Air Pain

Six hours of nonstop ass torture was in store for everyone aboard the airline flight to Paulson City. Knees cracked as passengers stood up to use the bathroom. Spinal bones shifted every which way. Neck and hip pain flared out of control. Getting even a few seconds of sleep in the upright position would have been a bigger miracle than turning water into wine. Yet even in shackles and a scratchy orange jumpsuit, Zack Scott managed to drift away with the snoring power of a small kitten. He even had shaggy hair like a small animal, but was nowhere near as cute and cuddly.

For the first time in ten years, Zack could taste the heavenly flavor of chocolate covered waffles covered in maple syrup and mile high whipped cream. A far cry from the worm-infested “meals” at his old prison, Zack mauled that plate of waffles like a grizzly bear and demanded seconds like a king sitting on his throne. And he got his seconds…and thirds…and fourths…and fifths…and…

“I want some fucking beer!” shouted a grating voice that jolted Zack Scott awake. The sudden transition between divine sleep and cold reality caused him to smack his head against his seat cushion. He’d rub his head in agony, but his wrists were chained to the seat, so all he could do to voice his displeasure was let out a minor groan.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Gilbertson,” said the blond haired flight attendant. “You’ve had enough alcohol for this trip, so I can’t serve you more.”

“This is bullshit!” blared the suit-and-tie wearing drunk. “I paid good money for this flight and I deserve some fucking booze! I had a bad week of doing something called hard work! Now give me that beer before I rip it out of your fucking hands!”

“Hey, retard!” blasted Zack from the back of the airplane. “Shut your pie hole and let the rest of us get some goddamn sleep!”

“It’s a free country!” yelled Gilbertson. “I worked all week so that welfare kings like you could just sit on your fucking couch watching Netflix! All I want is a goddamn beer! Is that too much to ask or do you want any more of my hard-earned paycheck?!”

“Settle down, Mr. Scott,” said Detective Tony Battles, Zack’s trench coat-wearing handler. “Let the Air Marshal take care of this piece of shit. You just concentrate on getting some shut-eye. We’re not going to be in Paulson City for another five hours.”

Even with the drunken idiot and the flight attendant bantering loudly in the background, Zack and Tony still managed to carry on a hushed conversation between the two of them. Zack said, “How do you expect me to get any sleep around here if this horse’s ass just keeps going on like this? The Air Marshal is fucking worthless!”

“Welcome to the world of air travel, buddy,” said Tony as he patted Zack on the shoulder. “I know you’ve been locked up for a good decade or so, but things have changed around here, in case that security checkpoint bullshit wasn’t enough of an indication.”

“Just let me out of these shackles for five minutes,” begged Zack. “Hell, I could probably bring that loser down in less time than that.”

“I know you can, Zack,” said Tony. “Why do you think you’re in shackles to begin with? You beat the shit out of someone because he cut you off in traffic. His face was pretty much nonexistent at that point. You really think I’m going to just let you out of your shackles like that? Don’t be a dumb ass.”

A hard thwack echoed throughout the airplane and everybody’s wide eyes zeroed in on the downed flight attendant holding her bright pink cheek while the man known as Gilbertson cussed her out in a cacophony of slurred vocabulary.

“You stay put, buddy,” said Tony as he patted Zack on the shoulder and left his seat to confront the drunken passenger.

“Like I have a choice, huh?” smart-mouthed Zack, who struggled in his shackles despite the tightness cutting into his limbs. He was too laser-focused on this task to pay any mind to the struggle going on between Detective Battles and the drunken moron. The strikes, gasps, and wrestling in the background was all just noise to Zack Scott.

Somewhere in his soul, he knew he would screw up his plea deal by breaking free from Tony’s grasp. He knew that the only way he could taste those chocolate waffles again (aside from in his dreams) was to be on his best behavior and let the law take over. His starving taste buds didn’t take nearly as much damage as his pulsating eardrums, however. Every growl and slurred word from the drunken passenger caused Zack’s mind to explode with madness. This was worse than being in solitary confinement. It was worse than getting his ass kicked by the CO’s and prisoners. Freedom was so close, yet so far away, dangling over him like a juicy steak in front of a hungry pit bull.

Gilbertson’s rage fueled Zack’s intense struggle to the point where the prisoner accidentally elbowed Tony’s magazine off of his seat and revealed a shackle key underneath. The convict’s eyes grew wide with disbelief. Now his mind really was fucking with him. Was this a loud and obnoxious airplane ride or a stint in the hole? He reached at the key while the shackles cut into his wrists deeply enough to draw blood. The slick fluid gave Zack a few more inches toward the key. And a few more. And a few more. He got it!

Zack wasted little time in unlocking his shackles. With one hand, he eased the key into the lock and twisted hard enough to draw more blood. One more twist and his left arm was free. The rest was just child’s play at this point. He twisted the key so hard in each lock that he was almost in danger of breaking it off. His final restraint was the one binding his right ankle to the seat. He twisted again and this time the key snapped in two.

“Damn it!” Zack shouted. “God fucking damn it!” His thunderous voice had usurped Gilbertson’s and the fearful passengers as being the loudest. The prisoner kicked and stomped within the confines of his singular shackle until it broke off and he was finally free. He wasn’t thinking about delicious breakfast items this time. He had a mindful of insane voices shouting death threats in his ear. His vision was dark red. The blood on his wrist didn’t distract him in the least. His teeth gritted so tightly that he could have chewed through the shackles if he wanted to. This wasn’t a bloodthirsty felon. This was a starved lion with teeth the size of tusks.

Zack jumped out of his seat and shoved various passengers out of the way on his path of destruction towards Gilbertson, who was shoving away flight attendants and passengers himself while laying a thudding beat down on Tony Battles’ face. Tony could just lay there and die for all Zack cared. Then again, so could Gilbertson. The drunkard turned around long enough to see Zack Scott in his prison suit and Charles Manson mug flying through the air with his elbow raised. Once the prisoner landed, he brought the elbow down across Gilbertson’s terrified face, shattering his nose, breaking off a few teeth, and popping one eyeball out of the socket. Blood and bones spilled all over the airplane floor.

The passengers and flight attendants backed away in horror while Zack Scott stood over Gilbertson’s prone body with bloodlust on his face and a hard-on underneath his suit. Tony wiped the blood out of his own eyes and gazed up at his prisoner in horror. The convict smiled upon his handler and shrugged while saying, “I guess that means the end of my plea deal.”

Tony shook his jowls before nipping up to his feet and grabbing Zack by the jumpsuit. The raging force of the detective was enough to pin the still smiling Zack against the bathroom door. “You’re damn right it’s the end of the plea deal, you sick fuck!” Detective Battles shouted. “I’ve got a new deal for you, pal! You’re going to do the hardest fucking time this planet has to offer! It’ll make Guantanamo Bay look like a massage parlor!”

Zack’s arrogant expression refused to change while the passengers and flight attendants watched the scene unfold with pants-wetting horror. Tony leaned in close to the convict’s ears and whispered as smooth and sensually as a rapist cell mate. “Do me a favor, sweetheart. Don’t tell anybody that I left the key there on purpose. Otherwise, the new plea deal will fall through and you really will do hard time.”

Zack whispered right back at Tony, “Don’t worry, honey-bunny. Your secret’s safe with me. Should I lick the back of your ear to make this even more romantic?”

Tony’s eyes shot up while he surveyed the zombie-like expressions of everyone around him. “What are you all looking at?!” he belted. “Get back to your seats! This is personal business!” Get back to their seats they did, including Zack, sans shackles. He overheard the detective getting statements from several people, including the slapped flight attendant (Susan Martin) and the Mr. Happy Hour himself, Andrew Gilbertson. Those two names would appear in the Sunday morning paper. Tony Battles would be a popular name in that article too. What about Zack Scott, though? Could he in all good conscience put himself in a news story and jeopardize his new plea deal? Eh, fame and fortune were overrated. Chocolate-covered waffles, on the other hand, didn’t get enough credit.

