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Week 522 (February 16-28). Story topic: Out of Fettle.
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AUTHOR: Garrison KellyTITLE: Jerry Frost Is the Colonel Sanders of Jim Roots
GENRE: RPG Memoir
WORD COUNT: At least 1,700
RATING: PG-13 for swearing
We’ve all had days where we were out of fettle. Getting out of bed couldn’t be harder if you were cuffed to the fucking thing. Even the act of ordering fast food proved more difficult than cooking a three-course meal yourself. The wintry mix of gray diarrhea and depressive smoke bears down upon you whether you have a roof over your head or not. Wouldn’t it be nice to have somebody to talk to during these difficult moments? Someone who won’t judge you (because your brain does that enough already). Someone who won’t make you talk about things you’re not comfortable with. Someone who can put things into perspective in a way you couldn’t see before (probably because your damp eyelids were too heavy to lift). That someone could very well be licensed art therapist Jerry Frost, one of the few RPG characters I managed to get right.
Okay, so he wasn’t 100% perfect, but who would want that anyways since Gary-Stus are about as appealing as a wet paper towel. But while his portrayal of a psychotherapist was dead-on, his background story could have used a hell of a lot more work than I gave it. His childhood would have given Sigmund Freud a massive stroke (the kind in his brain, not the kind in his jockey shorts, you sick fucks). Jerry’s parents were tough on him as they pushed him towards becoming a STEM guy. He could forget his artistic pursuits and just mix chemicals all day long, because that’s what the wallet wanted. But even Jerry knew that wallets were hungry for more than just Big Pharma money or electrical engineering cheddar. Just like with menus at restaurants, there were many avenues for Jerry to choose from. But his strict parents insisted he become a STEM guy, because that was the wallet’s equivalent of an all-you-can-eat Brazilian steakhouse.
Jerry had other plans. Mixing chemicals and fusing wires together sounded about as much fun to him as watching dust accumulate on his bookshelf. Why care so much about the dust when there were perfectly good books there with stories of dragons and elves, kings, queens, and themperors, magical diamonds and fiery swords? He could write his own stories. He could draw his own creatures. He could compose acoustic guitar songs about an elven archer’s final shot into the heart of a cannibalistic ogre. He could do it all! But of course, the message of STEM guys being paid handsomely was beaten into his head so much that he had to come up with a nice compromise so that he didn’t get chucked out of the house before he was ready. Jerry Frost would become an art therapist. He still got to explore his creative avenues, but he could satisfy his STEM obligations since psychology is still a science.
So far, so good. He’s got a background story. He’s got motivations. He’s got a psychological edge to him. Now all he needs is a way to pay for college so that he can get that degree and get out there into the world. And he plans on paying for it by…working extra hours at KFC. Why wouldn’t he want to work at KFC? He looks like Jim Root from Slipknot and Jim Root has that beard and hairstyle combo that almost reminded him of Colonel Sanders. Jerry Frost is the Colonel Sanders of Jim Roots. He made a shit-load of fried chicken and served it to the hungriest bellies, all day, every day, until he earned enough to pay for his tuition. There’s just one problem with all of this: in the real world, working at KFC doesn’t pay for shit. Barely surviving in an apartment that costs an arm, a leg, a brain, and a heart is closer to reality than this dream scenario I concocted. It’s a uniquely millennial and Gen Z experience. That is where Jerry’s back story falls apart.
Another way in which it falls apart is through the act of art therapy itself. I didn’t learn this until after the RPG session, but apparently, having art as your most obsessive hobby is dangerous, because once he lose the will and the energy to do that, you’re left with nothing. Absolutely nothing. I felt personally attacked by this revelation (another uniquely millennial and Gen Z idea). As of today, almost everything I do involves creativity in one form or another: writing, reading, drawing, photography, even watching movies has creative merit (media literacy). And once I’m too tired for creativity, then what? Do I just lay around and wait for the feeling to pass? Yes! Jerry Frost probably should have warned his first patient Christian that this was going to happen, but like the chicken he made, his brain was too fried to comprehend such possibilities.
