***PET NAMES***
When going to the Humane Society to adopt a pet, there are certain things a future animal owner looks for. Sometimes age plays a factor. Species is another important one. Friendliness with other animals is a must. But did you ever figure that an animal’s given name would have any effect on his or her adoptability? Because most of the animals are taken from the streets, they don’t already have names assigned to them. Therefore, the Humane Society does that for them. Some of the names are cute and cuddly (Oswald, Ozzy, Tori, and Sitka can all attest to that). And then there are names which are so fucking weird that nobody bothers to adopt that animal. It’s sad and unfortunate, but it’s true. Would anybody adopt a kitty named Boompsa? Admiral Akbar? Sniper? Killer? What the fuck, man? So in this journal, I’m going to give you all ideas for pet names that aren’t too fruity or too weird. They’re just right and if they don’t feel right yet, you’ll get used to them over time. Starting with….
MALE:
Adam
Albert
Angelo
Barry
Biggie
Billy
Blake
Bo
Bray
Buddy
Caesar
Calvin
Chuck
Clay
Connor
Cooper
Dallas
Damien
Danny
Diego
Drake
Duncan
Dusty
Eddy
Finn
Frankie
Fred
George
Gerald
Henry
Howie
Jack
Jake
Jerry
Jimmy
Joey
Josh
Kingston
Larry
Louie
Luke
Mac
Marty
Mickey
Mojo
Monty
Nacho
Neville
Norman
Oscar
Owen
Pete
Randy
Ricky
Rocky
Sammy
Scotty
Seamus
Shadow
Simon
Sunny
Sylvester
Thomas
Titus
Tony
Tucker
Tyler
Victor
Woody
Wyatt
FEMALE:
Bailey
Becky
Bella
Brie
Cammy
Carmella
Charlie
Cherry
Cookie
Emma
Eva
Harper
Hattie
Jasmine
Jeanie
Jordan
Kelly
Lana
Lexi
Lilly
Marie
Mattie
Murphy
Naomi
Natalie
Nikki
Paige
Patty
Riley
Rosie
Sasha
Summer
We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***UPDATED CREATIVE TASK LIST***
EDITING TIMELINE:
September 1stt: Teach Me Passion, Twice the Cuteness, Walkabout
September 2nd: War Is My Destiny, Wendell Backland, Wishes in the Night
September 3rd: Wrestle Maniac, Format E-Book, Replace Old Copies with New One
READING PRIORITIES:
“The Girlfriend Wager” by Edward Davies
“So…I Met a Vampire” by Paul McAvoy
Weekly Short Story Contest and Company: “Flea Market”
“YES!” by Daniel Bryan
WRITING PRIORITIES:
Blood Brawl: “Chapter 2”
Character Profile: “Cain Lockhart”
Movie or TV Show Review: “Dennis the Menace”
***PROVERB OF THE DAY***
“Everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end.”
Monday, August 31, 2015
Friday, August 28, 2015
Flipped Off
A massive red pickup truck pulled in slowly in front of the rickety three-tier house on top of Claymore Hill. On the outside the house looked like it was used every Halloween to scare the shit out of little kids. Cobwebs, broken windows, loose doors, shoddy construction, basically this place looked like a nightmare to live in.
When Ivan Savage and his heavyset buddy Mickey Ryder got out of the truck dressed in blue jeans, stained white T-shirts, and black combat boots, that could have only meant one thing: it was time to go to work on this puppy.
Ivan ran his gloved hand through his messy brown hair and said, “This feels wrong. This feels very wrong.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mickey.
“What do you think I mean? Didn’t you hear on the news who this house used to belong to? Angelo Crockett. Not just any Angelo Crockett, but the same guy who used this house for a goddamn rape dungeon. He kept anywhere between twenty and thirty underage girls here. If I start talking about what he did to them, I’m going to vomit. We should just get back in the truck and get out of here.”
Mickey made a flat tire noise and said, “Dude, what did you expect? You bought this house sight unseen at a flea market. A flea market, for shit’s sake. Hell, there are probably a bunch of fleas living in there right now. But you know what? This is the kind of work we get paid to do. As flip men, we have certain obligations and though they may seem cruel and unusual, they do include flipping houses and getting them ready to be sold at a high price.”
“Hey, I have no illusions about what I do for a living. It’s just that this is the most disgusting assignment I’ve ever had to do.”
“You think I feel any better about it, Ivan? You think I condone what that bastard did to those kids? That’s why we owe it to those young girls to clean this place up. Trust me, buddy, by the time we’re finished, Angelo Crockett’s name will be long forgotten about. Let’s get inside and see what we’ve got to work with.”
Mickey waddled his fat ass up the stairs and into the house while Ivan shook his head and reluctantly trailed him inside. The outside and the urban legend surrounding this house was vomit-inducing enough. But the inside was a disaster. The floors were covered with blood, puke, and feces. The walls were covered in even more sickening bodily fluids. The kitchen was so caked in urine and dirt that eating anything from there would be certain death. The bathroom reeked so badly that stepping one foot could mean a gut-busting assault on the nose. The basement? Well, that was easily the most sickening part of the house since it was everything the above two tiers was multiplied by ten.
Despite the horrific condition of this lonely house, the stench of it all was something Ivan and Mickey were both used to. They were flip men after all and remodeled houses as bad as this all the time. In fact, Mickey was already on the attack when it came to his plans to fix this house up.
“Alright, so here’s what I’m thinking. The carpets and the linoleum both have to be ripped up from the ground. There’s no saving them. In their place will be wooden floors. We’ll have wooden floors all around the upper two tiers and even the staircase will be like that too. We’re also going to use wood paneling for the walls, which are going to be painted afterwards, probably in the neighborhood of greenish blue. The bathroom will be a different story; it’s going to have square tiles both on the floor and on the walls. The appliances will all have to go from the sinks to the oven to the refrigerator to the toilets to the tubs. We’re going to buy brand new appliances and put them in their respective places. The cupboards are also going to have to be replaced with new wood. And finally, those light fixtures above us are going to have to be replaced with ceiling fans. You think we can do all of this, Ivan?”
Ivan gave his friend an “Are you kidding me?” look and said, “That’s all fine and good, but did you forget that this place used to be a goddamn rape dungeon for small children?!”
If either flip man needed a reminder of that, all they had to do was look on the kitchen floor next to the burned out stove. Ivan knelt down and picked up what appeared to be a porn magazine. He dusted off the cover and gagged when he saw what the book was titled: “Sexy Teenagers Weekly”.
“I’m going to be sick! I’m going to be sick! I’m going to be sick!” Ivan kept saying to himself as he dropped the magazine, ran out the front door, and retched all over the lawn. He shook hard as he tasted his McDonald’s breakfast sandwich from earlier that day. His decade-long experience of being a flip man didn’t prepare him for this.
“I’m going to go ahead and survey the basement. You can feel free to join me once you’re done throwing up,” yelled Mickey from the inside. Ivan was huffing and puffing while struggling to make it to his feet. As soon as he wiped the vomit from his mouth, he heard his construction buddy let out a blood-curdling scream followed by the sounds of fire and shredding.
Ivan slowly turned his head around and said, “Oh dear lord, no…Mickey!” He bolted inside and visited all of the rooms in the house in search of his friend. No sign of him. The one place he hadn’t looked was the basement aka Satan’s port-a-potty. Ivan swallowed a glob of barf-flavored saliva and shakily ventured down the stairs into the dark basement.
He struggled to find a light switch, but eventually found one at the bottom of the world’s longest stairs. He flipped it on and saw the ashen and shredded remains of what was once his best friend Mickey Ryder. “What the fuck?!” yelled Ivan as he rushed to the middle of the dingy basement to check on his friend. Once on his knees, tears formed in Ivan Savage’s eyes.
His sadness would be blended with fear when he heard the whispers of small children all around him. There they were: the ones responsible for the soul-stealing death of Mickey Ryder. They were the ashen souls of the thirty raped girls, who were forming a large circle around Ivan by holding hands and dancing around him.
“Please!” begged Ivan. “Please let me out of here! I never wanted to be here in the first place! I don’t even want to be a flip man anymore!”
In demonic, unified voices, the ghosts of the girls said, “Your friend had to pay the price! He wanted to use our deaths as a way to make money! He wanted to exploit us just like Master Angelo did!”
Disturbed by the fact that these girls just called their rapist “Master Angelo”, more tears formed in Ivan’s eyes when he said, “Listen…that man will never hurt you or anyone else again. He’s behind bars and he’ll never get out. He’s probably being stabbed to death in the showers right now.”
The ghosts said, “As well he should be! But that doesn’t solve the problem of you, my friend. You came here for the same reason as that giant sack of protoplasm over there. You wanted to exploit us for some easy cash! We’re not going to let you nor anyone else get away with that!”
“Please! You have to believe me! I wanted no part of this! I’ll do whatever you girls want! Anything you want!”
“…Anything?”
“Anything you want! Name it and it’s yours!”
The ghosts stroked their chins in mock contemplation before dancing around in a circle again and closing in on Ivan, who was curled in a little ball waiting to be murdered. But then the girls picked him up off the ground and made their conditions known. “You want to live, money man? Then you set us free right now. You will not flip this house. You will instead burn it to the ground. No one shall make money off of us again! Nobody! Do you understand?!”
“I…I…I…” Ivan swallowed hard. “I have a gas can and some matches in my truck. As soon as you girls let me go, I’m burning this place to the ground. Just like we promised.”
The next time the girls danced, it was in a celebratory ballet style. They hugged each other and spun around in happiness while Ivan ran past them, up the stairs, and out to his truck to do what he promised.
He scrambled in the back of the pickup truck for that gasoline. He panicked when he almost didn’t find it, but there it was buried underneath the lumber. The matches he got from the glove box. Ivan took a few deep breaths and steadied his nerves before slowly approaching this former rape dungeon to do what he wanted to do all along. He splashed some gasoline on the walls, lit a match, and watched the fire consume the entire house.
Before the fire could get too out of hand, Ivan hopped in the truck and drove away in a hurry, easily doing 80 miles per hour. Sooner or later, someone would call the fire department and the rape dungeon would be nothing more than cooling ashes. Knowing it was all over gave Ivan a sense of relief, therefore he slowed down his driving speed and breathed a sigh of relief. All he needed to do at that point was come up with a little white lie to tell his superiors when they ask him about what happened to both the house and Mickey Ryder.
When Ivan Savage and his heavyset buddy Mickey Ryder got out of the truck dressed in blue jeans, stained white T-shirts, and black combat boots, that could have only meant one thing: it was time to go to work on this puppy.
Ivan ran his gloved hand through his messy brown hair and said, “This feels wrong. This feels very wrong.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mickey.
“What do you think I mean? Didn’t you hear on the news who this house used to belong to? Angelo Crockett. Not just any Angelo Crockett, but the same guy who used this house for a goddamn rape dungeon. He kept anywhere between twenty and thirty underage girls here. If I start talking about what he did to them, I’m going to vomit. We should just get back in the truck and get out of here.”
Mickey made a flat tire noise and said, “Dude, what did you expect? You bought this house sight unseen at a flea market. A flea market, for shit’s sake. Hell, there are probably a bunch of fleas living in there right now. But you know what? This is the kind of work we get paid to do. As flip men, we have certain obligations and though they may seem cruel and unusual, they do include flipping houses and getting them ready to be sold at a high price.”
“Hey, I have no illusions about what I do for a living. It’s just that this is the most disgusting assignment I’ve ever had to do.”
“You think I feel any better about it, Ivan? You think I condone what that bastard did to those kids? That’s why we owe it to those young girls to clean this place up. Trust me, buddy, by the time we’re finished, Angelo Crockett’s name will be long forgotten about. Let’s get inside and see what we’ve got to work with.”
Mickey waddled his fat ass up the stairs and into the house while Ivan shook his head and reluctantly trailed him inside. The outside and the urban legend surrounding this house was vomit-inducing enough. But the inside was a disaster. The floors were covered with blood, puke, and feces. The walls were covered in even more sickening bodily fluids. The kitchen was so caked in urine and dirt that eating anything from there would be certain death. The bathroom reeked so badly that stepping one foot could mean a gut-busting assault on the nose. The basement? Well, that was easily the most sickening part of the house since it was everything the above two tiers was multiplied by ten.
Despite the horrific condition of this lonely house, the stench of it all was something Ivan and Mickey were both used to. They were flip men after all and remodeled houses as bad as this all the time. In fact, Mickey was already on the attack when it came to his plans to fix this house up.
“Alright, so here’s what I’m thinking. The carpets and the linoleum both have to be ripped up from the ground. There’s no saving them. In their place will be wooden floors. We’ll have wooden floors all around the upper two tiers and even the staircase will be like that too. We’re also going to use wood paneling for the walls, which are going to be painted afterwards, probably in the neighborhood of greenish blue. The bathroom will be a different story; it’s going to have square tiles both on the floor and on the walls. The appliances will all have to go from the sinks to the oven to the refrigerator to the toilets to the tubs. We’re going to buy brand new appliances and put them in their respective places. The cupboards are also going to have to be replaced with new wood. And finally, those light fixtures above us are going to have to be replaced with ceiling fans. You think we can do all of this, Ivan?”
Ivan gave his friend an “Are you kidding me?” look and said, “That’s all fine and good, but did you forget that this place used to be a goddamn rape dungeon for small children?!”
If either flip man needed a reminder of that, all they had to do was look on the kitchen floor next to the burned out stove. Ivan knelt down and picked up what appeared to be a porn magazine. He dusted off the cover and gagged when he saw what the book was titled: “Sexy Teenagers Weekly”.
“I’m going to be sick! I’m going to be sick! I’m going to be sick!” Ivan kept saying to himself as he dropped the magazine, ran out the front door, and retched all over the lawn. He shook hard as he tasted his McDonald’s breakfast sandwich from earlier that day. His decade-long experience of being a flip man didn’t prepare him for this.
“I’m going to go ahead and survey the basement. You can feel free to join me once you’re done throwing up,” yelled Mickey from the inside. Ivan was huffing and puffing while struggling to make it to his feet. As soon as he wiped the vomit from his mouth, he heard his construction buddy let out a blood-curdling scream followed by the sounds of fire and shredding.
Ivan slowly turned his head around and said, “Oh dear lord, no…Mickey!” He bolted inside and visited all of the rooms in the house in search of his friend. No sign of him. The one place he hadn’t looked was the basement aka Satan’s port-a-potty. Ivan swallowed a glob of barf-flavored saliva and shakily ventured down the stairs into the dark basement.
He struggled to find a light switch, but eventually found one at the bottom of the world’s longest stairs. He flipped it on and saw the ashen and shredded remains of what was once his best friend Mickey Ryder. “What the fuck?!” yelled Ivan as he rushed to the middle of the dingy basement to check on his friend. Once on his knees, tears formed in Ivan Savage’s eyes.
His sadness would be blended with fear when he heard the whispers of small children all around him. There they were: the ones responsible for the soul-stealing death of Mickey Ryder. They were the ashen souls of the thirty raped girls, who were forming a large circle around Ivan by holding hands and dancing around him.
“Please!” begged Ivan. “Please let me out of here! I never wanted to be here in the first place! I don’t even want to be a flip man anymore!”
In demonic, unified voices, the ghosts of the girls said, “Your friend had to pay the price! He wanted to use our deaths as a way to make money! He wanted to exploit us just like Master Angelo did!”
Disturbed by the fact that these girls just called their rapist “Master Angelo”, more tears formed in Ivan’s eyes when he said, “Listen…that man will never hurt you or anyone else again. He’s behind bars and he’ll never get out. He’s probably being stabbed to death in the showers right now.”
The ghosts said, “As well he should be! But that doesn’t solve the problem of you, my friend. You came here for the same reason as that giant sack of protoplasm over there. You wanted to exploit us for some easy cash! We’re not going to let you nor anyone else get away with that!”
“Please! You have to believe me! I wanted no part of this! I’ll do whatever you girls want! Anything you want!”
“…Anything?”
“Anything you want! Name it and it’s yours!”
The ghosts stroked their chins in mock contemplation before dancing around in a circle again and closing in on Ivan, who was curled in a little ball waiting to be murdered. But then the girls picked him up off the ground and made their conditions known. “You want to live, money man? Then you set us free right now. You will not flip this house. You will instead burn it to the ground. No one shall make money off of us again! Nobody! Do you understand?!”
