Admittedly, our fine webzine isn't dedicated to interviews of interesting people, but we recently caught an opportunity we couldn't pass up. We got a hold of a sous chef working in a state penitentiary. And while he had only a few moments to chat with us -- the death row inmates he serves are literally dying to get out -- the conversation was fascinating. He's asked that we not reveal his identity.

Q: So you're a chef.

A: I'm a sous chef, actually. I'm the hands-on sort of guy whose job it is to ensure that the food we serve is well prepared and properly arranged. 

Q: And you work in the death row section of a prison?

A: Yes.

Q: Don't you find that odd?

A: Should I?

Q: I mean, why ever would death row inmates need a chef, much less executive kitchen staff?

A: Simple. You can't send somebody into the afterlife on an empty stomach. Everybody gets what they ask for, within reason.

Q: So nobody gets a dozen coldwater lobster tails as a last meal?

A: I said, "within reason". If they asked, they might get one lobster tail, perhaps with a petite filet mignon and asparagus spears.

Q: That's a ridiculously expensive meal for someone about to die. How can that be reasonable?

A: Cut the guy a break. It's his last meal before they kill him. Besides, nobody orders lobster as a last meal. It's mostly chicken, sometimes spaghetti. And ice cream. Lots of it.

Q: Why ice cream?

A: [Shrugs] Comfort food, I suppose.

Q: So, getting back around to a prior question, why do we serve death row inmates last meals?

A: It's a little-known state requirement that everyone on death row must be offered a last meal. If they aren't offered a last meal, their sentence gets commuted to life in prison.

Q: Are you serious?

A: Absolutely. Look it up, it's a state law.

Q: So you're telling me that if I murder twenty people...

A: ...And I don't offer you your last meal, the worst you get is life in prison. Just don't tell the warden I told you.

Since we're on a roll here with our Snark Attacks, take a look here at our treatment of the perennial fairy tale classic, Hansel and Gretel. Any witches in the audience are kindly requested to hurl stones at us only after we've been given a running head start.

Once there was an old hermit lady who, having been a hermit all her life, decided to retire from the profession. She liquidated her 401K  and pooled the funds with what little money remained from her hermiting days to retire in her prefabricated candy house in the woods.

That same day, two teenage degenerates with a penchant for littering traipsed into the woods. They were blithely unaware that they were trespassing on the hermit lady's land, and had they known, they would have cared not one whit.

These two degenerates littered the hermit's property with stale stale bread, which, apart ruining the aesthetic beauty of the woods, also habituated all the animals in the forest to being fed. This eventually led to the animals' inability to fend for themselves, and ultimately, their death by starvation.

Upon arriving at the hermit's doorstep, the degenerate siblings set upon the hermit's home and begin to devour it. The witch was furious that everything she had worked so hard for was quickly getting gobbled up by these two teens with entitlement issues. Despite that the odds were pitched against her, she heroically fended the children off and detained them in her home as she waited for the police to arrive. Her forest home being what it was, it was drafty, and so she started a fire. Unbeknownst to her, the wicked children freed themselves and shoved her, remorselessly, into the furnace. She died horribly, and no one cared.

Knowing it would not be long before the police arrived, the wicked children ate the address sign off the house before fleeing the scene. The police never came -- without an address sign, how was anyone to tell one candy house in the woods from any other candy house in the woods?

The years rolled on, and the hermit's home slowly collapsed on itself. The candy melted away to nothing with the seasonal rains, leaving only a patch of bare earth where once the hermit's house had stood. Adding insult to injury, a dentist is believed to have opened a practice on the site where the candy house once stood.

Sneak attack: (n). A sudden, unexpected application of force on a person or locale.

Shark attack: (n). A sudden, unexpected application of force on a person by a shark. Also, one of the most unsafe times to go swimming.

Snark attack: (n). A sudden, unexpected application of snarkiness. Usually results in laughter. Typically harmless. Sharks are incapable of this.

