February 05, 2008

Benson and Hedges

By Paul McGuire © 2007

Late nights, when insomnia struck, I would sit in the dark and listen to jazz albums from Ornette Coleman and Charlie Mingus and Bird. I'd open every doorway inside the hallways of my mind and let my thoughts wander. I always hoped that if I let it run amok long enough, my wound up mind would eventually grow tired and I'd finally be able to shuffle off to slumber. That never worked.

The last time I can recall being able to obtain a steady sleep schedule was when I lived in Seattle in the late 1990s. Towards the beginning of my stint there, I would have the occasional sleepless night and would drive around and get lost all over the city. That's how I got to know Seattle much better. I'd drive around with the windows down and listen to the radio since I didn't have a CD player or even a tape player in my 1984 Chrysler La Baron, the same car that I wrecked a couple of months after I moved to Seattle.

Once I lost my car, I had nothing to drive around in on sleepless nights. On restless nights, which occurred every few weeks, I sat on my porch in the dark and listened to the rain. My roommates and I used an old Folger's coffee can as a communal ashtray which we sometimes left it on the ledge of the railing and the ashtray would get soaked in a soupy like substance of dirt, ash, used chewing gum, matches, and cigarette butts... a few of them were green because one of my freaky roommates used to wear green lipstick.

She painted her fingernails black and wore weird jackets with ruffles or feathers, and sometimes both. She always looked like she just woke up. It was probably all the Valium she digested on a daily basis or the myriad of bong hits she ripped moments before she stepped out of her secluded museum to herself which was room #5 in the Big Red House. I only got to see her room once, and that's when the light blew out and she needed "someone tall" to stand on a chair and screw in a new one. She said she was a poetry major at UW and her floor was littered with crumbled up pieces of paper. Those were "unconnected thoughts" she explained. She could not connect what was inside her mind to the outside world and physically from pen to paper. There must have been almost a hundred of little balls of paper all over the floor, underneath her desk, and at the end of the bed.

She had random CDs cases, most of them empty, scattered throughout her room and on her bed. Her brother worked for Sub Pop and she got dozens of promotional CDs from random bands like The Helio Sequence or The Reverend Horton Heat or those dykes from L7.

She didn't say much and out of all my roommates that could consider commit suicide, she was #1 on my list. There was always that possibility that I'd come home from work and find her limp body in the hallway after she choked on her own vomit from swallowing too many happy pills and wine. A couple of months before I moved into the house, one of the guys who lived in the room next to mine had committed suicide. He hung himself in his closet and no one noticed until six days later. The roommates smelled something funky after the fourth day, but they just assumed someone in the house scored a bag of the dankest pot on the planet.

Seattle and the Pacific Northwest was the serial murder capital of the world. The Big Red House was haunted and there were rumors that Ted Bundy lived in the house next door when he was in the middle of his killing sprees. One of his victims was found dead in an alley way two blocks from the Big Red House.

Seattle also had a high suicide rate, especially among females aged 15-21. My roommate was exhibiting classic signs of a potential suicide victim. But she also struck me as the type of girl who would attempt to kill herself but not go all the way... she'd fuck herself up enough to get hospitalized (but not die) and cause a stir to draw up some attention. I looked at her arms and wrists. She didn't appear to be a cutter, but she listened to a lot of angry indie chick rock and idolized Ani DiFranco.

Her sullenness always bothered me. I wanted to try to talk to her, but it was not easy. She used to sit in her room and drink alone. She preferred white wine, the cheap stuff that you saw on sale at Safeway, which she sipped from a purple UW coffee cup. I knew that she drank alone because she would hide the empty bottles in her room and then bring them down to the recycling bin very early in the morning.

She spent most of the time in her room and rarely hung out in the living room or kitchen. She would emerge from her room every hour or so for eight minutes, and migrate to the porch for a smoke break. She smoked Benson and Hedges and my other roommates teased her for her choice of death sticks.

She walked around barefoot and I thought she had sexy feet for such a depressed girl. She painted her toe nails in different colors. Sometimes they were metallic blue or greenish-grey. One time they were pink and I thought that was odd, since pink was a happy girl's color and not brown or black and depressing like most girls I met in Seattle at the end of the 20th century.

She moved out of the house unexpectedly. Before she left, she knocked on my door. I was watching the X-Files and sitting in my boxer shorts. She told me that she was moving into an apartment with her best friend. That was odd because I never saw anyone visit her. Anyway, she held a desk lamp in her hands and presented it to me as if it were an Oscar or a Golden Globe award.