Lonesome Town

***LONESOME TOWN***

Trust me, guys, I’d love to be able to stop talking about Western Washington University and how Bellingham is a dead ringer for “Lonesome Town” by Ricky Nelson (a song I first heard on the Pulp Fiction soundtrack). I’ve talked enough about it, so it’s pretty much a dead memory at this point. And then I get an email from WWU’s department of English asking me to take a survey as to how my experience was and how it could have been improved. If these surveys were written on paper, they would probably end up in a big fucking fire pit. But I took the survey anyways and gave them a piece of my mind. I told them about the lack of social programs, the lack of psychological counseling, the bias against introverted students, the shoddy public transportation system, the censorship of R-rated writing assignments, need I go on? No? Okay, I’m actually relieved. I open Face Book one day and I see that many of my classmates had the same vitriol to spew at their former school, so it feels good not to be alone. Perhaps the lyrics to Ricky Nelson’s “Lonesome Town” could sum up my classmates’ feelings as they did for me. Maybe they’ll relate to it in a non-romantic sense and I’d be inclined to agree with them. Want some lyrics? Here they are:

VERSE 1

There's a place where lovers go

To cry their troubles away

And they call it lonesome town

Where the broken hearts stay

VERSE 2

You can buy a dream or two

To last you all through the years

And the only price you pay

Is a heart full of tears

BRIDGE

Going down to lonesome town

Where the broken hearts stay

Going down to lonesome town

To cry my troubles away

VERSE 3

In the town of broken dreams

The streets are paved with regret

Maybe down in lonesome town

I can learn to forget

Got any more surveys for me to take, WWU? You want to ask me again to donate $50 to the English department? Sure, why don’t I give you a blank check while I’m at it. And my social security number. And the pin number and security code on my debit card. Go nuts! I really should stop talking about WWU. It’s ancient history. Eight years counts as ancient history to me. Truth is, I didn’t have any better ideas for a blog topic than those Ricky Nelson lyrics. I was exhausted all day today and got very little done in the way of creativity. Maybe when I snap out of my sleepy haze, I could do one of the following:

***AMERICAN DARKNESS 3***

Two stories down, forty-eight more to go. Clocking in at number forty eight is “Air Pain”. Clever title, huh? It goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

1. Andrew Gilbertson, Drunken Businessman
2. Zack Scott, Convicted Felon
3. Tony Battles, Zack’s Handler
4. Susan Martin, Flight Attendant

PROMPT CONFORMITY: To be announced.

SYNOPSIS: All four characters are taking a six-hour flight to the Paulson City Airport, which means nobody wants to be screwed with. Midway through the flight, Andrew gets drunk and verbally abuses Susan when she denies him more alcohol. Zack, a shackled criminal with Detective Battles watching him, considers bailing on his handler to confront the obnoxious drunk at the risk of losing his plea deal. The longer this flight goes, the more annoying Andrew becomes and the more Tony considers unlocking Zack’s shackles.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Marie Krepps jokes with me all the time about how I mostly have fat male villains in my short stories and novels. This next Dark Fantasy Warrior will keep the jokes rolling. His name is Big Daddy X and he comes from a short story idea called “Sub-Culture Urban Marketing”. Anti-smoking commercial viewers from the early 2000’s will remember that title and what acronym it forms. “I’m sure they meant it in a good way.”

***ALLEY KAT BLUES***

Now that “No Cure for Cancer” by Denis Leary is in my rearview mirror, it’s time for a fictional book. I purchased “Alley Kat Blues” by Karen Kijewski (“key-EFF-ski”) at a book sale in Chehalis, Washington (another place that could be described by Ricky Nelson’s lyrics). It was a low-stress book sale that was void of pushing and shoving due to the wide selection of books and big open space in the Lewis County Mall. I was happy for the low stress. It looks as though I’ll be even happier with reading Mrs. Kijewski’s book. It’s a crime thriller with a fast pace and a dead body or two. I blame Brett Battles for getting me hooked on this genre. Thanks, Brett!

***WRESTLING DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

FINN BALOR: Good luck tonight, Roman.

ROMAN REIGNS: Good luck to you, man.

FINN BALOR: Luck? I’m Irish. I invented luck.

ROMAN REIGNS: Well, I’m Samoan. Enough said.

Age Against the Machine

“Warning: this episode of The Crow Show has been rated TV-14-L. It contains strong language that may be unsuitable for younger audiences. The opinions expressed in this episode are solely those of the host and his guests and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Mystery Rider Productions or their affiliates. Viewer discretion is advised.”

The words and TV rating on the screen blew away in a fog of dust while an animated cowboy with a skeleton mask rode into view on a horse. The animal bucked up in the air and let out a powerful shriek while the cowboy screamed, “Yee-haw!” The words “Mystery Rider Productions Presents…” appeared below the now frozen logo after a bolt of lightning ripped through the screen. The logo also blew away in a cloud of dust in favor of the words, “Today’s Episode: Age Against the Machine”.

The black screen faded in to reveal a clapping audience while the camera circularly panned toward the main desk. On one side of the desk sat a grumpily frowning gentleman in a suit and tie while occupying the other side was a pleasant-faced middle-aged lady in a sun dress and hat.

“Ladies and gentlemen, here’s the star of The Crow Show: Marcus Crow!” shouted the background announcer, prompting the clapping audience to rise to their feet and cheer even louder than before. A dapperly-dressed black male appeared onstage smiling and waving at his adoring crowd while smoothly making his way toward the desk. Mr. Crow even bowed to his audience like they were gods as the cheering slowly died down.

“Hello, everyone! Welcome to the Crow Show! Today’s episode is probably going to be the most controversial one we’ve had in a long time. I’ve hired extra security to come out if necessary. The topic of course is the so-called Brat Ban sweeping the nation. Children deemed too noisy or disobedient are being ejected from public places along with their parents. Some people agree with this policy while others believe it’s unfair and ageist towards these small children. My guests today represent both sides of the Brat Ban debate.

To my left, she is a stay at home mom of two sons and she’s also a parenting blogger who claims to be on the wrong end of the Brat Ban, give it up for Ms. Leslie Cain!” The audience cheered and clapped as Marcus stole a kiss on the back of Leslie’s hand. He continued, “To my right, he is a retired restaurant manager who has enforced the Brat Ban multiple times in his career, give it up for Mr. David Charles!” The audience’s cheers were purely for the sake of being respectful and had nothing to do with their love of Mr. Charles.

“Okay everyone, let’s get started. Now before I…”

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait,” interrupted David. “I want to clear the air on something before we begin. Mr. Crow, you said earlier that people are suggesting the Brat Ban is ageist, but I’m here to tell you it’s not. Ageism would suggest that I’m prejudiced. I didn’t prejudge those children. I judged them based on things they all universally do.”

With her arms folded and a death stare on her face, Leslie asked, “And what do all children universally do, Mr. Charles? Do they get hungry? Do they get impatient? Do they…you know…act like children? You can’t hold little babies to the same standards as adults. It is unfair, David.”

Marcus extended his arms in a quasi-barrier between his two guests and said, “Okay guys, let’s have a little bit of civility here. We’re trying to get to the bottom of…”

“Bottom of what, Marcus? Your Nielsen ratings?” belted David, which was followed by an “ooo” from the audience. The host straightened his tie and remained passive while David pointed his finger at him and said, “Don’t think for a minute that I don’t know about how badly this show is doing. You knew full well me and this crazy bitch would never get along, so why don’t you…”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” interrupted Leslie, holding her hands out defensively. “What the hell’s your problem? I didn’t come here to be humiliated by an ageist creep!” The audience came back to life with a round of applause. “I came here to have a civilized debate! Maybe if you’d actually open your eyes every now and then, you wouldn’t have to throw those children out of your restaurant!”

Marcus tried once again in vain to restore order, but David blasted right through his verbiage with, “You’re right! I don’t have to worry about throwing kids out, because I don’t have a restaurant anymore! I sold it to my oldest son so that I wouldn’t have to…”

An even louder “Oh!” emanated from the audience while Leslie cut off her foe. “You have a son? So you actually have kids and you’re out here making these ridiculous claims? The irony’s killing me more than your greasy ass food probably would have!”

The audience continued to voice their “ooos” and “ahs” as David and Leslie traded barbs back and forth. David said, “First of all, you fucking moron, unlike the bitchy parents who had to get thrown out, I raised my kids the right way! If they did half the shit that these banned kids did, I’d beat their asses with a belt!”

The banter between Leslie and David escalated when the two guests stood up and came nose-to-nose with each other. Marcus had given up hope completely and sat at the table with his shaking head in his hands. The beefy security guards in black T-shirts stormed onto the stage to separate David and Leslie, but the two wouldn’t stop turning the studio into a cacophonic hellhole with their screeches and screams. The audience didn’t do much to ease Marcus’s aching head with their own noisy chants.

The stressed out host finally put a stop to the madness when he shot up from his seat, extended his arms in another pseudo-barricade, and shouted, “Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” The audience, guests, and security team calmed down long enough to allow the host’s words wash over them like a tidal wave of rage. Marcus straightened his collar and shouted, “This is not the Jerry Springer Show! I will not have fighting on my program! This is a respectable show and I demand that everyone here treat it as such!”

“I don’t know, Marcus,” mocked David. “The Jerry Springer Show’s pulling better ratings than the Blow Show right now. Maybe you can get some more viewers if that Leslie chick takes her clothes off!”

Leslie Cain bolted towards David Charles like she was shot out of a cannon and rained down fists and elbows upon the child-hating guest. Not even the fierceness of the security team could contain the motherly fireball. She just kept climbing over them and throwing more haymakers, to which David inadequately covered his head and dropped to the floor.

Marcus jumped up on the table and dove onto the mass of humanity brawling it out on the stage, while the audience mockingly chanted, “Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!” During the scuffle, Marcus Crow suffered a deep scratch on his arm and bled buckets all over the stage. The redness in his arm was only matched by the redness in his vision. He hungered for violence. He hungered for retribution. The sinister urge ate a hole in his stomach. In his blind rage, he threw a punch at what he thought was the source of the scratch.

But then the audience gasped in horror when it was Leslie who took one on the jaw and flopped over unconscious. The bruises were on Marcus’s knuckles. He stopped giving a shit about his bloody arm and started hypnotically at his purple fist. In that moment, everybody was quiet, the security guards slowly backed away, and time itself stood as still as a statue for Marcus Crow.

