Garrison Kelly's Blog, page 114
September 16, 2015
Gates of Hell
“Gates of Hell MMA Gym? Are you sure we’re in the right place?” asked Henry Silva to his girlfriend Christina McKenzie. But why wouldn’t it be the right place? They were both decked out in athletic shorts, Nike shoes, and baggy T-shirts, outfits which were ideal for practicing mixed-martial arts due to their looseness.
“Maybe Gates of Hell is just a really cute name for what really goes on in there,” guessed Christina. “Maybe the trainers are a bunch of drill instructor assholes who give into that warrior spirit crap.”
“Yeah, that’s probably why there are demon masks and skulls in the windows. It might also be why the phrase ‘Gates of Hell’ is in some weird ass gothic font. I don’t know if I’m stumbling upon an MMA gym or a haunted house. I don’t know, Christina, something feels wrong about all of this.”
“Listen to yourself, Henry. You haven’t stepped one foot in this place and already you’re not even giving this place a fair chance. Maybe the people who run this place really like creepy dark fantasy stuff, I don’t know. It can’t be any worse than our last gym. That place smelled like an outhouse. Plus, the trainers couldn’t tell the difference between a kimura and a Pop Tart.”
After running his fingers through his spiky black hair in contemplation, Henry finally gave in and said, “You know what? You’re right. Come on, let’s check this place out.” With no further resistance, the Brazilian capoeira ace and the all-American wrestler entered this freaky establishment.
If Henry and Christina thought this place was terrifying on the outside, the inside would have given weaker folks heart attacks. More demon masks on the wall, more skulls hanging from the ceiling, a purple fog covering the floor, and of course, no MMA gym would be complete without the caged ring and various exercise equipment.
The two warriors walked around this seemingly empty gym awestruck by this entire setup. Was this just a gimmick to help fighters overcome their fears? Was something a little more occult going on here?
Christina McKenzie in particular was so out of it from being creeped out that she failed to notice someone standing behind her. She bumped into him and gasped in fear when she saw a man in MMA shorts wearing one of the demon masks on the wall.
Henry Silva had the same chills when he ran into a woman wearing a gas mask, a sports bra, and surprise, surprise, baggy MMA shorts.
The gentleman in the demon mask said in a deep voice, “Hello. You two must be the ones who called earlier wanting to sign up. My name is Leif Kampmann. I run this gym alongside my girlfriend Olivia Cade. I’m the head striking coach while Olivia will teach you all about grappling and jujitsu.” He started getting a little frisky when he placed a seductive finger underneath Christina’s chin and asked, “Do you have an MMA record, my dear?”
The raven haired wrestler nervously said, “Um, yes, um…I have nine wins and four losses.”
“Nine wins and four losses? Not bad. But it could be better. I’m guessing that’s why you decided to join up with us,” said Leif as he continued to stroke Christina’s chin.
Henry made a throat-clearing sound and said, “Hi there, Leif! You do realize that’s my girlfriend you’re trying to seduce, right? Plus, you said this gas masked chick was already your girlfriend, so you’re probably making her jealous right now.”
Olivia put her delicate hands on Henry’s broad Brazilian shoulders and said, “Jealous? Not me, hon. Jealousy is for weak-minded, hormonal high schoolers. Besides, neither of you came to our establishment to get laid. So why don’t you come with me and I’ll teach you some jujitsu.”
Henry and Christina shrugged their shoulders at each other as their respective “coaches” took them off to separate parts of the gym for training. While Henry was training, he could hear the sharp sounds of both his girlfriend and Leif smacking around a heavy gym bag, which probably qualified as the world’s most intense striking lessons. He shuddered to think what those two did for “sparring sessions”.
The jujitsu training with Olivia was no joke either. She and Henry spent what must have been three whole hours wrestling each other on the padded floor. Try as Henry might to uses his capoeira training to spin out of each submission hold, Olivia knew exactly what she was doing when she made him tap out to various versions of shoulder locks, arm bars, and chokeholds. Henry felt like he could learn a lot from this woman, probably because she kept making him his bitch during these exchanges.
This wasn’t such a bad experience, Henry thought to himself. Décor aside, he could actually improve his MMA game and do better than a measly six wins (decisions), three losses (knockout or TKO), and one no contest (accidental eye poke). And then when Henry applied his first guillotine choke to Olivia, he ripped her gas mask off and revealed something that he was never meant to see: vampire fangs.
While Henry Silva’s lips were quivering and heart was racing as he backed up on his butt, Olivia Cade smiled at him with her vampire fangs and said, “Surprise, surprise. How do you think I got an undefeated record of twelve straight wins? Okay, most of it was because I actually knew how to fight…but it was Leif who turned me on to the dark side! And oh, does the dark side feel so good. You’d love it too if you gave it a try, Henry. What do you say?”
For the longest time, the cat had Henry’s tongue. And then he finally mustered the strength to say, “Are you out of your fucking mind?!” After backing up several more feet and repeatedly ordering Olivia to stay way from him, Henry stumbled to his feet and ran across the gym to where Leif was teaching Christina proper kicking techniques on a heavy punching bag.
Henry grabbed Christina’s arm and said, “Come on, baby girl, we’ve got to get the hell out of here! These guys are goddamn vampires!”
“What?! Hey, let go!” said a resistant Christina, who was half-dragged to the entrance way.
Henry tried opening the door, but it was locked and reinforced with steel. He even threw a few kicks at it for good measure, but it still wouldn’t budge. He then instructed Christina to stand back while he threw a few capoeira spin kicks at the tinted black windows. Even the strongest of Chuck Norris kicks wouldn’t be able to make a scratch. After a while of frustrating results, Henry pounded on the glass windows with his fists like a drum and pleaded to be let go, but no dice.
“Are you through yet?” asked Leif, who was seen standing arm in arm with his girlfriend Olivia, both of them without masks and both of them with vampire fangs showing.
Henry took a few angry deep breaths in and out and yelled, “Listen, you assholes! I may not have the best MMA record in the world today, but if you don’t let me and my girlfriend out of here, I’ll knock both of your oversized fangs down your throat and out of your asses!”
No impromptu fight was about to take place as Henry felt two sharp jabs in his jugular vein coming from behind. It was painful as hell, but it felt so good at the same time, almost like a sexual experience. The vampire bite didn’t come from Leif Kampmann or Olivia Cade. It came from his own lover, Christina McKenzie, who was probably converted to vampirism through Leif.
Henry started crying tears of blood as he knelt down and asked, “Why, sweet god, why? What the hell has gotten into you, Christina?!”
The newly christened vampire lover wrapped her arms around Henry’s neck in a loving embrace and said in a seductive whisper, “It’ll be okay, my love. Everything will be okay. With these vampire powers, we’ll never lose a match again. Once we put in our mouthpieces, nobody will be the wiser. We should come here more often, don’t you think, sugar bear? Don’t worry, you’ll get used to vampirism over time. Did I mention lately how lovely you look tonight?”
The craziest thing about Christina’s oratory? As far as never losing another MMA match again went, she was right. The future held Knockout and Submission of the Night bonus money for both Henry and Christina as well as championship gold. It was never easy to argue with success, vampire fangs aside.
“Maybe Gates of Hell is just a really cute name for what really goes on in there,” guessed Christina. “Maybe the trainers are a bunch of drill instructor assholes who give into that warrior spirit crap.”
“Yeah, that’s probably why there are demon masks and skulls in the windows. It might also be why the phrase ‘Gates of Hell’ is in some weird ass gothic font. I don’t know if I’m stumbling upon an MMA gym or a haunted house. I don’t know, Christina, something feels wrong about all of this.”
“Listen to yourself, Henry. You haven’t stepped one foot in this place and already you’re not even giving this place a fair chance. Maybe the people who run this place really like creepy dark fantasy stuff, I don’t know. It can’t be any worse than our last gym. That place smelled like an outhouse. Plus, the trainers couldn’t tell the difference between a kimura and a Pop Tart.”
After running his fingers through his spiky black hair in contemplation, Henry finally gave in and said, “You know what? You’re right. Come on, let’s check this place out.” With no further resistance, the Brazilian capoeira ace and the all-American wrestler entered this freaky establishment.
If Henry and Christina thought this place was terrifying on the outside, the inside would have given weaker folks heart attacks. More demon masks on the wall, more skulls hanging from the ceiling, a purple fog covering the floor, and of course, no MMA gym would be complete without the caged ring and various exercise equipment.
The two warriors walked around this seemingly empty gym awestruck by this entire setup. Was this just a gimmick to help fighters overcome their fears? Was something a little more occult going on here?
Christina McKenzie in particular was so out of it from being creeped out that she failed to notice someone standing behind her. She bumped into him and gasped in fear when she saw a man in MMA shorts wearing one of the demon masks on the wall.
Henry Silva had the same chills when he ran into a woman wearing a gas mask, a sports bra, and surprise, surprise, baggy MMA shorts.
The gentleman in the demon mask said in a deep voice, “Hello. You two must be the ones who called earlier wanting to sign up. My name is Leif Kampmann. I run this gym alongside my girlfriend Olivia Cade. I’m the head striking coach while Olivia will teach you all about grappling and jujitsu.” He started getting a little frisky when he placed a seductive finger underneath Christina’s chin and asked, “Do you have an MMA record, my dear?”
The raven haired wrestler nervously said, “Um, yes, um…I have nine wins and four losses.”
“Nine wins and four losses? Not bad. But it could be better. I’m guessing that’s why you decided to join up with us,” said Leif as he continued to stroke Christina’s chin.
Henry made a throat-clearing sound and said, “Hi there, Leif! You do realize that’s my girlfriend you’re trying to seduce, right? Plus, you said this gas masked chick was already your girlfriend, so you’re probably making her jealous right now.”
Olivia put her delicate hands on Henry’s broad Brazilian shoulders and said, “Jealous? Not me, hon. Jealousy is for weak-minded, hormonal high schoolers. Besides, neither of you came to our establishment to get laid. So why don’t you come with me and I’ll teach you some jujitsu.”
Henry and Christina shrugged their shoulders at each other as their respective “coaches” took them off to separate parts of the gym for training. While Henry was training, he could hear the sharp sounds of both his girlfriend and Leif smacking around a heavy gym bag, which probably qualified as the world’s most intense striking lessons. He shuddered to think what those two did for “sparring sessions”.
The jujitsu training with Olivia was no joke either. She and Henry spent what must have been three whole hours wrestling each other on the padded floor. Try as Henry might to uses his capoeira training to spin out of each submission hold, Olivia knew exactly what she was doing when she made him tap out to various versions of shoulder locks, arm bars, and chokeholds. Henry felt like he could learn a lot from this woman, probably because she kept making him his bitch during these exchanges.
This wasn’t such a bad experience, Henry thought to himself. Décor aside, he could actually improve his MMA game and do better than a measly six wins (decisions), three losses (knockout or TKO), and one no contest (accidental eye poke). And then when Henry applied his first guillotine choke to Olivia, he ripped her gas mask off and revealed something that he was never meant to see: vampire fangs.
While Henry Silva’s lips were quivering and heart was racing as he backed up on his butt, Olivia Cade smiled at him with her vampire fangs and said, “Surprise, surprise. How do you think I got an undefeated record of twelve straight wins? Okay, most of it was because I actually knew how to fight…but it was Leif who turned me on to the dark side! And oh, does the dark side feel so good. You’d love it too if you gave it a try, Henry. What do you say?”
For the longest time, the cat had Henry’s tongue. And then he finally mustered the strength to say, “Are you out of your fucking mind?!” After backing up several more feet and repeatedly ordering Olivia to stay way from him, Henry stumbled to his feet and ran across the gym to where Leif was teaching Christina proper kicking techniques on a heavy punching bag.
Henry grabbed Christina’s arm and said, “Come on, baby girl, we’ve got to get the hell out of here! These guys are goddamn vampires!”
“What?! Hey, let go!” said a resistant Christina, who was half-dragged to the entrance way.
Henry tried opening the door, but it was locked and reinforced with steel. He even threw a few kicks at it for good measure, but it still wouldn’t budge. He then instructed Christina to stand back while he threw a few capoeira spin kicks at the tinted black windows. Even the strongest of Chuck Norris kicks wouldn’t be able to make a scratch. After a while of frustrating results, Henry pounded on the glass windows with his fists like a drum and pleaded to be let go, but no dice.
