Garrison Kelly's Blog, page 55
September 21, 2018
Incelbordination, Chapter 14
Falling asleep in the middle of danger seemed to be a common occurrence for Oswald Crow. He wondered how many blows to the head he’d taken since fighting against Incelbordination. Apparently, not enough to forget the pain of loneliness. Or the pain of being labeled a terrorist. Or the pain of possibly being thrown in jail for a roll of weed. It wouldn’t have surprised him one bit if he woke up a jail cell right then and there. But low and behold, he woke up (if one could call it that) back at the warehouse, a dark and empty warehouse at that. No bloodstains. No dead bodies. No crying. No pleas for help. Absolutely nothing at all.
And then what few lights there were began to flicker brightly at a rapid pace. Oswald held his aching head as he stood up and allowed his swollen eyeballs to adjust to the light. Needle pains pierced through his system and caused him to whine gently to himself. Not knowing where he was going, he bumped into a wooden crate that seemed to be filled to the top with bullets. Entranced, he sifted his fingers through the metal like beach sand. Somehow this was relaxing to his anxiety. A phantom woman appearing out of nowhere, however, was far from it.
An attractive black woman with long hair and a longer gray dress hovered over Oswald with a smile on her face. “Hello, Mr. Crow. Remember me?”
If the dwarf’s eyes weren’t wide before, they were now that this ghost appeared before him. “Mrs. Mills?”
“That’s right, Oswald. It’s me: Mrs. Mills. It’s been a while since the two of us talked. It’s almost like you’re avoiding me or something. Why would that be?” She leaned her face closer to Oswald and said, “That’s right, I remember. You never wanted to show your face again after you wrote me that love letter. I can’t say I blame you, teenage hormones aside.”
The dwarf’s face glowed nuclear red as he tried to come up with some dialogue. “Mrs. Mills…I’m …I’m sorry…I really am…”
Waving it off, Mrs. Mills said, “Don’t worry, Oswald, it’s not a problem at all. It’s not like I went through my own version of humiliation, being divorced and fired and whatnot. I must admit, you know how to tell a good love story…for high school standards, at least.”
“Please…Mrs. Mills, just go away.” Oswald sifted his fingers through the bullets yet again, but the anxiety relief wouldn’t come for him this time.
“Why should I, little buddy? Am I saying things you don’t like to hear?” said Mrs. Mills in an increasingly erratic tone. “You think you’re starving for love? What about me? Where was I supposed to get mine? From you? Don’t make me laugh, I’m in enough trouble as it is. Oh wait…I can’t be in trouble….because I’m dead! My bad!”
Oswald made a fist with the bullets he grabbed, as though he was ready to go to war right there. “You know how you could have saved your job and your life? By telling the other kids our phony relationship wasn’t true. You could have sent them to the principal’s office. You could have whacked their hands with pencils for all I cared. Do something to set things right, that’s all anybody could ask for. But no…you did absolutely nothing to stop those rumors from spreading to the kids. I’ve never heard so many kids laughing at me in my life. You? You might as well have laughed with them. You were complicit by your silence.”
Caught in her own debunked logic, Mrs. Mills shook her head and confessed, “Oswald, there was nothing I could do. I was just as unbelievable as you were. If they didn’t listen to you, what makes you think they could have listened to me?”
“Because you’re a fucking teacher and you know better than to let shit happen!” bellowed Oswald before throwing bullets at the phantom. “Get out! Get the hell out of here and stop haunting my dreams!” The dwarf threw even more bullets until the ghost fizzled out of sight.
And then by some strange magic, the crate refilled with more bullets, just in time for yet another ghost to appear: a baldheaded teenaged cancer patient trapped in a wheelchair with a psychotic frown on her face. “What about me, Oswald? You’re always talking with Antero about how you want cards and flowers on your grave, right? Where were my flowers when I needed them? Where was my love? Were you too embarrassed to admit that I was your girlfriend or were you too cowardly to take care of me when I needed someone the most?”
Breathing heavily through gritted teeth, Oswald scooped up more bullets in his hand and shouted, “Man, fuck you, Trish! You were just as complicit as my deadbeat English teacher! You didn’t stop the laughs! You didn’t stop the rumors! Even a sick chick like you could use a smart phone and make things right! You did nothing about it! Fuck you, Trish! Fuck off!” The dwarf threw even more bullets than before and caused Trish’s ghost to fade away in the darkness. And once again, the crate magically refilled with tossing props.
Yet another ghost haunted Oswald’s tortured soul: a blond haired teenage boy with a rainbow-colored shirt and his chin tucked in shame. “Are you going to throw bullets at me, you little shit?” The dwarf’s expression softened as he dropped the bullets back in the box. “All I did was place my hand on your shoulder and help you carry your books. I admit, I started to like you for a while. I told you how cute you were. And you just…you just snapped like a madman.” The boy tried in vain to wipe tears from his eyes, but they just kept flowing.
“You got me all wrong, Hunter,” said Oswald, his voice muffled in defeat. “I’m not one of those homophobic assholes. You just caught me on a bad day, that’s all. All the laughing, the name calling, the beatings I took…it just wasn’t my day. You were just at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Hunter’s ghost dissolved in the darkness and gave way to an army of angry young men with red hot neon in their eyes. Oswald dropped to his ass and breathed heavily in fear as these ghosts called him every name in the book while pointing accusatory fingers at him. The dwarf clutched his chest in an attempt to prevent a possible heart attack when Antero Magnus’ ghost appeared in front of those kids. Antero’s eyes had glowed a little brighter that night, giving off that same creepy shiver down Oswald’s spine.
“What do you people want from me?! Leave me alone!” the dwarf shouted in between winded breaths.
“You see all these kids, Oswald?” asked Antero as he waved his hands in both directions to show them off. “You let them all down, my former friend. You let me down too. You could have been one of the greatest revolutionaries of all time. You could have put Che Guevara to shame. You could have changed the world. Instead you turned your back on us .Of all the people you’ve seen tonight, we were the only ones who gave a damn about you. You threw it all away, Oswald. You’re not a supreme gentleman. You’re not even a manlet. You’re a fucking loser!”
Oswald kept screaming, “Shut up!” as he desperately reached into the bullet box and threw in every direction he could. Bullets to the left, bullets to the right, bullets to the center, bullets in a three hundred sixty degree angle. No matter how many he threw, the ghosts kept growing in numbers. Sure, the box refilled as it always did, but what good were those weapons if they only counted for a few victims?
The one victim Oswald wanted to hit the most, Antero, had put a stop to his rebellion with a one-handed chokehold to the little guy. Between the throat squeezing and his own heart-exploding anxiety, Oswald struggled to stay alive as he flopped on the ground like a fish, the ghosts of Incelbordination creeping over him and laughing like high school children. Mrs. Mills was among that crowd as well. As was Trish. As was Hunter. As was an entire underworld of tormentors waiting to gobble up Oswald for a late night snack. Just because he was paranoid, didn’t mean the world wasn’t out to get him.
When it looked like he would be permanently dragged to hell for his romantic sins, Oswald awakened in a dark cell by sitting upright and gasping in a raspy voice. He could finally breathe again even though he was drowning in sweat. Hopefully the stain on his pants was sweat too. The little guy plopped backwards and continued to catch his lost breath whilst clutching his chest.
“What the fuck was all that? Where am I? Hello?!” No answers, only darkness. Imprisoned, blighted, depressive darkness. But even the black nothing was better than being anywhere near Antero’s warehouse. “Wait a minute…if I’m in this cell…where’s Antero?! Where is everybody else?! Where the fuck am I?! Somebody help me!”
And then what few lights there were began to flicker brightly at a rapid pace. Oswald held his aching head as he stood up and allowed his swollen eyeballs to adjust to the light. Needle pains pierced through his system and caused him to whine gently to himself. Not knowing where he was going, he bumped into a wooden crate that seemed to be filled to the top with bullets. Entranced, he sifted his fingers through the metal like beach sand. Somehow this was relaxing to his anxiety. A phantom woman appearing out of nowhere, however, was far from it.
An attractive black woman with long hair and a longer gray dress hovered over Oswald with a smile on her face. “Hello, Mr. Crow. Remember me?”
If the dwarf’s eyes weren’t wide before, they were now that this ghost appeared before him. “Mrs. Mills?”
“That’s right, Oswald. It’s me: Mrs. Mills. It’s been a while since the two of us talked. It’s almost like you’re avoiding me or something. Why would that be?” She leaned her face closer to Oswald and said, “That’s right, I remember. You never wanted to show your face again after you wrote me that love letter. I can’t say I blame you, teenage hormones aside.”
The dwarf’s face glowed nuclear red as he tried to come up with some dialogue. “Mrs. Mills…I’m …I’m sorry…I really am…”
Waving it off, Mrs. Mills said, “Don’t worry, Oswald, it’s not a problem at all. It’s not like I went through my own version of humiliation, being divorced and fired and whatnot. I must admit, you know how to tell a good love story…for high school standards, at least.”
“Please…Mrs. Mills, just go away.” Oswald sifted his fingers through the bullets yet again, but the anxiety relief wouldn’t come for him this time.
“Why should I, little buddy? Am I saying things you don’t like to hear?” said Mrs. Mills in an increasingly erratic tone. “You think you’re starving for love? What about me? Where was I supposed to get mine? From you? Don’t make me laugh, I’m in enough trouble as it is. Oh wait…I can’t be in trouble….because I’m dead! My bad!”
Oswald made a fist with the bullets he grabbed, as though he was ready to go to war right there. “You know how you could have saved your job and your life? By telling the other kids our phony relationship wasn’t true. You could have sent them to the principal’s office. You could have whacked their hands with pencils for all I cared. Do something to set things right, that’s all anybody could ask for. But no…you did absolutely nothing to stop those rumors from spreading to the kids. I’ve never heard so many kids laughing at me in my life. You? You might as well have laughed with them. You were complicit by your silence.”
Caught in her own debunked logic, Mrs. Mills shook her head and confessed, “Oswald, there was nothing I could do. I was just as unbelievable as you were. If they didn’t listen to you, what makes you think they could have listened to me?”
“Because you’re a fucking teacher and you know better than to let shit happen!” bellowed Oswald before throwing bullets at the phantom. “Get out! Get the hell out of here and stop haunting my dreams!” The dwarf threw even more bullets until the ghost fizzled out of sight.
And then by some strange magic, the crate refilled with more bullets, just in time for yet another ghost to appear: a baldheaded teenaged cancer patient trapped in a wheelchair with a psychotic frown on her face. “What about me, Oswald? You’re always talking with Antero about how you want cards and flowers on your grave, right? Where were my flowers when I needed them? Where was my love? Were you too embarrassed to admit that I was your girlfriend or were you too cowardly to take care of me when I needed someone the most?”
