Here it is! All Six Parts of "PEN*IS*MIGHTIER!" That's right, including the incredible conclusion of Book One! Thanks for your patience and enjoy - I hope!


Who Needs The Talent When You Got The Tool?

The most important thing to remember is that I’m no artist. No, I’ve been accused of being an illustrator - even a doodler - but my work has never been mistaken for art. This was not a problem, since I didn’t need to be an artist in my original profession. Hey, as the long as the client was happy with the illustration - or graphic, or even doodle - I got paid. Assuming, I was employed - which was not always a safe assumption.

Thus, when I got the call for a job interview in Sedona, Arizona, I was relieved. The job market had been miserable for the last few months, and I didn’t even mind having to drive two days to reach the firm - "Painted Desert Marketing." My unemployment was almost up, rent was due, and I was getting disconnection notices from most of my utilities - not too mention the thousands of dollars I owed MasterCardTM.

Obviously, I wasn’t going to have money for a hotel, so I’d just have to fold down the back seat in my Colt and sleep at an angle. Not the most comfortable situation, but as long as I could find a safe rest stop, I figured I’d be fine.

I left early, on Maundy Thursday, one of those obscure Catholic holy days. I was scheduled to be interviewed on the Saturday between Good Friday and Easter. This was odd to me, but, apparently, Painted Desert Marketing was run by some New Age types who didn’t much care for Catholic holy days. Oh well.

After twelve hours on the road, I decided I should get some sleep. I pulled off at a rest stop with one of those 24-hour information booths. I figured that would be as safe a place as any to crash for the night.

The Colt was more cramped than I had imagined. I did not relish the thought of living in this car, especially if I also had to store all my stuff in it. I fell into a fitful sleep and had a series of anxious dreams.

Something hit my roof with a resounding thud. Images of hook handed maniacs from urban legends of my youth dashed through my imagination. It was 4:00 am.

I didn’t move for thirty minutes, except to slowly reach for my crow bar. My palms got so wet that, had I had to fight a homicidal maniac, the bar would surely have flown out of my hands. In my fear, I decided that I would be more likely to get killed if I lay still than if I attacked, so I kicked open the hatch back and leapt out with a fearsome, high pitched yell.

Nobody there. I felt silly, relieved, exhilarated.

On top of the Colt, I found the source of the noise. It was this, well, this pen. It was a good deal larger than your typical ballpoint, with one of those old style fountain tips, like you would use for calligraphy. It was plated with silver, as near as I could tell in the early morning light. At first, it was hot to the touch. I figured a plane must have exploded somewhere overhead, raining debris down on the whole area. I looked around for other evidence of this theoretical disaster, but found nothing. The pen was it. Nice looking pen, though. I figured some dead airline passenger’s loss was my gain, so I stuck it in my briefcase. Maybe it would make a good impression on these New Age marketers.


So, the Saturday before Easter arrives as I reach Sedona for my interview. I had some time to kill, so I stopped in at a local diner and ordered some toast and coffee - the cheapest things on their menu. I reviewed my resume - padded a bit, but basically accurate. Without thinking, I took out the pen and started doodling on a napkin. I drew a muscular, horned demon - basically the same one I’d drawn for my friend’s death metal band.

"We don’t go in much for Satan here," said the waitress, putting a cup of coffee on my doodle.

"It’s not Satan. It’s just a demon."

"We don’t go in much for demons."

I finished my coffee, packed up my stuff and headed out for the Colt.

Glass shattered behind me as the fat short order cook flew through the front window of the diner. A heard a roar like a Speilbergian dinosaur and some very human screams. There, behind the shattered window, was my doodle demon - nine feet tall and rampaging. Our eyes locked. He roared at me - even across the parking lot I could smell sulfur on his breath - then flew off. I could feel the wind from his leathery wings as he flew over me.

"That man! He brought that demon here," cried the waitress.

Images of townspeople armed with rakes and pitchforks rioted through my mind. I leapt in the Colt and drove off. In the distance, my demon perched on one of those multi-colored Sedona peeks. He was facing south.



Pirate Booty

"Did you hear about the gargoyle?"

I was sitting in the waiting room of Painted Desert Marketing. I didn’t know where else to go. Yeah, yeah, I might have released a demon into the world, but I still needed to make rent, you know?

I shaved on the road, which is never pleasant. I figured if there was going to be a mob after me, I wanted to be at least a little hard to identify. Shaved my head, that is.

