Garrison Kelly's Blog, page 75
November 1, 2017
Where Is the Edge?
“When will these idiots ever learn?” asked Victoria Flare as she leapt from neon-lit building to neon-lit building. Her dark cybernetic body blended perfectly with the night sky. Even the neon signs did a piss-poor job of illuminating her most important features. Victoria took note of some of these signs: porn theaters, bars, strip clubs, and pawn shops. Just how far into the underworld did this briefcase thief go and would a bottle of Axe body wash be enough to get the grunge off of Victoria’s body? Why homeless people would ever want to look for handouts in a place like this, she would never know.
“The sooner I’m done with this, the better,” she said to herself while monitoring the radar screen over her eyes. Just a few more buildings to leap from. The blip was as obvious as a nun at a porn convention. Or in this case, a homeless thief in the back alley of a porn theater. Victoria shivered for more reasons than just being out in the frigid snowy night. But when she touched down in that slim alleyway (next to the dumpster no less), her business attitude was more radiant than any neon sign in this disgusting town.
She ejected two handguns from her wrists and pointed both of them at the heavily dressed drifter huddled against a pile of trash. She took note of the way he rocked back and forth in the fetal position while singing lyrics to the Within Temptation song “Where Is the Edge?” That voice was so raspy and damaged, yet angelically familiar. But even such marvelous singing couldn’t snap Victoria out of business mode. “Hands where I can see them, scumbag! Drop the briefcase and turn around slowly!”
With his body convulsing in the snowy weather, the drifter did as he was told down to the letter. He was hard to make out with the fuzzy hood over his head, but that damaged face was clearer than the starlit skies. The five o’clock shadow, the wide nose, the scars that would never heal, and the yellow teeth with one missing: this had been the very portrait of a once beautiful human being. “Waldo? Is that you?” Victoria asked.
“Oh dear god, Victoria…what the hell are you doing here?” asked the newly identified Waldo Spiegel, still adhering to his captor’s orders.
The cyborg mercenary lowered her weapons and said matter-of-factly, “I guess I could ask you the same thing. You’ve got something that doesn’t belong to you. Kick it over here and I’ll be out of your hair…or at least what’s left of it.”
“You think this is a joke, don’t you?” rasped Waldo as he lowered his hands. “There’s enough money in this briefcase to start my life over again, to stay out of the puzzle factory, to stay away from drugs. And now you, my oh-so-loving ex-girlfriend, have come to take that away from me. Anything else you want to take away from me? You want my soul? You want my balls on a platter? How about I just rip my heart out of my fucking chest and let you have that.”
“Don’t act like such a victim, Waldo,” grunted Victoria as she slowly advanced toward her former lover. “I didn’t take a damn thing away from you. You took it away from me. You want to talk about stealing hearts? That’s it, man! Remember that night at Tony’s Restaurant? The night you went fucking ape-shit? The only way I could ever be at fault for this is not seeing the warning signs sooner. You’re a loony, Waldo. You’re a fucking fruitcake.”
“Fruitcake? Fruitcake?!” shouted Waldo while kicking over a nearby garbage can. “You think I chose to go insane? Does anybody really want that for themselves? I tried my damnedest to keep my shit together. I never wanted to be locked up in a padded cell. But you…you turned me over to those white coats and now look where I am! You insensitive piece of shit!” Waldo’s fury was punctuated by him throwing trash from the spilled receptacle at his ex-girlfriend.
“Enough!” belted Victoria as she swatted away a tin can and ended Waldo’s barrage of filth. “You’re really going to blame all of this on me? What was I supposed to do, just let you go nuts again? You really think I could ever keep a stable relationship with a weirdo like you? Looks like the both of us would have worn white at our wedding, but at least my arms would have been free!”
“Fuck you and your lame ass jokes!” roared Waldo as he heaved the knocked over garbage can over his head and launched it at Victoria, who shot it down with a few bullets from her wrist weapons. He then blitzed up to her and shoved her around a few times while Victoria blankly no-sold his offence. He then ran around in circles screaming, cussing, and throwing punches at thin air before crashing in a heap and crying his eyes out.
Victoria’s stone-faced expression softened, but only with horizontal eyebrows instead of diagonal. She never forgot what she was hired to do, but also couldn’t help but take a modicum of pity on her train wreck of an ex-boyfriend, who rolled around on the snow and trash-covered ground bawling like a baby. She slowly approached him and tried to comfort him by peeling back his hood and petting his bald head.
The drifter swatted her hand away and sobbed, “Don’t touch me, Vickie. Don’t fucking touch me. It’s too late to save me now. You already made yourself clear when you dumped my ass all those years ago. If you want the briefcase, just take the fucking thing and get out of here. Leave me in peace.”
“If I leave you out here, Waldo, you’ll freeze to death,” whispered Victoria.
“What do you care if I die out here?” said Waldo while pie-facing her. “I’ve got no fucking future. That money’s going to run out eventually anyways. Who’s going to hire me? Who needs an ex-marine with a head full of sick and twisted shit when there’s a perfectly good cyborg who’ll gladly take my spot?”
“You want the truth, Waldo?” asked Victoria while holding his shivering hand in hers, to which he didn’t resist this time. “That puzzle factory as you call it was the best thing for you. You had access to the medicine you needed and you didn’t have to hang out with scumbag criminals who were beneath you. More importantly, you weren’t able to hurt anybody. You came very close to killing that taxi driver that night at Tony’s. Killing isn’t new to you since you were a marine, but I know you wouldn’t want to live with taking an innocent life like that. Do you remember now?”
Waldo breathed heavily as he tried to recall the memory. “I can’t remember a damn thing anymore. All I see are nightmares. Lots and lots of nightmares. Breaking up with you was one of them. You were my only real shot staying in control…and then you drop me off at the loony bin and never even bother to say hi every once and a while.”
“What if I promised to help you get back on your feet again?” asked Victoria.
“Nobody can save me!” shouted Waldo. “There aren’t enough drugs in this world to keep those nightmares out of my head! There aren’t enough social workers to keep me off the streets! Everything is about money these days! Why do you think this place is run by mega corporations?! It costs money to get help and it costs even more money to stay sane! That briefcase might sustain me for a little while, but I need something permanent, damn it! Who’s going to give me a chance now, Vickie? Who?!”
Victoria’s eyes dampened at the thought of her boyfriend making complete sense amongst all of the madness. She wiped away a single tear with her wrist and asked her boyfriend, “Do you want me to take the nightmares away? Do you want something permanent? There’s only one way I can do that, Waldo. You know what it is.”
Waldo wiped away his own cascading eyes when he peeked down at Victoria’s wrist guns. He shivered hard as he contemplated this decision and Victoria could feel his fear and sadness radiating off of him like an angel’s halo, which he would need when he nodded in approval. “Let’s do this. Please, let me go!”
Victoria hugged Waldo’s head tightly as the two of them sobbed together and sang “Where Is the Edge?” in perfect harmony. She said, “Even after all of the drugs, you still have the most beautiful voice, Waldo Spiegel.”
“I love you, Vickie!”
“I love you too, honey-bunny. Close your eyes. This won’t take long.” The homeless marine did as he was told yet again, though his eyelids served as a piss-poor levy for his flowing eyeballs. Victoria’s own eyes were burning with sadness and rage as she held the wrist gun to her ex-boyfriend’s chin and took her sweet time in pulling the trigger. “You’re free, my darling. You’re finally free.”
BANG!
Waldo’s head exploded and his body went limp instantly. Victoria stood up and wiped away her burning eyes, not knowing what to do with Waldo’s corpse. He needed a proper burial, but this was hardly the place to do it with all of the trash and pornography on the ground. She retrieved the briefcase full of money and tapped her radar visor, ejecting a Bluetooth microphone towards her lips.
“The mission is complete, Executor. I have the briefcase. The target has been neutralized. I did everything you asked me to do. But you’re not getting this money back, my friend. Since you and your corporation won’t do it, I’ll donate these greenbacks to a schizophrenic charity. There should be enough here so that what happened to the thief won’t happen to anybody else. And by the way, that thief has a name: Waldo Jeffrey Spiegel. Remember that name until the day you die. I know I will. If you want to come for me and the briefcase, you’d better bring the National Guard, motherfucker, ‘cause I’m not letting this shit happen again!”
“….Good luck, Miss Flare! You’re going to need it!”
CLICK!
“The sooner I’m done with this, the better,” she said to herself while monitoring the radar screen over her eyes. Just a few more buildings to leap from. The blip was as obvious as a nun at a porn convention. Or in this case, a homeless thief in the back alley of a porn theater. Victoria shivered for more reasons than just being out in the frigid snowy night. But when she touched down in that slim alleyway (next to the dumpster no less), her business attitude was more radiant than any neon sign in this disgusting town.
She ejected two handguns from her wrists and pointed both of them at the heavily dressed drifter huddled against a pile of trash. She took note of the way he rocked back and forth in the fetal position while singing lyrics to the Within Temptation song “Where Is the Edge?” That voice was so raspy and damaged, yet angelically familiar. But even such marvelous singing couldn’t snap Victoria out of business mode. “Hands where I can see them, scumbag! Drop the briefcase and turn around slowly!”
With his body convulsing in the snowy weather, the drifter did as he was told down to the letter. He was hard to make out with the fuzzy hood over his head, but that damaged face was clearer than the starlit skies. The five o’clock shadow, the wide nose, the scars that would never heal, and the yellow teeth with one missing: this had been the very portrait of a once beautiful human being. “Waldo? Is that you?” Victoria asked.
“Oh dear god, Victoria…what the hell are you doing here?” asked the newly identified Waldo Spiegel, still adhering to his captor’s orders.
The cyborg mercenary lowered her weapons and said matter-of-factly, “I guess I could ask you the same thing. You’ve got something that doesn’t belong to you. Kick it over here and I’ll be out of your hair…or at least what’s left of it.”
“You think this is a joke, don’t you?” rasped Waldo as he lowered his hands. “There’s enough money in this briefcase to start my life over again, to stay out of the puzzle factory, to stay away from drugs. And now you, my oh-so-loving ex-girlfriend, have come to take that away from me. Anything else you want to take away from me? You want my soul? You want my balls on a platter? How about I just rip my heart out of my fucking chest and let you have that.”
“Don’t act like such a victim, Waldo,” grunted Victoria as she slowly advanced toward her former lover. “I didn’t take a damn thing away from you. You took it away from me. You want to talk about stealing hearts? That’s it, man! Remember that night at Tony’s Restaurant? The night you went fucking ape-shit? The only way I could ever be at fault for this is not seeing the warning signs sooner. You’re a loony, Waldo. You’re a fucking fruitcake.”
“Fruitcake? Fruitcake?!” shouted Waldo while kicking over a nearby garbage can. “You think I chose to go insane? Does anybody really want that for themselves? I tried my damnedest to keep my shit together. I never wanted to be locked up in a padded cell. But you…you turned me over to those white coats and now look where I am! You insensitive piece of shit!” Waldo’s fury was punctuated by him throwing trash from the spilled receptacle at his ex-girlfriend.
“Enough!” belted Victoria as she swatted away a tin can and ended Waldo’s barrage of filth. “You’re really going to blame all of this on me? What was I supposed to do, just let you go nuts again? You really think I could ever keep a stable relationship with a weirdo like you? Looks like the both of us would have worn white at our wedding, but at least my arms would have been free!”
“Fuck you and your lame ass jokes!” roared Waldo as he heaved the knocked over garbage can over his head and launched it at Victoria, who shot it down with a few bullets from her wrist weapons. He then blitzed up to her and shoved her around a few times while Victoria blankly no-sold his offence. He then ran around in circles screaming, cussing, and throwing punches at thin air before crashing in a heap and crying his eyes out.
Victoria’s stone-faced expression softened, but only with horizontal eyebrows instead of diagonal. She never forgot what she was hired to do, but also couldn’t help but take a modicum of pity on her train wreck of an ex-boyfriend, who rolled around on the snow and trash-covered ground bawling like a baby. She slowly approached him and tried to comfort him by peeling back his hood and petting his bald head.
The drifter swatted her hand away and sobbed, “Don’t touch me, Vickie. Don’t fucking touch me. It’s too late to save me now. You already made yourself clear when you dumped my ass all those years ago. If you want the briefcase, just take the fucking thing and get out of here. Leave me in peace.”
“If I leave you out here, Waldo, you’ll freeze to death,” whispered Victoria.
“What do you care if I die out here?” said Waldo while pie-facing her. “I’ve got no fucking future. That money’s going to run out eventually anyways. Who’s going to hire me? Who needs an ex-marine with a head full of sick and twisted shit when there’s a perfectly good cyborg who’ll gladly take my spot?”
“You want the truth, Waldo?” asked Victoria while holding his shivering hand in hers, to which he didn’t resist this time. “That puzzle factory as you call it was the best thing for you. You had access to the medicine you needed and you didn’t have to hang out with scumbag criminals who were beneath you. More importantly, you weren’t able to hurt anybody. You came very close to killing that taxi driver that night at Tony’s. Killing isn’t new to you since you were a marine, but I know you wouldn’t want to live with taking an innocent life like that. Do you remember now?”