“Are you through yet?” asked Leif, who was seen standing arm in arm with his girlfriend Olivia, both of them without masks and both of them with vampire fangs showing.
Henry took a few angry deep breaths in and out and yelled, “Listen, you assholes! I may not have the best MMA record in the world today, but if you don’t let me and my girlfriend out of here, I’ll knock both of your oversized fangs down your throat and out of your asses!”
No impromptu fight was about to take place as Henry felt two sharp jabs in his jugular vein coming from behind. It was painful as hell, but it felt so good at the same time, almost like a sexual experience. The vampire bite didn’t come from Leif Kampmann or Olivia Cade. It came from his own lover, Christina McKenzie, who was probably converted to vampirism through Leif.
Henry started crying tears of blood as he knelt down and asked, “Why, sweet god, why? What the hell has gotten into you, Christina?!”
The newly christened vampire lover wrapped her arms around Henry’s neck in a loving embrace and said in a seductive whisper, “It’ll be okay, my love. Everything will be okay. With these vampire powers, we’ll never lose a match again. Once we put in our mouthpieces, nobody will be the wiser. We should come here more often, don’t you think, sugar bear? Don’t worry, you’ll get used to vampirism over time. Did I mention lately how lovely you look tonight?”
The craziest thing about Christina’s oratory? As far as never losing another MMA match again went, she was right. The future held Knockout and Submission of the Night bonus money for both Henry and Christina as well as championship gold. It was never easy to argue with success, vampire fangs aside.
September 15, 2015
Dark Thoughts
VERSE 1
Murder, rape, fire, blood
Dragging your soul through the motherfucking mud
Dragging your ass to the gates of hell
Fighting the last round until the final bell
Dark thoughts invade my mind and I love it
When the battle calls, I’ll rise above it
Sadistic values for sadistic motherfuckers
Dark thoughts for crooks and tail tuckers
CHORUS
Laughing at my own twisted jokes
Purring while your bloody body stains and soaks
Sleeping well as you burn in hell
My darkest thoughts for the ones who fell
VERSE 2
Genocide, homicide, fucking deicide
There’s nowhere left to run or hide
The corners of my mind are dark places
You all look alike, you have no faces
Zombies marching, waiting to be shot
Hunger for brains, is that all you’ve got?
My dark imagination has no goddamn limits
Think about that as you live your final minutes
CHORUS
Laughing at my own twisted jokes
Purring while your bloody body stains and soaks
Sleeping well as you burn in hell
My darkest thoughts for the ones who fell
HOOK
This is my world, this is my life
This is my gun, this is my knife
This is my smile, this is my laugh
This is my boot in your motherfucking ass!
VERSE 3
Autograph, necrograph, don’t make me laugh
All you’ll hope for is a quick coming to pass
I take my time, I commit the crime
And grin knowing that your ass is mine
EXTENDED CHORUS
Laughing at my own twisted jokes
Purring while your bloody body stains and soaks
Sleeping well as you burn in hell
My darkest thoughts for the ones who fell
Sympathy has never been my greatest strength
Especially for those who tortured me at length
Armageddon is where your ass is headin’
How does it feel to be so far from heaven?
Murder, rape, fire, blood
Dragging your soul through the motherfucking mud
Dragging your ass to the gates of hell
Fighting the last round until the final bell
Dark thoughts invade my mind and I love it
When the battle calls, I’ll rise above it
Sadistic values for sadistic motherfuckers
Dark thoughts for crooks and tail tuckers
CHORUS
Laughing at my own twisted jokes
Purring while your bloody body stains and soaks
Sleeping well as you burn in hell
My darkest thoughts for the ones who fell
VERSE 2
Genocide, homicide, fucking deicide
There’s nowhere left to run or hide
The corners of my mind are dark places
You all look alike, you have no faces
Zombies marching, waiting to be shot
Hunger for brains, is that all you’ve got?
My dark imagination has no goddamn limits
Think about that as you live your final minutes
CHORUS
Laughing at my own twisted jokes
Purring while your bloody body stains and soaks
Sleeping well as you burn in hell
My darkest thoughts for the ones who fell
HOOK
This is my world, this is my life
This is my gun, this is my knife
This is my smile, this is my laugh
This is my boot in your motherfucking ass!
VERSE 3
Autograph, necrograph, don’t make me laugh
All you’ll hope for is a quick coming to pass
I take my time, I commit the crime
And grin knowing that your ass is mine
EXTENDED CHORUS
Laughing at my own twisted jokes
Purring while your bloody body stains and soaks
Sleeping well as you burn in hell
My darkest thoughts for the ones who fell
Sympathy has never been my greatest strength
Especially for those who tortured me at length
Armageddon is where your ass is headin’
How does it feel to be so far from heaven?
September 13, 2015
Common Values
***COMMON VALUES***
I’m going to go ahead and ask the million dollar question. In order for a relationship to work, do the two people involved have to have things in common or is it really true that opposites attract? I’m not just talking about romantic relationships; I also mean business, family, and friendly relationships. I’ve heard arguments for both answers to that question, but I still can’t make heads or tails of it all. Then again, my relationships in life are limited to my family and internet friends, so it could be that I lack the necessary experience to make this judgment call. But I’m going to try and do it anyways, just for the sake of argument. That, and I’m desperate for journal topics.
Let’s say you’re someone who believes that the two people have to have at least one thing in common with each other. When you have that one thing the two of you share, you can give each other some great conversations and even better feedback on how to make that activity better. You both like online gaming? Great! Then buy a copy of Diablo III and rock out with your cock out. You both like soccer? Awesome! Go to soccer matches together and hold hands. Having something to bond over keeps the relationship from getting stale.
And then there’s the other school of thought in which like protons and electrons in chemistry, opposites attract. There actually are couples out there who practice this idea. You’ve got liberals getting together with conservatives, geeks with cheerleaders, rebels with conformists, introverts with extroverts, the list goes on and on. The argument I’ve heard in support of this is that nobody wants to have a relationship with someone who is exactly like them since the two people would get tired of each other quickly. While those two would have a lot to bond over, maybe too much bonding can lead to a lack of privacy.
After going over the two schools of thought, I’m riding the fence with this one. I want to have at least a few things in common with the other person, but not everything. That’s why I have such a hard time talking to the barbers at Hair Masters. Disgust for small talk aside, when I hear about their interests and values, I find out that we have nothing to bond over.
How am I supposed to talk about how “The Perks of Being a Wallflower” turned me into an emotional wreck when the hairdresser wants to read books about World War II? Can I even get one word edgewise about how lethal Kevin Owens’ pop-up power bomb is when the other person would rather watch the Seattle Seahawks run around and pounce on other teams? What if I want to talk about Dimebag Darrell’s shredding techniques to someone who listens to country songs about losing their goddamn truck? That kind of polarity can make me feel lonely.
Of course, I could take some initiative and actually introduce the other person to my values and interests, but I don’t want to feel like I’m forcing myself on them. When I was a middle schooler in Chehalis, Washington, I tried relentlessly to get my friends to share my interest in those Dick Tracy cartoons from the 1960’s. You know the ones, with racial stereotypes like Go-Go Gomez, Hemlock Holmes, Joe Jitsu, and Sketch Paree. Since Chehalis is swarming with rightwing nut jobs, they probably would have eaten that shit up with a spoon. But apparently, the Dick Tracy trend never caught on. Oh well. At least I learned not to force my values on other people.
So, ladies and gentlemen. Where do your loyalties lie in this debate? Should your friends and paramours have similar interests or do opposites really attract? Share your experiences with me and let’s have a fucking conversation. We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***BOOK REVIEWS***
The next time I post a book review on my social networking sites, Good Reads, and Amazon, it will be “So…I Met a Vampire” by Paul McAvoy. I’m only 63 pages into it, but the book itself is approximately 180 pages and the writing style is so fast-paced that I can blow through it probably by tomorrow afternoon. If not, then the day after. I always close my commitments to fellow indie authors. Never forget that.
***BLOOD BRAWL***
I don’t really know when chapter three will be written, but when it is, it’ll feature a chase scene between Ivan Blackstone and the female rogue who will later be identified as Justine Dupree (not the biggest spoiler I can give). Really, wouldn’t you run too if an orc in a trench coat and hood was chasing you down the streets with a big ass scythe? Especially if you thought he looked like the Grim Reaper from a distance and knew his name was Ivan fucking Blackstone.
***MOVIE OR TV SHOW REVIEW***
Though it’s not the freshest thing in my mind right now, my next movie review will be about Kung Fu Panda. This movie has everything I could ever want: martial arts action, animal warriors, and a story where a complete nobody becomes a conquering hero over the course of the movie. Uh-oh! Did I just give away a spoiler? Come on, you knew that shit was coming from miles away. It’s not about IF the hero conquers. It’s about HOW. Never forget that.
***WRESTLING OR MMA MATCH REVIEW***
I’ve been giving out passing grades like it’s fucking Christmas lately. Though the season of giving is drawing near, I’m afraid I’ll have to play the role of The Grinch when it comes to a UFC fight between Jake Ellenberger and Rory MacDonald. There was a lot of trash talking before the fight actually happened. In fact, Jake Ellenberger said that Rory MacDonald is “faker than the food he’s named after”. A guy with “berger” in his last name is making a fast food joke about someone named MacDonald. The irony is killing me, but not nearly as much as the boredom resonating from this god-awful fight.
***DRAWINGS***
Technically, the short story “Bleed For Weed” is a contemporary drama, not a dark fantasy story. It will be included in American Darkness 2: Black State, not Poison Tongue Tales. When I draw Riff De La Luka, can he really be considered a “dark fantasy warrior”? Of course he can, because I fucking said so!
***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“Women are always trying to make their men feel better about sex. ‘Oh, it’s not the size of the boat that matters; it’s the motion of the ocean.’ That may be true, but it’s hard to sail to England in a rowboat.”
-Jeff Foxworthy-
I’m going to go ahead and ask the million dollar question. In order for a relationship to work, do the two people involved have to have things in common or is it really true that opposites attract? I’m not just talking about romantic relationships; I also mean business, family, and friendly relationships. I’ve heard arguments for both answers to that question, but I still can’t make heads or tails of it all. Then again, my relationships in life are limited to my family and internet friends, so it could be that I lack the necessary experience to make this judgment call. But I’m going to try and do it anyways, just for the sake of argument. That, and I’m desperate for journal topics.
Let’s say you’re someone who believes that the two people have to have at least one thing in common with each other. When you have that one thing the two of you share, you can give each other some great conversations and even better feedback on how to make that activity better. You both like online gaming? Great! Then buy a copy of Diablo III and rock out with your cock out. You both like soccer? Awesome! Go to soccer matches together and hold hands. Having something to bond over keeps the relationship from getting stale.
And then there’s the other school of thought in which like protons and electrons in chemistry, opposites attract. There actually are couples out there who practice this idea. You’ve got liberals getting together with conservatives, geeks with cheerleaders, rebels with conformists, introverts with extroverts, the list goes on and on. The argument I’ve heard in support of this is that nobody wants to have a relationship with someone who is exactly like them since the two people would get tired of each other quickly. While those two would have a lot to bond over, maybe too much bonding can lead to a lack of privacy.
After going over the two schools of thought, I’m riding the fence with this one. I want to have at least a few things in common with the other person, but not everything. That’s why I have such a hard time talking to the barbers at Hair Masters. Disgust for small talk aside, when I hear about their interests and values, I find out that we have nothing to bond over.
How am I supposed to talk about how “The Perks of Being a Wallflower” turned me into an emotional wreck when the hairdresser wants to read books about World War II? Can I even get one word edgewise about how lethal Kevin Owens’ pop-up power bomb is when the other person would rather watch the Seattle Seahawks run around and pounce on other teams? What if I want to talk about Dimebag Darrell’s shredding techniques to someone who listens to country songs about losing their goddamn truck? That kind of polarity can make me feel lonely.
