Garrison Kelly's Blog, page 37
November 7, 2019
Barbarians and Wizards
***BARBARIANS AND WIZARDS***
My brother James and I have this running gag in our conversations where all of my thoughts revolve around barbarians and wizards. Am I writing a new novel? It’s about barbarians and wizards. Am I watching a TV show? It’s about barbarians and wizards. Am I taking Lego pictures? They feature barbarians and wizards. While my brother is technically not wrong, he’s also only half-right. Beautiful Monster’s main character is a warrior elf who lashes the shit out of his opponents with a chain whip. Is he a barbarian? In fighting style only. The main villainess of that story is a seductive sex trafficker who rapes him. Is she a wizard? Not physically, but she’ll put a spell on you anyways. Okay, maybe James is right more than half of the time.
Even my contemporary short stories and novellas have elements of barbarian and wizard dynamics. My most recent first draft, Incelbordination, features an angry, pugilistic dwarf as its main character. Is he a barbarian? Well, he can rage like one, especially when he’s being bullied or deprived of romance. So at the very least, he’s an emotional barbarian. But what about the main villain of that story? Well, he’s a cult of personality whose followers subscribe to the incel culture. He’s got his minions by the balls and he won’t stop until the main character’s mind belongs to him. Is the villain a wizard? If brainwashing is a magic spell, then yes, he could be a contemporary version of a wizard.
What about the contemporary novella that came before Beautiful Monster and Incelbordination? It’s called Silent Warrior and features an emo high school senior with an eating disorder and a head full of trauma. Is he a barbarian? Not physically since he’s a hundred pounds soaking wet while holding an anchor. Emotionally? He very well could be. He’s got anger and disrespect for authority down to a science. What about his social studies teacher? While not a leader in any sense of the word, he still has a negative, conformist influence over his students, much like the math teacher from Pink Floyd the Wall. Is he a wizard? Again, brainwashing could be a spell, so yes, the social studies villain could technically be a wizard.
Of course, my brother is clearly joking when he teases me for being obsessed with barbarians and wizards. We both get a good laugh out of it. But where did this obsession come from? Well, I’ve always liked the fantasy genre ever since I watched James play Final Fantasy IV, Final Fantasy VI, and Chrono Trigger on the Super Nintendo back in the 1990’s. But my barbarian and wizard obsession didn’t start with those games specifically, although Ayla from Chrono Trigger and Umaro from Final Fantasy VI could fit the barbarian role to a fault. My obsession didn’t even come from playing Hero Quest as an even smaller child (because the main classes the player could be included the barbarian and the wizard).
I have Diablo II: Lord of Destruction to thank for my obsession, specifically with barbarians. As a lover of RPG’s, I’ve always enjoyed playing as the physical, in-your-face, melee range warriors. It didn’t matter if their mana was drained, because physical attacks didn’t require it and even if they did, the warriors could keep going and going in spite of it. Once a wizard runs out of mana, he’s fucked, because he’s not strong enough to go toe-to-toe with his enemies. Warriors, on the other hand, exemplify self-sufficiency to the nth degree. The barbarian in Diablo II was always lauded as an unequaled melee-range fighter. He could use two weapons at once, he could withstand a shit-load of punishment, and he could dish it out like nobody else.
Later in life, I would find out that the paladin was a nastier brawler than the barbarian. Paladins can strike multiple times in one sitting and they have magical auras that don’t cost a damn thing. My favorite aura to give the paladin was cold elemental, which froze my enemies and slowed them down to unbearable speeds. Plus, it added damage to my multiple attacks. The paladin actually did more damage than my dual-wielding barbarian. But if I had known this as a teenager, I probably would have developed an obsession with paladins instead of barbarians.
Without my barbarian obsession, there would be no Deus Shadowheart. Who is Deus Shadowheart, you ask? He was my Gary-Stu killing machine, that’s who. He had been the main protagonist of my stories long before I knew that Gary-Stu was a pejorative. He hacked off limbs, he ripped flesh like it was Christmas paper, and he bathed in blood with every swing of his axe. But unfortunately, this doesn’t make for a relatable character and if there’s one thing readers love, it’s someone they can relate to. As of today, he’s a character in a Poison Tongue Tales story called Deus Ex Machina, where being a Gary-Stu works to the story’s advantage. Be sure to pick up a copy of Poison Tongue Tales at your favorite online retailer! But seriously, I’m glad Deus found a home he can be comfortable with.
My barbarian obsession didn’t end with just story characters. I lived the gimmick as well. Okay, so I didn’t cannibalize and maim everybody in my path, but I’ve got the attitude down pat. I scream in anger whenever little things go wrong with my computer. I swear like a sailor whenever the phone rings and it’s for me. I eat every meal like a pig and get pieces of food stuck to my shirt. I burp and fart in public without saying “excuse me”. I used to watch professional wrestling religiously before it started sucking and the wrestlers themselves could be considered barbarians. Hell, the current WWE Raw Tag Team Champions are a pair of Viking warriors named Erik and Ivar. Even the Authors of Pain were barbaric in their fighting styles and muscular body types before they were relegated to bodily function jokes (AOP is short for Authors of Pain and can also be made fun of by saying AOPee-Pee).
The one part about barbarian life I will never agree with is the refusal to learn how to read and write. As a semi-professional author, knowing how to read and write is a part of my fucking job! Hell, this blog entry wouldn’t exist if I was illiterate. My college degree wouldn’t exist either. But yeah, because barbarians exist on the fringes of society, they don’t have the same access to education that the nobles would have. Would being educated hamper a barbarian’s ability to rage? Not really. Once a barbarian, always a barbarian. If anything, they’ll do what I did with my career and write crappy novellas about wrestling and, you guessed it, violent battles involving barbarians and wizards.
So why am I writing this blog entry to begin with if my barbarian obsession was already obvious to everyone here? Because even though I (allegedly) think about them 24/7, I need a reminder every now and then of where my creative fuel comes from. Whenever I have days where I’m bored out of my mind and mentally exhausted, I can feel my creativity dwindling away. I want to energize myself and beat the shit out of the mentally ill demons that hold me down, so this is what I have to do. Does it always work? No. Does my depression, schizophrenia, and litany of mental illnesses get in the way sometimes? Absolutely. It’s the reason why I can’t sustain an aggressive writing career, so I have to work from the shadows. It sucks. It sucks badly that my life is hampered by mental exhaustion and mental illnesses, but there’s not a whole lot I can do about it…except for energize my creativity through barbarians and wizards…and apparently orcish prostitutes, which was one James recently added to my list of obsessions. Hehe!
I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!
***QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“I know not what weapons World War III will be fought with, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.”
-Albert Einstein-
***POST-SCRIPT***
Actually, a barbarian might feel at home fighting with primitive weapons such as sticks and stones.
My brother James and I have this running gag in our conversations where all of my thoughts revolve around barbarians and wizards. Am I writing a new novel? It’s about barbarians and wizards. Am I watching a TV show? It’s about barbarians and wizards. Am I taking Lego pictures? They feature barbarians and wizards. While my brother is technically not wrong, he’s also only half-right. Beautiful Monster’s main character is a warrior elf who lashes the shit out of his opponents with a chain whip. Is he a barbarian? In fighting style only. The main villainess of that story is a seductive sex trafficker who rapes him. Is she a wizard? Not physically, but she’ll put a spell on you anyways. Okay, maybe James is right more than half of the time.
Even my contemporary short stories and novellas have elements of barbarian and wizard dynamics. My most recent first draft, Incelbordination, features an angry, pugilistic dwarf as its main character. Is he a barbarian? Well, he can rage like one, especially when he’s being bullied or deprived of romance. So at the very least, he’s an emotional barbarian. But what about the main villain of that story? Well, he’s a cult of personality whose followers subscribe to the incel culture. He’s got his minions by the balls and he won’t stop until the main character’s mind belongs to him. Is the villain a wizard? If brainwashing is a magic spell, then yes, he could be a contemporary version of a wizard.
What about the contemporary novella that came before Beautiful Monster and Incelbordination? It’s called Silent Warrior and features an emo high school senior with an eating disorder and a head full of trauma. Is he a barbarian? Not physically since he’s a hundred pounds soaking wet while holding an anchor. Emotionally? He very well could be. He’s got anger and disrespect for authority down to a science. What about his social studies teacher? While not a leader in any sense of the word, he still has a negative, conformist influence over his students, much like the math teacher from Pink Floyd the Wall. Is he a wizard? Again, brainwashing could be a spell, so yes, the social studies villain could technically be a wizard.
Of course, my brother is clearly joking when he teases me for being obsessed with barbarians and wizards. We both get a good laugh out of it. But where did this obsession come from? Well, I’ve always liked the fantasy genre ever since I watched James play Final Fantasy IV, Final Fantasy VI, and Chrono Trigger on the Super Nintendo back in the 1990’s. But my barbarian and wizard obsession didn’t start with those games specifically, although Ayla from Chrono Trigger and Umaro from Final Fantasy VI could fit the barbarian role to a fault. My obsession didn’t even come from playing Hero Quest as an even smaller child (because the main classes the player could be included the barbarian and the wizard).
I have Diablo II: Lord of Destruction to thank for my obsession, specifically with barbarians. As a lover of RPG’s, I’ve always enjoyed playing as the physical, in-your-face, melee range warriors. It didn’t matter if their mana was drained, because physical attacks didn’t require it and even if they did, the warriors could keep going and going in spite of it. Once a wizard runs out of mana, he’s fucked, because he’s not strong enough to go toe-to-toe with his enemies. Warriors, on the other hand, exemplify self-sufficiency to the nth degree. The barbarian in Diablo II was always lauded as an unequaled melee-range fighter. He could use two weapons at once, he could withstand a shit-load of punishment, and he could dish it out like nobody else.
Later in life, I would find out that the paladin was a nastier brawler than the barbarian. Paladins can strike multiple times in one sitting and they have magical auras that don’t cost a damn thing. My favorite aura to give the paladin was cold elemental, which froze my enemies and slowed them down to unbearable speeds. Plus, it added damage to my multiple attacks. The paladin actually did more damage than my dual-wielding barbarian. But if I had known this as a teenager, I probably would have developed an obsession with paladins instead of barbarians.
Without my barbarian obsession, there would be no Deus Shadowheart. Who is Deus Shadowheart, you ask? He was my Gary-Stu killing machine, that’s who. He had been the main protagonist of my stories long before I knew that Gary-Stu was a pejorative. He hacked off limbs, he ripped flesh like it was Christmas paper, and he bathed in blood with every swing of his axe. But unfortunately, this doesn’t make for a relatable character and if there’s one thing readers love, it’s someone they can relate to. As of today, he’s a character in a Poison Tongue Tales story called Deus Ex Machina, where being a Gary-Stu works to the story’s advantage. Be sure to pick up a copy of Poison Tongue Tales at your favorite online retailer! But seriously, I’m glad Deus found a home he can be comfortable with.
My barbarian obsession didn’t end with just story characters. I lived the gimmick as well. Okay, so I didn’t cannibalize and maim everybody in my path, but I’ve got the attitude down pat. I scream in anger whenever little things go wrong with my computer. I swear like a sailor whenever the phone rings and it’s for me. I eat every meal like a pig and get pieces of food stuck to my shirt. I burp and fart in public without saying “excuse me”. I used to watch professional wrestling religiously before it started sucking and the wrestlers themselves could be considered barbarians. Hell, the current WWE Raw Tag Team Champions are a pair of Viking warriors named Erik and Ivar. Even the Authors of Pain were barbaric in their fighting styles and muscular body types before they were relegated to bodily function jokes (AOP is short for Authors of Pain and can also be made fun of by saying AOPee-Pee).
The one part about barbarian life I will never agree with is the refusal to learn how to read and write. As a semi-professional author, knowing how to read and write is a part of my fucking job! Hell, this blog entry wouldn’t exist if I was illiterate. My college degree wouldn’t exist either. But yeah, because barbarians exist on the fringes of society, they don’t have the same access to education that the nobles would have. Would being educated hamper a barbarian’s ability to rage? Not really. Once a barbarian, always a barbarian. If anything, they’ll do what I did with my career and write crappy novellas about wrestling and, you guessed it, violent battles involving barbarians and wizards.
So why am I writing this blog entry to begin with if my barbarian obsession was already obvious to everyone here? Because even though I (allegedly) think about them 24/7, I need a reminder every now and then of where my creative fuel comes from. Whenever I have days where I’m bored out of my mind and mentally exhausted, I can feel my creativity dwindling away. I want to energize myself and beat the shit out of the mentally ill demons that hold me down, so this is what I have to do. Does it always work? No. Does my depression, schizophrenia, and litany of mental illnesses get in the way sometimes? Absolutely. It’s the reason why I can’t sustain an aggressive writing career, so I have to work from the shadows. It sucks. It sucks badly that my life is hampered by mental exhaustion and mental illnesses, but there’s not a whole lot I can do about it…except for energize my creativity through barbarians and wizards…and apparently orcish prostitutes, which was one James recently added to my list of obsessions. Hehe!
I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!
***QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“I know not what weapons World War III will be fought with, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.”
-Albert Einstein-
***POST-SCRIPT***
Actually, a barbarian might feel at home fighting with primitive weapons such as sticks and stones.
November 4, 2019
Give It Back
Give me back my money, give me back my mind
These priceless treasures were never yours to find
Give me back my freedom, take away my demons
Give me back my house keys to the Garden of Eden
Give me back my beauty so people can still use me
Give me back my rights in case they want to sue me
Give me back my toys, give me back my animals
Give me back the snacks you feast on like cannibals
Give me back my life, give me back my dreams
Give me back my art and turn STEM into STEAM
Give me back my story in all its rough draft glory
Give me back my creativity so I won’t be boring
Give me back my energy, give me back my health
Give me back my teenage clothes, a new notch in my belt
Give me back my hopes, give me back my jokes
Give me back my career so I don’t have to be broke
Give me back my passport so I can go on adventures
Give me back my courage so I can be an avenger
Give me back my strength so I can be a badass
Not a puddle of pudding and a fucking sad-ass
Give me back everything that you took from me
Before I make you suffer, before I make you bleed
Torture you for information, torture you for fun
Torture you with a whip, maybe even a loaded gun
You drove me to this and gave me no other choice
This is heavy ass metal, not cacophonic noise
Give me back my innocence, let me walk the streets
Without cuffs on my wrists and shackles on my feet
I had the right to rage for my very last page
Now you’ll never live beyond your final age
These priceless treasures were never yours to find
Give me back my freedom, take away my demons
Give me back my house keys to the Garden of Eden
Give me back my beauty so people can still use me
Give me back my rights in case they want to sue me
Give me back my toys, give me back my animals
Give me back the snacks you feast on like cannibals
Give me back my life, give me back my dreams
Give me back my art and turn STEM into STEAM
Give me back my story in all its rough draft glory
Give me back my creativity so I won’t be boring
Give me back my energy, give me back my health
Give me back my teenage clothes, a new notch in my belt
Give me back my hopes, give me back my jokes
Give me back my career so I don’t have to be broke
Give me back my passport so I can go on adventures
Give me back my courage so I can be an avenger
Give me back my strength so I can be a badass
Not a puddle of pudding and a fucking sad-ass
Give me back everything that you took from me
Before I make you suffer, before I make you bleed
Torture you for information, torture you for fun
Torture you with a whip, maybe even a loaded gun
You drove me to this and gave me no other choice
This is heavy ass metal, not cacophonic noise
Give me back my innocence, let me walk the streets
Without cuffs on my wrists and shackles on my feet
I had the right to rage for my very last page
Now you’ll never live beyond your final age
Moe/Joe
BROKEN MOE
Dweams weally do come twue
A dwop in the ocean, happy tear for you
I get to stay in a fowever home
I’ll never have to wowwy about being alone
KATANA JOE
This place is a prison for the cowardly
They just don’t acknowledge it outwardly
If I had my hands around their throats
They could tell me what I already know
BROKEN MOE
How can you say that about my home?
I love my new mommy, I love her so
You’re just a big meanie to evewyone
When anyone can smile, I mean anyone
KATANA JOE
Smiles are just masks to keep us in check
When all I want to do is sever their necks
Violence and death are what we live for
Not to be somebody’s emotional whore
BROKEN MOE
Mommy will wash your mouth out with soap
She’ll use the worst tasting kind, I hope
Be nice to evewyone and you’ll be fine
Don’t wuin my home, it’s mine all mine
KATANA JOE
I’ll kill everyone inside of this hovel
Like a scene from a serial killer novel
You’re next, Broken Moe, so get ready
For a kick in the head so fucking deadly
BROKEN MOE
Get out of my bwain, you big fat jerk
I’ll hate you fowever if you go berserk
Don’t wuin my life, you doo-doo head
I hate these nightmares in my bed
KATANA JOE
Your worst nightmare will come to life
Every one of these throats deserves a knife
I’m the only one here who makes any sense
I’m the fucking landlord, now pay the rent!
HOST BODY
No! No! No! Stop it! I beg you!
KATANA JOE
Hahahahahahaha! Let’s murder this world together!
Dweams weally do come twue
A dwop in the ocean, happy tear for you
I get to stay in a fowever home
I’ll never have to wowwy about being alone
KATANA JOE
This place is a prison for the cowardly
They just don’t acknowledge it outwardly
If I had my hands around their throats
They could tell me what I already know
BROKEN MOE
How can you say that about my home?
I love my new mommy, I love her so
You’re just a big meanie to evewyone
When anyone can smile, I mean anyone
KATANA JOE
Smiles are just masks to keep us in check
When all I want to do is sever their necks
Violence and death are what we live for
Not to be somebody’s emotional whore
BROKEN MOE
Mommy will wash your mouth out with soap
She’ll use the worst tasting kind, I hope
Be nice to evewyone and you’ll be fine
Don’t wuin my home, it’s mine all mine
KATANA JOE
I’ll kill everyone inside of this hovel
Like a scene from a serial killer novel
You’re next, Broken Moe, so get ready
For a kick in the head so fucking deadly
BROKEN MOE
Get out of my bwain, you big fat jerk
I’ll hate you fowever if you go berserk
Don’t wuin my life, you doo-doo head
I hate these nightmares in my bed
KATANA JOE
Your worst nightmare will come to life
Every one of these throats deserves a knife
I’m the only one here who makes any sense
I’m the fucking landlord, now pay the rent!
HOST BODY
No! No! No! Stop it! I beg you!
KATANA JOE
Hahahahahahaha! Let’s murder this world together!
November 3, 2019
Butterscotch
The tear that burned Abby Cole’s purple and black eye was but a droplet in an ocean of sorrow and silence. Though she kept her head down as she walked hurriedly down the street, she was painfully aware of passersby staring at her wound. Whether it was in pity or disgust, she was too numb to figure out. Their stares made her feel like even more of an outcast than she already was. The difference between the gawking pedestrians and Daniel Park? Abby could easily forget the judgmental masses. After all, they weren’t the ones who threw the punch during school in the first place.
The more Daniel Park’s cold, demonic expression stained her mind, the more her colorful eye burned with pooling tears. His screams earlier that day were barely intelligible, but they were loud enough to leave her ears ringing. His fist was harder than a cinder block and almost put her into a permanent sleep. Getting rid of him would be an easy solution for the school administration, but it would imply that anybody cared. Judging from the cracked infrastructure and unwashed graffiti surrounding the school, the uncaring attitudes of those in charge were more obvious than the all-consuming wound across Abby’s face.
Abby couldn’t even think about anything else at that moment. If she tried to do math homework that evening, she would only be counting the pieces of her face she had to pick up. If she tried to do history homework, then she could justify putting so many violent wars in one textbook, hers chief among them. If she tried to write a poem, no words would come out, just like her current silence dictated. Forget A-pluses and scholarships. All she wanted to do was lie face down on her bed and drift into the darkness forever and ever.
She had passed a few neon signs in the street for barbecue joints and strip clubs and their obnoxious lights burned her eye as well. She couldn’t open it to full length no matter how hard she tried…until a little patch of fur came darting out of the alleyway. Nobody else was there to judge her and the tiny kitten. The cat stared up at Abby with pitiful eyes and let out a series of soft, high-pitched meows. His yellow and orange striped fur looked gentle enough to touch despite him being a street cat who no doubt had to fight for his food.
Abby’s smile was wide enough to burn her eye again, but this time she didn’t wince nor care. “Come on, little kitty!” she sweetly said while kneeling down on the ground and holding her hand out. “It’s okay, nobody’s going to hurt you. Are you lost? Do you need some snuggles and love?” The cat meowed at her some more before creeping up to her hand and jumping into her arms for a hug. He purred loudly in her ear while Abby stroked his velveteen fur. “I’m going to call you Butterscotch, because you’re sweet!”
Butterscotch licked Abby’s bruise with his rough tongue and caused some yellow leakage, but she didn’t mind as evidenced by her giggles and continued pettings. “You’re such a love bug!” she squealed to him. Forget laying in bed all night long. She could stay in these now empty streets for eternity if it meant loving and being loved by this tender creature. Butterscotch would never punch her in the face. He would never scream obscenities about pimping and prostitution. This kitty would never stare at Abby with evil eyes.
Daniel Park, on the other hand, didn’t mind doing those things at all. His familiar gruff voice could be heard clearing his throat and just like that, Butterscotch leapt out of Abby’s arms and hid behind a dustbin, leaving her with a mild scratch on her bare arm. Abby began to feel conscious about any other body part that could be easily revealed to Daniel. Her flannel skirt showed off her legs. Her high heeled shoes gave away free foot content. She pulled on her black T-shirt to keep it from looking too tight on her.
With his victim trembling before him unable to speak, the leather-jacket-wearing, face-tattooed Daniel lit up a cigarette and slowly approached her with a tightened fist. “So…have you thought about my offer from earlier? Are you ready to make me an ass-load of money? I want that ass, Abby. I got horny bastards that’ll pay good money for an ass like that. What do you say?” No answer, only trembles and tears. “Are you deaf?!” he roared before taking another drag of his cigarette and stomping it out.
“Uh…uh…uh…Daniel? I, uh…I can’t do that.” Abby had a hard time steadying her body, almost to where she was going to fall over.
Daniel grabbed a hold of Abby’s shirt and caused her to yelp. “Shut up, bitch!” he screamed as he raised his fist in the air. “I was asking rhetorical questions when I made you that offer. I’m not giving you a choice, bitch. You either come with me and sell some ass or I’ll leave you laying in the fucking street. It doesn’t matter to me either way. Bitches like you are a dime a dozen!” He lifted up her skirt and she could only tremble some more. “Since you won’t be able to use that mouth of yours for a while…I was wondering if…”
Butterscotch emerged from behind the dustbin and hissed at Daniel. He asked, “Who’s that little shit stain? Friend of yours, Abby? You wish your pussy was that small?”
“L…l…leave Butterscotch alone!” Abby flinched in anticipation for another punch.
“Butterscotch? Is that what you’re calling him? Shit, I don’t even have to beat your ass again. I’ll just wring this little fucker’s neck, how about that?”
Abby collapsed on the ground and sobbed as Daniel slowly approached Butterscotch, pounding his fists and earning hisses and growls for his intimidation tactics. “Here, kitty-kitty-kitty!” he said in a creepy voice. “Maybe I’ll take my phone out and play some Sarah McLaughlin music or some shit. That’d make a hell of an ASPCA commercial, don’t you think?”
“Leave him alone!”
“Fuck you, cunt!” Daniel raised his fist in the sky and poised for another beat down on Abby. She tightly closed her eyes and held her hands up in defeat, so she only got to hear the action when Butterscotch screamed and scratched Daniel hard enough that he let out a monstrous, “Ouch!”
The double-tracked yell plus the goopy noise emitting from Daniel’s wound caused Abby to open her eyes to see what was up. Green ooze leaked from his palm while his eyes glowed neon red. He stared down at her and said, “That’s right, bitch. I’m a motherfucking demon. We’re everywhere! Ever wonder why nobody gives a shit about your sorry ass? Demons don’t give a shit about anyone, so don’t feel too left out.”
Abby’s breathing intensified and her heart rate sped up to dizzying heights as it lodged in her throat. She was just going to lay there for her attacker while Butterscotch snuggled up against her chest. Demons ran this world whether she accepted it or not. Demons weren’t in the business of fixing schools or policing criminals. They were in the business of creating even deeper bruises on people more vulnerable than her. They were in the business of selling ass and literally raising hell.
Abby didn’t want to live in such a world anymore, but realized that if she gave up now, she wouldn’t be able to hold sweet kitties in her arms wherever the afterlife took her. A coffin was no place for a grieving cat. Her body was no place for a demon’s hands, which had developed wrinkles, hair, and claws as they reached down to grab her. Butterscotch swiped at Daniel again and opened his palm gash even wider, causing more green goop to spill.
“Goddamn it, you little bastard! I’m going to rip your tail off and shove it up Abby’s pussy!” Daniel wrapped his good hand around Butterscotch’s neck and was poised to make good on his threats.
Abby remembered that there were no sweet kitties in the afterlife. Butterscotch needed her here and now. If she wasn’t going to fight for herself, she had to fight for her new furry friend. She saw an opening…mainly the one in Daniel’s hideous hand. In one swift motion, she grabbed the demon’s wound with her manicured nails and opened it wider and wider with every slash. Tears poured down her face and blinded her from the green goop spilling everywhere. Her ears bled from the demon’s screaming in pain. Her ears also took a pounding from Butterscotch growling as he bit his attacker.
Soon enough, Abby ripped off an entire strip of demonic skin. And another. And another. Her heart rate could barely keep up with her tearful rage. “Die, you motherfucker! Just die already!” she screamed as she ripped more flesh from the gaping wound. She pulled out muscle fibers and organ pieces. She ripped a piece of bone out as well after some hard tugging. She had to stop her rage for a moment to wipe her eyes, but when they were clear, they widened at her handiwork.
Daniel’s red devil arm was stripped completely of skin and muscles. His green goopy blood sprayed all over the ground and leaked into the sewers. His screams grew silent and more pathetic as he crumpled to the ground dying. His string of obscenities remained unintelligible, but not because of traumatic blocking. He bled and broke until his monstrous, muscle-bound, leather-skinned body was just a heap of crap lying on the sidewalk, no different from one of Butterscotch’s constitutionals. To put it mildly, Daniel Park was dead.
Abby’s body still shook in a combination of shock and trauma. Her painful eye was still wide and achy. Her mouth kept trembling as she spoke. “I did it,” she said in amazement. “I killed that bastard. He’s gone…” She leaned down to extend her demonic-ooze-covered hand to Butterscotch and he licked the fluid off for her. “You saved my life, little guy. You’re just a baby. You shouldn’t have to save people like me. You should be cuddled and loved forever. Dad would never let me keep you.” That last sentence caused more tears to scorch her purple wound.
“Don’t worry, baby Butterscotch. I’ll find you a nice home. I’ll get you away from these demons…if there really are more out there. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if my good-for-nothing dad was one himself. He’d never believe me if I told him what Daniel did to me. He’d just be like, ‘Suck it up! Rah-rah-rah-rah-rah!’”
Butterscotch rubbed his head against Abby’s ankle and she rewarded him with scratches behind the ears. Only then did she notice that his claws were marked with weird-looking runic symbols. They were long, too. And jagged. Did this cat know what he was doing all along? That gave Abby an idea…
“Hey, Butterscotch…would you like to meet my daddy? Of course you would! Hehe!”
The more Daniel Park’s cold, demonic expression stained her mind, the more her colorful eye burned with pooling tears. His screams earlier that day were barely intelligible, but they were loud enough to leave her ears ringing. His fist was harder than a cinder block and almost put her into a permanent sleep. Getting rid of him would be an easy solution for the school administration, but it would imply that anybody cared. Judging from the cracked infrastructure and unwashed graffiti surrounding the school, the uncaring attitudes of those in charge were more obvious than the all-consuming wound across Abby’s face.
Abby couldn’t even think about anything else at that moment. If she tried to do math homework that evening, she would only be counting the pieces of her face she had to pick up. If she tried to do history homework, then she could justify putting so many violent wars in one textbook, hers chief among them. If she tried to write a poem, no words would come out, just like her current silence dictated. Forget A-pluses and scholarships. All she wanted to do was lie face down on her bed and drift into the darkness forever and ever.
She had passed a few neon signs in the street for barbecue joints and strip clubs and their obnoxious lights burned her eye as well. She couldn’t open it to full length no matter how hard she tried…until a little patch of fur came darting out of the alleyway. Nobody else was there to judge her and the tiny kitten. The cat stared up at Abby with pitiful eyes and let out a series of soft, high-pitched meows. His yellow and orange striped fur looked gentle enough to touch despite him being a street cat who no doubt had to fight for his food.
Abby’s smile was wide enough to burn her eye again, but this time she didn’t wince nor care. “Come on, little kitty!” she sweetly said while kneeling down on the ground and holding her hand out. “It’s okay, nobody’s going to hurt you. Are you lost? Do you need some snuggles and love?” The cat meowed at her some more before creeping up to her hand and jumping into her arms for a hug. He purred loudly in her ear while Abby stroked his velveteen fur. “I’m going to call you Butterscotch, because you’re sweet!”
Butterscotch licked Abby’s bruise with his rough tongue and caused some yellow leakage, but she didn’t mind as evidenced by her giggles and continued pettings. “You’re such a love bug!” she squealed to him. Forget laying in bed all night long. She could stay in these now empty streets for eternity if it meant loving and being loved by this tender creature. Butterscotch would never punch her in the face. He would never scream obscenities about pimping and prostitution. This kitty would never stare at Abby with evil eyes.
Daniel Park, on the other hand, didn’t mind doing those things at all. His familiar gruff voice could be heard clearing his throat and just like that, Butterscotch leapt out of Abby’s arms and hid behind a dustbin, leaving her with a mild scratch on her bare arm. Abby began to feel conscious about any other body part that could be easily revealed to Daniel. Her flannel skirt showed off her legs. Her high heeled shoes gave away free foot content. She pulled on her black T-shirt to keep it from looking too tight on her.
With his victim trembling before him unable to speak, the leather-jacket-wearing, face-tattooed Daniel lit up a cigarette and slowly approached her with a tightened fist. “So…have you thought about my offer from earlier? Are you ready to make me an ass-load of money? I want that ass, Abby. I got horny bastards that’ll pay good money for an ass like that. What do you say?” No answer, only trembles and tears. “Are you deaf?!” he roared before taking another drag of his cigarette and stomping it out.
“Uh…uh…uh…Daniel? I, uh…I can’t do that.” Abby had a hard time steadying her body, almost to where she was going to fall over.
Daniel grabbed a hold of Abby’s shirt and caused her to yelp. “Shut up, bitch!” he screamed as he raised his fist in the air. “I was asking rhetorical questions when I made you that offer. I’m not giving you a choice, bitch. You either come with me and sell some ass or I’ll leave you laying in the fucking street. It doesn’t matter to me either way. Bitches like you are a dime a dozen!” He lifted up her skirt and she could only tremble some more. “Since you won’t be able to use that mouth of yours for a while…I was wondering if…”
Butterscotch emerged from behind the dustbin and hissed at Daniel. He asked, “Who’s that little shit stain? Friend of yours, Abby? You wish your pussy was that small?”
“L…l…leave Butterscotch alone!” Abby flinched in anticipation for another punch.