“I…I…I…” Ivan swallowed hard. “I have a gas can and some matches in my truck. As soon as you girls let me go, I’m burning this place to the ground. Just like we promised.”
The next time the girls danced, it was in a celebratory ballet style. They hugged each other and spun around in happiness while Ivan ran past them, up the stairs, and out to his truck to do what he promised.
He scrambled in the back of the pickup truck for that gasoline. He panicked when he almost didn’t find it, but there it was buried underneath the lumber. The matches he got from the glove box. Ivan took a few deep breaths and steadied his nerves before slowly approaching this former rape dungeon to do what he wanted to do all along. He splashed some gasoline on the walls, lit a match, and watched the fire consume the entire house.
Before the fire could get too out of hand, Ivan hopped in the truck and drove away in a hurry, easily doing 80 miles per hour. Sooner or later, someone would call the fire department and the rape dungeon would be nothing more than cooling ashes. Knowing it was all over gave Ivan a sense of relief, therefore he slowed down his driving speed and breathed a sigh of relief. All he needed to do at that point was come up with a little white lie to tell his superiors when they ask him about what happened to both the house and Mickey Ryder.
Monday, August 24, 2015
Recycling Buildings
***BEFORE I BEGIN***
The last journal was about how I went to the Pain in the Grass festival in Auburn, Washington’s White River Amphitheater. In case you were thinking of asking, it was a badass concert from top to bottom. Three Days Grace was fucking awesome. Lamb of God was REALLY fucking awesome. I’m glad to be introduced to Bullet For My Valentine. But Slipknot? They were badass on a whole different level. The masks, the pyrotechnics, the devil’s mirror background, and most importantly, the music itself was a shit ton of fun. Aside from riding the shuttle bus with a bunch of drunken fans who butchered every jingle on the planet, I had a good time last night. I even had the cute clerk at the convenience store, Chelsea, tell me that she was jealous earlier today. That’s a damn good sign. Hehehehehe!
***RECYCLING BUILDINGS***
Apparently, going to a heavy metal show with a bunch of kick-ass bands inspired me to have a strange, yet poignant dream. In this dream, the QFC grocery store in my town was converted to a concert hall and Pantera got back together to play there. The freezers were replaced with seats, the checkout isles were ticket scanners, and the deli was replaced with one big ass stage where Pantera played “This Love”. And then I woke up and had a topic for a Deviant Art journal in mind already: recycling buildings.
When a business becomes defunct, it would seem like such a waste of construction to demolish the building. If you’re not going to use the building for a grocery store or restaurant, why not use it for a library or a toy store? This actually has a lot of merit in today’s world. In the cop dramas The Shield and NCIS: Los Angeles, both agencies use old churches and convert them to a fully-functional headquarters. Old churches, for shit’s sake. In Texas not too long ago, a Wal-Mart was closed and the building was abandoned until someone started using it for one big-ass library, thus turning Wal-Martians into wallflowers. The old headquarters in Wisconsin where Dungeons & Dragons was born was turned into a candy shop and a hotel after Gary Gygax lost the rights to his game.
Using old buildings for bigger and better things isn’t a new idea, but it’s one that should be spread more often. It would take a shit ton of imagination to convert something like a butcher’s shop into a nightclub (which has been done on an episode of Seinfeld). It’d be a lot of work, but it could technically happen. That QFC dream isn’t far off from reality. It technically could be converted to a concert hall and we could bring some heavy metal to Port Orchard, a city not known for such things. And what about the abandoned Taco Bell building on Mile Hill? Is it just going to sit there and do nothing or can it be converted to…a gaming shop! Can you imagine holding D&D sessions and reading graphic novels in a building that used to be Taco Bell? If your creative energies and imaginative juices aren’t flowing like a raging river, I don’ t know what to say.
Maybe this is all stemming from the fact that I see artistic merit in pretty much everything around me, including reusing condemned buildings, house flipping, and home improvement in general. In this case, the artists in question are working with a tainted canvas and making something beautiful out of it. It would be the same thing if I drew my picture of Daron Campos on the page of a Disney coloring book. It would be a tainted canvas, but it could be done….and it would be creepy to think about considering what Daron Campos is capable of.
Do you have any old buildings that could be something better in your neighborhood? Can you make a college out of a Wal-Mart? Can you make a wrestling school out of a Burger King? Can you make a barbershop out of an abandoned warehouse by a dingy dock? If your imagination is big enough and you’re having a constant flow of nerd-gasms, all of those things are possible. We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***COMMERCIAL QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“You will howl like a happy hound dog over these hushpuppies!”
-Popeye’s Spokeswoman-
***POST-SCRIPT***
Actually, no, I won’t. Popeye’s food is so bland and boring that I can picture one of their restaurants being converted to a record store slash punk clothing emporium. And we’ve come full circle yet again!
The last journal was about how I went to the Pain in the Grass festival in Auburn, Washington’s White River Amphitheater. In case you were thinking of asking, it was a badass concert from top to bottom. Three Days Grace was fucking awesome. Lamb of God was REALLY fucking awesome. I’m glad to be introduced to Bullet For My Valentine. But Slipknot? They were badass on a whole different level. The masks, the pyrotechnics, the devil’s mirror background, and most importantly, the music itself was a shit ton of fun. Aside from riding the shuttle bus with a bunch of drunken fans who butchered every jingle on the planet, I had a good time last night. I even had the cute clerk at the convenience store, Chelsea, tell me that she was jealous earlier today. That’s a damn good sign. Hehehehehe!
***RECYCLING BUILDINGS***
Apparently, going to a heavy metal show with a bunch of kick-ass bands inspired me to have a strange, yet poignant dream. In this dream, the QFC grocery store in my town was converted to a concert hall and Pantera got back together to play there. The freezers were replaced with seats, the checkout isles were ticket scanners, and the deli was replaced with one big ass stage where Pantera played “This Love”. And then I woke up and had a topic for a Deviant Art journal in mind already: recycling buildings.
When a business becomes defunct, it would seem like such a waste of construction to demolish the building. If you’re not going to use the building for a grocery store or restaurant, why not use it for a library or a toy store? This actually has a lot of merit in today’s world. In the cop dramas The Shield and NCIS: Los Angeles, both agencies use old churches and convert them to a fully-functional headquarters. Old churches, for shit’s sake. In Texas not too long ago, a Wal-Mart was closed and the building was abandoned until someone started using it for one big-ass library, thus turning Wal-Martians into wallflowers. The old headquarters in Wisconsin where Dungeons & Dragons was born was turned into a candy shop and a hotel after Gary Gygax lost the rights to his game.
Using old buildings for bigger and better things isn’t a new idea, but it’s one that should be spread more often. It would take a shit ton of imagination to convert something like a butcher’s shop into a nightclub (which has been done on an episode of Seinfeld). It’d be a lot of work, but it could technically happen. That QFC dream isn’t far off from reality. It technically could be converted to a concert hall and we could bring some heavy metal to Port Orchard, a city not known for such things. And what about the abandoned Taco Bell building on Mile Hill? Is it just going to sit there and do nothing or can it be converted to…a gaming shop! Can you imagine holding D&D sessions and reading graphic novels in a building that used to be Taco Bell? If your creative energies and imaginative juices aren’t flowing like a raging river, I don’ t know what to say.
Maybe this is all stemming from the fact that I see artistic merit in pretty much everything around me, including reusing condemned buildings, house flipping, and home improvement in general. In this case, the artists in question are working with a tainted canvas and making something beautiful out of it. It would be the same thing if I drew my picture of Daron Campos on the page of a Disney coloring book. It would be a tainted canvas, but it could be done….and it would be creepy to think about considering what Daron Campos is capable of.
Do you have any old buildings that could be something better in your neighborhood? Can you make a college out of a Wal-Mart? Can you make a wrestling school out of a Burger King? Can you make a barbershop out of an abandoned warehouse by a dingy dock? If your imagination is big enough and you’re having a constant flow of nerd-gasms, all of those things are possible. We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***COMMERCIAL QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“You will howl like a happy hound dog over these hushpuppies!”
-Popeye’s Spokeswoman-
***POST-SCRIPT***
Actually, no, I won’t. Popeye’s food is so bland and boring that I can picture one of their restaurants being converted to a record store slash punk clothing emporium. And we’ve come full circle yet again!
Author Interview: Andy Peloquin
Tell the audience a little bit about your background.
Who are some of your favorite authors? --I'm very partial to fantasy, with my favorite authors being Brandon Sanderson, Joe Abercrombie, and Scott Lynch. That being said, I fell in love with fiction thanks to Arthur Conan Doyle and Edgar Rice Burroughs.
What have you written during your career? --As of this moment, I have written A LOT--very little of it published. I wrote a historical fiction/sci-fi/fantasy/metaphysical novel set in Atlantis (which I'm giving away on my website, in case anyone is interested). And I just published Blade of the Destroyer the first in a new dark fantasy series about a bad-ass fantasy assassin.
How long have you been a writer? Off and on, since the age of 15. I started writing seriously about 5 years ago, but that was mainly non-fiction and marketing stuff. I've only been writing fiction professionally since late 2013.
Where does your creative fuel come from? What a fascinating question! Where does anyone's creative fuel come from? The Ether? Some unnamed muse? I've always envied artists and photographers, people who could make something artistic from nothing. I'm a creative person at heart, so I use words as my "paintbrush" to share a bit of myself with the world.
Are you a plotter (someone who plans ahead) or a pantser (someone who improvises)? A bit of both, actually. I won't start writing a book until I have a rough outline of what the story will be about, but I don't worry too much about the details. They come to me as I write the story, and the plot develops well ahead of my writing. By the time I'm half-way done writing, I'll know how the book ends.
What would you describe as the high point of your career? This! Getting my book picked up by a publisher (J. Ellington Ashton Press) and having this book launch is a huge rush. I'm so excited!
What would you describe as the low point of your career? I've been fairly blessed to date. I've never really had a "low point". There have been a lot of bumps and snags along the way, but I can't say that things have ever really "sucked" in my writing career.
Who do you credit with editing your books into tip-top shape? -- A combination of my beta readers, my own OCD, and the editors at JEA. With all those eyes, the book has come out to be a creation of beauty--one I'm absolutely thrilled with.
Do you design your own book covers or do you have someone else to do that for you? --As I said above, I've always envied artists, mainly because I have ZERO artistic skills. Thankfully, I have a sister who is an amazing artist. She came up with 95% of the design for the book cover, and it's all because of her that it's as awesome as she is.
What advice do you have for young aspiring writers? -- Be ready to work hard! Writing is 20 to 25% "fun", and the rest of it is plain hard work. Between re-drafting, polishing the writing, editing, editing again, doing lots more editing, and marketing, there's a lot less pure "creation" than you might realize. But it's all worth it!
What are some of your pet peeves as an author? --I've come to see proper grammar and punctuation as an absolute MUST. I will drop a book if I find too many mistakes. My eyes just shy away from the words, and I focus on the mistakes rather than the story.
How important are reviews to an author’s career, for better or worse? --I think reviews are quite important. First of all, they hold an author accountable. If you put garbage on the internet, it's good that someone calls you out and tells people the truth about your product. Second, I think that it helps us to find out the areas where we need to improve. A bad review for my first book helped me to make this new book a work of art.
Has anybody created fan art for your books? If so, how does that feel?-- I wish! If anyone is interested in creating fan art, let me know! I want to add sketches of the thirteen gods of Voramis into one of the later books.
Have you met any famous authors in your lifetime? --I did! I stood in line for over an hour at this last San Diego Comic Con to meet Brandon Sanderson. It was the one thing I really wanted from the convention.
How important is privacy to a writer’s career? --You know, I don't know that one. I've never really had a big fan base, so I'm not really sure what it's like to NOT have privacy. Ask me in a few years…
Do you use a penname or is Andy Peloquin your real one? --My real name is "Andrew", but I've been called "Andy" since the day I was born. Being called "Andrew" is still weird, so it made sense to go with the name I prefer.
What role does a penname play for an author? --For some authors, it provides them a way to publish something different. For example, J.K. Rowling published/is publishing a series of books under a pen name, and I think she's doing so to give her books (written by a woman) a chance to succeed in a genre dominated by men.
Do you have any final thoughts to give the audience? --Buy my book! No, just kidding. I love to get to know people, so if anyone wants to be my friend, chat, shoot the s**t about writing, or get to know me, add me on any of my social media links! I'm as friendly as my limited free time allows.
Tagline/Elevator Pitch:
A faceless, nameless assassin. A forgotten past. The Hunter of Voramis--a killer devoid of morals, or something else altogether? (Blade of the Destroyer--dark fantasy with a look at the underside of human nature)
Book Blurb:
The Last Bucelarii (Book 1): Blade of the Destroyer
The Hunter of Voramis is the perfect assassin: ruthless, unrelenting, immortal. Yet he is haunted by lost memories, bonded to a cursed dagger that feeds him power yet denies him peace of mind. Within him rages an unquenchable need for blood and death.
When he accepts a contract to avenge the stolen innocence of a girl, the Hunter becomes the prey. The death of a seemingly random target sends him hurtling toward destruction, yet could his path also lead to the truth of his buried past?
Book Info:
Title: The Last Bucelarii (Book 1): Blade of the Destroyer
Author: Andy Peloquin
Official Launch Date: August 21st, 2015
Publication Date: July 11th, 2015
Paperback Price: $15.99
Digital Price: $3.99
Pages: 298
ISBN: 1515038955
Buy Links:
Amazon Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/Blade-Destroyer-Last-Bucelarii-Book-ebook/dp/B012EI9M4A/
Amazon Paperback: http://www.amazon.com/Blade-Destroyer-Last-Bucelarii-Book/dp/1515038955/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25269614-blade-of-the-destroyer
Book Launch Event:
https://www.facebook.com/events/1625045874438351/
Bio:
Andy Peloquin: Lover of All Things Dark and Mysterious
Andy Peloquin--a third culture kid to the core--has loved to read since before he could remember. Sherlock Holmes, the Phantom of the Opera, and Father Brown are just a few of the books that ensnared his imagination as a child.
When he discovered science fiction and fantasy through the pages of writers like Edgar Rice Burroughs, J.R.R Tolkien, and Orson Scott Card, he was immediately hooked and hasn't looked back since.
Andy's first attempt at writing produced In the Days: A Tale of the Forgotten Continent. He has learned from the mistakes he made and used the experience to produce Blade of the Destroyer, a book of which he is very proud.
Reading—and now writing—is his favorite escape, and it provides him an outlet for his innate creativity. He is an artist; words are his palette.
His website (http://www.andypeloquin.com) is a second home for him, a place where he can post his thoughts and feelings--along with reviews of books he finds laying around the internet.
He can also be found on his social media pages, such as:
Twitter: https://twitter.com/AndyPeloquin
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/andyqpeloquin
www.linkedin.com/in/andypeloquin/
https://plus.google.com/100885994638914122147/about
https://www.amazon.com/author/andypeloquin
https://www.facebook.com/andrew.peloquin.1
10 Things You Need to Know About Me:
I never forget a face, but rarely remember a name.
I'm a head taller than the average person (I'm 6' 6")
Marvel > DC
I was born in Japan, and lived there until the age of 14.
Selena Gomez and Five Finger Death Punch are both in my playlist.
Aliens are real, but it's self-centered of us to believe that they would come to visit Earth.
Watching sports: suck. Playing sports: EPIC!
I earned a purple belt in Karate/Hapkido/Taekwondo.
I dislike most Christmas music, aside from Trans-Siberian Orchestra.