And thus we segue from the back story to the main role-play. Jerry Frost has his office set up just the way he likes: heavy metal posters nailed to the walls, drawings strewn about on his desk, books on a wooden shelf that told stories of epic fantasy battles and space opera death matches, and of course, a marble skull on his desk. Why a marble skull? Does he really need a reason? Yes, some of these decorations sounded too creepy to be in a psychologist’s office. The In This Moment poster with bloody hands sticking up and the Pink Floyd poster with the screaming face come to mind the most. But Christian didn’t seem to give two fucks about that. He was just sitting there on a puke green couch with his head in his hands and a shit-load of anger boiling inside of him. And so Jerry asked him, “What brings you to my office today?”
Obligation. That’s what brought him there. Christian didn’t see the point in coming, only that he had no other choice. Jerry, being the art therapist that he was, recommended some creative activities as a form of free association, or piecing together someone’s psychological makeup through symbols and phrases in the creations. Jerry even recommended rocking out to Sepultura to getting all of that anger out of his system. And then Christian lost it. “NO! I don’t want to rock out to Sepultura! It’s not going to bring her back!” Jerry knew that he fucked up badly. He pushed buttons that he had no business pushing. Any minute, Christian could have walked out of the room and this would mark Jerry’s first failure as a psychologist. And then he asked…
“What do you mean ‘bring her back’?” And suddenly, Jerry was on the right track once again. Christian opened up about how his lover was murdered by her own family. He wanted to get revenge on them through murder of his own, but if he did, he and Jerry would be doing this session from a prison cell that’s scarier than any heavy metal poster-decorated office. There would be no marble skulls in his cell except for the ones shattered on the floor by a dude named Bubba. So instead of murder, Jerry suggested a creative activity once again, this time as a positive outlet for his pain. Yes, drawing pictures didn’t solve everything, but they were something. And wouldn’t you know it, Christian drew a nice picture of his lover with techniques that even surpassed Jerry’s own abilities. Jerry showered him in compliments and earned his trust, while also keeping his job and his license. But the trust and the humanity was more important than a constantly starving wallet.
In the final moments of the role-play, Christian wanted to take Jerry on a field trip to the cemetery to pay respects to the dead girlfriend. But before that scene could come to fruition, the RPG group went dark for the longest time. It didn’t get deleted. It was just…inactive. A ghost town, of sorts. I didn’t know when they were going to be back. I didn’t know what the future held for Jerry Frost. So I left the group without saying goodbye. Do they still think about me to this day? That’s the hope I have with a character like Jerry Frost. I wanted him to have a positive impact on my fellow role-players.
Come to think of it, that’s what I want for myself going forward: to have a positive influence on the people who read my stuff. For years and years now, I’ve been writing stories purely for shock value. Yes, they had a clear-cut narrative with a beginning, middle, and end, but they also had things like torture, rape, pedophilia, and a whole shit-load of disgusting garbage that would never qualify as positive in this or any other world. Some people don’t mind being disturbed, but if that’s all I have going for my stories, then that’s a good way to drive my audience elsewhere. Everybody has their limits when it comes to raunchy content. We all have things that disgust us beyond belief and none of it makes us “snowflakes”. Okay, maybe the people who are asking schools to remove Maus could be considered snowflakes, but that’s beside the point. At least Art Spiegelman had a message. What do I have? Shock! I’ve got shock!
Jerry Frost is one of the few shining examples I have of a character gone right (KFC and art therapy be damned). He didn’t have to be an edge lord. He didn’t have to be vile. He didn’t even have to be overly flawed. Being a gentle and understanding soul was a requirement for the job he took. If it feels like he’s not flawed enough, that’s why. Yes, he did almost cause Christian to storm out of his office when he pushed the art therapy narrative too hard, but that’s only because he’s still a rookie at his profession. Inexperience is a great flaw for a character to have.
So…will I revive the Jerry Frost character in a future RPG? How about a future story? Or a poem? That all depends on whether or not I need a psychologist in any given work. He has potential to be something greater than a flash in the pan. I might have to tweak his back story a little bit, but there’s still hope for him…somewhere in the world…
Garrison, you did it! I’m looking forward to reading about Dr. Frost.