Breathing heavily through gritted teeth, Oswald scooped up more bullets in his hand and shouted, “Man, fuck you, Trish! You were just as complicit as my deadbeat English teacher! You didn’t stop the laughs! You didn’t stop the rumors! Even a sick chick like you could use a smart phone and make things right! You did nothing about it! Fuck you, Trish! Fuck off!” The dwarf threw even more bullets than before and caused Trish’s ghost to fade away in the darkness. And once again, the crate magically refilled with tossing props.
Yet another ghost haunted Oswald’s tortured soul: a blond haired teenage boy with a rainbow-colored shirt and his chin tucked in shame. “Are you going to throw bullets at me, you little shit?” The dwarf’s expression softened as he dropped the bullets back in the box. “All I did was place my hand on your shoulder and help you carry your books. I admit, I started to like you for a while. I told you how cute you were. And you just…you just snapped like a madman.” The boy tried in vain to wipe tears from his eyes, but they just kept flowing.
“You got me all wrong, Hunter,” said Oswald, his voice muffled in defeat. “I’m not one of those homophobic assholes. You just caught me on a bad day, that’s all. All the laughing, the name calling, the beatings I took…it just wasn’t my day. You were just at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Hunter’s ghost dissolved in the darkness and gave way to an army of angry young men with red hot neon in their eyes. Oswald dropped to his ass and breathed heavily in fear as these ghosts called him every name in the book while pointing accusatory fingers at him. The dwarf clutched his chest in an attempt to prevent a possible heart attack when Antero Magnus’ ghost appeared in front of those kids. Antero’s eyes had glowed a little brighter that night, giving off that same creepy shiver down Oswald’s spine.
“What do you people want from me?! Leave me alone!” the dwarf shouted in between winded breaths.
“You see all these kids, Oswald?” asked Antero as he waved his hands in both directions to show them off. “You let them all down, my former friend. You let me down too. You could have been one of the greatest revolutionaries of all time. You could have put Che Guevara to shame. You could have changed the world. Instead you turned your back on us .Of all the people you’ve seen tonight, we were the only ones who gave a damn about you. You threw it all away, Oswald. You’re not a supreme gentleman. You’re not even a manlet. You’re a fucking loser!”
Oswald kept screaming, “Shut up!” as he desperately reached into the bullet box and threw in every direction he could. Bullets to the left, bullets to the right, bullets to the center, bullets in a three hundred sixty degree angle. No matter how many he threw, the ghosts kept growing in numbers. Sure, the box refilled as it always did, but what good were those weapons if they only counted for a few victims?
The one victim Oswald wanted to hit the most, Antero, had put a stop to his rebellion with a one-handed chokehold to the little guy. Between the throat squeezing and his own heart-exploding anxiety, Oswald struggled to stay alive as he flopped on the ground like a fish, the ghosts of Incelbordination creeping over him and laughing like high school children. Mrs. Mills was among that crowd as well. As was Trish. As was Hunter. As was an entire underworld of tormentors waiting to gobble up Oswald for a late night snack. Just because he was paranoid, didn’t mean the world wasn’t out to get him.
When it looked like he would be permanently dragged to hell for his romantic sins, Oswald awakened in a dark cell by sitting upright and gasping in a raspy voice. He could finally breathe again even though he was drowning in sweat. Hopefully the stain on his pants was sweat too. The little guy plopped backwards and continued to catch his lost breath whilst clutching his chest.
“What the fuck was all that? Where am I? Hello?!” No answers, only darkness. Imprisoned, blighted, depressive darkness. But even the black nothing was better than being anywhere near Antero’s warehouse. “Wait a minute…if I’m in this cell…where’s Antero?! Where is everybody else?! Where the fuck am I?! Somebody help me!”
Self-Forgiveness
***SELF-FORGIVENESS***
One of the things you learn about yourself as a creative person is how hard you can be on yourself when you hit near-bottom. Maybe you hate your rough draft so much that it’s food for the paper shredder. Maybe you didn’t meet your deadline quickly enough and things fall to shit. Or if you’re anything like me, the biggest sin you can commit is not getting anything done for a whole day. At the end of that day, what does punishing yourself really do for your productivity? Nothing. In fact, it’s less productive than doing nothing at all. It’s counterproductive!
Learning self-forgiveness for your creative “sins” is a skill that needs to be sharpened by all artists at some point. Some days are productive and you can pump out entire novels in one day. Some days are slow and sluggish and all you want to do is nap. For the latter of those two days, even if the reasons for being exhausted are legitimate, there’s always a negative voice telling you to “suck it up” or whatever other tough love phrase comes to mind. Hell, one of the ways I try to wake myself up for the day is by slapping myself in the face. It doesn’t actually do anything; it’s just unnecessary physical pain.
If you have a mental illness like me, self-forgiveness is more important than ever. Punishing yourself can be a symptom of this illness and it’ll only make you feel more depressed than before. Just because the world can’t see your illness, doesn’t mean it isn’t there. It could be the medication making you tired. It could be the illness itself. It could be a hermit lifestyle. It could be a fucked up sleep schedule. Whatever it is, something is weighing you down and it’s okay to admit it. Part of learning to forgive yourself is acknowledging that you have a problem to begin with. Pushing it down until it festers isn’t “manly” or “macho”. In fact, opening up takes a lot of strength in and of itself.
Yes, I admit that it can be hard to open up and admit your worries whenever you see authors out there professing that you must write X number of pages a day or X number of letters or words. While that can be good advice at times, it’s also important that they’re not hard-and-fast rules. There’s no one definition for what a writing goal should be because every author is different. What works for one author won’t work for another. If an author is mentally ill like I am, then writing X number of words/letters per day is damned near impossible. If you need to take it easy on yourself, then don’t feel shame for it.
Even Chris Brecheen (the admin of Writing About Writing) knows how important self-care is. Yes, he posts memes on Face Book almost every day saying some form of “You Should Be Writing”. He’s not doing it to be malicious or arrogant. He’s doing it because he wants his readership to succeed. But even Mr. Brecheen knows that certain factors can get in the way of doing so, mental illness being chief among them. He admits to not being an expert on the topic of mental illness, but his empathy speaks volumes when he’s giving his warmhearted advice to depressed writers. I fucking love this guy. I really do.
One of the things Chris tells the mentally ill people who ask him questions about word limits is that there are no set limits. It’s part of the reason why he hates NaNoWriMo, because writing 1,667 words a day is unrealistic and it can wear on an author’s psyche. Maybe the word count should only be a few sentences. Maybe it’s somewhere below five hundred. The point is, do only what you can manage. As long as you’re doing something, you’re sharpening your skills. And if you don’t do something for that day, don’t beat yourself up over it. Try again tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after. And the day after. Eventually you’ll have a good day and be a writing machine.
If you want to write a quirky Face Book post, do that. If you want to write a letter to someone, do that too. If you just want to write a Tumbler or Twitter post, that’ll make your writing strong too. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Writing is a long and arduous process that takes time. It shouldn’t be bogged down by unrealistic goals and limits. Who knows? Maybe fame and fortune isn’t the answer after all for some people. It doesn’t have to be. And that’s okay. We have comfort zones for a reason. While it feels nice to step outside every once and a while, overwhelming yourself is only going to lead to more guilt and more depressive pain.
If you have a creative person in your life and he or she is feeling down, don’t judge that person. Lend a helping hand. Squeeze their shoulders. Ruffle their hair. Help them with their chores. Do whatever you have to do to keep that person from spiraling downward. Self-forgiveness isn’t just some “pseudo new age BS”. It’s something we all have to do eventually. The lack of self-forgiveness in the mentally ill can actually lead to suicide in some cases. I remember when I first started having schizophrenic symptoms in 2002. My head voices affected my work rate to where I wanted to kill myself. I got the help I needed and I’m a better person for it. Granted, I still have days where all I want to do is nap and be lazy. Then again, lazy days are a part of the human experience. It’s not weakness. It’s pain.
I’m still learning how to forgive myself for my least productive days. Like I said, it’s a skill that needs to be practiced every waking day. But just like the writing process itself, moving along slowly is better than standing still. Although I will never threaten suicide again, it’s still important for me and all of the writers out there to take good care of ourselves. You can do this. You can conquer. You’ve got this! I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain! Man, those Three Days Grace lyrics never felt more important than they do now.
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“It’s such a rainy afternoon. No point in going anywhere. The sounds just drift across my room. I wish this feeling I could share. It’s such a rainy afternoon. She sits and gazes from her window. Her mind tries to recall his face. The feeling deep inside her grows.”
-Snippet from “The Actor” by The Moody Blues-
One of the things you learn about yourself as a creative person is how hard you can be on yourself when you hit near-bottom. Maybe you hate your rough draft so much that it’s food for the paper shredder. Maybe you didn’t meet your deadline quickly enough and things fall to shit. Or if you’re anything like me, the biggest sin you can commit is not getting anything done for a whole day. At the end of that day, what does punishing yourself really do for your productivity? Nothing. In fact, it’s less productive than doing nothing at all. It’s counterproductive!
Learning self-forgiveness for your creative “sins” is a skill that needs to be sharpened by all artists at some point. Some days are productive and you can pump out entire novels in one day. Some days are slow and sluggish and all you want to do is nap. For the latter of those two days, even if the reasons for being exhausted are legitimate, there’s always a negative voice telling you to “suck it up” or whatever other tough love phrase comes to mind. Hell, one of the ways I try to wake myself up for the day is by slapping myself in the face. It doesn’t actually do anything; it’s just unnecessary physical pain.
If you have a mental illness like me, self-forgiveness is more important than ever. Punishing yourself can be a symptom of this illness and it’ll only make you feel more depressed than before. Just because the world can’t see your illness, doesn’t mean it isn’t there. It could be the medication making you tired. It could be the illness itself. It could be a hermit lifestyle. It could be a fucked up sleep schedule. Whatever it is, something is weighing you down and it’s okay to admit it. Part of learning to forgive yourself is acknowledging that you have a problem to begin with. Pushing it down until it festers isn’t “manly” or “macho”. In fact, opening up takes a lot of strength in and of itself.
Yes, I admit that it can be hard to open up and admit your worries whenever you see authors out there professing that you must write X number of pages a day or X number of letters or words. While that can be good advice at times, it’s also important that they’re not hard-and-fast rules. There’s no one definition for what a writing goal should be because every author is different. What works for one author won’t work for another. If an author is mentally ill like I am, then writing X number of words/letters per day is damned near impossible. If you need to take it easy on yourself, then don’t feel shame for it.
Even Chris Brecheen (the admin of Writing About Writing) knows how important self-care is. Yes, he posts memes on Face Book almost every day saying some form of “You Should Be Writing”. He’s not doing it to be malicious or arrogant. He’s doing it because he wants his readership to succeed. But even Mr. Brecheen knows that certain factors can get in the way of doing so, mental illness being chief among them. He admits to not being an expert on the topic of mental illness, but his empathy speaks volumes when he’s giving his warmhearted advice to depressed writers. I fucking love this guy. I really do.