"I wanted you to have a reading light. I noticed that you didn't have one."

She told me to wait right there. So I stood in my doorway, in my boxers, holding the lamp. She returned thirty-five seconds later and handed me a box full of CDs that she didn't want to take with her. I inherited albums from Zen Guerrilla, The Supersuckers, Fluid, Water Of The Delay, Kumquat Orb, and Chartreuse Tick Of The Demonic Fusion. I sold all of those at a used bookstore down the street for about $60. I used the money to buy a Pesto and mushroom pizza from Pagliaci's and a bag of weed, which I smoked on my porch late at night when I couldn't sleep.

A couple of weeks after she moved out, I wondered if she wasn't really moving and decided to commit suicide. In a way, she tried to reach out one last time when she knocked on my door and gave me some of her things. It was kinda creepy how she said, "I won't be needed these things anymore."

I was convinced that she wasn't really headed to a new apartment, rather, she was finally going to jump head first into the abyss. I became obsessed with finding out if she had killed herself. I checked all the newspapers and scanned the interwebs looking for any sign of her. Every day I'd scan the obituaries and ask my roommates who were UW students if they happened to run across her. They always said no and gave me shit for having a crush on the wine guzzling chick with green lipstick.

Two or three months after she moved out of the Big Red House, I sat on a bus returning home from work. I spotted her walking down the street wearing one of her black suede feathery jackets. I got off at the next stop and ran down the street looking for her. I couldn't find her and started to think that I was doing too many mushrooms, or acid, or just seeing a ghost.

Just when I was about to give up, I spotted her standing on line inside the 7/11. She was buying a pack of Benson and Hedges. She gave me a half-smile when she saw me rush into the store. I embraced her and she seemed surprised initially that I hugged her while she waited to buy smokes. After an awkward two or three seconds of silence, she hugged me back. We must have stood there for about fifteen or sixteen seconds total. I finally let go when all that built up guilt inside of my guts evaporated into thin air. I thought that I let her die and she miraculously sprung back to life. I said goodbye and walked out of the store as she stood at the counter completely stunned and confused.

I never saw her again.

Paul McGuire is a writer from New York City.

February 2008, Vol. 7, Issue 2

1. Benson and Hedges by Paul McGuire
I looked at her arms and wrists. She didn't appear to be a cutter, but she listened to a lot of angry indie chick rock and idolized Ani DiFranco. Her sullenness always bothered me. I wanted to try to talk to her, but it was not easy. She used to sit in her room and drink alone... More

2. Declaration of Independence and Love by Betty Underground
It felt like I had stopped breathing for minutes as he brushed his lips across mine, without touching them. Dusting them like feathers. My head grew light as he teased me. I was frozen. Suffocated by desire... More

3. The Big Empty by Johnny Hughes
Ever time I see Dowd, he gets shorter. Used to be taller than me. They say he puts a drop of honey on everything he eats, and he gets Chinese herbs from a chiropractor... More

4. Squirrel Hunting with Pudddin' Tooth by Clay Champlin
I was merely a hunter trying to kill him before he made it home. Without a word I pointed at the little grey dot bounding across the forest floor. Puddin' Tooth sprung to his feet, and we were off tracking the beast... More

5. Dragon Slayers and the Angry Villagers by Mini Waffles
J and A heard about a war and it was about the angry villagers and the Charlyaters but the angry villagers had to fight to keep their lands. Then they signed up... More

What a Long Strange Trip It's Been...

From the Editor's Laptop:

Another new issue of Truckin' featuring several of your favorite writers and one special addition. Betty Underground returns with a sultry tale. Johnny Hughes is back with another gem. Clay Champlin, a Truckin' veteran, also contributed to this issue. I added something about my old days living in Seattle with suicidal roommates. And then we have Mini Waffles. His debut in Truckin' marks an epic moment. Mini Waffles becomes the youngest ever writer to be published at Truckin' at nine-years old.

Please tell your friends and family about your favorite stories. It takes only a few seconds to pass along Truckin'. The writers certainly appreciate your support.

Also, feel free to shoot me an e-mail if you know anyone who is interested in being added to the mailing list.

Thanks again to everyone for wasting your precious time month after month with Truckin'. And many thanks to the writers who exposed their souls to the world and spilled blood to make art. And, they did it for free. Thanks for inspiring me and taking that leap of faith with me.