I wonder why activity died in the RPG group? Did you ever find out? Since I write stories to find out what happens in them, your ability to plot stories and develop characters in advance intrigues me. Your account of the development of the character Jerry Frost was enjoyable to read! The behind-the-scenes aspects of things can be absorbing to know about.
Unfortunately, no, I never did find out why the group became inactive. It's a shame since I was really enjoying playing as Jerry Frost. Sounds like you enjoyed reading about him, and for that, I say thank you! :)
You're welcome! Hope everyone enjoys it!
Could I get one more day? If not it's ok
M wrote: "Go for it, C. J.!"Thanks M!!
Title: Stories from the Dead Lands (Two)Author: C. J.
Word Count: 3, 072
PG-13 for thematic elements, some violence
Story:
When he was nudged out of his daydream slumber Ian turned to his friend. There was his pal, his working buddy. “Dude, you gotta pay attention. No slacking off today, haha.”
“Good one. You tryna bust my stones again?” said Ian.
“Only when you deserve it. But seriously though, we got three orders. Pay attention.”
Ian grabbed the first ticket then started the fire for the appetizers.
He couldn’t help but be sloppy at his job lately. He had it too good. A fancy restaurant all the way out in a state next to the one he resided and it paid fairly handsomely. No chance of losing out on life too since if he ever failed at this job he would come home and live with his parents.
He was nineteen, too old to be living comfortably yet too young to care about any real commitments.
He also had dealt with some crime. Some stupid crap he did when he wasn’t thinking but Ian thanked publicly the “man upstairs” he wasn’t old enough to have it kept on the record books.
What a relief!
When he was doing the main courses next, a waitress trounced over.
“Be careful Ian. We don’t want a mess from the last time you screwed up.”
“Haha, very funny. That was my first day anyhow.”
“But the boss remembers it like it was yesterday.”
People nearby seemed to hear her public shaming as there was a smattering of giggles coming from nearby dining customers. Ian’s pride was now hurt.
“Just… keep it down.”
His fellow cook decided to invoke him. “Oooh. Somebody next to me is out of fettle tonight.”
Ian nudged him back, nearly knocking a finished plate out of his buddy’s hands.
“Whoa, will you watch it?!!”
“Ooh, guess I’m not the only one outta fettle.”
“Hey. Shuddup, Ian…!”
The mixes of foods filled the kitchen: basil, garlic, many sauces. Then pleasant aromas faded as smells of cleaners and soaps took over the cookware and countertops.
When the restaurant closed up and every spot and table was cleaned Ian went with friends who were waiting to drive him home.
On his way Ian had the attitude of a partygoer. He cheered, knocking over one pal’s brown soda into his lap. “Why did you do that?” “Hey. At least it wasn’t the good stuff.” Ian mocked and someone nearby chided him with an elbow that straight out took the wind from his lungs.
They stopped by a corner. “Okay guys. Do ya want to come by? It’s a good night after all.”
“I would but… your mommy wouldn’t let you!” his friend shouted out in a mocking tone.
“I can do what I want. Who cares about that!”
“Nah dude. We’ve got more schooling to handle. Uh. We'll come by some other time. Maybe.”
Ian noticed the guy was holding back a laugh like he didn't mean his words. Then they drove off with even more raucous laughter as the vehicle drove off.
He walked to the house feeling injured. It was okay he was living with his parents. Who wouldn’t want this? They didn’t know what they were talking about.
It got worse when he got home and was humbled by one of his folks.
He got a lesson from his strict, it seemed, mother.
“Hey Ma.” he said, not even eyeing her.
She squinted as he sauntered by. “I see you got home early this time.”
“Yeah. There was nothin’ fun to do so they dropped me off right after work.”
“I’m glad they can handle you any other day. And they all live out there too right?”
“Yep.”
“And they give you a ride every day?”
He sighed. “Yeah.”
“That’s nice of them.”
Now he gave her an inquisitive glance. “What are you thinkin’ mom?”
