Garrison Kelly's Blog, page 69
February 1, 2018
Lunatic Justice and Silent Warrior Announcements
***TWO ANNOUNCEMENTS***
I prepared two speeches tonight. Hopefully, I’ll get to use the one in my left pocket. No, I have no idea what that means either; I just heard it on an episode of The Shield. Let’s get started, shall we.
***LUNATIC JUSTICE***
First and foremost, it finally happened. My third collection of poetry, Lunatic Justice, is currently online in paperback and (soon to be) Kindle format, though it’ll take a few days for the book to actually be buyable. The poems cover a wide variety of topics whether it’s politics, anger, violence, drugs, bullying, or even something as simple as being stuck in traffic. There are a few comedy songs in there too whether it’s the David Bowie parody “Ground Control to Uncle Tom” or the ridiculously put-together “Conspiracy Theory”. This book is geared towards mature audiences due to the abundance of cursing, sex references, and delicious bloody violence.
Good Reads Link: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/3...
Amazon Link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1984137816/...
***SILENT WARRIOR, CHAPTER 7***
Remember how I said a few blogs ago how I would never post sex-oriented chapters of Silent Warrior online? Well, my lovely beta reader Marie Krepps suggested that I post them to a safe haven for this kind of content, Wattpad. I wrote chapter seven two days ago and it’s there now if you want to read it. I should warn you all that it’s not all hot and spicy action. There’s some heart-wrenching drama shortly after Scott George gets done stroking his meat. Your hard-on will be dead by the time this chapter is over.
Wattpad Profile: https://www.wattpad.com/user/Garrison...
I’d give you all the direct link to chapter seven, but I’m exercising a little caution with this one since this blog entry is going live on my non-mature social media accounts.
***SILENT WARRIOR SIDE NOTE: TITLE***
The further I get into writing this novel, the more I question whether Silent Warrior is the best title for it. Sure, it sounds cool and all, but Scott George is neither silent nor a warrior. He’s very outspoken about his opinions and the most violent thing he’s done in this story so far is strangle Alan Young over the back of a bus seat (not to mention that Alan lives through the whole thing). Maybe something I can do tonight is brainstorm a list of possible alternatives for titles. One that I’m thinking about is “A Community of Worms”, which is a reference to the nightmare Scott has in the opening chapter. And yes, that nightmare and its characters will factor into the novel later on, in case you were wondering. I can’t think of any other title ideas at the moment, so I’ll leave it to you guys to let me know what you think of all of this.
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“I don’t want to spend the rest of my life looking at the barrel of an Armalite. I don’t want to spend the rest of my days keeping out of trouble like the soldiers say. I don’t want to spend my time in hell looking at the walls of a prison cell. I don’t ever want to play the part of a statistic on a government chart. It’s dark all day and it glows all night. Factory smoke and acetylene light. I face the day with my head caved in looking like something that the cat brought in. And they’re only going to change this place by killing everybody in the human race. They would kill me for a cigarette. But I don’t even want to die just yet. There has to be an invisible sun. It gives its heat to everyone. There has to be an invisible sun. It gives us hope when the whole day’s done.”
-The Police singing “Invisible Sun”-
I prepared two speeches tonight. Hopefully, I’ll get to use the one in my left pocket. No, I have no idea what that means either; I just heard it on an episode of The Shield. Let’s get started, shall we.
***LUNATIC JUSTICE***
First and foremost, it finally happened. My third collection of poetry, Lunatic Justice, is currently online in paperback and (soon to be) Kindle format, though it’ll take a few days for the book to actually be buyable. The poems cover a wide variety of topics whether it’s politics, anger, violence, drugs, bullying, or even something as simple as being stuck in traffic. There are a few comedy songs in there too whether it’s the David Bowie parody “Ground Control to Uncle Tom” or the ridiculously put-together “Conspiracy Theory”. This book is geared towards mature audiences due to the abundance of cursing, sex references, and delicious bloody violence.
Good Reads Link: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/3...
Amazon Link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1984137816/...
***SILENT WARRIOR, CHAPTER 7***
Remember how I said a few blogs ago how I would never post sex-oriented chapters of Silent Warrior online? Well, my lovely beta reader Marie Krepps suggested that I post them to a safe haven for this kind of content, Wattpad. I wrote chapter seven two days ago and it’s there now if you want to read it. I should warn you all that it’s not all hot and spicy action. There’s some heart-wrenching drama shortly after Scott George gets done stroking his meat. Your hard-on will be dead by the time this chapter is over.
Wattpad Profile: https://www.wattpad.com/user/Garrison...
I’d give you all the direct link to chapter seven, but I’m exercising a little caution with this one since this blog entry is going live on my non-mature social media accounts.
***SILENT WARRIOR SIDE NOTE: TITLE***
The further I get into writing this novel, the more I question whether Silent Warrior is the best title for it. Sure, it sounds cool and all, but Scott George is neither silent nor a warrior. He’s very outspoken about his opinions and the most violent thing he’s done in this story so far is strangle Alan Young over the back of a bus seat (not to mention that Alan lives through the whole thing). Maybe something I can do tonight is brainstorm a list of possible alternatives for titles. One that I’m thinking about is “A Community of Worms”, which is a reference to the nightmare Scott has in the opening chapter. And yes, that nightmare and its characters will factor into the novel later on, in case you were wondering. I can’t think of any other title ideas at the moment, so I’ll leave it to you guys to let me know what you think of all of this.
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“I don’t want to spend the rest of my life looking at the barrel of an Armalite. I don’t want to spend the rest of my days keeping out of trouble like the soldiers say. I don’t want to spend my time in hell looking at the walls of a prison cell. I don’t ever want to play the part of a statistic on a government chart. It’s dark all day and it glows all night. Factory smoke and acetylene light. I face the day with my head caved in looking like something that the cat brought in. And they’re only going to change this place by killing everybody in the human race. They would kill me for a cigarette. But I don’t even want to die just yet. There has to be an invisible sun. It gives its heat to everyone. There has to be an invisible sun. It gives us hope when the whole day’s done.”
-The Police singing “Invisible Sun”-
January 31, 2018
Dumb Asses
VERSE 1
A drug zombie with his Johnson hanging out
A drunken loony shouting gibberish so loud
Giving hand jobs in exchange for change
With a hairy palm all covered with mange
Giving blow jobs with infected bloody gums
Now you’ve got rivers of pus in your cum
These are the characters you see at a bus station
Or out on the streets doing public masturbation
CHORUS 1
Dumb asses should be a priority
Locked up by the highest authority
Locked up in a room full of white
Straightjacket fitting oh so tight
VERSE 2
Laughing at nothing but the wall in front of him
Shouting conspiracy theories about the government
Smelling like shit and a pack of cigarettes
Jaywalking blindly where the streets intersect
Everyone’s walking just a little bit faster
While the acid trip is his psyche’s master
His hand goes up an unsuspecting woman’s skirt
He squeezes so hard that it starts to fucking hurt
CHORUS 2
Dumb asses should be a priority
Everywhere we go, they are the majority
Buses, ferries, and even taxi cabs
Walking ain’t crowded, but it’s sure a drag
VERSE 3
I’ll never go back to this city anymore
Except to listen to music so hardcore
Except to eat at the best restaurants
Except to hold signs in the biggest font
A love-hate relationship with the clown town
For every breath of fresh air, a stain that’s brown
For every sane guy, there’re a hundred freaks
For every bus trip, there’s the jerk of the week
COMBINED CHORUSES
Dumb asses should be a priority
Locked up by the highest authority
Locked up in a room full of white
Straightjacket fitting oh so tight
Dumb asses should be a priority
Everywhere we go, they are the majority
Buses, ferries, and even taxi cabs
Walking ain’t crowded, but it’s sure a drag
FINAL LINES
Dumb asses should be a priority X4
Dumb asses!
A drug zombie with his Johnson hanging out
A drunken loony shouting gibberish so loud
Giving hand jobs in exchange for change
With a hairy palm all covered with mange
Giving blow jobs with infected bloody gums
Now you’ve got rivers of pus in your cum
These are the characters you see at a bus station
Or out on the streets doing public masturbation
CHORUS 1
Dumb asses should be a priority
Locked up by the highest authority
Locked up in a room full of white
Straightjacket fitting oh so tight
VERSE 2
Laughing at nothing but the wall in front of him
Shouting conspiracy theories about the government
Smelling like shit and a pack of cigarettes
Jaywalking blindly where the streets intersect
Everyone’s walking just a little bit faster
While the acid trip is his psyche’s master
His hand goes up an unsuspecting woman’s skirt
He squeezes so hard that it starts to fucking hurt
CHORUS 2
Dumb asses should be a priority
Everywhere we go, they are the majority
Buses, ferries, and even taxi cabs
Walking ain’t crowded, but it’s sure a drag
VERSE 3
I’ll never go back to this city anymore
Except to listen to music so hardcore
Except to eat at the best restaurants
Except to hold signs in the biggest font
A love-hate relationship with the clown town
For every breath of fresh air, a stain that’s brown
For every sane guy, there’re a hundred freaks
For every bus trip, there’s the jerk of the week
COMBINED CHORUSES
Dumb asses should be a priority
Locked up by the highest authority
Locked up in a room full of white
Straightjacket fitting oh so tight
Dumb asses should be a priority
Everywhere we go, they are the majority
Buses, ferries, and even taxi cabs
Walking ain’t crowded, but it’s sure a drag
FINAL LINES
Dumb asses should be a priority X4
Dumb asses!
Your Own Fault
VERSE 1
I’m not the source of your misery
This ain’t no big fucking mystery
You are the owner of your anger
You put your loved ones in danger
I’m not your lightning rod of hate
I’m not the author of your sealed fate
When it comes to building your walls
Your stress is your own damn fault!
CHORUS
Control yourself! Calm the fuck down!
Say you’re sorry with your nose so brown!
Break your promises the very next day!
It’s your own fault that you feel this way!
VERSE 2
Make your threats, get inside my head
Blame me for your soul being dead
Blame me for the prison you built
Cry forever for the milk you spilt
This ain’t tough love, you’re selling me out
You’re not on point, you’re fucking loud
Throw your punch, you macho moron
In this battle, you won’t last for long!
CHORUS
Control yourself! Calm the fuck down!
Say you’re sorry with your nose so brown!
Break your promises the very next day!
It’s your own fault that you feel this way!
BRIDGE
Round one! Let’s ring the bell!
Round two! Let’s go to hell!
Round three! Let’s finish this shit!
It’s all your fault you’re throwing a fit!
EXTENDED CHORUS
Control yourself! Calm the fuck down!
Say you’re sorry with your nose so brown!
Break your promises the very next day!
It’s your own fault that you feel this way!
It’s your own fault the world hates you!
It’s your own fault, nobody made you!
