen inventions and Nazi treasure hunting, he sold used mattresses downtown. Like all nobodies, he dreamed of owning his very own used mattress store. He had a thirst for the good life: Bottomless molasses barrels, a brick home, and a German Sheppard he could call his own. Mother knew that to achieve his hopes and dreams, he would need to work his way up the used mattress corporate ladder.

Mother wasn't the best used mattress salesman. On the contrary, he was quite bad at his job. On many occasions he had given away used mattresses to unsure customers. In defense, he claimed they'd be back since they now had used mattress experience. Although he was costing the company hundreds of dollars, management refused to fire Mother for fear of backlash from the hobo community. Instead, Mother was kept at the bottom rung of the ladder where he would do the least amount of damage to the company.

However, when esteemed Director of Personnel Horace McThomas decided to retire early at age sixty-three, management needed to find a replacement. Without a successor in place, Donald Mother was named temporary Director of Personnel until one could be found. Mother was elated. Finally, he was working he way to the top.

But, like all men who seek power, Mother became mad with authority. He ordered that there be a no-selling selling policy. Mother said that without their used mattresses, people would become desperate for them; and once the policy was lifted, sleep-deprived zombies would flood the store seeking a mattress someone had already slept on. The policy was immediately rejected, and Mother was crushed.

That night, Mother went to the local tavern to drown his sorrows. After several hours of constant alcohol consumption, Mother decided to go home. Drunk out of his mind, he stumbled down the dark streets of St. Louis with an unfinished bottle of booze in his hand. A child waited on a street corner to help the needy cross the road. When the child asked Mother if he needed a hand, Mother broke the glass bottle on a lamp post and threatened the child's life with the jagged shards. Frightened and soiled, the child ran for his life.

Mother arrived at home, the mayor's house, and entered loudly. Trying his best to be stealthy, Mother crept along the foyer toward the stairs. After three steps, he fell over and crashed into the various priceless vases and pottery the mayor owned. When the concerned mayor and his family entered the foyer and found Donald Mother lying atop the broken artifacts, they called for the police. Mother looked up into the eyes of the mayor's startled children. "No one respects Mother," he mumbled. The police arrived and gathered Mother to take him to the station. Mother was put into a jail cell, where he would be dealt with the next day.

When morning came and the cops arrived at the jail to talk to Mother, they discovered his cell was empty. All that remained was the former facial hair of the used mattress salesman. Bewildered, investigators decided the case of the drunken hobo was closed.

No one knows what happened to Donald Mother in that cell. Many have tried to put the pieces of the legend together. Some have claimed that aliens came down and abducted Mother, shaving him before taking him to their home planet made of cream cheese (These are not the same aliens as the ones suspected of bringing the Mother’s Day holiday to Earth. Scientists speculate those aliens’ home world would be made of hugs). Other stories tell of the children of the mayor releasing Mother in the middle of the night, shaving him so no one would recognize him any longer. Whatever the case, the events of that night will forever live in infamy.

Years later, during the Great Depression, the mayor’s son was elected into Congress. Within the first week of his tenure, the mayor's son proposed a new holiday to boost morale the people of America. In his proposal, he stated, "No one respects Mother." Members of Congress saw this as an excellent opportunity for children everywhere to be forced to do nice things for the women who gave birth to them. The date of the holiday would be the second Sunday in May, chosen by the mayor's son for the day of the Donald Mother incident (He didn't remember the exact date, so the second Sunday in May was just an educated guess).

And the rest, as they say, is history. Though the meaning of Mother's Day is sometimes misleading, the sorrow one young boy felt for a drunken hobo immortalized the second Sunday in May. When Mother's Day rolls around next year, listen closely to your used mattress and you can hear the intoxicated mumbles of Donald Mother repeating, "No one respects Mother."

Mother's Daze

Can you believe it's already Mother's Day again? It seems like it was only yesterday that I was scrambling around town looking for something both worthy of giving to my mother and cheap. Yes, Mother's Day is synonymous with last minute remembrances and exceptionally sub-par gifts and cards. The same can be said for anniversaries, Father's Day, birthdays, and Arbor Day. Most of these last minute, last ditch efforts to express your love and care are disappointing. You might say the solution is to think ahead and get something really special beforehand. I say different: The solution is knowing how to find something really special LAST MINUTE.

We've all been there. You remember tomorrow is Mother's Day, you look at the clock, you see it's 11:30 at night, you panic. Hastily, you grab your car keys and bolt out the door into the night. Then you drive. Then you think maybe you left your house unlocked, so you go back home to make sure. Turns it was locked after all. "Better to be safe than sorry," you say. Then you forget what you were doing in the first place and you go back inside and go to bed. The next day, you realize it's Mother's Day and you have no gift. WHAT DO YOU DO?

