Not Pounded By Romance Wranglers Of America Because Their New Leadership Is From The Depths Of The Endless Cosmic Void - (Classic Tingler Revisited)

this is such a fun classic tingler to revisit. usually topical tinglers are difficult to trot back over because you end up thinking ‘well i understood this at the dang time but now why do i care about some random senator with a scandal about kissing bigfoot?’. honestly i think this is fair reaction but as man name of chuck I LIKE ART THAT CONNECTS TO A MOMENT IN TIME. it is okay for art to change and mutate and it is also okay for it to stay pinned to a moment. when it is pinned like this we can all trot back and look at it and say ‘wow look at this feeling we froze in time’. i suppose thats what ALL art is about anyway

one old current event tingler that i think is worth a revisit is NOT POUNDED BY ROMANCE WRANGLERS OF AMERICA BECAUSE THEIR NEW LEADERSHIP IS FROM THE DEPTHS OF THE ENDLESS COSMIC VOID because dang what a time that was. chuck wrote this when organization called the romance writers of america started making some bad calls about being fair to their members specifically members of various marginalized groups. honestly they had a PRETTY DEVILISH WAY and so i knew i was gonna talk on it but THEN SOMETHING ELSE HAPPENED

president of romance writers of america (we will call him president devilman) said in an interview: ‘oh yes i know chuck he is actually two people writing together’

which is pretty dang funny because unless we are talkin on my REVERSE TWIN trying to steal my bones then i am only one person. this also was kind of a relief because i thought ‘oh well he obviously does not know who i am’

it is kind of funny how often i notice this online, buds saying ‘oh yes i know chuck that is a buddy of mine’ when i can assure you I DO NOT KNOW THESE BUDS.

anyway please enjoy this moment in time with a pound free tingler

Gorblin Crimble is an aspiring romance author with a brand new novel that could be his first breakthrough hit. Of course, Gorblin is going to need some help getting his work out there, and starts by seeking likeminded creatives.

After attending a local writer’s group, Gorblin makes a new friend, Amber, who points him towards Romance Wranglers Of America. It sounds like this community is exactly the helpful, loving, supportive group that Gorblin is looking for, but when him and Amber arrive at the Romance Wranglers Of America headquarters, they quickly realize something is wrong. This once loving group has been taken over by a dark and mysterious force; lead by a man named Demon and his chanting coven of board members in jet-black robes.

Something horrible from the depths of the cosmic Void has taken hold, but is it too late to prove that romance is about love, not hate?

This important no-sex tale is 4,300 words of reasonable writers looking for a kind and supportive romance community that respects its members and treats them fairly.

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NOT POUNDED BY ROMANCE WRANGLERS OF AMERICA BECAUSE THEIR NEW LEADERSHIP IS FROM THE DEPTHS OF THE ENDLESS COSMIC VOID

By Chuck Tingle

I’ve always wanted to be a writer, but falling into the genre of romance was a bit of an accident.

Truth be told, my first love is mystery; crafting a story with a whole slew of characters that builds layers and layers of intrigue as it goes. I love creating plots that spread out like a web, then slowly allowing the reader to unravel it for themselves.

Of course, the most important part of any web is the connections within it, the points on a map that represent each character and their correlation to the next. As I wrote, I started fully developing these relationships, and often found this specific part of my writing is what readers enjoyed the most.

Causing things to get a little steamy here and there was often my favorite part of the story.

I had little success with these mystery tales, but based on the reviews I got there was no denying my talent for the erotic. Eventually, I started to focus more and more on those carnal connections, shedding the trappings of mystery entirely and focusing instead on full-blown romance.

Now I’m proud to say that I’m a real life, fulltime, no kidding writer, and that fact in itself is something I couldn’t be more proud of. Still, it’s a job, and I’m at the point where I’m starting to get burned out on the constant pressure to produce more and more words just to keep up. It’s like running on a mental treadmill that you know will never end.

