Garrison Kelly's Blog, page 92
December 4, 2016
Madhouse
“I got you now, you little fruitcake!” said Joe Fields with an arrogant smirk and a cigar pressed between his teeth. He could smell the “vermin” from miles away, even with puffs of tobacco smoke sailing across his face. Both of his index fingers were itchy and twitchy as they rested on the triggers of his dual machineguns. His bulky metal armor was easier to move around in than he thought. The metal boots made loud clomping sounds as Joe walked through the bamboo forest, but even this mercenary was confident that his target had nowhere to hide. Hell, if Joe wanted to, he could blow this whole forest down like the Big Bad Wolf, except with his machineguns instead of cigar breath.
The target’s tiny footprints led the grinning mercenary to a Japanese-style temple with a wooden balcony, white paper walls, a bamboo roof, and flowery decorations all around. “You’re making this too easy for me, you little twit!” said Joe as he cocked both of his machineguns. The psychotic smile on his face suggested that he didn’t care if his target lived a torturous existence or died a brutal death. “You’re mine, you little bitch! Your ass is mine!” he said in his gruff voice.
With his metal feet creating tiny tremors, the soldier of fortune marched toward the seemingly abandoned temple before kicking down the wooden door with shattering ease. Joe poked his head inside and sniffed around for his target like a hungry wolf. With the exception of a few potted plants, paintings, and samurai swords, the place was empty. But instead of waiting for a pin to drop, Joe clomped and crashed his way inside, not giving two shits if the wooden floor was cracking and splintering.
“I can smell that stank on you, you little weasel! Drop the bowl of rice and come out here with your hands up!” A few more animalistic snorts and Joe let out such a forceful sneeze that he yelled like a grizzly bear and dropped his cigar. As snot flew from his nose and extinguished the cherry, Joe began to notice the light coating of dust all around the walls and the floor. “Really? Dust? Is that all you got? Holy shit, you’re in for a wild ride, motherfucker! You only have nine holes in your body right now. I’ll put about a hundred more in you, you slick son of a bitch!”
A monstrous growl caught Joe’s attention to where he reluctantly turned around with his guns drawn. Standing in the kicked in doorway was a seven-foot lizard demon with its blade-like tongue hanging down to its knees. Its claws were extended and its screech was deafening. The beast looked poised to strike, but quick as it may be, Joe’s trigger fingers were that much faster. A hailstorm of bullets descended upon the “big ugly fucker” and shredded skin and bones to a fine powder. The blood stayed floating in the air in the shape of a sphere.
“What the fuck is this shit? Is this some kind of voodoo bitch negro spell or what?” shouted Joe. Skull shaped blood spheres began emitting from the liquid mass and staring down the mercenary with misty black eyes. Their tongues flailed around like whips while their jaws were wide open and leaking with green fluids.
Joe once again showered his opponents with bullets, but all the shots did was splatter a modicum of blood stains all over the paper walls. The floating blood skulls still remained and even let out an eardrum-shattering yell. Joe squinted his eyes in confusion and terror as a brown bubbling substance was rising from the back of their mouths.
The formerly arrogant mercenary turned around and ran screaming like a child, mustering up every curse word on the top of his whacked out head. The more he ran, the steeper the incline in the wooden floor, which was like walking up a wall. Joe huffed and wheezed in exhaustion after draining his legs in such heavy armor. The armor felt hot and muggy to where he struggled to take it off. After a while of struggling, he dropped his guns and used the power in his metal gloves to just rip the armor off a few chunks at a time.
The incline in the floor lessened to a normal base and Joe was feeling the sweaty chill in his confederate flag T-shirt and baggy camouflage pants. He got so cold that he wrapped his arms around himself and huddled on the floor. And then he felt a tidal wave of vomit wash over him as well as dissolved blood and banshee cries. The bloody skulls left him so drenched afterwards that he struggled to breathe underneath the weight of such liquid. After coughing up retched fluids and vomiting himself, Joe looked around the temple with glassy red eyes and said, “Where the hell am I? What the fuck is this place?!”
“This is what you wanted all along, right?” said a mysterious voice. Joe looked around for the source, but the temple was still the same vomit and blood covered mess it was before, minus humans. “I’m the voice inside of you, Joe. I’m the one who’s going to tell you to get the hell out of this temple before it’s too late. You don’t need to catch anybody. This isn’t your job.”
Joe tightly gripped both sides of his head as the inner voice felt like he was being attacked with an ice pick. The mercenary even banged his head against the soaked floor and shouted, “Stop it! Leave me alone! You’re not real!” The inner voice chanted a Japanese-sounding magic spell and that only made Joe slam his head harder, which opened up a huge gash on his forehead.
Instead of blood pouring from the wound, a hooded cobra slithered out and danced around on the floor. Joe fearfully crab-walked backwards as the cobra hissed and spit venom in his mouth. The mercenary coughed, hacked, and puked until a mouthful of tarantulas poured out and joined the cobra in its dance.
Joe’s bloodshot eyes widened in horror as the cobra and the spiders swirled together in a purple tornado, taking the form of a ghostly samurai in blue robes. The spiritual warrior pulled out his katana and pointed it sternly at the blubbering gun-for-hire.
“Please, don’t kill me!” begged Joe with his hands together prayer-style. “I don’t know what the hell is going on here. I just came here for a job and I ended up in....whatever the hell this place is!”
“In other words, you’re not sorry that you were chasing an innocent human being. You’re sorry because you got caught doing it,” said the “inner voice”, which now belonged to the samurai. “You knew all along that your target did nothing wrong. He was defending himself from local police after they tried to unlawfully arrest him. And now here you are trying to find someone who is no longer here. All for what? An ill-gotten paycheck? You disgust me!”
“Disgust?” whimpered Joe. “You thought that was disgusting? What about what this place is doing to me? What about all the lizards and blood and skulls and shit? You mean there’s nothing disgusting about any of that? You’re a bigger scumbag than me and that’s saying something! You’d better let me the fuck out of here or I’m going to pick my guns back up and blow this whole place down!”
“You want to leave?” asked the samurai. “You really want to give up on your mission because you can’t handle your opponent? Is this what you want?”
“Yes! Yes, you idiot! I just want to get the fuck out of here! I’ve had it with this shit!” sobbed Joe.
The samurai stared him down with sternness and poison in his eyes, but ultimately decided to put his sword away. “There’s nothing to stop you, Mr. Fields. You can walk out of here anytime you want. The exit has been there all along.” The samurai pointed to the smashed in front door, which now had a brightly lit portal in its way. “Go. Leave here immediately and never come back again.”
Joe’s teary eyes felt relaxed and hypnotized as he slowly made his way to the portal. “Leave…here…immediately…never…come back…again…” he said in a zombie-like voice. He reached his arm out to touch the light and the magnetic force pulled him through. He swam and swirled through the heavenly aura, finally able to rest after all of the nightmare fuel he took in that day.
When he crossed through to the other side, Joe found his arms trapped in a straightjacket and that he was in a white padded cell with only a small hole in the door to look out of. He struggled and fought in his bonds, but the jacket was too tight and he was too exhausted from the sedatives he received.
A doctor and a nurse could be heard having a conversation outside the cell. “Read me the summary on this one,” said the doctor.
The nurse flipped through the papers on a clipboard and read off, “Joseph Robert Fields, age thirty-five. Was admitted to psychiatric care after inhaling a large amount of PCP dust. He has shown signs of aggression and had to be given fifteen milliliters of sedatives. Previous criminal history includes aggravated mayhem, property damage, assault and battery, and aggravated kidnapping.”
Did Joe hear them right? PCP dust? Was the whole temple scattered with it? Knowing that he had been had caused the newest patient to thrash around in his cell and scream infinite curse words, to which the doctor and nurse backed away from the door and allowed him to work out his pent up violence. It may have been a while before he did, but anything was better than dealing with this sick son of a bitch in any capacity.
The target’s tiny footprints led the grinning mercenary to a Japanese-style temple with a wooden balcony, white paper walls, a bamboo roof, and flowery decorations all around. “You’re making this too easy for me, you little twit!” said Joe as he cocked both of his machineguns. The psychotic smile on his face suggested that he didn’t care if his target lived a torturous existence or died a brutal death. “You’re mine, you little bitch! Your ass is mine!” he said in his gruff voice.
With his metal feet creating tiny tremors, the soldier of fortune marched toward the seemingly abandoned temple before kicking down the wooden door with shattering ease. Joe poked his head inside and sniffed around for his target like a hungry wolf. With the exception of a few potted plants, paintings, and samurai swords, the place was empty. But instead of waiting for a pin to drop, Joe clomped and crashed his way inside, not giving two shits if the wooden floor was cracking and splintering.
“I can smell that stank on you, you little weasel! Drop the bowl of rice and come out here with your hands up!” A few more animalistic snorts and Joe let out such a forceful sneeze that he yelled like a grizzly bear and dropped his cigar. As snot flew from his nose and extinguished the cherry, Joe began to notice the light coating of dust all around the walls and the floor. “Really? Dust? Is that all you got? Holy shit, you’re in for a wild ride, motherfucker! You only have nine holes in your body right now. I’ll put about a hundred more in you, you slick son of a bitch!”
A monstrous growl caught Joe’s attention to where he reluctantly turned around with his guns drawn. Standing in the kicked in doorway was a seven-foot lizard demon with its blade-like tongue hanging down to its knees. Its claws were extended and its screech was deafening. The beast looked poised to strike, but quick as it may be, Joe’s trigger fingers were that much faster. A hailstorm of bullets descended upon the “big ugly fucker” and shredded skin and bones to a fine powder. The blood stayed floating in the air in the shape of a sphere.
“What the fuck is this shit? Is this some kind of voodoo bitch negro spell or what?” shouted Joe. Skull shaped blood spheres began emitting from the liquid mass and staring down the mercenary with misty black eyes. Their tongues flailed around like whips while their jaws were wide open and leaking with green fluids.
Joe once again showered his opponents with bullets, but all the shots did was splatter a modicum of blood stains all over the paper walls. The floating blood skulls still remained and even let out an eardrum-shattering yell. Joe squinted his eyes in confusion and terror as a brown bubbling substance was rising from the back of their mouths.
The formerly arrogant mercenary turned around and ran screaming like a child, mustering up every curse word on the top of his whacked out head. The more he ran, the steeper the incline in the wooden floor, which was like walking up a wall. Joe huffed and wheezed in exhaustion after draining his legs in such heavy armor. The armor felt hot and muggy to where he struggled to take it off. After a while of struggling, he dropped his guns and used the power in his metal gloves to just rip the armor off a few chunks at a time.
The incline in the floor lessened to a normal base and Joe was feeling the sweaty chill in his confederate flag T-shirt and baggy camouflage pants. He got so cold that he wrapped his arms around himself and huddled on the floor. And then he felt a tidal wave of vomit wash over him as well as dissolved blood and banshee cries. The bloody skulls left him so drenched afterwards that he struggled to breathe underneath the weight of such liquid. After coughing up retched fluids and vomiting himself, Joe looked around the temple with glassy red eyes and said, “Where the hell am I? What the fuck is this place?!”
“This is what you wanted all along, right?” said a mysterious voice. Joe looked around for the source, but the temple was still the same vomit and blood covered mess it was before, minus humans. “I’m the voice inside of you, Joe. I’m the one who’s going to tell you to get the hell out of this temple before it’s too late. You don’t need to catch anybody. This isn’t your job.”
