Garrison Kelly's Blog, page 61
May 31, 2018
Beautiful Monster, Chapter 16
“Cock-a-doodle-do, motherfucker. Or as your girlfriend likes to say, any cock will do.” Rinehart’s grating voice jolted Windham awake and caused him to thrash around in his new bindings. The initial rage didn’t wear off for a while, but he eventually got exhausted enough to calm down and take in his new surroundings. His wrists and ankles were strapped to a wooden chair while his mouth still had the drool-covered cloth gag stuffing it shut. He tried in vain to speak his mind, but all that came out were a series of angry M’s.
Standing in front of him in a darkened room only lit by torches were an arrogantly smiling Rinehart flanked by the two Jamokes (one of whom had his nose stapled to his skull) and Christian’s brother Kody. They all had their arms folded and they all looked down upon the helpless Windham like he was the lowest form of pond scum.
“It’s funny,” said Rinehart. “I don’t remember the weather being this humid, and yet here is this fucking faggot elf sweating bullets. It must be all the romantic tension in the air.” As Kody and the Jamokes laughed, Windham tossed and turned some more to no avail. He hoped the sweat drooling from his pores would make his limbs slick enough to pull out of the leather straps. Hope in one hand, shit in the other.
Rinehart leaned in nose-to-nose with Windham and stared into those angry eyes with vicious pupils of his own. “I bet you’re wondering why I even have you here in the first place. Well, you kind of stormed off earlier in the day without letting me give you a proper briefing, so I thought I’d do the nice thing and explain myself before Kody here gives you the ass beating on a lifetime. It’s the least I could do.”
Windham once again tried to speak through his gag, but Rinehart shushed him and put his sausage finger over his lips. He said, “You can’t form a reasonable sentence with just the letter M, so you might as well shut the fuck up and let me finish. When last we left you, you went on a little reconnaissance mission up north to take a few notes. But in reality, we already knew what the fuck was up there, which was why we sent you there in the first place.”
The elf sweated even harder, feeling the heat even after wearing little more than red leather pants. Rinehart explained, “You see, Windham, the whole reconnaissance mission was a cover up for something bigger and better, a test to see just how much of a man you really are. You failed that test big time when you burned down Shelly’s castle. Shelly and Torger had a huge fucking price on their heads, so in exchange for their freedom, they get to show some of our men a good time. Every guy I sent up there came home with balls bigger than their heads. You? You came home crying like a bitch in your girlfriend’s arms. I don’t put up with faggot shit in my army, do you understand?”
Rinehart had the decency to remove Windham’s gag and it turned out the elf had a lot to say about this revelation. “You made a deal?” he whispered with seething rage. “You made a deal with that rapist? You made a deal?!” The last rhetorical question was complimented with even more thrashes of resistance, only to be shut down by Rinehart clutching the elf’s jaw with a vice grip.
“If you had any testosterone in your body at all, you wouldn’t bitch and gripe about something that isn’t there,” snarled Rinehart. “Sex is supposed to be fun! Sex is supposed to be enjoyable! I admit, Shelly and Torger are into some kinky, painful shit, but it doesn’t really take away from the fun, does it? Just ask Kody over there. In fact, ask anybody who’s been on the recon mission before you. Shelly’s like the village bicycle: everybody’s had a ride! And you had to ruin it for future prospects, didn’t you!”
Windham tried to bite down on Rinehart’s palm, but the Commander jerked it away just in time. After a few more growls of hungry vitriol, the elf asked, “Where’s Tarja?! If I find out you hurt her, I’m going to leap out of this chair and…”
“You ain’t leaping out of anything, you nancy boy motherfucker!” snapped Rinehart. “And even if you did, we don’t know where the fuck that bitch is! She could be anywhere! But make no mistake about it, Windham: when we find her, we’re going to make her pay double the price, one for throwing Christian through a window and two for corrupting that soft, weak ass mind of yours. It’s a shame. You were once regarded as the best fighter in this whole group. But those fighting skills don’t mean shit without toughness. And the way I see it, you ain’t got what it takes anymore!”
Windham continued to twist and jerk around, but the leather straps ground down on his limbs even tighter, forming ugly shades of purple. Rinehart taunted him some more. “If you want a little more colorful description of what’s going to happen to Tarja once we find her, look no further than the master poet himself, Kody Savage! Take it away, Kodes!”
Rinehart and the two Jamokes vacated the room and left Windham all alone to stare into the hideous visage of Kody Savage, who leaned in closer with psychosis written everywhere. “Oh, what I’m going to do to that crazy bitch…”
“Don’t talk about her like that!” threatened Windham.
“You think that’s the worst thing I have to say about her, jack-off? Huh? Oh, you ain’t heard shit yet.” Kody drooled a little bit and his eyes widened as he started his disturbing oratory. “First…I’m going to force Tarja to suck me off…and then…I’m going to squirt all over her face and give her a milk moustache!”
“You son of a bitch!” shouted Windham as he wailed around some more to no results.
“Oh, you think I’m done? I’m just getting warmed up!” Kody formed his hand into an iron fist and said, “Next…I’m going to take this arm…and JAM it so far up her asshole that she’ll choke on it! She’ll think she’d been fucked by a redwood! I won’t stop fisting her until her sphincter is the size of our double doors!”
Windham’s swearing became less coherent and more drool-induced while he bounced up and down in his bondage. The spittle on his lips formed into a cream-like foam that reminded Kody of a rabid wolverine. Nevertheless, Mr. Savage knew he was in control and continued to ham it up.
“And you want to know what else?” said Kody with a serpentine grin. “I’m going to stick my face between her legs…and eat her slowly…but I’m not talking about cunnilingus, no…I’m actually planning on eating her for lunch…I’ll chew through her walls until I’m dining on that piece of shit she calls a heart! And then…I’ll drink her cum like the finest wine! I might even get drunk off of it, who knows?”
By the time Windham was finished struggling in his bondage, the sweat and foam dripped off of him like a tidal wave of hatred. Exhaustion hit him like a wrecking ball to the gut. He breathed heavily like he was sucking down a tornado of fresh oxygen. But the biggest giveaway for Kody was the little patch of wetness forming in Windham’s eyes. The elf tried to fight at as Kody Savage was easily the least deserving of his tears. His eyes glowed red with puffiness as he resisted the urge.
“What, are you going to cry now? Come on, you big baby! Cry for me! Come on, sweetie pie, cry like a bitch! Waaaaaaaah! Waaaaaaaah! Come on, you big fucking baby, let it all out!” taunted Kody. The rest of his dialogue became a hodgepodge of gibberish as Windham’s mind raced with white hot venom. All the laughter, all the taunting, all the slurs, and the fact that his virginity was sold to a woman he never loved…they all set off a volcano in his veins.
And then, with one more He-Man tug of strength…the bonds came loose.
Standing in front of him in a darkened room only lit by torches were an arrogantly smiling Rinehart flanked by the two Jamokes (one of whom had his nose stapled to his skull) and Christian’s brother Kody. They all had their arms folded and they all looked down upon the helpless Windham like he was the lowest form of pond scum.
“It’s funny,” said Rinehart. “I don’t remember the weather being this humid, and yet here is this fucking faggot elf sweating bullets. It must be all the romantic tension in the air.” As Kody and the Jamokes laughed, Windham tossed and turned some more to no avail. He hoped the sweat drooling from his pores would make his limbs slick enough to pull out of the leather straps. Hope in one hand, shit in the other.
Rinehart leaned in nose-to-nose with Windham and stared into those angry eyes with vicious pupils of his own. “I bet you’re wondering why I even have you here in the first place. Well, you kind of stormed off earlier in the day without letting me give you a proper briefing, so I thought I’d do the nice thing and explain myself before Kody here gives you the ass beating on a lifetime. It’s the least I could do.”
Windham once again tried to speak through his gag, but Rinehart shushed him and put his sausage finger over his lips. He said, “You can’t form a reasonable sentence with just the letter M, so you might as well shut the fuck up and let me finish. When last we left you, you went on a little reconnaissance mission up north to take a few notes. But in reality, we already knew what the fuck was up there, which was why we sent you there in the first place.”
The elf sweated even harder, feeling the heat even after wearing little more than red leather pants. Rinehart explained, “You see, Windham, the whole reconnaissance mission was a cover up for something bigger and better, a test to see just how much of a man you really are. You failed that test big time when you burned down Shelly’s castle. Shelly and Torger had a huge fucking price on their heads, so in exchange for their freedom, they get to show some of our men a good time. Every guy I sent up there came home with balls bigger than their heads. You? You came home crying like a bitch in your girlfriend’s arms. I don’t put up with faggot shit in my army, do you understand?”
Rinehart had the decency to remove Windham’s gag and it turned out the elf had a lot to say about this revelation. “You made a deal?” he whispered with seething rage. “You made a deal with that rapist? You made a deal?!” The last rhetorical question was complimented with even more thrashes of resistance, only to be shut down by Rinehart clutching the elf’s jaw with a vice grip.
“If you had any testosterone in your body at all, you wouldn’t bitch and gripe about something that isn’t there,” snarled Rinehart. “Sex is supposed to be fun! Sex is supposed to be enjoyable! I admit, Shelly and Torger are into some kinky, painful shit, but it doesn’t really take away from the fun, does it? Just ask Kody over there. In fact, ask anybody who’s been on the recon mission before you. Shelly’s like the village bicycle: everybody’s had a ride! And you had to ruin it for future prospects, didn’t you!”
Windham tried to bite down on Rinehart’s palm, but the Commander jerked it away just in time. After a few more growls of hungry vitriol, the elf asked, “Where’s Tarja?! If I find out you hurt her, I’m going to leap out of this chair and…”
“You ain’t leaping out of anything, you nancy boy motherfucker!” snapped Rinehart. “And even if you did, we don’t know where the fuck that bitch is! She could be anywhere! But make no mistake about it, Windham: when we find her, we’re going to make her pay double the price, one for throwing Christian through a window and two for corrupting that soft, weak ass mind of yours. It’s a shame. You were once regarded as the best fighter in this whole group. But those fighting skills don’t mean shit without toughness. And the way I see it, you ain’t got what it takes anymore!”
Windham continued to twist and jerk around, but the leather straps ground down on his limbs even tighter, forming ugly shades of purple. Rinehart taunted him some more. “If you want a little more colorful description of what’s going to happen to Tarja once we find her, look no further than the master poet himself, Kody Savage! Take it away, Kodes!”
Rinehart and the two Jamokes vacated the room and left Windham all alone to stare into the hideous visage of Kody Savage, who leaned in closer with psychosis written everywhere. “Oh, what I’m going to do to that crazy bitch…”
“Don’t talk about her like that!” threatened Windham.
“You think that’s the worst thing I have to say about her, jack-off? Huh? Oh, you ain’t heard shit yet.” Kody drooled a little bit and his eyes widened as he started his disturbing oratory. “First…I’m going to force Tarja to suck me off…and then…I’m going to squirt all over her face and give her a milk moustache!”
“You son of a bitch!” shouted Windham as he wailed around some more to no results.
“Oh, you think I’m done? I’m just getting warmed up!” Kody formed his hand into an iron fist and said, “Next…I’m going to take this arm…and JAM it so far up her asshole that she’ll choke on it! She’ll think she’d been fucked by a redwood! I won’t stop fisting her until her sphincter is the size of our double doors!”
Windham’s swearing became less coherent and more drool-induced while he bounced up and down in his bondage. The spittle on his lips formed into a cream-like foam that reminded Kody of a rabid wolverine. Nevertheless, Mr. Savage knew he was in control and continued to ham it up.
“And you want to know what else?” said Kody with a serpentine grin. “I’m going to stick my face between her legs…and eat her slowly…but I’m not talking about cunnilingus, no…I’m actually planning on eating her for lunch…I’ll chew through her walls until I’m dining on that piece of shit she calls a heart! And then…I’ll drink her cum like the finest wine! I might even get drunk off of it, who knows?”