It’s your own fault you can’t find peace!
Don’t take your fucking anger out on me!
I’m not the source of your misery
This ain’t no big fucking mystery
You are the owner of your anger
You put your loved ones in danger
I’m not your lightning rod of hate
I’m not the author of your sealed fate
When it comes to building your walls
Your stress is your own damn fault!
CHORUS
Control yourself! Calm the fuck down!
Say you’re sorry with your nose so brown!
Break your promises the very next day!
It’s your own fault that you feel this way!
VERSE 2
Make your threats, get inside my head
Blame me for your soul being dead
Blame me for the prison you built
Cry forever for the milk you spilt
This ain’t tough love, you’re selling me out
You’re not on point, you’re fucking loud
Throw your punch, you macho moron
In this battle, you won’t last for long!
CHORUS
Control yourself! Calm the fuck down!
Say you’re sorry with your nose so brown!
Break your promises the very next day!
It’s your own fault that you feel this way!
BRIDGE
Round one! Let’s ring the bell!
Round two! Let’s go to hell!
Round three! Let’s finish this shit!
It’s all your fault you’re throwing a fit!
EXTENDED CHORUS
Control yourself! Calm the fuck down!
Say you’re sorry with your nose so brown!
Break your promises the very next day!
It’s your own fault that you feel this way!
It’s your own fault the world hates you!
It’s your own fault, nobody made you!
It’s your own fault you can’t find peace!
Don’t take your fucking anger out on me!
January 28, 2018
Silent Warrior, Chapter 6
“I was beginning to think you actually served your thirty minutes with my dad,” said Adrienne with a cute smile as she held Scott’s sweaty hand in hers. While the two of them walked down the street together like a cuddly couple, Scott’s hand wouldn’t stop perspiring and his face wouldn’t stop glowing with strawberry redness. The more embarrassed he looked, the more Adrienne held onto his hand and smiled at him. “You don’t need to be nervous around me, Scott.”
“I know, I know…it’s just that…” Scott sighed as he searched for his words. “It’s been a while since somebody held me hand like this. I mean, are we…uh…what are we, exactly?”
“We can be anything you want, Scotty-Boy. We can be friends. We can be good friends. We can be really, really, really good friends. For all the world knows, we could be dating right now.” That last sentence really brightened up Scott’s tomato-colored cheeks. “You’ve never had a girlfriend before, have you?”
“Actually, I had three of them before you,” explained Scott, his eyes tucked low and not meeting Adrienne’s. “They didn’t work out too well, though. They were a lot like your dad in the sense that they didn’t give a crap about my introversion. Either that or they didn’t know it was a real thing. Constant phone calls, twenty-four seven, right in the middle of homework.” Adrienne gave him an accusatory look and placed one hand on her right hip. “That doesn’t mean that…” Scott stuttered. “I mean, you can call anytime you…oh, no…”
“I’m just screwing with you, Scott, you can relax now,” said Adrienne while swinging Scott’s liquefied hand. “Truth be told, I actually get a lot of what you’re saying. Sometimes you’ve just got to have your space, that’s all. But even with all that space, there still can’t be secrets between us. You have to find a balance between those things, you know?” A beat of awkward silence hung between them. “So tell me the truth, Scott: did you have anything to eat today?”
He sighed, “No, I didn’t. That’s part of the reason why I didn’t show up for our walk right away. I was at the gas station eating a microwavable pizza.”
“Lift up your shirt, Scott,” demanded Adrienne. Scott swallowed a nervous gulp and questioned his girlfriend before she asked him again to lift up his shirt. When he did so, he revealed that his ribcage was slightly visible. “I knew it,” she said. “You’re not getting enough to eat these days. That’s not good for you, honey.”
“Thanks, Mom,” snickered Scott.
“Scott, I’m serious. Didn’t you take health class in middle school? You would have learned all about anorexia if you actually paid attention.”
“I’m not anorexic!” snapped Scott, to which Adrienne’s accusatory eyes widened. “Sorry about that. You’re right. I should be eating more often than I do. It’s just that…it’s this goddamn dream I keep having every night. It won’t go away.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s like…having an acid trip every night. There’s this puppet teacher and she’s always covered in worms. So are her students. And every time I try to take a bite of food, all I an see are those worms just crawling around on my plate. It took all the strength I had just to eat that gas station pizza. Goddamn, what the fuck is wrong with me?” Scott placed his head in his free hand and rubbed his temples, as if the face massage would actually ease his permanent pain.
Adrienne let go of Scott’s goopy hand and instead wrapped her arm around his shoulders. “I get it, Scott. School is a shitty place to be. It always has been. But if you don’t eat on a regular basis, you could die. And don’t even try telling me that’s a better option than living.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do? Every time I have something to eat, it’s just worms and maggots. I can’t put it out of my mind. I can’t see a shrink or else they’ll lock me up in a loony bin.” A little tear splash plopped onto the sidewalk, Scott hurrying to wipe his eyes away.
“I have an idea. How about instead of worms, you imagine something else over it. It’s like mental censorship. If you’re eating mashed potatoes, imagine gravy instead of worms. If you’re eating pizza, imagine more cheese and pepperoni instead of maggots. It takes a lot of time to master, but that’s true with pretty much any skill. That’s what being healthy is, Scott: a skill. It doesn’t happen overnight.”
Scott let out a deep sigh and said, “Okay, I’ll give it a try. If it’ll keep me out of the nuthouse, I’ll do it. By the way, how do you know all about this?”
“I see a therapist every Sunday morning.” Scott’s dewy eyes widened as if this therapist was a true alternative to the nuthouse he saw in Terminator 2: Judgment Day. “It’s true, Scott,” said Adrienne. “You get to sit on a comfy couch and talk about your feelings for an hour or so. It’s good for the soul.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute…You always seem so happy all the time. I mean, why would you…you know…”
“You of all people should know that what happens on the outside has little to do with what happens on the inside. My therapist got me through the divorce proceedings between my mom and dad. There was nothing happy or joyful about any of what happened between those two. I’m still hurting over it. I get that my dad can be a pain in the ass sometimes, but he’s still my dad. He should have protected me…”
A small tear welled up in Adrienne’s eye and Scott gently wiped it away with his shirt sleeve. He said, “Now we’re even,” referencing their shared moment in the cafeteria. She gave him a little smile and his heart pulsated with life once more. For the next twenty minutes, the two of them walked together in silence, just admiring each other’s company.
Scott still couldn’t help looking down at Adrienne’s bare feet in those sandals. He tried his damnedest not to get a boner in front of her as he admired those pink-painted toenails of hers. He even titled his head backwards so that he could see her soft and silky soles, which were his favorite part of the female foot. Adrienne thought he was staring at her ass and playfully swiped him away before giggling.
“Is this your house?” Adrienne asked. Scott nodded and the two of them stopped in the lawn while holding each other’s hands. They gazed in each other’s eyes and Adrienne couldn’t help but giggle again, while Scott’s shy guy smile was a little more attractive than his slasher smile in the locker hallways. “I had fun walking with you today. I learned a lot about you.”
“Yeah, uh…same here…heh…”
“Goodnight, Scott. I’ll see you at school tomorrow.” Adrienne grinned sweetly at Scott before slowly bringing her face closer to his and planting a kiss on his already flaming cheek. The senior’s eye’s widened as his newfound girlfriend kissed him on the lips and swirled her tongue around his mouth. For good measure, she kicked off one of her sandals and rubbed her sole against his calf while kissing him deeper and deeper.
This was the first time in a long time that Scott’s oral activities didn’t involve worms and maggots. Adrienne’s lips and tongue tasted more heavenly than Crème Brule despite the fact that she had eaten a crappy school lunch just hours before. This was Scott’s instant vacation from reality, if only for a few seconds. He could stay in this beautiful kiss forever. He thought to himself, Fuck you, Mrs. Striker! Fuck you, Mr. Simpson! Fuck you, Alan! Fuck everybody…
“Oh my god!” said Adrienne as she broke the kiss with shocked wide-eyes. Scott began to kick himself once again as he assumed he was talking out loud the whole time. But how could he form a coherent sentence with another woman’s tongue in his mouth? And then Adrienne pointed down at Scott’s crotch and the offender stood proudly in the air.
Scott used his backpack to cover up his aroused manhood and profusely apologized to Adrienne, who just stood there not knowing what the hell to do. Any smile she once had was minimal at best. Instead of throwing more useless, “I’m sorrys” her way, Scott ran inside his house and bolted upstairs to his bedroom, where he threw the backpack on his bed and locked the door. He hoped in all of that turbo-charged madness that his own mother didn’t notice the wood jutting through his sweatpants. Otherwise, he’d have to kick himself even harder than before.
Scott placed a hand on his chest and kept telling himself to settle down before taking a seat on the bed and breathing heavily. “It’s just a boner. It’ll go away. They always do.” His breathing intensified as he laid back in his bed and pounded the mattress with his fists. “Goddamn it, why did I have to be so stupid!” He tried to say it softly enough so that his mother didn’t hear him. Lord knows she didn’t need to see Scott giving her a one-gun salute after a hard day of work. “I’m so fucking embarrassed,” he whispered while his breathing intensified yet again. He wiped the sweat off of his face and hands and closed his eyes for a while, hoping the boner would flatten sooner than later.
“I know, I know…it’s just that…” Scott sighed as he searched for his words. “It’s been a while since somebody held me hand like this. I mean, are we…uh…what are we, exactly?”
“We can be anything you want, Scotty-Boy. We can be friends. We can be good friends. We can be really, really, really good friends. For all the world knows, we could be dating right now.” That last sentence really brightened up Scott’s tomato-colored cheeks. “You’ve never had a girlfriend before, have you?”
“Actually, I had three of them before you,” explained Scott, his eyes tucked low and not meeting Adrienne’s. “They didn’t work out too well, though. They were a lot like your dad in the sense that they didn’t give a crap about my introversion. Either that or they didn’t know it was a real thing. Constant phone calls, twenty-four seven, right in the middle of homework.” Adrienne gave him an accusatory look and placed one hand on her right hip. “That doesn’t mean that…” Scott stuttered. “I mean, you can call anytime you…oh, no…”
“I’m just screwing with you, Scott, you can relax now,” said Adrienne while swinging Scott’s liquefied hand. “Truth be told, I actually get a lot of what you’re saying. Sometimes you’ve just got to have your space, that’s all. But even with all that space, there still can’t be secrets between us. You have to find a balance between those things, you know?” A beat of awkward silence hung between them. “So tell me the truth, Scott: did you have anything to eat today?”
He sighed, “No, I didn’t. That’s part of the reason why I didn’t show up for our walk right away. I was at the gas station eating a microwavable pizza.”
