Garrison Kelly's Blog, page 111

Stone Cold

It was feeding time for the axe-wielding tribal warrior known as Brutus Warpath. He didn’t feed on just any kind of snack. He wanted blood. He wanted souls. He hungered for vengeance against those who murdered his wife. The hunger was driving him insane. On his path to vengeance, Brutus cleaved through every goblin, ogre, and zombie who dared to stand in his way. All that remained of his path of destruction was an ocean of blood and a mountain of corpses.

But none of those victories would be enough to satisfy the bearskin-wearing, dreadlocked barbarian. For his main course (and maybe his dessert), he wanted no more than the two people directly responsible for the death of his wife: the hog sorcerer Zod Ragefist and the kinky human dark paladin Domino Gunn. The image of those two burned so badly in his mind that they left third degree scars. Brutus’ bloodlust was growing with every moment the image of those two fiends murdering the one he loved tormented his mind. And now it was time for payback.

The anger and hatred within Brutus Warpath had months to build up in his system, probably because it took that long to locate Zod and Domino’s lair. He experienced the aches and pains of his pent up stress such as heart palpitations, headaches, and muscle soreness. Like the tough son of a bitch he was, Brutus pushed these “minor” pains to the backburner and put his game face on.

The lair was actually a hollowed out dragon corpse with the scales, bones, and blood stains preserved with Zod’s dark magic. Was any of this supposed to be intimidating to Brutus? Maybe, but the tensed up warrior readied his battleaxe and entered the mouth of the dragon with a stalking pace.

As he crept down the hallway of this dragon corpse, he could see runic symbols carved into the bones, the magic of which glowed bright orange. Were Zod and Domino expecting him? They should have been. In fact, Brutus didn’t want to wait to seek his revenge anymore. He gritted his teeth, gripped his axe handle tightly, and growled like a lion as he ran down the corridor.

Brutus was so blinded by his rage that he failed to notice his legs getting heavier and heavier with each blitz. He thought he could just soldier on and ignore the pain, but then he experienced yet another sharp sensation, this time in his arm. He collapsed to the ground huffing and puffing due to the angry stress he put on himself.

“What’s wrong, Brutus? Don’t tell me you’re getting nervous around a woman like me.” That seductive voice came from none other than Domino Gunn, the female dark paladin whose studded leather armor looked more like a dominatrix’s corset and whose boots looked more suited for someone with a trample fetish. Her weapon of choice, a ball and chain, wasn’t very sexy at all and reminded everyone who screwed with her that they were always in the fight of their lives.

Flanking the lovely, yet dangerous raven haired vixen was someone who could never be accused of loveliness: Zod Ragefist, a humanoid warthog with piercings and runic tattoos everywhere while wearing a red wizard’s robe and carrying a wooden snake staff. Zod and Domino were the last two people Brutus should have been having stress pains around.

As the barbarian was still trying to get his wits about him, Domino leaned down next to him and cuddled him like a small child. “There there, little one. It’ll all be over soon. You can say hi to that bitch wife of yours. But really, why would you want to see her again when you can have all of this? I’ve been watching you, Brutus, and I’ve been studying you. You and I, we both want the same thing. We have the same desires. Now that you’ve finally found us, hehe, I’m going to give you exactly what you want.”

Domino licked Brutus’ dark-complexioned face and that was enough to set him off and for him to ignore his pain once again. The warrior picked up his axe and attempted to chop Domino’s head off, but the crafty dark paladin ducked underneath and threw a shot of her own with her ball and chain, which Brutus also ducked. The two of them threw their hardest shots at each other with such brutal speed and deadly power, yet they both evaded each other’s attacks with acrobatic flips and shimmies.

The single-minded Brutus already forgot that there was another combatant in the room, Zod Ragefist, who was chanting a magic incantation with his throaty pig voice. The warthog pointed his staff and threw a stream of electricity into Brutus’ body, causing him to ball up in pain and scream in dramatic torture. The electricity continued to surge into the barbarian’s body until he collapsed onto the ground and coughed up blood.

Zod and Domino leaned down next to his prone body and the former of the two villains said, “Look at you, barbarian. You’re so blinded by rage that you don’t even know what the hell your swinging at. How can a woman mean that much to you? You walked into a death trap, all by yourself, no less, and somehow you’re okay with this. I knew your wife very well, Brutus. She would never condone this kind of recklessness, even from you.”

Domino added, “You know how in romance novels how the sweet innocent girl tries to fix the coldhearted man? Do you know how often that works? Never! It clearly didn’t work with you. You look like hell, my friend.” Brutus coughed up more blood, but that didn’t stop Domino from snuggling up next to him like they were a couple laying in bed. “But if anybody can change your ways, it just might be me. I’m not going to do it with sweet, diabetes-inducing tactics. My love is tough. My love is hard. And yet, my love…is forever!”

The dominatrix-like dark paladin leaned forward and tongue kissed a vulnerable Brutus, tasting his blood and taking a little bit of his pride along the way. Just like with her previous advances, all this did was anger the barbarian to where he rolled Domino on her back and pinned her arms down with his bloody mouth drooling over her now fearful face.

“Is that why you killed her? So that I would be single again?! You wanted to have me that badly?!” shouted Brutus. “Well, guess what, you crazy bitch. Today is your lucky day. For the first time in a long time, a stud muffin like me…is going to give you head!”

Domino and Zod shared a laugh together before the former said, “Oh, that’s rich. Well, what are you waiting for…stud muffin?”

“Yeah…what am I waiting for. Except I don’t mean THAT kind of head. I had something a little more piggish in mind!” In one fluid motion, Brutus leapt to his feet and threw Domino’s body at Zod, who dropped his staff and caught her in mid-air. With the warthog’s hands too busy to cast spells, Brutus picked up his axe and took the world’s biggest swing. The kind of “head” he was referring to was the one on Zod’s shoulder’s, which fell into Domino’s lap while the evil sorcerer’s body dropped to the ground.

The sight of her master’s head caused Domino to scream like the woman she was and back up against the dragon’s ribs. Brutus looked down on the frightened fighter with his bloody axe ready and his violent expression creepier than ever. Now that he was in a position of power, Brutus felt the need to relax his pose. But as soon as he did, the stress pains hit him again and he was on his knees clutching his aching chest while struggling to breathe.

The sight of her “lover boy” in pain caused Domino to stop screaming and instead adopt an expression full of rage and anger. She crawled on her hands and knees over to Brutus and pulled his head up by the dreadlocks. “Was it worth it?!” she asked. “Did you think getting revenge on me and Zod would bring you peace?! Well, it’s going to give you all the peace you need, because sooner or later, you’re going to die and deserve it! We could have been something together, Brutus! We could have been lovers! But instead you choose to side with that harlot!”

Brutus’ breathing was getting slower while Domino’s was getting angrier. The barbarian smiled a bloody smile and said, “Don’t worry, sweet cheeks. I saved the last dance just for you. We can still be lovers, Domino. In fact…close your eyes and let me give you a kiss!”

The “kiss” ended up being a vampire-like bite into Domino’s throat, which flooded with blood upon breaking the skin. Domino choked while Brutus bathed in bloodlust. This would be a heavenly feeling to take into the afterlife with him. If there was such thing as a heaven, he would be all sexed up for his wife and they would make true love like a couple of wild animals. Only a few more drinks of blood and both warriors were gone, Brutus via heart attack and Domino via suffocation and blood loss. Talk about going down in a blaze of glory.