Joe tightly gripped both sides of his head as the inner voice felt like he was being attacked with an ice pick. The mercenary even banged his head against the soaked floor and shouted, “Stop it! Leave me alone! You’re not real!” The inner voice chanted a Japanese-sounding magic spell and that only made Joe slam his head harder, which opened up a huge gash on his forehead.
Instead of blood pouring from the wound, a hooded cobra slithered out and danced around on the floor. Joe fearfully crab-walked backwards as the cobra hissed and spit venom in his mouth. The mercenary coughed, hacked, and puked until a mouthful of tarantulas poured out and joined the cobra in its dance.
Joe’s bloodshot eyes widened in horror as the cobra and the spiders swirled together in a purple tornado, taking the form of a ghostly samurai in blue robes. The spiritual warrior pulled out his katana and pointed it sternly at the blubbering gun-for-hire.
“Please, don’t kill me!” begged Joe with his hands together prayer-style. “I don’t know what the hell is going on here. I just came here for a job and I ended up in....whatever the hell this place is!”
“In other words, you’re not sorry that you were chasing an innocent human being. You’re sorry because you got caught doing it,” said the “inner voice”, which now belonged to the samurai. “You knew all along that your target did nothing wrong. He was defending himself from local police after they tried to unlawfully arrest him. And now here you are trying to find someone who is no longer here. All for what? An ill-gotten paycheck? You disgust me!”
“Disgust?” whimpered Joe. “You thought that was disgusting? What about what this place is doing to me? What about all the lizards and blood and skulls and shit? You mean there’s nothing disgusting about any of that? You’re a bigger scumbag than me and that’s saying something! You’d better let me the fuck out of here or I’m going to pick my guns back up and blow this whole place down!”
“You want to leave?” asked the samurai. “You really want to give up on your mission because you can’t handle your opponent? Is this what you want?”
“Yes! Yes, you idiot! I just want to get the fuck out of here! I’ve had it with this shit!” sobbed Joe.
The samurai stared him down with sternness and poison in his eyes, but ultimately decided to put his sword away. “There’s nothing to stop you, Mr. Fields. You can walk out of here anytime you want. The exit has been there all along.” The samurai pointed to the smashed in front door, which now had a brightly lit portal in its way. “Go. Leave here immediately and never come back again.”
Joe’s teary eyes felt relaxed and hypnotized as he slowly made his way to the portal. “Leave…here…immediately…never…come back…again…” he said in a zombie-like voice. He reached his arm out to touch the light and the magnetic force pulled him through. He swam and swirled through the heavenly aura, finally able to rest after all of the nightmare fuel he took in that day.
When he crossed through to the other side, Joe found his arms trapped in a straightjacket and that he was in a white padded cell with only a small hole in the door to look out of. He struggled and fought in his bonds, but the jacket was too tight and he was too exhausted from the sedatives he received.
A doctor and a nurse could be heard having a conversation outside the cell. “Read me the summary on this one,” said the doctor.
The nurse flipped through the papers on a clipboard and read off, “Joseph Robert Fields, age thirty-five. Was admitted to psychiatric care after inhaling a large amount of PCP dust. He has shown signs of aggression and had to be given fifteen milliliters of sedatives. Previous criminal history includes aggravated mayhem, property damage, assault and battery, and aggravated kidnapping.”
Did Joe hear them right? PCP dust? Was the whole temple scattered with it? Knowing that he had been had caused the newest patient to thrash around in his cell and scream infinite curse words, to which the doctor and nurse backed away from the door and allowed him to work out his pent up violence. It may have been a while before he did, but anything was better than dealing with this sick son of a bitch in any capacity.
December 2, 2016
Cookie Cutter Cutie Pies
VERSE 1
If you’ve seen one of them, you’ve seen them all
Each and every one of them are Barbie dolls
Packed in tight at the crowded shopping malls
Skipping and prancing down the fucking halls
The walking dead have got some fucked up heads
Doing anything to get someone in their bed
The supermodel body with the perfect measurements
The supermodel ego with the perfect evidence
CHORUS
Cut, copy, past, repeat!
Cookie cutter cutie pies! Cookie cutter cutie pies!
Mental vegetable and social meat!
Cookie cutter cutie pies! Cookie cutter cutie pies!
VERSE 2
Making love isn’t the same without passion
Conforming to shallow values and fashion
I might as well date a giant lump of clay
Or a burning effigy made of paper mache
Black credit card or just working hard?
Sugar baby princess or god among insects?
One way or another, we meet our fates together
Will you stay standing after the storm we weather?
CHORUS
Cut, copy, past, repeat!
Cookie cutter cutie pies! Cookie cutter cutie pies!
Mental vegetable and social meat!
Cookie cutter cutie pies! Cookie cutter cutie pies!
BRIDGE
Legacy of ecstasy
Schism of hedonism
No matter what you call it, it doesn’t change the fact
You’re a follower of sheep, not the leader of the pack
EXTENDED CHORUS
Cut, copy, past, repeat!
Cookie cutter cutie pies! Cookie cutter cutie pies!
Mental vegetable and social meat!
Cookie cutter cutie pies! Cookie cutter cutie pies!
When the ship comes in, you’re ready to cheat!
Cookie cutter cutie pies! Cookie cutter cutie pies!
Stepping on backs with your nine inch heel feet!
Cookie cutter cutie pies! Cookie cutter cutie pies!
Cookie! Cutter! Cutie! Pies!
It’s all just bullshit and lies!
If you’ve seen one of them, you’ve seen them all
Each and every one of them are Barbie dolls
Packed in tight at the crowded shopping malls
Skipping and prancing down the fucking halls
The walking dead have got some fucked up heads
Doing anything to get someone in their bed
The supermodel body with the perfect measurements
The supermodel ego with the perfect evidence
CHORUS
Cut, copy, past, repeat!
Cookie cutter cutie pies! Cookie cutter cutie pies!
Mental vegetable and social meat!
Cookie cutter cutie pies! Cookie cutter cutie pies!
VERSE 2
Making love isn’t the same without passion
Conforming to shallow values and fashion
I might as well date a giant lump of clay
Or a burning effigy made of paper mache
Black credit card or just working hard?
Sugar baby princess or god among insects?
One way or another, we meet our fates together
Will you stay standing after the storm we weather?
CHORUS
Cut, copy, past, repeat!
Cookie cutter cutie pies! Cookie cutter cutie pies!
Mental vegetable and social meat!
Cookie cutter cutie pies! Cookie cutter cutie pies!
BRIDGE
Legacy of ecstasy
Schism of hedonism
No matter what you call it, it doesn’t change the fact
You’re a follower of sheep, not the leader of the pack
EXTENDED CHORUS
Cut, copy, past, repeat!
Cookie cutter cutie pies! Cookie cutter cutie pies!
Mental vegetable and social meat!
Cookie cutter cutie pies! Cookie cutter cutie pies!
When the ship comes in, you’re ready to cheat!
Cookie cutter cutie pies! Cookie cutter cutie pies!
Stepping on backs with your nine inch heel feet!
Cookie cutter cutie pies! Cookie cutter cutie pies!
Cookie! Cutter! Cutie! Pies!
It’s all just bullshit and lies!
December 1, 2016
All the Same
(In the style of “Like Me and You” by Raffi)
Farage lives in England
Sarkozy lives in France
Harper lives in Canada
Putin lives in Russia
Kim-Jong lives in Korea
Trump lives in America
Christie lives in New Jersey
Scott lives in Florida
Walker lives in Wisconsin
Paul lives in Kentucky
Perry lives in Texas
Bush lives in dystopia
And each one is exactly the same
They bring the world so much shame
They’re the ones we ought to blame
For shit going up in flames
Farage lives in England
Sarkozy lives in France
Harper lives in Canada
Putin lives in Russia
Kim-Jong lives in Korea
Trump lives in America
Christie lives in New Jersey
Scott lives in Florida
Walker lives in Wisconsin
Paul lives in Kentucky
Perry lives in Texas
Bush lives in dystopia
And each one is exactly the same
They bring the world so much shame
They’re the ones we ought to blame
For shit going up in flames
Demon Axe, Chapter 9
“Daniel! March your butt right back here! Now! Open your goddamn ears for the first time in your life! Get back here, you big baby! Come on! Move it!” None of these energetic threats from Raven could slow down the clomping thuds of Daniel Mercer’s boots. Determined that his newfound “weapon” was still just at toy, the rock god marched back to the portal to the “real world”.
“You can run away all you want to, but Roger is eventually going to hunt your ass down!” shouted Raven, who was floating through the portal space with him. “And then what will you do? Are you just going to give up? Are you going to kneel before the same son of a bitch who murdered your friends in cold blood?!”
Daniel was more distracted by his own angry thoughts than he was by the colors and wavelengths of the portal world. Raven’s words snapped him out of it and earned her a vicious glare from a stone face. “Be angry all you want!” she said. “But if you don’t channel that anger towards bringing justice to your friends and your audience, then you’re just a heavy metal hypocrite.”
“You want to know what a real hypocrite is, Raven?!” roared Daniel. “A hypocrite is someone who has an entire army of soldiers to hunt down one guy, yet still claims to be powerless to do anything about it! Your father is a typical politician: full of empty promises and full of bullshit! Who the hell voted for him to be king?! Seriously, what is he doing with all of those soldiers?! Are they just a bunch of paper-pushers with medieval weapons?!”
The allies were so busy bickering that they failed to realize that they had been shot out of the portal and onto the grassy field of the outdoor arena a.k.a. “the real world”. They stood back up (without each other to lean on) and dusted the grass blades and dirt off of their clothes.
Raven shoved her finger in Daniel’s face and said, “Listen to me, you fucking jerk! I don’t ever want to hear you talk about my father like that again! Some things are out of his control, but he knows exactly what he’s doing by sending you out to fight Roger Zee. Whether you like it or not, you represent this human world. You have its entire weight on your shoulders. If you humans don’t learn to help yourselves, then nobody else can help you either. This is my father’s way of teaching you pathetic humans self-reliance! If you can update your fucking Twitter page, you can goddamn jolly-well learn to catch a terrorist!”
Daniel leaned closer to Raven so that they were face-to-face and said in a hushed, yet angry tone, “There’s a huge difference between self-reliance and complete abandonment. Not only is Roger Zee a product of YOUR society, but the only thing I have to fight him with is…” He swung his “magical” axe microphone in the air and sprinkled more gold dust around. “Tell me how any of this is supposed to make sense!”
“When was the last time any tragedy in this world made sense?” asked Raven rhetorically. “When was the last time that a zealot thought rationally about what he or she was doing? Sometimes things don’t make sense at first, Daniel. Sometimes the best answer to all of this is there are just too many assholes out there. But you…you make more sense than a lot of people from your culture, and that’s saying a lot given your affinity for drugs and alcohol.”
“Then riddle me this, Batman,” said Daniel. “How exactly is a stage prop supposed to slash the head off of someone who can do the same thing to me with just a flick of his fucking wrist?”
“That’s the million dollar question, Mr. Lord of the Pit!” said a gravelly, demonic voice only a few feet away from the conversers. Daniel and Raven looked at each other fearfully and gulped saliva before slowly turning their necks to see that the voice belonged to an enslaved Johnny Vega, his partner Sonia Marquez flanking him. They stood there with arms folded, muscles thumping, veins protruding, eyes glowing, and teeth bared.
Raven took notice of the crowns of thorns on the assailants’ heads. “These wrestlers don’t know what they’re doing. The Order of the Spider once used those crowns to glean information from prisoners. Roger has found a way to use them for complete mind control.”