I’m not trying to complain. I know my job is great, but I’m the kind of person who wants even more. I’m not going to be satisfied until I feel like I’m living up to my full potential, and right now that’s not at all what I’m doing.

Fortunately, I’ve got a brand new novel that’s destined to change all this.

“Hey, is this the writer’s group?” I question, peeking my head around a corner in this small, cozy bookstore.

Tucked away in the little nook is a collection of fellow authors with their chairs circled up, the whole lot of them looking over at me with warm expressions on their faces.

“It is!” one of them offers, patting an empty chair next to them. “Welcome.”

I sit down and am immediately greeted with a series of hellos and introductions from the rest of the writing group.

“I’m Gorblin,” I offer. “Gorblin Crimble.”

One of the women across from me can’t hide her expression of recognition, her eyes widening slightly as my name crosses her ears. She’s already introduced herself as Amber.

“The Gorblin Crimble?” the woman questions.

A wave of embarrassment washes over me. I was excited to join this writer’s group, to see if they could help me blast the release of my next novel off into the stratosphere, but I also knew that eventually my genre of choice would become a topic of conversation.

Apparently, someone here is already aware of my work.

“That’s me,” I admit.

The group seems to be split between looks of confusion and sudden recognition. Fortunately, none of them seem to be looking down on me for the simple fact that I happen to be a romance author.

“Well, that’s great!” Amber continues. “I’m a huge fan! Welcome!”

Sweet relief pulses through my veins. I can already tell these people are going to be a real pleasure to meet with every week, perfectly open to having a romance writer in their mix. Personally, I’m proud of my genre, but I’ve been dismissed on more than one occasion by other writers who arrogantly see their work as more literary.

“Well, we normally start things off with the peer reviews from last week’s meeting, but since we have a new member tonight, maybe we can talk about whatever project you’re working on,” a man with glasses, named Benben, offers. He nods in my direction. “Would you like to tells us what brings you here?”

“Sure,” I reply, now feeling perfectly welcome and accepted. “Well, if you didn’t already figure it out, I write romance novels. I’ve had some success with self-publishing, but I also feel like I could be doing more. I don’t think I want to go to a big publisher because I like working for myself, but I was curious about any resources you might know of to help this next release get taken more seriously.”

The writer’s group all nods in unison, listening intently.

The man in the glasses clears his throat. “Well, I write horror, so all of my connections are in that world. I know some folks who can help with releases, but they’re not really in your genre.”

The others offer similar sentiments. Unfortunately, there’s not a single other romance writer in the bunch, and the general connections here seem to be based in worlds that have nothing to do with me. There’s a lot of great encouragement and advice to be found within this little circle of authors, but right now what I’m looking for is concrete assistance taking my novel to the next level.

“You know who you should talk to,” Amber suddenly chimes in. “Romance Wranglers Of America.”

“Who?” I question, my interest instantly piqued.

“Romance Wranglers Of America are a group of authors who created helpful orginzation for other writers in their genre,” Amber explains. “They offer legal help and resources and, most of all, a community. Talking to them is probablyexactly the kind of help that you’re looking for.”

“Whoa,” is all I can think to say. “Thank you so much.”

The people here are so kind that the last thing I want to do is make this meeting about me, so I quickly attempt to pull things back. I’ve found what I was looking for.

“Maybe you can give me their contact information later?” I ask, hoping to move on.

Amber smiles. “Contact information? I’ll take you to their headquarters if you want!”

“Wait, what?” I stammer.

Amber nods. “They’re only a few miles from here, and they’re open pretty late. You could at least fill out a membership form and get the process started.”
 I laugh, blown away by my new friend’s generosity and consideration. “That would be amazing.”

“You know,” Benben suddenly interjects, gazing over his glasses at the two of us and finally tiring of this digression for their meeting’s typical path. “Amber didn’t exchange stories with anyone last week because there was an odd number of people. If you hurry over there right now you could probably get in before they close.”
 I glance over at Amber, who nods in acknowledgement.

“Let’s go,” she offers with a smile.

The next thing I know the two of us are standing up, gathering our things and heading for the door. I’m astonished at how proactive this night has been, and I’m exceedingly grateful for the help that Amber has offered me while asking for nothing in return. I suppose that’s the great thing about other writers who care for their fellow craftsperson; we know what it’s like to put in long hours behind the laptop. We want to help because we love the written word, not battling each other for a spot at the top.

We’re doing this because we love to create.

Hopefully, Romance Wranglers Of America share similar values.

“I’ll drive,” Amber offers as we head out through the front door of the bookstore and onto the sidewalk, greeted by a cold, dark evening.

She heads towards a car parked nearby and soon enough I’m climbing into the passage street as she starts it up and steers off into the night.

We cruise for a while, watching as two yellow headlights slice through the darkness before us and illuminate our way. We’re headed downtown, an area I don’t visit very often.

“Why do they call themselves wranglers?” I suddenly question.

“Bringing all kinds of people together,” Amber explains, her eyes on the road. “You’re wrangling them.”

I suppose that makes sense.

“And you’ve been here?” I question. “I thought you didn’t write romance.”

“My friends do,” she explains. “I’ve heard nothing but good things about this group. One word of warning, though, they’re very attractive.”

I laugh. “Why would I need to be warned about that?”

“Veryattractive,” she repeats, emphasizing the word ‘very’ for a second time. “It can be a little distracting. You’ll probably want to give a pound or take a pounding.”

“Well, this is a piece of erotic fiction were in,” I remind her, breaking the fourth wall. “It wouldn’t make much sense if there was no sex.”

Amber shrugs. “I’ve seen it before. You ever read Chuck Tingle?”

I shake my head. “Never heard of him. Great pen name, though.”
 Amber nods. “He writes some books with no sex. Sometimes they’re asexual stories, sometimes they’re stories about consent. Hell, sometimes they’re straight up horror. It really depends. We’re probably not in a Chuck Tingle book, though.”
 “Why not?” I question.

“If this was Chuck Tingle then a handsome dinosaur would’ve already shown up,” Amber offers. “So far this is a little too normal. I’m sure we’re just characters in some standard, by-the-numbers erotica story.”

I gaze up at the words above me, looking through the physical realm of this tale and across the actual page that it’s written opon. I’m trying my best to catch a glimpse of the title page or the author name, but it’s just too far away at this point. We’re already fifteen hundred or so words in, and the first page of this story is nowhere to be found.

On a whim, I glance down in the other direction, glancing forward through this fable in the hopes of picking up on a clue or two. I quickly find exactly what I’m looking for.

“Oh shit,” I blurt. “Dinosaurs you said? This is definitely a Chuck Tingle story.”
 Suddenly, Amber cries out in alarm as she pulls her steering wheel to the right, her car swerving wildly around a dark, shadowy figure in the middle of the road. There is a loud squeal of tires as the inertia of our vehicle pulls me hard to the side, and the whole world whips through my field of vision in one complete, swift revolution.

We suddenly come to a stop in the middle of the street, facing the exact opposite direction now and with our headlights pointed at the strange humanoid shape. It hasn’t moved.

“Are you okay?” Amber questions. “I’m so sorry.”
 “I’m fine, I’m fine,” I assure her. “What the fuck is that?”

The two of us gaze out through her front windshield, trying to make sense of this mysterious form that continues to stand perfectly still.

Not knowing what else to do, the two of us climb out of her vehicle and call over to the figure.

“Hello?” I yell. “Do you need help?”

The shadowy form doesn’t move.

“What are you doing in the middle of the road?” Amber joins in. “It’s dark!”
 The two of us leave our doors open and the car running, then slowly creep towards the figure. My heart is slamming hard within my chest as I go, wishing I could be anywhere else besides this unexpectedly frightening scenario.