Adrenaline Dump

***ADRENALINE DUMP***

As of today, I only have seven more stories to write before I hit number 50 for Poison Tongue Tales. This past Saturday I wrote one called “Born to Die” and the day after I wrote “Minnie-Moo”. In between chapters, I’ve been writing jokes for Face Book and drawing pictures for my Dark Fantasy Warriors collection. And then on Monday…I took the world’s longest nap in my parents’ bed with Sitka snuggling beside me…before watching WWE Raw later that night. Monday was considered a lazy day, to say the least. Today, I’m trying to keep the work rate going with this journal and maybe some paperback reading.

In the UFC, there are times during a match when a fighter will unleash an exciting fury of offense for the first round and be completely drained for the next two rounds (or four if it’s a main event or championship fight). Commentators Joe Rogan and Mike Goldberg will refer to that as an “adrenaline dump”, and no, it has nothing to do with taking a powerful shit. After reading my work schedule in the first paragraph of this journal, do you see how that UFC analogy is appropriate? I work on my creative projects throughout the past few days, do a shit ton of work on Sunday, and then pass out with Sitka on Monday.

This is not the first time I’ve experienced an adrenaline dump. Then again, I bet there are some writers out there who go through the same thing. I played the word game TPBM (The Person Below Me) on the WSS Contest and Company’s forum and made a post asking if the next person experiences downpours of adrenaline. The next person indeed said yes. That’s one other person. But as you all know, the reason I post these journals is to pose questions to my audience, this one being obvious by now.

Actually, the real reason I’m writing this journal is to keep with the tradition of NaNoWriMo as an excuse to write every day since yesterday I technically broke that tradition by falling asleep with Sitka. I’m pretty sure most people will answer “yes” to the adrenaline dump question since we’re all human and nobody here is a 24/7 worker. If you were a 24/7 worker, you’d probably be dead from stress.

We all need to take time to relax and be alone. We don’t always get that time, so when you do, take advantage of it and stretch it out for as long as possible. Taking a break every once and a while isn’t a sign of laziness. A battery cannot generate electricity if it’s not fully charged. The human mind and body cannot compose an opera, paint a painting, or write a novel if that’s all they’re doing with their lives.

I make this point all the time because the word “lazy” is thrown around a lot these days, often unnecessarily and always unfairly. We hear that word all the time in political debates, especially since a year from now we’re going to have a new president. Welfare, food stamp, and social security recipients are unfairly categorized as being lazy by people who don’t know nor care about the recipients’ circumstances. Millennials are stereotyped as being lazy because of their love of technology and their desires to chase their dreams instead of being stuck behind a desk all day. Minorities of all kinds are stereotyped as lazy because they have a harder time getting hired by mostly white employers.

As humans, we’re all capable of working hard and engaging the world in doing so. It’s not just limited to certain age, economic, or racial groups. What separates us isn’t our “laziness”, but our desires. We do work hard, but on other projects that are more important to us than others. Some people want to cure AIDS. Some people want to fight terrorists overseas. Some people want to write novels. Some people want to sing to an audience. The moment we criticize each other for our desires is when hatred spreads like the virus it is. Nationalism doesn’t work. Conformity of any kind doesn’t work, because instead of teaching teamwork, it teaches resentment and bitterness.

I’ve never had the chance or the words to make those statements about false laziness before. I keep wanting to say them, but those opportunities come only after I’ve seen a Face Book meme criticizing one group of people for “taking handouts”. I don’t want to speak about this passionate topic when I’m angry at someone’s ignorance. I want to speak about it when I’m calm, cool, and collected and that time couldn’t have come any earlier than tonight.

So thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for listening to me bear my soul under the guise of a blog entry about adrenaline dumps. Let’s keep the L word out of our political debates and only use it when the situation actually warrants it. Learn the circumstances of the one you’re throwing that word against before it comes out of your mouth. The more you get to know someone, the less likely you are to cast judgment. We’ve got ears, say cheers!


***READING***

It’s been days since I’ve read and reviewed Marie Krepps’ “Love Me Today, Kill Me Tomorrow” as well as Michael Schofield’s “January First”. How many days, I’ve lost track. It’s time for a new book and that new book is called “A Street Cat Named Bob” by James Bowen. I browsed Barnes & Noble for anything that looked interesting and found this book. The front cover features an orange-yellow kitty who looks a little bit like Nacho. Naturally, I had to buy that book.

And, uh…I also paid for copies of Marie Krepps’ books “Box of Chocolates” and “Spunky and the Wizard’s Chair” (written as Ashley Uzzell). Marie is probably going to read that last line and curse me for spending that much money on her books. But the truth is, she’s been so good to me in giving me LuNacho advice, encouraging me to participate in NaNoWriMo, and critiquing my Poison Tongue Tales. Putting a little extra money in Marie’s pocket is my way of thanking her for this year of friendship she has given me. I will always look back on 2015 as the year of Marie Krepps aka Ashley Uzzell. And that thought brings a smile to my face and a tear to my eye! ^_^


***POISON TONGUE TALES***

Tomorrow I plan on getting back to my PTT writing schedule. No naps with Sitka, no new age music with Smokey, just straight up hard work. Tomorrow’s short story will be for the WSS while the day after’s short story will be done independently. Here are the synopses for both of them:


***STONE COLD (WSS)***


CHARACTERS:


Brutus Warpath, Human Barbarian
Zod Ragefist, Warthog Sorcerer
Domino Gunn, Human Dark Paladin


PROMPT CONFORMITY: Brutus has been on a “wild goose chase” for Zod and Domino for months on end.


SYNOPSIS: Brutus has spent months searching for Zod and Domino, the two warriors who slew his wife. As more time passes, Brutus gets angrier and angrier and is more likely to do what Zod says he‘ll do: “give into the evil”. Giving into sadistic tendencies will only make Brutus evil enough to be controlled by Zod’s dark magic. When Brutus finally locates Zod and Domino inside their dragon corpse hideout, he has a decision to make: be just as sick and twisted as Zod wants him to be and violently rape Domino or find a way to make peace with the past.


***ZOMBIE (INDEPENDENT)***


CHARACTERS:


Gail Reinhold, Paladin
Mattie Dent, Drugged Out Mercenary


PROMPT CONFORMITY: None.


SYNOPSIS: In this urban fantasy tale, Gail’s church runs a drug rehabilitation facility in their basement, where holy magic and self-belief keep patients from staying there forever. Gail bites off more than she can chew when she takes in Mattie Dent, a space mercenary who overdosed on combat drugs and is now behaving like an enraged zombie. Despite Mattie’s homicidal disposition and lengthy criminal history, Gail, being the stalwart paladin that she is, refuses to give up on her.


***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Up next on the chopping block is Psymon Nordonus, the vigilante hacker from Poison Tongue Tale “Nail Bomb”. Before writing that short story, I used this character in my videogame idea Final Fantasy Hardcore. He was a hacker in that story too, but he also used a steel chain as a whip when getting into hand-to-hand combat. For reference pictures, I’m going to need a good one of a guy in a hoodie, hopefully one that adds to Psymon’s mysterious ways. I’m sure Google will come through for me like it always has.


***TELEVISION QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Y’all don’t know whether to scratch your watch or wind your ass.”

-Todd from “Chrisley Knows Best”-

Minnie-Moo

Most people went to places like Bellingham Forest to get away from their daily routines. For druid sorcerer Derrick Mango, the forest WAS his daily routine. He had his own log cabin in the darkest part of the woods where nobody could disturb his introverted microcosm. If they did, those people were met with scorn and violence. Derrick valued his privacy more than anything else in this world. One bright May morning, his privacy would be violated in the most savage way.

