Garrison Kelly's Blog, page 23
May 21, 2021
The Fiend
Consumers of storytelling should never have to compromise when it comes to good character work. Apparently, the readers of the Wrestling Observer Newsletter agree with me given how often they slaughter Bray Wyatt in the yearly awards. No, this isn’t just a minor disagreement. They annihilate him! They murder him! They brutalize him! They do all the things he could never do to his opponents when it counts the most. Oh sure, they’ll give him the Stockholm Syndrome treatment with the Best Gimmick awards in 2013 and 2019. And trust me, there’s a lot to be said about playing a demented cult leader and an indestructible monster on TV. But unfortunately for Mr. Wyatt, that’s where the praise ends and the raging against terrible booking begins.
Most Overrated Wrestler in 2020 (that’s a little harsh, all things considered, but okay). Worst Feud of the Year in 2017 against Randy Orton. Worst Feud of the Year in 2019 against Seth Rollins. Worst Feud of the Year in 2020 against Braun Strowman. Worst Gimmick in 2017 for being the bodily host for the spirit of Sister Abigail. Worst Gimmick in 2020 for doing the same indestructible monster character in 2019, but with more losses and more ridiculousness. Worst Match of the Year in 2014 against John Cena in a Steel Cage match (deep voiced child, anybody?). Worst Match of the Year in 2017 against Randy Orton (the worms…all those fucking worms!). Worst Match of the Year in 2019 against Seth Rollins in a Hell in a Cell match (a.k.a. the match without rules and limitations that ended in a disqualification anyways). Last and surely least, Worst Match of the Year in 2020 against Braun Strowman in a Wyatt Swamp Fight (there was no clear winner in this cheesy horror movie with more plot holes than I can count).
So…how did this happen? How did the WWE fuck up this badly when they had handfuls of gold with Bray Wyatt’s various characters? How do you fuck up a charismatic cult leader who could and would kill you with a screwdriver if he wanted to? How do you fuck up a creepy children’s show host who looks crazy enough to be on the sex offender registry and therefore shouldn’t be around children? How do you fuck up an indestructible monster with a hideous, ugly, nightmarish face that would put Pink Floyd and Slipknot to shame? How do you fuck up a character with so many layers, so much creativity, and so much potential to be a top star for the rest of eternity? I’ve got your answer right here: he loses too much.
Yep, that’s right. He’s a three hundred pound killing machine who can hit like a cannonball and move like a cruiserweight. His dialogue is so cryptic, so seductive, yet so terrifying that it’ll echo in your mind like a schizophrenic voice for days on end. If he tells you he’s going to murder you in a cold blood and leave your corpse for the buzzards to feast on, you don’t question him for a second…until he loses all of his biggest matches. He talks a big game and never backs it up when it matters. The audience is so used to seeing him fail that when he finally does add a championship or two to his resume, nobody cares. All the Hawaiian shirts, bowler hats, demonic masks, and pedophilic tendencies don’t mean shit if no one believes in the villain who embodies those traits.
Even if you don’t watch wrestling and have no idea what the fuck I’m talking about, you as authors should still take Bray Wyatt’s story and career as a cautionary tale when creating your own villains. If you want to create a convincing villain, you can splatter them with all the creative tropes in the world as long as they’re powerful enough to make their eventual defeat believable and meaningful. I’m not saying the villain has to win EVERY time, but his losses should be in small ways that don’t derail whatever momentum he has.
You think Darth Vader would be an iconic villain from the Star Wars franchise if he kept getting his ass kicked by the rebels? Fuck no, he wouldn’t have! So what does he do to solidify his power? He cuts off Luke Skywalker’s hand, he imprisons Han Solo and hands him over to Boba Fett to be frozen in carbonite, he destroys entire planets with his Death Star battle station, and he murders the fuck out of Obi-Wan Kenobi. If you’re coming for Darth Vader’s head, you’d better paralyze his ass, because he’ll kill you the first chance he gets.
Your main villain doesn’t have to have political power over an entire galaxy. Maybe he can have power over another person. Maybe he can kidnap somebody and bend them to his will through mind-fucking torture and endless agony. Can his captive defeat him over and over again for the story to be believable? Hell no! But can his captive run away for a little while and get recaptured and brutalized over and over again? Sure! Even if the kidnapper gets an infected bite on his arm, that’s still a small enough defeat that he’s not completely gone just yet. Maybe he has no medical supplies for that wound. Maybe over the course of the story, he has to travel a long way to the nearest hospital for care. The longer he travels, the sicker he becomes. Even if he does make it to the hospital, he still risks getting captured himself, but by the police. So many layers to this story, yet the kidnapper in question is still a villain you love to hate and would love to see systematically destroyed.
Now…take those two scenarios I laid out and replace the head villains in charge with “The Fiend” Bray Wyatt. He’s the last motherfucker who deserves to wield a light saber. He shouldn’t be allowed near anybody whom he can easily stuff into his windowless van on its way to a room with no view. Long dreadlocks that look like Cthulu’s tentacles. A face with an enormous grin, rotten teeth, and ripped skin. A lantern with Bray Wyatt’s original head covering the light. Dialogue peppered with death threats and seductive promises of the darkest kind. Immunity to pain that his torture victims could only dream of having during their times of torment. If he’s written like a killer, he will succeed in these roles and become even more iconic than his predecessors. If he’s written like a chump like he’s been for most of his career, Siskel and Ebert will come back from the dead just so they can shit all over whatever story he’s a part of. And then they’ll be put back in their graves by The Fiend’s necromantic powers.
Even the most brain-dead authors understand the idea of the villains having a shit-load of power. Power can come from anywhere, but if a villain has a lot of it, then his defeat will be even more incredible, especially if the hero comes from modest means. But that of course is giving the WWE too much credit. They used to know how to build stars. Hulk Hogan, The Ultimate Warrior, Stone Cold Steve Austin, The Rock, and John Cena are all shining examples of their success in that department. But as Vince McMahon got older and slower, so did his storytelling.
As the CEO of WWE, Vince gets the final say in whatever creative decisions make it to television. When his brain is rotting that badly and he has that much influence over the shows, people start to notice and people turn off their televisions. I turned off mine in 2018 and haven’t turned it back on for WWE since then. Thanks, guys, for completely murdering my love for pro-wrestling. And an extra special thanks goes to the geniuses who set Bray Wyatt up to fail. He had all the creative potential in the world. He could have been a badass villain everyone can be scared of. But not anymore. That makes me sad. I’m sure it makes him sad as well.
Authors, if you’re going to make your readers sad, do it the old-fashioned way by killing off their favorite characters or at least badly torturing them. Don’t do it by creating awful villains. And don’t do it by creating awful heroes and neutral characters either. If you’re going to create a character cast, do it right! Make them three-dimensional. Make them overflow with personality. Saddle them with crazy gimmicks. But most importantly, make their victories and losses believable, for fuck’s sake!
(sigh)
…In case it wasn’t abundantly clear already, my heart hurts for Bray Wyatt and all of his incarnations (except for Husky Harris, but he was just learning how to do decent character work at the time, so I shouldn’t be too hard on him). Wrestling fans were angry as hell in 2020 when the Wrestling Observer Newsletter put out their yearly awards and Bray Wyatt was absolutely wrecked. If those same fans still believe in the magic of Bray Wyatt, then they’re certainly welcome to. I’m not going to shit all over their happiness in that regard. So maybe the negative attention has less to do with the wrestler himself and more to do with the way he’s portrayed on TV. Even Dave Meltzer, the head journalist in charge of the WON, called him a genius when it came to his character work. I bet it hurts him and the rest of his voters to do Bray dirty like that. But silencing criticism is the same thing as acknowledging the problem doesn’t exist. WWE fucked up Bray Wyatt like a bunch of idiots and now they’re surprised when he doesn’t connect with everyone who watches him. How sad. How relentlessly sad.