Reviews:
"Creative, gritty, and beautifully dark...fantasy addicts will love it!" -- Peter Story, author of Things Grak Hates -- http://peterjstory.com/
"The fantasy world has a compelling new antihero…the Hunter will terrify and captivate you." - Eve A Floriste, author of Fresh Cut
"From the first words on the page this fantasy holds the reader spellbound even after the book is finished…his character is very well-defined even if his past is a mystery. Root for an assassin? Oh, yes, one must!" -- Carol Conley, for InDTale Magazine
Friday, August 21, 2015
Pain in the Grass 2015
***PAIN IN THE GRASS 2015***
This coming Sunday (August 23rd), I’m headed over to Auburn, Washington’s White River Amphitheater for the Pain in the Grass festival, which is basically a heavy metal concert with an ass ton of bands. I’ve been to a lot of concerts in my lifetime, but never to a festival-style concert. The show is expected to go from 2:00 in the afternoon to about 10 or 11 at night. Since the venue is at a grassy lawn, I’ll probably bring a blanket and rest in between performers. The last time I stood up for an ungodly amount of time was when I saw Cavalera Conspiracy this past May in Seattle. There were four opening bands that night before the main act and my legs were killing me. Laying on the grass during this upcoming event will feel like laying on one of heaven’s clouds. Here are the bands that will be performing:
MAIN STAGE:
Ayron Jones & the Way
Crobot
Motionless in White
Theory of a Deadman
Bullet for My Valentine
Three Days Grace
Lamb of God
Slipknot
ANOTHER CENTURY STAGE:
Varsity Week
Like a Storm
Stitched Up Heart
Awaken the Empire
New Years Day
Good God almighty, that’s a lot of heavy metal and hard rock bands. I’ll only be gone for one day at this concert, but the recovery time will probably keep me from participating in my usual internet festivities. I’ll probably still compete in that week’s WSS contest, but not until later in the week when I’m fully rested. Everything else that I do on the internet such as writing Blood Brawl chapters, editing American Darkness stories, editing Marie Krepps’ Slayers chapters, and anything else artistic I’ve neglected to mention will be put on hold, but for a very short time.
This may not be a week-long vacation, but it has the same feel: limited internet time and lots of snoozing. It’s funny, because my last journal entry was about “hanging around”. This time, I have an actual reason to idle. Come to think of it, I’ve always had a reason to idle, but didn’t realize it until now. Whenever I’m done with a creative task, I need to “cool off” and “recharge my batteries”. Creativity can be taxing on the mind, but not enough to keep me from enjoying the fruits of my labor. Isn’t that why working people have lunch breaks and coffee breaks? We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***TELEVISION DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
ZIVA: I would have loved to see Gibbs shoot that computer.
MCGEE: If I don’t get his email working, you might get a second chance.
-NCIS-
This coming Sunday (August 23rd), I’m headed over to Auburn, Washington’s White River Amphitheater for the Pain in the Grass festival, which is basically a heavy metal concert with an ass ton of bands. I’ve been to a lot of concerts in my lifetime, but never to a festival-style concert. The show is expected to go from 2:00 in the afternoon to about 10 or 11 at night. Since the venue is at a grassy lawn, I’ll probably bring a blanket and rest in between performers. The last time I stood up for an ungodly amount of time was when I saw Cavalera Conspiracy this past May in Seattle. There were four opening bands that night before the main act and my legs were killing me. Laying on the grass during this upcoming event will feel like laying on one of heaven’s clouds. Here are the bands that will be performing:
MAIN STAGE:
Ayron Jones & the Way
Crobot
Motionless in White
Theory of a Deadman
Bullet for My Valentine
Three Days Grace
Lamb of God
Slipknot
ANOTHER CENTURY STAGE:
Varsity Week
Like a Storm
Stitched Up Heart
Awaken the Empire
New Years Day
Good God almighty, that’s a lot of heavy metal and hard rock bands. I’ll only be gone for one day at this concert, but the recovery time will probably keep me from participating in my usual internet festivities. I’ll probably still compete in that week’s WSS contest, but not until later in the week when I’m fully rested. Everything else that I do on the internet such as writing Blood Brawl chapters, editing American Darkness stories, editing Marie Krepps’ Slayers chapters, and anything else artistic I’ve neglected to mention will be put on hold, but for a very short time.
This may not be a week-long vacation, but it has the same feel: limited internet time and lots of snoozing. It’s funny, because my last journal entry was about “hanging around”. This time, I have an actual reason to idle. Come to think of it, I’ve always had a reason to idle, but didn’t realize it until now. Whenever I’m done with a creative task, I need to “cool off” and “recharge my batteries”. Creativity can be taxing on the mind, but not enough to keep me from enjoying the fruits of my labor. Isn’t that why working people have lunch breaks and coffee breaks? We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***TELEVISION DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
ZIVA: I would have loved to see Gibbs shoot that computer.
MCGEE: If I don’t get his email working, you might get a second chance.
-NCIS-
"Divine Intervention" by Edward Davies
BOOK TITLE: Divine Intervention
AUTHOR: Edward Davies
YEAR: 2011
GENRE: Fiction
SUBGENRE: Supernatural Comedy
GRADE: Mixed
Jimmy Stewart Moon is a lovable loser with a low-paying job, a place to live at his parents’ house, and too much free time on his hands. When eating potato chips and picking his nose isn’t enough to entertain him, Jimmy takes out his binoculars and spies on his sexy neighbor Vanessa, who’s doing exercises in her underwear. Vanessa catches Jimmy in the act and the perverted voyeur falls out of the window and hits the ground hard. Upon waking up, he meets two angels named Pixie and Frank whose only way of getting back into heaven is to help Jimmy secure a romantic relationship with Vanessa, which is a hard sell considering he just got caught spying on her.
In many ways, this self-published effort reminds me of a book by WWE superstar Dolph Ziggler’s brother Ryan Nemeth called “I Can Make Out with Any Girl Here”. The protagonists in both stories are trying to get laid and they do some silly things along the path of their goals. The funniest part of this story in my opinion is when Jimmy dresses up like an 80’s punk to try and impress Vanessa, but instead looks like a homeless drug addict. Not off to a good start, Mr. Moon! It gets sillier from there. With the English backdrop, this book also reminds me of Monty Python, Danger Mouse, and John Oliver’s show rolled up into one chaotic comedy while dropping a bucket full of LSD. This story is quite possibly the weirdest thing I’ve ever read, but I mean that in the most loving way.
Despite the weirdness of it all, the further you get into this book, the more it begins to read like a legitimate plot instead of just a hodgepodge of comedic antics. We have an imperfect protagonist in Jimmy Stewart Moon. We have a low point near the end. We have a believable climax. And most importantly, we have an ending that nobody would have seen coming for miles, yet that too is believable. I will say though that it takes a great deal of patience to get through the first few pages. Upon first glance, I thought it was going to be TOO weird for my tastes, but my patience paid off and I read an entertaining story.
But just like with any mixed review, there are some complaints that need to be addressed. Although they are few and far between, this book does have its fair share of grammatical errors, misspellings, and other mistakes that no beta reader would ever let slide. But I personally will let this slide because the mistakes don’t corrupt the entire story. It was still enjoyable, but having a beta reader sweep through the errors would be a good call on Mr. Davies’ part.
The only other complaint I need to address is the liberal use of pop culture references. Normally when using these references, there should also be a description of what that reference looks like. For example, if someone looks like Jessica Rabbit, I expect that author to describe her as having long red hair, a seductive face, and a red cocktail dress. While some people have an idea of what the celebrity, TV show, or movie is like already, not everybody fits that bill. It would be like talking to a wrestling fan born in the 2000’s and watching him scratch his head at the mention of Mr. Perfect. It doesn’t even have to be a generational barrier; it could just be someone who has never seen the medium before.
I’m giving this story a mixed grade and not a failing one, because the positives heavily outweigh the negatives. It’s a short book and it reads quickly, so if you don’t have the patience to blow through such a story, I don’t know what to tell you. I blew through it and I enjoyed it every step of the way. Not bad for an author who wrote this story at a young age!
AUTHOR: Edward Davies
YEAR: 2011
GENRE: Fiction
SUBGENRE: Supernatural Comedy
GRADE: Mixed
Jimmy Stewart Moon is a lovable loser with a low-paying job, a place to live at his parents’ house, and too much free time on his hands. When eating potato chips and picking his nose isn’t enough to entertain him, Jimmy takes out his binoculars and spies on his sexy neighbor Vanessa, who’s doing exercises in her underwear. Vanessa catches Jimmy in the act and the perverted voyeur falls out of the window and hits the ground hard. Upon waking up, he meets two angels named Pixie and Frank whose only way of getting back into heaven is to help Jimmy secure a romantic relationship with Vanessa, which is a hard sell considering he just got caught spying on her.
In many ways, this self-published effort reminds me of a book by WWE superstar Dolph Ziggler’s brother Ryan Nemeth called “I Can Make Out with Any Girl Here”. The protagonists in both stories are trying to get laid and they do some silly things along the path of their goals. The funniest part of this story in my opinion is when Jimmy dresses up like an 80’s punk to try and impress Vanessa, but instead looks like a homeless drug addict. Not off to a good start, Mr. Moon! It gets sillier from there. With the English backdrop, this book also reminds me of Monty Python, Danger Mouse, and John Oliver’s show rolled up into one chaotic comedy while dropping a bucket full of LSD. This story is quite possibly the weirdest thing I’ve ever read, but I mean that in the most loving way.
Despite the weirdness of it all, the further you get into this book, the more it begins to read like a legitimate plot instead of just a hodgepodge of comedic antics. We have an imperfect protagonist in Jimmy Stewart Moon. We have a low point near the end. We have a believable climax. And most importantly, we have an ending that nobody would have seen coming for miles, yet that too is believable. I will say though that it takes a great deal of patience to get through the first few pages. Upon first glance, I thought it was going to be TOO weird for my tastes, but my patience paid off and I read an entertaining story.
But just like with any mixed review, there are some complaints that need to be addressed. Although they are few and far between, this book does have its fair share of grammatical errors, misspellings, and other mistakes that no beta reader would ever let slide. But I personally will let this slide because the mistakes don’t corrupt the entire story. It was still enjoyable, but having a beta reader sweep through the errors would be a good call on Mr. Davies’ part.
The only other complaint I need to address is the liberal use of pop culture references. Normally when using these references, there should also be a description of what that reference looks like. For example, if someone looks like Jessica Rabbit, I expect that author to describe her as having long red hair, a seductive face, and a red cocktail dress. While some people have an idea of what the celebrity, TV show, or movie is like already, not everybody fits that bill. It would be like talking to a wrestling fan born in the 2000’s and watching him scratch his head at the mention of Mr. Perfect. It doesn’t even have to be a generational barrier; it could just be someone who has never seen the medium before.
I’m giving this story a mixed grade and not a failing one, because the positives heavily outweigh the negatives. It’s a short book and it reads quickly, so if you don’t have the patience to blow through such a story, I don’t know what to tell you. I blew through it and I enjoyed it every step of the way. Not bad for an author who wrote this story at a young age!
"Blade of the Destroyer" by Andy Peloquin
BOOK TITLE: Blade of the Destroyer
AUTHOR: Andy Peloquin
YEAR: 2015
GENRE: Fiction
SUBGENRE: Medieval Fantasy
GRADE: Pass
The Hunter is a ruthless contract killer who always finishes his assignments and demands his payment right away. His methods are as mysterious as his actual birth name. He does everything on his own terms. Those who double-cross him will find themselves brutalized in the worst possible way. Rumors of his deadliness have spread far and wide, creating the illusion that he is invincible. But when he finishes an assassination of a high-ranking lord, he finds out that the aristocrat is involved with a criminal empire known as the Bloody Hand. Only through dealing with these merciless thugs will The Hunter’s invincibility be truly tested.
The reason this book gets a passing grade (four stars if you’re on Good Reads) is because of how well-constructed it is. Everything is so intricately researched to where the author himself feels like an authority on contract killings and stealth trickery. Whenever The Hunter needs a disguise, he not only puts on the right clothing, but he also puts plaster on his face to match the physical description of that character. When he needs an entry point into a castle or a fortress, he sneaks to the tippy-top of that building and eases his way inside with no problems. When he fights his opponents, they not only go down, they stay that way either through brutal incapacitation or death itself. The Hunter does everything he possibly can to keep his identity a secret while successfully going in for the kill.
As cold and calculating as he is, The Hunter is not without personal feelings. Every once and a while, he’ll meet with a small child or a lonely beggar that he feels so much sympathy for that he’ll pay them a little extra money and attention when walking by. He even allows beggars outside of his home, mostly to maintain subterfuge, but also because they have nowhere else to go. And whenever The Hunter sees a pretty woman, he’s not without his primal urges to get in bed with her and do the nasty. This goes to show that no matter how much you push your feelings down for the sake of your profession, they will always come back stronger than ever. It’s what makes us human, and though people think of The Hunter as godlike, he is human.
But if there’s one part about this novel that really had my attention, it’s The Hunter’s weapon of choice, the Bloodhunger. It’s a jagged dagger that not only rips flesh and shatters bones, but also drains the spiritual essence out of those it penetrates. When Bloodhunger wants blood, he’ll get it one way or another. Did I say he? That’s because the dagger actually communicates with The Hunter in a schizophrenic fashion whenever it’s time to kill someone. The hungrier the dagger is, the louder the head voices become. Sometimes The Hunter will have witty banter or a philosophical discussion in his own head about oligarchies, romance, and such, and Bloodhunger will completely interrupt his train of thought with violent words. Not only is this a creepy and frightening part of the story, but it’s also quite original. Any form of against the grain creativity will always strike a chord with not just me, but also other readers.
Andy Peloquin may be an independent author, but he’s no rookie. If he is, he doesn’t write like one. His descriptions paint a vivid image in the reader’s mind just like any piece of writing should. Blade of the Destroyer is no exception to that rule. You should also follow his blogs on Good Reads since his words of wisdom will ring true with any aspiring author. I follow him on Good Reads and we’ve actually become good friends over time. This passing grade I’m giving his book isn’t because we’re good friends. It’s because he’s a damn good writer with infinite potential and a creative mind. He can get the job done come hell or high water.
Tagline/Elevator Pitch:
A faceless, nameless assassin. A forgotten past. The Hunter of Voramis--a killer devoid of morals, or something else altogether? (Blade of the Destroyer--dark fantasy with a look at the underside of human nature)
Book Blurb:
The Last Bucelarii (Book 1): Blade of the Destroyer
The Hunter of Voramis is the perfect assassin: ruthless, unrelenting, immortal. Yet he is haunted by lost memories, bonded to a cursed dagger that feeds him power yet denies him peace of mind. Within him rages an unquenchable need for blood and death.
When he accepts a contract to avenge the stolen innocence of a girl, the Hunter becomes the prey. The death of a seemingly random target sends him hurtling toward destruction, yet could his path also lead to the truth of his buried past?
Book Info:
Title: The Last Bucelarii (Book 1): Blade of the Destroyer
Author: Andy Peloquin
Official Launch Date: August 21st, 2015
Publication Date: July 11th, 2015
Paperback Price: $15.99
Digital Price: $3.99
Pages: 298
ISBN: 1515038955
Buy Links:
Amazon Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/Blade-Destroyer-Last-Bucelarii-Book-ebook/dp/B012EI9M4A/
Amazon Paperback: http://www.amazon.com/Blade-Destroyer-Last-Bucelarii-Book/dp/1515038955/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25269614-blade-of-the-destroyer
Book Launch Event:
https://www.facebook.com/events/1625045874438351/
Bio:
Andy Peloquin: Lover of All Things Dark and Mysterious
Andy Peloquin--a third culture kid to the core--has loved to read since before he could remember. Sherlock Holmes, the Phantom of the Opera, and Father Brown are just a few of the books that ensnared his imagination as a child.
When he discovered science fiction and fantasy through the pages of writers like Edgar Rice Burroughs, J.R.R Tolkien, and Orson Scott Card, he was immediately hooked and hasn't looked back since.
Andy's first attempt at writing produced In the Days: A Tale of the Forgotten Continent. He has learned from the mistakes he made and used the experience to produce Blade of the Destroyer, a book of which he is very proud.
Reading—and now writing—is his favorite escape, and it provides him an outlet for his innate creativity. He is an artist; words are his palette.
His website (http://www.andypeloquin.com) is a second home for him, a place where he can post his thoughts and feelings--along with reviews of books he finds laying around the internet.
He can also be found on his social media pages, such as:
Twitter: https://twitter.com/AndyPeloquin
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/andyqpeloquin
www.linkedin.com/in/andypeloquin/
https://plus.google.com/100885994638914122147/about
https://www.amazon.com/author/andypeloquin
https://www.facebook.com/andrew.peloquin.1
10 Things You Need to Know About Me:
Hot wings, ALWAYS!
I never forget a face, but rarely remember a name.
I'm a head taller than the average person (I'm 6' 6")
Marvel > DC
I was born in Japan, and lived there until the age of 14.
Selena Gomez and Five Finger Death Punch are both in my playlist.
Aliens are real, but it's self-centered of us to believe that they would come to visit Earth.
Watching sports: suck. Playing sports: EPIC!
I earned a purple belt in Karate/Hapkido/Taekwondo.