The frozen host barely noticed David Charles’s hand on his shoulder when the guest mocked, “Well, well, well, I guess you’ve got your ratings after all. Isn’t this what you wanted? A steady income? Lots of fame? Well, you’re famous now, buddy. Come on, say it with me: Jerry! Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!”

“I…I…” Marcus wiped a singular tear away from his eyes and softly said, “I’m not Jerry fucking Springer…”

“You’re right, buddy,” said David as he patted Marcus on the shoulder. Making reference to Marcus’s black skin, he said, “You’re the host of the Jerome Springer Show! Enjoy your fame!” David gently shook the still petrified Marcus and danced off the set whistling a merry tune.

Marcus slowly turned his head to face the camera and stuttered, “We…we’ll be right back after…th…these messages.” The camera still rolled long enough to catch Marcus shaking as he pointed at Leslie’s unconscious body and telling his security detail to take her to the medical wing. The sullen-faced bouncers heaved Leslie on their shoulders and carried her away like it was a funeral procession.

Marcus gingerly made his way to the desk and couldn’t bring himself to face the hushed audience, so he held his head in his hands yet again. He lifted his head only a little bit and noticed the camera still hadn’t gone to commercials. “What are you waiting for?!” he roared. “Turn that fucking thing off and take a commercial break, damn it!” Except instead of a five-minute word from the sponsors, Marcus was certain he would have a permanent vacation from television life. He was right: he wasn’t Jerry Springer. At least Jerry Springer would still have a show.

Adorably Clueless

Billy Mann scanned books into the system while his mind drifted off into outer space. “The second chance college prom,” he thought to himself. “If you couldn’t get it right the first time, you won’t get it right the second time.” He repeated this mantra over and over in his mind while paying minimal attention to the students checking out books at the counter. Loud conversations rarely carried on in quaint libraries like this one.

The loud snapping of fingers, however, was enough to jolt Billy awake like a fire underneath his ass. He adjusted his thick rimmed glasses and saw the image of a lovely Mexican student in front of him, donning a black dress with floral designs and flipping her raven black hair around with a ruby red smile on her face. “Wakey, wakey! Eggs and bacey! Rise and shine! It’s breakfast time!” she giggled.

“Sorry about that, ma’am. Here, let me scan that book for you,” said Billy while fluffing his black hair and adjusting his checkered wool vest. “Can I have your name, please?”

“Man, you really are out of it today, aren’t you? What are you doing, thinking about your girlfriend?” said the lady with her elbows on the counter and her face in her manicured hands.

Billy just now realized the student’s library card was tucked in the pages like a bookmark. He shook himself awake yet again before reading the name on the card, which was Mia Rodriguez. “My apologies, Miss Rodriguez,” said Billy while scanning her items.

“You don’t have to say you’re sorry. I’d be out of it too if all I could think about was the second chance prom,” Mia grinned, flashing her pearly white dentistry.

The librarian’s face flashed a neon shade of red at that revelation. He’d been talking out loud this whole time? Were the other students just trying to avoid him? Is that why they didn’t speak up sooner? Billy felt like crawling under the desk and sucking his thumb into a deep sleep. His testicles seemed to shrink to the size of Tic-Tacs.

Speaking of which, a tiny winter mint capsule would have been nice at that point. He breathed into his hand and scrunched his face in disgust at what he smelled. That breakfast burrito hung around like a home invader. Or even more appropriate, a flirtatious Mexican lady who just wanted a fucking library book.

“If you wanted a breath mint, I could have given you one. I’ve got a million of them in my purse,” said Mia as she rifled through her belongings.

“No, no, that’s okay. I’m just, uh…” Billy could only complete his sentence with a deep sigh, as if the tunnel of air would relax his rapidly beating heart and his ice cold neurons.

“Look, if you’re that hung up on the second chance prom, just take one of these,” said Mia as she handed him a business card with her name and phone number on it. The redness in Billy’s face was a perfect match for Mia Rodriguez’s cherry-colored lips. “You don’t have to be shy around me. Just give me a call if you change your mind about the prom. Buenos tardes…Billy Mann! How could I not like a guy with Mann in his name?”

“Wait a minute, how did you know my name?” asked Billy. He looked down at his vest and at that moment noticed he wore a nametag this whole time. Mia giggled and waved goodbye at him before strutting away with her book. Billy hung his head in shame, wishing deep down that he could hang his head with an extension cord. He tucked his lips inward and bit down on them before tossing Mia’s business card in the dustbin behind him. He breathed out another sigh in a futile effort to calm his nerves.

“What do you think you’re doing?” asked a black feminine voice behind him. Billy mouthed, “Oh no” to himself and then turned around to see his coworker Dottie Jackson fishing Mia’s business card out of the garbage bin. With a hand on her purple dress-wearing hip and an incredulous pout in her lips, she said, “You’re really going to let this chick slip through your fingers, babe? I don’t think so. You need to get out every once and a while and you literally had that opportunity handed to you on a silver platter.”

“Yeah, like I’m going to trust her with my heart that fucking easily. Give me a break,” said Billy with his arms folded and his weight leaning against the counter.

“If you can’t trust her, who can you trust?” asked Dottie. “All your high school crushes are long gone, my friend. Sure, you could look them up on Face Book, but you ain’t bringing them all the way over here for a stupid dance. That chick was into you, buddy. Seriously, how often does that happen anymore?”

“So I’m just supposed to say yes to any chick who flirts with me? For all I know, this could be some kind of joke. I’ve had girls in high school joke around like this all the time. I know a faker when I see one,” said Billy.

“This ain’t high school anymore, Billy-Boy,” said Dottie as she tucked Mia’s business card in his vest pocket. “This is college. She’s in her twenties, just like you and me. You really think she would go up to just anybody and waste their time like that? She’s too old for that shit. You’ve got something that others don’t.”

Billy laughed sarcastically and waved Dottie’s talking points off with his hand. “Please, Dottie, I’ve got absolutely nothing. I’m a super nerd who works at a college library. It doesn’t get anymore uncool than that.”

“Uncool? Really?” asked Dottie with raised eyebrows. “Yeah, you really are stuck in high school if you’re talking like that, honey. You’ve got a lot of growing up to do, my friend. If you don’t want to date her, that’s fine. Just don’t yammer on about the second prom out loud to the customers. You’re scaring them off like a bus stop psychopath.” Dottie walked away and left Billy to contemplate her arguments.

The librarian tucked his face in his hand and shook his head. The embarrassment was killing him like snake poison flowing through his veins. Any more of this psycho babble and he was out of a job. What if this Mia Rodriguez really was the last opportunity for him? Was it that easy this entire time? His mind blazed through a whole rolodex of girls he could have asked on dates when he was in high school. The cheerleaders, the geeks, the sweethearts, each and every one of them had fallen away from his grasp. The images of them flipping their hair and pursing their lips forced a single tear to build up in his eye.

“Excuse me! Hey! Hello!” shouted an impatient customer, which snapped Billy out of his trance and put him in apologetic mode once again. That was the difference between Mia Rodriguez and everybody else who checked out books here: harshness wouldn’t even cross her mind. Even if she was being disingenuous, it was better than the grating voice of a three hundred pound frat boy staring down at him like a bear waiting for his next meal.

Nightfall descended upon the college town and Billy’s shift was thankfully over. Somehow, the thoughts of Mia flirting with him so openly got him through a tough work day. He actually smiled and chuckled as he exited the building. How long as it been since even a hint of happiness crossed his face? He had to stop by the florist and pick up a bouquet of roses. He had to stop by her apartment. It really was his last chance and damn it, he wasn’t going to let it pass him by! He picked up the pace in the parking lot and hurried to his respective destinations.

The dashboard clock read 7:30 and Billy drove over to Mia’s apartment in record time. He wondered about the shoddy conditions of the building. The wood splintered and the paint peeled. Plus, there was a neon green swear word spray painted on the walls. Maybe Mia secretly needed a gentleman like Billy to take her away from this horrifying place. Whoever said romance novels weren’t real had never felt the beautiful rhythm in Billy’s heart before. With flowers in hand, he exited his Prius and ascended the stairs to her apartment.

He knocked on the door and Mia told him to come in. The interior of the apartment looked much lovelier than the exterior, or it could have been the angelic glow of lava lamps placed every which way. Or maybe it could have been Mia’s wide smile that could have brought the toughest men to their knees. “You brought flowers! Don’t just stand out there! Come on in, sugar-booger!”

The two would-be dates for the second chance prom met in the center of the room and hugged tightly, Mia’s high heeled feet lifting off the ground. She kissed his forehead and said, “See? I knew you wouldn’t be in that trance forever!”

Except Billy was in a trance now. He couldn’t take his eyes off of Mia’s brown beauties. This is what second chances looked like. This is what happy endings felt like. This is what…gang initiations looked like? His lustful trance morphed into a frown of fear when Billy found himself surrounded by Mexican gangsters in basketball jerseys with tattoos running up and down their arms. “Mia…I trusted you…” he whispered with quivering lips.