Most Overrated Wrestler in 2020 (that’s a little harsh, all things considered, but okay). Worst Feud of the Year in 2017 against Randy Orton. Worst Feud of the Year in 2019 against Seth Rollins. Worst Feud of the Year in 2020 against Braun Strowman. Worst Gimmick in 2017 for being the bodily host for the spirit of Sister Abigail. Worst Gimmick in 2020 for doing the same indestructible monster character in 2019, but with more losses and more ridiculousness. Worst Match of the Year in 2014 against John Cena in a Steel Cage match (deep voiced child, anybody?). Worst Match of the Year in 2017 against Randy Orton (the worms…all those fucking worms!). Worst Match of the Year in 2019 against Seth Rollins in a Hell in a Cell match (a.k.a. the match without rules and limitations that ended in a disqualification anyways). Last and surely least, Worst Match of the Year in 2020 against Braun Strowman in a Wyatt Swamp Fight (there was no clear winner in this cheesy horror movie with more plot holes than I can count).
So…how did this happen? How did the WWE fuck up this badly when they had handfuls of gold with Bray Wyatt’s various characters? How do you fuck up a charismatic cult leader who could and would kill you with a screwdriver if he wanted to? How do you fuck up a creepy children’s show host who looks crazy enough to be on the sex offender registry and therefore shouldn’t be around children? How do you fuck up an indestructible monster with a hideous, ugly, nightmarish face that would put Pink Floyd and Slipknot to shame? How do you fuck up a character with so many layers, so much creativity, and so much potential to be a top star for the rest of eternity? I’ve got your answer right here: he loses too much.
Yep, that’s right. He’s a three hundred pound killing machine who can hit like a cannonball and move like a cruiserweight. His dialogue is so cryptic, so seductive, yet so terrifying that it’ll echo in your mind like a schizophrenic voice for days on end. If he tells you he’s going to murder you in a cold blood and leave your corpse for the buzzards to feast on, you don’t question him for a second…until he loses all of his biggest matches. He talks a big game and never backs it up when it matters. The audience is so used to seeing him fail that when he finally does add a championship or two to his resume, nobody cares. All the Hawaiian shirts, bowler hats, demonic masks, and pedophilic tendencies don’t mean shit if no one believes in the villain who embodies those traits.
Even if you don’t watch wrestling and have no idea what the fuck I’m talking about, you as authors should still take Bray Wyatt’s story and career as a cautionary tale when creating your own villains. If you want to create a convincing villain, you can splatter them with all the creative tropes in the world as long as they’re powerful enough to make their eventual defeat believable and meaningful. I’m not saying the villain has to win EVERY time, but his losses should be in small ways that don’t derail whatever momentum he has.
You think Darth Vader would be an iconic villain from the Star Wars franchise if he kept getting his ass kicked by the rebels? Fuck no, he wouldn’t have! So what does he do to solidify his power? He cuts off Luke Skywalker’s hand, he imprisons Han Solo and hands him over to Boba Fett to be frozen in carbonite, he destroys entire planets with his Death Star battle station, and he murders the fuck out of Obi-Wan Kenobi. If you’re coming for Darth Vader’s head, you’d better paralyze his ass, because he’ll kill you the first chance he gets.
Your main villain doesn’t have to have political power over an entire galaxy. Maybe he can have power over another person. Maybe he can kidnap somebody and bend them to his will through mind-fucking torture and endless agony. Can his captive defeat him over and over again for the story to be believable? Hell no! But can his captive run away for a little while and get recaptured and brutalized over and over again? Sure! Even if the kidnapper gets an infected bite on his arm, that’s still a small enough defeat that he’s not completely gone just yet. Maybe he has no medical supplies for that wound. Maybe over the course of the story, he has to travel a long way to the nearest hospital for care. The longer he travels, the sicker he becomes. Even if he does make it to the hospital, he still risks getting captured himself, but by the police. So many layers to this story, yet the kidnapper in question is still a villain you love to hate and would love to see systematically destroyed.
Now…take those two scenarios I laid out and replace the head villains in charge with “The Fiend” Bray Wyatt. He’s the last motherfucker who deserves to wield a light saber. He shouldn’t be allowed near anybody whom he can easily stuff into his windowless van on its way to a room with no view. Long dreadlocks that look like Cthulu’s tentacles. A face with an enormous grin, rotten teeth, and ripped skin. A lantern with Bray Wyatt’s original head covering the light. Dialogue peppered with death threats and seductive promises of the darkest kind. Immunity to pain that his torture victims could only dream of having during their times of torment. If he’s written like a killer, he will succeed in these roles and become even more iconic than his predecessors. If he’s written like a chump like he’s been for most of his career, Siskel and Ebert will come back from the dead just so they can shit all over whatever story he’s a part of. And then they’ll be put back in their graves by The Fiend’s necromantic powers.
Even the most brain-dead authors understand the idea of the villains having a shit-load of power. Power can come from anywhere, but if a villain has a lot of it, then his defeat will be even more incredible, especially if the hero comes from modest means. But that of course is giving the WWE too much credit. They used to know how to build stars. Hulk Hogan, The Ultimate Warrior, Stone Cold Steve Austin, The Rock, and John Cena are all shining examples of their success in that department. But as Vince McMahon got older and slower, so did his storytelling.
As the CEO of WWE, Vince gets the final say in whatever creative decisions make it to television. When his brain is rotting that badly and he has that much influence over the shows, people start to notice and people turn off their televisions. I turned off mine in 2018 and haven’t turned it back on for WWE since then. Thanks, guys, for completely murdering my love for pro-wrestling. And an extra special thanks goes to the geniuses who set Bray Wyatt up to fail. He had all the creative potential in the world. He could have been a badass villain everyone can be scared of. But not anymore. That makes me sad. I’m sure it makes him sad as well.
Authors, if you’re going to make your readers sad, do it the old-fashioned way by killing off their favorite characters or at least badly torturing them. Don’t do it by creating awful villains. And don’t do it by creating awful heroes and neutral characters either. If you’re going to create a character cast, do it right! Make them three-dimensional. Make them overflow with personality. Saddle them with crazy gimmicks. But most importantly, make their victories and losses believable, for fuck’s sake!
(sigh)
…In case it wasn’t abundantly clear already, my heart hurts for Bray Wyatt and all of his incarnations (except for Husky Harris, but he was just learning how to do decent character work at the time, so I shouldn’t be too hard on him). Wrestling fans were angry as hell in 2020 when the Wrestling Observer Newsletter put out their yearly awards and Bray Wyatt was absolutely wrecked. If those same fans still believe in the magic of Bray Wyatt, then they’re certainly welcome to. I’m not going to shit all over their happiness in that regard. So maybe the negative attention has less to do with the wrestler himself and more to do with the way he’s portrayed on TV. Even Dave Meltzer, the head journalist in charge of the WON, called him a genius when it came to his character work. I bet it hurts him and the rest of his voters to do Bray dirty like that. But silencing criticism is the same thing as acknowledging the problem doesn’t exist. WWE fucked up Bray Wyatt like a bunch of idiots and now they’re surprised when he doesn’t connect with everyone who watches him. How sad. How relentlessly sad.
May 20, 2021
Help Me, Walter Hollywood
He lights a cigarette, compromises his health
Fresh lungs don’t matter in this neo-noir hell
Every day someone is murdered and forgotten
Until the corpse makes the streets smell rotten
“Help me, Walter Hollywood,” says the dame
Every transaction starts to all sound the same
An envelope of cash, smoke the last of the ash
Hope to god her lover isn’t thrown out like trash
But before he slings the questions around town
Obligatory sex scene with hushed moaning sounds
Almost makes the lover a complete afterthought
But there are bills to be paid, killers to be caught
Every fedora-wearing wise guy takes a swing
Until Walter’s eyes water, nose bleeds, ears ring
Anymore snooping and he’ll be full of bullets
Take his scalp until he’s only left with a mullet
Walter taps the dame up for a little more money
She laughs like his misery and bruises are funny
Admission of failure is just another part of the job
She winks one more time and turns the doorknob
Another body just washed up on the riverbank
Bricks around his ankles ensured that he sank
His face was so familiar despite the taped mouth
And the two black eyes and his nose cut out
Finding the lover was as easy as reading the paper
Nothing about this mystery made Walter feel safer
The money he was paid made him look like a hit man
Police would arrest him, lock him up with a big man
Capitalism made people do the weirdest things
Wait tables, scrub floors, stand on the streets and sing
Taking unclean money seemed like the way out
Why isn’t the dame’s freedom in any kind of doubt?