Waldo breathed heavily as he tried to recall the memory. “I can’t remember a damn thing anymore. All I see are nightmares. Lots and lots of nightmares. Breaking up with you was one of them. You were my only real shot staying in control…and then you drop me off at the loony bin and never even bother to say hi every once and a while.”
“What if I promised to help you get back on your feet again?” asked Victoria.
“Nobody can save me!” shouted Waldo. “There aren’t enough drugs in this world to keep those nightmares out of my head! There aren’t enough social workers to keep me off the streets! Everything is about money these days! Why do you think this place is run by mega corporations?! It costs money to get help and it costs even more money to stay sane! That briefcase might sustain me for a little while, but I need something permanent, damn it! Who’s going to give me a chance now, Vickie? Who?!”
Victoria’s eyes dampened at the thought of her boyfriend making complete sense amongst all of the madness. She wiped away a single tear with her wrist and asked her boyfriend, “Do you want me to take the nightmares away? Do you want something permanent? There’s only one way I can do that, Waldo. You know what it is.”
Waldo wiped away his own cascading eyes when he peeked down at Victoria’s wrist guns. He shivered hard as he contemplated this decision and Victoria could feel his fear and sadness radiating off of him like an angel’s halo, which he would need when he nodded in approval. “Let’s do this. Please, let me go!”
Victoria hugged Waldo’s head tightly as the two of them sobbed together and sang “Where Is the Edge?” in perfect harmony. She said, “Even after all of the drugs, you still have the most beautiful voice, Waldo Spiegel.”
“I love you, Vickie!”
“I love you too, honey-bunny. Close your eyes. This won’t take long.” The homeless marine did as he was told yet again, though his eyelids served as a piss-poor levy for his flowing eyeballs. Victoria’s own eyes were burning with sadness and rage as she held the wrist gun to her ex-boyfriend’s chin and took her sweet time in pulling the trigger. “You’re free, my darling. You’re finally free.”
BANG!
Waldo’s head exploded and his body went limp instantly. Victoria stood up and wiped away her burning eyes, not knowing what to do with Waldo’s corpse. He needed a proper burial, but this was hardly the place to do it with all of the trash and pornography on the ground. She retrieved the briefcase full of money and tapped her radar visor, ejecting a Bluetooth microphone towards her lips.
“The mission is complete, Executor. I have the briefcase. The target has been neutralized. I did everything you asked me to do. But you’re not getting this money back, my friend. Since you and your corporation won’t do it, I’ll donate these greenbacks to a schizophrenic charity. There should be enough here so that what happened to the thief won’t happen to anybody else. And by the way, that thief has a name: Waldo Jeffrey Spiegel. Remember that name until the day you die. I know I will. If you want to come for me and the briefcase, you’d better bring the National Guard, motherfucker, ‘cause I’m not letting this shit happen again!”
“….Good luck, Miss Flare! You’re going to need it!”
CLICK!
October 27, 2017
Thor and Gore
The kiwi-sized pustules on his arms, the surgical staples in his face, the gray discoloration of his skin, and the snot-colored slime in his hair, they did no favors in making Thor exit his house that evening. Only the raw and intense voice of Kyle Houston and his metal band Resistance could serve as his gravity towards public life. Dressed in little more than a Pantera T-shirt and black jorts, Thor ventured into the arena and kept track of the nasty facial expressions he was getting from people walking past him.
These people were on the verge of vomiting themselves inside out. They shivered as though they swam in the Arctic Ocean. They spit out their beer and coughed like drama queens in a viral ward. Few of these patrons spoke to Thor, but when they did, it was in hushed tones about how “fucking ugly” and “goddamn sickening” he looked. Even ears that have been treated to grinding heavy metal music for god knows how long could pick up on these intense whispers. A stream of green slime rolled down Thor’s eyeball and splashed onto the pavement below.
The giant zombie swore he wouldn’t get into trouble that evening. He imagined the scenarios with law enforcement playing through his head like a depressing movie. He could toss and chomp on as many cops as they want, but even he was no match for bullets and tasers. Thor was a human zit ready to explode. When he passed into mosh pit, his rage was ready to explode when somebody from the upper deck poured beer on his head and laughed with his friends. He thought maybe coming to this Resistance concert was a bad idea. Maybe life would be better in his house underneath the sewers. The rats wouldn’t judge him. The bums would be in even less condition to judge. But these fucking metal heads who thought they were badasses…ugh…
As Thor lumbered through the crowd, he earned more disgusted looks and varsity jock laughter from everyone around him. He breathed heavily in and out to calm his nerves, but all that did was get some slimy saliva on those who worked so hard to back away. “Fuck it,” he thought to himself. “I just want to listen to some goddamn music.” Ask and ye shall receive. The minute he shimmied towards the center of the pit, the lights went out and the crowd went ape shit for their favorite metal band. Thor cheered and roared along with them, not giving a damn about the red saliva dripping from his stapled lip.
The neon orange stage lights shone down upon the crowd and they cheered even louder than before. The guitarists (rhythm and lead), bassist, and drummer appeared onstage wearing Guy Fawkes masks and black hooded robes, true to their band name. The crowd and Thor along with them nearly had a verbal orgasm when the lead singer Kyle Houston approached the microphone wearing camouflage khakis, black combat boots, a backwards ball cap, and a sadistic grin. “What the fuck is up, Paulson City?!” he shouted into the microphone, which earned him a huge pop from the crowd.
The drummer tapped the high hat three times in succession and then the adrenaline-pumped music boomed throughout the arena. The crowd bumped and shoved each other with such intensity that they resembled dominos when they fell. Three hundred pound bouncers in black T-shirts swarmed in on the scene to eject troublemakers by way of full nelson. Kyle Houston’s dirty vocals were indecipherable through the shitty speakers, but Thor secretly never cared as long as the music was good.
The guitars continued to grind, the double bass continued to pump, and Kyle’s vocals sounded like a horror movie monster was ready to devour its victims alive. Speaking of horror movie monsters, as the mosh pit intensified, Thor found himself being shoved around and knocked to the floor a few times. When the music got louder, Thor began feeling elbows, fists, and feet against his already explosive skin. He bled like a fire hydrant and the bouncers did nothing to stop these rowdy patrons. “I won’t get into trouble,” Thor said to himself. “I won’t get into trouble….I won’t get into trouble…” As soon as a sharp elbow connected with his cheekbone, he yelled, “Fuck it!” and moshed right back.
Except Thor’s version of moshing was much more destructive than an elbow to the face and more violent than a kick to the patella. These people had one chance to behave themselves. They had one chance to accept Thor for who he was. They had one chance to keep Thor from feeling lonely in a world that type-casted the ugly as villains. They blew it. They blew it big time. Thor never held back. He took big bites out of patrons’ arms and painted the floors with blood. He grabbed them by the neck and tossed them around like small children. He head butted one three hundred pounder and sliced himself open worse than he did his victim. Thor even stuck his muscular arms out and spun around in circles, clotheslining anybody who came in contact with him. For his reward, Thor was treated to faster, heavier, and louder music from the fine young men of Resistance.
Before the mosh pit could resemble a bombed slaughterhouse, the chubby bouncers finally decided enough was enough and swarmed in on Thor. They grabbed him by his bloody arms and legs and held on like boa constrictors. But the harder they pulled, the harder Thor pulled as well. He sent them rolling around on the floor like three hundred pound bowling balls. The heavy metal zombie even took a bite out of a bouncer’s shoulder, causing the would-be tough guy’s girlish screams to echo louder than Kyle Houston’s monstrous growls.
Playtime was over for these pieces of heavy machinery in black T-shirts. They punched, kicked, and elbowed Thor in every part of his body imaginable. One guy even went for a groin kick and doubled the zombie giant over. The bouncers continued to beat the shit out of this giant and spread his pus-infused blood all over the dance floor. Whatever was left of the crowd cheered on like wild animals as the bouncers grabbed a physically and emotionally wounded Thor by the ankles and dragged him toward the exit.
“I said I wouldn’t get in trouble tonight,” Thor thought to himself. “I said I’d be a good boy…What happened to me?...Where are these men taking me?” Slimy tears poured from the zombie’s eyes like a schnoz suffering from an allergic cold. The laughter and cheering from the heartless crowd pumped even more viscous fluids from his eyeballs. And then the music stopped and Kyle Houston shook his head in disgust.
“Let him go!” he shouted into the microphone. Everyone in the room, including the bouncers, went quiet and doe-eyed at this strange request. “Are you fucking retarded? I said let the poor guy go! Do it! I have no interest in pressing charges!” As ordered, the bouncers reluctantly let go of Thor’s ankles and slowly backed away with their hands defensively in the air.
Kyle scratched his head in mock confusion and asked the crowd, “What in the hell is wrong with you people? You think I didn’t see how you guys treated this poor son of a bitch the minute he came in here? If you guys pulled that shit with me, I’d want to cannibalize your sorry asses too!” The crowd booed lightly, but were quickly silenced with a grating, “Shut up!” from the lead singer of Resistance.
“So this is what humanity has come to, huh?” asked Kyle while pointing an accusatory hand at his patrons. “This is how we treat people who are different from us? I’ve always thought the whole reason for heavy metal was to escape that bullying bullshit. I know that’s why I got into it. Yeah, the guy’s got some…not so desirable features, but then again, I’d rather rock out with a slime-covered motherfucker than a bunch of close-minded dip-shits like you anyways. And just so you fuckers know, I had a cleft lip when I was a kid. I had to have surgery to fix it and the hospital bill nearly wiped out my family’s savings. My dad walked away shortly after. So when I see even the least attractive looking guy being treated like this, I take it fucking personally.”
Tears and snot slithered down Thor’s face as he slowly stood back up on his feet, no worse for wear. The blood and slime on his body was all in a day’s work. Kyle asked him what his name was and he answered with a monstrous growl, “I am Thor!”
“Nice to meet you, Thor. If I got beaten up as badly as you, I’d be Thor too!” joked Kyle, which got a modicum of laughter from the neutered crowd. “I’m just kidding, man. Come up here to the stage, buddy. I’ve got something for you.” The zombie trudged across the goop-covered floor and gazed into his heavy metal hero’s eyes like a typical fan boy.
Kyle placed a hand on his shoulder with no regard for the hygienic hazard before him. He said, “You did a sweet job defending yourself against these morons over here. It took a whole gang of fat asses to bring you down. I’ll bet you not even one of these bastards could do the shit you did tonight. That’s because they can’t walk in your big ass shoes, my friend. I’ve got a job offer for you. I’ll pay you a five-figure salary to travel all over the world with me as my bodyguard. Are you in or are you in?”
Even more sludge poured from Thor’s eyes as his stapled lips formed the biggest shit-eating grin imaginable, revealing his buttery yellow teeth and serpentine tongue. “Anything is better than living in the sewers!” which was Thor’s way of saying not only yes, but fuck yes.
“Nobody should have to live in the sewers no matter what the hell they look like. Congratulations, you’ve got the job! Now get your big ass onstage and shake my hand!” grinned Kyle. Thor launched himself onstage with one step and hugged his new employer rather than shaking his hand, getting slime all over Kyle and acquiring a lot of awkward looks from bouncers and moshers alike. “Grow the fuck up, people, it’s nothing a long shower can’t fix.” As soon as the sloppy embrace ended, Kyle said, “Your first day on the job starts right now, buddy. Help me and my band get the fuck out of this dumpy arena. And by the way, your first hour on duty is also your lunch break if you know what I mean.”
Thor drooled with delight and whispered, “I know exactly what you mean.” One guy in the crowd shit his pants so badly that he became just as disgusting in appearance as Thor.
These people were on the verge of vomiting themselves inside out. They shivered as though they swam in the Arctic Ocean. They spit out their beer and coughed like drama queens in a viral ward. Few of these patrons spoke to Thor, but when they did, it was in hushed tones about how “fucking ugly” and “goddamn sickening” he looked. Even ears that have been treated to grinding heavy metal music for god knows how long could pick up on these intense whispers. A stream of green slime rolled down Thor’s eyeball and splashed onto the pavement below.
The giant zombie swore he wouldn’t get into trouble that evening. He imagined the scenarios with law enforcement playing through his head like a depressing movie. He could toss and chomp on as many cops as they want, but even he was no match for bullets and tasers. Thor was a human zit ready to explode. When he passed into mosh pit, his rage was ready to explode when somebody from the upper deck poured beer on his head and laughed with his friends. He thought maybe coming to this Resistance concert was a bad idea. Maybe life would be better in his house underneath the sewers. The rats wouldn’t judge him. The bums would be in even less condition to judge. But these fucking metal heads who thought they were badasses…ugh…
As Thor lumbered through the crowd, he earned more disgusted looks and varsity jock laughter from everyone around him. He breathed heavily in and out to calm his nerves, but all that did was get some slimy saliva on those who worked so hard to back away. “Fuck it,” he thought to himself. “I just want to listen to some goddamn music.” Ask and ye shall receive. The minute he shimmied towards the center of the pit, the lights went out and the crowd went ape shit for their favorite metal band. Thor cheered and roared along with them, not giving a damn about the red saliva dripping from his stapled lip.