“Lift up your shirt, Scott,” demanded Adrienne. Scott swallowed a nervous gulp and questioned his girlfriend before she asked him again to lift up his shirt. When he did so, he revealed that his ribcage was slightly visible. “I knew it,” she said. “You’re not getting enough to eat these days. That’s not good for you, honey.”
“Thanks, Mom,” snickered Scott.
“Scott, I’m serious. Didn’t you take health class in middle school? You would have learned all about anorexia if you actually paid attention.”
“I’m not anorexic!” snapped Scott, to which Adrienne’s accusatory eyes widened. “Sorry about that. You’re right. I should be eating more often than I do. It’s just that…it’s this goddamn dream I keep having every night. It won’t go away.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s like…having an acid trip every night. There’s this puppet teacher and she’s always covered in worms. So are her students. And every time I try to take a bite of food, all I an see are those worms just crawling around on my plate. It took all the strength I had just to eat that gas station pizza. Goddamn, what the fuck is wrong with me?” Scott placed his head in his free hand and rubbed his temples, as if the face massage would actually ease his permanent pain.
Adrienne let go of Scott’s goopy hand and instead wrapped her arm around his shoulders. “I get it, Scott. School is a shitty place to be. It always has been. But if you don’t eat on a regular basis, you could die. And don’t even try telling me that’s a better option than living.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do? Every time I have something to eat, it’s just worms and maggots. I can’t put it out of my mind. I can’t see a shrink or else they’ll lock me up in a loony bin.” A little tear splash plopped onto the sidewalk, Scott hurrying to wipe his eyes away.
“I have an idea. How about instead of worms, you imagine something else over it. It’s like mental censorship. If you’re eating mashed potatoes, imagine gravy instead of worms. If you’re eating pizza, imagine more cheese and pepperoni instead of maggots. It takes a lot of time to master, but that’s true with pretty much any skill. That’s what being healthy is, Scott: a skill. It doesn’t happen overnight.”
Scott let out a deep sigh and said, “Okay, I’ll give it a try. If it’ll keep me out of the nuthouse, I’ll do it. By the way, how do you know all about this?”
“I see a therapist every Sunday morning.” Scott’s dewy eyes widened as if this therapist was a true alternative to the nuthouse he saw in Terminator 2: Judgment Day. “It’s true, Scott,” said Adrienne. “You get to sit on a comfy couch and talk about your feelings for an hour or so. It’s good for the soul.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute…You always seem so happy all the time. I mean, why would you…you know…”
“You of all people should know that what happens on the outside has little to do with what happens on the inside. My therapist got me through the divorce proceedings between my mom and dad. There was nothing happy or joyful about any of what happened between those two. I’m still hurting over it. I get that my dad can be a pain in the ass sometimes, but he’s still my dad. He should have protected me…”
A small tear welled up in Adrienne’s eye and Scott gently wiped it away with his shirt sleeve. He said, “Now we’re even,” referencing their shared moment in the cafeteria. She gave him a little smile and his heart pulsated with life once more. For the next twenty minutes, the two of them walked together in silence, just admiring each other’s company.
Scott still couldn’t help looking down at Adrienne’s bare feet in those sandals. He tried his damnedest not to get a boner in front of her as he admired those pink-painted toenails of hers. He even titled his head backwards so that he could see her soft and silky soles, which were his favorite part of the female foot. Adrienne thought he was staring at her ass and playfully swiped him away before giggling.
“Is this your house?” Adrienne asked. Scott nodded and the two of them stopped in the lawn while holding each other’s hands. They gazed in each other’s eyes and Adrienne couldn’t help but giggle again, while Scott’s shy guy smile was a little more attractive than his slasher smile in the locker hallways. “I had fun walking with you today. I learned a lot about you.”
“Yeah, uh…same here…heh…”
“Goodnight, Scott. I’ll see you at school tomorrow.” Adrienne grinned sweetly at Scott before slowly bringing her face closer to his and planting a kiss on his already flaming cheek. The senior’s eye’s widened as his newfound girlfriend kissed him on the lips and swirled her tongue around his mouth. For good measure, she kicked off one of her sandals and rubbed her sole against his calf while kissing him deeper and deeper.
This was the first time in a long time that Scott’s oral activities didn’t involve worms and maggots. Adrienne’s lips and tongue tasted more heavenly than Crème Brule despite the fact that she had eaten a crappy school lunch just hours before. This was Scott’s instant vacation from reality, if only for a few seconds. He could stay in this beautiful kiss forever. He thought to himself, Fuck you, Mrs. Striker! Fuck you, Mr. Simpson! Fuck you, Alan! Fuck everybody…
“Oh my god!” said Adrienne as she broke the kiss with shocked wide-eyes. Scott began to kick himself once again as he assumed he was talking out loud the whole time. But how could he form a coherent sentence with another woman’s tongue in his mouth? And then Adrienne pointed down at Scott’s crotch and the offender stood proudly in the air.
Scott used his backpack to cover up his aroused manhood and profusely apologized to Adrienne, who just stood there not knowing what the hell to do. Any smile she once had was minimal at best. Instead of throwing more useless, “I’m sorrys” her way, Scott ran inside his house and bolted upstairs to his bedroom, where he threw the backpack on his bed and locked the door. He hoped in all of that turbo-charged madness that his own mother didn’t notice the wood jutting through his sweatpants. Otherwise, he’d have to kick himself even harder than before.
Scott placed a hand on his chest and kept telling himself to settle down before taking a seat on the bed and breathing heavily. “It’s just a boner. It’ll go away. They always do.” His breathing intensified as he laid back in his bed and pounded the mattress with his fists. “Goddamn it, why did I have to be so stupid!” He tried to say it softly enough so that his mother didn’t hear him. Lord knows she didn’t need to see Scott giving her a one-gun salute after a hard day of work. “I’m so fucking embarrassed,” he whispered while his breathing intensified yet again. He wiped the sweat off of his face and hands and closed his eyes for a while, hoping the boner would flatten sooner than later.
January 26, 2018
Sex Scenes In Silent Warrior
***SEX SCENES IN SILENT WARRIOR***
I don’t like to give spoilers for my stories or anybody else’s, but in this case, an exception has to be made for my current work in progress, Silent Warrior. Two future chapters of this novel will include sex scenes between Scott George and Adrienne Simpson. The first of these two chapters features Scott masturbating in his bedroom to Adrienne’s bare feet. The second of the two chapters will feature a full-blown sex scene between the two high school sweethearts. Because of various social media sites’ prohibition of sexual content, these two sex-based chapters will not be posted online and will instead be kept on my computer in a private folder.
This next statement is not a knock on any online groups I’m a part of, but is instead an indictment of society in general. You can show people getting their heads blown off with shotguns. You can show people getting their hearts ripped out of their chests. You can set people on fire. You can beat the shit out of attack dogs. But whatever you do, don’t show two high school students having consensual sex. In that respect, it would be less offensive if Scott George hacked off Tom Simpson’s limbs with a machete, or if Alan Young ripped Scott’s brain out of his skull through his eye sockets. John Lennon famously pointed out the hypocrisy of violence being less offensive than sex, but he was assassinated in 1980, so we’re pretty much deprived of his wisdom in this day and age.
And in case you couldn’t tell already from the chapters I’ve posted, yes, Scott George has a foot fetish. It’s a common fetish to have, particularly for men. There’s nothing weird or repulsive about it (unless you want to ruin it by pointing out foot odor and toe jam). If you wear flip-flops around a foot fetishist in public, don’t panic, because he’s not going to hump your feet at a million miles per hour right there and then. That’s what molesters do. Being a foot fetishist is nowhere close to being the same as being a molester. In the same way gay people don’t hump every guy they see at random, foot fetishists have perfect self-control in public, because most of them are, surprise, surprise, decent people. I know this, because I too have a foot fetish, which is my own little self-insert for Scott George’s character.
Of course, another part of this controversy is the age difference between Scott and Adrienne. Scott is an eighteen-year-old senior and Adrienne is a fifteen-year-old freshman. While I won’t divulge how their age difference will factor into later parts of the story, I will say that it’s a central part of my novel, especially towards the end. Some of my readers will think nothing of a three year age difference while others will say that Adrienne is too far below the age of consent, which is sixteen. It could be a matter of simple math or it could be anal retentiveness towards the rules and regulations, depending on your personal opinion.
In conclusion, if you’re searching the internet for two lost chapters of Silent Warrior, you now know why you’ll never find them. I’d love to be able to share them with you all, but it’s just not in the cards. I’ve been in trouble plenty of times in my internet surfing days for posting offensive content. It’s the reason why I’m banned from Play By Web forever and why I no longer have a website called Macaroni & Ownage Productions. I’m enjoying my internet freedom as of today, so I’m going to err on the side of safety and refrain from posting those two sexual chapters of my story. Thanks for understanding and have a great day.
***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
RANDAL: So what you’re trying to tell me is that I’m no more responsible for my own actions than, say, a death squad soldier in Bosnia?
DANTE: Oh, now that’s stretching it. You’re not being asked to slay children or anything like that.
RANDAL: Not yet.
-Clerks-
I don’t like to give spoilers for my stories or anybody else’s, but in this case, an exception has to be made for my current work in progress, Silent Warrior. Two future chapters of this novel will include sex scenes between Scott George and Adrienne Simpson. The first of these two chapters features Scott masturbating in his bedroom to Adrienne’s bare feet. The second of the two chapters will feature a full-blown sex scene between the two high school sweethearts. Because of various social media sites’ prohibition of sexual content, these two sex-based chapters will not be posted online and will instead be kept on my computer in a private folder.
This next statement is not a knock on any online groups I’m a part of, but is instead an indictment of society in general. You can show people getting their heads blown off with shotguns. You can show people getting their hearts ripped out of their chests. You can set people on fire. You can beat the shit out of attack dogs. But whatever you do, don’t show two high school students having consensual sex. In that respect, it would be less offensive if Scott George hacked off Tom Simpson’s limbs with a machete, or if Alan Young ripped Scott’s brain out of his skull through his eye sockets. John Lennon famously pointed out the hypocrisy of violence being less offensive than sex, but he was assassinated in 1980, so we’re pretty much deprived of his wisdom in this day and age.
And in case you couldn’t tell already from the chapters I’ve posted, yes, Scott George has a foot fetish. It’s a common fetish to have, particularly for men. There’s nothing weird or repulsive about it (unless you want to ruin it by pointing out foot odor and toe jam). If you wear flip-flops around a foot fetishist in public, don’t panic, because he’s not going to hump your feet at a million miles per hour right there and then. That’s what molesters do. Being a foot fetishist is nowhere close to being the same as being a molester. In the same way gay people don’t hump every guy they see at random, foot fetishists have perfect self-control in public, because most of them are, surprise, surprise, decent people. I know this, because I too have a foot fetish, which is my own little self-insert for Scott George’s character.
Of course, another part of this controversy is the age difference between Scott and Adrienne. Scott is an eighteen-year-old senior and Adrienne is a fifteen-year-old freshman. While I won’t divulge how their age difference will factor into later parts of the story, I will say that it’s a central part of my novel, especially towards the end. Some of my readers will think nothing of a three year age difference while others will say that Adrienne is too far below the age of consent, which is sixteen. It could be a matter of simple math or it could be anal retentiveness towards the rules and regulations, depending on your personal opinion.
In conclusion, if you’re searching the internet for two lost chapters of Silent Warrior, you now know why you’ll never find them. I’d love to be able to share them with you all, but it’s just not in the cards. I’ve been in trouble plenty of times in my internet surfing days for posting offensive content. It’s the reason why I’m banned from Play By Web forever and why I no longer have a website called Macaroni & Ownage Productions. I’m enjoying my internet freedom as of today, so I’m going to err on the side of safety and refrain from posting those two sexual chapters of my story. Thanks for understanding and have a great day.
***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
RANDAL: So what you’re trying to tell me is that I’m no more responsible for my own actions than, say, a death squad soldier in Bosnia?
DANTE: Oh, now that’s stretching it. You’re not being asked to slay children or anything like that.
RANDAL: Not yet.
-Clerks-
January 25, 2018
Silent Warrior, Chapter 5
Tom Simpson had a strange feeling this would happen: sitting in the office next to his classroom with a cup of coffee glaring at the clock on his wall. Three o’clock turned into three-fifteen. Three fifteen turned into three-thirty. The teacher’s face scrunched downward as though he drank warm piss instead of hot coffee. “I knew it…” he silently groaned to himself. “I knew it!” He punctuated that sentence by throwing his coffee mug against the brick wall and watching the brown liquid drizzle down onto the carpet. He huffed and stomped out of his office without bothering to clean up the mess he made.
As Mr. Simpson stormed down the hallway with fists clenched and brows furrowed, several students (who actually showed up to their respective dentitions) tucked their faces away in fear. Some of them even swerved right past him in a big hurry to get their asses out of school. Mr. Simpson’s sniper sight zeroed in on the Principal’s office. He took a few deep, raspy breaths before fixing his shirt and throwing the door open.
An older black woman in a flower-patterned dress shirt and black slacks typed away at her computer before noticing Mr. Simpson standing furiously in her doorway. She gave him an awkward stare before asking, “Can I help you?”
“Yes, Miss Williams, you can.” Mr. Simpson took a seat next to the Principal and said, “Scott George was supposed to show up after school for detention at three o’clock sharp. It’s a half hour later and he still hasn’t shown!” Tom pounded Linda Williams’s desk and asked in a disturbingly calm voice, “What do you plan on doing about it?”
Miss Williams took her glasses off and folded her hands around her belly before leaning backwards in her chair, clearly no-selling Mr. Simpson’s silent rage. “While I don’t condone skipping out on detention, I also can’t condone you pounding your fist on my desk demanding things from me. Slow your role, Tom. Tell me exactly what happened and I’ll see what I can do about it.”
With animated body language and a silent voice, Mr. Simpson said, “Scott George has zero respect for my authority. He frequently back sasses me, he swears in class, and today was just the day where I’ve had enough of him. Can you blame me?”
“Ordinarily I wouldn’t,” said Miss Williams. “But this seems to be a pattern with you throughout your career. You push your students to their breaking point and wonder why they’re tipping over the edge. What I’m trying to say is, you’re not exactly the easiest teacher to get along with.”
“So what?!” squeaked Mr. Simpson. “Lots of people in the world have to put up with authority figures they don’t like. It’s a hard fact of life. Sometimes in this world, you have to get along with people who don’t necessarily have to get along with you. In this school, you get either an F or detention. In the job market, you get fired. Or if it’s a judicial situation, you go to jail. It’s not the most pleasant system of authority, but if we could all just democratically elect our own authority figures, we’d get nothing done. Haven’t you learned by now that democracy is dead?”
Miss Williams gave a closed-mouth chuckle, shook her head, and said, “So that’s what you’ve been teaching your students, huh? You’re a history teacher who tells his own kids that democracy is dead. Maybe that’s why they don’t want to hang around you anymore, because you suck the hope right out of them. I don’t know if you’re aware of this or not, but part of your role as a teacher is to guide your students to a better life. If you can’t do that, then you’re not a teacher.”
“But see, that’s the thing, Linda,” said Mr. Simpson while flailing his hands around. “The only people who I can guide to a better life are the ones who’re willing to meet me half way. This is the land of opportunity, not the land of milk and honey. Scott George doesn’t give a damn about earning anything from me, hence why he didn’t show up to detention this afternoon.”
Miss Williams typed on her keyboard and said, “Well, that’s funny, because judging from his other grades, he seems to be well on his way to the Promised Land. Look at my computer screen for a moment. Algebra: B+. Graphic novels studies: A-. General art class: A-. Physical education: A+. Chemistry: B-. Not bad so far, huh? But the one place where he struggles the most is US history, your class, where he’s currently sitting pretty at a C-.” She leaned back in her chair again and asked, “Tell me, Mr. Simpson: why is Scott George struggling one class and doing so well in the others? Is US history his weakness or are you just not helping him through his tough times?”
“I could have helped him through whatever he needed if he’d just show up for thirty minutes of detention,” said Mr. Simpson with folded arms. “He’d be getting his very own tutor session.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass, Tom, you know full well that’s a bunch of BS,” warned Miss Williams.
“Oh, so you’re going to use foul language too?” asked Mr. Simpson. “And I’m the bad influence on my students? That’s part of the reason why Scott was supposed to show up today. Oh sure, he gets detention for saying it here, but what if he said it front of a bunch of small children? Or churchgoers? Or his own boss, if he’s actually able to get a job once he’s out of school.”
“He’ll cross that bridge once he gets to it. In the meantime, you’d better stop worrying about the stuff that comes out of your students’ mouths or what they do when they’re not in school. Let’s not kid ourselves and pretend that these teenagers are just sitting around being squeaky clean. That’s not what life is about for these kids. The only thing you’re teaching them by holding Scott George hostage is how to resent tight-asses like you!”
Mr. Simpson pounded Miss Williams’s desk again and asked, “Are you going to do anything about him not showing up or are you just going to turn a blind eye to the bigger picture! He needs to be made an example of!”
Miss Williams’s temper exploded when she stood up, towered over Mr. Simpson, and belted, “I’ll deal with Scott George in my own damn way! I’ll have a talk with him first thing tomorrow morning! If it makes you happy, I’ll even leave a message on his house phone telling him to show up!” He continued her vengeful oratory with finger pointing at a stoic Mr. Simpson. “As far as you’re concerned, you’re leaning on the precipice of career suicide by talking to me that way! You don’t give the orders, I do! This is my school and you’re not going to disrespect me any further!”
Mr. Simpson smiled and shook his head before standing up to meet Miss Williams’s coffee brown eyes. “You’re angry, huh? Now you understand my frustration with people like Scott George. I’m glad we could reach an understanding.”
As Mr. Simpson patted Miss Williams’s shoulder, she shrugged him off and snapped, “Get your hands off of me and get the hell out of my office before I fire you!” The history teacher held his hands up defensively and strolled out of the office, shutting the door behind him. He could see through the glass door that the Principal plopped back down in her seat and rubbed her aching temples.
The teacher turned around and saw a semi-circle of wide-eyed students fixating their gazes upon him. Mr. Simpson threw his hands up and yelled, “Boogedy-boogedy-boo!”, causing the crowd to quickly disperse in several directions.
Off in the distance, Mr. Simpson saw that another student glaring at him was his own daughter Adrienne, who had her arms folded and was leaning against the wall. Seeing his estranged flesh and blood in that mood brought a sinking feeling to his own heart. He let out a sigh and turned around to walk away.
“What am I doing?” he whispered to himself. He began to think there was a little bit of truth to what Miss Williams said, as much as it stung. Maybe that was why his wife divorced him and took Adrienne away. Maybe that was why he had a crappy car waiting for him in the parking lot. Maybe that was why he dined on TV dinners every night while watching the news alone.
He slapped himself in the head for thinking such “horrendous” thoughts. He knew he had to stand his ground if he was ever to get a victory against his own students. It was too late for him to win the war against his own wife and daughter. But the battle lines had already been drawn between himself at Scott George. If he had it his way, he’d bring back corporal punishment just for that one student. But now that he was fighting this war, he had to figure out what exactly he stood for. As a history teacher who taught various wars in his class, he needed to figure this out quickly. Otherwise, history would repeat itself over and over again.
As Mr. Simpson stormed down the hallway with fists clenched and brows furrowed, several students (who actually showed up to their respective dentitions) tucked their faces away in fear. Some of them even swerved right past him in a big hurry to get their asses out of school. Mr. Simpson’s sniper sight zeroed in on the Principal’s office. He took a few deep, raspy breaths before fixing his shirt and throwing the door open.
An older black woman in a flower-patterned dress shirt and black slacks typed away at her computer before noticing Mr. Simpson standing furiously in her doorway. She gave him an awkward stare before asking, “Can I help you?”
“Yes, Miss Williams, you can.” Mr. Simpson took a seat next to the Principal and said, “Scott George was supposed to show up after school for detention at three o’clock sharp. It’s a half hour later and he still hasn’t shown!” Tom pounded Linda Williams’s desk and asked in a disturbingly calm voice, “What do you plan on doing about it?”
Miss Williams took her glasses off and folded her hands around her belly before leaning backwards in her chair, clearly no-selling Mr. Simpson’s silent rage. “While I don’t condone skipping out on detention, I also can’t condone you pounding your fist on my desk demanding things from me. Slow your role, Tom. Tell me exactly what happened and I’ll see what I can do about it.”
With animated body language and a silent voice, Mr. Simpson said, “Scott George has zero respect for my authority. He frequently back sasses me, he swears in class, and today was just the day where I’ve had enough of him. Can you blame me?”
“Ordinarily I wouldn’t,” said Miss Williams. “But this seems to be a pattern with you throughout your career. You push your students to their breaking point and wonder why they’re tipping over the edge. What I’m trying to say is, you’re not exactly the easiest teacher to get along with.”
“So what?!” squeaked Mr. Simpson. “Lots of people in the world have to put up with authority figures they don’t like. It’s a hard fact of life. Sometimes in this world, you have to get along with people who don’t necessarily have to get along with you. In this school, you get either an F or detention. In the job market, you get fired. Or if it’s a judicial situation, you go to jail. It’s not the most pleasant system of authority, but if we could all just democratically elect our own authority figures, we’d get nothing done. Haven’t you learned by now that democracy is dead?”
Miss Williams gave a closed-mouth chuckle, shook her head, and said, “So that’s what you’ve been teaching your students, huh? You’re a history teacher who tells his own kids that democracy is dead. Maybe that’s why they don’t want to hang around you anymore, because you suck the hope right out of them. I don’t know if you’re aware of this or not, but part of your role as a teacher is to guide your students to a better life. If you can’t do that, then you’re not a teacher.”
“But see, that’s the thing, Linda,” said Mr. Simpson while flailing his hands around. “The only people who I can guide to a better life are the ones who’re willing to meet me half way. This is the land of opportunity, not the land of milk and honey. Scott George doesn’t give a damn about earning anything from me, hence why he didn’t show up to detention this afternoon.”
Miss Williams typed on her keyboard and said, “Well, that’s funny, because judging from his other grades, he seems to be well on his way to the Promised Land. Look at my computer screen for a moment. Algebra: B+. Graphic novels studies: A-. General art class: A-. Physical education: A+. Chemistry: B-. Not bad so far, huh? But the one place where he struggles the most is US history, your class, where he’s currently sitting pretty at a C-.” She leaned back in her chair again and asked, “Tell me, Mr. Simpson: why is Scott George struggling one class and doing so well in the others? Is US history his weakness or are you just not helping him through his tough times?”
“I could have helped him through whatever he needed if he’d just show up for thirty minutes of detention,” said Mr. Simpson with folded arms. “He’d be getting his very own tutor session.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass, Tom, you know full well that’s a bunch of BS,” warned Miss Williams.
“Oh, so you’re going to use foul language too?” asked Mr. Simpson. “And I’m the bad influence on my students? That’s part of the reason why Scott was supposed to show up today. Oh sure, he gets detention for saying it here, but what if he said it front of a bunch of small children? Or churchgoers? Or his own boss, if he’s actually able to get a job once he’s out of school.”
“He’ll cross that bridge once he gets to it. In the meantime, you’d better stop worrying about the stuff that comes out of your students’ mouths or what they do when they’re not in school. Let’s not kid ourselves and pretend that these teenagers are just sitting around being squeaky clean. That’s not what life is about for these kids. The only thing you’re teaching them by holding Scott George hostage is how to resent tight-asses like you!”
Mr. Simpson pounded Miss Williams’s desk again and asked, “Are you going to do anything about him not showing up or are you just going to turn a blind eye to the bigger picture! He needs to be made an example of!”
Miss Williams’s temper exploded when she stood up, towered over Mr. Simpson, and belted, “I’ll deal with Scott George in my own damn way! I’ll have a talk with him first thing tomorrow morning! If it makes you happy, I’ll even leave a message on his house phone telling him to show up!” He continued her vengeful oratory with finger pointing at a stoic Mr. Simpson. “As far as you’re concerned, you’re leaning on the precipice of career suicide by talking to me that way! You don’t give the orders, I do! This is my school and you’re not going to disrespect me any further!”
Mr. Simpson smiled and shook his head before standing up to meet Miss Williams’s coffee brown eyes. “You’re angry, huh? Now you understand my frustration with people like Scott George. I’m glad we could reach an understanding.”
As Mr. Simpson patted Miss Williams’s shoulder, she shrugged him off and snapped, “Get your hands off of me and get the hell out of my office before I fire you!” The history teacher held his hands up defensively and strolled out of the office, shutting the door behind him. He could see through the glass door that the Principal plopped back down in her seat and rubbed her aching temples.
The teacher turned around and saw a semi-circle of wide-eyed students fixating their gazes upon him. Mr. Simpson threw his hands up and yelled, “Boogedy-boogedy-boo!”, causing the crowd to quickly disperse in several directions.
Off in the distance, Mr. Simpson saw that another student glaring at him was his own daughter Adrienne, who had her arms folded and was leaning against the wall. Seeing his estranged flesh and blood in that mood brought a sinking feeling to his own heart. He let out a sigh and turned around to walk away.
“What am I doing?” he whispered to himself. He began to think there was a little bit of truth to what Miss Williams said, as much as it stung. Maybe that was why his wife divorced him and took Adrienne away. Maybe that was why he had a crappy car waiting for him in the parking lot. Maybe that was why he dined on TV dinners every night while watching the news alone.
He slapped himself in the head for thinking such “horrendous” thoughts. He knew he had to stand his ground if he was ever to get a victory against his own students. It was too late for him to win the war against his own wife and daughter. But the battle lines had already been drawn between himself at Scott George. If he had it his way, he’d bring back corporal punishment just for that one student. But now that he was fighting this war, he had to figure out what exactly he stood for. As a history teacher who taught various wars in his class, he needed to figure this out quickly. Otherwise, history would repeat itself over and over again.
Lunatic Justice
***LUNATIC JUSTICE***
On the tentative date of February 2nd, 2018, my very first copy of Lunatic Justice will arrive on my doorstep. Based on how well the book looks in terms of cover size and inner content, that will be the same day I approve it for official publication. For the past few months, Marie Krepps and I have been busy, busy, busy making sure this poetry and song collection was in tiptop shape. Some poems had to be cut while others just needed some simple tweaking. All of the hard work the two of us put into this project will finally pay off. In addition to critiquing my poems, Marie has also constructed an awesome-looking cover, which I’ll reveal to the world once Lunatic Justice is on the market.
The lesson of the day is never to underestimate the power of a good critique buddy. Marie truly is one of a kind when it comes to her role in my book publishing adventures. She’s funny, she’s spicy, and she’s on-point. What more could you ask for in someone like that? She genuinely wants you to find success in your writing journey. She doesn’t give praise unless you’ve earned it. If you want to know how to earn it, she’ll be happy to teach you just that, as long as you’ve got open ears, open eyes, and an open heart. A good critique buddy is often hard to find. When you’ve got yours, hold onto him or her and never let go.
Like Necrograph and Confessions of a Schizophrenic Savage before it, the poetry in Lunatic Justice contains social commentary, angry feelings, and sometimes moments of dark humor. The poems will make you feel uncomfortable at times or even pissed off. But that is the nature of learning new things: to be challenged on a constant basis. Don’t worry, I’m not going to fancy myself as some kind of 32-year-old sage. Lunatic Justice is just one man’s perspective on the ups and downs of life. If you’re willing to open your heart to this kind of music, I encourage you to buy a copy of this book when it eventually hits the online market. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll break shit…just like some of you already do on a daily basis!
I’m Garrison Kelly and I’ll see you motherfuckers soon!
***SILENT WARRIOR***
Another thing I like about having Marie as a critique buddy is her ability to encourage people to do what they’ve always dreamed. When I doubted the direction my creative life was going, she was there to cheer me on as I wrote, as of now, four chapters of Silent Warrior. She especially likes this concept because the content means the most to me. Those are the best kinds of stories and they’re the ones that will sound the most genuine. If you’ve enjoyed the adventures of Scott George so far, get ready for things to take a turn for the worst. Chapter five will be written through the prospective of either Tom Simpson or the Principal of Perkins High, Linda Williams (I haven’t decided yet). I could be accused of head hopping here, but since it’s always successful in movies and TV shows, I really don’t give a damn.
***MOVIE QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“You can’t win the war by fighting what you hate. You win it by saving what you love.”
-Rose Tico from “Star Wars: The Last Jedi”-
On the tentative date of February 2nd, 2018, my very first copy of Lunatic Justice will arrive on my doorstep. Based on how well the book looks in terms of cover size and inner content, that will be the same day I approve it for official publication. For the past few months, Marie Krepps and I have been busy, busy, busy making sure this poetry and song collection was in tiptop shape. Some poems had to be cut while others just needed some simple tweaking. All of the hard work the two of us put into this project will finally pay off. In addition to critiquing my poems, Marie has also constructed an awesome-looking cover, which I’ll reveal to the world once Lunatic Justice is on the market.
The lesson of the day is never to underestimate the power of a good critique buddy. Marie truly is one of a kind when it comes to her role in my book publishing adventures. She’s funny, she’s spicy, and she’s on-point. What more could you ask for in someone like that? She genuinely wants you to find success in your writing journey. She doesn’t give praise unless you’ve earned it. If you want to know how to earn it, she’ll be happy to teach you just that, as long as you’ve got open ears, open eyes, and an open heart. A good critique buddy is often hard to find. When you’ve got yours, hold onto him or her and never let go.
Like Necrograph and Confessions of a Schizophrenic Savage before it, the poetry in Lunatic Justice contains social commentary, angry feelings, and sometimes moments of dark humor. The poems will make you feel uncomfortable at times or even pissed off. But that is the nature of learning new things: to be challenged on a constant basis. Don’t worry, I’m not going to fancy myself as some kind of 32-year-old sage. Lunatic Justice is just one man’s perspective on the ups and downs of life. If you’re willing to open your heart to this kind of music, I encourage you to buy a copy of this book when it eventually hits the online market. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll break shit…just like some of you already do on a daily basis!
I’m Garrison Kelly and I’ll see you motherfuckers soon!
***SILENT WARRIOR***
Another thing I like about having Marie as a critique buddy is her ability to encourage people to do what they’ve always dreamed. When I doubted the direction my creative life was going, she was there to cheer me on as I wrote, as of now, four chapters of Silent Warrior. She especially likes this concept because the content means the most to me. Those are the best kinds of stories and they’re the ones that will sound the most genuine. If you’ve enjoyed the adventures of Scott George so far, get ready for things to take a turn for the worst. Chapter five will be written through the prospective of either Tom Simpson or the Principal of Perkins High, Linda Williams (I haven’t decided yet). I could be accused of head hopping here, but since it’s always successful in movies and TV shows, I really don’t give a damn.
***MOVIE QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“You can’t win the war by fighting what you hate. You win it by saving what you love.”
-Rose Tico from “Star Wars: The Last Jedi”-
January 24, 2018
Bathos
VERSE 1
Whenever two people fall head over heels
You tear them apart like a canine meal
Laugh at their love and all of the above
Counter the cheese with your brand of sleaze
Ain’t nothing funny about human emotions
Not every scene needs tissues and lotion
Shut the fuck up and leave them alone
If you can’t take the heat, go the fuck home
CHORUS 1
Bathos! Bathos!
Killing the mood with crass behavior
Bathos! Bathos!
Shut your mouth or meet your maker
Bathos! Bathos!
Bathos! Bathos!
VERSE 2
Whenever some guy wants to shiver and cry
You encourage his wishes to want to die
You drain every tear from his red puffy eyes
With every sick joke about his ass and thighs
Or maybe it’s about the color of his skin
Maybe it’s about the church’s so-called sins
Maybe it’s the fact that he lost his loved ones
Maybe you’re just a giggly ass dumb fuck
CHORUS 1
Bathos! Bathos!
Killing the mood with crass behavior
Bathos! Bathos!
Shut your mouth or meet your maker
Bathos! Bathos!
Bathos! Bathos!
BRIDGE
Alternative facts, alternative right
Alternative wife, alternative white
Alternative comedy, alternative rock
Alternative reality, what a fucking crock!
VERSE 3
If this is comedy, get your ass off the stage
You’re no George Carlin, no fucking sage
If this is music, I’m deaf to your tunes
You’re like a pop star gagging on a silver spoon
If this is news, you can’t be trusted
If this is corruption, you’re goddamn busted
If this is satire, you’re a goddamn liar
If this is your stage, let’s set it on fire
CHORUS 2
Bathos! Bathos!
See you later, you disgusting hater
Bathos! Bathos!
In a while, you necrophile
Bathos! Bathos!
Bathos! Bathos!
Whenever two people fall head over heels
You tear them apart like a canine meal
Laugh at their love and all of the above
Counter the cheese with your brand of sleaze
Ain’t nothing funny about human emotions
Not every scene needs tissues and lotion
Shut the fuck up and leave them alone
If you can’t take the heat, go the fuck home
CHORUS 1
Bathos! Bathos!
Killing the mood with crass behavior
Bathos! Bathos!
Shut your mouth or meet your maker
Bathos! Bathos!
Bathos! Bathos!
VERSE 2
Whenever some guy wants to shiver and cry
You encourage his wishes to want to die
You drain every tear from his red puffy eyes
With every sick joke about his ass and thighs
Or maybe it’s about the color of his skin
Maybe it’s about the church’s so-called sins
Maybe it’s the fact that he lost his loved ones
Maybe you’re just a giggly ass dumb fuck
CHORUS 1
Bathos! Bathos!
Killing the mood with crass behavior
Bathos! Bathos!
Shut your mouth or meet your maker
Bathos! Bathos!
Bathos! Bathos!
BRIDGE
Alternative facts, alternative right
Alternative wife, alternative white
Alternative comedy, alternative rock
Alternative reality, what a fucking crock!
VERSE 3
If this is comedy, get your ass off the stage
You’re no George Carlin, no fucking sage
If this is music, I’m deaf to your tunes
You’re like a pop star gagging on a silver spoon
If this is news, you can’t be trusted
If this is corruption, you’re goddamn busted
If this is satire, you’re a goddamn liar
If this is your stage, let’s set it on fire
CHORUS 2
Bathos! Bathos!
See you later, you disgusting hater
Bathos! Bathos!
In a while, you necrophile
Bathos! Bathos!
Bathos! Bathos!
January 23, 2018
Silent Warrior, Chapter 4
Scott’s two classes before lunch (art and English) went by in a blurry haze. Every word coming out of the teachers’ mouths sounded like gibberish. Every assignment they handed out was met with indifference. The extroverted students who spoke up in class on a regular basis might as well have been speaking Chinese. The only thing missing from Scott’s zombie demeanor was the desire to feast on brains; that dwindled away once Tom Simpson was no longer within sight. It wouldn’t be fair to feast on the brains of neutral students from other classes.
The undead hunger would have to be concentrated on Scott’s lunch, which consisted of dry chicken nuggets, limp French fries, and a carton of milk that smelled like fruit salad. Even if the food wasn’t bland and boring, he still had mental images of worms and maggots juxtaposed on his meal. It would have been nice if his mind could conjure up the gummy worms he ate as a kid instead of corpse-eating critters.
Scott pushed his meal to the opposite side of his faraway table, where he was isolated from the rest of the school folk with his head tucked in his arms. He wondered if this would be a good place to release his biblical flood of tears. Though isolated, he was still visible from miles away. Surely a deafening sob would overpower the cacophony of student babble easily. They always did. It was funny how nobody was around to witness his achievements, but his peers and superiors would always be there for his downfall.
He tried to suppress a singular tear, but the splash on the table was as obvious to him as a cannonball in a swimming pool. He quickly wiped it up with the waist of his T-shirt while whispering, “No, no, no, no, no!” He couldn’t let his secret heartbreak get out. He couldn’t crumble into human ruins in the middle of lunchtime. Just one tear…it was only one tear.
Before another surge of salty fluids could rush out of his eyeballs, Scott felt a gentle tissue wipe away the remains of his sorrow. Through puffy red eyes, he saw the silky hand belonged to a freshman girl with dual brunette pigtails, a cutesy-wutesy face, and overall shorts with Birkenstock sandals. She smiled dimly and said, “You look like you could use some company.”
Scott shrugged his shoulders, snorted mucous up his nostrils, and said, “Sure, why not?” The little lady took a seat next to him and tucked her chin against her chest. Scott wondered if this girl was just as shy and awkward as he was. “It must have taken a lot of courage to come over here.” He couldn’t stop the words from pouring out of his mouth like rollercoaster vomit. He mentally kicked himself and quietly said, “D’oh!”
“Actually, it did,” said the girl, and Scott’s anxiety was replaced with warm tingling through is nerves. He felt as though he dodged the world’s biggest bullet with that one, in a high school where everybody shot from the hip, no less. “I don’t normally talk to cute guys, but uh…uh-oh…” Scott’s face turned bright pink upon hearing he was cute. “What I’m trying to say is…uh…”
“It’s alright, you don’t have to worry about me,” said Scott while patting the girl on the back. “I’m actually pretty terrified myself. If you’ve ever had Mr. Simpson for a teacher before, you know exactly what I’m talking about.” He took a swig of mediocre milk to sooth his scratchy throat.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m his daughter,” said the girl, to which Scott spit his milk all over the table and coughed. “You really should be more careful with spilling things on the table.” The girl took a few napkins out of her pocket and wiped the table down before they could get in trouble with teachers passing by.
“Look, I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to hang out together,” said Scott nervously with his hands in a defensive position. “I’m already in the doghouse with your father. He gave me half an hour of detention after school today, which I’m obviously not going to show up for but…where are you going?”
After throwing the napkins in the trash, the girl stood up and tried to walk out of sight. She spun around after being called out by Scott and said, “Just so you know, I only came up to you because I thought you needed a friend. My dad has that affect on people. That’s why my mom divorced him when I was nine. But if you don’t want to hang out, that’s fine too…”
The girl’s walking speed increased and her fists clenched tightly. Scott shot up out of his seat, threw his disgusting feast in the garbage, stacked his tray, and followed after her into the hallway. The girl furiously spun the combination wheel on her locker before Scott placed a hand on her shoulder and said, “Wait! Look, I’m sorry. I really am.” The tension in her shoulder eased to cotton softness. “I’ve just been having a shitty year, that’s all. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. Can we talk for a while?”
The freshman interlaced her fingers into Scott’s and said, “Of course we can talk. We can talk about anything we want. How about if we introduce ourselves before we feel like blowing each other off again. I’m Adrienne. Adrienne Simpson. And you are?”
“Scott George. Nice to meet you, Adrienne. Can I ask you a question? How do you know all about me and Mr. Simpson?”
“Because that’s all you ever talked about in English class, silly.”
Scott’s face grew tomato red upon realizing what the hell he’d been doing all this time. All of that zombie groaning. All of that muttering. Not paying attention to his own fucking actions. Had other students been aware of his grumbling the whole time and not just Adrienne? Why didn’t the teachers say anything? Maybe they did say something but Scott was too numb to realize it. The Novocain feeling in his brain wore off and the white hot pain of embarrassment and humiliation washed over him, leaving him so weak at the knees that Adrienne had to support him by the hips.
“I wouldn’t worry about it too much if I were you,” giggled Adrienne while standing Scott upright. “That class is full of all sorts of weirdoes. You were probably just blending in, no offense by the way. I know this because I’m a weirdo too. And I’m proud of it!”
Scott’s short-term memory came splashing back to him once more. Of course that class was full of nerds and geeks, because it was about graphic novels. Jocks and cool kids didn’t read classics like Watchmen and Fun Home. Well, they probably did, but only to snicker at Fun Home with homophobic slurs passing their lips every so often.
“You know what, Adrienne?” said Scott with a small grin. “You’re right. I’m proud of being a weirdo too. Goddamn, it feels good to say that. If I had said that anywhere else, I would have gotten my ass kicked for it.”
Adrienne patted Scott’s warm cheek and said, “See? This world isn’t such a bad place. You just have to find the right people, that’s all. Or in your case, let the right people find you. Tell you what, Scott, how about instead of riding that god awful bus, the two of us walk home together. Like I said, we can talk about anything you want.”
“Uh….well….um…”
“Come on, it’ll be fun! Just you and me! Nobody else! We can even hold hands if you want!” said Adrienne while smiling cutely at the fidgeting Scott.
The senior took a huge breath to settle his nerves and finally had the courage to say, “You know what? Fuck it. I don’t have anybody else around here watching my back. You and me against the world. Why not? What could go wrong?”
“What could go right is that you don’t have to cry your eyes out in front of everybody and you’ll actually have a reason to smile again. Come on, smile for me!” Scott’s attempt at doing so made him look like a psychotic serial killer, to which Adrienne giggled, patted him on the shoulder, and said, “Not a bad start. See you soon!”
With the buzzer sounding off once again, Adrienne waved happily at Scott and walked away to her next class. Though she had an adorable figure from behind, it was actually Adrienne’s bare feet in sandals that Scott couldn’t take his eyes off of. He felt himself going into zombie mode again, but this time with a slightly less frightening smile on his face. He shook his head awake before he could embarrass himself further by getting a public hard-on. Lord knows there wasn’t any recovering from that.
Next stop for Scott George was math class, which he was surprisingly alert for. He blew through the algebraic equations like an accountant on crack, seemingly forgetting all about Mr. Simpson’s detention notice from earlier in the day, if only for a little while. Adrienne was the only ally Scott had in this war against a hellish educational system. He couldn’t rely on his own mother, the other teachers, or the other students for a soft shoulder to lean on. He still had no idea what Adrienne saw in him that others didn’t, but with the speed at which he finished his math assignments, he was desperate enough not to question it.
The undead hunger would have to be concentrated on Scott’s lunch, which consisted of dry chicken nuggets, limp French fries, and a carton of milk that smelled like fruit salad. Even if the food wasn’t bland and boring, he still had mental images of worms and maggots juxtaposed on his meal. It would have been nice if his mind could conjure up the gummy worms he ate as a kid instead of corpse-eating critters.
Scott pushed his meal to the opposite side of his faraway table, where he was isolated from the rest of the school folk with his head tucked in his arms. He wondered if this would be a good place to release his biblical flood of tears. Though isolated, he was still visible from miles away. Surely a deafening sob would overpower the cacophony of student babble easily. They always did. It was funny how nobody was around to witness his achievements, but his peers and superiors would always be there for his downfall.
He tried to suppress a singular tear, but the splash on the table was as obvious to him as a cannonball in a swimming pool. He quickly wiped it up with the waist of his T-shirt while whispering, “No, no, no, no, no!” He couldn’t let his secret heartbreak get out. He couldn’t crumble into human ruins in the middle of lunchtime. Just one tear…it was only one tear.
