Topped (2 page)

He’s hardly even considered an author, but the asshole makes more money than I will ever likely see in my lifetime.

Not that I’m bitter or anything.

Not that I’m a pathological liar or anything.

I click the link in the email and almost spew wine all over my keyboard. It’s already ranked in the top 200 and has like ten five-star reviews. How is this even possible? He has to buy off his reviewers, that’s the only way this makes sense. Or maybe he has a street team and sets them all on his links as soon as they release.

Maybe I should get a street team.

I bet Bethany Bonafont has a street team. Note to self: get a street team.

I chug my glass and one-click the stupid “book” to see what this one is all about. It’s called 
Taken by the Amorous Gay Velociraptor’s Mouth
. Like, how is that even sexy? How are people reading this filth? It sounds painful and stupid, not sexy and funny.

Fuuuucckkk this guy. In the butt, with a velociraptor.

Darvet Sandscone is an average bartender by day and a superhero sleuth by night. After a hard day on the job, a young triceratops asks him for help, and he finds himself in the darkest part of the city: No Man’s Land. The police moved out months ago and left the dinosaurs to fend for themselves.

When hunting for the purse snatcher, he finds himself cornered by a tribe of rabid velociraptors hungry for one thing, and one thing only: his dick.

Of course I’m going to fucking read it. I’m part of the problem.

I pour another glass of wine and open up the book, no doubt twenty pages of ridiculous gay-on-raptor action that probably took him a whole ten minutes to write. He probably spent more time Photoshopping his ridiculous book’s cover than he did writing it.

Hell, he probably spent more time uploading the damn thing to Amazon than he did writing it.

Did I mention he’s my arch-enemy? I hate him.

I’m too drunk to stop reading. I make it through the whole thing in less than fifteen minutes, and it’s the most appalling garbage I’ve ever read in my life. Well, next to the other filth he writes that I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve read. I’m also embarrassed to admit it’s kind of really funny.

Like I said, I’m part of the problem.

At least, it’s funny until I check his rank again. In the fifteen minutes it took me to read, he’s shot up to number 155. Overall. On all of Amazon. Fuck. Me. Sideways. I click over to another tab and look up my latest, 
Life and Love in the Texas Desert
, and see that it’s only ranked number 825.

Me, 825. I spent weeks working on that book, churning through edits and countless free bottles of wine from next door. I poured my soul into that book and my heroine. Sleepless nights were spent in this very room, typing up a storm, obeying my muse and everything she demanded of me, and I’m freaking 825.

This fool spends, what, ten minutes? An hour? And he’s number 155. He just barely settles underneath Bethany Bonafont’s regency romance from a six months ago, because the damn thing is still selling like it’s crack.

It doesn’t belong on Amazon. It belongs in the bowels of the dark web, where people hide their shame.  

I look at the antique letter opener on my desk and consider lopping off an ear and mailing it to him. Van Gogh was a genius and everyone remembers him because of that ridiculous ear stunt, so why not Randi Rose, romance author? “Put 
this
 in your butt,” the enclosed note would say. My fingers close around the dagger, but I drop it and grab my mouse instead.

If this is how he wants to build his way to the top, fine.

But those at the top can’t remain there forever. Look at Rome. Look at…that other place that fell apart after reaching the top. Atlantis? Look at…a bad mountain climber…or something. Drunk analogies aren’t the best.

The point is he can’t keep his shiny five-star ratings forever, and it is my personal mission in life to destroy every last one. Muahahahaha!

RIP, five-star rating. R-I-fucking-P. One star for you!

I crack my knuckles and scroll down to the review box. For the first time in twenty minutes (okay, four minutes), I smile. To the death, Shivers!

How quaint. Another Charlie Shivers “original” about preposterous objects having sex. The book, if you can even call twelve pages of senseless and impossible “sex” a book, is thoroughly unimaginative. Charlie Shivers is as much a real author as my foot is an author. And my foot, mind, can’t write a book. Oh, look, neither can Shivers! Don’t waste your time or energy on this book. There are so many other talented authors, real authors, who can evoke a sense of wonderment, sex appeal, and emotion with their pinkie than Shivers could ever hope to evoke in his entire life and body of work.

My only regret, after hitting the
submit
button, is that the review sort of admits I read his work. Maybe people will think it’s just this one. I hope. Well, no one can prove I read anything, anyways. No one except Amazon, and even then, they can’t prove 
I
 pushed the button.

“My silly cat has an extra thumb and spends all his time on the computer buying stupid books. Silly, silly cat.”