“I know you did, honey,” said Mia with fake sympathy. “But if you came here looking to lose your virginity, you can still do that. Isn’t that right, boys?”

The gangsters all unzipped their jean flies and chuckled evilly at Billy while one of them closed the front door and bolted it shut. Mia backed away and Billy could feel tears welling up in his eyes. He kept mouthing the word, “Why?” without having a powerful enough voice to speak it.

One of the gangsters said, “That’s right, buddy, you keep moving those lips. You’re going to need them! Open wide, sweetheart! It’s initiation time, bitch!” The gang bangers circled around Billy and wrestled him to the ground, already proving that broken hearts and loneliness were better than broken bodies and mind-numbing trauma. He screamed like Mia would have done in a similar situation, but she just laughed it off while the gangsters had their way with Billy.

By the end of this night, a group of thugs would earn their stripes and a victimized librarian would lose his mind, his soul, and his cherry all in one night. Tears flowed more violently than the blood in his mouth and asshole. If something was too good to be true, it probably was. Billy had lied to himself this whole time and that was a more vicious lie than anything Mia could have spun up.

"No Cure for Cancer" by Denis Leary

BOOK TITLE: No Cure for Cancer

AUTHOR: Denis Leary

YEAR: 1992

GENRE: Nonfiction

SUBGENRE: Comedy Routine

GRADE: Pass

With a raging wit as fiery as his lit cigarettes, Denis Leary unleashes his comic venom on a variety of topics whether it’s political correctness, war, drugs, alcohol, meat, or his own life experiences. Nobody is safe from his silver tongue and no topic is off limits. If comedy could kill, he’d have a higher body count than Henry Lee Lucas. Hell, he might already be able to pull that off with the clouds of smoke he spews into the theater. Lung cancer doesn’t faze him and nor do sensitive opinions. He’s not leaving the theater until he gets a tumor-sized load off of his chest.

In many ways, Denis Leary reminds me a lot of late-eighties, early-nineties George Carlin. They both have angry, rapid fire deliveries. They can make humor out of even the most dismal topics. They have a non-binary political agenda. Let’s not forget the most important part of this comparison: Denis Leary and George Carlin are both funny as hell. Yes, I do realize that Mr. Leary’s politically incorrect sense of humor might not survive in this day and age, but that’s exactly why it’s important for readers to delve into this book with an open mind. As long as you’re laughing, that’s all that matters. And damn, did I laugh my head off!

It would be nearly impossible for me to list off all of the jokes I found hilarious in this book, because there are so many of them. I don’t even want to give away samples of jokes, because I don’t do spoilers. But think about this for a minute: when you have a viciously angry chain-smoker onstage with an alcoholic buzz ranting and raving about sensitive topics, you know it’s going to be something special. He’s not being politically incorrect just for the hell of it either; he actually has substance to go with his style. Everything he says means something whether you agree with it or not. But even if you don’t agree with some of his talking points, you’re going to laugh anyways even if he has to die trying (which he probably will, given how much he smokes and drinks).

If it isn’t obvious by the end of the story, then there is one thing you and Denis will definitely agree on: live every day like it’s the last. You want that big ass hamburger with five patties and god knows how much cheese? Eat it! You want that energy drink that will taste like sweet tarts but feel like heart attack hell? Drink it! Cross things off your bucket list despite the fact that you’re not even close to the end yet. Hell, you might even be closer than you think, especially if you live in a fun and exciting place like New York, Denis Leary’s home state. Don’t let life pass you by. Enjoy it! Relax! Take a chance!

I’ll admit that I haven’t seen a whole lot of Denis Leary outside of “Rescue Me”, “Demolition Man”, and “Why We Suck”, but this book is a damn good introduction into what he’s really all about. Now that I’ve read the book, I’d like to see this routine performed live. I could probably hunt it down on You Tube or some other movie streaming service. I hope I laugh just as loudly as I did when I read the damn book! A passing grade will go to Denis Leary and his fiery brand of humor!

Fine

VERSE 1

Watching Metallica shredding up a storm

Having eargasms in this heavy metal porn

Flamethrowers lighting up the fucking sky

So intense in the pit, you could fucking die

A night of badass music is in the books

This thrashed up body is exactly how it looks

You could do it again until the end of days

But when asked about it, you’ll only just say…

DEADPAN CHORUS

It was fine

VERSE 2

Losing your virginity to a Hollywood babe

Porno actresses want to be your love slaves

Cumming your whole body inside out

Orgasms so intense, you can only shout

Sex forever in the sunny beach weather

Who’ll it be today, a chick named Heather?

You could do it again until the end of time

But your only response gives another rhyme:

DEADPAN CHORUS

It was fine

VERSE 3

Driving around on the lunar surface

Floating in the air never felt so perfect

Planet earth is so many miles away

Yet all you can do is fucking say…

DEADPAN CHORUS

It was fine

BRIDGE

I don’t know if it’s laziness

Or a case of mental haziness

Fine is your answer for everything

If it feels good or fucking stings

ENERGETIC CHORUS

It was fine! X4

Dreams

DIALOGUE 1
Adult: What do you want to do when you grow up?

Kid 1: I want to flip hamburgers!

Kid 2: I want to clean toilets!

Kid 3: I want to bag groceries!

VERSE 1

How can you dream big when you can’t fall asleep?

When there’s no liquor bottle that’s too deep?

No excitement in this world that’s too cheap?

No friendship in this life that you can keep?

Do you even know what your biggest dreams are?

A white picket fence, a family, and a sports car?

Or is it just surviving yet another dark day?

No rainbows today, but there’s plenty of rain

DIALOGUE 2
Adult: What do you want to do when you grow up?

Kid 1: I want to panhandle!

Kid 2: I want to stay in bed!

Kid 3: I want to sell drugs!

VERSE 2

Being an astronaut is easy when you’re a child

To be a dreamer is to let your mind go wild

Being a princess is what you’ve always believed

When you grow the fuck up, you’ve been deceived

Being on the big screen is a Hollywood trip away

As long as you take the director’s dick and play

Low expectations are the new Disneyland

Peter Pan isn’t going to hold you by the hand

DIALOGUE 3

Adult: What do you want to do when you grow up?

Kid 1: I want to jump off a cliff!

Kid 2: I want to swallow a bunch of pills!

Kid 3: I want to put a gun to my head!

VERSE 3

Is this depressing shit making you want to cry?

Or do you dare to spread your wings and fly?

Fly around the world? Fly into outer space?

Fly off a building, splat all over the place?

Find out whoever took away your dreams

Hold him hostage, make him feel your screams

Tell him over and over how he fucked you bad

Laugh in his face like you’re fucking mad!

DIALOGUE 4

Adult: What do you want to do when you grow up?

Teenager: I’ll do whatever the fuck I want, you shallow prick! Resist, motherfuckers!

"Mortal Kombat X, Vol. 1" by Shawn Kittelsen

BOOK TITLE: Mortal Kombat X, Vol. 1: Blood Ties

AUTHOR: Shawn Kittelsen

YEAR: 2015

GENRE: Graphic Novel

SUBGENRE: Martial Arts Dark Fantasy

GRADE: Mixed

Normally, the first paragraph of these reviews would be a brief synopsis in my own words (rather than copying it from the back of the book). However, there’s so much going on in this graphic novel that it’s hard to piece it all together in one paragraph. Yes, there’s a war brewing between the earth and outer realms. Yes, they involve blood daggers that turn their wielders into psychotic savages. And yes, old characters from the Mortal Kombat videogame franchise make an appearance in one way or another. Something tells me that in order to understand what the hell’s going on here, you have to be familiar with earlier materials (even though this is the first volume). I’ve never actually played the first three Mortal Kombat games, but I’ve watched other people play them on You Tube, so I have a general idea of who the characters are and why I should give a damn about them. But those are the only three games I’ve seen up close. It’s because of this mass confusion and chaotic storytelling that this graphic novel earns a mixed grade at best.

But what the book lacks in coherent storylines, it makes up for tenfold with the violent action sequences. Bodies are getting ripped in half, hearts are being eaten, heads are being chopped off, bones are being broken, and that’s just a warm-up. Hell, the daggers that corrupt the minds of their owners do so by traveling through their blood. “The flesh is a lie!” as one warrior so delicately put it. There’s so much blood and gore in this graphic novel that vampires would use this as their own version of Playboy magazines. Then again, this level of ultra-violence is to be expected from a franchise where Sub-Zero rips the spinal column and skull out of his opponents’ bodies in the very first game. This kind of bloodlust had politicians and activists up in arms in the early 90’s, so the graphic novel will do nothing to sooth their sensitive sides.

The positives of this graphic novel are purely superficial, unless of course you have a better grasp of the storyline than I do. You get bonus points if you can remember everybody’s names, let alone the names of the artifacts scattered throughout the story. If someone can explain this to me and make me feel like an idiot watching Jeopardy, I will be your own personal janitor for a month. I’ll mop your floors and clean your toilets…with my tongue. Okay, maybe that whole stipulation is a tough bet, but you get the idea. The graphic novel is enjoyable, but confusing at the same time. This kind of yin-yang dynamic is what makes me want to give the work a mixed grade.