It’s a system that abuses everyone who struggles
Locks up the failures with big men who snuggle
Gangsters and politicians sip from a glass of wine
And every femme fatale continues to look so fine
Fresh lungs don’t matter in this neo-noir hell
Every day someone is murdered and forgotten
Until the corpse makes the streets smell rotten
“Help me, Walter Hollywood,” says the dame
Every transaction starts to all sound the same
An envelope of cash, smoke the last of the ash
Hope to god her lover isn’t thrown out like trash
But before he slings the questions around town
Obligatory sex scene with hushed moaning sounds
Almost makes the lover a complete afterthought
But there are bills to be paid, killers to be caught
Every fedora-wearing wise guy takes a swing
Until Walter’s eyes water, nose bleeds, ears ring
Anymore snooping and he’ll be full of bullets
Take his scalp until he’s only left with a mullet
Walter taps the dame up for a little more money
She laughs like his misery and bruises are funny
Admission of failure is just another part of the job
She winks one more time and turns the doorknob
Another body just washed up on the riverbank
Bricks around his ankles ensured that he sank
His face was so familiar despite the taped mouth
And the two black eyes and his nose cut out
Finding the lover was as easy as reading the paper
Nothing about this mystery made Walter feel safer
The money he was paid made him look like a hit man
Police would arrest him, lock him up with a big man
Capitalism made people do the weirdest things
Wait tables, scrub floors, stand on the streets and sing
Taking unclean money seemed like the way out
Why isn’t the dame’s freedom in any kind of doubt?
It’s a system that abuses everyone who struggles
Locks up the failures with big men who snuggle
Gangsters and politicians sip from a glass of wine
And every femme fatale continues to look so fine
May 9, 2021
Terrible Flaws
Anytime a book, movie, or TV show receives praise for having “flawed characters”, it makes me wonder what exactly those flaws were. Are all flaws created equal or are some more forgivable than others? Can characters with the least forgivable flaws find redemption by the end of the story or does that come off as forced? Are some character traits considered flaws when they don’t deserve to be? Do villains’ flaws (aside from the obvious) have to be conquered just like the heroes’?
I’m asking all of these questions because I’ve been in this writing game for many years and I still haven’t mastered the art of the flawed character. I’m always afraid of making a character so flawed that they’re no longer likeable in any capacity. Even dumpster fire human beings can be liked by the readers, but how do I achieve this? Well…let’s run these questions through a battery of tests, shall we?
Suppose you have a protagonist (like every story does). He’s got acrobatic fighting skills, he’s got magical powers for days, and he’s perfected the art of the insult. He wears spiked metal armor and carries a sword bigger than his entire body. He’s got long purple hair that has probably been washed with Head & Shoulders more times than he’s been in combat. He’s got striking golden eyes that can weaken the knees of every woman around him. His major flaw? He’s a genocidal lunatic. He doesn’t just go in for the kill. He destroys entire groups of people until they’ve gone virtually extinct. He feels no remorse for his actions and openly mocks any group that he’s wiped off the face of the earth.
Are you cringing in disgust yet? Why? You like flawed characters! Killing large numbers of people is a HUGE flaw for somebody to have. I certainly hope he can overcome it! Now that I think about it, there is an example of someone like this. His name is Vegeta and he’s from the Dragon Ball franchise. In the beginning of the series, he killed off entire populations from any given planet and sold the planet for a quick buck. Near the end of the series, he’s a loving father and husband, but he’s still salty as fuck. Despite his murderous past, Vegeta is still the most popular character in the series.
Alright, alright, alright, that’s just one example of a successful flawed character, though. Maybe genocide isn’t enough to turn people off (which actually scares me a little bit). Okay, how about this: you’ve got a protagonist (noticing a theme here?). He’s rich beyond his wildest dreams. He’s got more abs than he knows what to do with. His business suits, sports cars, and summer homes all cost him more than the national debt allows. He can sex up any woman from the moment they smell his cologne.
His major flaw? He’s got a serious case of flatulence that could trigger climate change and successfully take away Greta Thunberg’s future. What? You like flawed characters! His farting gets in the way of his romantic life and political aspirations, so it’s a real flaw! He can easily overcome it by getting a colonoscopy and finding out what the fuck is going on in his ass. But once he finds out what’s actually in there…then the plot thickens quicker than one of his diarrhea dumps. Could you get behind a character like this? Hopefully, not literally since we’ve established that his farts smell like dead skunks and toxic waste.
Okay, maybe bathroom humor isn’t your thing. It certainly isn’t mine. So how about this: you have a protagonist (yet again). He’s a five-star general who commands the respect of everyone he meets, even people outside of his jurisdiction. When he tells you to do pushups, it won’t matter if you just got your COVID vaccine, because you’ll do them anyways. When he tells you to run ten miles without stopping, it won’t matter if you’re bound to a wheelchair, because you’ll find a way.
His major flaw? His voice is so cartoonishly annoying that subordinates only do what he says so that he’ll shut up and leave them alone. That’s not respect for authority; that’s hatred for irritating people. When the time comes to actually take him seriously, nobody listens to reason, because the general’s voice shatters their eardrums every time. Do you still think all flaws are created equal?
Now I don’t want any of you to think that I’m advocating for Mary-Sues and Gary-Stus. Maybe there was a time in my childhood when beefy barbarians who never lose were appealing to me. Maybe there was a time when undeniably hot chicks won me over just because. But as I got older, the shine wore off in a big fucking hurry. You think Alex De Large from A Clockwork Orange would have become as iconic as he was if he took the role of an axe-wielding ninja-knight who remained undefeated forever? You think Vic Mackey from The Shield would have been convincing as a corrupt LAPD detective if he didn’t occasionally lose from time to time? We don’t want to see our favorites lose, but if they don’t, then the story becomes boring and nobody cares.
But at the same time, we have to come to terms with what flaws we’re willing to forgive and which ones make a character impossible to love. Maybe the flaws we can’t forgive are overcome by the end of the story. Maybe a Klansman who uses the N-word five hundred times in a two-minute conversation can see the light and become so far to the left that he falls off the spectrum completely. Maybe a CEO who makes money off of his impoverished employees can become homeless and experience the plight of his underlings firsthand. So maybe the question isn’t, “Is this flaw bad?” Maybe the question is, “Can this flaw be redeemed?”
By that logic, even Cthulu can be redeemed despite the fact that he’s an intergalactic squid who destroys worlds effortlessly and drives the survivors to infinite madness. Maybe Cthulu has a slight moment of guilt when a feral child tries to reach out to his heart. It’s one thing to drive adults to madness, but feral children never had a chance to even acquire a first language. So Cthulu’s heart is broken beyond repair, but his universe is not, so he creates paradise out of his destruction. Would you still find it in your heart to forgive this flawed character despite what he did to get to this point? Did Hitler need a hug? Does Donald Trump need tender loving care? Does Vladimir Putin need a girlfriend who will cradle his head in her lap and stroke…whatever hair is left on his head?
I guess it all boils down to whether or not you as a reader believe in redemption arcs. I personally can’t get enough of them as long as they’re not rushed and forced. If you don’t want spoilers for A Dog’s Journey, then stop reading and have a nice day. Gloria is a toxic mother who spends her nights partying and drinking rather than taking care of CJ and her dog. So what does Gloria do? She gets sober and reconnects with CJ, giving her letters from her father that later serve as creative fuel for her songs, thus launching a successful music career. That’s one example of a redemption arc I can get behind. Gloria is indeed a flawed character, downright disgusting at times. Neglect and abuse are horrible things to do to a child. And yet, she won me over by the movie’s end. Well done!