Let's face it: there are so many good (and not so good) books to read these days. Some readers prefer the classics while others gush over the latest paranormal romance between an Egyptian mummy and a preteen aardvark-shapeshifter. Whatever your pleasure, our mission today is to give you a bite-sized synopsis of a book we've read. In case you didn't know, we're professional nerds so we read a lot. Most of the books we've read are venerable enough to be considered classics in their own right, but that's only two of the three criteria for making this list. The third, and most important criterion: these were books we suffered through.

So now, without further ado, we bring you our snark attack of J.R.R. Tolkien's The Hobbit. Please refrain from hurling stones and other objects at us until the end, thank you.

There once was a short hairy lazy guy who lived in his family's basement. An old hairy smart guy showed up at his door with twenty short hairy smelly guys. The hairy smelly guys were called: Fodder and Dodder; Casualty, Basualty, and Rasualty; and Only Guy We Care About.

Then, just as soon as he had foisted the smelly guys onto the lazy guy, the old guy disappeared, warning them all that they were in grave danger and that he (the old guy) would do nothing to help them. Notwithstanding that, the old guy occasionally popped up out of nowhere to destroy hordes of bad guy fodder, only to  disappear again.

The group traveled for weeks. All the while, the smelly hairy guys carried on a call-and-response chant where some talked about mutton and the rest yelled back, "At your service!"

Along the way, several of the smelly hairy guys died (guess which), but not Only Guy We Care About or the titular character, because that would be silly. Eventually, everyone blundered onto a raging battlefield. More armies joined the melee. A bizarre bird migration joined the melee. Then it all became a freakish sort of medieval multi-car freeway pile-up that hardly no one lived through. Thankfully, titular short guy survived by turning invisible and falling asleep even as the bodies piled up around him.

Only Guy We Care About was mortally wounded in battle and died on his bed, but not before being declared the king of the smelly hairy guys (those that survived, at least). The titular short hairy lazy guy goes back home with a piece of jewelry that would prompt a curious obsession and a book trilogy.

Speaking strictly in the interest of free markets everywhere, I have to denounce the artificial restrictions imposed by online auction businesses. Take for example a perfectly salable abstract commodity such as love. Undeniably, love is something that the world needs more of, and yet most online auctioneers forbid its sale in its venues. Why, we ask, when love is so freely exchanged for jewelry or chocolate or – dare I mention – even cash under city streetlights?

Honesty is another great example of something we need more of yet they won't let us exchange. Don’t we all wish that everyone had a bit more honesty, from our neighbor down the street with the shifty eyes to that congressman with shifty eyes?

Nevertheless, online auction businesses have made a practice of rejecting for sale those items one cannot grasp in the hand. Company policy appears to be that such things as honesty and love cannot be sold because it is impossible to set a price on such things. Such policies are as sensible as the flat Earth theory. Honesty has been bought and sold since antiquity, and contrary to what the Beatles may say, money really can buy you love in some contexts.

You may be asking yourself, “What’s the big deal if there’s still joy, happiness, and a multitude of other good, salable abstract commodities?” Well, the big deal is that these online auction houses won’t let you sell or buy any of those either. In fact, whoever said money can’t buy you happiness probably works for them.

Shock however, seems to be on the rise, but not because it commands higher prices than ever. No, actually, the
auction companies practically hand this one out to all takers. Shock comes free with every purchase when your account status shows up in your e-mail. That’s when you realize the auctioneers are taking a cut of your sale coming and going. It’s like setting up a booth and offering free samples of ice cream (or anything else for that matter – I like ice cream) just beyond the threshold of a revolving door. Of course, the consummate businessperson that you are, you offer only one sample per person. But, consummate scammers (with shifty eyes no less) know that they are “new” customers each time they walk into those revolving doors, take the spin and walk back out again, right into the path of your booth. Here’s where they look surprised and say, “Ice cream! My, what a pleasant surprise!” for the third or fourth time in fifteen minutes.