The neon orange stage lights shone down upon the crowd and they cheered even louder than before. The guitarists (rhythm and lead), bassist, and drummer appeared onstage wearing Guy Fawkes masks and black hooded robes, true to their band name. The crowd and Thor along with them nearly had a verbal orgasm when the lead singer Kyle Houston approached the microphone wearing camouflage khakis, black combat boots, a backwards ball cap, and a sadistic grin. “What the fuck is up, Paulson City?!” he shouted into the microphone, which earned him a huge pop from the crowd.
The drummer tapped the high hat three times in succession and then the adrenaline-pumped music boomed throughout the arena. The crowd bumped and shoved each other with such intensity that they resembled dominos when they fell. Three hundred pound bouncers in black T-shirts swarmed in on the scene to eject troublemakers by way of full nelson. Kyle Houston’s dirty vocals were indecipherable through the shitty speakers, but Thor secretly never cared as long as the music was good.
The guitars continued to grind, the double bass continued to pump, and Kyle’s vocals sounded like a horror movie monster was ready to devour its victims alive. Speaking of horror movie monsters, as the mosh pit intensified, Thor found himself being shoved around and knocked to the floor a few times. When the music got louder, Thor began feeling elbows, fists, and feet against his already explosive skin. He bled like a fire hydrant and the bouncers did nothing to stop these rowdy patrons. “I won’t get into trouble,” Thor said to himself. “I won’t get into trouble….I won’t get into trouble…” As soon as a sharp elbow connected with his cheekbone, he yelled, “Fuck it!” and moshed right back.
Except Thor’s version of moshing was much more destructive than an elbow to the face and more violent than a kick to the patella. These people had one chance to behave themselves. They had one chance to accept Thor for who he was. They had one chance to keep Thor from feeling lonely in a world that type-casted the ugly as villains. They blew it. They blew it big time. Thor never held back. He took big bites out of patrons’ arms and painted the floors with blood. He grabbed them by the neck and tossed them around like small children. He head butted one three hundred pounder and sliced himself open worse than he did his victim. Thor even stuck his muscular arms out and spun around in circles, clotheslining anybody who came in contact with him. For his reward, Thor was treated to faster, heavier, and louder music from the fine young men of Resistance.
Before the mosh pit could resemble a bombed slaughterhouse, the chubby bouncers finally decided enough was enough and swarmed in on Thor. They grabbed him by his bloody arms and legs and held on like boa constrictors. But the harder they pulled, the harder Thor pulled as well. He sent them rolling around on the floor like three hundred pound bowling balls. The heavy metal zombie even took a bite out of a bouncer’s shoulder, causing the would-be tough guy’s girlish screams to echo louder than Kyle Houston’s monstrous growls.
Playtime was over for these pieces of heavy machinery in black T-shirts. They punched, kicked, and elbowed Thor in every part of his body imaginable. One guy even went for a groin kick and doubled the zombie giant over. The bouncers continued to beat the shit out of this giant and spread his pus-infused blood all over the dance floor. Whatever was left of the crowd cheered on like wild animals as the bouncers grabbed a physically and emotionally wounded Thor by the ankles and dragged him toward the exit.
“I said I wouldn’t get in trouble tonight,” Thor thought to himself. “I said I’d be a good boy…What happened to me?...Where are these men taking me?” Slimy tears poured from the zombie’s eyes like a schnoz suffering from an allergic cold. The laughter and cheering from the heartless crowd pumped even more viscous fluids from his eyeballs. And then the music stopped and Kyle Houston shook his head in disgust.
“Let him go!” he shouted into the microphone. Everyone in the room, including the bouncers, went quiet and doe-eyed at this strange request. “Are you fucking retarded? I said let the poor guy go! Do it! I have no interest in pressing charges!” As ordered, the bouncers reluctantly let go of Thor’s ankles and slowly backed away with their hands defensively in the air.
Kyle scratched his head in mock confusion and asked the crowd, “What in the hell is wrong with you people? You think I didn’t see how you guys treated this poor son of a bitch the minute he came in here? If you guys pulled that shit with me, I’d want to cannibalize your sorry asses too!” The crowd booed lightly, but were quickly silenced with a grating, “Shut up!” from the lead singer of Resistance.
“So this is what humanity has come to, huh?” asked Kyle while pointing an accusatory hand at his patrons. “This is how we treat people who are different from us? I’ve always thought the whole reason for heavy metal was to escape that bullying bullshit. I know that’s why I got into it. Yeah, the guy’s got some…not so desirable features, but then again, I’d rather rock out with a slime-covered motherfucker than a bunch of close-minded dip-shits like you anyways. And just so you fuckers know, I had a cleft lip when I was a kid. I had to have surgery to fix it and the hospital bill nearly wiped out my family’s savings. My dad walked away shortly after. So when I see even the least attractive looking guy being treated like this, I take it fucking personally.”
Tears and snot slithered down Thor’s face as he slowly stood back up on his feet, no worse for wear. The blood and slime on his body was all in a day’s work. Kyle asked him what his name was and he answered with a monstrous growl, “I am Thor!”
“Nice to meet you, Thor. If I got beaten up as badly as you, I’d be Thor too!” joked Kyle, which got a modicum of laughter from the neutered crowd. “I’m just kidding, man. Come up here to the stage, buddy. I’ve got something for you.” The zombie trudged across the goop-covered floor and gazed into his heavy metal hero’s eyes like a typical fan boy.
Kyle placed a hand on his shoulder with no regard for the hygienic hazard before him. He said, “You did a sweet job defending yourself against these morons over here. It took a whole gang of fat asses to bring you down. I’ll bet you not even one of these bastards could do the shit you did tonight. That’s because they can’t walk in your big ass shoes, my friend. I’ve got a job offer for you. I’ll pay you a five-figure salary to travel all over the world with me as my bodyguard. Are you in or are you in?”
Even more sludge poured from Thor’s eyes as his stapled lips formed the biggest shit-eating grin imaginable, revealing his buttery yellow teeth and serpentine tongue. “Anything is better than living in the sewers!” which was Thor’s way of saying not only yes, but fuck yes.
“Nobody should have to live in the sewers no matter what the hell they look like. Congratulations, you’ve got the job! Now get your big ass onstage and shake my hand!” grinned Kyle. Thor launched himself onstage with one step and hugged his new employer rather than shaking his hand, getting slime all over Kyle and acquiring a lot of awkward looks from bouncers and moshers alike. “Grow the fuck up, people, it’s nothing a long shower can’t fix.” As soon as the sloppy embrace ended, Kyle said, “Your first day on the job starts right now, buddy. Help me and my band get the fuck out of this dumpy arena. And by the way, your first hour on duty is also your lunch break if you know what I mean.”
Thor drooled with delight and whispered, “I know exactly what you mean.” One guy in the crowd shit his pants so badly that he became just as disgusting in appearance as Thor.
Looney Tunes
***LOONEY TUNES***
Do you feel like the world’s getting you down? You hate your job? You hate school? You don’t have many friends? Tragedy strikes in the strangest places? If you ever want to be lifted up from your slump, all you have to remember is…the Looney Tunes can make anything funny. Anything. No matter how dark or depressing the subject matter, Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Elmer Fudd, and all of those wacky characters can make light of it with their over-the-top antics. George Carlin once told his audience to “picture Porky Pig raping Elmer Fudd” and they laughed like hyenas. I know you did too, because George Carlin and Looney Tunes go together like cherry pie and whipped cream. Wait a minute, that sounded dirty!
The Looney Tunes are funny because no matter what happens to them, they’ll always be alive and well during the next cartoon. There was an entire cartoon dedicated to Elmer Fudd shooting Daffy Duck’s beak off multiple times. Low and behold, Daffy didn’t die; he just kept telling Bugs Bunny how despicable he was. So if Looney Tunes characters don’t die, that means the animators can subject them to any kind of inhumane torture they can think of and nothing will happen except for audience laughter. Suppose Elmer Fudd is strapped to a torture table with a ball gag in his mouth while a circular buzz saw is being lowered into his stomach. It’s horrifying as hell when it happens to Ryu in the Ninja Gaiden arcade game from the 80’s, but if it happened to Elmer Fudd…shit, I’m chuckling just thinking about it!
It’s safe to say that the Looney Tunes have been a major influence in some of my writing. It’s especially evident in my Poison Tongue Tales stories “Forever Autumn” and “Sitka the Nose Biter”. The main character in the former, an elf sorcerer named Mathias, gets a coconut dropped on his head and stars circle around him while a big fucking knot forms on his dome. In “Sitka the Nose Biter”, whenever the eponymous kitty Sitka would bite someone’s nose (surprise, surprise), instead of exploding like a blood bomb, their noses would make honking sounds, like a clown horn or a goose squawk.
The Looney Tunes influence is something that spans multiple generations, not just to small children looking for cheap laughs and pointless violence. My mom loves the Bugs Bunny cartoon where the baby buzzard searches the desert for Bugs in an attempt to bring home dinner for his demanding mother. Mom especially loves the way the baby buzzard says, “Oh, no, no, no, no, no!” in a deep and goofy voice. Another one of her favorites is when Bugs Bunny gives Gossamer a mouse trap manicure. “Monsters have the most INTERESTING fingernails!” The cartoons in general are cute and cuddly despite the fact that they feature anthropomorphic animals getting blown up or shot. I always make the joke to my mom that it’s cute whenever Elmer Fudd goes hunting, but it’s disgusting when Ted Nugent hunts. I’m not wrong.
I know it seems like I’m preaching to the choir when I’m singing the Looney Tunes’ praises. They’re universally loved and continue to be relevant in today’s world. Quite frankly, we could use a little more Looney Tunes influence in a world full of bad shit. When I posted the #MeToo blog entry a few weeks ago, it was one of my most sobering experiences. After reliving those horrible moments, I had to be reminded that the world is a funny place full of funny people. The Looney Tunes will never judge me. They’re too busy blowing each other up and being cute little cuddle muffins.
Maintaining a sense of humor throughout all of the world’s tragedies is paramount to happiness. If you don’t buy the Looney Tunes example, then buy the Trevor Noah example I’m about to present you with. I’m currently reading “Born a Crime”, a memoir by Mr. Noah detailing his childhood in Apartheid-ruled South Africa. As someone who’s biracial, he was loathed by pretty much every ethnic group in his home country. He could have sealed himself off in his room and brooded for the rest of his life, but he didn’t. He developed a sense of humor and won the hearts of so many people that he’s now the host of The Daily Show. Good things do happen when you want them to. Positive attitudes aren’t just new age mantras; they’re tools for survival. We’ve got ears, say cheers! Actually, since this blog is about the Looney Tunes, a-beep, a-beep, a-beep, that’s all, folks!
***POISON TONGUE TALES 2: THE RIGHT TO REMAIN PSYCHOTIC***
Would you believe it if I told you I only have six more stories to write for this series and then I’m done? Where did all the time go? Holy shit! For the sixth to last short story, I’ve got something called “Thor and Gore”. It goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
1. Thor, Cannibalistic Zombie
2. Kyle Houston, Lead Vocalist of Resistance
3. Resistance, Heavy Metal Band
4. Nameless Fans and Bouncers
PROMPT CONFORMITY: To be announced.
SYNOPSIS: Resistance is playing a show at the Tiger Dome and Thor is a member of their audience. Other concert attendees think it’s okay to piss him off by pouring beer on his head, throwing popcorn at him, and moshing roughly with him. Underneath his gargantuan frame lies a bloodthirsty monster who takes his aggression out on those who wrong him by biting and slashing them. The bouncers are powerless to stop Thor and it doesn’t help matters that the members of Resistance are encouraging his behavior by playing louder.
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
Because Thor was drawn and uploaded earlier today, Kyle Houston is naturally the next in line for a drawing. Since he’s a heavy metal vocalist, I’m trying to figure out who I should use as my reference model. Ivan Moody? Phil Anselmo? Randy Blythe? Corey Taylor? So many options, so little time!
***FACE BOOK POST OF THE DAY***
When I was a teenager doing Mad Libs with my family, James would always want me to skip my turn whenever the narrator asked for an example of a liquid. I still to this day wonder what would make him do that. Hehe!
Do you feel like the world’s getting you down? You hate your job? You hate school? You don’t have many friends? Tragedy strikes in the strangest places? If you ever want to be lifted up from your slump, all you have to remember is…the Looney Tunes can make anything funny. Anything. No matter how dark or depressing the subject matter, Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Elmer Fudd, and all of those wacky characters can make light of it with their over-the-top antics. George Carlin once told his audience to “picture Porky Pig raping Elmer Fudd” and they laughed like hyenas. I know you did too, because George Carlin and Looney Tunes go together like cherry pie and whipped cream. Wait a minute, that sounded dirty!
The Looney Tunes are funny because no matter what happens to them, they’ll always be alive and well during the next cartoon. There was an entire cartoon dedicated to Elmer Fudd shooting Daffy Duck’s beak off multiple times. Low and behold, Daffy didn’t die; he just kept telling Bugs Bunny how despicable he was. So if Looney Tunes characters don’t die, that means the animators can subject them to any kind of inhumane torture they can think of and nothing will happen except for audience laughter. Suppose Elmer Fudd is strapped to a torture table with a ball gag in his mouth while a circular buzz saw is being lowered into his stomach. It’s horrifying as hell when it happens to Ryu in the Ninja Gaiden arcade game from the 80’s, but if it happened to Elmer Fudd…shit, I’m chuckling just thinking about it!
It’s safe to say that the Looney Tunes have been a major influence in some of my writing. It’s especially evident in my Poison Tongue Tales stories “Forever Autumn” and “Sitka the Nose Biter”. The main character in the former, an elf sorcerer named Mathias, gets a coconut dropped on his head and stars circle around him while a big fucking knot forms on his dome. In “Sitka the Nose Biter”, whenever the eponymous kitty Sitka would bite someone’s nose (surprise, surprise), instead of exploding like a blood bomb, their noses would make honking sounds, like a clown horn or a goose squawk.
The Looney Tunes influence is something that spans multiple generations, not just to small children looking for cheap laughs and pointless violence. My mom loves the Bugs Bunny cartoon where the baby buzzard searches the desert for Bugs in an attempt to bring home dinner for his demanding mother. Mom especially loves the way the baby buzzard says, “Oh, no, no, no, no, no!” in a deep and goofy voice. Another one of her favorites is when Bugs Bunny gives Gossamer a mouse trap manicure. “Monsters have the most INTERESTING fingernails!” The cartoons in general are cute and cuddly despite the fact that they feature anthropomorphic animals getting blown up or shot. I always make the joke to my mom that it’s cute whenever Elmer Fudd goes hunting, but it’s disgusting when Ted Nugent hunts. I’m not wrong.
I know it seems like I’m preaching to the choir when I’m singing the Looney Tunes’ praises. They’re universally loved and continue to be relevant in today’s world. Quite frankly, we could use a little more Looney Tunes influence in a world full of bad shit. When I posted the #MeToo blog entry a few weeks ago, it was one of my most sobering experiences. After reliving those horrible moments, I had to be reminded that the world is a funny place full of funny people. The Looney Tunes will never judge me. They’re too busy blowing each other up and being cute little cuddle muffins.
Maintaining a sense of humor throughout all of the world’s tragedies is paramount to happiness. If you don’t buy the Looney Tunes example, then buy the Trevor Noah example I’m about to present you with. I’m currently reading “Born a Crime”, a memoir by Mr. Noah detailing his childhood in Apartheid-ruled South Africa. As someone who’s biracial, he was loathed by pretty much every ethnic group in his home country. He could have sealed himself off in his room and brooded for the rest of his life, but he didn’t. He developed a sense of humor and won the hearts of so many people that he’s now the host of The Daily Show. Good things do happen when you want them to. Positive attitudes aren’t just new age mantras; they’re tools for survival. We’ve got ears, say cheers! Actually, since this blog is about the Looney Tunes, a-beep, a-beep, a-beep, that’s all, folks!
***POISON TONGUE TALES 2: THE RIGHT TO REMAIN PSYCHOTIC***
Would you believe it if I told you I only have six more stories to write for this series and then I’m done? Where did all the time go? Holy shit! For the sixth to last short story, I’ve got something called “Thor and Gore”. It goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
1. Thor, Cannibalistic Zombie
2. Kyle Houston, Lead Vocalist of Resistance
3. Resistance, Heavy Metal Band
4. Nameless Fans and Bouncers
PROMPT CONFORMITY: To be announced.
SYNOPSIS: Resistance is playing a show at the Tiger Dome and Thor is a member of their audience. Other concert attendees think it’s okay to piss him off by pouring beer on his head, throwing popcorn at him, and moshing roughly with him. Underneath his gargantuan frame lies a bloodthirsty monster who takes his aggression out on those who wrong him by biting and slashing them. The bouncers are powerless to stop Thor and it doesn’t help matters that the members of Resistance are encouraging his behavior by playing louder.
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
Because Thor was drawn and uploaded earlier today, Kyle Houston is naturally the next in line for a drawing. Since he’s a heavy metal vocalist, I’m trying to figure out who I should use as my reference model. Ivan Moody? Phil Anselmo? Randy Blythe? Corey Taylor? So many options, so little time!
***FACE BOOK POST OF THE DAY***
When I was a teenager doing Mad Libs with my family, James would always want me to skip my turn whenever the narrator asked for an example of a liquid. I still to this day wonder what would make him do that. Hehe!
October 26, 2017
Chicken of the Night
Mikris Nagata crouched in the bushes outside of KFC and peered through the windows with cobra venom in his pupils. His brows furrowed and his muscles tensed with every chicken wing the patrons stuffed in their jowly mouths. Even through double pane glass, he could hear their lips smacking and their tongues clicking off of their palettes. Obese men and women with their costume-dressed children devouring members of Mikris’s own brethren. The sight made the contents of his own stomach swirl around like toilet water. Why subject this massacre to small children? Wouldn’t the pillow cases full of Butterfingers and Reese’s Pieces have been enough? This wasn’t a fast food establishment; it was a graveyard for the overweight.
Every night Mikris hid out in front of this restaurant, waiting for the perfect time to strike. So many people gathered in one place on Halloween night: the opportunity was handled to the chicken samurai on a silver platter. The chairman of the Dread City Rifle and Revolver Club Steve Coleman was there licking the grease off of his sausage fingers while barely fitting into his booth. The manager of this establishment Bill Shane was behind the counter dishing out members of Mikris’s race at a chippy’s price. So much gnashing on dead chickens. So much sadistic enjoyment. So many large bellies. Mikris’s mind raced at a million miles per hour. He had to strike now or this would be another missed opportunity to avenge his people!
The chicken warrior stood up and unsheathed his double katanas, scraping the blades against each other while his beak clamped down in fury. With one shrill war cry squawk, Mirkis bolted towards the restaurant and crashed through the glass wall shoulder first, earning screams from fat little kids and gasps from their monstrous parents. Shards of glass nicked the parents’ skins, but still they stood in front of their little ones as the KFC clientele backed away at the sight of Mirkis swinging his blades and squawking like hell.
“I don’t go to your hospitals and devour your infants,” whispered Mirkis while accusingly pointing his blades at the patrons. “I don’t go to your graveyards and defile your loved ones. I don’t go to your police stations and military compounds and snack on soldiers. Why then would you disgusting people think it’s okay to munch on my species! Why do you think it’s okay to treat them this way in such horrible farming conditions!”
“Don’t listen to him, guys,” dismissed Steve Coleman with a wave of his meaty paw, still holding a drumstick. “It’s just some hippie faggot in a chicken suit. I’ll bet he also dresses in a cow suit before he hits up the Burger King. Or maybe he’ll dress up like a big ol’ potato and harass the guys who make Freedom Fries at McDonald’s!” The patrons chuckled at Steve’s dialogue.
“I assure you, sir, this is not a Halloween costume. And this is not about liberalism or conservatism. It’s about basic human decency. You can’t lock up a serial killer like Jeffrey Dahmer and then eat members of my clan right in front of me at the same time! Next thing you know, you’re going to start using Military Intelligence to find Jumbo Shrimp and eat those too!” belted Mikris.
A shotgun’s pump-handle echoed throughout the restaurant followed by an authoritative Southern voice shouting, “Hold it right there, goddamn it!” It was Bill Shane, nametag, apron, shotgun, and all. With the double barrels pointed squarely at Mikris, Bill said, “If you think you’re going to ruin Halloween night just so you can spread your hippie-dippie BS, you’ve got another thing coming, mister. Now put down them Jap swords and approach the counter with your fluffy feathers of your head!”
Another gun clicked and it belonged to Steve Coleman, the proud owner of a Desert Eagle Magnum big enough to fit in his frying pan-sized hands. “You’d better listen to him, buddy. You’ve caused enough trouble tonight. Don’t make either of us pull the goddamn trigger!”
Mikris chuckled hard enough to shake his waddle back and forth. “You actually think those tinker toys are going to get you guys out of this mess? Give me a fucking break. If you guys had any balls whatsoever, you’d put down the chicken wings and play army boy overseas! Now that I think about it, you’ve got all the oil you’ll ever need in those deep fryers.”
“You want to joke around, motherfucker?” taunted Bill. “That’s right, keep running your mouth. Keep giving me a reason to shoot your ugly-ass head off. If you think what we do to your so-called brethren is bad, I’m willing to bet these fine folks wouldn’t mind dining on your sorry ass right here tonight! Who’s ready for some chicken tonight?!” The patrons cheered their heads off while waving drumsticks in the air like confederate flags.
“Enough!” shouted Mikris as he grabbed a gigantic father of five, held his blades to the guy’s throat, and used him for a human shield. His children screamed and tugged on Mikris’s legs for him to let go, but the chicken warrior wouldn’t listen. “Lay down your arms or he’s a dead son of a bitch! Don’t make me do it! I’ll fucking do it!” Slowly and surely, Bill Shane and Steve Coleman set their firearms down, kicked them over to Mikris when ordered to do so, and held their hands in the air.
Amidst the crying children and confused parents clutching tightly to them, Steve begged, “For God’s sake, can you at least let the rest of these families go? You don’t need to hold them hostage too!”
“You think these little brats are innocent?!” belted Mikris. “These little cannibals are just as disgusting and lazy as the rest of you! They’re going to grow up to be heartless bastards just like their parents, that is if they live past their twenties!” With a crazed look in his eyes, he scoped around the restaurant at all of the crying patrons and said, “You all want me to die too, don’t you? You proved that much when you pointed those guns at me. Well, if you really want to die at KFC…you’re going to have to do it the old fashioned way by eating your ass off!”
One slash was all it took for Mikris to rip his hostage’s shirt off, revealing a set of man tits and a hairy chest and back. “Dear god, that’s some disgusting shit!” the chicken squirmed. “It almost reminds me of what you guys are eating right now! But you know what? It can’t be any worse than those Kit-Kat bars your children have in their pillow cases.” He traced a finger across the man’s shoulder and parted his body hair, much to the wide-eyed horror of everyone around him. “Well, you know how that saying goes: I’m going to open my mouth, close my eyes, and you’re going to give me a big surprise!”
Mikris’s beak was open wide enough for everyone to see his dangling uvula. Drool ran down his mouth and his closed eyes were watering with anticipation. The hostage yelled, “No!” as the chicken warrior leaned his head down to take a nice big chomp out of human flesh. When he clamped down on the meaty treat, it tasted crispy, greasy, and sweet all at the same time. He chewed slowly and savored the flavor while his hostage sobbed like one of his little girls. Such a heavenly treat. Such a symphony of flavors erupting on his chicken tongue. Mikris swallowed his meal and slowly opened his eyes to admire his violent handiwork.
His eyes were bulging out of their sockets when he saw he had instead taken a bite out of a piece of chicken that Steve Coleman held to his mouth. The children pointed and laughed as the avian samurai trembled in horror. He slowly lowered his blades from his hostage’s throat and stumbled backwards with an expression of fright appropriate for Halloween night.
“How does it taste, chicken man?” asked Steve with a wide grin. “You know what you hippie-dippies always say: don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”
Mikris was going to come back with snappy dialogue, but his beak convulsed so violently that he couldn’t form a sentence. All he could do was cluck nervously while tears poured down his feathered face and children giggled at him with sadistic delight. He could feel his own brethren sloshing around in his gut and making him just as fat and lazy as everyone around him. This was what it meant to dine on his kind. The phrase “you are what you eat” has never before been used in such a cruel way.
Mikris Nagata could feel the murky sewage in his stomach bubbling while his head felt lighter than the feathers on his body. He stumbled around like a drunken zombie struggling for equilibrium. He could feel the boiling sensation in his throat. He couldn’t breathe. His lungs burned like he had swallowed a branding iron. And then, the viscous acid flowed from his beak and drenched Steve Coleman’s MAGA T-shirt and sagging blue jeans.
The children laughed even harder than before, to which Mikris mockingly asked, “You like that?! You fucking like that?! Have some more!” The chicken samurai unleashed a barf storm that covered the entire restaurant and their patrons in sick fluids. A chaotic exodus from KFC saw customers trample over each other, not giving a shit about the small children trick-or-treating that night, just to get the hell away from the foul odor of vomit and shame.
Bill Shane clutched his head in sorrow while his costumers, Steve Coleman included, dashed away from his place of business. There was no way he would pass a health and safety check. His business was sure to get shut down. All he could say to that was, “Why?! I didn’t do anything wrong! All I wanted to do was serve fried chicken!”
Mikris wiped the biological sludge from his eyes and watched Bill pathetically cry over the counter with just a loose grip on the shotgun handle. The chicken warrior weakly waddled over to the manager and yanked the gun out of his hands before pointing it at him with evil intentions. Bill begged, “Please! Don’t shoot me! I’m just a manager! I’ve got a family of my own!”
The chicken warrior locked eyes with the chubby manager and got off on his fear. Mikris pressed the barrel against Bill’s cheek like a hard-on and smiled through the slimy filth on his face. His finger danced across the trigger like a nervous tick. The psychosis in his eyes grew more sadistic and perverse. And then Mirkis broke the shotgun in half across his knee before tossing the weapon to the floor. He placed his wing across the crying Bill’s shoulders and said, “Something tells me your patrons would have thrown up anyways. You’d better get this place cleaned up before the health inspector comes!”
“You’re a hypocrite! You’re a fucking hypocrite!” sobbed Bill with his head in his flabby arms.
“I know I am, Mr. Shane. But I have to admit…it tastes like chicken!”
Every night Mikris hid out in front of this restaurant, waiting for the perfect time to strike. So many people gathered in one place on Halloween night: the opportunity was handled to the chicken samurai on a silver platter. The chairman of the Dread City Rifle and Revolver Club Steve Coleman was there licking the grease off of his sausage fingers while barely fitting into his booth. The manager of this establishment Bill Shane was behind the counter dishing out members of Mikris’s race at a chippy’s price. So much gnashing on dead chickens. So much sadistic enjoyment. So many large bellies. Mikris’s mind raced at a million miles per hour. He had to strike now or this would be another missed opportunity to avenge his people!
The chicken warrior stood up and unsheathed his double katanas, scraping the blades against each other while his beak clamped down in fury. With one shrill war cry squawk, Mirkis bolted towards the restaurant and crashed through the glass wall shoulder first, earning screams from fat little kids and gasps from their monstrous parents. Shards of glass nicked the parents’ skins, but still they stood in front of their little ones as the KFC clientele backed away at the sight of Mirkis swinging his blades and squawking like hell.
“I don’t go to your hospitals and devour your infants,” whispered Mirkis while accusingly pointing his blades at the patrons. “I don’t go to your graveyards and defile your loved ones. I don’t go to your police stations and military compounds and snack on soldiers. Why then would you disgusting people think it’s okay to munch on my species! Why do you think it’s okay to treat them this way in such horrible farming conditions!”
“Don’t listen to him, guys,” dismissed Steve Coleman with a wave of his meaty paw, still holding a drumstick. “It’s just some hippie faggot in a chicken suit. I’ll bet he also dresses in a cow suit before he hits up the Burger King. Or maybe he’ll dress up like a big ol’ potato and harass the guys who make Freedom Fries at McDonald’s!” The patrons chuckled at Steve’s dialogue.
“I assure you, sir, this is not a Halloween costume. And this is not about liberalism or conservatism. It’s about basic human decency. You can’t lock up a serial killer like Jeffrey Dahmer and then eat members of my clan right in front of me at the same time! Next thing you know, you’re going to start using Military Intelligence to find Jumbo Shrimp and eat those too!” belted Mikris.
A shotgun’s pump-handle echoed throughout the restaurant followed by an authoritative Southern voice shouting, “Hold it right there, goddamn it!” It was Bill Shane, nametag, apron, shotgun, and all. With the double barrels pointed squarely at Mikris, Bill said, “If you think you’re going to ruin Halloween night just so you can spread your hippie-dippie BS, you’ve got another thing coming, mister. Now put down them Jap swords and approach the counter with your fluffy feathers of your head!”
Another gun clicked and it belonged to Steve Coleman, the proud owner of a Desert Eagle Magnum big enough to fit in his frying pan-sized hands. “You’d better listen to him, buddy. You’ve caused enough trouble tonight. Don’t make either of us pull the goddamn trigger!”
Mikris chuckled hard enough to shake his waddle back and forth. “You actually think those tinker toys are going to get you guys out of this mess? Give me a fucking break. If you guys had any balls whatsoever, you’d put down the chicken wings and play army boy overseas! Now that I think about it, you’ve got all the oil you’ll ever need in those deep fryers.”
“You want to joke around, motherfucker?” taunted Bill. “That’s right, keep running your mouth. Keep giving me a reason to shoot your ugly-ass head off. If you think what we do to your so-called brethren is bad, I’m willing to bet these fine folks wouldn’t mind dining on your sorry ass right here tonight! Who’s ready for some chicken tonight?!” The patrons cheered their heads off while waving drumsticks in the air like confederate flags.
“Enough!” shouted Mikris as he grabbed a gigantic father of five, held his blades to the guy’s throat, and used him for a human shield. His children screamed and tugged on Mikris’s legs for him to let go, but the chicken warrior wouldn’t listen. “Lay down your arms or he’s a dead son of a bitch! Don’t make me do it! I’ll fucking do it!” Slowly and surely, Bill Shane and Steve Coleman set their firearms down, kicked them over to Mikris when ordered to do so, and held their hands in the air.
Amidst the crying children and confused parents clutching tightly to them, Steve begged, “For God’s sake, can you at least let the rest of these families go? You don’t need to hold them hostage too!”
“You think these little brats are innocent?!” belted Mikris. “These little cannibals are just as disgusting and lazy as the rest of you! They’re going to grow up to be heartless bastards just like their parents, that is if they live past their twenties!” With a crazed look in his eyes, he scoped around the restaurant at all of the crying patrons and said, “You all want me to die too, don’t you? You proved that much when you pointed those guns at me. Well, if you really want to die at KFC…you’re going to have to do it the old fashioned way by eating your ass off!”
One slash was all it took for Mikris to rip his hostage’s shirt off, revealing a set of man tits and a hairy chest and back. “Dear god, that’s some disgusting shit!” the chicken squirmed. “It almost reminds me of what you guys are eating right now! But you know what? It can’t be any worse than those Kit-Kat bars your children have in their pillow cases.” He traced a finger across the man’s shoulder and parted his body hair, much to the wide-eyed horror of everyone around him. “Well, you know how that saying goes: I’m going to open my mouth, close my eyes, and you’re going to give me a big surprise!”
Mikris’s beak was open wide enough for everyone to see his dangling uvula. Drool ran down his mouth and his closed eyes were watering with anticipation. The hostage yelled, “No!” as the chicken warrior leaned his head down to take a nice big chomp out of human flesh. When he clamped down on the meaty treat, it tasted crispy, greasy, and sweet all at the same time. He chewed slowly and savored the flavor while his hostage sobbed like one of his little girls. Such a heavenly treat. Such a symphony of flavors erupting on his chicken tongue. Mikris swallowed his meal and slowly opened his eyes to admire his violent handiwork.
His eyes were bulging out of their sockets when he saw he had instead taken a bite out of a piece of chicken that Steve Coleman held to his mouth. The children pointed and laughed as the avian samurai trembled in horror. He slowly lowered his blades from his hostage’s throat and stumbled backwards with an expression of fright appropriate for Halloween night.
“How does it taste, chicken man?” asked Steve with a wide grin. “You know what you hippie-dippies always say: don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”
Mikris was going to come back with snappy dialogue, but his beak convulsed so violently that he couldn’t form a sentence. All he could do was cluck nervously while tears poured down his feathered face and children giggled at him with sadistic delight. He could feel his own brethren sloshing around in his gut and making him just as fat and lazy as everyone around him. This was what it meant to dine on his kind. The phrase “you are what you eat” has never before been used in such a cruel way.
Mikris Nagata could feel the murky sewage in his stomach bubbling while his head felt lighter than the feathers on his body. He stumbled around like a drunken zombie struggling for equilibrium. He could feel the boiling sensation in his throat. He couldn’t breathe. His lungs burned like he had swallowed a branding iron. And then, the viscous acid flowed from his beak and drenched Steve Coleman’s MAGA T-shirt and sagging blue jeans.
The children laughed even harder than before, to which Mikris mockingly asked, “You like that?! You fucking like that?! Have some more!” The chicken samurai unleashed a barf storm that covered the entire restaurant and their patrons in sick fluids. A chaotic exodus from KFC saw customers trample over each other, not giving a shit about the small children trick-or-treating that night, just to get the hell away from the foul odor of vomit and shame.
Bill Shane clutched his head in sorrow while his costumers, Steve Coleman included, dashed away from his place of business. There was no way he would pass a health and safety check. His business was sure to get shut down. All he could say to that was, “Why?! I didn’t do anything wrong! All I wanted to do was serve fried chicken!”
Mikris wiped the biological sludge from his eyes and watched Bill pathetically cry over the counter with just a loose grip on the shotgun handle. The chicken warrior weakly waddled over to the manager and yanked the gun out of his hands before pointing it at him with evil intentions. Bill begged, “Please! Don’t shoot me! I’m just a manager! I’ve got a family of my own!”
The chicken warrior locked eyes with the chubby manager and got off on his fear. Mikris pressed the barrel against Bill’s cheek like a hard-on and smiled through the slimy filth on his face. His finger danced across the trigger like a nervous tick. The psychosis in his eyes grew more sadistic and perverse. And then Mirkis broke the shotgun in half across his knee before tossing the weapon to the floor. He placed his wing across the crying Bill’s shoulders and said, “Something tells me your patrons would have thrown up anyways. You’d better get this place cleaned up before the health inspector comes!”
“You’re a hypocrite! You’re a fucking hypocrite!” sobbed Bill with his head in his flabby arms.
“I know I am, Mr. Shane. But I have to admit…it tastes like chicken!”
October 24, 2017
My Dinosaur
SOBBING DIALOGUE
My dinosaur! X4
VERSE 1
You took away all my toys
The only things to fill the void
The only things to cure boredom
Anything to restore your order
You smashed my Legos to bits
Stomped my videogames to shit
Popped the heads off my dolls
Do you have a heart at all?
CHORUS
Give me back what’s mine!
I’ll be a good boy this time!
I’ll get the very best grades!
I know how to fucking behave!
Don’t tell me to act my age!
Or I’ll unleash my inner rage!
They’ll have to lock me in a cage!
All I wanted to do was play!
SOBBING DIALOGUE
My dinosaur! X2
VERSE 2
What does this punishment prove?
That your authority is always true?
That the skies aren’t always blue?
Creativity wasn’t meant to bloom?
I don’t need the fucking rubber room
You need your own fucking tomb
You burned my whole toy collection
I’ll cut your giant ass into sections
CHORUS
Give me back what’s mine!
I’ll be a good boy this time!
I’ll get the very best grades!
I know how to fucking behave!
Don’t tell me to act my age!
Or I’ll unleash my inner rage!
They’ll have to lock me in a cage!
All I wanted to do was play!
SOBBING DIALOGUE
My dinosaur! X2
VERSE 3
I don’t owe society shit
It isn’t me throwing a fit
Playtime will forever be mine
Don’t care about falling in line
Don’t care about responsibilities
Or even employable abilities
Starting over with my own toys
Won’t wait for Christmas joys
FINAL BRIDGE
Give me my dinosaur!
I won’t wait anymore!
Life doesn’t have to bore!
Give me my dinosaur before I beat it out of you!
My dinosaur! X4
VERSE 1
You took away all my toys
The only things to fill the void
The only things to cure boredom
Anything to restore your order
You smashed my Legos to bits
Stomped my videogames to shit
Popped the heads off my dolls
Do you have a heart at all?
CHORUS
Give me back what’s mine!
I’ll be a good boy this time!
I’ll get the very best grades!
I know how to fucking behave!
Don’t tell me to act my age!
Or I’ll unleash my inner rage!
They’ll have to lock me in a cage!
All I wanted to do was play!
SOBBING DIALOGUE
My dinosaur! X2
VERSE 2
What does this punishment prove?
That your authority is always true?
That the skies aren’t always blue?
Creativity wasn’t meant to bloom?
I don’t need the fucking rubber room
You need your own fucking tomb
You burned my whole toy collection
I’ll cut your giant ass into sections
CHORUS
Give me back what’s mine!
I’ll be a good boy this time!
I’ll get the very best grades!
I know how to fucking behave!
Don’t tell me to act my age!
Or I’ll unleash my inner rage!
They’ll have to lock me in a cage!
All I wanted to do was play!
SOBBING DIALOGUE
My dinosaur! X2
VERSE 3
I don’t owe society shit
It isn’t me throwing a fit
Playtime will forever be mine
Don’t care about falling in line
Don’t care about responsibilities
Or even employable abilities
Starting over with my own toys
Won’t wait for Christmas joys
FINAL BRIDGE
Give me my dinosaur!
I won’t wait anymore!
Life doesn’t have to bore!
Give me my dinosaur before I beat it out of you!
