Garrison Kelly's Blog, page 64
April 15, 2018
Isle of Dogs
MOVIE TITLE: Isle of Dogs
DIRECTOR: Wes Anderson
YEAR: 2018
GENRE: Animated Comedy
RATING: PG-13 for violence and politics
GRADE: Extra Credit
In dystopian Japan, corrupt politician Kobayashi orders a mass exodus of the dog population to Trash Island due to an outbreak of canine diseases. A small minority of Japanese citizens believe that this quarantine is nothing more than xenophobia in a disguise. One of those rebels is Kobayashi’s nephew Atari, who hijacks a plane and flies to Trash Island to rescue his bodyguard dog Spots. What starts off as a small act of defiance becomes a full-blown revolution against a five hundred year dynasty hell-bent on spreading messages of fear and hatred against dogs. No one person can do everything, but everybody can do something.
With the current political climate here in America, it’s no wonder that this synopsis sounds familiar to us. Kobayashi is little more than a Japanese Donald Trump with the way he dodges criticism and spouts bigoted rhetoric. In the case of Isle of Dogs, we know the disenfranchised dogs are easy to root for because they’re so darn cute. But being empathetic is more than about rooting for the favorable ones. It’s about rooting for complete strangers who are being crushed by oppression. True empathy doesn’t care if you’re rich or poor, white or otherwise, gay or straight. If you see injustice in the world, say something. If you’re feeling brave, do something. That’s what this movie means to me and that’s the reason why it deserves an Extra Credit grade.
As long as you’re cheering for the dogs to have a better day, why not rub their bellies, scratch their ears, and give them hot baths? Yes, they’re covered in dirt from living on a garbage-infested island for so long. Yes, they eat things normal people wouldn’t touch. Yes, they have infectious diseases. But they deserve your love anyways. Cook them a nice steak dinner. Throw a tennis ball for them and have them bring it back to you. Let them take long naps on your furniture during gray and rainy days. You can’t resist these fluffy creatures no matter how hard you try. Couple that with a powerful anti-xenophobia message and Isle of Dogs will easily become your new favorite movie.
Of course, with any piece of art, there will always be critics. It’s as certain as death and taxes no matter how good the movie appears to be. In the case of Isle of Dogs, the biggest piece of criticism it received from the public was the possible appropriation of Japanese culture. The movie has Taiko drummers, sumo wrestlers, sushi meals, school uniforms, anime references, and plenty of other tropes that might be deemed racist. Well, I’m here to tell those critics to relax. You’re looking for a controversy that’s not even there. I’m not worried about a white American like Wes Anderson using these tropes. I would be more worried if a director used them badly. Watch the old Dick Tracy cartoons from the 1960’s and contrast them to Isle of Dogs. Not even a close call when it comes to offensiveness. As my mother always says to people who are uppity, “Calm down, relax, take a deep breath.”
With a powerful political message, cute animal babies, deadpan comedy, and an all-around good story, it wouldn’t surprise me if there was a semi-truck full of Oscars waiting for Wes Anderson and his beautifully-done masterpiece. Everybody who participated in this movie deserves high accolades, from the voice actors to the animators to the translators to…everybody! It took a whole village to put together an awesome movie that all ages can enjoy. Five out of five stars, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.
DIRECTOR: Wes Anderson
YEAR: 2018
GENRE: Animated Comedy
RATING: PG-13 for violence and politics
GRADE: Extra Credit
In dystopian Japan, corrupt politician Kobayashi orders a mass exodus of the dog population to Trash Island due to an outbreak of canine diseases. A small minority of Japanese citizens believe that this quarantine is nothing more than xenophobia in a disguise. One of those rebels is Kobayashi’s nephew Atari, who hijacks a plane and flies to Trash Island to rescue his bodyguard dog Spots. What starts off as a small act of defiance becomes a full-blown revolution against a five hundred year dynasty hell-bent on spreading messages of fear and hatred against dogs. No one person can do everything, but everybody can do something.
With the current political climate here in America, it’s no wonder that this synopsis sounds familiar to us. Kobayashi is little more than a Japanese Donald Trump with the way he dodges criticism and spouts bigoted rhetoric. In the case of Isle of Dogs, we know the disenfranchised dogs are easy to root for because they’re so darn cute. But being empathetic is more than about rooting for the favorable ones. It’s about rooting for complete strangers who are being crushed by oppression. True empathy doesn’t care if you’re rich or poor, white or otherwise, gay or straight. If you see injustice in the world, say something. If you’re feeling brave, do something. That’s what this movie means to me and that’s the reason why it deserves an Extra Credit grade.
As long as you’re cheering for the dogs to have a better day, why not rub their bellies, scratch their ears, and give them hot baths? Yes, they’re covered in dirt from living on a garbage-infested island for so long. Yes, they eat things normal people wouldn’t touch. Yes, they have infectious diseases. But they deserve your love anyways. Cook them a nice steak dinner. Throw a tennis ball for them and have them bring it back to you. Let them take long naps on your furniture during gray and rainy days. You can’t resist these fluffy creatures no matter how hard you try. Couple that with a powerful anti-xenophobia message and Isle of Dogs will easily become your new favorite movie.
Of course, with any piece of art, there will always be critics. It’s as certain as death and taxes no matter how good the movie appears to be. In the case of Isle of Dogs, the biggest piece of criticism it received from the public was the possible appropriation of Japanese culture. The movie has Taiko drummers, sumo wrestlers, sushi meals, school uniforms, anime references, and plenty of other tropes that might be deemed racist. Well, I’m here to tell those critics to relax. You’re looking for a controversy that’s not even there. I’m not worried about a white American like Wes Anderson using these tropes. I would be more worried if a director used them badly. Watch the old Dick Tracy cartoons from the 1960’s and contrast them to Isle of Dogs. Not even a close call when it comes to offensiveness. As my mother always says to people who are uppity, “Calm down, relax, take a deep breath.”
With a powerful political message, cute animal babies, deadpan comedy, and an all-around good story, it wouldn’t surprise me if there was a semi-truck full of Oscars waiting for Wes Anderson and his beautifully-done masterpiece. Everybody who participated in this movie deserves high accolades, from the voice actors to the animators to the translators to…everybody! It took a whole village to put together an awesome movie that all ages can enjoy. Five out of five stars, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.
April 13, 2018
The Last Ice Man
***THE LAST ICE MAN***
Poor sportsmanship seems to be a common topic among my blog entries lately. I guess my brother James was right: I did take everything personally back in those days. Everything! One small example was when I threw punches at an Everlast in a mall and the clerk told me to stop. Being the sensitive small child I was, I cried my eyes out on the way to the car. But of course, this blog entry is called The Last Ice Man, and unless I was training to be the next Chuck Liddell, that’s not the main focus here. Instead we go back to the early 90’s where my parents, brother, and I went to an ice skating rink in either Seattle or Vancouver (I forget which one).
Skating has never been my favorite thing to do since I always fell on my ass due to a lack of dexterity. I kept secretly wishing for ice skates that were double-bladed and had a wide berth, but alas, The Secret didn’t come out until 2006, so I was SOL. On this particular day, I held onto the railing and grinded my blades against the ice, making a little depression where I was standing. Of course, the female staff didn’t appreciate this, so they told me to stop. That should have been the end of it, but because I was a six year old child with poor sportsmanship, I took it personally yet again.
When the female staff skated by again, I shook my fist at them the same way a ballerina would do to express nonverbal anger. No middle finger, no crossed arms, just a ballet fist shake that I learned about in the first grade while studying that particular form of theater. The female staff skated over and tried to physically remove me from the rink, but I kept holding onto the railing for dear life, even when more staff members came over to help her. They finally relented when my mom explained to them that I was autistic and didn’t know any better….at least I think that was the argument she used. While I didn’t dig my skates into the ice again, I did manage to do a few laps around the ice and fall on my ass some more.
In my blog entries about soccer and swimming respectively, I actually considered making those scenarios into full-length novels. In the case of soccer, I’ve got a synopsis and character cast ready, but no chapter-by-chapter analysis. In the case of swimming, I’ve got nothing. Absolutely nothing. But how exactly does one make a novel out of this particular scenario? Does the main character get traumatized after being banned from the rink? Does he hate skating anyways? Does he have to learn good sportsmanship the hard way? If nothing else, this is just a cute story that I’m sure some of my readers could relate to as children.
Boy, I really didn’t think this one through, did I? If nothing else, writing a new blog entry will give me the chance to make announcements about my future projects, starting with…
***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***
In case you couldn’t tell from the kinky action going on in chapter two, there are going to be future chapters of this novel with even more explicit sexual content, particularly chapters six and eleven. One of them will feature female-on-male rape and the other will feature consensual sex. No more spoilers beyond that! No, no, no! Then again, even Stevie Wonder could see this coming from miles away, so it’s not much of a spoiler.
***SHORT STORY***
I know I said months ago that I would discontinue American Darkness 3 because of how similar the stories were sounding. However, I’ve had this one idea that’s been rolling around in my head ever since drinking a shit ton of cold black tea, which is bad for schizophrenics in particular. Now that I think about it, black tea might be responsible for the brooding going on in my blog entry called “Wrestling With My Mind”. Green tea and jasmine tea don’t do that shit. But before I go too far down the rabbit hole, I want to present you all with a short story idea called “Everybody’s Rock”. It goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
1. Clark Hall, Aloof Boyfriend
2. Sidney Farrow, Tearful Girlfriend
PROMPT CONFORMITY: To be announced.
SYNOPSIS: The apartment scene opens with Clark vegging out in front of the TV while Sidney is crying hysterically and trying to get his attention. After a while of prodding, Clark goes on a tirade about how his girlfriend cries about everything while he has his own pain that he’s supposed to keep on the inside, thus being “everybody’s rock”. Clark wants desperately to be able to fall to pieces the same way Sidney is, but being a man hasn’t allowed him to do that due to male stereotypes and the general discomfort of those around him. Sidney pushes her boyfriend some more in an attempt to open his floodgates once and for all, but Clark is stubborn as hell. Sooner or later, everybody cracks no matter how strong of a rock they are.
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“Sunlight bright upon my pillow, lighter than an eiderdown. Will she let the weeping willow wind his branches around? Julia dream. Dreamboat queen. Queen of all my dreams. Every night I turn the light out waiting for my velvet bride. Will the scaly armadillo find me where I’m hiding? Julia dream. Dreamboat queen. Queen of all my dreams. Will the misty master break me? Will the key unlock my mind? Will my following footsteps catch me? Am I really dying? Julia dream. Dreamboat queen. Queen of all my dreams.”
-Pink Floyd singing “Julia Dream”-
Poor sportsmanship seems to be a common topic among my blog entries lately. I guess my brother James was right: I did take everything personally back in those days. Everything! One small example was when I threw punches at an Everlast in a mall and the clerk told me to stop. Being the sensitive small child I was, I cried my eyes out on the way to the car. But of course, this blog entry is called The Last Ice Man, and unless I was training to be the next Chuck Liddell, that’s not the main focus here. Instead we go back to the early 90’s where my parents, brother, and I went to an ice skating rink in either Seattle or Vancouver (I forget which one).
Skating has never been my favorite thing to do since I always fell on my ass due to a lack of dexterity. I kept secretly wishing for ice skates that were double-bladed and had a wide berth, but alas, The Secret didn’t come out until 2006, so I was SOL. On this particular day, I held onto the railing and grinded my blades against the ice, making a little depression where I was standing. Of course, the female staff didn’t appreciate this, so they told me to stop. That should have been the end of it, but because I was a six year old child with poor sportsmanship, I took it personally yet again.
When the female staff skated by again, I shook my fist at them the same way a ballerina would do to express nonverbal anger. No middle finger, no crossed arms, just a ballet fist shake that I learned about in the first grade while studying that particular form of theater. The female staff skated over and tried to physically remove me from the rink, but I kept holding onto the railing for dear life, even when more staff members came over to help her. They finally relented when my mom explained to them that I was autistic and didn’t know any better….at least I think that was the argument she used. While I didn’t dig my skates into the ice again, I did manage to do a few laps around the ice and fall on my ass some more.
In my blog entries about soccer and swimming respectively, I actually considered making those scenarios into full-length novels. In the case of soccer, I’ve got a synopsis and character cast ready, but no chapter-by-chapter analysis. In the case of swimming, I’ve got nothing. Absolutely nothing. But how exactly does one make a novel out of this particular scenario? Does the main character get traumatized after being banned from the rink? Does he hate skating anyways? Does he have to learn good sportsmanship the hard way? If nothing else, this is just a cute story that I’m sure some of my readers could relate to as children.