Bring the gavel down on those chintzy auctioneers. Insist upon love, joy, honesty, happiness. Tell them you want your abstract commodities, and you want them now. Stand up to them, and for all the money they exact from their fees, those auctioneers will wish they could buy yet another abstract good – time, because it won't be long when they'll be forced to change their game.

It should come as no surprise that insurance companies don't get rich by writing their customers checks. Like any enterprise, they're in the business of making money. Sometimes that means raising premiums, other times it means cutting costs. To an insurance company, you are a cost -- that's why people in the industry lovingly refer to their customers not as clients but as "risks", as in, "Well Mr. Stevenson, we normally wouldn't insure rabble like you, but since you're such a good risk..."

This entry is the first in a series of insurance horror stories, stories which -- although they have been massaged a bit to protect the innocent (and fend off insurance companies' attorneys) -- are still too true for comfort.

Consider yourself warned, these stories are not for the faint of heart.

Ira sat with an expectant smile on his face, his wife's hand in his. Today was his first visit to the obstetrician. Judith was pregnant after several weeks of trying. It was still too early for her to be showing but they both knew, and just knowing was enough to bring proud smiles to their faces.

It sure hadn't been easy. While Judith had children from her prior marriage, Ira had none. It meant a lot to him that he'd be a father soon, and as much to her that she could finally give him what he'd sought after.

He eased back in his seat. The faux wood chair in which he sat did little in terms of comfort or looks for the doctor's office. His tailbone hurt from sitting. They'd been fifteen minutes early to their appointment. A glance at Ira's watch revealed that the doctor was already twenty minutes late.

As if summoned by Ira's thoughts, Dr. Mossberg bustled in through the door of his practice, the slat blinds in the door slapping against the glass as he stepped in. The doctor hadn't time for so much as a hello as he left the reception area for the office in back. The reception window slid open a minute later, revealing the face of the all-too-bored-with-her-job teenage girl who staffed the desk.

"Burnside?" she said.

Ira nearly sprang out of his chair. "Yes, that's us."

"Enter, please."

Ira held open the door for Judith as the receptionist buzzed them in. They rounded the corner and met Dr. Mossberg at his  desk. "Come, sit," said the doctor, holding out his arms to indicate the two chairs across from him.

"I understand you're coming to me because your wife is having a baby," the doctor went on.

"Yes," said Ira. "My first."

Dr. Mossberg's eyes flitted over to Judith. An uncomfortable silence set in.

"My third," Judith volunteered.

Mossberg nodded, and it was an exaggerated gesture, as though he knew something they didn't and was on the verge of telling them. "I thought as much," he said, snapping shut the folder on his desk. "I just got off the phone with your insurance company. They're declining coverage."

"What!" Ira leapt out of his chair. "That's not possible. My company's health plan covers my wife and I for all maternity expenses."

"Well, yes and no," Mossberg was hesitant to say. "You," he said, looking at Ira,"are covered for all maternity expenses." He shifted over to Judith. "You are not."

Ira was flabbergasted. "That's ridiculous. I'm not the one carrying this child, she is!"

"I'm sorry," Mossberg cut in.

"No! That's inexcusable! What am I paying their premiums for, if not this?"

"Insurance is about risk, Mister Burnside. You pay them to take a gamble on you not getting sick, or in your case..." He trailed off, jabbed his pen in Judith's direction. "Much like you took a risk that your wife wouldn't be covered under your insurance policy when you married her. I'm sorry, but like any game, there are winners and losers."

Ira brought a cold look to bear on Dr. Mossberg.

"Don't be angry with me," said the doctor. "I don't write insurance policies, but they are how I get paid. Unless you want to go out of pocket."

Judith was on the verge of tears. "We... we can't afford that."

Mossberg gave such a thoughtful nod that it couldn't have been more insincere.

"On what grounds is our coverage denied?" Ira asked.

Mossberg paused. "Pre-existing condition."

