Romance Novel Excerpt #7: Two Can Play at Solitaire

Check out previous chapters from my fake romance novel.

Chapter 1 - Vanessa Lonelyheart

Chapter 2 - The Scottish Cowboy of My Heart

Chapter 3 - Lovers Ridge

Chapter 4 - Cow or Never

Chapter 5 - Everybody Get (Hoe)Down

Chapter 6 - Bullocks to you, Sandra!

THE HEART IS THE LONELIEST DUDE RANCH

EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER 7: Two Can Play At Solitaire


The wind was windier than usual.  Like the world was sighing on Vanessa.  She knew how it felt.  Because she was sighing on the world.  Dexter McChest was back with his old girlfriend and Vanessa Lonelyheart was back with her old boyfriend.  Oh wait, she didn't have an old boyfriend.  Unless you counted Tom Despair or Harvey Pillowcry or Frank Lee Lifesucks.

"No!", she said to the wind, breaking off her wallowing.

"No! No! No!" she triple shouted at the wind.  "I'm a Lonelyheart!  And that means something around these parts!"  By parts she meant Gentrified County, Texas not private parts.  Which, in hindsight, would have been sexier.  Nevermind.  We take it back.  It was a double entendre.

The Wind really got blasted by her shouting.  It was impressed by her air expulsioning. So the Wind stopped to listen. What else was it doing? Wind stuff?

Vanessa continued to address the Wind: "When people heard the name Lonelyheart, they knew it meant strength. They knew it meant a bottomless depth of feeling.  They knew it meant love of country and a willingness to secede if need be.  It also meant sexy passion and sometimes ruthless efficiency in the boardroom and bedroom.  It used to be pronounced BonerHeart in the old country but that didn't translate well.  So we changed the hell out of it."

The Wind made a 'go on' motion.  Vanessa hiked up her skirt and complied by sticking one foot on a rock outcropping.

"I'm a Lonelyheart.  And no exiled Scottish Prince Cowboy is going to take that away from me.  I'll show him that I can be happy.  Even if I have to surgically tighten my smile muscles."

The Wind thought it was a good idea and apologized for having to leave. It had to start Monsoon Season.  Vanessa walked back inside her ranch house mansion.  She was ready to make a bad decision.  So she drew a bath.

She positioned the imported Burmese bubbles around her nakeds and called Dexter from her bathtub hologram phone.  Suddenly, Dexter's sinewy man sculpture popped into view, hovering over her lily white kneecaps.  Even the tiny version of Dexter made her heart go beatless for the space of twenty six beats.  Technically, that's a heart attack.  But technically, isn't love?

But Vanessa got her blood engine going again and found courage in the aromatherapy she had positioned around her.  It was a blend of Egyptian Chamomile and South African Poppies.  It smelled like fortitude and apartheid.

Mini-Dex spoke to her, "Are you in the bath, Nessa?  Are you drowning slowly? Should I come save you?"

"I don't need saving this time, Mr. McChest.  You do.  I'm firing you.  That's it. You're fired."

The hologram seemed to shake with rage:  "Firing me? On what grounds, lady?"

"You're really slacking on the job.  The cows were just eating the grass today."

"That's called 'grazing', Nessa.  You've been away too long.  You've been cityfied.  Go back to your Central Park and watch the tourists graze again.  You're offbase."

Vanessa realized her mistake.  Grazing? Now she remembered.  COWS + GRASS = COWS LIKE GRASS.  She'd lost touch.  Her accent was barely hanging on.  The bubbles were popping.  She would need to import more bubbles.  Who was she?  She used to take baths in sagebrush.  She used to wear shrink-to-fit jeans.  She used to snack on pig ribs.  Now she carried around foie gras in a Louis Vutton lunchbox.

But she couldn't retreat.  She had to make him go.  She metaphorically bent down and went for the lowest blow she could think of.

"Well, McChest.  Technically, you're not a citizen.  I'm sure Scotland would love to know where you are.  Immigracion is on their way."

Holographic Dexter's tiny mouth dropped open the tiniest bit.  Like a millimeter probably.  Like the saddest millimeter.  All the bubbles popped in agony.

NEXT CHAPTER:  On the Run From Johnny Law

A Letter From Hurricane Sandy

Dear East Coasters,

I meant to communicate this earlier but you know how time gets away from you.  One day, you're packing up all the wind and terror you want to bring in your suitcase and suddenly it's next week and you're looming over these fancy pants New England beach mansions.  It's not my fault there's no cell towers in the Atlantic.  That's Verizon's fault.  Best coverage, my eye of the storm.

So I went old school.  I wrote a letter.  It should get to you guys in time if your Post Office mantra is actually true. Rain and hail and gail force winds and all.  Here's the deal.  I've got a few beefs to clear up on the right coast and maybe we just all cool down while I get my rage on.

1) Atlantic City -  I lost a lot of money there last year and so help me if they don't give me better odds at the tables, I'm going to drown that godless butthole of a Jersey town.  Gambling is an addiction, folks.  And I've got it.  I picked up a metal buoy somewhere around North Carolina and started spinning it around in my cyclone and all I could see was red and black.  I wanted it to land on 22 but instead it landed on a shrimp boat.

2) Providence - You guys still celebrate Victory Over Japan day.  That's ridiculous.  The rest of the country moved to the more politically correct Veterans Day and Memorial Day.  But noooo, you have to keep bringing up The Bomb.  I know you're not saying "The Bomb" or making floats with mushroom clouds on it but it's implied, isn't it?  So I'm going to slap your faces with my righteous wave anger until you knock it off, you ingrates.

3) Staten Island - Here's what's up.  I want everyone to leave.  The whole island.  Just get up and move out of your houses and I will come in there and wipe the whole thing clean.  This storm is 30 percent fueled by embarrassment.  For you.  Because you're part of New York City.  You're one of the Five Boroughs.  And you're the lamest one.
I mean Manhattan is freaking Manhattan. It's the Center of the Free World.  Brooklyn is probably the Center of Cool.  Queens has it's own old world style.  The Bronx is really great at crime.  But Staten Island, you're just a boring mole on New York's beautiful gentrified skin.  I want to cut you out. With an instrument of wind and felled trees.  And maybe we can save you.  Finally make you worthy of that New York name.

4) The Hamptons - I hate your face, you phonies. Suck my water.

5) Gold Coast - You're almost worst.  You don't even claim New York.  You just work there and prance back (in traffic) to your McMansions.  Mostly I'm angry because you jerks locked me out of a house I wanted there.  But I was just a summer storm back then.  I wasn't good enough for you.  But now I'm a Category 1, suddenly Sotheby's is taking my call.  Well, kiss my gusts, Sotheby's.  I'm going to flatten that house I wanted.  I checked. There's no one inside. Except Pretention.

6)D.C. - My voter registration didn't go through.  I thought I'd just drop it off at the White House. It may be soggy.

Well, have a good weathering.  Sorry for all the hubbub.  Those weather channels really hype me up, huh?  Well, they should.  Because I'm a bad mamajama.  I'll eat your family.  Just kidding.  No, I'm not. Ok, not your extendeds.  I'm not a monster.

Category Number 1!

Sandy Stormclouds