Garrison Kelly's Blog, page 96
September 15, 2016
Mine Shafts
***MINE SHAFTS***
When I was a little kid growing up in Elk Grove, California, it never once occurred to me that mine shafts were dangerous to not only the workers, but also the environment. Salt mines always seemed like cool settings for a story to me due to their darkness and the unknown feeling of what could be lurking in one of these places. Plus, it was always cool to me for some reason to see a mine cart traveling on train tracks.
The movies “Snow White” and “City Slickers 2: The Legend of Curley’s Gold” were probably to blame for giving me an interest in mine shafts to begin with. Then again, I also saw them in videogames like “Final Fantasy II” (American SNES game) and “Mega Man X”. The possibility of actually finding riches in one of these places was always exciting to me, so much so that I wanted to dig up my backyard to find gems. Or in the case of Final Fantasy II, a Shadow Sword. Or in the case of City Slickers 2, a bar of gold that wasn’t just painted up for fun and games.
As an author, I’m always looking in the strangest places for creative fuel, even if it’s so far back into my past that I barely remember it. So how exactly can I use a salt mine as a place of interest in one of my stories without directly copying what I’ve seen on television and in videogames? I’d also like to be able to use it without giving uncomfortable glimpses into tragedies like Massey Energy and what happened in Chile in 2010.
My first thought on how to handle such creative fuel would be to use a dark mine shaft as a lair for an overly powerful monster of some sort. Maybe there’s a sleeping dragon underneath the cart tracks. Maybe there’s a vampire coven that’s using the mine to stay out of the sunlight. What about an ogre who just wants to be left alone in peace? These are just ideas for who exactly could be living in this mine.
What if the mine shaft was completely renovated into an actual living space instead of just a dark and dusty corner of the earth? What if it was a castle with a gigantic demon mouth for an entrance? What if there were wizard runes carved into the rock? Or one could go for a saner route and turn it into a tourist attraction or a museum. No matter how wild or wacky your idea is, it should somehow spell trouble for your main characters or else there’s no point in having a story.
Pretty much any place an author can think of can be re-imagined as a bastion of creativity. Final Fight turned a rundown slum into a base of operations for the Mad Gear gang. Final Fantasy Mystic Quest turned a dragon corpse into a legitimate desert dungeon. What could a mine shaft be? The answer is as unlimited as your creativity. This blog is merely a prompt suggestion along with some small ideas for that prompt.
Using examples from my own life, I once wrote a western fantasy movie script in 2007 called “Texas Technique”, where a mine shaft was used as a gateway to the underworld for zombies who didn’t want to be controlled by necromancy anymore. It had hooded priests, an altar, magical energy, the works. Almost a decade earlier than that, I spent my childhood coming up with ideas for videogames, one of them being a western-themed Double Dragon game. You’re damn right Shadow Master was hiding out in a mine shaft. Where else is a darkness-based villain going to hide?
The creative fuel is on the table. You can write a novel, write a short story, paint a painting, run a D&D campaign, or whatever your heart desires. If you don’t want to use mine shafts as a prompt suggestion, you certainly don’t have to. It was a special piece of creativity to me as a child, so I hope to one day use it again in my own writing. A base of operations, a monster’s lair, a mighty fortress, a resting place for the undead, a gateway to hell, so many possibilities, so many ways to create something beautiful. We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***
It’s a new week and a new prompt suggestion at the WSS has been released. This time we’ve got “Non-Formulaic”, a prompt highly suggestive of nonconformity. You all know by now how much I love individuality. Without it, there is no creativity. With no creativity, there’s no art. The earth without art is just eh. My story this week is called “Dark Side of the Wall” and it goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
Ryan Warrior, Heavy Metal Solo Artist
Nameless Audience Members
Nameless Bouncers
PROMPT CONFORMITY: Ryan’s music doesn’t follow the formula of typical heavy metal due to him combining it with Native American music.
SYNOPSIS: Ryan puts on a heavy metal show for an outdoor arena audience in which he combines fast-paced beats with music from his Native American heritage. He’s used to playing for rowdy audiences, but this crowd pisses him off due to their perverted, drunken, and overly-aggressive behavior. Ryan stops midway through a song in order to unleash a hell storm of vitriol upon the people who came to see him. His aggressive attitude is reminiscent of Roger Waters’ when Pink Floyd did a supporting tour for their Animals album in 1977 and Mr. Waters spit on a fan climbing the stage net. Ryan even gets a hash tag trend going called “Dark Side of the Wall” due to him referencing Pink Floyd during his tirade. At this point, Mr. Warrior has a decision to make: finish the show and earn his payday or kill the show and spite the fans.
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
In all this time of peeking at my drawings, you’re probably wondering what the point of it all is, given the obvious simplistic style. There are two points. One, it’s a promotional tactic to lure people to my writing. Sometimes when you go fishing, you have to use the right bait. The second reason is because sometimes when I draw these pictures, I always feel ready to do more creative work afterwards. I spent the last two nights not using my CPAP mask because the humidifier kept blowing water in my face. While it’s nice not to drown in my own machine, I did wake up late in the day both times and my energy had been sapped. So thank you, Dark Fantasy Warriors, for giving me a chance to stimulate my muse when I’m too tired to carry on. Who’s the next character to be drawn? Makoto Lionheart, the necromancer slash evil clown slash samurai from the short story “Tiger Bullet Kick”. Three occupations in one. Holy shit!
***DEMON AXE***
When an elven terrorist slays a shit ton of people at a heavy metal concert and traumatizes the lead singer of Demon Axe, how does Paulson City respond? By having another live event and showing said elven terrorist that America will not negotiate with his kind. In this case, we’ve got a wrestling slash MMA show in which seven-foot champion Johnny Vega tries to lead the crowd in a moment of positivity only to have it interrupted by Sonia Marquez, an MMA aficionado who thinks wrestling is “fake”. Surely, the elf terrorist can’t strike again, right? Am I right? I hope so.
***COLLEGE HUMOR DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
USER: The Boston Bomber.
GOOGLE GUY: It was a real tragedy.
USER: The cute one.
GOOGLE GUY: Oh, fucking shit!
-If Google Was a Guy-
When I was a little kid growing up in Elk Grove, California, it never once occurred to me that mine shafts were dangerous to not only the workers, but also the environment. Salt mines always seemed like cool settings for a story to me due to their darkness and the unknown feeling of what could be lurking in one of these places. Plus, it was always cool to me for some reason to see a mine cart traveling on train tracks.
The movies “Snow White” and “City Slickers 2: The Legend of Curley’s Gold” were probably to blame for giving me an interest in mine shafts to begin with. Then again, I also saw them in videogames like “Final Fantasy II” (American SNES game) and “Mega Man X”. The possibility of actually finding riches in one of these places was always exciting to me, so much so that I wanted to dig up my backyard to find gems. Or in the case of Final Fantasy II, a Shadow Sword. Or in the case of City Slickers 2, a bar of gold that wasn’t just painted up for fun and games.
As an author, I’m always looking in the strangest places for creative fuel, even if it’s so far back into my past that I barely remember it. So how exactly can I use a salt mine as a place of interest in one of my stories without directly copying what I’ve seen on television and in videogames? I’d also like to be able to use it without giving uncomfortable glimpses into tragedies like Massey Energy and what happened in Chile in 2010.
My first thought on how to handle such creative fuel would be to use a dark mine shaft as a lair for an overly powerful monster of some sort. Maybe there’s a sleeping dragon underneath the cart tracks. Maybe there’s a vampire coven that’s using the mine to stay out of the sunlight. What about an ogre who just wants to be left alone in peace? These are just ideas for who exactly could be living in this mine.
What if the mine shaft was completely renovated into an actual living space instead of just a dark and dusty corner of the earth? What if it was a castle with a gigantic demon mouth for an entrance? What if there were wizard runes carved into the rock? Or one could go for a saner route and turn it into a tourist attraction or a museum. No matter how wild or wacky your idea is, it should somehow spell trouble for your main characters or else there’s no point in having a story.
Pretty much any place an author can think of can be re-imagined as a bastion of creativity. Final Fight turned a rundown slum into a base of operations for the Mad Gear gang. Final Fantasy Mystic Quest turned a dragon corpse into a legitimate desert dungeon. What could a mine shaft be? The answer is as unlimited as your creativity. This blog is merely a prompt suggestion along with some small ideas for that prompt.
Using examples from my own life, I once wrote a western fantasy movie script in 2007 called “Texas Technique”, where a mine shaft was used as a gateway to the underworld for zombies who didn’t want to be controlled by necromancy anymore. It had hooded priests, an altar, magical energy, the works. Almost a decade earlier than that, I spent my childhood coming up with ideas for videogames, one of them being a western-themed Double Dragon game. You’re damn right Shadow Master was hiding out in a mine shaft. Where else is a darkness-based villain going to hide?
The creative fuel is on the table. You can write a novel, write a short story, paint a painting, run a D&D campaign, or whatever your heart desires. If you don’t want to use mine shafts as a prompt suggestion, you certainly don’t have to. It was a special piece of creativity to me as a child, so I hope to one day use it again in my own writing. A base of operations, a monster’s lair, a mighty fortress, a resting place for the undead, a gateway to hell, so many possibilities, so many ways to create something beautiful. We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***
It’s a new week and a new prompt suggestion at the WSS has been released. This time we’ve got “Non-Formulaic”, a prompt highly suggestive of nonconformity. You all know by now how much I love individuality. Without it, there is no creativity. With no creativity, there’s no art. The earth without art is just eh. My story this week is called “Dark Side of the Wall” and it goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
Ryan Warrior, Heavy Metal Solo Artist
Nameless Audience Members
Nameless Bouncers
PROMPT CONFORMITY: Ryan’s music doesn’t follow the formula of typical heavy metal due to him combining it with Native American music.
SYNOPSIS: Ryan puts on a heavy metal show for an outdoor arena audience in which he combines fast-paced beats with music from his Native American heritage. He’s used to playing for rowdy audiences, but this crowd pisses him off due to their perverted, drunken, and overly-aggressive behavior. Ryan stops midway through a song in order to unleash a hell storm of vitriol upon the people who came to see him. His aggressive attitude is reminiscent of Roger Waters’ when Pink Floyd did a supporting tour for their Animals album in 1977 and Mr. Waters spit on a fan climbing the stage net. Ryan even gets a hash tag trend going called “Dark Side of the Wall” due to him referencing Pink Floyd during his tirade. At this point, Mr. Warrior has a decision to make: finish the show and earn his payday or kill the show and spite the fans.
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
In all this time of peeking at my drawings, you’re probably wondering what the point of it all is, given the obvious simplistic style. There are two points. One, it’s a promotional tactic to lure people to my writing. Sometimes when you go fishing, you have to use the right bait. The second reason is because sometimes when I draw these pictures, I always feel ready to do more creative work afterwards. I spent the last two nights not using my CPAP mask because the humidifier kept blowing water in my face. While it’s nice not to drown in my own machine, I did wake up late in the day both times and my energy had been sapped. So thank you, Dark Fantasy Warriors, for giving me a chance to stimulate my muse when I’m too tired to carry on. Who’s the next character to be drawn? Makoto Lionheart, the necromancer slash evil clown slash samurai from the short story “Tiger Bullet Kick”. Three occupations in one. Holy shit!
***DEMON AXE***
When an elven terrorist slays a shit ton of people at a heavy metal concert and traumatizes the lead singer of Demon Axe, how does Paulson City respond? By having another live event and showing said elven terrorist that America will not negotiate with his kind. In this case, we’ve got a wrestling slash MMA show in which seven-foot champion Johnny Vega tries to lead the crowd in a moment of positivity only to have it interrupted by Sonia Marquez, an MMA aficionado who thinks wrestling is “fake”. Surely, the elf terrorist can’t strike again, right? Am I right? I hope so.
***COLLEGE HUMOR DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
USER: The Boston Bomber.
GOOGLE GUY: It was a real tragedy.
USER: The cute one.
GOOGLE GUY: Oh, fucking shit!
-If Google Was a Guy-
Demon Axe, Chapter 2
The Lord of the Pit bathed in darkness once again, though he was all alone and everything looked hazy to him. In this state of mind, he could finally relax and pull the plug on his emotions even if only for a little while. All he did was float in space with a numb body, a numb mind, and a dead soul. But the thing about temporary relaxation was that it was temporary. The jolt he felt in his head wasn’t enough to snap him out of this trance, but his heart raced at a million miles an hour.
The decapitated heads of Vulture Man, Pig Man, and G-Pac, with their spinal columns dripping with blood, floated into view with their eyes glowing neon purple. Every harsh stare was intended for their former comrade. Every word they spoke was in a unified, devilish tone. “Where were you, Dear Lord? Where were you when we needed you? You boasted the warrior spirit of the Demon God and then you ran like a coward!”
The Lord of the Pit’s dry mouth tried to form words, but he was too exhausted to lace together a coherent sentence. He had so much explaining to do, but the disembodied heads of his brethren shouted, “Silence! We don’t want your logic! We don’t want your apologies! We want you to suffer the way we suffered! It’s the only way we shall find justice in this netherworld!”
The floating heads glowed a brilliant orange aura as they withdrew from their superior positions. A hooded figure standing behind them waved his clawed fingers as if he was the one controlling these necrotized spirits. The figure jerked his hood back and revealed the pointy-eared, evilly grinning face of the concert slasher. The Lord of the Pit’s heart beat even faster than before while condensation moistened his flesh. He even felt a warm sensation across his groin, though the smell was anything but comforting.
The slasher said, “You heard them yourself. You’re a coward. You’re a thief. You stole their chances at freedom right from underneath. You took something from them that they’ll never get back. You took something that means more to them more than you ever will. What about their families? Their children? Their wives? What will you tell them once they demand answers? Who will come to your rescue when you have to answer for your cowardly sins?”
The Lord of the Pit tried to fire back, but his numb state wouldn’t allow such rapid-fire lip movement. All he felt was more condensation, this time in his eyeballs. The slasher frowned sadistically at his prey and said, “Pathetic. You can’t even string together a reasonable sentence when a simple apology would have worked nicely. But you heard your friends say they don’t want an apology. They want revenge. They want justice. So now, band mates, I ask you this question: what shall we do with this offensive scoundrel?”
The heads floated in front of the slasher and chanted like demonic monks, “Put him in a box! He’s a tard! Put him in a box! He’s a tard! Put him in a box! He’s a tard!” No matter how his already weak body resisted, the Lord of the Pit felt suffocated as he was forced into a wooden box and the lid closed over him with steel chains wrapping around the deathly container. With so little oxygen and not enough power to fight back, the Lord felt his heart beating faster and faster, possibly for the last time. He never had a chance to say goodbye to his friends and now he was going to be locked away for all eternity.
And then the man known as Daniel Mercer screamed his way out of his trance and sat up in bed. He was pouring with sweat, his sleeping shorts (which were thankfully dark) reeked of urine, his eyes were burning with salt, and his head felt like it was being crushed underneath a steamroller. The rock star rubbed his temples and moaned in a low voice, as if either of those things was capable of curing his hangover from last night.
Wearing nothing but a wife-beater tank top, his drenched sleeping shorts, and a pair of wool socks that were too big for him, Daniel slowly stood up from his bed and asked himself, “What the hell happened last night? What the fuck?”
The sound of a doorbell ringing send a lightning storm of pain throughout Daniel’s head as he clutched his hair and sat back down screaming and swearing in agony. He wondered who the hell would come to his house at this time of day. His neck creaked as he turned his head to see on his digital clock it was one o’clock in the afternoon. “Son of a bitch,” he said to himself as he gingerly got back up and staggered toward the front door of his house. The bell rang again and he screamed in agony before shouting audibly, “I’m coming, damn it! Jesus Christ!”