Ira stared at Judith. She looked back at him with panicked eyes.

"What condition, doctor?" Ira asked.

Mossberg shrugged with his palms up. "Well, she did say she'd been pregnant before, and that settles it in their book. Your health plan explicitly excludes pre-existing conditions from coverage."

Ira was beside himself. "So you're saying working people like us can't have more than two children?"

"Well, no," Mossberg stammered. "No one's preventing you from having a big family." He paused and his tone darkened. "As long as you don't mind paying for them yourself." Mossberg rocked back in his chair, knit his fingers at his chest. "So, what to do, folks?"

Didn't think we'd need to "spell" that out (bad pun, we know), but if you ever thought proper spelling wasn't important, have a look at the image below.

Unbeknownst to him, Marco’s life teetered on the cusp of change.

Muttering curses under his breath, Marco trudged up the boardwalk with his backpack in tow. He was short on time and completely lost in the labyrinth that was Denrico’s seaport.

The merciless heat didn’t help either. His messenger’s uniform was crisply ironed this morning. If he wrung the sweat out of his shirt now he could irrigate a small farm for a day.

He cupped his eyes and scanned the pier ahead. Enormous trade galleons packed the crowded harbor. Never had Marco seen, much less set foot on, an oceangoing vessel. Today he had seen enough ships for a lifetime.

He slung his backpack across his opposite shoulder. The parcel inside was heavy. To make matters worse, it would be weeks before he could rid himself of its bulk. The parcel was addressed to Queen Catherine Saint-Saenz Lucinda of Avignary, and that was on the other side of the world.

A shout from nearby snagged his attention.

“Hey there, lad!”

Marco turned his head to look. An old crewman sauntered down the gangplank of a nearby ship. He was particularly ugly. Here was a man who looked like he threw rocks at beehives when he was a boy, except that the rocks were attached to a short stick, and the stick was still in his hand when the rocks hit the hives. His cleft chin extended beyond the arch of his nose, giving him a horrific underbite. He balanced a reed on his lips. When his jaws met to chew its stem, he looked as though he could sniff his chin.

The sailor planted himself in the center of the boardwalk, arms over his head as though signaling someone distant. “Hey!”

Marco held his breath as he approached. The sailor reeked of sweat. He hadn’t gone a step past when his backpack snagged, knocking him off balance.

“Whoa!” Marco yelled, whirling to face the old man.

The sailor’s eyebrows arched, resembling a pair of caterpillars on a twig. “Whoa yourself.”

Marco took a step forward. The old man put out his hand to stop him.

“Out of my way,” Marco said.

“That presumes you know where your way is.”

Marco stiffened at this affront. “You’d better have a good reason for obstructing Lord Amadis Eric’s mail.”

“Yup.” The sailor gnawed his reed.

“Well?”

"You don’t know where you’re headed.”

“You don’t either.”

"Don’t I?” The old man grinned a checkerboard pattern of missing teeth. Those teeth that remained were stained from years of neglect.

Marco tucked the backpack into his armpit. “What do you want?”

The sailor turned up his hands, palms out. “Meant no offense, lad. Old Turbo here only wants to help you. You look lost.”

“I am,” Marco admitted despite himself. He would never make his delivery if he did not first find his ship.

“Right, right.” The sailor touched his forehead and shut his eyes, pantomiming a diviner receiving a vision. “The sea spirits are calling. They tell me... They tell me you’re headed to Avignary.”

Marco crossed his arms. “Lucky guess.”

“Turbo doesn’t guess, lad.”

"So answer me this: where are the ships headed for Avignary?”

Turbo gnawed his reed. “That answer’s hidden in an old tale of the sea.” He cleared his throat. “The ship you seek flies a pennant blue as the sky on a summer day, red like the blood in your countrymen’s veins, and gold like, a... eh... Sorry, lad. I never was too good at rhyming sea tales. Rhythmic pentameter’ll be the death me, if I knew what that was.”