"Mr. Pazoozak?"

"Sorry, what?"

"Did you hear about the gargoyle?"

"You mean the demon?"

"We don’t go in for demons around here."


The secretary turned from me in an intolerant huff. I had heard a radio report about the demon heading towards Phoenix, stopping occasionally to terrorize a tourist or trash a gas station. I tried to figure out what the hell had brought the doodle to life. I mean, the obvious answer was the pen.

Just to make sure, I drew some ducks. I figured ducks couldn’t really hurt anyone. They were pretty nice ducks, actually. Hardly cartoonish at all. I waited ten, fifteen minutes and nothing.

I examined the pen carefully in the waiting room trying to see if I could determine, well, anything. It was smooth, cold now, and there was no obvious way to open it for an ink cartridge. I remembered that these fountain pens sometimes sucked up ink from the tip - at least they did in old time cartoons.

I stuck the ducks back in my briefcase. I drew a line down the back of my resume and stared at the ink. It was a thick, black (almost gray) line that just seemed to sit there, like the ducks. It wasn’t anything special.

"Do you need some tape, baldy?"


"You ripped your resume."

"What? No, this is just a line."

The secretary shrugged. I looked back at my resume and, before my eyes, the line turned into a big, open slice in the middle of the paper. No sign of ink, just a rip. Clearly, something was up with the pen, I concluded. Not the most brilliant conclusion, but all I could come up with at the time. I mused that it was a good idea that I hadn’t drawn what I usually doodled or a giant, disembodied vagina would be attacking Arizona.


"Nathan Pazoozak? What kind of name is that?"

"Uh, I’m not sure you’re legally allowed to ask me that..."

"Fair enough."

The interview pretty much went downhill from there. Lynn Bilbao, the owner of Painted Desert Marketing, and I did not hit it off. I was still a little frazzled from creating a demon, and she, for her part, didn’t like my gender, didn’t like my religion, didn’t like my ethnicity and most definitely didn’t like my resume.

"It’s ripped."


"So, would you want to keep going to church even if we hired you?"

"You can’t ask me that during a job interview. It’s illegal."

"Those laws were meant to protect minorities, mister."

I realized I probably wasn’t going to get this job, but I was desperate enough not to say anything that I would regret later.

"Well, we might as well see what you can do. Let’s draw something, shall we?"

"Great. Where’s your computer?"

"We prefer to work on paper first."

"Oh. Can I borrow a pen?"

"Didn’t you come prepared?"

I could see where this was going. Nervously, I pulled out the pen.

"What do you want me to draw?"

"Let’s see a pirate - like the one from those art school ads."

I sighed.

"A pirate?"

"We do a lot of business with Captain Morgan’sTM out here."

I did my best. A big, goofy pirate with a surly looking parrot. The pirate had an eye patch, a hook hand and a peg leg. Clearly, he had been on the losing end of a few swordfights. He held a bottle of rum in his good hand. The parrot smoked - he had a peg leg, too.

"The parrot looks like he’s the brains of the gang," said Lynn.

I had to agree.

"Well, clearly you have some skill - more of an illustrator than an artist though, huh?"

"Yeah," I said, glancing nervously at the drawing, which was just sitting there at the moment.

"Leave your cell number - we’ll call you."

"What about Happy Jack here?" I asked, indicating the pirate.

"We’ll keep it on file."

Relieved, I headed for the lobby. Clearly, some part of the equation was missing, since old Jack hadn’t sprung to life. I was leaving my number with the secretary when I heard it.

"Yar! Grab the wench, you scurvy dog! SQUACK!"

"Mrs. Bilbao?" called the secretary.

Out through the door hobbled my pirate, a parrot on one shoulder, a screaming owner of a marketing company on the other.

"Get that damn hook out of my ass," she ordered.

"Yar, that’s what I call booty, Salty Pete!" yelled the pirate.

"SQUACK! No booty puns or I’ll poop in your rum," replied the bird, "Let’s head for the open seas!"

"Mrs. Bilbao!"

"Misha! Help me!"

Too stunned to react, I watched as the secretary bum rushed the pirate only to be chased off by 15 pounds of feathered, peg-legged fury.

"Do something!" Misha screamed at me as Happy Jack lugged her boss into the dry Arizona morning.

“I am," I replied, already reaching for a fresh piece of paper and my strange new pen.



Don't Count On Your Plans Before They're Hatched

"Who’s that? Chickenman?" asked Misha, the secretary.