I dislike most Christmas music, aside from Trans-Siberian Orchestra.
Reviews:
"Creative, gritty, and beautifully dark...fantasy addicts will love it!" -- Peter Story, author of Things Grak Hates -- http://peterjstory.com/
"The fantasy world has a compelling new antihero…the Hunter will terrify and captivate you." - Eve A Floriste, author of Fresh Cut
"From the first words on the page this fantasy holds the reader spellbound even after the book is finished…his character is very well-defined even if his past is a mystery. Root for an assassin? Oh, yes, one must!" -- Carol Conley, for InDTale Magazine
AUTHOR: Andy Peloquin
YEAR: 2015
GENRE: Fiction
SUBGENRE: Medieval Fantasy
GRADE: Pass
The Hunter is a ruthless contract killer who always finishes his assignments and demands his payment right away. His methods are as mysterious as his actual birth name. He does everything on his own terms. Those who double-cross him will find themselves brutalized in the worst possible way. Rumors of his deadliness have spread far and wide, creating the illusion that he is invincible. But when he finishes an assassination of a high-ranking lord, he finds out that the aristocrat is involved with a criminal empire known as the Bloody Hand. Only through dealing with these merciless thugs will The Hunter’s invincibility be truly tested.
The reason this book gets a passing grade (four stars if you’re on Good Reads) is because of how well-constructed it is. Everything is so intricately researched to where the author himself feels like an authority on contract killings and stealth trickery. Whenever The Hunter needs a disguise, he not only puts on the right clothing, but he also puts plaster on his face to match the physical description of that character. When he needs an entry point into a castle or a fortress, he sneaks to the tippy-top of that building and eases his way inside with no problems. When he fights his opponents, they not only go down, they stay that way either through brutal incapacitation or death itself. The Hunter does everything he possibly can to keep his identity a secret while successfully going in for the kill.
As cold and calculating as he is, The Hunter is not without personal feelings. Every once and a while, he’ll meet with a small child or a lonely beggar that he feels so much sympathy for that he’ll pay them a little extra money and attention when walking by. He even allows beggars outside of his home, mostly to maintain subterfuge, but also because they have nowhere else to go. And whenever The Hunter sees a pretty woman, he’s not without his primal urges to get in bed with her and do the nasty. This goes to show that no matter how much you push your feelings down for the sake of your profession, they will always come back stronger than ever. It’s what makes us human, and though people think of The Hunter as godlike, he is human.
But if there’s one part about this novel that really had my attention, it’s The Hunter’s weapon of choice, the Bloodhunger. It’s a jagged dagger that not only rips flesh and shatters bones, but also drains the spiritual essence out of those it penetrates. When Bloodhunger wants blood, he’ll get it one way or another. Did I say he? That’s because the dagger actually communicates with The Hunter in a schizophrenic fashion whenever it’s time to kill someone. The hungrier the dagger is, the louder the head voices become. Sometimes The Hunter will have witty banter or a philosophical discussion in his own head about oligarchies, romance, and such, and Bloodhunger will completely interrupt his train of thought with violent words. Not only is this a creepy and frightening part of the story, but it’s also quite original. Any form of against the grain creativity will always strike a chord with not just me, but also other readers.
Andy Peloquin may be an independent author, but he’s no rookie. If he is, he doesn’t write like one. His descriptions paint a vivid image in the reader’s mind just like any piece of writing should. Blade of the Destroyer is no exception to that rule. You should also follow his blogs on Good Reads since his words of wisdom will ring true with any aspiring author. I follow him on Good Reads and we’ve actually become good friends over time. This passing grade I’m giving his book isn’t because we’re good friends. It’s because he’s a damn good writer with infinite potential and a creative mind. He can get the job done come hell or high water.
Tagline/Elevator Pitch:
A faceless, nameless assassin. A forgotten past. The Hunter of Voramis--a killer devoid of morals, or something else altogether? (Blade of the Destroyer--dark fantasy with a look at the underside of human nature)
Book Blurb:
The Last Bucelarii (Book 1): Blade of the Destroyer
The Hunter of Voramis is the perfect assassin: ruthless, unrelenting, immortal. Yet he is haunted by lost memories, bonded to a cursed dagger that feeds him power yet denies him peace of mind. Within him rages an unquenchable need for blood and death.
When he accepts a contract to avenge the stolen innocence of a girl, the Hunter becomes the prey. The death of a seemingly random target sends him hurtling toward destruction, yet could his path also lead to the truth of his buried past?
Book Info:
Title: The Last Bucelarii (Book 1): Blade of the Destroyer
Author: Andy Peloquin
Official Launch Date: August 21st, 2015
Publication Date: July 11th, 2015
Paperback Price: $15.99
Digital Price: $3.99
Pages: 298
ISBN: 1515038955
Buy Links:
Amazon Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/Blade-Destroyer-Last-Bucelarii-Book-ebook/dp/B012EI9M4A/
Amazon Paperback: http://www.amazon.com/Blade-Destroyer-Last-Bucelarii-Book/dp/1515038955/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25269614-blade-of-the-destroyer
Book Launch Event:
https://www.facebook.com/events/1625045874438351/
Bio:
Andy Peloquin: Lover of All Things Dark and Mysterious
Andy Peloquin--a third culture kid to the core--has loved to read since before he could remember. Sherlock Holmes, the Phantom of the Opera, and Father Brown are just a few of the books that ensnared his imagination as a child.
When he discovered science fiction and fantasy through the pages of writers like Edgar Rice Burroughs, J.R.R Tolkien, and Orson Scott Card, he was immediately hooked and hasn't looked back since.
Andy's first attempt at writing produced In the Days: A Tale of the Forgotten Continent. He has learned from the mistakes he made and used the experience to produce Blade of the Destroyer, a book of which he is very proud.
Reading—and now writing—is his favorite escape, and it provides him an outlet for his innate creativity. He is an artist; words are his palette.
His website (http://www.andypeloquin.com) is a second home for him, a place where he can post his thoughts and feelings--along with reviews of books he finds laying around the internet.
He can also be found on his social media pages, such as:
Twitter: https://twitter.com/AndyPeloquin
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/andyqpeloquin
www.linkedin.com/in/andypeloquin/
https://plus.google.com/100885994638914122147/about
https://www.amazon.com/author/andypeloquin
https://www.facebook.com/andrew.peloquin.1
10 Things You Need to Know About Me:
I never forget a face, but rarely remember a name.
I'm a head taller than the average person (I'm 6' 6")
Marvel > DC
I was born in Japan, and lived there until the age of 14.
Selena Gomez and Five Finger Death Punch are both in my playlist.
Aliens are real, but it's self-centered of us to believe that they would come to visit Earth.
Watching sports: suck. Playing sports: EPIC!
I earned a purple belt in Karate/Hapkido/Taekwondo.
I dislike most Christmas music, aside from Trans-Siberian Orchestra.
Reviews:
"Creative, gritty, and beautifully dark...fantasy addicts will love it!" -- Peter Story, author of Things Grak Hates -- http://peterjstory.com/
"The fantasy world has a compelling new antihero…the Hunter will terrify and captivate you." - Eve A Floriste, author of Fresh Cut
"From the first words on the page this fantasy holds the reader spellbound even after the book is finished…his character is very well-defined even if his past is a mystery. Root for an assassin? Oh, yes, one must!" -- Carol Conley, for InDTale Magazine
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
Stardust
When Mitch O’Connor’s spacecraft touched down on the world of Stardust, he couldn’t believe how small it was. It truly was a retreat for an introverted hermit like Marcus Edge. The door to the pod-like spacecraft opened and Mitch clunked down the stairs in his spiked metal power armor while carrying a gauss rifle that was bigger than his own arms. “Oh, this is too easy. Too damn easy!” he said to himself.
Stardust wasn’t the most complex world in the galaxy. Smallness aside, it appeared to be a jungle land complete with coconut trees, dirt trails, tall grass, plant life, just your everyday nature trail on planet earth. Even for a planet this tiny, Mitch still had a problem finding his target Marcus Edge. It didn’t help matters that the space mercenary was stomping around on the ground in his gigantic metal boots. Then again, his job didn’t require a great deal of stealth, so he didn’t dwell on it much.
“Marcus Edge!” shouted Mitch through an amplified microphone inside his space helmet. “I know your ass is around here somewhere! I’m feeling pretty good today, probably because toasting your little world is going to be the easiest thing I’ve ever done! So here’s what I’m going to do, Marcus: I’m going to give you the chance to get your hermit ass off this planet so that when I burn down the plant life and kill all the animals, you won’t have to be a part of it. My boss at World Corp wants to turn your little home into a vacation getaway. It don’t look like much of a vacation right now, buddy boy. It looks more like…”
Before he was allowed to finish his oratory, Mitch O’Connor’s legs were snatched up from underneath him and he hung upside down on a vine. He was so far off the ground that when he dropped his rifle, he couldn’t pick the damn thing back up again. “Oh, you’ve got traps now?” he said. “Well, I got news for you, smart ass: I’ve been doing this shit for a whole decade and ain’t no vine going to stop my ass from burning everything in sight!”
His boldness turned to fear when he found himself face to face with a Venus Fly Trap, the owner of that tight vine. This particular plant had teeth the size of railroad spikes and blood oozing from its mouth like a waterfall. Mitch’s lips were vibrating and his eyes widened at the sight of this monster. And then he went back to being bold when he said, “Wait a minute! Why the hell am I scared of a goddamn plant?”
With his metal space helmet, Mitch O’Connor unleashed a powerful head butt to the Venus Fly Trap, loosening a few teeth and spraying some more blood, but more importantly, loosing the vine’s grip on the mercenary’s legs. Mitch plummeted to the grassy ground below, but his metal armor protected him from injury, so he pretty much picked himself up, dusted himself off, and found his rifle again.
“Is that all you got, Marcus? Some stupid plant? Oh, this is going to be easier than I thought! And I’m making millions off of this job! It’s like Christmas came early!” boasted Mitch.
“Don’t be too sure of that, you disgusting human!” said the busted up Venus Fly Trap in a raspy voice. With Mitch watching in awe and horror, the plant morphed into a human being wearing bear skin clothing and a raccoon cap on his head. This was him alright: Marcus Edge, hermit druid.
“Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be, huh? You want to put up a fight? Well, goddamn, man, you’ve got one now, bitch!” shouted the soldier for hire when he raised his gauss rifle and opened automatic fire. That many plutonium bullets would have been enough to shred a normal human being into dust. Hell, the surgeons would need a microscope to put his sorry ass back together again. But when the storm of bullets ended, there was no corpse.
Instead all Mitch O’Connor got was a deafening bird squawk right in his left ear. Marcus, who now morphed into a parrot, continued to blast his windpipes in his opponent’s ear and double the man over as he got a headache. When the druid believed his adversary had enough, he flew off into the sunset and left Mitch to clutch his aching head.
The sudden drop in volume inspired the mercenary to aim his rifle and unleash another rainstorm of violence upon his opponent. The shredding impact only resulted in one feather this time. On measly little feather.
“What the hell’s going on here?!” Good question, Mr. O’Connor. What was going on was that Marcus Edge had now morphed into a charging rhino. The tank-like beast barreled and stampeded his way across the grass and knocked a few trees over. With little time for his opponent to react, Marcus gored Mitch and sent him flying backwards several feet, knocking a few trees over himself.
That power armor was a blessing for Mitch since he had just survived a high drop and getting spear tackled by a rhino. But now the mercenary was feeling the pain. He was so exhausted from these attacks that he took longer than usual to get up. He crashed into trees, for god’s sake. Trees! Yet he continued to be brash and cocky in the face of danger.
“Is that all you got, you son of a bitch? What are you going to change into now, a small puppy? Are you going to bark your way to victory?” yelled Mitch.
Changing from a rhino back to his human form, Marcus slowly approached his nemesis and said, “No, I’m not going to do any barking today. That’s been your job since you landed on Stardust, you asshole.”
With Mitch watching in awe of his opponent, Marcus continued his speech with, “You know what I detest about the human race? You people think you have the right to conquer whatever the hell you want. You did it on earth with pretty much every group of people that wasn’t white, including Indians and Africans. That’s all you guys do: just take, take, take. You have some oil? I’ll take that. You have human rights? I’ll take that as well. Is that supposed to be impressive? To who, exactly? Your mother? Your father? Your trophy wife? The president himself? How many more people have to die before you’re finally satisfied with the things you already have! You make me sick! You all make me sick!”
An uncomfortable hush had fallen over the scene and then Marcus laid into Mitch some more, “That’s why I came to Stardust: to get away from it all. And now some space jockey like you decides to come to my world and sell it to some rich asshole? Let me fill you in on a little secret, buddy boy. Stardust isn’t just any tiny planet. It’s the product of my own imagination. As long as I keep being creative, I can manipulate any part of this world I want while you only have that stupid rifle to overcompensate for your small penis. To put it in words even a money-hungry thug like you can understand…you were screwed the minute you stepped foot on my world.”
This would have been the best time for Mitch O’Connor to get back in his spaceship and tell his bosses at World Corp to shove it. Just leave now while he still had his peace of mind and still had his health. But instead he decided to keep playing the role of an arrogant jerk-ass. He yelled, “You worthless piece of shit!” prior to opening fire yet again.
Except this time it wasn’t just plutonium bullets. It was also fireballs, ice sickles, lightning bolts, biological sludge, and laser beams, all of which were hidden compartments on his rifle and all of which were necessary in doing his job to destroy entire planets to get them ready for flipping.
After unloading a cataclysm of agony that Armageddon itself could never produce, Mitch didn’t even check to see if there was a corpse this time. He just dropped to his hands and knees, breathed deeply, and laughed his ass off. “I got you, bitch! I got you this time! And there ain’t nothing you can do about it!”
Mitch was so busy laughing his way to insanity that he didn’t realize he was sinking in a mud pit. Even when the mud was completely covering his space helmet, he couldn’t have cared less. It was when he was underneath the mud pit and into a cavern of filth that he realized what was going on. The realization hit him even harder when Marcus was standing there with his arms folded saying, “What took you so long?”
“No…no…this ain’t happening, man! This ain’t happening! Don’t you ever fucking die, man?!” screamed a deranged Mitch O’Connor.
Marcus laid a hand on his invader’s metal shoulder and said, “Old druids don’t die. They just get better.” With Mitch shedding tears of defeat, Marcus Edge transformed into a gigantic grizzly bear and started chewing and mauling his way through the metal armor, which at this point was a lot like opening a can of Chef Boyardee ravioli. Oh, the meat sauce inside was going to be so worth all this rage.
Stardust wasn’t the most complex world in the galaxy. Smallness aside, it appeared to be a jungle land complete with coconut trees, dirt trails, tall grass, plant life, just your everyday nature trail on planet earth. Even for a planet this tiny, Mitch still had a problem finding his target Marcus Edge. It didn’t help matters that the space mercenary was stomping around on the ground in his gigantic metal boots. Then again, his job didn’t require a great deal of stealth, so he didn’t dwell on it much.
“Marcus Edge!” shouted Mitch through an amplified microphone inside his space helmet. “I know your ass is around here somewhere! I’m feeling pretty good today, probably because toasting your little world is going to be the easiest thing I’ve ever done! So here’s what I’m going to do, Marcus: I’m going to give you the chance to get your hermit ass off this planet so that when I burn down the plant life and kill all the animals, you won’t have to be a part of it. My boss at World Corp wants to turn your little home into a vacation getaway. It don’t look like much of a vacation right now, buddy boy. It looks more like…”
Before he was allowed to finish his oratory, Mitch O’Connor’s legs were snatched up from underneath him and he hung upside down on a vine. He was so far off the ground that when he dropped his rifle, he couldn’t pick the damn thing back up again. “Oh, you’ve got traps now?” he said. “Well, I got news for you, smart ass: I’ve been doing this shit for a whole decade and ain’t no vine going to stop my ass from burning everything in sight!”
His boldness turned to fear when he found himself face to face with a Venus Fly Trap, the owner of that tight vine. This particular plant had teeth the size of railroad spikes and blood oozing from its mouth like a waterfall. Mitch’s lips were vibrating and his eyes widened at the sight of this monster. And then he went back to being bold when he said, “Wait a minute! Why the hell am I scared of a goddamn plant?”
With his metal space helmet, Mitch O’Connor unleashed a powerful head butt to the Venus Fly Trap, loosening a few teeth and spraying some more blood, but more importantly, loosing the vine’s grip on the mercenary’s legs. Mitch plummeted to the grassy ground below, but his metal armor protected him from injury, so he pretty much picked himself up, dusted himself off, and found his rifle again.