“What does this have anything to do with my getting to Avignary?” asked Marco.

“Rules of the sea, my boy. An old salt like me has to answer every nautical question by spinning a tale of the sea on the fly. And they don’t have to be true.” Turbo heldup an index finger to make his point. “But they have to rhyme. That’s the important part.”

"You’re senile,” Marco said.

“Aye, there’s a touch of madness in this here skull, methinks. Old injury. Musket ball to the noggin. But I tell you no lies. Avignarian ships fly blue, red, and gold pennants.” He pointed across the pier. “Head back the way you came to the branch and go two over.”

“Thank you,” Marco said before trudging away in a hurry.

Taking the old sailor’s advice, Marco backtracked up the pier and followed the boardwalk to a distant wing of the seaport. The ships anchored at this end of the harbor dwarfed even the freighters he had seen earlier. These giant barges floated so high on the surface of the ocean that the boardwalk between them seemed like a path through a valley. Each of them flew Avignarian colors.

He slowed his pace to look at the ships more closely. These had square windows carved into their sides, some ships having one, others two rows running along their middles. He stopped in place, stunned, when he noticed that the ship before him cut away. The rear quarter of the ship’s side had been shorn off.

Sunlight glinted off of a dull metal tube sticking out of a stack of splintered wood. Marco cupped his eyes to peer inside, and realized that the metal was the lip of a cannon cast in black iron.

Marco was so engrossed with the warship that he wasn’t looking where he was going. He walked into the outstretched hands of a man standing in his path.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Marco said out of reflex.

“No harm,” said the man. He brushed the ruffles out of his red suede coat and adjusted his hat. After a beat, he added, “Admonisher caught your eye. It was to be expected. She is a remarkable ship, after all.”

He doffed his hat with a bow. “I am Alexis Mordail, corsair extraordinaire.”

Alexis’s overcoat drew back as he straightened from the bow, giving Marco a glimpse of the ivory-gripped derringer holstered at his waistband.

“Look,” Marco said, “I’m sorry to cut you off, but I’m lost and pressed for time. I’m looking for an Avignarian ship.”

“You’re in the right place,” said Alexis. “All of these are Avignarian.”

“Yes, I know, but I’m looking for one in particular. I’m on business, you see, and I can’t be held up any longer.”

“Ah.” Alexis gave a thoughtful nod. “Forgive me for not recognizing you earlier, sir. We’ve been expecting you.”

“It’s of utmost importance that I... wait, what?” Marco asked. He’d kept speaking over Alexis without listening to what the man said. “You’ve been waiting for me?”

“Of course.”

Marco’s shoulders bowed in a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank Kandensa.”

“Here, let me take that for you,” Alexis said, snatching up Marco’s backpack like a dutiful valet. “Follow me, please.”

Alexis led him past the warships, where a much smaller vessel awaited at the end of the pier. “This is Stormwind,” said Alexis as he led Marco up the boarding ramp. “She’s on loan to me for this special assignment.”

“What special assignment?”

Alexis stopped in place halfway up the ramp. “Why, you, sir.” He resumed walking. “She’s by far one of the finest caravels on the open sea,” Alexis went on, absently running the pads of his fingers along the ship’s rail as he stepped aboard. “I’ve a mind to own a vessel just like this – as a pleasure boat, of course – before I get old and relegated to telling rhyming nautical tales to random passersby.”

Marco’s brow knit. Sailors were strange people indeed.

Alexis put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Men poured out from the stairs leading below deck and assembled before him. Each of them stood shoulder to shoulder rigidly at attention, eyes trained at the horizon, arms at their sides, exemplifying the chiseled discipline that comes only through effective leadership.

“Mister Monkeygrip,” Alexis called out.

“Coming, sir!”

None of the men standing at attention had spoken. Then, suddenly, a tall youth with spindly limbs shimmied down from the mainmast, leaping between the rigging ropes like an ape. He dropped to the deck and tumbled with the fall, coming to his feet in mid-roll.