By the time Windham was finished struggling in his bondage, the sweat and foam dripped off of him like a tidal wave of hatred. Exhaustion hit him like a wrecking ball to the gut. He breathed heavily like he was sucking down a tornado of fresh oxygen. But the biggest giveaway for Kody was the little patch of wetness forming in Windham’s eyes. The elf tried to fight at as Kody Savage was easily the least deserving of his tears. His eyes glowed red with puffiness as he resisted the urge.
“What, are you going to cry now? Come on, you big baby! Cry for me! Come on, sweetie pie, cry like a bitch! Waaaaaaaah! Waaaaaaaah! Come on, you big fucking baby, let it all out!” taunted Kody. The rest of his dialogue became a hodgepodge of gibberish as Windham’s mind raced with white hot venom. All the laughter, all the taunting, all the slurs, and the fact that his virginity was sold to a woman he never loved…they all set off a volcano in his veins.
And then, with one more He-Man tug of strength…the bonds came loose.
Do It Live
VERSE 1
I hate answering the phone, I hate answering the door
Especially when all I want to do is fucking snore
I hate cleaning up cat barf, I hate cleaning up dog shit
I speak a colorful language and I won’t fucking watch it
I hate lifting heavy boxes, I hate bumping into walls
I hate having to tell the dog to not scratch my balls
The little things I hate send me into a bloody rage
If throwing fits was a crime, I’d be in a monkey cage
CHORUS
I’ll write it and we’ll do it live!
We’ll do it live!
Fuck it, do it live!
Fucking thing sucks!
VERSE 2
Every character I have is on a violent rampage
Every song that I write is dripping with rage
Every story that I publish is drooling with venom
Every drawing that I make is another damn weapon
Every thought that I have makes me want to punch
A fucking hole in your skull and have it for lunch
I need anger management in the worst fucking way
Before the world at large is going to fucking pay
CHORUS
I’ll write it and we’ll do it live!
We’ll do it live!
Fuck it, do it live!
Fucking thing sucks!
VERSE 3
Maybe my short fuse can be blamed on schizophrenia
Or maybe it’s been a while since I’ve had an enema
Or maybe I don’t do enough yoga in hot shorts
Or maybe my blood sugar is a little low on quarts
Or maybe it’s my past of being stuck in class
With the pieces of shit and the pains in the ass
Or maybe I’m just born with a dragon fire temper
Or maybe I’m sick of being my own defender
FINAL WORDS
Do it live, motherfucker! Do it live! X4
I hate answering the phone, I hate answering the door
Especially when all I want to do is fucking snore
I hate cleaning up cat barf, I hate cleaning up dog shit
I speak a colorful language and I won’t fucking watch it
I hate lifting heavy boxes, I hate bumping into walls
I hate having to tell the dog to not scratch my balls
The little things I hate send me into a bloody rage
If throwing fits was a crime, I’d be in a monkey cage
CHORUS
I’ll write it and we’ll do it live!
We’ll do it live!
Fuck it, do it live!
Fucking thing sucks!
VERSE 2
Every character I have is on a violent rampage
Every song that I write is dripping with rage
Every story that I publish is drooling with venom
Every drawing that I make is another damn weapon
Every thought that I have makes me want to punch
A fucking hole in your skull and have it for lunch
I need anger management in the worst fucking way
Before the world at large is going to fucking pay
CHORUS
I’ll write it and we’ll do it live!
We’ll do it live!
Fuck it, do it live!
Fucking thing sucks!
VERSE 3
Maybe my short fuse can be blamed on schizophrenia
Or maybe it’s been a while since I’ve had an enema
Or maybe I don’t do enough yoga in hot shorts
Or maybe my blood sugar is a little low on quarts
Or maybe it’s my past of being stuck in class
With the pieces of shit and the pains in the ass
Or maybe I’m just born with a dragon fire temper
Or maybe I’m sick of being my own defender
FINAL WORDS
Do it live, motherfucker! Do it live! X4
May 30, 2018
Beautiful Monster, Chapter 15
Windham Xavier wasn’t lying when he said it only hurt when he was sober. The pale moonlight beamed through his hotel room window and sobriety hit him like a right hook to the gut. He did everything he could to fight back his tears, including placing his naked arm over his eyes. Dressed in nothing more than red leather pants, he laid on his bed and sang to himself in a trembling voice. “I’m sorry about the madness…but that’s the way it’s got to be…’cause it takes a crazy woman…to love a reckless man like me…”
Only he didn’t sing that number to himself, as evidenced by the obnoxious sound of men clapping, cheering, and whistling sarcastically. “Oh no,” said Windham as he removed his arm from his eyes and saw three men dressed in Paladin Cross armor and black trench coats standing at least twelve feet away from him. He didn’t recognize the pudgy, horseshoe-haired twins standing to the left and right, but the man in the middle was as clear as day with his spiky hair, scraggly goatee, and menacing gaze. “How long have you been standing there, Kody?” Windham asked.
“Long enough to hear that magnificent performance,” said Kody in a sarcastic Shakespearean voice. He cleared his throat and spit his mucous on the wooden floors, much to Windham’s scrunch-faced disgust. “So, you do know who I am, don’t you. I’m Christian’s brother.”
Darting his eyes around the room nervously, Windham asked, “Where’s Christian?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, but he couldn’t join us today. He’s taking a permanent vacation in the local cemetery.” Kody leaned in closer with his fiery scowl. “And it’s all because of your new piece of ass. She threw his carcass through a fucking window and sliced him up like a roasted turkey. I don’t know about you, Windham, but I’d say the bitch has been having a bad influence on you. Rinehart would agree with me.”
Furrowing his brows in anger, Windham asked, “Where’s Tarja? What did you do to her?!”
“Hell if I know where she is. We followed her here and she just took off like a bat out of hell. Hasn’t been seen since. Her face was pouring wet like horny teenaged pussy. It makes me wonder what the hell you’ve done to her lately.”
“What the fuck are you three pigs doing in my room?” asked Windham. “I already know Kody is out for revenge or some shit, but I have no idea who you two ass-clowns are, so I’m just going to refer to you guys as Jamoke #1 and Jamoke #2. How does that sound?”
The two Jamokes had to be restrained by Kody’s extended arms. “Hold on a second, guys. Rinehart wants this dude alive, as hard as it is to believe. We shouldn’t be making the same mistakes Windham did when he killed off Shelly and Torger.”
“Wait a minute…what the hell does Rinehart want with me?”
“Oh, you didn’t hear?” said Kody with a sadistic grin on his face. “My apologies. I should have been more specific. You see…the big man has a bounty on your head and the three of us intend to collect. It’s not much, but…aren’t you at least curious about how much you’re worth to him? Do you want to know…how much you are?” He pulled out a measly silver coin and said, “Half up front, half when the job is over.”
As the two Jamokes hyena laughed their heads off at the obvious prostitute joke, Windham let it all sink in while curling his muscles and gripping the sheets with animalistic rage. He even growled a few times, but the two Jamokes wouldn’t stop howling and Kody just stood there with folded arms and a million dollar smile.
Reaching down beside the bed, Windham grabbed his leather whip and struck first. He wrapped it around Jamoke #1’s thick arm with one lash and tugged him to the ground face first, with his nose and mouth landing in Kody’s snot. Jamoke #2 bull rushed him and got a bare heel to the bridge of his nose for his efforts, shattering the bone and bleeding him like a pig. Retracting the whip, he leapt out of bed and confronted Kody one on one.
“That’s right, sweet songstress,” mocked Kody. “Let’s see what you’ve got. And try not to cry like a little bitch when I beat your ass raw. Speaking of beating your ass raw, is it true that Shelly and Torger…?”
Before the bounty hunter could finish his sentence, Windham threw an enraged whip strike and missed his target when he dodged out of the way. Fighting on adrenaline and wild emotions (fully sober, no less), Windham growled a leonine growl while throwing rapid fire whiplashes, making Kody dance across the floor to avoid these otherwise bloody shots.
“Come on, you leather queen! I thought Tarja said you were the best soldier in Paladin Cross! What’s the matter? Did you leave your balls in the North Country again or does Tarja have them in her little Happy Ending kit?” taunted Kody while wiggling his tongue for effect.
Windham threw another evaded whiplash and opened a sizable hole in the wall. Kody may have been a pasty white guy like his brother, but all the elf saw was pure red. The color of blood. The color of fire. The color of both of those things beautifully mixed together. The rage brought a sick smile to Windham’s face as he threw even more whiplashes, creating bigger dents in the wall and splitting furniture in two while Kody continued to dodge him like a coward.
“Hey, dip shit!” Windham retorted. “Are you going to make any moves of your own or are you going to dance around like a jackass?! You want that price on my head?! You’re going to have to earn it!”
And just like that the elf struggled for oxygen as an ether-soaked rage was placed over his mouth and nose from behind. Windham screamed through his gag while trashing around in the two Jamokes’ beefy arms. He could feel the energy leaving his body in a big fucking hurry while the color in his face faded and his muscles refused to fight. He tried to hold on for dear life. Just a few more seconds of violence with Kody was all Windham needed. Not even one microsecond was afforded to him as he dropped to the ground limp and lifeless, though he could still somewhat hear what Kody and the Jamokes were saying about him.
“Good job, guys! I could have used your help earlier, but you’ve really earned your Jamoke titles tonight. Now help me tie and gag him. Maybe we’ll wrap him like a holiday present for Rinehart or something, I don’t know. Maybe if we leave him tied up long enough, Tarja will get horny for him again and take him back!”
The three bounty hunters chuckled while Windham could do nothing but drool and close his heavy eyelids. Even under the influence of ether, he still had hot venom coursing through his veins. Just a few more seconds. All he wanted was just one more opportunity to land a whiplash anywhere on Kody’s average-looking frame. His legs. His arms. His face. His chest. Maybe even the two parts of his body that seemed to dictate his entire personality: his balls and penis.
Only half awake with numbed out senses (how was that different from any other day?), Windham could only hold still as ropes were being fastened around his legs and arms and a cloth gag was being tied around his mouth. His massive drool soaked through the gag and dripped onto the wooden floor, much to the bounty hunters’ delights.
“You know something, Kody?” said Jamoke #1. “Windham and Tarja fucking deserve each other. They’re both a couple of whiny pussies, but Windham’s happens to be bigger. Are you sure you don’t want to do him right here and call it a day, boss?”
“Nah, let’s let Rinehart have the first crack at him, as temping as it is for me,” said Kody. “Besides, Windham here needs to learn the truth one way or another. Who better to explain it to him that Rinehart? It’s the least we could do for Windham before he gets sent to hell in a shit wagon.”
“Alright, everyone. And a one, and a two, and a three!” With the two Jamokes carrying Windham’s legs and Kody carrying his shoulders, they wasted no time in getting him out of the hotel and god knows where else.
“Let me ask you two something,” said Kody. “Why are you guys grabbing his legs instead of his shoulders? You guys into feet or some shit?”
“No, but he is. I ain’t joking.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh yeah!” said Jamoke #1. “Maybe he can give Rinehart a foot massage when he gets back.”
The laughter and mockery became Windham’s lullaby for transitioning into the nightmare world (again, how was that different from the real one?). His final innermost thought before drifting to sleep was a slurred question as to who was more disgusting: Shelly Atwood or Commander Rinehart?
They both were deadly in their own ways. They both had immature senses of humor. They both used sex as their most lethal weapon. One was more attractive than the other, but that was a non-factor when it came to the traumatic wonderland that was Windham’s mind.
Even in ether-induced sleep, he couldn’t find the peace he was looking for. He missed Tarja, but didn’t expect requited feelings after eating those mushrooms and acting like a jackass. He truly was on his own in this world.
