Chapter One

It was a dark and stormy night. Do not take that the wrong way, though. That wasn’t meant to give the story a scary tone, it was rather to… well… to, uh…. Oh I give up! I just couldn’t think of a good opening sentence, okay?

Anyways, we’ve got that it’s night, it’s dark and stormy, and… oh yeah! The main character!

So, it being dark and stormy, and night for that matter, Horace was, as could be expected, watching TV. The name of the show, however, could not be specified, because Horace had slipped into a trance from an overdose of professional wrestling and was now, as they say in the media business, a prime audience, which basically means they were subjecting him to an endless stream of subliminal messages, most of which were centered around communism. His sister entered the room just as a frame reading “Karl Marx Rox!” appeared on the screen, then disappeared before it could consciously register in her mind.

“Who the heck is Karl Marx?” she thought, seemingly inexplicably. She then noticed that her brother was hunched over, staring at the television intently, a string of drool falling out of his mouth to join a puddle that was forming on his leg.

“Horace!” she exclaimed. He awoke with a start. “How many times has Mom told you not to watch pro wrestling right before bed?”

“A few,” he replied, wiping the drool off his leg.

Suddenly the channel changed toa documentary about Vikings.

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Hundreds of miles away, in a dimly lit studio, a producer howled in rage.

“Blast that girl! We’d almost made a total convert out of him until she showed up!”

“He’s the next Stalin,” one of his execs stated. “I can sense it.”

“The pro wrestling station is going to expect a handsome fee for this one, though,” another exec input.

“Blast the pro wrestling station! Blast everyone! You will all be slaves in my empire!” the producer screamed into the ceiling, following it up with maniacal laughter.

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“That’s odd…” Horace’s sister trailed off. “Did you just change the channel?”

“Nope,” he replied.

“Where’s the remote?” she asked.

“Probably under the couch. Everything always winds up down there.”

Horace got down on his belly and peered into the darkness under the couch.

“Hmm…” I don’t see it,” he said, feeling around for it with his hand. He felt something sharp poke his finger. “Oww!” he exclaimed.

The pain was only momentary, however. He immediately forgot it, instead feeling quite sleepy. He yawned loudly, and with a thud his head hit the floor.