Frothy is for rootbeer

When I measured my age in single digits, one of my favorite things in the world was root beer. There were ads touting a frosty mug of frothy, ice cold root beer on TV in those days (and this WAS before color TV.) Dad had introduced me to root beer early in life and by the time I was 5, I was addicted. He would finish work before Mom did, so he'd pick my sister and me up from the babysitter and take us to the A&W Drive-in. We'd get great big chunky glass mugs of root beer brought to the car. The ice would have already formed on the outside of the mugs - even in the heat of the Las Vegas desert. The three of us would sit there freezing our hands and chugging enough root beer to float small nations.

A&W closed it's restaurants. They bottle their root beer now. It's not the same. The flavor is flatter. It's no where near as rich and spicy. 

So while I doubt there's a single person alive or dead who'd describe me or what I write as frothy, if we extend the root beer story out to metaphor, I might could get by with dark, rich, and spicy with a sweet creamy finish.

But frothy as in bubbly and effervescent?

I don't think my train stops at that station. The tracks do take long winding paths through sarcasm and smart-assery, though. Does that count?

Who knows where there's still an A&W brick and mortar hold out? I need a frosty mug.

Protag Face-Off: Bigger Funny Bone

Our topic this week is "Our Frothiest Book." 

Bwahahaha!
clears throat

While I crack jokes aplenty in my books, I don't know that any of them meet the "frothy" threshold. Though, when it comes down to choosing which of my protagonists has a more robust sense of humor, I think Bix, an old AF cosmic entity, leading the Immortal Spy UF series has a bigger funny bone than Vadrigyn, the parasite-wielding fire warrior starring in LARCOUT. It's not that Vadrigyn doesn't find shit amusing, it's just that when she says she's going to slay you, she means that literally...language barriers being what they are and all.

Bix being her charming self:

Tobek held her gaze as he detached his prosthetic arm and handed it off. His expression took on a hint of wariness.

She wagged a finger at the rough puckers of his amputated flesh and whispered loudly, “Where are the alien worms?”

His brows drew together. 

She couldn’t stop the snort-giggle. “With that kind of a buildup, I expected some sort of secondary life form. At least a dozen. Maybe purple and covered in mucus? Lots of teeth, no eyes? A regular shortened arm is kind of disappointing, frankly.”

Vadrigyn trying her best to blend in:

Vadrigyn pivoted. Her fist connected squarely with the nose of the closest fool…and punched through the back of his skull. Blood and brain oozed down her wrist and stained her vambrace. The body reduced to sand, leaving her with a skull bracelet.

Fragile blood-beings.

All progress toward Sana ceased. Silence filled the orchard save for the keening wind. Sana wiped gore from her face then abruptly twisted away, vomiting.

Vadrigyn recited a Morsam litany. Soft blows, barely more than a swat at the air, would suffice to incapacitate a blood-being. She knew that. Gentle. She must be gentle in combat.

How absurd.