Only he didn’t sing that number to himself, as evidenced by the obnoxious sound of men clapping, cheering, and whistling sarcastically. “Oh no,” said Windham as he removed his arm from his eyes and saw three men dressed in Paladin Cross armor and black trench coats standing at least twelve feet away from him. He didn’t recognize the pudgy, horseshoe-haired twins standing to the left and right, but the man in the middle was as clear as day with his spiky hair, scraggly goatee, and menacing gaze. “How long have you been standing there, Kody?” Windham asked.
“Long enough to hear that magnificent performance,” said Kody in a sarcastic Shakespearean voice. He cleared his throat and spit his mucous on the wooden floors, much to Windham’s scrunch-faced disgust. “So, you do know who I am, don’t you. I’m Christian’s brother.”
Darting his eyes around the room nervously, Windham asked, “Where’s Christian?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, but he couldn’t join us today. He’s taking a permanent vacation in the local cemetery.” Kody leaned in closer with his fiery scowl. “And it’s all because of your new piece of ass. She threw his carcass through a fucking window and sliced him up like a roasted turkey. I don’t know about you, Windham, but I’d say the bitch has been having a bad influence on you. Rinehart would agree with me.”
Furrowing his brows in anger, Windham asked, “Where’s Tarja? What did you do to her?!”
“Hell if I know where she is. We followed her here and she just took off like a bat out of hell. Hasn’t been seen since. Her face was pouring wet like horny teenaged pussy. It makes me wonder what the hell you’ve done to her lately.”
“What the fuck are you three pigs doing in my room?” asked Windham. “I already know Kody is out for revenge or some shit, but I have no idea who you two ass-clowns are, so I’m just going to refer to you guys as Jamoke #1 and Jamoke #2. How does that sound?”
The two Jamokes had to be restrained by Kody’s extended arms. “Hold on a second, guys. Rinehart wants this dude alive, as hard as it is to believe. We shouldn’t be making the same mistakes Windham did when he killed off Shelly and Torger.”
“Wait a minute…what the hell does Rinehart want with me?”
“Oh, you didn’t hear?” said Kody with a sadistic grin on his face. “My apologies. I should have been more specific. You see…the big man has a bounty on your head and the three of us intend to collect. It’s not much, but…aren’t you at least curious about how much you’re worth to him? Do you want to know…how much you are?” He pulled out a measly silver coin and said, “Half up front, half when the job is over.”
As the two Jamokes hyena laughed their heads off at the obvious prostitute joke, Windham let it all sink in while curling his muscles and gripping the sheets with animalistic rage. He even growled a few times, but the two Jamokes wouldn’t stop howling and Kody just stood there with folded arms and a million dollar smile.
Reaching down beside the bed, Windham grabbed his leather whip and struck first. He wrapped it around Jamoke #1’s thick arm with one lash and tugged him to the ground face first, with his nose and mouth landing in Kody’s snot. Jamoke #2 bull rushed him and got a bare heel to the bridge of his nose for his efforts, shattering the bone and bleeding him like a pig. Retracting the whip, he leapt out of bed and confronted Kody one on one.
“That’s right, sweet songstress,” mocked Kody. “Let’s see what you’ve got. And try not to cry like a little bitch when I beat your ass raw. Speaking of beating your ass raw, is it true that Shelly and Torger…?”
Before the bounty hunter could finish his sentence, Windham threw an enraged whip strike and missed his target when he dodged out of the way. Fighting on adrenaline and wild emotions (fully sober, no less), Windham growled a leonine growl while throwing rapid fire whiplashes, making Kody dance across the floor to avoid these otherwise bloody shots.
“Come on, you leather queen! I thought Tarja said you were the best soldier in Paladin Cross! What’s the matter? Did you leave your balls in the North Country again or does Tarja have them in her little Happy Ending kit?” taunted Kody while wiggling his tongue for effect.
Windham threw another evaded whiplash and opened a sizable hole in the wall. Kody may have been a pasty white guy like his brother, but all the elf saw was pure red. The color of blood. The color of fire. The color of both of those things beautifully mixed together. The rage brought a sick smile to Windham’s face as he threw even more whiplashes, creating bigger dents in the wall and splitting furniture in two while Kody continued to dodge him like a coward.
“Hey, dip shit!” Windham retorted. “Are you going to make any moves of your own or are you going to dance around like a jackass?! You want that price on my head?! You’re going to have to earn it!”
And just like that the elf struggled for oxygen as an ether-soaked rage was placed over his mouth and nose from behind. Windham screamed through his gag while trashing around in the two Jamokes’ beefy arms. He could feel the energy leaving his body in a big fucking hurry while the color in his face faded and his muscles refused to fight. He tried to hold on for dear life. Just a few more seconds of violence with Kody was all Windham needed. Not even one microsecond was afforded to him as he dropped to the ground limp and lifeless, though he could still somewhat hear what Kody and the Jamokes were saying about him.
“Good job, guys! I could have used your help earlier, but you’ve really earned your Jamoke titles tonight. Now help me tie and gag him. Maybe we’ll wrap him like a holiday present for Rinehart or something, I don’t know. Maybe if we leave him tied up long enough, Tarja will get horny for him again and take him back!”
The three bounty hunters chuckled while Windham could do nothing but drool and close his heavy eyelids. Even under the influence of ether, he still had hot venom coursing through his veins. Just a few more seconds. All he wanted was just one more opportunity to land a whiplash anywhere on Kody’s average-looking frame. His legs. His arms. His face. His chest. Maybe even the two parts of his body that seemed to dictate his entire personality: his balls and penis.
Only half awake with numbed out senses (how was that different from any other day?), Windham could only hold still as ropes were being fastened around his legs and arms and a cloth gag was being tied around his mouth. His massive drool soaked through the gag and dripped onto the wooden floor, much to the bounty hunters’ delights.
“You know something, Kody?” said Jamoke #1. “Windham and Tarja fucking deserve each other. They’re both a couple of whiny pussies, but Windham’s happens to be bigger. Are you sure you don’t want to do him right here and call it a day, boss?”
“Nah, let’s let Rinehart have the first crack at him, as temping as it is for me,” said Kody. “Besides, Windham here needs to learn the truth one way or another. Who better to explain it to him that Rinehart? It’s the least we could do for Windham before he gets sent to hell in a shit wagon.”
“Alright, everyone. And a one, and a two, and a three!” With the two Jamokes carrying Windham’s legs and Kody carrying his shoulders, they wasted no time in getting him out of the hotel and god knows where else.
“Let me ask you two something,” said Kody. “Why are you guys grabbing his legs instead of his shoulders? You guys into feet or some shit?”
“No, but he is. I ain’t joking.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh yeah!” said Jamoke #1. “Maybe he can give Rinehart a foot massage when he gets back.”
The laughter and mockery became Windham’s lullaby for transitioning into the nightmare world (again, how was that different from the real one?). His final innermost thought before drifting to sleep was a slurred question as to who was more disgusting: Shelly Atwood or Commander Rinehart?
They both were deadly in their own ways. They both had immature senses of humor. They both used sex as their most lethal weapon. One was more attractive than the other, but that was a non-factor when it came to the traumatic wonderland that was Windham’s mind.
Even in ether-induced sleep, he couldn’t find the peace he was looking for. He missed Tarja, but didn’t expect requited feelings after eating those mushrooms and acting like a jackass. He truly was on his own in this world.
May 27, 2018
Beautiful Monster, Chapter 14
Visions of horror slashed Windham’s numbed out mind into bloody shreds as he lay tossing and turning on his hotel bed. Every stroke of his penis, every act of penetration, every gaze into Shelly Atwood’s evil visage, every punch from Torger Manson, Windham felt those things all over again. He escaped from one prison only to be trapped in another: his traumatic mind. His anxiety kept him under lock and key and all he could do was thrash around like a lunatic. What he’d give for freedom. What he’d give for a second chance at a normal life. What he’d give to erase his rape from history.
And then the answer to his problems lied in a small brown sack resting on the nightstand. He fought with his conscience over whether or not it was right to open it. But what good was a conscience if all it did was fuck with him and throw visions of Shelly in his face? In his own words, “What Tarja doesn’t know can’t hurt her.” Windham untied the string around the sack and pulled out one of its many contents: a psychedelic mushroom with mold growing on it. “Okay, Windham…open your mouth, close your eyes, here comes a big surprise.”
He gobbled the mushroom down with minimal effort and maximum results. Within seconds, his pupils dilated to the size of dinner plates. He thrashed around some more and grunted in mild pain. He even clutched his chest and struggled for oxygen. But then his body relaxed and a goofy grin formed across his face. “Much better,” he laughed to himself. “Much, much better!” The laughter poured out of his mouth like verbal diarrhea.
Windham gazed in amazement at everything around the hotel room, as if the mundane actually deserved to be special. Chairs were multicolored. The table had snakes for legs. His bed grew arms that caressed and massaged his bare chest and back like Tarja used to do. Clouds formed above the ceiling and gave way to a rainbow that led to the front entrance. A pot of gold? Here? If there truly was, he’d never have to work for Paladin Cross again.
The elf clapped his hands giddily and ran with his arms flapping like a bird towards the source of the golden glow. He spun around like a ballerina and opened the door to find Tarja Rikkinen standing there with worry dripping from her face. In Windham’s altered state of mind, it could have been literally dripping for all he knew. “Tarja, my darling! Come on in and see the magic with me!” Windham twirled around and flapped his arms some more before plopping back first onto his bed and grinning stupidly.
“Windham?” said Tarja with a shaky voice. “Are you alright? Traumatized people don’t act this way. Something is going on with you. What is it?”
“What is it?” asked Windham as he nipped up and “flew” over to his girlfriend like a bird. “It’s the solution to all of my problems, sweetheart! I don’t have to feel pain anymore. In fact, I feel great! Who knew such magic existed in the world? Food tastes better, flowers smell sweeter, magical creatures dance around like lovely little toddlers. It’s great, Tarja!”
Tarja’s expression grew droopy with sadness when she saw the bag of mushrooms on the nightstand, alongside a bottle of red wine. “No, no, no…” she said to herself as she examined these items closer. Wetness formed in her eyes, but she wouldn’t let the stoned elf see it.
Yet he knew it all along. He disco danced over to her and squeezed her shoulders in a light massage. “Aww, it’s okay, babe! You can cry in front of me if you want. I don’t mind. I think everything about you is beautiful. Your face, your body…your colors! Such beautiful vivid colors!”
“Get your hands off of me!” Tarja shouted while slapping his arms away, only to get another saccharine smile from her entranced boyfriend. “I don’t even recognize you anymore. The Windham I know would never self-medicate like this!”
“Baby, baby, baby,” said Windham with a mock frown. “I took your advice from the other night and tried being an artist. For a while, it worked. Watch me make something out of clay!” The clay was actually his bedspread and all he did was lazily form it into a long tube. “Look, Tarja! I made a giraffe!” The laughs rolled so hard that he doubled over and clutched his ribs in pain.
Tarja wiped away her tears, but refused to give Windham the satisfaction of actually crying in front of him. “We were supposed to go through this together. You and me versus the world. And now look at you. You’re making a joke out of your own pain. You’re a fruitcake. You’re a fucking fruitcake! I blame Shelly for everything.”
“Shelly? Shelly? Who be this Shelly? She sells sea Shellies by the sea shore? Hey, look! I got it right! I think that should go down as a major accomplishment, don’t you agree? Tongue twisters can be such a pain in the ass sometimes.” He showed this by rolling his tongue up into a taco shell. “Mmmmmm, tacos!” He drooled a waterfall and was entranced by the rainbow forming underneath and the mermaids lounging by the puddle.
Tarja had no choice this time. She sat on the bed and poured her tears into her knees. It was always easier for someone like her because she was an “emotional woman”. But even if she was born with different genitalia, she still would have a broken heart over watching Windham self-destruct like this. He tried once again to touch her shoulder and she swatted his hand away and yelled, “I said don’t touch me!”
“Oh, sweetie, don’t be upset,” said Windham in a Shakespearean accent. “Have a mushroom and a sip of wine. You won’t have to feel pain ever again. In fact…it only hurts when I’m sober!” He threw his arms in the air like he was celebrating a monumental victory over his own psychological demons.