“Butterscotch? Is that what you’re calling him? Shit, I don’t even have to beat your ass again. I’ll just wring this little fucker’s neck, how about that?”
Abby collapsed on the ground and sobbed as Daniel slowly approached Butterscotch, pounding his fists and earning hisses and growls for his intimidation tactics. “Here, kitty-kitty-kitty!” he said in a creepy voice. “Maybe I’ll take my phone out and play some Sarah McLaughlin music or some shit. That’d make a hell of an ASPCA commercial, don’t you think?”
“Leave him alone!”
“Fuck you, cunt!” Daniel raised his fist in the sky and poised for another beat down on Abby. She tightly closed her eyes and held her hands up in defeat, so she only got to hear the action when Butterscotch screamed and scratched Daniel hard enough that he let out a monstrous, “Ouch!”
The double-tracked yell plus the goopy noise emitting from Daniel’s wound caused Abby to open her eyes to see what was up. Green ooze leaked from his palm while his eyes glowed neon red. He stared down at her and said, “That’s right, bitch. I’m a motherfucking demon. We’re everywhere! Ever wonder why nobody gives a shit about your sorry ass? Demons don’t give a shit about anyone, so don’t feel too left out.”
Abby’s breathing intensified and her heart rate sped up to dizzying heights as it lodged in her throat. She was just going to lay there for her attacker while Butterscotch snuggled up against her chest. Demons ran this world whether she accepted it or not. Demons weren’t in the business of fixing schools or policing criminals. They were in the business of creating even deeper bruises on people more vulnerable than her. They were in the business of selling ass and literally raising hell.
Abby didn’t want to live in such a world anymore, but realized that if she gave up now, she wouldn’t be able to hold sweet kitties in her arms wherever the afterlife took her. A coffin was no place for a grieving cat. Her body was no place for a demon’s hands, which had developed wrinkles, hair, and claws as they reached down to grab her. Butterscotch swiped at Daniel again and opened his palm gash even wider, causing more green goop to spill.
“Goddamn it, you little bastard! I’m going to rip your tail off and shove it up Abby’s pussy!” Daniel wrapped his good hand around Butterscotch’s neck and was poised to make good on his threats.
Abby remembered that there were no sweet kitties in the afterlife. Butterscotch needed her here and now. If she wasn’t going to fight for herself, she had to fight for her new furry friend. She saw an opening…mainly the one in Daniel’s hideous hand. In one swift motion, she grabbed the demon’s wound with her manicured nails and opened it wider and wider with every slash. Tears poured down her face and blinded her from the green goop spilling everywhere. Her ears bled from the demon’s screaming in pain. Her ears also took a pounding from Butterscotch growling as he bit his attacker.
Soon enough, Abby ripped off an entire strip of demonic skin. And another. And another. Her heart rate could barely keep up with her tearful rage. “Die, you motherfucker! Just die already!” she screamed as she ripped more flesh from the gaping wound. She pulled out muscle fibers and organ pieces. She ripped a piece of bone out as well after some hard tugging. She had to stop her rage for a moment to wipe her eyes, but when they were clear, they widened at her handiwork.
Daniel’s red devil arm was stripped completely of skin and muscles. His green goopy blood sprayed all over the ground and leaked into the sewers. His screams grew silent and more pathetic as he crumpled to the ground dying. His string of obscenities remained unintelligible, but not because of traumatic blocking. He bled and broke until his monstrous, muscle-bound, leather-skinned body was just a heap of crap lying on the sidewalk, no different from one of Butterscotch’s constitutionals. To put it mildly, Daniel Park was dead.
Abby’s body still shook in a combination of shock and trauma. Her painful eye was still wide and achy. Her mouth kept trembling as she spoke. “I did it,” she said in amazement. “I killed that bastard. He’s gone…” She leaned down to extend her demonic-ooze-covered hand to Butterscotch and he licked the fluid off for her. “You saved my life, little guy. You’re just a baby. You shouldn’t have to save people like me. You should be cuddled and loved forever. Dad would never let me keep you.” That last sentence caused more tears to scorch her purple wound.
“Don’t worry, baby Butterscotch. I’ll find you a nice home. I’ll get you away from these demons…if there really are more out there. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if my good-for-nothing dad was one himself. He’d never believe me if I told him what Daniel did to me. He’d just be like, ‘Suck it up! Rah-rah-rah-rah-rah!’”
Butterscotch rubbed his head against Abby’s ankle and she rewarded him with scratches behind the ears. Only then did she notice that his claws were marked with weird-looking runic symbols. They were long, too. And jagged. Did this cat know what he was doing all along? That gave Abby an idea…
“Hey, Butterscotch…would you like to meet my daddy? Of course you would! Hehe!”
October 28, 2019
Take My Demons Away
VERSE 1
Just reach inside my head, pull them out one-by-one
You don’t have to tie the noose or fire the loaded gun
You make it sound so easy to forget the fucking past
Your argument is worthless and it’ll never even last
CHORUS
Take the bone saw and open up my head
Disconnect the memories until they’re dead
If it’s really so easy it could be done in a day
Then by all means, take my demons away!
Take my demons away!
VERSE 2
It’s a simple magic trick that anybody can do
Both of us already know that isn’t fucking true
A wave of a wand or some Fantasia fireworks
Are you my new savior or just a fucking jerk?
CHORUS
Take the bone saw and open up my head
Disconnect the memories until they’re dead
If it’s really so easy it could be done in a day
Then by all means, take my demons away!
Take my demons away!
BRIDGE
Your magic potions smell like bleach
A clear mind is something you can’t teach
Your expectations are too far out of reach
Indoctrination is something you can’t preach!
Take my demons away!
Take my demons away!
CHORUS
Take the bone saw and open up my head
Disconnect the memories until they’re dead
If it’s really so easy it could be done in a day
Then by all means, take my demons away!
Take my demons away!
Just reach inside my head, pull them out one-by-one
You don’t have to tie the noose or fire the loaded gun
You make it sound so easy to forget the fucking past
Your argument is worthless and it’ll never even last
CHORUS
Take the bone saw and open up my head
Disconnect the memories until they’re dead
If it’s really so easy it could be done in a day
Then by all means, take my demons away!
Take my demons away!
VERSE 2
It’s a simple magic trick that anybody can do
Both of us already know that isn’t fucking true
A wave of a wand or some Fantasia fireworks
Are you my new savior or just a fucking jerk?
CHORUS
Take the bone saw and open up my head
Disconnect the memories until they’re dead
If it’s really so easy it could be done in a day
Then by all means, take my demons away!
Take my demons away!
BRIDGE
Your magic potions smell like bleach
A clear mind is something you can’t teach
Your expectations are too far out of reach
Indoctrination is something you can’t preach!
Take my demons away!
Take my demons away!
CHORUS
Take the bone saw and open up my head
Disconnect the memories until they’re dead
If it’s really so easy it could be done in a day
Then by all means, take my demons away!
Take my demons away!
October 26, 2019
Assuming Everyone Is a Villain
***ASSUMING EVERYONE IS A VILLAIN***
My childhood was far from perfect (high school be damned), but one thing I’ll always cherish about my young past is doing Final Fantasy-style role-plays with my California friend Lance. We used Lego mini-figures to act out these scenes because they were just as tiny as the sprites in Final Fantasy IV and VI for the Super Nintendo. We battled indestructible giants together. We blew up entire space fortresses. We had adventures that would solidify and enhance our creativity well into adulthood. Anytime I get the chance to exercise my creativity, I’m one happy motherfucker, which is why I’m writing this blog entry right now.
As fun as those times in my life were, there was always something about our role-plays that confused me just a little bit (no, this isn’t me putting the boots to Lance, so settle down, everyone). More often than not, one of Lance’s heroic characters would attack ordinary strangers because he didn’t know what alignment they were. In other words, he assumed they were evil long before he had the chance to get to know them. Not very heroic behavior, in my opinion. But it is worth examining, because even now as an adult with a Bachelor’s in creative writing with a minor in theater arts, this idea could still hold weight in today’s world.
One way in which prejudging could work for the protagonist is if he’s paranoid. Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean the world isn’t out to get you. That’s how delusional thinking works. I know this because during my earliest bouts of schizophrenia in 2002, I too assumed everyone was a villain, whether they were friends, family, strangers, or natural enemies. I had this delusion that the whole world was conspiring to conform me into someone I’m not. Any small sign of obedience on my part meant that my “conspirators” had a permanent victory. My behavior was erratic and I made a few enemies along the way because of it.
But schizophrenic delusions aren’t the only way in which a paranoid person could assume everyone is a villain. The protagonist could instead have PTSD, where the flight or fight mechanism in the brain is working overtime to make the sufferer hyper-vigilant. PTSD can happen for any stressful reason whether it’s bullying, sexual harassment, rape, war, or whatever. People with extreme cases of PTSD have a hard time letting others into their bubble. Who could blame them? They don’t want to be triggered by someone’s distrustful ways. And when I say triggered, I’m not using the alt-right definition of it where they completely wipe their ass with the word.
Not all paranoid protagonists have to have mental illnesses, though. Sometimes they’re not paranoid, but simply distrustful. They won’t beat the shit out of people with unknown alignments, but they could distance themselves from those strangers. They could be fiercely independent in their work life. They could be a Single Pringle. They could isolate themselves from the world around them, though if they did that, it could lead to depression or other mental illnesses. Distrustful protagonists have been around since forever and with the proliferation of violent literature, why wouldn’t they be? It’s a kill or be killed world out there.
As children, Lance and I had confusing plot holes in our role-plays, I’ll admit. Why would a fifty foot giant need a temple to keep him indestructible? Why would the heroes live in an island cellar with nothing to do but lay in bed? Why would a space fortress need to regenerate itself if it’s already a powerful and elaborate structure? As silly as some of these predicaments were, they did help us develop our storytelling skills to where they are today. Yes, I was confused by the constant attacks on strangers with unknown alignments, but I have a better understanding of it today.
Writers and storytellers have a tendency to look at their past works and cringe in self-judgment. While some of that cringing is justified in our advanced age, some parts of our past are worth analyzing if for no other reason than to exercise our skills. We see our mistakes of the past and we now have a better understanding as to why they’re mistakes. We can’t take everything from our past and transpose it into our adult careers, but without that past, we have no future. Whoever said, “The one thing we learn from history is that we learn nothing from history” was referring strictly to world politics and not creative journeys.