The sun shone brightly through the cracks of each individual log that made up Derrick Mango’s cabin. Not one single beam of light was enough to stir him from his slumber, which he could be found wearing little more than bearskin boots, wolf skin pants, and a rabbit skin blanket while sleeping on a bed stuffed with bird feathers. He snore was as quiet and friendly as a lethargic puppy’s.

If a mere sunbeam wasn’t going to wake him up, the loud thud against his cabin wall would. Derrick’s eyes snapped to life as he gazed into the crack that formed as a result of a pole axe strike. At first he was frightened, but then his brows furrowed into anger and he dismissed that first shot by saying, “Goddamn kids!” He threw the blanket off and stood up to confront the invader of his privacy.

And then there was another pole axe strike. And another. And another. Each smashing attack blew a gust of tree bark against the hermit’s body. Now was the perfect time for him to be scared. These weren’t just some damn kids. Whoever was defiling his cabin wanted him dead. But why?

Derrick looked around for a place to retreat, but all four walls were being pounded on while the sounds of animal grunting could be heard from outside. Soon the cracks in the wall turned into full-sized holes and the druid could see what was after him: demonic cows. He wiped his eyes just to make sure his vision wasn’t impeded from the sawdust, which it wasn‘t. There really was an army of cows with pole axes trying to break the walls down.

Chunks of the ceiling were falling down upon the forest warrior, which would have meant the end for him, but was actually his salvation. In one swift movement, he dashed towards the nearly demolished wall, leapt through the nearest ceiling hole, and scaled a tree that happened to be right next the cabin. Derrick climbed with such speed and grace that he made it to the top like the super athlete he was. It was a good thing he was so up high since his cabin collapsed after a few more blows from the demon cows.

“What do you freaks want from me?!” yelled Derrick from his treetop nest.

The cow warriors surrounded the thick tree and the leader of the pack finally gave him the answers he needed. “We know she’s here. She’s the one the Bellingham villagers refer to as Minnie-Moo. Such a disgustingly cute name for a disgusting creature.” The sound of a gentle meow caught everyone’s attention and there was the fluffy black and white cat Minnie-Moo curled up in the tree with Derrick. “That would be her! Throw her down here and I’ll spare your life!”

Minnie cried and pleased with Derrick not to surrender, the latter of the two already getting sick of all the bullshit surrounding his invasion of privacy. All he wanted was to be left alone and he had his chance right then and there as he glared at the frightened fluff ball. But instead, the loner needed more answers. “What did this little feline do to you and your clan of circus freaks?”

“She drank from the pool of our most sacred milk. We use that pool for holy rituals and Minnie violated those terms when she nearly lapped it all up. Gluttony is one of the worst sins this world has to offer and she shall be punished for it. Throw her down right this instant! No more questions!” shouted the leader.

Except Derrick couldn’t throw her down even if he wanted to; Minnie was already leaping from treetop to treetop. Some of the bovine warriors charged after her while others stayed behind and started rocking Derrick’s tree back and forth in an attempt to bring him down hard.

The normally nimble hermit tried to stand up and walk across the branch, but the trembling force of each shake caused him to lose his balance and land on his balls. Derrick Mango let out a shrill of pain while desperately clutching his last means of having children. He would have spilled off to the side and be at the mercy of these ridiculous, but fierce fighters.

Emphasis on would. Minnie was dashing across the treetops in circles and flew right into Derrick’s face with her claws stretched out. The agony of having cat blades in his cheeks caused the druid to temporarily ignore his ball pain and spring to a standing position in an attempt to shake off the rogue cat.

The previous shaking from the cow clerics loosened the tree so much that when Derrick danced around, it fell over and he and Minnie rolled down the hill together at a faster speed than the heavy cows could keep up with on their stubby legs. The screaming in pain and the firestorm of curse words would have been more audible if they weren’t vibrating off of Minnie’s stomach. The blasphemous animal dug deeper into Derrick’s face as a means of holding on tightly for this bumpy ride.

The crash and burn would eventually happen at the bottom of the hill, where they landed hard in a rapid river that began carrying them away underneath the water. Only at the threat of drowning would Minnie let go of Derrick’s face and doggie-paddle toward the surface.

The bloody wounds in the pissed off druid’s visage and his already aching testicles only pissed him off even further. Just when the bovines had reached the bottom of the hill looking for their prey, Derrick pulled Minnie underneath the water. Little did they know the bovines lost their trail and they were ready to give up.

Except Derrick wasn’t pulling Minnie underneath for her safety. He did it because he wanted to scream obscenities at her for putting him in this position in the first place. The bubbles in his lungs muffled most of what he was saying, but it was basically along the lines of this whole mess being Minnie’s fault because she led these “freaks” to his hideout and almost got the both of them killed.

He could have gone on forever ranting and raving while not caring if he or Minnie drowned. But luckily, they didn’t have to worry about being underwater indefinitely since the river dropped them off at a shallow part where Derrick could be on his knees and Minnie could swim to the surface. Both survivors of the bovine rebellion coughed, hacked, and wheezed until every last drop of water was out of their noses and throats.

By the time Derrick was done coughing, his testicle pain flared up again and he was screaming while banging the shallow ground with his fists. Meanwhile, Minnie was curled up at the edge of the river like she wasn’t in danger of dying just now. Typical cat behavior: always ignoring humans in their time of need.

Derrick stood up in the raging river and pressed his thighs together while basically tiptoeing his way to where Minnie was laying. His balls were almost ruptured, his face was still bleeding, and he was in a “don’t fuck with me” mood. Hell, his rage alone would have gotten him a victory over that entire squadron of cow people. But the only cow-like creature he had his flaring eyes on at the moment was Minnie.

“You sick little bitch!” shouted Derrick Mango as he inched closer to the shivering cat. “You nearly got my ass killed. You led those demons to my cabin all because of some stupid milk fiasco. Well, it’s a good thing all that milk made you fat, because I want some chow and you’re the only living thing here with meat on your bones!”

Derrick raised his hands in the air monster-style before his ball pain acted up again and he tumbled over to the side of the wet cat. He cried and bitched and moaned while holding his poor aching groin. “Why, sweet god, why?! What did I do to deserve this! Why me?! Why not somebody else?! I didn’t do no harm to anyone!”

Minnie stood up from her sleeping position and licked the salty river off of Derrick’s nose, which was pretty much the only part of his face that wasn’t soaking in blood. The druid said, “Oh come on! Stop making it so hard to be pissed off!” Minnie purred and licked him some more. “I’m serious!” More purrs, more licks. “Don’t make me go all lovey-dovey for you!” Even more purrs, even more licks.

“Ah, who am I kidding. You saved my life just by clawing my fucking face. I guess that squares things between us. That, and you are kind of cute. Cuter than those stupid humans in the village.” Derrick proved his affections by scratching Minnie behind the ears.

“Minnie-Moo, are you alright?!” That cutesy voice belonged to a village girl no older than seven years. She was dressed up like a doll with her thick white dress and wool boots. As soon as she saw Minnie, the cat ran up to the girl and jumped into affectionate, loving arms. The girl looked down at the wounded Derrick and said, “Thank you for saving my kitty!”

“Oh, no problem. If you wanted to pay me back, you could bring me a healer. I’m kind of in a lot of pain right now,” said Derrick.

“Okay!” said the village girl as she turned around and skipped away with Minnie-Moo in her arms.

Derrick rolled over and slowly removed his hands from his aching balls before saying to himself, “Saved by the fucking humans….damn it! Oh well.”