“Is that all you got, Marcus? Some stupid plant? Oh, this is going to be easier than I thought! And I’m making millions off of this job! It’s like Christmas came early!” boasted Mitch.
“Don’t be too sure of that, you disgusting human!” said the busted up Venus Fly Trap in a raspy voice. With Mitch watching in awe and horror, the plant morphed into a human being wearing bear skin clothing and a raccoon cap on his head. This was him alright: Marcus Edge, hermit druid.
“Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be, huh? You want to put up a fight? Well, goddamn, man, you’ve got one now, bitch!” shouted the soldier for hire when he raised his gauss rifle and opened automatic fire. That many plutonium bullets would have been enough to shred a normal human being into dust. Hell, the surgeons would need a microscope to put his sorry ass back together again. But when the storm of bullets ended, there was no corpse.
Instead all Mitch O’Connor got was a deafening bird squawk right in his left ear. Marcus, who now morphed into a parrot, continued to blast his windpipes in his opponent’s ear and double the man over as he got a headache. When the druid believed his adversary had enough, he flew off into the sunset and left Mitch to clutch his aching head.
The sudden drop in volume inspired the mercenary to aim his rifle and unleash another rainstorm of violence upon his opponent. The shredding impact only resulted in one feather this time. On measly little feather.
“What the hell’s going on here?!” Good question, Mr. O’Connor. What was going on was that Marcus Edge had now morphed into a charging rhino. The tank-like beast barreled and stampeded his way across the grass and knocked a few trees over. With little time for his opponent to react, Marcus gored Mitch and sent him flying backwards several feet, knocking a few trees over himself.
That power armor was a blessing for Mitch since he had just survived a high drop and getting spear tackled by a rhino. But now the mercenary was feeling the pain. He was so exhausted from these attacks that he took longer than usual to get up. He crashed into trees, for god’s sake. Trees! Yet he continued to be brash and cocky in the face of danger.
“Is that all you got, you son of a bitch? What are you going to change into now, a small puppy? Are you going to bark your way to victory?” yelled Mitch.
Changing from a rhino back to his human form, Marcus slowly approached his nemesis and said, “No, I’m not going to do any barking today. That’s been your job since you landed on Stardust, you asshole.”
With Mitch watching in awe of his opponent, Marcus continued his speech with, “You know what I detest about the human race? You people think you have the right to conquer whatever the hell you want. You did it on earth with pretty much every group of people that wasn’t white, including Indians and Africans. That’s all you guys do: just take, take, take. You have some oil? I’ll take that. You have human rights? I’ll take that as well. Is that supposed to be impressive? To who, exactly? Your mother? Your father? Your trophy wife? The president himself? How many more people have to die before you’re finally satisfied with the things you already have! You make me sick! You all make me sick!”
An uncomfortable hush had fallen over the scene and then Marcus laid into Mitch some more, “That’s why I came to Stardust: to get away from it all. And now some space jockey like you decides to come to my world and sell it to some rich asshole? Let me fill you in on a little secret, buddy boy. Stardust isn’t just any tiny planet. It’s the product of my own imagination. As long as I keep being creative, I can manipulate any part of this world I want while you only have that stupid rifle to overcompensate for your small penis. To put it in words even a money-hungry thug like you can understand…you were screwed the minute you stepped foot on my world.”
This would have been the best time for Mitch O’Connor to get back in his spaceship and tell his bosses at World Corp to shove it. Just leave now while he still had his peace of mind and still had his health. But instead he decided to keep playing the role of an arrogant jerk-ass. He yelled, “You worthless piece of shit!” prior to opening fire yet again.
Except this time it wasn’t just plutonium bullets. It was also fireballs, ice sickles, lightning bolts, biological sludge, and laser beams, all of which were hidden compartments on his rifle and all of which were necessary in doing his job to destroy entire planets to get them ready for flipping.
After unloading a cataclysm of agony that Armageddon itself could never produce, Mitch didn’t even check to see if there was a corpse this time. He just dropped to his hands and knees, breathed deeply, and laughed his ass off. “I got you, bitch! I got you this time! And there ain’t nothing you can do about it!”
Mitch was so busy laughing his way to insanity that he didn’t realize he was sinking in a mud pit. Even when the mud was completely covering his space helmet, he couldn’t have cared less. It was when he was underneath the mud pit and into a cavern of filth that he realized what was going on. The realization hit him even harder when Marcus was standing there with his arms folded saying, “What took you so long?”
“No…no…this ain’t happening, man! This ain’t happening! Don’t you ever fucking die, man?!” screamed a deranged Mitch O’Connor.
Marcus laid a hand on his invader’s metal shoulder and said, “Old druids don’t die. They just get better.” With Mitch shedding tears of defeat, Marcus Edge transformed into a gigantic grizzly bear and started chewing and mauling his way through the metal armor, which at this point was a lot like opening a can of Chef Boyardee ravioli. Oh, the meat sauce inside was going to be so worth all this rage.
Hanging Around
***HANGING AROUND***
For the past two weeks, my brother James and I babysat the puppies and kitties while my mom and step-dad Dale went to North Carolina to do some remodeling of their future retirement home. These two weeks would have been an awesome time to get some serious creative work done and so far, so good. I gave Andy Peloquin’s “Blade of the Destroyer” novel a four-star detailed review and did the same to Carl Hiaasen’s “Star Island” book. I also participated in two WSS contests and that’s why “Nail Bomb” and “Kill, Cut, Scalp” are in my Deviant Art gallery. I snapped some toy pictures of Daniel Bryan, Roman Reigns, Homer Simpson, and Wario. I drew pictures of Katie Evans from “Froggy Smacks” and Machu Throatslash from “Ascension”, both stories a part of the Poison Tongue Tales anthology. I wrote a four-star review for a WWE match between The Prime Time Players and The New Day that took place at this year’s Battleground pay-per-view. I edited the shit out of an American Darkness story called “It’s Okay For You to Love Me”. And last but not least, I FINALLY pumped out the first chapter of Blood Brawl, which used to be called Dungeons & Dragons: Hair vs. Hair, but has since been changed.
You probably think the main reason for telling you all what I did over the two weeks my parents were gone is so that I can brag and get my jollies off. As much as I love to let my arrogant side every now and then, that’s not why I’m writing this journal. This journal is titled “Hanging Around”, which if you look it up on Urbandictionary.com is just a synonym for idling or doing very little. Truth be told, it doesn’t take a great amount of time to do all of the creative tasks I did in those two weeks. Snapping pictures takes literally a few seconds while writing a short story or novel chapter can take anywhere between half an hour to a full hour.
Yes, I got a lot done, but what about the downtime in between creative work? Most people fill this time up by doing chores, going to their day jobs, or hanging out with family members and friends. While it is true that I had a lot of chores to do to maintain this two-story house and keep the animals happy, the chores are also super easy to do and don’t take very long, so that’s even more downtime that I have between creative projects. Closing this gap seems like an easy thing to do at first glance. Okay, so I’ve edited an American Darkness story, so my next project to hop on is writing a chapter of Blood Brawl.
Except it doesn’t work that way, at least not in my world. You know what I do during my downtime? Plenty of things that would constitute “Hanging Around”: napping to new age music, checking my online messages, dinking around on Face Book, and walking around my house like a zombie while talking to myself (usually reciting dialogue from Clerks or Pulp Fiction). So basically, instead of being a relentless worker, I am a professional zombie.
While I’m frying my brain on Face Book and snoozing despite not being tired, I’m doing something that brings all of this idling to light: waiting. I’m waiting for my mental energy to be restored. Only with maximum mental energy can I plow through my creative projects. Anything less and I just crash at the first few words of the story. For years I’ve tried to figure out the secret to my mental exhaustion and I have many answers: sleep apnea, schizophrenia medications, bad diet, minimal exercise, and an aversion to low barometric pressures. That’s a lot of things I have to fix just to be active and alert 24/7. But the one thing that outweighs all of those other problems is my sleep apnea.
Sometime when Mom and Dale are home, I fully intend to make an appointment with a sleep clinic to see if I need a breathing mask or not. I probably do, but the clinic visit is just a formality. Until then, I have to admit that I feel guilty about watching my time go by. I have no excuses. The reason I don’t get much done is because I’m literally sitting around doing nothing while waiting for my brain to stop being an asshole to me. As someone with a strong work ethic and an even stronger creative urge, this makes the guilt more powerful.
But you all have told me over and over again that I don’t need to feel guilty over not getting everything done at once. I sound like a broken record when I talk about mental energy, but that’s because I can’t thank you guys enough for taking that weight off of my shoulders. I hope you can continue to support me now that you know I’ve been spending most of my free time “hanging around” instead of relentlessly working.
I’m actually thankful I don’t have a day job right now. Even with my sleep apnea-induced mental tiredness, I’d still have to work an eight hour day doing presumably boring work just to pick up a paycheck. To those of you who have you are enduring the corporate grind, you have my empathy, my love, and my thanks. I don’t know how you do it, but I have all the respect in the world for you.
I do have plans to get some creative work done after Mom and Dale get home tomorrow. Bulldozing my way through unedited American Darkness stories is a top priority. Writing the second chapter of Blood Brawl and introducing Ivan Blackstone to the story is another top priority. Before those two things, it’s a new week at the WSS contest and the prompt suggestion is “Different Worlds”. Here’s a synopsis of my eventual story this week, which is called “Stardust”:
CHARACTERS:
Marcus Edge, Morphing Druid
Mitch O’Connor, Space Mercenary
PROMPT CONFORMITY: Stardust is a world different from our own.
SYNOPSIS: Mitch is hired by an intergalactic corporation called World Corp to colonize planets by killing off the inhabitants and burning the plant life, thus getting them ready for rebuilding into the CEO’s image. Mitch has been doing this kind of work for a whole decade, but when he goes to a hermit’s planet called Stardust, he finally meets his match when the one person he has to kill is a shape-shifting druid named Marcus Edge. Marcus can change into any kind of earthen animal from a wolf to a bear to even something as annoying as a deerfly. During the battle, he reveals that the reason he became a hermit was because of his disgust with the human race.
I do have bursts of energy every now and then and I’ll always have free time of some kind. Come hell or high water, these projects will be done and they’ll be done the right way. You hear that, American Darkness stories? The Hate Train is coming for your asses! Hahahahahaha! The only reason I’m calling it the Hate Train is because it’s also the name of a Sanction VIII song and that was the first band that played on the night I went to see Cavalera Conspiracy in Seattle this past May. And as long as I’m making references to obscure metal bands who probably don’t venture outside of the Sea-Tac area…
(Points to American Darkness) This is what I stand for!
(Points to Stardust) This is why I fight!
(Points to Blood Brawl) This is what I live for!
Prepare to die tonight!
We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“The Miz is WWE’s version of Right Said Fred: he’s a one hit wonder.”
-John Layfield-
For the past two weeks, my brother James and I babysat the puppies and kitties while my mom and step-dad Dale went to North Carolina to do some remodeling of their future retirement home. These two weeks would have been an awesome time to get some serious creative work done and so far, so good. I gave Andy Peloquin’s “Blade of the Destroyer” novel a four-star detailed review and did the same to Carl Hiaasen’s “Star Island” book. I also participated in two WSS contests and that’s why “Nail Bomb” and “Kill, Cut, Scalp” are in my Deviant Art gallery. I snapped some toy pictures of Daniel Bryan, Roman Reigns, Homer Simpson, and Wario. I drew pictures of Katie Evans from “Froggy Smacks” and Machu Throatslash from “Ascension”, both stories a part of the Poison Tongue Tales anthology. I wrote a four-star review for a WWE match between The Prime Time Players and The New Day that took place at this year’s Battleground pay-per-view. I edited the shit out of an American Darkness story called “It’s Okay For You to Love Me”. And last but not least, I FINALLY pumped out the first chapter of Blood Brawl, which used to be called Dungeons & Dragons: Hair vs. Hair, but has since been changed.
You probably think the main reason for telling you all what I did over the two weeks my parents were gone is so that I can brag and get my jollies off. As much as I love to let my arrogant side every now and then, that’s not why I’m writing this journal. This journal is titled “Hanging Around”, which if you look it up on Urbandictionary.com is just a synonym for idling or doing very little. Truth be told, it doesn’t take a great amount of time to do all of the creative tasks I did in those two weeks. Snapping pictures takes literally a few seconds while writing a short story or novel chapter can take anywhere between half an hour to a full hour.
Yes, I got a lot done, but what about the downtime in between creative work? Most people fill this time up by doing chores, going to their day jobs, or hanging out with family members and friends. While it is true that I had a lot of chores to do to maintain this two-story house and keep the animals happy, the chores are also super easy to do and don’t take very long, so that’s even more downtime that I have between creative projects. Closing this gap seems like an easy thing to do at first glance. Okay, so I’ve edited an American Darkness story, so my next project to hop on is writing a chapter of Blood Brawl.
Except it doesn’t work that way, at least not in my world. You know what I do during my downtime? Plenty of things that would constitute “Hanging Around”: napping to new age music, checking my online messages, dinking around on Face Book, and walking around my house like a zombie while talking to myself (usually reciting dialogue from Clerks or Pulp Fiction). So basically, instead of being a relentless worker, I am a professional zombie.
While I’m frying my brain on Face Book and snoozing despite not being tired, I’m doing something that brings all of this idling to light: waiting. I’m waiting for my mental energy to be restored. Only with maximum mental energy can I plow through my creative projects. Anything less and I just crash at the first few words of the story. For years I’ve tried to figure out the secret to my mental exhaustion and I have many answers: sleep apnea, schizophrenia medications, bad diet, minimal exercise, and an aversion to low barometric pressures. That’s a lot of things I have to fix just to be active and alert 24/7. But the one thing that outweighs all of those other problems is my sleep apnea.
Sometime when Mom and Dale are home, I fully intend to make an appointment with a sleep clinic to see if I need a breathing mask or not. I probably do, but the clinic visit is just a formality. Until then, I have to admit that I feel guilty about watching my time go by. I have no excuses. The reason I don’t get much done is because I’m literally sitting around doing nothing while waiting for my brain to stop being an asshole to me. As someone with a strong work ethic and an even stronger creative urge, this makes the guilt more powerful.
But you all have told me over and over again that I don’t need to feel guilty over not getting everything done at once. I sound like a broken record when I talk about mental energy, but that’s because I can’t thank you guys enough for taking that weight off of my shoulders. I hope you can continue to support me now that you know I’ve been spending most of my free time “hanging around” instead of relentlessly working.
I’m actually thankful I don’t have a day job right now. Even with my sleep apnea-induced mental tiredness, I’d still have to work an eight hour day doing presumably boring work just to pick up a paycheck. To those of you who have you are enduring the corporate grind, you have my empathy, my love, and my thanks. I don’t know how you do it, but I have all the respect in the world for you.
I do have plans to get some creative work done after Mom and Dale get home tomorrow. Bulldozing my way through unedited American Darkness stories is a top priority. Writing the second chapter of Blood Brawl and introducing Ivan Blackstone to the story is another top priority. Before those two things, it’s a new week at the WSS contest and the prompt suggestion is “Different Worlds”. Here’s a synopsis of my eventual story this week, which is called “Stardust”:
CHARACTERS:
Marcus Edge, Morphing Druid
Mitch O’Connor, Space Mercenary
PROMPT CONFORMITY: Stardust is a world different from our own.
SYNOPSIS: Mitch is hired by an intergalactic corporation called World Corp to colonize planets by killing off the inhabitants and burning the plant life, thus getting them ready for rebuilding into the CEO’s image. Mitch has been doing this kind of work for a whole decade, but when he goes to a hermit’s planet called Stardust, he finally meets his match when the one person he has to kill is a shape-shifting druid named Marcus Edge. Marcus can change into any kind of earthen animal from a wolf to a bear to even something as annoying as a deerfly. During the battle, he reveals that the reason he became a hermit was because of his disgust with the human race.
I do have bursts of energy every now and then and I’ll always have free time of some kind. Come hell or high water, these projects will be done and they’ll be done the right way. You hear that, American Darkness stories? The Hate Train is coming for your asses! Hahahahahaha! The only reason I’m calling it the Hate Train is because it’s also the name of a Sanction VIII song and that was the first band that played on the night I went to see Cavalera Conspiracy in Seattle this past May. And as long as I’m making references to obscure metal bands who probably don’t venture outside of the Sea-Tac area…
(Points to American Darkness) This is what I stand for!