Before another surge of salty fluids could rush out of his eyeballs, Scott felt a gentle tissue wipe away the remains of his sorrow. Through puffy red eyes, he saw the silky hand belonged to a freshman girl with dual brunette pigtails, a cutesy-wutesy face, and overall shorts with Birkenstock sandals. She smiled dimly and said, “You look like you could use some company.”
Scott shrugged his shoulders, snorted mucous up his nostrils, and said, “Sure, why not?” The little lady took a seat next to him and tucked her chin against her chest. Scott wondered if this girl was just as shy and awkward as he was. “It must have taken a lot of courage to come over here.” He couldn’t stop the words from pouring out of his mouth like rollercoaster vomit. He mentally kicked himself and quietly said, “D’oh!”
“Actually, it did,” said the girl, and Scott’s anxiety was replaced with warm tingling through is nerves. He felt as though he dodged the world’s biggest bullet with that one, in a high school where everybody shot from the hip, no less. “I don’t normally talk to cute guys, but uh…uh-oh…” Scott’s face turned bright pink upon hearing he was cute. “What I’m trying to say is…uh…”
“It’s alright, you don’t have to worry about me,” said Scott while patting the girl on the back. “I’m actually pretty terrified myself. If you’ve ever had Mr. Simpson for a teacher before, you know exactly what I’m talking about.” He took a swig of mediocre milk to sooth his scratchy throat.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m his daughter,” said the girl, to which Scott spit his milk all over the table and coughed. “You really should be more careful with spilling things on the table.” The girl took a few napkins out of her pocket and wiped the table down before they could get in trouble with teachers passing by.
“Look, I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to hang out together,” said Scott nervously with his hands in a defensive position. “I’m already in the doghouse with your father. He gave me half an hour of detention after school today, which I’m obviously not going to show up for but…where are you going?”
After throwing the napkins in the trash, the girl stood up and tried to walk out of sight. She spun around after being called out by Scott and said, “Just so you know, I only came up to you because I thought you needed a friend. My dad has that affect on people. That’s why my mom divorced him when I was nine. But if you don’t want to hang out, that’s fine too…”
The girl’s walking speed increased and her fists clenched tightly. Scott shot up out of his seat, threw his disgusting feast in the garbage, stacked his tray, and followed after her into the hallway. The girl furiously spun the combination wheel on her locker before Scott placed a hand on her shoulder and said, “Wait! Look, I’m sorry. I really am.” The tension in her shoulder eased to cotton softness. “I’ve just been having a shitty year, that’s all. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. Can we talk for a while?”
The freshman interlaced her fingers into Scott’s and said, “Of course we can talk. We can talk about anything we want. How about if we introduce ourselves before we feel like blowing each other off again. I’m Adrienne. Adrienne Simpson. And you are?”
“Scott George. Nice to meet you, Adrienne. Can I ask you a question? How do you know all about me and Mr. Simpson?”
“Because that’s all you ever talked about in English class, silly.”
Scott’s face grew tomato red upon realizing what the hell he’d been doing all this time. All of that zombie groaning. All of that muttering. Not paying attention to his own fucking actions. Had other students been aware of his grumbling the whole time and not just Adrienne? Why didn’t the teachers say anything? Maybe they did say something but Scott was too numb to realize it. The Novocain feeling in his brain wore off and the white hot pain of embarrassment and humiliation washed over him, leaving him so weak at the knees that Adrienne had to support him by the hips.
“I wouldn’t worry about it too much if I were you,” giggled Adrienne while standing Scott upright. “That class is full of all sorts of weirdoes. You were probably just blending in, no offense by the way. I know this because I’m a weirdo too. And I’m proud of it!”
Scott’s short-term memory came splashing back to him once more. Of course that class was full of nerds and geeks, because it was about graphic novels. Jocks and cool kids didn’t read classics like Watchmen and Fun Home. Well, they probably did, but only to snicker at Fun Home with homophobic slurs passing their lips every so often.
“You know what, Adrienne?” said Scott with a small grin. “You’re right. I’m proud of being a weirdo too. Goddamn, it feels good to say that. If I had said that anywhere else, I would have gotten my ass kicked for it.”
Adrienne patted Scott’s warm cheek and said, “See? This world isn’t such a bad place. You just have to find the right people, that’s all. Or in your case, let the right people find you. Tell you what, Scott, how about instead of riding that god awful bus, the two of us walk home together. Like I said, we can talk about anything you want.”
“Uh….well….um…”
“Come on, it’ll be fun! Just you and me! Nobody else! We can even hold hands if you want!” said Adrienne while smiling cutely at the fidgeting Scott.
The senior took a huge breath to settle his nerves and finally had the courage to say, “You know what? Fuck it. I don’t have anybody else around here watching my back. You and me against the world. Why not? What could go wrong?”
“What could go right is that you don’t have to cry your eyes out in front of everybody and you’ll actually have a reason to smile again. Come on, smile for me!” Scott’s attempt at doing so made him look like a psychotic serial killer, to which Adrienne giggled, patted him on the shoulder, and said, “Not a bad start. See you soon!”
With the buzzer sounding off once again, Adrienne waved happily at Scott and walked away to her next class. Though she had an adorable figure from behind, it was actually Adrienne’s bare feet in sandals that Scott couldn’t take his eyes off of. He felt himself going into zombie mode again, but this time with a slightly less frightening smile on his face. He shook his head awake before he could embarrass himself further by getting a public hard-on. Lord knows there wasn’t any recovering from that.
Next stop for Scott George was math class, which he was surprisingly alert for. He blew through the algebraic equations like an accountant on crack, seemingly forgetting all about Mr. Simpson’s detention notice from earlier in the day, if only for a little while. Adrienne was the only ally Scott had in this war against a hellish educational system. He couldn’t rely on his own mother, the other teachers, or the other students for a soft shoulder to lean on. He still had no idea what Adrienne saw in him that others didn’t, but with the speed at which he finished his math assignments, he was desperate enough not to question it.
January 20, 2018
Silent Warrior, Chapter 3
Wandering through the high school hallways might as well have been an intercity marathon for Scott George. His legs felt as though they were tied to cinder blocks. His head hung low enough to obscure his vision. His breathing was shallow and measured. All he could muster up for dialogue was the occasional zombie groan. Exhaustion hit him like a baseball bat to the skull. Hell, any deadly blow would have been a welcome addition to this hellish day.
By the time he dragged his lifeless corpse into Tom Simpson’s history class, the teacher was already scribbling notes on the chalkboard and the rest of the students were either goofing around or filing in. As always, Scott took a seat in the back of the classroom and tucked his head low, which was a favorite tactic of his for avoiding Mr. Simpson’s attention. Scott rubbed his temples as a way of clearing up his blurry vision, but it was all for naught. Perhaps a trip to the vending machine before class for a Dr. Pepper would have woken his ass up. Too little too late. The buzzer blasted throughout the school to signify the first class of the day.
“Alright class, settle down! Take your seats! It’s time for the lesson to begin,” said Mr. Simpson in with Shakespearean authority. The students did exactly what he said, but there was still the occasional snicker from one or two of the quarterbacks. The history teacher straightened his flat black hair, moustache, and glasses before clearing his throat and officially addressing the class.
“Now then, when last we were together, we were on the topic of slavery in the United States. In 1843, the settlers…” To Scott, all of Mr. Simpson’s words started blending together and cannibalizing each other to where he was merely background noise on a TV. No different from a used car salesman. No different from a televangelist begging for cash. No different from a politician giving a boring speech on campaign finance reform (if that’s what it was called).
Scott could feel his eyelids growing with heaviness. No matter how hard he pulled them open, blurry vision would cloud his consciousness. The crescendo of exhaustion came in the form of an uncovered yawn that opened his mouth as wide as a Pink Floyd the Wall movie poster. What a familiar piece of cinema to him.
The thunderous pounding on his desk jolted Scott awake and quickened his pulse to at least a thousand beats per minute. Somehow Mr. Simpson had teleported to the back of the class and stared him down with malicious intent. “If you’re going to yawn in my class, cover your mouth first. Nobody wants to see what’s inside of that thing.” As Mr. Simpson made his way back to the chalkboard, Scott’s muscles tensed as the other students gave him mocking smiles.
“As I was asking you all,” said Mr. Simpson. “Does anybody have an example of what a slave’s living conditions were like?” The class was silent. “Anybody?” Still silent. “Oh, Mr. George, how about you?”
“I…uh…” Scott’s lips quivered as he struggled to find his words. “I didn’t raise my hand.”
“I really don’t give a damn where your hand was, Mr. George. I asked you a question and I expect an answer. Your grade depends on it,” lashed Mr. Simpson, to which the other students snickered at Scott again. The introverted student felt his cheeks warm up like a coffee pot as he struggled for more words. “Out with it, Scott!” belted the teacher.
“They slept in….shopping carts?” Scott mentally kicked himself so hard that he could have been a professional Muay Thai fighter in another life. Another possible occupation would have been comedian since the entire class burst into laughter and Mr. Simpson held his temples between his thumb and forefinger.
“No, no, no, no, no!” rambled the teacher while throwing his chalk to the ground. “The slaves did not sleep in shopping carts! When I first said at the beginning of the semester that class participation counted towards your grade, I did not mean giving foolish answers that you clearly pulled out of your posterior! Try again!”
A sea of chuckles and hateful smiles spread out across the classroom and Scott George was the captain of his own capsized boat. He drowned in embarrassment and anger rolled into one as his entire body heated up even faster. Mr. Simpson wasn’t even close to being as hideous as Aloysius Striker, but Scott kept his vengeful response measured anyways. “I guess that’ll be the last time I speak up in class.”
“So what you’re trying to tell me is that you’re willing to take a C or a D because you gave one stupid answer? Is that how you got to the senior level of this school? By giving up easily?”
“The truth is!” belted Scott, silencing the classroom gigglers. “It wouldn’t have mattered if I gave you a better answer like sleeping on mesh beds. It wouldn’t have meant a damn thing if I told you that’s where the phrase Nighty-Night, Sleep Tight came from. You know why? Because you wouldn’t have taken my answer seriously anyways. Anytime I’ve given you an answer, all you said was Okay and then left me hanging. And why aren’t you doing anything about these laughing pieces of shit?!”
Mr. Simpson wagged his finger at Scott and said, “Watch your language with me, young man. I don’t care how justified in your opinion you think you are; it doesn’t excuse such disgusting speech.”
“Disgusting speech?!” snapped Scott as he smacked his palms on the table. “Your students are fucking laughing at me and you’re calling ME disgusting? Is this how you treat all of your introverted students? By humiliating the shit out of them?!”
