Gentle Reader Gebiv writes:
“…and where would one be able to read said particularly lurid sword-fight?”
Ah, my little secret.
My first exposure to science fiction literature was by way of, shall we say, pulp fiction. Conan the Barbarian, John Carter of Mars, that kind of thing.
And, once in a while, I get a massive urge, I turn off the lights, drop some epic heavy metal into the CD player along with the Conan m0vie soundtrack, and I start writing some … really … lurid, awful, about-as-far-from-Politically-Correct stuff as you can get.
When I say it’s bad, it’s bad. Embarrassing, even. Tolewyn gets some of these stories — after I’ve toned them down a lot.
Hell, the last one I wrote, there are two safe paragraphs in the whole story:
“After his father was beaten to death with a chainmail brassiere full of rocks, the Prince was forced to conceal a breeches-wetting phobia of concubines. After all, who the hell wants to be led by an Emperor of All He Surveys who must be pulled kicking and screaming out from under the bed at the first sight of lingerie?”
“The man had a six-foot spider on a leash. Which is actually fairly creative — but he unfortunately had the gall to outfit the demonic arachnid with studded leather anklets and a rather spiffy leather bikers cap. Hell, yes, he had to die.”
And it gets worse from there.
And no, I won’t post the stories. Gawd, no. I’ve got enough folks accusing me of being a racist, there’s no way I’m getting accused of being a misogynist to boot.
No. Hell, no. Not going to happen, don’t ask.