One of the things Chris tells the mentally ill people who ask him questions about word limits is that there are no set limits. It’s part of the reason why he hates NaNoWriMo, because writing 1,667 words a day is unrealistic and it can wear on an author’s psyche. Maybe the word count should only be a few sentences. Maybe it’s somewhere below five hundred. The point is, do only what you can manage. As long as you’re doing something, you’re sharpening your skills. And if you don’t do something for that day, don’t beat yourself up over it. Try again tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after. And the day after. Eventually you’ll have a good day and be a writing machine.
If you want to write a quirky Face Book post, do that. If you want to write a letter to someone, do that too. If you just want to write a Tumbler or Twitter post, that’ll make your writing strong too. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Writing is a long and arduous process that takes time. It shouldn’t be bogged down by unrealistic goals and limits. Who knows? Maybe fame and fortune isn’t the answer after all for some people. It doesn’t have to be. And that’s okay. We have comfort zones for a reason. While it feels nice to step outside every once and a while, overwhelming yourself is only going to lead to more guilt and more depressive pain.
If you have a creative person in your life and he or she is feeling down, don’t judge that person. Lend a helping hand. Squeeze their shoulders. Ruffle their hair. Help them with their chores. Do whatever you have to do to keep that person from spiraling downward. Self-forgiveness isn’t just some “pseudo new age BS”. It’s something we all have to do eventually. The lack of self-forgiveness in the mentally ill can actually lead to suicide in some cases. I remember when I first started having schizophrenic symptoms in 2002. My head voices affected my work rate to where I wanted to kill myself. I got the help I needed and I’m a better person for it. Granted, I still have days where all I want to do is nap and be lazy. Then again, lazy days are a part of the human experience. It’s not weakness. It’s pain.
I’m still learning how to forgive myself for my least productive days. Like I said, it’s a skill that needs to be practiced every waking day. But just like the writing process itself, moving along slowly is better than standing still. Although I will never threaten suicide again, it’s still important for me and all of the writers out there to take good care of ourselves. You can do this. You can conquer. You’ve got this! I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain! Man, those Three Days Grace lyrics never felt more important than they do now.
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“It’s such a rainy afternoon. No point in going anywhere. The sounds just drift across my room. I wish this feeling I could share. It’s such a rainy afternoon. She sits and gazes from her window. Her mind tries to recall his face. The feeling deep inside her grows.”
-Snippet from “The Actor” by The Moody Blues-
September 19, 2018
SWAuTocrat
VERSE 1
All that rage over a videogame
Have you no fucking shame?
Murdering kids with one phone call
9-1-1, watch the bodies fall
You’d kill your mother over Halo
Kill your father, don’t try to say no
You’d kill a stranger over Call of Duty
All because he plays like a newbie
CHORUS
SWAuTocrat! Fuck that!
How’d your ego get so fat?
SWAuTocrat! To the mat!
In a real fight, you’d fall flat
VERSE 2
You think you’ve got some absolution?
Excuses are nothing but noise pollution
Although you didn’t pull the trigger yourself
You’re still a murderer on your way to hell
EXTENDED CHORUS
SWAuTocrat! Fuck that!
How’d your ego get so fat?
SWAuTocrat! To the mat!
In a real fight, you’d fall flat
SWAuTobot! Time to rot!
A tough guy you are not
SWAuTomatic! Rage addict!
Rage quitter! Total bat shit!
VERSE 3
Bowser never yelled racial epithets
King Wart never shot for the head
Golbez never called the SWAT Team
Even Mad Gear knew it was all a dream
Akuma never needed a letter of pardon
Even Joker stuck around in Arkham
Fantasy and reality are mutually exclusive
You have this knowledge, fucking use it!
CHORUS 2
SWAuTocrat! Fuck that!
SWAuTobot! Take your shot!
SWAuToerotic! Psychotic!
SWAuTo race! What a waste!
SWAuTocrat!
SWAuTocrat!
SWAuTocrat!
Fuck that!
All that rage over a videogame
Have you no fucking shame?
Murdering kids with one phone call
9-1-1, watch the bodies fall
You’d kill your mother over Halo
Kill your father, don’t try to say no
You’d kill a stranger over Call of Duty
All because he plays like a newbie
CHORUS
SWAuTocrat! Fuck that!
How’d your ego get so fat?
SWAuTocrat! To the mat!
In a real fight, you’d fall flat
VERSE 2
You think you’ve got some absolution?
Excuses are nothing but noise pollution
Although you didn’t pull the trigger yourself
You’re still a murderer on your way to hell
EXTENDED CHORUS
SWAuTocrat! Fuck that!
How’d your ego get so fat?
SWAuTocrat! To the mat!
In a real fight, you’d fall flat
SWAuTobot! Time to rot!
A tough guy you are not
SWAuTomatic! Rage addict!
Rage quitter! Total bat shit!
VERSE 3
Bowser never yelled racial epithets
King Wart never shot for the head
Golbez never called the SWAT Team
Even Mad Gear knew it was all a dream
Akuma never needed a letter of pardon
Even Joker stuck around in Arkham
Fantasy and reality are mutually exclusive
You have this knowledge, fucking use it!
CHORUS 2
SWAuTocrat! Fuck that!
SWAuTobot! Take your shot!
SWAuToerotic! Psychotic!
SWAuTo race! What a waste!
SWAuTocrat!
SWAuTocrat!
SWAuTocrat!
Fuck that!
September 16, 2018
Game Night
MOVIE TITLE: Game Night
DIRECTORS: John Francis Daley and Jonathan Goldstein
YEAR: 2018
GENRE: Black Comedy
RATING: R for violence, language, and suggestive dialogue
GRADE: Pass
Competitive gamers Max and Annie Davis have the chance to upstage Max’s obnoxiously successful brother Brooks when he sets up a live action murder mystery game with a Stingray Corvette at stake. As part of this role-play, masked criminals raid Brooks’s house and kidnap him, though the fight scene looks a little too realistic for everybody’s tastes. The deeper Max, Annie, and their gamer friends dig into this mystery, the more they realize that it wasn’t a role-play and that Brooks’s life really is in danger.
I know that this is supposed to be a goofy comedy movie, but it could easily pass for the thriller genre due to how well-constructed the mystery is. Every time you think Max and his friends have the answers, there’s always another swerve to cut them off at the knees. There are no easy solutions and not everything is part of a role-playing game. That’s the mark of a good thriller: it keeps you guessing until the climax. You don’t know how, you don’t know why, you don’t know who, but if you pay close attention and wait until the end, it’ll all become as clear as day.
And then you have the various subplots within the main one which make hopping between characters an interesting way of storytelling. Max and Annie are trying to have a baby, but Max’s sperm count is low because he’s stressed out by his brother. A black couple named Kevin and Michelle keep arguing over which celebrity Michelle allegedly cheated on Kevin with. Ryan and Sarah argue over Ryan’s blatant stupidity and ignorance while Sarah comes off as a posh and intelligent Irishwoman. Gary is a socially awkward cop who wants to join game night, but keeps getting ignored due to his weirdness. And then we find out that Brooks isn’t really who he says he is, though I’ll say no more than that, because I don’t want to give away spoilers. Bouncing from subplot to subplot keeps the movie from getting monotonous, though it’s hard for monotony to happen when there’s so much comedy going on all at once.
Yes, let us never forget that this is a comedy first and foremost. I watched this movie with my older brother and we kept guessing who the celebrity was that Michelle slept with. We were hoping and praying that it wasn’t Bill Cosby. Oh dear. Speaking of Michelle and Kevin, they received a clue from the mystery role-play where they’re looking for an object that holds whiteness together. Kevin’s first guess was Donald Trump, but it was actually a stapler since paper is white. And finally, another favorite part of mine is when Max’s bullet wound drips all over Gary’s dog, carpet, and shrine of his ex-wife. Yes, I said it: there was blood all over a shrine of Gary’s ex-wife. Let that sink in for a moment. I’d tell you more funny parts, but I’d rather you watch the movie yourselves.
If you’re in the mood for some good wholesome fun, watch Game Night, though I don’t really think wholesome is the word to describe it. It’s dirty, it’s dark, it’s funny as hell, and it’ll make you want to have a game night of your own, though hopefully yours won’t involve kidnapping and murder. Maybe you should just stick to Scrabble. They don’t kill people in Scrabble…as far as I know. A passing grade goes to this hilarious black comedy!
DIRECTORS: John Francis Daley and Jonathan Goldstein
YEAR: 2018
GENRE: Black Comedy
RATING: R for violence, language, and suggestive dialogue
GRADE: Pass
Competitive gamers Max and Annie Davis have the chance to upstage Max’s obnoxiously successful brother Brooks when he sets up a live action murder mystery game with a Stingray Corvette at stake. As part of this role-play, masked criminals raid Brooks’s house and kidnap him, though the fight scene looks a little too realistic for everybody’s tastes. The deeper Max, Annie, and their gamer friends dig into this mystery, the more they realize that it wasn’t a role-play and that Brooks’s life really is in danger.
I know that this is supposed to be a goofy comedy movie, but it could easily pass for the thriller genre due to how well-constructed the mystery is. Every time you think Max and his friends have the answers, there’s always another swerve to cut them off at the knees. There are no easy solutions and not everything is part of a role-playing game. That’s the mark of a good thriller: it keeps you guessing until the climax. You don’t know how, you don’t know why, you don’t know who, but if you pay close attention and wait until the end, it’ll all become as clear as day.
And then you have the various subplots within the main one which make hopping between characters an interesting way of storytelling. Max and Annie are trying to have a baby, but Max’s sperm count is low because he’s stressed out by his brother. A black couple named Kevin and Michelle keep arguing over which celebrity Michelle allegedly cheated on Kevin with. Ryan and Sarah argue over Ryan’s blatant stupidity and ignorance while Sarah comes off as a posh and intelligent Irishwoman. Gary is a socially awkward cop who wants to join game night, but keeps getting ignored due to his weirdness. And then we find out that Brooks isn’t really who he says he is, though I’ll say no more than that, because I don’t want to give away spoilers. Bouncing from subplot to subplot keeps the movie from getting monotonous, though it’s hard for monotony to happen when there’s so much comedy going on all at once.
Yes, let us never forget that this is a comedy first and foremost. I watched this movie with my older brother and we kept guessing who the celebrity was that Michelle slept with. We were hoping and praying that it wasn’t Bill Cosby. Oh dear. Speaking of Michelle and Kevin, they received a clue from the mystery role-play where they’re looking for an object that holds whiteness together. Kevin’s first guess was Donald Trump, but it was actually a stapler since paper is white. And finally, another favorite part of mine is when Max’s bullet wound drips all over Gary’s dog, carpet, and shrine of his ex-wife. Yes, I said it: there was blood all over a shrine of Gary’s ex-wife. Let that sink in for a moment. I’d tell you more funny parts, but I’d rather you watch the movie yourselves.
If you’re in the mood for some good wholesome fun, watch Game Night, though I don’t really think wholesome is the word to describe it. It’s dirty, it’s dark, it’s funny as hell, and it’ll make you want to have a game night of your own, though hopefully yours won’t involve kidnapping and murder. Maybe you should just stick to Scrabble. They don’t kill people in Scrabble…as far as I know. A passing grade goes to this hilarious black comedy!
September 13, 2018
I Don't Have a Dog
CHORUS
I don’t have a dog in this fight
I can’t decide who’s wrong or right
We can go all day, go all night
If only there was an arena in sight
VERSE 1
He said this and then she said that
What they said was a whole lot of jack
Hidden agenda, open challenge policy
Open the door for verbal sodomy
Everything’s on the table for the media
Sooner or later, it’s marked with tedium
Whatever happened to keeping the peace?
When will the madness finally cease?
CHORUS
I don’t have a dog in this fight
I can’t decide who’s wrong or right
We can go all day, go all night
If only there was an arena in sight
VERSE 2
Slinging mud and slinging shit
They’re hoping for a critical hit
Drinking poison, wishing for death
On each other, it makes no sense
This isn’t a wrestling or boxing ring
Stop fighting over every little thing
Diplomacy is what you all need
Before you fuckers start to bleed
BRIDGE
Conscientious objection
This ain’t some kind of election
Digging up the dirt
Will cause both of you to hurt
Friendly fire, both are liars
It’s what the camera requires
I don’t have a dog in this war
I don’t want to see any more
EXTENDED CHORUS
I don’t have a dog in this fight
I can’t decide who’s wrong or right
We can go all day, go all night
If only there was an arena in sight
I don’t have a dog in this battle
I don’t blindly follow like cattle
Reality TV is rated TV-MA
Disgusts me so much, I turn away
I don’t have a dog in this fight
I can’t decide who’s wrong or right
We can go all day, go all night
If only there was an arena in sight
VERSE 1
He said this and then she said that
What they said was a whole lot of jack
Hidden agenda, open challenge policy
Open the door for verbal sodomy
Everything’s on the table for the media
Sooner or later, it’s marked with tedium
Whatever happened to keeping the peace?
When will the madness finally cease?
CHORUS
I don’t have a dog in this fight
I can’t decide who’s wrong or right
We can go all day, go all night
If only there was an arena in sight
VERSE 2
Slinging mud and slinging shit
They’re hoping for a critical hit
Drinking poison, wishing for death
On each other, it makes no sense
This isn’t a wrestling or boxing ring
Stop fighting over every little thing
Diplomacy is what you all need
Before you fuckers start to bleed
BRIDGE
Conscientious objection
This ain’t some kind of election
Digging up the dirt
Will cause both of you to hurt
Friendly fire, both are liars
It’s what the camera requires
I don’t have a dog in this war
I don’t want to see any more
EXTENDED CHORUS
I don’t have a dog in this fight
I can’t decide who’s wrong or right
We can go all day, go all night
If only there was an arena in sight
I don’t have a dog in this battle
I don’t blindly follow like cattle
Reality TV is rated TV-MA
Disgusts me so much, I turn away
September 12, 2018
Pedestrian Knowledge
***PEDESTRIAN KNOWLEDGE***
One piece of writing advice you hear all the time is “write what you know”. I’ve heard arguments on both sides when it comes to agreeing with this claim. On one hand, you’re better equipped to write an intelligent sounding story with very few people doubting you. On the other hand, exploring new knowledge is what helps us grow as authors. I’ve said in the past how research is my least favorite part about the writing process. It’s not because I don’t want to learn or grow. It’s because if I get just one minute detail wrong, my critics will feast on the carcass like wild animals. It drives me nuts how picky some people can be. Doesn’t anybody just enjoy what they read anymore?
Well, that attitude towards the research process has changed the minute I received my critiques for Beautiful Monster. The problem with relying on pedestrian knowledge is that the things you think are well-known are actually more complicated than you originally anticipated. To use an R-rated example from that story: cock rings. Conventional wisdom dictates that you just slide the ring down to the base of the dick and that’ll keep a man hard forever. Well, to give you an idea of how complicated it actually is, I had my beta reader Marie Krepps tell me that the government can spy on HER computer instead of mine. Oh dear. Hehe!
You know what else isn’t pedestrian knowledge? Pregnancy. It’s not as simple as growing a big stomach and pumping out a painful baby after nine months. It’s a process. It requires extensive planning. Marie dinged me for this as well when at the end of Beautiful Monster Tarja gave birth to Windham’s daughter. Not only is Marie a loud and proud woman, but she actually gave birth to four lovely daughters, so if anybody can call bullshit on my “pedestrian knowledge”, it’s her.
What other things in life are not as pedestrian as we think they are? Fight scenes, psychology, farming, hunting, fantasy religions, and pretty much everything on planet fucking earth. As much as I don’t want to bend to the will of the nitpicky critics, it’s something I eventually have to do if I want to find success as an author. Think of all the movies out there that get shit on because the details and research are way off the mark. You see these criticisms all the time on places like Amazon and IMDB.
This is especially problematic when it comes to sensitive topics like disabilities, race, politics, cultures, and religion to name a few. It’s much harder to recover from bigotry accusations than it is to miss one crucial part of setting an animal trap, for instance. There were times in my writing career when I almost bawled my eyes out because my writing was seen as unintentionally bigoted, Tainted Love and Class of ’13 being my most infamous examples. I will admit that prejudice is hard to forgive, but if it was completely unintentional and the artist is sincere in his apology, then you can’t compare that to the Milo Yiannopouloses of the world. If you want to depict another culture in your writing, do you research and don’t rely on stereotypes. You’ll save yourself a lot of heartache. It’s not just “SJW” stuff. It’s actually important.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that nothing can be considered “pedestrian knowledge”. The world is a complex place and people do complex things. As a writer, you’re being relied upon as a bringer of change and a representation of everything that’s right. It’s a huge responsibility, so don’t fuck it up. If your readers don’t trust you, they’re not going to read anything of yours ever again. You wouldn’t want to study math from a teacher who doesn’t know the cube root of twenty-seven (spoiler alert, it’s three). You wouldn’t want to go to a rehab facility where the nurses have powder underneath their nostrils all the time. So why would anybody want to read books from an author who doesn’t care about the world around them?
And for god’s sake, please don’t rely solely on television and movies for your “research”. Do you know how many lawyers call BS on shows like Suits and Law & Order? Enough to make you question everything. Hell, there were flight attendants who boycotted the movie Flight Plan because of how their occupation was portrayed in that movie. Another spoiler alert: the flight attendants in that movie were depicted as uncaring jerks. If you legitimately don’t know what you’re talking about, do a Google search. Ask someone from that occupation. Or if you really want to get deep undercover, do what Marcus Sakey did when he was writing The Blade Itself: shadow cops and detectives. Just like in school, research can be a bitch sometimes, but it’s necessary for that all-important A+.
Wish me luck when it comes to fixing Beautiful Monster and getting my facts straight this time! I still haven’t fleshed out my chapter-by-chapter synopsis yet, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be in a rut forever. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“I’m back in my house and you’re still sitting down. The crimson couch never felt so uncomfortable. And the room is so cold. The tape on your mouth is slowing your breath down. The rope is so tight. The tension becomes so tangible, so unbearable. I’m sorry if I crossed the line. I know I’ve lost it, but you are always on my mind. Obsessed with you and me. To love is harder than you think. I’m sorry if I raise my voice. I never meant to hurt you, but I had no choice. Don’t ever lie to me, ‘cause I’m smarter than you think. You love me, ‘cause I hate you. Everything but love. There’s no running away. There’s no guilt and no shame. I’ve crossed the line. Is this the end? There’s no running away even if you’re afraid. I’ll make you mine until the end.”
-Lacuna Coil singing “You Love Me ‘Cause You Hate Me”-
***POST-SCRIPT***
That Lacuna Coil song happens to be about Stockholm Syndrome and that could be an element I could add to Windham’s psyche when I rewrite Beautiful Monster. With Shelly Atwood being as lovey-dovey and tender as she is with Windham, why wouldn’t he have Stockholm Syndrome? But then again, I’d have to compromise that with his desperation to get out of that hellhole of a castle she lives in. Is it possible to work both sides of the argument into one mind? If not, then I’ll ditch the Stockholm Syndrome angle altogether.
One piece of writing advice you hear all the time is “write what you know”. I’ve heard arguments on both sides when it comes to agreeing with this claim. On one hand, you’re better equipped to write an intelligent sounding story with very few people doubting you. On the other hand, exploring new knowledge is what helps us grow as authors. I’ve said in the past how research is my least favorite part about the writing process. It’s not because I don’t want to learn or grow. It’s because if I get just one minute detail wrong, my critics will feast on the carcass like wild animals. It drives me nuts how picky some people can be. Doesn’t anybody just enjoy what they read anymore?
Well, that attitude towards the research process has changed the minute I received my critiques for Beautiful Monster. The problem with relying on pedestrian knowledge is that the things you think are well-known are actually more complicated than you originally anticipated. To use an R-rated example from that story: cock rings. Conventional wisdom dictates that you just slide the ring down to the base of the dick and that’ll keep a man hard forever. Well, to give you an idea of how complicated it actually is, I had my beta reader Marie Krepps tell me that the government can spy on HER computer instead of mine. Oh dear. Hehe!
You know what else isn’t pedestrian knowledge? Pregnancy. It’s not as simple as growing a big stomach and pumping out a painful baby after nine months. It’s a process. It requires extensive planning. Marie dinged me for this as well when at the end of Beautiful Monster Tarja gave birth to Windham’s daughter. Not only is Marie a loud and proud woman, but she actually gave birth to four lovely daughters, so if anybody can call bullshit on my “pedestrian knowledge”, it’s her.
What other things in life are not as pedestrian as we think they are? Fight scenes, psychology, farming, hunting, fantasy religions, and pretty much everything on planet fucking earth. As much as I don’t want to bend to the will of the nitpicky critics, it’s something I eventually have to do if I want to find success as an author. Think of all the movies out there that get shit on because the details and research are way off the mark. You see these criticisms all the time on places like Amazon and IMDB.
This is especially problematic when it comes to sensitive topics like disabilities, race, politics, cultures, and religion to name a few. It’s much harder to recover from bigotry accusations than it is to miss one crucial part of setting an animal trap, for instance. There were times in my writing career when I almost bawled my eyes out because my writing was seen as unintentionally bigoted, Tainted Love and Class of ’13 being my most infamous examples. I will admit that prejudice is hard to forgive, but if it was completely unintentional and the artist is sincere in his apology, then you can’t compare that to the Milo Yiannopouloses of the world. If you want to depict another culture in your writing, do you research and don’t rely on stereotypes. You’ll save yourself a lot of heartache. It’s not just “SJW” stuff. It’s actually important.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that nothing can be considered “pedestrian knowledge”. The world is a complex place and people do complex things. As a writer, you’re being relied upon as a bringer of change and a representation of everything that’s right. It’s a huge responsibility, so don’t fuck it up. If your readers don’t trust you, they’re not going to read anything of yours ever again. You wouldn’t want to study math from a teacher who doesn’t know the cube root of twenty-seven (spoiler alert, it’s three). You wouldn’t want to go to a rehab facility where the nurses have powder underneath their nostrils all the time. So why would anybody want to read books from an author who doesn’t care about the world around them?
And for god’s sake, please don’t rely solely on television and movies for your “research”. Do you know how many lawyers call BS on shows like Suits and Law & Order? Enough to make you question everything. Hell, there were flight attendants who boycotted the movie Flight Plan because of how their occupation was portrayed in that movie. Another spoiler alert: the flight attendants in that movie were depicted as uncaring jerks. If you legitimately don’t know what you’re talking about, do a Google search. Ask someone from that occupation. Or if you really want to get deep undercover, do what Marcus Sakey did when he was writing The Blade Itself: shadow cops and detectives. Just like in school, research can be a bitch sometimes, but it’s necessary for that all-important A+.
Wish me luck when it comes to fixing Beautiful Monster and getting my facts straight this time! I still haven’t fleshed out my chapter-by-chapter synopsis yet, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be in a rut forever. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“I’m back in my house and you’re still sitting down. The crimson couch never felt so uncomfortable. And the room is so cold. The tape on your mouth is slowing your breath down. The rope is so tight. The tension becomes so tangible, so unbearable. I’m sorry if I crossed the line. I know I’ve lost it, but you are always on my mind. Obsessed with you and me. To love is harder than you think. I’m sorry if I raise my voice. I never meant to hurt you, but I had no choice. Don’t ever lie to me, ‘cause I’m smarter than you think. You love me, ‘cause I hate you. Everything but love. There’s no running away. There’s no guilt and no shame. I’ve crossed the line. Is this the end? There’s no running away even if you’re afraid. I’ll make you mine until the end.”
-Lacuna Coil singing “You Love Me ‘Cause You Hate Me”-
***POST-SCRIPT***
That Lacuna Coil song happens to be about Stockholm Syndrome and that could be an element I could add to Windham’s psyche when I rewrite Beautiful Monster. With Shelly Atwood being as lovey-dovey and tender as she is with Windham, why wouldn’t he have Stockholm Syndrome? But then again, I’d have to compromise that with his desperation to get out of that hellhole of a castle she lives in. Is it possible to work both sides of the argument into one mind? If not, then I’ll ditch the Stockholm Syndrome angle altogether.
No Closer Than a Stranger
VERSE 1
You seem to know everything about me
Maybe that’s why you choose to doubt me
No closer than a stranger, all about danger
Taking faraway shots like a sniping ranger
Do your homework, or better yet ask me
How long my life and career are lasting
I call the shots and carve my own path
It’s not rocket science or three-D math
VERSE 2
You seem to know what it is you want
Your loving kisses are more like a chomp
No closer than a stranger, being the angel
Of hell or heaven, both can prove fatal
A seductress so tempting and sweet
Sees me as nothing but hellhound meat
I’ve seen it all before, not begging anymore
For any pretty face who’s rotten to the core
BRIDGE
Money, get back, I’m alright, Jack
Stop spending everything on crack
Money, so they say, is the root of evil
Buying the minds of average people
No closer than a stranger on the streets
Or a dead body buried beneath my feet
Or a priest or politician on television
I refuse to join your corporate religion
VERSE 3
All you had to do was care about me
Not live your life on your dirty knees
No closer than a stranger, yet here you are
Thinking you can set my highest bars
This is why I don’t jump in headfirst
A cracked open skull is the fucking worst
Just be there to catch me when I fall
Then I will tear down my Floydian wall
FINAL LINES
No closer than a stranger, I see your anger
No closer than a stranger, my pain you savor
No closer than a villain, no closer than a punk
You’re no prophet of rage or renegade of funk
You seem to know everything about me
Maybe that’s why you choose to doubt me
No closer than a stranger, all about danger
Taking faraway shots like a sniping ranger
Do your homework, or better yet ask me
How long my life and career are lasting
I call the shots and carve my own path
It’s not rocket science or three-D math
VERSE 2
You seem to know what it is you want
Your loving kisses are more like a chomp
No closer than a stranger, being the angel
Of hell or heaven, both can prove fatal
A seductress so tempting and sweet
Sees me as nothing but hellhound meat
I’ve seen it all before, not begging anymore
For any pretty face who’s rotten to the core
BRIDGE
Money, get back, I’m alright, Jack
Stop spending everything on crack
Money, so they say, is the root of evil
Buying the minds of average people
No closer than a stranger on the streets
Or a dead body buried beneath my feet
Or a priest or politician on television
I refuse to join your corporate religion
VERSE 3
All you had to do was care about me
Not live your life on your dirty knees
No closer than a stranger, yet here you are
Thinking you can set my highest bars
This is why I don’t jump in headfirst
A cracked open skull is the fucking worst
Just be there to catch me when I fall
Then I will tear down my Floydian wall
FINAL LINES
No closer than a stranger, I see your anger
No closer than a stranger, my pain you savor
No closer than a villain, no closer than a punk
You’re no prophet of rage or renegade of funk
Incelbordination, Chapter 13
Oswald had no earthly clue how much time he spent underneath the hood. He could have fallen asleep for all he knew. He could have had more concussed visions. But when the hood was removed, a dot matrix danced across his field of vision while his weary eyes adjusted to the light. He even took deep breaths just to make sure he was still alive. But just because he was alive, didn’t mean he wasn’t already in some kind of hell. Except Antero Magnus didn’t call it hell. He just called it a “favorite hideout”.
The dim lighting revealed a broken down abandoned warehouse with crates stacked as high as the eye could see, warped wood all around, and the most important feature, three chair bound human beings with hoods over their heads. No matter how vigorously the captives struggled, their ropes only seemed to get tighter. Moderating this kidnapping was Antero Magnus himself, drumming his fingers across the back of the middle captive’s chair. “Leave us. Don’t get caught,” he told his henchmen, who were happy to oblige.
Oswald’s bloodshot eyes still pounded in his skull as they adjusted, but his vision was clear enough to take in the horror of Antero gazing at him with those ice-cold cyan eyes. “What do you want this time? You do realize that the police are probably looking for you…”
Antero put a finger to his own lips and shushed his “buddy”. “Relax, Oz-Man. Nobody’s coming to rescue you or these three jack-offs I have here. Remember how I told you we don’t use the same meeting place twice?”
“What do you want from me?”
“I’m glad you asked that, Oswald, I really am. As one of my boys told you prior to busting you out of jail (you’re welcome, by the way), you have a decision to make. Do you want to let this world walk all over you or do you want to stand up for yourself?” Oswald tried to speak, but was once again cut off by Antero. “Ah, ah, ah! Before you answer that, allow me to reveal the people who will have a strong influence on your decision. Three people who don’t know what love is, yet they somehow believe they’re actually closer to you than a stranger.”
Antero proceeded to remove the hoods from his captives. On the far left, the blubbering muscle jock Wacey Judge, who didn’t look so tough with his mile long sad face. In the middle, there was Valerie Sand, who like her counterpart had a hard time keeping it together. And then on the right, Nikita Johnson, who was sporting a black eye not unlike the one Jessica had earlier in the evening. Oswald didn’t know whether to look at these three people in disgust, fear, or disturbance. His mind swirled for more reasons than having a fucked up brain.
“You see these three normies?” said Antero as he spread his arms out for display purposes. “Their lives are in your hands, Oswald. You can’t see it right now because the warehouse is so damn dark, but underneath their chairs are trap doors which will lead them to a cold, watery death. The chains attached to these trap doors are by your feet. If you so choose, you can pull those chains and finally stand up for what you believe in.”
“…You’re insane!” whined Oswald.
“No, little man, you’re insane!” snapped Wacey. “You think you have the right to kill me because of some friendly ribbing? Come on, man, that’s a little extreme, don’t you think?”
“Friendly ribbing, my ass!” shouted Oswald, his hand firmly on Wacey’s trap door chain. “You’re the whole reason why I needed to learn how to fight in the first fucking place! Do you have any idea how close you came to killing my ass?! It’s too late for apologies, you meathead! Time to die!”
“No, stop!” pleaded Valerie. “Oswald, think about what you’re doing here. Look, I don’t condone what Wacey did to you. But if you kill him, there’s no turning back from that. The police will find you and lock you up for life. You’ll never have the chance to be the successful writer you’ve always wanted to be.”
“I wasn’t going to be a successful writer anyways, you little shit!” belted the dwarf, dropping Wacey’s chain and picking up Valerie’s. “Ever since I’ve signed up for college, you’ve done nothing but hold me back. I’d be lucky to graduate at all under your tutelage. You don’t see greatness in me. You don’t see greatness in any of your students, for that matter. We’re all just one big shit puddle of mediocrity to you! “
“That’s not true, Oswald!” cried Nikita, who then winced in pain from her fresh black eye. “She gives you those critiques because she wants you to be the best you can possibly be. I know this because I’ve gotten harsh critiques too. If I’m not immune to it, why should you be? Are you really going to kill your teacher over a bad grade?”
Oswald dropped Valerie’s chain and wasted no time in gathering Nikita’s slack. “No, I’m not going to kill my teacher. I’ll kill you instead! Here I thought Valerie was holding me back when it was you who turned me in to the police in the first fucking place. All for what? Because I don’t conform to your idea of what it means to be healthy? Newsflash, bitch! I’m not healthy. I’m sick! I’m so fucking sick of this goddamn world!”
“Yes! That’s what I like to see,” exclaimed Antero while throwing his hands in the air. “Passion! Energy! Emotion! Oh, this is better than going to the movies. Go ahead, Oz-Man, pull those motherfucking chains and prove your loyalty to Incelbordination!”
“Yeah, man, what are you waiting for?” blubbered Wacey. “Quit making us wait and kill us already. It’s not like we’re ever going to get out of here alive anyways.”
“Damn it, Wacey, shut the fuck up!” roared Nikita, putting the muscle jock in his place. She turned her attention back to Oswald with tears mounting in her swollen eyes, a sight the dwarf couldn’t help but feel for. “Listen to me, please. I know it doesn’t look like it right now, but I want you to know that…you are loved.”
“Oh please, spare me the bullshit!” yelled Antero while slapping Nikita upside the head.
“Shut up and keep your hands off of her, Antero!” snapped Oswald. “I want to hear what she has to say.”
“You heard the man,” mocked Antero. “Or should I say manlet. Go ahead, Nikita Johnsonville Brats, let’s see if you can talk yourself out of this shit.”
With all eyes on her, she took her time to catch her breath and steady her tears. She even formed a warm smile for Oswald as she spoke, to let him know her feelings were genuine. “Oswald, someone out there loves you for who you are. It doesn’t even have to be romantic love. It could just be a loving friendship. If you put yourself out there, someone will find you. This world is only a bad place if you make it that way. And it’s an even worse place if you let people like Antero tell you it is.”
Folding his arms impatiently, Antero sarcastically asked, “Are you done yet, princess? Good, then shut the fuck up and prepare to die. Go ahead, Oz-Man, pull the chains and let’s get the fuck out of here. We’ll grab a bite to eat at McDonald’s afterwards, maybe catch us some underage pussy.”
When Oswald furrowed his brows and lifted all three chains, the captives yelped in horror and cried once again. Valerie mouthed the word “please” over and over again in a last ditch effort for her life to be spared. Wacey tucked his chin either in shame or because he was too “manly” to let a midget see him cry. Nikita once again smiled warmly at Oswald as if she meant everything she said.
Three “strangers” whose lives were in his hands. One tug of the chains could put an end to his misery. Revenge could taste as sweet as cherry pie all over again. Antero was practically salivating at the idea of finally converting Oswald to his side. But in the end, the dwarf had no choice but to drop the chains and curl into a ball to cry his own eyes out. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, guys!” he sobbed. “I can’t do this anymore! I want to be loved! I want people to care about me!”
All three captives breathed a sigh of relief while Antero shook his head and slowly approached the dwarf. The Finnish-Swede terrorist knelt beside Oswald and wrapped his arm around his shoulders. “There, there, little guy. It’s okay. I understand if you can’t do it.”
Oswald lifted his face and gave a small smile of his own. “Really? You mean it?”
“Nah, I’m just kidding. You’re a puss-bag,” said Antero before kneeing the dwarf in the forehead and sending him instantly into dreamland. From there a cacophony of noises swirled in Oswald’s brain. He couldn’t decipher whether or not they were the captives’ screams, police sirens, or just a bunch of bullshit from his head injuries. If this was the day he would die, he could die knowing at least one person in this world loved him.
The dim lighting revealed a broken down abandoned warehouse with crates stacked as high as the eye could see, warped wood all around, and the most important feature, three chair bound human beings with hoods over their heads. No matter how vigorously the captives struggled, their ropes only seemed to get tighter. Moderating this kidnapping was Antero Magnus himself, drumming his fingers across the back of the middle captive’s chair. “Leave us. Don’t get caught,” he told his henchmen, who were happy to oblige.
Oswald’s bloodshot eyes still pounded in his skull as they adjusted, but his vision was clear enough to take in the horror of Antero gazing at him with those ice-cold cyan eyes. “What do you want this time? You do realize that the police are probably looking for you…”
Antero put a finger to his own lips and shushed his “buddy”. “Relax, Oz-Man. Nobody’s coming to rescue you or these three jack-offs I have here. Remember how I told you we don’t use the same meeting place twice?”
“What do you want from me?”
“I’m glad you asked that, Oswald, I really am. As one of my boys told you prior to busting you out of jail (you’re welcome, by the way), you have a decision to make. Do you want to let this world walk all over you or do you want to stand up for yourself?” Oswald tried to speak, but was once again cut off by Antero. “Ah, ah, ah! Before you answer that, allow me to reveal the people who will have a strong influence on your decision. Three people who don’t know what love is, yet they somehow believe they’re actually closer to you than a stranger.”
Antero proceeded to remove the hoods from his captives. On the far left, the blubbering muscle jock Wacey Judge, who didn’t look so tough with his mile long sad face. In the middle, there was Valerie Sand, who like her counterpart had a hard time keeping it together. And then on the right, Nikita Johnson, who was sporting a black eye not unlike the one Jessica had earlier in the evening. Oswald didn’t know whether to look at these three people in disgust, fear, or disturbance. His mind swirled for more reasons than having a fucked up brain.
“You see these three normies?” said Antero as he spread his arms out for display purposes. “Their lives are in your hands, Oswald. You can’t see it right now because the warehouse is so damn dark, but underneath their chairs are trap doors which will lead them to a cold, watery death. The chains attached to these trap doors are by your feet. If you so choose, you can pull those chains and finally stand up for what you believe in.”
“…You’re insane!” whined Oswald.
“No, little man, you’re insane!” snapped Wacey. “You think you have the right to kill me because of some friendly ribbing? Come on, man, that’s a little extreme, don’t you think?”
“Friendly ribbing, my ass!” shouted Oswald, his hand firmly on Wacey’s trap door chain. “You’re the whole reason why I needed to learn how to fight in the first fucking place! Do you have any idea how close you came to killing my ass?! It’s too late for apologies, you meathead! Time to die!”
“No, stop!” pleaded Valerie. “Oswald, think about what you’re doing here. Look, I don’t condone what Wacey did to you. But if you kill him, there’s no turning back from that. The police will find you and lock you up for life. You’ll never have the chance to be the successful writer you’ve always wanted to be.”
“I wasn’t going to be a successful writer anyways, you little shit!” belted the dwarf, dropping Wacey’s chain and picking up Valerie’s. “Ever since I’ve signed up for college, you’ve done nothing but hold me back. I’d be lucky to graduate at all under your tutelage. You don’t see greatness in me. You don’t see greatness in any of your students, for that matter. We’re all just one big shit puddle of mediocrity to you! “
“That’s not true, Oswald!” cried Nikita, who then winced in pain from her fresh black eye. “She gives you those critiques because she wants you to be the best you can possibly be. I know this because I’ve gotten harsh critiques too. If I’m not immune to it, why should you be? Are you really going to kill your teacher over a bad grade?”
Oswald dropped Valerie’s chain and wasted no time in gathering Nikita’s slack. “No, I’m not going to kill my teacher. I’ll kill you instead! Here I thought Valerie was holding me back when it was you who turned me in to the police in the first fucking place. All for what? Because I don’t conform to your idea of what it means to be healthy? Newsflash, bitch! I’m not healthy. I’m sick! I’m so fucking sick of this goddamn world!”
“Yes! That’s what I like to see,” exclaimed Antero while throwing his hands in the air. “Passion! Energy! Emotion! Oh, this is better than going to the movies. Go ahead, Oz-Man, pull those motherfucking chains and prove your loyalty to Incelbordination!”
“Yeah, man, what are you waiting for?” blubbered Wacey. “Quit making us wait and kill us already. It’s not like we’re ever going to get out of here alive anyways.”
“Damn it, Wacey, shut the fuck up!” roared Nikita, putting the muscle jock in his place. She turned her attention back to Oswald with tears mounting in her swollen eyes, a sight the dwarf couldn’t help but feel for. “Listen to me, please. I know it doesn’t look like it right now, but I want you to know that…you are loved.”
“Oh please, spare me the bullshit!” yelled Antero while slapping Nikita upside the head.
“Shut up and keep your hands off of her, Antero!” snapped Oswald. “I want to hear what she has to say.”
“You heard the man,” mocked Antero. “Or should I say manlet. Go ahead, Nikita Johnsonville Brats, let’s see if you can talk yourself out of this shit.”
With all eyes on her, she took her time to catch her breath and steady her tears. She even formed a warm smile for Oswald as she spoke, to let him know her feelings were genuine. “Oswald, someone out there loves you for who you are. It doesn’t even have to be romantic love. It could just be a loving friendship. If you put yourself out there, someone will find you. This world is only a bad place if you make it that way. And it’s an even worse place if you let people like Antero tell you it is.”
Folding his arms impatiently, Antero sarcastically asked, “Are you done yet, princess? Good, then shut the fuck up and prepare to die. Go ahead, Oz-Man, pull the chains and let’s get the fuck out of here. We’ll grab a bite to eat at McDonald’s afterwards, maybe catch us some underage pussy.”
When Oswald furrowed his brows and lifted all three chains, the captives yelped in horror and cried once again. Valerie mouthed the word “please” over and over again in a last ditch effort for her life to be spared. Wacey tucked his chin either in shame or because he was too “manly” to let a midget see him cry. Nikita once again smiled warmly at Oswald as if she meant everything she said.
Three “strangers” whose lives were in his hands. One tug of the chains could put an end to his misery. Revenge could taste as sweet as cherry pie all over again. Antero was practically salivating at the idea of finally converting Oswald to his side. But in the end, the dwarf had no choice but to drop the chains and curl into a ball to cry his own eyes out. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, guys!” he sobbed. “I can’t do this anymore! I want to be loved! I want people to care about me!”
All three captives breathed a sigh of relief while Antero shook his head and slowly approached the dwarf. The Finnish-Swede terrorist knelt beside Oswald and wrapped his arm around his shoulders. “There, there, little guy. It’s okay. I understand if you can’t do it.”
Oswald lifted his face and gave a small smile of his own. “Really? You mean it?”
“Nah, I’m just kidding. You’re a puss-bag,” said Antero before kneeing the dwarf in the forehead and sending him instantly into dreamland. From there a cacophony of noises swirled in Oswald’s brain. He couldn’t decipher whether or not they were the captives’ screams, police sirens, or just a bunch of bullshit from his head injuries. If this was the day he would die, he could die knowing at least one person in this world loved him.
September 5, 2018
Incelbordination, Chapter 12
“It’s over…it’s all over…I’m dead…” Oswald silently mouthed as he sat in his jail cell awaiting whatever hell was coming his way. “Shit, I’m already in hell. I’ve been in hell ever since I was fucking born!” he ranted while attempting to punch the cell bars. He pulled back at the last minute after learning his lesson in the interrogation room. But that was where the learning ended for him. Even if he somehow was found not guilty for these pseudo crimes, he figured he’d get expelled from college in a heartbeat. Then what? Why all the hard work if it was just going to be ripped away from him? “This is bullshit!”
“Oh, please! Stop being such a baby. At least you’ll live another day,” said a familiar feminine voice from within the cell. Oswald hopped down from his bunk and got a better look at the shadows covering this woman’s face. It wasn’t a woman at all. It was the teenager from McDonald’s, complete with a black eye and scratches on her bare legs.
Referring to the “live another day” remark, Oswald asked, “What are you, a fucking fortune teller now?”
“No. I’m just stating the facts,” the girl said while sitting on her own bunker and swinging her aching feet. “It finally happened. I got picked up. At least you have a future of some kind. Me? I’ve lost everything. Can’t you tell how happy I am? Maybe I should try again at getting someone to buy a Hap-Hap-Happy Meal for me!” She swung her arm in mock joy to drive home her point.