Lance and I lead very separate lives in today’s world. Our belief systems are different. I live in Washington while he lives in California. He’s got his own projects while I’ve got mine. But we still have our creative pasts in common and for that I will forever cherish our friendship no matter how far into the future we are. Thank you, Lance, for helping me become the writer and storyteller I am today. Every artistic journey starts somewhere and it was an honor to start it with you. I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!
***CURRENT PLANS***
I’ve got a lot going on in my creative schedule, so let me bring you all up to speed. I finally put together the manuscript for Beautiful Monster’s third draft and it’s well on its way to being critiqued by the fine folks at Hollow Hills. All they need from me now is my payment and some time to work on it. As far as short stories go, my next one will be called Butterscotch and it’s yet another tribute to a former animal of mine. Butterscotch was a tiny kitten when he leapt out at me and my brother in the middle of a nighttime walk in 2003. I still miss him to this day, just like all of my former animals. I’m sure you guys have also noticed I’m posting reviews again, my most recent ones being of “In the Presence of Knowing” by Valarie Savage Kinney and the Quentin Tarantino movie “Jackie Brown”. If I can figure out how to fix the fucking TV’s sound quality, my next review will be of another Tarantino classic, “Inglorious Basterds”. If not, I’ll just stick to reading my next book, “Souls of the Reaper” by Markie Madden, which is the second in her Undead Unit series. I don’t have anything else to report, so wish me luck!
***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
ALPHONSE: If I ever find the person who’s doing this to me, I’m going to make him beg for mercy.
VICTOR: I don’t think he’s going to beg for mercy.
ALPHONSE: He wouldn’t get it anyways.
-Dead Man Down-
My childhood was far from perfect (high school be damned), but one thing I’ll always cherish about my young past is doing Final Fantasy-style role-plays with my California friend Lance. We used Lego mini-figures to act out these scenes because they were just as tiny as the sprites in Final Fantasy IV and VI for the Super Nintendo. We battled indestructible giants together. We blew up entire space fortresses. We had adventures that would solidify and enhance our creativity well into adulthood. Anytime I get the chance to exercise my creativity, I’m one happy motherfucker, which is why I’m writing this blog entry right now.
As fun as those times in my life were, there was always something about our role-plays that confused me just a little bit (no, this isn’t me putting the boots to Lance, so settle down, everyone). More often than not, one of Lance’s heroic characters would attack ordinary strangers because he didn’t know what alignment they were. In other words, he assumed they were evil long before he had the chance to get to know them. Not very heroic behavior, in my opinion. But it is worth examining, because even now as an adult with a Bachelor’s in creative writing with a minor in theater arts, this idea could still hold weight in today’s world.
One way in which prejudging could work for the protagonist is if he’s paranoid. Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean the world isn’t out to get you. That’s how delusional thinking works. I know this because during my earliest bouts of schizophrenia in 2002, I too assumed everyone was a villain, whether they were friends, family, strangers, or natural enemies. I had this delusion that the whole world was conspiring to conform me into someone I’m not. Any small sign of obedience on my part meant that my “conspirators” had a permanent victory. My behavior was erratic and I made a few enemies along the way because of it.
But schizophrenic delusions aren’t the only way in which a paranoid person could assume everyone is a villain. The protagonist could instead have PTSD, where the flight or fight mechanism in the brain is working overtime to make the sufferer hyper-vigilant. PTSD can happen for any stressful reason whether it’s bullying, sexual harassment, rape, war, or whatever. People with extreme cases of PTSD have a hard time letting others into their bubble. Who could blame them? They don’t want to be triggered by someone’s distrustful ways. And when I say triggered, I’m not using the alt-right definition of it where they completely wipe their ass with the word.
Not all paranoid protagonists have to have mental illnesses, though. Sometimes they’re not paranoid, but simply distrustful. They won’t beat the shit out of people with unknown alignments, but they could distance themselves from those strangers. They could be fiercely independent in their work life. They could be a Single Pringle. They could isolate themselves from the world around them, though if they did that, it could lead to depression or other mental illnesses. Distrustful protagonists have been around since forever and with the proliferation of violent literature, why wouldn’t they be? It’s a kill or be killed world out there.
As children, Lance and I had confusing plot holes in our role-plays, I’ll admit. Why would a fifty foot giant need a temple to keep him indestructible? Why would the heroes live in an island cellar with nothing to do but lay in bed? Why would a space fortress need to regenerate itself if it’s already a powerful and elaborate structure? As silly as some of these predicaments were, they did help us develop our storytelling skills to where they are today. Yes, I was confused by the constant attacks on strangers with unknown alignments, but I have a better understanding of it today.
Writers and storytellers have a tendency to look at their past works and cringe in self-judgment. While some of that cringing is justified in our advanced age, some parts of our past are worth analyzing if for no other reason than to exercise our skills. We see our mistakes of the past and we now have a better understanding as to why they’re mistakes. We can’t take everything from our past and transpose it into our adult careers, but without that past, we have no future. Whoever said, “The one thing we learn from history is that we learn nothing from history” was referring strictly to world politics and not creative journeys.
Lance and I lead very separate lives in today’s world. Our belief systems are different. I live in Washington while he lives in California. He’s got his own projects while I’ve got mine. But we still have our creative pasts in common and for that I will forever cherish our friendship no matter how far into the future we are. Thank you, Lance, for helping me become the writer and storyteller I am today. Every artistic journey starts somewhere and it was an honor to start it with you. I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!
***CURRENT PLANS***
I’ve got a lot going on in my creative schedule, so let me bring you all up to speed. I finally put together the manuscript for Beautiful Monster’s third draft and it’s well on its way to being critiqued by the fine folks at Hollow Hills. All they need from me now is my payment and some time to work on it. As far as short stories go, my next one will be called Butterscotch and it’s yet another tribute to a former animal of mine. Butterscotch was a tiny kitten when he leapt out at me and my brother in the middle of a nighttime walk in 2003. I still miss him to this day, just like all of my former animals. I’m sure you guys have also noticed I’m posting reviews again, my most recent ones being of “In the Presence of Knowing” by Valarie Savage Kinney and the Quentin Tarantino movie “Jackie Brown”. If I can figure out how to fix the fucking TV’s sound quality, my next review will be of another Tarantino classic, “Inglorious Basterds”. If not, I’ll just stick to reading my next book, “Souls of the Reaper” by Markie Madden, which is the second in her Undead Unit series. I don’t have anything else to report, so wish me luck!
***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
ALPHONSE: If I ever find the person who’s doing this to me, I’m going to make him beg for mercy.
VICTOR: I don’t think he’s going to beg for mercy.
ALPHONSE: He wouldn’t get it anyways.
-Dead Man Down-
October 25, 2019
Jackie Brown
MOVIE TITLE: Jackie Brown
DIRECTOR: Quentin Tarantino
YEAR: 1997
GENRE: Crime Drama
RATING: R for violence, nudity, and language
GRADE: Pass
LAX flight attendant Jackie Brown is busted by the police for smuggling cocaine and money across the Mexican border. Facing up to five years in prison, the only way out of doing hard time is by ratting out the gun dealer whom the money was supposed to go to, Ordell Robbie. As a sting operation is set up to smuggle the rest of the money out of Mexico, it isn’t always clear who’s double-crossing who. Will Jackie take off with the money herself? Will she stay true to the police or to Ordell? She has the know-how and seductive nature to pull off any deal she wants. Can she do it without getting shot or sent to jail permanently?
First and foremost, the show-stealer of this movie was Samuel L. Jackson as he portrayed Ordell Robbie. His dialogue was delivered naturally and believably. His swearing wasn’t forced at all. He carried himself like the crime lord he was supposed to be. The audience will either be intimidated or thoroughly entertained by Mr. Jackson’s antics (why not both?). However, one of the biggest criticisms this movie got was how frequently the N-word was used by him. To those critics, I say chill out. Quentin Tarantino didn’t write it in the script so many times because he wanted to push a racist agenda. In the criminal underworld, it sounds completely natural, especially coming out of Samuel L. Jackson’s mouth at a hundred miles per hour. This is one instance in cinema history where it’s cool to root for the villain.
Speaking of dialogue, that happens to be one of Quentin Tarantino’s strong suits as a filmmaker and it shows in this movie. While Samuel L. Jackson stole the show, every other cast member could be credited with bringing a believable story to life with their dialogue alone. It could be Pam Grier talking about getting old and starting over again. It could be Bridget Fonda having a casual chitchat with Robert De Niro. It could be Robert Forster talking about how much he hates his job (while still delivering his dialogue like a true professional bondsman). Whether it’s mundane conversation or it actually advances the story, you’ll want to keep your ears open the whole way throughout this movie. It certainly makes up for the oftentimes slow action sequences in between.
If I have one criticism for this movie, it’s that the storyline mechanics were hard to piece together at times. I’m not talking about the audience constantly guessing who Jackie Brown is going to double-cross, that part I’m okay with. I’m talking about keeping up with how the final transaction of Mexican money is supposed to go down. I’m talking about all the ways it went wrong. I’m talking about the climax of the movie and why it couldn’t have happened sooner. I understand that Quentin Tarantino loves his complex storylines, but too much complexity can take the audience out of the viewing experience, especially if things don’t click together by the end credits. But this is a minor criticism at best, so don’t let it discourage you from watching this movie.
I’ve always known that Quentin Tarantino was a master storyteller the minute I watched Pulp Fiction. Watching his other movies, this one included, proves his mantle over and over again. Jackie Brown didn’t feel formulaic. It felt fresh and new despite the fact that it was released in 1997. I hope to one day watch Mr. Tarantino’s entire collection of movies and give them all high praise. But for tonight, Jackie Brown gets a solid four out of five stars.
DIRECTOR: Quentin Tarantino
YEAR: 1997
GENRE: Crime Drama
RATING: R for violence, nudity, and language
GRADE: Pass
LAX flight attendant Jackie Brown is busted by the police for smuggling cocaine and money across the Mexican border. Facing up to five years in prison, the only way out of doing hard time is by ratting out the gun dealer whom the money was supposed to go to, Ordell Robbie. As a sting operation is set up to smuggle the rest of the money out of Mexico, it isn’t always clear who’s double-crossing who. Will Jackie take off with the money herself? Will she stay true to the police or to Ordell? She has the know-how and seductive nature to pull off any deal she wants. Can she do it without getting shot or sent to jail permanently?
First and foremost, the show-stealer of this movie was Samuel L. Jackson as he portrayed Ordell Robbie. His dialogue was delivered naturally and believably. His swearing wasn’t forced at all. He carried himself like the crime lord he was supposed to be. The audience will either be intimidated or thoroughly entertained by Mr. Jackson’s antics (why not both?). However, one of the biggest criticisms this movie got was how frequently the N-word was used by him. To those critics, I say chill out. Quentin Tarantino didn’t write it in the script so many times because he wanted to push a racist agenda. In the criminal underworld, it sounds completely natural, especially coming out of Samuel L. Jackson’s mouth at a hundred miles per hour. This is one instance in cinema history where it’s cool to root for the villain.