Indeed, I had meant to draw something like The Savage DragonTM, whom I’d doodled before in an effort to ape Erik Larson’s style, but I must have been nervous. He really looked like some kind of chicken fetishist on steroids.

"The Chicktacular Chickenman," I replied, sheepishly.

"What are you going to do? Scare the parrot away with a drawing of a larger bird?"

I didn’t really have time to explain. I took the finished drawing and ran outside, hoping to find the pirate still in the area. Sure enough, he stood stunned in the parking lot.

"Yar, matey, where be the docks?"

"I’ll see if I can locate them from on high, ya scurvy dog. SQUACK!"

He had managed to gag poor Mrs. Bilbao, who seemed more embarrassed than frightened at this point. At least as near as I could tell from this angle. Well, I would have been embarrassed.

The paper started to feel heavy and suddenly the hand of Chickenman was reaching out from the paper and growing a more "real world" scale. I dropped the sheet immediately and watched in amazement as Chickenman rose from the paper in amazing 3-D!

"Holy shit," gasped Misha.

Chickenman stood, brave and tall, his outline illuminated in the sunlight. It was one of those typically heroic poses you see on any of a thousand comic book covers.

"Good day, citizen. What seems to be the trouble," he bawked.

I pointed at the buccaneer.

"I see. That pirate will be no match for CHICKENMAN, protector of poultry, champion of chicks!"

"He really was Chickenman," muttered Misha, "what do you know?"

The Egg-born avenger sort of half ran, half leapt at Happy Jack, clucking merrily. He threw eggs from his utility belt (which I had intended to be small bombs filled with knock out gas when I drew them) as the kidnapper turned to face him.

"Yar! Lunkhead! It be a giant chicken! SQUACK"

The parrot swept down from above and - GOOSH - he was clobbered by a well thrown egg and knocked out.

"Salty Peter, lad!"

"Release the damsel, evil-doer, and your pet will come to no further harm."

"Yar, she is my plunder, ye big bird! Do your worst!"

"If it is my worst that you want, then my worst you shall get."

The two drawings sprang at one another. Happy Jack attacked with Mrs. Bilbao over one shoulder and a dangerous looking bottle of rum in his good hand. Chickenman was all feathers and fury.

The argued as they fought, but I couldn’t make out a word of it. They were talking faster than auctioneers.

"So that’s how they fit all those words in during fights in comic books," I thought.

It looked like the pirate was going to win the day, when suddenly he dropped to his knees, crying. He released Mrs. Bilbao who retreated across the parking lot.

"Aye. What you say is true, you bloody big bird," Happy Jack sobbed.

"Big Bird," the Chickenman said, "Wow - that is a much better name than Chickenman."


It turns out that Chickenman had told the pirate that, while they were fighting, his parrot could be in need of serious medical attention. It also turns out that he had asked Mrs. Bilbao out on a date and needed to borrow my Colt. What could I say? I handed him the keys after he had changed into his "civilian" identity.

"Drive safely, Chickenman," I said.

"Big Bird, please," he replied with a huge, heroic smile.

I was too tired to explain the finer points of copyright infringement to him, so I just waved as he and my potential employer drove off. I hoped it would be a good date and that she’d like my drawing so much that she couldn’t resist hiring me.

"What is going to happen to the pirate?" Misha asked.

"Chickenman turned him over to the local authorities. I don’t even want to imagine the legal ramifications of this..."

"Does everything you draw come to life?"

"No - just some of the things I draw with this pen. But not everything, see?"

I showed her my duck drawing.

"What are these? Killer ducks?"

That was all it took - they started flapping their way free of the paper - evil looks on their little duck faces. That’s when I realized it. Apparently, drawing it wasn’t enough. Somebody had to name the drawing before it could come to life.

"Run," I cried, as the ducks started putting on their little hockey masks. They quacked menacingly.



Things Are Just Ducky

"Does Mrs. Bilbao have a cell phone?"

I figured we could call her and get Chickenman - or Big BirdTM, or whatever he wanted to be called - back here to fight the killer ducks. We were barricaded in the lobby of Painted Desert Marketing, the sounds of little duck machetes and axes at the door.

"No. Can’t you just draw another superhero? Maybe Super Duck Hunter or something?"

I explained to Misha that I was a little reluctant to draw anything new. Who could guess what I would release into the world? Sure, maybe he would be a benign goofball like Chickenman, but it could also be a raving lunatic like Happy Jack.