Boy, I really didn’t think this one through, did I? If nothing else, writing a new blog entry will give me the chance to make announcements about my future projects, starting with…
***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***
In case you couldn’t tell from the kinky action going on in chapter two, there are going to be future chapters of this novel with even more explicit sexual content, particularly chapters six and eleven. One of them will feature female-on-male rape and the other will feature consensual sex. No more spoilers beyond that! No, no, no! Then again, even Stevie Wonder could see this coming from miles away, so it’s not much of a spoiler.
***SHORT STORY***
I know I said months ago that I would discontinue American Darkness 3 because of how similar the stories were sounding. However, I’ve had this one idea that’s been rolling around in my head ever since drinking a shit ton of cold black tea, which is bad for schizophrenics in particular. Now that I think about it, black tea might be responsible for the brooding going on in my blog entry called “Wrestling With My Mind”. Green tea and jasmine tea don’t do that shit. But before I go too far down the rabbit hole, I want to present you all with a short story idea called “Everybody’s Rock”. It goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
1. Clark Hall, Aloof Boyfriend
2. Sidney Farrow, Tearful Girlfriend
PROMPT CONFORMITY: To be announced.
SYNOPSIS: The apartment scene opens with Clark vegging out in front of the TV while Sidney is crying hysterically and trying to get his attention. After a while of prodding, Clark goes on a tirade about how his girlfriend cries about everything while he has his own pain that he’s supposed to keep on the inside, thus being “everybody’s rock”. Clark wants desperately to be able to fall to pieces the same way Sidney is, but being a man hasn’t allowed him to do that due to male stereotypes and the general discomfort of those around him. Sidney pushes her boyfriend some more in an attempt to open his floodgates once and for all, but Clark is stubborn as hell. Sooner or later, everybody cracks no matter how strong of a rock they are.
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“Sunlight bright upon my pillow, lighter than an eiderdown. Will she let the weeping willow wind his branches around? Julia dream. Dreamboat queen. Queen of all my dreams. Every night I turn the light out waiting for my velvet bride. Will the scaly armadillo find me where I’m hiding? Julia dream. Dreamboat queen. Queen of all my dreams. Will the misty master break me? Will the key unlock my mind? Will my following footsteps catch me? Am I really dying? Julia dream. Dreamboat queen. Queen of all my dreams.”
-Pink Floyd singing “Julia Dream”-
Beautiful Monster, Chapter 2
(FLASHBACK)
“Where are you going, beautiful boy? Where are you going?”
The hypnotic feminine voice buzzed in Windham’s ear as he wandered through the Dark Forest looking for signs of life. He forgot all about his reconnaissance mission and it never once occurred to him to unsheathe his whip. The further he zombie-walked, the softer and sweeter the voice became.
“Are you lost? Are you all alone? Have you been here before? Is this what you expected?”
A tiny splotch of drool passed over Windham’s bottom lip while his eyes glazed over into blurriness. Everything around him gave way to tunnel vision. He had to find the source of this enchanting voice. As he got closer, a gentle buzzing noise akin to a church organ hummed in his ears. And then she sang once again.
“Did you get just what you wanted?”
A lovely young lady with flowing raven hair, pale flesh, and cherry lips became the center of Windham’s attention, beckoning him closer with a wave of her finger. All eyes were on her as the elf mercenary gazed up and down her Celtic dress, which she looked stunning in. Her leather sandals showed off enough of her soft feet to further the hypnosis in Windham’s one-track mind.
“Come closer, my love. Come closer…”
She seemed close enough to plant a romantic kiss on Windham’s lips. And then the elf slapped himself in the face to wake himself up from this conscious dream. The shadows and tunnel vision were gone and in their place was a mighty wind blowing through the trees and the realization that Shelly Atwood had tried to trap him this whole time. She smiled mischievously at him as if it was some kind of last ditch effort to bring him back into darkness.
“Very cute, Miss Atwood,” said Windham as he reached for his handcuffs and whip. “But I’m afraid you’re coming with me. I’ll have more money than God once I bring your ass in. Nice try, though. I can’t say you didn’t try.”
Just as he was about to slap the cuffs on Shelly’s wrists, Windham felt a powerful force bulldoze into him and send him rolling across the dirt ground. He huffed with a raspy voice and felt his ribs to see if any of them were broken. Though they weren’t, it still sent a firestorm of pain through his body every time he breathed. He squinted his watery eyes until they were clear enough to see Shelly’s other wanted accomplice, the seven foot tall trench-coat wearing behemoth Torger Manson. He had the same feminine face that Shelly had, but make no mistake about it, there was nothing beautiful about this vampire warrior.
Windham wormed his way across the ground and reached for his fallen whip only to have his fingers stepped on by Torger’s heavy boots. The elf screamed in agony knowing the vampire could easily break fingers if he wanted to. Windham struggled and thrashed around in an attempt to break free, but to no avail.
“Torger, enough!” demanded Shelly with hands on her hips. “How is he supposed to wear a wedding ring with broken fingers?” The elf’s eyes widened in horror at the words “wedding ring”. This crazy woman was for real and Windham’s quickening breaths showed his true fear.
“You say that with every man you meet, Shelly,” said Torger in a brooding demonic voice. “What makes this pathetic little worm so special to you? Look at him! He’s mediocre at best and a little faggot at worst! I wouldn’t fuck him with the world’s longest wizard’s staff.”
“Are you kidding me?” said Shelly as she glided her hand across her accomplice’s shoulders. “He’s the most beautiful creature to ever visit the northern country. It’s not often we get an elf traveling these parts.” She leaned down and stroked Windham’s soft blond locks. “Elves always have the nicest hair…the sweetest faces…and the cutest ears. I want him, Torger. He’s all mine!”
“Bitch, I think you’ve got the wrong impression,” said a defeated Windham.
Torger grabbed a handful of the elf’s hair and yanked him high off the ground. “Don’t you talk to her like that, you little shit stain!” He then death-clutched Windham’s throat and slammed him against a nearby oak tree several times until the elf’s vision darkened and his body grew limp.
“Stop it, Torger, you’re killing him!” shouted Shelly, which prompted her accomplice to toss Windham to the ground before he really could kill the elf. Windham wheezed and hacked while desperately trying to crawl away. Torger put an end to that escape plan when he stood on the elf’s ankle. Shelly continued, “It’s okay. This young man simply hasn’t learned to love me yet. That’s something I intend to teach him once we get him back to the castle. Only then can the black wedding be complete. Bind and gag him, Torger, then let’s get out of here.”
The hulking vampire jerked Windham up by the scruff of his neck and proceeded to tie him up with his own whip. Torger made the knots extra tight not only as a precaution, but to legitimately inflict pain on someone he believes is “mediocre at best”.
Shelly reached into the breast of her dress and removed a red rubber ball gag. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she whispered. “As cute as you are, you look even cuter with something in your mouth.” She placed the rubber ball in Windham’s mouth and hooked the straps behind his head. Try as he might to struggle and squirm, the elf’s struggle for freedom sent even more aches and pains throughout his tormented body. His jaw already felt like it was about to fall off due to the largeness of the ball and the tightness of the head straps.
Torger heaved his captive’s body onto his shoulder and carried him away with ease, Shelly following behind and gazing lovingly into Windham’s eyes. She petted his soft hair once more and whispered, “I’m sorry my step-brother had to do this to you. But no matter what happens in our castle, remember I will always love you.” She kissed the prone elf on his forehead and said, “Be my king.”
Windham moaned and whined through his gag, but his captors ignored his pleas for freedom. In fact, Torger slammed Windham’s body into what appeared to be a coffin and shut the lid tightly, covering the elf in total darkness. Windham screamed even louder this time, but his muffled mouth and sore throat barely broke through the coffin lid. All he got for his troubles was a fierce, “Shut up!” from Torger, who kicked the coffin and jolted him around like dice in a casino game.
That wouldn’t be the last of the jolting experience as Windham felt the coffin being hooked up to something while he was elevated off the ground. His heart raced fast enough to send blistering pain throughout his ribcage when he heard horses neighing in the background along with carriage doors closing shut. He could barely get enough oxygen through his nose with how quickly his anxiety built up, coffin tightness aside.
Torger whistled and the carriage pulled the coffin along the bumpy dirt road. The bouncy ride did no favors for Windham’s already rattled bones. He could hear cracking and splitting and didn’t know whether it was his own body or stones being crushed by the carriage wheels. He whined through his gag some more, but such a pathetic display did nothing for his captors’ cold hearts.
The nickel ride seemed as though it would last forever. If it went on any longer than eternity, Windham would probably have died long before the “black wedding” could take place. As thoughts of a forced marriage raced through his mind, his blood chilled like an arctic river and sweat poured off of him in the same way. There were times during this bumpy ride that Windham couldn’t tell the difference between bleeding and sweating. He swore he could smell copper and acid.
And then the roughness stopped, allowing Windham to wheeze through his nostrils before he had the chance to pass out. He heard footsteps pounding outside the coffin before Torger yanked the lid off and revealed his ugly face to the terrified elf. Both Torger and Shelly smiled down upon Windham, though for different reasons.
“Welcome to your new home, my love,” said Shelly. “I hope you like your stay here. You’re going to make a wonderful king. Torger, get him out of there and get him on the table. And remember: I don’t want to see one piece of clothing covering his body. I want to see everything he’s got. Everything!” Torger shivered in disgust while yanking Windham out of the coffin by the back of his neck. This would have been an excellent time for Windham to scream in horror, but the elf didn’t want to waste precious oxygen when his body was already drained of energy.
“Where are you going, beautiful boy? Where are you going?”
The hypnotic feminine voice buzzed in Windham’s ear as he wandered through the Dark Forest looking for signs of life. He forgot all about his reconnaissance mission and it never once occurred to him to unsheathe his whip. The further he zombie-walked, the softer and sweeter the voice became.
“Are you lost? Are you all alone? Have you been here before? Is this what you expected?”
A tiny splotch of drool passed over Windham’s bottom lip while his eyes glazed over into blurriness. Everything around him gave way to tunnel vision. He had to find the source of this enchanting voice. As he got closer, a gentle buzzing noise akin to a church organ hummed in his ears. And then she sang once again.
“Did you get just what you wanted?”
A lovely young lady with flowing raven hair, pale flesh, and cherry lips became the center of Windham’s attention, beckoning him closer with a wave of her finger. All eyes were on her as the elf mercenary gazed up and down her Celtic dress, which she looked stunning in. Her leather sandals showed off enough of her soft feet to further the hypnosis in Windham’s one-track mind.
“Come closer, my love. Come closer…”
She seemed close enough to plant a romantic kiss on Windham’s lips. And then the elf slapped himself in the face to wake himself up from this conscious dream. The shadows and tunnel vision were gone and in their place was a mighty wind blowing through the trees and the realization that Shelly Atwood had tried to trap him this whole time. She smiled mischievously at him as if it was some kind of last ditch effort to bring him back into darkness.
“Very cute, Miss Atwood,” said Windham as he reached for his handcuffs and whip. “But I’m afraid you’re coming with me. I’ll have more money than God once I bring your ass in. Nice try, though. I can’t say you didn’t try.”
Just as he was about to slap the cuffs on Shelly’s wrists, Windham felt a powerful force bulldoze into him and send him rolling across the dirt ground. He huffed with a raspy voice and felt his ribs to see if any of them were broken. Though they weren’t, it still sent a firestorm of pain through his body every time he breathed. He squinted his watery eyes until they were clear enough to see Shelly’s other wanted accomplice, the seven foot tall trench-coat wearing behemoth Torger Manson. He had the same feminine face that Shelly had, but make no mistake about it, there was nothing beautiful about this vampire warrior.
Windham wormed his way across the ground and reached for his fallen whip only to have his fingers stepped on by Torger’s heavy boots. The elf screamed in agony knowing the vampire could easily break fingers if he wanted to. Windham struggled and thrashed around in an attempt to break free, but to no avail.
“Torger, enough!” demanded Shelly with hands on her hips. “How is he supposed to wear a wedding ring with broken fingers?” The elf’s eyes widened in horror at the words “wedding ring”. This crazy woman was for real and Windham’s quickening breaths showed his true fear.
“You say that with every man you meet, Shelly,” said Torger in a brooding demonic voice. “What makes this pathetic little worm so special to you? Look at him! He’s mediocre at best and a little faggot at worst! I wouldn’t fuck him with the world’s longest wizard’s staff.”