Be good,

"Obstinacy is the result of the will forcing itself into the place of the intellect." - Arthur Schopenhauer

Declaration of Independence and Love

By Betty Underground © 2008

He followed me home from work that day. That early July afternoon. The 4th was mid week this year and we took advantage of a 4 day weekend. It was Wednesday. His car was parked discreetly in the unpaved alley behind my house. Green Way.

He had attended a party a few weeks back that I hosted, and remembered how to find the back entrance.

It was hot, as it is in California in July. The windows thrown wide open and the back screen door the only thing left closed. Unlocked.

I sat on the counter in the kitchen. Eating ice cream with a fork. Waiting.

The screen door slammed and I heard his weight on every step as he climbed the back stairs. His flip flops shuffling with a purpose until there was a pause. Silence. One last shuffle and he was standing in the door way to the kitchen.

"Hey", he said. The last thing he said. Or the last thing I remembered hearing as passion drowned out the world. All the sounds on the calm summer day swirled up from the center of the earth and rushed into us. It was as loud as it was silent. Like a ringing in the ear. Silent to everyone but us.

He stood square in front of me. Facing me. My legs wrapped around him. My breath calm, my heart racing. I wondered if he could see it wanting to jump out of my chest. I exhaled, he inhaled me in and leaned into me. It felt like I had stopped breathing for minutes as he brushed his lips across mine, without touching them. Dusting them like feathers. My head grew light as he teased me. I was frozen. Suffocated by desire.

He tucked the hair behind my ear, and warmed the nape of my neck with his breath. Not once has his lips touched me but I was shuttering as if they had been all over me for hours.

I waited, impatiently. He moved up my neck. Kissed my chin. My nose. My eyelid. My lips were parted, dry from my breath, or his. My legs clenched tighter around him and finally it came. The kiss. Our first kiss. His tongue was warm, mine still cold from the ice cream. I exhaled into him. Collapsed into his touch.

Still without words, I took his hands and led him into the other room. The bedroom, the living-room. He gazed around the room for a little while. I beamed as I watched his face. His eyes warming in the sun drenched room. This was my place. My first place since I declared my independence from another. It was small, but all mine and I was proud. He saw that in my smile and the corners of his mouth turned up to the sky.

His touch was as mesmerizing as his kiss. He was not mine to have, but I gave myself to him completely. Heart wide open and willing. Completely comfortable in my own skin, next to his skin. He took his time, like with the kiss. Covering me in his scent and tasting every inch of me. For hours, in the sun, on the fresh white cotton sheets. Our moans echoing off the trees outside my open window. Until there was no light left in the room.

The world remained silent. I lit candles and fetched the ice cream, and a fork. We ate and giggled and got lost in each other's eyes.

Until my phone rang. A female voice on the other end. Her voice. The reason he was not mine to have. I lied to her, as he lay naked next to me. Both of us without guilt.

He left, but on this way out, he wrote on a napkin: "I ♥ U"

Betty Underground is a writer from Northern California.

The Big Empty

By Johnny Hughes © 2008

"They say you went off to Dallas for good," Irene said.

"I'm back. Working for Dowd. He took me under his wing," Cotton said. "I haven't seen you in some years."

"You remember Irene, don't you Cotton? From the school house," Buck said.

"Sure, how old are your kids now?" Cotton said.

"The boy is twelve, the girl's nine. All I hear is Pokémon. Wanta be a good Mom. We got her the video game. We catch her watchin' Beavis and Butthead all the time. You and Michele have any kids?" Irene asked.

"Nope," Cotton said.

"Where is she these days?" Irene asked.

"Now, Irene, Cotton don't want to be bothered by that.... Our boy wants his own web site," Buck said.

"No kid needs a web site," Buck said. "The government wants everbody on computers. The law has long ears."

"They say Horace already put you in jail again since you come back," Irene said.

"That was Mutt's doings. We run out of gas on the back side of the lake. He walked up to the highway and a trucker carried him home. Horace come up or I would have froze to death. If the wind would of been blowing, we would be there still. Felt like a record cold. Blue norther overdue," Cotton said.

"They can't stop you without reasonable doubt," Buck said. "How did you get out of jail?"

"Dowd wanted me on a combine and I called him," Cotton said.

"Ever time I see Dowd, he gets shorter. Used to be taller than me. They say he puts a drop of honey on everything he eats, and he gets Chinese herbs from a chiropractor. Dowd has farms all over Crosby County," Buck said.