Slowly but surely, he trudged to the front door and opened it to see a balding, middle aged man in a black leather jacket and blue jeans. “Are you Daniel Mercer?” Upon getting an answer in the form of a slow nod, the man pulled out a police badge and said, “I’m Detective Shawn Henry with the Paulson City Police Department. I’m here to get a witness statement from you regarding what took place at the Demon Axe concert last night.”
Daniel squinted his eyes at the morning light and softly said, “Can’t you come back another time? As you can see, this isn’t really…you know…”
“I understand you’re not feeling well, Mr. Mercer,” said Detective Henry. “But the sooner we get a witness statement from you, the sooner we can find whoever did this.” The cop was met with a weirded-out stare, to which he responded, “Look, I don’t like being here any more than you do. But to tell you the truth, police work is a bureaucratic nightmare. There’s paperwork, there’s processing, the whole nine yards. I’m sorry you’re feeling bad today, but you’re going to feel even worse if we don’t catch the son of a bitch who did this.”
Daniel sighed and reluctantly said, “Come on in. Let’s get this shit over with.” The sickly rock star and the by-the-books detective made their way into the living room, which had little more than a flat screen TV, some heavy metal posters, and two leather loveseats. Daniel and Shawn sat oppositely of each other and allowed the conversation to begin once the cop pulled out a notepad and a pen.
“I’m going to be frank with you, Mr. Mercer,” said Shawn. “My department has already gathered witness statements from concertgoers and security enforcement and they all say that an elf, yes, an elf was responsible for all of the terrorism that took place last night. I know you’re all out of sorts today and I really caught you at a bad time, but please tell me that the terrorist was simply a guy with pointy ears.”
“And now I’m going to be frank with you, Detective Henry,” said Daniel as he leaned in closer. “I don’t give a shit what this slasher asshole was. All I know is that he took away three of the best band mates I’ve ever had. Demon Axe is no more because of this jerk-off with a machete. It wouldn’t be right to continue without them, especially since I basically ran away from the whole thing and left them to die. You want a witness statement from me? There it is, Columbo. A pointy-eared motherfucker slashed my audience to pieces, decapitated my best friends, and I’m the one who actually survived because I was cowardly enough to take off in the other direction.”
“Obviously, you’re suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress, Mr. Mercer.”
In a raised voice uncharacteristic of someone with a pounding headache, Daniel said, “You think? Is that what it really is, or did I just piss my shorts this morning because I’m forty years old and already need to be shoved in a nursing home?”
“There’s no need for hostility. I completely understand the pain you’re going through. I can set you up with a counselor and you can pour your heart out until you’re ready to move on,” said Shawn.
Daniel’s slightly raised voice evolved into a full scale scream. “There is no moving on! Didn’t you just hear me say that Demon Axe is over?! No more heavy metal! No more sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll! It’s over! Done! Finished! Adios! Sayonara! Unless your state-funded counselor is capable of reaching inside my aching-ass fucking head and pulling all of my bad memories out, then there’s not a whole lot he can do for me! I’ve taken every pill there is to take and my mind is still laughing at me and making me its bitch!”
After that oratory, Daniel clutched his head even harder and allowed tears to stream down his cheeks. Detective Henry continued to stare at him with a stoic attitude, though even he knew that his interviewee was beyond help. “You know what, Mr. Mercer?” said Shawn as he put away his pen and notepad. “I agree with you when you say this is a bad time to talk. I could sit here and tell you that the red tape nightmare will actually lead to something, but we don’t know for sure. This terrorist should be easy to find due to the pointy ears and green skin alone, but if that were true, he’d be in custody right now.”
“He must be a really good fucking fighter,” said Daniel with his head in his lap.
“That he is. We’d love to have him locked up for life, but there’s one last question I need to ask you before I go and…leave you to your devices. Can you think of any reason whatsoever why anybody would want to commit violence against a concert attendance of this size?” asked Shawn.
Daniel picked his head up and said through quivering lips, “Why does anybody do anything violent these days? Is it because one of the bands that played before us was all-Muslim? Is it because the curtain-jerker band had an openly gay guitarist? Was Demon Axe’s dark fantasy shit really that offensive? Take your pick, Detective Henry. It could be politically motivated. It could be just a bunch of nationalistic garbage. But if this pointy-eared motherfucker really is some Dungeons & Dragons freak, then we’ve got to seriously rethink the way we approach terrorism. I mean, where are you going to find an expert on this shit? Who actually knows anything about this asshole’s culture? Is he just a mental case with a blade? I don’t know. Nobody does.”
Shawn stood up and said, “That’s actually the most poignant statement I’ve received all day today and you’re not even in any condition to do a damn thing. I’ll tell you what, Daniel, let me and my department handle the media and news crews. You just focus on getting some sleep and wrestling with your…I don’t want to say demons for obvious reasons, but you get what I’m saying. I really do think you should see a counselor.”
“And I really do think that necromancy should be a real thing and that my band mates should rise from the dead. Until that day comes, there’s not a whole lot a counselor can do for me,” said Daniel.
“The offer is still on the table if you decide to change your mind. You can go back to bed now. I’m done for right now.”
“Okay, first you don’t want to use the word demon and then you tell a traumatized person to go back to sleep, probably hoping that he doesn’t have nightmares again. This politically correct garbage isn’t working out for you, Detective. If you want to give me some comfort, take away the voices in my fucking head. That’s all I’m asking anybody to do. I don’t need sympathy. I just want my voices to shut the fuck up and my band mates to come back from the fucking dead.”
Shawn nodded to Daniel and said, “Have a nice day, sir,” before showing himself out the front door.
“There’s no such thing as a nice day!” shouted Daniel as he stood up quickly. “It’s just like those assholes who say good morning! It’s an oxymoron invented by people who’ve never had their fucking friends ripped away from them! I can still see their spinal cords, for shit’s sake!”
The former Lord of the Pit could scream until his head exploded, but it wouldn’t have mattered since Detective Shawn Henry was long gone by then with the door shut behind him. Daniel slowly sat back down on the couch and sobbed softly into his calloused hands. “I just want my sanity back,” he said to himself. “Is that too much to ask? Everybody else has their sanity. Why can’t I have mine?”
The decapitated heads of Vulture Man, Pig Man, and G-Pac, with their spinal columns dripping with blood, floated into view with their eyes glowing neon purple. Every harsh stare was intended for their former comrade. Every word they spoke was in a unified, devilish tone. “Where were you, Dear Lord? Where were you when we needed you? You boasted the warrior spirit of the Demon God and then you ran like a coward!”
The Lord of the Pit’s dry mouth tried to form words, but he was too exhausted to lace together a coherent sentence. He had so much explaining to do, but the disembodied heads of his brethren shouted, “Silence! We don’t want your logic! We don’t want your apologies! We want you to suffer the way we suffered! It’s the only way we shall find justice in this netherworld!”
The floating heads glowed a brilliant orange aura as they withdrew from their superior positions. A hooded figure standing behind them waved his clawed fingers as if he was the one controlling these necrotized spirits. The figure jerked his hood back and revealed the pointy-eared, evilly grinning face of the concert slasher. The Lord of the Pit’s heart beat even faster than before while condensation moistened his flesh. He even felt a warm sensation across his groin, though the smell was anything but comforting.
The slasher said, “You heard them yourself. You’re a coward. You’re a thief. You stole their chances at freedom right from underneath. You took something from them that they’ll never get back. You took something that means more to them more than you ever will. What about their families? Their children? Their wives? What will you tell them once they demand answers? Who will come to your rescue when you have to answer for your cowardly sins?”
The Lord of the Pit tried to fire back, but his numb state wouldn’t allow such rapid-fire lip movement. All he felt was more condensation, this time in his eyeballs. The slasher frowned sadistically at his prey and said, “Pathetic. You can’t even string together a reasonable sentence when a simple apology would have worked nicely. But you heard your friends say they don’t want an apology. They want revenge. They want justice. So now, band mates, I ask you this question: what shall we do with this offensive scoundrel?”
The heads floated in front of the slasher and chanted like demonic monks, “Put him in a box! He’s a tard! Put him in a box! He’s a tard! Put him in a box! He’s a tard!” No matter how his already weak body resisted, the Lord of the Pit felt suffocated as he was forced into a wooden box and the lid closed over him with steel chains wrapping around the deathly container. With so little oxygen and not enough power to fight back, the Lord felt his heart beating faster and faster, possibly for the last time. He never had a chance to say goodbye to his friends and now he was going to be locked away for all eternity.
And then the man known as Daniel Mercer screamed his way out of his trance and sat up in bed. He was pouring with sweat, his sleeping shorts (which were thankfully dark) reeked of urine, his eyes were burning with salt, and his head felt like it was being crushed underneath a steamroller. The rock star rubbed his temples and moaned in a low voice, as if either of those things was capable of curing his hangover from last night.
Wearing nothing but a wife-beater tank top, his drenched sleeping shorts, and a pair of wool socks that were too big for him, Daniel slowly stood up from his bed and asked himself, “What the hell happened last night? What the fuck?”
The sound of a doorbell ringing send a lightning storm of pain throughout Daniel’s head as he clutched his hair and sat back down screaming and swearing in agony. He wondered who the hell would come to his house at this time of day. His neck creaked as he turned his head to see on his digital clock it was one o’clock in the afternoon. “Son of a bitch,” he said to himself as he gingerly got back up and staggered toward the front door of his house. The bell rang again and he screamed in agony before shouting audibly, “I’m coming, damn it! Jesus Christ!”
Slowly but surely, he trudged to the front door and opened it to see a balding, middle aged man in a black leather jacket and blue jeans. “Are you Daniel Mercer?” Upon getting an answer in the form of a slow nod, the man pulled out a police badge and said, “I’m Detective Shawn Henry with the Paulson City Police Department. I’m here to get a witness statement from you regarding what took place at the Demon Axe concert last night.”
Daniel squinted his eyes at the morning light and softly said, “Can’t you come back another time? As you can see, this isn’t really…you know…”
“I understand you’re not feeling well, Mr. Mercer,” said Detective Henry. “But the sooner we get a witness statement from you, the sooner we can find whoever did this.” The cop was met with a weirded-out stare, to which he responded, “Look, I don’t like being here any more than you do. But to tell you the truth, police work is a bureaucratic nightmare. There’s paperwork, there’s processing, the whole nine yards. I’m sorry you’re feeling bad today, but you’re going to feel even worse if we don’t catch the son of a bitch who did this.”
Daniel sighed and reluctantly said, “Come on in. Let’s get this shit over with.” The sickly rock star and the by-the-books detective made their way into the living room, which had little more than a flat screen TV, some heavy metal posters, and two leather loveseats. Daniel and Shawn sat oppositely of each other and allowed the conversation to begin once the cop pulled out a notepad and a pen.
“I’m going to be frank with you, Mr. Mercer,” said Shawn. “My department has already gathered witness statements from concertgoers and security enforcement and they all say that an elf, yes, an elf was responsible for all of the terrorism that took place last night. I know you’re all out of sorts today and I really caught you at a bad time, but please tell me that the terrorist was simply a guy with pointy ears.”
“And now I’m going to be frank with you, Detective Henry,” said Daniel as he leaned in closer. “I don’t give a shit what this slasher asshole was. All I know is that he took away three of the best band mates I’ve ever had. Demon Axe is no more because of this jerk-off with a machete. It wouldn’t be right to continue without them, especially since I basically ran away from the whole thing and left them to die. You want a witness statement from me? There it is, Columbo. A pointy-eared motherfucker slashed my audience to pieces, decapitated my best friends, and I’m the one who actually survived because I was cowardly enough to take off in the other direction.”
“Obviously, you’re suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress, Mr. Mercer.”
In a raised voice uncharacteristic of someone with a pounding headache, Daniel said, “You think? Is that what it really is, or did I just piss my shorts this morning because I’m forty years old and already need to be shoved in a nursing home?”
“There’s no need for hostility. I completely understand the pain you’re going through. I can set you up with a counselor and you can pour your heart out until you’re ready to move on,” said Shawn.
Daniel’s slightly raised voice evolved into a full scale scream. “There is no moving on! Didn’t you just hear me say that Demon Axe is over?! No more heavy metal! No more sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll! It’s over! Done! Finished! Adios! Sayonara! Unless your state-funded counselor is capable of reaching inside my aching-ass fucking head and pulling all of my bad memories out, then there’s not a whole lot he can do for me! I’ve taken every pill there is to take and my mind is still laughing at me and making me its bitch!”
After that oratory, Daniel clutched his head even harder and allowed tears to stream down his cheeks. Detective Henry continued to stare at him with a stoic attitude, though even he knew that his interviewee was beyond help. “You know what, Mr. Mercer?” said Shawn as he put away his pen and notepad. “I agree with you when you say this is a bad time to talk. I could sit here and tell you that the red tape nightmare will actually lead to something, but we don’t know for sure. This terrorist should be easy to find due to the pointy ears and green skin alone, but if that were true, he’d be in custody right now.”
“He must be a really good fucking fighter,” said Daniel with his head in his lap.
“That he is. We’d love to have him locked up for life, but there’s one last question I need to ask you before I go and…leave you to your devices. Can you think of any reason whatsoever why anybody would want to commit violence against a concert attendance of this size?” asked Shawn.
Daniel picked his head up and said through quivering lips, “Why does anybody do anything violent these days? Is it because one of the bands that played before us was all-Muslim? Is it because the curtain-jerker band had an openly gay guitarist? Was Demon Axe’s dark fantasy shit really that offensive? Take your pick, Detective Henry. It could be politically motivated. It could be just a bunch of nationalistic garbage. But if this pointy-eared motherfucker really is some Dungeons & Dragons freak, then we’ve got to seriously rethink the way we approach terrorism. I mean, where are you going to find an expert on this shit? Who actually knows anything about this asshole’s culture? Is he just a mental case with a blade? I don’t know. Nobody does.”
Shawn stood up and said, “That’s actually the most poignant statement I’ve received all day today and you’re not even in any condition to do a damn thing. I’ll tell you what, Daniel, let me and my department handle the media and news crews. You just focus on getting some sleep and wrestling with your…I don’t want to say demons for obvious reasons, but you get what I’m saying. I really do think you should see a counselor.”
“And I really do think that necromancy should be a real thing and that my band mates should rise from the dead. Until that day comes, there’s not a whole lot a counselor can do for me,” said Daniel.
“The offer is still on the table if you decide to change your mind. You can go back to bed now. I’m done for right now.”
“Okay, first you don’t want to use the word demon and then you tell a traumatized person to go back to sleep, probably hoping that he doesn’t have nightmares again. This politically correct garbage isn’t working out for you, Detective. If you want to give me some comfort, take away the voices in my fucking head. That’s all I’m asking anybody to do. I don’t need sympathy. I just want my voices to shut the fuck up and my band mates to come back from the fucking dead.”
Shawn nodded to Daniel and said, “Have a nice day, sir,” before showing himself out the front door.
“There’s no such thing as a nice day!” shouted Daniel as he stood up quickly. “It’s just like those assholes who say good morning! It’s an oxymoron invented by people who’ve never had their fucking friends ripped away from them! I can still see their spinal cords, for shit’s sake!”
The former Lord of the Pit could scream until his head exploded, but it wouldn’t have mattered since Detective Shawn Henry was long gone by then with the door shut behind him. Daniel slowly sat back down on the couch and sobbed softly into his calloused hands. “I just want my sanity back,” he said to himself. “Is that too much to ask? Everybody else has their sanity. Why can’t I have mine?”