“Are you kidding me?” said Shelly as she glided her hand across her accomplice’s shoulders. “He’s the most beautiful creature to ever visit the northern country. It’s not often we get an elf traveling these parts.” She leaned down and stroked Windham’s soft blond locks. “Elves always have the nicest hair…the sweetest faces…and the cutest ears. I want him, Torger. He’s all mine!”
“Bitch, I think you’ve got the wrong impression,” said a defeated Windham.
Torger grabbed a handful of the elf’s hair and yanked him high off the ground. “Don’t you talk to her like that, you little shit stain!” He then death-clutched Windham’s throat and slammed him against a nearby oak tree several times until the elf’s vision darkened and his body grew limp.
“Stop it, Torger, you’re killing him!” shouted Shelly, which prompted her accomplice to toss Windham to the ground before he really could kill the elf. Windham wheezed and hacked while desperately trying to crawl away. Torger put an end to that escape plan when he stood on the elf’s ankle. Shelly continued, “It’s okay. This young man simply hasn’t learned to love me yet. That’s something I intend to teach him once we get him back to the castle. Only then can the black wedding be complete. Bind and gag him, Torger, then let’s get out of here.”
The hulking vampire jerked Windham up by the scruff of his neck and proceeded to tie him up with his own whip. Torger made the knots extra tight not only as a precaution, but to legitimately inflict pain on someone he believes is “mediocre at best”.
Shelly reached into the breast of her dress and removed a red rubber ball gag. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she whispered. “As cute as you are, you look even cuter with something in your mouth.” She placed the rubber ball in Windham’s mouth and hooked the straps behind his head. Try as he might to struggle and squirm, the elf’s struggle for freedom sent even more aches and pains throughout his tormented body. His jaw already felt like it was about to fall off due to the largeness of the ball and the tightness of the head straps.
Torger heaved his captive’s body onto his shoulder and carried him away with ease, Shelly following behind and gazing lovingly into Windham’s eyes. She petted his soft hair once more and whispered, “I’m sorry my step-brother had to do this to you. But no matter what happens in our castle, remember I will always love you.” She kissed the prone elf on his forehead and said, “Be my king.”
Windham moaned and whined through his gag, but his captors ignored his pleas for freedom. In fact, Torger slammed Windham’s body into what appeared to be a coffin and shut the lid tightly, covering the elf in total darkness. Windham screamed even louder this time, but his muffled mouth and sore throat barely broke through the coffin lid. All he got for his troubles was a fierce, “Shut up!” from Torger, who kicked the coffin and jolted him around like dice in a casino game.
That wouldn’t be the last of the jolting experience as Windham felt the coffin being hooked up to something while he was elevated off the ground. His heart raced fast enough to send blistering pain throughout his ribcage when he heard horses neighing in the background along with carriage doors closing shut. He could barely get enough oxygen through his nose with how quickly his anxiety built up, coffin tightness aside.
Torger whistled and the carriage pulled the coffin along the bumpy dirt road. The bouncy ride did no favors for Windham’s already rattled bones. He could hear cracking and splitting and didn’t know whether it was his own body or stones being crushed by the carriage wheels. He whined through his gag some more, but such a pathetic display did nothing for his captors’ cold hearts.
The nickel ride seemed as though it would last forever. If it went on any longer than eternity, Windham would probably have died long before the “black wedding” could take place. As thoughts of a forced marriage raced through his mind, his blood chilled like an arctic river and sweat poured off of him in the same way. There were times during this bumpy ride that Windham couldn’t tell the difference between bleeding and sweating. He swore he could smell copper and acid.
And then the roughness stopped, allowing Windham to wheeze through his nostrils before he had the chance to pass out. He heard footsteps pounding outside the coffin before Torger yanked the lid off and revealed his ugly face to the terrified elf. Both Torger and Shelly smiled down upon Windham, though for different reasons.
“Welcome to your new home, my love,” said Shelly. “I hope you like your stay here. You’re going to make a wonderful king. Torger, get him out of there and get him on the table. And remember: I don’t want to see one piece of clothing covering his body. I want to see everything he’s got. Everything!” Torger shivered in disgust while yanking Windham out of the coffin by the back of his neck. This would have been an excellent time for Windham to scream in horror, but the elf didn’t want to waste precious oxygen when his body was already drained of energy.
Space Jockey
VERSE 1
Let’s go to Mars and drive flying cars
The whole desert planet is all but ours
Don’t worry about the lack of oxygen
Rise from the dead and then walk again
Open armed greeting from the Martians
Sweetheart deal, one hell of a bargain
Never mind that they shoot with ray guns
Or the gravity feels like hauling eight tons
CHORUS
Come on, space jockey! Come on, space jockey!
Dance in the moonlight and play tonsil hockey
Come on, space jockey! Come on, space jockey!
Never mind that this shit is way too damn cocky
VERSE 2
Let’s try to hook up with Faye Valentine
Give her a ring and ask, “Will you be mine?”
Let’s go on adventures with Spike Spiegel
Fly through space like an American eagle
Let’s catch bounty heads, be broke anyways
Just like on earth, same old shit every day
This isn’t all just arrogant wish fulfillment
We’re a fucking team and we always kill it
EXTENDED CHORUS 1
Come on, space jockey! Come on, space jockey!
Dance in the moonlight and play tonsil hockey
Come on, space jockey! Come on, space jockey!
Never mind that this shit is way too damn cocky
See you, space cowboy! See you, space cowboy!
Fill your heart with carbon dioxide and pure joy
May the force be with you, my Jedi knight!
Let’s have a light saber battle on Mars tonight
BILL MAHER QUOTE
Fuck Mars! Make Earth Great Again!
VERSE 3
Burning fossil fuels and killing the planet
Cutting down jungles so the rich can have it
Rinse and repeat on the planet of Mars
Control C, control V, drive flying cars
This ain’t the Jetsons, it’s the real world
On Planet Mars our flag shall not unfurl
It doesn’t take Yoda to figure it out
No such surface will you breathe in and out
EXTENDED CHORUS 2
Live long and prosper, you sons of bitches!
This conspiracy theory leaves me in stitches
I am Groot, motherfuckers! I am Groot!
Space colonization will not bear fruit
I’m Buzz Lightyear! I come in peace!
Then maybe this madness will finally cease
Come on, space jockey! Come on, space jockey!
The atmosphere is dead, the land is rocky
FINAL LYRICS
Fuck Mars! X4
Let’s go to Mars and drive flying cars
The whole desert planet is all but ours
Don’t worry about the lack of oxygen
Rise from the dead and then walk again
Open armed greeting from the Martians
Sweetheart deal, one hell of a bargain
Never mind that they shoot with ray guns
Or the gravity feels like hauling eight tons
CHORUS
Come on, space jockey! Come on, space jockey!
Dance in the moonlight and play tonsil hockey
Come on, space jockey! Come on, space jockey!
Never mind that this shit is way too damn cocky
VERSE 2
Let’s try to hook up with Faye Valentine
Give her a ring and ask, “Will you be mine?”
Let’s go on adventures with Spike Spiegel
Fly through space like an American eagle
Let’s catch bounty heads, be broke anyways
Just like on earth, same old shit every day
This isn’t all just arrogant wish fulfillment
We’re a fucking team and we always kill it
EXTENDED CHORUS 1
Come on, space jockey! Come on, space jockey!
Dance in the moonlight and play tonsil hockey
Come on, space jockey! Come on, space jockey!
Never mind that this shit is way too damn cocky
See you, space cowboy! See you, space cowboy!
Fill your heart with carbon dioxide and pure joy
May the force be with you, my Jedi knight!
Let’s have a light saber battle on Mars tonight
BILL MAHER QUOTE
Fuck Mars! Make Earth Great Again!
VERSE 3
Burning fossil fuels and killing the planet
Cutting down jungles so the rich can have it
Rinse and repeat on the planet of Mars
Control C, control V, drive flying cars
This ain’t the Jetsons, it’s the real world
On Planet Mars our flag shall not unfurl
It doesn’t take Yoda to figure it out
No such surface will you breathe in and out
EXTENDED CHORUS 2
Live long and prosper, you sons of bitches!
This conspiracy theory leaves me in stitches
I am Groot, motherfuckers! I am Groot!
Space colonization will not bear fruit
I’m Buzz Lightyear! I come in peace!
Then maybe this madness will finally cease
Come on, space jockey! Come on, space jockey!
The atmosphere is dead, the land is rocky
FINAL LYRICS
Fuck Mars! X4
April 9, 2018
The Last Aqua Man
***THE LAST AQUA MAN***
Remember a blog entry a few weeks ago about my childhood soccer team The Thunder Eagles? Well, that wasn’t just a fun story. It’s now an undeveloped idea for a novel somewhere down the line. The reason Silent Warrior resonated so well was because it was loosely based on real experiences I had. The Last Thunder Eagle, as it’s now called, will hopefully resonate as well since I used to be a sore loser. In some ways, I still am a sore loser and perhaps this novel idea is what will exorcise those demons forever. But that’s neither here nor there. I’ve already written the first chapter of Beautiful Monster and I intend to see that one through to the epilogue. Wish me luck!
But as long as I’m being inspired by stories from my past (that thankfully aren’t too traumatic), I might as well throw another one out there and see if it sticks. In the same way The Last Thunder Eagle is intended to be about soccer, The Last Aqua Man will be about swimming lessons, should it ever become a novel idea. When I was a kid, I already knew how to doggie paddle from point A to point B. But that just wasn’t enough for some reason, so my parents signed me up for swimming lessons at the community pool. Although I didn’t get hit with any soccer balls or knocked down, I still was not a happy camper.
There were six different levels of difficulty for these classes: Beginner’s Level Parts 1-4, Intermediate, and Advanced. During both rounds of swim lessons, I was placed in Beginner’s Level 4 and never passed to the next tier. One of the big reasons for this was because I hated sticking my head underwater without plugging my nose first. I hate water in my nose, I hate coughing it up, I hate blowing it out, and I hate water in my ears. I would have worn a pair of goggles that protected my nose, but the swim instructors wouldn’t let me use them. Instead they suggested that I hold my breath before sticking my head underwater. Didn’t work. I ended up feeling like a whitewashed version of Crazy K from Tales from the Hood. I know I make that reference a lot, but there aren’t a whole lot of movies out there where somebody shoves IV straws up another man’s nose, so that’s all I’ve got to work with.
During the second season of swim classes, one of our assignments was to dive right into the water, head first, arms extended. The first time I did this came without incident. In fact, my parents applauded me from the sidelines. And then with every successive time came more water in my nose and throat and not enough ways to expel it. After a while I just refused to dive and instead did a pencil jump while holding my nose shut. I already told you guys that I never passed either season of classes, but at this point I didn’t give two shits and a flying fuck. I was the Last Thunder Eagle and the Last Aqua Man all in one childhood. Sports really aren’t my thing after all. Hell, even gym class in general was an exhausting nightmare at times.
When I talked about The Thunder Eagles, I mentioned how soccer could be improved if hardcore violence was allowed. Well, I don’t think the same could be said for this blog entry. My misery was nobody else’s fault…this time. Nobody pushed me in the pool. Nobody tried to drown me. Nobody splashed me while I had my clothes on. Who was I going to beat the crap out of? The closest I could ever come to that would have to be literally cutting my nose off to spite my face. Yeah, that’s right! It’s my nose’s fault for allowing water to get in there in the first place. That’s not what noses are for! Isn’t that right, Melanie Good’s character from Die Watching? Now there’s a reference absolutely nobody is going to get…unless you’re into that sort of thing. Then again, “that sort of thing” is the only reason why I know that movie exists. How sad. How relentlessly sad.
So how exactly would The Last Aqua Man become a reasonable story? Would it be too similar to The Last Thunder Eagle? Am I just destined to write novels about sore losers my entire career? Mitch McLeod was a sore loser (when he did lose, which was not often). Mario Bryan was a sore loser. And now the main character from The Last Thunder Eagle, a ten-year-old named Alex Woodley, is going to be a REALLY sore loser. Brock Lesnar once said it best: in order to know how to win, you have to know how to lose. He was a sore loser in college and so am I in the real world.
And that’s the thing about life itself: failure is inevitable, but it’s how we react to it that will determine future success. Some people will pick themselves up and dust themselves off to go to work the next day. Others will crumble under the pressure and give up altogether. There were some things in my life that were worth continuing and some that I gave up on. I gave up on playing the guitar because I couldn’t move my fingers quickly enough across the frets. I gave up on playing Street Fighter IV because Abel kept getting cheap victories over me. I gave up on playing Magic: the Gathering because it became more about capitalism rather than the love of the game.