"They say he is on his third divorce and they are fussin' over farms and houses and all that," Irene said.

"I've got a map," Cotton said.

"Did Maureen die?" Irene asked.

"Naw, she's livin' in a little house in town," Cotton said.

"What did she get out of all that?" Irene asked.

"They say she didn't get much more than what the little boy shot at," Cotton said.

"What happened to your arm?" Irene asked.

"He set his own self on fire lighting a bar-b-que grill," Buck laughed.

"You better get that looked at. It's beginning to fester," Irene said. "Looks awful."

"You must have been arrested with the first hard freeze. Did you get any snow?" Buck asked.

"None that stuck to the ground. I was combining guar for Dowd before my arm got hurt," Cotton said.

"They say Maureen didn't even get no lawyer," Irene said.

"Farming guar is like raising gravel. Little hard balls. You combine it. They use it to make cosmetics and candy," Cotton said.

"They say Dowd got the insurance on all his hailed-out cotton and will make more off of guar than cotton anyways," Irene said.

"That's right. I got a map printed of all his farms. His lawyer don't seem to know that when and how he got each farm counts," Cotton said.

"They say Beauregard's name is on those farms he stole off families on four sides of Crosby County," Irene said.

"I'm glad we are out of farming. You glad, Cotton, to be out?" Buck asked.

"You won't be so glad when the United Nations takes all your guns," Cotton said.

"Oh, Cotton. They say you come on some weird political beliefs when you was off in Dallas," Irene said.

"Just wait. Hide and watch. There are a lot of people that can see what is happening. There was four cars followed me plumb across the big empty all the way to downtown Jones," Cotton said. "How come there aren't any people our age left in Crosby County?" Cotton asked.

"They say that guar will grow in ever which kind of weather. They use it for electrical insulation," Buck said.

"They say Dowd comes out to the farms in any kind of weather," Irene said.

"Yeah, he is there to count ever boll of cotton. Dowd is tighter than Dick's hat band. It would take the jaws of life to open his billfold. He is a great old man but he ain't really got no right to the farms that other people's great granddaddy broke out.

It is the damndest thing since Roy stuffed Trigger," Cotton said.

"Him and Beauregard know when a boll weevil belches in Crosby County. You better mind your beeswax," Irene said. "You know Michele and I rode the school bus together for years. We'd pray and sing gospel."

"There is gonna be a brand new government. Hide and watch," Cotton said.

"Hope you ain't one of them racists," Irene said.

"Naw, David was the first fellow I looked up when I got home. He don't smoke or drink and he married this woman from his church," Cotton said.

"They say he drank in Las Vegas. That's where they went on the honeymoon. He is one of the only people our age that has hung on in Crosby County. He is at the gin office of a morning telling stories," Irene said.

"Crosby County will be one of the last places the United Nations will try to take over. A different government between now and then would more than likely return our farms. Your farm and mine," Cotton said.

"My double lucky prodigal-looking brother has a good farm where it rains all the time and he is buying another," Irene said.

"They say he is a bootlegger and a gambler and everthing else now," Cotton said.

"Well, you know what they say about what they say," Irene said. "We could use our farm back."

"Don't file these liens yet but keep them and study on them. I take St. John's Wort now. Things have to change fast. Ain't no accident we had the hottest winter anyone remembers," Cotton said.

"Pecan trees got a bright gold like them tourist trees in New Mexico," Buck said. "It was great weather."

"You better not let anyone catch you with these South Plains Fair legal papers," Irene said.

"I knew I could trust both y'all not to tattle on what we was talking about," Cotton said.

"Absolutely," Irene said. "They said you would never hire on as a hand for Dowd what with what happened with Michele and all."

"Irene I swear. You are noisy as a hog eating charcoal," Buck said. "You play the lottery, Cotton? Me and Irene always plays the date she first come into the bar."

"They say Dowd keeps a big old chicken house and gives red pepper to all those hens," Irene said. "If you ain't got no prior engagement, we would like to invite you to our house to watch the big game."

"Yeah, we would love to have you. Irene is a great cook just like her Mama." Buck said.

"I already promised Dowd I'd watch the big game with him. He wouldn't have nobody to watch it with if it wasn't for me," Cotton said.

"Is Michele coming?" Irene asked.

"Nope," Cotton said.

Johnny Hughes is the author of the poker novel Texas Poker Wisdom.

