Let me talk to you about lemons for a second. A "lemon" is an Internet term for a story, typically written by a sexually frustrated male aged 14 to 23, involving various popular cultural figures from one or more sources doing dirty things to each other. From a plot perspective, most lemons don't make sense. That's why I try to avoid story-concentric lemons. It's way better to say "Cutesy the Catgirl was walking along the riverside, when all of a sudden Parka Jon jumped out of the bushes and they had sex." Otherwise, you start trying to explain why such-and-such is like this, and so-and-so is like that, and soon you're so busy with characterization that you've forgotten the sex; and if you forget the sex, it's not a lemon, except that it was supposed to be a lemon so the characterization sucks, and all you're left with is a terrible fanfic and an empty bottle of rum.
At least, I was left with an empty bottle of rum. I couldn't find a better explanation for all the lemons on my hard drive; clearly, I wrote them, but I had no recollection of doing so. All I could remember was cruising through the Texas desert in a '58 convertible with a madman at the wheel and a hitchhiker in the back complaining about the smell in the trunk. Having been in the front the whole time, my associate and I hadn't noticed, but at the hitchhiker's insistence we pulled over to investigate. The smell turned out to be a dead buck deer whose upper rack was obviously compensation for whatever had been down below before someone cut his head off. So there we were, three grown men and a deer's head in the middle of Texas.
There was not a pawn shop to be seen for miles. I don't need to explain why this should speak volumes to you of the deep feelings of peril we all had at that moment.
At any rate, that split second of momentous peril marks the beginning of the blackouts for me. I can only recall vague glimpses of the events after that. The old man with the tickets we needed... climbing a cliff in hopes of finding a car at the top to drive to the airport... the hitchhiker pulling a knife on the crazy man in an odd perversion of the usual circumstances... I mean, you'd expect the crazy guy to pull the first knife, but in my experience that only happens in movies and bad Internet stories. I remember him very calmly reaching into his survival jacket and pulling out a knife, it was so deliberate and calculated that I couldn't help but feel threatened on behalf of the planet itself.
And then everything goes dark again, and I remember a few hours later when a steward asks me to close the window as I'm disturbing the other passengers and would I like a pillow or perhaps a nightcap?
And then finally the fuzzy memory of a hangover, as I wake up seated in front of my computer, the empty bottle of Lamb's lying at my feet and a catgirl orgy written in varying levels of detail on the monitor in front of me.
I printed it out, deleted the source, and sold it on a street corner, five bucks a copy. Made a cool twenty-five before the cops confisticated the rest of my stock.