Garrison Kelly's Blog, page 91
December 21, 2016
Demon Axe, Chapter 10
Building a campfire in the grassy arena wasn’t hard to do considering so many victims left behind their pot lighters during the slaughter. The foursome could have just as easily crawled inside the Demon Axe tour van and ran the heater, but who wanted to be inside that beat up piece of shit anyways? The cackling flames in the early morning chill felt good against the shaking hands of Daniel Mercer, as well as his newfound friends in the form of Johnny Vega, Sonia Marquez, and Raven Triscloud. The Demon Axe microphone sat beside Daniel like it was his own child.
“So, Mr. Lord of the Pit, what do we do now? Do we hunt this Roger asshole down or what?” asked Johnny, his fists tightening at the thought of getting his hands on that self-righteous lunatic.
“Trust me, Johnny boy, there’s nothing I’d love more than to scream a few lines in his face. I might let you power bomb him a few times first. Maybe Sonia can lock him in a triangle choke with those long legs of hers. But you know what? Roger Zee isn’t going to make himself easy to find. You want to know why it took a long time to find Bin Laden? Because it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Or a nun a porn convention. Or a bloody coat hanger in a catholic church. Or a…”
Raven cut off Daniel’s dialogue with, “Okay, we get it. Roger is hard to find. It’s not like we have a GPS signal on him or anything like that. And I shudder to think about waiting for him to make another attack.”
“Wait a minute…” said Daniel like a light bulb was going off in his mind. “Yeah! Yeah, that’s it! I’ve got the microphone! Johnny and Sonia know how to wrestle! I say we put on a fucking show, baby!” The two wrestlers cheered with fists raised to the sky.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on a second!” said Raven while waving her arms around defensively. “Daniel, you can’t actually be that dumb, can you? Yes, your microphone has these supernatural powers that can subdue pretty much anybody, but you’re talking about luring Roger Zee out in the open, basically daring him to attack. You’re inviting all of these people to see a show and they’re going to be victims! Do you not see what the hell it is you’re suggesting, Daniel? You’re using your own audience as fodder! I spent all of this time trying to convince you that the death of your band mates wasn’t your fault. If you put on this show in an attempt to lure out Roger, those deaths WILL be on your head! Is that what you want?”
“It wouldn’t matter if it was a Demon Axe show or a fucking Justin Bieber abortion,” said Johnny. “Roger is going to attack whether Daniel’s involved or not. It could be people on a subway, people at a football game, or even a fucking strip club, for god’s sake. If Daniel puts on a show somewhere, at least we’ll be there to stop this Dungeons & Dragons douche bag before he starts slashing shit to pieces.”
“He’s blunt, but he’s got a point,” said Sonia with a wink.
“How the hell is he going to put on a concert when all of his Demon Axe buddies are dead?! He can’t just scream into a microphone and expect people to dance around like puppets! He needs a guitarist! He needs a bass player! He needs a drummer! And none of those people can be imaginary this time!” said a frustrated Raven. In her mind, this debate shouldn’t even have been happening. It was just a case of testosterone (even on Sonia’s side) versus common sense.
Daniel had a shit-eating grin on his face when he said, “I think I might know some guys who will fill those roles. The night of the concert, there were two other bands that played before Demon Axe. One of them was an LGBT-themed band called Juice (what else are you going to call it?) and the other was a Muslim-themed band called I Am Death (again, what else are you going to call it?). I think some of those guys would be happy to play a few new hits.”
Raven laughed sarcastically and after being asked by Daniel what was so funny, she said, “Oh, that’s fucking rich! You’re going to ask two heavy metal bands who are probably more traumatized than you are right now if they want to be bait for Roger Zee. They’ve gone through enough shit already and now you’re going to put them through an even bigger shit storm. Were they even around during the attack or did they leave before it could happen?”
“Those guys are like brothers and sisters to me!” snapped Daniel. “I gave them a chance to open for me when nobody else would! They’ve done so much to help me in my career that this was the best way I could pay them back! If Juice and I Am Death decide to help me with my plan, I’ll make sure they get all the star power they can handle. Their careers are going to skyrocket after this show. All the hateful motherfuckers out there who harass them on Twitter and in public are going to have to eat their words like a big old turd sandwich! What do you think about that, Raven-Pie?!”
Raven held up a wagging finger and said, “First of all, don’t call me Raven-Pie. I’m not your granddaughter or your wife. And second of all, if you’re going to use your so-called brothers and sisters are cannon fodder, make sure they know what the fuck it is they’re signing up for. Otherwise, they’re never going to trust you again and they’ll fade back into obscurity. But I’m pretty sure that once they figure out what the hell is going on, they’re going to tell you to take your star power and shove it up your ass.”
“Do you want to catch this motherfucker or not?!” shouted Daniel. “Roger Zee is your project, Raven! He’s a product of your society whether you want to admit it or not! I’m handing him to you on a silver platter and you won’t even jump at the opportunity! And here I thought that blade you carry in your boot was for fighting the good fight! Turns out you’re just chopping onions! Either that or you really are crying about bullshit!”
Raven sighed and stood up before starting her way back to the portal. When asked where she was going by Daniel, she looked at him sternly and said, “If you think sacrificing a bunch of innocent people is going to get you what you want, then obviously I can’t stop you. Hell, your wrestler friends seem to be onboard with it and they could probably pile-drive my ass if I tried to stop you. Just know this: the next time your brain goes numb from the trauma you endure, don’t bother using that EMDR trick I showed you. I want you to live with that pain for the rest of your miserable life. I’m going back to the elven world to tell my king about how he wasted a perfectly good magic spell on you. I’m sure it’ll break his heart, but I’m telling him anyways. Goodbye, Daniel. I hope your plan is worth it.”
Raven opened the portal to the elven world underneath the statue of King Arthur Triscloud and hopped through without protest from her other three former cohorts. Daniel was left with a solemn expression on his face, as if the elf’s words stung his heart worse than any slash from Roger’s machete. Just when the Lord of the Pit was going to sink into depressive quicksand…
“Man, who gives a shit what she thinks?!” roared Johnny. “If she wants to go back home to daddy and whine until the apocalypse, then we don’t need her ass anyways! Trust me, Daniel, you’ve got this. Sonia and I will be bouncers at your concert if that’s what you want. The minute Roger shows up with that sick-looking blade of his, we’ll hold him still while you spit some lines in his face. And then all of your loyal fans can body surf his ass onstage so that you can take the world’s biggest dump on his chest. Doesn’t that sound like a plan?”
Daniel still had a contemplative expression on his face and refused to answer. Sonia snapped him out of it when she reached over and lovingly stroked the back of his hand. “Hey, rock god. Johnny asked you a question. Are you going to answer it or are you going to sit there and fantasize about your elf girlfriend all day?”
“She’s just a friend, Sonia. At least she was,” murmured Daniel.
“Yeah, and I’m your mother,” said Sonia sarcastically before scooting next to him and placing her thick arm around his shoulders. It wasn’t as tender as Raven’s, but it would have to do. “Raven doesn’t want to see the bigger picture here. Of course Roger is going to attack whoever the hell he wants. He’s going to keep doing it until his wing-nut beliefs are satisfied. Wouldn’t you at least like to see him before he pulls this shit again?”
Daniel’s expression changed from bitter disappointment to enraged confidence. His eyebrows were furrowed, his frown was intimidating, and his muscles tensed. “Let’s do this shit! I’ll even send Roger’s chopped off dick and balls to Raven as a Valentine’s Day present.” He then looked sexily at Sonia and said, “Or maybe I’ll give them to someone even more special.”
“Oh, Daniel!” said Sonia as she kissed Daniel on his cheek and patted him on the back. “Come on, Johnny, let’s go.”
Sitting cross-legged, the giant wrestler looked down at his lap and said, “You know I would, but I can’t stand up right now.”
“TMI, Johnny! TMI!” shouted Sonia. Daniel on the other hand was laughing his ass off.
“So, Mr. Lord of the Pit, what do we do now? Do we hunt this Roger asshole down or what?” asked Johnny, his fists tightening at the thought of getting his hands on that self-righteous lunatic.
“Trust me, Johnny boy, there’s nothing I’d love more than to scream a few lines in his face. I might let you power bomb him a few times first. Maybe Sonia can lock him in a triangle choke with those long legs of hers. But you know what? Roger Zee isn’t going to make himself easy to find. You want to know why it took a long time to find Bin Laden? Because it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Or a nun a porn convention. Or a bloody coat hanger in a catholic church. Or a…”
Raven cut off Daniel’s dialogue with, “Okay, we get it. Roger is hard to find. It’s not like we have a GPS signal on him or anything like that. And I shudder to think about waiting for him to make another attack.”
“Wait a minute…” said Daniel like a light bulb was going off in his mind. “Yeah! Yeah, that’s it! I’ve got the microphone! Johnny and Sonia know how to wrestle! I say we put on a fucking show, baby!” The two wrestlers cheered with fists raised to the sky.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on a second!” said Raven while waving her arms around defensively. “Daniel, you can’t actually be that dumb, can you? Yes, your microphone has these supernatural powers that can subdue pretty much anybody, but you’re talking about luring Roger Zee out in the open, basically daring him to attack. You’re inviting all of these people to see a show and they’re going to be victims! Do you not see what the hell it is you’re suggesting, Daniel? You’re using your own audience as fodder! I spent all of this time trying to convince you that the death of your band mates wasn’t your fault. If you put on this show in an attempt to lure out Roger, those deaths WILL be on your head! Is that what you want?”
“It wouldn’t matter if it was a Demon Axe show or a fucking Justin Bieber abortion,” said Johnny. “Roger is going to attack whether Daniel’s involved or not. It could be people on a subway, people at a football game, or even a fucking strip club, for god’s sake. If Daniel puts on a show somewhere, at least we’ll be there to stop this Dungeons & Dragons douche bag before he starts slashing shit to pieces.”
“He’s blunt, but he’s got a point,” said Sonia with a wink.
“How the hell is he going to put on a concert when all of his Demon Axe buddies are dead?! He can’t just scream into a microphone and expect people to dance around like puppets! He needs a guitarist! He needs a bass player! He needs a drummer! And none of those people can be imaginary this time!” said a frustrated Raven. In her mind, this debate shouldn’t even have been happening. It was just a case of testosterone (even on Sonia’s side) versus common sense.
Daniel had a shit-eating grin on his face when he said, “I think I might know some guys who will fill those roles. The night of the concert, there were two other bands that played before Demon Axe. One of them was an LGBT-themed band called Juice (what else are you going to call it?) and the other was a Muslim-themed band called I Am Death (again, what else are you going to call it?). I think some of those guys would be happy to play a few new hits.”
Raven laughed sarcastically and after being asked by Daniel what was so funny, she said, “Oh, that’s fucking rich! You’re going to ask two heavy metal bands who are probably more traumatized than you are right now if they want to be bait for Roger Zee. They’ve gone through enough shit already and now you’re going to put them through an even bigger shit storm. Were they even around during the attack or did they leave before it could happen?”
“Those guys are like brothers and sisters to me!” snapped Daniel. “I gave them a chance to open for me when nobody else would! They’ve done so much to help me in my career that this was the best way I could pay them back! If Juice and I Am Death decide to help me with my plan, I’ll make sure they get all the star power they can handle. Their careers are going to skyrocket after this show. All the hateful motherfuckers out there who harass them on Twitter and in public are going to have to eat their words like a big old turd sandwich! What do you think about that, Raven-Pie?!”
