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This is a BIRTHDAY post for EDWARD HOTSPUR at www.edwardhotspur.wordpress.com HAPPY BIRTHDAY HOTSPUR!

The following is a choose your own adventure story.  Within the context of the story are links to posts on Hotspur’s blog.  At the bottom is a list of all the blogs who have participated in the choose your own adventure series of posts to celebrate Hotspur’s birthday.  I don’t think anyone knows what anyone else is writing, besides individual themes, so this should turn out interesting.  I’m going to check out all the posts myself.  At the end of my story, you get to choose your own adventure by selecting which blog to continue Hotspur’s journey through the blogs.

This is the blog that precedes mine: http://runningnakedwithscissors.com/ and here is my contribution:

“Edward Hotspur in: The Flowers On the Horizon”

Hotspur was sitting in Solitude pondering The Fall of Man.  It was dark, because that’s the way Noir is supposed to be.  The newspaper couldn’t hold his attention.  It only printed True Stories Having Nothing To Do With Sex, Per Se.  It was hot.  Too hot.  Hotspur felt like an Earthworm Baked On Sidewalk Tile.  Then he heard something.  It was a saxophone.  The melody was Noir, and sexy.  Sexy like Hotspur thought he was.  A knock at the door broke him out of his melodrama, because Melodrama Is, Like, The Worst Thing Ever.

“Come in,” he said in his best Bogart voice.

A woman entered like a tall glass of blonde water with legs.  Hotspur was suddenly thirsty.  She said, “I know The Eternal Secret.”

Challenge Me.”  He responded, wondering what her story was.  Who was this mysterious dame that just came into his life?

She went to the window and closed the blinds, then peaked through them as if she was being pursued.  Pursued like a little bunny rabbit hiding from a big bad wolf.  The rabbit was panting and heaving with large …frightened eyes.  Well not really.  That was just Hotspur fantasizing.

She Looked Back And Smiled, “All Roads Do Not Lead To Sex Or Porn,” she said, “and you’re Looking Down A Long Street.”

“That’s The Trouble With Being A Superhero.”

“Sure it is.”

She triggered Hotspur’s Insecurity System.

She sat and took out a pack of cigarettes, putting one between her full lips.  Full like cherry tomatoes on her face.  She waited, expecting Hotspur to bring a flame to light it.  The cigarette, not her face.

He shrugged, “Uh, I quit, sweetheart,” and fumbled with a packet of Nicorette.

She lit it herself.  First Impressions – You Never Get Another Chance To Fail.

She said, “These may be The Stupidest Ideas You’ve Ever Heard, but I know How The Planet Will Be Saved.”

Life Is Just A Fantasy League, baby.”

“What the hell does that even mean??”


“Never mind.  It’s the flowers on the horizon.

“You mean my garden?”

“You have a…garden?”

“Well there’s just a little medicinal marijuana.”

She rolled her eyes and began to slowly slide up her skirt.

“But…” he muttered like a child who hadn’t yet learned how to speak.  Or, like your average Joe when a hot little number like this babe was trying to seduce him.  But Hotspur was no average Joe.  No, far from it.  He was a man, a man with a plan.  He just didn’t know what that plan was yet.  Who was this dame and what did she want with with him?  He had more questions going through his mind but the saxophone got louder.  It distracted him from his thoughts.  He said, “I Would Do Anything For Love,” before he had a chance to stop himself from saying it.  She made him feel like a school boy.  And he was ready for his lessons.

She smirked like the Mona Lisa.  Well, the Mona Lisa didn’t really smirk, it was more of a knowing look, as if–never mind.  It’s not important.  She smirked.  “Everyone Should Do This At Least Once (Unless They Have Self-Respect).”  She was one of those peculiar people who could speak in parenthesis.

He fought hard to regain his cool, “sweetheart, that’s just a Philosophical Appetizer For The Soul,” and he failed.

As she raised her skirt a little higher, he caught a glimpse of her creamy thigh.  It was creamy.  Like milk.  Or…cream.  She pulled a flower out of the top of her nylon stocking.  It was between a knife and a flask.  She had everything up her skirt but the kitchen sink.  And Hotspur.

“Roger,” she said, “This flower is only one of the many on the horizon.  They hold the key to save this planet, and possibly establish peace on Earth.  And only you can take me to find them.  Only I know what to do with them.  There’s danger we’ll have to face.  We may need to disguise ourselves as lovers to do it.  And we may even need to actually…do it, very graphically.  So Roger, take me.  Take me to the flowers on the horizon.”

“But, um, I’m not Roger,” then he threw in, “baby,” just to stay cool, and dark, like Noir.  Yet he failed, again.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Hotspur.”

“Who the hell is Hotspur?

“…I am?”

She stood and turned towards the door.  “Sorry, baby, wrong office.”

He called out, “You Should Still Try, You Should Still Care.”

As she stopped where she stood, he was hoping this would become a Sensuous Romance With A Surprise Ending.  But how it ends, we may never know.  Well, except maybe for the saxophonist.  The fact is, Everybody’s Looking For Something – Usually Porn, Lena, Tattoos or Celebrities.  Or in Hotspur’s case, perhaps just a little BaconLube!

…choose your own adventure between the following two blogs…




These are the participating blogs in order of posts: