Crawl and Brawl

CHORUS

Ten thousand punches, tenderized lunches

Ten thousand crunches, bones break in bunches

Ten thousand kicks from the six-six-six

Crawl and brawl, bitch, crawl and brawl!

VERSE 1

A super-kick party’s got nothing on this

Ten thousand uppercuts, death match bliss

Taking razor wire and wrapping those fists

Someone’s getting killed, somebody’s pissed

Steel cage couldn’t contain all the bloodshed

A prison riot? We ain’t fucking done yet

Every last dumb shit is waiting to get beaten

Every last dead body is waiting to get eaten

CHORUS

Ten thousand punches, tenderized lunches

Ten thousand crunches, bones break in bunches

Ten thousand kicks from the six-six-six

Crawl and brawl, bitch, crawl and brawl!

VERSE 2

A Florida gator will feast on all the haters

A Burmese tiger will bring the fucking fire

An African rhino will gore you in the gut

Trample your ass into the bubbling mud

You picked the wrong fight for tonight

The holy preacher will speak your last rites

The undertaker will take you to your maker

Crawl and brawl until you all fucking fall

CHORUS

Ten thousand punches, tenderized lunches

Ten thousand crunches, bones break in bunches

Ten thousand kicks from the six-six-six

Crawl and brawl, bitch, crawl and brawl!

VERSE 3

A golden belt means less than a human pelt

A gold medal will not bring the heavy metal

A trophy cup will not make them shut up

Snuggle with severed heads when going to bed

A bloody dream will make your genitals cream

In the real world, they scream like little girls

Only a true warrior can make the world cry

As they watch their heavyweight champions die

FINAL LINES

Crawl and brawl! X4

3:16

The Death Marshal watched over the Black Widow Amphitheater with an omniscient presence, smiling a razor-toothed smile from the hells below. This afternoon Marilyn Manson concert ran as smoothly as venom through a cobra’s victim. The band was onstage bouncing around to the tune of “Irresponsible Hate Anthem”.

The concertgoers below the stage shoved and slammed into each other in a circle pit that could knock over the heaviest of hitters. The scent of alcohol was seductive to Death Marshal’s nostrils. One lady in the pit removed her Stone Cold Steve Austin T-shirt and threw it to the ground in a heavy metal rage. The energy in this outdoor arena lit the Death Marshal’s soul on fire. The god was pleased.

But of course, nothing could be perfect forever. One bad apple always had to ruin the entire bunch. Outside the cemetery-like gates of the spider-shaped arena stood a red-dressed, purple-haired woman with a crucifix around her neck and a sign in her hand that read, “You Must Be Born Again!” She shouted at Manson fans passing through the gates in a shrieking voice that could sell her own metal albums if she so chose. They either ignored her or flipped her the bird on their way in.

“It’s not too late to save your souls!” the woman belted, pointing an elongated fingernail at passersby. “Leave this place and come to church with me! We can go to heaven together! We can experience Jesus’s love for all eternity! You don’t have to burn in hell! Let us pray together! Let’s fight the devil and push his wicked energy out of our souls! We can be pure again! You must be reborn!”

The Death Marshal couldn’t possibly understand why this woman hated everything about this arena so much. Was it the tarantula-shaped structure with the eight legs acting as tunnels to the bleachers and pit? The event staff wearing black hooded robes and steel horns? The red and orange fogged lighting that illuminated the rows and stage? The white makeup and black clothing the concertgoers were proudly wearing? The LGBT flag that someone was waving at the back of the bleachers? The gargoyle statues? The blood-soaked walls? The skulls dangling from the ceiling? The bronze statue of Death Marshal taking up the middle of the seating area?

The screaming continued despite the many middle fingers the zealot received. “Don’t you walk away from me! Don’t you turn your backs on Jesus Christ! He has sent me to punish you all for your sins! This is devil music and it must be stopped! And I am the only one who has the power to stop it! Remember the name of JoJo Tornado, your new savior and hero!”

The passersby suddenly erupted in a fit of laughter. Death Marshal couldn’t help but crack a smile and hee-haw like a demon either. All of this fanatical rhetoric, all of these mystical threats were coming from a woman named…JoJo Tornado. Many fans asked her if that was actually the name her mother gave her. Were the Tornados an extended family? Did it actually say JoJo Tornado on her driver’s license? Could she even drive without getting a DUI charge after drinking the blood of Christ? Concertgoers slapped their knees and buckled over as these thoughts circulated among them. For once, JoJo managed to be more entertaining than the concert itself, no offense to Marilyn Manson.

And then the bright sunny day turned gray and cold as soon as JoJo’s face scrunched up in anger and she threw her sign to the ground. Concertgoers who wore jorts and T-shirts to the show found themselves shivering and hugging themselves for warmth. Icy winds picked up all around the arena, so much so that the band stopped playing and looked confused. JoJo’s eyes rolled back in her head while she waved her arms around in some kind of magical dance, guiding the wind wherever she wanted it.

Hooded bouncers circled around her to try and stop this display, but the wind grew strong enough to shove them all back against the spider-legged arena tunnels. The screams of heavy metal energy turned to screams of childish terror when one of the bouncers was impaled on a stony spike, his spilling innards and shattered ribcage making this dark fantasy paradise look even more frightening.

Fans bolted for any exit they could find, resembling an animalistic stampede where concertgoers were either crushed underneath boots or picked up and slammed by the wind. Marilyn Manson and his group were long gone by then. Anybody who wanted to follow suit in their cars were shit out of luck as the wind picked up vehicles and smashed them into concertgoers and bouncers alike. The concessions stand, which looked like a stony apothecary’s hut, shattered into pebbles at the drop of an SUV, spraying a fountain of beer in the air.

Somewhere during this mad dash towards higher ground, somewhere in this sea of blood, guts, and bones, a stage prop was blown off its hinges and launched like a javelin through the heart of the Death Marshal statue, knocking it over and desecrating the one true guardian of this sacred arena.

Suddenly, the dashing stopped. Horrified looks turned to pity and rage. Concertgoers and bouncers stood still in awe of the act of blasphemy committed against the Death Marshal statue. Marilyn Manson and his band returned to the stage and glared daggers at JoJo Tornado, who in turn looked muddled by this lack of chaos she worked so hard to create. “Does this mean…you all are ready to repent? Will you come with me to the gates of heaven?” She held out her hand in a loving gesture, but nobody would take it.

They were too busy staring at the green smoke that erupted from the hole where Death Marshal’s statue used to be. The statue was supposed to be a seal for the guardian beast. It was supposed to be his sleeping grounds. The god of the arena was supposed to be a mere spectator. But he was wide awake now. A slimy brown hand gripped the ledge of the hole and then another hand followed suit. With one growling jerk, Death Marshal pulled himself out of the pit for all of his followers to see.

There he was. A giant among men. A slime-and-dirt-covered creature wrapped in mummy bandages. A foul-smelling demon whose odor would be enough of a reason to seal him away in the first place. No lips have touched his face. No eyes wanted these permanent stains. No hands wanted his corrosive feel. He looked like the devil himself and it was a label he embraced to the fullest.

“So…this is what Satan looks like,” said JoJo, determined as ever to keep the chaos going. “This is what dark seduction feels like. You all worship this false idol? You dare use the lord’s name in vain for this prophet? Then I know how what I must do. I must exorcise this beast once and for all!”

Death Marshal’s murky boots slapped against the stone ground as he rushed towards JoJo with his arms outstretched, like he wanted to wrap his mile-long digits around her pencil neck. But the wind held him in place. The dark clouds opened up and unleashed another gust of holy energy. Death Marshal threw punches and braced himself against the aeromancy, but it was no use. Even a creature with his godly strength succumbed to getting bounced off the edge of the stage and nearly knocked unconscious. His omnipresent vision faded in and out of blackness. He really was about to meet God, albeit in a puddle of his own necromantic sludge.