Soon enough, we’re standing directly behind the mysterious humanoid, close enough to touch them.

Amber and I exchange glances once more, then my new friend reaches out and places her hand on the figure’s shoulder.

Suddenly, the form turns around to reveal their face. It’s a green, scaly raptor, breathtakingly handsome if not for the fact that bubbling black ooze is pouring out of their eyes and mouth. The toxic tar spills forth in a sticky mess, running down their chin and neck and splattering onto the ground. They appear disheveled and distressed, wandering aimlessly in the darkness.

“Oh my god,” I gasp, staggering back a bit as the horrific dinosaur snaps its teeth and twitches in a bizarre, seemingly random pattern.

The raptor lets out a ghastly, gurgling scream that sends a chill of utter horror down my spine, then turns and takes off in the opposite direction.

Amber and I have no other choice but to watch the strange creature as it goes, utterly confused and shocked by the disturbing sight we just witnessed.

“What the fuck was that?” I question once the raptor disappears into the darkness, leaving us with one final otherworldly shriek.

“I have no idea,” Amber offers in return. “Lets get back to the car though, there might be more of them out there who are just as strange but not as friendly.”
 We hurry back to her vehicle and climb inside.

“We don’t have to go any further,” I offer. “I can check out the Romance Wranglers headquarters some other time when it’s more… safe.”

Amber shakes her head. “Honestly, the best place for us to be right now is in that building. Romance is all about love, and something tells me the black ooze is not gonna be welcome there.”

My friend starts up her car and soon enough the two of us are continuing along on our journey. We drive in silence now, our minds consumed by a number of strange thoughts.

“I guess we’re certain this is a Chuck Tingle book now,” I offer, breaking through the gloom and causing Amber to let out a sudden, breathless cackle. “That was a dinosaur… I think.”

“Looks like it,” Amber replies with a nod.

A sudden realization washes over us at the exact same time as we turn and stare at one another awkwardly.

“I’m gay,” I inform her.

“Me too,” Amber replies.

The two of us erupt in laughter once more, pulling the evening slightly back into the realm of normalcy once more.

It doesn’t last long.

Amber begins to slow down a bit, gazing up at the building that towers above us. I hadn’t been paying much attention, but now it’s the only thing within my field of vision. I have to lean forward just to gaze up at this bizarre structure through the windshield.

“Is that the Romance Wranglers Of America headquarters?” I question, the words falling limply out of my mouth.

“It… was,” is all that Amber can think to reply.

The structure looks as though it might’ve been a normal office building long ago, but not any longer. Now, a strange, jet-black form has grown through the cracks of its structure, winding together like some sharp, cancerous growth that erupts out jaggedly in every direction. The black substance appears to have infected this whole place like some kind of parasite, a living entity feeding off the positive energy that once thrived within.

We park out front, Amber and I stepping out of her car to stare up at the towering shape before us. From here I can get a better look at the physical form of this toxic monstrosity, which appears to be breathing softly with a slow, gurgling rhythm. The black tar we’d seen pouring from that unfortunate dinosaur is dripping from every pore of this structure, dripping onto the sidewalk in a variety of small pools that shimmer like dark mirrors.

“It smells like burning,” I announce.

“It sounds like hell,” Amber chimes in, making note of the squeals, hisses and gurgles that are emanating from within the structure.

We stand here a moment longer, just staring at this horrific abomination that has somehow sprung up in the place of something that had once been so positive and supportive.

“Well, I guess you’ll have to find some other group to join,” Amber jokes, then turns around and starts heading back towards her car. I follow behind.

“Wait!” a voice suddenly calls out, stopping the two of us in our tracks.

We both turn to face the front doors of the building, seeing now that there’s a suited man waving to us.

“Are you looking to join Romance Wranglers Of America?” he calls out.

“Uh… yes?” I reply, not quite sure how to answer at this point.

“Well good!” the man continues. “Come on in and we’ll get your paperwork started!”