Squirrel Hunting with Pudddin' Tooth

By Clay Champlin © 2008

The only thing I hate more than guns are squirrels. That's why when my cousin, Puddin' Tooth, asked me to a squirrel hunt I was torn. But it was a day merely to murder varmint, it was a contest. Seven hunters threw ten bucks into a hat to be split between whoever comes back with the biggest and most squirrels. Another five dollars and you could get in a side pot for who could get the most coyotes. While my hatred for squirrels and firearms balanced themselves out the lure of gambling was too much for me to resist. I drove to the middle of Wisconsin intent on killing for sport and money, but doubting if I could actually pull the trigger.

Hunting in Wisconsin in late autumn is not to be taken lightly. Many steps need to be taken by the rookie hunter.

"Do I need any special clothes? Like hunting trousers," I asked my cousin the night before heading into the hinterlands.

"Did you just say trousers?" I could tell he wasn't pleased.

"I don't know all of the terminology yet."

"If you say trousers I may shoot you, and I have all of the gear you need," he gummed at me.

Puddin' Tooth got his moniker because of his diet and, thus, the texture of his teeth. At a young age he referred to dentists as "fuckin' commies," and oral maintenance an activity for "bone smokin' fags." He also has a penchant for all things pudding. The sugar had slowly eaten away the enamel on his teeth, and today his mouth is nothing but mushy nubs. His diet consists of soup, applesauce, and 14 to 25 Snak-Pak pudding cups every day. He loaded up with six vanilla cups for our hunt.

I brought long underwear, boots, jeans and a sweatshirt. I was provided with a canvas hunting jacket with a warm woolen liner, camouflage gloves which had just a thin layer of insulation over the index finger for easy trigger pulling, a hat with pull down ear flaps, and a gun. The .22 caliber rifle was Puddin' Tooth's grandfather's and, after a few beers on the eve of the hunt, I fired a few rounds off to get used to the feel. The gun made the sound of a ladyfinger exploding, and we could hear the lead ricochet off trees in the distance.

I quickly found that the hardest thing to do was target acquisition. The telescopic sight mounted on the gun was tricky. My head had to be a precise distance away from the eyepiece or I wouldn't be able to see anything. When I would finally see through the scope I had jostled my position enough so my orientation was so far off I had to lift my head to see the target. Then I would start the awkward process all over again.

Where I live in Chicago there's a squirrel every nine feet. I can see three of the little bastards outside my window dancing on the power lines right now. Not a care in the world. Should you walk by a tree in my neighborhood there will be a minimum of 47 squirrels hanging out, barking at passers by. If toting a 55-year old, low caliber rifle were legal in the city, I could bag a hundred a day. I thought if there were so many squirrels in the dirty city, the woods of Wisconsin must have so many I may step on a few.

Puddin' Tooth and I had not seen a squirrel in the first hour and a half we'd been trudging through the woods. We would trudge, sit, and look. Trudge, sit, and look. Over and over and over. We didn't talk much. That could scare away the prey, and we were still reassembling out brain cells from last night's inebriation. Finally, I saw one. This little fucker was sprinting like he had some place to go. Like he was missing the kick off to the Jets-Patriots game. When I thought about it like that, I envied him. At this point, I wished I were sitting in a warm tree watching football, being fed acorns by my squirrel wife. Alas, I was merely a hunter trying to kill him before he made it home. Without a word I pointed at the little grey dot bounding across the forest floor. Puddin' Tooth sprung to his feet, and we were off tracking the beast.

The first time I had a squirrel, or anything for that matter, in my crosshairs he was covered by brush. I was planning to go through my entire life without shooting something, but as its little furry head popped up and down I anxiously awaited a clear shot. Just as the moment of truth arrived, I paused. Was I ready to gun down another creature for amusement? The people in these parts will use the dead critters' meat for stews and jerky, the bones for stock, and the pelts for coats and blankets. It's not like I'm killing in vain, but I'm killing nonetheless. During my deliberation I heard a pop. The squirrel stood erect, twitched twice and fell off the back of the log. I looked 50 feet to my left and there was Puddin' Tooth lowering his rifle, with a big mush-mouthed grin.