“Present and accounted for,” Monkeygrip gibbered. He snapped erect long enough to give a firm salute, then dropped to all fours with a crooked grin.

Alexis shoved the travel bag into Monkeygrip’s arms. “Take the gentleman’s personal effects to his quarters.”

Monkeygrip pressed the backpack to his chest with one arm and scampered through a door at the ship’s rear, jabbering all the way.

Alexis turned to face his crew. “Mister Kerrigan, if you please.”

A bald crewman with a face like creased leather hobbled forward. His tiny eyes were sunken deep behind his craggy brow, looking like two black raisins floating on the surface of a bowl of burnt oatmeal. Grease and sweat stains pocked his shirt, which frayed away at the sleeves, revealing giant bronze forearms. He slumped against a gnarled wooden crutch tucked under his armpit.

“Prepare for departure, Mister Kerrigan,” said Alexis with arms akimbo.

“Aye,” he shouted back. He faced his mates. “You heard the man. Get this barge moving.”

All at once, the crewmen scattered to their respective duties.

Monkeygrip skittered out from the rear of the ship and let out the sails. Three enormous men wrestled with a hoist to draw up the anchor. Kerrigan took his post on the bridge, overseeing the activity on deck with the tiniest motions of his even tinier eyes. In the midst of the uproar, Marco turned in place to watch as the men around him worked with mechanical precision. It was extraordinary.

Alexis squeezed Marco’s arm gently, catching his attention.

“Please sir, follow me,” he said, sweeping his other hand out before him. They cut through the commotion on the deck, headed for the stateroom at the ship’s rear. Alexis was first to reach the door and he held it open for Marco.

“I trust you will be comfortable,” Alexis said.

The quarters were sumptuously furnished. A fine writing desk stained glossy black sat at the end of the room, accompanied by a plush chair tucked under it. A globe of the world cast in bronze stood within arm’s reach of the desk. In the opposite corner, a wardrobe sat on brass lion’s paws. A massive four-post bed occupied half of the room. Just by the look of it, Marco presumed that he could lie down at the bed’s center and stretch out, and yet still not reach its corners.

“This is magnificent,” said Marco as he stepped inside.

“I’m pleased you think so. These are my quarters. I’m rather particular about my furnishings, you see.”

Marco blinked. “So where will you be staying?”

“I must oversee the repairs to Admonisher. Kerrigan will serve as acting captain in my absence.” He pinched the brim of his hat between his thumb and forefinger and tipped it down briefly. “Safe journey, sir.”

“Goodbye,” said Marco as Alexis left.

Marco rounded the desk and sat in the chair. The globe beckoned for his attention, just asking to be spun dizzily.

Monkeygrip had left his backpack on the desktop. Marco undid the buckles and peered inside it to make sure nothing had been removed. Tasked with such important business as he was, he could not be too careful. The parcel was still inside and padlocked. The letter strapped to it bore an unbroken wax seal. Neither showed signs of tampering.

He looked up with a start as Kerrigan appeared at the doorframe.

“We’ll be leaving shortly, sir,” Kerrigan said. “Captain Mordail asked me to tell you.” He glanced over his shoulder and back again, his eyes merely a dull glimmer beneath the shelf that was his forehead. “Also, there’s someone here to see you, sir. I’ll be leaving you to your business.”

Marco rocked forward in his chair as his visitor came in.

A dragon. Never before had he seen one in person. If it was scaled, walked on two legs, and talked, then it was a dragon by Marco’s reckoning. That, or an exceptionally well-trained iguana.

Smallish in height, the dragon seemed smaller still with a giant like Kerrigan beside him. He had the look of a human bureaucrat, dressed in a black straight tie and crisp white shirt tucked neatly into his pinstripe slacks. Navy blue scales covered his body, from the tips of the frilly crest atop his head to his clawed feet. His tail ended in a broad spade that hovered above the floor but never touched it.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” the dragon said with a bow.