I saw a glint of metal out of the corner of my eye as one of the ducks managed to work an axe head through the front door. I could see his beady little duck eye peering madly through the crack.

"Well, we have to do something, baldy!"

Misha and I pushed her desk up against the door, but that was going to be a temporary measure at that.

"What about an inanimate object? Surely that wouldn’t destroy the world. Some kind of anti-duck weapon?"

"I don’t know how to fight!"

"Then design something for me."

It was a good idea, I guess. It would really depend on what we named it. I don’t know why my mind flashed on it, but I was suddenly reminded of the origin of Iron ManTM. See, they needed Tony Stark to make a weapon, so he designed this suit of armor. This seemed like a great idea.

I sat down and took a good look at Misha. Attractive, slim, and - I guessed - Japanese. I drew this great suit of samurai like armor for her. It showed a lot of leg. She didn’t seem to appreciate this at all.

"What the hell is that?"

"It’s, uh, magic samurai armor. See? It sprays deadly shooting stars from the wrists and, with the jetpack, you can fly. Also, the helmet is hooked up to the Interweb so you can access any information you want instantly."

"You have made me Japanese stereotype armor. You are a complete ass-hat."

I guess I was, but my being an ass-hat was about to save us from the ducks. The armor rose up off the page.

"Look away. I won’t be able to put this on over my clothes. Sexist ass-hat."

Yeah, I guess I had made it skintight. I was beginning to realize that I found Misha kind of hot. Maybe she thought I was a jerk now, but I was sure that, in time, she would come to love me, especially if we were co-workers. To be honest, I believe most women I am attracted to will come to love me if given time. While this has almost never proven true, I figure this is just because I have given it enough time.

"All right, I’m ready to face the ducks."

I turned around. She looked pretty hot in the red and white armor. Well, and pretty pissed off. I admit, though it was metal, it didn’t really leave much to the imagination. Actually, now that I thought about it, it also left an awful lot of flesh exposed to attack.

"This is completely impractical. There wrist bands weigh a ton, my left leg is completely exposed to duck sized attackers, I can barely see through these goggles and I’m afraid that if I bend over to kill one of them, I’m going to completely fall out of the top of this. I mean, what the hell?"

There was no time to respond, because at that moment, the ducks burst through the front door. Misha immediately release a burst of throwing stars, which cut through three of them.

"You should make a joke about Peking duck now," I joked.

"Shut up or you’ll be eating star next. Jesus Christ."

She turned to face the remaining two ducks. The meaner of the two came flying at her with a little chainsaw, which didn’t even nick her armor, though it did take a chunk out of her exposed arm.


She activated the rocket pack on the back of the armor, which fried the duck, which had landed right behind her. She also screamed in pain and collapsed to the ground. Apparently, the flames from the rocket pack were able to burn her exposed left leg. Oops.

The last duck, enraged by the deaths of its friend, came at her with his axe, but she must have been in shock or something because she didn’t move. Not knowing what else to do, I leapt at the duck and made a slash across the length of its back.

"That’s a deadly wound," I yelled.

The duck turned away from Misha and start to approach me.

"Quaaaaaaack. Quaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack."

I tripped over the cooked body of his companion and fell backwards. With a quick flying hop, the duck was on my chest, raising its axe. I figured this was the end. However, just then, blood and organs started flying out of the opening wound on the duck’s back.


It fell over dead. I looked at the pen, and then got up to check on Misha.


"We couldn’t get the armor off of her, I’m afraid," said the paramedic.

"Its, uh, magic. I think only she can take it off."

"We don’t go in for magic around these parts," he said.

Misha was taken off to a burn unit at the local hospital. As the ambulance drove away, Chickenman and Mrs. Bilbao returned from their date. From the grim look on her face, I guessed that Mrs. Bilbao was none too happy about the destruction of her front office.

"I’m sorry about this," I said, "we had a problem with ducks."

"That isn’t important right now," said Mrs. Bilbao, "that demon you created attacked a death metal concert in Phoenix and killed a bunch of people."

"We have to stop it. We’ll need help," said Chickenman, with a determined frown.

"What band," I stammered.

"I think their name was Frayed Corpse."

Frayed Corpse. My friend’s band. The one for whom I had originally created the image of the demon. Now, he might be dead and it was my fault.

"What sort of help?" I shot, pulling out my notebook.



Its back and *MIGHTIER* than ever!


Big BirdTM had taken to calling Mrs. Bilbao's office "The Doodle Pad."