"Where do we put it?" I asked looming over the kill. Puddin' Tooth picked up the grey squirrel by its tail, handed it to me and turned around. I had noticed earlier that the vest he was wearing over his camouflage outfit was stained with blood all over the back. "Put it in here," he said as he opened a flap on the vest revealing a large pouch. "But get take my damn Snak-Paks out first." The bullet entered the squirrel's neck, blowing out the back portion of its head. Surprisingly, it wasn't very bloody. Very gross, yes, but there wasn't that much blood. As I shoved the critter into the back of the vest, I was amazed that a garment like this exists. I would like to meet the guy who has the patent on the hunting vest with a varmint kill pouch. I bet the gunny sack industry has seen a large drop in sales since this baby hit the market. I mean, who wants to lug around a sack full of dead rodents when you can wear them?

We trudged, sat and looked for another four hours spotting only one more squirrel. I don't know if I was sick of wading around in the mucky, cold forest, or maybe I was pissed because I was hung over and was never offered a Snak-Pak, but I shot at it twice without thinking. The orange squirrel, that was considerably larger than our first victim, just kept running up the tree until I heard another pop. It made a sickening thud when it hit the ground. Puddin' Tooth had blown the back of its head off with the single bullet. He examined his handiwork and tried to console me by saying, "Looks like you nicked her in the leg." If there were animal police we both would have been arrested on the spot. A courtroom full of woodland creatures would find us guilty, but of two separate crimes. The judge, possibly an elk, would sentence poor Puddin' to life. I would only get 5-10 with time off for good behavior because I didn't kill a squirrel, but I wanted to.

As kids, any time my brother and I encountered a wooded area we would dive into the forest to play 'guns.' Guns was a simple game. It was just like playing "Cops & Robbers" or "Cowboys & Indians" with out the pretense choosing sides. We just cut to the chase and started shooting at each other. We used cap guns, sticks that looked like guns, or just extended our index finger and thumb from our fist to make our weapon. I don't remember the rules or if there was a winner, but I do remember having a lot of fun. As Pudddin' Tooth and I trudged, sat and looked, I realized this was just like going into the woods as a kid. Only I was playing guns with real guns.

At the weigh in Puddin' stood in front of the five other hunters and pulled the two squirrels out of his dead squirrel carrying vest. He thought he was beaten: Only a pair of kills, and they weren't that big. Surely the others had more luck than we did. The group stood in silence for a few seconds. Someone finally spoke up, "Jesus, I didn't even see that many squirrels!" P

uddin' Tooth was the big winner taking both pots. He gave me his last Snak-Pak.

I don't know if I'm officially a hunter now. I can say that I have been hunting, but I don't think I'd readily want people to know the game I was after was a squirrel. Plans have already been made for next year's event, and I expect my hatred for squirrels and guns to be at the same level. Only next time, it will be easier to pull the trigger.

Clay Champlin is a freelance writer from Chicago. His blog is The Clay Show.

Dragon Slayers and the Angry Villagers Versus the Charlyaters and Ja and M

By Mini Waffles © 2008

J and A heard about a war and it was about the angry villagers and the Charlyaters but the angry villagers had to fight to keep their lands. Then they signed up for the war.

The day of the war they got ready with their armor because they heard they had dragons. When the war began A and J had to fight a dragon. The biggest dragon they had ever seen. But then A got hurt and J called Ja and Ja took A away from the war. Then J killed some Charlyaters but then one of the Charlyaters was going to chop off his head but then J dogged it and J chopped off his head.

J was guided by a flying dragon that was on his side. That was the first dragon that was on his side. Then he flew to the king and started shooting at the king but then the dragon got shot. The dragon falls to the ground but then out of the sky Ja and A came out with a dragon and J started fighting too. Then J went to the kings castle. The brave dragon slayer found out that M was hostage. The king was going to stake her.

J stepped forward and said, "Mighty king you can't take our land."

Then there were two guards next to the king. Ja finished off the two guards by throwing a knife in to their heart and J finished off the king by throwing a knife into his heart and J pulled out his heart and it was a dried up old one because he was already dead. And then he went to the king but to get there he had to climb over all the dead people.

Out of the blue they couldn't believe their eyes J said, "I thought we killed the king” and Ja said “I thought I did too. I took out his head."

Then they went to kill the ice dragon but it shot A in the heart but Ja carried her away to the hospital. The ice dragon got hit in the heart and carried away the queen.

J went up to the dragons cave and slayed the dragon. He went to the dragon's cave and saved the queen. He got a silver chalice but A got the gold one.

Mini Waffles is currently a student and enjoys writing stories for his classmates, playing basketball, and checking out hot chicks on TV.