"Winter Wishes of the Heart" by Ashley Uzzell

BOOK TITLE: Winter Wishes of the Heart

AUTHOR: Ashley Uzzell

YEAR: 2017

GENRE: Fictional Short Stories

SUBGENRE: Winter Love

GRADE: Pass

If you’re looking for four short stories that will warm your insides like a cup of hot chocolate, you’ve found the right book. They’re short and sweet, emphasis on sweet. Whether it’s Christmas, New Years, or Valentine’s Day, you’ll always have the wonderful writing of Ashley Uzzell by your side. Grab a fuzzy kitty, wrap yourself in a blanket, and light the fireplace: you’re in for a nice cozy evening.

Of all four stories, my personal favorite has to be Round Table Chant. This one’s about an anxiety patient named Herbie who feels obligated to go to a Christmas party despite the triggers of being around strange people. Mental illnesses are a favorite topic of mine to read about, especially in stories where the sufferer conquers his demons in the end. We need more lovable characters like Herbie in today’s books. Representation matters. It matters a lot. Mentally ill people shouldn’t be ashamed of who they are or the demons that try to hold them down. If anybody’s writing can put this group of people at ease and make them feel powerful, it’s Ashley Uzzell’s. While I won’t give away the ending, rest assured that this story will warm your heart like a bowl of clam chowder. I’d even dare say Round Table Chant deserves its own novel.

That’s not to devalue the other three stories, because they too are just as cute and cuddly to read about. If you want shy guy romance, read David’s Gift. If you want body positivity, try Emily’s Valentine. If you want a brotherly love, get started on What We Built. There’s something for everybody in this collection of short stories. If you don’t personally relate to one thing, you’ll relate to the next. Winter holidays are inclusive of everybody, just like Ashley Uzzell herself. It matters not if you’re rich or poor, young or old, happy or sad: you’ve got a place in her audience if you want to come in from the cold.

Ashley Uzzell knocks it out of the park yet again. Then again, she kind of has a reputation for doing just that. In all my years of reading her books (under both of her aliases), I haven’t come across one that disappointed me yet, nor do I expect to. She’s the go-to author of our generation. She makes independent authors proud to be who they are by virtue of her achievements. If she can kick butt on such a consistent basis, what does that mean for other aspiring writers who need hope in this world? A passing grade for her wonderful winter tales!

"The Cat Who Robbed a Bank" by Lilian Jackson Braun

BOOK TITLE: The Cat Who Robbed a Bank

AUTHOR: Lilian Jackson Braun

YEAR: 2000

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Cozy Mystery

GRADE: Pass

Jim “Q” Qwilleran and his Siamese kitties Koko and Yum Yum are thrust into another mystery when a jewelry dealer winds up dead in a hotel room and the salesman’s assistant as well as a local Highland Games athlete go missing shortly after. Koko, being the psychic kitty he is, drops little hints in front of Q that could be mistaken for hyperactive playing. The closer Q gets to solving this case, the more he realizes that Koko really is a genius and that even the strangest clues can pan out from time to time.

I’ve been a reader of Lilian Jackson Braun’s “Cat Who” books since the early 2010’s. Every time I read one of these novels, the tropes she relies on become more and more apparent. The small town atmosphere, local gossiping, and constant lunch and dinner dates are just small examples. Others include the G-rated way in which the dead meet their fates, the townsfolk’s love of ancient literature, the typical elderly hobbies such as silhouette cutting and wood turning, and the relaxed sense of urgency when these mysteries move along. I believe it’s safe to say that if you’ve read one Cat Who book, you’ve read them all.

And yet I keep going back to them because of their relaxing nature and light reading material. This is especially comforting whenever it’s raining or otherwise cold outside. Just snuggle up with your favorite kitty and wrap yourself in a blanket for a nice afternoon or evening of easy reading. Notice how I’m using themes of comfort and relaxation with these books rather than boredom. You can be chilled out and still have lots of fun reading whatever it is you’re reading. Think of it as being like getting a chair massage with new age music playing in the background. After you’ve had your low-key fun for the day, snuggle in bed and take a nice long nap with the rain tapping on your window.

If you want to read something nice and pleasant with a double dose of feline sweetness, look no further than “The Cat Who Robbed a Bank”, or any other Cat Who book for that matter. Ms. Braun has left behind a legacy of lovability with this series alone. Yes, she had a nagging tendency to tell instead of show, but if you’re patient, it won’t matter after you’ve delved far enough into the easy-paced mystery. Easy on the eyes, easy on the soul, easy on your warm toasty kitty-loving heart. A passing grade not only for this particular book, but for the series as a whole.

Taking Criticism: Defense vs. Surrender

***TAKING CRITICISM: DEFENSE VS. SURRENDER***

Taking criticism is something all authors have to do whether it’s constructive advice from a friend or an all out assault from a complete stranger. I’ve seen my fair share of both since I got serious about writing in 2001. Developing a thick skin isn’t always easy. It’s not something ready-made or even something you’re born with. But regardless of whether you’ve got paper skin or a suit of steel armor, there comes a time in every author’s career when he has to decide: is this piece of literature worth defending or should it be surrendered to the critics? The trick here is to find a balance between defense and surrender; it can never be all or nothing.

I know this, because throughout the 2000’s when I was wild and young, I would defend everything I wrote. Everything! It didn’t matter if it was good or bad, offensive or sterile, first draft or multiple, I had a huge enough ego to believe that everything I wrote turned to gold. Whenever somebody online would tear down my walls, I built them back up ten times stronger. In my mind, because I had the first amendment on my side, I never had to apologize for anything I wrote and I was absolved of all guilt. And then December 27^th, 2009 rolled along and a small army of angry Deviant Art members logged on to tell me how ageist an essay I wrote called “Class of ‘13” was, where I absentmindedly labeled high school students a bunch of text-messaging queens. I fought valiantly against this small army, but ultimately decided ageism against the youth wasn’t worth defending, so now Class of ’13 is gone from my Deviant Art gallery. To this day, I still take issue with people who blame millennials for everything wrong with the world.

And then came the 2010’s and I found myself doing a lot more surrendering than defending. I don’t know if that 2009 experience jolted something inside me or if maturity kicked in, but it’s like my dad once said about me: I’m friends with everyone. It’s true. I value friendship and growth so much that I purposefully tiptoe around delicate issues. That’s why in 2014 when I wrote an erotic kidnapping short story called “Tainted Love”, I took it down days later when it received criticism for being sexist (even though one person said it was steamy and hot). Because I took the calm and collected approach, I found my friendships still intact and I’m still a long and strong member of the WSS, which I take a lot of pride in.

While turning the other cheek will keep you out of trouble and out of the crosshairs of angry keyboard warriors, you can’t take that attitude with everything you write. If you whitewashed the offensiveness out of everything you wrote, you’d have a whole lot of nothing in your repertoire. It’s like that Face Book meme once said: it’s better to write for yourself and have no public than write for the public and have no self. For a guy who preaches individuality and nonconformity in almost all of my poetry, I sure do curl up in the corner when the heat gets hot. That’s not a good strategy for someone who wants success in the writing industry.

I know this, because one of my novel ideas is currently on hold due to it potentially being rejected by the websites I plan on posting it on. It’s called Puberty X Piracy and it’s an urban fantasy story about a teenager who uses and distributes online porn. On one hand, I could defend this as something that’s personal to me since I like a good wank too. On the other hand, writing this novel could be grounds for termination from whatever social media sites I’m using because of its explicit themes of masturbation, actual sex, and male genital mutilation. Of course, I don’t necessarily have to post these chapters on social media, but it’d be nice to get something out there that didn’t result in catastrophe.

I said before that the key to surviving life as an author is knowing the difference between what is defensible and what needs to be surrendered. I tried defending everything in the 2000’s and it ended horribly. It’s the 2010’s and I’m surrendering everything, but there’s a good chance somebody might like the things I’m surrendering. Which one’s worse: being a dick or missing opportunities? I’d like to think that’s an easy question, but at some point, I have to start sticking up for myself. I just can’t tell the difference between when it’s necessary and when it isn’t.

A common litmus test for this debate is to gage how many people agree or disagree with the piece of literature in question, but that’s not always accurate. There are people who love the shit out of Fifty Shades of Grey and despite the hell out of Winnie the Pooh. Yes, folks, there are people who fucking hate Winnie the Pooh. And Tigger. And Piglet. There are also people who wouldn’t mind sucking on a “Christian Grey flavored popsicle”, whatever the fuck that is. Like I said: write for yourself, not the public. There are people in this world who still think the earth is flat. I may surrender a lot of my talking points, but I refuse to hand the keys of the kingdom to a bunch of flat-earthers. It’s round, motherfuckers! It’s round!

If popularity is a bad litmus test for defensiveness vs. surrender, what’s a good one? That’s a question I don’t have the answer for. I’m 32 years old and celebrating my 16^th year as a semi-professional author, yet I’m no closer to tapping into that particular piece of wisdom. I know I’m shouting into the abyss when I post these blog entries, but I’m still shouting, damn it. If any of my readers have the slightest inkling as to what the answer could be, let me know and I’ll take it into consideration. We’ve got ears, say cheers!