I had spent the last three hours carefully designing some friends for the feathered fury but this time I drew them in pencil first. I figured it was better to be able to perfect the designs before I tried to bring them to life.

The problem is that I am not an artist. I don't really create original, inspired things. I got so frustrated trying to create novel creatures and heroes that I had tried to pass the job on to Mrs. Bilbao. Unfortunately, as we soon discovered, for reasons that I couldn't explain, I was the only one who could lift the stupid pen.

Instead, I had to consult with my two companions about design ideas. Unfortunately, every one of Mrs. Bilbao's ideas had been done by another comic book company.

"How about this," she said, "The Shaman!"

"Done. Marvel's Alpha FlightTM."

"That is a dumb name for a comic book."

"They were Canadian."

"A Californian must have named them. How about 'Mr. E,' a hero with mystic powers. That is clever."

"Done. Vertigo comics."

"This is not a great time to worry about copyright law. If I were you, I would just draw Superman or Jesus and set them on the demon."

I tried to explain that I wouldn't be able to make them look like the actual people they were supposed to look like, citing Chickenman as an example.

As for the paragon of poultry, all of his ideas were chicken or egg themed.

"How about... 'The Eggman.'"


"All right, all right. What about 'Red Rooster.'"


"Ok. Ok. 'Hot Chick?'"

After several hours, I finally designed three characters which seemed to be original and I hoped they would be able to help defeat a demon. I carefully inked them and them named them to bring them to life.

"Minerva Van Helsing, strategic whiz and demon slayer. Teflona, with skin is impervious to flame and scratching. The Agnostic, former Catholic whose powers of doubt are dismaying to faith based creatures."

"I wish you would have made me a teen sidekick," groused Chickenman.

They rose from paper, one by one, my team of demon slayers

"Greetings, American, how may we help you," purred Minerva, who looked distressingly like Misha now that she was in amazing 3-D.

"I need you to help Chickenman kill a demon."

"I don't believe that," said The Agnostic.

"Where is this demon, American?"

I wasn't sure. Mrs. Bilbao suggested we turn on the radio. Reports suggested that the Demon had been raising an army of death metal zombies - living dead metal heads who were currently tearing up Arizona and heading north to Flagstaff and us.

"We'd best prepare for this demon. Teflona and Big BirdTM - find a perch with a decent southern view. If the demon on foot, send Chickenman back for help. I'll start preparing the demon banishing rituals. Agnostic, go sit in the other room with Mrs. Bilbao and complain about how none of this is possible."

"Well, it isn't."

"Good work, Agnostic. Good work."

Minerva had really taken control of the situation, and I was very relieved.

"What should I do?"

"I need you to draw some weapons for me."


Two hours later, I had created an impressive arsenal of the arcane for Minerva. I felt for Mrs. Bilbao in the other room who had to listen to the Agnostic listing 100 reasons why God couldn't possibly exist, but she seemed to be enjoying it in her own new-agey way.

And then Chickenman came flying through the roof of Painted Desert Marketing.

"They're here."

"Big BirdTM! What happened to Teflona?"

"Overrun by zombies."

Minerva flew into action. In a single, fluid gesture, she poured some sort of healing salve over Chickenman, getting him back on his feet. She then grasped a pole arm tipped with holy silver.

"That's a pretty useless specification," The Agnostic had said as I drew it, but it didn't phase Minerva any.

"Silver is anathema to demons."

As per her instructions, The Agnostic took Mrs. Bilbao into a room that I had reinforced by drawing "demon proof bars" on the walls, then he came out to lend his powerful doubt to the impending battle.

They charged outside, a mighty trio, my creations, apparently not suspecting that I had no idea what I was going to do against a bunch of zombies. However, I figured I had started this problem, so I might as well try and help.

When I went outside, I was almost knocked out by the smell of rotting flesh. There were five - maybe six - zombies wandering around the parking lot. I couldn't see my heroes anywhere so, as the zombies shuffled towards me, all I could do was slash them in the neck with the pen and shout, "decapitating wound!"

I am sad to report that the third or fourth zombie I killed was the bass player of Frayed Corpse, who was now, well, a frayed corpse.

And then I felt it, around the back of my neck. It felt cold, wet, and just a little sharp. I turned and faced an angry looking woman covered in tattoos holding a red fountain pen, fresh from contact with my skin. Instinctively, I lashed out at her neck with my pen.

Almost at the same time, we said "decapitating wound."