Raven held up a wagging finger and said, “First of all, don’t call me Raven-Pie. I’m not your granddaughter or your wife. And second of all, if you’re going to use your so-called brothers and sisters are cannon fodder, make sure they know what the fuck it is they’re signing up for. Otherwise, they’re never going to trust you again and they’ll fade back into obscurity. But I’m pretty sure that once they figure out what the hell is going on, they’re going to tell you to take your star power and shove it up your ass.”
“Do you want to catch this motherfucker or not?!” shouted Daniel. “Roger Zee is your project, Raven! He’s a product of your society whether you want to admit it or not! I’m handing him to you on a silver platter and you won’t even jump at the opportunity! And here I thought that blade you carry in your boot was for fighting the good fight! Turns out you’re just chopping onions! Either that or you really are crying about bullshit!”
Raven sighed and stood up before starting her way back to the portal. When asked where she was going by Daniel, she looked at him sternly and said, “If you think sacrificing a bunch of innocent people is going to get you what you want, then obviously I can’t stop you. Hell, your wrestler friends seem to be onboard with it and they could probably pile-drive my ass if I tried to stop you. Just know this: the next time your brain goes numb from the trauma you endure, don’t bother using that EMDR trick I showed you. I want you to live with that pain for the rest of your miserable life. I’m going back to the elven world to tell my king about how he wasted a perfectly good magic spell on you. I’m sure it’ll break his heart, but I’m telling him anyways. Goodbye, Daniel. I hope your plan is worth it.”
Raven opened the portal to the elven world underneath the statue of King Arthur Triscloud and hopped through without protest from her other three former cohorts. Daniel was left with a solemn expression on his face, as if the elf’s words stung his heart worse than any slash from Roger’s machete. Just when the Lord of the Pit was going to sink into depressive quicksand…
“Man, who gives a shit what she thinks?!” roared Johnny. “If she wants to go back home to daddy and whine until the apocalypse, then we don’t need her ass anyways! Trust me, Daniel, you’ve got this. Sonia and I will be bouncers at your concert if that’s what you want. The minute Roger shows up with that sick-looking blade of his, we’ll hold him still while you spit some lines in his face. And then all of your loyal fans can body surf his ass onstage so that you can take the world’s biggest dump on his chest. Doesn’t that sound like a plan?”
Daniel still had a contemplative expression on his face and refused to answer. Sonia snapped him out of it when she reached over and lovingly stroked the back of his hand. “Hey, rock god. Johnny asked you a question. Are you going to answer it or are you going to sit there and fantasize about your elf girlfriend all day?”
“She’s just a friend, Sonia. At least she was,” murmured Daniel.
“Yeah, and I’m your mother,” said Sonia sarcastically before scooting next to him and placing her thick arm around his shoulders. It wasn’t as tender as Raven’s, but it would have to do. “Raven doesn’t want to see the bigger picture here. Of course Roger is going to attack whoever the hell he wants. He’s going to keep doing it until his wing-nut beliefs are satisfied. Wouldn’t you at least like to see him before he pulls this shit again?”
Daniel’s expression changed from bitter disappointment to enraged confidence. His eyebrows were furrowed, his frown was intimidating, and his muscles tensed. “Let’s do this shit! I’ll even send Roger’s chopped off dick and balls to Raven as a Valentine’s Day present.” He then looked sexily at Sonia and said, “Or maybe I’ll give them to someone even more special.”
“Oh, Daniel!” said Sonia as she kissed Daniel on his cheek and patted him on the back. “Come on, Johnny, let’s go.”
Sitting cross-legged, the giant wrestler looked down at his lap and said, “You know I would, but I can’t stand up right now.”
“TMI, Johnny! TMI!” shouted Sonia. Daniel on the other hand was laughing his ass off.
December 17, 2016
The Theomancer
Krimson hated the way the masked snowmen were looking at him. Each of them were lined up on either side of the Frigid Highlands with skeletal masks that glowed an eerie shade of purple. The red ninja balled up his cannonball fist and knocked one of the snowmen’s block off. Underneath the shattered head revealed the dead body of one of his brethren. Members of the proud Raven Strike Society were buried underneath the guise of snowmen. The thought made Krimson sick to his stomach.
This was no time for such a weak reaction. With his red ninja gear, steel boots and gloves, demonic mask, and straw triangle hat, Krimson was dressed for battle. He stomped his way up the snowy hill, glaring with electrified eyes at each of the snowmen. Such disrespectful desecration, Krimson thought to himself. His blue-skinned muscles and bright green aura brought out his deathly side, which he would need for this upcoming battle.
The top of the hill was book-ended by the tallest snowman of all with his bladed mouth, cross-decorated black pope’s hat, and purple cloak that blew in the frosty winds. Krimson folded his arms like he was the true giant and spoke callously to the creature before him. “You must be the one they call The Theomancer. Seven is obviously to cowardly to come greet me himself, so he sends this popsicle to do his bidding. Seven is just like any other god: too afraid to come out of hiding when he’s needed the most. I intend to beat the answers I want out of him and you’re in my way, Theomancer. Are you ready to get your skull cracked in?” That last line was accented with Krimson cracking his bumpy knuckles.
The snowman’s eyes glowed with each piece of dialogue. “You claim followers of Sevenism are delusional, yet here you are thinking you can simply beat answers out of our lord and prophet. Even if you were to somehow have contact with him, the foundation of our religion has already been laid. No money-hungry king or bloodthirsty queen will ever give up their faith just because you’re foolish enough to venture to these sacred lands looking for a fight. Each of these snowmen contains the spirits of those who were even stupider than you. What makes you so special, human?”
“You want to talk about deities? You’re looking at one. I am Krimson, the God of Vengeance. I associate with the Raven Strike Society not because of their heretical beliefs, but because a world under their leadership will thrive while a world under Sevenism will crumble into dust. You’re standing in the way of that goal and for that you will pay.” Krimson held his steel fists up in a boxing stance while electrical and fiery energy flowed through them.
“If you want to complete your kamikaze mission so badly, be my guest. But know this: you’re not fighting with any mere mortal. You’re not even fighting with the Theomancer. Yeti is what I’m called. With Seven as my witness, I shall rip your heart from your chest and feast on it like a barbaric meal!” Cracks began to form in Yeti’s snowy shell, each of them glowing with a brilliant yellow light. The shell continued to crack until an explosive storm of ice and snow showered upon Krimson, who kept his arms in his face to block the assaulting weather.
No more was the Theomancer. In his place was a seven-foot tall mummy with slimy green skin, glowing yellow eyes, and razor-sharp fangs with maggots crawling around them. Yeti flexed his muscles and cracked his own neck before getting in a defensive stance and waving for Krimson to come at him.
“Let’s do this!” roared the God of Vengeance, whose chilling glare never erased from his face. Krimson rushed into battle with a flying kick that sent an aftershock of pain throughout Yeti’s body, yet the mighty mummy never moved. The red ninja continued throwing rapid fire punches and kicks around Yeti’s legs while the hulking creature tried swatting around the smaller opponent’s head.
Krimson dodged every swipe by ducking and rolling on the frostbitten ground. He could not avoid having both of Yeti’s hands grab his throat and hoist him in the air. Yeti glared at the God of Vengeance with a piercing gaze and rancid shit breath. Krimson broke free from the chokehold by placing a hard knee into Yeti’s elbow. The mummy growled in pain as his arm bent in a direction it wasn’t supposed to go. He grabbed himself by the wrist and popped it back into place, much to the disgust of Krimson, who had a hard time catching his breath.
While the red ninja was on the ground clutching his chest and wheezing, Yeti threw a hard soccer kick only to have Krimson cartwheel out of the way. The God of Vengeance launched his thick head into Yeti’s knee before throwing an uppercut to the giant’s groin. Yeti hauled back and screamed to the sky in unbearable pain, but only for a short while. He ducked his head down to meet Krimson’s gaze.
The red ninja felt queasy after smelling his opponent’s breath so many times in this fight. He clutched his stomach and resisted the urge to puke his guts out all over the snow. This time Yeti threw a kick and knocked the ninja backwards, rolling him down the hill and causing him to lose his lunch along the way. He sprayed a few snowmen with his stomach acids and melted their faces.
It had been a long and tiring roll to the bottom of the hill. Krimson laid there weak and helpless while Yeti was tromping down the hill looking to end this fight. The ninja’s vision was blurry at best and dark at worst. He was sure he’d join these snowmen in this blatant disrespect for the dead. And that was when he saw the faces of those he threw up on. The stomach acid ate the snow off their faces and caused the masks to drop.
Men, women, children, animals, all of them represented by these mummified snowmen. The markings on some of the adults’ uniforms suggested they were priests and took a vow of pacifism. They came to this sacred ground just to negotiate and bring peace to an otherwise violent world. They did nothing wrong. They were just innocents caught up in the crossfire. They were somebody’s son or daughter. They were somebody’s wife or husband. The dog corpses sickened Krimson to where he’d want to throw up again. The dogs had less at stake than the priests and they were viciously murdered and desecrated anyways.
Krimson felt a clawed hand reach for the back of his uniform and hold him up high. There it was again: that sewage-like smell. It was the feeling of eating rotten fruit that had been urinated on. It was the feeling of performing oral sex on a diseased phallus with open sores. That breath. That horrible Yeti’s breath. The red ninja didn’t think he had anymore food left in his stomach after smelling something like that. Instead he blew out naked stomach acid all over Yeti’s face.
The mummy’s eyes burned to where he had to release his grip of Krimson’s uniform. The red ninja plummeted on the soft snow below while his adversary danced around in pain like his face was on fire. Feeling weak himself, the red ninja didn’t think he could make it back to his feet. But slowly and with every last ounce of strength left, he was standing tall and striking his deadly pose yet again, renewed by the anger of his lost brethren.
“Seven! I’m coming for you, you sick son of a bitch!” shouted Krimson before throwing several haymakers and roundhouse kicks at Yeti’s breaking body. Cracks formed in his skin like broken pottery. Blood oozed out of him like spoiled fruit juice. Punches and kicks to the head, chest, arms, and legs, all of them with brutal speed and ursine strength. The assault ended when Yeti crumbled to the ground and bled all over the snow, his body nothing more than a pile of wrappings.
“Where are you, Seven?! Show yourself! Answer for your sins, you disgusting pig!” Krimson shouted to the sky, huffing and puffing after such an exhausting battle, not to mention the heavy vomiting that saved his life as well as weakened him. He dropped to one knee and glared harshly at the pile of wrappings. A victory well-earned, he thought to himself.
Out of the mummy bandages emerged a mere mortal of a man dressed in a black trench coat and black hat, both of which contrasted with his pasty white skin. Krimson stared at him in shock and then looked again at the mummy wrappings to see that the cracks and “blood” were all just part of a metal costume. “What the hell is the meaning of this?!” Krimson demanded.
“You called out the name of Seven. Now you’ve found him,” said the pasty individual with a wicked grin. “There was never any paradise. There was never any hope at salvation. Sevenism is a business model and nothing more. Just like any religion, it was a business model for controlling the masses. And they fell for it hook, line, and sinker. You can call me a prophet if you want, but I’m really just a salesman with too much time on his hands.”
Krimson pointed a nervous finger at Seven and said, “You…you son of a bitch…what have you done?! I’ll kill you!”
“Go ahead! Take your best shot!” dared Seven. “But what will killing me prove? Like I’ve told you before, the foundations of Sevenism are already in place. If you kill me, there will be another prophet slash salesman to represent my created religion. And another. And another. And another. Somebody is always willing to go down for the cause. And our cause is business! Business is booming!”
