Brosky took an inventory. The only thing missing, curiously, was his Game Boy.
It would be fifteen years before he saw it again. His journey took him around the world, where he met a strange variety of people: a simple-minded dwarf, a scarecrow with penis envy, a power-hungry dictator who enjoyed watching people eat. At each step, Brosky aged a thousand years every day. At each step, he grew closer to solving the mystery.
There was love-making along the way, of course, as well as car chases. Often the two intersected like two dusty cobblestone streets hidden away in a small Tuscan village. Brosky fell in love with the Italian countryside as well as the ancient Roman structures dotting the landscape. During one temporary bout of madness brought upon by the assassination of a high-profile seamstress (and part-time lover), Brosky dressed in robes and wandered downtown Rome in hopes of spreading his philosophic lore.
He returned to Wisconsin at the age of twenty-seven, a broken man. His mother hugged him and gave him a gift: the Game Boy. It had been sitting on the bookshelf all along.
He enrolled in Nebraska’s creative writing program in hopes of fostering a new identity, one that placed tranquility above all else. But instead he was forced to run obstacle courses, reciting obscure verses from Herman Melville stories while navigating Omaha’s treacherous swamps.
Still, Ken Brosky was unsure of what, exactly, to write. After some contemplation, he decided to go Biblical and walk out into one of Nebraska’s many deserts in hopes of being tempted by the Devil. What happened turned out to be far, far worse than that.
After three days without water or s’mores, Ken Brosky had a vision. Only it wasn’t the Devil at all–it was the ghostly visage of Stephanie Meyer, writer of the ultra-famous Twilight series! “Holy crap!” Ken shouted at the swirling hot sand.
The ghostly creature floated towards him. “How about you write a book about teenage vampires?” she asked.
“No!” Ken Brosky shouted. “The market is over-saturated and teenagers are idiots!”
The vision of Stephanie Meyer shimmered, then faded. Ken Brosky breathed a sigh of relief. Suddenly, she returned.
“OK, how about this idea,” she said, “a centaur moves to a new village and meets a dragon who understands her feelings and the two fall madly in love?”
“No!” Ken Brosky shouted again, thus denying the demonic vision a second time. “That doesn’t even make sense! Why would a dragon fall in love with a half-man, half-horse creature!”
The ghostly Stephanie Meyer shimmered, then faded. Ken Brosky held his breath, knowing full-well that 3 was a magical literary number.
Suddenly the ghost creature returned. “One more idea,” she said. “Then I’ll leave you alone. Promise. OK. What if you wrote a book about a secret clan of werewolves who go undercover at a high school and learn how to be truly human once again?”
“Jesus Christ!” Ken Brosky said. “No werewolves! No vampires! And for the love of god, no zombies!” He held his hands to the air. “Will I receive no help whatsoever from this ill-conceived trip into the Nebraska desert?”
Suddenly, the ghostly image of Stephanie Meyer disappeared. It was replaced with the ghostly visage of Jim Shepard–”ghostly images” are convenient because they avoid litigation–and Ken Brosky took a step back.
“Research,” the ghostly visage of Jim Shepard said. “And then write.”
Ken Brosky nodded and returned to his MFA program for a much-needed glass of beer. He began researching, and writing.
When he graduated, he continued writing.
Ken Brosky likes: good fiction, chicken, s’mores, amber beer, talking to himself, video games with a story, really good fountain soda with the perfect mixture of syrup and fizz, chocolate-frosted cake doughnuts.
Ken Brosky dislikes: cell phones, germs, dog throw-up, those guys who stand at the counter and wait for someone to text them back so they can order but they won’t let me order first even though I know what I want. Also, waittresses who don’t write down your order, then come back asking you to remind them what you ordered. Just write it down, please.
Favorite movies: The Thing, Batman Begins, American Movie.
Favorite author at the moment: P.G. Wodehouse.
Favorite dragon: That one I fought in Dragon Age II.
Most hated athlete: Albert Pujols. God didn’t have anything to do with your bloop single into right field, you idiot. Stop thanking him.
Best place to sleep: In a bed.
Favorite number: 44. I think 4 is the best single-digit number. Logically you might say 4444 would be the ultimate favorite number because it has 4 4′s, but I think 444 is overdoing it. Also, 444 has 3 digits, and the number 3 is stupid. So 44 works best. It has 2 digits, which if you square you get 4 so it all works out.
Favored nap duration: 1.5 hours.