Short post today. My bike commute, during a sudden and vicious thunderstorm, was interrupted by the sudden need to go ass over teakettle slightly after meeting a car. The driver of the car was one of those sharp fellows who think that stop signs are only meant for occasional use. He was also of the opinion that stopping to check on a downed cyclist was an action requiring a courage to be found only in the rarest of men.

So instead of being in a thoughtful and writerly mood, I’m damp, sore, grumpy and nursing a headache. And trying not to wonder if my damaged bike will indeed make the 15km trip back home. It’s a hell of a long walk otherwise. I’m taking it as a sign that I need to give up this foolishness of a holding a graveyard day job. Hell, I should probably finally give up my childhood dream of steady nine to five, Monday to Friday employment. I’ve tried it a few times, and it’s always been a bust for me. I’m a poor fit in the working world. My mind gets restless without new problems to solve. I just don’t quite do things the way other people want me to, or in a way they understand. Causes problems, it does.

Hiding out in a dark shack all night, with only owls and coyotes for company has worked out well for me. At a certain point, though, you gotta admit you can’t hide out forever. Even though you don’t fit in anywhere in the world, you can’t just give up. Gotta come down from the mountains every once in a while and see what’s going on. Or in my case, maybe stop biking on crappy industrial roads in the dark. Before winter comes, and the heavy rain. Writing might be a good gig for me. I love the screenplays, but the paydays are still a ways away. Who knows?

Still, those are questions for me to think about tomorrow. And you came here for swords. Tales of guts and ancient action. Or nutrition advice, on occasion. And so I deliver. With a doozy today!

I give you…Chilean Prison Sword Fighting.

Courtesy of Redditor Venuswasaflytrap. Damn. Finally I know what I’ve been teaching all these years. Swordplay is no longer to survive fighting orcs or killing zombies, it’s to survive Chilean prison! How about that? I’m one of those damned “Reality-based martial artists” and didn’t even know it.