September 11, 2016
The Audiomancer
Fully automatic pistol? Check. Blue trench coat? Check. Badass shades? Check. Nasty attitude? Double check. With his hands stuffed in his pockets, Edge Spider whistled a playful tune as he ascended the busted-up wooden stairs of the Neon Neighborhood Apartments. Through the mirrored shades resting underneath his afro do, he glared at the janitor at the top of the stairs, an old man in gray overalls mopping the floors. Edge reached the second floor and the elderly custodian never took his scowling eyes off of the cybernetic thug.
“Dude, what the fuck you lookin’ at, old man? I’ll kick your ass if you don’t take them eyes off of me! Keep mopping that dirt and don’t pay me no mind, bitch! Jesus!” threatened Edge as he scurried down the hallway to the apartment of his choice. He never turned around to see if the janitor was still glaring at him. All of his attention was on the number on the scratched up wooden door in front of him: 4B. “That’s the one.”
Edge knocked on the door several times and said, “Hey, Lisa! Come on, baby girl, open the goddamn door!” No reply. He knocked even harder this time and said, “Open the door, bitch! I ain’t got all day!” Still no answer. He then pulled a small wire from his trench coat pocket and fiddled with the lock until he heard a click. He chuckled to himself and said, “Bitch, you’re making this too easy.”
With one harsh swing of the door, Edge burst inside the shabby apartment and yelled, “Here’s Johnny!” in a prolonged voice. Not even the gangster’s obnoxious tone was enough to awaken Sgt. Lisa Baker, who sat hunched over at her computer lightly snoring with thick headphones on her ears. “Damn, that must have been some powerful shit.”
Shutting the door behind him with a loud thud wasn’t enough to startle Lisa, but slapping her in the back of the head and knocking her headphones over was. The blond ex-marine in a ratty pink bathrobe held the back of her head while stretching her sleepiness out with her other arm.
“Wakey, wakey! Eggs and bacey! Rise and shine! It’s breakfast time!” said Edge in a quasi-playful tone.
“Hey, Edge. How’s it going?” said Lisa in a languid, zonked out voice.
“Well, babe, I wish I could say things were going great, but they ain’t. I’ve been lookin’ at my bank account today and it’s getting pretty damn low. That might have something to do with you being late on those payments. So where’s my money, bitch? You obviously love them audio files I gave to you. Now you gotta pay for them sum-bitches,” said Edge while hovering over her.
“Listen, man,” said Lisa as he rubbed the exhaustion from her eyes. “Those files have done wonders for my PTSD. I’m grateful to have them, I really am. But I’m having a hard time coming up with money, okay? Ever since I came back from the war, I had a hard time finding work. Just give me a few more weeks and you’ll get your money.”
Placing a hand on Sgt. Baker’s shoulder, Edge said in a sarcastically comforting tone, “Okay, baby girl. I’ll give you a few more weeks. And then I’ll give you a few more weeks after that, a few more weeks after that, and a few more weeks after that. I could give you enough time for me to be in a fucking nursing home and I still wouldn’t get my money. Them audio files are making you lazy, bitch. You know how I feel about lazy people.”
His feelings were confirmed when Lisa’s head drooped over and she fell asleep again. “Oh, no, you didn’t. I know you didn’t just fall asleep on me.” The marine’s response was even heavier snoring than before. Edge gritted his teeth, grabbed Lisa by her shoulders, and tossed her across the room, all while yelling, “Wake up, asshole!”
The soldier slowly stirred from her slumber and gazed up at Edge with foggy eyes and a crooked smile. “Hey there, big boy. What can I do for you today?”
“Oh, you know damn well what you’re going to do for me! You’re going to break out that checkbook and give me what I came here for! If I have to throw your ass out the window, I’ll fucking do it! I’m telling you, you’re hooked on them audio drugs! I’m cutting your ass off until I get my money!” shouted Edge while pointing an accusatory finger at his victim.
Lisa made a flat tire noise and torpidly said, “Audio drugs? Babe, that wasn’t an audio drug I was listening to.”
“Oh, don’t gimme that bullshit! You was snoozing like a lazy little dog! I saw you myself!” snapped Edge. For full proof, he put the headphones on for a quick listen. His pissed off expression softened as he announced, “This ain’t no audio drug. This is just some new age piano shit.” He threw the headphones across the room and yelled, “Where the hell are my audio drugs, bitch?!”
Lisa’s laughter suggested that she was never tired to begin with as it was full of energy and gusto. When asked what she was laughing about, she said, “Word of advice, Edge Spider, if that is your real name: when you give painful audio drugs to complete strangers, do a better job of wiping your personal data off of them. Then again, it’s not really your fault, is it? You did everything you could. It’s just that my team was better!”
“Team? What’s all this about a team?” asked Edge before his confused expression turned into a full-on quivering lip. “You ain’t no marine with Pussy-Traumatic Stress Disorder! You’re a cop! You set my ass up!”
“I sure did,” revealed Lisa. “Somebody had to do something about those audio files crushing people’s brains. You’re no healer. You’re just a common scumbag drug dealer, Edge. Every file you gave me has been uploaded to the police database. If I were you, I’d run like the wind.”
Instead of taking that wise advice, Edge chuckled evilly, pulled his automatic pistol from his pocket, and aimed the Freudian weapon at Lisa with a cocked barrel. “They ain’t gonna take me if I have a hostage. You look important enough to them folks at the po-po station. So come on, baby girl: on your feet. Put them silky smooth hands of yours behind your pretty little head.”
Lisa did as she was told, but did so with a wicked grin of her own. “Okay, sweet cheeks. You win!” She pulled a knife from her thick hair and threw it with a blinding quickness at Edge’s gun, shattering the weapon into pieces.
At first the gangster looked down at the metal parts with fright, but then threw his arms in the air and smiled as he said, “Nah, nah, nah, cutie pie. You’re the one who wins this time.” In one swift motion, Edge threw a roundhouse kick at Lisa’s face, spinning her around in the air before she tumbled onto her shag carpet floor. Edge yelled, “I ain’t gonna spend my life in no federal prison! Fuck this shit, I’m outta here!”
Just when Lisa was stirring, Edge booted down the apartment door and sped down the hallway with every ounce of athleticism he possessed. The janitor was still glaring at him with viper-like eyes. “Damn, dude! The hell’s wrong with yo ass?!” shouted Edge as he shoved the janitor out of the way. It seemed like he would have a clear path to freedom with an empty lobby and an empty stairwell.
And then the drug dealer felt something hook his ankle, causing him to roll down the stairs and bang his body on every sharp corner of the stairs. By the time he reached the lobby, he was holding his ribs and head while whining in pain. Some of his blood painted the stairs and the railing on the way down.
Once his vision cleared up, Edge looked at the top of the stairs to see that the old man had a hook at the end of his mop before he concealed it again like a switchblade. Lisa held her bruised face as she joined the janitor, who then hugged her and asked, “Are you alright, Baker?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for the assist, Private. I’ll put in a good word for you at the station and we’ll see about getting you that promotion you’ve always wanted,” said Lisa. She looked down at the battered and broken gangster and said, “Here’s another piece of free advice, shit-head: treat the janitor with the same respect you give to the CEO.”
Edge spit out a wad of blood in a poor attempt to hit either Lisa or the undercover cop. “He ain’t no motherfucking janitor! Goddamn you two!”
The two cops trudged downstairs while the “janitor” ripped his wrinkly skin off to prove that he was actually a lot younger than his character suggested. Lisa rolled Edge on his stomach before cuffing his hands behind his back. “Edge Spider, I still don’t know if that’s your real name, but you’re under arrest for distributing illegal audio files. You have the right to legal counsel, which you’ll probably need since you can’t put together a decent sentence yourself.”
“Dude, what the fuck you lookin’ at, old man? I’ll kick your ass if you don’t take them eyes off of me! Keep mopping that dirt and don’t pay me no mind, bitch! Jesus!” threatened Edge as he scurried down the hallway to the apartment of his choice. He never turned around to see if the janitor was still glaring at him. All of his attention was on the number on the scratched up wooden door in front of him: 4B. “That’s the one.”
Edge knocked on the door several times and said, “Hey, Lisa! Come on, baby girl, open the goddamn door!” No reply. He knocked even harder this time and said, “Open the door, bitch! I ain’t got all day!” Still no answer. He then pulled a small wire from his trench coat pocket and fiddled with the lock until he heard a click. He chuckled to himself and said, “Bitch, you’re making this too easy.”
With one harsh swing of the door, Edge burst inside the shabby apartment and yelled, “Here’s Johnny!” in a prolonged voice. Not even the gangster’s obnoxious tone was enough to awaken Sgt. Lisa Baker, who sat hunched over at her computer lightly snoring with thick headphones on her ears. “Damn, that must have been some powerful shit.”
Shutting the door behind him with a loud thud wasn’t enough to startle Lisa, but slapping her in the back of the head and knocking her headphones over was. The blond ex-marine in a ratty pink bathrobe held the back of her head while stretching her sleepiness out with her other arm.
“Wakey, wakey! Eggs and bacey! Rise and shine! It’s breakfast time!” said Edge in a quasi-playful tone.
“Hey, Edge. How’s it going?” said Lisa in a languid, zonked out voice.
“Well, babe, I wish I could say things were going great, but they ain’t. I’ve been lookin’ at my bank account today and it’s getting pretty damn low. That might have something to do with you being late on those payments. So where’s my money, bitch? You obviously love them audio files I gave to you. Now you gotta pay for them sum-bitches,” said Edge while hovering over her.
“Listen, man,” said Lisa as he rubbed the exhaustion from her eyes. “Those files have done wonders for my PTSD. I’m grateful to have them, I really am. But I’m having a hard time coming up with money, okay? Ever since I came back from the war, I had a hard time finding work. Just give me a few more weeks and you’ll get your money.”
Placing a hand on Sgt. Baker’s shoulder, Edge said in a sarcastically comforting tone, “Okay, baby girl. I’ll give you a few more weeks. And then I’ll give you a few more weeks after that, a few more weeks after that, and a few more weeks after that. I could give you enough time for me to be in a fucking nursing home and I still wouldn’t get my money. Them audio files are making you lazy, bitch. You know how I feel about lazy people.”
His feelings were confirmed when Lisa’s head drooped over and she fell asleep again. “Oh, no, you didn’t. I know you didn’t just fall asleep on me.” The marine’s response was even heavier snoring than before. Edge gritted his teeth, grabbed Lisa by her shoulders, and tossed her across the room, all while yelling, “Wake up, asshole!”
The soldier slowly stirred from her slumber and gazed up at Edge with foggy eyes and a crooked smile. “Hey there, big boy. What can I do for you today?”
“Oh, you know damn well what you’re going to do for me! You’re going to break out that checkbook and give me what I came here for! If I have to throw your ass out the window, I’ll fucking do it! I’m telling you, you’re hooked on them audio drugs! I’m cutting your ass off until I get my money!” shouted Edge while pointing an accusatory finger at his victim.
Lisa made a flat tire noise and torpidly said, “Audio drugs? Babe, that wasn’t an audio drug I was listening to.”
“Oh, don’t gimme that bullshit! You was snoozing like a lazy little dog! I saw you myself!” snapped Edge. For full proof, he put the headphones on for a quick listen. His pissed off expression softened as he announced, “This ain’t no audio drug. This is just some new age piano shit.” He threw the headphones across the room and yelled, “Where the hell are my audio drugs, bitch?!”
Lisa’s laughter suggested that she was never tired to begin with as it was full of energy and gusto. When asked what she was laughing about, she said, “Word of advice, Edge Spider, if that is your real name: when you give painful audio drugs to complete strangers, do a better job of wiping your personal data off of them. Then again, it’s not really your fault, is it? You did everything you could. It’s just that my team was better!”
“Team? What’s all this about a team?” asked Edge before his confused expression turned into a full-on quivering lip. “You ain’t no marine with Pussy-Traumatic Stress Disorder! You’re a cop! You set my ass up!”
“I sure did,” revealed Lisa. “Somebody had to do something about those audio files crushing people’s brains. You’re no healer. You’re just a common scumbag drug dealer, Edge. Every file you gave me has been uploaded to the police database. If I were you, I’d run like the wind.”
Instead of taking that wise advice, Edge chuckled evilly, pulled his automatic pistol from his pocket, and aimed the Freudian weapon at Lisa with a cocked barrel. “They ain’t gonna take me if I have a hostage. You look important enough to them folks at the po-po station. So come on, baby girl: on your feet. Put them silky smooth hands of yours behind your pretty little head.”
Lisa did as she was told, but did so with a wicked grin of her own. “Okay, sweet cheeks. You win!” She pulled a knife from her thick hair and threw it with a blinding quickness at Edge’s gun, shattering the weapon into pieces.
At first the gangster looked down at the metal parts with fright, but then threw his arms in the air and smiled as he said, “Nah, nah, nah, cutie pie. You’re the one who wins this time.” In one swift motion, Edge threw a roundhouse kick at Lisa’s face, spinning her around in the air before she tumbled onto her shag carpet floor. Edge yelled, “I ain’t gonna spend my life in no federal prison! Fuck this shit, I’m outta here!”
Just when Lisa was stirring, Edge booted down the apartment door and sped down the hallway with every ounce of athleticism he possessed. The janitor was still glaring at him with viper-like eyes. “Damn, dude! The hell’s wrong with yo ass?!” shouted Edge as he shoved the janitor out of the way. It seemed like he would have a clear path to freedom with an empty lobby and an empty stairwell.
And then the drug dealer felt something hook his ankle, causing him to roll down the stairs and bang his body on every sharp corner of the stairs. By the time he reached the lobby, he was holding his ribs and head while whining in pain. Some of his blood painted the stairs and the railing on the way down.
Once his vision cleared up, Edge looked at the top of the stairs to see that the old man had a hook at the end of his mop before he concealed it again like a switchblade. Lisa held her bruised face as she joined the janitor, who then hugged her and asked, “Are you alright, Baker?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for the assist, Private. I’ll put in a good word for you at the station and we’ll see about getting you that promotion you’ve always wanted,” said Lisa. She looked down at the battered and broken gangster and said, “Here’s another piece of free advice, shit-head: treat the janitor with the same respect you give to the CEO.”
Edge spit out a wad of blood in a poor attempt to hit either Lisa or the undercover cop. “He ain’t no motherfucking janitor! Goddamn you two!”
The two cops trudged downstairs while the “janitor” ripped his wrinkly skin off to prove that he was actually a lot younger than his character suggested. Lisa rolled Edge on his stomach before cuffing his hands behind his back. “Edge Spider, I still don’t know if that’s your real name, but you’re under arrest for distributing illegal audio files. You have the right to legal counsel, which you’ll probably need since you can’t put together a decent sentence yourself.”
September 8, 2016
Lionization
***LIONIZATION***
Usually when I’m writing short stories for the WSS, the plots are heavily centered around things in life I want to demonize. “Vex Ed” demonizes abstinence-based sex ed classes. “Zion Heart” demonizes the notion that people who are against the Israeli government are also against the Jewish people. But this is just short stories. What about novels? If my short stories aim to demonize the worst parts of human life, should my novels then lionize the best parts? Demons and lions: such magnificent creatures that represent opposite ends of the positive-negative spectrum.
I’ve decided that lionizing my favorite parts of life was something I definitely wanted to do with my novels. Well, most of them. That’s what I’m trying to go for when I write “Demon Axe” chapters. While it is true that it takes a shot at nationalism and obsolete traditions, it also highlights the awesomeness of heavy metal music. In fact, heavy metal music will be not only the theme of this story, but also the solution. I won’t tell you how, but it’s in there, trust me.
And that got me thinking: what other parts of my life can I lionize with my creative writing? Well, for starters…
***ANIMALS***
It’s the worst guarded secret I have: I love animals, especially furry ones with sweet dispositions. It’s the reason why I use the word “pie” quite liberally when I describe cute animals or sweet people. I have two novel ideas called Catfight and LuNacho that will lionize animals if they ever come to pass. Catfight is Tori-centric and LuNacho is of course Luna and Nacho-centric.
***BARBARIANS***
Here’s another badly-guarded secret: I love barbarians. I use them as main characters for any fantasy RPG I can get my hands on whether it’s Dungeons & Dragons or Diablo II: Lord of Destruction. They’re big, muscle-bound, intense, scary, and quicker than cats. Oh, and they also love to use battleaxes. Barbaric Justice and Backwoods Barbarian will be the novel ideas that lionize these badass warriors. Backwoods Barbarian will finally be the one where my friend TJ’s orc warrior Agrusk Xis makes his literary debut, since the rise and fall of Fireball Nightmare. My paladin Charles Goodhorn will make his debut in Barbaric Justice.
***PORNOGRAPHY***
As a single man who frightens easily around beautiful women, I’m constantly looking for things on the internet to masturbate to. Yeah, that’s right. I said it. I’ve been jerking off since the age of 12 and my first wank was to Peta Wilson from the 90’s detective show “La Femme Nikita”. So far, I only have one novel idea that will lionize pornography: it’s cleverly titled 69 Bullets. Get it? 69? Har-dee-har-har. I’m sure Marie would have a field day critiquing that title.
***AUTHORS***
I’m a semi-professional author and it’s the best (and only) job I’ve ever had. You’re damn right I’m going to lionize the hell out of this occupation. Authors love their privacy, because it allows them to get their work done in an efficient manner. The main villain of Tender Loving Intensive Care threatens the author’s privacy, so he and his fiancé beat the shit out of the villain. Seems reasonable to me when a simple police report would have worked. Or not. Actually, it doesn’t, which is where the author’s frustrations come to fruition.
***MENTALLY ILL PEOPLE***
I’ve been a schizophrenic since 2002, but I’ve struggled with suppressing traumatic memories and being depressed since my freshman year of high school. Naturally, I want one of my heroes to be just as fucked up as me. Thus we have Mario Bryan, the schizophrenic and socially awkward lead character of Watch You Burn, a novel I wrote back in 2015 and would love to edit the hell out of someday. Actually, it reads like an acid flashback, so editing might take longer than anticipated.
***DRAWING GROSS PICTURES***
When Susan was still living here at the Haines-Temons-Stevens-Wilson household, I would always draw pictures of cartoon characters doing violent things to each other and show them to her for a shocked reaction. She responded every time and I laughed my ass off. So I figured, why not lionize this special moment in time than with a novel called “Suck It, Double Dork”, where one of the drawings is of Eddy from “Ed, Edd, n’ Eddy” giving a blowjob to Kevin while the latter is standing on top of a coffin. That’ll make for some interesting literature.
***HEAVY METAL***
I’ve already mentioned Demon Axe’s impact on heavy metal, but did you know that I had a D&D-inspired novel idea called “Love, Lies, and Rock n’ Roll”? It’s about a homeless gay couple who play bard music on the streets for money, only to have a rightwing politician try to harass them with bullying tactics. Think of this story idea as being a cross between the movie “Any Day Now” and the memoir book “A Street Cat Named Bob” (with a little girl in place of the cat).
***INTROVERSION***
The silent warriors of our society don’t get enough credit for being themselves. Yes, Susan Cain has written a nonfiction book called “Quiet” to highlight the needs of introverts, but how many teachers out there still grade their students on participating in class conversations? Thus we have a novel idea called “Silent Warrior”, where high school senior Scott George lashes out at the unfair treatment he has received from his teachers and peers. Marie suggested that Scott not be so confrontational and I believe she makes a good point.
***LIBERALISM***
I don’t talk about politics that often, so when I write a novel about liberalism, I keep hoping that it’s special. I wrote “Filter Feeder” back in either 2013 or 2014 and it was a pro-environmental urban fantasy novel that was almost a knockoff of Final Fantasy VII’s Materia gimmick. Hopefully, I’ll do better with “It’s a Freak Country”, where a humanoid alligator is running for president and makes Donald Trump look like a Black Panther. This alligator candidate even has an orcish barbarian for a Vice President. Be afraid. Be very afraid!
***PRO-WRESTLING***
Occupy Wrestling is obviously my answer for lionizing this form of violent entertainment. But I also have a sequel to this story called “The Black Widow” planned out in minimal detail, where Debra Winter is the main hero and is still doing her ninja gimmick. I also have another wrestling story idea called “Monster’s Ball”, where a boring wrestler named George Kerry gets a werewolf curse put on him in order to make him more violent and exciting in the ring. Do I have to put dark fantasy elements in all of my wrestling stories? You’re damn right I do!
***CONCLUSION***
There are other aspects of my life I’d like to lionize such as Christmas celebrations and Halloween outings, but those don’t have novel ideas just yet. I’m working on it. Kind of. Maybe. I’d be nice if this cloudy weather didn’t sap every ounce of energy I have. Aw, who am I kidding? I love to nap during gray weather. Smokey loves it when I’m laying next to her, so it can’t be all that bad. We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***
With real life taking over the admins’ lives, we all had to wait a week for a new contest. But by god, we finally have one. The theme is “dramatic entrance” and my story is called “The Audiomancer”. It goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
Edge Spider, Cyborg Gangster
Lisa Baker, Human Soldier
PROMPT CONFORMITY: Edge makes a dramatic entrance into Lisa’s apartment.
SYNOPSIS: In a cyberpunk society, soldiers will go to great lengths to cure themselves of PTSD, even if those methods are dangerous. Lisa has been a customer of Edge’s since she returned home from an overseas war. Edge’s main product is audio files that give the listener the same psychological effect as a traditional recreational drug. Lisa has been hooked on these audio files for a long time, but can’t come up with the adequate payments for these drugs. The story begins with Edge coming to her apartment to collect his debt, even if he has to use violence and intimidation to get it.
***DEMON AXE***
Daniel Mercer is in no condition to do an interview with the police. Even so, Detective Shawn Henry decides Chapter 2 is the perfect time to ask him stupid bureaucratic questions. During this conversation, it is revealed that Daniel is experiencing Post-Traumatic Stress and that he’s seriously considering giving up his music career. I guess having his audience and band mates slashed to pieces will do that sort of thing to him.
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
With Monzo Bleeder up and running, it’s time for a new Dark Fantasy Warrior to take his place. Meet Vulture Man, Daniel’s guitarist from Chapter 1 of Demon Axe. He obviously doesn’t last long and he’s far from being a warrior, but Vulture Man is unique enough that he deserves his own drawing. Hey, if Drew Carey can be in the WWE Hall of Fame, Vulture Man can be a Dark Fantasy Warrior. Deal with it.
***MUSIC JOKE OF THE DAY***
If Phil Anselmo’s group Down collaborates with Aaron Nordstrom’s group Gemini Syndrome, will their new heavy metal band be called Down Syndrome?
Usually when I’m writing short stories for the WSS, the plots are heavily centered around things in life I want to demonize. “Vex Ed” demonizes abstinence-based sex ed classes. “Zion Heart” demonizes the notion that people who are against the Israeli government are also against the Jewish people. But this is just short stories. What about novels? If my short stories aim to demonize the worst parts of human life, should my novels then lionize the best parts? Demons and lions: such magnificent creatures that represent opposite ends of the positive-negative spectrum.
I’ve decided that lionizing my favorite parts of life was something I definitely wanted to do with my novels. Well, most of them. That’s what I’m trying to go for when I write “Demon Axe” chapters. While it is true that it takes a shot at nationalism and obsolete traditions, it also highlights the awesomeness of heavy metal music. In fact, heavy metal music will be not only the theme of this story, but also the solution. I won’t tell you how, but it’s in there, trust me.
And that got me thinking: what other parts of my life can I lionize with my creative writing? Well, for starters…
***ANIMALS***
It’s the worst guarded secret I have: I love animals, especially furry ones with sweet dispositions. It’s the reason why I use the word “pie” quite liberally when I describe cute animals or sweet people. I have two novel ideas called Catfight and LuNacho that will lionize animals if they ever come to pass. Catfight is Tori-centric and LuNacho is of course Luna and Nacho-centric.
***BARBARIANS***
Here’s another badly-guarded secret: I love barbarians. I use them as main characters for any fantasy RPG I can get my hands on whether it’s Dungeons & Dragons or Diablo II: Lord of Destruction. They’re big, muscle-bound, intense, scary, and quicker than cats. Oh, and they also love to use battleaxes. Barbaric Justice and Backwoods Barbarian will be the novel ideas that lionize these badass warriors. Backwoods Barbarian will finally be the one where my friend TJ’s orc warrior Agrusk Xis makes his literary debut, since the rise and fall of Fireball Nightmare. My paladin Charles Goodhorn will make his debut in Barbaric Justice.
***PORNOGRAPHY***
As a single man who frightens easily around beautiful women, I’m constantly looking for things on the internet to masturbate to. Yeah, that’s right. I said it. I’ve been jerking off since the age of 12 and my first wank was to Peta Wilson from the 90’s detective show “La Femme Nikita”. So far, I only have one novel idea that will lionize pornography: it’s cleverly titled 69 Bullets. Get it? 69? Har-dee-har-har. I’m sure Marie would have a field day critiquing that title.
***AUTHORS***
I’m a semi-professional author and it’s the best (and only) job I’ve ever had. You’re damn right I’m going to lionize the hell out of this occupation. Authors love their privacy, because it allows them to get their work done in an efficient manner. The main villain of Tender Loving Intensive Care threatens the author’s privacy, so he and his fiancé beat the shit out of the villain. Seems reasonable to me when a simple police report would have worked. Or not. Actually, it doesn’t, which is where the author’s frustrations come to fruition.
***MENTALLY ILL PEOPLE***
I’ve been a schizophrenic since 2002, but I’ve struggled with suppressing traumatic memories and being depressed since my freshman year of high school. Naturally, I want one of my heroes to be just as fucked up as me. Thus we have Mario Bryan, the schizophrenic and socially awkward lead character of Watch You Burn, a novel I wrote back in 2015 and would love to edit the hell out of someday. Actually, it reads like an acid flashback, so editing might take longer than anticipated.
***DRAWING GROSS PICTURES***
When Susan was still living here at the Haines-Temons-Stevens-Wilson household, I would always draw pictures of cartoon characters doing violent things to each other and show them to her for a shocked reaction. She responded every time and I laughed my ass off. So I figured, why not lionize this special moment in time than with a novel called “Suck It, Double Dork”, where one of the drawings is of Eddy from “Ed, Edd, n’ Eddy” giving a blowjob to Kevin while the latter is standing on top of a coffin. That’ll make for some interesting literature.
***HEAVY METAL***
I’ve already mentioned Demon Axe’s impact on heavy metal, but did you know that I had a D&D-inspired novel idea called “Love, Lies, and Rock n’ Roll”? It’s about a homeless gay couple who play bard music on the streets for money, only to have a rightwing politician try to harass them with bullying tactics. Think of this story idea as being a cross between the movie “Any Day Now” and the memoir book “A Street Cat Named Bob” (with a little girl in place of the cat).
***INTROVERSION***
The silent warriors of our society don’t get enough credit for being themselves. Yes, Susan Cain has written a nonfiction book called “Quiet” to highlight the needs of introverts, but how many teachers out there still grade their students on participating in class conversations? Thus we have a novel idea called “Silent Warrior”, where high school senior Scott George lashes out at the unfair treatment he has received from his teachers and peers. Marie suggested that Scott not be so confrontational and I believe she makes a good point.
***LIBERALISM***
I don’t talk about politics that often, so when I write a novel about liberalism, I keep hoping that it’s special. I wrote “Filter Feeder” back in either 2013 or 2014 and it was a pro-environmental urban fantasy novel that was almost a knockoff of Final Fantasy VII’s Materia gimmick. Hopefully, I’ll do better with “It’s a Freak Country”, where a humanoid alligator is running for president and makes Donald Trump look like a Black Panther. This alligator candidate even has an orcish barbarian for a Vice President. Be afraid. Be very afraid!
***PRO-WRESTLING***
Occupy Wrestling is obviously my answer for lionizing this form of violent entertainment. But I also have a sequel to this story called “The Black Widow” planned out in minimal detail, where Debra Winter is the main hero and is still doing her ninja gimmick. I also have another wrestling story idea called “Monster’s Ball”, where a boring wrestler named George Kerry gets a werewolf curse put on him in order to make him more violent and exciting in the ring. Do I have to put dark fantasy elements in all of my wrestling stories? You’re damn right I do!
***CONCLUSION***
There are other aspects of my life I’d like to lionize such as Christmas celebrations and Halloween outings, but those don’t have novel ideas just yet. I’m working on it. Kind of. Maybe. I’d be nice if this cloudy weather didn’t sap every ounce of energy I have. Aw, who am I kidding? I love to nap during gray weather. Smokey loves it when I’m laying next to her, so it can’t be all that bad. We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***
With real life taking over the admins’ lives, we all had to wait a week for a new contest. But by god, we finally have one. The theme is “dramatic entrance” and my story is called “The Audiomancer”. It goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
Edge Spider, Cyborg Gangster
Lisa Baker, Human Soldier
PROMPT CONFORMITY: Edge makes a dramatic entrance into Lisa’s apartment.
SYNOPSIS: In a cyberpunk society, soldiers will go to great lengths to cure themselves of PTSD, even if those methods are dangerous. Lisa has been a customer of Edge’s since she returned home from an overseas war. Edge’s main product is audio files that give the listener the same psychological effect as a traditional recreational drug. Lisa has been hooked on these audio files for a long time, but can’t come up with the adequate payments for these drugs. The story begins with Edge coming to her apartment to collect his debt, even if he has to use violence and intimidation to get it.
***DEMON AXE***
Daniel Mercer is in no condition to do an interview with the police. Even so, Detective Shawn Henry decides Chapter 2 is the perfect time to ask him stupid bureaucratic questions. During this conversation, it is revealed that Daniel is experiencing Post-Traumatic Stress and that he’s seriously considering giving up his music career. I guess having his audience and band mates slashed to pieces will do that sort of thing to him.
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
With Monzo Bleeder up and running, it’s time for a new Dark Fantasy Warrior to take his place. Meet Vulture Man, Daniel’s guitarist from Chapter 1 of Demon Axe. He obviously doesn’t last long and he’s far from being a warrior, but Vulture Man is unique enough that he deserves his own drawing. Hey, if Drew Carey can be in the WWE Hall of Fame, Vulture Man can be a Dark Fantasy Warrior. Deal with it.
***MUSIC JOKE OF THE DAY***
If Phil Anselmo’s group Down collaborates with Aaron Nordstrom’s group Gemini Syndrome, will their new heavy metal band be called Down Syndrome?
September 4, 2016
Demon Axe, Chapter 1
Shrouded in darkness, the Lord of the Pit swirled his wooden ladle in the bubbling red concoction before him. The thickness of the liquid was like lava flowing in a volcano. The Lord, with his face painted as a skeleton and his long hair grayer than a cantankerous witch, looked down at his cauldron creation with a sadistic grin. His three cohorts, each of them donning black robes and vicious-looking masks, held out their steel bowls while the Lord of the Pit scooped and poured the demonic liquid into their dishes. “Drink it in, minions,” he said in a gravelly, haunting voice.
The first to consume his bowl of unholy soup was Pig Man, who as his name suggested wore the mask of a gray-skinned pig with tusks on either side and a brass nose ring through his snout. He also drank like a pig: quickly and sloppily, getting some of the brew on his robe. Pig Man let out an obnoxious burp to signify his satisfaction with his “meal”.
The second to feast upon the bubbling red muck was Vulture Man, whose mask bore a sinister scowl and a blade-like beak. Unlike his hoggish cohort, Vulture Man took small sips at first. Any trace of good dinner manners disappeared when he buried his face in his bowl and slobbered the liquid down. Instead of a burp, he let out a prolonged “Ah!” in a relaxed voice.
G-Pac, who wore the mask of a rotten-toothed, black painted, hollow-eyed clown, shook his head at his friends and chuckled with delight. “I’d say that hit the spot, wouldn’t you agree, Master?” The sinister clown drank his potion in one gulp and smashed the bowl over his head, shattering it into pieces. The mouth hole in his mask showed traces of an evil grin while a small trickle of blood ran down his forehead and into the cauldron.
“I truly am surrounded by pure gentlemen tonight,” said the Lord of the Pit, who took a swig from his own bowl and splashed it all over his gray trench coat and Demon Axe T-shirt. He threw his bowl off to the side and rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation. “And now my minions, join hands as I recite the Demon’s Prayer.”
With all four of these unholy clerics holding hands and bowing their heads with closed eyes, the Lord of the Pit spoke in his ominous voice. “Oh, Demon of Death, grant us your fire, your strength, and your passion. Let the masses join together in the circle pit and release their vicious energy. Don’t let our newest member, Pig Man, screw up tonight. And for god’s sake, Demon of Death, don’t let me be an asshole on stage. Don’t let any of my band mates say, ‘Too late!’”.
“Too late!” chimed in Vulture Man.
“And punish those who do!” said the Lord of the Pit, which earned a modicum of laughter from Pig Man, G-Pac, and even the smart-assed Vulture Man. The Lord pointed to the ceiling with his index finger and said, “That last one was for you, Master Carlin.” He ducked his head back down and said, “Alone, we are warriors of the music industry. Together, we are…”
“Demon Axe!” said the band mates in unison.
“Who are we?!” shouted the Lord.
“Demon Axe!”
“Amen, motherfuckers. Now let’s go out there and fuck shit up!”
The four members of the band released each other’s hands and marched their way beyond the stage curtain. With the stage lights dim and the audience chanting Demon Axe’s name, the band took their positions to the loudest of cheers. G-Pac sat at his drum kit, with his drum sticks resembling bloodied clubs. Vulture Man started strumming heavily on his electric guitar, the neck of which looked like the blade of a broad sword. Pig Man took his spot at the bass guitar, an instrument with strings that looked like pieces of ground up sausage.
The last band mate to take his position was The Lord of the Pit, who upon adjusting his battleaxe-shaped microphone received a thunderous ovation from the wild and crazy outdoor crowd. “What the fuck is going on, Paulson City?!” he shouted in his throaty voice, earning an even louder response from the audience. “You want to talk about some crazy shit?! We’re kicking this motherfucker off with Zombie-Ogre! Get that fucking circle pit going! One! Two! Three! Let’s go!”
The members of Demon Axe banged their heads and pumped out a heavy metal tune with a grinding guitar, a funky bass, and rapid-fire drums. The mosh pit in the audience intensified with every shove, resulting in bruises, bumps, and bloody gashes. With pyrotechnics bursting in the background, The Lord of the Pit began his lyrical assault on an already banged up audience.
“Eat, sleep, shatter, repeat! / Ultra-violence for human meat! / Winner, winner, chicken dinner! / The glutinous one is a true sinner! / Blood on his fangs, flesh on his tongue! / Poison in his gut, disease in his lungs! / Zombie-Ogre is coming to kill! / Cannibalism, a sadistic thrill!”
As Pig Man and Vulture Man screamed the chorus into their bone and skull microphones, The Lord of the Pit stopped head banging for a moment and had a faraway look in his eyes. He was probably accustomed to looking at ghosts all the time with his dark fantasy gimmick, but this time, he actually looked like he saw a ghost. His eyes were wide, his body was still despite the heavy metal thrashing going on, and he frowned his worst frown.
“Stop the music! Stop the goddamn music! Do it, now!” ordered the Lord of the Pit, to which the band mates reluctantly complied. The antsy audience cheered at their wildest level, clearly suffering from heavy metal withdrawal. The Lord pointed his finger out in the distance and said, “Stagehands, I want you to shine a big red light on that guy in the back. The one with the brown robe and the hood over his face. You’ll understand why in a minute. Just fucking do it!”
The red light was shining down upon the robed figure in the far back of the venue. Such an evil color seemed appropriate considering he was carrying a lengthy machete in his hands with blood dripping down from the blade. Audience members screamed and slowly backed away from him.
“Well, Mr. and Mrs. Security Detail! You guys are sure earning your money tonight!” said a sarcastic Lord of the Pit with his arms flailing about. “Seriously, where the fuck are you guys?! How is it that not one bouncer has tackled this guy yet?! I guess he’s just a really good fighter, right? A whole group of three hundred pound men and not one of them can take down a jackass with a machete! It’s a simple matter of physics, people! A guy with a blade cannot fight off that many fat-assed bouncers! I don’t care if he’s the love child of Bruce Lee and a Xiaolin fucking monk! It’s damned near impossible!”
The audience booed and flashed downwards thumbs and middle fingers at the machete-wielding warrior, who didn’t flinch one bit. He just stood there as still as a statue and as stoic as the heartless killer he was. The Lord of the Pit continued his rant with, “I’ll tell you guys what. Since security is too lazy to do their fucking jobs, I’ve got a better idea on how we can handle this. Normally, I don’t encourage this kind of thing at my shows, but this asshole is giving us no other choice. How about this: you, the audience, form a circle pit around that guy and see how tough he really is when he’s got a whole army going up against him!”
The crowd erupted into deafening cheers and leonine roars, raising their fists to the skies and letting their mostly pierced tongues hang down from their mouths. “Are you ready?!” shouted the Lord of the Pit, to which the crowd cheered even more aggressively. “One! Two! Three! Get him!” The rowdy and animalistic crowd descended upon the machete fighter ready to beat his ass into powder.
Nobody counted on the mysterious warrior removing his hood to reveal green flesh and elongated ears, to which the crowd backed off and the Lord of the Pit shouted, “Holy shit!” The machete fighter threw one slash and lopped off the heads of several audience members, their necks gushing like volcanoes of blood and their bodies dropping to the ground almost instantly.
Audience members wailed and ran with their arms flailing in the air while the elfish murderer stabbed them in the gut, hacked off their arms and legs, and slashed their throats. In such quick and unrivaled movements, the elf turned this outdoor concert venue into an ocean of thick blood, splattered organs, shredded skin, and shattered bones.
Among the frightened people desperately trying to escape were the members of Demon Axe themselves. They looked like anything but unholy knights as they ran like Olympians behind the curtain, past the backstage area, and through the cheaply-built door, which the Lord of the Pit battered down with one shoulder tackle. With his mind scrambling in different directions, his heart beating like G-Pac’s double bass drums, and sweat raining from his painted skin, the Lord of the Pit shed his gray trench coat and bolted toward the Demon Axe tour bus. He shot up the stairs and made a football tackle onto the soft plushy couch.
The Lord’s breathing was heavy and raspy as he closed his eyes and sprawled out on the couch. He heard the bus doors close and the driver attempting to start the engine, which snapped him out of his exhausted state and forced him to look around for his band mates, none of whom were on the bus.
“Hold on a second! Driver, where the hell is everyone?! We can’t just leave them out there with this psychopath! Open the goddamn doors and let them in!” demanded the Lord of the Pit. As he frantically looked around, he saw something out of the window that made his bloodshot eyes shoot up in horror and load up with tears. The elf warrior stood outside the tour bus with a frightening smile on his face, audience members screaming and running in the background, and the severed heads and spinal columns of Pig Man, Vulture Man, and G=Pac in his fists.
While the elf was laughing evilly to himself, the Lord of the Pit banged on the window and shouted “No!” repeatedly in prolonged cinematic fashion. The bus’s engine finally started and the vehicle drove away into the night, the elf never taking his burning orange eyes off of the screaming and traumatized singer.
With the arena far behind him, the Lord of the Pit continued to scream and cry in agony at the thought of his former band mates decapitated by this monster of a human being, if he could be called that. He scrambled toward his mini refrigerator and pulled out everything from its confines whether it was lunch meat, ice cream, or what he was truly looking for, a gigantic bottle of booze.
The Lord eyed the bottle with heavy tears and heavy breathing. “This is just what I fucking need.” He quickly unscrewed the top and chucked the entire bottle in only a matter of minimal gulps. Once the bottle was empty, he smashed it against his head several times. The bottle finally broke after the fifth strike. With a bloodied scalp and a drunken, traumatized mind, the once mighty Lord of the Pit dropped down to his knees and fell flat on his face. He intended to sleep that way for the rest of this god-forsaken night.
“I’d get that wound wrapped up if I were you, Daniel,” said the driver, which earned him a lazy middle finger from the Lord of the Pit. Lord of the Pit? Who was he kidding? His band mates were dead. Most of his fans were dead. The whole dark fantasy gimmick was just bullshit. And now the man legally known as Daniel P. Mercer was just a sad drunk with paint and blood all over his face.
The first to consume his bowl of unholy soup was Pig Man, who as his name suggested wore the mask of a gray-skinned pig with tusks on either side and a brass nose ring through his snout. He also drank like a pig: quickly and sloppily, getting some of the brew on his robe. Pig Man let out an obnoxious burp to signify his satisfaction with his “meal”.
The second to feast upon the bubbling red muck was Vulture Man, whose mask bore a sinister scowl and a blade-like beak. Unlike his hoggish cohort, Vulture Man took small sips at first. Any trace of good dinner manners disappeared when he buried his face in his bowl and slobbered the liquid down. Instead of a burp, he let out a prolonged “Ah!” in a relaxed voice.
G-Pac, who wore the mask of a rotten-toothed, black painted, hollow-eyed clown, shook his head at his friends and chuckled with delight. “I’d say that hit the spot, wouldn’t you agree, Master?” The sinister clown drank his potion in one gulp and smashed the bowl over his head, shattering it into pieces. The mouth hole in his mask showed traces of an evil grin while a small trickle of blood ran down his forehead and into the cauldron.
“I truly am surrounded by pure gentlemen tonight,” said the Lord of the Pit, who took a swig from his own bowl and splashed it all over his gray trench coat and Demon Axe T-shirt. He threw his bowl off to the side and rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation. “And now my minions, join hands as I recite the Demon’s Prayer.”
With all four of these unholy clerics holding hands and bowing their heads with closed eyes, the Lord of the Pit spoke in his ominous voice. “Oh, Demon of Death, grant us your fire, your strength, and your passion. Let the masses join together in the circle pit and release their vicious energy. Don’t let our newest member, Pig Man, screw up tonight. And for god’s sake, Demon of Death, don’t let me be an asshole on stage. Don’t let any of my band mates say, ‘Too late!’”.
“Too late!” chimed in Vulture Man.
“And punish those who do!” said the Lord of the Pit, which earned a modicum of laughter from Pig Man, G-Pac, and even the smart-assed Vulture Man. The Lord pointed to the ceiling with his index finger and said, “That last one was for you, Master Carlin.” He ducked his head back down and said, “Alone, we are warriors of the music industry. Together, we are…”
“Demon Axe!” said the band mates in unison.
“Who are we?!” shouted the Lord.
“Demon Axe!”
“Amen, motherfuckers. Now let’s go out there and fuck shit up!”
The four members of the band released each other’s hands and marched their way beyond the stage curtain. With the stage lights dim and the audience chanting Demon Axe’s name, the band took their positions to the loudest of cheers. G-Pac sat at his drum kit, with his drum sticks resembling bloodied clubs. Vulture Man started strumming heavily on his electric guitar, the neck of which looked like the blade of a broad sword. Pig Man took his spot at the bass guitar, an instrument with strings that looked like pieces of ground up sausage.
The last band mate to take his position was The Lord of the Pit, who upon adjusting his battleaxe-shaped microphone received a thunderous ovation from the wild and crazy outdoor crowd. “What the fuck is going on, Paulson City?!” he shouted in his throaty voice, earning an even louder response from the audience. “You want to talk about some crazy shit?! We’re kicking this motherfucker off with Zombie-Ogre! Get that fucking circle pit going! One! Two! Three! Let’s go!”
The members of Demon Axe banged their heads and pumped out a heavy metal tune with a grinding guitar, a funky bass, and rapid-fire drums. The mosh pit in the audience intensified with every shove, resulting in bruises, bumps, and bloody gashes. With pyrotechnics bursting in the background, The Lord of the Pit began his lyrical assault on an already banged up audience.
“Eat, sleep, shatter, repeat! / Ultra-violence for human meat! / Winner, winner, chicken dinner! / The glutinous one is a true sinner! / Blood on his fangs, flesh on his tongue! / Poison in his gut, disease in his lungs! / Zombie-Ogre is coming to kill! / Cannibalism, a sadistic thrill!”
As Pig Man and Vulture Man screamed the chorus into their bone and skull microphones, The Lord of the Pit stopped head banging for a moment and had a faraway look in his eyes. He was probably accustomed to looking at ghosts all the time with his dark fantasy gimmick, but this time, he actually looked like he saw a ghost. His eyes were wide, his body was still despite the heavy metal thrashing going on, and he frowned his worst frown.
“Stop the music! Stop the goddamn music! Do it, now!” ordered the Lord of the Pit, to which the band mates reluctantly complied. The antsy audience cheered at their wildest level, clearly suffering from heavy metal withdrawal. The Lord pointed his finger out in the distance and said, “Stagehands, I want you to shine a big red light on that guy in the back. The one with the brown robe and the hood over his face. You’ll understand why in a minute. Just fucking do it!”
The red light was shining down upon the robed figure in the far back of the venue. Such an evil color seemed appropriate considering he was carrying a lengthy machete in his hands with blood dripping down from the blade. Audience members screamed and slowly backed away from him.
“Well, Mr. and Mrs. Security Detail! You guys are sure earning your money tonight!” said a sarcastic Lord of the Pit with his arms flailing about. “Seriously, where the fuck are you guys?! How is it that not one bouncer has tackled this guy yet?! I guess he’s just a really good fighter, right? A whole group of three hundred pound men and not one of them can take down a jackass with a machete! It’s a simple matter of physics, people! A guy with a blade cannot fight off that many fat-assed bouncers! I don’t care if he’s the love child of Bruce Lee and a Xiaolin fucking monk! It’s damned near impossible!”
The audience booed and flashed downwards thumbs and middle fingers at the machete-wielding warrior, who didn’t flinch one bit. He just stood there as still as a statue and as stoic as the heartless killer he was. The Lord of the Pit continued his rant with, “I’ll tell you guys what. Since security is too lazy to do their fucking jobs, I’ve got a better idea on how we can handle this. Normally, I don’t encourage this kind of thing at my shows, but this asshole is giving us no other choice. How about this: you, the audience, form a circle pit around that guy and see how tough he really is when he’s got a whole army going up against him!”