Daniel patted Raven on the back and said, “Well, Mrs. Warrior Princess, this is your cue then. You’re the only one between the two of us with an actual weapon, so why don’t you just…”
Raven was knocked backwards so far that she rolled across the grass field, all because of a flying martial arts kick from Sonia Marquez, who proceeded to crack her knuckles after such an accomplishment. Daniel trembled as he watched his ally holding her stomach and gasping desperately for air. Sonia mockingly patted him on the shoulder and said in a succubus-like voice, “Well, what are you waiting for, honey-bunny? Why don’t you try that new weapon of yours on me? I promise I won’t bite…hard!”
Daniel looked down at his “toy” and gripped the handle with a warrior’s resolve. His trembling of fear turned to trembling of anger. He glared with deadliness into Sonia’s demonic eyes and said, “Die, you motherfucker, die!” With reckless abandon, he hacked and slashed with his magical axe like a battle-hungry berserker. He slashed at her neck, arms, ribs, and legs while screaming every swear word imaginable until his veins burst like dynamite sticks. By the time his vicious attack was over, he doubled over in exhaustion and wheezed hard while spitting acidic bile onto the grass.
“Didn’t your mother ever teach you to be nice to your toys?” said Sonia, who didn’t have a single scratch on her, not even a small bruise of sorts. She stood with her arms folded and her smile arrogant. Daniel on the other hand whimpered so gently that Johnny Vega couldn’t help but give him a “comforting” shoulder squeeze.
“It’s alright, you big baby girl,” said Johnny in a mocking bass voice. “It’s not your fault that you hit like a two-year-old…or cry like one. You probably should have brought a gun with you of some kind. But then again, those are big boy toys and you’re just a little bitty baby. Maybe you should have one of those rifles with a wooden cork at the end of it.”
Sonia and Johnny were laughing it up in their monstrous voices while Raven was squirming on the ground like a snail, trying to get back into this battle, but hurting badly. She was the only one who had true fighting experience and she was easily vanquished. Daniel didn’t think he had a chance in the world. To him, this was truly a shitty way to die. He didn’t know what the minions were going to do to him, but it probably would have involved a shattered skull or a snapped spinal cord. Hearing them laugh about it brought angry tears to Daniel’s eyes.
The Lord of the Pit grit his teeth hard as he thought about Roger secretly laughing about slaughtering his band mates. The trauma of their severed heads came rushing back to him, the voices blaming him for being a failure and running away in cowardice. His adrenaline was heating up like molten steel. His muscles twitched and ached. His heart felt like a bomb vest ready to explode. With one final outburst, Daniel yelled, “Shut the fuck up!” into the microphone like the true heavy metal god he was.
The sound waves of the throaty growl knocked Sonia and Johnny back like human cannonballs. Their crowns of thorns showed small cracks in them as well. Everybody on that battlefield good or evil showed shock on their faces with wide eyes and deep breaths. “Holy shit,” said Daniel softly.
The initial shock wore off and was replaced with vitriolic, passionate fire from the Lord of the Pit. Instead of imagining his band mates as floating heads, he imagined them as full bodies, in their costumes and masks, playing behind him like they were at a concert. Vulture Man strummed his guitar like a wild motherfucker. Pig Man slapped his bass guitar like a pimp who was owed money. G-Pac bashed the drums and symbols with enough anger to put dents into them.
“Alright, motherfuckers!” the Lord of the Pit shouted into the microphone yet again. “You want a battle? Here’s a war!” That last word was prolonged with a raspy roar as he imagined the grinding music in the background. The louder Daniel yelled, the tighter everybody around him gripped their ears in pain. He wasn’t even singing a real song; it was just a firestorm of hateful, disgusting swear words from “cocksucker” to “motherfucker” to “prison bitch” to “Jesus Christ”.
The sound waves from the microphone blew past everyone like a hurricane and smashed their eardrums like G-Pac on his kit. The crowns of thorns formed more cracks. And more. And more. Then the artifacts of control shattered like glass and blew away in the heavy metal tornado. Johnny and Sonia’s heads were bleeding, but not profusely and they were still awake. Raven was shaking her ears with her fingers, trying to get the buzzing out. The Lord of the Pit looked around at what he had done and dropped his microphone in disbelief. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he said.
“You can run away all you want to, but Roger is eventually going to hunt your ass down!” shouted Raven, who was floating through the portal space with him. “And then what will you do? Are you just going to give up? Are you going to kneel before the same son of a bitch who murdered your friends in cold blood?!”
Daniel was more distracted by his own angry thoughts than he was by the colors and wavelengths of the portal world. Raven’s words snapped him out of it and earned her a vicious glare from a stone face. “Be angry all you want!” she said. “But if you don’t channel that anger towards bringing justice to your friends and your audience, then you’re just a heavy metal hypocrite.”
“You want to know what a real hypocrite is, Raven?!” roared Daniel. “A hypocrite is someone who has an entire army of soldiers to hunt down one guy, yet still claims to be powerless to do anything about it! Your father is a typical politician: full of empty promises and full of bullshit! Who the hell voted for him to be king?! Seriously, what is he doing with all of those soldiers?! Are they just a bunch of paper-pushers with medieval weapons?!”
The allies were so busy bickering that they failed to realize that they had been shot out of the portal and onto the grassy field of the outdoor arena a.k.a. “the real world”. They stood back up (without each other to lean on) and dusted the grass blades and dirt off of their clothes.
Raven shoved her finger in Daniel’s face and said, “Listen to me, you fucking jerk! I don’t ever want to hear you talk about my father like that again! Some things are out of his control, but he knows exactly what he’s doing by sending you out to fight Roger Zee. Whether you like it or not, you represent this human world. You have its entire weight on your shoulders. If you humans don’t learn to help yourselves, then nobody else can help you either. This is my father’s way of teaching you pathetic humans self-reliance! If you can update your fucking Twitter page, you can goddamn jolly-well learn to catch a terrorist!”
Daniel leaned closer to Raven so that they were face-to-face and said in a hushed, yet angry tone, “There’s a huge difference between self-reliance and complete abandonment. Not only is Roger Zee a product of YOUR society, but the only thing I have to fight him with is…” He swung his “magical” axe microphone in the air and sprinkled more gold dust around. “Tell me how any of this is supposed to make sense!”
“When was the last time any tragedy in this world made sense?” asked Raven rhetorically. “When was the last time that a zealot thought rationally about what he or she was doing? Sometimes things don’t make sense at first, Daniel. Sometimes the best answer to all of this is there are just too many assholes out there. But you…you make more sense than a lot of people from your culture, and that’s saying a lot given your affinity for drugs and alcohol.”
“Then riddle me this, Batman,” said Daniel. “How exactly is a stage prop supposed to slash the head off of someone who can do the same thing to me with just a flick of his fucking wrist?”
“That’s the million dollar question, Mr. Lord of the Pit!” said a gravelly, demonic voice only a few feet away from the conversers. Daniel and Raven looked at each other fearfully and gulped saliva before slowly turning their necks to see that the voice belonged to an enslaved Johnny Vega, his partner Sonia Marquez flanking him. They stood there with arms folded, muscles thumping, veins protruding, eyes glowing, and teeth bared.
Raven took notice of the crowns of thorns on the assailants’ heads. “These wrestlers don’t know what they’re doing. The Order of the Spider once used those crowns to glean information from prisoners. Roger has found a way to use them for complete mind control.”
Daniel patted Raven on the back and said, “Well, Mrs. Warrior Princess, this is your cue then. You’re the only one between the two of us with an actual weapon, so why don’t you just…”
Raven was knocked backwards so far that she rolled across the grass field, all because of a flying martial arts kick from Sonia Marquez, who proceeded to crack her knuckles after such an accomplishment. Daniel trembled as he watched his ally holding her stomach and gasping desperately for air. Sonia mockingly patted him on the shoulder and said in a succubus-like voice, “Well, what are you waiting for, honey-bunny? Why don’t you try that new weapon of yours on me? I promise I won’t bite…hard!”
Daniel looked down at his “toy” and gripped the handle with a warrior’s resolve. His trembling of fear turned to trembling of anger. He glared with deadliness into Sonia’s demonic eyes and said, “Die, you motherfucker, die!” With reckless abandon, he hacked and slashed with his magical axe like a battle-hungry berserker. He slashed at her neck, arms, ribs, and legs while screaming every swear word imaginable until his veins burst like dynamite sticks. By the time his vicious attack was over, he doubled over in exhaustion and wheezed hard while spitting acidic bile onto the grass.
“Didn’t your mother ever teach you to be nice to your toys?” said Sonia, who didn’t have a single scratch on her, not even a small bruise of sorts. She stood with her arms folded and her smile arrogant. Daniel on the other hand whimpered so gently that Johnny Vega couldn’t help but give him a “comforting” shoulder squeeze.
“It’s alright, you big baby girl,” said Johnny in a mocking bass voice. “It’s not your fault that you hit like a two-year-old…or cry like one. You probably should have brought a gun with you of some kind. But then again, those are big boy toys and you’re just a little bitty baby. Maybe you should have one of those rifles with a wooden cork at the end of it.”
Sonia and Johnny were laughing it up in their monstrous voices while Raven was squirming on the ground like a snail, trying to get back into this battle, but hurting badly. She was the only one who had true fighting experience and she was easily vanquished. Daniel didn’t think he had a chance in the world. To him, this was truly a shitty way to die. He didn’t know what the minions were going to do to him, but it probably would have involved a shattered skull or a snapped spinal cord. Hearing them laugh about it brought angry tears to Daniel’s eyes.
The Lord of the Pit grit his teeth hard as he thought about Roger secretly laughing about slaughtering his band mates. The trauma of their severed heads came rushing back to him, the voices blaming him for being a failure and running away in cowardice. His adrenaline was heating up like molten steel. His muscles twitched and ached. His heart felt like a bomb vest ready to explode. With one final outburst, Daniel yelled, “Shut the fuck up!” into the microphone like the true heavy metal god he was.
The sound waves of the throaty growl knocked Sonia and Johnny back like human cannonballs. Their crowns of thorns showed small cracks in them as well. Everybody on that battlefield good or evil showed shock on their faces with wide eyes and deep breaths. “Holy shit,” said Daniel softly.
The initial shock wore off and was replaced with vitriolic, passionate fire from the Lord of the Pit. Instead of imagining his band mates as floating heads, he imagined them as full bodies, in their costumes and masks, playing behind him like they were at a concert. Vulture Man strummed his guitar like a wild motherfucker. Pig Man slapped his bass guitar like a pimp who was owed money. G-Pac bashed the drums and symbols with enough anger to put dents into them.
“Alright, motherfuckers!” the Lord of the Pit shouted into the microphone yet again. “You want a battle? Here’s a war!” That last word was prolonged with a raspy roar as he imagined the grinding music in the background. The louder Daniel yelled, the tighter everybody around him gripped their ears in pain. He wasn’t even singing a real song; it was just a firestorm of hateful, disgusting swear words from “cocksucker” to “motherfucker” to “prison bitch” to “Jesus Christ”.
The sound waves from the microphone blew past everyone like a hurricane and smashed their eardrums like G-Pac on his kit. The crowns of thorns formed more cracks. And more. And more. Then the artifacts of control shattered like glass and blew away in the heavy metal tornado. Johnny and Sonia’s heads were bleeding, but not profusely and they were still awake. Raven was shaking her ears with her fingers, trying to get the buzzing out. The Lord of the Pit looked around at what he had done and dropped his microphone in disbelief. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he said.