“This isn’t happening! No!” shouted Krimson.
“Oh, it is happening, my friend. I’m sure you’ll want to tell all of your friends about it, even those at the Raven Strike Society. Those atheistic fools are already set in their ways. But what about the rest of us who need Sevenism to get through our days? Will they be so trusting? Sure, why wouldn’t they trust the God of Vengeance? I’ll tell you why. Because you’re no god. You’re just a prophet like me and everyone who represents my religion.”
“You bastard!” shouted Krimson as he charged toward Seven, only to get a knife to his stomach by the false prophet. The ninja’s stomach was already aching from vomiting so much, and now his innards were spilling all over the snow as Seven gutted him alive. The ninja dropped to his knees and fell on his face in a slow and gory death.
Seven looked down at him, shook his head, and laughed like the super villain he was. “Time to make another snowman!” he said before licking the blood off of his knife in a lustful manner.
This was no time for such a weak reaction. With his red ninja gear, steel boots and gloves, demonic mask, and straw triangle hat, Krimson was dressed for battle. He stomped his way up the snowy hill, glaring with electrified eyes at each of the snowmen. Such disrespectful desecration, Krimson thought to himself. His blue-skinned muscles and bright green aura brought out his deathly side, which he would need for this upcoming battle.
The top of the hill was book-ended by the tallest snowman of all with his bladed mouth, cross-decorated black pope’s hat, and purple cloak that blew in the frosty winds. Krimson folded his arms like he was the true giant and spoke callously to the creature before him. “You must be the one they call The Theomancer. Seven is obviously to cowardly to come greet me himself, so he sends this popsicle to do his bidding. Seven is just like any other god: too afraid to come out of hiding when he’s needed the most. I intend to beat the answers I want out of him and you’re in my way, Theomancer. Are you ready to get your skull cracked in?” That last line was accented with Krimson cracking his bumpy knuckles.
The snowman’s eyes glowed with each piece of dialogue. “You claim followers of Sevenism are delusional, yet here you are thinking you can simply beat answers out of our lord and prophet. Even if you were to somehow have contact with him, the foundation of our religion has already been laid. No money-hungry king or bloodthirsty queen will ever give up their faith just because you’re foolish enough to venture to these sacred lands looking for a fight. Each of these snowmen contains the spirits of those who were even stupider than you. What makes you so special, human?”
“You want to talk about deities? You’re looking at one. I am Krimson, the God of Vengeance. I associate with the Raven Strike Society not because of their heretical beliefs, but because a world under their leadership will thrive while a world under Sevenism will crumble into dust. You’re standing in the way of that goal and for that you will pay.” Krimson held his steel fists up in a boxing stance while electrical and fiery energy flowed through them.
“If you want to complete your kamikaze mission so badly, be my guest. But know this: you’re not fighting with any mere mortal. You’re not even fighting with the Theomancer. Yeti is what I’m called. With Seven as my witness, I shall rip your heart from your chest and feast on it like a barbaric meal!” Cracks began to form in Yeti’s snowy shell, each of them glowing with a brilliant yellow light. The shell continued to crack until an explosive storm of ice and snow showered upon Krimson, who kept his arms in his face to block the assaulting weather.
No more was the Theomancer. In his place was a seven-foot tall mummy with slimy green skin, glowing yellow eyes, and razor-sharp fangs with maggots crawling around them. Yeti flexed his muscles and cracked his own neck before getting in a defensive stance and waving for Krimson to come at him.
“Let’s do this!” roared the God of Vengeance, whose chilling glare never erased from his face. Krimson rushed into battle with a flying kick that sent an aftershock of pain throughout Yeti’s body, yet the mighty mummy never moved. The red ninja continued throwing rapid fire punches and kicks around Yeti’s legs while the hulking creature tried swatting around the smaller opponent’s head.
Krimson dodged every swipe by ducking and rolling on the frostbitten ground. He could not avoid having both of Yeti’s hands grab his throat and hoist him in the air. Yeti glared at the God of Vengeance with a piercing gaze and rancid shit breath. Krimson broke free from the chokehold by placing a hard knee into Yeti’s elbow. The mummy growled in pain as his arm bent in a direction it wasn’t supposed to go. He grabbed himself by the wrist and popped it back into place, much to the disgust of Krimson, who had a hard time catching his breath.
While the red ninja was on the ground clutching his chest and wheezing, Yeti threw a hard soccer kick only to have Krimson cartwheel out of the way. The God of Vengeance launched his thick head into Yeti’s knee before throwing an uppercut to the giant’s groin. Yeti hauled back and screamed to the sky in unbearable pain, but only for a short while. He ducked his head down to meet Krimson’s gaze.
The red ninja felt queasy after smelling his opponent’s breath so many times in this fight. He clutched his stomach and resisted the urge to puke his guts out all over the snow. This time Yeti threw a kick and knocked the ninja backwards, rolling him down the hill and causing him to lose his lunch along the way. He sprayed a few snowmen with his stomach acids and melted their faces.
It had been a long and tiring roll to the bottom of the hill. Krimson laid there weak and helpless while Yeti was tromping down the hill looking to end this fight. The ninja’s vision was blurry at best and dark at worst. He was sure he’d join these snowmen in this blatant disrespect for the dead. And that was when he saw the faces of those he threw up on. The stomach acid ate the snow off their faces and caused the masks to drop.
Men, women, children, animals, all of them represented by these mummified snowmen. The markings on some of the adults’ uniforms suggested they were priests and took a vow of pacifism. They came to this sacred ground just to negotiate and bring peace to an otherwise violent world. They did nothing wrong. They were just innocents caught up in the crossfire. They were somebody’s son or daughter. They were somebody’s wife or husband. The dog corpses sickened Krimson to where he’d want to throw up again. The dogs had less at stake than the priests and they were viciously murdered and desecrated anyways.
Krimson felt a clawed hand reach for the back of his uniform and hold him up high. There it was again: that sewage-like smell. It was the feeling of eating rotten fruit that had been urinated on. It was the feeling of performing oral sex on a diseased phallus with open sores. That breath. That horrible Yeti’s breath. The red ninja didn’t think he had anymore food left in his stomach after smelling something like that. Instead he blew out naked stomach acid all over Yeti’s face.
The mummy’s eyes burned to where he had to release his grip of Krimson’s uniform. The red ninja plummeted on the soft snow below while his adversary danced around in pain like his face was on fire. Feeling weak himself, the red ninja didn’t think he could make it back to his feet. But slowly and with every last ounce of strength left, he was standing tall and striking his deadly pose yet again, renewed by the anger of his lost brethren.
“Seven! I’m coming for you, you sick son of a bitch!” shouted Krimson before throwing several haymakers and roundhouse kicks at Yeti’s breaking body. Cracks formed in his skin like broken pottery. Blood oozed out of him like spoiled fruit juice. Punches and kicks to the head, chest, arms, and legs, all of them with brutal speed and ursine strength. The assault ended when Yeti crumbled to the ground and bled all over the snow, his body nothing more than a pile of wrappings.
“Where are you, Seven?! Show yourself! Answer for your sins, you disgusting pig!” Krimson shouted to the sky, huffing and puffing after such an exhausting battle, not to mention the heavy vomiting that saved his life as well as weakened him. He dropped to one knee and glared harshly at the pile of wrappings. A victory well-earned, he thought to himself.
Out of the mummy bandages emerged a mere mortal of a man dressed in a black trench coat and black hat, both of which contrasted with his pasty white skin. Krimson stared at him in shock and then looked again at the mummy wrappings to see that the cracks and “blood” were all just part of a metal costume. “What the hell is the meaning of this?!” Krimson demanded.
“You called out the name of Seven. Now you’ve found him,” said the pasty individual with a wicked grin. “There was never any paradise. There was never any hope at salvation. Sevenism is a business model and nothing more. Just like any religion, it was a business model for controlling the masses. And they fell for it hook, line, and sinker. You can call me a prophet if you want, but I’m really just a salesman with too much time on his hands.”
Krimson pointed a nervous finger at Seven and said, “You…you son of a bitch…what have you done?! I’ll kill you!”
“Go ahead! Take your best shot!” dared Seven. “But what will killing me prove? Like I’ve told you before, the foundations of Sevenism are already in place. If you kill me, there will be another prophet slash salesman to represent my created religion. And another. And another. And another. Somebody is always willing to go down for the cause. And our cause is business! Business is booming!”
“This isn’t happening! No!” shouted Krimson.
“Oh, it is happening, my friend. I’m sure you’ll want to tell all of your friends about it, even those at the Raven Strike Society. Those atheistic fools are already set in their ways. But what about the rest of us who need Sevenism to get through our days? Will they be so trusting? Sure, why wouldn’t they trust the God of Vengeance? I’ll tell you why. Because you’re no god. You’re just a prophet like me and everyone who represents my religion.”
“You bastard!” shouted Krimson as he charged toward Seven, only to get a knife to his stomach by the false prophet. The ninja’s stomach was already aching from vomiting so much, and now his innards were spilling all over the snow as Seven gutted him alive. The ninja dropped to his knees and fell on his face in a slow and gory death.
Seven looked down at him, shook his head, and laughed like the super villain he was. “Time to make another snowman!” he said before licking the blood off of his knife in a lustful manner.
December 16, 2016
My Body
VERSE 1
My body’s a temple, my mind is the priest
Society’s standards don’t apply in the least
I never resist a Thanksgiving-style feast
Take an alligator bite out of the roasted beast
There’s no shame in having a belly like mine
As long as your meal tastes delicious and fine
Never mind the magazines, they only print lies
Everybody loves the taste of salty French fries
CHORUS
I’ll eat how I want; I’ll do what I please
Shallow values will bring you to your knees
My body, my rules; don’t tell me what’s cool
Your muscle head makes you a giant fool
VERSE 2
You’ve got a stacked chest and chiseled arms
The steroids you take are bringing you harm
The smoothies you drink taste like raw sewage
Spinach and splooge, how could you do it?
You laugh at anybody with a big old gut
Tell them to lay off the food at Pizza Hut
Tell them to do sit-ups until their abs are sore
You’re the one with your legs up like a whore
CHORUS
I’ll eat how I want; I’ll do what I please
Shallow values will bring you to your knees
My body, my rules; don’t tell me what’s cool
Your muscle head makes you a giant fool
VERSE 3
I don’t give a shit who’s on the magazine covers
I don’t give a shit about your supermodel lovers
I don’t give a shit about your Cross-Fit routine
You’ve still got balls the size of jelly beans
Quit stabbing yourself with the needle full of juice
Before your heart stops and your bowels are loose
You’re not Arnold Schwarzenegger or Terry Crews
You’re just a jock frat boy with too much booze
CHORUS 2
I’ll eat how I want; don’t give me advice
I’ll have the crispy duck with beef fried rice
My body, my way; I’ll be here all day
And live longer than you anyway
I’ll eat how I want; I don’t give a fuck
All those exercises must really suck
You torture your body for the hottest chicks
The bigger the needle, the smaller the dick
My body’s a temple, my mind is the priest
Society’s standards don’t apply in the least
I never resist a Thanksgiving-style feast
Take an alligator bite out of the roasted beast
There’s no shame in having a belly like mine
As long as your meal tastes delicious and fine
Never mind the magazines, they only print lies
Everybody loves the taste of salty French fries
CHORUS
I’ll eat how I want; I’ll do what I please
Shallow values will bring you to your knees
My body, my rules; don’t tell me what’s cool
Your muscle head makes you a giant fool
VERSE 2
You’ve got a stacked chest and chiseled arms
The steroids you take are bringing you harm
The smoothies you drink taste like raw sewage
Spinach and splooge, how could you do it?