The crowd erupted into deafening cheers and leonine roars, raising their fists to the skies and letting their mostly pierced tongues hang down from their mouths. “Are you ready?!” shouted the Lord of the Pit, to which the crowd cheered even more aggressively. “One! Two! Three! Get him!” The rowdy and animalistic crowd descended upon the machete fighter ready to beat his ass into powder.
Nobody counted on the mysterious warrior removing his hood to reveal green flesh and elongated ears, to which the crowd backed off and the Lord of the Pit shouted, “Holy shit!” The machete fighter threw one slash and lopped off the heads of several audience members, their necks gushing like volcanoes of blood and their bodies dropping to the ground almost instantly.
Audience members wailed and ran with their arms flailing in the air while the elfish murderer stabbed them in the gut, hacked off their arms and legs, and slashed their throats. In such quick and unrivaled movements, the elf turned this outdoor concert venue into an ocean of thick blood, splattered organs, shredded skin, and shattered bones.
Among the frightened people desperately trying to escape were the members of Demon Axe themselves. They looked like anything but unholy knights as they ran like Olympians behind the curtain, past the backstage area, and through the cheaply-built door, which the Lord of the Pit battered down with one shoulder tackle. With his mind scrambling in different directions, his heart beating like G-Pac’s double bass drums, and sweat raining from his painted skin, the Lord of the Pit shed his gray trench coat and bolted toward the Demon Axe tour bus. He shot up the stairs and made a football tackle onto the soft plushy couch.
The Lord’s breathing was heavy and raspy as he closed his eyes and sprawled out on the couch. He heard the bus doors close and the driver attempting to start the engine, which snapped him out of his exhausted state and forced him to look around for his band mates, none of whom were on the bus.
“Hold on a second! Driver, where the hell is everyone?! We can’t just leave them out there with this psychopath! Open the goddamn doors and let them in!” demanded the Lord of the Pit. As he frantically looked around, he saw something out of the window that made his bloodshot eyes shoot up in horror and load up with tears. The elf warrior stood outside the tour bus with a frightening smile on his face, audience members screaming and running in the background, and the severed heads and spinal columns of Pig Man, Vulture Man, and G=Pac in his fists.
While the elf was laughing evilly to himself, the Lord of the Pit banged on the window and shouted “No!” repeatedly in prolonged cinematic fashion. The bus’s engine finally started and the vehicle drove away into the night, the elf never taking his burning orange eyes off of the screaming and traumatized singer.
With the arena far behind him, the Lord of the Pit continued to scream and cry in agony at the thought of his former band mates decapitated by this monster of a human being, if he could be called that. He scrambled toward his mini refrigerator and pulled out everything from its confines whether it was lunch meat, ice cream, or what he was truly looking for, a gigantic bottle of booze.
The Lord eyed the bottle with heavy tears and heavy breathing. “This is just what I fucking need.” He quickly unscrewed the top and chucked the entire bottle in only a matter of minimal gulps. Once the bottle was empty, he smashed it against his head several times. The bottle finally broke after the fifth strike. With a bloodied scalp and a drunken, traumatized mind, the once mighty Lord of the Pit dropped down to his knees and fell flat on his face. He intended to sleep that way for the rest of this god-forsaken night.
“I’d get that wound wrapped up if I were you, Daniel,” said the driver, which earned him a lazy middle finger from the Lord of the Pit. Lord of the Pit? Who was he kidding? His band mates were dead. Most of his fans were dead. The whole dark fantasy gimmick was just bullshit. And now the man legally known as Daniel P. Mercer was just a sad drunk with paint and blood all over his face.
September 2, 2016
Open Bar Superstar
VERSE 1
Drink that beer like you’re dying of thirst
Let the poison set in then do your worst
Ranting and raving is what you’re craving
Putting up with you is considered slaving
You belong in the back of a police car
And nowhere near the cacophonic bar
Come back when you gain some IQ points
Realize the annoyance of your own noise
CHORUS
Open! Bar! Super! Star! X4
VERSE 2
You don’t have to be a nuclear scientist
Just have to sit down and be silent, bitch
You act foolish as you feel the drugs
I wish I had a gun with a chamber full of slugs
Use your fucking head before it explodes
Your body is dumped on the side of the road
It’s only fantasy, but it’s a damn good one
Killing your ass would be so much fun
CHORUS
Open! Bar! Super! Star! X4
VERSE 3
Don’t you dare get behind the wheel
Or a kick in the nuts is what you’ll feel
You’ve done enough damage for one day
To our ears and brains and it’s not okay
You stole the music from underneath us
The band drove away in their big tour bus
I guess being an idiot is punishment enough
For guys like you with your beer belly stuffed
CHORUS
Open! Bar! Super! Star! X4
BRIDGE
You’re an alcoholic, far from anonymous
Far from Einstein, far from an economist
Far from the fan that you claim to be
If you’re stealing music from guys like me
Drink that beer like you’re dying of thirst
Let the poison set in then do your worst
Ranting and raving is what you’re craving
Putting up with you is considered slaving
You belong in the back of a police car
And nowhere near the cacophonic bar
Come back when you gain some IQ points
Realize the annoyance of your own noise
CHORUS
Open! Bar! Super! Star! X4
VERSE 2
You don’t have to be a nuclear scientist
Just have to sit down and be silent, bitch
You act foolish as you feel the drugs
I wish I had a gun with a chamber full of slugs
Use your fucking head before it explodes
Your body is dumped on the side of the road
It’s only fantasy, but it’s a damn good one
Killing your ass would be so much fun
CHORUS
Open! Bar! Super! Star! X4
VERSE 3
Don’t you dare get behind the wheel
Or a kick in the nuts is what you’ll feel
You’ve done enough damage for one day
To our ears and brains and it’s not okay
You stole the music from underneath us
The band drove away in their big tour bus
I guess being an idiot is punishment enough
For guys like you with your beer belly stuffed
CHORUS
Open! Bar! Super! Star! X4
BRIDGE
You’re an alcoholic, far from anonymous
Far from Einstein, far from an economist
Far from the fan that you claim to be
If you’re stealing music from guys like me
Milk Bottle Supermodel
VERSE 1
You have no reason to bitch and complain
Yet you still do it whenever you want fame
The body of a model and the face of an angel
Taking bloody shots from a sniper’s angle
You can call it bratty, you can call it entitled
But evil bitchiness is where it will be filed
History is not on your side and you know it
Try to fight it and you’re just going to blow it
CHORUS
Milk! Bottle! Super! Model! X4
VERSE 2
You’re a disgrace to your whole generation
You’re not even worth quick masturbation
You can’t get ratings for your own station
You can’t convince the entire fucking nation
That you’re more than a fireball of rage
That you’re more than a puppet on stage
That you’re better than the minimum wage
That you’re wise beyond your millennial age
CHORUS
Milk! Bottle! Super! Model! X4
VERSE 3
We see right through your tainted beauty
What we see makes us pissed and moody
A demonic soul with a heart full of holes
A hellish dwelling stacked high with coals
You could blame your parents or yourself
The way you think isn’t good for your health
Devils in one ear, drill sergeants in the other
We’re stronger than the fools you try to smother
CHORUS
Milk! Bottle! Super! Model! X4
FINAL BRIDGE
You can call it privilege, you can call it promise
You can call it ego, you can call it solace
No matter the words that you choose
You know in your heart you’re going to lose!
You have no reason to bitch and complain
Yet you still do it whenever you want fame
The body of a model and the face of an angel
Taking bloody shots from a sniper’s angle
You can call it bratty, you can call it entitled
But evil bitchiness is where it will be filed
History is not on your side and you know it
Try to fight it and you’re just going to blow it
CHORUS
Milk! Bottle! Super! Model! X4
VERSE 2
You’re a disgrace to your whole generation
You’re not even worth quick masturbation
You can’t get ratings for your own station
You can’t convince the entire fucking nation
That you’re more than a fireball of rage
That you’re more than a puppet on stage
That you’re better than the minimum wage
That you’re wise beyond your millennial age
CHORUS
Milk! Bottle! Super! Model! X4
VERSE 3
We see right through your tainted beauty
What we see makes us pissed and moody
A demonic soul with a heart full of holes
A hellish dwelling stacked high with coals
You could blame your parents or yourself
The way you think isn’t good for your health
Devils in one ear, drill sergeants in the other
We’re stronger than the fools you try to smother
CHORUS
Milk! Bottle! Super! Model! X4
FINAL BRIDGE
You can call it privilege, you can call it promise
You can call it ego, you can call it solace
No matter the words that you choose
You know in your heart you’re going to lose!
September 1, 2016
Demon Axe
***DEMON AXE***
I see all of my writer friends publishing novels left and right and it makes me wonder what I’m doing sitting on my ass. The last time I wrote a novel, summer in 2015 was coming to an end and the story was a psychological fantasy called “Watch You Burn”. Ever since then, it remained a first draft and I had devoted my attention to other projects, such as the WSS contests, editing the shit out of “Occupy Wrestling”, and editing the shit out of “Poison Tongue Tales”. And then I had real life obstacles getting in the way such as sleep apnea, concerts, and exhausting housework. Wherever could I find the time to write a novel these days? Do I truly have to wait until November a.k.a. NaNoWriMo?
The correct answer is not only no, but hell no. I used to pump out novels like an assembly line back in my younger years. They were shitty novels, but they were novels nonetheless. So what pray tell is keeping me from writing a novel in today’s world? Absolutely nothing. Those other creative projects can be done side-by-side with my novel and it wouldn’t affect my energy levels. It’s been a full year since “Watch You Burn” and now it’s time to get some shit done.
In the same way that “Occupy Wrestling” lionizes pro-wrestling and “Watch You Burn” supports people with mental illnesses, this new novel idea, “Demon Axe”, will lionize heavy metal. When you get right down to it, those are the three tropes I live with the most: wrestling, metal, and schizophrenia. Such a wonderful combination! So here it is, ladies and gentlemen: a character list and synopsis for what will be called “Demon Axe”:
MAIN CHARACTERS:
Daniel Mercer, Heavy Metal Singer
Shawn Henry, Police Detective
Raven Triscloud, Elf Warrior
King Triscloud, Elf Leader
Roger Zee, Elf Zealot
Johnny Vega, Giant Wrestler
Sonia Marquez, MMA Fighter
SYNOPSIS: Daniel and his band Demon Axe play a show on an open field that is believed to be holy ground for elves. Not believing the legends, the band goes ahead with the show anyways and encourages the wrath of Roger Zee, a machete-wielding elf who slashes the audience members to pieces. While Shawn Henry tries to investigate, Daniel is visited in the late hours of the night by Raven. Raven wants his help in hunting down Roger and putting him back in his tomb. Daniel confesses that the band name Demon Axe and their onstage dark fantasy gimmicks are just for show and he’s not a real warrior. Raven doesn’t believe him.
If you’ve seen the name Raven Triscloud before, it’s because she was a character in a D&D campaign back in 2010. I’ve asked Heather (the original owner of that character) if it was okay to use her in a story and she said yes. I tried to recycle her into a dark fantasy novel called “Fireball Nightmare”, but that story was too Gary-Stu and Mary-Sue infested. Hopefully, Demon Axe will be a better fit for her.
Spoiler alert: there’s going to be a sex scene in this novel. Not just any sex scene, but an ANGRY sex scene. I’ve often wondered if people really do have angry sex with each other. It seemed legitimate after I went to a Three Days Grace concert and Matt Walst asked the audience pointblank, “Have you ever fucked somebody you hate?!” The audience erupted into cheers after that, so I guess angry sex is a real thing.
I have two other novel ideas that are planned out from beginning to end: a debt collection drama called “Debt of Pain” (naturally) and an animal fantasy called “LuNacho” (named after two stray cats who eventually went to the Humane Society named Luna and Nacho). Demon Axe appeals to me the most right now, but that doesn’t mean I’m casting those other two ideas aside so easily.
Because I want Demon Axe to be a full-fledged novel and not a shortie like “Occupy Wrestling” ended up being, it will have to conform to the 40,000 word quota. That means all twenty chapters of this novel will have to be at least 2,000 words long, which is 500 more than what I’m used to writing with chapters and short stories alike. It’s going to be a challenge, but I know full well that if I keep writing within my comfort zone, I’m never going to get anywhere.
Wish me luck, faithful readers. Keep your devil horns up in the air for my boys Demon Axe!
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
Dovald ended up scaring the shit out of my mother when I showed my drawing of him to her. If she thought a bulky dark paladin with creepy face paint was something to behold, she’s never met Tara Greenlee. Tara is a demonic hallucination from the short story “Dancing with Mary Jane” who torments two corrupt cops to the point of insanity. Tara Greenlee is basically Guillermo Batista from “The Balrog” on steroids. Watch out for this bloodthirsty monster!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“You can’t see California without Marlon Brando’s eyes!”
-Slipknot singing “Eyeless”-
I see all of my writer friends publishing novels left and right and it makes me wonder what I’m doing sitting on my ass. The last time I wrote a novel, summer in 2015 was coming to an end and the story was a psychological fantasy called “Watch You Burn”. Ever since then, it remained a first draft and I had devoted my attention to other projects, such as the WSS contests, editing the shit out of “Occupy Wrestling”, and editing the shit out of “Poison Tongue Tales”. And then I had real life obstacles getting in the way such as sleep apnea, concerts, and exhausting housework. Wherever could I find the time to write a novel these days? Do I truly have to wait until November a.k.a. NaNoWriMo?
The correct answer is not only no, but hell no. I used to pump out novels like an assembly line back in my younger years. They were shitty novels, but they were novels nonetheless. So what pray tell is keeping me from writing a novel in today’s world? Absolutely nothing. Those other creative projects can be done side-by-side with my novel and it wouldn’t affect my energy levels. It’s been a full year since “Watch You Burn” and now it’s time to get some shit done.
In the same way that “Occupy Wrestling” lionizes pro-wrestling and “Watch You Burn” supports people with mental illnesses, this new novel idea, “Demon Axe”, will lionize heavy metal. When you get right down to it, those are the three tropes I live with the most: wrestling, metal, and schizophrenia. Such a wonderful combination! So here it is, ladies and gentlemen: a character list and synopsis for what will be called “Demon Axe”:
MAIN CHARACTERS:
Daniel Mercer, Heavy Metal Singer
Shawn Henry, Police Detective
Raven Triscloud, Elf Warrior
King Triscloud, Elf Leader
Roger Zee, Elf Zealot
Johnny Vega, Giant Wrestler
Sonia Marquez, MMA Fighter
SYNOPSIS: Daniel and his band Demon Axe play a show on an open field that is believed to be holy ground for elves. Not believing the legends, the band goes ahead with the show anyways and encourages the wrath of Roger Zee, a machete-wielding elf who slashes the audience members to pieces. While Shawn Henry tries to investigate, Daniel is visited in the late hours of the night by Raven. Raven wants his help in hunting down Roger and putting him back in his tomb. Daniel confesses that the band name Demon Axe and their onstage dark fantasy gimmicks are just for show and he’s not a real warrior. Raven doesn’t believe him.
If you’ve seen the name Raven Triscloud before, it’s because she was a character in a D&D campaign back in 2010. I’ve asked Heather (the original owner of that character) if it was okay to use her in a story and she said yes. I tried to recycle her into a dark fantasy novel called “Fireball Nightmare”, but that story was too Gary-Stu and Mary-Sue infested. Hopefully, Demon Axe will be a better fit for her.