November 30, 2016
Hotheadedness
***HOTHEADEDNESS***
I can count the number of travesties going on in this world on one hand…and the other hand…and my toes…and my teeth…and my hair. I may talk briefly about them online, but that’s about it. People always say that taking calculated risks is better than being passive in the shadows. They say if you don’t take risks, you haven’t really lived at all. Is that true? What if you choose to live safely because every one of your risks has ended badly? Am I suddenly supposed to live up to someone else’s standards of bravery by having more shitty results? Is it too much to ask that at least one of my bold risks pays 100% interest? So yes, I’ve lived in my safe place for several years now and I like it just fine.
Basically, what the failure of these risks boil down to is that I’m extremely hotheaded when it comes to confrontation and debate. Every time I’m challenged, my blood goes cold, my stomach feels ill, my mouth goes dry, and my Benedict Arnold of a brain shuts down when I need it the most. Once all is said and done, I dwell on these confrontations for several days, weeks, or even months. As I’ve stated several times, I’m autistic and schizophrenic, so that means a huge increase in sensitivity. The more sensitive you are to negative stimuli, the more you’ll want to avoid them.
If you were a psychologist trying to pick my brain, I guess you could say that the reason I love writing violent stories so much is because I secretly wish I could do those horrible things to my opponents. If I had the muscles and heavy weaponry of my favorite barbarian Deus Shadowheart, there would be a lot of dead bodies lying around. If I had the power of psychomancy like Tony Castle did, I could simply make my opponents feel just as sensitive and nervous as me. Writing violent stories is my own personal way of making gratuitous bloodshed legal.
But writing bloody stories doesn’t really solve anything, does it. Come to think of it, punching a guy in the face doesn’t do much either. Anger begets more anger. Hate begets more hate. While I realize how powerful of a force love can be, when I get into hotheaded mode, I’m not thinking about love. I’m either thinking about getting the hell out of my situation or beating some ass. I think even less about love when my schizophrenic mind shoves the incident in my face over the next few days and interferes with my life.
So there you have it, guys. Until there’s a cure for hotheadedness and oversensitivity, you won’t see me in the picket line or on the battlefield. Taking deep breaths does nothing, because while you’re trying to calm yourself down, your opponent will have already made the next move. And then you’re several moves behind and before you know it you’ve been bested by someone who is clearly in the wrong.
The best I can do for the cause is continue to write my bloody stories, pen heartfelt poetry, and vote my ass off. Sharing memes doesn’t do a whole lot, because let’s face it, nobody ever changed their mind because of a stupid meme. At least when I’m creating art from the shadows (a.k.a. “the safe place”), I’m getting some bang for my buck. What do I get for going to people’s houses and telling them what’s what? A black eye? A bruised ego? A bullet in my chest? Those would be preferable to an overly hot head. I’m not just talking about any hot head, but one that could bake a sheet of chocolate chip cookies.
I am by no means a cowardly person. I’m just a guy with awkward brain chemistry and too many lost chances. Even something as simple as applying for a job at What Culture could be considered a calculated risk. It could either mean a lifetime of writing kick-ass articles and being around funny people, or it could mean stressing myself out and not knowing what the hell I’m doing. Seeing as how I have a limited knowledge of pop culture, I’m guessing the latter of those two would be more likely. Why crash and burn when I don’t have to?
Living in a stress-free environment is paramount to the recovery of a mentally disabled human being; every psychologist will tell you this. It’s part of the reason why mental disabilities are grounds for gaining social security benefits: because working in, say, a customer service job would unleash the demons inside. While it is true that level-headed people feel stressed out at work too, disabled people feel it a hundred times worse. We can’t in all good conscious leave these people with no income, so that’s where social security comes in. That’s a talking point I’ll defend until the end, hotheaded or not.
Do I have the power to change the world? I don’t know, buddy, do you? Does anybody? Does any group of people have a loud enough voice to bring change to this mad world? Some people get noticed, some people get ignored. If everybody got noticed, we’d have a much happier world, wouldn’t you agree?
***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***
It’s a new week at the WSS and wouldn’t you know it, the admins used my prompt suggestion “Inner Voice” (I wonder how I thought of that one). My story this week will be called “Madhouse” and it goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
1. Joe Fields, Artillerist Mercenary
2. Random Hallucinations
PROMPT CONFORMITY: One of Joe’s hallucinations is his inner voice.
SYNOPSIS: With bulky steel armor and chain guns mounted on either hand, Joe attempts to hunt down a bounty head in the middle of a bamboo forest. He stumbles upon a Japanese-style temple thinking that this is where the criminal is hiding. When he busts down the doors, he finds that nobody is there and he tries to leave. Instead of a clear escape, Joe begins having hallucinations of ghosts, samurais, ninjas, and other warriors attacking him at random angles. The vulgar mercenary begins to slowly go insane as he fights off these tormenting phantoms. Joe is convinced that there’s a conspiracy against him, but this belief only contributes to the degeneration of his mind.
FUN FACT: I guess Mr. Fields secretly has a hot head.
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
I’ve tried twice to draw Knox from “Emoticon Artist”, but these attempts were met with me throwing both pieces of paper in the garbage. I’ll eventually find a good model for my orc warrior, just not tonight.
***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“Protesting is a lot like having sex. You can scream and be as wild as you want. You can even do it all night long. But if something starts to burn, then maybe it’s time to go to bed.”
-Trevor Noah-
I can count the number of travesties going on in this world on one hand…and the other hand…and my toes…and my teeth…and my hair. I may talk briefly about them online, but that’s about it. People always say that taking calculated risks is better than being passive in the shadows. They say if you don’t take risks, you haven’t really lived at all. Is that true? What if you choose to live safely because every one of your risks has ended badly? Am I suddenly supposed to live up to someone else’s standards of bravery by having more shitty results? Is it too much to ask that at least one of my bold risks pays 100% interest? So yes, I’ve lived in my safe place for several years now and I like it just fine.
Basically, what the failure of these risks boil down to is that I’m extremely hotheaded when it comes to confrontation and debate. Every time I’m challenged, my blood goes cold, my stomach feels ill, my mouth goes dry, and my Benedict Arnold of a brain shuts down when I need it the most. Once all is said and done, I dwell on these confrontations for several days, weeks, or even months. As I’ve stated several times, I’m autistic and schizophrenic, so that means a huge increase in sensitivity. The more sensitive you are to negative stimuli, the more you’ll want to avoid them.
If you were a psychologist trying to pick my brain, I guess you could say that the reason I love writing violent stories so much is because I secretly wish I could do those horrible things to my opponents. If I had the muscles and heavy weaponry of my favorite barbarian Deus Shadowheart, there would be a lot of dead bodies lying around. If I had the power of psychomancy like Tony Castle did, I could simply make my opponents feel just as sensitive and nervous as me. Writing violent stories is my own personal way of making gratuitous bloodshed legal.
But writing bloody stories doesn’t really solve anything, does it. Come to think of it, punching a guy in the face doesn’t do much either. Anger begets more anger. Hate begets more hate. While I realize how powerful of a force love can be, when I get into hotheaded mode, I’m not thinking about love. I’m either thinking about getting the hell out of my situation or beating some ass. I think even less about love when my schizophrenic mind shoves the incident in my face over the next few days and interferes with my life.
So there you have it, guys. Until there’s a cure for hotheadedness and oversensitivity, you won’t see me in the picket line or on the battlefield. Taking deep breaths does nothing, because while you’re trying to calm yourself down, your opponent will have already made the next move. And then you’re several moves behind and before you know it you’ve been bested by someone who is clearly in the wrong.
The best I can do for the cause is continue to write my bloody stories, pen heartfelt poetry, and vote my ass off. Sharing memes doesn’t do a whole lot, because let’s face it, nobody ever changed their mind because of a stupid meme. At least when I’m creating art from the shadows (a.k.a. “the safe place”), I’m getting some bang for my buck. What do I get for going to people’s houses and telling them what’s what? A black eye? A bruised ego? A bullet in my chest? Those would be preferable to an overly hot head. I’m not just talking about any hot head, but one that could bake a sheet of chocolate chip cookies.
I am by no means a cowardly person. I’m just a guy with awkward brain chemistry and too many lost chances. Even something as simple as applying for a job at What Culture could be considered a calculated risk. It could either mean a lifetime of writing kick-ass articles and being around funny people, or it could mean stressing myself out and not knowing what the hell I’m doing. Seeing as how I have a limited knowledge of pop culture, I’m guessing the latter of those two would be more likely. Why crash and burn when I don’t have to?
Living in a stress-free environment is paramount to the recovery of a mentally disabled human being; every psychologist will tell you this. It’s part of the reason why mental disabilities are grounds for gaining social security benefits: because working in, say, a customer service job would unleash the demons inside. While it is true that level-headed people feel stressed out at work too, disabled people feel it a hundred times worse. We can’t in all good conscious leave these people with no income, so that’s where social security comes in. That’s a talking point I’ll defend until the end, hotheaded or not.
Do I have the power to change the world? I don’t know, buddy, do you? Does anybody? Does any group of people have a loud enough voice to bring change to this mad world? Some people get noticed, some people get ignored. If everybody got noticed, we’d have a much happier world, wouldn’t you agree?
***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***
It’s a new week at the WSS and wouldn’t you know it, the admins used my prompt suggestion “Inner Voice” (I wonder how I thought of that one). My story this week will be called “Madhouse” and it goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
1. Joe Fields, Artillerist Mercenary
2. Random Hallucinations
PROMPT CONFORMITY: One of Joe’s hallucinations is his inner voice.
SYNOPSIS: With bulky steel armor and chain guns mounted on either hand, Joe attempts to hunt down a bounty head in the middle of a bamboo forest. He stumbles upon a Japanese-style temple thinking that this is where the criminal is hiding. When he busts down the doors, he finds that nobody is there and he tries to leave. Instead of a clear escape, Joe begins having hallucinations of ghosts, samurais, ninjas, and other warriors attacking him at random angles. The vulgar mercenary begins to slowly go insane as he fights off these tormenting phantoms. Joe is convinced that there’s a conspiracy against him, but this belief only contributes to the degeneration of his mind.
FUN FACT: I guess Mr. Fields secretly has a hot head.
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
I’ve tried twice to draw Knox from “Emoticon Artist”, but these attempts were met with me throwing both pieces of paper in the garbage. I’ll eventually find a good model for my orc warrior, just not tonight.
***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“Protesting is a lot like having sex. You can scream and be as wild as you want. You can even do it all night long. But if something starts to burn, then maybe it’s time to go to bed.”
-Trevor Noah-
November 28, 2016
Bitch About
CHORUS 1
Bitch about millennials, bitch about liberals
Bitching quite a lot or bitching just a little
Bitch about democrats, bitch about greens
Bitch like you know what the fuck this all means!
VERSE 1
You’ve got your own version of PC culture
Got your own whiners like Hannity and Coulter
Got your own pitchforks, got your own chariots
Got your own sins, got your own embarrassments
Got an automatic rifle to enforce your rules
Got a stockpile of magazines and torture tools
When the brightest flame ignites the flag
Your private army grabs the body bags
CHORUS 2
Bitch about Hilary, bitch about Bill
Bitch about Bernie, bitch about Jill
Bitch about people other than yourself
Bitch about dark magic on the library shelf
VERSE 2
You have everything you’ve ever wanted
Freedom and church, yet you feel taunted
You tell other people to not be offended
Yet your own traumatic visions never ended
You got triggered, so you got liquored
As if your ego could get any bigger
You hurt just as much as the rest of us
Join the human race or in the moon you trust
CHORUS 3
Bitch about this, bitch about that
Bitch while swinging a baseball bat
Smash the windows, smash the hood
Smash it all in the name of holy good
Bitch about protestors, though you are one
Bitch about everything under the sun
Bitch about life, bitch about the world
Bitch until you feel like you want to hurl
VERSE 3
What makes you so different from us?
We all have the need to fuss and cuss
Superiority is a dangerous illusion
Don’t be the one who promotes exclusion
Bitch about millennials, bitch about liberals
Bitching quite a lot or bitching just a little
Bitch about democrats, bitch about greens
Bitch like you know what the fuck this all means!
VERSE 1
You’ve got your own version of PC culture
Got your own whiners like Hannity and Coulter
Got your own pitchforks, got your own chariots
Got your own sins, got your own embarrassments
Got an automatic rifle to enforce your rules
Got a stockpile of magazines and torture tools
When the brightest flame ignites the flag
Your private army grabs the body bags
CHORUS 2
Bitch about Hilary, bitch about Bill
Bitch about Bernie, bitch about Jill
Bitch about people other than yourself
Bitch about dark magic on the library shelf
VERSE 2
You have everything you’ve ever wanted
Freedom and church, yet you feel taunted
You tell other people to not be offended
Yet your own traumatic visions never ended
You got triggered, so you got liquored
As if your ego could get any bigger
You hurt just as much as the rest of us
Join the human race or in the moon you trust
CHORUS 3
Bitch about this, bitch about that
Bitch while swinging a baseball bat
Smash the windows, smash the hood
Smash it all in the name of holy good
Bitch about protestors, though you are one
Bitch about everything under the sun
Bitch about life, bitch about the world
Bitch until you feel like you want to hurl
VERSE 3
What makes you so different from us?
We all have the need to fuss and cuss
Superiority is a dangerous illusion
Don’t be the one who promotes exclusion
November 27, 2016
The Psychomancer
Little Ashley Cormier ran down the forest road with a scar on her right cheek, burning lungs, and flapping arms. As she was sucking down air, she made small whimpering noises like she was about to burst into tears at any moment. She could hear the voice of a screaming teenaged boy behind her, but she couldn’t discern if that voice was in her head or a frightening reality. No matter how much adrenaline flooded through her system, her body could only do so much before she dropped to her knees and breathed her hardest. She held her aching ribcage and spit out stale snot. Tears dribbled down her cheeks and into the mud puddle she was kneeling over.
“The forest is no place for a delicate young girl like you,” said a powerful male voice, which caused Ashley to spring to her feet out of anxiety. The man was dressed in a black robe with various Wiccan symbols strewn in red across the trims. His long brown hair and rugged beard made him look like a walking advertisement for Head & Shoulders conditioner. His fingers always seemed to be spread out like he was ready to cast a spell. This had to be the legendary Tony Castle.
“Are you the Psychotic Mister?” asked Ashley while flapping her arms nervously.
Tony chuckled and said, “The term you’re looking for is Psychomancer. And yes, I am him. You can call me Tony if you’d like. You seem to be in a lot of anguish, my dear, judging from your dirty hair and torn hoodie. Have you been in a fight recently?”
“Yes, Tony. I, uh…I…” The teenaged girl twiddled her thumbs and fingers while clapping repeatedly. When she couldn’t come up with adequate words, she bawled some more.
The psychomancer approached the fragile girl and hugged her around the shoulders. His robes were softer than a kitty’s fur and the strength of his hug reminded Ashley of the father figure she never had. She hugged him back, but not without patting him on the spinal column a few times.
When the embrace broke, Ashley wiped her eyes with her dirty index finger and asked, “Is it true that you can cure people like me? I have this…problem. I don’t want it inside of me anymore.”
“If you’re seeking the services of a psychomancer, then I can hazard a guess as to what you might be referring to,” said Tony. “You’re autistic. The arm-flapping and constant nervousness are both telltale signs. You came here because you want me to rid you of what you perceive to be a serious disease. I can cure many ailments, but this is one that is beyond my league. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”
“You don’t understand, Tony!” Ashley sobbed as she twiddled her fingers some more. “If you don’t cure me, those boys will keep picking on me and calling me a retard! I can’t live like this anymore! If you won’t help me, then I’ll just…I’ll just…”
“You’ll what? Deprive the world of a beautiful human being like yourself?” asked Tony. “Many people have come to me with thoughts of suicide. While you may experience permanent relief from your mental ailments, you will hurt many people around you with your actions. You may not realize it yet, but there are people in this world who love you. If they don’t know you yet, then they’ll be lucky to have you as a friend.”
Ashley weakly shoved Tony away and shouted, “You don’t know me! How can you say those things about me when you don’t even know my goddamn name! I don’t have any friends! They all hate me! Everybody just wants to beat me up all the time!” She dropped to her knees and released another puddle of tears into the dirt.
Tony knelt down and placed a loving hand on his charge’s shoulder. “Have you explored the world beyond your dwelling? Are you sure that every single person in this world will hate you for being autistic? And even if they did, will they like you even more if I suddenly used my magic to cure you? Love is what will save you in the end. If not in one place, then you’ll find it in another.”
“What am I supposed to do, run to my mommy for help?!” Ashley yelled. “She’s the whole reason I feel this way! She let those doctors stick needles into me when I was little! You know what they say about those kinds of needles!”
“I do know what they say about those kinds of needles, my friend,” said Tony. “And none of it is true. Quicksilver alone didn’t make you who you are. Genetics can only do so much, but it’s what you feel inside that will make you who you really are. You don’t need to hate yourself and you don’t need to hate what’s inside of you. Because of your autism, you have a heightened sensitivity to the world around you. When you’re this sensitive, your mind has a lot to take in. And when it takes in that much, you can not only process psychological trauma, but you can also create beautiful things during your time on this earth.” Tony smiled through his leonine beard and asked, “What’s your favorite form of art?”
“Well…I like to…write…” sniveled Ashley. “But I’m not that good!”
“That’s because you don’t believe yourself to be good,” said Tony in a soft tone. “If you don’t believe in yourself, how will your audience believe in you? Artistic endeavors are just like any other skill: without practice and hard work, they don’t develop. It may be a long journey to where you need to be as a writer, but if you start to love who you are every once and a while, it will seem like you’re already there.”
The two of them stood up and embraced once more. Ashley’s snot and tears soaked Tony’s robe, but the middle-aged wizard didn’t seem to mind. He could only hope that his message of positivity got through to her. Even powerful sorcerers had their limits. Powerful hearts, on the other hand, were much stronger than any magic spell in the world.
“Well, ain’t this a cute sight!” said a grating male voice in the background. Ashley and Tony broke their embrace and stared down a pudgy teenager with a bald head, an American flag T-shirt, and black jeans with combat boots. The boy folded his tree trunk arms and smiled disgustingly.
“You have no business here, young man!” Tony warned the boy. “Turn around and leave this place before I…”
“Before you what? Challenge me to a game of shuffleboard! You’re one generation away from being locked up in the old fart’s home, pops! Now let go of the bitch and bring her here! She’s got some lunch money she owes me!” said the bully.
Ashley felt a cold weight in her stomach as she stammered and flapped her arms while the big boy mockingly held his sausage hand over his ear for better hearing. The autistic girl eventually found the small courage to say, “Screw you!”
“Screw me?!” the bully laughed. “Is that was this is about? You want to screw me? Well, why didn’t you say so! Here, why don’t I lay that smoking hot body of yours across the mud and we’ll do it right now! I’m game!”
The nameless jerk marched over to Ashley with his ham-hawk mitts raised in a grabbing position. With a wave of Tony’s hand, the bully froze in place and trembled with anxiety. His eyes were huge, his chubby cheeks flapped lightly, and he made the same small whimpering noises that his victim made earlier.
“Do you feel that, young man? Do you feel it?!” said Tony. “That’s what your victim feels right now. That is pure, unadulterated fear and post-traumatic stress. It’s the feeling a victim gets when his nervous system is so stressed out that it’s about to snap. Your brain will go numb. Your heart will beat like a war drum. Your blood will go colder than a meat locker. Any A’s you had in school will turn to D’s, C’s, and F’s. But don’t take my word for it. My new friend will tell you what it’s like.”Ashley looked up at Tony confused and terrified, but Tony patted her shoulders and said, “It’s okay, little girl. You can do this. You have to do this.”
Ashley’s cold river of anxious adrenaline turned into a molten lava pit of boiling anger. Her eyebrows turned downward, her arms stopped flapping, and her legs were sturdy enough to keep her standing through what she was about to do. She approached her bully with her finger pointed at him like a totalitarian authority figure. “You listen to me and you listen good!” she raged. “If you ever pick on me again or call me a retard or beat me up, I’m going to kick you in the balls so hard that you’ll have a lobotomy! Then we’ll see who the real retard is! Do you understand me?! I said do you understand me, you son of a bitch! You’d better tell your friends that they’ll get the same thing if they fuck with me!”
The bully nodded at Ashley and slowly turned around to limp away. She even kicked him in the butt and yelled, “Move it!” to get him to leave faster. The bully stumbled and tripped along the way due to his firsthand experience of anxiety, but he was eventually far enough out of sight for Ashley and Tony’s benefit.
The only thing that could calm the autistic girl down was the psychomancer’s gentle hand on her shoulder and the words, “You were cured alright.”
“The forest is no place for a delicate young girl like you,” said a powerful male voice, which caused Ashley to spring to her feet out of anxiety. The man was dressed in a black robe with various Wiccan symbols strewn in red across the trims. His long brown hair and rugged beard made him look like a walking advertisement for Head & Shoulders conditioner. His fingers always seemed to be spread out like he was ready to cast a spell. This had to be the legendary Tony Castle.
“Are you the Psychotic Mister?” asked Ashley while flapping her arms nervously.
Tony chuckled and said, “The term you’re looking for is Psychomancer. And yes, I am him. You can call me Tony if you’d like. You seem to be in a lot of anguish, my dear, judging from your dirty hair and torn hoodie. Have you been in a fight recently?”
“Yes, Tony. I, uh…I…” The teenaged girl twiddled her thumbs and fingers while clapping repeatedly. When she couldn’t come up with adequate words, she bawled some more.
The psychomancer approached the fragile girl and hugged her around the shoulders. His robes were softer than a kitty’s fur and the strength of his hug reminded Ashley of the father figure she never had. She hugged him back, but not without patting him on the spinal column a few times.
When the embrace broke, Ashley wiped her eyes with her dirty index finger and asked, “Is it true that you can cure people like me? I have this…problem. I don’t want it inside of me anymore.”
“If you’re seeking the services of a psychomancer, then I can hazard a guess as to what you might be referring to,” said Tony. “You’re autistic. The arm-flapping and constant nervousness are both telltale signs. You came here because you want me to rid you of what you perceive to be a serious disease. I can cure many ailments, but this is one that is beyond my league. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”
“You don’t understand, Tony!” Ashley sobbed as she twiddled her fingers some more. “If you don’t cure me, those boys will keep picking on me and calling me a retard! I can’t live like this anymore! If you won’t help me, then I’ll just…I’ll just…”
“You’ll what? Deprive the world of a beautiful human being like yourself?” asked Tony. “Many people have come to me with thoughts of suicide. While you may experience permanent relief from your mental ailments, you will hurt many people around you with your actions. You may not realize it yet, but there are people in this world who love you. If they don’t know you yet, then they’ll be lucky to have you as a friend.”