You laugh at anybody with a big old gut
Tell them to lay off the food at Pizza Hut
Tell them to do sit-ups until their abs are sore
You’re the one with your legs up like a whore
CHORUS
I’ll eat how I want; I’ll do what I please
Shallow values will bring you to your knees
My body, my rules; don’t tell me what’s cool
Your muscle head makes you a giant fool
VERSE 3
I don’t give a shit who’s on the magazine covers
I don’t give a shit about your supermodel lovers
I don’t give a shit about your Cross-Fit routine
You’ve still got balls the size of jelly beans
Quit stabbing yourself with the needle full of juice
Before your heart stops and your bowels are loose
You’re not Arnold Schwarzenegger or Terry Crews
You’re just a jock frat boy with too much booze
CHORUS 2
I’ll eat how I want; don’t give me advice
I’ll have the crispy duck with beef fried rice
My body, my way; I’ll be here all day
And live longer than you anyway
I’ll eat how I want; I don’t give a fuck
All those exercises must really suck
You torture your body for the hottest chicks
The bigger the needle, the smaller the dick
Perfectionism vs. Word Vomit
***PERFECTIONISM VS. WORD VOMIT***
If you’re a budding author, you’ve probably heard this piece of advice before: “Write every day. It doesn’t matter if it’s carefully chiseled out or the worst thing written in the history of the world. Let the editors take care of your mistakes.” A lot of professional authors say this and for a lot of rookies this advice works. This is just my preference, but this particular piece of advice doesn’t work for me.
If I write something, I want it to be golden from the start. While it’s true that no first draft is perfect the first time around, I at least want to try to make it into the best thing I can. This is why I don’t write everyday: because there are some days where my brain is so foggy that I can’t produce that perfect piece of writing. To my way of thinking, if I can’t be good at what I do, then what’s the point? Do my editors really want to go through the nightmare of cleaning up my messes?
If you’ve ever seen my drawings before, you would ask why I don’t take the perfectionism route with them given their weird quality. Yes, it’s true that my drawings don’t always look like golden goose eggs. But that doesn’t mean I don’t try. That’s the important thing for me: while I’ll never be 100% perfect, I at least have to try my hardest. Editing will be much easier if I actually make an effort to produce a good piece of art.
But like I said earlier, this approach to art doesn’t work for everybody, but it works for me. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I used to have a huge ego back in my college days. It’s true: even the smallest criticisms would make me retreat into my safe place, and this was in my late teens and early twenties. When my creative nonfiction teacher asked the class, “How many people here don’t think their own writing sucks?” I was the only person who raised my hand. Of course, my big ego didn’t match up with my writing skills at the time, because I wasn’t a diehard reader yet. Instead of having high self-esteem, I was arrogant, both of which are two separate things.
As I got older, I realized that being overly arrogant was a terrible approach to writing, because I desperately needed to let my critics into my inner circle in order to get better. That’s when I reached out to Second Draft Critique Services (a subdivision of Writer’s Digest) for help. Of course, their services were quite expensive, so I could only submit short stories. I was nervous at first, but when I actually read their critiques, I was confident that I could make chicken salad out of chicken shit. That’s the difference between arrogance and self-esteem: arrogance means you’re the king of the world and self-esteem means you believe you can grow from anything.
But if it’s true that I don’t have a massively inflated ego anymore, why do I still feel the need to be a perfectionist? I guess the easy answer would be that old habits die hard. Then again, if I didn’t believe in myself at least a little, I wouldn’t be writing in today’s world. I’ve had my fair share of evil criticisms and it would have been easy to give into those people. But being stubborn and full of fire got me through those hard times. Only years later did I realize that positivity and kindness were the answers, not hatred and anger.
So it stands to reason that if I write word vomit as opposed to the perfect product, I would have sufficient self-esteem to believe that I can fix it and make it shine. I’ll grant you that, but consider this: if I write the perfect product, I won’t have nearly as much work to do when the time comes to edit. Editing can either mean a few grammar corrections or a complete overhaul of the story. To make the process less intimidating either way, I take the perfectionist approach to my writing.
I know full well that first drafts will always have mistakes. The current first draft versions of “Watch You Burn” and “Filter Feeder” read like acid trips. While being on drugs may or may not be a heavenly experience (I wouldn’t know), that’s not the feeling I want to give my readers. It may work for Pink Floyd’s music, but not me. I’m not Roger Waters or David Gilmour no matter how hard I try to be.
There’s another thing that I try to practice: not using other artists’ transgressions as excuses to do them myself. I watched Pulp Fiction as a teenager, so my very first movie script “Pumping Filter” had a bunch of swearing, violence, and racial slurs, all of which didn’t need to be there. Because it could never have been perfect, I abandoned the script altogether. Another example would be me listening to Immortal Technique’s music and thinking it’s okay to use homophobic slurs in my poetry. If you want to use creative fuel, make sure you analyze it first and run it through your mental filters. Because I couldn’t do that just yet, many of my hateful poems are no longer in my archives. Thank god.
So now the question of the day is, are you a perfectionist yourself or do you allow your writing to truly be a first draft? I’d love to hear other opinions on this subject whether you agree with me or not. We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***
When my brain finally agrees to cooperate with me, I’ll write something for the “snow man” prompt called “The Theomancer”. It goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
1. Krimson, Red Ninja
2. Yeti, Mummy Giant
3. Seven, Prophet of Sevenism
PROMPT CONFORMITY: There are snowmen all over The Frigid Highlands, each of them with creepy decorations.
SYNOPSIS: The true identity of Krimson is unknown, but he is believed to be an emissary of the Raven Strike Society. They are a secret organization of atheists dedicated to disproving the beliefs of Sevenism, the religion of choice for oppressive authority figures in this dystopian fantasy world. Krimson ventures to the Frigid Highlands to assassinate Yeti, the gatekeeper to Seven’s paradise. The battle between these two warriors is fierce and intense, but Krimson is determined to get answers and revenge from Lord Seven himself. The red ninja is believed to be a deity in human form, which is why he’s having moderate success against Yeti in the first place.
FUN FACT: This story draws inspiration from the Mortal Kombat and WCW franchises from the 1990’s. Krimson is a red palette swap of MK ninjas Sub-Zero and Scorpion while Yeti is the direct theft of a WCW wrestler of the same name. Seven is also taken from a former WCW wrestler, this time one of the alter egos of Dustin Rhodes. All I needed was an excuse to use the title “Theomancer” and now I have a reasonable story idea.
***TWITTER WAR OF THE DAY***
TWITTER TROLL: You’re a professional wrestler. Lift some weights or do sit-ups. Good God!
BARON CORBIN: It’s your girl’s fault. She keeps bringing cookies over late at night.
If you’re a budding author, you’ve probably heard this piece of advice before: “Write every day. It doesn’t matter if it’s carefully chiseled out or the worst thing written in the history of the world. Let the editors take care of your mistakes.” A lot of professional authors say this and for a lot of rookies this advice works. This is just my preference, but this particular piece of advice doesn’t work for me.
If I write something, I want it to be golden from the start. While it’s true that no first draft is perfect the first time around, I at least want to try to make it into the best thing I can. This is why I don’t write everyday: because there are some days where my brain is so foggy that I can’t produce that perfect piece of writing. To my way of thinking, if I can’t be good at what I do, then what’s the point? Do my editors really want to go through the nightmare of cleaning up my messes?
If you’ve ever seen my drawings before, you would ask why I don’t take the perfectionism route with them given their weird quality. Yes, it’s true that my drawings don’t always look like golden goose eggs. But that doesn’t mean I don’t try. That’s the important thing for me: while I’ll never be 100% perfect, I at least have to try my hardest. Editing will be much easier if I actually make an effort to produce a good piece of art.
But like I said earlier, this approach to art doesn’t work for everybody, but it works for me. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I used to have a huge ego back in my college days. It’s true: even the smallest criticisms would make me retreat into my safe place, and this was in my late teens and early twenties. When my creative nonfiction teacher asked the class, “How many people here don’t think their own writing sucks?” I was the only person who raised my hand. Of course, my big ego didn’t match up with my writing skills at the time, because I wasn’t a diehard reader yet. Instead of having high self-esteem, I was arrogant, both of which are two separate things.
As I got older, I realized that being overly arrogant was a terrible approach to writing, because I desperately needed to let my critics into my inner circle in order to get better. That’s when I reached out to Second Draft Critique Services (a subdivision of Writer’s Digest) for help. Of course, their services were quite expensive, so I could only submit short stories. I was nervous at first, but when I actually read their critiques, I was confident that I could make chicken salad out of chicken shit. That’s the difference between arrogance and self-esteem: arrogance means you’re the king of the world and self-esteem means you believe you can grow from anything.
But if it’s true that I don’t have a massively inflated ego anymore, why do I still feel the need to be a perfectionist? I guess the easy answer would be that old habits die hard. Then again, if I didn’t believe in myself at least a little, I wouldn’t be writing in today’s world. I’ve had my fair share of evil criticisms and it would have been easy to give into those people. But being stubborn and full of fire got me through those hard times. Only years later did I realize that positivity and kindness were the answers, not hatred and anger.
So it stands to reason that if I write word vomit as opposed to the perfect product, I would have sufficient self-esteem to believe that I can fix it and make it shine. I’ll grant you that, but consider this: if I write the perfect product, I won’t have nearly as much work to do when the time comes to edit. Editing can either mean a few grammar corrections or a complete overhaul of the story. To make the process less intimidating either way, I take the perfectionist approach to my writing.
I know full well that first drafts will always have mistakes. The current first draft versions of “Watch You Burn” and “Filter Feeder” read like acid trips. While being on drugs may or may not be a heavenly experience (I wouldn’t know), that’s not the feeling I want to give my readers. It may work for Pink Floyd’s music, but not me. I’m not Roger Waters or David Gilmour no matter how hard I try to be.
There’s another thing that I try to practice: not using other artists’ transgressions as excuses to do them myself. I watched Pulp Fiction as a teenager, so my very first movie script “Pumping Filter” had a bunch of swearing, violence, and racial slurs, all of which didn’t need to be there. Because it could never have been perfect, I abandoned the script altogether. Another example would be me listening to Immortal Technique’s music and thinking it’s okay to use homophobic slurs in my poetry. If you want to use creative fuel, make sure you analyze it first and run it through your mental filters. Because I couldn’t do that just yet, many of my hateful poems are no longer in my archives. Thank god.
So now the question of the day is, are you a perfectionist yourself or do you allow your writing to truly be a first draft? I’d love to hear other opinions on this subject whether you agree with me or not. We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***
When my brain finally agrees to cooperate with me, I’ll write something for the “snow man” prompt called “The Theomancer”. It goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
1. Krimson, Red Ninja
2. Yeti, Mummy Giant
3. Seven, Prophet of Sevenism
PROMPT CONFORMITY: There are snowmen all over The Frigid Highlands, each of them with creepy decorations.