Spoiler alert: there’s going to be a sex scene in this novel. Not just any sex scene, but an ANGRY sex scene. I’ve often wondered if people really do have angry sex with each other. It seemed legitimate after I went to a Three Days Grace concert and Matt Walst asked the audience pointblank, “Have you ever fucked somebody you hate?!” The audience erupted into cheers after that, so I guess angry sex is a real thing.
I have two other novel ideas that are planned out from beginning to end: a debt collection drama called “Debt of Pain” (naturally) and an animal fantasy called “LuNacho” (named after two stray cats who eventually went to the Humane Society named Luna and Nacho). Demon Axe appeals to me the most right now, but that doesn’t mean I’m casting those other two ideas aside so easily.
Because I want Demon Axe to be a full-fledged novel and not a shortie like “Occupy Wrestling” ended up being, it will have to conform to the 40,000 word quota. That means all twenty chapters of this novel will have to be at least 2,000 words long, which is 500 more than what I’m used to writing with chapters and short stories alike. It’s going to be a challenge, but I know full well that if I keep writing within my comfort zone, I’m never going to get anywhere.
Wish me luck, faithful readers. Keep your devil horns up in the air for my boys Demon Axe!
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
Dovald ended up scaring the shit out of my mother when I showed my drawing of him to her. If she thought a bulky dark paladin with creepy face paint was something to behold, she’s never met Tara Greenlee. Tara is a demonic hallucination from the short story “Dancing with Mary Jane” who torments two corrupt cops to the point of insanity. Tara Greenlee is basically Guillermo Batista from “The Balrog” on steroids. Watch out for this bloodthirsty monster!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“You can’t see California without Marlon Brando’s eyes!”
-Slipknot singing “Eyeless”-
August 28, 2016
My Influences
***MY INFLUENCES***
We all have our favorite books, authors, movies, actors, music and bands. But how much of that creative fuel actually changes the way we approach our art? I can safely say that even though Daniel Bryan is my favorite pro-wrestler of all time, he doesn’t make me want to adjust my writing style. In other words, even though I prefer watching Mr. Bryan over other wrestlers, he’s not necessarily an influence to me. An influence is someone you model your work after, not just someone who tingles your senses. Soulfly is one of my favorite heavy metal acts of all time, but they don’t change the way I write stories. So what does influence me? Who are the people and what are the mediums that make me want to become a better writer? I never gave much thought about this until now, and as of today, there are ten items on this list. Starting with…
***DIALBO II: LORD OF DESTRUCTION***
I’ve always credited this computer game with giving me a fascination in barbarians. I’ve always loved using melee-ranged warriors whenever I played RPG’s and the barbarian personifies that in Diablo II in a way no other class does. Actually, that’s not entirely true since the paladin’s fire and cold auras can jack him up like Brock Lesnar, but who’s keeping track? Bottom line, if it wasn’t for Diablo II, Deus Shadowheart, Brutus Warpath, Corey Darkside, and Magnus Warcry would never be possible. I’ve always considered Deus to be my honey child despite the fact that he’s an overloaded Gary-Stu. He finally found a story to be a part of and that short story is appropriately called Deus Ex Machina, a high fantasy tale that preaches teaching people how to do stuff as opposed to doing those things for them. Deus Ex Machina is one of the cornerstones of my soon-to-be published anthology Poison Tongue Tales. But it’s not just barbarians that held my fascination. Hannah Jason from “Bee Jay the Glutinous” is a sorceress, Marcus Edge from “Stardust” is a druid, Edwin Stryker from “Crossing the Line” is a paladin, so many characters were influenced by the dark magic Diablo II is known for.
***FINAL FIGHT***
More and more these days, whenever I’m riding in the car and I see a dilapidated neighborhood through my window, I always tell my brother James that said neighborhood looks like a stage from Final Fight, a beat ‘em up arcade game where most of the stages take place in ghettoized buildings. Ever since rekindling my interest in this game earlier this year, lots of Dungeons & Dragons campaign, novel, and short story ideas have come from those broken down buildings. I’m still waiting for the day when I can sit down with James, Reina, and Shara and guide them through an adventure that takes place on a shit-infested subway train. Stage backgrounds from videogames have always fascinated me, but the biggest piece of creative fuel I drew from Final Fight was Mike Haggar, a pro-wrestler who pile-drives, suplexes, and clotheslines Mad Gear gangsters into powder. When I wrote the first draft of “Occupy Wrestling” back in 2013, I wanted the main character Mitch McLeod to be a throwback to Mike Haggar in terms of body size and outfit, right down to the shoulder strap and the plated boots from the second Final Fight game. With thick rimmed glasses, pale skin, and puffy spiked hair, Mitch McLeod keeps himself from being a complete clone of Mr. Haggar while honoring how badass the Mayor of Metro City really is.
***WWE***
This one’s a no-brainer in so many ways. Where do I begin? Well, if I didn’t have such a zealous love for pro-wrestling, “Occupy Wrestling” wouldn’t be possible. If it wasn’t for the Wrestling Observer Newsletter’s Most Disgusting Promotional Tactic award, I wouldn’t have a basis for how to build Keegan Day from the ground up since he’s supposed to represent everything wrong with the wrestling business. But what about the dark fantasy aspects of WWE wrestlers? The Undertaker is without a doubt the biggest one with his necromancer gimmick. Bray Wyatt as a sadistic cult leader will always be an influence on the creepy monsters from “Occupy Wrestling”. Stardust and Goldust? Well, if I ever decide to write the sequel to Occupy Wrestling and call it “The Black Widow”, Rosie Rogers will be a parody of the Rhodes brothers’ bizarre gimmicks and she’ll be called Angel Dust. WWE will always be my favorite form of violent entertainment. Ignoramuses who call it “fake” can say the same thing about other forms of fiction like Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, and Game of Thrones.
***THE CLEANER***
Stephen King once famously said that if you don’t have the time to read, you don’t have the time nor the tools to write. In the summer of 2009, I finally got the wakeup call I needed when I read “The Cleaner” by Brett Battles, a fast-paced, exciting, well-thought-out novel that set the standards I now have for the books I read. My tastes have changed over the years, but “The Cleaner” will always be what I base my reading and writing on since that was the novel that set me on the right path. Jonathan Quinn really is a badass character and Brett Battles really is a badass author. Check out this book whenever you get the time.
***PINK FLOYD THE WALL***
I started listening to Pink Floyd on a regular basis when I moved to Chehalis, Washington in 1996. Back in those horrendous middle school days, I loved hearing Roger Waters say, “We don’t need no education!” I didn’t gain a full-fledged appreciation for The Wall’s message until I watched the movie version of it quite frequently in my sophomore year of high school. Seeing those faceless children plunge into a meat grinder made me fear conformity so much that I resisted everyone’s attempts to break me. If it wasn’t for Pink Floyd the Wall and its message of anti-conformity, lord knows where my creativity would have ended up. Maybe I wouldn’t have made it out of high school with my individuality intact. Maybe there would be no Garrison Kelly novels.
***KILLER BE KILLED***
Okay, so this super-group hasn’t been around for a long time, but their song “Snakes of Jehovah” is a huge part of the reason why Occupy Wrestling is a success (in my mind at least). After Keegan goes to a minimum security jail for corruption charges, he has his robe and snake mask-wearing henchmen, The Snakes of Jehovah, do his bidding for him to make sure the police don’t interfere with his behind the scenes work. These faceless minions are blessed with magical powers, creepy limbs, and the ability to put up a barrier just by forming a circle and speaking in tongues. Thank you, Killer Be Killed, for putting out such a badass album! Without you guys, Keegan would have to shell out even more money from his billion dollar bank account to keep the police at bay.
***GEORGE CARLIN***
With intelligent speaking abilities, a raunchy and dark sense of humor, and a disdain for politically correct policies, George Carlin gave me permission to be as wild and crazy as I want when it comes to my writing. Before watching my first George Carlin routine, I had to rely on comedians like Johnny Carson, Benny Hill, and Bill Cosby to be my creative fuel. Being as young and naïve as I was back then, those three comedians’ messages didn’t ring true for me the way that Carlin’s did. I feel so good about my comedic abilities that I currently have a novel idea sitting in my reserve stack called “Suck It, Double Dork!”, which is basically one long rehashing of Carlin’s joke about making rape funny by picturing Porky Pig sodomizing Elmer Fudd. They’re cartoon characters; nobody gives a shit what happens to them. Even at the age of 71, Carlin died too soon. Rest in peace.
***CLERKS***
When I reviewed Clerks and Clerks II, I should have given both of those movies five stars instead of four. A lot of the well-spoken dialogue from those movies is the basis for my characters’ dialogue and my writing was well-received because of it. I wish I would have known how to interpret creative fuel in a more mature way when I was a teenager and a twenty-something. Otherwise, my first movie script Pumping Filter wouldn’t be such a mess of racial and sexual slurs from Pulp Fiction. As I look up scenes from Clerks I and II on You Tube, I realize that it’s not enough just to copy a style of dialogue. It has to fit your story’s world and sound 100% natural too.
***DUNGEONS & DRAGONS***
It’s a pencil-and-paper role-playing game where my love for dark fantasy themes is rekindled and reenergized once more. Many of my player characters and villains from these campaigns went on to become major players in many of my stories. Brutus Warcry, my level eight human barbarian, had his last name tweaked to Warpath and he became the main character for a short story called “Stone Cold” about a barbarian who wants revenge for his fallen wife. Bob Rua, a tiger monk and MMA practitioner, was the main character from “Tiger Bullet Kick”, where he guards a tomb full of treasure from a necromancer and a newly awakened mummy king. Charles Goodhorn, a paladin with a dark past, will be the main character in a novel idea called “Barbaric Justice”, where three intergalactic barbarians hold a trade route hostage in exchange for the means to return home. So many characters, so many stories, so much fun!
***THE SHIELD***
Maybe this detective show was responsible for my teenaged works being so offensive and crass due to its blatant TV-MA rating. Over a decade later and it becomes central to a novel idea called “Silent Warrior”. Spoiler alert, high school introvert Scott George has sex with his vengeful history teacher’s daughter and says to him, “Your daughter’s pussy tastes like sweet butter.” Okay, so maybe Silent Warrior isn’t as extreme or brutish as The Shield, but the writing style and dialogue have a lot of similarities, especially when, spoiler alert, Scott gets put on trial for having sex with a minor while being 18 years old.
***CONCLUSION***
(Gnaws on a carrot) Meh…that’s all folks! Wait a minute, wrong Looney Tunes character. My bad! Hehe!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“I’ve got the obligatory Hendrix perm and the inevitable pinhole burns all down the front of my favorite satin shirt. I’ve got nicotine stains on my fingers. I’ve got a silver spoon on a chain. I’ve got a grand piano to prop up my mortal remains. I’ve got wild staring eyes. I’ve got a strong urge to fly. But I’ve got nowhere to fly to. Oooo, babe! When I pick up the phone, there’s still nobody home.”
-Pink Floyd singing “Nobody Home”-
We all have our favorite books, authors, movies, actors, music and bands. But how much of that creative fuel actually changes the way we approach our art? I can safely say that even though Daniel Bryan is my favorite pro-wrestler of all time, he doesn’t make me want to adjust my writing style. In other words, even though I prefer watching Mr. Bryan over other wrestlers, he’s not necessarily an influence to me. An influence is someone you model your work after, not just someone who tingles your senses. Soulfly is one of my favorite heavy metal acts of all time, but they don’t change the way I write stories. So what does influence me? Who are the people and what are the mediums that make me want to become a better writer? I never gave much thought about this until now, and as of today, there are ten items on this list. Starting with…
***DIALBO II: LORD OF DESTRUCTION***
I’ve always credited this computer game with giving me a fascination in barbarians. I’ve always loved using melee-ranged warriors whenever I played RPG’s and the barbarian personifies that in Diablo II in a way no other class does. Actually, that’s not entirely true since the paladin’s fire and cold auras can jack him up like Brock Lesnar, but who’s keeping track? Bottom line, if it wasn’t for Diablo II, Deus Shadowheart, Brutus Warpath, Corey Darkside, and Magnus Warcry would never be possible. I’ve always considered Deus to be my honey child despite the fact that he’s an overloaded Gary-Stu. He finally found a story to be a part of and that short story is appropriately called Deus Ex Machina, a high fantasy tale that preaches teaching people how to do stuff as opposed to doing those things for them. Deus Ex Machina is one of the cornerstones of my soon-to-be published anthology Poison Tongue Tales. But it’s not just barbarians that held my fascination. Hannah Jason from “Bee Jay the Glutinous” is a sorceress, Marcus Edge from “Stardust” is a druid, Edwin Stryker from “Crossing the Line” is a paladin, so many characters were influenced by the dark magic Diablo II is known for.
***FINAL FIGHT***
More and more these days, whenever I’m riding in the car and I see a dilapidated neighborhood through my window, I always tell my brother James that said neighborhood looks like a stage from Final Fight, a beat ‘em up arcade game where most of the stages take place in ghettoized buildings. Ever since rekindling my interest in this game earlier this year, lots of Dungeons & Dragons campaign, novel, and short story ideas have come from those broken down buildings. I’m still waiting for the day when I can sit down with James, Reina, and Shara and guide them through an adventure that takes place on a shit-infested subway train. Stage backgrounds from videogames have always fascinated me, but the biggest piece of creative fuel I drew from Final Fight was Mike Haggar, a pro-wrestler who pile-drives, suplexes, and clotheslines Mad Gear gangsters into powder. When I wrote the first draft of “Occupy Wrestling” back in 2013, I wanted the main character Mitch McLeod to be a throwback to Mike Haggar in terms of body size and outfit, right down to the shoulder strap and the plated boots from the second Final Fight game. With thick rimmed glasses, pale skin, and puffy spiked hair, Mitch McLeod keeps himself from being a complete clone of Mr. Haggar while honoring how badass the Mayor of Metro City really is.
***WWE***
This one’s a no-brainer in so many ways. Where do I begin? Well, if I didn’t have such a zealous love for pro-wrestling, “Occupy Wrestling” wouldn’t be possible. If it wasn’t for the Wrestling Observer Newsletter’s Most Disgusting Promotional Tactic award, I wouldn’t have a basis for how to build Keegan Day from the ground up since he’s supposed to represent everything wrong with the wrestling business. But what about the dark fantasy aspects of WWE wrestlers? The Undertaker is without a doubt the biggest one with his necromancer gimmick. Bray Wyatt as a sadistic cult leader will always be an influence on the creepy monsters from “Occupy Wrestling”. Stardust and Goldust? Well, if I ever decide to write the sequel to Occupy Wrestling and call it “The Black Widow”, Rosie Rogers will be a parody of the Rhodes brothers’ bizarre gimmicks and she’ll be called Angel Dust. WWE will always be my favorite form of violent entertainment. Ignoramuses who call it “fake” can say the same thing about other forms of fiction like Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, and Game of Thrones.
***THE CLEANER***
Stephen King once famously said that if you don’t have the time to read, you don’t have the time nor the tools to write. In the summer of 2009, I finally got the wakeup call I needed when I read “The Cleaner” by Brett Battles, a fast-paced, exciting, well-thought-out novel that set the standards I now have for the books I read. My tastes have changed over the years, but “The Cleaner” will always be what I base my reading and writing on since that was the novel that set me on the right path. Jonathan Quinn really is a badass character and Brett Battles really is a badass author. Check out this book whenever you get the time.
