Show Me the Money

I apologize for the Jerry Maquire reference in the title. It just seemed to be the most fitting.

My financial aid should be coming in today, and I am relatively excited about it. They are not expecting me to work full time, so it is a nice chunk of change that will help me get caught up on bills and whatnot. Not to mention, I will be having my tax return in another 3-4 weeks. Hopefully, this will give me a little boost to the financial crisis I have been in for the last couple of years. Booyah!

I finished my second chapter yesterday afternoon before work. I am excited about it too. I started on chapter 3, but then decided that I needed a bit of an outline so I created one that is really useless at this point. I think it is time to just start typing for a couple more chapters before worrying about an outline. Right now, I really just want to fill the paper. I can always edit and perfect the writing later on.

Short excerpt:

“Fine and fine again, but ya know as well as I that things were much more proper when Lord Frantisek was in the castle," Macklin said.

“Hush!” the older man squeaked, “That name has been forbidden to mention two decades now. Yer gonna bring the lot of hell’s armies down upon us!”

“Bah! No demon from the abyss is going ta slay a man when he is drinking his beer. That’d be a devil blasphemy, it would!”

A waitress with long black hair, and dark green eyes poured rum into the first man’s mug. She did not look directly at either of the men as they talked about the Goutai or the rule of the Frantiseks, but she did take her time in refilling the drink. Her apparent lack of interest caused Mikhayla to be all the more fascinated by her.

Macklin continued with a snort, “E’pecially when he be drinkin it around half-clad wenches.” He reached out, and rubbed his hand down the revealed cleavage of the barmaid pouring his drink. “Is not that right?”

The woman smiled politely, moving her hair behind her shoulder to better reveal her flushed breasts. Her own green bodice pushed them together creating two sweetly curved mounds. She licked her glistened lips, “Surely, it is, sir.” Macklin only stared back in delight.

Mikhayla stared onward in complete amazement. She is a wench!

The older man, not seeming to realize the situation developing, sustained the conversation with Macklin, “Aye, but once you step outside of the tavern, away from the booze and the bitches, then… oh then, the very ground opens from beneath the soles of your boots. Next thing ya find, is yer flesh being ripped from bone by clawed hands. And if that isn’t enough, yer blood will singe to your skeleton from fires greater than anything the wench could have produced in yer loins!”