Of course, I could take some initiative and actually introduce the other person to my values and interests, but I don’t want to feel like I’m forcing myself on them. When I was a middle schooler in Chehalis, Washington, I tried relentlessly to get my friends to share my interest in those Dick Tracy cartoons from the 1960’s. You know the ones, with racial stereotypes like Go-Go Gomez, Hemlock Holmes, Joe Jitsu, and Sketch Paree. Since Chehalis is swarming with rightwing nut jobs, they probably would have eaten that shit up with a spoon. But apparently, the Dick Tracy trend never caught on. Oh well. At least I learned not to force my values on other people.
So, ladies and gentlemen. Where do your loyalties lie in this debate? Should your friends and paramours have similar interests or do opposites really attract? Share your experiences with me and let’s have a fucking conversation. We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***BOOK REVIEWS***
The next time I post a book review on my social networking sites, Good Reads, and Amazon, it will be “So…I Met a Vampire” by Paul McAvoy. I’m only 63 pages into it, but the book itself is approximately 180 pages and the writing style is so fast-paced that I can blow through it probably by tomorrow afternoon. If not, then the day after. I always close my commitments to fellow indie authors. Never forget that.
***BLOOD BRAWL***
I don’t really know when chapter three will be written, but when it is, it’ll feature a chase scene between Ivan Blackstone and the female rogue who will later be identified as Justine Dupree (not the biggest spoiler I can give). Really, wouldn’t you run too if an orc in a trench coat and hood was chasing you down the streets with a big ass scythe? Especially if you thought he looked like the Grim Reaper from a distance and knew his name was Ivan fucking Blackstone.
***MOVIE OR TV SHOW REVIEW***
Though it’s not the freshest thing in my mind right now, my next movie review will be about Kung Fu Panda. This movie has everything I could ever want: martial arts action, animal warriors, and a story where a complete nobody becomes a conquering hero over the course of the movie. Uh-oh! Did I just give away a spoiler? Come on, you knew that shit was coming from miles away. It’s not about IF the hero conquers. It’s about HOW. Never forget that.
***WRESTLING OR MMA MATCH REVIEW***
I’ve been giving out passing grades like it’s fucking Christmas lately. Though the season of giving is drawing near, I’m afraid I’ll have to play the role of The Grinch when it comes to a UFC fight between Jake Ellenberger and Rory MacDonald. There was a lot of trash talking before the fight actually happened. In fact, Jake Ellenberger said that Rory MacDonald is “faker than the food he’s named after”. A guy with “berger” in his last name is making a fast food joke about someone named MacDonald. The irony is killing me, but not nearly as much as the boredom resonating from this god-awful fight.
***DRAWINGS***
Technically, the short story “Bleed For Weed” is a contemporary drama, not a dark fantasy story. It will be included in American Darkness 2: Black State, not Poison Tongue Tales. When I draw Riff De La Luka, can he really be considered a “dark fantasy warrior”? Of course he can, because I fucking said so!
***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“Women are always trying to make their men feel better about sex. ‘Oh, it’s not the size of the boat that matters; it’s the motion of the ocean.’ That may be true, but it’s hard to sail to England in a rowboat.”
-Jeff Foxworthy-
September 11, 2015
Ottie-Doo
The Skull Hammer Cult walked the Earth in search of the ultimate paradise and somehow landed in the backwoods area of Paulson City. Their official church was an old schoolhouse from the 1800’s, a one-classroom compound with broken pieces of wood holding it together and stale red paint coming off in flakes. There used to be a beautiful golden bell at the top of the steeple, but it had since been replaced by the symbol of the Skull Hammer Cult, which was an iron skull minus a jaw with a sledgehammer going through its cranium.
Inside this official church, children ranging from little ones to teenagers were sitting in their desks praying and dancing around like creepy little puppets, waiting for their master to return. Randy Fender, the cult master in question, dredged through the front door carrying what appeared to be a dead cat. Its mouth was bleeding and one eye was hanging out of its socket. Instead of being frightened by this, the children’s eyes lit up like Christmas bulbs as they clapped their hands happily at their masters arrival.
Randy, dressed in a smelly blue mechanic’s jumpsuit and a black demon mask, approached the center of the schoolhouse and laid the dead cat on the altar, its rancid corpse making the ugly Skull Hammer symbol even worse to look at.
Mr. Fender looked among the children and said, “Do you see this? This, my brothers and sisters, is what we’ve been looking for this whole time. Not just a source of tonight’s delicious meal, but this wicked creature holds our key to salvation. This cat is imbued with magical powers, powers that once possessed can make us stronger than we’ve ever been. No mere mortal shall stand in our way to paradise. Wait no longer, children. Take the first bite!”
The hypnotized children waved and wiggled their fingers over the cat’s corpse, as if to anticipate how this magical feast will taste to their young palettes. And then the cat’s body began to glow in a mystical purple aura, which made the little ones even more excited than they already were.
They were forced to take a few steps backward, however, when the cat corpse came to life and stood on all four paws. After letting out a long-winded yawn and popping her eyeball back in its socket with her fuzzy paw, the kitty looked around the schoolhouse to see what all the hubbub was about.
“Yes! This is exactly the proof we needed!” shouted an exhilarated Randy. “I knew I picked the right one! I knew it the minute I laid eyes on this poor tortured pussycat!”
The cat gave a confused look and said, “What the hell are you talking about, you whack job? I’m not a poor tortured pussycat. I’m the kitty sage Ottie-Doo. Call me Ottie for short.”
“Wow!” said one of the children. “She can talk!”
Randy grabbed the kid by the back of the neck and sternly warned him, “Remember what I said when I first met you: don’t speak until spoken to, little one!”
“Put that boy down, you monster!” yelled Ottie before she waved her paw and threw a green lightning bolt at Randy Fender’s hand, the sharp pain causing him to yelp and let go.
“So, you’re not only a magical kitty who can talk, but when you do talk, you’re a total smart-ass! I don’t like your attitude, little kitten. These children know better than anybody what happens to little smarmy-mouthed wise-asses in my Skull Hammer Cult. Children? Show this precious feline what I’m talking about!”
“Wait!” shouted Ottie. “Do you children really want to listen to this man? Look at him! He’s less than human! I’m a dingy old cat myself, so that’s saying a lot! Seriously, what do you young ones see in this disgusting man?!”
No response from the children, only wild red eyes and drooling mouths. Randy said, “You were saying, little kitten?”
“Do what you wish to me, demon man, but no harm shall come to these children!” threatened Ottie-Doo.
The kids laughed in throaty, monstrous voices as they closed in on the kitty with their arms stretched out like zombies. The witch kitty floated in the air with pink stardust fluttering underneath her. The kids stared in awe as she flew around the schoolhouse showing off her magical powers. Her biggest trick yet was forming a ball of orange electrical and fiery energy in her paws and chucking it at Randy Fender’s demonic face.
If the cocky cult leader wasn’t wearing a mask, he would be showing off his creepy confidence as he grabbed a nearby child and used him as a human shield. The magical ball exploded the small child, but not into blood and guts. Instead the little boy turned into a pile of maggots, worms, and beetles. It was a sight that made Ottie-Doo watch on in shock and horror as she floated near the ceiling.
“You can’t save these children, witch cat,” said Randy. “They’ve been converted to my minions a long time ago. So many tearful parents are wondering right now if they’ll ever get their children back. Maybe they will someday. But then again, when your body is loaded with parasitic creatures, would any parent want you back in the first place?” The evil cult leader laughed his head off.
The louder and throatier Randy laughed, the angrier it made Ottie-Doo. Her fuzzy paws were curled into fists of fury and her old lady teeth were cracking underneath her jaws. A cyclone of blue lightning and wind encircled her as she prepared for her next magic spell. Randy was already one step ahead of her when he knelt down to peel back a floor board and pulled out a gigantic battleaxe, which was also glowing with blue energy.
“Just to show you how far gone these children are, Miss Ottie-Doo, let me show you just how much they’re willing to sacrifice to make me stronger!” With that said, Randy held out the glowing battleaxe and one by one the children dissolved into a puddle of worms. The worms crawled all around Randy and were gathering around the metal axe, the blade absorbing their spiritual essences. This horrific sight struck even more fear and doubt in the heart of Ottie-Doo as her magical energy was dwindling and she was sinking to the ground below.
She hung her elderly kitty head feeling like a failure to these poor children. Then again, if they were made of worms and maggots, maybe their childlike forms were merely a mind game. So many thoughts raced through her mind as she tried to wrap her head around what this Randy Fender asshole was doing.
She couldn’t take too long to think, however, as she dodged out of the way in the nick of time when the blade came crashing down. Big Randy swung that battleaxe like a berserker, shattering every piece of wood he hit into sawdust. Ottie bounced around and dodged every single shot. She even found herself running along the walls just to avoid getting slashed with this magical weapon.
“You’re gonna die, bitch! You’re gonna die badly!” screamed Randy when he took off his demon mask and revealed the face of a hideously scarred and tattooed psychopath. The sight of his hideous face made Ottie curl up into a ball of fear as her eyes leaked with salty tears. She didn’t feel like she could fight such a monster anymore. He was too big, too fast, and too monstrous. Ottie was just an elderly cat who literally slept like a corpse.
Randy charged over to a cornered Ottie with the blade held high. With one final swing, he was going to break this “annoying” cat into a million pieces. But just as the blade came crashing down, Ottie had one last hope for victory. Randy’s attacks were relying solely on reckless momentum. Therefore, Ottie used telekinesis to use his own momentum against him. Instead of cutting through the elderly witch kitty, the axe took a magical detour into Randy’s stomach.
The cult master never saw this coming behind his own rage. The spirits of dead children were flying out of his body and out of his axe while the ultra-evil Randy Fender melted into a puddle of maggots and worms himself. The parasites dissolved into little puddles of blood and the last of the children spirits flew away into the night sky. With just one small opening, Ottie-Doo ended this battle.
But at what price? Those kids were beyond help. Whatever Randy Fender did to them would put a strain on the parents forever. All Ottie could do was tuck her head and meow softly to herself. She won the battle, but lost the war.
Just when she was about to spend this evening in a crying slumber, she felt a gentle touch on top of her kitty head. Ottie looked up and saw one of the spirit children smiling a beautiful smile at her, just like all children should. In no uncertain terms, the child spirit had only one thing to say to her savior: “Thank you!”
Inside this official church, children ranging from little ones to teenagers were sitting in their desks praying and dancing around like creepy little puppets, waiting for their master to return. Randy Fender, the cult master in question, dredged through the front door carrying what appeared to be a dead cat. Its mouth was bleeding and one eye was hanging out of its socket. Instead of being frightened by this, the children’s eyes lit up like Christmas bulbs as they clapped their hands happily at their masters arrival.
Randy, dressed in a smelly blue mechanic’s jumpsuit and a black demon mask, approached the center of the schoolhouse and laid the dead cat on the altar, its rancid corpse making the ugly Skull Hammer symbol even worse to look at.
Mr. Fender looked among the children and said, “Do you see this? This, my brothers and sisters, is what we’ve been looking for this whole time. Not just a source of tonight’s delicious meal, but this wicked creature holds our key to salvation. This cat is imbued with magical powers, powers that once possessed can make us stronger than we’ve ever been. No mere mortal shall stand in our way to paradise. Wait no longer, children. Take the first bite!”
The hypnotized children waved and wiggled their fingers over the cat’s corpse, as if to anticipate how this magical feast will taste to their young palettes. And then the cat’s body began to glow in a mystical purple aura, which made the little ones even more excited than they already were.
They were forced to take a few steps backward, however, when the cat corpse came to life and stood on all four paws. After letting out a long-winded yawn and popping her eyeball back in its socket with her fuzzy paw, the kitty looked around the schoolhouse to see what all the hubbub was about.
“Yes! This is exactly the proof we needed!” shouted an exhilarated Randy. “I knew I picked the right one! I knew it the minute I laid eyes on this poor tortured pussycat!”
The cat gave a confused look and said, “What the hell are you talking about, you whack job? I’m not a poor tortured pussycat. I’m the kitty sage Ottie-Doo. Call me Ottie for short.”
“Wow!” said one of the children. “She can talk!”
Randy grabbed the kid by the back of the neck and sternly warned him, “Remember what I said when I first met you: don’t speak until spoken to, little one!”
“Put that boy down, you monster!” yelled Ottie before she waved her paw and threw a green lightning bolt at Randy Fender’s hand, the sharp pain causing him to yelp and let go.