A pair of enormous folded wings jutted out from where his shirt had been tailored to accommodate them. “I am Kuril Krenarin,” the dragon went on, “of Emperor Rao Ordan’s Bureau of Foreign Affairs. On behalf of our country, we are most pleased to have you as our guest.”

There was no mirth in Kuril’s words. He smiled out of cordiality alone. Marco fought hard not to wince as there were many pointy teeth in that mouth.

“I trust you have your letter, sir?” said Kuril.

“Oh,” Marco sputtered, prying his eyes from the dragon’s fangs. “Yes, of course.”

He reached into his bag and handed Kuril the envelope.

Kuril glanced down at it but did not take it. Instead, he waggled his talons in a render unto me flourish.

“Your letter of introduction, please?” Kuril insisted.

“I didn’t think I’d need one,” Marco said.

“Well, perhaps a person such as yourself needs no introduction. But a letter of introduction would be helpful to identify you, sir.”

Marco’s brow furrowed. “Why is everyone calling me ‘sir’ all of a sudden?”

“Shall I call you something else, sir? Lordship, perhaps? Ambassador?”

“Ambassador?”

“Do you prefer that one?”

Marco swallowed hard. “Why would I?”

Kuril’s eyes narrowed. “Well, sir, that is who you are, isn’t it?”

Marco's (mis)adventures have only just begun! Want to see what happens next? Click here to continue reading.

Still want more? Check out The Gullwing Odyssey in our bookstore.

Let's face it -- adventuring is not the safest of professions. Even the best of adventurers get hurt. And if the length of their injury list is any measure, the characters of The Gullwing Odyssey are by far not the best of adventurers.

While an exhaustive list would be tedious, here we've posted some of their more interesting -- as in genuinely awful or humorous -- personal injuries.

These come courtesy of Dr. Desmoulin Jonas's medical clinic -- "handy enough with a scalpel to be your surgeon, barber, and tailor!"

Broken nose -- killer hummingbird
Facial bruising -- leapt through a pub window
Severe chest contusion  -- wild animal attack
Cracked ribs -- wild animal attack
Abdominal impalement -- airship crash-landing
Blunt trauma to side of head -- struck with flat of a sword

Severe nervous trauma -- extreme verbal abuse
Crumpled snout -- bashed with a shield
Bruised talons -- punched an assailant
Full-body first degree burns -- magic spell
Electrocution -- magic spell

Facial laceration -- wild animal attack
Internal hemorrhaging -- walking into a hail of bullets
Broken ribs -- point-blank gunshot wound
Facial contusions -- group beating

Flesh wound -- glancing pistol shot
Mild abdominal contusion -- kicked by a man on a horse

Three teeth knocked out -- biting an assailant
Facial contusions -- group beating
Black eye -- group beating
Life-threatening abdominal laceration -- dueling injury
Bruised ribs -- magic spell
Fractured clavicle -- gunshot wound

Abdominal impalement -- crossbow bolt
Assorted bumps and bruises -- crashing his airship into a warship below
Head trauma -- musket butt to the back of the head
Blunt facial trauma -- group beating
Two teeth knocked out -- severe beating

Want to see just what sort of trouble this motley group of misfits get into (and out of)? Check out The Gullwing Odyssey. It's a fantasy/comedy adventure of epic proportions, and not your typical swords and sorcery novel. Expect spectacular magic. Expect plenty of laughs. But above all, expect the unexpected.

Click the book cover image for more information.

Want to read some sample chapters? Sample the first three chapters for free.

He had spent all day with her in the makeup store. And you could tell because she had so many swatches of lipstick on her hand that she looked like she'd developed some bizarre yet fabulous form of leprosy.

Nothing short of a delicate haiku can express how royally ticked off I am right now. The accompanying rage comic (aptly named) is just icing on the cake.

Dressed for work.
Hornets made a nest in my car.
Called in sick.