Perhaps the lesson I’m trying to teach myself is to not be afraid of the flaws I give my characters. I have enough faith in my writing abilities that the characters can be redeemed by the story’s end. And if I haven’t done that, it’s okay, because that’s why our stories go through multiple drafts worth of edits and rewrites. Unlike a brain surgeon, you don’t have to get it right the first time if you’re writing a story from scratch. Be bold. Be brave. Let your book babies take flight. You can’t cradle them forever and if you do, you’re worse than the mother from Pink Floyd the Wall, a movie with a VERY flawed protagonist, yet one who is easy to root for.
I’m asking all of these questions because I’ve been in this writing game for many years and I still haven’t mastered the art of the flawed character. I’m always afraid of making a character so flawed that they’re no longer likeable in any capacity. Even dumpster fire human beings can be liked by the readers, but how do I achieve this? Well…let’s run these questions through a battery of tests, shall we?
Suppose you have a protagonist (like every story does). He’s got acrobatic fighting skills, he’s got magical powers for days, and he’s perfected the art of the insult. He wears spiked metal armor and carries a sword bigger than his entire body. He’s got long purple hair that has probably been washed with Head & Shoulders more times than he’s been in combat. He’s got striking golden eyes that can weaken the knees of every woman around him. His major flaw? He’s a genocidal lunatic. He doesn’t just go in for the kill. He destroys entire groups of people until they’ve gone virtually extinct. He feels no remorse for his actions and openly mocks any group that he’s wiped off the face of the earth.
Are you cringing in disgust yet? Why? You like flawed characters! Killing large numbers of people is a HUGE flaw for somebody to have. I certainly hope he can overcome it! Now that I think about it, there is an example of someone like this. His name is Vegeta and he’s from the Dragon Ball franchise. In the beginning of the series, he killed off entire populations from any given planet and sold the planet for a quick buck. Near the end of the series, he’s a loving father and husband, but he’s still salty as fuck. Despite his murderous past, Vegeta is still the most popular character in the series.
Alright, alright, alright, that’s just one example of a successful flawed character, though. Maybe genocide isn’t enough to turn people off (which actually scares me a little bit). Okay, how about this: you’ve got a protagonist (noticing a theme here?). He’s rich beyond his wildest dreams. He’s got more abs than he knows what to do with. His business suits, sports cars, and summer homes all cost him more than the national debt allows. He can sex up any woman from the moment they smell his cologne.
His major flaw? He’s got a serious case of flatulence that could trigger climate change and successfully take away Greta Thunberg’s future. What? You like flawed characters! His farting gets in the way of his romantic life and political aspirations, so it’s a real flaw! He can easily overcome it by getting a colonoscopy and finding out what the fuck is going on in his ass. But once he finds out what’s actually in there…then the plot thickens quicker than one of his diarrhea dumps. Could you get behind a character like this? Hopefully, not literally since we’ve established that his farts smell like dead skunks and toxic waste.
Okay, maybe bathroom humor isn’t your thing. It certainly isn’t mine. So how about this: you have a protagonist (yet again). He’s a five-star general who commands the respect of everyone he meets, even people outside of his jurisdiction. When he tells you to do pushups, it won’t matter if you just got your COVID vaccine, because you’ll do them anyways. When he tells you to run ten miles without stopping, it won’t matter if you’re bound to a wheelchair, because you’ll find a way.
His major flaw? His voice is so cartoonishly annoying that subordinates only do what he says so that he’ll shut up and leave them alone. That’s not respect for authority; that’s hatred for irritating people. When the time comes to actually take him seriously, nobody listens to reason, because the general’s voice shatters their eardrums every time. Do you still think all flaws are created equal?
Now I don’t want any of you to think that I’m advocating for Mary-Sues and Gary-Stus. Maybe there was a time in my childhood when beefy barbarians who never lose were appealing to me. Maybe there was a time when undeniably hot chicks won me over just because. But as I got older, the shine wore off in a big fucking hurry. You think Alex De Large from A Clockwork Orange would have become as iconic as he was if he took the role of an axe-wielding ninja-knight who remained undefeated forever? You think Vic Mackey from The Shield would have been convincing as a corrupt LAPD detective if he didn’t occasionally lose from time to time? We don’t want to see our favorites lose, but if they don’t, then the story becomes boring and nobody cares.
But at the same time, we have to come to terms with what flaws we’re willing to forgive and which ones make a character impossible to love. Maybe the flaws we can’t forgive are overcome by the end of the story. Maybe a Klansman who uses the N-word five hundred times in a two-minute conversation can see the light and become so far to the left that he falls off the spectrum completely. Maybe a CEO who makes money off of his impoverished employees can become homeless and experience the plight of his underlings firsthand. So maybe the question isn’t, “Is this flaw bad?” Maybe the question is, “Can this flaw be redeemed?”
By that logic, even Cthulu can be redeemed despite the fact that he’s an intergalactic squid who destroys worlds effortlessly and drives the survivors to infinite madness. Maybe Cthulu has a slight moment of guilt when a feral child tries to reach out to his heart. It’s one thing to drive adults to madness, but feral children never had a chance to even acquire a first language. So Cthulu’s heart is broken beyond repair, but his universe is not, so he creates paradise out of his destruction. Would you still find it in your heart to forgive this flawed character despite what he did to get to this point? Did Hitler need a hug? Does Donald Trump need tender loving care? Does Vladimir Putin need a girlfriend who will cradle his head in her lap and stroke…whatever hair is left on his head?
I guess it all boils down to whether or not you as a reader believe in redemption arcs. I personally can’t get enough of them as long as they’re not rushed and forced. If you don’t want spoilers for A Dog’s Journey, then stop reading and have a nice day. Gloria is a toxic mother who spends her nights partying and drinking rather than taking care of CJ and her dog. So what does Gloria do? She gets sober and reconnects with CJ, giving her letters from her father that later serve as creative fuel for her songs, thus launching a successful music career. That’s one example of a redemption arc I can get behind. Gloria is indeed a flawed character, downright disgusting at times. Neglect and abuse are horrible things to do to a child. And yet, she won me over by the movie’s end. Well done!
Perhaps the lesson I’m trying to teach myself is to not be afraid of the flaws I give my characters. I have enough faith in my writing abilities that the characters can be redeemed by the story’s end. And if I haven’t done that, it’s okay, because that’s why our stories go through multiple drafts worth of edits and rewrites. Unlike a brain surgeon, you don’t have to get it right the first time if you’re writing a story from scratch. Be bold. Be brave. Let your book babies take flight. You can’t cradle them forever and if you do, you’re worse than the mother from Pink Floyd the Wall, a movie with a VERY flawed protagonist, yet one who is easy to root for.