Never mind I don’t even have a cat, because that would be one more thing to take very poor care of. But if I did, his name would absolutely be Grawlix, the name for the symbols used to replace swear words. That’d be my kind of cat. Or maybe Aglet, because why not? Or Potato, because I always wanted a pet named Potato.

It’s probably for the best I will never have children.

Satisfied with my launched torpedoes towards Shivers, I swallow the rest of my wine and shut down the office. So, I’m going to bed alone, again. At least I have the entire thing to stretch out in and there is zero chance of me being molested by a velociraptor.

“
C
ome on
, come on,” I mutter, waiting for Amazon to load. The other coffee shop goers must be watching porn again, because the damn thing moves slower than my freshman year girlfriend. Boom! I make a note to use that line later in a book. I kick back in my chair, watching the page take its sweet-ass time. It better hurry up, too. I’ve got Buddy Lunch Saturday in twenty minutes.

Because bros don’t do brunch. They do fucking Buddy Lunch. And we don’t drink mimosas, we do shots of the real stuff. Buddy Lunch rules.

Amazon finally cracks—the ladies always do for me—and ta-da. Number 75! I uploaded the sumbitch last night, and I’ve cracked the Top 100. Shut the front goddamn door. It’s taken a few months, but I’m finally hitting the big leagues. Bizzaro-porn shorts are the single greatest thing to happen to my life, and a lot of good shit has happened to me.

What can I say? I’m one of the special people.

Beyond satisfied, I close my laptop and load up, ready to celebrate with my bros in the classiest way we all know: shots and burgers at Westport Flea Market. Yeah, yeah, the name’s misleading, but it’s the dive we’ve been going to since we weren’t old enough to drink shots with our burgers.

The best part of living downtown is having everything within reach: my coffee shop, my bar, my library, and my apartment. I bike over (
pedal pedal
not
vroom vroom
, though if I keep selling books the way I am…) and join the festivities inside. My best boy, Nick, is already inside at our usual table, buried in his phone.

“Broseph!” I drop my backpack at the table and spread my arms wide. “You are looking at the current number 55 on fucking Amazon.”

“Bro-ito!” Nick comes in for a manly hug/back pat. “That’s my boy! Tearing up the charts like you tear up girls’ skirts!” Boom! Another book line—only I’ll make it about alien butts.

We high-five and life is completely glorious. Ted and Ben show up together, and another round of high-fives and manly hugs are passed around. Because I’m on fire and a total #baws and they know it.

“Top 100, man,” Ben says, settling into his chair and looking over the menu, as if he’s going to order something other than the Super Flea. It’s too much food, way too much food, for way too much money, but if you can eat it all in half an hour, it’s free. Poor guy has never once gotten it free. Usually because we dip into his fries and disqualify him. One day, I’ll suggest to him he take the challenge stoned and maybe without us around and blow his mind.

Joe McCoy, Life Perfecter. You’re very welcome, bros and girls.

“This is the fastest you’ve climbed the charts, right?” Ted sits next to Ben in perfect fry-jacking range. I meet his eye and nod once. He’ll funnel them along to me, his eyes reply. Bros have secret eye-language, too, we just don’t
admit
it the way girls do.

“Yes, gentlemen, it is.” I stand and bow for the smattering of applause. Billy, behind the bar, lets out a whoop and I wink at him. “My fastest romp to the Top 100. Success is upon us. These crazy fools love dinosaur dong, and I love the shit out of them for it.”

“Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots!” Ben and Nick beat on the table.

“Barkeep!” I holler over them. “I need four Fireballs, in honor of dinosaur dong!”

He salutes. “You got it, big man.” He’s called me big man ever since he stood next to me at the urinals once, just so everyone’s clear on that, by the way.

“Was this the raptor one?” Ted asks. He has his elbows propped up on the menu because he has no reservations about ordering the same shit every week. This is why he and Ben make a good couple. They think I don’t know, but they totally sparkle at each other. It’s adorable, really, but men as a general rule don’t like to be called adorable, so I refrain. At least for now. Because Drunk Joe isn’t so reticent.

“That it was.” Raptors were wicked kinky, it turned out.

“Best one yet. Fucking hilarious.” Nick gives me a thumbs-up as the bartender brings over a tray of shots and passes them out.

“All right, gents.” I lean forward, shot in hand. “Time for Buddy Lunch tradition—hit me with your best bangables.”

“Endangered species!” From Ben.

“Robots!” From Ted.

“No, no. I got it.” Nick spreads his hands and leans forward. “Zombie robots!”

Everyone claps at this, and I have to admire his tenacity. Winner! I slap the table with the palm of my hand and hold out the shot. “What, what?”

