Chapter 1

It is my goal to write the worst book of all time.  I will begin here.  Brace yourself for a shit spectacle of paranormal proportions that will beset this blog.

This is for all the Rebecca Blacks, Stephenie Meyers, and George Lucases out there.  You guys suck.  Now here's my pile of shit.  Go on; read your hearts out.

1. Opening Image:
A battered tanned ball rips across a bloodied orange sky with a scream of unholy vengeance, like an 80s hair singer's opening crescendo for a stadium splitting rock melody, ripping through the air to meet it .  The worn orb is a baseball adorned w/several extravagant, but fading inked autographs.  The scream that reeks of thrash metal advertises from the the pitch guts of an obese armed blind worm(or some odd creature that could somehow be tied to baseball)

While soaring through the deep pumpkin colored sky the ball's trail becomes a rowdy echo of the hearty wooden crack which propelled it from the bat that smashed it skyward. 
As the ball nears the gargantuan freakish worm the signatures of Baseball legends past glow gold in the already amber air, and ignite the ball into a cataclysm of hobbied wrath. 
The baseball tears through the maw of the wurm exploding into a miniature supernova of fiery light.  

The batter, surprised at the power of this simple toy, stands mouth agape for a moment.

But, through the small cloud of ash that falls from where the demon was previously airborne he sees 30 more creatures that are the same rotten pallor, but in different likenesses beginning an advance toward him.

<Battle description> 

Trophy falls to one knee and his forehead comes to rest on the butt off his wooden falchion.  As he eyes the dirt beneath him, and struggles for air Trophy's garb turns back into the lame street wear he's considered cool punk fashion. 

"I'm so fucking awesome with this bat...", Trophy smugly whispers through a pleasant smile to himself. And shrugs into an exhausted slump; collapsing onto the corpse of  a lanky demon.  Looking forward Trophy sees the battlefield of his hometown: Empty, orange, and ravaged.  Trophy's thoughts counter to the figure of a woman fleeced of pretense.  The figure walks toward Trophy and stops just short of his reach.
"Alaska?", is Trophy's only muttering before his fatigued eyelids betray him.  The streets of Boston become darkness as Trophy's eyes close into sleep. 

*  *  *

2. Theme Stated
Love Song plays on the radio of a completely average sedan