Speaking of dialogue, that happens to be one of Quentin Tarantino’s strong suits as a filmmaker and it shows in this movie. While Samuel L. Jackson stole the show, every other cast member could be credited with bringing a believable story to life with their dialogue alone. It could be Pam Grier talking about getting old and starting over again. It could be Bridget Fonda having a casual chitchat with Robert De Niro. It could be Robert Forster talking about how much he hates his job (while still delivering his dialogue like a true professional bondsman). Whether it’s mundane conversation or it actually advances the story, you’ll want to keep your ears open the whole way throughout this movie. It certainly makes up for the oftentimes slow action sequences in between.
If I have one criticism for this movie, it’s that the storyline mechanics were hard to piece together at times. I’m not talking about the audience constantly guessing who Jackie Brown is going to double-cross, that part I’m okay with. I’m talking about keeping up with how the final transaction of Mexican money is supposed to go down. I’m talking about all the ways it went wrong. I’m talking about the climax of the movie and why it couldn’t have happened sooner. I understand that Quentin Tarantino loves his complex storylines, but too much complexity can take the audience out of the viewing experience, especially if things don’t click together by the end credits. But this is a minor criticism at best, so don’t let it discourage you from watching this movie.
I’ve always known that Quentin Tarantino was a master storyteller the minute I watched Pulp Fiction. Watching his other movies, this one included, proves his mantle over and over again. Jackie Brown didn’t feel formulaic. It felt fresh and new despite the fact that it was released in 1997. I hope to one day watch Mr. Tarantino’s entire collection of movies and give them all high praise. But for tonight, Jackie Brown gets a solid four out of five stars.
October 24, 2019
Dangerous Authors
***DANGEROUS AUTHORS***
It’s not often that I express an unpopular opinion (unpopular among who?). If anybody wants to challenge the opinion I’m about to express in this blog entry, please remember to keep it civil. Turning it up to eleven will do neither of us any good; we’ve got enough of that shit as it is. Today I want to talk about “dangerous” authors. Specifically, I’d like to discuss what makes an author dangerous and why the label shouldn’t be tossed around so haphazardly. Let’s begin…
To my way of thinking, if you’re an author and your writing is so offensive that it causes violence or other kinds of mistreatment, congratulations, you’re dangerous as fuck. This seems to be the accepted definition among Book Tubers and the literature community in general. Having said that, there are degrees of this behavior and only the highest among them deserves true recognition as dangerous.
If you incite violence with your nonfiction hate speech and someone actually commits murder on your behalf, you’re partly to blame for that and congratulations, you’re dangerous. But if you’re a fiction writer who puts together a bad romantic storyline with mediocre characters and questionable morals, congratulations, you’re a shitty writer, but you’re not dangerous. Nobody died because of your shitty characters because the audience was too busy questioning why your book was popular to begin with.
It’s not enough just to read the stories and consume them. You also have to question them. Adults like to give teenagers a hard time for not questioning what they consume and sometimes they’re right, but not all the time. You can teach a kid to think critically. You can teach them to analyze characterization, plot points, and themes. And when they pick up on these lessons, they’ll look at Fifty Shades of Grey and shrug their shoulders in a “meh” kind of way. That’s right, folks. E.L. James, as terrible as she is, does not qualify as a dangerous author, because most readers can see right through her.
But what about those who don’t analyze someone like E.L. James? It’s not just limited to teenagers, either. There are adults who swear by Fifty Shades of Grey. Adults! But is it really all the fault of a crappy author who probably didn’t know what the fuck she was doing? Sure, accidents do happen and sometimes they’re catastrophic. But is she dangerous? Far from it.
This could be compared to the idea that videogames make teenagers violent. Spoiler alert: they don’t. Kids don’t shoot up schools because they saw it happen in Halo. If they really were being influenced by it, they’d teabag all of their kills and yell, “Ownage!” So if videogames can’t turn kids into monsters, why would a book be able to? What makes a fictional book more dangerous than a videogame if both can be easily questioned? Is it because authors are geniuses and videogame developers are dumb-asses? Artists in general are held in low regard by the public (cough, STEM lords, cough), so let’s put that shit to bed once and for all.
Personally, I believe a real world politician or televangelist is more dangerous to the public than a crappy author who writes mediocre love stories. As we’ve seen with the 2016 US presidential elections, abrasive nonfiction language plays a huge rule in influencing violent behavior. Nazis marching in the streets hold more power over the fearful than pre-teens who bite each other on the neck because they read Twilight. Stephanie Meyer is yet another author who probably didn’t know what the fuck she was doing.
But if you’re really worried about dangerous fictional romances permeating the marketplace, well, that’s what we have beta readers, sensitivity readers, and editors for. As long as these secondary readers don’t judge the author too harshly for unintentional offensiveness, this can truly be a productive conversation. And when productive conversations happen between authors and their betas, then more enjoyable books will be pumped out into the world. If it takes you multiple drafts to get it right (including the sensitive details), then you’ve pretty much described the life of an author. Once a book is published, however, the author is fresh out of excuses. But is he dangerous? Nope. Not in the least.
Again, these are just my opinions and you’re allowed to have a different one if you want. You probably think I’m a scumbag for giving authors like E.L. James and Stephanie Meyer a free pass and that’s okay. Maybe I’m expressing my unpopular opinion because I empathize with authors who have been piled on by the internet crowds. It’s happened to me a few times and I know how awful that makes me feel, so I try to be gentler on crappy fictional authors. If someone thought my novella Occupy Wrestling was too toxic because of the tumultuous relationship between Mitch and Debra, I’d want someone to be gentle with me as well.
But I digress. I turn the floor over to you guys now. What’s your definition of a dangerous author? Do you agree or disagree with the points I’ve made and why? Remember, winning debates isn’t about being the most outlandish. It’s about knowing why you feel the way you do and expressing your reasons in a productive way. Let’s not cancel each other over this hot topic. Let’s come together for a warm cup of tea on this cold autumn evening. I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“Muskrat, muskrat. Candlelight. Doing the town and doing it right. In the evening, it’s pretty pleasing. Muskrat Susie, Muskrat Sam do the jitterbug out in muskrat land. And they shimmy. And Sammy’s so skinny. And they whirled and they twirled and they tangoed. Singing and jingling the jango. Floating like the heavens above. It looks like muskrat love. Nibbling on bacon, chewing on cheese. Sammy says to Susie, “Honey would you please be my missus?” And she says yes with her kisses. Now he’s tickling her fancy, rubbing her toes. Muzzle to muzzle, now anything goes. As they wiggle, Sue starts to giggle.”
-America singing “Muskrat Love”-
***POST-SCRIPT***
Hey, if you’re sick of mediocre romances, try listening to the song listed above for a healthy and relatable one!
It’s not often that I express an unpopular opinion (unpopular among who?). If anybody wants to challenge the opinion I’m about to express in this blog entry, please remember to keep it civil. Turning it up to eleven will do neither of us any good; we’ve got enough of that shit as it is. Today I want to talk about “dangerous” authors. Specifically, I’d like to discuss what makes an author dangerous and why the label shouldn’t be tossed around so haphazardly. Let’s begin…
To my way of thinking, if you’re an author and your writing is so offensive that it causes violence or other kinds of mistreatment, congratulations, you’re dangerous as fuck. This seems to be the accepted definition among Book Tubers and the literature community in general. Having said that, there are degrees of this behavior and only the highest among them deserves true recognition as dangerous.
If you incite violence with your nonfiction hate speech and someone actually commits murder on your behalf, you’re partly to blame for that and congratulations, you’re dangerous. But if you’re a fiction writer who puts together a bad romantic storyline with mediocre characters and questionable morals, congratulations, you’re a shitty writer, but you’re not dangerous. Nobody died because of your shitty characters because the audience was too busy questioning why your book was popular to begin with.
It’s not enough just to read the stories and consume them. You also have to question them. Adults like to give teenagers a hard time for not questioning what they consume and sometimes they’re right, but not all the time. You can teach a kid to think critically. You can teach them to analyze characterization, plot points, and themes. And when they pick up on these lessons, they’ll look at Fifty Shades of Grey and shrug their shoulders in a “meh” kind of way. That’s right, folks. E.L. James, as terrible as she is, does not qualify as a dangerous author, because most readers can see right through her.
But what about those who don’t analyze someone like E.L. James? It’s not just limited to teenagers, either. There are adults who swear by Fifty Shades of Grey. Adults! But is it really all the fault of a crappy author who probably didn’t know what the fuck she was doing? Sure, accidents do happen and sometimes they’re catastrophic. But is she dangerous? Far from it.
This could be compared to the idea that videogames make teenagers violent. Spoiler alert: they don’t. Kids don’t shoot up schools because they saw it happen in Halo. If they really were being influenced by it, they’d teabag all of their kills and yell, “Ownage!” So if videogames can’t turn kids into monsters, why would a book be able to? What makes a fictional book more dangerous than a videogame if both can be easily questioned? Is it because authors are geniuses and videogame developers are dumb-asses? Artists in general are held in low regard by the public (cough, STEM lords, cough), so let’s put that shit to bed once and for all.
Personally, I believe a real world politician or televangelist is more dangerous to the public than a crappy author who writes mediocre love stories. As we’ve seen with the 2016 US presidential elections, abrasive nonfiction language plays a huge rule in influencing violent behavior. Nazis marching in the streets hold more power over the fearful than pre-teens who bite each other on the neck because they read Twilight. Stephanie Meyer is yet another author who probably didn’t know what the fuck she was doing.
But if you’re really worried about dangerous fictional romances permeating the marketplace, well, that’s what we have beta readers, sensitivity readers, and editors for. As long as these secondary readers don’t judge the author too harshly for unintentional offensiveness, this can truly be a productive conversation. And when productive conversations happen between authors and their betas, then more enjoyable books will be pumped out into the world. If it takes you multiple drafts to get it right (including the sensitive details), then you’ve pretty much described the life of an author. Once a book is published, however, the author is fresh out of excuses. But is he dangerous? Nope. Not in the least.