“I need to get out of here,” sobbed Tarja. “I can’t believe you’re throwing your life away like this. We were supposed to be a team. I gave you massages, I talked you down, I took your tears…I gave you my body…and this is how you thank me? By killing yourself with drugs? That’s what’s going to happen if you keep eating these mushrooms! Never mind your poor aching brain. These things are fucking poisonous! They are not meant to be eaten at all! You might as well drink a bottle of hemlock while you’re at it!”
“A bottle of hemlock you say?” said Windham in a vaudeville accent. “That sounds like a good idea! More beautiful colors for me!” He spun around the room with his arms extended, creating tidal waves of rainbows and unicorns in his wake.
“Screw you, Windham. I can’t bear to be around you anymore. This isn’t the man I fell in love with. This is…something else. I don’t even know what you are now. Whatever you are, I hope you’re happy now. And by the way, I’m taking these mushrooms with me and getting rid of them.”
“No, no, no, you can’t do that!” protested Windham while stumbling over the bed and laughing at his physical pain. Tarja indeed grabbed the bag of mushrooms and stormed toward the front door while wiping away even more tears than before. “Tarja, wait!” He got her attention if only for a moment. “You know what the best part of you walking away is?” In a sing-song voice, he said, “It only hurts when I’m sober!” and plopped face first into his pillow.
“I swear to god, Windham, you’re going to sober up in a few hours and you’re going to have nothing left. Just you and your fucked up mind. If you thought it hurt before you ate those mushrooms, wait until after. You’re going to be lonely. You’re going to be depressed. Your body is going to ache like a motherfucker. And the worst part about all of this? You’ll have nobody to share your pain with…because I’m done with you. Goodbye, Windham Xavier…or at least what’s left of you.”
Allowing more tears to fall from her face, Tarja slammed the door behind her and sobbed even louder while marching down the corridor. The sober version of Windham would have gladly given his girlfriend his tears. But all that remained of the goofy fucker was a monstrous grin and a mushy brain. “No tears for you!” he said while wagging his finger at the front door. “No, no, no! You don’t want them anyways. Here, I’ll give them to somebody else.”
He dropped a few tears into his leg pillow and wrapped it up like he was mailing a box. A magical carrier pigeon flapped into his room and squawked like a colorful parrot. “Here you go, little birdie! Be sure to deliver this package to…uh…what’s her name? Shell…Shell…Shama-Longa-Ding-Dong. Yeah, that’s her name! And tell Tigger I said hi! Wait, is that his name? Tigger? Nah, it can’t be. Hell, you’ll find them anyways.”
In reality, Windham’s idea of delivering a package of tears to his former kidnappers was throwing his leg pillow out the window into the empty streets. “Bye-bye, little birdie! Hope to see you again really soon!” He twirled around and face-planted onto his eiderdown mattress, snoring like a cheetah’s purr and drooling like the river he once attempted suicide in. Was suicide even in his vocabulary anymore? Hopefully it would be once he sobered up. Until then, just unicorns and rainbows all the way.
And then the answer to his problems lied in a small brown sack resting on the nightstand. He fought with his conscience over whether or not it was right to open it. But what good was a conscience if all it did was fuck with him and throw visions of Shelly in his face? In his own words, “What Tarja doesn’t know can’t hurt her.” Windham untied the string around the sack and pulled out one of its many contents: a psychedelic mushroom with mold growing on it. “Okay, Windham…open your mouth, close your eyes, here comes a big surprise.”
He gobbled the mushroom down with minimal effort and maximum results. Within seconds, his pupils dilated to the size of dinner plates. He thrashed around some more and grunted in mild pain. He even clutched his chest and struggled for oxygen. But then his body relaxed and a goofy grin formed across his face. “Much better,” he laughed to himself. “Much, much better!” The laughter poured out of his mouth like verbal diarrhea.
Windham gazed in amazement at everything around the hotel room, as if the mundane actually deserved to be special. Chairs were multicolored. The table had snakes for legs. His bed grew arms that caressed and massaged his bare chest and back like Tarja used to do. Clouds formed above the ceiling and gave way to a rainbow that led to the front entrance. A pot of gold? Here? If there truly was, he’d never have to work for Paladin Cross again.
The elf clapped his hands giddily and ran with his arms flapping like a bird towards the source of the golden glow. He spun around like a ballerina and opened the door to find Tarja Rikkinen standing there with worry dripping from her face. In Windham’s altered state of mind, it could have been literally dripping for all he knew. “Tarja, my darling! Come on in and see the magic with me!” Windham twirled around and flapped his arms some more before plopping back first onto his bed and grinning stupidly.
“Windham?” said Tarja with a shaky voice. “Are you alright? Traumatized people don’t act this way. Something is going on with you. What is it?”
“What is it?” asked Windham as he nipped up and “flew” over to his girlfriend like a bird. “It’s the solution to all of my problems, sweetheart! I don’t have to feel pain anymore. In fact, I feel great! Who knew such magic existed in the world? Food tastes better, flowers smell sweeter, magical creatures dance around like lovely little toddlers. It’s great, Tarja!”
Tarja’s expression grew droopy with sadness when she saw the bag of mushrooms on the nightstand, alongside a bottle of red wine. “No, no, no…” she said to herself as she examined these items closer. Wetness formed in her eyes, but she wouldn’t let the stoned elf see it.
Yet he knew it all along. He disco danced over to her and squeezed her shoulders in a light massage. “Aww, it’s okay, babe! You can cry in front of me if you want. I don’t mind. I think everything about you is beautiful. Your face, your body…your colors! Such beautiful vivid colors!”
“Get your hands off of me!” Tarja shouted while slapping his arms away, only to get another saccharine smile from her entranced boyfriend. “I don’t even recognize you anymore. The Windham I know would never self-medicate like this!”
“Baby, baby, baby,” said Windham with a mock frown. “I took your advice from the other night and tried being an artist. For a while, it worked. Watch me make something out of clay!” The clay was actually his bedspread and all he did was lazily form it into a long tube. “Look, Tarja! I made a giraffe!” The laughs rolled so hard that he doubled over and clutched his ribs in pain.
Tarja wiped away her tears, but refused to give Windham the satisfaction of actually crying in front of him. “We were supposed to go through this together. You and me versus the world. And now look at you. You’re making a joke out of your own pain. You’re a fruitcake. You’re a fucking fruitcake! I blame Shelly for everything.”
“Shelly? Shelly? Who be this Shelly? She sells sea Shellies by the sea shore? Hey, look! I got it right! I think that should go down as a major accomplishment, don’t you agree? Tongue twisters can be such a pain in the ass sometimes.” He showed this by rolling his tongue up into a taco shell. “Mmmmmm, tacos!” He drooled a waterfall and was entranced by the rainbow forming underneath and the mermaids lounging by the puddle.
Tarja had no choice this time. She sat on the bed and poured her tears into her knees. It was always easier for someone like her because she was an “emotional woman”. But even if she was born with different genitalia, she still would have a broken heart over watching Windham self-destruct like this. He tried once again to touch her shoulder and she swatted his hand away and yelled, “I said don’t touch me!”
“Oh, sweetie, don’t be upset,” said Windham in a Shakespearean accent. “Have a mushroom and a sip of wine. You won’t have to feel pain ever again. In fact…it only hurts when I’m sober!” He threw his arms in the air like he was celebrating a monumental victory over his own psychological demons.
“I need to get out of here,” sobbed Tarja. “I can’t believe you’re throwing your life away like this. We were supposed to be a team. I gave you massages, I talked you down, I took your tears…I gave you my body…and this is how you thank me? By killing yourself with drugs? That’s what’s going to happen if you keep eating these mushrooms! Never mind your poor aching brain. These things are fucking poisonous! They are not meant to be eaten at all! You might as well drink a bottle of hemlock while you’re at it!”
“A bottle of hemlock you say?” said Windham in a vaudeville accent. “That sounds like a good idea! More beautiful colors for me!” He spun around the room with his arms extended, creating tidal waves of rainbows and unicorns in his wake.
“Screw you, Windham. I can’t bear to be around you anymore. This isn’t the man I fell in love with. This is…something else. I don’t even know what you are now. Whatever you are, I hope you’re happy now. And by the way, I’m taking these mushrooms with me and getting rid of them.”
“No, no, no, you can’t do that!” protested Windham while stumbling over the bed and laughing at his physical pain. Tarja indeed grabbed the bag of mushrooms and stormed toward the front door while wiping away even more tears than before. “Tarja, wait!” He got her attention if only for a moment. “You know what the best part of you walking away is?” In a sing-song voice, he said, “It only hurts when I’m sober!” and plopped face first into his pillow.
“I swear to god, Windham, you’re going to sober up in a few hours and you’re going to have nothing left. Just you and your fucked up mind. If you thought it hurt before you ate those mushrooms, wait until after. You’re going to be lonely. You’re going to be depressed. Your body is going to ache like a motherfucker. And the worst part about all of this? You’ll have nobody to share your pain with…because I’m done with you. Goodbye, Windham Xavier…or at least what’s left of you.”
Allowing more tears to fall from her face, Tarja slammed the door behind her and sobbed even louder while marching down the corridor. The sober version of Windham would have gladly given his girlfriend his tears. But all that remained of the goofy fucker was a monstrous grin and a mushy brain. “No tears for you!” he said while wagging his finger at the front door. “No, no, no! You don’t want them anyways. Here, I’ll give them to somebody else.”
He dropped a few tears into his leg pillow and wrapped it up like he was mailing a box. A magical carrier pigeon flapped into his room and squawked like a colorful parrot. “Here you go, little birdie! Be sure to deliver this package to…uh…what’s her name? Shell…Shell…Shama-Longa-Ding-Dong. Yeah, that’s her name! And tell Tigger I said hi! Wait, is that his name? Tigger? Nah, it can’t be. Hell, you’ll find them anyways.”
In reality, Windham’s idea of delivering a package of tears to his former kidnappers was throwing his leg pillow out the window into the empty streets. “Bye-bye, little birdie! Hope to see you again really soon!” He twirled around and face-planted onto his eiderdown mattress, snoring like a cheetah’s purr and drooling like the river he once attempted suicide in. Was suicide even in his vocabulary anymore? Hopefully it would be once he sobered up. Until then, just unicorns and rainbows all the way.