“At least you’re not being accused of terrorism,” said Oswald with rolled eyes and folded arms.
“Terrorism, shmerrorism. As long as you didn’t do a damn thing, they can’t hold you forever. I’m the only one between the two of us who actually committed a crime. Meanwhile, my asshole client is probably partying it up somewhere. Nobody will tell me what happened to him.” The girl laid on her back and placed both hands behind her head in a vain attempt to relax, which was nearly impossible to do on these rock-hard beds.
“How do you know what I’m being accused of?”
“Because you wouldn’t shut up about it!” snapped the prostitute.
It finally dawned on Oswald that he had been muttering to himself this whole time while being oblivious to everyone around him. He was so anxious, distracted, and traumatized that he had been arguing with his demons rather than real people. The little guy held his head and whined, “Oh, what I wouldn’t give for some weed.”
“I suppose it’s better for you than what I was eating at McDonald’s.” Oswald gave her a confused stare before she clarified, “I meant the food, you nimrod.”
“Oh…of course…well…” He cleared his throat and also tried in vain to relax on his iron bed. He suddenly remembered that he was injured when the uncomfortable bed aggravated his lower back wounds. He clutched his spine and muttered “Ow!” multiple times.
“So tell me…why did you leave me back there?” the teenager asked. “Were you afraid of getting arrested? But now you’re already in jail, so how’s that working out for you? I could have used your help, you know.”
“Pfft! Help with what? I already gave you an ass load of food.” Oswald got an awkward stare from the teen and clarified, “Ass load is a figure of speech, you fool! I wouldn’t do that to you even if you paid me instead of the other way around.”
That got a giggle from the teenager. “My name is Jessica, by the way.” Extending her arm halfway across the cell, she said, “I’d shake your hand right now, but I don’t feel like moving around. As you can tell, I’m pretty banged up. You don’t look so hot yourself, little guy.”
“My name isn’t little guy. It’s Oswald. I’d shake your hand too, but my knuckles are fucked up from punching a glass door. No terrorist in his right mind would do that for a woman.”
Holding her hands up, Jessica said, “Whoa, whoa, whoa…there’s a woman in your life that I’m not aware of? And you came to McDonald’s looking for a good time?”
Oswald shrugged. “Eh, she’s not really my girlfriend. Then again, I’m not really boyfriend material. Too much baggage and not enough height to carry it all. I believe in certain terrorist circles, my type would be referred to as a manlet.”
“You know, you don’t need to hang around with people like that, Oz-Man.”
“Oz-Man? Never been called that before.”
“Get used to it, especially if you do someday hook up with a nice girl. Truth is, if Disney movies taught me anything, it’s that physical appearance is highly overrated. Sometimes all you have to do to win a woman’s heart is to be your sweet self.”
“Trust me, Jessica, I’m not sweet.”
“That’s because you don’t give yourself the chance to be. I still remember how nervous you were around me. You had all of this fast food to pay me with, which pretty much guarantees you a night of fun sex, and you still couldn’t steady yourself for just a few minutes. I’m not saying you have to be obnoxiously confident, but believing in yourself just a little bit might go a long way.”
Oswald sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know…”
Jessica sat up in her bed. “Oz-Man, look at me. You’re selling yourself shor…I mean…you’re not giving yourself enough credit. I don’t know what it is that’s holding you back, but you’ve got to let that shit go. Do you want to be miserable and angry along with the rest of the incels or do you want a little bit of happiness every now and then?”
Oswald sighed again and wiped a modicum of tears from his eyes. “Obviously, I want to be happy, but…”
“But nothing! Happiness is an inside job, don’t you know that? Believe it or not, there were times in my life when I was happy to be on this earth. I loved going to McDonald’s back when I didn’t have to hump anything that walked just for some chicken nuggets. They had a play place, a friendly clown, and some cool toys. Now…” Jessica wiped tears from her own eyes as well. “But no, go on, keep thinking that you’re miserable. Keep pretending that you’re the one who’s hurting.” The teen rolled over on her belly and sobbed silently into her pillow.
What the fuck am I doing here? Oswald thought. All of this legal trouble, all of this heartache, all of this sadness…for what? Sure, he was clinically depressed and anxious, but he knew in his heart of hearts he didn’t do enough for himself. Maybe there was truth in Valerie Sand giving him a C-. Maybe Nikita Johnson was right to take his pot away. Maybe Antero Magnus wasn’t much of a friend to begin with. And Wacey Judge? Well, he could just go fuck himself.
“Jessica…I’m sorry,” Oswald mouthed before being cut off by the sound of a baton banging against the bars. The sudden shock jolted the two cell mates into attention.
“Oswald Crow? You need to come with me now. It’s time to make a decision,” said the chunky police officer with his face covered in shadows.
Decision? What kind of decision? Oswald thought. He couldn’t help but give the guard a weird look on his way out of the cell. Was now the time to decide his plea? Did he have to choose which one of two sentences was the lesser evil? Did he have to choose whether he wanted to be prison raped or beaten to death? These were all unreasonable, yet solid questions, but the one thing Oswald couldn’t help but ask was, “Aren’t you a little out of shape to be a cop?”
Just like that a black hood was placed over his head, causing Oswald to thrash around despite his injuries. Documentaries he watched of water boarding, whipping, and suffocation in Gitmo flashed through his mind while various officers aided in keeping him stabilized. The dwarf was sure he wouldn’t survive such a hellhole. If this was his ticket to the afterlife, he’d rather live in misery despite Jessica’s young wisdom.
And then a familiar voice crept up from behind and asked Oswald a question he’d heard many times before: “Need a light?”
“Oh, please! Stop being such a baby. At least you’ll live another day,” said a familiar feminine voice from within the cell. Oswald hopped down from his bunk and got a better look at the shadows covering this woman’s face. It wasn’t a woman at all. It was the teenager from McDonald’s, complete with a black eye and scratches on her bare legs.
Referring to the “live another day” remark, Oswald asked, “What are you, a fucking fortune teller now?”
“No. I’m just stating the facts,” the girl said while sitting on her own bunker and swinging her aching feet. “It finally happened. I got picked up. At least you have a future of some kind. Me? I’ve lost everything. Can’t you tell how happy I am? Maybe I should try again at getting someone to buy a Hap-Hap-Happy Meal for me!” She swung her arm in mock joy to drive home her point.
“At least you’re not being accused of terrorism,” said Oswald with rolled eyes and folded arms.
“Terrorism, shmerrorism. As long as you didn’t do a damn thing, they can’t hold you forever. I’m the only one between the two of us who actually committed a crime. Meanwhile, my asshole client is probably partying it up somewhere. Nobody will tell me what happened to him.” The girl laid on her back and placed both hands behind her head in a vain attempt to relax, which was nearly impossible to do on these rock-hard beds.
“How do you know what I’m being accused of?”
“Because you wouldn’t shut up about it!” snapped the prostitute.
It finally dawned on Oswald that he had been muttering to himself this whole time while being oblivious to everyone around him. He was so anxious, distracted, and traumatized that he had been arguing with his demons rather than real people. The little guy held his head and whined, “Oh, what I wouldn’t give for some weed.”
“I suppose it’s better for you than what I was eating at McDonald’s.” Oswald gave her a confused stare before she clarified, “I meant the food, you nimrod.”
“Oh…of course…well…” He cleared his throat and also tried in vain to relax on his iron bed. He suddenly remembered that he was injured when the uncomfortable bed aggravated his lower back wounds. He clutched his spine and muttered “Ow!” multiple times.
“So tell me…why did you leave me back there?” the teenager asked. “Were you afraid of getting arrested? But now you’re already in jail, so how’s that working out for you? I could have used your help, you know.”
“Pfft! Help with what? I already gave you an ass load of food.” Oswald got an awkward stare from the teen and clarified, “Ass load is a figure of speech, you fool! I wouldn’t do that to you even if you paid me instead of the other way around.”
That got a giggle from the teenager. “My name is Jessica, by the way.” Extending her arm halfway across the cell, she said, “I’d shake your hand right now, but I don’t feel like moving around. As you can tell, I’m pretty banged up. You don’t look so hot yourself, little guy.”
“My name isn’t little guy. It’s Oswald. I’d shake your hand too, but my knuckles are fucked up from punching a glass door. No terrorist in his right mind would do that for a woman.”
Holding her hands up, Jessica said, “Whoa, whoa, whoa…there’s a woman in your life that I’m not aware of? And you came to McDonald’s looking for a good time?”
Oswald shrugged. “Eh, she’s not really my girlfriend. Then again, I’m not really boyfriend material. Too much baggage and not enough height to carry it all. I believe in certain terrorist circles, my type would be referred to as a manlet.”
“You know, you don’t need to hang around with people like that, Oz-Man.”
“Oz-Man? Never been called that before.”
“Get used to it, especially if you do someday hook up with a nice girl. Truth is, if Disney movies taught me anything, it’s that physical appearance is highly overrated. Sometimes all you have to do to win a woman’s heart is to be your sweet self.”
“Trust me, Jessica, I’m not sweet.”
“That’s because you don’t give yourself the chance to be. I still remember how nervous you were around me. You had all of this fast food to pay me with, which pretty much guarantees you a night of fun sex, and you still couldn’t steady yourself for just a few minutes. I’m not saying you have to be obnoxiously confident, but believing in yourself just a little bit might go a long way.”
Oswald sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know…”
Jessica sat up in her bed. “Oz-Man, look at me. You’re selling yourself shor…I mean…you’re not giving yourself enough credit. I don’t know what it is that’s holding you back, but you’ve got to let that shit go. Do you want to be miserable and angry along with the rest of the incels or do you want a little bit of happiness every now and then?”
Oswald sighed again and wiped a modicum of tears from his eyes. “Obviously, I want to be happy, but…”
“But nothing! Happiness is an inside job, don’t you know that? Believe it or not, there were times in my life when I was happy to be on this earth. I loved going to McDonald’s back when I didn’t have to hump anything that walked just for some chicken nuggets. They had a play place, a friendly clown, and some cool toys. Now…” Jessica wiped tears from her own eyes as well. “But no, go on, keep thinking that you’re miserable. Keep pretending that you’re the one who’s hurting.” The teen rolled over on her belly and sobbed silently into her pillow.
What the fuck am I doing here? Oswald thought. All of this legal trouble, all of this heartache, all of this sadness…for what? Sure, he was clinically depressed and anxious, but he knew in his heart of hearts he didn’t do enough for himself. Maybe there was truth in Valerie Sand giving him a C-. Maybe Nikita Johnson was right to take his pot away. Maybe Antero Magnus wasn’t much of a friend to begin with. And Wacey Judge? Well, he could just go fuck himself.