I'll tell you. You panic. Do not be afraid to; panicking will keep your adrenaline up and help keep you focused on the task at hand. Now, there are a number of places you can go to get your wonderful mother something nice: Flowers, chocolate, a card that sings rock music from the 1980's, and so on. These are all really mediocre gifts, ones that your mom has received every Mother's Day. Why not make this one special?

What you do is, go to a dark alley downtown with a flashlight and wait. Whenever someone walks past your alley, flash the light toward them from the darkness. This is a signal to the fake watch salesmen. At this point, you should still be panicking, because you are in a dark alley and it's Mother's Day and you have no gift. Eventually, the bearded man who sells the fake Rolex watches will appear, having seen your signal. DO NOT BUY A WATCH. Instead, ask him if he has any good ideas for great Mother's Day gifts.

He'll say you should have thought ahead of time. You'll tell him you didn't and that you don't have a time machine to go back in time so why doesn't he just give you an answer and you can leave this smelly alley? He'll say something like "Well Excuse me," drawing out the middle part of the word, much like a teenager. Then finally he'll tell you something about a used car salesman who runs an underground fight club in his shop's basement, and to go to him for an awesome gift.

"Tell 'em I sent you," he'll say. Then in true sketchy alley salesman fashion, he'll steal your watch and vanish.

Now you head over to the used car salesman's lot. It's Sunday, so the place is deserted. Naturally, you should be panicking even more now. Because let me remind you: You're at an empty used car lot where there is an underground fight club, you were just mugged by an fake watch salesman, and you have no gift for Mother's Day.

The shop is unlocked, despite the absence of workers. Knock on the door that leads down to the basement (the door labeled BASEMENT. NOT FIGHT CLUB.). Someone will answer and ask who you are, you tell them the fake watch guy sent you, and you are granted admittance. Panic increases.

You go down the stairs and realize there are fights going on today. You think your one option is to bet on a fighter, win, and take the winnings and buy a great Mother's Day gift. Sounds like a good plan with no terrible alternatives, right? But then some portly, short, cigar-smoking man asks for your name and weight. You obliviously enlighten the man. You ask him where to go to place bets. He laughs at you and walks away.

Later, you hear your name called. You don't know why, but you walk through the crowd of people to get to the center of the room. The fat cigar man tells you you'll be fighting next, and the prize is a diamond necklace. Before you have any say in edgewise, you are thrown into the circle where a towering, bulging, beastly man stands in front of you. He looks like Barry Bonds on steroids on steroids. You wonder how this match-up came to be, that maybe someone made a mistake with the fights, because this match seems to be more lopsided than peg-legged pirate plagued with termites.

There is no arguing though. The fight begins before you can protest. Naturally, you are panicking. Keep it up, it's helping. Well, it's helping insofar that you don't feel all the pain when you are getting the crap beat out of you. Within seconds, you're out cold and the fight is called.

You wake up some time later, still in the basement. No one is there, and with no watch, you don't know what time it is. Panic is replaced with pain, anguish, and disappointment. All you wanted to do was get your mother a nice gift she would love, but all you got was a punch in the face. You leave the basement and go to see your mother. It is nighttime now, the day almost done. You enter the house and hug your mother.

"Happy Mother's Day," you say.

Your mother hugs you, not asking about your bruised face and missing tooth, and says, "That's very nice of you, but Mother's Day isn't for another two days."

You are confused. You panic once more. You look at the calendar: It's Friday again. How can this be? Is it possible that you were punched so hard you went back in time? But there's no time to wonder about that. You have to get a Mother's Day gift.

DON'T SCREW IT UP THIS TIME.

The Aftermath

I am coming to terms with the conclusion of BEDA. I was looking forward to the end of the month, because I thought things would calm down. It turns out that BEDA was a very calming thing. It took up a lot of my time, and I liked that! I'm starting to miss it a little already, but I think I'm just adjusting to not having to do a lot of stuff every day like all of last month.

I decided I would keep this blog running and possibly update it from time to time. I don't know. We'll see what happens. What I'm saying is, just stick around. Please.

Today I received my paperback edition of Suite Scarlett, so I am abandoning Harry Potter rereads for now to immerse myself into that book. So far, so good. I feel like it's setting up for something CLIMACTIC near the end of the book, but then again that's what expositions are for.

Not much else is going on, and I have nothing else to offer you for entertainment. Just know that life is different without BEDA.

Good day to you.

Conclusions

Hello everyone. It's April 30th, and we all know what that means. But before we say goodbye to Blog Every Day April and cry and hug, there is one last piece of business that needs taking care of.