Young Turk
VERSE 1
I am the Young Turk, I am creative fuel
I don’t say this shit because it sounds cool
I do it for the fire, I do it for the passion
Fuck what’s trendy, fuck what’s in fashion
Call me a Young Turd, call me a Young Jerk
You’re the only one who’s going berserk
You’ve got a loud voice? Mine is even louder
My words are explosive like lit gun powder
VERSE 2
I am the Young Turk, social justice ronin
Adrenalize the world with a dose of serotonin
I don’t need your guns, I don’t need your bombs
You don’t need armor, just a hug from your mom
Call me a snowflake, call me easily triggered
Watch as this movement gets bigger and bigger
You’ve got an army? Mine is even stronger
Your iron fist won’t rule for much longer
VERSE 3
I am the Young Turk, your worst fucking nightmare
The ghost breathing down your neck until you’re tired
You will relent one day, you will fucking pay
For all the sins you’ve put on internet display
For all the shots fired, for all the brains wired
For all the demon seeds you’ve fucking sired
You’ve got a congregation? Mine is everywhere
Watch as the one percent rips out their own hair
FINAL LINES
I am the Young Turk, lightning in a bottle
I am the Young Turk, American role model
I am the Young Turk, see you in November
I am the Young Turk, always fucking remember
I am the Young Turk! X4
I am the Young Turk, I am creative fuel
I don’t say this shit because it sounds cool
I do it for the fire, I do it for the passion
Fuck what’s trendy, fuck what’s in fashion
Call me a Young Turd, call me a Young Jerk
You’re the only one who’s going berserk
You’ve got a loud voice? Mine is even louder
My words are explosive like lit gun powder
VERSE 2
I am the Young Turk, social justice ronin
Adrenalize the world with a dose of serotonin
I don’t need your guns, I don’t need your bombs
You don’t need armor, just a hug from your mom
Call me a snowflake, call me easily triggered
Watch as this movement gets bigger and bigger
You’ve got an army? Mine is even stronger
Your iron fist won’t rule for much longer
VERSE 3
I am the Young Turk, your worst fucking nightmare
The ghost breathing down your neck until you’re tired
You will relent one day, you will fucking pay
For all the sins you’ve put on internet display
For all the shots fired, for all the brains wired
For all the demon seeds you’ve fucking sired
You’ve got a congregation? Mine is everywhere
Watch as the one percent rips out their own hair
FINAL LINES
I am the Young Turk, lightning in a bottle
I am the Young Turk, American role model
I am the Young Turk, see you in November
I am the Young Turk, always fucking remember
I am the Young Turk! X4
May 26, 2018
Some People Never Die
CHORUS 1
Some people never die
They thrive on those who cry
On those who dare ask why
Some people never die
VERSE 1
Friends come and go, assholes are forever
Pissing on your party like stormy weather
Killing the planet and killing its people
It’s evil for the sake of just being evil
Hate is their lifeblood, death is their air
The devil and his demons don’t compare
The innocents are left to pick up the tab
Long after laying on cold metal slabs
CHORUS 2
Some people never die
Don’t even fucking try
To get your share of pie
Some people never die
VERSE 2
Mortality is only for those at the bottom
It’s not just a fucking first world problem
The elite of the elite are treated like gods
They get to pick who falls for the frauds
They get to choose who lives and who dies
That’s what they mean by Right to Life
Shoot first and ask questions later, son
Isn’t this a lot of goddamn fucking fun?
CHORUS 3
Some people never die
Some people buy into lies
Some shit just always flies
Some people never die
Some people live forever
Some people have it better
Some people rule the world
Making their queens’ toes curl
CHORUS 4
Some people are pieces of shit
While others had enough of it
Some people are worthy of hate
Revolution? Why should we wait?
Some people wore out their welcomes
While others feel fucking helpless
Some people never die
Some people never fucking die!
Some people never die
They thrive on those who cry
On those who dare ask why
Some people never die
VERSE 1
Friends come and go, assholes are forever
Pissing on your party like stormy weather
Killing the planet and killing its people
It’s evil for the sake of just being evil
Hate is their lifeblood, death is their air
The devil and his demons don’t compare
The innocents are left to pick up the tab
Long after laying on cold metal slabs
CHORUS 2
Some people never die
Don’t even fucking try
To get your share of pie
Some people never die
VERSE 2
Mortality is only for those at the bottom
It’s not just a fucking first world problem
The elite of the elite are treated like gods
They get to pick who falls for the frauds
They get to choose who lives and who dies
That’s what they mean by Right to Life
Shoot first and ask questions later, son
Isn’t this a lot of goddamn fucking fun?
CHORUS 3
Some people never die
Some people buy into lies
Some shit just always flies
Some people never die
Some people live forever
Some people have it better
Some people rule the world
Making their queens’ toes curl
CHORUS 4
Some people are pieces of shit
While others had enough of it
Some people are worthy of hate
Revolution? Why should we wait?
Some people wore out their welcomes
While others feel fucking helpless
Some people never die
Some people never fucking die!
May 25, 2018
Garrisonian Tropes
***GARRISONIAN TROPES***
Whenever Ashley Uzzell/Marie Krepps and I get together for a critiquing session, she always jokes about common tropes that end up in my writing and I laugh along with her. She recently wrote an awesome review for American Darkness where she describes my characters as being constantly pissed off about everything. I thought that was funny as hell. Plus, I’m grateful for all three of my stars. Would you guys like to see some of these tropes and how I analyze them? I’m sure you’d love that, so that’s what I’m going to do since I’m all about customer service.
***MANIC PIXIE DREAM GIRL***
Debra Winter from Occupy Wrestling (published) and Kelly McVeigh from Filter Feeder (first draft) would be the exceptions to this rule, but from Watch You Burn on, every female supporting character I had falls under the Manic Pixie Dream Girl category. Every fucking one of them. In case you don’t know what this pejorative term means, it’s a supporting female character whose sole purpose in the novel is to boost the self-esteem of the brooding male protagonist. Jessica Harley (Watch You Burn), Raven Triscloud (Demon Axe), Adrienne Simpson (Silent Warrior), and Tarja Rikkinen (Beautiful Monster) are all shining examples of the trope. There’s supposed to be some sort of psychoanalysis as to why male authors write these characters, but I don’t quite know what it is. If any of you would like to pick my brain, that’d be wonderful. I swear I’m not writing these characters to be a sexist pig. I didn’t even know this kind of character had a pejorative term until after I started writing Beautiful Monster. I’m so far down the rabbit hole with that novel that I might as well see it through to the twenty-first chapter and fix it all later.
***FAT VILLAINS***
Ashley loves to joke about this one a lot and I can definitely see the humor in it. Most of my fat villains come from American Darkness and Poison Tongue Tales, but Rinehart from Beautiful Monster could fit this trope too. I swear I’m not writing the characters out of self-hatred (because I’m fat too) or because I’m secretly into fat-shaming (I’m not). You won’t even have to pick my brain in order to find out what I’m talking about. If you follow politics, you’ll notice that there are a lot of politicians and pundits out there who are universally hated and also happen to be on the pudgy side. Donald Trump, Newt Gingrich, Alex Jones, Chris Christie, and Rush Limbaugh are all shining examples of this. Villains by their very nature are to be hated, so what better way to hate someone than to compare them to a despicable political figure? I’m sure there are a lot of cartoonists out there who do the exact same thing.
***ANGRY CHARACTERS***
It seems as though every other piece of dialogue in my writing has an exclamation point, a swear word, or an insult attached to it. Plus, it doesn’t help matters that my characters are constantly beating the living shit out of each other. It would be easy to attribute this to my love for WWE since professional wrestlers are constantly cutting angry monologues against each other. Or maybe it’s because I too have a hair trigger temper at the little things in life. I scream like a barbarian whenever the phone rings. I go into swearing fits whenever Maggie shits on the floor or Smokey barfs on my bed. I once spit on my computer screen because my computer was slowing the fuck down and freezing all the time. Maybe there’s something about having schizophrenia that makes me irritable all the time. Maybe I just need a chair massage and a day at the spa.
***SAGGY JOWLED DOGS***
American Darkness and Poison Tongue Tales are where the saggy-jowled dogs live. My step-dad’s dog Maggie has a set of saggy jowls on her, so that’s where I get it from. She’s a mix between a Springer Spaniel and a Bassett Hound. She’s also sixteen years old as of today. She’s older than Herbert’s dog on Family Guy and gets around just as well. Maggie eventually became her own character in a Poison Tongue Tales story called Maggie’s Wisdom, where she played the role of a pilgrim trying to calm down a pissed off monk named Brock Dempsey. Well, what do you know? Another angry character! Wow! Spoiler alert: Brock finds his inner peace by scratching Maggie’s fuzzy belly.
***SENSITIVE CRY BABIES***
It doesn’t matter if the character is a muscle head barbarian or a gentle poet: chances are good they’ve shed a few tears in my stories. Crying actually became part of Windham Xavier’s character development in Beautiful Monster. He’s so afraid of appearing weak in front of his peers that he holds his tears in, forever conforming to male stereotypes that his girlfriend Tarja tries to shatter. But even before that, I’d have macho men crying all the time, most specifically Daniel Mercer from Demon Axe. Then again, Daniel was a heavy metal singer with years of pain behind him and PTSD from watching his band mates die, so he’s excused…I think? Maybe? I don’t know? In case you think this is a self-insert trope, I haven’t had a full-on crying spell since 2007, when I thought my only option for college was going to Evergreen in Olympia, where I would basically be a 24/7 student with no free time to myself. Haven’t cried since then. I did have sore eyes and a little bit of water trickling out whenever I watched old Never Ending Story videos on You Tube, but nothing that resulted in real crying.
***ASSHOLE PROTAGONISTS***
This one can be blamed on shades of gray logic where characters are supposed to have flaws, so I made one of their flaws asshole behavior. Big mistake. I had to edit Occupy Wrestling multiple times because the main character Mitch McLeod appeared too dickish for the heroic role. And now that I look back on Watch You Burn, the main character from there, Mario Bryan, is also a huge douche canoe, which probably makes readers wonder what Jessica Harley (Manic Pixie Dream Girl) sees in him anyways. There’ve been many debates among authors over what constitutes a good protagonist whether it’s flaws, snappy dialogue, average characterization, or whatnot. Some protagonists out there can be assholes without turning the reader off too much. I haven’t mastered that art yet, so maybe I’ll just stick to having friendly characters…who are pissed off all the time…and have saggy jowled dogs as pets…and are dating Manic Pixie Dream Girls….okay, that’s enough. Hehe!
***CONCLUSION***
It could be that I’ve left a few tropes out, but I’m sure they’ll pop up right after I post this blog entry online. They always do. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“Some people live their dreams. Some people close their eyes. Some people’s destiny passes by. There are no guarantees. There are no alibis. That’s how our love must be. Don’t ask why. It takes some time. God knows how long. I know that I can forget you as soon as my heart stops breaking, anticipating. As soon as forever is through, I’ll be over you. Remembering times gone by, promises we once made. What are the reasons why nothing stays the same? There were the nights holding you close. Someday I’ll try to forget them as soon as my heart stops breaking, anticipating. As soon as forever is through, I’ll be over you.”
-Toto singing “I’ll Be Over You”-
Whenever Ashley Uzzell/Marie Krepps and I get together for a critiquing session, she always jokes about common tropes that end up in my writing and I laugh along with her. She recently wrote an awesome review for American Darkness where she describes my characters as being constantly pissed off about everything. I thought that was funny as hell. Plus, I’m grateful for all three of my stars. Would you guys like to see some of these tropes and how I analyze them? I’m sure you’d love that, so that’s what I’m going to do since I’m all about customer service.
***MANIC PIXIE DREAM GIRL***
Debra Winter from Occupy Wrestling (published) and Kelly McVeigh from Filter Feeder (first draft) would be the exceptions to this rule, but from Watch You Burn on, every female supporting character I had falls under the Manic Pixie Dream Girl category. Every fucking one of them. In case you don’t know what this pejorative term means, it’s a supporting female character whose sole purpose in the novel is to boost the self-esteem of the brooding male protagonist. Jessica Harley (Watch You Burn), Raven Triscloud (Demon Axe), Adrienne Simpson (Silent Warrior), and Tarja Rikkinen (Beautiful Monster) are all shining examples of the trope. There’s supposed to be some sort of psychoanalysis as to why male authors write these characters, but I don’t quite know what it is. If any of you would like to pick my brain, that’d be wonderful. I swear I’m not writing these characters to be a sexist pig. I didn’t even know this kind of character had a pejorative term until after I started writing Beautiful Monster. I’m so far down the rabbit hole with that novel that I might as well see it through to the twenty-first chapter and fix it all later.
***FAT VILLAINS***
Ashley loves to joke about this one a lot and I can definitely see the humor in it. Most of my fat villains come from American Darkness and Poison Tongue Tales, but Rinehart from Beautiful Monster could fit this trope too. I swear I’m not writing the characters out of self-hatred (because I’m fat too) or because I’m secretly into fat-shaming (I’m not). You won’t even have to pick my brain in order to find out what I’m talking about. If you follow politics, you’ll notice that there are a lot of politicians and pundits out there who are universally hated and also happen to be on the pudgy side. Donald Trump, Newt Gingrich, Alex Jones, Chris Christie, and Rush Limbaugh are all shining examples of this. Villains by their very nature are to be hated, so what better way to hate someone than to compare them to a despicable political figure? I’m sure there are a lot of cartoonists out there who do the exact same thing.