Shitting On Your Grave
I’m shitting on your grave
Like a fucking racehorse
Destroy your tombstone with
A million G’s of force
I’m pissing on your casket
The one draped with the flag
Open the lid and keep going
Make your gray skin sag
I vomit on your flowers
With my stomach full
Of your children’s flesh
And their rotten souls
I burn your mausoleum
With your family inside
They can put out the flames
With the tears they cried
I crash your funeral
Gun down every griever
Stomp the priest to death
Carve him with a cleaver
I taint your history
Slander in every word
Broadcast on every station
Until it’s all that’s heard
I watch you dance in fire
From the heavens above
To the hells below me
Your screams are what I love
You’re nothing but a footnote
In the world’s epic story
I’m treated like a king
Slaying you brings me glory
Trauma is my weapon
More powerful than a bomb
Reduced the world to ashes
All of my enemies gone
I am the war god
I am your worst nightmare
That is if you wake up
That is if you dare
Like a fucking racehorse
Destroy your tombstone with
A million G’s of force
I’m pissing on your casket
The one draped with the flag
Open the lid and keep going
Make your gray skin sag
I vomit on your flowers
With my stomach full
Of your children’s flesh
And their rotten souls
I burn your mausoleum
With your family inside
They can put out the flames
With the tears they cried
I crash your funeral
Gun down every griever
Stomp the priest to death
Carve him with a cleaver
I taint your history
Slander in every word
Broadcast on every station
Until it’s all that’s heard
I watch you dance in fire
From the heavens above
To the hells below me
Your screams are what I love
You’re nothing but a footnote
In the world’s epic story
I’m treated like a king
Slaying you brings me glory
Trauma is my weapon
More powerful than a bomb
Reduced the world to ashes
All of my enemies gone
I am the war god
I am your worst nightmare
That is if you wake up
That is if you dare
April 28, 2021
Limousines and Lattes
VERSE 1
He rides the limousine from the holy mountains
He drinks like a camel from the youthful fountain
He rides the limousine over the mass graves
And tells the disenfranchised they need to behave
He rides the limousine to the enchanted forest
He runs over the faeries in the middle of a chorus
He rides the limousine to the spiral dragon tower
He meets up with his cult to consolidate his power
He rides the limousine
He rides the limousine
VERSE 2
A thousand dollar latte is warming up his hand
As he sits and listens to some elevator bands
He sips on his latte and it tastes like puppy blood
He tips the clerk enough to buy a suicide gun
A thousand dollar latte is sliding down his throat
As he is out at sea in his golden Viking boat
Kids drowning in the water are reaching for help
He tells them to get a job in the ninth circle of hell
A thousand dollar latte
He sips on his latte
VERSE 3
He rides the limousine into the gates of heaven
He sips on his latte at around half-past eleven
He rides the limousine over the angels’ wings
He sips on his latte as the dying cherubs sing
He rides the limousine over the godly throne
He sips on his latte sweetened with powdered bones
He rides the limousine under the lovely rainbow
He sips on his latte underneath his own halo
He rides the limousine
He sips on his latte
VERSE 4
He’s bored of his affluence, all his money is useless
He’s bored of all his power, the lattes go sour
He hates his limousine, wants to go to the other place
He was there this whole time, terror on his saggy face
He hates his limousine
He hates his lattes
He has everything he wants
But the devil is the boss
He rides the limousine!
He rides the limousine from the holy mountains
He drinks like a camel from the youthful fountain
He rides the limousine over the mass graves
And tells the disenfranchised they need to behave
He rides the limousine to the enchanted forest
He runs over the faeries in the middle of a chorus
He rides the limousine to the spiral dragon tower
He meets up with his cult to consolidate his power
He rides the limousine
He rides the limousine
VERSE 2
A thousand dollar latte is warming up his hand
As he sits and listens to some elevator bands
He sips on his latte and it tastes like puppy blood
He tips the clerk enough to buy a suicide gun
A thousand dollar latte is sliding down his throat
As he is out at sea in his golden Viking boat
Kids drowning in the water are reaching for help
He tells them to get a job in the ninth circle of hell
A thousand dollar latte
He sips on his latte
VERSE 3
He rides the limousine into the gates of heaven
He sips on his latte at around half-past eleven
He rides the limousine over the angels’ wings
He sips on his latte as the dying cherubs sing
He rides the limousine over the godly throne
He sips on his latte sweetened with powdered bones
He rides the limousine under the lovely rainbow
He sips on his latte underneath his own halo
He rides the limousine
He sips on his latte
VERSE 4
He’s bored of his affluence, all his money is useless
He’s bored of all his power, the lattes go sour
He hates his limousine, wants to go to the other place
He was there this whole time, terror on his saggy face
He hates his limousine
He hates his lattes
He has everything he wants
But the devil is the boss
He rides the limousine!
The Over Party
VERSE 1
Get out the corn chips, get out the queso dip
Watch him walk over a banana peel and slip
Get the chocolate cake, eat it while he breaks
Apologizes a thousand times for a big mistake
CHORUS 1
Garrison is over party
Is over party
He’s over party
Party, party, party!
Party, party, party!
VERSE 2
She literally did nothing to deserve your online scorn
Unless you’re a bunch of incels looking for some porn
You drank your champagne while she screamed in pain
If it happened to me, I’d probably go the fuck insane
CHORUS 2
Lindsay Ellis is over party
Is over party
She’s over party
Party, party, party!
Party, party, party!
BRIDGE
Yo, why don’t you go after the right target for a change?
VERSE 3
He cares more about the rights of Nazis and Proud Boys
Than he does of ordinary folks and the unemployed
He says he’s one of us, but he’s quickly losing trust
Because for him, hoarding greenbacks is always a must
CHORUS 3
Bill Maher is over party
Because he deserves it
Because he talks shit
Throws a fit
Makes his audience rage quit
CHORUS 4
Everybody sing!
The world is over party
Because it’s a shit hole
It’s out of control
No soul
Just check the Twitter poll
Get out the corn chips, get out the queso dip
Watch him walk over a banana peel and slip
Get the chocolate cake, eat it while he breaks
Apologizes a thousand times for a big mistake
CHORUS 1
Garrison is over party
Is over party
He’s over party
Party, party, party!
Party, party, party!
VERSE 2
She literally did nothing to deserve your online scorn
Unless you’re a bunch of incels looking for some porn
You drank your champagne while she screamed in pain
If it happened to me, I’d probably go the fuck insane
CHORUS 2
Lindsay Ellis is over party
Is over party
She’s over party
Party, party, party!
Party, party, party!
BRIDGE
Yo, why don’t you go after the right target for a change?
VERSE 3
He cares more about the rights of Nazis and Proud Boys
Than he does of ordinary folks and the unemployed
He says he’s one of us, but he’s quickly losing trust
Because for him, hoarding greenbacks is always a must
CHORUS 3
Bill Maher is over party
Because he deserves it
Because he talks shit
Throws a fit
Makes his audience rage quit
CHORUS 4
Everybody sing!
The world is over party
Because it’s a shit hole
It’s out of control
No soul
Just check the Twitter poll
April 27, 2021
Wrong Target
VERSE 1
You wanted to be Rambo, but now you’re Elmer Fudd
You’ll never be Chtulu, you’re just a discount CHUD
You wanted to be Bernie, but now you’re Adolf Hitler
You’ll never be my assassin, you’re just a time killer
CHORUS
Wrong target! X2
VERSE 2
You can’t be Robin Hood if you shoot your own foot
You can’t be Katniss Everdeen, just a spoiled teen
You’re coming after me and you have no reasoning
You’ve got the wrong target, now you’ve got bad karma
CHORUS
Wrong target! X2
BRIDGE
I’m not your mortal enemy, I’m not your worst nightmare
Yet you strangle me with razor wire, always pulling tighter
I did nothing to you or the ones you hold near and dear
You’re probably drunk as shit, I can almost smell the beer
VERSE 3
You wanted to be Floyd, but now you’re Justin Bieber
You got your education from a Scottish math teacher
You used a double negative, now you’re ground meat
All in all, it’s a brick wall, now take your fucking seat
CHORUS
Wrong target! X2
You wanted to be Rambo, but now you’re Elmer Fudd
You’ll never be Chtulu, you’re just a discount CHUD
You wanted to be Bernie, but now you’re Adolf Hitler
You’ll never be my assassin, you’re just a time killer
CHORUS
Wrong target! X2
VERSE 2
You can’t be Robin Hood if you shoot your own foot
You can’t be Katniss Everdeen, just a spoiled teen
You’re coming after me and you have no reasoning
You’ve got the wrong target, now you’ve got bad karma
CHORUS
Wrong target! X2
BRIDGE
I’m not your mortal enemy, I’m not your worst nightmare
Yet you strangle me with razor wire, always pulling tighter
I did nothing to you or the ones you hold near and dear
You’re probably drunk as shit, I can almost smell the beer
VERSE 3
You wanted to be Floyd, but now you’re Justin Bieber
You got your education from a Scottish math teacher
You used a double negative, now you’re ground meat
All in all, it’s a brick wall, now take your fucking seat
CHORUS
Wrong target! X2
April 13, 2021
My Name Is Starship Cobain
VERSE 1
My name is Starship Cobain and I’m from Washington State
The capitalist kiss of death is something I fucking hate
Lost my job at the Amazon warehouse, tossed out like trash
Now I live check-to-check by slaving away for Door Dash
I can deal with my pain with a roll of medical Mary-Jane
I’d smoke that shit regardless of what the lawmakers say
It’s as legal as whoring yourself out in the city of Las Vegas
Until the feds catch you with your pants down playing Sega
VERSE 2
My name is Starship Cobain and I’m from Port Orchard
They should really think about changing the name to Poor Tortured
Everybody’s got a truck and they all voted for Trump
They got the bumper stickers to prove it and the sense of a tree stump
Everybody’s transmission sounds like a smoker’s cough
If you turned it up to eleven and exploded their heads off
Not much to do here but sit in line at the Burger King
And order a hundred whoppers with a tank of onion rings
VERSE 3
My name is Starship Cobain, let’s all go to Seattle
And pray we don’t get caught up in a gangster gun battle
All I want out of this city is a show with Pop Evil
Fuck around in the mosh pit with some drunk ass people
I miss the days of Nirvana and that whole damn scene
A generation depressed when Kurt blew his head off clean
There were many imitators, but none of them could compare
To the gravelly voice that made your hair stand in the air
VERSE 4
My name is Starship Cobain, what does that even mean?