My BEDA Buddies and I have come up with a thrilling tale of love, loss, and zombies. Today, I write the conclusion to the story; a story about a zombie named Bob. Before you continue, you should read the first three parts:

Part 1 by Rebecca
Part 2 by Chelsea
Part 3 by Tobias

Go read those if you haven't yet. I can wait.

And now the thrilling the conclusion of BOB THE ZOMBIE.


Bob and his lover, FUC (Fellow Undead Creature), were to set out for the Netherlands. They were able to a grab a ride on a freighter that was hopefully heading to the general area of Europe. They stowed themselves away in the cargo hold, not needing any personal luxuries like comfort or space, just as long as they had each other and their common disdain for Zelda, the zombie wench who had abandoned them both.

A few days into the trip, there was a commotion going on up on the main deck. It sounded like shouting and gun fire. Bob bravely volunteered to go check it out. When he arrived out of the cargo hold and peered out onto the main deck, he saw the opportunity of the lifetime: PIRATES.

Acting quickly, he shambled back down to the cargo hold and told FUC in a shout, "Hrrggkaaghhlzzqurt!"

FUC beamed happily, or we can at least assume so; it's hard to read the facial expressions of a creature with no lips and one eye. FUC stood up and dusted off his 1920's double breasted suit and said simply, "Tgoipasdgft."

The two shambled back up to the deck. The pirates were already taking sailors hostage. Bob acted quickly, jumping out of the shadows and latching on to one of the pirates' heads with his mouth. As the pirate screamed in unparalleled agony, the other pirates tried to save him by shooting blindly at Bob, but of course, without a shotgun, they were doing no damage whatsoever.

Bob released his bite on the pirate. The pirate fell down to the ground and lay motionless for a few moments. Then he sprang up, looking quite dead. And hungry. Bob looked proudly at his creation: A Zombie Pirate is a rare feat to have accomplished.

Now Bob, Zombie Pirate, and FUC took on the rest of the group, turning them all into Zombie Pirates. Now Bob and FUC had an army of Zombie Pirates that could navigate the ship safely to the Netherlands.

"Doitblkzzztrerp!" ordered Bob, telling the Zombie Pirate Captain to go to the bridge and set a course for the Netherlands.

That night, Bob and FUC dined on the bodies of some sailors. A burning corpse lit the room quite nicely, and its smell of burnt hair and flesh was an intoxicating aroma. It was a very romantic dinner by zombie standards.

They spoke of their feelings for one another, about the Zombie Pirate army they so proudly created. But mostly they talked about what they were going to do when they found Zelda, that harlot. What had once been love had turned into a hatred and the desire for retribution. FUC was eager to see her dead. Again.

In just a few days, the Zombie Pirates were able to navigate the ship to the Netherlands: They were closing in on Velsen and would arrive at dawn. From there, Bob, FUC, and the Zombie Pirates would pillage and shamble their way to Amsterdam, where they were certain they would find Zelda.

The Zombie Pirate Captain, while great at navigating, lacked the skills for slowing down and docking the massive ship properly, though such things do not matter to a zombie. The freighter burst into the port and ran up onto the land. Somehow, the enchanted Zombie Pirates made the ship able to work on land, too. Bob and FUC shrugged, accepting this heretofore unknown ability, and sat back and relaxed as the ship tore onward toward Amsterdam.

Once the ship finally crashed into the city, Bob and company climbed out of the ship and began to terrorize Amsterdam. They pillaged and plundered, all the while screaming, "NERTUGZUDLA," Zombiespeak for "WHERE IS ZELDA?" Since Zombiespeak is just as confusing and complex as Dutch, the people of Amsterdam were able to infer that the zombies were indeed looking for someone.

After about half of the city was pillaged and burning, a group of Dutch Zombies appeared to defend their city, for it was theirs to destroy, they claimed. And sure enough, hiding behind the thuggish gang of Dutch Zombies cowered Zelda. Bob and FUC saw her immediately.

"Negusdurfgul (We just want the girl)," said FUC, pointing a boned finger at Zelda.

One zombie stood forward defensively, "Schkleeopnurtee! (She belongs to me!)" he said. Bob was not surprised Zelda had already found a replacement for him.

"Derngequagjf! (Then it is war!)" declared FUC, shambling forward along with the Zombie Pirates. And war it was.

Bob fought off the thug's henchman, throwing them into the canal below. One zombie henchman took a swipe at his wooden leg, nearly knocking it loose. But the duct tape stood strong and did its job, and Bob fought back with a perfectly placed punch in the sternum, shattering the opposing zombie's exposed chest cavity.

The Zombie Pirates were holding their own, clearly far superior warriors than the regular zombies.