Amber and I just stand in place, not at all convinced this is a good idea.

“You two alright?” the man calls over.

“Yeah. I’m just thinking,” I offer in return.

“Come on in!” he continues, then glances up at the towering black growth that has taken over the building above him. The man starts to laugh, as if suddenly realizing something. “Oh, that!” he cries, rolling his eyes. “Sorry. We’ve got a remodel going on. I know it looks terrible now, but when they’re finished it’s gonna be absolutely gorgeous.”

I’m not buying it, but at this point my curiosity has gotten the best of me.

I lean in close to Amber. “Should we check it out?” I question under my breath.

Amber nods. “Just stay alert. If things go sideways we’re gone.”
 Finally, we stroll over to meet this persistent man in the doorway.

“I’m Gorblin,” I offer, “and this is Amber. I’m here to learn about Romance Wranglers Of America.”

“Demon,” the man says, reaching out his hand and offering me a firm shake.

“I’m sorry, what?” I reply, not entirely sure if I heard him correctly.

“Demon,” he repeats. “That’s my name.”
 “Okay,” I reply, glancing over at Amber.

Demon turns and leads us inside, motioning this way and that as he takes us through the lobby.

“So this is out main headquarters,” he offers. “As you can see, we’re doing very well for ourselves.”

The lobby is actually nowhere near as frightening as the outside of the building, but sometime still seems a little bit off. There a strange tension in the air that I can’t quite put my finger on, a toxic psychic energy that permeates absolutely everything.

Demon leads us to an elevator and we step inside. I notice now there are no numbers listed on the buttons before us, just strange symbols that seem to fold in on themselves in a way that defies the physical properties of our world. I find myself staring at them awkwardly, lost in a strange trance as I struggle to make sense of their meaning. Finally, Amber elbows me in the ribs and pulls me out of my dreamlike haze.

We’re traveling upward now, and with every floor we pass the elevator fills with muffled screams of agony and pain from somewhere outside.

“What’s that?” I question.

“Just writers trying to work out their ideas on the lower floors,” Demon explains. “You know how frustrating that can be.”

Eventually, we arrive at the floor marked with a particularly strange symbol.

“This is our editing department,” Demon explains.

The doors before us slide open and we step out onto the landing, greeted by an enormous room of men and women all diligently typing away at the computers before them.

To be honest, this place isn’t nearly as frightening as I expected, and now I don’t really know what to think. Sure, this whole experience is rather strange, and there’s no denying something was gravely wrong with that dinosaur we encountered on the way here, but I’m actually starting to think my paranoid nature might be getting the best of me.

Demon strolls out of the lift and begins to escort us down one of the aisles of workers, showing off just how well this organization seems to function.

“So every one of these people is editing a different romance novel?” I question. “That’s incredible.”

“Oh no,” Demon replies, shaking his head. “They’re writing threatening letters. Here at Romance Wranglers Of America, we’re not interesting in editing the books of our writers, we’re interested in sending them aggressive but vague messages in an effort to edit the social media posts that are critical of us.”

“Wait, what,” I blurt.

Demon walks over to one of the computers and leans down, reading over the work that’s currently being done.

“See, this is someone who said we once were a great organization, but now we’ve been taken over by a manifestation of the existential dread horror of the endless cosmic Void,” Demon laughs. “We’re vaguely threatening them. That should do the trick.”

Demon pats the worker next to him on the shoulder, then moves on to the next computer, glancing down at their screen.

“Oh, okay,” he continues. “This person said we were treating certain members unfairly and without due process according to the bylaws of our organization.”

“That seems kind of important,” I interject.

“Ha!” Demon laughs. “They’re getting a threat. Oh, and we’re suspending them.”
 “But, why?” I counter.

“We don’t need that kind of negativity here at Romance Wranglers Of America,” the man explains. “Are you kidding me? Who wants romance from new, unique or marginalized perspectives?”