Hell if I know, it probably came to me in a dream
Or maybe it was chosen by my schizophrenic voices
Because from here on out, they’ll always make my choices
My name is Starship Cobain and I’m from Washington State
The capitalist kiss of death is something I fucking hate
Lost my job at the Amazon warehouse, tossed out like trash
Now I live check-to-check by slaving away for Door Dash
I can deal with my pain with a roll of medical Mary-Jane
I’d smoke that shit regardless of what the lawmakers say
It’s as legal as whoring yourself out in the city of Las Vegas
Until the feds catch you with your pants down playing Sega
VERSE 2
My name is Starship Cobain and I’m from Port Orchard
They should really think about changing the name to Poor Tortured
Everybody’s got a truck and they all voted for Trump
They got the bumper stickers to prove it and the sense of a tree stump
Everybody’s transmission sounds like a smoker’s cough
If you turned it up to eleven and exploded their heads off
Not much to do here but sit in line at the Burger King
And order a hundred whoppers with a tank of onion rings
VERSE 3
My name is Starship Cobain, let’s all go to Seattle
And pray we don’t get caught up in a gangster gun battle
All I want out of this city is a show with Pop Evil
Fuck around in the mosh pit with some drunk ass people
I miss the days of Nirvana and that whole damn scene
A generation depressed when Kurt blew his head off clean
There were many imitators, but none of them could compare
To the gravelly voice that made your hair stand in the air
VERSE 4
My name is Starship Cobain, what does that even mean?
Hell if I know, it probably came to me in a dream
Or maybe it was chosen by my schizophrenic voices
Because from here on out, they’ll always make my choices
April 8, 2021
Born to Trauma Bond
VERSE 1
All my enemies are fighting with AK-47’s
And all I’ve ever had was a wet toothpick
Might as well raise my tattered white flag
Because anything else would just be useless
We sign the peace treaty at the break of dawn
They get to have all the gold and the silver
All I ever get is some scraps from the table
Asking for more means bringing out the killers
CHORUS 1
Stop telling me to man the fuck up
A thick skin doesn’t mean jack shit
To a kid who was born to trauma bond
Until the day I’m fitted for a casket
VERSE 2
Everyone and their uncle push my boundaries
Until there’s nothing left to knock over
Could fight them off with a bastard sword
Until they leave me punch-drunk, never sober
And when every broken bone is finally healed
I still come out of it looking like the villain
They controlled the narrative from the first word
It’s what they pass on to their budding children
CHORUS 2
Stop telling me to grow a set of balls
A heart of stone isn’t in my nature
I’m a kid who was born to trauma bond
With every lover and every little hater
BRIDGE
They say I’m too sensitive
It’s a hallmark of my generation
I just need some military instruction
To shake me from my comfy situation
They say if I can’t handle the heat
I should fuck off from the kitchen
I should cowboy up and lock and load
And most of all just quit my bitchin’
VERSE 3
Word of advice to the assholes of the day
Don’t teach me how to shoot a gun
One of these days, I just might use it
A bullet is something you can’t outrun
You’re cocky and arrogant, what else is new?
You also have some narcissistic tendencies
One of these days, I’ll catch you slipping
And spill the blood of my favorite enemy
CHORUS 3
Stop telling me that being brave is easy
When you’re blessed with your privileges
I’m a dude who was born to trauma bond
Just like a good model American citizen
Stop threatening to put me in prison
When you’re the one who deserves it
If it means I don’t have to trauma bond
I’ll pump you with lead like I’m in the service
FINAL VERSE
I’m free from the prison of my mind
But now I’ve got brand new confines
A hellhole with bars on all four sides
And some beatings if I dare even cry
The cycle of abuse begins yet again
Every orange suit is my new best friend
Every guard is my brand new mommy
Be sure to open wide for the salty salami
All my enemies are fighting with AK-47’s
And all I’ve ever had was a wet toothpick
Might as well raise my tattered white flag
Because anything else would just be useless
We sign the peace treaty at the break of dawn
They get to have all the gold and the silver
All I ever get is some scraps from the table
Asking for more means bringing out the killers
CHORUS 1
Stop telling me to man the fuck up
A thick skin doesn’t mean jack shit
To a kid who was born to trauma bond
Until the day I’m fitted for a casket
VERSE 2
Everyone and their uncle push my boundaries
Until there’s nothing left to knock over
Could fight them off with a bastard sword
Until they leave me punch-drunk, never sober
And when every broken bone is finally healed
I still come out of it looking like the villain
They controlled the narrative from the first word
It’s what they pass on to their budding children
CHORUS 2
Stop telling me to grow a set of balls
A heart of stone isn’t in my nature
I’m a kid who was born to trauma bond
With every lover and every little hater
BRIDGE
They say I’m too sensitive
It’s a hallmark of my generation
I just need some military instruction
To shake me from my comfy situation
They say if I can’t handle the heat
I should fuck off from the kitchen
I should cowboy up and lock and load
And most of all just quit my bitchin’
VERSE 3
Word of advice to the assholes of the day
Don’t teach me how to shoot a gun
One of these days, I just might use it
A bullet is something you can’t outrun
You’re cocky and arrogant, what else is new?
You also have some narcissistic tendencies
One of these days, I’ll catch you slipping
And spill the blood of my favorite enemy
CHORUS 3
Stop telling me that being brave is easy
When you’re blessed with your privileges
I’m a dude who was born to trauma bond
Just like a good model American citizen
Stop threatening to put me in prison
When you’re the one who deserves it
If it means I don’t have to trauma bond
I’ll pump you with lead like I’m in the service
FINAL VERSE
I’m free from the prison of my mind
But now I’ve got brand new confines
A hellhole with bars on all four sides
And some beatings if I dare even cry
The cycle of abuse begins yet again
Every orange suit is my new best friend
Every guard is my brand new mommy
Be sure to open wide for the salty salami
April 5, 2021
Nobody Wants to Change
Every year the pattern was the same: two rival debate clubs went head to head and not a goddamn thing changed afterwards. The clapping from the audience was only out of courtesy, not out of impressiveness for one particular side. Everybody in that crowd had already made up their minds, or whatever was left of them after devouring a nice helping of Tucker Carlson’s show later that evening.