***AMERICAN DARKNESS 3***

Until I become fully committed to Puberty X Piracy, I’m going to start working on the third installment of American Darkness a.k.a. the series of stories that once made Andy Peloquin exclaim, “DARK SHIT!” I have fifty-two story ideas in this particular volume, but all I need is fifty and I’m going to go down the list alphabetically. That means the first story to go in this book will be…slightly less dark than the others. Probably not the best way to start a book with darkness in the title, but it starts with an A, so suck it. It’s called “Adorably Clueless” and it goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

1. Billy Mann, College Librarian
2. Mia Rodriguez, Flirty Customer
3. Dottie Jackson, Billy’s Coworker

PROMPT CONFORMITY: To be announced.

SYNOPSIS: Billy has gone through his entire life without experiencing romance and is feeling lonely and sad because of it. One day at the college library, Billy checks out a few books to Mia, who unbeknown to him was flirting with him the entire time. When Mia walks away, Dottie giggles at Billy and calls him “adorably clueless” when it comes to his social awkwardness and inability to detect flirtation. With the college’s “Second Chance Prom” coming up in a few weeks, Billy has to get his act together if he wants to capitalize on this almost missed opportunity.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Because my next first draft book will be a collection of modern day dramas, the number of characters from the fantasy genre I have left to draw are limited to two: Debra Lynch (elf rogue) and Johnny De Morgan (human busker), both of them from the final Poison Tongue Tales 2 story “Street Sleeper”. If I really want to continue drawing these characters, I’ll have to find another source other than stories I’ve already written.

***THE CAT WHO ROBBED A BANK***

I’ve been a Lilian Jackson Braun fan since I became a born-again reader in 2009. I’ve given all of her books passing grades for their light material and cute kitties. This one will be no different, though you’re probably asking why I keep reading these “Cat Who” books if they’re so predictable. That’s basically like asking why I keep buying CD’s of a certain band if they do the same kind of music: because I fucking like them! If you like something, don’t question or pick away at it. Don’t surrender that shit to anybody with ignorant questions. See what I did there?

***JOKE OF THE DAY***

Q: What do you call a blacksmith who likes butt sex?

A: Forge packer.

***POST-SCRIPT***

Just in case there’s any confusion, no, I won’t surrender that joke either.

You Suck

COMEDIAN DIALOGUE

What’s the deal with airline peanuts? How can anybody eat these things?

VERSE 1

Get off the stage, you fuel my rage

Not even worth the minimum wage

Amateur night isn’t going so well

Let’s burn this shit right down to hell!

CHORUS

You suck! X2

COMEDIAN DIALOGUE

Is that a machinegun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me? Oh, behave!

VERSE 2

We paid good money for these seats

This deal was nothing but a fucking cheat

You lash out at us like it’s our fault

Let’s put this shit to a fucking halt!

CHORUS

You suck! X2

COMEDIAN DIALOGUE

Transgender? What is that, you get on a plane as one gender and go somewhere else as the other?

VERSE 3

It’s not that we can’t take a goddamn joke

But where is the humor? Nobody knows

You’re all style without the substance

You left us all feeling bored and sluggish

Booing and hissing isn’t nearly enough

We’ll see if your thick skin is really that tough

Chase you down the street with fists balled up

Now we’re the ones saying, “Suck it up, buttercup!”

CHORUS

You suck! X4

COMEDIAN DIALOGUE

My face was the color of the Communist…

MY DIALOGUE

Shut up!

Street Sleeper

Johnny De Morgan’s pick strummed delicately across his guitar strings and created a heavenly lullaby for those walking the streets at night. He too could feel the heaviness of his eyelids and the quicksand-like pull underneath his body. Yet he continued to strum his beautiful melodies as the snow gently poured into his guitar case, barely a single gold coin occupying this space. Strangers walked by with their chins tucked into their chests, not giving Johnny the slightest glance.

The night sky blanketed the city in midnight shadows. Johnny wished he too had a blanket of some kind, but all that kept him minimally warm was his checkered overcoat, striped scarf, and thin layers underneath. He struggled to keep his fingers steady in this shiver-inducing weather. Sometimes his melodies would echo awkwardly across the street corner because of his shaking. Johnny stopped playing and gripped the neck of his guitar like he was actually strangling someone. He held the instrument above his head like he was going to smash the fucking thing to pieces.

“Johnny, no!” shouted a feminine voice off to the side. The busker’s eyes must have been too frosty to notice her at first, but that beautiful voice could have only belonged to the elven rogue Debra Lynch. Light green skin, thick layers of black wool, wavy blue hair, and a cap over her scalp: she was unmistakable at this point. She had the same weary and sorrowful expression in her damp eyes that Johnny did. That made her even more beautiful (not that Johnny would ever tell her something like that).

“Johnny, you can’t give up yet. You’ll freeze to death out here if you don’t keep playing,” begged Debra.

“I don’t know, Debra,” said Johnny with his head hung low. “Does it really matter anymore how good I am with this stupid thing? Nobody’s paying attention. Everybody just wants to walk on by like I’m some sort of fucking monster. Forget it, Debra, I’m done with this shit.”

“So what would you rather do? Starve to death?” pleaded Debra while cupping her hands over Johnny’s arm. “You don’t have a choice in the matter. It’s either this or death. Wait a minute…you’re not actually considering…” The elf’s voice grew shaky with those last few words.

“Like you said, Debbie-Cakes: I don’t have a choice in the matter,” said Johnny with more coldness than the snowflakes pounding down on him. “I can stand out here and freeze like a motherfucker playing for pennies…or I can just fall asleep in my own shallow grave. Never have to wake up again. Never have to deal with these ignorant people. Never have to worry about where my next meal’s coming from. Sounds like heaven to me.”

Debra smacked Johnny in the back of his head and messed up his black puffy hairdo. “I don’t ever want to hear you talk about that nonsense again! If you just fuck off the face of this earth, what am I supposed to do for the rest of my life? I need you, Johnny. We need each other!”

Tears welled up in Johnny’s frosty eyes as he said, “Sorry, I’m just a little frustrated, that’s all. God, what I wouldn’t do for a hot bowl of soup and a fucking blanket! Is that too much to ask for?!”

The argument came to an abrupt end when Johnny and Debra’s eyes zeroed in on a heavyset orc strutting down the streets. His leather armor, bloody war paint, and gigantic sword sheathed on his back gave him the aura of an undisputed champion. The burdensome sack of gold coins on his belt caused Johnny and Debra to snap awake with secretive excitement. Johnny strummed his guitar much more vigorously than before in hopes that the rock and roll music would entice this brutish warrior.

The orc attempted to skate on by, but Johnny and Debra blocked his path with the biggest of grins. Debra even rubbed her gloved fingers together to signify what she and her friend wanted. “Fuck off and die!” shouted the beastly warrior as he shoved Johnny into a row of rubbish bins.

“Hey!” belted Debra. “Who the hell do you think you are pushing a defenseless man like that?!” When the orc refused to listen, the elf grabbed him by the thick wrist and jerked him over for attention. “I’m talking to you, you gigantic sack of shit!”

“Debra, wait!” pleaded Johnny as he picked himself and his guitar off the ground. “That’s Link Rotunda! He’s a cage fighting champion! You’re not going to get any gold from him by calling him a sack of shit! Show some respect!”

Link’s rotten grin coincided with Debra’s fiery glare as the orc said, “That’s better! That’s what I like to see: people taking initiative!” He pointed his sausage index finger at Debra and said, “You could learn something from a guy like him!” The elf hmphed and folded her arms, never releasing her death stare from the gigantic bully. “Now then, where were we? Ah yes! You want some of this gold, sonny boy? You want to eat tonight? You’re going to have to earn it! Forget that stupid hipster guitar! You’re going to dance for your supper!”

“He will do no such thing!” grunted Debra before being held at bay by Link’s massive arm.

“What do you say, you sweet little boy? Are you going to dance or what?” asked Link with a devilish smirk. Despite Debra’s angry protests, Johnny tossed aside his guitar and danced around like a monkey attempting ballet. Link’s throaty laughter caused Debra to hold her face in her hands in sheer embarrassment. “Good one, good one! Now put the garbage can on your head! Do it, monkey boy!”

Sure enough, Johnny heaved a garbage can over himself and danced around some more, Debra shaking her head the entire time and Link laughing it up with a few knee slaps to boot. “How am I doing, Mr. Rotunda?”

“Oh, you’re doing great, my friend! You’re going to be a rich motherfucker in no time at all! Just one more thing and you’ll have all the gold you want! Take off that silly garbage can…and suck my dick!”

The monkey dancing was replaced with a frozen stillness and silent weeping underneath the garbage can. He slowly pulled off the bin and revealed an expression full of shock and despondency. “Is that what you really want, Mr. Rotunda? I’ll do it if that’s what you want.”

“This is bullshit!” shouted Debra as she picked up the fallen rubbish bin and tossed it at Link.

The orc slashed it in half with one wave of his newly unsheathed sword. Garbage scattered across the ground and blew away in the winter breeze. Johnny silently asked Debra what the fuck she was doing and elf stood her ground with clenched fists and a raw attitude.