***ANGRY CHARACTERS***
It seems as though every other piece of dialogue in my writing has an exclamation point, a swear word, or an insult attached to it. Plus, it doesn’t help matters that my characters are constantly beating the living shit out of each other. It would be easy to attribute this to my love for WWE since professional wrestlers are constantly cutting angry monologues against each other. Or maybe it’s because I too have a hair trigger temper at the little things in life. I scream like a barbarian whenever the phone rings. I go into swearing fits whenever Maggie shits on the floor or Smokey barfs on my bed. I once spit on my computer screen because my computer was slowing the fuck down and freezing all the time. Maybe there’s something about having schizophrenia that makes me irritable all the time. Maybe I just need a chair massage and a day at the spa.
***SAGGY JOWLED DOGS***
American Darkness and Poison Tongue Tales are where the saggy-jowled dogs live. My step-dad’s dog Maggie has a set of saggy jowls on her, so that’s where I get it from. She’s a mix between a Springer Spaniel and a Bassett Hound. She’s also sixteen years old as of today. She’s older than Herbert’s dog on Family Guy and gets around just as well. Maggie eventually became her own character in a Poison Tongue Tales story called Maggie’s Wisdom, where she played the role of a pilgrim trying to calm down a pissed off monk named Brock Dempsey. Well, what do you know? Another angry character! Wow! Spoiler alert: Brock finds his inner peace by scratching Maggie’s fuzzy belly.
***SENSITIVE CRY BABIES***
It doesn’t matter if the character is a muscle head barbarian or a gentle poet: chances are good they’ve shed a few tears in my stories. Crying actually became part of Windham Xavier’s character development in Beautiful Monster. He’s so afraid of appearing weak in front of his peers that he holds his tears in, forever conforming to male stereotypes that his girlfriend Tarja tries to shatter. But even before that, I’d have macho men crying all the time, most specifically Daniel Mercer from Demon Axe. Then again, Daniel was a heavy metal singer with years of pain behind him and PTSD from watching his band mates die, so he’s excused…I think? Maybe? I don’t know? In case you think this is a self-insert trope, I haven’t had a full-on crying spell since 2007, when I thought my only option for college was going to Evergreen in Olympia, where I would basically be a 24/7 student with no free time to myself. Haven’t cried since then. I did have sore eyes and a little bit of water trickling out whenever I watched old Never Ending Story videos on You Tube, but nothing that resulted in real crying.
***ASSHOLE PROTAGONISTS***
This one can be blamed on shades of gray logic where characters are supposed to have flaws, so I made one of their flaws asshole behavior. Big mistake. I had to edit Occupy Wrestling multiple times because the main character Mitch McLeod appeared too dickish for the heroic role. And now that I look back on Watch You Burn, the main character from there, Mario Bryan, is also a huge douche canoe, which probably makes readers wonder what Jessica Harley (Manic Pixie Dream Girl) sees in him anyways. There’ve been many debates among authors over what constitutes a good protagonist whether it’s flaws, snappy dialogue, average characterization, or whatnot. Some protagonists out there can be assholes without turning the reader off too much. I haven’t mastered that art yet, so maybe I’ll just stick to having friendly characters…who are pissed off all the time…and have saggy jowled dogs as pets…and are dating Manic Pixie Dream Girls….okay, that’s enough. Hehe!
***CONCLUSION***
It could be that I’ve left a few tropes out, but I’m sure they’ll pop up right after I post this blog entry online. They always do. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“Some people live their dreams. Some people close their eyes. Some people’s destiny passes by. There are no guarantees. There are no alibis. That’s how our love must be. Don’t ask why. It takes some time. God knows how long. I know that I can forget you as soon as my heart stops breaking, anticipating. As soon as forever is through, I’ll be over you. Remembering times gone by, promises we once made. What are the reasons why nothing stays the same? There were the nights holding you close. Someday I’ll try to forget them as soon as my heart stops breaking, anticipating. As soon as forever is through, I’ll be over you.”
-Toto singing “I’ll Be Over You”-
Chronomancer
CHORUS 1
Chronomancer! Dickless Tracy!
Colonel Mouse Turd! Fucking face me!
I’ve paid for every one of my sins!
Throw your evidence in the garbage bin!
VERSE 1
Time is a weapon deadlier than a gun
Past, present, and future become one
Anxiety, depression, hostile aggression
Every mistake becomes worthy of mention
I’ve said I’m sorry about a million times
You’ve stayed quiet about your own crimes
How convenient since you need an attorney
To guide you through your criminal journey
CHORUS 2
Chronomancer! Sherlock Home Wrecker!
Missus Pee Cock! Go on record!
Tell everyone how horrible I am!
Forget your own sins, your own jam!
VERSE 2
The future looks grim for the atoners
Turning social butterflies into loners
Turning the past into something that lasts
Forever on a radio show on full blast
I’ve been explaining, yet you don’t hear me
Trying to make my own loved ones fear me
Chronomancer, you don’t have the answers
You’re just a loud and obnoxious bastard
BRIDGE
Those who truly need their final closure
Will always believe it’ll never be over
Thanks to you and your holy crusade
The trauma and drama will never fade
CHORUS 3
Chronomancer! TJ Crooked!
Mister Body Bag! I knew you wouldn’t
Have the guts to see this all the way through!
You’re just a disc jockey with a loose screw!
Pornomancer! You’re the cancer!
You’re the keeper of false answers!
Don’t even try to cast your stones!
You can’t even control your own bone!
Chronomancer! Dickless Tracy!
Colonel Mouse Turd! Fucking face me!
I’ve paid for every one of my sins!
Throw your evidence in the garbage bin!
VERSE 1
Time is a weapon deadlier than a gun
Past, present, and future become one
Anxiety, depression, hostile aggression
Every mistake becomes worthy of mention
I’ve said I’m sorry about a million times
You’ve stayed quiet about your own crimes
How convenient since you need an attorney
To guide you through your criminal journey
CHORUS 2
Chronomancer! Sherlock Home Wrecker!
Missus Pee Cock! Go on record!
Tell everyone how horrible I am!
Forget your own sins, your own jam!
VERSE 2
The future looks grim for the atoners
Turning social butterflies into loners
Turning the past into something that lasts
Forever on a radio show on full blast
I’ve been explaining, yet you don’t hear me
Trying to make my own loved ones fear me
Chronomancer, you don’t have the answers
You’re just a loud and obnoxious bastard
BRIDGE
Those who truly need their final closure
Will always believe it’ll never be over
Thanks to you and your holy crusade
The trauma and drama will never fade
CHORUS 3
Chronomancer! TJ Crooked!
Mister Body Bag! I knew you wouldn’t
Have the guts to see this all the way through!
You’re just a disc jockey with a loose screw!
Pornomancer! You’re the cancer!
You’re the keeper of false answers!
Don’t even try to cast your stones!
You can’t even control your own bone!
May 23, 2018
Beautiful Monster, Chapter 13
Tarja Rikkinen wanted to practice her staff moves to the fullest of her abilities, but something was off. Perhaps the sadness of potentially breaking up with her boyfriend served as a major distraction. Perhaps it was her belief that she failed him that wouldn’t allow her to twirl her staff without nicking herself in the shins. But more realistically, it was the toxic men around her practice space in the cathedral cracking rape jokes and laughing like a pack of wild hyenas. Tarja was used to being around this many disgusting men, but not at a time like this. She needed them about as much as Windham did and he went off to a hotel room for the day.
“Yeah, too bad about that Shelly chick,” said a lanky, baldheaded claw fighter named Christian. “She was into some kinky shit, too. Maybe we’ll have to take up necrophilia the next time we meet her.” That joke got the room sans Tarja to howl laughing. “Then again, that’s probably the only way Windham would have gotten laid himself. For all we know, he could have been playing for the other team with that Torger fella.” The soldiers guffawed while Tarja’s angry stare grew hotter. “But hey, I guess Windham’s got to get his jollies from somewhere. Now the closest thing he’ll ever get to sex is a hand job from the hotel janitor!”
The loudest round of laughter was enough to ignite the dynamite in Tarja’s veins. She pounded the wooden floor with her staff as loudly as she could five times. The comedy show ended and all eyes were on her. Some men still had their yellow-toothed grins. Any chuckles that remained were either through the nose or via a flat tire noise. The men circled around her while she took center stage, staff in hand and vicious anger written on her otherwise angelic face.
“Now that I have everybody’s attention,” said Tarja. “I want to remind everybody here of a few things you all might have forgotten about. Rape is about violence, not sex. If Windham had been poked with a hot iron or had his teeth ripped out, you wouldn’t be making these corny jokes.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Christian while holding his hands up defensively. “Poked with a hot iron, you say? You’re not making a very good case for your argument, especially if that castle really did double as a leather bar.” The laughs washed over the cathedral yet again.
“I’m serious, damn it!” snapped Tarja, ending the lunatic chuckles yet again. “Oh, and there’s another thing I want to remind you guys about. Windham Xavier is a good soldier, probably better than most of you assholes put together. Each and every one of you would fall apart if you went through the same things he did. It’s one thing to play up the macho card around your friends, but in the faces of your enemies, you all look like cowards.”
“Oh?” said Christian while taking a few steps toward Tarja, only to be backed off when she pointed her staff at him. “If we’re all a bunch of macho men who cower at everything, what does that make you and Windham? Seriously, the two of you might as well have the same genitals right now!”
The laughs pierced Tarja’s eardrums and created thumping sounds in her tortured brain. She took a warning swing at Christian with her staff and he was able to heed it and back off a little more. “Let’s be honest,” she said. “Genitals don’t mean shit in my line of work. Either you’re tough or you’re not. Everybody says ‘grow a pair’ like that phrase actually means something. To me, it’s just two more body parts to smash into pieces.”
A chorus of “ooo’s” sounded off while Christian smirked and put his clawed dukes up. “That sounds like a threat to me,” he said. “You’d better take that shit back before I rip you open and feed you to the dogs. Then again, women are always begging to be eaten in one way or another, am I right, guys? Forget about watching your tongue, babe. You’d better watch mine!”
The burst of laughter that followed was the last Tarja’s nervous system could take. Her heart pumped at a million beats per minute and her nerves flamed as hot as Shelly’s castle just a few days before. Forget scorched earth violence, she wanted the whole universe to know the hell she felt inside. She swept Christian’s legs out from underneath him with one quick staff strike and the comedy turned to tragedy when the claw fighter’s eyes widened. “You want to try another joke, mister funny guy?” she said while pointing her weapon at him.
“You stupid bitch…don’t you ever!” grumbled Christian unintelligibly as he took a claw swipe at her weapon. He nipped up and the battle between him and Tarja was on, complete with a captive audience chanting for a brutal conclusion. Christian took several more punches and swipes at his opponent. She blocked nearly all of them with her staff, making sure to smack him in the wrists with each parry.
Christian went for a clawed punch to the body and Tarja sidestepped him before jabbing him in the ribs with the tip of her weapon. As the “ooo’s” passed, she cracked him across the knee with another strike, stumbling him a little bit. She went high with her next strike hoping for a knockout blow, but her staff was caught and Christian took a swipe at her vitriol-etched face. She backed out just in time to avoid getting her brains ripped out, but she sustained a scratch on her cheek, much to the “oooing” delight of the audience.
Tarja wiped the blood away with her finger and stared at it with white hot venom, all while Christian chuckled at her some more and twisted her sanity around like a pretzel. “Stop laughing, you sick prick!” she shouted before taking several shots at the claw fighter. She aimed for every body part that stuck out whether it was a hand, leg, rib, or lip. Christian managed to dodge and block most of the shots with his reddened wrists, but caught a staff strike across the throat and coughed up blood while struggling to breathe.
Even if Christian hadn’t been bleeding from the mouth, Tarja would have had plenty of opportunities to see red. Blinded by rage and diesel-fueled by Windham’s agony, she wrapped the staff around her opponent’s neck and strangled him. As she sucked the oxygen out of Christian’s body, she eyeballed the stained glass window behind her and got a sadistic smirk on her face. Still holding him by the neck, Tarja threw the claw fighter through the window and covered him in glass and blood, much to the “ooo’s” of the crowd around her.