She seemed to shrug off her thought. “You know… I was thinking the other day. Your father and I are getting a lot older. You ever want to maybe… help us out at the house at least?”
“Like what?”
She looked floored. “‘Like what?’ You get paid a lot at that place, surprising for a paycheck from a restaurant. Ever thought about giving us some rent money?”
He laughed. “Come on Ma. This ain’t an apartment, it’s a friggin’ house that you and Dad own.”
“Yeah. We own. But it isn’t cheap. Dad is very close to missing his mortgage payments.”
“Why should I bother to pay the old man? He’s barely home!”
“Because he is your father and he breaks his back and has been doing so since you were born. He’s not home because he’s always working.”
He paused. Ian felt that maybe just maybe he might get serious about some stuff in life.
His mother continued. “Ian. You have had this… attitude for a little while now. Don’t you want to try to get serious with life?”
His pride came back. He was fumed. “Everybody has been on me about that today: ‘You need to grow up, You’re still livin’ at home, stop cursing son,’ you all act like I shouldn’t have any fun at all! Even you are bustin’ my b--” he looked over at her. “my ‘stones.’ Why has there been like a sudden intervention to get me to quit this life like I’m a freakin’ druggie or somethin’?”
His mother paused. "Just think of it this way: you got a second chance. Not many people get that. You are a young adult now. Don't you want to live life to the fullest?"
"Oh this 'second chance' stuff. You are talkin' about when they put me away? Or tried to anyway? I was too young for that to be a real thing. It's gone, off my record."
"So take that as a time to move forward and get real."
"Why do you keep bringin' this up? I just wanna have fun. What's wrong with that?"
“How much longer do you need to act like life is just a party? You’ve been like this in high school then during graduation… you didn’t even think of a future for yourself.”
“I sold food on the streets.”
“Yeah, how much did you make doing that before you gave up?”
He stood there thinking of her confrontational comments. Then he seemed to shrug.
“You just don’t know what it’s like to be in my shoes.”
“You should at least try to make a way to live right. Be an honest person.”
“Hey I am an honest person!”
“Does your job know about your record?”
“No. But like I said---”
“Well if you don’t take stuff that serious, your sins will find you out.”
Then just like that she slowly made her way upstairs. Ian felt like his mouth was open but it was more as if he felt a heaviness in the room.
He never heard such a direct statement like that in a while from his mom.
As he sat there he decided there were better things to do tonight then just be cooped up.
Maybe he could find a party somewhere happening outside?
He shouted up the stairs. “Ma I’m goin’ out!” He then heard a loud sigh but ignored it.
He got his coat back on, his keys, and his cell. He thought about him having his own cell plan. Hey at least I pay my bill on time. I’m not that bad at life.
He walked down the street hoping to head to a good pal of his. He never got there.
-----
Upstairs his mom opened a book, read it and spoke aloud as if she were talking to someone. It was a prayer. Then she was soon going to sleep. Leaving her light on was probably going to be the biggest mistake in her life. Aside from letting her son stay out alone.
-----
As he strolled down the street it seemed like there was a strangeness to the air. Not exactly like the dread he felt after his mom gave him a reality lesson but as if there were souls out, people he normally could sense the good in. That had changed. Drastically.
As he moved he saw in low light a kid in a hoodie walking toward a car on his side of the street. He was holding a bat.
The guy reminded him of himself when he got locked up for an amount of time. When he was just two years younger (and a year before he would be easily tried as an adult) he hung around a bad crowd. But this “crowd” didn’t give him this idea. He decided to throw bricks through windows. He had no idea why the idea came to him but when he did it he got a sick thrill.
Then one day he did it again. Only this time the brick smashed through a window of a person he knew fairly well. He forgot the woman was about six months pregnant. The brick whizzed by her thankfully but it scared her so bad she went into early labor. That woman later identified him to the cops. He was surprised she even saw him but he just felt it was just a goofy funny thing to do.
After he was put away for it, he had debts to pay. He was locked up for a bit but then went to court a few times. After he served his time, he had those crimes stricken from his record. Ian Hartley was now a free man.