“In the butt!” they all roar in response.

“Gentlemen! My new bestseller,
Butt-Banged by the Zombie Robots
, shall be penned this very night!” I take a slight bow, and then raise my shot, their cue to clank the glasses on the table.

Everyone cheers and takes the shot. Life is fucking grand. We order a round of burgers and beer and settle into the routine of talking about the bullshit in our lives now that the celebration is out of the way. Because that’s exactly what Buddy Lunch is all about: celebration and bullshit. Not gossip. Bullshit. There’s a difference. Just like the secret language. Um…scratch that.

“So.” Nick leans back in his chair and studies Ben and Ted. “What’s shakin’, bromerangs?”

“Well, brosicle.” Ben leans back to mimic him. “I got a promotion at work.”

This brings about another round of cheers. And by cheers, I mean shots and cheers. Ben looks so proud. It’s cute! And I must admit, it’s awfully admirable that he earned his good news with hard work and early mornings, not dinosaurs. Not that I’m ashamed or anything. Hell no!

Joe McCoy, Proud Smut Slinger.

“What do you do now?” Nick asks.

Ted takes over. “He’s the new branch manager, bros.”

“Duuude!” I toast to him. “That’s some pretty sweet responsibility. Good raise?”

“Hell yeah.” We high-five. Because money is always high-five-able. “I was the top choice, too.”

“Because you’re Teddy fucking Brosevelt, that’s why.” Nick beats his fist on the table. “Another round of shots!”

I signal for another round of Fireball, and our burgers show up at the same time. Luckily, because otherwise it could easily be turning into Buddy Shitshow. We dig in, and I can’t help myself any longer. Call it a curse, but I can’t keep my mouth shut. This is a surprise to no one I know, so surely they had to see it was coming.

“Ben.”

“Yeah?” He doesn’t look up.

“Ted.”

“Yeah?” Now they both look up. They know that I know that
they
know. That
I
know. Welp, those shots definitely kicked in.

“Are you guys going to admit you’re doing it, or what? The
glow
coming off you could rival the Plaza’s Christmas lights.”

It should be noted, I’m not a bro-douche, but it’s fucking Buddy Lunch. This is what you do at Buddy Lunch, give your friends shit for hooking up and not sharing the good news. And, you know. The lunching. And the shots that lead to the shit-giving. It’s a delicate, prescribed social dance; except instead of Emily Post, it was written by Tucker Max.

“Cat’s out of the bag, I guess,” Ted says.

“We’re super doing it,” Ben adds. “But we didn’t want to have that weird dynamic shift that happens in a group when your friends start banging.”

“That’s what the fucking Man Circle is for.” I hold out my beer in toast. “We are here to celebrate, not differentiate. You know we got your backs. Besides. If you ever break up, you’ll be the ones it’s weird for. Me and Nick are forcing you to eat a family meal every week. For the kids. You know. Us.”

“Brosophocles, we’ve been best buds since college. Literally everyone saw this coming since about sophomore year.” Nick waves him off. “Hell, I’ve got still got a pool we made without telling you a few years ago. I’ll need to check the dates, but someone just won a lot of long-deserved money.”

Ted flushes. “We were just such good friends. It took a long time to take the leap.”

“For you, maybe.” Ben flashes him a grin, and I can’t help but beam like a motherfucker at my best friends. “A pool? Damn. I wish I’d have known. I’d have put money down myself.”

“I’m so effing happy for you guys,” I say. “Today just can’t get any better, seriously.”

“It sure can!” Nick holds out his glass in preparation for another round of cheers.

“No!” Ted says, in on something I don’t get.

“Yep.” Nick beams like a dude after his first dino lay. “I’m proposing to Becca today.”

“No way!” Ben exclaims. We all bang glasses. Soon enough, that’ll be the only banging Nick gets, amirite? “That’s awesome, dude.”

Nick looks happier than I’ve seen him in a while. Congratulations make their way around the table, and we dig into our food. This is the best part of Buddy Lunch. I don’t get how girls can talk while they eat. We just stuff our faces in mutual silence, in appreciation of the cow that sacrificed itself for our badass lunch.

Ohm. Moo. Nomnom.

“All right, bros.” I pick my teeth as I slap down some bills with the other hand. Cause I’m sexy. “I’ve got to get to work. If anything crazy happens, text me. I need to get ready for the big romance writing conference tomorrow.”

“Tap dat ass!” Nick hollers. Ben and Ted roar in laughter. They don’t truly understand how this is, you know, my
job
. They just see all-female-everything. Well. I mean, maybe I do too, I just know this is not a get-laid conference. It’s a networking opportunity. However, I have a rep to keep up.