Paulo Bermudez recognized this dull pattern all too well. As he sat there on the side of the stage with his head barely perked up, he could see all the faceless minions nodding in mock approval for whoever was speaking. Even his own debate coach, Mr. Diametes Cosgrove, looked like a mindless bobble-head in the crowd, though his civil rights lawyer credentials made him slightly more believable.
Though Paulo and Mr. Cosgrove had their racial differences, the former being a Mexican teenager and the latter being a black Boomer, their struggles as minorities were real to each other. The harsh treatment by white cops, the gaslighting rhetoric of rich pampered politicians on TV, the general disdain from society, they both knew it all. When Mr. Cosgrove asked Paulo to be the captain of this year’s debate team, it was because he saw something in the young man, though Paulo saw nothing in himself and not much else in his opponents.
While Mr. Cosgrove and everyone else in the audience had their best suits on for this occasion, Paulo’s T-shirt and jeans look showed he knew the outcome of the competition long before it was over. The minute his rival captain Cora Yellowwood took the podium in her posh blue sweater and brown skirt, Paulo’s Nostradomus skills were even more heightened. She went on and on about the basic conservative anti-immigration tropes: they took our jobs, they’re joining MS-13, you can’t care about kids in cages if you’re “pro-abortion”.
Paulo’s blood would ordinarily boil over at this kind of rhetoric. But at this point in the competition and in life in general, he couldn’t bring himself to care anymore, because nobody else did. Once Cora was done with her two minutes of hate speech, the audience applauded like they had been programmed to do all these years. Paulo didn’t even snap out of his apathetic trance long enough to hear his own name called by the moderator. The old man had to say it multiple times in exponentially louder voices before he woke up to the nightmare around him.
“Mr. Bermudez! It’s your turn at the podium. You have two minutes to rebut Miss Yellowwood.”
Paulo dragged his sorry ass to the podium and was greeted with insulting shoulder squeezes and hair fluffing from his opponent. The audience chuckled at the gesture, not realizing nor caring how creepy that was. Once Cora skipped back to her seat on the opposite end of the stage, Paulo stared out into the crowd with a mixture of hatred and aloofness.
He allowed the droning audience to absorb his rage before he finally spoke. “You know what this debate competition sounds like? Team Bermudez vs. Team Yellowwood sounds like a UFC event, which is what I wish it was right now.” The audience chuckled awkwardly while Mr. Cosgrove rolled his eyes.
“Mr. Bermudez, please stay on topic,” the moderator warned.
“Oh, don’t worry, I am on topic.” Paulo sighed heavily and read the room some more, wasting valuable time on his two-minute limit. “Truth is, I could stand up here and tell you all about my struggles as a third-generation Mexican-American. I could entertain you all with a sob story about my grandfather escaping violence. But in the end, none of it will mean a damn thing, because nobody wants to change.”
The audience gasped while Mr. Cosgrove face-palmed.
“Mr. Bermudez…”
“Yes, I know! I’m staying on topic like you said! Just give me a few minutes, okay?!” The room fell deathly silent once again. “I could talk here for a lot longer than two minutes and none of it would make a difference. Nobody wants to change their minds. Nobody wants to listen to me or anybody like me. People don’t get into political arguments because they want to see a new perspective. They do it because they want to win. They do it because they want to quote-unquote own the libs.”
“Mr. Bermudez, that’s enough!”
Paulo ignored the warning against him. “Think about it! When was the last time anybody changed their minds because of something I said? Never! It’s like talking to a brick wall sometimes! Actually, no, that’s not true, because at least the brick wall wouldn’t give me a snarky answer or call me a snowflake every time I had a valid concern! The minute Mr. Cosgrove made me the team captain, I should have quit!”
Cora made a hand-job gesture and earned another round of light laughter from the crowd. Paulo caught her. “I’m sorry, am I boring you? Is there anything I’ve said just now that was a lie? Did you do that little masturbation thing because I’m right about nobody listening to me? Or maybe you did it as free advertising for your Only Fans account!”
“MR. BERMUDEZ!”
“Tell me, Cora, what’s so funny about my struggles?!” As Paulo drilled Cora with more angry rhetoric, Mr. Cosgrove emerged from the crowd and grabbed his arm to pull him offstage. Paulo resisted as he continued shouting down his rival captain. “Of course you can laugh about it, because you’ve never been discriminated against in your life! You’re a rich white bitch who never had a day of hardship! You can just throw money at your problems and they’ll go away like that!” Once Paulo was successfully pulled offstage, Cora gave him a raspberry and laughed.
“Let go of me, Mr. Cosgrove!”
He did, but only once they were far enough backstage that they had the alone time they needed. Mr. Cosgrove angrily whispered, “I didn’t go through all those years of Harvard Law School just so you can go up there and act like a jackass, do you understand me?” Paulo breathed both to soothe his anger and warm up his anxious nerves at being lectured by his debate coach. “I made you the team captain because you have a voice. You have strong opinions that needed to be out there. If I did half of what you did out there just now, I’d have been expelled a long time ago, maybe even thrown in jail at some point. You don’t control the crowd by throwing a baby fit.”
“No! You win the crowd by brainwashing them like the sheep that they are. Cora’s good at that sort of thing.”
“So what if she is? It’s your job as a debater to snap them out of it. You actually have to work for their attention. You can’t just give up because it’s too hard. Imagine how many more black and brown folks would be sitting in prison right now if I had given up on them. If you’re so certain that nobody will listen to you, then you MAKE them listen to you!”
“I can’t! Jesus, will you leave me alone! I can’t save the world by myself! If I could, I would! But I don’t have the time and energy to pull the public’s heads out of their asses! I can’t save the world if the world won’t save itself! If you’re so damn confident in your abilities, why don’t YOU go out there and destroy Cora Yellowwood yourself!”
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.” That smug voice belonged to Cora herself, who stood at the entrance to the backstage area with a scorecard in her hand and a cutesy-wutesy smile on her face. “I don’t know if you guys are aware of this, but Team Bermudez is so far behind in the score that it wouldn’t have mattered either way. I got the scorecard right here if you don’t believe me.”
She handed it to Paulo and the defeated look on his face grew even more sullen at the news. “We never stood a chance.”
“That’s right,” said Cora with a wink. “I guess you made people see things your way after all: nobody wants to change. Sorry life didn’t work out for you in the end. Maybe you’ll have better luck debating people when you land your first job at McDonald’s. Do you want fries with that? Here’s why you shouldn’t have fries with that.” She laughed at her own joke. “Well…you can always try again next year. Here’s a little something for good luck.” Despite Paulo’s weakest resistance, Cora kissed him on the lips.
“I’m fairly certain that’s sexual harassment,” said Mr. Cosgrove.
“What’s he going to do? Sue me? Like he’s got that kind of money. Or maybe you’ll do his legal work pro-bono…Diametes!”
“That’s Mr. Cosgrove to you, you sanctimonious little bitch.”
“I’ll be sure to let the Principal know you said that. It’d be a nice test of your debating skills, trying to convince him to let you keep your job.” Cora laughed and waved goodbye before skipping back onstage to accept Team Yellowwood’s victory.
Mr. Cosgrove roughly grabbed Paulo’s shoulders and snapped him out of his sexual harassment trauma long enough to add a cherry on the cake. “In case there’s any confusion as to whether or not this school needs you more than you need them, I’m recommending you for a ten-day suspension for that stunt you pulled tonight. Rebut that.”
Paulo shrugged his teacher’s hands off of him. “I’ll send you a postcard from the Bahamas.”
If he couldn’t afford a lawyer to sue Cora, then he couldn’t afford a ten-day vacation overseas. But that didn’t matter, because the little zinger brought a smile to his own face. It was the first time he smiled that whole night. For just a tiny little while, he believed in his own verbal skills. How long would that last? How would he use that momentum? It was hard to answer those questions with the trauma of Cora’s forced kiss swirling in his head.