Yes I should count myself lucky. he thought.
But a second chance is a second chance.
Just then Ian nearly stumbled back as the man smashed the windshield in a stagger.
Crash! Ian took a moment after being shaken. Then he pulled out his cell.
"I'm calling the cops!" Ian shouted then muttered under his breath. "Freakin' druggie."
He watched the guy continue to shamble, seemingly confused how to use the tool he had been wielding. His whack seemed dead on but it was probably a lucky shot, Ian observed.
And was he on heroin? Painkillers? Just what was this goofball on tonight?
As he talked to the operator he noticed another figure right behind the subject he was describing.
“Yeah… it was one. Wait, there looks like another one now. Might be his accomplice or something.”
This guy had on two shirts and jeans. In the dark his clothes made him black as the night. This guy had eyes that looked like golf balls that shone brightly against the far distance. The one thing that shined to Ian’s observance.
Dead eyes. Why did I describe him like that?
Deadlands- ContinuedNow two guys walking about the same distance.
“You know? Maybe he doesn’t know the guy. I have no clue if he is with him. What? Yeah I don’t know why I said that. I guess I’m a little---- shook. Kinda.”
Then he went down another street. Wait. Where was he?
He must have without realizing it gone in a direction he wasn’t familiar with.
Just then he shouted. “Wha--?”
“What is happening now?” the lady on the phone was as professional as they sounded on tv.
“There are…. there’s more. What the h--- it’s like a freakin’ flash mob!”
He took off running. He went down one way, then another.
Where can he turn? He was as lost as a guy with no gps in a state he had never been to. But this place was familiar.
He remembered it was an area he used to trek down… as in…
He tried to push that thought out of his mind.
Just then the line his mom said before he went out came back clear as a bell.
...your sins will find you out.
Shoot!
He went to a place that looked familiar. A house near a kindergarten center. The house had a fairly big fenced in garden.
Hoping to lie out somewhere in this stranger’s lawn he was then spotted by two furry guardians.
“Bark bark bark bark!” He freaked out. Now more people were alerted to his location. As he ran off he heard the dogs find more things to bark at.
As he turned he was sure he heard a yelp then just a lone barking sound but he wished it wasn’t true. No. These people can’t be that heartless!
He ran hoping he wouldn’t hear a second creature getting “silenced” and as he moved he realized he was moving in raw fear.
Was he ever this scared in his life?
He kept moving hoping he would go someplace he could call safe.
His primary motive? Get the hell out of this city!
He ran through a street that he knew would end up on a highway-like road. Tearing through there he went down a small but dangerous road and he hoped to goodness he would not find a car moving since he was going the wrong way.
One vehicle coming the speed it was supposed to and he was a goner!
Before he knew it he saw some guard rails then a dark patch he wasn’t familiar with along with a big sign.
Hoping there were no crazies in that spot he jumped the rail ran down and slogged through a barren field. High grass cut his skin and he moved blindingly wishing that his eyes wouldn’t be the next area to get grazed.
As he moved he got into the place he saw as a sanctuary. Reading the sign. “‘The Bedlands’. Never saw this place before?”
He headed over. As he scanned the new area he was getting desperate. He found a spot he thought he would never end up at again.
A police station. “Dang it. My ma would never believe this!”
He felt the cool caress of water coming down from the skies. He brought his hand up to his face to shield it. Ian then dreaded that the water was colder, the "rain" more like tiny icicles hitting his arms his ears his bare face. He knew there was sleet coming now.
Before he went through the front door he turned and glanced over at the road he hadn’t gone down. On a hill he spotted multiple cars; it was there he spotted headlights seeming like makeshift stars against the night. They seemed stuck. Maybe that road was closed off. What was happening around here?
Just then he ducked the second a loud gunshot rang out inside the station.
He nearly dove to the grass. “Dang!”
He fought the sudden urge to run. He had to be here. Hopefully there was somebody to keep him safe. Maybe he could get them to contact his mom.
Also his dad. He hadn't heard from him yet. Oh no, he hoped they both were alright!
