Tonight I went to SE Grind and edited the heck out of ‘Gritt Calhoon and the Midnight Assault.’ I did this because I’m turning it into one of them “ebooks” to sell in my store. I cleaned it up real good and changed some stuff. Here is an excerpt:
“What brings ya back?” said Shark. “Been a while, homie. You look even uglier than you did when I last saw you on Mars, all them fuckin years ago.”
“To be fair,” said Gritt, “the last time you saw me was also the day I single-handedly defended the Olympus Mons encampment from an entire platoon of Chinese doom-bots. Not to mention Shirley had just left me for the last time.”
Shark laughed. “Hell, I don’t doubt Shirley’s what did ya in that day—not them fuckin rice cookers. Theys was a cinch. Cheap plastic shit, man.”
“I was only sad ‘cuz Shirley ran off with my fuckin truck.”
“Yer kiddin. Hell, I didn’t know that.” Shark shook his head in disgust. He spat out a dark unknown liquid.
“Naw. And I miss that fuckin truck, mijo. Miss it more than I miss Shirley, that’s fer damn sure.”
“I know you loved that dang truck, Gritt. I did too. Shit, man, we sure did put some stains inta them seats, didn’t we?”
The two men stood in silence and let old memories play out in their weary minds. They were still half a football field away from each other, still feeling weird about the past. Between their enormous sweat-soaked bodies existed a phantom vortex of sorrow which would float on silently till earth itself plunged into the heart of the sun.
Shark broke the silence by cracking open an ice-cold brew he’d fetched from the refrigerated side-pocket on his camo fatigues. “Hey turd. You want one? Got two left.”
Gritt read the label on the bottle. It was a Kaiser Nacht wine cooler.
“Cram it, Jimmy Buffet. I don’t drink that fruity Kraut shit,” said solemn Gritt. “Come on, Shark, you know that. Ain’t been that long. Unless yer brain’s gone to shit.” Muttering to himself, Gritt added, Which wouldn’t surprise me one god dang bit, I’ll tell you what. . . .