***PINK FLOYD THE WALL***
I started listening to Pink Floyd on a regular basis when I moved to Chehalis, Washington in 1996. Back in those horrendous middle school days, I loved hearing Roger Waters say, “We don’t need no education!” I didn’t gain a full-fledged appreciation for The Wall’s message until I watched the movie version of it quite frequently in my sophomore year of high school. Seeing those faceless children plunge into a meat grinder made me fear conformity so much that I resisted everyone’s attempts to break me. If it wasn’t for Pink Floyd the Wall and its message of anti-conformity, lord knows where my creativity would have ended up. Maybe I wouldn’t have made it out of high school with my individuality intact. Maybe there would be no Garrison Kelly novels.
***KILLER BE KILLED***
Okay, so this super-group hasn’t been around for a long time, but their song “Snakes of Jehovah” is a huge part of the reason why Occupy Wrestling is a success (in my mind at least). After Keegan goes to a minimum security jail for corruption charges, he has his robe and snake mask-wearing henchmen, The Snakes of Jehovah, do his bidding for him to make sure the police don’t interfere with his behind the scenes work. These faceless minions are blessed with magical powers, creepy limbs, and the ability to put up a barrier just by forming a circle and speaking in tongues. Thank you, Killer Be Killed, for putting out such a badass album! Without you guys, Keegan would have to shell out even more money from his billion dollar bank account to keep the police at bay.
***GEORGE CARLIN***
With intelligent speaking abilities, a raunchy and dark sense of humor, and a disdain for politically correct policies, George Carlin gave me permission to be as wild and crazy as I want when it comes to my writing. Before watching my first George Carlin routine, I had to rely on comedians like Johnny Carson, Benny Hill, and Bill Cosby to be my creative fuel. Being as young and naïve as I was back then, those three comedians’ messages didn’t ring true for me the way that Carlin’s did. I feel so good about my comedic abilities that I currently have a novel idea sitting in my reserve stack called “Suck It, Double Dork!”, which is basically one long rehashing of Carlin’s joke about making rape funny by picturing Porky Pig sodomizing Elmer Fudd. They’re cartoon characters; nobody gives a shit what happens to them. Even at the age of 71, Carlin died too soon. Rest in peace.
***CLERKS***
When I reviewed Clerks and Clerks II, I should have given both of those movies five stars instead of four. A lot of the well-spoken dialogue from those movies is the basis for my characters’ dialogue and my writing was well-received because of it. I wish I would have known how to interpret creative fuel in a more mature way when I was a teenager and a twenty-something. Otherwise, my first movie script Pumping Filter wouldn’t be such a mess of racial and sexual slurs from Pulp Fiction. As I look up scenes from Clerks I and II on You Tube, I realize that it’s not enough just to copy a style of dialogue. It has to fit your story’s world and sound 100% natural too.
***DUNGEONS & DRAGONS***
It’s a pencil-and-paper role-playing game where my love for dark fantasy themes is rekindled and reenergized once more. Many of my player characters and villains from these campaigns went on to become major players in many of my stories. Brutus Warcry, my level eight human barbarian, had his last name tweaked to Warpath and he became the main character for a short story called “Stone Cold” about a barbarian who wants revenge for his fallen wife. Bob Rua, a tiger monk and MMA practitioner, was the main character from “Tiger Bullet Kick”, where he guards a tomb full of treasure from a necromancer and a newly awakened mummy king. Charles Goodhorn, a paladin with a dark past, will be the main character in a novel idea called “Barbaric Justice”, where three intergalactic barbarians hold a trade route hostage in exchange for the means to return home. So many characters, so many stories, so much fun!
***THE SHIELD***
Maybe this detective show was responsible for my teenaged works being so offensive and crass due to its blatant TV-MA rating. Over a decade later and it becomes central to a novel idea called “Silent Warrior”. Spoiler alert, high school introvert Scott George has sex with his vengeful history teacher’s daughter and says to him, “Your daughter’s pussy tastes like sweet butter.” Okay, so maybe Silent Warrior isn’t as extreme or brutish as The Shield, but the writing style and dialogue have a lot of similarities, especially when, spoiler alert, Scott gets put on trial for having sex with a minor while being 18 years old.
***CONCLUSION***
(Gnaws on a carrot) Meh…that’s all folks! Wait a minute, wrong Looney Tunes character. My bad! Hehe!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“I’ve got the obligatory Hendrix perm and the inevitable pinhole burns all down the front of my favorite satin shirt. I’ve got nicotine stains on my fingers. I’ve got a silver spoon on a chain. I’ve got a grand piano to prop up my mortal remains. I’ve got wild staring eyes. I’ve got a strong urge to fly. But I’ve got nowhere to fly to. Oooo, babe! When I pick up the phone, there’s still nobody home.”
-Pink Floyd singing “Nobody Home”-
August 25, 2016
Anti-Millennial Bigotry
***ANTI-MILLENNIAL BIGOTRY***
I’m not a confrontational person by any stretch of the imagination. I don’t talk about politics on a frequent basis and I dread getting in debates with people. However, as someone who was born in 1985, I feel like if I don’t write this blog entry, it’ll be a missed opportunity to put myself out there. This is a sensitive topic for me, so bear with me for a minute. I’m talking of course about ageism, particularly against people born in the 80’s and 90’s a.k.a. Millennials.
Being a Generation Y member should never be associated with laziness or selfishness. Those are stereotypes based on limited information. Some Millennials fit the stereotypes, some don’t, just like with any other group of people. It’s like saying all black people love fried chicken or all gay people think about sex 24/7. Again, those are stereotypes and they don’t apply to everyone. Yet ageism against young adults seems to slip through the cracks and is widely accepted by both liberals and conservatives of older generations. They see some of us texting on our phones and think the entire population is suddenly doomed.
No generation is without their own set of stereotypes. For example, I could easily label Generation X members as whiny drug addicts or Prozac chugging slackers, but I’m not going to say any of those things, because I’m not an asshole. I could also say Baby Boomers and Great Generation members are a bunch of boring storytellers who can’t shut up about walking 100 miles in the snow, but again, that would make me an asshole and that’s not who I am. So why would it be okay to say that every millennial on this planet is a self-important text-messaging queen? Every last one of them? Not just some? Not just a few? All of them?
As a millennial myself, I do admit to fitting in with at least SOME of the stereotypes against us, but not because my birth year was magically selected to be 1985. I’m open about the fact that I’m unemployed and live with my parents.
I’m not unemployed because I’m lazy and therefore don’t want a job. I’m unemployed because after sending my resume to a bunch of different work sites and doing countless interviews, the bosses still said no. It happens a lot, especially since millennials hit their pique during the Bush-era recession. Older people love to blame laziness, but that’s simply not true. Truth is, you can dress in your nicest clothes, you can work your hardest, you can give the most agreeable answers, and give 100% of yourself during an interview, but in the end, you, the Generation Y member, are not the one who makes the decisions in the workplace. Otherwise, unemployment wouldn’t be a major stereotype for my generation. If we could work, we would. We know full well that money isn’t everything, but it is something.
I don’t live with my parents because of financial worries. I live with them for two main reasons. One, I love being in their company. Two, we have a symbiotic relationship where we help each other. As Baby Boomers, my mom and step-dad can’t do as much physical labor as they could in their younger years. My mother has hip and knee problems that she can only find relief from on a temporary basis. My step-dad Dale has been battling a kidney stone since the last month. While I don’t enjoy heavy lifting or any other kind of strenuous labor, I do it because I love my parents and I don’t want them to get hurt. If you can’t take care of each other, who can you take care of? It’s natural to want to surround yourself with people who make you feel good and that’s something that spans all generations.
While I’ll always condemn people who unfairly criticize young adults for laziness and entitlement, there is one thing I will share common ground with them on: smart phones. I agree with the idea that being in real world company should trump text messaging or playing videogames on a smart phone. It’s a basic form of respect. Corey Taylor from Slipknot once smacked a phone out of someone’s hands during a performance because that audience member was texting instead of watching the show. I grinned from ear to ear at Mr. Taylor’s display.
I myself don’t need a smart phone for anything that my desktop computer can do better. I have a generic cell phone that I only use for emergencies, whether it’s bumming a ride or needing to know where a family member is. And before you criticize me for not having my own car and therefore being a lazy millennial, I should let you know that crashing on the highway and spreading one’s guts all over the tarmac isn’t a pleasant experience for any age group.
Millennials are just like any other group of people in this world. Some are good, some are evil. Some are smart, some are dumb. Some are happy, some are sad. There will always be standouts who defy stereotypes no matter what group of people you’re talking about. George Carlin, a member of the Great Generation, is definitely not a droning storyteller; he’s one of the funniest comedians of all time. The main cast of the new Ghostbusters movie are not a bunch of bikini-wearing sex machines; they’re normal women who do extraordinary things in their movie. Q-Tip, a born-again Muslim rapper, is not secretly plotting to blow up buildings with a suicide vest; he’s putting out kick-ass music and helping younger rappers get noticed.
While ageism should be recognized as being like any other form of bigotry, it somehow became normal along the way. Bill Maher, a liberal-libertarian pundit, once called ageism “The last acceptable prejudice” and then turned around and referred to Millennials as “Generation Ass” because he saw a picture on Twitter of a woman with a giant posterior. Ageism has become one of those things that spans many belief systems and cultures while no real progress is being made against it. There are even members of Generation Y who criticize their own age group.
I don’t know how young people ageism became acceptable, but I can assure you that it has nothing to do with all of this sweet technology and “free shit” we have. No generation wants to pass the torch to the next. I even had a hard time passing the torch to Generation Z because of all the Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez songs that were being published. Reina, my Generation Z niece, doesn’t fit those stereotypes because she’d rather listen to bands like Breaking Benjamin and 3 Doors Down. That’s right, folks. I used to be just another ignorant ageist myself. And then I posted a 2009 essay where I joked about ruling over teenagers with an iron fist if I ever became an English teacher. That didn’t go over too well with the Deviant Art community, because surprise, surprise, ageism is just as bad as any other form of prejudice. As we all know, prejudice isn’t just insulting, but it can hurt us on an even deeper level whether it’s with employment, police treatment, or social status.
I’m going to ask something that’s been asked many times before, but nobody gave a definitive answer to. Can’t we all just get along?
***JOKE OF THE DAY***
Q: What do you call it when a McDonald’s employee goes berserk?
A: Minimum rage.
I’m not a confrontational person by any stretch of the imagination. I don’t talk about politics on a frequent basis and I dread getting in debates with people. However, as someone who was born in 1985, I feel like if I don’t write this blog entry, it’ll be a missed opportunity to put myself out there. This is a sensitive topic for me, so bear with me for a minute. I’m talking of course about ageism, particularly against people born in the 80’s and 90’s a.k.a. Millennials.
Being a Generation Y member should never be associated with laziness or selfishness. Those are stereotypes based on limited information. Some Millennials fit the stereotypes, some don’t, just like with any other group of people. It’s like saying all black people love fried chicken or all gay people think about sex 24/7. Again, those are stereotypes and they don’t apply to everyone. Yet ageism against young adults seems to slip through the cracks and is widely accepted by both liberals and conservatives of older generations. They see some of us texting on our phones and think the entire population is suddenly doomed.
No generation is without their own set of stereotypes. For example, I could easily label Generation X members as whiny drug addicts or Prozac chugging slackers, but I’m not going to say any of those things, because I’m not an asshole. I could also say Baby Boomers and Great Generation members are a bunch of boring storytellers who can’t shut up about walking 100 miles in the snow, but again, that would make me an asshole and that’s not who I am. So why would it be okay to say that every millennial on this planet is a self-important text-messaging queen? Every last one of them? Not just some? Not just a few? All of them?
As a millennial myself, I do admit to fitting in with at least SOME of the stereotypes against us, but not because my birth year was magically selected to be 1985. I’m open about the fact that I’m unemployed and live with my parents.
I’m not unemployed because I’m lazy and therefore don’t want a job. I’m unemployed because after sending my resume to a bunch of different work sites and doing countless interviews, the bosses still said no. It happens a lot, especially since millennials hit their pique during the Bush-era recession. Older people love to blame laziness, but that’s simply not true. Truth is, you can dress in your nicest clothes, you can work your hardest, you can give the most agreeable answers, and give 100% of yourself during an interview, but in the end, you, the Generation Y member, are not the one who makes the decisions in the workplace. Otherwise, unemployment wouldn’t be a major stereotype for my generation. If we could work, we would. We know full well that money isn’t everything, but it is something.
I don’t live with my parents because of financial worries. I live with them for two main reasons. One, I love being in their company. Two, we have a symbiotic relationship where we help each other. As Baby Boomers, my mom and step-dad can’t do as much physical labor as they could in their younger years. My mother has hip and knee problems that she can only find relief from on a temporary basis. My step-dad Dale has been battling a kidney stone since the last month. While I don’t enjoy heavy lifting or any other kind of strenuous labor, I do it because I love my parents and I don’t want them to get hurt. If you can’t take care of each other, who can you take care of? It’s natural to want to surround yourself with people who make you feel good and that’s something that spans all generations.
While I’ll always condemn people who unfairly criticize young adults for laziness and entitlement, there is one thing I will share common ground with them on: smart phones. I agree with the idea that being in real world company should trump text messaging or playing videogames on a smart phone. It’s a basic form of respect. Corey Taylor from Slipknot once smacked a phone out of someone’s hands during a performance because that audience member was texting instead of watching the show. I grinned from ear to ear at Mr. Taylor’s display.
I myself don’t need a smart phone for anything that my desktop computer can do better. I have a generic cell phone that I only use for emergencies, whether it’s bumming a ride or needing to know where a family member is. And before you criticize me for not having my own car and therefore being a lazy millennial, I should let you know that crashing on the highway and spreading one’s guts all over the tarmac isn’t a pleasant experience for any age group.
Millennials are just like any other group of people in this world. Some are good, some are evil. Some are smart, some are dumb. Some are happy, some are sad. There will always be standouts who defy stereotypes no matter what group of people you’re talking about. George Carlin, a member of the Great Generation, is definitely not a droning storyteller; he’s one of the funniest comedians of all time. The main cast of the new Ghostbusters movie are not a bunch of bikini-wearing sex machines; they’re normal women who do extraordinary things in their movie. Q-Tip, a born-again Muslim rapper, is not secretly plotting to blow up buildings with a suicide vest; he’s putting out kick-ass music and helping younger rappers get noticed.
While ageism should be recognized as being like any other form of bigotry, it somehow became normal along the way. Bill Maher, a liberal-libertarian pundit, once called ageism “The last acceptable prejudice” and then turned around and referred to Millennials as “Generation Ass” because he saw a picture on Twitter of a woman with a giant posterior. Ageism has become one of those things that spans many belief systems and cultures while no real progress is being made against it. There are even members of Generation Y who criticize their own age group.
I don’t know how young people ageism became acceptable, but I can assure you that it has nothing to do with all of this sweet technology and “free shit” we have. No generation wants to pass the torch to the next. I even had a hard time passing the torch to Generation Z because of all the Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez songs that were being published. Reina, my Generation Z niece, doesn’t fit those stereotypes because she’d rather listen to bands like Breaking Benjamin and 3 Doors Down. That’s right, folks. I used to be just another ignorant ageist myself. And then I posted a 2009 essay where I joked about ruling over teenagers with an iron fist if I ever became an English teacher. That didn’t go over too well with the Deviant Art community, because surprise, surprise, ageism is just as bad as any other form of prejudice. As we all know, prejudice isn’t just insulting, but it can hurt us on an even deeper level whether it’s with employment, police treatment, or social status.
I’m going to ask something that’s been asked many times before, but nobody gave a definitive answer to. Can’t we all just get along?
***JOKE OF THE DAY***
Q: What do you call it when a McDonald’s employee goes berserk?
A: Minimum rage.
