My Cardboard Balcony

Arizona Trip by Belinda Roddie So you're a ranger, and I'm a cowboy, and we're in the desert together, kissing tumbleweeds and collecting cactus leaves for boiling. One sip, and we're miles away in a different wasteland, with sand in our mouths and a full moon in each eye, like lunar spectacles guiding us to plains with high grass, gluttonous cattle, and a great fat jug of moonshine to share when the sunrise crows like a rooster perched on the decaying vane.

Come! Let us strike at the fortress and slay the Demon King. He sits on a throne of dead men's bones and does all sorts of crazy things. Now, that's all so cliché, my friend. You know he's not like that. He sits in a den with the TV on channel ten and watches baseball, wearing a hat. No, the Demon King is a great many things, but a baseball fan he is not. He'll sit on his bed with ear buds in his head and listen to scream-o until his brain starts to rot.