“Jessica…I’m sorry,” Oswald mouthed before being cut off by the sound of a baton banging against the bars. The sudden shock jolted the two cell mates into attention.
“Oswald Crow? You need to come with me now. It’s time to make a decision,” said the chunky police officer with his face covered in shadows.
Decision? What kind of decision? Oswald thought. He couldn’t help but give the guard a weird look on his way out of the cell. Was now the time to decide his plea? Did he have to choose which one of two sentences was the lesser evil? Did he have to choose whether he wanted to be prison raped or beaten to death? These were all unreasonable, yet solid questions, but the one thing Oswald couldn’t help but ask was, “Aren’t you a little out of shape to be a cop?”
Just like that a black hood was placed over his head, causing Oswald to thrash around despite his injuries. Documentaries he watched of water boarding, whipping, and suffocation in Gitmo flashed through his mind while various officers aided in keeping him stabilized. The dwarf was sure he wouldn’t survive such a hellhole. If this was his ticket to the afterlife, he’d rather live in misery despite Jessica’s young wisdom.
And then a familiar voice crept up from behind and asked Oswald a question he’d heard many times before: “Need a light?”
September 3, 2018
Extremism, Vol. 2
***EXTREMISM, VOL. 2***
You will learn a lot of things under the teaching tree of Marie Krepps, CEO of Hollow Hills. One of those valuable lessons relates to protagonist sympathy. If you want your readers to side with your protagonist, he or she cannot, I repeat, cannot be worse than the story’s villains. This sounds like common sense to a lot of people, but it’s a lesson I’ve spent a lifetime learning. I’m the same guy who once wrote a piece of high school fiction where the lead character gets a D- in history and then confesses to his girlfriend that he now relates to the Columbine kids. Yeah, let that sink in for a minute.
Extremism of this caliber is not uncommon in this wacky world of ours. I tried to express that in a Poison Tongue Tales story called Thunder Zell, where the lead character, Jacob Tate, crashes his cheating girlfriend’s dinner date…by driving a goddamn tank through the walls of a Chinese restaurant. Now, let’s see here…cheating girlfriend…tank-driving boyfriend…cheating girlfriend…tank-driving boyfriend…which one could possibly be more life-threatening? Which one seems less reasonable out of the two? Although there are some jilted lovers out there who would enjoy the idea of driving a tank into their ex’s personal space, that’s probably not something you want to admit in real life.
Speaking of jilted lovers, here comes a wrestling example of extremism! Yay! You know, because I can’t shut up about wrestling since it’s all I think about 24/7? Back in 2009, WWE Hall of Famer Hulk Hogan was going through a rough divorce with his wife and during that time she was dating a 19-year-old friend of their daughter’s. Here’s the exact quote Hulk Hogan gave to the media: “I could have turned everything into a crime scene, like OJ [Simpson], cutting everybody’s throat. You live a half a mile from the 24,000 square-foot home you can’t go to anymore and you see some 19-year-old kid driving through downtown Clearwater [Florida] in your Escalade, and you know that 19-year-old boy is sleeping in your bed with your wife. I totally understand OJ. I get it.”
Now let’s see here…cutting people…dating a 19-year-old…cutting people…dating a 19-year-old….It was obviously a trying time for Hulk Hogan and he was frustrated beyond belief. But then he starts channeling OJ Simpson and…yeah, not good. Not good at all. What other horrible people could be channeled? Let’s say you’re a dude working up the courage to ask a girl on a date. She calmly says no to you, so you go online and say, “I could have turned that whole neighborhood into a crime scene, like ER [Eliot Rodger], shooting everybody in the face.” Yes, rejection hurts, but it shouldn’t hurt badly enough that you feel like shooting people in the face. Besides the fact that women are allowed to say no to whomever they want and that’s how it should be, you’re not going to be the hero of your story if you can’t keep ER’s name out of your mouth.
But I’m just talking about bad judgment when giving media or online statements. What about actions to back those threats up? It still stands to reason that no hero should behave worse than the villains they’re fighting. To use a real world example that hits close to home for a lot of people, police brutality. The police are hailed as these superheroes who can do no wrong no matter how violent they are, yet there are some bad apples in every department who abuse their power and murder their suspects for minimal shit. Whenever a police officer commits murder or assault, he or she is almost always acquitted and praised as a hero by the public at large. While not all officers are like this, enough of them are, so many in fact that the Black Lives Matter movement became a necessity in the first place.
Obviously, some of these examples of extreme behavior are worse than others, but if you’re in the writing business like I am, take notice. As an author, it’s your job to make your protagonist as relatable and sympathetic as possible. That doesn’t mean he or she can’t be a villain at heart. It doesn’t mean that he or she can’t do questionable things every now and then. But if your protagonist is just one big bucket of gore for no rhyme or reason and your antagonist is more relatable by comparison, your readers are going to tune out and you’ve got lots of one and two-star reviews to look forward to. I learned this lesson the hard way many times in my career and hopefully the lesson will stick this time around. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“I never cared about the money, never really needed fame. You think it would have changed me, but I’ve always been the same. My label tried to sue me. TMZ tried to screw me. Blabber Mouth can fuck itself ‘cause they never fucking knew me. Everybody seems like they’re waiting for me to die. Talk shit behind my back, can’t look me in the eye. They say I’m overrated, that I should have already faded. Don’t give a shit about it all because I love to be so hated. I barely get to eat and when I finally get to sleep, I get dragged out of bed for another meet-and-greet. I shake the hand of every fan and put on a happy face. I’m spread so fucking thin that I’m all over the place. I hate riding on the bus. I hate flying in the plane. Sedating myself just to kill the pain. I have no life, gave up on hope. The whole thing’s turned into one big joke. I mean no disrespect, but I ain’t picking up the check. Taking selfies on your phone while you’re breathing down my neck. It’s getting pretty fucking old and I’m almost nearly done. I’m glad that you were happier when I was number one. All in all it’s a good life. I got what I want. I can’t complain. I’m living the good life. A toast to you now. It’s all sham pain.”
-Five Finger Death Punch singing “Sham Pain”-
You will learn a lot of things under the teaching tree of Marie Krepps, CEO of Hollow Hills. One of those valuable lessons relates to protagonist sympathy. If you want your readers to side with your protagonist, he or she cannot, I repeat, cannot be worse than the story’s villains. This sounds like common sense to a lot of people, but it’s a lesson I’ve spent a lifetime learning. I’m the same guy who once wrote a piece of high school fiction where the lead character gets a D- in history and then confesses to his girlfriend that he now relates to the Columbine kids. Yeah, let that sink in for a minute.
Extremism of this caliber is not uncommon in this wacky world of ours. I tried to express that in a Poison Tongue Tales story called Thunder Zell, where the lead character, Jacob Tate, crashes his cheating girlfriend’s dinner date…by driving a goddamn tank through the walls of a Chinese restaurant. Now, let’s see here…cheating girlfriend…tank-driving boyfriend…cheating girlfriend…tank-driving boyfriend…which one could possibly be more life-threatening? Which one seems less reasonable out of the two? Although there are some jilted lovers out there who would enjoy the idea of driving a tank into their ex’s personal space, that’s probably not something you want to admit in real life.
Speaking of jilted lovers, here comes a wrestling example of extremism! Yay! You know, because I can’t shut up about wrestling since it’s all I think about 24/7? Back in 2009, WWE Hall of Famer Hulk Hogan was going through a rough divorce with his wife and during that time she was dating a 19-year-old friend of their daughter’s. Here’s the exact quote Hulk Hogan gave to the media: “I could have turned everything into a crime scene, like OJ [Simpson], cutting everybody’s throat. You live a half a mile from the 24,000 square-foot home you can’t go to anymore and you see some 19-year-old kid driving through downtown Clearwater [Florida] in your Escalade, and you know that 19-year-old boy is sleeping in your bed with your wife. I totally understand OJ. I get it.”
Now let’s see here…cutting people…dating a 19-year-old…cutting people…dating a 19-year-old….It was obviously a trying time for Hulk Hogan and he was frustrated beyond belief. But then he starts channeling OJ Simpson and…yeah, not good. Not good at all. What other horrible people could be channeled? Let’s say you’re a dude working up the courage to ask a girl on a date. She calmly says no to you, so you go online and say, “I could have turned that whole neighborhood into a crime scene, like ER [Eliot Rodger], shooting everybody in the face.” Yes, rejection hurts, but it shouldn’t hurt badly enough that you feel like shooting people in the face. Besides the fact that women are allowed to say no to whomever they want and that’s how it should be, you’re not going to be the hero of your story if you can’t keep ER’s name out of your mouth.
But I’m just talking about bad judgment when giving media or online statements. What about actions to back those threats up? It still stands to reason that no hero should behave worse than the villains they’re fighting. To use a real world example that hits close to home for a lot of people, police brutality. The police are hailed as these superheroes who can do no wrong no matter how violent they are, yet there are some bad apples in every department who abuse their power and murder their suspects for minimal shit. Whenever a police officer commits murder or assault, he or she is almost always acquitted and praised as a hero by the public at large. While not all officers are like this, enough of them are, so many in fact that the Black Lives Matter movement became a necessity in the first place.
Obviously, some of these examples of extreme behavior are worse than others, but if you’re in the writing business like I am, take notice. As an author, it’s your job to make your protagonist as relatable and sympathetic as possible. That doesn’t mean he or she can’t be a villain at heart. It doesn’t mean that he or she can’t do questionable things every now and then. But if your protagonist is just one big bucket of gore for no rhyme or reason and your antagonist is more relatable by comparison, your readers are going to tune out and you’ve got lots of one and two-star reviews to look forward to. I learned this lesson the hard way many times in my career and hopefully the lesson will stick this time around. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“I never cared about the money, never really needed fame. You think it would have changed me, but I’ve always been the same. My label tried to sue me. TMZ tried to screw me. Blabber Mouth can fuck itself ‘cause they never fucking knew me. Everybody seems like they’re waiting for me to die. Talk shit behind my back, can’t look me in the eye. They say I’m overrated, that I should have already faded. Don’t give a shit about it all because I love to be so hated. I barely get to eat and when I finally get to sleep, I get dragged out of bed for another meet-and-greet. I shake the hand of every fan and put on a happy face. I’m spread so fucking thin that I’m all over the place. I hate riding on the bus. I hate flying in the plane. Sedating myself just to kill the pain. I have no life, gave up on hope. The whole thing’s turned into one big joke. I mean no disrespect, but I ain’t picking up the check. Taking selfies on your phone while you’re breathing down my neck. It’s getting pretty fucking old and I’m almost nearly done. I’m glad that you were happier when I was number one. All in all it’s a good life. I got what I want. I can’t complain. I’m living the good life. A toast to you now. It’s all sham pain.”
-Five Finger Death Punch singing “Sham Pain”-