SYNOPSIS: The true identity of Krimson is unknown, but he is believed to be an emissary of the Raven Strike Society. They are a secret organization of atheists dedicated to disproving the beliefs of Sevenism, the religion of choice for oppressive authority figures in this dystopian fantasy world. Krimson ventures to the Frigid Highlands to assassinate Yeti, the gatekeeper to Seven’s paradise. The battle between these two warriors is fierce and intense, but Krimson is determined to get answers and revenge from Lord Seven himself. The red ninja is believed to be a deity in human form, which is why he’s having moderate success against Yeti in the first place.
FUN FACT: This story draws inspiration from the Mortal Kombat and WCW franchises from the 1990’s. Krimson is a red palette swap of MK ninjas Sub-Zero and Scorpion while Yeti is the direct theft of a WCW wrestler of the same name. Seven is also taken from a former WCW wrestler, this time one of the alter egos of Dustin Rhodes. All I needed was an excuse to use the title “Theomancer” and now I have a reasonable story idea.
***TWITTER WAR OF THE DAY***
TWITTER TROLL: You’re a professional wrestler. Lift some weights or do sit-ups. Good God!
BARON CORBIN: It’s your girl’s fault. She keeps bringing cookies over late at night.
December 13, 2016
Lions
VERSE 1
Elmer Fudd is hunting for blood
He’s about to be peeled like a spud
Lion claws will rip out his intestines
Cockroaches will feast on the infection
You fuck with nature, you get the fangs
Your spine will snap with the loudest bang
Your ribs will crack like shattered glass
Vultures will devour your lifeless ass
CHORUS
Lions! X4
VERSE 2
The lion’s den is far off limits
You won’t last two fucking minutes
Bring your rifles, bring your buddies
Doesn’t mean shit, you goddamn dummy
A pile of bones picked squeaky clean
A trail of blood to decorate this scene
Splattered brains the size of green peas
Shredded skin blown away in the breeze
CHORUS
Lions! X4
VERSE 3
If you hunt for fun, your life is done
Rotting into shit underneath the sun
Mother Nature wants her planet back
The lions want to roll with the pack
A trophy doesn’t mean a damn thing
Who the fuck died and made you king?
I hope you brought your screaming voice
Fuck with animals and you’ve got no choice
EXTENDED CHORUS
Lions! Lions!
Gatekeepers to your burning hell!
Lions! Lions!
Dead humans leave a rancid smell!
Lions! Lions!
Don’t shit where the creatures dwell!
Lions! Lions!
Pray for your own necromantic spell!
Elmer Fudd is hunting for blood
He’s about to be peeled like a spud
Lion claws will rip out his intestines
Cockroaches will feast on the infection
You fuck with nature, you get the fangs
Your spine will snap with the loudest bang
Your ribs will crack like shattered glass
Vultures will devour your lifeless ass
CHORUS
Lions! X4
VERSE 2
The lion’s den is far off limits
You won’t last two fucking minutes
Bring your rifles, bring your buddies
Doesn’t mean shit, you goddamn dummy
A pile of bones picked squeaky clean
A trail of blood to decorate this scene
Splattered brains the size of green peas
Shredded skin blown away in the breeze
CHORUS
Lions! X4
VERSE 3
If you hunt for fun, your life is done
Rotting into shit underneath the sun
Mother Nature wants her planet back
The lions want to roll with the pack
A trophy doesn’t mean a damn thing
Who the fuck died and made you king?
I hope you brought your screaming voice
Fuck with animals and you’ve got no choice
EXTENDED CHORUS
Lions! Lions!
Gatekeepers to your burning hell!
Lions! Lions!
Dead humans leave a rancid smell!
Lions! Lions!
Don’t shit where the creatures dwell!
Lions! Lions!
Pray for your own necromantic spell!
Rise and Shine
VERSE 1
Rise and shine for your fucked up mind
There’s no more time to relax and unwind
Get your ass out of bed, Mr. Sleepyhead
Rise like a zombie coming back from the dead
CHORUS 1
Rise and shine or your ass is mine!
Rise and shine, don’t fucking whine!
Rise and shine for the dollar signs!
Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!
VERSE 2
Too many stories and not enough glory
A life of snoring is so damn boring
Work your fingers to the powdery bone
Your flesh melts like an ice cream cone
Your blood boils like a river of lava
Your wheels turn as you pen this drama
Do it all again on the very next day
This line of work is where you’ll stay
CHORUS 1
Rise and shine or your ass is mine!
Rise and shine, don’t fucking whine!
Rise and shine for the dollar signs!
Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!
BRIDGE
This lifestyle isn’t just a stepping stone
It’s what you should be calling home
There’s nothing bigger, nothing better
To your own craft, you are a debtor
VERSE 3
Something mysterious is holding you back
Energy and fire is what you fucking lack
You burned yourself out like a dying candle
The daily grind you’ll never be able to handle
Good morning is a hypocritical phrase
When all you want to do is laze in your haze
Stressed out, pissed off, fucked up, get lost
Now you know the deal, time to pay the cost
CHORUS 2
Rise and shine? Go fuck yourself!
Rise and shine? Go straight to hell!
Rise and shine? No goddamn chance!
Find another partner for your puppet dance!
Rise and shine for your fucked up mind
There’s no more time to relax and unwind
Get your ass out of bed, Mr. Sleepyhead
Rise like a zombie coming back from the dead
CHORUS 1
Rise and shine or your ass is mine!
Rise and shine, don’t fucking whine!
Rise and shine for the dollar signs!
Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!
VERSE 2
Too many stories and not enough glory
A life of snoring is so damn boring
Work your fingers to the powdery bone
Your flesh melts like an ice cream cone
Your blood boils like a river of lava
Your wheels turn as you pen this drama
Do it all again on the very next day
This line of work is where you’ll stay
CHORUS 1
Rise and shine or your ass is mine!
Rise and shine, don’t fucking whine!
Rise and shine for the dollar signs!
Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!
BRIDGE
This lifestyle isn’t just a stepping stone
It’s what you should be calling home
There’s nothing bigger, nothing better
To your own craft, you are a debtor
VERSE 3
Something mysterious is holding you back
Energy and fire is what you fucking lack
You burned yourself out like a dying candle
The daily grind you’ll never be able to handle
Good morning is a hypocritical phrase
When all you want to do is laze in your haze
Stressed out, pissed off, fucked up, get lost
Now you know the deal, time to pay the cost
CHORUS 2
Rise and shine? Go fuck yourself!
Rise and shine? Go straight to hell!
Rise and shine? No goddamn chance!
Find another partner for your puppet dance!
December 11, 2016
Poison Tongue Tales
***POISON TONGUE TALES***
The last time I published a book was in February of this year and it was a collection of dark poetry called Necrograph. I think I’m about due to publish another book. The next one on the assembly line will be Poison Tongue Tales, a collection of short stories from the science fiction, fantasy, and horror varieties. It’s currently going through another round of editing from my overly awesome beta reader Marie Krepps. I specifically told her to look for places where I can show instead of tell and she’s done a phenomenal job of pinpointing those areas for me. What can I say? She does a lot for me and I try to repay her as much as possible.
So far she has given me notes on 17 out of all 50 stories in the collection. If you want to be alphabetical about it, it starts with Acid O’clock and ends with Gates of Hell. Ordinarily, I could polish 17 stories standing on my fucking head. I could do all 50 stories while doing the splits over an alligator swamp. I could do Poison Tongue Tales and American Darkness while sitting on a bed of thumb tacks. If all of these obscene analogies aren’t getting to you, what I’m trying to say is that editing a short story isn’t that hard to do. It’s not like editing a novel, like Occupy Wrestling, where I had to constantly change plot mechanics on my way to the final chapter. These 50 stories are all standalone in nature and only add up to three single-spaced 11 X 8 pages per story.
That’s why it pains me to say that I haven’t edited a single solitary story since Marie Krepps did her most recent round of critiques. No Acid O’clock, no nothing. Not yet. My reason for this has nothing to do with real life obligations or even mental exhaustion. It has everything to do with fear. That’s right. Something as simple and irrational as fear has stopped me from getting started on making these changes to Poison Tongue Tales. If I had to take a guess as to what this fear is over, I’d say it’s a fear of having a huge task in front of me. These new changes are going to radically transform the way each story looks, but it’s still the same kind of labor as before, so what’s all the fuss about?
I have no reason to fear critique as much as I used to. In my younger years, I had an over-inflated ego that would burst at the smallest suggestions. Now that I’ve surrounded myself with people who give a damn and are with me for the long haul, my sensitivity to critique has gone down quite a bit. I might even say that I’m immune to it now. So again, what’s all the fuss about? If I actually enjoy listening to Marie and her advice (because she’s hilarious and thoughtful at the same time), where’s all this fear coming from?
For far too long, Poison Tongue Tales has been considered a backburner project, meaning the WSS, Demon Axe, and everything else took precedence over it, even the Dark Fantasy Warriors, for shit’s sake. I have all the time and energy in the world to complete this simple task of editing the shit out of these 17 stories that Marie has compiled for me. If you want to talk about energy, I somehow found the energy to read 30-40 pages of my Carl Hiaasen book per day. The last time I showed that much dedication to a book was when I read “The Absolute True Diary of a Part-Time Indian” by Sherman Alexie (I hope the movie adaptation will be good). If I have the energy to blitz through a Carl Hiaasen novel, I should have the same energy to blitz through Poison Tongue Tales. The energy is there, but so is the trepidation. What the fuck, brain?
I know that an unexplained fear seems like small potatoes to you, my readers. Hell, you’ll probably want to flood my Face Book page with R. Lee Ermey memes after reading something like this. But I assure you, I can get over this fear in due time. I have four books to show for my worked up courage, why not have five? And then after Poison Tongue Tales, I have five different ideas for what I’ll send Marie next:
• Filter Feeder (environmental urban fantasy)
• Watch You Burn (psychological urban fantasy)
• Demon Axe (unfinished heavy metal urban fantasy)
• American Darkness 2: Black State (unfinished collection of modern day drama short stories)
• Poison Tongue Tales 2: Warrior Spirit (unfinished collection of science fiction, fantasy, and horror stories)
On a side note, Marie once told me that I use the word “warrior” a lot in my stories. She even joked that if my characters took a huge dump in the middle of the road, they would be called “shit warriors”. Not only did I laugh my ass off at that remark, but it’s also one step closer to me actually editing Poison Tongue Tales and not letting some bullshit fear get to me. If it’s finally time for me to “cowboy up”, then I’m shooting from the hip. Adios, amigos! Thanks for reading!
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
As you guys can see, Sonya Demonic is now posted online. I showed my drawing of her to my mom and she said that Sonya looked strikingly like my ex-girlfriend Brianna. I can’t say she’s wrong. Hehe! What’s next you ask? How about Ronis Wakizashi from my most recent WSS entry “Fire and Fury”? Sounds about right. I’ve always wanted to draw a half-Japanese redneck sheriff with a big ass shotgun and fuzzy beard. Actually, this might be more daunting than editing Poison Tongue Tales. Wish me luck!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“This is the point from which I could never return and if I back down now then forever I burn. This is the point from which I could never retreat, ‘cause if I turn back now there can never be peace. This is the point from which I will die or succeed. Living the struggle, I know I'm alive when I bleed. From now on it can never be the same as before, ‘cause the place I'm from doesn't exist anymore.”
-Immortal Technique rapping “The Point of No Return”-
The last time I published a book was in February of this year and it was a collection of dark poetry called Necrograph. I think I’m about due to publish another book. The next one on the assembly line will be Poison Tongue Tales, a collection of short stories from the science fiction, fantasy, and horror varieties. It’s currently going through another round of editing from my overly awesome beta reader Marie Krepps. I specifically told her to look for places where I can show instead of tell and she’s done a phenomenal job of pinpointing those areas for me. What can I say? She does a lot for me and I try to repay her as much as possible.
So far she has given me notes on 17 out of all 50 stories in the collection. If you want to be alphabetical about it, it starts with Acid O’clock and ends with Gates of Hell. Ordinarily, I could polish 17 stories standing on my fucking head. I could do all 50 stories while doing the splits over an alligator swamp. I could do Poison Tongue Tales and American Darkness while sitting on a bed of thumb tacks. If all of these obscene analogies aren’t getting to you, what I’m trying to say is that editing a short story isn’t that hard to do. It’s not like editing a novel, like Occupy Wrestling, where I had to constantly change plot mechanics on my way to the final chapter. These 50 stories are all standalone in nature and only add up to three single-spaced 11 X 8 pages per story.
That’s why it pains me to say that I haven’t edited a single solitary story since Marie Krepps did her most recent round of critiques. No Acid O’clock, no nothing. Not yet. My reason for this has nothing to do with real life obligations or even mental exhaustion. It has everything to do with fear. That’s right. Something as simple and irrational as fear has stopped me from getting started on making these changes to Poison Tongue Tales. If I had to take a guess as to what this fear is over, I’d say it’s a fear of having a huge task in front of me. These new changes are going to radically transform the way each story looks, but it’s still the same kind of labor as before, so what’s all the fuss about?
I have no reason to fear critique as much as I used to. In my younger years, I had an over-inflated ego that would burst at the smallest suggestions. Now that I’ve surrounded myself with people who give a damn and are with me for the long haul, my sensitivity to critique has gone down quite a bit. I might even say that I’m immune to it now. So again, what’s all the fuss about? If I actually enjoy listening to Marie and her advice (because she’s hilarious and thoughtful at the same time), where’s all this fear coming from?
For far too long, Poison Tongue Tales has been considered a backburner project, meaning the WSS, Demon Axe, and everything else took precedence over it, even the Dark Fantasy Warriors, for shit’s sake. I have all the time and energy in the world to complete this simple task of editing the shit out of these 17 stories that Marie has compiled for me. If you want to talk about energy, I somehow found the energy to read 30-40 pages of my Carl Hiaasen book per day. The last time I showed that much dedication to a book was when I read “The Absolute True Diary of a Part-Time Indian” by Sherman Alexie (I hope the movie adaptation will be good). If I have the energy to blitz through a Carl Hiaasen novel, I should have the same energy to blitz through Poison Tongue Tales. The energy is there, but so is the trepidation. What the fuck, brain?
I know that an unexplained fear seems like small potatoes to you, my readers. Hell, you’ll probably want to flood my Face Book page with R. Lee Ermey memes after reading something like this. But I assure you, I can get over this fear in due time. I have four books to show for my worked up courage, why not have five? And then after Poison Tongue Tales, I have five different ideas for what I’ll send Marie next:
• Filter Feeder (environmental urban fantasy)
• Watch You Burn (psychological urban fantasy)
• Demon Axe (unfinished heavy metal urban fantasy)
• American Darkness 2: Black State (unfinished collection of modern day drama short stories)
• Poison Tongue Tales 2: Warrior Spirit (unfinished collection of science fiction, fantasy, and horror stories)
On a side note, Marie once told me that I use the word “warrior” a lot in my stories. She even joked that if my characters took a huge dump in the middle of the road, they would be called “shit warriors”. Not only did I laugh my ass off at that remark, but it’s also one step closer to me actually editing Poison Tongue Tales and not letting some bullshit fear get to me. If it’s finally time for me to “cowboy up”, then I’m shooting from the hip. Adios, amigos! Thanks for reading!
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
As you guys can see, Sonya Demonic is now posted online. I showed my drawing of her to my mom and she said that Sonya looked strikingly like my ex-girlfriend Brianna. I can’t say she’s wrong. Hehe! What’s next you ask? How about Ronis Wakizashi from my most recent WSS entry “Fire and Fury”? Sounds about right. I’ve always wanted to draw a half-Japanese redneck sheriff with a big ass shotgun and fuzzy beard. Actually, this might be more daunting than editing Poison Tongue Tales. Wish me luck!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“This is the point from which I could never return and if I back down now then forever I burn. This is the point from which I could never retreat, ‘cause if I turn back now there can never be peace. This is the point from which I will die or succeed. Living the struggle, I know I'm alive when I bleed. From now on it can never be the same as before, ‘cause the place I'm from doesn't exist anymore.”
-Immortal Technique rapping “The Point of No Return”-
December 9, 2016
Fire and Fury
Ronis Wakizashi chewed his breakfast steak and savored every juicy bite before the heavenly meal slid down his throat. It had been a while since he’d eaten at The Buffalo Brunch. Catching his latest criminal called for a celebration: tender sirloin steak, fluffy scrambled eggs, butter-drenched English muffins, and crispy hash browns. Ronis ate his meal without regard for the contents tangling into his scraggly beard or splattering on his bulletproof vest and blue jeans. He even managed to get a bite of scrambled egg on his cowboy hat, which took some serious talent.
His beautiful breakfast was interrupted at the sounds of heavy breathing from across the restaurant. Among all the patrons, the female navy sailor with the jittery hands and splashing coffee cup got his attention. Her breathing patterns included some slight squeaks. Ronis stared at her for a while then shook his head in annoyance before digging right back into his breakfast.
The sailor’s breathing deepened as tears flowed from her eyes ever so lightly. Ronis slammed his fork down on his plate and gave her another annoyed look, but she was too pumped on nervous adrenaline to notice. Even the waitress had to ask the sailor five or six times whether she wanted a refill on her coffee before she snapped out of her trance and said yes.
Ronis watched as the waitress poured coffee into the sailor’s mug. The navy soldier finally snapped when a splash of coffee burned her fingers. She shot up and let out a lengthy blood-curdling scream while shaking the burn out of her hand. The waitress apologized relentlessly and scanned the restaurant for other patrons staring at her, to which she gave them an awkward smile.
The sailor pulled a knife from her belt and wrapped one arm around the waitress’s throat. When the hostess screamed, the navy soldier snapped, “Shut up! Shut the fuck up, you stupid bitch! If I hear so much as a pin drop in this fucking place, I’ll carve your ass up from ear to ear!”
The waitress’s wailing was reduced to childish whimpering and a stream of heavy tears. Everybody stared at the knife-wielder, including Ronis, who kept a steady grip on his shotgun underneath the table. The Sheriff even had the nerve to keep eating his breakfast, gnashing a piece of English muffin with those smelly teeth of his.
“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing, old man?!” screamed the sailor. “Breakfast is over! Now you all are going to listen to me before I slash this bitch’s throat!”
“I don’t think so, you stupid whore,” said Ronis with a scarily calm demeanor. He stood right up and pointed his shotgun at the sailor, who proceeded to press her blade tightly against the sobbing waitress’s throat. “Put the knife down, navy chick. You’re not going to win this fight. I’m the one with the shotgun and all you have is a little tinker toy. Are you ready to give up or do I have to splatter your brains all over the table?”
“You want to shoot me?” the sailor stammered. “You want to kill my ass? Go ahead! Anything’s better than living with this shit inside my brain! You’d be doing me a favor!”
“Alright, I get it,” said Ronis halfheartedly. “You’re a soldier who saw a whole bunch of nasty stuff overseas and now you can’t get it out of your mind. Hell, if I went through half of what you guys go through every day, I’d be messed up in the head too. Put you’ve got to put the knife down. Carving up that sweet thing isn’t going to give you relief.”
“No, it won’t,” admitted the sailor in a somewhat calmer voice. “But it’ll make people listen. You know why people like to show up at political rallies with cardboard signs? Because they want to be heard. And now I want to be heard too. If I didn’t have this knife in my hands, you’d be sitting there finishing your goddamn breakfast.”
“You got my attention, princess,” said Ronis. “Now tell me what you want. I ain’t got all day. You’re right: I do want to eat my breakfast, so make it quick.”
“Please!” begged the waitress through horrified tears. “Don’t make her angry! Just give her what she wants so that we can all go home!”
“Shut the fuck up, you skinny bitch, this ain’t any of your goddamn business!” Ronis shouted. He returned his attention to the traumatized sailor and said, “Now, you have the floor. Say something and say it fast. Otherwise, my trigger finger’s going to get really itchy. Are we clear?” No response. “Do you want a microphone and a stage or what? Talk, damn it!”
“You want me to talk?” asked the sailor. “Fine, let’s talk. After all, if I don’t say anything, I’ll just be another statistic on a government chart. I’ll just be another homeless bum on the streets who can’t find a goddamn job. Yeah, you think you know what I’m going through? Of course you don’t. You can sleep easy at night without having to worry if you’re going to die in your dreams. You don’t have to think about exploding land mines or gunfire blowing out your eardrums or your supervisor not giving a shit either way! I don’t want to fight this war any longer. I want to know what true comfort really is.”
“And you think you’re going to get true comfort by slashing a waitress’s throat?” asked Ronis. “There are only two kinds of comfort that will get you: sleeping easy in a six-by-nine cell or sleeping easy in a coffin. In the end, it doesn’t matter if your message is right or wrong. What matters is that you’re putting people in danger with your reckless behavior.”
The sailor’s facial features softened to a contemplative expression, generating silence between her, the captive, and Sheriff Wakizashi. It was a calming silence for all parties involved, but it was really just complacency when the sailor shouted, “Reckless behavior my ass! You haven’t seen shit yet!”
The soldier raised her dagger and forced a shriek out of the waitress as it came down with a quickness. The waitress bowed down on the floor with her ears covered after Ronis pulled the trigger, knocking the sailor to the ground and freeing the server from captivity. The waitress still screamed bloody murder while the other patrons watched in wide-eyed shock and horror.
Ronis, without a hint of remorse, trudged over to the waitress and the sailor’s body with his cowboy boots clicking against the brick floor. He fished several five dollar bills out of his jeans pocket and dropped them on the waitress, who looked up at him with puppy dog eyes and more hysterical sobbing. The Sheriff said, “There’s your tip for putting up with all of this bullshit. I’m proud of you.” No response. “What are you waiting for?”
The waitress scooped up her “gratuity” and ran out of the restaurant in a big blubbering hurry, which was amazing since she wore high heeled shoes the entire time. Ronis looked coldly at the sailor’s prone body and said, “You can stop acting now. That was just a beanbag shot.” The sailor slowly regained consciousness after acquiring a huge purple bump on her forehead. She tenderly touched the bruise and winced in pain after the slightest poke.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” asked Ronis.
“Julie Clay. Seaman Julie Clay,” she said in a dizzied hush.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Sheriff Ronis Wakizashi. I should be taking you to jail right now to serve a long ass sentence. But I’m not going to.” He knelt beside her and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “That tough guy talk was just to see how far you’d really go. Intimidation has always worked for me in the past. It didn’t work with you, so I had to shoot you with that beanbag. Sorry about that. You really did have something to say and you weren’t going down without getting your voice out there. I admire that. You really are the dictionary definition of a soldier, Miss Clay.”
“What happens now?” asked Julie. “Do I need to turn around and put my hands behind my back?”
