Right, so I’m way behind on posting my latest article: When Publishing Drives You Batty, but shit has kind of blown up in the Nevermore household of late. As in more than usual, and yeah, that’s saying something. You’ll be happy to know that at the time of this blog post, the bat issue appears to be rectified… or they’re silently plotting my demise, but in either case, I haven’t had to deal with the dive-bombing jerks for a few weeks now.
Kind of ironic it was one of their own that brought their reign of terror to an end.
For real. Set this scene in your mind: It’s a little after noon and I was sitting in my chair, typing away (ok, I was swearing, but correcting essays will do that) and I kept hearing this…scrabbling. Yeah, scrabbling. There’s not a better word for what was basically grimy bat-claws on mosaic glass. Turns out, one of the jerks had gotten trapped in one of those big vase-y candle urns from Pier 1.
Ok, stop imagining. It was tempting, but no bats were immolated.
But he was pissed.
I slapped a piece of cardboard over the top, hauled his ass outside, and released him. At which point he promptly began to circle overhead screaming about unfair housing practices and tenant’s eviction rights. Then, he flapped off his soapbox and disappeared under the porch’s eave.
Guys, he frickin’ showed me the entrance to the bat cave.
Mr. Nevermore and I waited until after nightfall, when Batty and all of his buddies had gone out on the town, and then spray foamed the crap out of the entrance to their lair. Sorry, not sorry.
Thus ends another bizarre chapter in “You Can’t Make this Shit up,” the hypothetical memoire my friends keep telling me to write. Who the hell knows, it could happen. In the meantime check out all the parallels publishing has with netting bats! And to get the low down on the rest of the shenanigans going on in the Nevermore household, along with info on all my new releases (there’s a shit ton in the works), sign up for my newsletter! The form’s on the right, so what are you waiting for?