Again, these are just my opinions and you’re allowed to have a different one if you want. You probably think I’m a scumbag for giving authors like E.L. James and Stephanie Meyer a free pass and that’s okay. Maybe I’m expressing my unpopular opinion because I empathize with authors who have been piled on by the internet crowds. It’s happened to me a few times and I know how awful that makes me feel, so I try to be gentler on crappy fictional authors. If someone thought my novella Occupy Wrestling was too toxic because of the tumultuous relationship between Mitch and Debra, I’d want someone to be gentle with me as well.
But I digress. I turn the floor over to you guys now. What’s your definition of a dangerous author? Do you agree or disagree with the points I’ve made and why? Remember, winning debates isn’t about being the most outlandish. It’s about knowing why you feel the way you do and expressing your reasons in a productive way. Let’s not cancel each other over this hot topic. Let’s come together for a warm cup of tea on this cold autumn evening. I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“Muskrat, muskrat. Candlelight. Doing the town and doing it right. In the evening, it’s pretty pleasing. Muskrat Susie, Muskrat Sam do the jitterbug out in muskrat land. And they shimmy. And Sammy’s so skinny. And they whirled and they twirled and they tangoed. Singing and jingling the jango. Floating like the heavens above. It looks like muskrat love. Nibbling on bacon, chewing on cheese. Sammy says to Susie, “Honey would you please be my missus?” And she says yes with her kisses. Now he’s tickling her fancy, rubbing her toes. Muzzle to muzzle, now anything goes. As they wiggle, Sue starts to giggle.”
-America singing “Muskrat Love”-
***POST-SCRIPT***
Hey, if you’re sick of mediocre romances, try listening to the song listed above for a healthy and relatable one!
Blood Rain
One shot would be all it took. A flying diamond-tipped arrow to Shatter Man’s life core would earn Ino Kara the respect she deserved from her mercenary cohorts. No more jokes about her equine features. No more jokes about being ridden like a cowboy. They could forget about trying to feed her hay. They could spare her the horse dick references and anything else that had to do with bestiality. “You fuckers will put respect on my name,” she said in a low voice to nobody in particular.
Shatter Man was ripe for the snipe. Surrounded by a cluster fuck of dead bodies lying on the dirt and bone-covered ground, the necromantic machine sat cross-legged while his exhaust pipe belched red filth into the gray skies above. Ino could smell the ashen cloud it all the way from her sniper’s nest in the treetops. She had to be careful not to hack up a lung if she wanted to stay hidden.
With a bandana tied around her muzzle and stillness taking over her body, Ino pulled one of her diamond-tipped arrows out of her quiver and took aim with her golden edge bow. A shot to the head would have been her preference for any sniping mission, but Shatter Man’s mechanical dome wouldn’t allow it. She had to pierce through his chest at the exact spot and splatter his life core all over the ground. A filthy death indeed, but no more filthy than speeding up climate change with this necromantic smoke. Ino had to find her exact shot and make it quick.
She breathed deeply not only to calm her nerves, but steady her aim. Just when she was ready to release her arrow, a crow flew from out of nowhere and began pecking at Ino’s mask. “Shoo! Go away! Beat it!” she angrily whispered while swatting the bird away. She didn’t want to whack the poor guy too hard due to her respect for animals, but this wasn’t he best time to horse around. There was another mercenary joke that needed to be eradicated forever: horsing around.
Ino steadied her breathing once more and made a second attempt at aiming for the life core. “Easy…easy does it…you’ve got this…now take a shot!” she whispered to herself. The damn crow served as a distraction yet again, but this time perched its claws right over Shatter Man’s life core. The robot didn’t move an inch, just kept spewing garbage into the cloudy skies. “You asked for it, you stupid bird.” Respect would only go so far as Ino Kara finally took her shot.
Shatter Man looked so still and unaware this entire time, not unlike the zombies he was trying to wake up with his putrid smoke. Ino gasped when the mechanical nightmare grabbed the arrow just before it could pierce his life core. He crushed the arrow into dust, including the diamond tip, before ejecting bird seed from his hand as a reward for the crow.
“That little bastard,” whispered Ino, clutching her edge bow so tightly that a little crack formed.
Shatter Man spun his head towards Ino’s sniping nest. His visor flashed an eerie shade of red, making Ino’s heart race no matter how much she tried to suppress her fear. He pointed a drill bit finger at her and puffed even more pollutants into the sky. “My sacred ritual is not your payday!” he said in a monotone, demonic voice. “Arise, my children of the dead!”
A sprinkle of water landed on Ino’s furry head. And another. And another. When she wiped them away, her teeth and legs vibrated at the crimson color. The tiny droplets became heavier and denser until a full-on bloody rainstorm drenched Ino from head to hooves. Her purple battle dress and blue thigh high boots clung to her body like a frightened child wanting his mother’s undying love.
Ino’s own blood grew ice cold and a knot welled up in her stomach when the bloody rain caused the army of dead bodies to twitch. Limbs and heads awkwardly twisted around. Rotting flesh peeled and rolled. Bulging eyeballs retracted back into their owners’ skulls. Slowly and creepily, the shit-smelling dead bodies rose to their wobbly feet until Shatter Man and his crow informant had their own necromantic army.
The horse woman swallowed a golf ball sized lump while clutching her chest, hoping she wouldn’t die of a heart attack before this battle had a chance to begin. “Fuck it,” she said, tossing all caution to the wind. Even as crimson rain pelted her clothing and soaked her fur, Ino tossed aside her growing fear and ran into the fray.
“I want some goddamn respect!” she shouted, knowing assassinating Shatter Man was the only way she’d get it from her fellow mercenaries. As hordes of zombies trudged towards her with their rotten arms extended and their bloody mouths wide open, she fired multiple arrows at once and each one hit their marks. Chests exploded. Throats splattered on the ground. Guts spilled all over the dirt like a gory mudslide. When Ino ran out of arrows, she continued her assault by swinging her edge bow and smashing the skulls of anybody who dared take a bite out of her horse meat.
Shatter Man’s arms folded while the crow sat perched on his shoulder laughing his ass off at the equine warrior. “You little bastard!” shouted Ino as she trampled fallen zombies on her way to snatch the bird, wanting so desperately to rip his feathers out and snap his beak. The zombies wouldn’t stay down for long. As the blood rain continued to pour, they stood back up even with their detached heads and exploded bones. They grabbed at Ino’s shoulders with broken fingers, but she beat them down with her edge bow until they were little more than rivers of blood and organs.
Despite the aching in her own ribcage and limbs, Ino wouldn’t allow her waning energy to get in the way of her quest for respect, coin, and ultimately her life. She smashed more skulls, stomped on fallen bodies, ripped out spinal cords, but the zombies kept getting back up for more. Even the crow got in on the action when he pecked behind Ino’s ears. She swung at the bird, but he kept dodging and laughing the whole time, turning Ino’s ice cold blood into boiling magma. Even as more zombies grabbed her, she ripped her flesh away from their sharp grips and chased after the bird.
When Ino finally latched onto the crow’s tail feathers and seethed with bloodlust as she imagined ripping the little guy apart, a heavy metal punch to the gut doubled her over and caused her to dry heave on the ground. The zombies were called off as Ino touched her damp wound. She knew it was her own blood and not that of the crimson weather. She could feel her naked ribcage because there was no skin to protect it. That punch came from Shatter Man himself, who stood over her with his red visor glowing and blinding her with every flash.
“Go ahead…finish me off…what are you waiting for?!” begged Ino, spitting out blood in between words.
“You exhausted your body, battled my minions, and put your life at risk for a little bit of respect?” said Shatter Man. Ino tucked her head in shame as she laid in the fetal position waiting to die. “Everybody who tried to claim my life has the same story: a minority mercenary looking for acceptance from their peers. Killing me will suddenly net them the happiness they believe they’re entitled to. Truth is, young lady…you could cure cancer and end worldwide hunger all in the same day. You’re still going to be laughed at. You’re still going to be hated by society. Why? Because ignorance and fear are easier to accept than progressive values.”
Tears welled up in Ino’s eyes as this truth bomb hit her harder than Shatter Man’s punch to her guts. “I don’t want to be a horse anymore,” she sobbed. “If being a normal human will get them to leave me alone, then I’ll take it. I never got racial pride anyways.”
“It doesn’t get more ordinary and boring than laying six feet deep in the ground, no matter what race you identify as. But it doesn’t have to be that way. You don’t have to please others to get the respect you deserve. You don’t have to conform to tradition. If you want respect, you’ve got to beat it out of those who deny it to you. You think I chose to be a robot? You think I was born with the name Shatter Man? I didn’t win any popularity contests with my background. Why do you think I have a price on my head? It would have only been a matter of time until you had a price on yours.”
Ino spit up more blood and wiped away her tears with her dress sleeve. “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? I’m already on my way to hell. At least in hell, they’re honest about what kind of torture they’re going to give me. Here on earth, they just disguise it as making whatever country they live in ‘great again’.”
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” said Shatter Man, waving his arm in the sky to show off his bloody rain. “You can have a second chance at life just like my minions. As zombies, they don’t have the highest social ranking. But they take full advantage of their second chance. They hunger for revenge against a society that never wanted them when they were alive. They were and still are weirder than any horse woman they’ve ever seen. Let the blood rain flow into you. Join my army. Don’t wait for respect. Take it from them with both hands.”
The bloody rain poured through Ino Kara’s wounds as she laid on her back waiting for sweet necromancy to overtake her. A warming sensation spread throughout and she didn’t feel like shivering anymore, whether it was because of fear or cold weather. Her eyes rolled back in her head like she was in an orgasmic trance. Her tired body blazed with energy and happiness she hadn’t felt in a long time. Her pain numbed out and was replaced with a massaging sensation throughout her chest, legs, and head.
Slowly and shakily, she rose from the ground. Her stomach pounded with hunger, but not for food and certainly not for hay. She hungered for flesh. She thirsted for blood. Her tormentors would turn into victims. Her cannibalistic meals would taste juicier than a steak dinner. She licked her blood-covered lips and groaned with lust.
Shatter Man placed a hand on her shoulder. “Welcome to my army. You can stay for as long as you desire. They say the taste of vengeance is bittersweet, but you’ll find it to your liking. You will be loved and respected…or else!”
Ino Kara had no words for her seductive master, only groans. Then again, she wouldn’t have to debate the harmful effects of racism with the world ever again. Either her victims took yes for an answer…or they would get chewed up and spit out with no remorse. Ino smiled at that idea. Her newly rotten teeth would make her face look even more horrifying to the racists she would eventually devour. She was strangely okay with that. Fuck beauty. Fuck love. Fuck everybody in this butt ugly world!