October 23, 2017
Dark Marriage
“Nice night for a black wedding, don’t you agree?” grinned Kain Venomtongue as he gently caressed Sheryl Sweet’s ball-gagged face with the back of his fingers. The frigid wind brushed its way across the top of the ziggurat and lifted Sheryl’s wedding dress a few inches. With her wrists and ankles bound to a horizontal metal cross, the dress would be the only thing flying free that night. Standing on either side of the temple stairs was a chorus of anthropomorphic cobras reciting hymns and flicking their tongues. The groom-to-be looked every bit as serpentine as his brethren with his monstrous face and green scaly flesh, most of which was covered by a dark sorcerer’s robe.
Sheryl Sweet struggled in her bindings and let out a few “Mmph’s” through her gag, but not even a barbarian’s strength could unseal her fate. The bride’s wide eyes and hysteria remained a stark contrast to Kain’s villainous smile as the necromancer pulled a jagged blade from his robes and recited hymns alongside the snake men. “Ashes to ashes,” he chanted. “Dust to dust. We are forever bound by Satan’s flames. Not even God nor his angels shall interfere with this dark marriage. Those who dare ascend the staircase invite the stench of death itself. If any mere mortal wishes to object to this sacred tradition, speak now or forever hold your tongue!”
As if on cue, a sharp steel presence descended from the night sky and slashed one of the snake men in half vertically, sending a storm of blood across the staircase and prompting Sheryl Sweet to scream like a mad woman possessed. “What the hell is this?!” Kain shouted, to which a blur of surgical steel whirred across the staircase, shredding, eviscerating, and disemboweling any snake monk in its path. Slithering screams echoed across the starlit night as the bloody rain continued to descend down the ziggurat. Pieces of flesh were carried away by the evening breeze. Organs sloshed and splashed until the satanic structure resembled a slaughterhouse. Every cobra minion lay in pieces with those fortunate enough to be alive regretting their decision to live.
Sheryl gazed in wide-eyed horror at the violence before her. Her ghostly shrieks were reduced to sobbing whimpers. Kain brushed her face with his fingertips and whispered, “Don’t worry, my love. This ceremony shall continue one way or another.” His promise to the bride was sealed with a delicate kiss on her sweaty forehead. He even licked one of her tears away, but once that was gone, more came flooding down her face.
The “tender” moment was interrupted by the sounds of a bird warrior pantomiming vomiting. The owner of the tainted blade knelt at the top of the staircase to further his act before breathing heavily and wiping his mouth off with his feathered arm. The bird man rose to his feet and revealed himself to be wearing red and blue ninja gear, which complimented his golden (albeit bloody) feathers.
“Just when I thought I couldn’t get any more nauseated, you go and pull that shit,” barked the bird man while accusingly pointing his blade at Kain. “There ain’t going to be no black wedding or dark marriage or whatever the fuck this is called. I’m Ronan Crow and it’s my job to bring the woman back home where she belongs. So unless you want to get force fucked with three feet of steel, I believe now is the time to remove her bindings. And for fuck’s sake, take that disgusting gag out of her mouth!”
Kain Venomtongue took a deep swallow, held his hands up defensively, and pleaded, “I think you’re making a big mistake, my friend.”
“No!” Ronan belted. “You made the mistake of bringing this bitch out here and trying to marry her! Look at her, she’s fucking terrified! It’s men like you that make me afraid to have daughters of my own! Come on, Miss Sweet, you’re coming back home to the king.” With Kain backing up several feet, Ronan approached the metal cross and slashed the bindings off in quick fashion.
Sheryl stood up and removed her ball gag before shaking her head at Ronan and shoving him lightly. “Are you fucking insane?!”
“You’re welcome, by the way,” said a silver-tongued Ronan. “Now hurry up and get on my back before Kain Slobbertongue over here takes three more Viagra and makes a move on you again.”
Sheryl slapped the bird warrior across the face and said, “You’re an idiot! You’re a goddamn idiot! This whole black wedding was my idea!”
“You’re kidding me…” said Ronan with wide eyes.
“No, I’m not!” shouted Sheryl while stomping her foot. “When you bring me back to my father’s castle, what do you think is going to happen? He’s just going to marry me off to some loser so that he can have more land and more riches for himself! I chose Kain over here because he’s a true gentleman! He’s fun! He’s adventurous! And kinky as hell! I mean, look at him!”
“Yeah, I’m looking at him alright. He’s definitely a catch. I don’t know how anybody could pass up a handsome stud like that,” said Ronan, oozing with sarcasm and shaking his sword at the necromancer.
“Oh, this?” asked Kain nervously. “This isn’t my real face. It’s just makeup.” He wiped away his scaly face and skin with the sleeve of his robe to reveal a youthful elf underneath with flowing black hair, golden piercings, and a soul patch underneath his chin. “And just so you know, those snakes you killed weren’t really snakes at all. Those were my friends. They too were wearing makeup and costumes. The black wedding theme was mostly their idea. And Sheryl’s too since she’s really into bondage.” Sheryl giggled and blushed at that last comment.
“Well, if you miss your wonderful fucking friends that much, why don’t you bring them back to life or some shit like that. You’re a necromancer. Do something!” yelled Ronan.
“Congratulations, bird brain,” said Sheryl while pointing a finger in Ronan’s face. “You proved once again that you have the IQ of an orange peel. Kain isn’t a necromancer, dummy. He’s a neck romancer. See? There’s a difference.” She brushed back her raven hair to reveal a hickey on the side of her neck.
Ronan roared like a lion before shoving his sword into the floor and belting, “Enough! Enough of this bullshit! The two of you make me fucking sick to my stomach! Why in the hell would anybody think hickeys and ball gags and crucifixions are sexy?! What woman on the face of this earth actually gets wet to something like that?! What grown man would ever get a hard-on to it?! This is some fucked up repugnant shit right here! I ought to kill both of you right now and spare the king the disappointment in having a bratty daughter!”
“Listen to me, you dumb shit!” shouted Sheryl as she pointed a finger in his chest.
“Back off, bitch!” barked Ronan while swatting her down on the floor with his feathery arm. Kain tried to rush him, but the bird warrior pulled out his sword and held him at distance. The “neck romancer” could smell the vile stench of blood radiating off of that horrible weapon. “You are a sick little turd, Kain Venomtongue. You’re a pervert and you’re probably a pedophile too! Maybe you shouldn’t take Sheryl home with you anyways! I’m pretty sure she’s too old for you!”
Kain dropped to his knees and recited a Satanic prayer before Ronan tapped his head with the flat end of his blade and said, “Oh no, buddy! None of that hocus pocus shit is going to save you now! You’re dead, you filthy creepy! You’re goddamn dead!”
Kain tucked his head further into his chest ready for death to come take him away. He could hear the sword wooshing around in the air and it made his heart beat faster and his blood run cold. His forehead sweated profusely, but he continued to pray to his demonic god. The close the blade came to touching his face, the louder his prayers. With one last “amen”, the sword was ready to come down on his neck.
The woosh of steel slashing was replaced with a heavy thud followed by avian feet shuffling about. Kain lifted his head up and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Ronan Crow, with a lump on his head, rolling and tripping down the ziggurat stairs. Bones cracked, feathers flew, and squawks created a symphony of cacophony across the empty sky. These satisfyingly violent sounds went on for as long as the stairs would allow them to. And then there was silence; complete deathly silence, save for one final squawk until Ronan came face to face with Satan himself.
Kain grinned at the sight of his lover holding her ball gag like a pair of brass knuckles. The feathers and blood pasted to the rubber ball were badges of honor to her and proof she was no damsel in distress. Kain happily leapt to his feet and hugged his bride, though she responded with tears instead of reciprocated happiness.
“He ruined our wedding, Kain. He fucking ruined it,” Sheryl sobbed.
“Forget the wedding, my darling,” slithered Kain. “A wedding is just an event. True love can never be broken apart.” He kissed her forehead and said, “I’m proud of you, sweetheart.” The two of them made out together before Kain said in between kisses, “Darling…you were wonderful tonight!”
Sheryl Sweet struggled in her bindings and let out a few “Mmph’s” through her gag, but not even a barbarian’s strength could unseal her fate. The bride’s wide eyes and hysteria remained a stark contrast to Kain’s villainous smile as the necromancer pulled a jagged blade from his robes and recited hymns alongside the snake men. “Ashes to ashes,” he chanted. “Dust to dust. We are forever bound by Satan’s flames. Not even God nor his angels shall interfere with this dark marriage. Those who dare ascend the staircase invite the stench of death itself. If any mere mortal wishes to object to this sacred tradition, speak now or forever hold your tongue!”
As if on cue, a sharp steel presence descended from the night sky and slashed one of the snake men in half vertically, sending a storm of blood across the staircase and prompting Sheryl Sweet to scream like a mad woman possessed. “What the hell is this?!” Kain shouted, to which a blur of surgical steel whirred across the staircase, shredding, eviscerating, and disemboweling any snake monk in its path. Slithering screams echoed across the starlit night as the bloody rain continued to descend down the ziggurat. Pieces of flesh were carried away by the evening breeze. Organs sloshed and splashed until the satanic structure resembled a slaughterhouse. Every cobra minion lay in pieces with those fortunate enough to be alive regretting their decision to live.
Sheryl gazed in wide-eyed horror at the violence before her. Her ghostly shrieks were reduced to sobbing whimpers. Kain brushed her face with his fingertips and whispered, “Don’t worry, my love. This ceremony shall continue one way or another.” His promise to the bride was sealed with a delicate kiss on her sweaty forehead. He even licked one of her tears away, but once that was gone, more came flooding down her face.
The “tender” moment was interrupted by the sounds of a bird warrior pantomiming vomiting. The owner of the tainted blade knelt at the top of the staircase to further his act before breathing heavily and wiping his mouth off with his feathered arm. The bird man rose to his feet and revealed himself to be wearing red and blue ninja gear, which complimented his golden (albeit bloody) feathers.
“Just when I thought I couldn’t get any more nauseated, you go and pull that shit,” barked the bird man while accusingly pointing his blade at Kain. “There ain’t going to be no black wedding or dark marriage or whatever the fuck this is called. I’m Ronan Crow and it’s my job to bring the woman back home where she belongs. So unless you want to get force fucked with three feet of steel, I believe now is the time to remove her bindings. And for fuck’s sake, take that disgusting gag out of her mouth!”
Kain Venomtongue took a deep swallow, held his hands up defensively, and pleaded, “I think you’re making a big mistake, my friend.”
“No!” Ronan belted. “You made the mistake of bringing this bitch out here and trying to marry her! Look at her, she’s fucking terrified! It’s men like you that make me afraid to have daughters of my own! Come on, Miss Sweet, you’re coming back home to the king.” With Kain backing up several feet, Ronan approached the metal cross and slashed the bindings off in quick fashion.
Sheryl stood up and removed her ball gag before shaking her head at Ronan and shoving him lightly. “Are you fucking insane?!”
“You’re welcome, by the way,” said a silver-tongued Ronan. “Now hurry up and get on my back before Kain Slobbertongue over here takes three more Viagra and makes a move on you again.”
Sheryl slapped the bird warrior across the face and said, “You’re an idiot! You’re a goddamn idiot! This whole black wedding was my idea!”
“You’re kidding me…” said Ronan with wide eyes.
“No, I’m not!” shouted Sheryl while stomping her foot. “When you bring me back to my father’s castle, what do you think is going to happen? He’s just going to marry me off to some loser so that he can have more land and more riches for himself! I chose Kain over here because he’s a true gentleman! He’s fun! He’s adventurous! And kinky as hell! I mean, look at him!”
“Yeah, I’m looking at him alright. He’s definitely a catch. I don’t know how anybody could pass up a handsome stud like that,” said Ronan, oozing with sarcasm and shaking his sword at the necromancer.
“Oh, this?” asked Kain nervously. “This isn’t my real face. It’s just makeup.” He wiped away his scaly face and skin with the sleeve of his robe to reveal a youthful elf underneath with flowing black hair, golden piercings, and a soul patch underneath his chin. “And just so you know, those snakes you killed weren’t really snakes at all. Those were my friends. They too were wearing makeup and costumes. The black wedding theme was mostly their idea. And Sheryl’s too since she’s really into bondage.” Sheryl giggled and blushed at that last comment.
“Well, if you miss your wonderful fucking friends that much, why don’t you bring them back to life or some shit like that. You’re a necromancer. Do something!” yelled Ronan.
“Congratulations, bird brain,” said Sheryl while pointing a finger in Ronan’s face. “You proved once again that you have the IQ of an orange peel. Kain isn’t a necromancer, dummy. He’s a neck romancer. See? There’s a difference.” She brushed back her raven hair to reveal a hickey on the side of her neck.
Ronan roared like a lion before shoving his sword into the floor and belting, “Enough! Enough of this bullshit! The two of you make me fucking sick to my stomach! Why in the hell would anybody think hickeys and ball gags and crucifixions are sexy?! What woman on the face of this earth actually gets wet to something like that?! What grown man would ever get a hard-on to it?! This is some fucked up repugnant shit right here! I ought to kill both of you right now and spare the king the disappointment in having a bratty daughter!”
“Listen to me, you dumb shit!” shouted Sheryl as she pointed a finger in his chest.
“Back off, bitch!” barked Ronan while swatting her down on the floor with his feathery arm. Kain tried to rush him, but the bird warrior pulled out his sword and held him at distance. The “neck romancer” could smell the vile stench of blood radiating off of that horrible weapon. “You are a sick little turd, Kain Venomtongue. You’re a pervert and you’re probably a pedophile too! Maybe you shouldn’t take Sheryl home with you anyways! I’m pretty sure she’s too old for you!”
Kain dropped to his knees and recited a Satanic prayer before Ronan tapped his head with the flat end of his blade and said, “Oh no, buddy! None of that hocus pocus shit is going to save you now! You’re dead, you filthy creepy! You’re goddamn dead!”
Kain tucked his head further into his chest ready for death to come take him away. He could hear the sword wooshing around in the air and it made his heart beat faster and his blood run cold. His forehead sweated profusely, but he continued to pray to his demonic god. The close the blade came to touching his face, the louder his prayers. With one last “amen”, the sword was ready to come down on his neck.
The woosh of steel slashing was replaced with a heavy thud followed by avian feet shuffling about. Kain lifted his head up and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Ronan Crow, with a lump on his head, rolling and tripping down the ziggurat stairs. Bones cracked, feathers flew, and squawks created a symphony of cacophony across the empty sky. These satisfyingly violent sounds went on for as long as the stairs would allow them to. And then there was silence; complete deathly silence, save for one final squawk until Ronan came face to face with Satan himself.
Kain grinned at the sight of his lover holding her ball gag like a pair of brass knuckles. The feathers and blood pasted to the rubber ball were badges of honor to her and proof she was no damsel in distress. Kain happily leapt to his feet and hugged his bride, though she responded with tears instead of reciprocated happiness.
“He ruined our wedding, Kain. He fucking ruined it,” Sheryl sobbed.
“Forget the wedding, my darling,” slithered Kain. “A wedding is just an event. True love can never be broken apart.” He kissed her forehead and said, “I’m proud of you, sweetheart.” The two of them made out together before Kain said in between kisses, “Darling…you were wonderful tonight!”
October 21, 2017
Deadpool
MOVIE TITLE: Deadpool
DIRECTOR: Tim Miller
YEAR: 2016
GENRE: Superhero
RATING: R for violence, sex, and language
GRADE: Extra Credit
Wade Wilson is wise-cracking antihero mercenary who discovers he has lung cancer. His only surefire treatment option is to be turned into an indestructible superhero by sadistic slave trader Francis Freeman. The process to become superhuman involves around-the-clock torture to wake up his mutated genes. Wade is cancer-free, but also has a hideous face that he believes will make his fiancé want to break up with him. Now the newly christened Deadpool must track down Francis and force him to fix his disfigurement. Deadpool not only has superhuman strength, speed, and healing abilities, but an ass-load of guns and knives at his disposal. That and the help of X-Men Colossus and Negasonic Teenage Warhead.
Deadpool’s one-liners and funny moments are easily the movie’s best features. Whether he’s glad Francis is wearing brown pants or he’s sarcastically offering to help Francis’s balding henchman lure children into his windowless van, there’s always a reason to laugh your ass off throughout the movie. It’s impossible to list every zinger this movie has to offer, because my review would be longer than the first Game of Thrones book. Yes, this movie has its downer moments, the cancer diagnosis and torture scenes being among them. But even in the darkest, most depressing parts of the movie, there’s another profanity-laced tirade around the corner. Whoever wrote the dialogue for this movie deserves a medal. And an Oscar. And the keys to the city. And a key to the playboy mansion. And…whatever the hell he wants!
And because it’s a marvel superhero movie, it has to have a hefty amount of violence. But due to its R rating, there’s a lot more freedom to splatter some blood everywhere. For example, Deadpool can spell out Francis’s name using the dead carcasses of his soldiers. He can cut off one guy’s head with a sword and soccer kick it into another guy’s head. He can use one bullet to splatter three different guys’ heads at the same time. He can pull out all of the martial arts tricks he wants, including some that would make Jackie Chan crap his pants. Word to the wise: if you want to keep your bones and your blood where they belong, don’t screw around with Deadpool. Don’t kidnap his girlfriend, don’t torture him, don’t make his face look like a giant scrotum, and don’t outclass him in his witty dialogue. Actually, it’s damn near impossible to do the last item on that list, but you get the point. Right?
The fact that Deadpool is a huge departure from regular Marvel movies is enough to earn an extra credit grade. Sure, any movie can be R-rated, but only Deadpool can make you laugh, cry, and giddy with deliciously violent excitement at the same time. And while you’re watching, enjoy the strategically placed soundtracks of DMX and Wham on the same album. You might as well make a greatest hits CD with Skillet and Marilyn Manson on the same CD too. Or Rage Against the Machine and Ted Nugent. Or…okay, that’s enough for now. The point is, Deadpool has earned every one of its five stars and there’s nothing anybody can do to take that happiness away from me. If you want to cry over the filthy language and sexual dialogue, Wade Wilson will be happy to drink your tears with a shot of rum. Congratulations, Deadpool, for being an overly awesome movie that exceeded expectations!
DIRECTOR: Tim Miller
YEAR: 2016
GENRE: Superhero
RATING: R for violence, sex, and language
GRADE: Extra Credit
Wade Wilson is wise-cracking antihero mercenary who discovers he has lung cancer. His only surefire treatment option is to be turned into an indestructible superhero by sadistic slave trader Francis Freeman. The process to become superhuman involves around-the-clock torture to wake up his mutated genes. Wade is cancer-free, but also has a hideous face that he believes will make his fiancé want to break up with him. Now the newly christened Deadpool must track down Francis and force him to fix his disfigurement. Deadpool not only has superhuman strength, speed, and healing abilities, but an ass-load of guns and knives at his disposal. That and the help of X-Men Colossus and Negasonic Teenage Warhead.
Deadpool’s one-liners and funny moments are easily the movie’s best features. Whether he’s glad Francis is wearing brown pants or he’s sarcastically offering to help Francis’s balding henchman lure children into his windowless van, there’s always a reason to laugh your ass off throughout the movie. It’s impossible to list every zinger this movie has to offer, because my review would be longer than the first Game of Thrones book. Yes, this movie has its downer moments, the cancer diagnosis and torture scenes being among them. But even in the darkest, most depressing parts of the movie, there’s another profanity-laced tirade around the corner. Whoever wrote the dialogue for this movie deserves a medal. And an Oscar. And the keys to the city. And a key to the playboy mansion. And…whatever the hell he wants!
And because it’s a marvel superhero movie, it has to have a hefty amount of violence. But due to its R rating, there’s a lot more freedom to splatter some blood everywhere. For example, Deadpool can spell out Francis’s name using the dead carcasses of his soldiers. He can cut off one guy’s head with a sword and soccer kick it into another guy’s head. He can use one bullet to splatter three different guys’ heads at the same time. He can pull out all of the martial arts tricks he wants, including some that would make Jackie Chan crap his pants. Word to the wise: if you want to keep your bones and your blood where they belong, don’t screw around with Deadpool. Don’t kidnap his girlfriend, don’t torture him, don’t make his face look like a giant scrotum, and don’t outclass him in his witty dialogue. Actually, it’s damn near impossible to do the last item on that list, but you get the point. Right?
The fact that Deadpool is a huge departure from regular Marvel movies is enough to earn an extra credit grade. Sure, any movie can be R-rated, but only Deadpool can make you laugh, cry, and giddy with deliciously violent excitement at the same time. And while you’re watching, enjoy the strategically placed soundtracks of DMX and Wham on the same album. You might as well make a greatest hits CD with Skillet and Marilyn Manson on the same CD too. Or Rage Against the Machine and Ted Nugent. Or…okay, that’s enough for now. The point is, Deadpool has earned every one of its five stars and there’s nothing anybody can do to take that happiness away from me. If you want to cry over the filthy language and sexual dialogue, Wade Wilson will be happy to drink your tears with a shot of rum. Congratulations, Deadpool, for being an overly awesome movie that exceeded expectations!
We Own the Night
***WE OWN THE NIGHT***
Zombie brain happens to everybody no matter how good they are at hiding it. Sometimes your brain is so exhausted that you don’t feel like doing shit that day. You’ve overworked yourself the previous day, you’re stressed out, you didn’t sleep well, whatever the case may be, you’re not immune. It’s especially frustrating when you’re scrolling for memes on Face Book and see one that says, “You should be writing!” Yes, I understand that it’s meant to be motivating, but sometimes it can feel like a slap in the face to someone having a zombie brain day.
The operative word in that last sentence is “day”. You can go through the whole day snoozing and lazing about, but when the stars and moon light up the night sky, you own that motherfucker. You’ve gotten nothing done during the daytime, but it’s not too late to get shit done in the darkest hours of the night. All you need to tell yourself is…”We own the night!” Whether you’re getting shit done at 10:30, midnight, or 3:00 in the morning, you’re telling your zombie brain to go fuck itself and you’re defying the odds. And then when you wake up the next day, you can do it with a smile knowing the previous night’s darkness brought out the beast within you. You’re an artistic werewolf. You’re a vampire thirsting for the blood of your characters. And it feels soooooo fucking good!
Sometimes when I’m lying awake at night, lyrics for a song idea will come to me. And then the clock strikes two in the morning and I disconnect my oxygen mask to go write those lyrics down. That same night, those lyrics are live on my social media account and I go to bed a happy man. It’s better to lose a few hours of sleep if it means you’ll remember how your story or poem is going to be written. When you wake up in the morning, it could all disappear and the world will never know.
I tell you this personal story not to brag, but to let my audience know that owning the night can be done. If Donald Dumbass can tweet insensitive shit at three in the fucking morning, you can write something better around the same time at night. If you’ve spent the whole day being mentally fried, your energy could potentially come back to you by the time darkness falls. Everybody else in the house is snoozing soundly, so you have no distractions. It’s just you and your limitless imagination. And once you’ve finished, you can drift off into cloudland and have weird ass dreams about being naked in high school…or is that just me?
I hope I don’t sound too much like those Face Book memes that shame people for not writing. If you must tuck yourself in after a long day of zombie brain, you most certainly can do that. If you don’t own the night, you can certainly own the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. And so on and so forth. But there will be some days where you don’t feel like doing a goddamn thing, and that’s okay, because we’re all human beings. Zombie brain is a universal problem no matter how much people brag about being hard workers. Sometimes zombie brain is your mind and body’s way of telling you to slow the fuck down. Even Vin Diesel in the Fast & Furious movies has to know when to slow his driving down. Why do you think there are so goddamn many of those movies to begin with?
Do you own the night or are you a daywalker? Does your current schedule allow you the kind of creativity you want to produce? Always make time for what you dream of doing…even if that time is seven minutes past Zombie O’clock. We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***POISON TONGUE TALES 2 & DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
I’m sure you’ve all noticed that I have drawings on my social media accounts of Ronan Crow and Kain Venomtongue. That’s because those two are a major part of my next Poison Tongue Tales 2 story. It’s called “Dark Marriage” and it goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
1. Kain Venomtongue, Elf Warlock
2. Ronan Crow, Bird Swordsman
3. Sheryl Sweet, Human Bride
4. Nameless Snake Minions
PROMPT CONFORMITY: To be announced.
SYNOPSIS: Kain is at the top of his ziggurat getting ready to forcibly marry Sheryl through a necromantic ritual. The Dark Marriage will give Kain authoritative and magical powers since Sheryl is the daughter of a powerful wizard king. Sheryl is bound to a crucifix with a ball gag in her mouth while the snake minions line up on either side of the ziggurat’s stairs. Ronan has been charged with the task of rescuing Sheryl before the ritual is allowed to take place. He has little time to complete his mission and a small army of opponents to battle through.
EXTRA NOTE: Sheryl Sweet is next on the chopping block for the Dark Fantasy Warriors series. I’ve been debating with myself if I want to draw her while she’s strapped to the crucifix. Imagine the kind of reference picture I’d have to search for on Google to get that effect. It would be…weird to say the least. Hehe!
***BORN A CRIME***
I’m sure you guys have also seen reviews on my social media accounts of Kick-Ass 3 and Fang and Claw, two badass books that have earned passing grades. I expect my next reading adventure, Born a Crime by Trevor Noah, to be enjoyable as well. How can you go wrong with Trevor Noah? He’s the host of the Daily Show for a reason: because he’s funny and eye-opening at the same time. Born a Crime is a memoir detailing his childhood in apartheid-era South Africa. The book was originally a Mother’s Day present for my mom and she loved it to pieces. Now she’s given it back to me so that I can have the same educational experience as she did.
***PHONE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
ME: Hello?
MOM: Is this the person to whom I’m speaking?
ME: Who else would it be?
MOM: Good answer, Garrison!
