This photo is about the polar opposite of our erstwhile Roller...

This photo is about the polar opposite of our erstwhile Roller Deb, but I couldn't resist it.  Derby Ass is Magical, as the saying goes.

Edited about 11,900 words today, and re-worked formatting on a word doc that'd been man-handled across OpenOffice, Word, and Google Docs.  Got through about twelve existing chapters.  Minor line edits as I found them, but that wasn't the point, this time.

40/140 existing pages re-formatted.  No new prose, so I'm not updating my Nanowrimo word count yet.

The Good: I figured out how to handle the footnotes in Troll or Derby.  The Bad: There are footnotes in Troll or Derby.
Yes, MS word, "glamoured" is a word.

Notable lines:

I could hear their laughter, could smell their sweat and bloodlust mixed with the palpable passion of prurient teens.  
As far as prophecies go…that all sounds a little magical-mystical-bullshistical to me, personally.
When a human is "laid-back," they're easy-going, cool, at least a little approachable, and somewhat friendly.  When a troll is lying on his back, he's either dead, or playing dead, and about to strike you in your soft spot with a mace or a club.

Scene I'd forgotten about:

I skated to the square downtown, and stopped for a coke[1] on the front steps of the old Endris Drugstore. I was considering whether or not to try skating into their tiny public restroom for a break, when the bright red Mustang from earlier pulled in. Laurence Yoder again, no girlfriend in sight. 

He leaned his head out the window, revving the engine and laughing, before killing it. "C'mere," he called.

"As if," I said.

I was afraid of him, to be honest—bigger than me, dumber than all, he relied on brute strength to make his way in the world. I knew I didn't have to answer him—I could have gone into Endris'—but for some reason I felt compelled to take it there.

"Why'd you throw the beer cans at me, Yoder?"

"Why do you skate across town like a fag?" he countered, smirking at his own joke.

"Girls aren't fags, idiot," I said. "Dykes, maybe.  But not fags."  I turned and climbed the stairs on my skates.

"Wait, wait," Yoder said. "I'm sorry. That was shitty of me."  He lit a cigarette and leaned on the Mustang.  "I actually think your skates are kind of cool."

I stared at him sideways. "Yeah. Sure you do. Later, Yoder."

He reached into the driver's window and lay on the car horn.

"C'mon! Go for a ride!" he yelled.

I shook my head and went into the store[2]. The cashier glared at me.  "Tell your boyfriend to lay off the horn, would ya?" she said.  I nodded, grateful that she hadn't had an allergic reaction to my skates[3].

[1]    Mr. Pibb

[2]    Even now, I have never encountered anything as weird as a small-town Indiana teenage boy.

[3]    Sometimes, I swear to God, you'd think that no one over the age of 40 had had a day of fun in their whole lives.

NOTE TO SELF: THINK ABOUT COVER ART FOR THIS BAD BOY.