“Don’t be jealous.” I dust off my shoulders. “Nothing better than thirsty girls trapped in a hotel ballroom.” Although I have learned rapidly that like ninety-nine percent of lady romance writers are happily married to men who I assume
do
continue to get laid.

I head home, feeling on cloud nine. My best friend is proposing to his longtime girlfriend, two of my best boys are finally hooking up, and I cracked the Amazon Top 100 in less than twelve hours. Can life get any better? Hell no. Fortuna hath smiled upon me! (If you are a believer in Roman goddesses, and I always believe in hot chicks that bring good luck.)

Best of all, I’ve got a decent buzz going on. I swing by the corner store on my way home and grab another four-pack of Tank 7 to tide me through the rest of the evening. My best work is done when I’m drinking. “Write drunk” and all that jazz. Hemingway was a damn genius. Not my cup of tea, works-wise, but he knew what’s up when it comes to writing.

And really, can anyone be expected to imagine the mechanics of anal with a dinosaur sober? Certainly not.

My bulldog, Gus, is waiting for me at the door when I get home. I toss him a bone from a bowl by the door and get down to work. First up: buttsex with zombie robots. Buddy Lunch always gives me the best ideas. The Man Circle has a filthy hive-mind, and I love the shit out of them for it.

Before I dive into writing, I do a few tai chi movements to stretch myself out. Gotta be limber before writing about doing it in the butt. Plus, it helps keep up my physique, which is Dude Who Likes Beer but Sometimes Works Out. That’s
not
Dad-bod. Totally not. I hate the gym, and I hate running, but I can do enough around the house to keep me from falling into total disarray. I haven’t had any problems scoring some hotties, either, so I’m calling my way the good way.

Joe McCoy, World’s Okayest Beast.

Energy swished around properly, I sit down at my laptop and title a new word document
Next Bestseller
. The trick is to convince yourself everything you write is gold. Every book I’ve ever titled
Next Bestseller
has done just that. Success is what you make it, and I make it rain. Or at least sprinkle heavily consistently. I’m the Seattle of writing!

I also ignore all the other bullshit writing advice out there. Too many authors wallow in self-doubt, consider their work crap, and never get anywhere. It takes a healthy dose of confidence to make it in this industry, and those of us who kick ass thrive on it. At least, I do. No one, and I mean no one, writes bizarro-porn like I do. And my sales back my mojo.

Joe McCoy, Best-fucking-seller.
Snaps
.

I pull out my idea notebook and sketch out a plot for
Butt-Banged by Zombie Robots
. Obviously, there’s going to be a lot of kinky robotic sex, and probably some animatronic
braaaains
action going on. Believe it or not, though, these stories do actually have a plot.

I’m not a hack, I just give the people what they want. And people want a lot of absurd sex that makes them piss themselves laughing.

Sure, big-shots like Bethany Bonafont may make babies with their sexy heroes and steamy erotic scenes, but do they make people laugh? Short answer: no. My readers don’t read my books to get off, though it’d be totally awesome if they did—actually, I’m sure there are plenty of sick fucks out there who do, and I can’t decide if they are my kind of people or not—but mostly they read it for an escape.

Life sucks for a lot of people, and they need some relief. Enter me, the relief giver.

Joe McCoy, Relief Giv—hold up. I think I almost turned myself into a happy endings masseuse. Scratch that.

The thing that I never admit to anyone is that I really do find myself caring about these characters. I give them all their own unique backstory, and world-building, and in the end I get great satisfaction out of seeing them get their happily-ever-after. Even if it
is
with a pteranodon.

Anyway, I get to work on my plot. My main guy, Dickson Slaver, is going to be a cop out on the beat when he meets a group of robot zombies. They’re going to be up to some shady business, probably running an underground ring of brains exchange, and Dickson is going to try to bust it up. There’ll be some big cop talk, some threats with guns (clearly a penis metaphor,) a lot of sexual tension. But these robot zombies have other plans and buy him off with some serious gang-butt-banging.

Brilliant. I crack another Boulevard Tank 7 in celebration. Excellent plot, self.

I bang out (hahahaha, see what I did there) around five thousand words of preposterous robot-zombie-on-cop action and call it good. I send it to Ted, who edits all my books because knowing an English teacher is the best thing to happen to my career, and get to work on a cover. See, while people love bizarro-porn, typos can rip someone out of a story. I don’t want to rip them out of the story; I want them to be so submersed in my nonsense that they forget their own name for twenty minutes.