Ashley weakly shoved Tony away and shouted, “You don’t know me! How can you say those things about me when you don’t even know my goddamn name! I don’t have any friends! They all hate me! Everybody just wants to beat me up all the time!” She dropped to her knees and released another puddle of tears into the dirt.
Tony knelt down and placed a loving hand on his charge’s shoulder. “Have you explored the world beyond your dwelling? Are you sure that every single person in this world will hate you for being autistic? And even if they did, will they like you even more if I suddenly used my magic to cure you? Love is what will save you in the end. If not in one place, then you’ll find it in another.”
“What am I supposed to do, run to my mommy for help?!” Ashley yelled. “She’s the whole reason I feel this way! She let those doctors stick needles into me when I was little! You know what they say about those kinds of needles!”
“I do know what they say about those kinds of needles, my friend,” said Tony. “And none of it is true. Quicksilver alone didn’t make you who you are. Genetics can only do so much, but it’s what you feel inside that will make you who you really are. You don’t need to hate yourself and you don’t need to hate what’s inside of you. Because of your autism, you have a heightened sensitivity to the world around you. When you’re this sensitive, your mind has a lot to take in. And when it takes in that much, you can not only process psychological trauma, but you can also create beautiful things during your time on this earth.” Tony smiled through his leonine beard and asked, “What’s your favorite form of art?”
“Well…I like to…write…” sniveled Ashley. “But I’m not that good!”
“That’s because you don’t believe yourself to be good,” said Tony in a soft tone. “If you don’t believe in yourself, how will your audience believe in you? Artistic endeavors are just like any other skill: without practice and hard work, they don’t develop. It may be a long journey to where you need to be as a writer, but if you start to love who you are every once and a while, it will seem like you’re already there.”
The two of them stood up and embraced once more. Ashley’s snot and tears soaked Tony’s robe, but the middle-aged wizard didn’t seem to mind. He could only hope that his message of positivity got through to her. Even powerful sorcerers had their limits. Powerful hearts, on the other hand, were much stronger than any magic spell in the world.
“Well, ain’t this a cute sight!” said a grating male voice in the background. Ashley and Tony broke their embrace and stared down a pudgy teenager with a bald head, an American flag T-shirt, and black jeans with combat boots. The boy folded his tree trunk arms and smiled disgustingly.
“You have no business here, young man!” Tony warned the boy. “Turn around and leave this place before I…”
“Before you what? Challenge me to a game of shuffleboard! You’re one generation away from being locked up in the old fart’s home, pops! Now let go of the bitch and bring her here! She’s got some lunch money she owes me!” said the bully.
Ashley felt a cold weight in her stomach as she stammered and flapped her arms while the big boy mockingly held his sausage hand over his ear for better hearing. The autistic girl eventually found the small courage to say, “Screw you!”
“Screw me?!” the bully laughed. “Is that was this is about? You want to screw me? Well, why didn’t you say so! Here, why don’t I lay that smoking hot body of yours across the mud and we’ll do it right now! I’m game!”
The nameless jerk marched over to Ashley with his ham-hawk mitts raised in a grabbing position. With a wave of Tony’s hand, the bully froze in place and trembled with anxiety. His eyes were huge, his chubby cheeks flapped lightly, and he made the same small whimpering noises that his victim made earlier.
“Do you feel that, young man? Do you feel it?!” said Tony. “That’s what your victim feels right now. That is pure, unadulterated fear and post-traumatic stress. It’s the feeling a victim gets when his nervous system is so stressed out that it’s about to snap. Your brain will go numb. Your heart will beat like a war drum. Your blood will go colder than a meat locker. Any A’s you had in school will turn to D’s, C’s, and F’s. But don’t take my word for it. My new friend will tell you what it’s like.”Ashley looked up at Tony confused and terrified, but Tony patted her shoulders and said, “It’s okay, little girl. You can do this. You have to do this.”
Ashley’s cold river of anxious adrenaline turned into a molten lava pit of boiling anger. Her eyebrows turned downward, her arms stopped flapping, and her legs were sturdy enough to keep her standing through what she was about to do. She approached her bully with her finger pointed at him like a totalitarian authority figure. “You listen to me and you listen good!” she raged. “If you ever pick on me again or call me a retard or beat me up, I’m going to kick you in the balls so hard that you’ll have a lobotomy! Then we’ll see who the real retard is! Do you understand me?! I said do you understand me, you son of a bitch! You’d better tell your friends that they’ll get the same thing if they fuck with me!”
The bully nodded at Ashley and slowly turned around to limp away. She even kicked him in the butt and yelled, “Move it!” to get him to leave faster. The bully stumbled and tripped along the way due to his firsthand experience of anxiety, but he was eventually far enough out of sight for Ashley and Tony’s benefit.
The only thing that could calm the autistic girl down was the psychomancer’s gentle hand on her shoulder and the words, “You were cured alright.”
November 25, 2016
Nothing
VERSE 1
A bikini selfie is worth more than true art
Gigantic tits are worth more than pure heart
Attention is currency worth more than gold
True love is distant, not close enough to hold
Favorites and likes have become so trite
To even those with the true creative might
Shallow values have come to mean something
Yet underneath it all, there’s all but nothing
CHORUS 1
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
A human body made of paper mache
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
A human mind to shape like clay
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
A human spirit to be taken away
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
A worthless story for another day
VERSE 2
A bold faced lie in a suit and tie
Will bring you to financial highs
A little fairytale going off the rail
Will serve you with papers in the mail
Free speech: silenced with duct tape
Free thought: silenced with mind rape
A big bank account has come to mean something
Underneath it all, you’ve got absolutely nothing
CHORUS 2
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
A human life made of chips and wires
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
A human love with no passionate fires
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
A human story for the funeral pyre
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
A human body far past retired
VERSE 3
What good is power when it’s used for evil?
What good is love when it isn’t for the people?
What good is money when it’s wastefully spent?
What good is anger when you’re not hell-bent?
What good is attraction when you’re just a fraction?
A former shell of a man who burst into action?
Questions and answers should both mean something
But when there’s something to seek, we find nothing
CHORUS 3
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
Robotic body with a putty face
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
Robotic logic so full of disgrace
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
Robotic motherboard all but fried
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
Robotic judgment as national pride
FINAL BRIDGE
There really is no dark side of the moon
But it’s where our heroes will go very soon
The artists, the geniuses, everyone in between
Our final generation is what we have seen
A bikini selfie is worth more than true art
Gigantic tits are worth more than pure heart
Attention is currency worth more than gold
True love is distant, not close enough to hold
Favorites and likes have become so trite
To even those with the true creative might
Shallow values have come to mean something
Yet underneath it all, there’s all but nothing
CHORUS 1
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
A human body made of paper mache
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
A human mind to shape like clay
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
A human spirit to be taken away
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
A worthless story for another day
VERSE 2
A bold faced lie in a suit and tie
Will bring you to financial highs
A little fairytale going off the rail
Will serve you with papers in the mail
Free speech: silenced with duct tape
Free thought: silenced with mind rape
A big bank account has come to mean something
Underneath it all, you’ve got absolutely nothing
CHORUS 2
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
A human life made of chips and wires
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
A human love with no passionate fires
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
A human story for the funeral pyre
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
A human body far past retired
VERSE 3
What good is power when it’s used for evil?
What good is love when it isn’t for the people?
What good is money when it’s wastefully spent?
What good is anger when you’re not hell-bent?
What good is attraction when you’re just a fraction?
A former shell of a man who burst into action?
Questions and answers should both mean something
But when there’s something to seek, we find nothing
CHORUS 3
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
Robotic body with a putty face
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
Robotic logic so full of disgrace
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
Robotic motherboard all but fried
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
Robotic judgment as national pride
FINAL BRIDGE
There really is no dark side of the moon
But it’s where our heroes will go very soon
The artists, the geniuses, everyone in between
Our final generation is what we have seen
Demon Axe, Chapter 8
Right under their noses. It was a cliché expression, but one that couldn’t have been more true for Daniel and Raven. The portal to the elven world was right under the destroyed bronze statue of King Arthur Triscloud himself. Most audience members and even the bands themselves thought this was just a pretty decoration. Seeing sacrilegious treatment of her father’s centerpiece brought a scowl to Raven’s face. She nevertheless took Daniel’s hand like they were going on a date, to which the Lord of the Pit was sweating bullets. The elf warrior drew her blade, stuck it in the statue’s receptacle, and opened a beautifully-colored blue portal that sucked the two of them in.
Traveling through this portal was like floating in zero gravity. It relaxed Daniel’s stressed out body while Raven remained stoic and brave during transit. Seeing such vibrant shades of blue and being able to taste them reminded Daniel of that acid flashback he had been promised earlier. He even saw a purple breeze blowing through this dark blue netherworld, which left him in an even bigger state of awe. Waves and shapes assaulted his mind and left him feeling peaceful, no trace of trauma or heartache to speak of.
When the duo finally crossed over to the elven world, Daniel still believed he was high on drugs. Just like the portal, the skies were lovely shades of dark blue and purple. The ivory white buildings were twisted like lovely seashells. The roads were paved with silver. The trees and foliage in between buildings and roads were strewn with vibrant, rainbow-like colors. Elf children played in the streets with so much happiness. Elf adults went about their business whether it was blacksmithing, selling fruits and vegetables, or grooming cuddly creatures like horses, cats, and dogs.
“Tell me again how your world was conquered and devastated by the humans,” said Daniel sarcastically.
“Trust me, Daniel, it took us a long time to relocate and rebuild after such an atrocity. The only reason the elven world looks this good is because we managed to hide ourselves for so long. By getting his views on television, Roger Zee has done more harm than good when it comes to us staying hidden in the underground,” said Raven. She took Daniel’s hand once more and said, “Come on. Let’s go see the king.”
As the two of them walked down the street together, this very much was feeling like a date to the heavy metal singer. Sure, they hardly knew each other, but the life of a rock star always meant fast relationships and even faster women. Under ordinary circumstances, Daniel wouldn’t have been so sweaty and jittery. But this was an elf woman. This was the kind of woman he fantasized about when playing D&D as a teenager. He never in his wildest dreams imagined it would come to fruition. But what was he thinking? He was getting too far ahead of himself.
The king’s castle was even lovelier to look at than the rest of the city and that was saying something. Crystalline light blue walls, a golden arch holding the double doors together, the spiral-like towers on all four corners, the emerald dragon statue staring down at the city with a wizened gaze, a castle truly fit for an elven king. The two leather armor-wearing, poleax-wielding guards nodded at Raven before letting her and Daniel inside.
The stained glass decorations, the diamond-like dragon heads on the walls, the soft red carpeted floors (which were comfortable enough to sleep on), all of these led the way to King Arthur Triscloud’s throne in the back of the castle. He was a marvel to behold with his lavish red robes, golden crown encrusted with amethysts, spectacles resting comfortably on the bridge of his nose, his massive blade by his side, wrinkled skin, and lengthy white beard hanging down his chin. His smile was warmer than a tropical breeze when he greeted his daughter and her new charge.