But when it comes to my creative outlets, mental health, and physical health, those are things I will never compromise on. These three things can’t exist without each other. I write for a living. I work on other creative endeavors for the love of art. I need a clear mind to do those things. And as far as physical health goes, I know my bulging belly will tell you otherwise, but I’ve actually lost a lot of weight in the past few months. I eat only three meals a day without snacking on sugary foods, I walk long distances whenever it’s nice outside, and I drink a lot of unsweetened iced tea. A lot! I haven’t kept track of how much weight I’ve lost, but I know I must be doing something right, because I can make it up and down the stairs without being overly winded. I guess there is life beyond childhood soccer and swimming. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!
***DOMESTIC DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
ME: You know, Reina, there was once a time when I considered Squall Leonhart from Final Fantasy VIII to be my own personal hero. He had no emotional attachments, no unnecessary relationships, and he mastered the art of giving zero fucks.
REINA: So basically your hero was an angsty teenager?
ME: No, that’s not what he is!
REINA: He sounds like an angsty teenager, Garrison. I bet he listens to a lot of Linkin Park.
ME: Final Fantasy VIII came out a few years before the first Linkin Park album.
REINA: He still would have listened to them.
Remember a blog entry a few weeks ago about my childhood soccer team The Thunder Eagles? Well, that wasn’t just a fun story. It’s now an undeveloped idea for a novel somewhere down the line. The reason Silent Warrior resonated so well was because it was loosely based on real experiences I had. The Last Thunder Eagle, as it’s now called, will hopefully resonate as well since I used to be a sore loser. In some ways, I still am a sore loser and perhaps this novel idea is what will exorcise those demons forever. But that’s neither here nor there. I’ve already written the first chapter of Beautiful Monster and I intend to see that one through to the epilogue. Wish me luck!
But as long as I’m being inspired by stories from my past (that thankfully aren’t too traumatic), I might as well throw another one out there and see if it sticks. In the same way The Last Thunder Eagle is intended to be about soccer, The Last Aqua Man will be about swimming lessons, should it ever become a novel idea. When I was a kid, I already knew how to doggie paddle from point A to point B. But that just wasn’t enough for some reason, so my parents signed me up for swimming lessons at the community pool. Although I didn’t get hit with any soccer balls or knocked down, I still was not a happy camper.
There were six different levels of difficulty for these classes: Beginner’s Level Parts 1-4, Intermediate, and Advanced. During both rounds of swim lessons, I was placed in Beginner’s Level 4 and never passed to the next tier. One of the big reasons for this was because I hated sticking my head underwater without plugging my nose first. I hate water in my nose, I hate coughing it up, I hate blowing it out, and I hate water in my ears. I would have worn a pair of goggles that protected my nose, but the swim instructors wouldn’t let me use them. Instead they suggested that I hold my breath before sticking my head underwater. Didn’t work. I ended up feeling like a whitewashed version of Crazy K from Tales from the Hood. I know I make that reference a lot, but there aren’t a whole lot of movies out there where somebody shoves IV straws up another man’s nose, so that’s all I’ve got to work with.
During the second season of swim classes, one of our assignments was to dive right into the water, head first, arms extended. The first time I did this came without incident. In fact, my parents applauded me from the sidelines. And then with every successive time came more water in my nose and throat and not enough ways to expel it. After a while I just refused to dive and instead did a pencil jump while holding my nose shut. I already told you guys that I never passed either season of classes, but at this point I didn’t give two shits and a flying fuck. I was the Last Thunder Eagle and the Last Aqua Man all in one childhood. Sports really aren’t my thing after all. Hell, even gym class in general was an exhausting nightmare at times.
When I talked about The Thunder Eagles, I mentioned how soccer could be improved if hardcore violence was allowed. Well, I don’t think the same could be said for this blog entry. My misery was nobody else’s fault…this time. Nobody pushed me in the pool. Nobody tried to drown me. Nobody splashed me while I had my clothes on. Who was I going to beat the crap out of? The closest I could ever come to that would have to be literally cutting my nose off to spite my face. Yeah, that’s right! It’s my nose’s fault for allowing water to get in there in the first place. That’s not what noses are for! Isn’t that right, Melanie Good’s character from Die Watching? Now there’s a reference absolutely nobody is going to get…unless you’re into that sort of thing. Then again, “that sort of thing” is the only reason why I know that movie exists. How sad. How relentlessly sad.
So how exactly would The Last Aqua Man become a reasonable story? Would it be too similar to The Last Thunder Eagle? Am I just destined to write novels about sore losers my entire career? Mitch McLeod was a sore loser (when he did lose, which was not often). Mario Bryan was a sore loser. And now the main character from The Last Thunder Eagle, a ten-year-old named Alex Woodley, is going to be a REALLY sore loser. Brock Lesnar once said it best: in order to know how to win, you have to know how to lose. He was a sore loser in college and so am I in the real world.
And that’s the thing about life itself: failure is inevitable, but it’s how we react to it that will determine future success. Some people will pick themselves up and dust themselves off to go to work the next day. Others will crumble under the pressure and give up altogether. There were some things in my life that were worth continuing and some that I gave up on. I gave up on playing the guitar because I couldn’t move my fingers quickly enough across the frets. I gave up on playing Street Fighter IV because Abel kept getting cheap victories over me. I gave up on playing Magic: the Gathering because it became more about capitalism rather than the love of the game.
But when it comes to my creative outlets, mental health, and physical health, those are things I will never compromise on. These three things can’t exist without each other. I write for a living. I work on other creative endeavors for the love of art. I need a clear mind to do those things. And as far as physical health goes, I know my bulging belly will tell you otherwise, but I’ve actually lost a lot of weight in the past few months. I eat only three meals a day without snacking on sugary foods, I walk long distances whenever it’s nice outside, and I drink a lot of unsweetened iced tea. A lot! I haven’t kept track of how much weight I’ve lost, but I know I must be doing something right, because I can make it up and down the stairs without being overly winded. I guess there is life beyond childhood soccer and swimming. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!
***DOMESTIC DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
ME: You know, Reina, there was once a time when I considered Squall Leonhart from Final Fantasy VIII to be my own personal hero. He had no emotional attachments, no unnecessary relationships, and he mastered the art of giving zero fucks.
REINA: So basically your hero was an angsty teenager?
ME: No, that’s not what he is!
REINA: He sounds like an angsty teenager, Garrison. I bet he listens to a lot of Linkin Park.
ME: Final Fantasy VIII came out a few years before the first Linkin Park album.
REINA: He still would have listened to them.
April 8, 2018
Beautiful Monster, Chapter 1
“Crush the bones…burn the body…crush the bones…burn the body…crush the bones…”
Windham Xavier beautifully sang these lyrics to himself as he kneeled against the grass and watched Shelly Atwood’s castle burn to the ground. His eyes grew dewy and his body relaxed in a hypnotic state. For the first time since his capture, he could smile even if only out of soft insanity. He didn’t mind the numbing of his brain and the dulling of his senses. It was a temporary vacation from the nightmare he constantly lived, one that he knew he had to keep to himself. And then his euphoric bliss was shattered at the feel of a woman’s hand gently slapping his shoulder.
The resulting electrical storm in Windham’s mind caused him to jolt to his feet and cower in fear while uttering a death scream. He slowly lowered his hands and noticed a lovely young lady in knight’s armor smiling at him with her hands behind her back. The radiant crucifix symbol on her breastplate was the same on Windham’s; she too was a member of Paladin Cross.
After a while of deathly silence, the woman spoke up. “As much as I enjoy listening to you sing in that pretty voice of yours, I’m afraid we can’t stay here for much longer. My name is Sir Tarja Rikkinen. I’m here to bring you back to home base. You must be Windham. You’re a hard man to find. Then again, it can’t be that hard to find a token elf in Paladin Cross gear. That and you’re much better looking than the clowns at home base.”
Windham’s light green skin flushed with embarrassment while his lips quivered and his eyes continued to drip. He allowed another modicum of silence to descend upon them, not knowing what to say to this woman who looked a lot like Shelly: long raven hair, pursy red lips, and milky white skin. No vampire teeth, though, so she couldn’t be a complete twin. Nevertheless, Windham shuffled slowly to the side in a half-assed attempt to get away only to have Tarja grab his hand.
“Where do you think you’re going, sunshine?” flirted Tarja. “You don’t get to run away from me that easily. I was sent all this way to do a job and I intend to see it through. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do to Commander Rinehart as to why you’ve been gone for a whole week.”
“…All that horror…lasted a whole week?” whispered Windham with a trembling voice.
“What’s all this about horror? Is there something you’re not telling me?” No response, just wide moist eyes. “Windham?” Still no response. “Hello? Is there anybody in there? Would any of this horror have to do with the fact that Shelly Atwood’s castle is currently on fire?”
The elf knight turned around and was once again entranced by the beauty of these rising flames. They danced for him. They put on a performance that could make the Northern Lights jealous. They waxed poetic masterpieces with their cackling and growling alone. Windham once again dropped to his knees and allowed the lovely display freeze his senses.
“Okay, honey-bear, that’s not going to fly. Come on!” commanded Tarja as she lifted a deadweight Windham around his belly up to his feet.
The cataclysmic inferno resumed in Windham’s mind as he realized what was about to happen. One week of hell was enough for him. Now he had to relive it not just for Tarja’s sake, but also for Commander Rinehart and his toilet humor-loving soldiers. Visions of laughter echoed throughout Windham’s head while his neurons blazed up in anticipation of a possible locker room beat down. He heard words such as “faggot” and “pansy-boy” hurled viciously among his compatriots, but if he allowed Tarja to bring him back home, those words could hurt just as badly as any boot or fist.
Windham threw Tarja’s arms off of his belly and dashed into the forest at a jungle cat’s speed. With his traumatized mind pumping white hot adrenaline through his body, all he could hear from the pursuing Tarja was gibberish and swear words. The chase had both soldiers leap over fallen logs, tree stumps, creeks, puddles, and frightened squirrels. Windham could feel his tongue aching and his heart ready to leap out of his chest, yet the taste of sweet freedom remained.
And then he felt the power of Tarja’s arms encircle his knees and Windham was roughly wrestled to the dirt ground. The elf squirmed and thrashed about, but his assailant was already quick with a pair of handcuffs and a shoulder lock. When the enclosure around his body became too small, Windham screamed like a wounded animal in hopes at least someone out in this lonely forest would hear him.
Someone did hear him, but it was only Tarja, who changed her strategy when it came to capturing her fellow knight. Instead of wrestling with him, she leaned on his back and scratched her fingernails through his scalp while calmly shushing him and whispering sweetness in his pointed ear. “It’s okay, Windham. Don’t fight it. Calm down and relax. I won’t hurt you. I’m just here to do my job.”
The makeshift scalp massage and gentle words did their trick: Windham stopped struggling and allowed the tingling sensation to sweep through his body. He breathed heavily knowing what awaited him back home, but Tarja was right there to comfort him. Still speaking in a sweet whisper, she asked, “If I take the handcuffs off, are you going to run away again?” No response. “Hello? Is anybody home? Are you sure you’re not just trying to make this head massage last longer?” she joked.
“Please take the cuffs off of me. I won’t run,” said Windham in a pathetic voice.
“Good.” She undid Windham’s binds and pulled him up by his arm. “Let’s get out of here, lover boy.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“You certainly are a little paranoid, aren’t you?” said Tarja as the two of them strolled together to where two horses were waiting for them. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about what happened in that castle? I mean, you’re eventually going to have to report it to Commander Rinehart, but as long as you’re getting ready to walk the gallows, you might as well fill me in on it.”
“You’re really going to feed me to the wolves, aren’t you?”
The two of them stopped midway and Tarja placed both hands on her charge’s shoulders. “Listen to me, Windham: I know you’re not thrilled about reporting your findings to a guy who could give less than a shit about who he torments next. But you know as well as I do how much this job pays. Some of us rely on that hefty payment to keep out of debt and to support our loved ones. Me? I’m in the former of those two categories. I’ve been in poverty before and I’m not going back just because you’re not man enough to face the music.”
“Just know…if he crucifies me for this, I’m blaming you.”
“I’m willing to take the blame if it means I keep my job. Pay aside, this is just like any other line of work: you show up on time, you complete your shift, you earn a payday. If I don’t do my job and bring you back home, I can kiss all of that goodbye. I’m a mercenary. That’s what I became and that what you’ve become too. It’s not easy being the only elf in a workplace full of humans, just like it’s not easy for me to be the only woman in a workplace full of men. But sometimes you just have to suck it up. Otherwise, you’ll do nothing but prove their bigoted agendas right. Do you understand me?”