“So, you’re not only a magical kitty who can talk, but when you do talk, you’re a total smart-ass! I don’t like your attitude, little kitten. These children know better than anybody what happens to little smarmy-mouthed wise-asses in my Skull Hammer Cult. Children? Show this precious feline what I’m talking about!”
“Wait!” shouted Ottie. “Do you children really want to listen to this man? Look at him! He’s less than human! I’m a dingy old cat myself, so that’s saying a lot! Seriously, what do you young ones see in this disgusting man?!”
No response from the children, only wild red eyes and drooling mouths. Randy said, “You were saying, little kitten?”
“Do what you wish to me, demon man, but no harm shall come to these children!” threatened Ottie-Doo.
The kids laughed in throaty, monstrous voices as they closed in on the kitty with their arms stretched out like zombies. The witch kitty floated in the air with pink stardust fluttering underneath her. The kids stared in awe as she flew around the schoolhouse showing off her magical powers. Her biggest trick yet was forming a ball of orange electrical and fiery energy in her paws and chucking it at Randy Fender’s demonic face.
If the cocky cult leader wasn’t wearing a mask, he would be showing off his creepy confidence as he grabbed a nearby child and used him as a human shield. The magical ball exploded the small child, but not into blood and guts. Instead the little boy turned into a pile of maggots, worms, and beetles. It was a sight that made Ottie-Doo watch on in shock and horror as she floated near the ceiling.
“You can’t save these children, witch cat,” said Randy. “They’ve been converted to my minions a long time ago. So many tearful parents are wondering right now if they’ll ever get their children back. Maybe they will someday. But then again, when your body is loaded with parasitic creatures, would any parent want you back in the first place?” The evil cult leader laughed his head off.
The louder and throatier Randy laughed, the angrier it made Ottie-Doo. Her fuzzy paws were curled into fists of fury and her old lady teeth were cracking underneath her jaws. A cyclone of blue lightning and wind encircled her as she prepared for her next magic spell. Randy was already one step ahead of her when he knelt down to peel back a floor board and pulled out a gigantic battleaxe, which was also glowing with blue energy.
“Just to show you how far gone these children are, Miss Ottie-Doo, let me show you just how much they’re willing to sacrifice to make me stronger!” With that said, Randy held out the glowing battleaxe and one by one the children dissolved into a puddle of worms. The worms crawled all around Randy and were gathering around the metal axe, the blade absorbing their spiritual essences. This horrific sight struck even more fear and doubt in the heart of Ottie-Doo as her magical energy was dwindling and she was sinking to the ground below.
She hung her elderly kitty head feeling like a failure to these poor children. Then again, if they were made of worms and maggots, maybe their childlike forms were merely a mind game. So many thoughts raced through her mind as she tried to wrap her head around what this Randy Fender asshole was doing.
She couldn’t take too long to think, however, as she dodged out of the way in the nick of time when the blade came crashing down. Big Randy swung that battleaxe like a berserker, shattering every piece of wood he hit into sawdust. Ottie bounced around and dodged every single shot. She even found herself running along the walls just to avoid getting slashed with this magical weapon.
“You’re gonna die, bitch! You’re gonna die badly!” screamed Randy when he took off his demon mask and revealed the face of a hideously scarred and tattooed psychopath. The sight of his hideous face made Ottie curl up into a ball of fear as her eyes leaked with salty tears. She didn’t feel like she could fight such a monster anymore. He was too big, too fast, and too monstrous. Ottie was just an elderly cat who literally slept like a corpse.
Randy charged over to a cornered Ottie with the blade held high. With one final swing, he was going to break this “annoying” cat into a million pieces. But just as the blade came crashing down, Ottie had one last hope for victory. Randy’s attacks were relying solely on reckless momentum. Therefore, Ottie used telekinesis to use his own momentum against him. Instead of cutting through the elderly witch kitty, the axe took a magical detour into Randy’s stomach.
The cult master never saw this coming behind his own rage. The spirits of dead children were flying out of his body and out of his axe while the ultra-evil Randy Fender melted into a puddle of maggots and worms himself. The parasites dissolved into little puddles of blood and the last of the children spirits flew away into the night sky. With just one small opening, Ottie-Doo ended this battle.
But at what price? Those kids were beyond help. Whatever Randy Fender did to them would put a strain on the parents forever. All Ottie could do was tuck her head and meow softly to herself. She won the battle, but lost the war.
Just when she was about to spend this evening in a crying slumber, she felt a gentle touch on top of her kitty head. Ottie looked up and saw one of the spirit children smiling a beautiful smile at her, just like all children should. In no uncertain terms, the child spirit had only one thing to say to her savior: “Thank you!”
Not For Business
***NOT FOR BUSINESS***
When I was transitioning from a kid to an adult, I gave up acting out scenes with my action figures and Legos. I had the mindset that if I wasn’t doing something to further my future career as a screenwriter (which is what I wanted to be at the time), then extracurricular activities were unnecessary and therefore a waste of time. I’m sure there are many adults who feel business-minded enough that their careers are their whole lives.
I’m telling you all right now, your career, no matter how passionately you feel about it, is not your whole life, and no extracurricular activities you undertake are a waste of time. Putting time into a career is only a small part of what life is supposed to be. The other part of that equation is…living! I had this struggle when I was drawing pictures of my characters for the first time. At first I thought to myself, “What does drawing pictures have to do with my career as a writer?” Technically, I could put them in my books as part of a mini-gallery, but ultimately, drawings have little impact on my writing career. The past me would have been terrified at that notion. The current version of me couldn’t give two shits.
Working the same job for endless hours can get tiring no matter how dedicated you are. Even the most passionate people have to learn to step away for a while and take the edge off. The now former drummer for Nothing More, Paul O’Brien, left the band because the hectic touring schedule has completely drained him. He was already dealing with social anxiety and depression, so having an off switch for his career was next to impossible. Luckily, he’s still on good terms with his Nothing More band mates. But some coworkers and bosses aren’t so forgiving. CM Punk left the WWE on sour terms because his body was aching and nobody was giving him a break. When you have to quit your career just to take the edge off, that’s a sign that you needed to take the edge off a long time ago, but in shorter bursts.
So don’t feel guilty about getting nothing done to advance your career whatever that may be. Take a break. Feel good about feeling good. Watch a new show. Go for a walk. Find new music to listen to. Draw some pictures. Play some videogames. Hit the reset button on your mind and it when it comes time to get back to work, know your escapes will always be there for you. Do you think Dante and Randal from Clerks feel like serving the community all day long? Bullshit, man! They’re on the roof playing hockey and going for road trips to funeral homes! You can add years to your life, but first you have to learn to add life to your years. And if your legacy isn’t immortalized in bronze by the time life is over, just know that it never had to be. Do what makes you happy with the life you have left. We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTEST AND COMPANY***
It’s a new week at the WSS, which means a new prompt for both storytellers and poets. Since I’m the former of those two, I’m going to write a Cat Lady story called “Ottie-Doo”, which goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
Ottie, Elderly Witch Kitty
Randy Fender, Backwoods Cult Leader
Random Cult Members
PROMPT CONFORMITY: Ottie is a cat who also happens to be a lady.
SYNOPSIS: Randy has plans to sacrifice Ottie in order to gain her magic powers. What he didn’t count on was Ottie tapping into her powers to fight back against the hairy cultist. The elderly kitty has an entire compound full of followers to fight off, but if anybody can do it, it’s the kitty who throws fireballs just for fun.
***DRAWING***
My next picture will be of Julian Heath, the gnome rogue protagonist from the Poison Tongue Tales short story “Ascension” (a title that will eventually change). I’m going to try and draw Julian in a way that will take up the whole page, but will also magnify his short stature. I’ve only successfully done this a handful of times, my most recent instance being with Baby from “Nail Bomb” (also from Poison Tongue Tales).
***PHOTOGRAPHY***
I’m normally known for taking pictures of my toys and my animals. I don’t take selfies often because I don’t like how the pictures magnify my overweight features. When I dress in my Slipknot costume for Halloween this year, I won’t mind the flashing camera so much. In fact, being overweight will probably help me look scarier than I already will be in that costume. Hehe!
***READING***
Now that Daniel Bryan’s memoir has been read and reviewed, it’s time to move on to a more time-sensitive piece of literature. Edward Davies, the author of Divine Intervention, encouraged me to join a group on Good Reads called Read Together, Blog Together. For the month of September, one the books under review is “So…I Met a Vampire” by Paul McAvoy. It’s a quick and short read, so the review should be up in no time at all.
***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“I’m gonna drink a big glass of milk, eat some chocolate chip cookies, and then maybe I’ll take three Viagra.”
-The Rock mocking Kurt Angle-
When I was transitioning from a kid to an adult, I gave up acting out scenes with my action figures and Legos. I had the mindset that if I wasn’t doing something to further my future career as a screenwriter (which is what I wanted to be at the time), then extracurricular activities were unnecessary and therefore a waste of time. I’m sure there are many adults who feel business-minded enough that their careers are their whole lives.
I’m telling you all right now, your career, no matter how passionately you feel about it, is not your whole life, and no extracurricular activities you undertake are a waste of time. Putting time into a career is only a small part of what life is supposed to be. The other part of that equation is…living! I had this struggle when I was drawing pictures of my characters for the first time. At first I thought to myself, “What does drawing pictures have to do with my career as a writer?” Technically, I could put them in my books as part of a mini-gallery, but ultimately, drawings have little impact on my writing career. The past me would have been terrified at that notion. The current version of me couldn’t give two shits.
Working the same job for endless hours can get tiring no matter how dedicated you are. Even the most passionate people have to learn to step away for a while and take the edge off. The now former drummer for Nothing More, Paul O’Brien, left the band because the hectic touring schedule has completely drained him. He was already dealing with social anxiety and depression, so having an off switch for his career was next to impossible. Luckily, he’s still on good terms with his Nothing More band mates. But some coworkers and bosses aren’t so forgiving. CM Punk left the WWE on sour terms because his body was aching and nobody was giving him a break. When you have to quit your career just to take the edge off, that’s a sign that you needed to take the edge off a long time ago, but in shorter bursts.
So don’t feel guilty about getting nothing done to advance your career whatever that may be. Take a break. Feel good about feeling good. Watch a new show. Go for a walk. Find new music to listen to. Draw some pictures. Play some videogames. Hit the reset button on your mind and it when it comes time to get back to work, know your escapes will always be there for you. Do you think Dante and Randal from Clerks feel like serving the community all day long? Bullshit, man! They’re on the roof playing hockey and going for road trips to funeral homes! You can add years to your life, but first you have to learn to add life to your years. And if your legacy isn’t immortalized in bronze by the time life is over, just know that it never had to be. Do what makes you happy with the life you have left. We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTEST AND COMPANY***
It’s a new week at the WSS, which means a new prompt for both storytellers and poets. Since I’m the former of those two, I’m going to write a Cat Lady story called “Ottie-Doo”, which goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
Ottie, Elderly Witch Kitty
Randy Fender, Backwoods Cult Leader
Random Cult Members
PROMPT CONFORMITY: Ottie is a cat who also happens to be a lady.
SYNOPSIS: Randy has plans to sacrifice Ottie in order to gain her magic powers. What he didn’t count on was Ottie tapping into her powers to fight back against the hairy cultist. The elderly kitty has an entire compound full of followers to fight off, but if anybody can do it, it’s the kitty who throws fireballs just for fun.
***DRAWING***
My next picture will be of Julian Heath, the gnome rogue protagonist from the Poison Tongue Tales short story “Ascension” (a title that will eventually change). I’m going to try and draw Julian in a way that will take up the whole page, but will also magnify his short stature. I’ve only successfully done this a handful of times, my most recent instance being with Baby from “Nail Bomb” (also from Poison Tongue Tales).
***PHOTOGRAPHY***
I’m normally known for taking pictures of my toys and my animals. I don’t take selfies often because I don’t like how the pictures magnify my overweight features. When I dress in my Slipknot costume for Halloween this year, I won’t mind the flashing camera so much. In fact, being overweight will probably help me look scarier than I already will be in that costume. Hehe!