As Christian laid outside covered from head to toe in viscous fluids, Rinehart’s belting voice could be heard over the hushed crowd shouting, “What the fuck was that?! I go take a shit for a few minutes and this is what I have to come back to? What the hell’s wrong with you, Sir Rikkinen?! You’re not supposed to be doing shit like that!” She ignored most of his oratory, instead staring at the blood-soaked body squirming around in pain. What a beautiful sight it was. “Hey!” Rinehart called. “I’m talking to you, you fucking bitch!”
Slowly Tarja’s own bloody face turned to meet Rinehart’s gaze. She had nothing to say to him at that moment except with her own laser-focused eyes. Rinehart marched up to her and grabbed her arm before angrily whispering, “You think that just because you’ve got female privilege that you can do whatever the hell you want around here with no consequences? I’ve lost all respect for you, sweetheart. You don’t throw another comrade through a window just because you disagree with his sense of humor.”
Tarja jerked her arm out of his grip and asked condescendingly, “What are you going to do: fire me?”
“Damn right I’m going to fire you! Get the hell out of my cathedral! Go have some nonstop sex with Windham in his hotel room and make a real man out of him! It appears those are in short supply these days. Gentlemen, get Sir Rikkinen off my property, right now!”
The men commanded things like, “Let’s go!” and “Move it!”, though Tarja got the message loud and clear. She wiped away more blood from her face with her arm and marched out of the cathedral. Despite being jobless, she felt a modicum of relief wash through her body. The anger was slowly tapering off and her mind’s explosive thoughts were being extinguished.
No more jokes. No more toxic masculinity. No more bullshit. In a way, this had all been a long time coming for her. She secretly yearned for an excuse to get away from her job and maybe freelance for the rest of her life. Now she had one. All that remained for her to do at that moment was to make peace with Windham and hopefully put all of this nonsense behind them. She did feel overwhelming guilt for subjecting him to Rinehart’s disgusting treatment, but she also knew that Windham had bounced back from worse. That was one of his most beautiful features.
“Yeah, too bad about that Shelly chick,” said a lanky, baldheaded claw fighter named Christian. “She was into some kinky shit, too. Maybe we’ll have to take up necrophilia the next time we meet her.” That joke got the room sans Tarja to howl laughing. “Then again, that’s probably the only way Windham would have gotten laid himself. For all we know, he could have been playing for the other team with that Torger fella.” The soldiers guffawed while Tarja’s angry stare grew hotter. “But hey, I guess Windham’s got to get his jollies from somewhere. Now the closest thing he’ll ever get to sex is a hand job from the hotel janitor!”
The loudest round of laughter was enough to ignite the dynamite in Tarja’s veins. She pounded the wooden floor with her staff as loudly as she could five times. The comedy show ended and all eyes were on her. Some men still had their yellow-toothed grins. Any chuckles that remained were either through the nose or via a flat tire noise. The men circled around her while she took center stage, staff in hand and vicious anger written on her otherwise angelic face.
“Now that I have everybody’s attention,” said Tarja. “I want to remind everybody here of a few things you all might have forgotten about. Rape is about violence, not sex. If Windham had been poked with a hot iron or had his teeth ripped out, you wouldn’t be making these corny jokes.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Christian while holding his hands up defensively. “Poked with a hot iron, you say? You’re not making a very good case for your argument, especially if that castle really did double as a leather bar.” The laughs washed over the cathedral yet again.
“I’m serious, damn it!” snapped Tarja, ending the lunatic chuckles yet again. “Oh, and there’s another thing I want to remind you guys about. Windham Xavier is a good soldier, probably better than most of you assholes put together. Each and every one of you would fall apart if you went through the same things he did. It’s one thing to play up the macho card around your friends, but in the faces of your enemies, you all look like cowards.”
“Oh?” said Christian while taking a few steps toward Tarja, only to be backed off when she pointed her staff at him. “If we’re all a bunch of macho men who cower at everything, what does that make you and Windham? Seriously, the two of you might as well have the same genitals right now!”
The laughs pierced Tarja’s eardrums and created thumping sounds in her tortured brain. She took a warning swing at Christian with her staff and he was able to heed it and back off a little more. “Let’s be honest,” she said. “Genitals don’t mean shit in my line of work. Either you’re tough or you’re not. Everybody says ‘grow a pair’ like that phrase actually means something. To me, it’s just two more body parts to smash into pieces.”
A chorus of “ooo’s” sounded off while Christian smirked and put his clawed dukes up. “That sounds like a threat to me,” he said. “You’d better take that shit back before I rip you open and feed you to the dogs. Then again, women are always begging to be eaten in one way or another, am I right, guys? Forget about watching your tongue, babe. You’d better watch mine!”
The burst of laughter that followed was the last Tarja’s nervous system could take. Her heart pumped at a million beats per minute and her nerves flamed as hot as Shelly’s castle just a few days before. Forget scorched earth violence, she wanted the whole universe to know the hell she felt inside. She swept Christian’s legs out from underneath him with one quick staff strike and the comedy turned to tragedy when the claw fighter’s eyes widened. “You want to try another joke, mister funny guy?” she said while pointing her weapon at him.
“You stupid bitch…don’t you ever!” grumbled Christian unintelligibly as he took a claw swipe at her weapon. He nipped up and the battle between him and Tarja was on, complete with a captive audience chanting for a brutal conclusion. Christian took several more punches and swipes at his opponent. She blocked nearly all of them with her staff, making sure to smack him in the wrists with each parry.
Christian went for a clawed punch to the body and Tarja sidestepped him before jabbing him in the ribs with the tip of her weapon. As the “ooo’s” passed, she cracked him across the knee with another strike, stumbling him a little bit. She went high with her next strike hoping for a knockout blow, but her staff was caught and Christian took a swipe at her vitriol-etched face. She backed out just in time to avoid getting her brains ripped out, but she sustained a scratch on her cheek, much to the “oooing” delight of the audience.
Tarja wiped the blood away with her finger and stared at it with white hot venom, all while Christian chuckled at her some more and twisted her sanity around like a pretzel. “Stop laughing, you sick prick!” she shouted before taking several shots at the claw fighter. She aimed for every body part that stuck out whether it was a hand, leg, rib, or lip. Christian managed to dodge and block most of the shots with his reddened wrists, but caught a staff strike across the throat and coughed up blood while struggling to breathe.
Even if Christian hadn’t been bleeding from the mouth, Tarja would have had plenty of opportunities to see red. Blinded by rage and diesel-fueled by Windham’s agony, she wrapped the staff around her opponent’s neck and strangled him. As she sucked the oxygen out of Christian’s body, she eyeballed the stained glass window behind her and got a sadistic smirk on her face. Still holding him by the neck, Tarja threw the claw fighter through the window and covered him in glass and blood, much to the “ooo’s” of the crowd around her.
As Christian laid outside covered from head to toe in viscous fluids, Rinehart’s belting voice could be heard over the hushed crowd shouting, “What the fuck was that?! I go take a shit for a few minutes and this is what I have to come back to? What the hell’s wrong with you, Sir Rikkinen?! You’re not supposed to be doing shit like that!” She ignored most of his oratory, instead staring at the blood-soaked body squirming around in pain. What a beautiful sight it was. “Hey!” Rinehart called. “I’m talking to you, you fucking bitch!”
Slowly Tarja’s own bloody face turned to meet Rinehart’s gaze. She had nothing to say to him at that moment except with her own laser-focused eyes. Rinehart marched up to her and grabbed her arm before angrily whispering, “You think that just because you’ve got female privilege that you can do whatever the hell you want around here with no consequences? I’ve lost all respect for you, sweetheart. You don’t throw another comrade through a window just because you disagree with his sense of humor.”
Tarja jerked her arm out of his grip and asked condescendingly, “What are you going to do: fire me?”
“Damn right I’m going to fire you! Get the hell out of my cathedral! Go have some nonstop sex with Windham in his hotel room and make a real man out of him! It appears those are in short supply these days. Gentlemen, get Sir Rikkinen off my property, right now!”
The men commanded things like, “Let’s go!” and “Move it!”, though Tarja got the message loud and clear. She wiped away more blood from her face with her arm and marched out of the cathedral. Despite being jobless, she felt a modicum of relief wash through her body. The anger was slowly tapering off and her mind’s explosive thoughts were being extinguished.
No more jokes. No more toxic masculinity. No more bullshit. In a way, this had all been a long time coming for her. She secretly yearned for an excuse to get away from her job and maybe freelance for the rest of her life. Now she had one. All that remained for her to do at that moment was to make peace with Windham and hopefully put all of this nonsense behind them. She did feel overwhelming guilt for subjecting him to Rinehart’s disgusting treatment, but she also knew that Windham had bounced back from worse. That was one of his most beautiful features.
Escape From Chehalis
***ESCAPE FROM CHEHALIS***
“You’ve escaped from New York! You’ve escaped from Cleveland! But this is LA!”
Yes, that is a direct quote from the movie “Escape from LA” back in the 90’s. But I have to ask: is it really that hard to escape from Cleveland, Ohio? Well, if I had a hard time escaping from Chehalis as a teenager, then the answer must have been yes. It’s true. With my screenwriting skills at the time, I could have written a movie called Escape From Chehalis. Actually, it wouldn’t have been very exciting since all I had to do was move to an apartment in Bremerton and go to school in Silverdale. But hey, as long as the best part of Chehalis is leaving, let’s explore some other routes I considered. Those of you who know about my Chehalis past know that I was bullied in high school, so getting out of that toxic town was good for me. But what if I needed an earlier exit? What high school dropout careers could I have embarked on to give me a parole from that rightwing dystopia? Well…
***ARENA OF DEATH***
It’s probably no surprise that I had an extreme fascination with death back in 1999/2000. I wanted to rent the first volume of Faces of Death, but the video store clerk wouldn’t let me because I was only fourteen at the time. It’s unbelievable…video stores actually existed back then! It would have been so nice to see one of my movies on the shelf, particularly an idea I had called Arena of Death. I could drop out of school, grab a camera, and film a bunch of gory fight scenes in an abandoned building. That’s basically what Arena of Death was supposed to be: an ECW-esque tournament where the winner…uh…actually, I hadn’t figured out a prize for the winner yet. If only I had a working video camera and friends who would volunteer for this movie. Oh well.
***BOUNTY HUNTER***
As a result of my verbal bullying, I got in a lot of fights and I won most of them simply by throwing one strike. I didn’t need a KO victory or even a TKO. Just one strike and it was all over. Having this kind of Goldberg-esque undefeated streak under my belt (which is easy to obtain in Chehalis), I actually considered a career as a bounty hunter. No shit! Just go around Washington state bringing criminals in with my fists and feet of fury. Hell, there was even a time when I considered entering a tough man competition; that’s how confident I was in my minimal fighting skills. Little did I know that most of the bounty heads might have carried guns or knives, neither of which I had in great supply (even though I one time asked for a gun for Christmas).
***EXTREME CHAMPIONSHIP WRESTLING***
Yes, I did mention ECW earlier in this blog. Yes, being the “tough guy” I was, I thought a career in that wrestling promotion was the right move for me, as opposed to finishing school in Chehalis. That’s basically like saying, “I’d rather get cut open with razor wire or power bombed through a fiery table than go to school in Chehalis”. Haha! But seriously, ECW was a huge source of creative fuel for me back in the day (before they closed their doors permanently in 2001). Weapons were fair game, anybody could beat up anybody, blood was liberally splattered everywhere, and hardcore legends were born. Although, verbal bullying could never prepare me for actual broken bones and slashed skin. Plus, ECW was based in Philadelphia, so if I couldn’t afford a video camera for Arena of Death, I damn sure couldn’t afford a plane ticket across the country.