Windham tucked his head and allowed yet another boon of silence to fill the awkward tension. Tarja rubbed her hands up and down Windham’s arms in an attempt to calm his nerves even further. Finally he spoke up. “I need this job just as much as you do. I needed something beyond my village, which was why I left in the first place. But if I’m going to…” He swallowed a kiwi-sized lump. “If I’m going to put myself out there like that…”
“I won’t let anything bad happen to you, Windham. You can trust me,” said Tarja as she held both of her charge’s hands.
He pulled his hands away and snapped, “You don’t even know me! How can you tell me to trust you? Let’s just get this shit over with so that you don’t have to live one day outside of your private island mansion, or wherever the fuck you live!” Windham walked ahead of Tarja towards the horses with his head hung low and his fists clenched tightly. Gone was the euphoria of watching his captor’s castle burn and in its place was the cycle of traumatic monsters alive in his mind. Forget the ogres, dragons, orcs, and goblins. These psychological demons were the most real thing to him and not even a Tarja Rikkinen-certified head massage could wash them all away.
Windham Xavier beautifully sang these lyrics to himself as he kneeled against the grass and watched Shelly Atwood’s castle burn to the ground. His eyes grew dewy and his body relaxed in a hypnotic state. For the first time since his capture, he could smile even if only out of soft insanity. He didn’t mind the numbing of his brain and the dulling of his senses. It was a temporary vacation from the nightmare he constantly lived, one that he knew he had to keep to himself. And then his euphoric bliss was shattered at the feel of a woman’s hand gently slapping his shoulder.
The resulting electrical storm in Windham’s mind caused him to jolt to his feet and cower in fear while uttering a death scream. He slowly lowered his hands and noticed a lovely young lady in knight’s armor smiling at him with her hands behind her back. The radiant crucifix symbol on her breastplate was the same on Windham’s; she too was a member of Paladin Cross.
After a while of deathly silence, the woman spoke up. “As much as I enjoy listening to you sing in that pretty voice of yours, I’m afraid we can’t stay here for much longer. My name is Sir Tarja Rikkinen. I’m here to bring you back to home base. You must be Windham. You’re a hard man to find. Then again, it can’t be that hard to find a token elf in Paladin Cross gear. That and you’re much better looking than the clowns at home base.”
Windham’s light green skin flushed with embarrassment while his lips quivered and his eyes continued to drip. He allowed another modicum of silence to descend upon them, not knowing what to say to this woman who looked a lot like Shelly: long raven hair, pursy red lips, and milky white skin. No vampire teeth, though, so she couldn’t be a complete twin. Nevertheless, Windham shuffled slowly to the side in a half-assed attempt to get away only to have Tarja grab his hand.
“Where do you think you’re going, sunshine?” flirted Tarja. “You don’t get to run away from me that easily. I was sent all this way to do a job and I intend to see it through. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do to Commander Rinehart as to why you’ve been gone for a whole week.”
“…All that horror…lasted a whole week?” whispered Windham with a trembling voice.
“What’s all this about horror? Is there something you’re not telling me?” No response, just wide moist eyes. “Windham?” Still no response. “Hello? Is there anybody in there? Would any of this horror have to do with the fact that Shelly Atwood’s castle is currently on fire?”
The elf knight turned around and was once again entranced by the beauty of these rising flames. They danced for him. They put on a performance that could make the Northern Lights jealous. They waxed poetic masterpieces with their cackling and growling alone. Windham once again dropped to his knees and allowed the lovely display freeze his senses.
“Okay, honey-bear, that’s not going to fly. Come on!” commanded Tarja as she lifted a deadweight Windham around his belly up to his feet.
The cataclysmic inferno resumed in Windham’s mind as he realized what was about to happen. One week of hell was enough for him. Now he had to relive it not just for Tarja’s sake, but also for Commander Rinehart and his toilet humor-loving soldiers. Visions of laughter echoed throughout Windham’s head while his neurons blazed up in anticipation of a possible locker room beat down. He heard words such as “faggot” and “pansy-boy” hurled viciously among his compatriots, but if he allowed Tarja to bring him back home, those words could hurt just as badly as any boot or fist.
Windham threw Tarja’s arms off of his belly and dashed into the forest at a jungle cat’s speed. With his traumatized mind pumping white hot adrenaline through his body, all he could hear from the pursuing Tarja was gibberish and swear words. The chase had both soldiers leap over fallen logs, tree stumps, creeks, puddles, and frightened squirrels. Windham could feel his tongue aching and his heart ready to leap out of his chest, yet the taste of sweet freedom remained.
And then he felt the power of Tarja’s arms encircle his knees and Windham was roughly wrestled to the dirt ground. The elf squirmed and thrashed about, but his assailant was already quick with a pair of handcuffs and a shoulder lock. When the enclosure around his body became too small, Windham screamed like a wounded animal in hopes at least someone out in this lonely forest would hear him.
Someone did hear him, but it was only Tarja, who changed her strategy when it came to capturing her fellow knight. Instead of wrestling with him, she leaned on his back and scratched her fingernails through his scalp while calmly shushing him and whispering sweetness in his pointed ear. “It’s okay, Windham. Don’t fight it. Calm down and relax. I won’t hurt you. I’m just here to do my job.”
The makeshift scalp massage and gentle words did their trick: Windham stopped struggling and allowed the tingling sensation to sweep through his body. He breathed heavily knowing what awaited him back home, but Tarja was right there to comfort him. Still speaking in a sweet whisper, she asked, “If I take the handcuffs off, are you going to run away again?” No response. “Hello? Is anybody home? Are you sure you’re not just trying to make this head massage last longer?” she joked.
“Please take the cuffs off of me. I won’t run,” said Windham in a pathetic voice.
“Good.” She undid Windham’s binds and pulled him up by his arm. “Let’s get out of here, lover boy.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“You certainly are a little paranoid, aren’t you?” said Tarja as the two of them strolled together to where two horses were waiting for them. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about what happened in that castle? I mean, you’re eventually going to have to report it to Commander Rinehart, but as long as you’re getting ready to walk the gallows, you might as well fill me in on it.”
“You’re really going to feed me to the wolves, aren’t you?”
The two of them stopped midway and Tarja placed both hands on her charge’s shoulders. “Listen to me, Windham: I know you’re not thrilled about reporting your findings to a guy who could give less than a shit about who he torments next. But you know as well as I do how much this job pays. Some of us rely on that hefty payment to keep out of debt and to support our loved ones. Me? I’m in the former of those two categories. I’ve been in poverty before and I’m not going back just because you’re not man enough to face the music.”
“Just know…if he crucifies me for this, I’m blaming you.”
“I’m willing to take the blame if it means I keep my job. Pay aside, this is just like any other line of work: you show up on time, you complete your shift, you earn a payday. If I don’t do my job and bring you back home, I can kiss all of that goodbye. I’m a mercenary. That’s what I became and that what you’ve become too. It’s not easy being the only elf in a workplace full of humans, just like it’s not easy for me to be the only woman in a workplace full of men. But sometimes you just have to suck it up. Otherwise, you’ll do nothing but prove their bigoted agendas right. Do you understand me?”
Windham tucked his head and allowed yet another boon of silence to fill the awkward tension. Tarja rubbed her hands up and down Windham’s arms in an attempt to calm his nerves even further. Finally he spoke up. “I need this job just as much as you do. I needed something beyond my village, which was why I left in the first place. But if I’m going to…” He swallowed a kiwi-sized lump. “If I’m going to put myself out there like that…”
“I won’t let anything bad happen to you, Windham. You can trust me,” said Tarja as she held both of her charge’s hands.
He pulled his hands away and snapped, “You don’t even know me! How can you tell me to trust you? Let’s just get this shit over with so that you don’t have to live one day outside of your private island mansion, or wherever the fuck you live!” Windham walked ahead of Tarja towards the horses with his head hung low and his fists clenched tightly. Gone was the euphoria of watching his captor’s castle burn and in its place was the cycle of traumatic monsters alive in his mind. Forget the ogres, dragons, orcs, and goblins. These psychological demons were the most real thing to him and not even a Tarja Rikkinen-certified head massage could wash them all away.
April 4, 2018
Extremism
***EXTREMISM***
When you’re young and naïve, extreme comments can be very appealing, either because of comedic value or aspirations of badassery. As a teenager, blatantly offensive jokes were the funniest to me. During my early twenties, I still found them wildly hilarious despite me conforming to a college environment. With age comes wisdom and what was once cool in the past isn’t so cool anymore. My 33rd birthday is this coming June and I’d like to think I at least have enough wisdom to know the difference between what’s acceptable and what’s not. I often find myself measuring my posts online for this very reason. Would you like to hear some of the salty stuff I said during my youth? You may find it darkly funny, then again, your jaw might fall on the floor. Either way, it’ll be a slight departure from the emotional diarrhea blog entries I’ve posted lately. Speaking of which, I finally learned the word that sums up the act of “Wrestling With My Mind”: brooding. How did I not learn this word earlier?!
This journal entry will have three different examples of extreme dialogue and the first one is the most contemporary example I can think of. The year is 2010 and a Roger Waters concert at the Tacoma Dome has just let out. I’m walking the streets with my dad, my step-mom Charlie, and her son Ryan. We’re walking adjacently to the train tracks and there are drunken morons wrestling around on them and yelling like lunatics. The drunks were warned by train station personnel to get off the tracks, but they kept hooting and hollering. When I describe this incident, I could just as easily say things like, “What a night that was!” or “I’m glad we got out of there!” But this is a blog entry about extreme dialogue, so instead I say…“I was kind of hoping the drunks would get run over by the train.” You all know via my poetry how I feel about drug addicts and alcoholics who behave obnoxiously in public, but this is a stretch even for me. And by stretch, I’m talking Gumby levels of stretchiness.
Example number two. The year is 2009 and I’m taking a creative nonfiction class at Western Washington University. As part of the class curriculum, we had to read certain books and one of them was “This Boy’s Life” by Tobias Wolff. There’s a scene where a young Tobias is with his mother at some kind of Seattle fair and these two bearded guys in flannel shirts approach them. The guys treat the Wolff family to sugary treats, hotdogs, and rides on bicycles. The smart thing for me to do would be to answer the actual assigned questions on the online forum for our class. But instead I…sort of…compare the two bearded men to the mountaineers from Deliverance. You know the ones. “Squeal, piggy!” The next day, the teacher announces that several people were offended by my post and that I should be careful about what I say on the internet. In hindsight, this was a good lesson. The problem? I was too arrogant to heed it, so I silently stewed for the rest of the class and laughed about it once we were dismissed.
Final example. The year is 2008 and I’m still attending school at WWU, this time for a dramatic writing class. The class met every Friday afternoon and that was when our scripts for short theater scenes were due. Mine happened to be about a kid named Kurt Liddell who had to be comforted by his girlfriend Georgia Cushing after getting a D- in US history. Kurt could have phrased his feelings any way he wanted. He could have wished for higher marks. He could have vowed to work harder. He could have wished for a transfer request. But no. He says something that would unfortunately be a hallmark for plenty of school-related stories in my future career (including, sadly enough, Silent Warrior). Kurt Liddell says…”Those Columbine kids had it right all along.” Let that sink in for a moment. Kurt channels the Columbine kids because he got a D- in school. If that’s not extreme behavior, I don’t know what is. Nonetheless, I got an A on that assignment and was given the opportunity to write more scenes in that series as an alternative to the scheduled work, so I thought that was pretty cool.
Needless to say, these were not years where I had my shit together. I’m 32 years old and some of my shit is still scattered here and there. If you learn one thing from this blog entry, it’s to not let your ego get in the way of a good lesson. No matter how good you are (or how good you think you are), there’s always room to improve your life, whether it’s creatively, professionally, or personally. The day you stop growing is the day you get complacent. Complacency can be smelled from miles away and it stinks like shit. If growing from extreme behavior is your way of moving on in this world, go for it. I know growing up sucks, but there are still aspects of youth that can be appealing to adults, Legos and videogames being chief among them. I’m Garrison Kelly! Keep climbing the mountain!
***THE NEXT NOVEL***
Silent Warrior has finally been put to bed for the very last time. It’s only a first draft, so there will be lots of editing in the future, which I’m very much looking forward to. In the meantime, I need a new novel to work on. The ideas that seem the most appealing to me right now are Beautiful Monster, Booger the Clown, and (maybe) Suck It Double Dork. Only Beautiful Monster has been developed from beginning to end. The other two need some fleshing out, which is why I spent so much time brooding in the first place. Heh. Brooding. I love that word! Brooding!