***READING***
Now that Daniel Bryan’s memoir has been read and reviewed, it’s time to move on to a more time-sensitive piece of literature. Edward Davies, the author of Divine Intervention, encouraged me to join a group on Good Reads called Read Together, Blog Together. For the month of September, one the books under review is “So…I Met a Vampire” by Paul McAvoy. It’s a quick and short read, so the review should be up in no time at all.
***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“I’m gonna drink a big glass of milk, eat some chocolate chip cookies, and then maybe I’ll take three Viagra.”
-The Rock mocking Kurt Angle-
September 8, 2015
Blood Brawl, Chapter 2
Horace, the host at the Dragon Wings Orc Bar, wasn’t giving into any racial stereotypes of being an aggressive brute. On the contrary, he felt weak after the previous night’s events, which were fresher in his mind than a gushing slash wound. The interior of the bar had been reduced to ashes by that…thing. There was hardly any furniture left and the few tables and chairs that survived the assault were covered in blood and ashes. The counter was among the survivors and looked no better than the rest of the furniture.
The distraught bartender stood at the counter absentmindedly running a dirty dish rag along the insides of the same mug for ten whole minutes. With his only customers turned to worm food, it didn’t matter to the public what his state of mind was at the time. His traumatized brain was about to be flooded with cold numbness when he saw a figure standing in the doorway in a black trench coat and a hood wielding a scythe. Horace dropped to the ground and cowered in fear thinking he really was dead after all.
Horace’s heart thumped in his chest and his body had gone cold with dripping sweat. Not another trauma, damn it! And then the orcish voice said, “It’s alright, Horace, it’s me, Ivan. The bartender slowly stood up and saw that the voice indeed belonged to Ivan Blackstone, an orc warrior who for some reason loved to dress up like the grim reaper and carry a scythe to boot. Ivan casually said, “Yeah, I know, weapons aren’t allowed.” before depositing his blade on the ground.
The bartender was both relieved and argumentative at the same time when he continued wiping his mug and said, “Listen, I don’t need a lecture about what happened last night. I’m not in the goddamn mood for another scare. So if you’re not going to order anything to drink, I suggest you take your soapbox somewhere else.”
Ivan slammed his palms on the counter (which spooked Horace into a little jump) and drummed his fingers while giving the barkeep a despising glare. “What did you think was going to happen when you allowed those two to fight each other? Does anybody take kindly to having their head shaved after getting their ass kicked? Do I also need to remind you that Gargoth Trencher, the one who lost that ‘wrestling’ match, was not just this ‘death angel’ everyone’s talking about; he was my best friend.”
“If you consider that monster to be your friend, then you’ve got some fucked up social skills, kid.”
“Anybody who runs a wrestling league from their bar doesn’t have the right to criticize other people’s social skills. Besides, all this death angel chatter is news to me as well. Gargoth didn’t look anything like that when I tried to talk him out of coming here. No warning signs at all. An arrogant prick? Maybe. Hardheaded? Absolutely. Death angel? Never would have guessed it in a million years.”
Still wiping down the same mug, Horace said, “So you think there’s some hocus pocus bullshit going on here? Hell, I’d probably learn some magic too if someone was bold enough to shave my head. That death angel gig can be pretty nice after losing a wrestling match.”
Ivan grabbed Horace by his shirt and pulled him closer for an even more intense stare down. “If you’re suggesting that Gargoth did this on purpose, then you’ve got more problems on your hands than a messed up bar. You’ve got a pissed off best friend to deal with!”
Horace’s initial fear was replaced with screaming anger when he said, “Best friend?! You call that monster your best friend?! You’re actually making excuses for someone who’s beyond redemption?! I always knew you were loyal to your friends, Ivan, but this is downright evil! Take a look around you, buddy! Look at all those burned corpses! Look them in the eyes and tell them your little theory about how Gargoth Trencher is an innocent man! I’m sure if they were alive today, they’d completely understand!”
The trench coat-wearing orc found himself unable to argue with that point and let go of Horace’s shirt. The bartender went right back to cleaning his glass when Ivan finally pointed it out to him: “You realize you’ve been wiping that same glass since I got here, right? Do you even know where the hell you are right now?”
The frustrated host threw the glass on the ground and stomped on it several times, “Of course I know where I am. I’m in hell! And there’s no way out! Come to think of it, you’re in hell too, my friend! It’ll only get worse when your so-called best friend lays those fiery eyes on you and turns you to shit with just one stare!”
“Trust me, Horace, I’m ready to scour the earth for Gargoth. This isn’t just about friendship. This is about getting the answers that I deserve. Maybe your dead patrons won’t like my innocence theory very much, but they probably would like some answers, at least their families would.”
Horace made a flat tire noise and said, “Okay, so you think you can find him before every other bounty hunter does. That’s right, buddy. If I know King Lovelace like I think I do, he’s probably offering hundreds of thousands of gold pieces just for that bastard Gargoth’s head. He doesn’t offer that kind of money unless the bounty head is really goddamn hard to find. So, not only do you get to play chit-chat with your little butt buddy, but you also get to make some money off of the whole thing. If I had that much money, I’d stop walking around dressed like the grim reaper.”
“Money? You think I give two shits about the money?” said Ivan Blackstone in an angry whisper before clutching Horace around the throat and squeezing with his muscular hand. “I swear on my mother’s grave, Horace, if you make one more shitty comment about my friend like that, I will rip out your liver!”
The bartender would have passed out if Ivan didn’t release his grip shortly after hearing a noise from upstairs. Horace sat on the ground coughing up spittle, snot, and blood while sucking in every last breath of air he could. Ivan picked up his scythe and tried to make his way up the stairs to the attic when Horace stopped him with harsh words.
“That’s right, Ivan! You keep on defending that piece of shit! You keep telling yourself that he’s being controlled by someone else and this whole death angel gig is just a ruse! I’m sure even you will believe it someday!” Horace sucked in deeper breaths and said, “But know this…although I could never beat your ass in a fight, there’s someone out there who will have had enough of your bullshit and will rip YOUR liver out!”
Instead of engaging in another heated struggle with Horace, Ivan frankly said, “We have a spy in our midst. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to be able to find whoever’s up there!” The scythe-wielding badass stormed up the stairs and into the attic, where the light, fast-paced footsteps confirmed to Horace what Ivan just said.
By the time Ivan made it to the top, he scoped around the dingy and dusty cluster bomb of whiskey barrels, but whoever was up here before was giving him a good slip. The squirrel-like footsteps sounded off from seemingly in all directions. Ivan’s eyes shot around everywhere until from out of the corner of his right eye, a pair of booted feet flew toward him and smashed him in the face. The orc was knocked backwards by the stinging, possibly bruise-forming kick, but he didn’t fall on his ass until tripping over a barrel.
Ivan was only slightly dizzy from that drop kick, so while he was lying on the ground, his vision was clear enough to spot a young female human rogue dashing toward the glass window and throwing another drop kick to break it open and make her escape. Such a powerful kick would have been enough to keep normal men down.
But this wasn’t any normal man. This was Ivan freaking Blackstone. He may not have been an orcish stereotype, but one thing he acknowledged as part of his race was his ability to endure beatings. He got up instantly, grabbed his scythe, and ran toward the window after whoever was spying on him and Horace. He screamed, “Get back here, you sneaky bitch!” and then jumped out the window himself in pursuit of this mysterious lady.
The distraught bartender stood at the counter absentmindedly running a dirty dish rag along the insides of the same mug for ten whole minutes. With his only customers turned to worm food, it didn’t matter to the public what his state of mind was at the time. His traumatized brain was about to be flooded with cold numbness when he saw a figure standing in the doorway in a black trench coat and a hood wielding a scythe. Horace dropped to the ground and cowered in fear thinking he really was dead after all.
Horace’s heart thumped in his chest and his body had gone cold with dripping sweat. Not another trauma, damn it! And then the orcish voice said, “It’s alright, Horace, it’s me, Ivan. The bartender slowly stood up and saw that the voice indeed belonged to Ivan Blackstone, an orc warrior who for some reason loved to dress up like the grim reaper and carry a scythe to boot. Ivan casually said, “Yeah, I know, weapons aren’t allowed.” before depositing his blade on the ground.
The bartender was both relieved and argumentative at the same time when he continued wiping his mug and said, “Listen, I don’t need a lecture about what happened last night. I’m not in the goddamn mood for another scare. So if you’re not going to order anything to drink, I suggest you take your soapbox somewhere else.”
Ivan slammed his palms on the counter (which spooked Horace into a little jump) and drummed his fingers while giving the barkeep a despising glare. “What did you think was going to happen when you allowed those two to fight each other? Does anybody take kindly to having their head shaved after getting their ass kicked? Do I also need to remind you that Gargoth Trencher, the one who lost that ‘wrestling’ match, was not just this ‘death angel’ everyone’s talking about; he was my best friend.”
“If you consider that monster to be your friend, then you’ve got some fucked up social skills, kid.”
“Anybody who runs a wrestling league from their bar doesn’t have the right to criticize other people’s social skills. Besides, all this death angel chatter is news to me as well. Gargoth didn’t look anything like that when I tried to talk him out of coming here. No warning signs at all. An arrogant prick? Maybe. Hardheaded? Absolutely. Death angel? Never would have guessed it in a million years.”
Still wiping down the same mug, Horace said, “So you think there’s some hocus pocus bullshit going on here? Hell, I’d probably learn some magic too if someone was bold enough to shave my head. That death angel gig can be pretty nice after losing a wrestling match.”
Ivan grabbed Horace by his shirt and pulled him closer for an even more intense stare down. “If you’re suggesting that Gargoth did this on purpose, then you’ve got more problems on your hands than a messed up bar. You’ve got a pissed off best friend to deal with!”
Horace’s initial fear was replaced with screaming anger when he said, “Best friend?! You call that monster your best friend?! You’re actually making excuses for someone who’s beyond redemption?! I always knew you were loyal to your friends, Ivan, but this is downright evil! Take a look around you, buddy! Look at all those burned corpses! Look them in the eyes and tell them your little theory about how Gargoth Trencher is an innocent man! I’m sure if they were alive today, they’d completely understand!”
The trench coat-wearing orc found himself unable to argue with that point and let go of Horace’s shirt. The bartender went right back to cleaning his glass when Ivan finally pointed it out to him: “You realize you’ve been wiping that same glass since I got here, right? Do you even know where the hell you are right now?”
The frustrated host threw the glass on the ground and stomped on it several times, “Of course I know where I am. I’m in hell! And there’s no way out! Come to think of it, you’re in hell too, my friend! It’ll only get worse when your so-called best friend lays those fiery eyes on you and turns you to shit with just one stare!”
“Trust me, Horace, I’m ready to scour the earth for Gargoth. This isn’t just about friendship. This is about getting the answers that I deserve. Maybe your dead patrons won’t like my innocence theory very much, but they probably would like some answers, at least their families would.”
Horace made a flat tire noise and said, “Okay, so you think you can find him before every other bounty hunter does. That’s right, buddy. If I know King Lovelace like I think I do, he’s probably offering hundreds of thousands of gold pieces just for that bastard Gargoth’s head. He doesn’t offer that kind of money unless the bounty head is really goddamn hard to find. So, not only do you get to play chit-chat with your little butt buddy, but you also get to make some money off of the whole thing. If I had that much money, I’d stop walking around dressed like the grim reaper.”
“Money? You think I give two shits about the money?” said Ivan Blackstone in an angry whisper before clutching Horace around the throat and squeezing with his muscular hand. “I swear on my mother’s grave, Horace, if you make one more shitty comment about my friend like that, I will rip out your liver!”
The bartender would have passed out if Ivan didn’t release his grip shortly after hearing a noise from upstairs. Horace sat on the ground coughing up spittle, snot, and blood while sucking in every last breath of air he could. Ivan picked up his scythe and tried to make his way up the stairs to the attic when Horace stopped him with harsh words.
“That’s right, Ivan! You keep on defending that piece of shit! You keep telling yourself that he’s being controlled by someone else and this whole death angel gig is just a ruse! I’m sure even you will believe it someday!” Horace sucked in deeper breaths and said, “But know this…although I could never beat your ass in a fight, there’s someone out there who will have had enough of your bullshit and will rip YOUR liver out!”