***FLORIDA***
Yes, it’s true, folks! Back in 2000, my mom got a job offer in Florida and I was secretly hoping that she would get it and get my ass out of Chehalis. Boy, you talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire! Knowing what we now know about Florida, that’s basically like trying to get away from Jeffrey Dahmer by hiding out on John Wayne Gacy’s crawlspace. I didn’t care about politics in the year 2000, but I probably should have since Florida is as red as ECW bloodbaths. School shootings, racist murders, Carl Hiaasen novel scenarios, natural disasters, crocodiles, good god!
***GUITARIST***
From 1996 to 2001, I practiced on an acoustic and later an electric guitar with the hopes that I’d be as good as David Gilmour from Pink Floyd. Starting my own rock band was the surefire way to get out of high school and I’d be doing something I loved. Except for one thing: I didn’t love playing the guitar. It was hard. It was fucking hard! Moving my fingers across the frets with lightning speed wasn’t my cup of tea, which is funny since I can do it just fine when I’m writing things on a computer keyboard. I would often play really slowly with the top string and only my middle finger holding the frets. Configuring my digits into chord positions was too much to handle and I eventually gave up that potential exit from Chehalis. Any more mediocrity and I’d have to smash my guitar to pieces like Billie Joe Armstrong did at the iHeart Radio Festival in 2012, when Green Day’s stage time was cut short.
***SUPER FINAL FANTASY***
Before settling on a career in screenwriting, my childhood dream job used to be creating videogames and one of them was Super Final Fantasy. I was in love with Final Fantasy VII and VIII, so naturally I wanted to give my own shot into creating a game in the series. My main character was a shotgun-wielding, trench coat-wearing teenager (don’t look for themes here) named Sage Gannon, who was out to avenge the death of his coal miner father. Guiding his path would be the fluffy blond haired swordsman Minra Durandose (if Cloud and Squall had a love child, it’d be Minra). The token female love interest (I didn’t know it was wrong!) was a bikini-wearing mystical goddess named Siren, who used a combination of seduction and harp playing to lull enemies into defenselessness (again, I didn’t know it was wrong!). Development was going swimmingly until Squall appeared in my head as a schizophrenic voice and told me to, “Write [my] own shit and stop copying other people.” Thanks, Squall. Great advice from a guy who can’t figure out how to trust people.
***UNDERTAKER***
Remember how I told you all I had a weird fascination with death? Well, try not to read too much into this, but I actually considered a dropout career of burying dead bodies at the local cemetery. Before you ask, no, I wasn’t planning on murdering my bullies and giving them their own graves. I’m not that sick. Hehe! No, being an undertaker is a legitimate career. And when I say undertaker, I’m not talking about the WWE wrestler who at the time was doing a satanic cult storyline. Yes, digging holes is physically exhausting for someone as small I was back then, but a paycheck is a paycheck and a lack of high school hostility is just that.
***CONCLUSION***
You’re probably reading all of these potential career choices and are worried sick about me. You’re probably thinking that I’m living in the past and refusing to let go of my demons. You couldn’t be further from the truth. My most recent blog entries have been about my childhood follies, so this one is no different. I’m glad I finished school and became an indie author. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Knowing what I now know about schizophrenia and autism, I most likely wouldn’t have survived these alternative careers. Every career has its own set of assholes and friendly people. Running away wouldn’t have solved anything. No matter where you go, you take your baggage with you. Only through claiming responsibility and seeking help can you overcome your problems. I’ve overcome my demons and I’m better for it. It took a long time to do, but it happened. Live your life without regrets. If you must delve into the past, find things to laugh about, not things to kick yourself over. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“So you think you’re a Romeo playing a part in a picture show. Take the long way home. ‘Cause you’re the joke of your neighborhood. Why should you care if you’re feeling good? Take the long way home. But there are times that you feel you’re part of the scenery. All the greenery is coming down, boy. And then your wife seems to think you’re a part of the furniture. Oh, it’s peculiar. She used to be so nice. When lonely days turn to lonely nights, you take a trip to the city lights. Take the long way home. You never see what you want to see forever playing to the gallery. Take the long way home. And when you’re up on the stage, it’s so unbelievable. Oh, unforgettable how they adore you. But then your wife seems to think you’re losing your sanity. Oh, calamity, there’s no way out. Does it feel that your life’s become a catastrophe? Oh, it has to be for you to grow, boy. When you look through the years and see what you could have been. Oh, what you might have been. If you’d had more time. So when the day comes to settle down, who’s to blame if you’re not around? Take the long way home.”
-Supertramp singing “Take the Long Way Home”-
“You’ve escaped from New York! You’ve escaped from Cleveland! But this is LA!”
Yes, that is a direct quote from the movie “Escape from LA” back in the 90’s. But I have to ask: is it really that hard to escape from Cleveland, Ohio? Well, if I had a hard time escaping from Chehalis as a teenager, then the answer must have been yes. It’s true. With my screenwriting skills at the time, I could have written a movie called Escape From Chehalis. Actually, it wouldn’t have been very exciting since all I had to do was move to an apartment in Bremerton and go to school in Silverdale. But hey, as long as the best part of Chehalis is leaving, let’s explore some other routes I considered. Those of you who know about my Chehalis past know that I was bullied in high school, so getting out of that toxic town was good for me. But what if I needed an earlier exit? What high school dropout careers could I have embarked on to give me a parole from that rightwing dystopia? Well…
***ARENA OF DEATH***
It’s probably no surprise that I had an extreme fascination with death back in 1999/2000. I wanted to rent the first volume of Faces of Death, but the video store clerk wouldn’t let me because I was only fourteen at the time. It’s unbelievable…video stores actually existed back then! It would have been so nice to see one of my movies on the shelf, particularly an idea I had called Arena of Death. I could drop out of school, grab a camera, and film a bunch of gory fight scenes in an abandoned building. That’s basically what Arena of Death was supposed to be: an ECW-esque tournament where the winner…uh…actually, I hadn’t figured out a prize for the winner yet. If only I had a working video camera and friends who would volunteer for this movie. Oh well.
***BOUNTY HUNTER***
As a result of my verbal bullying, I got in a lot of fights and I won most of them simply by throwing one strike. I didn’t need a KO victory or even a TKO. Just one strike and it was all over. Having this kind of Goldberg-esque undefeated streak under my belt (which is easy to obtain in Chehalis), I actually considered a career as a bounty hunter. No shit! Just go around Washington state bringing criminals in with my fists and feet of fury. Hell, there was even a time when I considered entering a tough man competition; that’s how confident I was in my minimal fighting skills. Little did I know that most of the bounty heads might have carried guns or knives, neither of which I had in great supply (even though I one time asked for a gun for Christmas).
***EXTREME CHAMPIONSHIP WRESTLING***
Yes, I did mention ECW earlier in this blog. Yes, being the “tough guy” I was, I thought a career in that wrestling promotion was the right move for me, as opposed to finishing school in Chehalis. That’s basically like saying, “I’d rather get cut open with razor wire or power bombed through a fiery table than go to school in Chehalis”. Haha! But seriously, ECW was a huge source of creative fuel for me back in the day (before they closed their doors permanently in 2001). Weapons were fair game, anybody could beat up anybody, blood was liberally splattered everywhere, and hardcore legends were born. Although, verbal bullying could never prepare me for actual broken bones and slashed skin. Plus, ECW was based in Philadelphia, so if I couldn’t afford a video camera for Arena of Death, I damn sure couldn’t afford a plane ticket across the country.
***FLORIDA***
Yes, it’s true, folks! Back in 2000, my mom got a job offer in Florida and I was secretly hoping that she would get it and get my ass out of Chehalis. Boy, you talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire! Knowing what we now know about Florida, that’s basically like trying to get away from Jeffrey Dahmer by hiding out on John Wayne Gacy’s crawlspace. I didn’t care about politics in the year 2000, but I probably should have since Florida is as red as ECW bloodbaths. School shootings, racist murders, Carl Hiaasen novel scenarios, natural disasters, crocodiles, good god!
***GUITARIST***
From 1996 to 2001, I practiced on an acoustic and later an electric guitar with the hopes that I’d be as good as David Gilmour from Pink Floyd. Starting my own rock band was the surefire way to get out of high school and I’d be doing something I loved. Except for one thing: I didn’t love playing the guitar. It was hard. It was fucking hard! Moving my fingers across the frets with lightning speed wasn’t my cup of tea, which is funny since I can do it just fine when I’m writing things on a computer keyboard. I would often play really slowly with the top string and only my middle finger holding the frets. Configuring my digits into chord positions was too much to handle and I eventually gave up that potential exit from Chehalis. Any more mediocrity and I’d have to smash my guitar to pieces like Billie Joe Armstrong did at the iHeart Radio Festival in 2012, when Green Day’s stage time was cut short.
***SUPER FINAL FANTASY***
Before settling on a career in screenwriting, my childhood dream job used to be creating videogames and one of them was Super Final Fantasy. I was in love with Final Fantasy VII and VIII, so naturally I wanted to give my own shot into creating a game in the series. My main character was a shotgun-wielding, trench coat-wearing teenager (don’t look for themes here) named Sage Gannon, who was out to avenge the death of his coal miner father. Guiding his path would be the fluffy blond haired swordsman Minra Durandose (if Cloud and Squall had a love child, it’d be Minra). The token female love interest (I didn’t know it was wrong!) was a bikini-wearing mystical goddess named Siren, who used a combination of seduction and harp playing to lull enemies into defenselessness (again, I didn’t know it was wrong!). Development was going swimmingly until Squall appeared in my head as a schizophrenic voice and told me to, “Write [my] own shit and stop copying other people.” Thanks, Squall. Great advice from a guy who can’t figure out how to trust people.
***UNDERTAKER***
Remember how I told you all I had a weird fascination with death? Well, try not to read too much into this, but I actually considered a dropout career of burying dead bodies at the local cemetery. Before you ask, no, I wasn’t planning on murdering my bullies and giving them their own graves. I’m not that sick. Hehe! No, being an undertaker is a legitimate career. And when I say undertaker, I’m not talking about the WWE wrestler who at the time was doing a satanic cult storyline. Yes, digging holes is physically exhausting for someone as small I was back then, but a paycheck is a paycheck and a lack of high school hostility is just that.
***CONCLUSION***
You’re probably reading all of these potential career choices and are worried sick about me. You’re probably thinking that I’m living in the past and refusing to let go of my demons. You couldn’t be further from the truth. My most recent blog entries have been about my childhood follies, so this one is no different. I’m glad I finished school and became an indie author. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Knowing what I now know about schizophrenia and autism, I most likely wouldn’t have survived these alternative careers. Every career has its own set of assholes and friendly people. Running away wouldn’t have solved anything. No matter where you go, you take your baggage with you. Only through claiming responsibility and seeking help can you overcome your problems. I’ve overcome my demons and I’m better for it. It took a long time to do, but it happened. Live your life without regrets. If you must delve into the past, find things to laugh about, not things to kick yourself over. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“So you think you’re a Romeo playing a part in a picture show. Take the long way home. ‘Cause you’re the joke of your neighborhood. Why should you care if you’re feeling good? Take the long way home. But there are times that you feel you’re part of the scenery. All the greenery is coming down, boy. And then your wife seems to think you’re a part of the furniture. Oh, it’s peculiar. She used to be so nice. When lonely days turn to lonely nights, you take a trip to the city lights. Take the long way home. You never see what you want to see forever playing to the gallery. Take the long way home. And when you’re up on the stage, it’s so unbelievable. Oh, unforgettable how they adore you. But then your wife seems to think you’re losing your sanity. Oh, calamity, there’s no way out. Does it feel that your life’s become a catastrophe? Oh, it has to be for you to grow, boy. When you look through the years and see what you could have been. Oh, what you might have been. If you’d had more time. So when the day comes to settle down, who’s to blame if you’re not around? Take the long way home.”
-Supertramp singing “Take the Long Way Home”-