Zombie brain happens to everybody no matter how good they are at hiding it. Sometimes your brain is so exhausted that you don’t feel like doing shit that day. You’ve overworked yourself the previous day, you’re stressed out, you didn’t sleep well, whatever the case may be, you’re not immune. It’s especially frustrating when you’re scrolling for memes on Face Book and see one that says, “You should be writing!” Yes, I understand that it’s meant to be motivating, but sometimes it can feel like a slap in the face to someone having a zombie brain day.
The operative word in that last sentence is “day”. You can go through the whole day snoozing and lazing about, but when the stars and moon light up the night sky, you own that motherfucker. You’ve gotten nothing done during the daytime, but it’s not too late to get shit done in the darkest hours of the night. All you need to tell yourself is…”We own the night!” Whether you’re getting shit done at 10:30, midnight, or 3:00 in the morning, you’re telling your zombie brain to go fuck itself and you’re defying the odds. And then when you wake up the next day, you can do it with a smile knowing the previous night’s darkness brought out the beast within you. You’re an artistic werewolf. You’re a vampire thirsting for the blood of your characters. And it feels soooooo fucking good!
Sometimes when I’m lying awake at night, lyrics for a song idea will come to me. And then the clock strikes two in the morning and I disconnect my oxygen mask to go write those lyrics down. That same night, those lyrics are live on my social media account and I go to bed a happy man. It’s better to lose a few hours of sleep if it means you’ll remember how your story or poem is going to be written. When you wake up in the morning, it could all disappear and the world will never know.
I tell you this personal story not to brag, but to let my audience know that owning the night can be done. If Donald Dumbass can tweet insensitive shit at three in the fucking morning, you can write something better around the same time at night. If you’ve spent the whole day being mentally fried, your energy could potentially come back to you by the time darkness falls. Everybody else in the house is snoozing soundly, so you have no distractions. It’s just you and your limitless imagination. And once you’ve finished, you can drift off into cloudland and have weird ass dreams about being naked in high school…or is that just me?
I hope I don’t sound too much like those Face Book memes that shame people for not writing. If you must tuck yourself in after a long day of zombie brain, you most certainly can do that. If you don’t own the night, you can certainly own the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. And so on and so forth. But there will be some days where you don’t feel like doing a goddamn thing, and that’s okay, because we’re all human beings. Zombie brain is a universal problem no matter how much people brag about being hard workers. Sometimes zombie brain is your mind and body’s way of telling you to slow the fuck down. Even Vin Diesel in the Fast & Furious movies has to know when to slow his driving down. Why do you think there are so goddamn many of those movies to begin with?
Do you own the night or are you a daywalker? Does your current schedule allow you the kind of creativity you want to produce? Always make time for what you dream of doing…even if that time is seven minutes past Zombie O’clock. We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***POISON TONGUE TALES 2 & DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
I’m sure you’ve all noticed that I have drawings on my social media accounts of Ronan Crow and Kain Venomtongue. That’s because those two are a major part of my next Poison Tongue Tales 2 story. It’s called “Dark Marriage” and it goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
1. Kain Venomtongue, Elf Warlock
2. Ronan Crow, Bird Swordsman
3. Sheryl Sweet, Human Bride
4. Nameless Snake Minions
PROMPT CONFORMITY: To be announced.
SYNOPSIS: Kain is at the top of his ziggurat getting ready to forcibly marry Sheryl through a necromantic ritual. The Dark Marriage will give Kain authoritative and magical powers since Sheryl is the daughter of a powerful wizard king. Sheryl is bound to a crucifix with a ball gag in her mouth while the snake minions line up on either side of the ziggurat’s stairs. Ronan has been charged with the task of rescuing Sheryl before the ritual is allowed to take place. He has little time to complete his mission and a small army of opponents to battle through.
EXTRA NOTE: Sheryl Sweet is next on the chopping block for the Dark Fantasy Warriors series. I’ve been debating with myself if I want to draw her while she’s strapped to the crucifix. Imagine the kind of reference picture I’d have to search for on Google to get that effect. It would be…weird to say the least. Hehe!
***BORN A CRIME***
I’m sure you guys have also seen reviews on my social media accounts of Kick-Ass 3 and Fang and Claw, two badass books that have earned passing grades. I expect my next reading adventure, Born a Crime by Trevor Noah, to be enjoyable as well. How can you go wrong with Trevor Noah? He’s the host of the Daily Show for a reason: because he’s funny and eye-opening at the same time. Born a Crime is a memoir detailing his childhood in apartheid-era South Africa. The book was originally a Mother’s Day present for my mom and she loved it to pieces. Now she’s given it back to me so that I can have the same educational experience as she did.
***PHONE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
ME: Hello?
MOM: Is this the person to whom I’m speaking?
ME: Who else would it be?
MOM: Good answer, Garrison!
Gyro Psycho Modulator
VERSE 1
A Kafkaesque prison, you’ll never break out
Straws in your nose and a ball in your mouth
The tightest straps on your ankles and wrists
Clamp down on your gut with one more twist
Spinning in circles like the wheel of fortune
Your stomach boils in this evil torment
Your head bursts from all of the mind rape
Bringing torture back to medieval dates
CHORUS
Gyro! Psycho! Modulator! X4
VERSE 2
You need to learn your hardest life lessons
Surrender your soul, lay down your weapons
You’ve done enough damage to your own kind
Let these necromantic images burn in your mind
Lynchings and shootings: what’s the difference?
They both come from those with sinful visions
You can spin forever on that torture table
Keep your supper down if you’re able
CHORUS
Gyro! Psycho! Modulator! X4
VERSE 3
One last chance, you won’t get another
Confront the souls of your slain brothers
Tell them why you murdered their asses
Tell them why you terrorized the masses
Your Freudian excuses are so pathetic
Death and disease is your sick fetish
Tell me all you want how you give no fucks
Tell it to the gangsters who fill you with slugs
EXTENDED CHORUS
Gyro! Psycho! Modulator!
Sensory! Deprivation! Chamber!
Stripped! Naked! For slave labor!
You still! Reject! Your only savior!
FINAL LINE
Welcome to hell, motherfuckers!
A Kafkaesque prison, you’ll never break out
Straws in your nose and a ball in your mouth
The tightest straps on your ankles and wrists
Clamp down on your gut with one more twist
Spinning in circles like the wheel of fortune
Your stomach boils in this evil torment
Your head bursts from all of the mind rape
Bringing torture back to medieval dates
CHORUS
Gyro! Psycho! Modulator! X4
VERSE 2
You need to learn your hardest life lessons
Surrender your soul, lay down your weapons
You’ve done enough damage to your own kind
Let these necromantic images burn in your mind
Lynchings and shootings: what’s the difference?
They both come from those with sinful visions
You can spin forever on that torture table
Keep your supper down if you’re able
CHORUS
Gyro! Psycho! Modulator! X4
VERSE 3
One last chance, you won’t get another
Confront the souls of your slain brothers
Tell them why you murdered their asses
Tell them why you terrorized the masses
Your Freudian excuses are so pathetic
Death and disease is your sick fetish
Tell me all you want how you give no fucks
Tell it to the gangsters who fill you with slugs
EXTENDED CHORUS
Gyro! Psycho! Modulator!
Sensory! Deprivation! Chamber!
Stripped! Naked! For slave labor!
You still! Reject! Your only savior!
FINAL LINE
Welcome to hell, motherfuckers!
October 20, 2017
Lady and the Tramp
MOVIE TITLE: Lady and the Tramp
DIRECTORS: Hamilton Luske, Wilfred Jackson, and Clyde Geronimi
YEAR: 1955
GENRE: Children’s Animation
RATING: G
GRADE: Extra Credit
Christmas has arrived in a quaint middle class town and Jim Dear gives his wife Darling a Cocker Spaniel puppy named Lady as a gift. Lady forms friendships with the other neighborhood dogs and needs them the most when Jim Dear and Darling ignore her during Darling’s pregnancy. Among the neighborhood dogs is a homeless drifter named Tramp, who shows Lady how to have a good time and live adventurously. With devious Siamese cats, authoritative dog catchers, and a nasty Aunt Sarah as her antagonists, Lady gladly goes on romantic getaways with Tramp, but also feels a sense of duty to protect Jim Dear and Darling’s newborn son. Will Lady ever find the acceptance she needs?
I’m not going to lie: I came close to crying several times during this movie. That’s right: a grown man almost cried to a Disney movie. Sue me. Jim Dear and Darling’s cold behavior towards Lady in the beginning is one of the catalysts for sure. The choir of locked up doggies at the pound singing and howling their hearts out reminded me of what my elderly dog Maggie does when she gets lonely and confused. Aunt Sarah blaming Lady for a mess her stupid Siamese cats made got my blood boiling, especially when Sarah decides to put a muzzle on Lady shortly thereafter. Any further divulging of information will result in spoilers, but I will say that listening to Lady crying alone in her doghouse was nearly the breaking point for me and the floodgates protecting my eyeballs. Damn you, Disney. Damn you!
Such a tear-jerking reaction can only come from an audience who cares deeply about the characters the awful things are happening to. Unless you have a heart of stone, you damn well should care about the neighborhood puppies. They’re cute, they’re bouncy, they’re friendly and lovable, and they’re worthy of getting infinite belly rubs and an endless supply of puppy burgers from McDonald’s. Just picture how happy one of these dogs would be if you took him to McDonald’s for a plain McDouble. Actually, you don’t have to picture it for long, because there’s always that infamous scene where Lady and Tramp eat a plate of spaghetti together. The fact that Tony the Italian restaurant owner cares enough about dogs to feed them his finest cuisine is heartwarming to me. Aunt Sarah should be taking notes. Puppy-duppies want delicious food, not muzzles.
If you’re an animal lover like I am, don’t pass up an opportunity to watch this Disney classic. If nothing else, it’ll make you appreciate your pets more. If they’re feeling lonely or confused, give them pettings and love. Treat them to a nice cuisine every once and a while. Snuggle with them. Let them sleep on your bed and curl up by your pillow. Animals don’t have a long lifespan, so it’s important that we make every moment with them count. A happy animal means a happy owner and a happy owner will feel the dams breaking when he buys a copy of Lady and the Tramp. An extra credit grade will go to this super sweet classic!
DIRECTORS: Hamilton Luske, Wilfred Jackson, and Clyde Geronimi
YEAR: 1955
GENRE: Children’s Animation
RATING: G
GRADE: Extra Credit
Christmas has arrived in a quaint middle class town and Jim Dear gives his wife Darling a Cocker Spaniel puppy named Lady as a gift. Lady forms friendships with the other neighborhood dogs and needs them the most when Jim Dear and Darling ignore her during Darling’s pregnancy. Among the neighborhood dogs is a homeless drifter named Tramp, who shows Lady how to have a good time and live adventurously. With devious Siamese cats, authoritative dog catchers, and a nasty Aunt Sarah as her antagonists, Lady gladly goes on romantic getaways with Tramp, but also feels a sense of duty to protect Jim Dear and Darling’s newborn son. Will Lady ever find the acceptance she needs?
I’m not going to lie: I came close to crying several times during this movie. That’s right: a grown man almost cried to a Disney movie. Sue me. Jim Dear and Darling’s cold behavior towards Lady in the beginning is one of the catalysts for sure. The choir of locked up doggies at the pound singing and howling their hearts out reminded me of what my elderly dog Maggie does when she gets lonely and confused. Aunt Sarah blaming Lady for a mess her stupid Siamese cats made got my blood boiling, especially when Sarah decides to put a muzzle on Lady shortly thereafter. Any further divulging of information will result in spoilers, but I will say that listening to Lady crying alone in her doghouse was nearly the breaking point for me and the floodgates protecting my eyeballs. Damn you, Disney. Damn you!
Such a tear-jerking reaction can only come from an audience who cares deeply about the characters the awful things are happening to. Unless you have a heart of stone, you damn well should care about the neighborhood puppies. They’re cute, they’re bouncy, they’re friendly and lovable, and they’re worthy of getting infinite belly rubs and an endless supply of puppy burgers from McDonald’s. Just picture how happy one of these dogs would be if you took him to McDonald’s for a plain McDouble. Actually, you don’t have to picture it for long, because there’s always that infamous scene where Lady and Tramp eat a plate of spaghetti together. The fact that Tony the Italian restaurant owner cares enough about dogs to feed them his finest cuisine is heartwarming to me. Aunt Sarah should be taking notes. Puppy-duppies want delicious food, not muzzles.
If you’re an animal lover like I am, don’t pass up an opportunity to watch this Disney classic. If nothing else, it’ll make you appreciate your pets more. If they’re feeling lonely or confused, give them pettings and love. Treat them to a nice cuisine every once and a while. Snuggle with them. Let them sleep on your bed and curl up by your pillow. Animals don’t have a long lifespan, so it’s important that we make every moment with them count. A happy animal means a happy owner and a happy owner will feel the dams breaking when he buys a copy of Lady and the Tramp. An extra credit grade will go to this super sweet classic!