Instead of engaging in another heated struggle with Horace, Ivan frankly said, “We have a spy in our midst. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to be able to find whoever’s up there!” The scythe-wielding badass stormed up the stairs and into the attic, where the light, fast-paced footsteps confirmed to Horace what Ivan just said.
By the time Ivan made it to the top, he scoped around the dingy and dusty cluster bomb of whiskey barrels, but whoever was up here before was giving him a good slip. The squirrel-like footsteps sounded off from seemingly in all directions. Ivan’s eyes shot around everywhere until from out of the corner of his right eye, a pair of booted feet flew toward him and smashed him in the face. The orc was knocked backwards by the stinging, possibly bruise-forming kick, but he didn’t fall on his ass until tripping over a barrel.
Ivan was only slightly dizzy from that drop kick, so while he was lying on the ground, his vision was clear enough to spot a young female human rogue dashing toward the glass window and throwing another drop kick to break it open and make her escape. Such a powerful kick would have been enough to keep normal men down.
But this wasn’t any normal man. This was Ivan freaking Blackstone. He may not have been an orcish stereotype, but one thing he acknowledged as part of his race was his ability to endure beatings. He got up instantly, grabbed his scythe, and ran toward the window after whoever was spying on him and Horace. He screamed, “Get back here, you sneaky bitch!” and then jumped out the window himself in pursuit of this mysterious lady.
September 4, 2015
Dennis the Menace
MOVIE TITLE: Dennis the Menace
DIRECTOR: Nick Castle
YEAR: 1993
GENRE: Family Comedy
RATING: PG for mild violence
GRADE: Pass
Dennis Mitchell is a five-year-old boy known in his neighborhood for being a troublemaker and a prankster, hence why nobody wants to babysit him, especially not his grumpy next door neighbor George Wilson. When Dennis’ parents take a business trip and need someone to look after the little guy, George becomes their last resort. Without even trying, Dennis annoys the piss out of his caretaker in a series of gags that ultimately become the source of the movie’s funniest moments. Try as they might to have fun and play free, the children of Dennis’ neighborhood become fearful of a career criminal named Switchblade Sam, a nasty burglar who’s good at what he does.
I first saw this movie in the year it came out, which would have made me an eight-year-old going to school in the third grade. At that age, the slapstick moments would keep me amused for a long time, possibly well into my teenage years. Examples of these hilarious moments would be George pressing his thumb against a doorbell with a thumbtack taped to it, getting shot in the balls with a shop vacuum, and getting an Aspirin fired down his throat by Dennis and his slingshot. The cries of agony George lets out were very satisfying to my sadistic nature. It felt so good not to have empathy for those in slapstick situations.
My favorite moment of physical comedy would have to be when George uses the bathroom after Dennis was done bathing. The wet floor causes the old man to slip and do the splits while tearing a hole in his pajama crotch. Once he recovers, he tries to use mouthwash only to find out it had toilet cleanser in it. And then he uses a nasal spray bottle that actually had the missing mouthwash in it. Oh, the screams of pain and how they made me scream in pain myself as I held my ribs and back from laughing so hard. I actually had to have my parents explain to me that putting toilet cleanser in someone’s mouthwash could kill the person using it. I would have laughed anyways if George Wilson got poisoned. The howls of pain would have been worth him being rushed to the ER.
Now that I’m a grown man (sort of), I’m looking at this movie from an analytical point of view. Everything is there that should be from George Wilson’s believable change in alignment to the low point before that to the triumphant return of Dennis Mitchell and his newly earned status as the neighborhood hero. But now that I think about it, the scene near the end where Switchblade Sam kidnaps Dennis and takes him underneath a railroad bridge strikes me as a little creepy. The burglar has horrible dental and physical hygiene, stringy and dirty long hair that forms a horseshoe around his head, and he’s a demented sociopath. If this wasn’t a PG-rated movie, Switchblade Sam would come across to adults as a perverted pedophile looking for a sex slave. Maybe that’s what Roger Ebert meant when he says everything about Dennis the Menace was great except for the psychotic burglar. At least now Mr. Ebert can rest in peace knowing that creepy visual is no longer in his head. Goddamn, I need a shower.
Despite the creepy overtones of Christopher Lloyd’s Switchblade Sam character, I give this movie a passing grade because it gave me a great deal of entertainment when I needed it the most. I loved this movie as a kid and it’s one of the reasons I had a happy childhood to begin with. If only that movie could have been there for me during my college days when I was depressed and bored all the time. Instead all I had back then was The Brave Little Toaster, which has themes of abandonment and terror. What a life I’ve lead.
***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
GEORGE: Was Dennis in our bathroom tonight?
MARTHA: Yes. Why?
GEORGE: I think the little rat put mouthwash in my nasal spray and toilet cleanser in my mouthwash.
MARTHA: Why would he do something like that?
GEORGE: Must you ask?
-Dennis the Menace-
DIRECTOR: Nick Castle
YEAR: 1993
GENRE: Family Comedy
RATING: PG for mild violence
GRADE: Pass
Dennis Mitchell is a five-year-old boy known in his neighborhood for being a troublemaker and a prankster, hence why nobody wants to babysit him, especially not his grumpy next door neighbor George Wilson. When Dennis’ parents take a business trip and need someone to look after the little guy, George becomes their last resort. Without even trying, Dennis annoys the piss out of his caretaker in a series of gags that ultimately become the source of the movie’s funniest moments. Try as they might to have fun and play free, the children of Dennis’ neighborhood become fearful of a career criminal named Switchblade Sam, a nasty burglar who’s good at what he does.
I first saw this movie in the year it came out, which would have made me an eight-year-old going to school in the third grade. At that age, the slapstick moments would keep me amused for a long time, possibly well into my teenage years. Examples of these hilarious moments would be George pressing his thumb against a doorbell with a thumbtack taped to it, getting shot in the balls with a shop vacuum, and getting an Aspirin fired down his throat by Dennis and his slingshot. The cries of agony George lets out were very satisfying to my sadistic nature. It felt so good not to have empathy for those in slapstick situations.
My favorite moment of physical comedy would have to be when George uses the bathroom after Dennis was done bathing. The wet floor causes the old man to slip and do the splits while tearing a hole in his pajama crotch. Once he recovers, he tries to use mouthwash only to find out it had toilet cleanser in it. And then he uses a nasal spray bottle that actually had the missing mouthwash in it. Oh, the screams of pain and how they made me scream in pain myself as I held my ribs and back from laughing so hard. I actually had to have my parents explain to me that putting toilet cleanser in someone’s mouthwash could kill the person using it. I would have laughed anyways if George Wilson got poisoned. The howls of pain would have been worth him being rushed to the ER.
Now that I’m a grown man (sort of), I’m looking at this movie from an analytical point of view. Everything is there that should be from George Wilson’s believable change in alignment to the low point before that to the triumphant return of Dennis Mitchell and his newly earned status as the neighborhood hero. But now that I think about it, the scene near the end where Switchblade Sam kidnaps Dennis and takes him underneath a railroad bridge strikes me as a little creepy. The burglar has horrible dental and physical hygiene, stringy and dirty long hair that forms a horseshoe around his head, and he’s a demented sociopath. If this wasn’t a PG-rated movie, Switchblade Sam would come across to adults as a perverted pedophile looking for a sex slave. Maybe that’s what Roger Ebert meant when he says everything about Dennis the Menace was great except for the psychotic burglar. At least now Mr. Ebert can rest in peace knowing that creepy visual is no longer in his head. Goddamn, I need a shower.
Despite the creepy overtones of Christopher Lloyd’s Switchblade Sam character, I give this movie a passing grade because it gave me a great deal of entertainment when I needed it the most. I loved this movie as a kid and it’s one of the reasons I had a happy childhood to begin with. If only that movie could have been there for me during my college days when I was depressed and bored all the time. Instead all I had back then was The Brave Little Toaster, which has themes of abandonment and terror. What a life I’ve lead.
***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
GEORGE: Was Dennis in our bathroom tonight?
MARTHA: Yes. Why?
GEORGE: I think the little rat put mouthwash in my nasal spray and toilet cleanser in my mouthwash.
MARTHA: Why would he do something like that?
GEORGE: Must you ask?
-Dennis the Menace-
Massage
(Spoken in a whisper to gentle bass and electric guitar music.)
VERSE 1
Dancing fingers across my spine
Give me the chills every time
Squeezing the pain out of my neck
Squeezing my shoulders, you are the best
Gentle scrapes across my scalp
Shocks of pleasure will make me melt
Relaxing my muscles into true nirvana
My head is swimming like a puff of marijuana
VERSE 2
Peace and love are the ways of New Age
To ease the pain brought on by rage
To put the past behind and turn a new page
To know the wisdom of a heavenly sage
The simple act of a therapeutic touch
Will mean the world and then so much
Tingling waves of loving pleasure
Take away my moments of pressure
VERSE 3
There’s no need to fear such a gentle gesture
Just reach out with your aching sensors
Physical contact has never been so clean
Releasing serotonin and yummy dopamine
Lie on a table with your body face down
Sit in a chair where paradise is found
The harps and pianos will give you peace
The squeezes and rubs will put you at ease
VERSE 4
When the time comes to rest your head
Do so in the softest and fluffiest of beds
Dream about worlds of great imagination
While the radio’s tuned to the New Age station
Wake up in the morning feeling beautiful
A cup of warm coffee would be suitable
Make another trip to the therapy lodge
Give into the pleasure of a back massage
VERSE 1
Dancing fingers across my spine
Give me the chills every time
Squeezing the pain out of my neck
Squeezing my shoulders, you are the best
Gentle scrapes across my scalp
Shocks of pleasure will make me melt
Relaxing my muscles into true nirvana
My head is swimming like a puff of marijuana
VERSE 2
Peace and love are the ways of New Age
To ease the pain brought on by rage
To put the past behind and turn a new page
To know the wisdom of a heavenly sage
The simple act of a therapeutic touch
Will mean the world and then so much
Tingling waves of loving pleasure
Take away my moments of pressure
VERSE 3
There’s no need to fear such a gentle gesture
Just reach out with your aching sensors
Physical contact has never been so clean
Releasing serotonin and yummy dopamine
Lie on a table with your body face down
Sit in a chair where paradise is found
The harps and pianos will give you peace
The squeezes and rubs will put you at ease
VERSE 4
When the time comes to rest your head
Do so in the softest and fluffiest of beds
Dream about worlds of great imagination
While the radio’s tuned to the New Age station
Wake up in the morning feeling beautiful
A cup of warm coffee would be suitable
Make another trip to the therapy lodge
Give into the pleasure of a back massage
September 3, 2015
I, Barbarian
“So your name is Corey Darkside, huh? Is that the name your momma gave you or are you just being cute with me? You wouldn’t happen to be an injun, would you? Either way, missy, it’s time to cut the crap. You’re here for a reason, which happens to be that vagrancy is illegal and you’re being accused of it. You have anything to say for yourself, sweetheart?” said the heavyset Sheriff Ace Hank, who sat across the interrogation table eating a pink-frosted donut and sipping a cup of coffee.
“This is the way you treat your homeless? By locking them up in monkey cages? Even a barbarian like me would be disgusted by the behavior of your world, which is why I prefer living in solitude,” said Corey Darkside, a muscular female warrior dressed in bear skins, furry boots, and metal armor. She looked like she leapt out of the pages of a Dungeons & Dragons player’s handbook.
Ace, on the other hand, thought she looked more like a loony as evidenced by the look of puzzlement on his chubby face, which was now covered in donut sugar. He said, “Listen, lady, I don’t know where you came from or why you decided to wander the streets of my city looking for handouts, but whether you want to believe it or not, you’re in serious shit, my friend. And you’re not doing yourself any favors by arguing vagrancy politics with me. I for one support clean streets and working folk.”
The unimpressed Corey spit at her inquisitor and happened to get vile green fluids in Ace’s coffee. The unhappy sheriff threw the rest of the coffee in the barbarian’s face. The coffee had gone tepid, so it didn’t burn her face that badly, but it still had all of that oral muck Corey shot from her mouth earlier. “Now we’re even, bitch,” said Ace.