Psychophobia

VERSE 1
“You haven’t helped out society as of late”
I’d rather give nothing than a firestorm of hate
You blame the disabled for all of your problems
You blame the tax code for draining your wallet
You’re as bigoted as the evil men in white hoods
Talk about society? You’re no fucking good
Look into the mirror when you cast your stones
In your house of glass and your throne of bones

CHORUS
White hoods, green suits, black battle boots
Your retard jokes suck and they’re far from cute
Psychophobia is as real as it fucking gets
Yet you’re the one who is fucked up in the head

VERSE 2
A big paycheck goes to the kid with autism
Your hatred and anger creates the wrong schism
Medical visits for the man with schizophrenia
A new liberalism for the new millennium
Comfort and love for the chick with depression
This is when you show your worst aggression
The tea bag is a symbol of ableist ignorance
Paying income tax turns mice into militants

CHORUS
White hoods, green suits, black battle boots
Your retard jokes suck and they’re far from cute
Psychophobia is as real as it fucking gets
Yet you’re the one who is fucked up in the head

VERSE 3
Bullies and criminals come in all shapes and sizes
Injecting their venom into the hearts of the wisest
Keeping people down while you still climb higher
Aiming your pistol and then squeezing to fire
You know nothing about what the fuck it’s like
To be eaten alive by the demons inside
I’ll take my handouts and swallow my pills
While you continue to bitch about the bills

EXTENDED CHORUS
White hoods, green suits, black battle boots
Your retard jokes suck and they’re far from cute
Psychophobia is as real as it fucking gets
Yet you’re the one who is fucked up in the head
Let’s fit your ass for a warm straightjacket
Keep you in the darkness of a cell that’s padded
All that “free shit” sounds pretty damn good, right?
Think about that and have yourself a good night

Born to Die

“Clear your mind. Let your thoughts flow from you like water. Be as still as the mountains.” India Malakar heard every peaceful mantra ever told by his martial arts masters. Even so, none of these calming chants could keep his blood from boiling or his mind from exploding. His fists were clenched with anger, his teeth bit down hard, and his eyes were full of emotional fire. He didn’t look like a serious monk at that point, but his teenaged years were evident in the lack of wisdom his pose showed.

Then again, since he was standing right outside the entrance of the Jackrabbit Marine Bar with drunken mercenaries laughing their asses off, it was hard to remain cool. These same mercenaries implanted thoughts in India’s brain of them burning his village to the ground while asking where the hell their protection money was. The Born To Die Mercenary Guild may have been protectors at one point, but money was their only creed and humanity was in short supply.

India tried to push the angry thoughts of violent retribution from his mind. He tried to forget the traumatic ghost that filled his thoughts with fiery huts, bloody corpses, and laughing soldiers. The harder he pushed them down, the stronger they came back up. A wiser monk would have made peace with even the closest memories of the past. India was barely out of high school and wisdom wasn’t his best feature. His fists, feet, elbows, and knees, on the other hand, looked like they were ready to do some ass kicking. The pissed off monk took a deep breath in and out (as if it would actually calm him down) and entered the bar without a second thought.

The Born To Die squadron was in full force at the Jackrabbit Marine Bar. With spike armored, camouflage clothed, and rifle-wielding mercenaries cheering her on, the leader of this pact, a giantess of a woman named Jill Henderson, was chugging a glass of beer that was so tall it came up to her waistline. Despite the ample volume of alcoholic liquid, Jill chugged it all like a dam busting open down her throat. The mercenaries cheered as she slammed the tall glass on the bar and ordered the bartender to pour her another one.

Except the bartender wasn’t focused on Jill Henderson’s drinking habits. He was focused on India Malakar’s rage and age. Everyone went silent and stared at the young monk when the horseshoe-pattern haired barkeep said, “Hey there, little guy. Are you sure you’re supposed to be in here? This place is for grownups, not for little kids. So take your skinny ass outside. We don’t want you here.”

Instead of doing as he was told, India shouted at the mercenaries in swear words that were from a foreign language. Nobody could make out what he was saying, so out of sheer ignorance, they laughed at his attempt at hurling insults.

Jill shoved her beer glass off the counter and let it crash to the floor (the bartender couldn’t give two shits about it). She slowly approached the tight-muscled, sash-wearing monk and leaned her massive frame down to his level. She then proceeded to insult India in her own made up racist language when she said, “Aso, aso, aso! Ching-chong teriyaki! Yuki-yuki sooki! Cawpet munchah!” Her “comedy” got a good laugh from her compatriots.

The one person who wasn’t amused was India, who threw a hard slap across Jill’s face with the mercenaries “oooing” in the background. Despite the loud impact, the slap didn’t even cause the seven-foot tall mercenary to flinch. She instead smiled her nearly toothless smile at the little kid and said, “Bitch, you’ve got nothing. Absolutely nothing. Here, let me show you how it’s really done.”

In one brutal motion, Jill smacked India across his face so hard that the adolescent warrior was knocked over a table where a mercenary was sitting, who then proceeded to shove him onto the floor. The laughter was even louder and more obnoxious than before.

“Let your actions flow like the river,” said the sagely voice inside India’s head. “Let your enemies come to you. Seek justice, not vengeance. Choose peace over war.” With the kid lying face down on the floor while everyone is laughing at him, it was even harder to allow peaceful justice to take over his mind. This was a stupid idea. India was vastly outnumbered and much weaker than most of the people here.

He tried to crawl on his hands and knees out of the bar, but he felt a stiff boot come down hard on his spine, holding him still and causing him extreme pain at the same time. That boot no doubt belonged to Jill, who stared at the back of India’s head and said, “You ain’t got the balls, son!” The monk then felt beer washing over his pony tailed hair and suffocating him at the same time. And then more annoying laughter boomed over the bar.

Jill grabbed India by the scruff of his neck and threw him out onto the street with such force that he rolled several feet. “And stay out!” yelled the giantess warrior before getting back to her night of partying.

With India lying in a pile of garbage bags and newspapers, this would have been the perfect time to tap out and cry the night away. Wallowing in self pity and mourning the loss of his villagers and family seemed reasonable considering it was one versus all from the very beginning.

But then a strange feeling came over Mr. Malakar. The trash bags he was lying in happened to be stuffed full of shredded paper from an office building, which felt remotely like his own comfortable bed. This feeling of softness took him back to his childhood years when peace, love, and understanding were easier to achieve. Drinking his mother’s milk, playing around with his father, getting pushed in a wheelbarrow by his older brother…and then the feeling of harmony washed over him once more.

“Are you still here?” said a mocking female voice. India slowly opened his eyes to see Jill Henderson towering over him with her fists clenched and brows furrowed. The monk must have been passed out for hours, because the sun was now underneath the horizon and the moon and stars were out.

Despite the rude awakening, India still had that feeling of calm wash over him from sleeping in softness. His calmness would be tested once more when Jill pulled out the rifle that was slung over her shoulders and cocked it with the intention of finishing off the stalwart monk.

“You know something, my little Kung Pao chicken shit?” said Jill. “I haven’t had this much fun toying with someone in a long time. Usually when me and my men are out on a mission, we have to kill a whole bunch of moronic civilians before we have any fun burning shit to the ground. But now playtime has taken on a whole new meaning for me. Now that your pathetic villagers are rotting in the ground, I just have one question for you, little man. Where do you want me to shoot you: in the head or in the chest? Maybe I’ll blast your tiny dick off first.”