“Thank you for bringing this young man into our world, dearest daughter,” said King Triscloud. “The two of you look like you’ve been through some battles together. But it’s nothing our healers and witchdoctor’s can’t fix.” From out of the shadows, two healers dressed in silky white robes approached Raven and Daniel with baskets of herbs, leaves, and oils. They removed their makeshift bandages and allowed the healers to close their wounds with pasted leaves. The sting of the liquid forced Daniel to wince and drop an F-bomb, but his wounds were sealed over nicely, as well as Raven’s.
“Listen, Mr. Triscloud,” said Daniel. “Your daughter here tells me that she brought me here because you think I’m actually capable of taking down this Roger Zee asshole who’s been cutting up people left and right. Here you are with this army of elves, most of them at least partially trained in combat, yet you want me, a guy with no fighting experience, to do battle with this lunatic. I’ve tried to explain this to Raven here, but she won’t budge. Please talk some sense into your own flesh and blood.” That last remark earned him a backhanded smack in the arm from Raven.
King Triscloud chuckled heartily before saying, “Yes, we do have some of the finest warriors at our disposal, but violence alone is not enough to bring down Roger. He was part of an elite group of soldiers known as The Order of the Spider. Most of these warriors died in our conflict with the humans. Roger survived. Over time he became bitter and disgusted with society in general. He blames humans for desecrating our holy grounds, but at the same time, he blames us for perceived softness and commitment to sinful magic. I trusted him with my life. In turn, he became just as hostile as our invaders.”
“Well, it is nice to know that he’s doing this for a reason and not just because he’s a random asshole,” said Daniel with his hands on his hips. “But what does that have to do with me? What did I do to him that was so disrespectful to his rightwing craziness?”
“He hates artistic endeavors. Your music and your homage to dark magic are both symbols of individuality. Roger wants the world to conform to one nation. He’s no different from any extremist you see on your television sets. Individuality and free thought are both poison to a conformist society. That’s why Roger wants to hunt you down. That’s why you are the only one who can stop him. You’re not going to stop him with fighting skills alone. You’re going to do it through your creativity,” said Arthur.
Daniel made a flat tire noise and shook his head before saying, “You do realize that music doesn’t actually do anything, right? It’s nice to listen to and it gets a lot of people through their days, but how is any of this supposed to stop a guy with a fucking machete?”
“I’m glad you asked, Mr. Mercer,” said Arthur. “In your escape from Roger’s mass murders, you left behind something of value to you and your cause.”
“Oh, now you’re mocking me for leaving my band mates to get slaughtered by this moron?”
“No, no! That’s not what I meant at all!” said the king as he held up his hands defensively. “I’m talking about something entirely different. You want to use music as a weapon? Now you can.” From his robes, Arthur pulled out the battleaxe microphone that Daniel used during the concert. It was now glowing with a golden aura, had crosses and symbols engraved on it, and had the faces of the slain Demon Axe members infused into the blade.
The Lord of the Pit gazed at his microphone with wide eyes, like he had just eaten a bag of psychedelic mushrooms. He slowly approached the king, who held out the microphone in the palms of both hands for Daniel to take. The singer stood back and swung the makeshift axe around, which left a trail of gold dust in its wake. Just when it looked like he was completely hypnotized by this artifact, he said, “Wait a minute,” and tried to use the plastic blade as a weapon on his wrist. No cuts. No wounds. No nothing. Just gold dust. Lots of lots of gold dust.
“Okay, you do realize that this microphone is just a prop and isn’t a real weapon, right? How the hell do you expect me to slash the shit out of Roger Zee with a piece of fucking plastic? His machete, on the other hand, is very fucking real! I might as well have gotten my microphone from Toys R Us!” shouted Daniel.
“Mr. Mercer, that’s not how you use the microphone,” explained Arthur.
“Oh really? Then what am I supposed to do with it? Sprinkle a whole bunch of fairy dust on him? Is he allergic to fairy dust now? Does he have any other allergies I should be aware of? Peanuts? Plants? Animal fur? Seriously, what the fuck were you thinking?”
Raven pleaded, “Daniel, just let him explain what it’s for and then…”
“Explain?!” roared Daniel. “What is there to explain?! It’s a fucking toy! Your wise, loving, all-powerful king gave me a fucking toy to do battle with a goddamn zealot! Anything else would have been better! A lead pipe, a BB gun, even a fucking pocket knife would have been better than this toy! I told you time and time again, Raven, Demon Axe’s gimmick is just that: a gimmick! Dark magic is about as fake as Hollywood tits! It was a motivational tactic, that’s all it was!” He turned to Arthur and shouted, “Thanks for sending me up shits creek without a fucking paddle! You’re a great politician! Hell, you can’t be any worse than that idiot with the fake hair! Fuck this, I’m out of here! Thanks for bringing my toy back!”
Daniel marched out of the castle with Raven following closely behind and pleading with him to stay. Arthur could be heard in the background grunting, “You stupid, selfish, silly man!” The Lord of the Pit ignored him and continued storming through the elven world. With any luck, he could pawn his microphone and travel somewhere that wasn’t infected with terrorism or extreme violence of any kind. He’d have to do some research and apply for a visa, but even living in the dankest, darkest parts of Africa was better than fighting Roger Zee with a piece of glowing plastic.
Traveling through this portal was like floating in zero gravity. It relaxed Daniel’s stressed out body while Raven remained stoic and brave during transit. Seeing such vibrant shades of blue and being able to taste them reminded Daniel of that acid flashback he had been promised earlier. He even saw a purple breeze blowing through this dark blue netherworld, which left him in an even bigger state of awe. Waves and shapes assaulted his mind and left him feeling peaceful, no trace of trauma or heartache to speak of.
When the duo finally crossed over to the elven world, Daniel still believed he was high on drugs. Just like the portal, the skies were lovely shades of dark blue and purple. The ivory white buildings were twisted like lovely seashells. The roads were paved with silver. The trees and foliage in between buildings and roads were strewn with vibrant, rainbow-like colors. Elf children played in the streets with so much happiness. Elf adults went about their business whether it was blacksmithing, selling fruits and vegetables, or grooming cuddly creatures like horses, cats, and dogs.
“Tell me again how your world was conquered and devastated by the humans,” said Daniel sarcastically.
“Trust me, Daniel, it took us a long time to relocate and rebuild after such an atrocity. The only reason the elven world looks this good is because we managed to hide ourselves for so long. By getting his views on television, Roger Zee has done more harm than good when it comes to us staying hidden in the underground,” said Raven. She took Daniel’s hand once more and said, “Come on. Let’s go see the king.”
As the two of them walked down the street together, this very much was feeling like a date to the heavy metal singer. Sure, they hardly knew each other, but the life of a rock star always meant fast relationships and even faster women. Under ordinary circumstances, Daniel wouldn’t have been so sweaty and jittery. But this was an elf woman. This was the kind of woman he fantasized about when playing D&D as a teenager. He never in his wildest dreams imagined it would come to fruition. But what was he thinking? He was getting too far ahead of himself.
The king’s castle was even lovelier to look at than the rest of the city and that was saying something. Crystalline light blue walls, a golden arch holding the double doors together, the spiral-like towers on all four corners, the emerald dragon statue staring down at the city with a wizened gaze, a castle truly fit for an elven king. The two leather armor-wearing, poleax-wielding guards nodded at Raven before letting her and Daniel inside.
The stained glass decorations, the diamond-like dragon heads on the walls, the soft red carpeted floors (which were comfortable enough to sleep on), all of these led the way to King Arthur Triscloud’s throne in the back of the castle. He was a marvel to behold with his lavish red robes, golden crown encrusted with amethysts, spectacles resting comfortably on the bridge of his nose, his massive blade by his side, wrinkled skin, and lengthy white beard hanging down his chin. His smile was warmer than a tropical breeze when he greeted his daughter and her new charge.
“Thank you for bringing this young man into our world, dearest daughter,” said King Triscloud. “The two of you look like you’ve been through some battles together. But it’s nothing our healers and witchdoctor’s can’t fix.” From out of the shadows, two healers dressed in silky white robes approached Raven and Daniel with baskets of herbs, leaves, and oils. They removed their makeshift bandages and allowed the healers to close their wounds with pasted leaves. The sting of the liquid forced Daniel to wince and drop an F-bomb, but his wounds were sealed over nicely, as well as Raven’s.
“Listen, Mr. Triscloud,” said Daniel. “Your daughter here tells me that she brought me here because you think I’m actually capable of taking down this Roger Zee asshole who’s been cutting up people left and right. Here you are with this army of elves, most of them at least partially trained in combat, yet you want me, a guy with no fighting experience, to do battle with this lunatic. I’ve tried to explain this to Raven here, but she won’t budge. Please talk some sense into your own flesh and blood.” That last remark earned him a backhanded smack in the arm from Raven.
King Triscloud chuckled heartily before saying, “Yes, we do have some of the finest warriors at our disposal, but violence alone is not enough to bring down Roger. He was part of an elite group of soldiers known as The Order of the Spider. Most of these warriors died in our conflict with the humans. Roger survived. Over time he became bitter and disgusted with society in general. He blames humans for desecrating our holy grounds, but at the same time, he blames us for perceived softness and commitment to sinful magic. I trusted him with my life. In turn, he became just as hostile as our invaders.”
“Well, it is nice to know that he’s doing this for a reason and not just because he’s a random asshole,” said Daniel with his hands on his hips. “But what does that have to do with me? What did I do to him that was so disrespectful to his rightwing craziness?”
“He hates artistic endeavors. Your music and your homage to dark magic are both symbols of individuality. Roger wants the world to conform to one nation. He’s no different from any extremist you see on your television sets. Individuality and free thought are both poison to a conformist society. That’s why Roger wants to hunt you down. That’s why you are the only one who can stop him. You’re not going to stop him with fighting skills alone. You’re going to do it through your creativity,” said Arthur.
Daniel made a flat tire noise and shook his head before saying, “You do realize that music doesn’t actually do anything, right? It’s nice to listen to and it gets a lot of people through their days, but how is any of this supposed to stop a guy with a fucking machete?”
“I’m glad you asked, Mr. Mercer,” said Arthur. “In your escape from Roger’s mass murders, you left behind something of value to you and your cause.”
“Oh, now you’re mocking me for leaving my band mates to get slaughtered by this moron?”
“No, no! That’s not what I meant at all!” said the king as he held up his hands defensively. “I’m talking about something entirely different. You want to use music as a weapon? Now you can.” From his robes, Arthur pulled out the battleaxe microphone that Daniel used during the concert. It was now glowing with a golden aura, had crosses and symbols engraved on it, and had the faces of the slain Demon Axe members infused into the blade.
The Lord of the Pit gazed at his microphone with wide eyes, like he had just eaten a bag of psychedelic mushrooms. He slowly approached the king, who held out the microphone in the palms of both hands for Daniel to take. The singer stood back and swung the makeshift axe around, which left a trail of gold dust in its wake. Just when it looked like he was completely hypnotized by this artifact, he said, “Wait a minute,” and tried to use the plastic blade as a weapon on his wrist. No cuts. No wounds. No nothing. Just gold dust. Lots of lots of gold dust.
“Okay, you do realize that this microphone is just a prop and isn’t a real weapon, right? How the hell do you expect me to slash the shit out of Roger Zee with a piece of fucking plastic? His machete, on the other hand, is very fucking real! I might as well have gotten my microphone from Toys R Us!” shouted Daniel.
“Mr. Mercer, that’s not how you use the microphone,” explained Arthur.