***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
GANGSTER A: What about us?
GANGSTER B: That shit was wrong, man.
GANGSTER A: You just drove by and started blasting.
GANGSTER B: That shit was wrong, man.
GANGSTER A: We weren’t even the ones who capped your homie.
GANGSTER B: That shit was really wrong, G.
CRAZY K: Man, fuck you niggas! It was your set that did my homie Little Joe! You motherfuckers would try to kill me if you had the chance! Man, fuck you niggas! Fuck y’all!
-Tales from the Hood: Hardcore Convert-
***POST-SCRIPT***
Andrew Gale a.k.a. Booger the Clown is a huge fan of gangster rap and the movie Tales From the Hood. If his story is the one I end up writing, TFTH will be referenced quite a bit. Hell, in the opening segment, I’ll have Andrew drive down a dark highway with “Born II Die” by Spice One blasting on his stereo. “My gat screamed fire! The bullet told me shoot that motherfucker, he’s a liar!” Man, I love those lyrics! Badass!
When you’re young and naïve, extreme comments can be very appealing, either because of comedic value or aspirations of badassery. As a teenager, blatantly offensive jokes were the funniest to me. During my early twenties, I still found them wildly hilarious despite me conforming to a college environment. With age comes wisdom and what was once cool in the past isn’t so cool anymore. My 33rd birthday is this coming June and I’d like to think I at least have enough wisdom to know the difference between what’s acceptable and what’s not. I often find myself measuring my posts online for this very reason. Would you like to hear some of the salty stuff I said during my youth? You may find it darkly funny, then again, your jaw might fall on the floor. Either way, it’ll be a slight departure from the emotional diarrhea blog entries I’ve posted lately. Speaking of which, I finally learned the word that sums up the act of “Wrestling With My Mind”: brooding. How did I not learn this word earlier?!
This journal entry will have three different examples of extreme dialogue and the first one is the most contemporary example I can think of. The year is 2010 and a Roger Waters concert at the Tacoma Dome has just let out. I’m walking the streets with my dad, my step-mom Charlie, and her son Ryan. We’re walking adjacently to the train tracks and there are drunken morons wrestling around on them and yelling like lunatics. The drunks were warned by train station personnel to get off the tracks, but they kept hooting and hollering. When I describe this incident, I could just as easily say things like, “What a night that was!” or “I’m glad we got out of there!” But this is a blog entry about extreme dialogue, so instead I say…“I was kind of hoping the drunks would get run over by the train.” You all know via my poetry how I feel about drug addicts and alcoholics who behave obnoxiously in public, but this is a stretch even for me. And by stretch, I’m talking Gumby levels of stretchiness.
Example number two. The year is 2009 and I’m taking a creative nonfiction class at Western Washington University. As part of the class curriculum, we had to read certain books and one of them was “This Boy’s Life” by Tobias Wolff. There’s a scene where a young Tobias is with his mother at some kind of Seattle fair and these two bearded guys in flannel shirts approach them. The guys treat the Wolff family to sugary treats, hotdogs, and rides on bicycles. The smart thing for me to do would be to answer the actual assigned questions on the online forum for our class. But instead I…sort of…compare the two bearded men to the mountaineers from Deliverance. You know the ones. “Squeal, piggy!” The next day, the teacher announces that several people were offended by my post and that I should be careful about what I say on the internet. In hindsight, this was a good lesson. The problem? I was too arrogant to heed it, so I silently stewed for the rest of the class and laughed about it once we were dismissed.
Final example. The year is 2008 and I’m still attending school at WWU, this time for a dramatic writing class. The class met every Friday afternoon and that was when our scripts for short theater scenes were due. Mine happened to be about a kid named Kurt Liddell who had to be comforted by his girlfriend Georgia Cushing after getting a D- in US history. Kurt could have phrased his feelings any way he wanted. He could have wished for higher marks. He could have vowed to work harder. He could have wished for a transfer request. But no. He says something that would unfortunately be a hallmark for plenty of school-related stories in my future career (including, sadly enough, Silent Warrior). Kurt Liddell says…”Those Columbine kids had it right all along.” Let that sink in for a moment. Kurt channels the Columbine kids because he got a D- in school. If that’s not extreme behavior, I don’t know what is. Nonetheless, I got an A on that assignment and was given the opportunity to write more scenes in that series as an alternative to the scheduled work, so I thought that was pretty cool.
Needless to say, these were not years where I had my shit together. I’m 32 years old and some of my shit is still scattered here and there. If you learn one thing from this blog entry, it’s to not let your ego get in the way of a good lesson. No matter how good you are (or how good you think you are), there’s always room to improve your life, whether it’s creatively, professionally, or personally. The day you stop growing is the day you get complacent. Complacency can be smelled from miles away and it stinks like shit. If growing from extreme behavior is your way of moving on in this world, go for it. I know growing up sucks, but there are still aspects of youth that can be appealing to adults, Legos and videogames being chief among them. I’m Garrison Kelly! Keep climbing the mountain!
***THE NEXT NOVEL***
Silent Warrior has finally been put to bed for the very last time. It’s only a first draft, so there will be lots of editing in the future, which I’m very much looking forward to. In the meantime, I need a new novel to work on. The ideas that seem the most appealing to me right now are Beautiful Monster, Booger the Clown, and (maybe) Suck It Double Dork. Only Beautiful Monster has been developed from beginning to end. The other two need some fleshing out, which is why I spent so much time brooding in the first place. Heh. Brooding. I love that word! Brooding!
***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
GANGSTER A: What about us?
GANGSTER B: That shit was wrong, man.
GANGSTER A: You just drove by and started blasting.
GANGSTER B: That shit was wrong, man.
GANGSTER A: We weren’t even the ones who capped your homie.
GANGSTER B: That shit was really wrong, G.
CRAZY K: Man, fuck you niggas! It was your set that did my homie Little Joe! You motherfuckers would try to kill me if you had the chance! Man, fuck you niggas! Fuck y’all!
-Tales from the Hood: Hardcore Convert-
***POST-SCRIPT***
Andrew Gale a.k.a. Booger the Clown is a huge fan of gangster rap and the movie Tales From the Hood. If his story is the one I end up writing, TFTH will be referenced quite a bit. Hell, in the opening segment, I’ll have Andrew drive down a dark highway with “Born II Die” by Spice One blasting on his stereo. “My gat screamed fire! The bullet told me shoot that motherfucker, he’s a liar!” Man, I love those lyrics! Badass!
Silent Warrior, Final Chapter
“Good morning to you…good morning to you…good morning, dear Alan…”
“G…g…good morning to you!”
“Alan, why are you so sad?”
“Why wouldn’t I be sad? This isn’t good morning. It’s fucking dark in here, Ally! I don’t see any sunshine! I don’t hear any cock-a-doodle-doos! Instead all I hear are screams. It could be another prisoner screaming in pain. It could be a guard screaming bullshit instructions. Or it could be me screaming ‘cause I’m constantly in fucking pain! Why, Ally? Why all the worms and maggots?”
“I’m a biologist. I deal with such creatures on a daily basis. I’m not going to just sacrifice my life’s work because you find earth’s critters disgusting. Everything in this world has its own special place. It could be a bat eating mosquitoes. It could be a pack of wolves hunting down deer. It could even be something as natural as a mother bird regurgitating worms into her babies’ beaks.”
“Cut the bullshit! You know how disgusting you really are! Scott had it right all along and I didn’t listen to him! He’s got more common sense than the two of us put together!”
“Don’t you talk to me that way, little boy! If I wasn’t a hallucination, I’d wash your chubby mouth out with soap! I left Scott George on his own for the same reason I left his father Carter. They rejected me, just like you’re rejecting me now. I tried to keep the peace between you and Scott. I even showed up at his trial to put in the best possible word for you. But you threw that all away when you tried to stab him in your cell. Now you’re in the darkest part of jail and you’ve no one to blame but yourself!”
“It should be Scott in this room, not me!”
“Then prove it, Alan! Scott became the man he is today because he fought for everything he believed in whether it was right or wrong. Now’s your time to fight. You may be under lock and key, but your war with Scott is far from over. As long as your mind continues to destroy you from the inside, you have all the reason in the world to fight. You don’t want these images and words, do you? Forget the worms and maggots for a minute. Your real enemy isn’t anything that can be found in the animal kingdom. It’s your own weakness!”
“Weakness? I’ve been beating ass since the day I was born and you have the gall to call me weak? What about all the crybabies on the playground who threw a fit because they couldn’t hang with me? What about all the teachers who care more about precious self-esteem than they do about the real world? Why aren’t you calling them weak?”
“Because they’re not weak, Alan. They have the kind of strength you could only dream of having: strength in numbers. You’re only one man trying to fight an entire world. But if Mr. Simpson has taught you anything, it’s to pick apart the army one soldier at a time. Mr. Simpson may have softened over this long exhausting semester, but that doesn’t mean you have to. I want you to take every ounce of your insanity and use it as a weapon. Fists alone have achieved nothing.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m in solitary confinement! You even said yourself you’re a fucking hallucination! Who am I supposed to use this weapon on? There’s nobody here with me! Even the guards have tuned me out, for Christ’s sake!”
“You can’t stay in solitary confinement forever, Alan. Even the strictest prosecutors know this to be true. For what you did, you won’t even be in jail forever. You may be a destructive bastard, but you’ve never once murdered another human being. Implanting suicidal thoughts in someone else doesn’t count. I’m talking about the worst kind of murder there is. I’m talking about animalistic rage that can only be forged in darkness like this. Channel that rage and don’t let the world get away with locking you up like this!”
“…You want me to survive this place…by beating the shit out of everyone here? You want me to find my exit by pushing around people more powerful than me?”
“This isn’t the sandbox, Alan. This is jail. If you don’t stand up for yourself here, nobody else will. The guards aren’t here for your protection. They’re here to make sure you conform. They’re here to use you as a punching bag whenever they damn well feel like it. You’re not going to let that happen, are you?”
“…Never…I never wanted to be a part of society…I never wanted to follow anyone’s rules…Why should these assholes in uniform be any different? Is it because they have keys? Is it because they have so-called training? Is it because they’re tougher than me?! I don’t fucking think so!”
“Good! That’s what I want to hear from you! That’s what I’ve been waiting to hear from you since I married your father! Nobody pushes my baby around! And when I say baby, I’m not talking about that ungrateful snake Scott! I’m talking about by one true baby. The one I’ll forever cherish. The one I’ll forever spoil and love. Alan…this is your time. Don’t screw it up!”
Alan Young awoke in his solitary confinement cell with rough stubble on his chin, razor sharp hairs poking out of his bald head, and his heart beating a combination of fire and nitro glycerin. He breathed heavily like a wounded animal. He lusted for violence and aggression with bloodshot eyes. He smiled so hideously that he could smell his own sour breath.
Only a small patch of light illuminated the room through the barred window to the outside. Even though the sun was barely rising over the landscape, Alan still had lost track of how much time he spent cooped up in here. No clocks, no indication from the guards, only the occasional shitty meal which was inconsistent with the rest of the feedings.
Alan stood his clumsy body up and grabbed hold of the bars while staring out into the horizon. He held his stepmother’s words deep inside him until his very core was hot enough to melt away the last of his sanity. What once was a heart was now a heap of ashes. What once was a racing mind was now a zombie’s rage. The urge to kill had taken over his entire body. Just one taste of blood…anybody’s blood…
Surely another prisoner would satisfy his violent appetite just fine. He even believed some of the guards deserved a few undead thrashings. But the ultimate dessert at the end of this blood-soaked meal would be none other than Scott Marcus George. All Alan needed was one opening to strike. One tiny mistake made by another occupant of this hellhole. The rest would come as naturally as breathing.
“Scotty-Boy…I’m coming for you…and not even your marsh-dwelling girlfriend will be able to save your skinny ass this time!” Alan ranted as he shook the bars like a steroid-pumped professional wrestler. “I’m coming for you, motherfucker!”
THE END?
“G…g…good morning to you!”
“Alan, why are you so sad?”
“Why wouldn’t I be sad? This isn’t good morning. It’s fucking dark in here, Ally! I don’t see any sunshine! I don’t hear any cock-a-doodle-doos! Instead all I hear are screams. It could be another prisoner screaming in pain. It could be a guard screaming bullshit instructions. Or it could be me screaming ‘cause I’m constantly in fucking pain! Why, Ally? Why all the worms and maggots?”