Jill expected that string of insults to rile up the little teenager. Instead he smiled the most beautiful smile his overly whitened teeth allowed. India said in a calm and cool voice, “You don’t understand, Miss Henderson. I don’t need vengeance. I need justice.” With one well-placed kick, he snapped Jill’s leg in half and caused her to accidentally fire her rifle in the air. The surprised mercenary dropped to the ground clutching her torn knee and screaming in agony.

India slowly picked himself up and dusted himself off. He looked around and saw that the other mercenaries in the Jackrabbit Marine Bar had gone home for the day. This couldn’t be more perfect. He picked up the rifle off the ground and said, “Only a coward would ever use one of these!” He broke the weapon over his own knee and discarded the remains in the pile of shredded paper where he was sleeping.

Jill’s broken leg was causing her to roar like a wounded bear. She tried to calm herself with quick raspy breaths, but they did nothing to ease the pain. They did allow her enough room to speak, though: “Go ahead! Kill me, you little prick! You got what you wanted! Now do it! Kill my ass!”

India leaned his face into his opponent’s and said, “You’re wrong, Jill. I don’t have what I want. Like I said, I want justice, not vengeance. Killing you would free you from your punishment of having to think about all of those innocent people you’ve murdered, many of them members of my family. I don’t want your life. I want your career and your thoughts!”

India made a peace sign with his first two fingers and then in one fluid motion ripped out both of Jill’s eyes. Her screams and howls were raised a few octaves as her sockets were bleeding profusely and her broken leg was still killing her. India took a look at the eyeballs in his hand with scorn and then squished them in the palm of his hand.

As soon as Jill was able to listen, India had only one thing to say to her: “Your career as a murderer for hire…is over!”

A Good Night's Sleep

***A GOOD NIGHT’S SLEEP***

I talk about my sleeping habits a lot in these journals because I’m always in search of a reason why my low energy level is interfering with my creative projects. Sleep apnea will certainly suck the strength out of anybody. Being overweight does that all the time. But there are other contributing factors that all of us can pay attention to when it comes to our own lives.

My most recent solution was to wake up at 11:00 in the morning every day regardless of how tired I am. I was able to do it yesterday, but that was only because I actually had the energy to pull that off. I turns out I had a lot of extra time in my day and I used it to finish reading “Love Me Today, Kill Me Tomorrow” by Marie Krepps before writing a review for it and eventually going to my dental appointment. Today, on the other hand, was a much different story. My mom came in and raised the blinds to help me wake up at 11:00 again, but this time I was too zonked out to do it. And then I go back to all the times I woke up early in the day only to take a nap in the afternoon and go back to my usual sleeping cycle.

Yet another solution was to drink milk before going to bed. Milk has a narcotic effect on the human mind and puts said human to sleep in no time at all. Sometimes this has worked for me, sometimes it hasn’t. Maybe the failure rate has to do with me grabbing a midnight snack before going to bed. I’d love to give that habit up, but because I wake up late every day, I’m not around for breakfast. They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day for a reason: because it will determine your energy for the rest of the day and it will leave you full enough so that you’re not hungry before bedtime. I could easily combine the solutions of waking up at 11:00 and eating breakfast and I’d be on my way to perfect health.

But then there’s something else I learned about recently. Did you know that staring at a computer screen has the same optical effect as flashing a light in your own eyes? Blue is a common color in computer screens and it’s the same one that makes your eyes tired when you’ve been sitting in front of the screen for a long time. Starting tonight, I’m going to try something new and you all are welcome to try this if you’re having trouble sleeping. Before going to bed, stay awake for at least another our while trying to avoid looking at computer or TV screens. If you need sleeping music like I do, but you use your computer for that, turn off the monitor and leave the speakers turned on. If you need an activity that trumps dinking around on your social media accounts, read a paperback novel or write in a paper journal. I would advise against listening to your MP3 player since that has a digital screen like TV’s and computers do.

November is a month of challenges. It’s a challenge for writers to produce something every single day, but for me personally, it’s also going to be a challenge to alter my sleeping habits so that I can wake up with enough energy to blow through my creative projects and hopefully lose some weight in the process. Wish me luck! You can also wish me goodnight if you want!


***POISON TONGUE TALES***

My plans to write “Born to Die” have not changed, although it’s getting a little difficult trying to plot this story from beginning to end. I’m going to try and stay disciplined so that I don’t have to choose another story to write in its place. The writing can be easily figured out. The editing, on the other hand, has taken a slightly different direction. As you all know, Marie Krepps is my beta reader and she’s been doing a stellar job of critiquing my work and getting it ready for the marketplace. Recently, she’s been sending me back her notes a rapid fire pace and I applaud her for that. Because I have a lot of stories to work on, I’m no longer going to randomly choose one story at a time to work on. I’m instead going to bulldoze these stories like I did with American Darkness not too long ago. By that, I mean edit the stories in alphabetical order and do three per day with no excuses. You hear that, Death Blade? You too are getting the bulldozing treatment no matter how scary you are! Have I told you all lately how awesome and wonderful Marie is? ^_^


***LUNACHO***

Do you all remember me talking about suspending Blood Brawl because I had writer’s block? It’s the whole reason why I’m trying to finish up Poison Tongue Tales. But what happens after Poison Tongue Tales? I’ll have both an editing and writing job to do. I plan getting Marie’s critiques on my most recent first draft novel “Watch You Burn”. For the writing itself, I’m going all in with LuNacho, the animal fantasy story about two kitties I used to have, Luna and Nacho. Unlike Blood Brawl, I planned out LuNacho the right way and I actually have the intention of following through with it. And this time, though the chapter count of 20 will stay the same, I will start shooting for 40,000 words or more, which means each chapter has to be at least 2,000 words long. Can I do it? You’re damn right I can! It means I’ll have to push myself beyond my comfort zone, but goddamn it, I can do it!


***READING***

Now that “January First” and “Love Me Today, Kill Me Tomorrow” are in my rearview mirror, I need two more books to read and review. My choice for a digital book was easy: “Box of Chocolates” by the ultra-lovely and tough-as-nails Marie Krepps. Since the book is in the neighborhood of fifty and sixty pages long, I could probably read it in one day and review it right away. For the paperback book, as in the one I will read in lieu of dinking around on the computer tonight, I’ve got “A Street Cat Named Bob” by James Bowen. I was browsing Barnes & Noble one day and since this book had a picture of a cute, cuddly kitty on it, I purchased it without hesitation. The kitty on the cover actually reminds me a little bit of Nacho. Aww!


***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

In the past few days, I’ve drawn pictures of two different people with Brock in their names: Ryan Brock (barbarian from “Streetwalker”) and Brock Dempsey (monk from “Maggie’s Wisdom”). That’s a Brock of shit. (Audience boos and throws vegetables at me.) Okay, okay, bad pun, I get it. There won’t be anything funny about the next character I’m going to draw: Corey Darkside, yet another barbarian. Maybe my family is right about me: I AM obsessed with barbarians. Hehe!


***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“What do I think of Seth Rollins? I think he’s a weasel and a thief. He didn’t earn that championship; he stole it from me. At Battleground, it’s over.”

-Brock Lesnar-


***POST-SCRIPT***

And now that makes THREE people with the name Brock.

November

***NOVEMBER***

I’ve spoken on the topic of National Novel Writing Month before, but I did so in a negative light. All this time I was convinced that my mental exhaustion would keep me from pumping out 50,000 words of a singular story within the month of November. Year after year I’ve opted to stay out of this particular challenge. But after having a heart-to-heart with my best friends Marie Krepps and Zero Urrea, I have a slightly different idea of what November is supposed to mean.