Shatter Man was ripe for the snipe. Surrounded by a cluster fuck of dead bodies lying on the dirt and bone-covered ground, the necromantic machine sat cross-legged while his exhaust pipe belched red filth into the gray skies above. Ino could smell the ashen cloud it all the way from her sniper’s nest in the treetops. She had to be careful not to hack up a lung if she wanted to stay hidden.
With a bandana tied around her muzzle and stillness taking over her body, Ino pulled one of her diamond-tipped arrows out of her quiver and took aim with her golden edge bow. A shot to the head would have been her preference for any sniping mission, but Shatter Man’s mechanical dome wouldn’t allow it. She had to pierce through his chest at the exact spot and splatter his life core all over the ground. A filthy death indeed, but no more filthy than speeding up climate change with this necromantic smoke. Ino had to find her exact shot and make it quick.
She breathed deeply not only to calm her nerves, but steady her aim. Just when she was ready to release her arrow, a crow flew from out of nowhere and began pecking at Ino’s mask. “Shoo! Go away! Beat it!” she angrily whispered while swatting the bird away. She didn’t want to whack the poor guy too hard due to her respect for animals, but this wasn’t he best time to horse around. There was another mercenary joke that needed to be eradicated forever: horsing around.
Ino steadied her breathing once more and made a second attempt at aiming for the life core. “Easy…easy does it…you’ve got this…now take a shot!” she whispered to herself. The damn crow served as a distraction yet again, but this time perched its claws right over Shatter Man’s life core. The robot didn’t move an inch, just kept spewing garbage into the cloudy skies. “You asked for it, you stupid bird.” Respect would only go so far as Ino Kara finally took her shot.
Shatter Man looked so still and unaware this entire time, not unlike the zombies he was trying to wake up with his putrid smoke. Ino gasped when the mechanical nightmare grabbed the arrow just before it could pierce his life core. He crushed the arrow into dust, including the diamond tip, before ejecting bird seed from his hand as a reward for the crow.
“That little bastard,” whispered Ino, clutching her edge bow so tightly that a little crack formed.
Shatter Man spun his head towards Ino’s sniping nest. His visor flashed an eerie shade of red, making Ino’s heart race no matter how much she tried to suppress her fear. He pointed a drill bit finger at her and puffed even more pollutants into the sky. “My sacred ritual is not your payday!” he said in a monotone, demonic voice. “Arise, my children of the dead!”
A sprinkle of water landed on Ino’s furry head. And another. And another. When she wiped them away, her teeth and legs vibrated at the crimson color. The tiny droplets became heavier and denser until a full-on bloody rainstorm drenched Ino from head to hooves. Her purple battle dress and blue thigh high boots clung to her body like a frightened child wanting his mother’s undying love.
Ino’s own blood grew ice cold and a knot welled up in her stomach when the bloody rain caused the army of dead bodies to twitch. Limbs and heads awkwardly twisted around. Rotting flesh peeled and rolled. Bulging eyeballs retracted back into their owners’ skulls. Slowly and creepily, the shit-smelling dead bodies rose to their wobbly feet until Shatter Man and his crow informant had their own necromantic army.
The horse woman swallowed a golf ball sized lump while clutching her chest, hoping she wouldn’t die of a heart attack before this battle had a chance to begin. “Fuck it,” she said, tossing all caution to the wind. Even as crimson rain pelted her clothing and soaked her fur, Ino tossed aside her growing fear and ran into the fray.
“I want some goddamn respect!” she shouted, knowing assassinating Shatter Man was the only way she’d get it from her fellow mercenaries. As hordes of zombies trudged towards her with their rotten arms extended and their bloody mouths wide open, she fired multiple arrows at once and each one hit their marks. Chests exploded. Throats splattered on the ground. Guts spilled all over the dirt like a gory mudslide. When Ino ran out of arrows, she continued her assault by swinging her edge bow and smashing the skulls of anybody who dared take a bite out of her horse meat.
Shatter Man’s arms folded while the crow sat perched on his shoulder laughing his ass off at the equine warrior. “You little bastard!” shouted Ino as she trampled fallen zombies on her way to snatch the bird, wanting so desperately to rip his feathers out and snap his beak. The zombies wouldn’t stay down for long. As the blood rain continued to pour, they stood back up even with their detached heads and exploded bones. They grabbed at Ino’s shoulders with broken fingers, but she beat them down with her edge bow until they were little more than rivers of blood and organs.
Despite the aching in her own ribcage and limbs, Ino wouldn’t allow her waning energy to get in the way of her quest for respect, coin, and ultimately her life. She smashed more skulls, stomped on fallen bodies, ripped out spinal cords, but the zombies kept getting back up for more. Even the crow got in on the action when he pecked behind Ino’s ears. She swung at the bird, but he kept dodging and laughing the whole time, turning Ino’s ice cold blood into boiling magma. Even as more zombies grabbed her, she ripped her flesh away from their sharp grips and chased after the bird.
When Ino finally latched onto the crow’s tail feathers and seethed with bloodlust as she imagined ripping the little guy apart, a heavy metal punch to the gut doubled her over and caused her to dry heave on the ground. The zombies were called off as Ino touched her damp wound. She knew it was her own blood and not that of the crimson weather. She could feel her naked ribcage because there was no skin to protect it. That punch came from Shatter Man himself, who stood over her with his red visor glowing and blinding her with every flash.
“Go ahead…finish me off…what are you waiting for?!” begged Ino, spitting out blood in between words.
“You exhausted your body, battled my minions, and put your life at risk for a little bit of respect?” said Shatter Man. Ino tucked her head in shame as she laid in the fetal position waiting to die. “Everybody who tried to claim my life has the same story: a minority mercenary looking for acceptance from their peers. Killing me will suddenly net them the happiness they believe they’re entitled to. Truth is, young lady…you could cure cancer and end worldwide hunger all in the same day. You’re still going to be laughed at. You’re still going to be hated by society. Why? Because ignorance and fear are easier to accept than progressive values.”
Tears welled up in Ino’s eyes as this truth bomb hit her harder than Shatter Man’s punch to her guts. “I don’t want to be a horse anymore,” she sobbed. “If being a normal human will get them to leave me alone, then I’ll take it. I never got racial pride anyways.”
“It doesn’t get more ordinary and boring than laying six feet deep in the ground, no matter what race you identify as. But it doesn’t have to be that way. You don’t have to please others to get the respect you deserve. You don’t have to conform to tradition. If you want respect, you’ve got to beat it out of those who deny it to you. You think I chose to be a robot? You think I was born with the name Shatter Man? I didn’t win any popularity contests with my background. Why do you think I have a price on my head? It would have only been a matter of time until you had a price on yours.”
Ino spit up more blood and wiped away her tears with her dress sleeve. “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? I’m already on my way to hell. At least in hell, they’re honest about what kind of torture they’re going to give me. Here on earth, they just disguise it as making whatever country they live in ‘great again’.”
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” said Shatter Man, waving his arm in the sky to show off his bloody rain. “You can have a second chance at life just like my minions. As zombies, they don’t have the highest social ranking. But they take full advantage of their second chance. They hunger for revenge against a society that never wanted them when they were alive. They were and still are weirder than any horse woman they’ve ever seen. Let the blood rain flow into you. Join my army. Don’t wait for respect. Take it from them with both hands.”
The bloody rain poured through Ino Kara’s wounds as she laid on her back waiting for sweet necromancy to overtake her. A warming sensation spread throughout and she didn’t feel like shivering anymore, whether it was because of fear or cold weather. Her eyes rolled back in her head like she was in an orgasmic trance. Her tired body blazed with energy and happiness she hadn’t felt in a long time. Her pain numbed out and was replaced with a massaging sensation throughout her chest, legs, and head.
Slowly and shakily, she rose from the ground. Her stomach pounded with hunger, but not for food and certainly not for hay. She hungered for flesh. She thirsted for blood. Her tormentors would turn into victims. Her cannibalistic meals would taste juicier than a steak dinner. She licked her blood-covered lips and groaned with lust.
Shatter Man placed a hand on her shoulder. “Welcome to my army. You can stay for as long as you desire. They say the taste of vengeance is bittersweet, but you’ll find it to your liking. You will be loved and respected…or else!”
Ino Kara had no words for her seductive master, only groans. Then again, she wouldn’t have to debate the harmful effects of racism with the world ever again. Either her victims took yes for an answer…or they would get chewed up and spit out with no remorse. Ino smiled at that idea. Her newly rotten teeth would make her face look even more horrifying to the racists she would eventually devour. She was strangely okay with that. Fuck beauty. Fuck love. Fuck everybody in this butt ugly world!
October 20, 2019
Objectified
The only chicks you like are working at strip bars
The only dudes you like are driving all the fast cars
The only kids you like are trapped inside the cages
The only grandmas you like are all so fucking ageist
The only fat guys like you like are six feet underground
The only fit chicks you like weigh less than sixty pounds
The only crazies you like are Manic Pixie Dream Girls
The only sickos you like are the ones who don’t hurl
The only celebrities you like are ones you masturbate to
The only politicians you like are ones who shit on Me Too
The only workers you like are the ones who lick your boots
The only laborers you like are the ones who pick your fruit
The only athletes you like are the ones who’re undefeated
The only students you like are the ones who have succeeded
The only teachers you like are picking quotes from the bible
The only cops you like are so good at committing libel
The only judges you like are the ones who say the N-word
The only gunners you like are the ones who collect dead birds
The only soldiers you like are the ones in Arnold movies
The only SJW’s you like are the ones who are worth suing
Objectified, electrified, open your asshole wide
As long as they tickle your fancy, you’re always on their side
But one day when you need your very best friends the most
They’ll leave you to die and haunt this world as a wayward ghost
The only dudes you like are driving all the fast cars
The only kids you like are trapped inside the cages
The only grandmas you like are all so fucking ageist
The only fat guys like you like are six feet underground
The only fit chicks you like weigh less than sixty pounds
The only crazies you like are Manic Pixie Dream Girls
The only sickos you like are the ones who don’t hurl
The only celebrities you like are ones you masturbate to
The only politicians you like are ones who shit on Me Too
The only workers you like are the ones who lick your boots
The only laborers you like are the ones who pick your fruit
The only athletes you like are the ones who’re undefeated
The only students you like are the ones who have succeeded
The only teachers you like are picking quotes from the bible
The only cops you like are so good at committing libel
The only judges you like are the ones who say the N-word
The only gunners you like are the ones who collect dead birds
The only soldiers you like are the ones in Arnold movies
The only SJW’s you like are the ones who are worth suing
Objectified, electrified, open your asshole wide
As long as they tickle your fancy, you’re always on their side
But one day when you need your very best friends the most
They’ll leave you to die and haunt this world as a wayward ghost