I suspect I turned as pale as she did.



Kill Your Darlings

"I can't believe it! I'm dead! I'm dead"

The tattooed lady had dropped her pen and clutched her neck tightly. For my part, the fear of my certain death and the discovery that there was a second "magic" pen in the world had left me unable to move.

"I'm dead... I'm..."

She started to gurgle. I could see blood starting to spray from where I'd drawn on her as if an invisible knife were being forced through her throat. Almost instantly, I felt a sharp pain - like the worst paper cut you can imagine - start to spread across the back of my neck. I fell to my knees, the my back.

Suddenly, The Agnostic was standing above me.

"I don't believe that either of you could die from wounds caused by ink."

The sharp pain was replaced by an itching, burning sensation as the wound immediately started to heal, scab over and scar. I struggled to my feet and saw tattoo girl more or less in the custody of Big BirdTM. While she hadn't died from my drawing, she was clearly in a great deal of discomfort.

"I think you severed her vocal chords," explained the protector of poultry.


"Bah! The dead can't rise," complained The Agnostic.


"Don't worry, Nate," Chickenman smiled, "Minerva and Teflona have it under control."

Tattoo Girl's pen lay on the ground at my feet. It was almost identical to mine, but plated in copper instead of silver. I bent down to pick it up, but as soon as I touched it, a shock ran through my body - and through hers. She slumped against Chickenman. I felt exhilarated - almost euphoric.

Before I had time for any serious self-examination, though, Teflona fell out of the sky, landing with a heavy thud in the parking lot.

"It's almost here," she said, struggling to her feet. It was clear her leg was shattered.

"Let me draw you a cast," I offered.

"No time!"

And then the demon was upon us. He held Minerva in one hand - and she was slashing at its face with her silver-tipped halberd. He squeezed and she thrust the weapon into its eye. I heard a sickening pop, but wasn't sure if it was Minerva's back or the demon's eye. At any rate, the hellish beast dropped our strategist onto an AudiTM and tried to remove the pole. In a flash, Chickenman was in the demon's face, bawking and molting.

Minerva somersaulted to us, over wrecked cars and zombie corpses.

"That isn't any ordinary demon. I think it might be Satan himself."

I thought back to when I first drew the demon.

"The waitress named him," I realized.

"Look, we'd better retreat. I don't think we can defeat him - you're going to need to draw something else."

There was an explosion of feathers.

"Chickenman," cried The Agnostic, “That’s not possible!”

But it was. The demon had torn the head off of the winged wonder, though that hadn’t stopped him from fighting. Through tears, The Agnostic charged at the demon, shouting “You’re not real! You’re not real!”

Unfortunately, The Agnostic’s powerful disbelief was crushed under the demon’s more powerful right foot.

“Draw me again some time, will you?” Minerva asked quietly.

She turned and leapt – literally leapt - at the demon, releasing a couple of throwing stars for good measure. She must have hurt him a little bit, but it was hardly enough. Finally pulling the halberd from his eye, the demon shoved it straight through her torso. She didn’t scream.

Teflona placed herself between the demon and I.

“Run, Nate.”

I would have. I even turned to go. Then I saw Tattoo girl, barely conscious and leaning against a truck. She had tried to kill me, but maybe she had thought I was a zombie, too. I’d drawn all the other characters who’d died and, somehow, I guess I didn’t feel like they were quite real. This person was real and I didn’t want her to be killed because I was a coward.

“Nate, Run!”

The demon breathed flame at Teflona – it glanced off her impervious skin. I was close enough to feel the heat, but I was trying to pick up Tattoo Girl. It is much harder to pick up an unwilling body than you might imagine.

“Please, run!”

I started half-carrying, half dragging the other illustrator across the lot. I looked back just in time to see the demon smash Teflona to a pulp. Well, at least her skin didn’t break.

This was it. The demon was coming for me now. Instinctively, I held up the pen.

I was surrounded by a bright light. So was the demon.

A deep voice intoned, “Get thee behind me, Satan.”

In a flash, the demon was gone, the bodies of my creations were gone, and a hoard of zombies rose again as confused metalheads. They were bruised, battered, dazed and confused, but that would have been the case even if they hadn’t turned into zombies.

I turned around to face the light and there, in front of me, was... well...

“I believe,” he said, “that you may have picked up my pen by mistake.”

End of Book One – To Be Continued in PEN*IS*MIGHTIER Book Two: “The Flesh Tailors”

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