Reaver on Reaver



Reaver on Reaver. An autobiography. Prologue. Dear devotees, you hold in your hands a slice of history. An unadulterated and adult-rated account on one of the longest, fullest and most scandalous lives ever lived. Mine. For the intellectually-challenged amongst you-- and I can say with some certitude that such a definition includes most of you, my dear, dear readers-- I present here a brief, abridged extract of one my least demanding chapters. I do hope you can keep up. Who knows? Perhaps your dim little minds will be encouraged to consume the entire volume. Not that I care a jot. I have your money already. And should you have shoplifted a copy, or far worse borrowed one from those appalling institutions known as libraries, be warned that I will find you and perform many of the acts described in chapter twelve upon your person. Now read on, my loves.
Chapter 17. The senile old hag was as good as her word, and I found myself magically transported to the land of Samarkand, thousands of miles from the bloody Spire. There my good fortune ended however, as I soon found that insufferable bore Garth materialising beside me. This so-called Scholar turned out to have little to teach me about his homeland. Little of interest at least. I had come seeking hot nights, exotic substances and uninhibited people, and found an excess of the first, a miserly amount of the second, and a definite shortage of the third. Still, my stay was not without its highlights. One particular evening springs to mind. My last one. I'd followed my humourless, pedantic companion into what I can only describe as the worst tavern ever to deserve such a moniker. Its pitiful cordials and feeble spirits did nothing to improve my mood, and the air was so thick with stodgy conversation, one grew constipated merely by listening. It was then I had the brilliant notion, that would simultaneously catapult me out of that humdrum country and put an end to Garth's miserable existence, as well as diverting me for several minutes. I stood up in front the sober crowd and.... And... well, my darlings, there the extract ends. You will have to read the rest of the book to find out what happened. Cliffhangers are such a cheap authorial trick, I know, but one that is not beyond me (as you shall see when you reach the end of Chapters 2, 6, 7 and 22 ). Now run ahead, you little scamps. plunge your clammy, thirsty fingers into the pages before you. I hope you enjoy reading their contents as much as I've enjoyed living them.