“Two things, Mr. George” sneered the teacher while folding his arms across his blue flannel shirt. “One, if I catch you using those words again, you’re getting thirty minutes of detention after school. And secondly, you can’t use some pop science personality test to justify not speaking up in class like you’re supposed to. All you had to do was give me a reasonable answer and instead you said shopping carts! Shopping carts! For god’s sake, Scott, get it together!”
“Yeah, Scott, get it together!” said a football jock off in the front corner, which earned a round of hideous laughter from the other students.
Every immature cackle sent a surge of lava hot adrenaline through Scott George’s body. His stomach twisted in painful knots. His head ached worse than a football concussion. His vision glowed bright red as he scanned the room for his first victim. He didn’t have to look hard to find his next form of pyromantic speech. “Shut the fuck up and stop laughing!” he screamed before shooting to his feet and throwing a garbage bin at the jock.
“Hey! Hey! Hey!” Mr. Simpson snapped, shutting the class up immediately. He pointed at the mocking football player and said, “I’ll deal with you later. As for you, Mr. George, I told you exactly what was going to happen if you swore again, so try not to be too surprised by the consequences. Thirty minutes of detention after school with me!”
“Like I’m going to show up!” said Scott as he sat back down and folded his arms.
Mr. Simpson’s face molded into weaponized anger as he marched towards Scott, placed his hands on either side of the desk, and stared directly into his introverted student’s puffy eyes. With a calm, yet sinister tone, he said, “Believe me, Mr. George, you will show up today after school. We’re going to clean up this classroom together. We’re going to spend some quality time with each other. And if you don’t show up to detention…a laughing football jock will be the least of your worries. Do you understand me, Mr. George? Do you catch my drift? Or do you need to recharge your introverted batteries and think about it some more?”
Scott spent the rest of the class trying to control his mild shivers. The rest of the class had nothing to laugh at anymore as they too stared on with trepidation. Mr. Simpson marched back to the chalkboard, scribbled some more notes (with a new piece of chalk), and glared at his students. “Since none of you feel like giving me the answers I need in a typical conversation, perhaps you’d be willing to do so on a pop quiz. Take out a piece of paper and a pencil. There are twenty questions on this assignment.”
Scott’s shivering intensified gradually as the other students glared at him with a sarcastic “Thanks a lot” stare. He couldn’t even hold his pencil and paper still as he took the pop quiz. Some of his answers looked reasonable while most looked like chicken scratch. He hurried through the questions so that he could curl back into his corner faster. He wished the buzzer would hurry up as well. Oh, what he’d give to lock himself in a bathroom stall or a janitor’s closet. What he’d give to release the tears that built up within his system. He’d give his left nut if it meant he could punch the shit out of Mr. Simpson until the end of time. Blood and tears were a tastier and more intoxicating cocktail than the finest of wines.
But before that fantasy could come to fruition one of these days, there was the ever looming timestamp in his mind of thirty long minutes. Thirty minutes of mockery. Thirty minutes of agony. Thirty minutes of hatred. The mental timestamp should have just read five minutes, because that was all Scott George needed to blow his stack and go into a rampage. Five minutes alone. What a glorious usage of time. Maybe he wouldn’t show up to detention just to spare Mr. Simpson the beating he rightfully deserved. Such a noble act of consideration from a guy whose blood boiled like a cauldron.
By the time he dragged his lifeless corpse into Tom Simpson’s history class, the teacher was already scribbling notes on the chalkboard and the rest of the students were either goofing around or filing in. As always, Scott took a seat in the back of the classroom and tucked his head low, which was a favorite tactic of his for avoiding Mr. Simpson’s attention. Scott rubbed his temples as a way of clearing up his blurry vision, but it was all for naught. Perhaps a trip to the vending machine before class for a Dr. Pepper would have woken his ass up. Too little too late. The buzzer blasted throughout the school to signify the first class of the day.
“Alright class, settle down! Take your seats! It’s time for the lesson to begin,” said Mr. Simpson in with Shakespearean authority. The students did exactly what he said, but there was still the occasional snicker from one or two of the quarterbacks. The history teacher straightened his flat black hair, moustache, and glasses before clearing his throat and officially addressing the class.
“Now then, when last we were together, we were on the topic of slavery in the United States. In 1843, the settlers…” To Scott, all of Mr. Simpson’s words started blending together and cannibalizing each other to where he was merely background noise on a TV. No different from a used car salesman. No different from a televangelist begging for cash. No different from a politician giving a boring speech on campaign finance reform (if that’s what it was called).
Scott could feel his eyelids growing with heaviness. No matter how hard he pulled them open, blurry vision would cloud his consciousness. The crescendo of exhaustion came in the form of an uncovered yawn that opened his mouth as wide as a Pink Floyd the Wall movie poster. What a familiar piece of cinema to him.
The thunderous pounding on his desk jolted Scott awake and quickened his pulse to at least a thousand beats per minute. Somehow Mr. Simpson had teleported to the back of the class and stared him down with malicious intent. “If you’re going to yawn in my class, cover your mouth first. Nobody wants to see what’s inside of that thing.” As Mr. Simpson made his way back to the chalkboard, Scott’s muscles tensed as the other students gave him mocking smiles.
“As I was asking you all,” said Mr. Simpson. “Does anybody have an example of what a slave’s living conditions were like?” The class was silent. “Anybody?” Still silent. “Oh, Mr. George, how about you?”
“I…uh…” Scott’s lips quivered as he struggled to find his words. “I didn’t raise my hand.”
“I really don’t give a damn where your hand was, Mr. George. I asked you a question and I expect an answer. Your grade depends on it,” lashed Mr. Simpson, to which the other students snickered at Scott again. The introverted student felt his cheeks warm up like a coffee pot as he struggled for more words. “Out with it, Scott!” belted the teacher.
“They slept in….shopping carts?” Scott mentally kicked himself so hard that he could have been a professional Muay Thai fighter in another life. Another possible occupation would have been comedian since the entire class burst into laughter and Mr. Simpson held his temples between his thumb and forefinger.
“No, no, no, no, no!” rambled the teacher while throwing his chalk to the ground. “The slaves did not sleep in shopping carts! When I first said at the beginning of the semester that class participation counted towards your grade, I did not mean giving foolish answers that you clearly pulled out of your posterior! Try again!”
A sea of chuckles and hateful smiles spread out across the classroom and Scott George was the captain of his own capsized boat. He drowned in embarrassment and anger rolled into one as his entire body heated up even faster. Mr. Simpson wasn’t even close to being as hideous as Aloysius Striker, but Scott kept his vengeful response measured anyways. “I guess that’ll be the last time I speak up in class.”
“So what you’re trying to tell me is that you’re willing to take a C or a D because you gave one stupid answer? Is that how you got to the senior level of this school? By giving up easily?”
“The truth is!” belted Scott, silencing the classroom gigglers. “It wouldn’t have mattered if I gave you a better answer like sleeping on mesh beds. It wouldn’t have meant a damn thing if I told you that’s where the phrase Nighty-Night, Sleep Tight came from. You know why? Because you wouldn’t have taken my answer seriously anyways. Anytime I’ve given you an answer, all you said was Okay and then left me hanging. And why aren’t you doing anything about these laughing pieces of shit?!”
Mr. Simpson wagged his finger at Scott and said, “Watch your language with me, young man. I don’t care how justified in your opinion you think you are; it doesn’t excuse such disgusting speech.”
“Disgusting speech?!” snapped Scott as he smacked his palms on the table. “Your students are fucking laughing at me and you’re calling ME disgusting? Is this how you treat all of your introverted students? By humiliating the shit out of them?!”
“Two things, Mr. George” sneered the teacher while folding his arms across his blue flannel shirt. “One, if I catch you using those words again, you’re getting thirty minutes of detention after school. And secondly, you can’t use some pop science personality test to justify not speaking up in class like you’re supposed to. All you had to do was give me a reasonable answer and instead you said shopping carts! Shopping carts! For god’s sake, Scott, get it together!”
“Yeah, Scott, get it together!” said a football jock off in the front corner, which earned a round of hideous laughter from the other students.
Every immature cackle sent a surge of lava hot adrenaline through Scott George’s body. His stomach twisted in painful knots. His head ached worse than a football concussion. His vision glowed bright red as he scanned the room for his first victim. He didn’t have to look hard to find his next form of pyromantic speech. “Shut the fuck up and stop laughing!” he screamed before shooting to his feet and throwing a garbage bin at the jock.
“Hey! Hey! Hey!” Mr. Simpson snapped, shutting the class up immediately. He pointed at the mocking football player and said, “I’ll deal with you later. As for you, Mr. George, I told you exactly what was going to happen if you swore again, so try not to be too surprised by the consequences. Thirty minutes of detention after school with me!”
“Like I’m going to show up!” said Scott as he sat back down and folded his arms.
Mr. Simpson’s face molded into weaponized anger as he marched towards Scott, placed his hands on either side of the desk, and stared directly into his introverted student’s puffy eyes. With a calm, yet sinister tone, he said, “Believe me, Mr. George, you will show up today after school. We’re going to clean up this classroom together. We’re going to spend some quality time with each other. And if you don’t show up to detention…a laughing football jock will be the least of your worries. Do you understand me, Mr. George? Do you catch my drift? Or do you need to recharge your introverted batteries and think about it some more?”
Scott spent the rest of the class trying to control his mild shivers. The rest of the class had nothing to laugh at anymore as they too stared on with trepidation. Mr. Simpson marched back to the chalkboard, scribbled some more notes (with a new piece of chalk), and glared at his students. “Since none of you feel like giving me the answers I need in a typical conversation, perhaps you’d be willing to do so on a pop quiz. Take out a piece of paper and a pencil. There are twenty questions on this assignment.”
Scott’s shivering intensified gradually as the other students glared at him with a sarcastic “Thanks a lot” stare. He couldn’t even hold his pencil and paper still as he took the pop quiz. Some of his answers looked reasonable while most looked like chicken scratch. He hurried through the questions so that he could curl back into his corner faster. He wished the buzzer would hurry up as well. Oh, what he’d give to lock himself in a bathroom stall or a janitor’s closet. What he’d give to release the tears that built up within his system. He’d give his left nut if it meant he could punch the shit out of Mr. Simpson until the end of time. Blood and tears were a tastier and more intoxicating cocktail than the finest of wines.
But before that fantasy could come to fruition one of these days, there was the ever looming timestamp in his mind of thirty long minutes. Thirty minutes of mockery. Thirty minutes of agony. Thirty minutes of hatred. The mental timestamp should have just read five minutes, because that was all Scott George needed to blow his stack and go into a rampage. Five minutes alone. What a glorious usage of time. Maybe he wouldn’t show up to detention just to spare Mr. Simpson the beating he rightfully deserved. Such a noble act of consideration from a guy whose blood boiled like a cauldron.