“I’m afraid so, Miss Clay. The handcuffs are a precautionary measure and I never leave home without them. The beanbag gun was optional. I don’t like shooting people when I don’t have to. My father was shot during a traffic stop, not by a crook, but by another cop. I’ve had to live with that shit for a long, long time. I wouldn’t know what comfort was if it came up and bit me on the ass. So I joined the force hoping I could make a difference with just this beanbag gun. But you, it’s not too late for you to make a difference. Hell, you’ve done a lot already with your military career. But before we can turn the clock back, you have to come with me.”
Julie’s breathing got progressively heavier as she held her hands up together and whispered, “Get me out of here. I don’t care where we go from here, just get me the hell out of this place.”
“It’s a good thing you don’t care where we’re going, because I’m not taking you to jail. Jail is for people who have nothing but evil and negativity in their hearts. You’ve got something more than that. I’m taking you to the hospital to be treated. You can’t walk around town with this kind of violent force. I know you don’t mean to do it. I know you don’t want to do it. So come on, let’s get you out of here,” said Ronis before hooking the handcuffs around Julie’s wrists and gently pulling her up.
As the two of them walked slowly toward the exit with Ronis’s arms draped over Julie’s shoulders, she asked, “Why are you doing all of this for me? I almost killed someone and you’re giving me an easy way out.”
“There’s nothing easy about any of this, Miss Clay,” said Ronis in a gentle voice. “But just because your road to recovery is a long one, doesn’t mean that the US Department of Justice has to be an oxymoron.”
His beautiful breakfast was interrupted at the sounds of heavy breathing from across the restaurant. Among all the patrons, the female navy sailor with the jittery hands and splashing coffee cup got his attention. Her breathing patterns included some slight squeaks. Ronis stared at her for a while then shook his head in annoyance before digging right back into his breakfast.
The sailor’s breathing deepened as tears flowed from her eyes ever so lightly. Ronis slammed his fork down on his plate and gave her another annoyed look, but she was too pumped on nervous adrenaline to notice. Even the waitress had to ask the sailor five or six times whether she wanted a refill on her coffee before she snapped out of her trance and said yes.
Ronis watched as the waitress poured coffee into the sailor’s mug. The navy soldier finally snapped when a splash of coffee burned her fingers. She shot up and let out a lengthy blood-curdling scream while shaking the burn out of her hand. The waitress apologized relentlessly and scanned the restaurant for other patrons staring at her, to which she gave them an awkward smile.
The sailor pulled a knife from her belt and wrapped one arm around the waitress’s throat. When the hostess screamed, the navy soldier snapped, “Shut up! Shut the fuck up, you stupid bitch! If I hear so much as a pin drop in this fucking place, I’ll carve your ass up from ear to ear!”
The waitress’s wailing was reduced to childish whimpering and a stream of heavy tears. Everybody stared at the knife-wielder, including Ronis, who kept a steady grip on his shotgun underneath the table. The Sheriff even had the nerve to keep eating his breakfast, gnashing a piece of English muffin with those smelly teeth of his.
“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing, old man?!” screamed the sailor. “Breakfast is over! Now you all are going to listen to me before I slash this bitch’s throat!”
“I don’t think so, you stupid whore,” said Ronis with a scarily calm demeanor. He stood right up and pointed his shotgun at the sailor, who proceeded to press her blade tightly against the sobbing waitress’s throat. “Put the knife down, navy chick. You’re not going to win this fight. I’m the one with the shotgun and all you have is a little tinker toy. Are you ready to give up or do I have to splatter your brains all over the table?”
“You want to shoot me?” the sailor stammered. “You want to kill my ass? Go ahead! Anything’s better than living with this shit inside my brain! You’d be doing me a favor!”
“Alright, I get it,” said Ronis halfheartedly. “You’re a soldier who saw a whole bunch of nasty stuff overseas and now you can’t get it out of your mind. Hell, if I went through half of what you guys go through every day, I’d be messed up in the head too. Put you’ve got to put the knife down. Carving up that sweet thing isn’t going to give you relief.”
“No, it won’t,” admitted the sailor in a somewhat calmer voice. “But it’ll make people listen. You know why people like to show up at political rallies with cardboard signs? Because they want to be heard. And now I want to be heard too. If I didn’t have this knife in my hands, you’d be sitting there finishing your goddamn breakfast.”
“You got my attention, princess,” said Ronis. “Now tell me what you want. I ain’t got all day. You’re right: I do want to eat my breakfast, so make it quick.”
“Please!” begged the waitress through horrified tears. “Don’t make her angry! Just give her what she wants so that we can all go home!”
“Shut the fuck up, you skinny bitch, this ain’t any of your goddamn business!” Ronis shouted. He returned his attention to the traumatized sailor and said, “Now, you have the floor. Say something and say it fast. Otherwise, my trigger finger’s going to get really itchy. Are we clear?” No response. “Do you want a microphone and a stage or what? Talk, damn it!”
“You want me to talk?” asked the sailor. “Fine, let’s talk. After all, if I don’t say anything, I’ll just be another statistic on a government chart. I’ll just be another homeless bum on the streets who can’t find a goddamn job. Yeah, you think you know what I’m going through? Of course you don’t. You can sleep easy at night without having to worry if you’re going to die in your dreams. You don’t have to think about exploding land mines or gunfire blowing out your eardrums or your supervisor not giving a shit either way! I don’t want to fight this war any longer. I want to know what true comfort really is.”
“And you think you’re going to get true comfort by slashing a waitress’s throat?” asked Ronis. “There are only two kinds of comfort that will get you: sleeping easy in a six-by-nine cell or sleeping easy in a coffin. In the end, it doesn’t matter if your message is right or wrong. What matters is that you’re putting people in danger with your reckless behavior.”
The sailor’s facial features softened to a contemplative expression, generating silence between her, the captive, and Sheriff Wakizashi. It was a calming silence for all parties involved, but it was really just complacency when the sailor shouted, “Reckless behavior my ass! You haven’t seen shit yet!”
The soldier raised her dagger and forced a shriek out of the waitress as it came down with a quickness. The waitress bowed down on the floor with her ears covered after Ronis pulled the trigger, knocking the sailor to the ground and freeing the server from captivity. The waitress still screamed bloody murder while the other patrons watched in wide-eyed shock and horror.
Ronis, without a hint of remorse, trudged over to the waitress and the sailor’s body with his cowboy boots clicking against the brick floor. He fished several five dollar bills out of his jeans pocket and dropped them on the waitress, who looked up at him with puppy dog eyes and more hysterical sobbing. The Sheriff said, “There’s your tip for putting up with all of this bullshit. I’m proud of you.” No response. “What are you waiting for?”
The waitress scooped up her “gratuity” and ran out of the restaurant in a big blubbering hurry, which was amazing since she wore high heeled shoes the entire time. Ronis looked coldly at the sailor’s prone body and said, “You can stop acting now. That was just a beanbag shot.” The sailor slowly regained consciousness after acquiring a huge purple bump on her forehead. She tenderly touched the bruise and winced in pain after the slightest poke.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” asked Ronis.
“Julie Clay. Seaman Julie Clay,” she said in a dizzied hush.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Sheriff Ronis Wakizashi. I should be taking you to jail right now to serve a long ass sentence. But I’m not going to.” He knelt beside her and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “That tough guy talk was just to see how far you’d really go. Intimidation has always worked for me in the past. It didn’t work with you, so I had to shoot you with that beanbag. Sorry about that. You really did have something to say and you weren’t going down without getting your voice out there. I admire that. You really are the dictionary definition of a soldier, Miss Clay.”
“What happens now?” asked Julie. “Do I need to turn around and put my hands behind my back?”
“I’m afraid so, Miss Clay. The handcuffs are a precautionary measure and I never leave home without them. The beanbag gun was optional. I don’t like shooting people when I don’t have to. My father was shot during a traffic stop, not by a crook, but by another cop. I’ve had to live with that shit for a long, long time. I wouldn’t know what comfort was if it came up and bit me on the ass. So I joined the force hoping I could make a difference with just this beanbag gun. But you, it’s not too late for you to make a difference. Hell, you’ve done a lot already with your military career. But before we can turn the clock back, you have to come with me.”
Julie’s breathing got progressively heavier as she held her hands up together and whispered, “Get me out of here. I don’t care where we go from here, just get me the hell out of this place.”
“It’s a good thing you don’t care where we’re going, because I’m not taking you to jail. Jail is for people who have nothing but evil and negativity in their hearts. You’ve got something more than that. I’m taking you to the hospital to be treated. You can’t walk around town with this kind of violent force. I know you don’t mean to do it. I know you don’t want to do it. So come on, let’s get you out of here,” said Ronis before hooking the handcuffs around Julie’s wrists and gently pulling her up.
As the two of them walked slowly toward the exit with Ronis’s arms draped over Julie’s shoulders, she asked, “Why are you doing all of this for me? I almost killed someone and you’re giving me an easy way out.”
“There’s nothing easy about any of this, Miss Clay,” said Ronis in a gentle voice. “But just because your road to recovery is a long one, doesn’t mean that the US Department of Justice has to be an oxymoron.”
December 8, 2016
Everything Is Stolen
***EVERYTHING IS STOLEN***
Just to be clear, this journal entry isn’t about art theft, though it is a horrible thing to do to somebody and those who commit this crime should be punished to the fullest extent. I’m talking more about the interpretation of creative fuel. Inspiration always comes from somewhere whether it’s a book we read, a movie we watch, a videogame we play, or even personal experience. Because we draw inspiration from these and other sources while processing them into our own version of art, there really are no original ideas. In other words, everything is stolen whether we want to admit it or not. The only original thing about our art is our interpretation of the creative fuel.
A few days ago, I drew a picture of my latest dark fantasy warrior, Night Terror. He’s a demonic mask who makes an appearance as the main villain of my short story “Burning Dragon”. The ultimate design looks original enough, but if you take a careful look at the curved eyes and wicked grin, you’ll see exactly where I drew inspiration from. In case you didn’t play that game as a youngster, I’m talking about Phanto from Mario Brothers 2. Adding the doodads from the demon horns to the facial hair to the golden jewelry was my own interpretation of the creative fuel I was given. If I drew Phanto as is, then it would be character theft and that’s a serious offense. I took something from my childhood and made it into something I could call my own. That’s what art really is: an artifact of our thoughts. Hell, the word art is in the word artifact, and artifact is the root word of artificial. It’s not the real thing. It’s a representation of the real thing and has the same aesthetic pleasure as the real thing.
Deus Shadowheart is a character I’ve had since the beginning of my writing career in 2002. He’s a Gary-Stu barbarian with big bulging muscles, long black hair, thick metal armor, and a big fucking weapon of some kind in either hand. I’ve always said that Diablo II was my creative fuel for wanting a barbarian character. But what about the name Deus? That actually comes from the Ronin Warriors anime, which I watched religiously during my freshman year of high school. One of the main villains on that show was a toximancer named Dais (pronounced “DAY-us”). I liked him so much that I thought I should borrow his name for my beastly barbarian. The rest is history.
One last example and I’ll get out of your hair. My most recent short story was a psychological horror called “Madhouse”, where an artillerist mercenary named Joe Fields enters a dusty Japanese temple to track down his target. The metal armor and big ass guns were ripped directly from Starcraft, another computer game I played as a child alongside Diablo II. One of the character classes in Starcraft is a Terran marine, a basic long-range warrior with heavy metal armor and a gigantic gauss rifle. I’ve been accused of stealing from Starcraft before, but then again, as I’ve said at the beginning of this journal, everything is stolen from somewhere.