“I’m a biologist. I deal with such creatures on a daily basis. I’m not going to just sacrifice my life’s work because you find earth’s critters disgusting. Everything in this world has its own special place. It could be a bat eating mosquitoes. It could be a pack of wolves hunting down deer. It could even be something as natural as a mother bird regurgitating worms into her babies’ beaks.”
“Cut the bullshit! You know how disgusting you really are! Scott had it right all along and I didn’t listen to him! He’s got more common sense than the two of us put together!”
“Don’t you talk to me that way, little boy! If I wasn’t a hallucination, I’d wash your chubby mouth out with soap! I left Scott George on his own for the same reason I left his father Carter. They rejected me, just like you’re rejecting me now. I tried to keep the peace between you and Scott. I even showed up at his trial to put in the best possible word for you. But you threw that all away when you tried to stab him in your cell. Now you’re in the darkest part of jail and you’ve no one to blame but yourself!”
“It should be Scott in this room, not me!”
“Then prove it, Alan! Scott became the man he is today because he fought for everything he believed in whether it was right or wrong. Now’s your time to fight. You may be under lock and key, but your war with Scott is far from over. As long as your mind continues to destroy you from the inside, you have all the reason in the world to fight. You don’t want these images and words, do you? Forget the worms and maggots for a minute. Your real enemy isn’t anything that can be found in the animal kingdom. It’s your own weakness!”
“Weakness? I’ve been beating ass since the day I was born and you have the gall to call me weak? What about all the crybabies on the playground who threw a fit because they couldn’t hang with me? What about all the teachers who care more about precious self-esteem than they do about the real world? Why aren’t you calling them weak?”
“Because they’re not weak, Alan. They have the kind of strength you could only dream of having: strength in numbers. You’re only one man trying to fight an entire world. But if Mr. Simpson has taught you anything, it’s to pick apart the army one soldier at a time. Mr. Simpson may have softened over this long exhausting semester, but that doesn’t mean you have to. I want you to take every ounce of your insanity and use it as a weapon. Fists alone have achieved nothing.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m in solitary confinement! You even said yourself you’re a fucking hallucination! Who am I supposed to use this weapon on? There’s nobody here with me! Even the guards have tuned me out, for Christ’s sake!”
“You can’t stay in solitary confinement forever, Alan. Even the strictest prosecutors know this to be true. For what you did, you won’t even be in jail forever. You may be a destructive bastard, but you’ve never once murdered another human being. Implanting suicidal thoughts in someone else doesn’t count. I’m talking about the worst kind of murder there is. I’m talking about animalistic rage that can only be forged in darkness like this. Channel that rage and don’t let the world get away with locking you up like this!”
“…You want me to survive this place…by beating the shit out of everyone here? You want me to find my exit by pushing around people more powerful than me?”
“This isn’t the sandbox, Alan. This is jail. If you don’t stand up for yourself here, nobody else will. The guards aren’t here for your protection. They’re here to make sure you conform. They’re here to use you as a punching bag whenever they damn well feel like it. You’re not going to let that happen, are you?”
“…Never…I never wanted to be a part of society…I never wanted to follow anyone’s rules…Why should these assholes in uniform be any different? Is it because they have keys? Is it because they have so-called training? Is it because they’re tougher than me?! I don’t fucking think so!”
“Good! That’s what I want to hear from you! That’s what I’ve been waiting to hear from you since I married your father! Nobody pushes my baby around! And when I say baby, I’m not talking about that ungrateful snake Scott! I’m talking about by one true baby. The one I’ll forever cherish. The one I’ll forever spoil and love. Alan…this is your time. Don’t screw it up!”
Alan Young awoke in his solitary confinement cell with rough stubble on his chin, razor sharp hairs poking out of his bald head, and his heart beating a combination of fire and nitro glycerin. He breathed heavily like a wounded animal. He lusted for violence and aggression with bloodshot eyes. He smiled so hideously that he could smell his own sour breath.
Only a small patch of light illuminated the room through the barred window to the outside. Even though the sun was barely rising over the landscape, Alan still had lost track of how much time he spent cooped up in here. No clocks, no indication from the guards, only the occasional shitty meal which was inconsistent with the rest of the feedings.
Alan stood his clumsy body up and grabbed hold of the bars while staring out into the horizon. He held his stepmother’s words deep inside him until his very core was hot enough to melt away the last of his sanity. What once was a heart was now a heap of ashes. What once was a racing mind was now a zombie’s rage. The urge to kill had taken over his entire body. Just one taste of blood…anybody’s blood…
Surely another prisoner would satisfy his violent appetite just fine. He even believed some of the guards deserved a few undead thrashings. But the ultimate dessert at the end of this blood-soaked meal would be none other than Scott Marcus George. All Alan needed was one opening to strike. One tiny mistake made by another occupant of this hellhole. The rest would come as naturally as breathing.
“Scotty-Boy…I’m coming for you…and not even your marsh-dwelling girlfriend will be able to save your skinny ass this time!” Alan ranted as he shook the bars like a steroid-pumped professional wrestler. “I’m coming for you, motherfucker!”
THE END?
April 3, 2018
Guardians of the Galaxy, Vol. 2
MOVIE TITLE: Guardians of the Galaxy, Vol. 2
DIRECTOR: James Gunn
YEAR: 2017
GENRE: Superhero Film
RATING: PG-13 for sci-fi violence and crass humor
GRADE: Pass
The Guardians of the Galaxy, led by Peter Quill, are on the run from bounty hunters yet again after raccoon teammate Rocket steals high energy batteries from the Sovereign race. The golden aliens go so far as to hire Quill’s adoptive father Yondu and his ravager mercenaries to recapture them. The Guardians’ only saving grace comes when Quill’s real father, a celestial god named Ego, rescues them and brings them back to his psychologically crafted home planet. The more time Quill spends with Ego, the more his father’s darkest secrets bubble to the surface and the more danger his crew is in.
When I write this review, I don’t want any of you to think that I’m crapping all over the humorous aspects of this movie. They serve their purpose and are easily the most entertaining part of the movie aside from the violence and the emotional aspects near the end. Having said that, they’re a double edged sword. On the positive side, you’ve got Rocket’s raunchy dialogue, Drax’s socially awkward behavior, Quill’s pop culture references, and Baby Groot’s naïve attitude towards everything. I especially enjoyed what the director has done with the unfortunately named Taserface, whose self-chosen moniker has become the butt end of everyone’s crass insults. And then there’s also Rocket’s dismantling of Yondu’s army in the forest with his gadgets and traps. Rocket is easily the funniest character in the whole movie, bottom line, end of story.
But with every double edged sword, there are negatives to the positives. Marvel movies in particular get this criticism a lot, but nothing seems to change. While humor in and of itself is a major boost to any movie script, there are times when the casual jokes take away from the emotionally charged parts of the film. This descent from emotional highs is called bathos, an antonym for exalted. I would have loved to see some tearjerkers between Quill and Ego, Gamora and her vengeful sister Nebula, and Drax and the empathetic mantis named…well…Mantis. But alas, being funny was more important to the director than being emotionally invested. It must be a guy thing. The only real emotional connection the audience can feel with the movie is in the movie’s conclusion, which I won’t spoil save for that one tidbit. Something needs to change, Marvel. I hope you’re listening.
But don’t let this mild descent into bathos distract from the idea of this movie being entertaining from beginning to end. If you like hardcore sci-fi violence, you’ll certainly get plenty of that. If you like a well-crafted story with quirky characters and occasional lovey-dovey aspects, this movie has that in spades. If you like wild imagination with your sci-fi stories, and really, who doesn’t, buckle up for the ride. For all intents and purposes, this is a damn good movie that deserved to draw in all the money it did. You know that Futurama meme with Fry holding up a wad of cash and yelling, “Shut up and take my money!” That’s the attitude you should have with this movie. A passing grade will go to this fine piece of cinema!
DIRECTOR: James Gunn
YEAR: 2017
GENRE: Superhero Film
RATING: PG-13 for sci-fi violence and crass humor
GRADE: Pass
The Guardians of the Galaxy, led by Peter Quill, are on the run from bounty hunters yet again after raccoon teammate Rocket steals high energy batteries from the Sovereign race. The golden aliens go so far as to hire Quill’s adoptive father Yondu and his ravager mercenaries to recapture them. The Guardians’ only saving grace comes when Quill’s real father, a celestial god named Ego, rescues them and brings them back to his psychologically crafted home planet. The more time Quill spends with Ego, the more his father’s darkest secrets bubble to the surface and the more danger his crew is in.
When I write this review, I don’t want any of you to think that I’m crapping all over the humorous aspects of this movie. They serve their purpose and are easily the most entertaining part of the movie aside from the violence and the emotional aspects near the end. Having said that, they’re a double edged sword. On the positive side, you’ve got Rocket’s raunchy dialogue, Drax’s socially awkward behavior, Quill’s pop culture references, and Baby Groot’s naïve attitude towards everything. I especially enjoyed what the director has done with the unfortunately named Taserface, whose self-chosen moniker has become the butt end of everyone’s crass insults. And then there’s also Rocket’s dismantling of Yondu’s army in the forest with his gadgets and traps. Rocket is easily the funniest character in the whole movie, bottom line, end of story.
But with every double edged sword, there are negatives to the positives. Marvel movies in particular get this criticism a lot, but nothing seems to change. While humor in and of itself is a major boost to any movie script, there are times when the casual jokes take away from the emotionally charged parts of the film. This descent from emotional highs is called bathos, an antonym for exalted. I would have loved to see some tearjerkers between Quill and Ego, Gamora and her vengeful sister Nebula, and Drax and the empathetic mantis named…well…Mantis. But alas, being funny was more important to the director than being emotionally invested. It must be a guy thing. The only real emotional connection the audience can feel with the movie is in the movie’s conclusion, which I won’t spoil save for that one tidbit. Something needs to change, Marvel. I hope you’re listening.
But don’t let this mild descent into bathos distract from the idea of this movie being entertaining from beginning to end. If you like hardcore sci-fi violence, you’ll certainly get plenty of that. If you like a well-crafted story with quirky characters and occasional lovey-dovey aspects, this movie has that in spades. If you like wild imagination with your sci-fi stories, and really, who doesn’t, buckle up for the ride. For all intents and purposes, this is a damn good movie that deserved to draw in all the money it did. You know that Futurama meme with Fry holding up a wad of cash and yelling, “Shut up and take my money!” That’s the attitude you should have with this movie. A passing grade will go to this fine piece of cinema!
April 2, 2018
Silent Warrior, Chapter 27
It took fifteen seconds of staring at his own Nikes, but Craig Dunham finally said what he needed to say: “Look, Scott…I’m probably the last person who should be asking you for help right now. You threw a garbage can at me only a few months before. Hell, you probably feel like doing even more than that, maybe deck me a good one on the chin. But…I didn’t ask for this appointment for nothing, I swear to god.”
Sitting in his comfy swivel chair with the ease and professionalism of a true counselor, Scott calmly said, “Listen, Craig, whatever happened between us in the past, it’s all over now. Things are different now, just like Miss Williams said they would be. I have a new job and you happen to be my first client. You’re here for a reason and I’d probably be right in thinking it has something to do with that scar on your hand.”
Craig sighed and lifted up his hooded sweatshirt to reveal he had even more scars than that. One on his belly, one on his ribs, and a couple of bruises on his chest. Scott hypnotically gazed at them in sympathy and replied with a whispery, “Holy shit. Those are fresh. Who did this to you?” No response. “Craig, if I’m going to help you, I need to know everything that happened. How did you get these bruises? Walking into a doorknob doesn’t do that to people and neither does falling down stairs.”
“Funny, because that’s what I’ve been telling people this whole time. Anytime I took off my shirt for gym class or football practice, they’d be as plain as day. I’d laugh about them with the guys, but there’s no way in hell I’m telling them everything. Oh, and I also said they’re from being tackled during games. I think that was what threw them off my trail.”
“Craig, you didn’t answer my question.”
“My dad did this,” said Craig with trembling lips, causing Scott to lean back in his chair with even more pathos in his eyes. “He, uh…he caught me listening to some…questionable music. Here, let me show you.” As Craig choked back tears, he pulled various CD’s out of his backpack, all of the cases cracked, all of the music preaching nonconformist values: Marilyn Manson, Rob Zombie, Motionless in White, and Ghost to name a few.
“Is your dad religious?”