Meanwhile, Link just laughed it off and said, “I guess you don’t really want hot soup after all. It’s a shame, because I could have given you more soup in that one BJ than any restaurant. It’s saltier too! And tastier! Or so I’ve been told!” Link sheathed his sword, waved goodbye, and chuckled, “Keep saving up!” He turned heel and strutted away until the nighttime shadows covered him completely.

Johnny’s cheeks quivered and his eyes cascaded as he struggled to say, “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done? He was our meal ticket!”

Debra’s angry breathing intensified to where this winter weather could be confused for a boiling summertime hell. She grabbed Johnny by his overcoat and shoved him against a brick wall. “Are you out of your fucking mind?!” raged the elf. “Do you really think he was going to pay you all that money to humiliate yourself like that? Bullshit, he would have disappeared like a fart in the wind! I know you’re a homeless man looking for change, but you should never have to lower yourself like that just for a half ass chance at getting paid! I don’t care if Link Rotunda is the champion of the fucking universe! He’s a bully first and a humanitarian last! How do you think he wins so many of those fights?!”

Johnny snorted loose snot up his nose and swallowed before sobbing, “I’ll take a small chance of getting paid over no chance any day of the week.”

Debra slammed Johnny back first against the wall and raised her fist in the air as though she was ready to knock a few teeth loose. “I should turn that fucking face of yours inside out for saying shit like that! I should rip your brains out through your eye sockets and eat that for dinner instead of some poor man’s soup!”

Johnny De Morgan could feel his insides turning into jelly and his bladder and bowels loosening while anticipating the stinging fist that would eventually shatter his skull into snowflakes. The tension in his stomach made him ill. His skin turned pasty white. He shook harder than when he was struggling for warmth.

And then Debra said, “I’ve got a better idea than that” before showering her victim with a handful of golden coins. Johnny could finally breathe a heavy sigh of relief like a whirlwind of seething pain coming out of his mouth. His elf compatriot brushed his checkerboard coat off and said, “The only way you’ll ever eat with me tonight is if you never pull that shit again. You’re my best friend. I hate seeing you in pain like that. Link was never going to give you those gold coins, so I snatched them from him while he was busy laughing like a fucking hyena.”

Johnny and Debra embraced one another and gave their bodies enough warmth to last through two more winters. It wasn’t just physical warmth that Johnny felt throughout his body. It was that special warm fuzzy feeling of knowing his best friend had his back through thick and thin (even if she did scare the shit out of him). Johnny could picture the bowl of soup sliding down his throat and soothing his frosty wounds. Broccoli cheddar soup from a garlic bread bowl. Thank you, Mr. Rotunda. Thank you so much!

Is That What It Takes?

VERSE 1

No one in this world is untouchable

Even less people are bulletproof

Turning that shit up to eleven

It’s what it takes to smash the glass roof

CHORUS

Is that what it takes to get some fame?

To use the power hungry’s names in vain?

Is that what it takes to climb the ladder?

To be slicker than a load of baby batter?

Is that what it takes to cash my checks?

To be more offensive than bestial sex?

You ignore the rest of my achievements

Gaze into the microscope at my demons!

VERSE 2

If I would have known this years ago

I’d have my own internet radio show

Spewing off at the mouth like dragon fire

While faceless callers label me a liar

CHORUS

Is that what it takes to get some fame?

To use the power hungry’s names in vain?

Is that what it takes to climb the ladder?

To be slicker than a load of baby batter?

Is that what it takes to cash my checks?

To be more offensive than bestial sex?

You ignore the rest of my achievements

Gaze into the microscope at my demons!

VERSE 3

I could apologize until the end of time

I could pay off that heavy ass fine

Drop to my knees and beg you, “Please”

It wouldn’t be enough to wash off the sleaze

You never apologized for your own sins

Throw your death threats in the rubbish bin

Everyone around you is a precious snowflake

The news of your hypocrisy must be so fake

CHORUS

Is that what it takes to get some fame?

To use the power hungry’s names in vain?

Is that what it takes to climb the ladder?

To be slicker than a load of baby batter?

Is that what it takes to cash my checks?

To be more offensive than bestial sex?

You ignore the rest of my achievements

Gaze into the microscope at my demons!

FINAL VERSE

For whatever it’s worth on this scorching earth

I apologize for the very idea of my birth

I don’t mean it, but neither do you

Keep on screaming until your face is blue

50/50 Booking

***50/50 BOOKING***

When you see the title of this blog entry, you’re probably thinking to yourself, “Man, this guy can’t shut up about wrestling!” What can I say? We all have our obsessions. But it’s true: 50/50 booking is a wrestling buzzword. However, it can apply to any piece of fiction regardless of genre. 50/50 booking is when the hero and the villain have an equal number of victories against each other. In terms of wrestling, it makes the entire roster equal to each other and nobody becomes wildly popular. However, in mainstream fiction, it could mean something entirely different.

Most of the time, we’re resigned to the idea that the hero will win in the end and get his just rewards. So if you’re doing 50/50 booking in your novel, then you’re just telegraphing the hero’s victory. What’s one more victory going to mean? It’s even worse when the hero wins all the time and rarely loses, which is why a lot of readers prefer their heroes to be average joes instead of muscle-bound ass-kickers. How do you relate to someone with a constant string of victories?

To use an example from my own novella Occupy Wrestling, Mitch McLeod could technically be accused of having a Gary-Stu win-loss record. While he wins most of his fights, there are other ways in which he’s losing. His relationship with Debra Winter is falling apart, he can’t trust a neutral referee like Rosie Rogers, his allies are getting mauled left and right, he’s no closer to solving the mystery of where these monsters are coming from, and most importantly, his body is breaking down with every “victory”, if you can call them that. Does winning in one department and losing in several others constitute 50/50 booking? You be the judge. Buy a copy of Occupy Wrestling on Amazon today! Okay, that was pretty shameless, I agree.

But then you have scenarios where the villain racks up most of the victories and makes justice for the hero seem impossible. By doing this, you’re definitely giving your hero an obstacle worthy of conquering. But if the villain wins too often, then nobody’s going to believe it when the hero finally achieves victory. The villain could beat the shit out of the hero for an hour and a half, but are you going to believe it if the hero suddenly wins with a knife to the back?

Truth be told, there is no right or wrong answer to the 50/50 debate when it comes to normal fiction as long as the ultimate decision you make is believable and relatable to your audience. If there is a right or wrong answer, I’d love to hear what it is. Obviously, the answer is going to be different depending on who the hero is. Is the hero an average joe or a beefy warrior? Or maybe he’s somewhere in between those two extremes. Maybe while everyone around him has magical powers, he’s just a barroom brawler who’s only fought a handful of times. I’d love to hear your guys’ philosophies on 50/50 booking and how it relates to your personal stories. We’ve got ears, say cheers!

***POISON TONGUE TALES 2: THE RIGHT TO REMAIN PSYCHOTIC***

I’m only one story away from this collection being complete and ready to critique. After “Street Sleeper”, I’m moving onto another novel called “Puberty X Piracy” (whether or not I post those chapters online is up to the admins and their views on extreme sexual content). Until then, here’s the synopsis for Poison Tongue Tales 2’s final story:

CHARACTERS:

1. Johnny De Morgan, Human Busker
2. Link Rotunda, Orc Warrior
3. Debra Lynch, Elf Rogue

PROMPT CONFORMITY: To be announced.

SYNOPSIS: On a snowy winter evening, homeless street musician Johnny is freezing and exhausted as he tries to play songs for cash on his acoustic guitar. His guitar case is shallow with money and his enthusiasm for music is dwindling fast. Link Rotunda, a prizefighter, has just won a massive amount of money during a championship match, so Johnny desperately tries to cater to him with his music. Link laughs at and bullies Johnny while telling him to “get a real job”, much to the anger of fellow homeless beggar Debra Lynch. Link is much bigger and stronger than both of them, but Debra won’t allow Johnny to be pushed around. Johnny still tries to beg for money seeing as how he feels it’s his only real chance at getting a hot meal and a bed that evening.

FUN FACT: Link Rotunda will be the next Dark Fantasy Warrior that I draw. He used to be a Dungeons & Dragons non-player character, but now he’s a short story character who will bring the PTT2 series home.

***TELEVISION DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

VIC MACKEY: Ronnie and I are going to have fed badges, you and queen bitch will be serving double life sentences, and I’ll have full custody of Jackson.

SHANE VENDRELL: You leave my family out of this!

VIC MACKEY: I’ll send you a post card from Space Mountain.

-The Shield-

King of Elves and Trees

Every strike of the axe against the Black Forest trees sent a shiver of rage up and down Saito Kabaka’s spine. The gigantic lumberjack’s swings created the deepest wooshing noises and seemed capable of tearing off a person’s head with one slice. But instead of human heads, the massive battleaxe chipped away quickly and efficiently at the thick redwoods. Saito watched from the bushes with a contorted frown, dying on the inside with every chop. This was ecocide. This was murder. The lumberjack wasn’t just chopping down trees; he was violating the spirits of this very forest.

