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Thinking quickly, you dig deep in your pocket and tug out the tube of Moustache wax...
...you kyped from your
sister what seems like a million pages ago.
Whatever this rampaging monster is, it stands to reason a tin of Moustache wax...
...is the silver bullet to his Werewolf, the Cross to his Dracula, the light of day to Dick Clark, anything even remotely true in any way shape or form to George W. Bush, Teaberry gum to your Aunt Eunice, Metaphetamines to your Bizarro Dad, because your real Dad really likes Metaphetamines! Why else would you have had it on you since the day you got here? It’s destiny! That’s the way these stories always end up, it’s the old writer’s trick, if you’re going to use a gun in the third act, make sure the reader sees you put the Moustache wax...
...in a drawer in the
first act!
...at the marauding man beast, and at that very moment the sun rises on the other side of the lake, it’s rays glint off the tumbling tin of Moustache Wax...
...like the steely eye
of God Himself!
...turns your skull and brain into a fine, undifferentiated mist;
"Moustache wax..." "What kind of a fucking idiot thinks...
...Moustache wax would-" and then you’re dead. |