“I mean… I do,” I explain.

“Ha! You say that now, but trust me, it’s not great,” Demon counters. “First, people start using extended metaphors for important social messages. They start talking about things that matter to them and it’s like, yeah, I get it, but also just show up and pound someone! Next thing you know they’re writing thinly veiled critiques of Romance Wranglers Of America using horror tropes and there’s no pounding at all!”

“Chuck Tingle could write something like that,” I counter. “He’s a romance author.”

Demons eyes go wide. “I know him! Did you know he’s actually a sentient artificial intelligence based out of a server farm on Deer Springs road in Nevada?”

“I don’t know about that,” I counter.

Demon shrugs. “Either way, you’re wrong about one thing. Chuck Tingle is not real romance. This is real romance.”

The man opens his arms wide towards the rows and rows of office workers, typing away at their threatening letters.

In this moment, I suddenly get a vision of the warm welcome I’d received just an hour earlier back at the bookstore, the way that my local writer’s group had felt so cozy and kind. I think of how Amber had gone out of her way to help me without asking for anything in return.

“Well, I appreciate your pitch,” I finally offer, “and I know this organization has done some great things in the past, but it seems like the new leadership here is kind of… well… frightening. I think I’m gonna find a writer’s group that understands what romance is really about: love.”

Demon opens his mouth to offer a rebuttal but before he can, a deep, menacing horn bellows out through the room. The lights begin to dim and flicker as eight figures in black robes enter, walking in a line with their heads down.

“Who the fuck is that?” Amber questions.

“The board,” Demon replies with a knowing smile.

The robed figures waste no time forming a long line across the front of the room, standing in complete silence as their workers watch with rapt attention. Moment’s later, a chant begins, strange words from some other time that could just as likely be in the ancient past or distant future. Even more likely, they come from a place where there’s no time at all.

As the chanting continues, one of the office workers stands up from their chair and shuffles to the center of the room. Their eyes are frozen in a strange, hypnotic stare, and the expression on their face is one of complete awe in the very sense of the word. It’s as though they’ve seen past the fictional reality of this story, and even farther past the very page it’s written on.

Instead, they’re gazing directly into the blank space between all things that are; a place for everything that cannot be.

The worker stops at the center of the room, suddenly twisting their body into a horrific contortion. They begin to scream as their frame levitates off the ground, bubbling black tar spilling forth from their eyes, nose, ears and mouth. They begin to chant along with the others, only now this figure is shrieking the words, completely lost in the moment.

“Let’s get out of here,” Amber cries out, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me towards a nearby exit.

I don’t hesitate, and the last thing I see is a cluster of squidlike tentacles erupting from within the workers mouth, lashing about in the air as he gurgles and squeals.

The elevator will be too slow so we take the stairs, running as fast as we can as the chanting continues above us. I’m in survival mode now, my complete focus on escaping Romance Wranglers Of America as fast as I can.

Fortunately, we’re quick enough on our feet to escape the building without anyone catching up to us, bursting forth from the front doors and sprinting over to Amber’s car. We jump in and immediately take off, noticing now that the worker from before has emerged from the building behind us. His body has sprouted several crablike appendages and he’s using them to propel himself after Amber’s car, vomiting up piles of the toxic black tar as he goes.

The vehicle is much faster than our monstrous pursuer, though, and soon enough this bizarre galloping creature disappears into the distance behind us.

We sit in silence for a moment, not quite sure what to say.

“You know, if we hurry… we can probably make it back to the bookstore in time for the end of writer’s group,” Amber offers. “I know it’s not the same thing as that big group resource you were looking for, but it’s something.”

I nod, a smile making its way across my face. “That sounds really nice. Maybe it’ll give me some ideas for when I eventually start a big group of my own.”

“You’re really gonna start something?” Amber questions. “Cool! Consider me your first member!”

“As long as it’s nothing like whatever that’s become,” I offer.

Amber nods. “Anything but that.”