Marie disputed the idea of plotters having a disadvantage in this particular challenge. While it is true that I’ve got several ideas for a novel in my writing folder, none of them are planned out from beginning to end, chapter by chapter, scene by scene. Marie suggested that I participate in next year’s contest since a year is ample time to come up with a decent plot, especially something that’s supposed to be 50,000 words long. Of course, I could write the novel right away at that point, but doing it in November is an exercise in discipline and self-motivation since it requires daily attention to the task at hand.

Zero furthered the point of November being an excuse to write every single day. What he said after that put everything into perspective for this particular year. What I’m working on doesn’t necessarily have to be a novel. As long as I write something of substance every day, then the self-motivation is working. Therefore, for November 2015, my main writing project will be finishing my 50 story quota for Poison Tongue Tales. I have 41 stories already written, so I have nine more to go. Obviously, the other 41 stories were written before the challenge started, so I may be cheating a little bit. Other pieces of writing include reviews for books and of course, this journal entry.

You all know about my plans to write “Born to Die”, which is about the martial arts monk who challenges a bar full of mercenaries to a battle royal. My review for January First is live on all of my social media accounts as well as Amazon. The next thing I plan on doing is blitzing through Marie Krepps’ e-book “Love Me Today, Kill Me Tomorrow” and writing an honest review for it. I have only 180 more pages to read and it’ll be over. Right now, the book is looking at a grade between Extra Credit (five stars) and Pass (four stars). The sex scenes are hotter than hell. The vampire logic is well-done too. The thing that will ultimately determine the final grade, however, will be the attention to the topic of mental illness. January First paid great attention to schizophrenia to where it deeply affected me, therefore earning it five stars. We’ll see how Marie’s book plays out.

My attitude toward the month of November has changed significantly since having conversations with Marie and Zero. Plus, seeing my other author friends taking up the novel writing challenge is motivating for me as well. I may not be following every rule of the challenge to a tee, but it’s better than sitting on my ass and letting sleep apnea consume my brain. Let’s get some shit done!


***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Now that October is over and therefore so is Villains Month, it’s time to start drawing some heroes from my short stories and novels as well. My next drawing will be of Brock Dempsey, the angry monk from the story that used to be called “Saggy-Maggie” and is now called “Maggie’s Wisdom”. An angry monk? Someone trying to reach ultimate nirvana is also a hotheaded dynamite shack? Luckily for Brock, he has a cute little puppy-duppy named Maggie to get him through it all. Before you ask, yes, Maggie is based 100% on my black and white Springer Spaniel with saggy jowls.


***HALLOWEEN***

Instead of going to New Orleans, I went around downtown Port Orchard and around my neighborhood with Reina. She was dressed as the female version of Finn from Adventure Time and I was dressed as a member of Slipknot. We both got a lot of candy like we set out to do. But the most rewarding part of that night for me was scaring the shit out of everyone around me. Little kids were crying and screaming in fear at my costume, but also because I slipped onto the rainy ground twice in the same night and unleashed a cataclysm of swear words in the process. As it turns out, my Slipknot mask has piss-poor eyesight, so that will be the last time I wear it for anything other than a photo opportunity. Next year for Halloween, I’m getting a mask without lenses, preferably of the Guy Fawkes or white sheep variety. All in all, it was a good night and I’m glad I got to spend it with my niece.


***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

RANDAL: Jesus Christ, Elias! Step away from the deep fryer before you burn us all alive!

ELIAS: It’s not my fault you abandoned your post!

RANDAL: Was it too much to ask that you make the fries?! The machine does all the work! What, does a machine have to turn into a giant fucking robot before you take it seriously?! Go home!

-Clerks II-

Scarecrow Justice

Living out in the middle of nowhere had many benefits. For the Cobra Strike Militia and their top hit man Edward Bell, it meant freedom from federal agents. But even the motorcycle-riding assassin knew that such liberties were at risk. Something had to be done to make sure certain government officials didn’t make it to their elections. For such “urgent matters”, there was a pistol with a silencer at the end of it stowed in the duffel bag in the side car of the motorcycle, along with other kick-ass toys of destruction.

It was the perfect day for riding through the countryside. The sun was shining brightly upon the cornfields. The only thing breaking the silence for Edward Bell was his bike engine, which was purring like the machinegun he kept in his duffel bag. Unfortunately for him, it was also popping and banging like one. Soon enough, the motorcycle was slowing down and all Edward could say was, “Goddamn it!” when he pulled over to the side of the desolate road.

Such colorful language continued to pour from Edward’s mouth like a flood of obscenities. He loved his motorcycle and couldn’t stand to watch it break down, especially since the time window in between assassinations was getting thin. He ripped the duffel bag out of the side car with his muscular, tattooed hands and unzipped it before searching through its contents for repair tools.

A middle aged white guy with a gray ponytail and black paramilitary gear fixing his bike on the side of the road would have looked suspicious to a lot of people. Edward would have had the solitude he needed if it hadn’t been for the sounds of throaty whispering coming from the cornfields. He stopped turning the wrench on his engine and looked around with a “What the hell?” expression on his bearded face. He dismissed it with a wave of his hand and went back to work with the wrench.

And then the throaty whispers were getting louder. Edward was starting to think he was going insane. He stood up with his monkey wrench held like a weapon and looked around to see where the noise was coming from. He couldn’t find the source and his heart began to beat loudly in his chest. He wiped a cool sweat as it trickled down his forehead into his eyes. The anxiety continued to build as those angry whispers were tormenting him like an acute case of schizophrenia.

“Where the hell are you?! Show yourself! I’ve got enough guns in my bag to rip your ass to shreds! And I love shooting my guns! I don’t give a damn what the government says!” And yet when he was searching through his duffel bag to find his silencer pistol, he was fumbling with it even though it was in plain sight. When he finally had a good grip on it, he felt a hand made from straw grabbing his shoulder from within the cornfields.

Edward had nearly pissed himself as he screamed and crab-walked backwards in blood-chilling fear, leaving his guns to the mercy of whoever grabbed him. Instead of a “Yankee fed”, it was a living, breathing, gossamer and straw-covered scarecrow with a carved pumpkin for a head. His carved eyes were glowing bright orange and his elongated teeth were drooling with blood. He also had several large spiders crawling all over his body and he didn’t even care.

As Edward Bell’s heart beat even faster and his sweaty body rained with salty fluids, he tried to sound brave when he threatened the hideous monster before him when he said, “You stay away from my gun bag! I have the right to have those!”

“Relax. Take a deep breath. I don’t want your pathetic little guns,” said the scarecrow in a demonic whisper. He crept like a zombie across the road with Edward continuing to scoot backwards in underwear-shitting fear. “My name is Cackle-Puss. Laugh at my name if you want, but I’m not going anywhere until I get something from you. It’s something I’ve wanted since you began your career as a hit man.”

The militia assassin was able to calm down long enough to question the legitimacy of Cackle-Puss’s monster status. He stood up, dusted his flak vest and camouflage pants off, and said, “What a damn minute here! There ain’t no such thing as ghosts! This is all a bunch of hocus pocus bullshit! There ain’t nothing stopping me from sticking my boot up your straw ass right now, bitch!”

He marched up to the scarecrow to do just that before Cackle-Puss shape-shifted into someone Edward recognized right away. It was the politician he was sent to kill: John Merton, Democrat of Paulson City. “Do you really want to kill me, Mr. Bell? Is a 12% tax on cigarettes really going to limit your freedom that much? Would you really take me away from my wife and children over something as stupid as politics? I’ve been in this game many times, but you’re the first who wanted to kill me over it. I’m a father and a husband. You have no right to…”

Before the hallucination of John Merton could finish his sentence, Edward took a swing and clocked him in the jaw, knocking him to the ground with a puddle of blood in his wake. The hit man arrogantly chuckled to himself as he knelt down and pulled the politician’s hair to show his face. Except it wasn’t his face anymore. Cackle-Puss had morphed into a beautiful young blond woman and had a pregnant belly to go with the new form.