(Points to Stardust) This is why I fight!
(Points to Blood Brawl) This is what I live for!
Prepare to die tonight!
We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“The Miz is WWE’s version of Right Said Fred: he’s a one hit wonder.”
-John Layfield-
Sunday, August 16, 2015
Chasing You
VERSE 1
Chasing you has tired me out
I end these childish games now
Save my energy for someone who knows me
Loves me for everything I can possibly be
Don’t waste your ballads on little old me
Don’t fight my battles until you bleed
Give me a reason to break my shell
Without dragging me through hell
CHORUS 1
Chasing you has weakened my legs
Chasing you has forced me to beg
Chasing you has left me for dead
No one shall share my heavenly bed
VERSE 2
Status and fame were all to blame
You made me believe you weren’t the same
I put you on high and you passed me by
Without even telling me how or why
Fairy tales are for pre-school kids
Romance is only for the highest bid
You keep the mace in your favorite place
In case you want to torture my pudgy face
CHORUS 2
Chasing you isn’t worth the pain
Chasing you has driven me insane
Chasing you for hollow lust
Replaced by tabloid headline disgust
VERSE 3
I’m not a paparazzo with small F-stop
I don’t like to dance, I don’t listen to pop
All I have is a wild imagination
And venomous words for a demonstration
I won’t change who I am for any diva
Badass singer or chick named Ziva
College chick with the shortest of shorts
Cheerleader chick who bends and contorts
CHORUS 3
Chasing you has left me weak
Chasing you leaves my future bleak
Chasing you was all for nothing
You don’t believe in the power of loving
You believe in stacks of dollar bills
Doing cocaine in Beverly Hills
Tantric sex and other such thrills
If I can’t have you, then damn it, who will?
STOLEN LINE
Maybe I should let her go
But only when she loves me
She loves me
How can I just let her go?
Not until she loves me
She loves me
(Stolen line is a lyric from "Killpop" by Slipknot.)
Chasing you has tired me out
I end these childish games now
Save my energy for someone who knows me
Loves me for everything I can possibly be
Don’t waste your ballads on little old me
Don’t fight my battles until you bleed
Give me a reason to break my shell
Without dragging me through hell
CHORUS 1
Chasing you has weakened my legs
Chasing you has forced me to beg
Chasing you has left me for dead
No one shall share my heavenly bed
VERSE 2
Status and fame were all to blame
You made me believe you weren’t the same
I put you on high and you passed me by
Without even telling me how or why
Fairy tales are for pre-school kids
Romance is only for the highest bid
You keep the mace in your favorite place
In case you want to torture my pudgy face
CHORUS 2
Chasing you isn’t worth the pain
Chasing you has driven me insane
Chasing you for hollow lust
Replaced by tabloid headline disgust
VERSE 3
I’m not a paparazzo with small F-stop
I don’t like to dance, I don’t listen to pop
All I have is a wild imagination
And venomous words for a demonstration
I won’t change who I am for any diva
Badass singer or chick named Ziva
College chick with the shortest of shorts
Cheerleader chick who bends and contorts
CHORUS 3
Chasing you has left me weak
Chasing you leaves my future bleak
Chasing you was all for nothing
You don’t believe in the power of loving
You believe in stacks of dollar bills
Doing cocaine in Beverly Hills
Tantric sex and other such thrills
If I can’t have you, then damn it, who will?
STOLEN LINE
Maybe I should let her go
But only when she loves me
She loves me
How can I just let her go?
Not until she loves me
She loves me
(Stolen line is a lyric from "Killpop" by Slipknot.)
"Star Island" by Carl Hiaasen
BOOK TITLE: Star Island
AUTHOR: Carl Hiaasen
YEAR: 2010
GENRE: Fiction
SUBGENRE: Environmental Thriller
GRADE: Pass
In this deconstruction of celebrity culture, untalented pop singer Cherry Pye is on the brink of becoming a mega-star with the concert tour of her latest album Skantily Klad. She’s also a drug and alcohol nightmare for her parents, handlers, and paparazzi. Whenever she’s too toasted to go out in public to ruin her career, Ann DeLuisa, her identical imposter, goes out for her and behaves normally. A perverted paparazzo named Bang Abbott desperately wants a photo of Cherry Pye at her worst so that he can sell it for hundreds of thousands of dollars. But when he kidnaps the stunt double, the plot to keep Ann’s name out of the press becomes a chaotic clusterfuck for Cherry’s parents.
I’ve been a fan of Carl Hiaasen’s for almost half a decade now, which I realize is a short period of time considering his lengthy and productive career, but “Star Island” is another reminder of why he’s one of the best in the business when it comes to fast-paced and comedic thrillers. The dialogue is witty, the action never slows down for a minute, and the whirlwind of chaos that ensues in this book is perfectly planned out from beginning to end.
It should also be known that two of Hiaasen’s most famous characters are reintroduced in this book: Skink (deranged ex-governor of Florida turned eco-warrior) and Chemo (flaky-skinned criminal with a weed whacker where his hand was supposed to be). Though they are on opposite alignments at first, the further you read into this book, the more you realize they have a lot in common. They have a disdain for spoiled brats, they don’t take shit from anybody, they’re both on the wrong side of the law, and they can be cunning when they need to be. Chemo prefers to be a hard-ass who trims his victims with his weed eater and Skink prefers more creative methods, such as, attaching a sea urchin to a scumbag banker’s testicles. Sooner or later these two longtime Hiaasen characters are going to meet. And when they do, you’d better batten down the hatches.
Pretty much every character in this book has something kooky going on with them. Aside from Skink’s craziness and Chemo’s intimidation, you also have the main character of the book, Cheryl Bunterman, aka Cherry Pye. This woman deserves no sympathy whatsoever. She’s an airhead, she lip-synchs her way to popularity, she’s spoiled, she’s shallow, and she’ll do any drug she can get her hands on. Chemo is already a loose cannon, so when he’s hired to protect Cherry and keep her out of trouble, even he’s driven to insanity.
Any other kooky characters who mesh well with a chaotic plot? How about the pedophilic CEO of Jailbait Records Maury Lykes? How about the deceptive banker and environmental hazard Jackie Sebago? Bang Abbott is no angel himself: he’s 300 plus pounds of sexual perversion and bottom feeding behavior, which is perfect for his paparazzo occupation. Ann DeLuisa might be one of the few people in the book with a sane head on her shoulders. How she keeps from going insane in the captivity of Bang Abbott is a mystery in itself. All of the characters mesh perfectly with each other whether they’re allies or driving each other nuts. There is not one hint of bad chemistry among these comedic forces.
In addition to playing to his usual strengths of chaotic comedy and environmental hammering, Carl Hiaasen is also a master at dissecting celebrity culture. There’s always this fascination with a celebrity couple doing something as simple as walking the streets together. There’s an even bigger fascination with pop stars who crash and burn under their own stupidity and weakness. We as civilians like to talk about celebrities like we know all about them. We put them on pedestals one minute, but when they fuck up just once, the media shit storm becomes too much to handle. Some celebrities deserve their privacy, while those in the same vein as Cherry Pye deserve to crash and burn and wind up in the shit house. The things people will do for fame and fortune, for better or worse, are all documented in Hiaasen’s novel. If you’ve ever wanted to put celebrities under a microscope instead of on a pedestal, by all means, pick up a copy of “Star Island”.
There’s a reason why Carl Hiaasen is one of Florida’s most widely recognized authors: it’s because he never disappoints when he releases a new novel. Sometimes I grab a Hiaasen novel whenever I’ve read something from another author that was awful. It’s the perfect cure for the one-star blues. A passing grade for a brilliant author and his book.
AUTHOR: Carl Hiaasen
YEAR: 2010
GENRE: Fiction
SUBGENRE: Environmental Thriller
GRADE: Pass
In this deconstruction of celebrity culture, untalented pop singer Cherry Pye is on the brink of becoming a mega-star with the concert tour of her latest album Skantily Klad. She’s also a drug and alcohol nightmare for her parents, handlers, and paparazzi. Whenever she’s too toasted to go out in public to ruin her career, Ann DeLuisa, her identical imposter, goes out for her and behaves normally. A perverted paparazzo named Bang Abbott desperately wants a photo of Cherry Pye at her worst so that he can sell it for hundreds of thousands of dollars. But when he kidnaps the stunt double, the plot to keep Ann’s name out of the press becomes a chaotic clusterfuck for Cherry’s parents.
I’ve been a fan of Carl Hiaasen’s for almost half a decade now, which I realize is a short period of time considering his lengthy and productive career, but “Star Island” is another reminder of why he’s one of the best in the business when it comes to fast-paced and comedic thrillers. The dialogue is witty, the action never slows down for a minute, and the whirlwind of chaos that ensues in this book is perfectly planned out from beginning to end.
It should also be known that two of Hiaasen’s most famous characters are reintroduced in this book: Skink (deranged ex-governor of Florida turned eco-warrior) and Chemo (flaky-skinned criminal with a weed whacker where his hand was supposed to be). Though they are on opposite alignments at first, the further you read into this book, the more you realize they have a lot in common. They have a disdain for spoiled brats, they don’t take shit from anybody, they’re both on the wrong side of the law, and they can be cunning when they need to be. Chemo prefers to be a hard-ass who trims his victims with his weed eater and Skink prefers more creative methods, such as, attaching a sea urchin to a scumbag banker’s testicles. Sooner or later these two longtime Hiaasen characters are going to meet. And when they do, you’d better batten down the hatches.
Pretty much every character in this book has something kooky going on with them. Aside from Skink’s craziness and Chemo’s intimidation, you also have the main character of the book, Cheryl Bunterman, aka Cherry Pye. This woman deserves no sympathy whatsoever. She’s an airhead, she lip-synchs her way to popularity, she’s spoiled, she’s shallow, and she’ll do any drug she can get her hands on. Chemo is already a loose cannon, so when he’s hired to protect Cherry and keep her out of trouble, even he’s driven to insanity.
Any other kooky characters who mesh well with a chaotic plot? How about the pedophilic CEO of Jailbait Records Maury Lykes? How about the deceptive banker and environmental hazard Jackie Sebago? Bang Abbott is no angel himself: he’s 300 plus pounds of sexual perversion and bottom feeding behavior, which is perfect for his paparazzo occupation. Ann DeLuisa might be one of the few people in the book with a sane head on her shoulders. How she keeps from going insane in the captivity of Bang Abbott is a mystery in itself. All of the characters mesh perfectly with each other whether they’re allies or driving each other nuts. There is not one hint of bad chemistry among these comedic forces.
In addition to playing to his usual strengths of chaotic comedy and environmental hammering, Carl Hiaasen is also a master at dissecting celebrity culture. There’s always this fascination with a celebrity couple doing something as simple as walking the streets together. There’s an even bigger fascination with pop stars who crash and burn under their own stupidity and weakness. We as civilians like to talk about celebrities like we know all about them. We put them on pedestals one minute, but when they fuck up just once, the media shit storm becomes too much to handle. Some celebrities deserve their privacy, while those in the same vein as Cherry Pye deserve to crash and burn and wind up in the shit house. The things people will do for fame and fortune, for better or worse, are all documented in Hiaasen’s novel. If you’ve ever wanted to put celebrities under a microscope instead of on a pedestal, by all means, pick up a copy of “Star Island”.
There’s a reason why Carl Hiaasen is one of Florida’s most widely recognized authors: it’s because he never disappoints when he releases a new novel. Sometimes I grab a Hiaasen novel whenever I’ve read something from another author that was awful. It’s the perfect cure for the one-star blues. A passing grade for a brilliant author and his book.
Tuesday, August 11, 2015
Nail Bomb
Riding public transportation can be a daunting task all by itself, judging from the peculiar characters who occupy those bus seats. On this particular day in cyberpunk city, it was downright dangerous. The city bus had its usual colorful characters such as the war veteran with a loud voice, the old man who wanted to know how everybody’s “trading stock” was doing, the mentally ill woman who was talking to herself, and the overweight mother of a baby she never made any effort to keep calm while the little one screamed like a demon.
The only person on that bus who wasn’t bothering anybody and was only minding his own business was the black hoodie-donning Psymon Nordonus. The only movement he made was with his head bobbing back and forth to “Killpop” by Slipknot on his MP3 player. Such aggressive heavy metal was sure to block out the cacophony of weirdoes, all of which were being ignored by the hefty bus driver.
Psymon was barely looking out of the corner of his eye at the large mother and the war veteran arguing with each other. At least one time during that conversation, both parties reminded each other that America was a “free country”. No, Psymon didn’t actually hear that, but he had been around those kinds of people before. Pathetic, he thought to himself.
The verbal spat turned into a shoving match and the baby in the stroller was even more obnoxious to listen to than before. Once the woman was shoved into her seat again, a baldheaded baby doll dropped out of the stroller and started coming to life. The sudden animation put everyone back in their seats as they watched on in terror. This doll was jerking around like it was being electrocuted and then started dancing like a creepy ballerina.
When the little guy in the stroller refused to stop crying, the doll sprayed him with green gas and knocked him into unconsciousness, to which the mother also passed out due to the fright of it all. “Ah, that’s much better!” the baby doll said to itself. The mechanical nightmare started yelling “booga-booga-booga” at everyone and causing them to jump out of their seats. Things really got horrifying when the doll revealed it had a bomb strapped to its back and a dead man switch in his hand.
“Alright, you disgusting cretins, listen up!” screamed the doll. “My name is Baby and I’m here for one reason: to collect all of your wallets and gadgets! You hand them over to me and you can all go home happy! If not, I can let go of this goddamn switch and send a rainstorm of nails flying in every direction! Ooo, the thought of that much blood splattering all over the place gives me the chills! It must be one of those ASMR things!”
The war veteran, whose voice suddenly dropped a few octaves, said, “Listen here, Baby. I don’t keep a wallet on me. I’m just a beggar trying to make enough to get by. It took an entire tin can full of coins just to get on this damn bus.”
Baby’s neon red eyes shot up in mock surprise before the wicked doll pretended to cry like his namesake suggested. He even rolled around on the floor and kicked his legs for added dramatic effect. When the homeless veteran knelt down to see what was up, he was greeted with a metallic head butt to the skull, opening a gash on his forehead and knocking him into a deep slumber.
“You little scumbag!” shouted the doll. “I don’t give two shits if you’re a bum off the streets or a ghetto whore living on welfare! You’re handing your belongings over to me or I’m going to take my thumb off of this goddamn button!”
The bus driver had no idea what to do but to keep driving, as if any release from the acceleration pedal was going to aggravate this terrorist doll some more. He barely had the strength to softly say, “That gentleman needs to see a doctor. He could die.”
“Keep driving, you donut-munching lard-ass! If you even think about going to a hospital or anywhere else where there’re cops waiting, I’m turning this entire bus into a reverse porcupine! Hell, there are already enough pricks on the inside, so I guess it doesn’t matter what I do with the dead man switch!” threatened the evil doll.
One by one, the bus patrons threw their wallets, change, and electronic devices on the floor without further resistance. Baby laughed like a wicked hyena as he went around collecting these items to put in a garbage bag. While he was scooping up his riches, he felt a sudden jolt that bounced his head in all directions and shot out a few sparks. This only lasted seconds and he was back to his old form in no time.
As soon as he recovered from that shock, Baby had eyeballs on the one man he neglected to extort: Psymon Nordonus, who continued to rock out to his heavy metal like it was just another day on the bus.
“Son of a bitch…” said Baby to himself as he walked over to Psymon and kicked him in the ankle to get his attention. The mysterious passenger shook off the slight pain, pulled his hood backwards, and took off his headsets.
“Can I help you with something?”
Baby smiled sarcastically and said, “Yes, I would like something. I want two pieces of chicken, a buttermilk biscuit with extra butter, a large order of French fries, and an extra large Diet Coke to wash all of that down. I can only do so much to watch my weight.” The cuteness was over when Baby screamed, “What do you think I want?! Didn’t you hear a damn thing I said?! Are you crazy?! Have you been listening to that god-awful music this whole time?!”
Psymon said, “Hey, don’t diss Slipknot, okay? They may look like a bunch of serial killers with those masks, but those guys know how to rock. Take a listen and judge for yourself.”