The barbarian wiped the snot and coffee off of her face with her bear skin tunic. She said, “I don’t know what kind of information you hope to get from me, but as long as you sit there with your arrogant ways and your disgusting junk food, I shall tell you nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
“That’s okay, sweetie pie. I don’t need anything from you. I’m just here to tell you to get ready for a court hearing sooner than later. Until then, my men are going to transport your smelly ass to jail so you can think about what you did.”
“There’s nothing to think about, fat boy. All I did was wander into your town and you’ve shown me how you treat your less desirables. It’s a sad day when barbaric tribes behave better than those who claim to be civilized.”
Ace reached across the table to slap Corey in the mouth, but the steadfast barbarian caught the massive hand and squeezed with a vice grip at the wrist. The sheriff grimaced in pain as he tried to suck it up and free his hand, but the woman’s grip was too powerful. The cop’s fingers began to turn purple when a swarm of other police officers descended upon the interrogation to pull Corey off and restrain her arms and legs.
Miss Darkside thrashed around and screamed in a guttural voice, but the many cops who came to hold her still were too powerful. They even managed to get her wrists behind her back and zip-tie them together while pressing her face-down to the floor.
With the barbaric warrior still howling like an animal, Ace shook off the pain in his hand and wrist and said, “There, are you happy now?! You can add assaulting an officer to the list of charges! Get this crazy bitch out of here! Jail is too good for this renaissance fare freak! She’s going straight to the rubber room where she’ll really have some fun!”
After a count of three, the many police officers hoisted Corey up by her arms and legs and carried her out of the interrogation room. She was still thrashing and screaming, but again, the officers were too powerful for her. It wasn’t until a thunderous bang resounded throughout the police station that the fierce action stopped.
“What the hell was that?!” asked Ace.
Corey managed a smile with razor-sharp teeth and said, “He’s here. He wants to put an end to our rivalry once and for all. If it’s a brawl he wants, it’s a brawl I’m going to give him!”
“Who the fuck are you talking about, lady?” asked Ace.
Even more monstrous bangs blasted throughout the building. The source of the tremors came rushing in like an F5 tornado, slashing and throwing around any police officer who would try to stop him. It wasn’t a mere mortal, but a 7’5” grizzly bear decked out in metal armor and carrying steel claws on his already massive paws. He let out a deafening roar at the officers who were holding Corey, who were then so terrified that they dropped her on the floor and drew their pistols to open fire.
A storm of bullets that powerful would send anybody to heaven. Instead the bullets either deflected off of the bear’s armor or served as a mere annoyance like a fly landing on his fur. “Pathetic! You all are pathetic!” screamed the bear before spinning like a hurricane again and bulldozing the officers into a pile of ripped flesh, bitter blood, and shattered bones. Corey had long gotten out of the line of fire before she too could become worm food.
The bear had his sights set on Sheriff Ace Hank, who was shivering in terror with his eyes wide open while sporting a urine stain on his oversized trousers. With one gigantic paw, the bear lifted Ace in the air and pressed him against the wall before asking in a throaty roar, “Where is she?! Where’s Corey Darkside?! I know that bitch is in here! She fucked with my tribe for the last goddamn time!”
“Sheriff, I want you to meet my rival, Magnus Warcry, leader of the Warcry Nation. Do you want to arrest him for vagrancy too? Well, do you?!” said Corey, who stood next to a pile of dead cops with her arms folded.
Magnus tossed the pudgy sheriff aside and focused all of his attention on Corey, who cracked her knuckles, back, and neck before getting into a martial arts-esque fighting stance. The malevolent bear let out a destructive roar and then charged into his fierce rival, who wasted no time in throwing kicks, punches, knees, and elbows to the bear warrior’s ribs and stomach. These stiff shots rocked the monstrous creature back several steps, but it wasn’t until Corey threw a flying kick to the bear’s face that he was knocked on his back.
Corey jumped up in the air and planted both feet in Magnus’ gut, but the pissed off grizzly smiled a devilish grin at her and grabbed her ankles before standing up and spinning her around in a dizzying circle. The circular pressure made Corey so nauseous that she projectile vomited right in her opponent’s face, causing the big guy to drop her near one of the cops’ desks.
The human warrior was exhausted and was ready to pass out at any moment while the bear warrior, who just wiped the puke off of his face with his paw, was still ready to go. He even let out a battle cry that was so loud it could have waked the dead. But still there were cop corpses lying around everywhere bathed in blood and broken beyond repair.
The one cop who decided this vagrancy case was too important fired a shotgun blast right into Magnus’ ribcage. Hell yeah it hurt, but no more than a bee sting or spider bite. Instead of being in tremendous pain, Magnus just looked annoyed as he stared down Ace Hank with the intent to rip him to shreds.
As Ace shook while keeping the shotgun trained on the bear, Magnus Warcry said to Corey Darkside, “You know what, babe? I think I may have found someone who’s more of an asshole than you.”
The human barbarian was just coming around when she said, “Tell me about it. This guy cares more about his stupid vagrancy laws than he does about the people he’s paid to protect. Hey Magnus, I got a proposition for you.” She stood up and shook off her battle wounds. “What do you say we call a temporary peace between our tribes and instead beat the shit out of this guy. Hell, we can tear down his building for all I care. Truce?”
After Corey Darkside extended her hand, Magnus reluctantly shook it, but the mutual agreement was there nonetheless. He even said, “Don’t forget, woman, this is a temporary peace. Now let’s beat some ass!”
Ace Hank was terrified by what he just saw: two vagrant barbarians agreeing on the fact that he deserves to die and this building deserves to burn. He tried to aim the shotgun, but his hands were convulsing too hard to keep his grip and he eventually dropped it. He turned around and tried to run away, but his shaky legs and overweight body kept him from getting too far. He even stumbled over the dead body of one of his coworkers and just laid face down crying his eyes out and begging for forgiveness.
With Magnus grabbing Ace’s wrists and Corey grabbing the sheriff’s ankles, the bear warrior said, “On the count of three, were rip this chubby piece of garbage in half! One! Two! THREE!!”
RIP!!
“This is the way you treat your homeless? By locking them up in monkey cages? Even a barbarian like me would be disgusted by the behavior of your world, which is why I prefer living in solitude,” said Corey Darkside, a muscular female warrior dressed in bear skins, furry boots, and metal armor. She looked like she leapt out of the pages of a Dungeons & Dragons player’s handbook.
Ace, on the other hand, thought she looked more like a loony as evidenced by the look of puzzlement on his chubby face, which was now covered in donut sugar. He said, “Listen, lady, I don’t know where you came from or why you decided to wander the streets of my city looking for handouts, but whether you want to believe it or not, you’re in serious shit, my friend. And you’re not doing yourself any favors by arguing vagrancy politics with me. I for one support clean streets and working folk.”
The unimpressed Corey spit at her inquisitor and happened to get vile green fluids in Ace’s coffee. The unhappy sheriff threw the rest of the coffee in the barbarian’s face. The coffee had gone tepid, so it didn’t burn her face that badly, but it still had all of that oral muck Corey shot from her mouth earlier. “Now we’re even, bitch,” said Ace.
The barbarian wiped the snot and coffee off of her face with her bear skin tunic. She said, “I don’t know what kind of information you hope to get from me, but as long as you sit there with your arrogant ways and your disgusting junk food, I shall tell you nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
“That’s okay, sweetie pie. I don’t need anything from you. I’m just here to tell you to get ready for a court hearing sooner than later. Until then, my men are going to transport your smelly ass to jail so you can think about what you did.”
“There’s nothing to think about, fat boy. All I did was wander into your town and you’ve shown me how you treat your less desirables. It’s a sad day when barbaric tribes behave better than those who claim to be civilized.”
Ace reached across the table to slap Corey in the mouth, but the steadfast barbarian caught the massive hand and squeezed with a vice grip at the wrist. The sheriff grimaced in pain as he tried to suck it up and free his hand, but the woman’s grip was too powerful. The cop’s fingers began to turn purple when a swarm of other police officers descended upon the interrogation to pull Corey off and restrain her arms and legs.
Miss Darkside thrashed around and screamed in a guttural voice, but the many cops who came to hold her still were too powerful. They even managed to get her wrists behind her back and zip-tie them together while pressing her face-down to the floor.
With the barbaric warrior still howling like an animal, Ace shook off the pain in his hand and wrist and said, “There, are you happy now?! You can add assaulting an officer to the list of charges! Get this crazy bitch out of here! Jail is too good for this renaissance fare freak! She’s going straight to the rubber room where she’ll really have some fun!”
After a count of three, the many police officers hoisted Corey up by her arms and legs and carried her out of the interrogation room. She was still thrashing and screaming, but again, the officers were too powerful for her. It wasn’t until a thunderous bang resounded throughout the police station that the fierce action stopped.
“What the hell was that?!” asked Ace.
Corey managed a smile with razor-sharp teeth and said, “He’s here. He wants to put an end to our rivalry once and for all. If it’s a brawl he wants, it’s a brawl I’m going to give him!”
“Who the fuck are you talking about, lady?” asked Ace.
Even more monstrous bangs blasted throughout the building. The source of the tremors came rushing in like an F5 tornado, slashing and throwing around any police officer who would try to stop him. It wasn’t a mere mortal, but a 7’5” grizzly bear decked out in metal armor and carrying steel claws on his already massive paws. He let out a deafening roar at the officers who were holding Corey, who were then so terrified that they dropped her on the floor and drew their pistols to open fire.
A storm of bullets that powerful would send anybody to heaven. Instead the bullets either deflected off of the bear’s armor or served as a mere annoyance like a fly landing on his fur. “Pathetic! You all are pathetic!” screamed the bear before spinning like a hurricane again and bulldozing the officers into a pile of ripped flesh, bitter blood, and shattered bones. Corey had long gotten out of the line of fire before she too could become worm food.
The bear had his sights set on Sheriff Ace Hank, who was shivering in terror with his eyes wide open while sporting a urine stain on his oversized trousers. With one gigantic paw, the bear lifted Ace in the air and pressed him against the wall before asking in a throaty roar, “Where is she?! Where’s Corey Darkside?! I know that bitch is in here! She fucked with my tribe for the last goddamn time!”
“Sheriff, I want you to meet my rival, Magnus Warcry, leader of the Warcry Nation. Do you want to arrest him for vagrancy too? Well, do you?!” said Corey, who stood next to a pile of dead cops with her arms folded.
Magnus tossed the pudgy sheriff aside and focused all of his attention on Corey, who cracked her knuckles, back, and neck before getting into a martial arts-esque fighting stance. The malevolent bear let out a destructive roar and then charged into his fierce rival, who wasted no time in throwing kicks, punches, knees, and elbows to the bear warrior’s ribs and stomach. These stiff shots rocked the monstrous creature back several steps, but it wasn’t until Corey threw a flying kick to the bear’s face that he was knocked on his back.
Corey jumped up in the air and planted both feet in Magnus’ gut, but the pissed off grizzly smiled a devilish grin at her and grabbed her ankles before standing up and spinning her around in a dizzying circle. The circular pressure made Corey so nauseous that she projectile vomited right in her opponent’s face, causing the big guy to drop her near one of the cops’ desks.
The human warrior was exhausted and was ready to pass out at any moment while the bear warrior, who just wiped the puke off of his face with his paw, was still ready to go. He even let out a battle cry that was so loud it could have waked the dead. But still there were cop corpses lying around everywhere bathed in blood and broken beyond repair.
The one cop who decided this vagrancy case was too important fired a shotgun blast right into Magnus’ ribcage. Hell yeah it hurt, but no more than a bee sting or spider bite. Instead of being in tremendous pain, Magnus just looked annoyed as he stared down Ace Hank with the intent to rip him to shreds.
As Ace shook while keeping the shotgun trained on the bear, Magnus Warcry said to Corey Darkside, “You know what, babe? I think I may have found someone who’s more of an asshole than you.”
The human barbarian was just coming around when she said, “Tell me about it. This guy cares more about his stupid vagrancy laws than he does about the people he’s paid to protect. Hey Magnus, I got a proposition for you.” She stood up and shook off her battle wounds. “What do you say we call a temporary peace between our tribes and instead beat the shit out of this guy. Hell, we can tear down his building for all I care. Truce?”
After Corey Darkside extended her hand, Magnus reluctantly shook it, but the mutual agreement was there nonetheless. He even said, “Don’t forget, woman, this is a temporary peace. Now let’s beat some ass!”