After a while of nausea and gritted teeth, Saito couldn’t stand idly by any longer. When the elf samurai chucked one of his daggers, he forgot instantly that this man-beast was twice his size and ten times as lethal. The dagger missed its mark, but the flannel shirt and jeans wearing titan stumbled back a few paces and sucked in air at a rapid cadence. Saito’s fiery eyes bore a hole through the giant’s nervous baby blues. Decked out in golden leather armor, donning a glowing green crown of plant roots, and drawing his slender katana, the forest guardian made his presence and fury known.

“I don’t intrude into your home and eat your food. I don’t laze on your bed and fuck your wife. I don’t snatch your valuables from underneath your booger-encrusted schnoz. So why then do you believe it’s acceptable to come to my home and cut down my trees?” asked Saito while pointing his blade at the lumberjack. He slashed at the air and continued his slithery oratory with, “This forest is not your urban dystopia. It doesn’t exist so that you could build fancy hotels and burger joints for overfed human scumbags! Take that piece of shit you call a weapon and leave this place before I rip your intestines out and lynch you with them from the same tree you tried to cut down!”

The baldheaded beast of a man’s eyes darted frantically in every direction while cold sweat poured down his forehead. And then the shtick was over when he laughed his ass off and slapped his thick knees with an echoing thud. “Are you kidding me? A teeny tiny elf like you is going to lynch me with my own intestines? Goddamn, you’re a funny motherfucker!” The yuks poured out of his mouth like verbal diarrhea as he struggled to say, “Listen, man: that environmental bullshit is overrated. Take off that stupid hat; it looks fucking ridiculous on you! You might as well walk around with a salad bowl on your head!”

The lumberjack’s chuckle-filled tirade was cut off by a flying shuriken that narrowly missed his ear. But instead of feigning fear again, he dropped his axe and gave an even less sincere double slap on his cheeks with a wide open mouth.

“Perfect timing, Tifa, as usual,” smiled Saito. Floating down to the dirt like a feather was the silken dress wearing, golden haired female elf counterpart Tifa Croft, armed with claw bracers around her wrists and wearing a plant root crown like her fellow guardian. The two of them shared a peck on the lips much to the overdramatic coughing dismay of the seven-foot lumberjack.

“You guys actually fuck in this forest?” the man giant asked. “Is that how these trees grow, by the two of you sprinkling your seeds all over the ground?”

Tifa folded her arms and treated the lumberjack to a ball-shrinking death stare. “You have the sense of humor of a fucking five year old and probably the intelligence of one too. Saito here is the King of Elves and Trees and I am his Queen. Respect the crowns, you ignorant little shit!”

The lumberjack waved his arm dismissively and scoffed, “Well, I see a whole lot of trees out here, but very many elves, so I guess this ugly ass forest could do with some urban development.” He heaved his axe in the air and pointed at various parts of the forest with his weapon. “We can put a Mickey D’s over there, a Chicas Bonitas over there, and maybe a school all the way over there. You liberal whack jobs like schools, right?”

Saito swung his katana in the air and slithered, “And what do you plan on teaching this new generation of ignoramuses: how to eat a whole bucket of fried chicken in less than thirty seconds? Maybe that’s something you can teach the elves of this forest, who will be here sooner than you think.”

“You’d better hope those little pointy-eared fags run for the hills,” smirked the lumberjack while leaning his face into Saito’s. “I wasn’t planning on committing genocide today, but I just might change my mind if the two of you don’t fuck off and leave me to my work. I’m getting a lot of money for this project and I’ll be damned if you two hippies rip it away from me and my family! Remember the name of Rudiger Seran, but fuck it, you two are going to call me Daddy by the time I’m done with you!”

Rudiger threw the first swing of his axe and would have covered the whole forest in blood if Saito and Tifa didn’t duck out of the way in time. The two elves rolled and flipped their way out of every slash that the giant threw. They bounced off of trees hand in hand and found refuge at the top branches. They smiled down upon Rudiger while the lumberjack shouted, “You two cowards better get your asses down here and fight me before I cut this fucker down!”

Saito whispered in Tifa’s pointy ear, “You’ve got the supplies up here right?”

The lovely assassin brushed her hair away and pulled several pinecones out of an otherwise empty bird nest. She grinned, “It wouldn’t be the same without them.” With a wink, a nod, and a kiss, Tifa threw one of the pinecones down upon an unsuspecting Rudiger. The biomass exploded in a flash bang upon making contact with Mr. Seran’s thick skull. The giant hopped and head-banged in pain while belting every swear word known in the English language.

“You’re the best queen a man could ask for,” grinned Saito as he and Tifa threw more flash bang pinecones down upon their assailant. Rudiger tried to smack some of them away like he was playing baseball and managed to hit a few homers out in the distance. Others bounced off of his massive arms and legs while popping like firecrackers. The mighty Seran had struck out and his body ached with redness and scars. The King and Queen hugged each other and laughed like children.

Bruised skin wasn’t the only reason Rudiger was seeing red. He growled through clenched teeth and smacked himself on the cheek so many times he actually bled. His rage became evident in the way he swung his axe at the tree, ripping larger chunks out of the redwood and creating deeper wooshing noises. “Uh-oh!” Tifa quipped while she and Saito held hands and leapt to the next tree just in time for Rudiger’s ecocidal victim to crash to the ground.

Saito’s heart pounded in his chest like a war drum and the cold wetness of Tifa’s hand brought chills racing through his own body. She shook slightly and prompted the king to ask, “Are you okay, my love?”

“I…I think so,” Tifa stuttered before the branch underneath her cracked and crunched, causing her to drop to the forest ground with a resounding thud  Saito tried to hold out his hand and grab her, but all he could do was yell, “No!” as his wife crashed and burned. She lied there in the dirt breathing heavily and coughing up a geyser of blood.

Rudiger hung his battleaxe over his shoulder and strutted around Tifa with a shit-eating grin. “I guess that vegan diet isn’t helping you lose enough weight. And people call me a fat ass!” joked the lumberjack while slapping his knee and chuckling again.

Watching Rudiger Seran belittle his wife clouded Saito’s mind with scathing, bloody thoughts. As defenseless as she was, she still threw her claws around in the air hoping to hit something. Her weakness multiplied when Rudiger stomped on Tifa’s hand and crunched it so that it sounded more violent than when he whacked down the tree. Her screams of agony and shame echoed throughout the forest and caused nearby birds to fly away in fear. She tried to slash Rudiger’s thick ankles with her other claw, but that got stomped on too until there was just a bloody heap underneath his work boots.

Saito tried to remain calm and wait for his perfect opportunity to stealthily strike. But Tifa’s screams filled his gut with nuclear heat. Rudiger’s arrogant laughter filled his nerves with flaming gasoline. The more his heart pumped diesel, the more he forgot about the importance of his samurai training. With katana firmly grasped in both hands, he screamed like a demon and leapt on top of Rudiger with the intent to slash him in two vertically.

Saito could feel the ground hurtling at him at a million miles per hour. The landing was going to break his ankles, but not nearly as badly as he was going to break every bone in Rudiger’s body. And then the lumberjack swung his axe and snapped Saito in two from the waist down. The elf samurai could hear his wife roaring his name in pain as his vision went black and his wrecked body bounced off the tree with a deafening splat.

Even as what was left of him slid slowly and slimily down the tree, he could recall Rudiger asking in a mocking tone where all of the elves were at. The now pouring rain soothed Saito’s burning wounds, but it was already too late for the King of Elves and Trees.

The plant root crown slipped off of his sloppy skull and buried itself into the earth below. The rain poured down violently enough to represent the emotions of Mother Nature herself. She continued to weep as Rudiger thoughtlessly cut down more and more of her trees with vicious whacks while mocking her with cries of, “Where are your elves now, bitch?!” Tears of ecocidal agony turned into monsoons and floods. The crowns formerly worn by Tifa and Saito were drenched with nutrition as they began to take root underneath the forest.

The more Rudiger laughed his ass off, the more the roots spread across the ground. Even in the chilling rain, the arrogant giant chopped and chopped like his paycheck was that important too him. Trees crashed to the earth with sickening pounds, so much so that Rudiger was almost done with his work. But as he jokingly wiped away forehead sweat, he took a look around him and saw that his work was only just beginning.

“What the fuck?” he whispered as the tree stumps grew even more beautiful plants. Not redwoods, not roses, not berry-covered bushes, but the one species Rudiger kept asking for this entire time. Ask and ye shall receive in the form of naked green-skinned elves with blistering red eyes and thorn-covered swords. One by one they blossomed from the stumps and groaned like an army of zombies. Rudiger dropped his axe and cowered on the soaked ground, shivering for reasons other than the temperature.

The pathetic display did nothing to back off the hungry doppelganger elves as they chanted in monstrous unison, “You will feed us! You will feed us! You will feed us!” They closer they marched, the brighter their neon red eyes glowed and the more Rudiger shivered and quaked in his clumsy body. And then, the King and Queen’s beloved army of avengers dined upon the giant’s flesh like the entire menu at one of the lumberjack’s planned Mickey D’s. Rudiger’s flesh tasted more delicious than chocolate cake, meatier than a twenty-pound steak, and juicier than a bottle of Ocean Spray. So much for that vegan diet that Tifa Croft always enjoyed.