Baby ripped the MP3 player from Psymon’s hands and pressed the volume all the way down so that he didn’t have to listen to the “god-awful” music. “Word of advice, shit head: the next time you try to be a smart-ass to someone with a nail bomb attached to his back could be your last! Seriously, there’s nothing stopping me from letting go of this button right now! I could just lift my thumb and bam, you’re all dead!”
The metal head cleared his throat and said, “Well, that seems to be our situation. I have no idea what being blasted with a nail bomb feels like and I don’t care to find out. But seriously, man, you should try that music sometime. It’ll set your soul on fire, bitch.”
“I’m warning you!” yelled Baby as he raised the MP3 player with his good hand. He was about to lash out at Psymon when he finally saw what was on the device’s screen. Coding. Lots and lots of coding, particularly of the zeros and ones variety. “What the hell? Were you trying to hack into my system? Is that what the jolt was? Oh, that’s it! I’m taking this bus to hell right here and now!”
Before Baby could lift his thumb off of the dead man switch, Psymon made a split second move to hold onto the detonator with one cyber arm and tap the screen on his so-called MP3 player with the other. The last thing Baby saw before dancing and jolting into oblivion was the fact that Psymon Nordonus was a true cyberpunk in every sense of the word. This bus was only supposed to be full of “losers” and “wash-ups” who gave up on their dreams. A vigilante hacker? Not in a thousand years would Baby have anticipated that.
With one square-toed boot, Psymon kicked out the window and threw the thrashing Baby out with his hand on the detonator. When he released it, the storm of sharp metal nails exploded all over the outside of the bus. They dented nearby cars on the highway and cracked a few windows. The drivers were pissed off as evidenced by their obnoxious honking, but otherwise unharmed.
“Driver, get this thing to a hospital. That guy still needs your help,” ordered Psymon, to which the driver complied. Everyone on the bus was in silent shock. The most fearful response in this entire vehicle was traumatic shaking. The real baby started to come around and was crying painfully yet again. The mother? She was snoring the ride away while other people were tending to the unconscious veteran’s wounds.
Going back to his usual introverted self, Psymon didn’t lose himself in an MP3 player this time, but to the computer chip he snagged from Baby’s body before throwing him out of the window. It was marked as property of the DX-Corporation, a fact which made Psymon smile to himself and say, “Oh, the fun I’m going to have with this thing when I get home. You bitches are dead.”
The only person on that bus who wasn’t bothering anybody and was only minding his own business was the black hoodie-donning Psymon Nordonus. The only movement he made was with his head bobbing back and forth to “Killpop” by Slipknot on his MP3 player. Such aggressive heavy metal was sure to block out the cacophony of weirdoes, all of which were being ignored by the hefty bus driver.
Psymon was barely looking out of the corner of his eye at the large mother and the war veteran arguing with each other. At least one time during that conversation, both parties reminded each other that America was a “free country”. No, Psymon didn’t actually hear that, but he had been around those kinds of people before. Pathetic, he thought to himself.
The verbal spat turned into a shoving match and the baby in the stroller was even more obnoxious to listen to than before. Once the woman was shoved into her seat again, a baldheaded baby doll dropped out of the stroller and started coming to life. The sudden animation put everyone back in their seats as they watched on in terror. This doll was jerking around like it was being electrocuted and then started dancing like a creepy ballerina.
When the little guy in the stroller refused to stop crying, the doll sprayed him with green gas and knocked him into unconsciousness, to which the mother also passed out due to the fright of it all. “Ah, that’s much better!” the baby doll said to itself. The mechanical nightmare started yelling “booga-booga-booga” at everyone and causing them to jump out of their seats. Things really got horrifying when the doll revealed it had a bomb strapped to its back and a dead man switch in his hand.
“Alright, you disgusting cretins, listen up!” screamed the doll. “My name is Baby and I’m here for one reason: to collect all of your wallets and gadgets! You hand them over to me and you can all go home happy! If not, I can let go of this goddamn switch and send a rainstorm of nails flying in every direction! Ooo, the thought of that much blood splattering all over the place gives me the chills! It must be one of those ASMR things!”
The war veteran, whose voice suddenly dropped a few octaves, said, “Listen here, Baby. I don’t keep a wallet on me. I’m just a beggar trying to make enough to get by. It took an entire tin can full of coins just to get on this damn bus.”
Baby’s neon red eyes shot up in mock surprise before the wicked doll pretended to cry like his namesake suggested. He even rolled around on the floor and kicked his legs for added dramatic effect. When the homeless veteran knelt down to see what was up, he was greeted with a metallic head butt to the skull, opening a gash on his forehead and knocking him into a deep slumber.
“You little scumbag!” shouted the doll. “I don’t give two shits if you’re a bum off the streets or a ghetto whore living on welfare! You’re handing your belongings over to me or I’m going to take my thumb off of this goddamn button!”
The bus driver had no idea what to do but to keep driving, as if any release from the acceleration pedal was going to aggravate this terrorist doll some more. He barely had the strength to softly say, “That gentleman needs to see a doctor. He could die.”
“Keep driving, you donut-munching lard-ass! If you even think about going to a hospital or anywhere else where there’re cops waiting, I’m turning this entire bus into a reverse porcupine! Hell, there are already enough pricks on the inside, so I guess it doesn’t matter what I do with the dead man switch!” threatened the evil doll.
One by one, the bus patrons threw their wallets, change, and electronic devices on the floor without further resistance. Baby laughed like a wicked hyena as he went around collecting these items to put in a garbage bag. While he was scooping up his riches, he felt a sudden jolt that bounced his head in all directions and shot out a few sparks. This only lasted seconds and he was back to his old form in no time.
As soon as he recovered from that shock, Baby had eyeballs on the one man he neglected to extort: Psymon Nordonus, who continued to rock out to his heavy metal like it was just another day on the bus.
“Son of a bitch…” said Baby to himself as he walked over to Psymon and kicked him in the ankle to get his attention. The mysterious passenger shook off the slight pain, pulled his hood backwards, and took off his headsets.
“Can I help you with something?”
Baby smiled sarcastically and said, “Yes, I would like something. I want two pieces of chicken, a buttermilk biscuit with extra butter, a large order of French fries, and an extra large Diet Coke to wash all of that down. I can only do so much to watch my weight.” The cuteness was over when Baby screamed, “What do you think I want?! Didn’t you hear a damn thing I said?! Are you crazy?! Have you been listening to that god-awful music this whole time?!”
Psymon said, “Hey, don’t diss Slipknot, okay? They may look like a bunch of serial killers with those masks, but those guys know how to rock. Take a listen and judge for yourself.”
Baby ripped the MP3 player from Psymon’s hands and pressed the volume all the way down so that he didn’t have to listen to the “god-awful” music. “Word of advice, shit head: the next time you try to be a smart-ass to someone with a nail bomb attached to his back could be your last! Seriously, there’s nothing stopping me from letting go of this button right now! I could just lift my thumb and bam, you’re all dead!”
The metal head cleared his throat and said, “Well, that seems to be our situation. I have no idea what being blasted with a nail bomb feels like and I don’t care to find out. But seriously, man, you should try that music sometime. It’ll set your soul on fire, bitch.”
“I’m warning you!” yelled Baby as he raised the MP3 player with his good hand. He was about to lash out at Psymon when he finally saw what was on the device’s screen. Coding. Lots and lots of coding, particularly of the zeros and ones variety. “What the hell? Were you trying to hack into my system? Is that what the jolt was? Oh, that’s it! I’m taking this bus to hell right here and now!”
Before Baby could lift his thumb off of the dead man switch, Psymon made a split second move to hold onto the detonator with one cyber arm and tap the screen on his so-called MP3 player with the other. The last thing Baby saw before dancing and jolting into oblivion was the fact that Psymon Nordonus was a true cyberpunk in every sense of the word. This bus was only supposed to be full of “losers” and “wash-ups” who gave up on their dreams. A vigilante hacker? Not in a thousand years would Baby have anticipated that.
With one square-toed boot, Psymon kicked out the window and threw the thrashing Baby out with his hand on the detonator. When he released it, the storm of sharp metal nails exploded all over the outside of the bus. They dented nearby cars on the highway and cracked a few windows. The drivers were pissed off as evidenced by their obnoxious honking, but otherwise unharmed.
“Driver, get this thing to a hospital. That guy still needs your help,” ordered Psymon, to which the driver complied. Everyone on the bus was in silent shock. The most fearful response in this entire vehicle was traumatic shaking. The real baby started to come around and was crying painfully yet again. The mother? She was snoring the ride away while other people were tending to the unconscious veteran’s wounds.
Going back to his usual introverted self, Psymon didn’t lose himself in an MP3 player this time, but to the computer chip he snagged from Baby’s body before throwing him out of the window. It was marked as property of the DX-Corporation, a fact which made Psymon smile to himself and say, “Oh, the fun I’m going to have with this thing when I get home. You bitches are dead.”
Sunday, August 9, 2015
Blood Brawl, Chapter 1
Orcs didn’t give two shits about what “lesser” races thought of their appearances. An orcish warrior could walk down the street covered in pig mud and horse piss and it would be completely normal to him. On this night, however, it wasn’t about odors or clothing; it was about hair. It was a rowdy and raucous night in the Dragon Wings Orc Bar. Every smelly disgusting orc raised their arms in the air and shouted like sports fans. The latter could have been because they were sports fan, particularly combat sports.
Two grimy wrestlers stood across from each other in the bar’s circle pit while others gathered around them and cheered in lovely orcish cacophony. The fighters never took their eyes off of each other as they stared across the circle pit. They had the one thing that made orcs stand out from the rest of the fantasy races: ruthless aggression. Their fangs were clamped down tightly. Their slimy green lips were quivering. Their bulging muscles were trembling. Their fists were harder than blocks of cement. The biggest blow to the loser wouldn’t come in the form of bruises or cuts. It would come in the form of having his head shaved completely bald.
Tazz Battler, the one with the black dreadlocks and brown fur wrestling trunks, got in his combative stance and looked ready to slam his opponent on the wooden floor with a deafening thud. Gargoth Trencher, the one with blond pigtails and gray sharkskin trunks, remained arrogant with his folded arms and wicked glare. Word around the campfire was that Gargoth wasn’t taking this Hair vs. Hair matchup seriously since he believed Tazz was beneath him. It was either a big mistake or a prophecy, an answer only having this wrestling match would tell.
With the thunderous ring of the brass bell, the fight was underway. Tazz let out a monstrous warcry and wasted no time in bull rushing his opponent. Gargoth, being the arrogant prick he was, allowed his adversary to engage him in a collar-elbow tie-up without much effort. The two of them pushed and shoved their away around the sea of orcish humanity just to see who would gain the first advantage. Even the biggest bruisers were being knocked over with ease by these two warriors.
Gargoth drew first blood when he grabbed Tazz by his dreadlocks and shoved him face first to the floor. To add insult to injury, the pigtailed orc placed his steel boot on his opponent’s head and held him there while posing and pandering to the wildly cheering crowd.
Tazz thrashed underneath the weight of his rival in an attempt not to suffocate on this dingy wooden floor. He then got the idea of grabbing Gargoth’s free ankle with both hands and yanking his body out from underneath, sending the blond oaf crashing to the ground.
Playtime had officially come to an end for these two grapplers. They scrambled together on the floor in an attempt to lock in a submission hold of some kind. Their slimy skin and deadly strength left them both at a stalemate since grabbing onto a limb was next to impossible.
Finally, Gargoth grabbed both of Tazz’s wrists and squeezed as hard as he could while whispering angrily, “Are you a wrestler…or a whore of the night?! If you’re going to fight me, do it without trying to get laid!”
It was advice well-taken. Tazz ripped his greasy, unwashed arms out of Gargoth’s grip, stood up, and jumped up before planting both heavy feet into his opponent’s stomach. The pigtailed warrior let out a throaty scream of agony while the orcish audience cheered their approval of this brutality, especially after blood was leaking from Gargoth’s bottom lip.
Tazz Battler wasn’t finished yet. He hooked his massive arms around his nemesis’ ankles and spun him around in a classic wrestling move known as The Giant Swing. Around and around the two of them went, Tazz not caring if he smacked a few orcish audience members along the way. This gargantuan display of power was ended when the dreadlocked warrior lifted Gargoth even higher in the air and slammed him repeatedly on his back until the pigtailed brute passed out from the pain. So many crunches, so much bleeding from the mouth, and the audience was there to cheer on the whole thing.
“Hand me the razor! He’s finished!” screamed Tazz while holding his hand out. Someone gave him a shaving razor that looked more like a rogue’s dagger and probably hurt like one when cutting hair. But as Tazz went to work on the pompous pigtails and everything in between, Gargoth was still out of it from being slammed on his back so many times.
By the time the once arrogant prick came to, his green scaly scalp had deep gashes and cuts, but no pigtails. He was completely bald while Tazz Battler held the remaining bloody hair in the sky with pride and orcish adrenaline. To confirm this was really happening, Gargoth placed a gentle hand on his own head to feel the wounds. He really was shaved bald. The Hair vs. Hair stipulation had been fulfilled.
Upon realizing his “lovely locks” were gone and upon listening to the orcish audience laugh at him and cheer for Tazz, Gargoth’s lips quivered in sadness while tears streamed down his cheeks, prompting even louder laughter from his peers. He was even treated to slurs like “fag”, “man-whore”, and “big baby” for good measure. The once proud orc was reduced to a blubbering child as tears poured from his eyes in a waterfall of sadness. He was traumatized for life.
The horse laughing and name calling would have gone on all night if it wasn’t for the fact that Gargoth’s tears had turned blood red. Orcs were accustomed to seeing blood on a daily basis, but this was weird enough to cast universal silence in the bar. The more Gargoth cried tears of blood, the angrier he became. His breath became hot enough to blow fire. His bald wounds were healing over with parasites. His muscle-bound body was forming cracks with burning orange light shining through them.
The once tough orcish crowd was now backing away from Gargoth Trencher as he stood up and started peeling his skin off. This wasn’t gentle peeling; this was ripping and shredding, which started to scare the once proud orcish audience. The huge chunks of ripped flesh were turning into maggots and leeches that stank worse than the entire bar clientele put together.
With a sea of orcs cowering and quivering in fear before him, Gargoth Trencher had peeled away his old self to reveal the form of a flaming skeletal death angel, complete with black metal wings and enough of an odor to knock a buzzard off of a shit wagon.
With a deeper, more demonic voice than before, Gargoth screamed, “Is this what you call entertainment?! Is this you’re idea of fun?! Then goddamn it, let’s have some mother…fucking…FUN!!” That last word was prolonged with extra fire in his voice, fire that scorched the skin of the orcs in the tavern.
Gargoth continued to breathe fire and tear the flesh off of the orcs around him. His violent rampage made the entire bar look like a bloodbath of fire and flesh. Some of the cowardly and bullying orcs were able to run for the exit, though most of them were thrashing and burning in never-ending pain. Death came slowly and torturously for Gargoth’s victims.
He could have won bonus points for mental torture as well. In the distant corner of the Dragon Wings Orc Bar was the barkeep, cowering, quivering, and making himself as small as humanly possible. He shivered and cried in his little space and wished death would come instantly. Get in line, barkeep. The only thing that gave him any peace whatsoever was the sudden extinguishing of the flames around him and the disappearance of Gargoth Trencher, death angel at large.
The bartender slowly stood up and surveyed the horrifying damage around him. His furniture had turned to ashes, though that was the least of his concerns. His patrons were mangled and twisted into funny shapes while drowning in a heap of blood and smoke. Judging from the sorrowful look on the bartender’s face as well as his unwillingness to stop shaking, this battlefield would haunt him for the rest of his life. All he wanted to do was sit in bed and cry, but no eiderdown was soft enough to sooth his mental wounds.
Two grimy wrestlers stood across from each other in the bar’s circle pit while others gathered around them and cheered in lovely orcish cacophony. The fighters never took their eyes off of each other as they stared across the circle pit. They had the one thing that made orcs stand out from the rest of the fantasy races: ruthless aggression. Their fangs were clamped down tightly. Their slimy green lips were quivering. Their bulging muscles were trembling. Their fists were harder than blocks of cement. The biggest blow to the loser wouldn’t come in the form of bruises or cuts. It would come in the form of having his head shaved completely bald.