Ace Hank was terrified by what he just saw: two vagrant barbarians agreeing on the fact that he deserves to die and this building deserves to burn. He tried to aim the shotgun, but his hands were convulsing too hard to keep his grip and he eventually dropped it. He turned around and tried to run away, but his shaky legs and overweight body kept him from getting too far. He even stumbled over the dead body of one of his coworkers and just laid face down crying his eyes out and begging for forgiveness.
With Magnus grabbing Ace’s wrists and Corey grabbing the sheriff’s ankles, the bear warrior said, “On the count of three, were rip this chubby piece of garbage in half! One! Two! THREE!!”
RIP!!
September 2, 2015
Creative Fuel For Kids
***CREATIVE FUEL FOR KIDS***
When I was a kid and I got in trouble, I made no mention of the media I liked because if I did, that particular medium would get taken away from me. I’m sure we can all relate to this in one way or another. Let’s say for instance you and your older brother wanted to practice martial arts. One of you gets injured, so what do the parents do? They take away your Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee movies. As a kid, you keep insisting that those movies don’t make you act the way you do and there may be some truth to that.
However, there’s also a truth to the ratings they put on TV shows, movies, and videogames. If a seven-year-old watches the Faces of Death documentary from the late 1970’s, then he’ll grow up thinking those graphic images are a normal part of life. In some ways they are, but that mentality takes away from the beauty that life can become. That’s not to say that movies turn kids into murderous sociopaths, because that’s a stretch. Those same movies do however define normality for those kids for the rest of their lives.
Take me for instance. I didn’t become a fan of WWE until I was six years old and at that age, I didn’t want to believe it was scripted and that wasn’t how people fought in real life. Over the years, WWE started incorporating more disgusting storylines that involved racism, sexism, sexuality, and humiliation. I watched all of that until my mom banned wrestling from the house for the foreseeable future.
But that didn’t stop me from finding other sources of creative fuel that were to my liking. I watched Pulp Fiction when I was 11 and didn’t question any of that movie. I had it in my mind that you didn’t have to be a racist in order to use racial slurs. Boy, was I wrong. I watched Clerks when I was 13 and thought the words “cock” and “cunt” were exclusive to that movie. I was wrong again.
And then I was 14 years old when I watched my first soft-core porn movie. It was called Playtime and focused on female masturbation. Ever since watching that horny movie, I started looking for internet porn and somehow thought sticking a ball gag in a girl’s mouth and sucking her feet was an instant turn-on. It’s not. In fact, most girls I know think that’s weird.
So let’s take an inventory of all the horrible things I thought were normal: violence as a solution to everyday problems, women dressing in skimpy clothing, racial slurs with no racism behind them (or so I thought), instant lesbianism, gay jokes in public places, god knows what else. Good thing I’m not a sociopath or else this would have been a really destructive life.
In spite of all the misconceptions of what acceptability was, I’d like to think I’ve always been on the benevolent side of the spectrum. I got in so many fights in high school not because I was a psychopath, but because I wanted to end bullying and injustice. Ending those things is admirable on any level. So at best, my intentions were always pure, but my methods were questionable. Cussing out internet folk to end trolling? Doesn’t work. Using ball gags and duct tape during an internet version of “making love”? Doesn’t work without consent. Using the word “faggot” because Immortal Technique used it liberally despite being a leftist? Yeah, not going to happen.
I’m not trying to convey the message that media makes small children into school shooters. It doesn’t. It does however set the standards for what children perceive as normal and justified as they grow up into adults. Children absorb everything like a sponge. And I do mean everything. They don’t develop a strong filter for bullshit until they’re teenagers, where they rebel against everything that doesn’t agree with their lifestyles.
I suppose you could blame parents for allowing kids to see things they shouldn’t, but that’s not necessarily true. Kids today have access to materials that can be hidden from even the most watchful parent’s view. Even if parents could monitor their children 24/7 (which they can’t), kids can be sneaky and venture into worlds that nobody else can stop them from seeing.
Frankly, I’m more concerned about parents who abuse their children instead of parents who fail to catch their children watching a bloody kung fu flick. I was fortunate enough to have loving parents and a healthy childhood. No school shootings or other criminal behavior here. In fact, I have no criminal record at all, so that’s one less thing I have to worry about.
I was bound to have a wakeup call sooner or later on what was decent and what wasn’t. In the summer of 2014, I wrote an erotic short story for the WSS called “Tainted Love”, where the female protagonist was bound and gagged by a complete stranger and loved every minute of it. I’ve never felt so ashamed of myself in my life. No woman in her right mind would ever think being kidnapped by a criminal is sexy. But that’s what maturity is all about: having experiences, learning from the mistakes, and chipping away at the rough edges to make a beautiful sculpture.
I’ve said enough for today. I welcome all viewpoints and talking points as long as they’re decent and maturely presented. We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTEST AND COMPANY***
The new week started yesterday and the theme is “homeless”. My story, should I get around to writing it, will be called “I, Barbarian”. Yes, I get stereotyped by my family a lot for writing barbarian stories, so if you have a joke, let it out now or forever hold your peace. The story goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
Magnus Warcry, Bear Barbarian
Corey Darkside, Human Barbarian
Ace Hank, Sheriff
PROMPT CONFORMITY: Corey is being accused of vagrancy, which is defined as wandering around without a permanent address (aka being homeless).
SYNOPSIS: Ace brings Corey to the police station on charges of vagrancy and resisting arrest. While he’s interrogating her, she insists that her barbarian gimmick isn’t an act and that Magnus Warcry must be defeated. Ace is contemplating sending Corey to a mental institution when Magnus shows up to the police station and starts mauling everything and everyone in sight. Not only is Corey Darkside not crazy after all, but she might be Paulson City’s only hope in this battle of primitive warriors.
***AMERICAN DARKNESS***
Yes, I know you all were expecting three more edited short stories, but they won’t get here today or even tomorrow. I took a one-day vacation from editing today so that I could catch up on my reading obligations to Edward Davies, Paul McAvoy, and Daniel Bryan. I’ll probably take another one-day vacation so that I can concentrate on “I, Barbarian”. I can take as many vacations as I want, so suck it. Besides, I only have four more stories from American Darkness to edit, so I’ve pretty much got this in the bag.
***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“Ladies, at least one time in your man’s life (at least once, don’t let him lie), he has stood in front a full-length mirror absolutely naked and he tucked his dick between his legs to see what he’d look like as a woman. And men, if you haven’t done that yet, you will now that I’ve mentioned it.”
-Tommy Blaine-
When I was a kid and I got in trouble, I made no mention of the media I liked because if I did, that particular medium would get taken away from me. I’m sure we can all relate to this in one way or another. Let’s say for instance you and your older brother wanted to practice martial arts. One of you gets injured, so what do the parents do? They take away your Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee movies. As a kid, you keep insisting that those movies don’t make you act the way you do and there may be some truth to that.
However, there’s also a truth to the ratings they put on TV shows, movies, and videogames. If a seven-year-old watches the Faces of Death documentary from the late 1970’s, then he’ll grow up thinking those graphic images are a normal part of life. In some ways they are, but that mentality takes away from the beauty that life can become. That’s not to say that movies turn kids into murderous sociopaths, because that’s a stretch. Those same movies do however define normality for those kids for the rest of their lives.
Take me for instance. I didn’t become a fan of WWE until I was six years old and at that age, I didn’t want to believe it was scripted and that wasn’t how people fought in real life. Over the years, WWE started incorporating more disgusting storylines that involved racism, sexism, sexuality, and humiliation. I watched all of that until my mom banned wrestling from the house for the foreseeable future.
But that didn’t stop me from finding other sources of creative fuel that were to my liking. I watched Pulp Fiction when I was 11 and didn’t question any of that movie. I had it in my mind that you didn’t have to be a racist in order to use racial slurs. Boy, was I wrong. I watched Clerks when I was 13 and thought the words “cock” and “cunt” were exclusive to that movie. I was wrong again.
And then I was 14 years old when I watched my first soft-core porn movie. It was called Playtime and focused on female masturbation. Ever since watching that horny movie, I started looking for internet porn and somehow thought sticking a ball gag in a girl’s mouth and sucking her feet was an instant turn-on. It’s not. In fact, most girls I know think that’s weird.
So let’s take an inventory of all the horrible things I thought were normal: violence as a solution to everyday problems, women dressing in skimpy clothing, racial slurs with no racism behind them (or so I thought), instant lesbianism, gay jokes in public places, god knows what else. Good thing I’m not a sociopath or else this would have been a really destructive life.
In spite of all the misconceptions of what acceptability was, I’d like to think I’ve always been on the benevolent side of the spectrum. I got in so many fights in high school not because I was a psychopath, but because I wanted to end bullying and injustice. Ending those things is admirable on any level. So at best, my intentions were always pure, but my methods were questionable. Cussing out internet folk to end trolling? Doesn’t work. Using ball gags and duct tape during an internet version of “making love”? Doesn’t work without consent. Using the word “faggot” because Immortal Technique used it liberally despite being a leftist? Yeah, not going to happen.
I’m not trying to convey the message that media makes small children into school shooters. It doesn’t. It does however set the standards for what children perceive as normal and justified as they grow up into adults. Children absorb everything like a sponge. And I do mean everything. They don’t develop a strong filter for bullshit until they’re teenagers, where they rebel against everything that doesn’t agree with their lifestyles.
I suppose you could blame parents for allowing kids to see things they shouldn’t, but that’s not necessarily true. Kids today have access to materials that can be hidden from even the most watchful parent’s view. Even if parents could monitor their children 24/7 (which they can’t), kids can be sneaky and venture into worlds that nobody else can stop them from seeing.
Frankly, I’m more concerned about parents who abuse their children instead of parents who fail to catch their children watching a bloody kung fu flick. I was fortunate enough to have loving parents and a healthy childhood. No school shootings or other criminal behavior here. In fact, I have no criminal record at all, so that’s one less thing I have to worry about.
I was bound to have a wakeup call sooner or later on what was decent and what wasn’t. In the summer of 2014, I wrote an erotic short story for the WSS called “Tainted Love”, where the female protagonist was bound and gagged by a complete stranger and loved every minute of it. I’ve never felt so ashamed of myself in my life. No woman in her right mind would ever think being kidnapped by a criminal is sexy. But that’s what maturity is all about: having experiences, learning from the mistakes, and chipping away at the rough edges to make a beautiful sculpture.
I’ve said enough for today. I welcome all viewpoints and talking points as long as they’re decent and maturely presented. We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTEST AND COMPANY***
The new week started yesterday and the theme is “homeless”. My story, should I get around to writing it, will be called “I, Barbarian”. Yes, I get stereotyped by my family a lot for writing barbarian stories, so if you have a joke, let it out now or forever hold your peace. The story goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
Magnus Warcry, Bear Barbarian
Corey Darkside, Human Barbarian
Ace Hank, Sheriff
PROMPT CONFORMITY: Corey is being accused of vagrancy, which is defined as wandering around without a permanent address (aka being homeless).
SYNOPSIS: Ace brings Corey to the police station on charges of vagrancy and resisting arrest. While he’s interrogating her, she insists that her barbarian gimmick isn’t an act and that Magnus Warcry must be defeated. Ace is contemplating sending Corey to a mental institution when Magnus shows up to the police station and starts mauling everything and everyone in sight. Not only is Corey Darkside not crazy after all, but she might be Paulson City’s only hope in this battle of primitive warriors.
***AMERICAN DARKNESS***
Yes, I know you all were expecting three more edited short stories, but they won’t get here today or even tomorrow. I took a one-day vacation from editing today so that I could catch up on my reading obligations to Edward Davies, Paul McAvoy, and Daniel Bryan. I’ll probably take another one-day vacation so that I can concentrate on “I, Barbarian”. I can take as many vacations as I want, so suck it. Besides, I only have four more stories from American Darkness to edit, so I’ve pretty much got this in the bag.
***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“Ladies, at least one time in your man’s life (at least once, don’t let him lie), he has stood in front a full-length mirror absolutely naked and he tucked his dick between his legs to see what he’d look like as a woman. And men, if you haven’t done that yet, you will now that I’ve mentioned it.”
-Tommy Blaine-