The woman said, “Why would you do this to me, Edward? I was your wife for ten long years. We were going to have a family together. You started getting drunk every night and then you killed me and our son. I wanted to leave you, but you wouldn’t let me. Why, Edward? After all these years, why?!”

The hit man was now terrified once again as he shakily released his grip on his ex-wife’s hair. He looked down at her pregnant belly and saw a bloody wound in place of their unborn son. Edward Bell backed up slowly on wobbly legs and breathed heavily. Soon that breathing became angry. His brows furrowed and his fists clenched when he said, “This is all a trick! This is bullshit! Magic doesn’t exist! Not in my world! You think you’ve got one over on me, Cackle-Puss?! Don’t insult me, you sick bastard!”

He was about to bring his combat boot down on the morphing scarecrow’s face, but stopped midway through when there was yet another transformation. It was a little Basset hound with a bruised body, bloody jowls, a slashed ear, and a shaky body. The little guy whined and pleaded with Edward, who in turn started trembling in fear as he dropped to his knees and allowed tears to form in his eyes.

“Hey there, little guy,” said the assassin with a quivering mouth. “I didn’t mean to do all that nasty stuff to you. You were just at the wrong place at the wrong time. It was never anything personal. You believe me, right?”

Edward reached his bloody hand out to try and pet the battered puppy, but then Cackle-Puss transformed back into his scarecrow form and the militia nitwit got a bite from the pumpkin-head’s bloody fangs instead. Edward backpedaled and howled in pain while clutching his chomped hand. He fell back on his ass while Cackle-Puss stalked him slowly with fiery eyes and a malicious smile.

“So that’s your answer to everybody you’ve killed. It’s never personal. It’s all part of the job, right?” said the scarecrow. “Because little doggies are a threat to your freedom. So is your wife. So is your unborn child. And so is a politician who also happens to be a family man. How many more must die before you’re satisfied with your ill-gotten constitutional rights? How many guns must you fire for the sake of freedom? How many more? How many more? How many more?!”

Cackle-Puss kept repeating that last question, but in the voices of everybody Edward Bell killed along his path to a free America. The paramilitary soldier clutched his skull and rocked back and forth in schizophrenic agony. He couldn’t stand these voices. He couldn’t stand the fact that Cackle-Puss was right. So he made yet another excuse for himself when he jumped to his feet and threw a flying kick at the scarecrow’s pumpkin head, knocking it off his shoulders.

The head was still screaming in pain, but the body was kneeling down while the spiders and gossamers were fading away. Still in berserk mode, Edward Bell finally pulled his silencer pistol out of his bag and fired several rounds into Cackle-Puss’s body. And then Edward pulled out an automatic rifle and peppered it in bullets. And then he pulled out a shotgun and blasted the hell out of the spiders and gossamers. He pulled out every gun in his bag and emptied it on the scarecrow while its pumpkin head pleaded for mercy using the voices of Edward’s victims.

In the mess of spider corpses, bloody straw, and broken cobwebs, Edward knelt down and raised his fists to the sky before letting out a barbaric war cry. Cackle-Puss’s head, which was still alive, was watching this scene in horror and still sobbing in the victims’ voices. The hit man picked up the pumpkin head and stared into its devilish eyes. “Where’s your bag of magic tricks now, you sick son of a bitch?! Where’s your necromancy?! Who are you going to change into now?! Huh?! You think you’re fucking tough?!”

The sounds of police sirens filled the air and Edward turned his head around to give an evil look at the red and blue flashing lights coming his way. Cackle-Puss laughed at him and said, “How many more, Edward? How many more?”

“How many more? I’ll take them all down in a blaze of glory! And you, Cackle-Puss…you’re just another casualty in the war on America!” said Edward before punching the pumpkin head and getting blood and brains all over his hand. He chucked the monster head aside and picked up another shotgun he kept in his bag. “Let’s do this shit!” He pumped the gun ready to go.

Except there would be no suicide by cop this afternoon. Those weren’t cop lights coming his way. Those were ambulance lights. All the guns in the world couldn’t keep Edward Bell from finding himself in a straightjacket in a padded cell while repeating the words of Cackle-Puss. No one believed his scarecrow story. They believed his antigovernment rhetoric even less.

A man of Edward’s insanity possessing that many guns would be even bigger campaign fuel for John Merton’s election. Edward Bell affected change alright, but not in the way he would have liked. Being in a mental institution for the rest of his life wasn’t exactly a desired outcome. The worst part about it? He gets visitation hours every night. His only visitor? Cackle-Puss, bringer of scarecrow justice!

WWE Hell in a Cell: Brock Lesnar vs. The Undertaker

MATCH: Brock Lesnar vs. The Undertaker in a Hell in a Cell rubber match
PROMOTION: World Wrestling Entertainment
EVENT: Hell in a Cell
YEAR: 2015
RATING: TV-PG for violence, but realistically, it should be higher due to blood
GRADE: Pass

The Undertaker had been a WWE wrestler since 1990. In those multiple decades of destruction, he has won multiple world titles and created frighteningly violent moments under the gimmick of an undead wrestler. He even had an undefeated streak when it came to competing at Wrestlemania pay-per-views, winning on 21 different occasions. The Hell in a Cell match itself is considered his specialty alongside Casket matches and Buried Alive matches. Bottom line: if you were an opponent of The Undertaker’s, Rest in Peace wouldn’t have been just a meaningless catchphrase. It was your ultimate fate as this demonic warrior dragged you to hell with him.

And then The Undertaker found his ultimate poison in the form of NCAA and UFC Heavyweight Champion Brock Lesnar. They competed in Hell in a Cell and Biker Chain matches between 2002 and 2003 and Lesnar won all of these encounters. Fast forward to the year 2014, when the most shocking moment in Wrestlemania history overshadowed Daniel Bryan’s WWE Championship win. Lesnar was the one who snapped Undertaker’s undefeated streak and sent him to the hospital that same night.

Ever since that humiliating defeat, questions began to surface as to whether or not The Undertaker should retire from wrestling permanently. Not only was he pushing 50 years old, but the pictures fans took with him showed a weaker version of his former self. The man looked like he was dying from starvation and cancer at the same time. And then he returned to the 2015 Wrestlemania event with packed on muscle and a thicker hairstyle. He defeated Bray Wyatt in a match that was considered to be a classic despite Undertaker’s advanced age.

With this newfound courage, The Undertaker made yet another return at the Battleground pay-per-view when he kicked Brock Lesnar in the balls and gave him two Tombstone Piledrivers, effectively giving Lesnar his win against WWE Champion Seth Rollins via disqualification, when no title can change hands. The rivalry between Lesnar and Taker got so personal that they competed at Summer Slam, where the latter used a desperate low blow to help him achieve victory despite being a baby face.

And then we come to the 2015 Hell in a Cell pay-per-view, where the titular match between Brock Lesnar and The Undertaker would be the final chapter in their storied rivalry. No more controversy. No more shocks. No more bullshit. Just two warriors being locked in a prison cell and kicking the crap out of each other. When that cell door was closed and chained shut, the two wrestlers would put on a violent clinic that would last in the memories of everybody who watched it.