Far away he heard what sounded like the National Guard making announcements. Probably where he just left he bet!
He went inside against every instinct in his body. When he went into a side office he found a woman with cut off shorts brandishing a gun. A young officer was huddled near the floor with his hands up. The gun was smoking.
“That was just a warning. Now are you going to help me?” she said. Then she turned and he saw his chance to grab her and knock her down.
“Aaack--” in a second they both were on the floor. With a strange new instinct as he pinned her to the ground he saw the gun and kicked it.
It skidded across the cold floor.
The officer got up and ran to the weapon. He grabbed it and held it away from each of them keeping his finger away from the trigger.
His eyes looked frightened. He had been running on pure adrenaline.
And Ian understood that new feeling.
“Who are you??!” she shouted at Ian.
He paused. “To be honest I have no idea.”
The officer chimed in. “Why are you here? Did you need something?”
“I, uh….” he was now feeling like his mind was reeling. So many thoughts jumbled in his head. Like his brain was a dish and he was getting the “works.”
“I got here from….umm, the place called Yeltin City. A place over from wherever this is.”
“You what?” said the officer. “That place is overrun by a bunch of crazies.”
“Yeah they’re like monsters.”
The woman had a wave of recognition with what they were talking about.
The two somehow were now standing near each other, neither one appearing to move unpredictably. Ian saw the cop still shot his eyes back and forth between the two making sure they were a good distance from each other and reachable to him.
Ian continued. “What do you think we should do? Do you know, officer?”
“We need to get everyone to a safe place. These… people…. are dangerous.”
“I’ve got an idea!”
He ran to another spot. “Err, officer? Does this place have a holding cell?”
“Yes.”
“Can you take me to it?”
He still was unsure about this new guy. Also it didn’t help that he had been held at gunpoint just a moment ago.
“Is there someone you’re looking for there?”
“No. But I hope we can get ourselves there and stay safe if we can.”
The walkie-talkie chimed in again. “Hinkle. What is your status?”
“Doing fine now Mary. I was just…” he looked at the two staring at him. “subdued temporarily. I have control of the situation now. Are you able to be my backup?”
“Negative. Too much… activity. Not able to get back.”
Hinkle looked a tad scared. Just what were they going through?
“You okay, officer?” Ian said, Casey also looking concerned.
“Yeah it’s just… I’ve never heard Mary so--” he broke off. “She sounds like she is in trouble. Everyone out there too.”
“Well I’ve got the first idea. Maybe I can stay in the hold up cell. Wait my time in there until you get back.”
Casey turned to him. “What?”
“Well I’ve got to pay my time in some way!”
Hinkle didn’t seem to fully understand.
“I… had a past. And I feel like coming here… I think I gotta pay to society.”
Casey looked like she wanted to nod. Then she turned to Hinkle. “Me too. We’ll wait here till you get back.”
“That sounds like a good idea but…”
Just then Ian’s cell went off. He answered.
“Ian?”
“Dad?!”
“Where are you son?”
“Dad! I’m safe.”
“Good. Can you reach your mother? She is--- AAAAAHHH!”
“Dad!!”
The phone cut off. He looked at the battery. 45%
After a pause he signed. “We’ve gotta get out there.”
“Where?” Casey wondered looking at Ian.
“Get out of the Bedlands… and go right to it.”
They stared at him. He continued.
"The city where all this started. Now."
END OF STORY TWO
I had no idea how to end this originally but here it is I guess, lol!
Well done CJ, I like a bit of Teotwawki from time to time!
Please post directly into the topic and not a link. Please don’t use a story previously used in this group. Only one submission per person is allowed.
Your story should be between 300 and 3,500 words long.
REMEMBER! A short story is not merely a scene. It must have a beginning, a middle, and an end.
This week’s topic is: Out of Fettle. (In the dialect of Newcastle upon Tyne, in northeast England, “out of fettle” means “out of sorts, in a bad mood.”)
The rules are pretty loose. You could write a story about anything that has to do with the subject/photo but it must relate to the topic somehow.
Most of all have fun!
Thank you to Nicky for the topic!