Paulo Bermudez recognized this dull pattern all too well. As he sat there on the side of the stage with his head barely perked up, he could see all the faceless minions nodding in mock approval for whoever was speaking. Even his own debate coach, Mr. Diametes Cosgrove, looked like a mindless bobble-head in the crowd, though his civil rights lawyer credentials made him slightly more believable.
Though Paulo and Mr. Cosgrove had their racial differences, the former being a Mexican teenager and the latter being a black Boomer, their struggles as minorities were real to each other. The harsh treatment by white cops, the gaslighting rhetoric of rich pampered politicians on TV, the general disdain from society, they both knew it all. When Mr. Cosgrove asked Paulo to be the captain of this year’s debate team, it was because he saw something in the young man, though Paulo saw nothing in himself and not much else in his opponents.
While Mr. Cosgrove and everyone else in the audience had their best suits on for this occasion, Paulo’s T-shirt and jeans look showed he knew the outcome of the competition long before it was over. The minute his rival captain Cora Yellowwood took the podium in her posh blue sweater and brown skirt, Paulo’s Nostradomus skills were even more heightened. She went on and on about the basic conservative anti-immigration tropes: they took our jobs, they’re joining MS-13, you can’t care about kids in cages if you’re “pro-abortion”.
Paulo’s blood would ordinarily boil over at this kind of rhetoric. But at this point in the competition and in life in general, he couldn’t bring himself to care anymore, because nobody else did. Once Cora was done with her two minutes of hate speech, the audience applauded like they had been programmed to do all these years. Paulo didn’t even snap out of his apathetic trance long enough to hear his own name called by the moderator. The old man had to say it multiple times in exponentially louder voices before he woke up to the nightmare around him.
“Mr. Bermudez! It’s your turn at the podium. You have two minutes to rebut Miss Yellowwood.”
Paulo dragged his sorry ass to the podium and was greeted with insulting shoulder squeezes and hair fluffing from his opponent. The audience chuckled at the gesture, not realizing nor caring how creepy that was. Once Cora skipped back to her seat on the opposite end of the stage, Paulo stared out into the crowd with a mixture of hatred and aloofness.
He allowed the droning audience to absorb his rage before he finally spoke. “You know what this debate competition sounds like? Team Bermudez vs. Team Yellowwood sounds like a UFC event, which is what I wish it was right now.” The audience chuckled awkwardly while Mr. Cosgrove rolled his eyes.
“Mr. Bermudez, please stay on topic,” the moderator warned.
“Oh, don’t worry, I am on topic.” Paulo sighed heavily and read the room some more, wasting valuable time on his two-minute limit. “Truth is, I could stand up here and tell you all about my struggles as a third-generation Mexican-American. I could entertain you all with a sob story about my grandfather escaping violence. But in the end, none of it will mean a damn thing, because nobody wants to change.”
The audience gasped while Mr. Cosgrove face-palmed.
“Mr. Bermudez…”
“Yes, I know! I’m staying on topic like you said! Just give me a few minutes, okay?!” The room fell deathly silent once again. “I could talk here for a lot longer than two minutes and none of it would make a difference. Nobody wants to change their minds. Nobody wants to listen to me or anybody like me. People don’t get into political arguments because they want to see a new perspective. They do it because they want to win. They do it because they want to quote-unquote own the libs.”
“Mr. Bermudez, that’s enough!”
Paulo ignored the warning against him. “Think about it! When was the last time anybody changed their minds because of something I said? Never! It’s like talking to a brick wall sometimes! Actually, no, that’s not true, because at least the brick wall wouldn’t give me a snarky answer or call me a snowflake every time I had a valid concern! The minute Mr. Cosgrove made me the team captain, I should have quit!”
Cora made a hand-job gesture and earned another round of light laughter from the crowd. Paulo caught her. “I’m sorry, am I boring you? Is there anything I’ve said just now that was a lie? Did you do that little masturbation thing because I’m right about nobody listening to me? Or maybe you did it as free advertising for your Only Fans account!”
“MR. BERMUDEZ!”
“Tell me, Cora, what’s so funny about my struggles?!” As Paulo drilled Cora with more angry rhetoric, Mr. Cosgrove emerged from the crowd and grabbed his arm to pull him offstage. Paulo resisted as he continued shouting down his rival captain. “Of course you can laugh about it, because you’ve never been discriminated against in your life! You’re a rich white bitch who never had a day of hardship! You can just throw money at your problems and they’ll go away like that!” Once Paulo was successfully pulled offstage, Cora gave him a raspberry and laughed.
“Let go of me, Mr. Cosgrove!”
He did, but only once they were far enough backstage that they had the alone time they needed. Mr. Cosgrove angrily whispered, “I didn’t go through all those years of Harvard Law School just so you can go up there and act like a jackass, do you understand me?” Paulo breathed both to soothe his anger and warm up his anxious nerves at being lectured by his debate coach. “I made you the team captain because you have a voice. You have strong opinions that needed to be out there. If I did half of what you did out there just now, I’d have been expelled a long time ago, maybe even thrown in jail at some point. You don’t control the crowd by throwing a baby fit.”
“No! You win the crowd by brainwashing them like the sheep that they are. Cora’s good at that sort of thing.”
“So what if she is? It’s your job as a debater to snap them out of it. You actually have to work for their attention. You can’t just give up because it’s too hard. Imagine how many more black and brown folks would be sitting in prison right now if I had given up on them. If you’re so certain that nobody will listen to you, then you MAKE them listen to you!”
“I can’t! Jesus, will you leave me alone! I can’t save the world by myself! If I could, I would! But I don’t have the time and energy to pull the public’s heads out of their asses! I can’t save the world if the world won’t save itself! If you’re so damn confident in your abilities, why don’t YOU go out there and destroy Cora Yellowwood yourself!”
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.” That smug voice belonged to Cora herself, who stood at the entrance to the backstage area with a scorecard in her hand and a cutesy-wutesy smile on her face. “I don’t know if you guys are aware of this, but Team Bermudez is so far behind in the score that it wouldn’t have mattered either way. I got the scorecard right here if you don’t believe me.”
She handed it to Paulo and the defeated look on his face grew even more sullen at the news. “We never stood a chance.”
“That’s right,” said Cora with a wink. “I guess you made people see things your way after all: nobody wants to change. Sorry life didn’t work out for you in the end. Maybe you’ll have better luck debating people when you land your first job at McDonald’s. Do you want fries with that? Here’s why you shouldn’t have fries with that.” She laughed at her own joke. “Well…you can always try again next year. Here’s a little something for good luck.” Despite Paulo’s weakest resistance, Cora kissed him on the lips.
“I’m fairly certain that’s sexual harassment,” said Mr. Cosgrove.
“What’s he going to do? Sue me? Like he’s got that kind of money. Or maybe you’ll do his legal work pro-bono…Diametes!”
“That’s Mr. Cosgrove to you, you sanctimonious little bitch.”
“I’ll be sure to let the Principal know you said that. It’d be a nice test of your debating skills, trying to convince him to let you keep your job.” Cora laughed and waved goodbye before skipping back onstage to accept Team Yellowwood’s victory.
Mr. Cosgrove roughly grabbed Paulo’s shoulders and snapped him out of his sexual harassment trauma long enough to add a cherry on the cake. “In case there’s any confusion as to whether or not this school needs you more than you need them, I’m recommending you for a ten-day suspension for that stunt you pulled tonight. Rebut that.”
Paulo shrugged his teacher’s hands off of him. “I’ll send you a postcard from the Bahamas.”
If he couldn’t afford a lawyer to sue Cora, then he couldn’t afford a ten-day vacation overseas. But that didn’t matter, because the little zinger brought a smile to his own face. It was the first time he smiled that whole night. For just a tiny little while, he believed in his own verbal skills. How long would that last? How would he use that momentum? It was hard to answer those questions with the trauma of Cora’s forced kiss swirling in his head.