Tazz Battler, the one with the black dreadlocks and brown fur wrestling trunks, got in his combative stance and looked ready to slam his opponent on the wooden floor with a deafening thud. Gargoth Trencher, the one with blond pigtails and gray sharkskin trunks, remained arrogant with his folded arms and wicked glare. Word around the campfire was that Gargoth wasn’t taking this Hair vs. Hair matchup seriously since he believed Tazz was beneath him. It was either a big mistake or a prophecy, an answer only having this wrestling match would tell.
With the thunderous ring of the brass bell, the fight was underway. Tazz let out a monstrous warcry and wasted no time in bull rushing his opponent. Gargoth, being the arrogant prick he was, allowed his adversary to engage him in a collar-elbow tie-up without much effort. The two of them pushed and shoved their away around the sea of orcish humanity just to see who would gain the first advantage. Even the biggest bruisers were being knocked over with ease by these two warriors.
Gargoth drew first blood when he grabbed Tazz by his dreadlocks and shoved him face first to the floor. To add insult to injury, the pigtailed orc placed his steel boot on his opponent’s head and held him there while posing and pandering to the wildly cheering crowd.
Tazz thrashed underneath the weight of his rival in an attempt not to suffocate on this dingy wooden floor. He then got the idea of grabbing Gargoth’s free ankle with both hands and yanking his body out from underneath, sending the blond oaf crashing to the ground.
Playtime had officially come to an end for these two grapplers. They scrambled together on the floor in an attempt to lock in a submission hold of some kind. Their slimy skin and deadly strength left them both at a stalemate since grabbing onto a limb was next to impossible.
Finally, Gargoth grabbed both of Tazz’s wrists and squeezed as hard as he could while whispering angrily, “Are you a wrestler…or a whore of the night?! If you’re going to fight me, do it without trying to get laid!”
It was advice well-taken. Tazz ripped his greasy, unwashed arms out of Gargoth’s grip, stood up, and jumped up before planting both heavy feet into his opponent’s stomach. The pigtailed warrior let out a throaty scream of agony while the orcish audience cheered their approval of this brutality, especially after blood was leaking from Gargoth’s bottom lip.
Tazz Battler wasn’t finished yet. He hooked his massive arms around his nemesis’ ankles and spun him around in a classic wrestling move known as The Giant Swing. Around and around the two of them went, Tazz not caring if he smacked a few orcish audience members along the way. This gargantuan display of power was ended when the dreadlocked warrior lifted Gargoth even higher in the air and slammed him repeatedly on his back until the pigtailed brute passed out from the pain. So many crunches, so much bleeding from the mouth, and the audience was there to cheer on the whole thing.
“Hand me the razor! He’s finished!” screamed Tazz while holding his hand out. Someone gave him a shaving razor that looked more like a rogue’s dagger and probably hurt like one when cutting hair. But as Tazz went to work on the pompous pigtails and everything in between, Gargoth was still out of it from being slammed on his back so many times.
By the time the once arrogant prick came to, his green scaly scalp had deep gashes and cuts, but no pigtails. He was completely bald while Tazz Battler held the remaining bloody hair in the sky with pride and orcish adrenaline. To confirm this was really happening, Gargoth placed a gentle hand on his own head to feel the wounds. He really was shaved bald. The Hair vs. Hair stipulation had been fulfilled.
Upon realizing his “lovely locks” were gone and upon listening to the orcish audience laugh at him and cheer for Tazz, Gargoth’s lips quivered in sadness while tears streamed down his cheeks, prompting even louder laughter from his peers. He was even treated to slurs like “fag”, “man-whore”, and “big baby” for good measure. The once proud orc was reduced to a blubbering child as tears poured from his eyes in a waterfall of sadness. He was traumatized for life.
The horse laughing and name calling would have gone on all night if it wasn’t for the fact that Gargoth’s tears had turned blood red. Orcs were accustomed to seeing blood on a daily basis, but this was weird enough to cast universal silence in the bar. The more Gargoth cried tears of blood, the angrier he became. His breath became hot enough to blow fire. His bald wounds were healing over with parasites. His muscle-bound body was forming cracks with burning orange light shining through them.
The once tough orcish crowd was now backing away from Gargoth Trencher as he stood up and started peeling his skin off. This wasn’t gentle peeling; this was ripping and shredding, which started to scare the once proud orcish audience. The huge chunks of ripped flesh were turning into maggots and leeches that stank worse than the entire bar clientele put together.
With a sea of orcs cowering and quivering in fear before him, Gargoth Trencher had peeled away his old self to reveal the form of a flaming skeletal death angel, complete with black metal wings and enough of an odor to knock a buzzard off of a shit wagon.
With a deeper, more demonic voice than before, Gargoth screamed, “Is this what you call entertainment?! Is this you’re idea of fun?! Then goddamn it, let’s have some mother…fucking…FUN!!” That last word was prolonged with extra fire in his voice, fire that scorched the skin of the orcs in the tavern.
Gargoth continued to breathe fire and tear the flesh off of the orcs around him. His violent rampage made the entire bar look like a bloodbath of fire and flesh. Some of the cowardly and bullying orcs were able to run for the exit, though most of them were thrashing and burning in never-ending pain. Death came slowly and torturously for Gargoth’s victims.
He could have won bonus points for mental torture as well. In the distant corner of the Dragon Wings Orc Bar was the barkeep, cowering, quivering, and making himself as small as humanly possible. He shivered and cried in his little space and wished death would come instantly. Get in line, barkeep. The only thing that gave him any peace whatsoever was the sudden extinguishing of the flames around him and the disappearance of Gargoth Trencher, death angel at large.
The bartender slowly stood up and surveyed the horrifying damage around him. His furniture had turned to ashes, though that was the least of his concerns. His patrons were mangled and twisted into funny shapes while drowning in a heap of blood and smoke. Judging from the sorrowful look on the bartender’s face as well as his unwillingness to stop shaking, this battlefield would haunt him for the rest of his life. All he wanted to do was sit in bed and cry, but no eiderdown was soft enough to sooth his mental wounds.
Saturday, August 8, 2015
WWE Battleground: The Prime Time Players vs. The New Day
MATCH: The Prime Time Players (Titus O’Neil & Darren Young) vs. The New Day (Kofi Kingston & Big E with Xavier Woods lurking outside) for the WWE Tag Team Championship
PROMOTION: World Wrestling Entertainment
EVENT: Battleground
YEAR: 2015
RATING: TV-PG for violence
GRADE: Pass
Ever since its inception in 2013, the Battleground pay-per-view has been cursed with negative reviews for one reason or another. For two years in a row, the Wrestling Observer Newsletter has given Battleground the award for Worst Major Show of 2013 and 2014. The event in 2014 received a lot of bad press because of two candidates for that year’s Most Disgusting Promotional Tactic that year: Lana’s offensive promo about the Malaysia Airways plane going down in The Ukraine and WWE false advertising Seth Rollins vs. Dean Ambrose.
While I haven’t seen the entirety of 2015’s Battleground pay-per-view due to the WWE Network’s incompetence with Roku devices, I knew this year had to have a stacked card from top to bottom in order to break their two year curse with the WON, which is a respectable publication, by the way. When it comes to Battleground’s Tag Team Championship match between The Prime Time Players and The New Day, it’s not a bad start on breaking that curse. The buildup to this match was particularly exciting for both teams since they’ve gone through serious gimmick and alignment changes over the past year.
In the case of The New Day, the three members Big E, Kofi Kingston, and Xavier Woods were mid-card baby-face talents who were just hanging around and not really going anywhere with their careers. And then in late 2014, the three of them adopted a new gimmick of being overly positive black gospel preachers who clapped, danced, and smiled their way into every match. This was intended to be a baby-face gimmick, but the WWE Universe thought they were too much of a racist joke to be taken seriously, so all three members of The New Day eventually turned heel by cheating in their matches and insulting the crowd during their preaching promos.
While The New Day preached positivity, both members of The Prime Time Players practiced it. In 2013, Darren Young was the recipient of the Most Inspirational Wrestler of the Year award from Pro-Wrestling Illustrated due to him publicly coming out as a gay man. The best part about that? The WWE didn’t make a stereotypical gimmick out of Young’s sexuality; they just let him be himself. Titus O’Neil is inspirational in a lot of ways too. In 2015, he won the Celebrity Mega Dad of the Year award and later on in that year received national attention for taking a group of homeless people out to dinner just out of the kindness of his heart. At the Money in the Bank pay-per-view prior to Battleground, O’Neil and Young actually won the Tag Team Championship from The New Day to start this feud. The championship win marks O’Neil and Young’s first major title reign in WWE since debuting on the main roster in 2010. Five years of hard work lead to all of this: hell yeah, gentlemen. Hell yeah.
And now for the actual match itself. In one corner, you’ve got The Prime Time Players in the form of the mega-muscle Titus O’Neil and the aggressive athlete Darren Young. In the other corner, you’ve got The New Day, which consists of high-flying Kofi Kingston, ultra-powerful Big E, and though he’s not an official participant of this match, Xavier Woods will make his presence known by screaming at the desk announcers and interfering on behalf of his team.
From beginning to end, this tag team match was marked with unrelenting aggression and hard-hitting stiff moves. We as the audience got to see things like Darren Young back suplexing Xavier Woods on the edge of the ring (which is the hardest part of the whole structure), Big E giving a belly-to-belly suplex on the outside of the damn ring, all five members of the match getting tossed into the barricade, and of course, where would a New Day match be without the constant corner stomping and tagging combinations from that team in order to restart the referee’s five count?
Darren Young found himself on the wrong end of a lot of these moves and wasn’t able to get to his tag team partner for the longest time. But when Titus O’Neil was tagged in, oh damn, you’d better get off the tracks when that train is coming through. Titus clotheslined, booted, and shoulder tackled his way through The New Day and even slung Kofi Kingston around like the Ghanaian superstar was a small child.
Like I said before, this match was above all else hard-hitting. There was not a single move in this match that didn’t hurt or was badly botched. Even something as simple as a shoulder tackle from Titus O’Neil or a big splash from Big E would feel like getting hit by a transcontinental bus. Hell, Kofi Kingston had been taking abuse in his midsection throughout the match and Darren Young didn’t make matters any better when he gave Kingston the Gut Check, which is a double knee rib breaker. It got worse for Kingston when Titus finished the match with a thunderous pump handle slam to retain the WWE Tag Team Championship.
While I don’t have any idea how the Battleground pay-per-view fared in the eyes of the critics (mostly because I couldn’t watch the damn thing on my Roku), I do know that this match in particular deserves high praise, both for the buildup and for the ultra-violent performance itself. In fact, I’d even dare say that this match would go a long way in breaking the two-year curse that Battleground pay-per-view events have with the Wrestling Observer Newsletter.
Now that the brutally aggressive Prime Time Players are champions and more than willing to defend against anybody, the tag team division is wide open and goddamn there are a lot of teams. You’ve got a pair of wasteland barbarians in The Ascension, high-flying luchadors in The Lucha Dragons, high-flying matadors with a silly gimmick in Los Matadores, and The New Day is still hanging around, so don’t forget about them. Who’s going to step up and face the super-powerful and widely inspirational Prime Time Players? It’s going to take a lot to knock these two badasses off of their thrones. Then again, iron sharpens iron. The more teams they have to fight, the better they’ll become. I’m not against bringing up NXT tag teams to deal with these two warriors. You hear that, Buddy Murphy and Wesley Blake? Bring your A game, boys!
PROMOTION: World Wrestling Entertainment
EVENT: Battleground
YEAR: 2015
RATING: TV-PG for violence
GRADE: Pass
Ever since its inception in 2013, the Battleground pay-per-view has been cursed with negative reviews for one reason or another. For two years in a row, the Wrestling Observer Newsletter has given Battleground the award for Worst Major Show of 2013 and 2014. The event in 2014 received a lot of bad press because of two candidates for that year’s Most Disgusting Promotional Tactic that year: Lana’s offensive promo about the Malaysia Airways plane going down in The Ukraine and WWE false advertising Seth Rollins vs. Dean Ambrose.
While I haven’t seen the entirety of 2015’s Battleground pay-per-view due to the WWE Network’s incompetence with Roku devices, I knew this year had to have a stacked card from top to bottom in order to break their two year curse with the WON, which is a respectable publication, by the way. When it comes to Battleground’s Tag Team Championship match between The Prime Time Players and The New Day, it’s not a bad start on breaking that curse. The buildup to this match was particularly exciting for both teams since they’ve gone through serious gimmick and alignment changes over the past year.
In the case of The New Day, the three members Big E, Kofi Kingston, and Xavier Woods were mid-card baby-face talents who were just hanging around and not really going anywhere with their careers. And then in late 2014, the three of them adopted a new gimmick of being overly positive black gospel preachers who clapped, danced, and smiled their way into every match. This was intended to be a baby-face gimmick, but the WWE Universe thought they were too much of a racist joke to be taken seriously, so all three members of The New Day eventually turned heel by cheating in their matches and insulting the crowd during their preaching promos.
While The New Day preached positivity, both members of The Prime Time Players practiced it. In 2013, Darren Young was the recipient of the Most Inspirational Wrestler of the Year award from Pro-Wrestling Illustrated due to him publicly coming out as a gay man. The best part about that? The WWE didn’t make a stereotypical gimmick out of Young’s sexuality; they just let him be himself. Titus O’Neil is inspirational in a lot of ways too. In 2015, he won the Celebrity Mega Dad of the Year award and later on in that year received national attention for taking a group of homeless people out to dinner just out of the kindness of his heart. At the Money in the Bank pay-per-view prior to Battleground, O’Neil and Young actually won the Tag Team Championship from The New Day to start this feud. The championship win marks O’Neil and Young’s first major title reign in WWE since debuting on the main roster in 2010. Five years of hard work lead to all of this: hell yeah, gentlemen. Hell yeah.
And now for the actual match itself. In one corner, you’ve got The Prime Time Players in the form of the mega-muscle Titus O’Neil and the aggressive athlete Darren Young. In the other corner, you’ve got The New Day, which consists of high-flying Kofi Kingston, ultra-powerful Big E, and though he’s not an official participant of this match, Xavier Woods will make his presence known by screaming at the desk announcers and interfering on behalf of his team.
From beginning to end, this tag team match was marked with unrelenting aggression and hard-hitting stiff moves. We as the audience got to see things like Darren Young back suplexing Xavier Woods on the edge of the ring (which is the hardest part of the whole structure), Big E giving a belly-to-belly suplex on the outside of the damn ring, all five members of the match getting tossed into the barricade, and of course, where would a New Day match be without the constant corner stomping and tagging combinations from that team in order to restart the referee’s five count?
Darren Young found himself on the wrong end of a lot of these moves and wasn’t able to get to his tag team partner for the longest time. But when Titus O’Neil was tagged in, oh damn, you’d better get off the tracks when that train is coming through. Titus clotheslined, booted, and shoulder tackled his way through The New Day and even slung Kofi Kingston around like the Ghanaian superstar was a small child.
Like I said before, this match was above all else hard-hitting. There was not a single move in this match that didn’t hurt or was badly botched. Even something as simple as a shoulder tackle from Titus O’Neil or a big splash from Big E would feel like getting hit by a transcontinental bus. Hell, Kofi Kingston had been taking abuse in his midsection throughout the match and Darren Young didn’t make matters any better when he gave Kingston the Gut Check, which is a double knee rib breaker. It got worse for Kingston when Titus finished the match with a thunderous pump handle slam to retain the WWE Tag Team Championship.
While I don’t have any idea how the Battleground pay-per-view fared in the eyes of the critics (mostly because I couldn’t watch the damn thing on my Roku), I do know that this match in particular deserves high praise, both for the buildup and for the ultra-violent performance itself. In fact, I’d even dare say that this match would go a long way in breaking the two-year curse that Battleground pay-per-view events have with the Wrestling Observer Newsletter.
Now that the brutally aggressive Prime Time Players are champions and more than willing to defend against anybody, the tag team division is wide open and goddamn there are a lot of teams. You’ve got a pair of wasteland barbarians in The Ascension, high-flying luchadors in The Lucha Dragons, high-flying matadors with a silly gimmick in Los Matadores, and The New Day is still hanging around, so don’t forget about them. Who’s going to step up and face the super-powerful and widely inspirational Prime Time Players? It’s going to take a lot to knock these two badasses off of their thrones. Then again, iron sharpens iron. The more teams they have to fight, the better they’ll become. I’m not against bringing up NXT tag teams to deal with these two warriors. You hear that, Buddy Murphy and Wesley Blake? Bring your A game, boys!
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