Bob caught up to FUC, who was fighting Zelda's new boyfriend. Bob tackled the new love interest, pinning up down. The Zombie Pirates, having finished off the rest of the henchman, surrounded them. Bob got up and stared at the boyfriend's decayed face. He was ugly, even for a zombie.

"Duvtetrzxfh (Do your worst)," Bob told his army. They all jumped onto the boyfriend like a tidal wave engulfing the shore. The screams of agony were like music.

Bob and FUC turned to Zelda, who was crouched next to a fire hydrant, holding onto it for support, clearly shaken. FUC approached her.

"Qwebretee? (Remember me?)" he said, looking down at her. She looked up at him and she began to shake, losing her grip on the hydrant and falling all the way to the ground. FUC cackled wickedly.

But Bob felt sorry for Zelda. She was not a good zombie, not by any stretch of the imagination. However, Bob and FUC were happy together, and they didn't need to kill Zelda to be content. Bob felt the journey was more important than the destination. He approached the scene, putting an arm around FUC.

"Skleeburrtefh (She's suffered enough)," Bob told him.

"Skleetusgyetyzz (She must pay for what she did)," FUC argued.

"Unoqurotsklee (No. I forgive her)."

FUC seemed to understand. He relaxed, his fists unclenched and his exposed teeth were no longer gritted. He nodded slightly and embraced Bob. The Zombie Pirates behind them cheered.

"Moerfftoog? (Am I free to go?)" asked Zelda.

"Twetifdfopapzpnmnqweyzzad (Yes)," said Bob.

Zelda stood up, still a little shaken. She looked like she wanted to say something, but didn't know how to do it. Finally she blurted out, "Oferdtehnlidfotfoll (I was the one who ordered the anvil to fall on you)."

"NUH?" said Bob, astonished.

Zelda did not make eye contact, but continued, "Blahowertplxzlkjlgfgh (It was supposed to crush you whole, but it missed and got your leg.)"

Bob said nothing.

"Omayors (I am sorry)," Zelda said, now looking remorsefully into Bob's eyes, "Iqwasnkgtpoxzz (I didn't know how else to end it between us)."

Bob realized maybe he was a little too quick to forgive Zelda. He turned to FUC, whose look suggested he had come to the same epiphany. There was no reason to feel sorry for her anymore. Zelda had taken away his leg, his key to shambling. Granted, it brought him to FUC, whom he loved more than shambling. . . But they went through a lot of trouble to get here.

Bob gave FUC a pat that said, "You do the honors." FUC nodded to one of the Zombie Pirates, who handed him a shotgun, the Bane of all Zombies.

He called to Zelda, who was already shambling down the street: "Fumitfdfg! (Hey, bitch!)"

She turned around, looking confused. FUC fired and a myriad of bullets struck Zelda square in the gut, jettisoning her backward into a brick building. FUC walked to her and fired once more, this time in the head.

"Mitghgtogwetrv (Bitch got served)," said FUC. The crew cheered once more.

And they all lived happily ever after.

THE END.


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So, it's the last day of April. It's actually a little sad, thinking that this is all over now. I loved every minute of it, and I especially love you for reading anything that was written on this blog, even if it was one post or one sentence.

I just want to say thanks to everyone who gave feedback, told me I didn't suck, and to keep writing. It's not easy writing stuff every day, but it was worth it nonetheless. I can stand here, knowing I completed what I set out to do, and knowing that I won't have to dye my hair pink, which I'm sure no one remembers me saying.

Thanks to Maureen Johnson, the Churchill of Blogging. She let me help organize BEDA, and it was nothing but good times. I got to meet some new people, make new friends, read a bunch of interesting stuff. What more could I person ask?

Thanks to my BEDA Buddies, Chelsea, Rebecca, and Tobias. For although once we sucked at friendship, we pulled ourselves together decreased the friendship suck by a few points. Kudos to us!

And thanks to you, the READER, for being awesome.

You should go out and buy the paperback edition of Suite Scarlett tomorrow, for if you remember well, that book is the reason for all this. So show it the love it deserves.

See you tomorrow. . . ?

The BEDA Quiz

Today is the second to last day of BEDA. With it comes the fourth and final challenge. I told you on Sunday it would require you to study my blog some, so hopefully you did. Those who have been reading since day one will find this quiz challenging, fun, and maybe easy. I don't know, really. I tried to make it hard, because I'm mean.

There is no time limit, so if you feel you must cheat, you can. There is a question from each blog post done prior to this. GOOD LUCK my friends!

Without further ado, here is it is:

CHALLENGE #4:
THE BEDA QUIZ

How did you do?

See you tomorrow.