The match started out with both fighters intending to destroy each other, but ultimately finding counters for each other’s moves. Lesnar tried many times to take Undertaker to Suplex City, but the latter held onto the ropes and punched out his opponent with those huge hands.

And then the counters were over and these two just destroyed each other from this point on. Undertaker shoved Lesnar into a steel ring post and caused his forehead to drool with blood. Lesnar hit The Undertaker with heavy ass steel stairs and busted his forehead open as well. And then there were chair shots, more steel stair shots, and tosses against the chain-link cage. And then came Brock Lesnar’s F5’s and German suplexes. And then came Undertaker’s Hell’s Gate submission hold, which is really just a chokehold against the shins.

The bloody wounds on both combatants’ heads were so severe that the ringside doctor had to be called to patch them up. Undertaker was on his back and being tended to, but Brock Lesnar just wanted to beat the hell out of him some more. So what did the former UFC champion do? He grabbed that doctor and threw him around like a teddy bear. And then there were more beatings, including multiple punches from both fighters that did little to help their head wounds.

Lesnar wants to finish this match badly. He tears up the ring’s protective canvas and exposes the wooden boards underneath. He thinks he’s going to slam Undertaker on these boards and end the deadman’s career. Instead, Lesnar gets a choke slam and a Tombstone Piledriver for his efforts, but kicks out of both. Undertaker thinks he has this one in the bag and uses his throat slash taunt to show Lesnar who’s boss. And then Lesnar uses a low blow of his own and F5’s Undertaker onto the exposed wood for the match-ending three count. The 13 year feud between these two is finally over with Brock Lesnar as the victor.

Despite losing the match and laying in a broken heap, The Undertaker received adulation from everybody who watched that match. The fans were standing up and clapping for him. John Layfield, a normally heel commentator, was paying his respects to The Undertaker’s 25-year career. And me? I’m giving this match a passing grade and a TV-MA rating. The match itself was bloody, vicious, violent, and barbaric. Lesnar and Taker didn’t just have a wrestling match. They went to war with each other. If they were given AK-47’s and bazookas, you’re damn right they would have used them on each other. They would set the entire world on fire just to burn each other alive. That kind of sadism is why Undertaker got the respect he got at the Staples Center that night.

And then the ultimate act of disrespect and a candidate for Most Disgusting Promotional Tactic came when all four members of The Wyatt Family surrounded the ring with Undertaker struggling to stay standing. Bray Wyatt, Braun Strowman, Erick Rowan, and Luke Harper are all huge men north of 300 lbs. and they all ganged up on an already beaten down and bloodied Undertaker before carrying him off Jesus cross style. Everybody in the arena was sickened by this display, but none more so than the same heel commentator who praised The Undertaker the entire night, John Layfield. This is supposed to be a plot device to set up a four-on-four Survivor Series tag team elimination match between Team Undertaker and The Wyatt Family. It’s sick. It’s twisted. It’s disgusting. But it’s damn good television and doesn’t do anything to lower the passing grade. The only thing I have to say about all of this? If Hell in a Cell was hell on earth, Survivor Series is going to be the apocalypse. Run!

Getting With the Times

***GETTING WITH THE TIMES***

As someone who openly admits to being a millennial who still plays with toys, being time conscious isn’t one of my strong suits. I don’t follow trends, I don’t care if an interest of mine is dated, I don’t care what’s considered cool by other people, and I’ll wear pretty much whatever I want as long as it’s comfortable. The times may have changed, but my core values have not.

It didn’t occur to me how behind in the times I was until I was editing a short story for American Darkness called “Not Gonna Die”. In this story, there’s a party going on in the main character’s dormitory and the music that’s blasting out of the speakers is “Brass Monkey” by The Beastie Boys. I know of that song, because I was born in 1985, which means I’m twelve years older than the college kids in this story. There aren’t many 18-year-olds who know who the Beastie Boys are, so in order to have realistic cool kids who keep up with the times, I chose rap music that was a little more modern in Tech N9ne. No complaints yet.

Having an old school state of mind is easy for me because nobody has challenged me on it and anybody who did was met with the same nonconformist argument I give everyone. I actually had my brother James tell me that, “Nobody listens to Disturbed anymore.” I do. I listen to them a lot. They may have been popular in the early 2000’s, but to my way of thinking, they’ve stood the test of time in the year 2015. Obviously, my older brother is very time conscious while I couldn’t give two shits what year it is.

When it comes to my writing career, however, it should stand to reason that I have a new school state of mind, because websites like Twitter and Face Book are the future of book marketing. I do have a Face Book account under my real name of Garrison Haines-Temons. I don’t, however, have a Twitter account anymore. There were three separate occasions where I’ve had a Twitter account, but realizing it was about as useful as an asshole on my bicep, I’ve walked away several times and I have no plans to go back.

I also don’t have a smart phone like pretty much everybody does. I have a generic cell phone and even though it has texting capabilities, I don’t take advantage of them. Sending off misspelled sentences with cheesy emoticons isn’t appealing to me since I have too much respect for the English language. As far as technology goes, the only “cool” things I have are my desktop computer, Roku streaming device, and a generic MP3 player from a company that went out of business apparently.

Getting with the times isn’t something that appeals to me very much. If I want to follow a trend, I want that trend to actually have some substance to it. It’s the difference between choosing The Beastie Boys versus Lil’ Wayne or Nirvana versus…some rock band in the 2010’s I’ve never heard of before. There are things in the present day that appeal to me such as the metal bands Gemini Syndrome and Nothing More, which goes to show that it’s not about the time period something comes from, but rather the importance of its message. Rage Against the Machine is a relic from the 90’s, but their music still means something to me.

I have one last message for you all before I get into the posts about my latest artistic endeavors. Unga-bunga. Me caveman. Me want substance. Me no care about coolness! Me have ears! Me say cheers!


***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

The official date of this journal’s publication is October 30th, which means I still have two more days of Villains Month left. And man, do I have a villain for you guys: Ryan Brock from my most recent short story “Streetwalker”. We all know that rape is a bad thing, but Ryan Brock takes the humiliating and traumatizing act to a whole different level when he forces himself on a mage named Danielle Courtney. That’s a villain in my book!


***POISON TONGUE TALES: EDITING***

I have to be frank with you guys. Although Random.org has chosen “Death Blade” as the next short story to edit, I’m not looking forward to it at all. Don’t get me wrong, Marie’s comments never scare me. In fact, they make me laugh and feel lighthearted. It’s the actual job of editing that frightens me about “Death Blade”. It was my first official entry at the WSS Contest and Company and I wasn’t as good in late 2013 as I am now. In other words, what scares me the most…is my own unpolished writing. Maybe I’ll shelve Death Blade and choose a different one to edit for now.


***JANUARY FIRST***

I’ve been spending the past few days trying to bulldoze through another paperback book. Whenever I get in this mood, every other creative project takes a backseat with the exception of competing in WSS contests. What makes January First by Michael Schofield so special is its ability to speak to me personally. Like little Janni, I too have schizophrenia and I recognize her struggles. Watching her spiral into madness is heartbreaking and has almost brought me to tears a few times. I plan on giving this book an Extra Credit grade when I finish reading it, which it desperately needs because some troll assholes on Good Reads are peppering it with uneducated one-star reviews. I’ve heard of that kind of trolling happening to authors before, so I take good care not to believe anything those people say.


***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

WYNARSKI: Excuse me, have you seen a set of keys around here?
RANDAL: No time for love, Dr. Jones.

-Clerks, a movie made in 1994 when renting movies from a video store was still “cool”-