“Oh really? Then what am I supposed to do with it? Sprinkle a whole bunch of fairy dust on him? Is he allergic to fairy dust now? Does he have any other allergies I should be aware of? Peanuts? Plants? Animal fur? Seriously, what the fuck were you thinking?”
Raven pleaded, “Daniel, just let him explain what it’s for and then…”
“Explain?!” roared Daniel. “What is there to explain?! It’s a fucking toy! Your wise, loving, all-powerful king gave me a fucking toy to do battle with a goddamn zealot! Anything else would have been better! A lead pipe, a BB gun, even a fucking pocket knife would have been better than this toy! I told you time and time again, Raven, Demon Axe’s gimmick is just that: a gimmick! Dark magic is about as fake as Hollywood tits! It was a motivational tactic, that’s all it was!” He turned to Arthur and shouted, “Thanks for sending me up shits creek without a fucking paddle! You’re a great politician! Hell, you can’t be any worse than that idiot with the fake hair! Fuck this, I’m out of here! Thanks for bringing my toy back!”
Daniel marched out of the castle with Raven following closely behind and pleading with him to stay. Arthur could be heard in the background grunting, “You stupid, selfish, silly man!” The Lord of the Pit ignored him and continued storming through the elven world. With any luck, he could pawn his microphone and travel somewhere that wasn’t infected with terrorism or extreme violence of any kind. He’d have to do some research and apply for a visa, but even living in the dankest, darkest parts of Africa was better than fighting Roger Zee with a piece of glowing plastic.
November 23, 2016
Kicking Caffeine
***KICKING CAFFEINE***
As many of you already know, struggling with laziness has been a problem for me for the past few years. I desperately wanted to write the next great chapter or read another thirty pages of my book, but then my brain would be too foggy for me to carry on. This frustrated me so much that I started blaming myself for this drowsy feeling. I got a CPAP machine a few months ago and that solved a lot of my problems. And then I started reading articles online about procrastination, so I made even more changes to my lifestyle. I’m going to bed at an earlier time, I don’t eat a heavy meal before sleeping, I abstain from sugary foods, and the biggest one of all, I’ve given up caffeinated drinks completely, which include Diet Mountain Dew and Lipton Black Tea.
Last Wednesday was when I began making these changes. I started the day by writing chapter seven of Demon Axe. Then I went to Silverdale with my mom to exercise at the Y, get my back adjusted, and get some healthy foods at Trader Joe’s. One of the things I bought at that store was chamomile tea, which doesn’t have caffeine and serves as a digestive relaxant. All in all, I felt good that day about my creativity and my general health. It also helped that I got to have fun conversations with my mom like we always do whenever we’re in the car.
The next day, the caffeine withdrawal symptoms began kicking in. I went from being on the highest of highs to the lowest of lows. I slept longer than usual, I took multiple naps in the middle of the day, and worst of all, I didn’t want to do anything creative. In other words, by giving up the chemical that was making me lazy, I in turn became even lazier. This lasted until Monday morning, but it felt like a whole year had gone by without creative outlets. Well, I drew a picture here and there, but that was about it.
Monday arrived and my withdrawal symptoms had passed by then. I used that day to compete in the WSS contest by putting out a story called “Die Purring”. I’ve never been so happy to be awake and alive than after writing that story. I was going to be a hard worker again and I loved it. Tuesday was lacking in creative production, because the night before, I made the mistake of eating vegetarian pizza burgers right before going to bed. It’s Wednesday now and I haven’t cheated on my health regimen since.
I chose to use this day to catch up on reading and write this blog entry. Another thirty pages of “The Blade Itself” is in the books (pun intended), chapters eleven and twelve of “Never Again” have been critiqued for Marie Krepps’ review, and Edward Davies entry at the WSS has been signed, sealed, and delivered. While I may or may not use the rest of the day to do my next WSS short story or writing a chapter of Demon Axe, I feel satisfied about what I’ve done with my morning. The operative word here is “morning”, because I woke up at 7:40 today and didn’t feel exhausted in the least.
Why am I suddenly telling you guys this? Because it’s a reminder to all that sooner or later, our health is going to become important to us, whether it’s mental or physical. In the past, I’ve written songs and blog entries mocking healthy lifestyles, and there’s no telling whether or not I’ll do it again. But as much as I criticize obnoxiously healthy people, I must say that being free from caffeine’s addiction feels pretty damn good right now. I look forward to more days when I can work my ass off and put out a damn good product, or help others do the same. The creative urge is stronger than addictive chemicals. Remember that.
***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***
This week the prompt is “Quicksilver”, so I figured it was another opportunity to write a story with “mancer” in the title. Seems reasonable, right? My story will be called “The Psychomancer” (mind wizard) and it goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
Tony Castle, Psychomancer
Ashley Cormier, Autistic Teenager
PROMPT CONFORMITY: Quicksilver, which is another name for mercury, has often been thought of as the link to autism since it’s used to preserve vaccination needles. Tony disputes this point during his conversation with Ashley.
SYNOPSIS: Ashley runs away from home and seeks out Tony’s help after a lengthy search. As a psychomancer, Tony is believed to be able to cure all sorts of mental diseases. When he uses his powers to find out Ashley has autism, he refuses to “cure” her. Instead, Tony tries to help her cope with it and use it to her advantage creatively and academically. Ashley doesn’t want to be autistic anymore because it makes her an easy target for bullies at her school. Instead of receiving a magical cure, she receives inspiration to just be herself no matter what anybody says or does.
***DEMON AXE, CHAPTER EIGHT***
Daniel Mercer has finally come down from his traumatized state thanks to Raven Triscloud. Now it’s time for him to meet King Arthur Triscloud, leader of the elven race. The elves are still convinced that Daniel has what it takes to defeat Roger Zee despite the fact that the singer’s only fighting experience comes from drunken brawls in shitty bars. Arthur has a gift that he’d like to bestow upon Daniel for such a quest, but is he really ready to accept it? Is it a weapon? Is it a prop? Is it a magic wand? What could it be?
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
Up next on the long list of badass characters is Christopher, the gnomish rogue from the Dungeons & Dragons game played by Brenda Christopher in “Emoticon Artist”. He may be the shortest member of the team at just three feet, but if James Ellsworth from WWE Smackdown has taught me anything, it’s that any man with two hands has a fighting chance…and two ways to masturbate.
***WRESTLING JOKE OF THE DAY***
When somebody on WWE Smackdown Live says, “See you next Tuesday”, it’s not supposed to be an insult, because they actually film episodes every Tuesday. Although, I can picture Alexa Bliss saying it to Becky Lynch right before a big Women’s Title match.
As many of you already know, struggling with laziness has been a problem for me for the past few years. I desperately wanted to write the next great chapter or read another thirty pages of my book, but then my brain would be too foggy for me to carry on. This frustrated me so much that I started blaming myself for this drowsy feeling. I got a CPAP machine a few months ago and that solved a lot of my problems. And then I started reading articles online about procrastination, so I made even more changes to my lifestyle. I’m going to bed at an earlier time, I don’t eat a heavy meal before sleeping, I abstain from sugary foods, and the biggest one of all, I’ve given up caffeinated drinks completely, which include Diet Mountain Dew and Lipton Black Tea.
Last Wednesday was when I began making these changes. I started the day by writing chapter seven of Demon Axe. Then I went to Silverdale with my mom to exercise at the Y, get my back adjusted, and get some healthy foods at Trader Joe’s. One of the things I bought at that store was chamomile tea, which doesn’t have caffeine and serves as a digestive relaxant. All in all, I felt good that day about my creativity and my general health. It also helped that I got to have fun conversations with my mom like we always do whenever we’re in the car.
The next day, the caffeine withdrawal symptoms began kicking in. I went from being on the highest of highs to the lowest of lows. I slept longer than usual, I took multiple naps in the middle of the day, and worst of all, I didn’t want to do anything creative. In other words, by giving up the chemical that was making me lazy, I in turn became even lazier. This lasted until Monday morning, but it felt like a whole year had gone by without creative outlets. Well, I drew a picture here and there, but that was about it.
Monday arrived and my withdrawal symptoms had passed by then. I used that day to compete in the WSS contest by putting out a story called “Die Purring”. I’ve never been so happy to be awake and alive than after writing that story. I was going to be a hard worker again and I loved it. Tuesday was lacking in creative production, because the night before, I made the mistake of eating vegetarian pizza burgers right before going to bed. It’s Wednesday now and I haven’t cheated on my health regimen since.
I chose to use this day to catch up on reading and write this blog entry. Another thirty pages of “The Blade Itself” is in the books (pun intended), chapters eleven and twelve of “Never Again” have been critiqued for Marie Krepps’ review, and Edward Davies entry at the WSS has been signed, sealed, and delivered. While I may or may not use the rest of the day to do my next WSS short story or writing a chapter of Demon Axe, I feel satisfied about what I’ve done with my morning. The operative word here is “morning”, because I woke up at 7:40 today and didn’t feel exhausted in the least.
Why am I suddenly telling you guys this? Because it’s a reminder to all that sooner or later, our health is going to become important to us, whether it’s mental or physical. In the past, I’ve written songs and blog entries mocking healthy lifestyles, and there’s no telling whether or not I’ll do it again. But as much as I criticize obnoxiously healthy people, I must say that being free from caffeine’s addiction feels pretty damn good right now. I look forward to more days when I can work my ass off and put out a damn good product, or help others do the same. The creative urge is stronger than addictive chemicals. Remember that.
***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***
This week the prompt is “Quicksilver”, so I figured it was another opportunity to write a story with “mancer” in the title. Seems reasonable, right? My story will be called “The Psychomancer” (mind wizard) and it goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
Tony Castle, Psychomancer
Ashley Cormier, Autistic Teenager
PROMPT CONFORMITY: Quicksilver, which is another name for mercury, has often been thought of as the link to autism since it’s used to preserve vaccination needles. Tony disputes this point during his conversation with Ashley.
SYNOPSIS: Ashley runs away from home and seeks out Tony’s help after a lengthy search. As a psychomancer, Tony is believed to be able to cure all sorts of mental diseases. When he uses his powers to find out Ashley has autism, he refuses to “cure” her. Instead, Tony tries to help her cope with it and use it to her advantage creatively and academically. Ashley doesn’t want to be autistic anymore because it makes her an easy target for bullies at her school. Instead of receiving a magical cure, she receives inspiration to just be herself no matter what anybody says or does.
***DEMON AXE, CHAPTER EIGHT***
Daniel Mercer has finally come down from his traumatized state thanks to Raven Triscloud. Now it’s time for him to meet King Arthur Triscloud, leader of the elven race. The elves are still convinced that Daniel has what it takes to defeat Roger Zee despite the fact that the singer’s only fighting experience comes from drunken brawls in shitty bars. Arthur has a gift that he’d like to bestow upon Daniel for such a quest, but is he really ready to accept it? Is it a weapon? Is it a prop? Is it a magic wand? What could it be?
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
Up next on the long list of badass characters is Christopher, the gnomish rogue from the Dungeons & Dragons game played by Brenda Christopher in “Emoticon Artist”. He may be the shortest member of the team at just three feet, but if James Ellsworth from WWE Smackdown has taught me anything, it’s that any man with two hands has a fighting chance…and two ways to masturbate.
***WRESTLING JOKE OF THE DAY***
When somebody on WWE Smackdown Live says, “See you next Tuesday”, it’s not supposed to be an insult, because they actually film episodes every Tuesday. Although, I can picture Alexa Bliss saying it to Becky Lynch right before a big Women’s Title match.
