How to Make a Successful Human, the Jackassiest Way Possible

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THIS IS WHAT it has all been building toward, the culmination of seven years and five novels telling the story of foulmouthed Keane and level-headed Sarah, our very own Misplaced Mercenaries.

It is easy for me to look back on the last fifteen years or so and identify people without whose influence and faith none of this would have happened, but I’d like to dig a little deeper. The people whose lack of faith and kindness triggered my very highly developed Fuck You response and pushed me to overcome their lack of expectations.

Because at root I am motivated more by sticking someone else’s face in it than I am by my own success. And I could never have done that without all of you.

Heh.

When my mother was eighteen, she stayed behind when my grandparents went for an extended vacation around the country. They got back home to find her in bed with some man they’d never met. When my grandfather went for his gun (probably—it makes a better story that way at any rate), my mother jumped up and yelled, “Stop! It’s okay! We’re married!”

That guy’s parents were considerably wealthier than my family, and they offered their newly married son ten grand ($90,489.67 adjusted for inflation) to dump my mother and her rapidly swelling belly like a bagful of roach-flavored kale chips. (Really, kale chips already suck. They don’t need roaches to make them worse.) He said, “Great! Where do I sign?” and I never even met that asshole.

When I was four, my mother had become a court reporter in her quest to land a lawyer husband, which she then did. Both of them had previous marriages under their belts and yet neither could hear any acknowledgement of the other’s prior life without collapsing into insecurity-fueled screaming matches.

This made my presence, as a living embodiment of my mother’s Life Before Him… problematic.

Whiney Shit Alert: This man, who did adopt me, was every bit as good and loving a parent as any other wallet might have been. Well, maybe a half-sewn-shut wallet. He was (and is) a classic Angry Narcissist, and while he paid for me enough to keep me alive, he has never told me he loved me, and was thrilled when I finally gave him a reason to disown and disinherit me.

Back to the Story: Growing up, my “father” did not believe in me as a potential success, or as a human being, and was all too happy to tell me so throughout my childhood. (Punching down was his third favorite pastime, right behind screaming at the TV during sports games and humiliating restaurant wait staff. My siblings joke that he likely holds the world record for most kitchen spit eaten by anyone alive.)

Now, this could have turned me into a victim, or it could have turned me into someone who looks to themselves for their happiness rather than relying on external factors. (Some days it’s both.) But it made me funny as a means of coping, and it thickened my skin against all the other assholes out there.

And there have been a few.

But, and here is finally the point, this kind of conditioning has allowed me to develop a profound appreciation for everyone in my life who isn’t a giant inflatable anal-kayak made out of sandpaper. Nice folks, supportive folks, helpful folks, hell, even just folks who don’t hurl a brick when they could, are utterly delightful to me and fill me with the desire to reciprocate. To be at least as nice back to them as they’ve been to me.

Lena thinks I occasionally take the concept too far, such as when she caught me offering a heartfelt thank-you to a dropped cracker that landed peanut butter-side-up. But hey, practice makes perfect.

Anyway, I just wanted to express my gratitude to everyone who held onto their kale chips and stuck it out with me this far. Book five, Heroes Kill Everyone, is a fitting end to a series I have loved creating. I love this book, and I can’t wait to find out what you think of it.