“Oh, that’s putting it mildly. He makes the old testament look like a Disney movie.” Craig still refused to make eye contact with Scott. “The first time I heard about him talking about God and shit, I didn’t know what to make of it. And just for that little bit of doubt, he beat the shit out of me. I was only six years old then. That’s not some Freudian shit and I know it doesn’t excuse what I’ve done to people like you. It’s just that…” The tears slowly fell from his face and Scott was there to hand him tissues.
Scott leaned forward in his chair to further engage in his subject and placed folded steeple hands in his own lap. “Listen to me. I’m sure not many people are inclined to tell you this, but I’m going to tell it to you right now. Nobody…and I mean nobody…should ever use their religion or politics as a weapon against another human being. It’s not a dad’s job to beat the shit out of his kids over a minor disagreement. It’s not discipline. It’s barbarism. There’s nothing wrong with the music you’re listening to and there’s nothing wrong with questioning authority.”
With his lips trembling even harder, Craig wept, “What will the team think of me? They can’t see me crying like this.”
“Well, that’s funny, because I always thought the true definition of a friend is someone who is loyal to you until the end. It’s like Marilyn Manson always said: if you want to find out who your friends are, sink the ship. The first ones to jump are not your friends. If your football teammates make fun of you for being emotional, they’re not true friends. They’re bullies with a close connection to you. The reason you picked on other students so much was because of all these negative influences, and no, that’s not Freudian bullshit.”
Craig shrugged and said, “They’re the only friends I’ve ever had. I can’t just tell them to fuck off.”
“You know what’s worse than having no friends at all? Having shitty friends who bring you down just to build themselves up. I’m sure those kids have some deep-seeded issues just like you do, but until they come forward with open arms and open hearts, they don’t deserve you. If you want to cry your eyes out, you’re more than welcome to do so. Not only is this stigma of men not being able to cry bullshit, but you’re doing it in a safe place: my office. Nothing you do here will ever leave this room…except for one thing.” Scott handed Craig the phone cradle and nodded knowingly at him.
“You want me to call 9-1-1 on my dad? Are you crazy? The cops aren’t going to believe me. They don’t believe anybody who doesn’t have more DNA evidence than a CSI laboratory.”
“Your bruises and cuts are more than enough evidence to put your father away for a long time. And even if the cops don’t believe your side of the story, at least this police report will set everything in motion so that you don’t have to see him again. If there’s another family member or friend you can stay with, find them and pack your bags. The cops may be overly skeptical, but if you don’t try to at least reach out to them, this is going to continue and things will only get worse. Come on, Craig. Just try.”
After a while of staring at his counselor with dewy eyes, Craig took the phone cradle with a convulsing hand and slowly brought his fingers to the keypad. “Would you mind giving me some privacy, Scott? This is my first 9-1-1 call and I…I can’t explain it right now.”
“You don’t have to explain it to me, Craig. I’ve been there before. The first call is never easy. I know this, because I was the one who made the call when my own father died. You never forget your first time for a lot of things. If you want privacy, I’d be more than happy to step outside the office for a little while. Take as much time as you need and don’t leave out any important details.”
With one arm, Craig gave an awkward hug to Scott and thanked him over and over again for his help. Scott reluctantly returned the hug and stepped out of his digs to give Craig his due privacy. Once the door was closed, Scott rubbed his face and breathed sobering sighs. He almost didn’t see Adrienne standing in front of him with a brown paper sack and a smile on her face.
“I take it your new job’s getting pretty intense right now,” said Adrienne.
“It’s a lot to handle at once, but overall, I’m glad I took the job. I just need some time to recuperate after that, that’s all. Is that my lunch?”
“Sure is. You left it on the kitchen counter this morning. And no, there aren’t any worms or maggots in your lunch today. Instead, you’re getting a classic favorite: peanut butter and jelly. Not just any kind of P&J, but Concord grape jelly and crunchy peanut butter. Your favorite!”
“No way!” said Scott with a sudden burst of happiness. Sure enough, he pulled the sandwich out of the sack and there it was in all its glory: the ever important grape jam. “You’re the queen!” he said before kissing Adrienne on the cheek and hurriedly unwrapping the plastic from his sandwich.
“Let me know when you get off work and we’ll see a movie or something. See you soon!” smiled Adrienne before she waved and hopped off to her next class. She didn’t see it, but Scott waved right back at her in a hypnotically slow manner. She probably got the message by now.
Scott had a seat in one of the chairs outside his office and eyeballed the contents of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He even pulled the two pieces of sourdough bread apart to see if there really were worms crawling around in there. His smile slowly descended into a faraway introspective expression. He searched every corner of his sandwich, every squished grape, and every broken peanut in the peanut butter. It was as though he was a detective honoring a search warrant. But no. Not one worm, not one maggot, and not one sing-songy command from his now-known biological mother.
The real test came when Scott took his first bite of sandwich. As he chewed, he rolled the food around in his tongue for yet another throughout inspection. Not one slime-covered creature swirled around in his mouth. In fact, the sandwich tasted as delicious as a P&J could be, probably because it was his personal favorite. Scott took another bite. And another. And another, until the whole thing was gone in record time. For even more reassurance, Scott lifted his T-shirt and saw that the skin was forming nicely over his previously exposed ribcage. If someone was looking for signs of an eating disorder or PTSD, they’d have to actually have the detective skills of someone honoring a search warrant.
Principal Williams made a throat clearing sound and Scott was immediately yanked out of his trance long enough for him to realize he’d been exposing his belly this entire time. Pulling his shirt down, he smiled and allowed redness to envelop his face. Principal Williams didn’t punish him for it, just smiled right back at him and said, “It’s good to have you on the team, Scott. Carry on.”
Sitting in his comfy swivel chair with the ease and professionalism of a true counselor, Scott calmly said, “Listen, Craig, whatever happened between us in the past, it’s all over now. Things are different now, just like Miss Williams said they would be. I have a new job and you happen to be my first client. You’re here for a reason and I’d probably be right in thinking it has something to do with that scar on your hand.”
Craig sighed and lifted up his hooded sweatshirt to reveal he had even more scars than that. One on his belly, one on his ribs, and a couple of bruises on his chest. Scott hypnotically gazed at them in sympathy and replied with a whispery, “Holy shit. Those are fresh. Who did this to you?” No response. “Craig, if I’m going to help you, I need to know everything that happened. How did you get these bruises? Walking into a doorknob doesn’t do that to people and neither does falling down stairs.”
“Funny, because that’s what I’ve been telling people this whole time. Anytime I took off my shirt for gym class or football practice, they’d be as plain as day. I’d laugh about them with the guys, but there’s no way in hell I’m telling them everything. Oh, and I also said they’re from being tackled during games. I think that was what threw them off my trail.”
“Craig, you didn’t answer my question.”
“My dad did this,” said Craig with trembling lips, causing Scott to lean back in his chair with even more pathos in his eyes. “He, uh…he caught me listening to some…questionable music. Here, let me show you.” As Craig choked back tears, he pulled various CD’s out of his backpack, all of the cases cracked, all of the music preaching nonconformist values: Marilyn Manson, Rob Zombie, Motionless in White, and Ghost to name a few.
“Is your dad religious?”
“Oh, that’s putting it mildly. He makes the old testament look like a Disney movie.” Craig still refused to make eye contact with Scott. “The first time I heard about him talking about God and shit, I didn’t know what to make of it. And just for that little bit of doubt, he beat the shit out of me. I was only six years old then. That’s not some Freudian shit and I know it doesn’t excuse what I’ve done to people like you. It’s just that…” The tears slowly fell from his face and Scott was there to hand him tissues.
Scott leaned forward in his chair to further engage in his subject and placed folded steeple hands in his own lap. “Listen to me. I’m sure not many people are inclined to tell you this, but I’m going to tell it to you right now. Nobody…and I mean nobody…should ever use their religion or politics as a weapon against another human being. It’s not a dad’s job to beat the shit out of his kids over a minor disagreement. It’s not discipline. It’s barbarism. There’s nothing wrong with the music you’re listening to and there’s nothing wrong with questioning authority.”
With his lips trembling even harder, Craig wept, “What will the team think of me? They can’t see me crying like this.”
“Well, that’s funny, because I always thought the true definition of a friend is someone who is loyal to you until the end. It’s like Marilyn Manson always said: if you want to find out who your friends are, sink the ship. The first ones to jump are not your friends. If your football teammates make fun of you for being emotional, they’re not true friends. They’re bullies with a close connection to you. The reason you picked on other students so much was because of all these negative influences, and no, that’s not Freudian bullshit.”
Craig shrugged and said, “They’re the only friends I’ve ever had. I can’t just tell them to fuck off.”
“You know what’s worse than having no friends at all? Having shitty friends who bring you down just to build themselves up. I’m sure those kids have some deep-seeded issues just like you do, but until they come forward with open arms and open hearts, they don’t deserve you. If you want to cry your eyes out, you’re more than welcome to do so. Not only is this stigma of men not being able to cry bullshit, but you’re doing it in a safe place: my office. Nothing you do here will ever leave this room…except for one thing.” Scott handed Craig the phone cradle and nodded knowingly at him.
“You want me to call 9-1-1 on my dad? Are you crazy? The cops aren’t going to believe me. They don’t believe anybody who doesn’t have more DNA evidence than a CSI laboratory.”
“Your bruises and cuts are more than enough evidence to put your father away for a long time. And even if the cops don’t believe your side of the story, at least this police report will set everything in motion so that you don’t have to see him again. If there’s another family member or friend you can stay with, find them and pack your bags. The cops may be overly skeptical, but if you don’t try to at least reach out to them, this is going to continue and things will only get worse. Come on, Craig. Just try.”
After a while of staring at his counselor with dewy eyes, Craig took the phone cradle with a convulsing hand and slowly brought his fingers to the keypad. “Would you mind giving me some privacy, Scott? This is my first 9-1-1 call and I…I can’t explain it right now.”
“You don’t have to explain it to me, Craig. I’ve been there before. The first call is never easy. I know this, because I was the one who made the call when my own father died. You never forget your first time for a lot of things. If you want privacy, I’d be more than happy to step outside the office for a little while. Take as much time as you need and don’t leave out any important details.”
With one arm, Craig gave an awkward hug to Scott and thanked him over and over again for his help. Scott reluctantly returned the hug and stepped out of his digs to give Craig his due privacy. Once the door was closed, Scott rubbed his face and breathed sobering sighs. He almost didn’t see Adrienne standing in front of him with a brown paper sack and a smile on her face.
“I take it your new job’s getting pretty intense right now,” said Adrienne.
“It’s a lot to handle at once, but overall, I’m glad I took the job. I just need some time to recuperate after that, that’s all. Is that my lunch?”
“Sure is. You left it on the kitchen counter this morning. And no, there aren’t any worms or maggots in your lunch today. Instead, you’re getting a classic favorite: peanut butter and jelly. Not just any kind of P&J, but Concord grape jelly and crunchy peanut butter. Your favorite!”
“No way!” said Scott with a sudden burst of happiness. Sure enough, he pulled the sandwich out of the sack and there it was in all its glory: the ever important grape jam. “You’re the queen!” he said before kissing Adrienne on the cheek and hurriedly unwrapping the plastic from his sandwich.
“Let me know when you get off work and we’ll see a movie or something. See you soon!” smiled Adrienne before she waved and hopped off to her next class. She didn’t see it, but Scott waved right back at her in a hypnotically slow manner. She probably got the message by now.
Scott had a seat in one of the chairs outside his office and eyeballed the contents of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He even pulled the two pieces of sourdough bread apart to see if there really were worms crawling around in there. His smile slowly descended into a faraway introspective expression. He searched every corner of his sandwich, every squished grape, and every broken peanut in the peanut butter. It was as though he was a detective honoring a search warrant. But no. Not one worm, not one maggot, and not one sing-songy command from his now-known biological mother.
The real test came when Scott took his first bite of sandwich. As he chewed, he rolled the food around in his tongue for yet another throughout inspection. Not one slime-covered creature swirled around in his mouth. In fact, the sandwich tasted as delicious as a P&J could be, probably because it was his personal favorite. Scott took another bite. And another. And another, until the whole thing was gone in record time. For even more reassurance, Scott lifted his T-shirt and saw that the skin was forming nicely over his previously exposed ribcage. If someone was looking for signs of an eating disorder or PTSD, they’d have to actually have the detective skills of someone honoring a search warrant.
Principal Williams made a throat clearing sound and Scott was immediately yanked out of his trance long enough for him to realize he’d been exposing his belly this entire time. Pulling his shirt down, he smiled and allowed redness to envelop his face. Principal Williams didn’t punish him for it, just smiled right back at him and said, “It’s good to have you on the team, Scott. Carry on.”