I even had a multi-genre writing teacher in college named Carlos Martinez who said that great writers steal from other sources. He wasn’t condoning outright plagiarism, but he was encouraging the class to draw inspiration from as many sources as possible. Come to think of it, Carlos was one of my favorite teachers in college. He was always encouraging to me even when I doubted myself. I could have written the worst possible story or poem in the history of mankind and Carlos still would have believed in me. Naturally, I take him seriously when he encourages me to draw inspiration from everywhere.
I’m willing to bet that one of you, my loyal readers, have stolen something before as well, maybe a clever line or a character archetype. As long as you give credit where it’s due and didn’t steal the whole thing, your ass should be covered like a blanket on a pig. See? I stole that blanket on a pig line from a Cricket Wireless commercial. Adios, amigos! Thanks for reading!
***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***
It’s a new week and it’s time for a new story, though as we’ve learned from this journal entry, there’s no such thing as a new story. The prompt is adrenaline and this story just happens to be called “Fire and Fury” (a title I stole from a Skillet song). It goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
1. Ronis Wakizashi, Strict Sheriff
2. Julie Clay, Traumatized Sailor
PROMPT CONFORMITY: As someone with PTSD, Julie is constantly running on pure adrenaline.
SYNOPSIS: Sheriff Wakizashi is celebrating the closing of his latest criminal case by having breakfast at his favorite restaurant, the Buffalo Brunch. While he’s there, he notices Julie sitting alone at a table acting strange. A waitress accidentally spills coffee on Seaman Clay’s fingers and sets off a traumatic rage in which the sailor holds the entire restaurant hostage. Ronis’s first instinct is to blast her with his double barrel shotgun, but then he decides trying to calm her down and get her to safety is a much better idea. Ronis’s social skills were never top notch, so playing the role of negotiator brings up a bad taste in his mouth.
***DEMON AXE, CHAPTER 10***
Now that Daniel Mercer has finally figured out what his “toy” is for, he plans on holding a concert with Johnny Vega and Sonia Marquez as bouncers. Everybody seems to be onboard with this plan except for Raven, who wants to hunt down Roger Zee before holding anymore events. Raven’s reasoning is that attracting that many people at one time will just give Roger more targets to slash to pieces. Daniel’s twisted logic dictates that Roger isn’t going to make himself easy to find, so why not draw him out? Who has the monopoly on common sense: Raven or Daniel? You be the judge.
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
Now that Night Terror (a.k.a. Phanto V 2.0) is in the books, the next warrior to be immortalized in a drawing will be Olivia Snow, the elven cryomancer from a story aptly called “The Cryomancer”. For this drawing, I was thinking something along the lines of Frost or Sub-Zero from the Mortal Kombat series. Well, there I go stealing again! I hope the picture looks good with my own interpretations.
***BOOK QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“It’s like thinking you’re having phone sex with Jessica Alba only to find out you’ve been beating it to Bea Arthur.”
-Chris Jericho, author of “A Lion’s Tale: Around the World in Spandex”-
Just to be clear, this journal entry isn’t about art theft, though it is a horrible thing to do to somebody and those who commit this crime should be punished to the fullest extent. I’m talking more about the interpretation of creative fuel. Inspiration always comes from somewhere whether it’s a book we read, a movie we watch, a videogame we play, or even personal experience. Because we draw inspiration from these and other sources while processing them into our own version of art, there really are no original ideas. In other words, everything is stolen whether we want to admit it or not. The only original thing about our art is our interpretation of the creative fuel.
A few days ago, I drew a picture of my latest dark fantasy warrior, Night Terror. He’s a demonic mask who makes an appearance as the main villain of my short story “Burning Dragon”. The ultimate design looks original enough, but if you take a careful look at the curved eyes and wicked grin, you’ll see exactly where I drew inspiration from. In case you didn’t play that game as a youngster, I’m talking about Phanto from Mario Brothers 2. Adding the doodads from the demon horns to the facial hair to the golden jewelry was my own interpretation of the creative fuel I was given. If I drew Phanto as is, then it would be character theft and that’s a serious offense. I took something from my childhood and made it into something I could call my own. That’s what art really is: an artifact of our thoughts. Hell, the word art is in the word artifact, and artifact is the root word of artificial. It’s not the real thing. It’s a representation of the real thing and has the same aesthetic pleasure as the real thing.
Deus Shadowheart is a character I’ve had since the beginning of my writing career in 2002. He’s a Gary-Stu barbarian with big bulging muscles, long black hair, thick metal armor, and a big fucking weapon of some kind in either hand. I’ve always said that Diablo II was my creative fuel for wanting a barbarian character. But what about the name Deus? That actually comes from the Ronin Warriors anime, which I watched religiously during my freshman year of high school. One of the main villains on that show was a toximancer named Dais (pronounced “DAY-us”). I liked him so much that I thought I should borrow his name for my beastly barbarian. The rest is history.
One last example and I’ll get out of your hair. My most recent short story was a psychological horror called “Madhouse”, where an artillerist mercenary named Joe Fields enters a dusty Japanese temple to track down his target. The metal armor and big ass guns were ripped directly from Starcraft, another computer game I played as a child alongside Diablo II. One of the character classes in Starcraft is a Terran marine, a basic long-range warrior with heavy metal armor and a gigantic gauss rifle. I’ve been accused of stealing from Starcraft before, but then again, as I’ve said at the beginning of this journal, everything is stolen from somewhere.
I even had a multi-genre writing teacher in college named Carlos Martinez who said that great writers steal from other sources. He wasn’t condoning outright plagiarism, but he was encouraging the class to draw inspiration from as many sources as possible. Come to think of it, Carlos was one of my favorite teachers in college. He was always encouraging to me even when I doubted myself. I could have written the worst possible story or poem in the history of mankind and Carlos still would have believed in me. Naturally, I take him seriously when he encourages me to draw inspiration from everywhere.
I’m willing to bet that one of you, my loyal readers, have stolen something before as well, maybe a clever line or a character archetype. As long as you give credit where it’s due and didn’t steal the whole thing, your ass should be covered like a blanket on a pig. See? I stole that blanket on a pig line from a Cricket Wireless commercial. Adios, amigos! Thanks for reading!
***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***
It’s a new week and it’s time for a new story, though as we’ve learned from this journal entry, there’s no such thing as a new story. The prompt is adrenaline and this story just happens to be called “Fire and Fury” (a title I stole from a Skillet song). It goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
1. Ronis Wakizashi, Strict Sheriff
2. Julie Clay, Traumatized Sailor
PROMPT CONFORMITY: As someone with PTSD, Julie is constantly running on pure adrenaline.
SYNOPSIS: Sheriff Wakizashi is celebrating the closing of his latest criminal case by having breakfast at his favorite restaurant, the Buffalo Brunch. While he’s there, he notices Julie sitting alone at a table acting strange. A waitress accidentally spills coffee on Seaman Clay’s fingers and sets off a traumatic rage in which the sailor holds the entire restaurant hostage. Ronis’s first instinct is to blast her with his double barrel shotgun, but then he decides trying to calm her down and get her to safety is a much better idea. Ronis’s social skills were never top notch, so playing the role of negotiator brings up a bad taste in his mouth.
***DEMON AXE, CHAPTER 10***
Now that Daniel Mercer has finally figured out what his “toy” is for, he plans on holding a concert with Johnny Vega and Sonia Marquez as bouncers. Everybody seems to be onboard with this plan except for Raven, who wants to hunt down Roger Zee before holding anymore events. Raven’s reasoning is that attracting that many people at one time will just give Roger more targets to slash to pieces. Daniel’s twisted logic dictates that Roger isn’t going to make himself easy to find, so why not draw him out? Who has the monopoly on common sense: Raven or Daniel? You be the judge.
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
Now that Night Terror (a.k.a. Phanto V 2.0) is in the books, the next warrior to be immortalized in a drawing will be Olivia Snow, the elven cryomancer from a story aptly called “The Cryomancer”. For this drawing, I was thinking something along the lines of Frost or Sub-Zero from the Mortal Kombat series. Well, there I go stealing again! I hope the picture looks good with my own interpretations.
***BOOK QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“It’s like thinking you’re having phone sex with Jessica Alba only to find out you’ve been beating it to Bea Arthur.”
-Chris Jericho, author of “A Lion’s Tale: Around the World in Spandex”-
Thugs
CHORUS
Blue thugs, blue thugs
White thugs, white thugs
Rich thugs, rich thugs
Christ thugs, Christ thugs
VERSE 1
Being a thug isn’t about skin color
It’s about the way we treat each other
Social status doesn’t mean a damn thing
When the fired shots make your ears ring
Wilson, Turner, and even Zimmerman
Miss Anthony full of sugar and cinnamon
Saccharine pleas bring the blind to their knees
While the innocents’ corpses continue to freeze
CHORUS
Blue thugs, blue thugs
White thugs, white thugs
Rich thugs, rich thugs
Christ thugs, Christ thugs
VERSE 2
Every bullet feels exactly the same
Every death brings this country to shame
Every trial adds to the body pile
Just another piece of paper ready to file
The case is closed but our eyes are wide
A river of tears doesn’t take any side
A broken heart knows no kind of race
Armageddon has come to our safe place
EXTENDED CHORUS 1
Blue thugs, blue thugs
White thugs, white thugs
Rich thugs, rich thugs
Christ thugs, Christ thugs
Where are the signs that say free hugs?
Why are there corpses full of maggoty bugs?
Is this really about a lost war on drugs?
Or did we already sweep that under the rug?
BRIDGE
The second amendment or a thug defendant?
Family values or medieval remnants?
When the bodies drop, it all sounds alike
To the motherless children and fatherless tykes
EXTENDED CHORUS 2
Blue thugs, blue thugs
White thugs, white thugs
Rich thugs, rich thugs
Christ thugs, Christ thugs
What are you representing with your slugs?
Why do you turn away with a mere shrug?
Go ahead, sleep well at night cozy and snug
Wake up with a smile so arrogant and smug
Blue thugs, blue thugs
White thugs, white thugs
Rich thugs, rich thugs
Christ thugs, Christ thugs
VERSE 1
Being a thug isn’t about skin color
It’s about the way we treat each other
Social status doesn’t mean a damn thing
When the fired shots make your ears ring
Wilson, Turner, and even Zimmerman
Miss Anthony full of sugar and cinnamon
Saccharine pleas bring the blind to their knees
While the innocents’ corpses continue to freeze
CHORUS
Blue thugs, blue thugs
White thugs, white thugs
Rich thugs, rich thugs
Christ thugs, Christ thugs
VERSE 2
Every bullet feels exactly the same
Every death brings this country to shame
Every trial adds to the body pile
Just another piece of paper ready to file
The case is closed but our eyes are wide
A river of tears doesn’t take any side
A broken heart knows no kind of race
Armageddon has come to our safe place
EXTENDED CHORUS 1
Blue thugs, blue thugs
White thugs, white thugs
Rich thugs, rich thugs
Christ thugs, Christ thugs
Where are the signs that say free hugs?
Why are there corpses full of maggoty bugs?
Is this really about a lost war on drugs?
Or did we already sweep that under the rug?
BRIDGE
The second amendment or a thug defendant?
Family values or medieval remnants?
When the bodies drop, it all sounds alike
To the motherless children and fatherless tykes
EXTENDED CHORUS 2
Blue thugs, blue thugs
White thugs, white thugs
Rich thugs, rich thugs
Christ thugs, Christ thugs
What are you representing with your slugs?
Why do you turn away with a mere shrug?
Go ahead, sleep well at night cozy and snug
Wake up with a smile so arrogant and smug