“Is that all you’ve got?” asked JoJo. “Is this finally proof that God’s will conquers all? Ha! Too easy!”

Pain shot through Death Marshal’s nearly cracked spine as he crawled across the ground, dragging pieces of sloppy flesh and chipped bones across the stony surface. He reached out for something. What was it? A fan’s ankle? An angel’s hand? The devil’s weapons? No. It was the Stone Cold Steve Austin T-shirt the female fan threw on the ground earlier. That fan now had an SUV crushing her bones, but her spirit lived on…as did the spirit of the Texas Rattlesnake himself. A demonic mouth opened up in Death Marshal’s palm and it consumed the woman’s T-shirt, both making JoJo shiver in disgust and the concertgoers and bouncers watch in awe and wonder.

With bones creaking and mummy wrapping tearing, Death Marshal staggered to his feet and gazed at his surroundings with blurry vision. And then he remembered why his vision was so blurry. Not because of the force of the wind slamming him against the stage. But because…he was drunk. The Budweiser flowing through his veins ignited his soul. The fans in attendance suddenly believed in their hero again with chants of “Austin! Austin! Austin! Austin!”

And then, with a stomp of his foot and a thrash of his arms, Death Marshal shouted in a familiar southern accent, “Austin 3:16 says I just whipped your ass!” The fans cheered their heads off and the band couldn’t help but smile a little bit.

JoJo Tornado scowled at her opponent and said, “Such fowl language will not be tolerated in the house of the lord! Take THAT!” She blew a gust of wind at Death Marshal and sent him flying over to the shattered beer stand. But instead of cracking his skull against the ground, he grabbed onto the beer hose and started drinking out of it like he was dying of thirst in a desert country.

After releasing a toxic burp that contributed to global warming, Death Marshal aimed the hose at JoJo and splashed her with a stream of beer. She was knocked over on her ass and scrambled to get back up, but couldn’t. The beer spray was too powerful for her, not unlike her wind magic. She even rolled backwards several feet and got some of it in her mouth. The beer stream couldn’t last forever, but it didn’t matter anymore. JoJo was soaked head to toe in alcohol. Her dress nearly fell off several times. And everyone cheered all around her.

Death Marshal stomped over to his drunken opponent, the fans parting like the Red Sea. JoJo struggled to stay on her feet despite nothing spraying her anymore. She burped, slurred her words, and actually made more sense than when she was picketing outside the gates. In that familiar southern accent, the mummy guardian said, “Don’t take this ass-whopping personally, son!” Two middle fingers later, he kicked her in the stomach and smashed her jaw over his shoulders as he dropped on his ass, or as the WWE would call it, a Stone Cold Stunner.

As fans cheered and roared all around him, Death Marshal held two middle fingers to the sky and rattled his head like the badass he was. Some of the crowd threw him cans of beer and he chugged them down within seconds, swimming in a sea of drunkenness. After another burp that rocked the arena, he said, “If you want to see me set this bitch on fire and send her straight to hell, give me a hell yeah!”

“HELL YEAH!” echoed the fans.

Death Marshal grabbed hold of JoJo’s ankle and dragged the dizzy and confused zealot back to the hole in the ground where he came from. The statue was busted. The magic was exposed. This venue probably wouldn’t make money again given the reckless nature of what happened today. But at least he could get all the sleep he wanted. As a final gesture of goodwill to their dark fantasy guardian, one of the fans slowly raised his hands in the air like another familiar WWE wrestler and threw them down on cue with flames bursting from the hole in the ground. In response, Death Marshal burped and threw the slime-covered T-shirt back up to the surface.

The magic was gone and soon everyone realized just how fucked up all of this was. Many fans and bouncers were still dead, vehicles were smashed every which way, stage and arena props were strewn all about. Not even the all mighty Death Marshal could bring them all back together. This sucked. This sucked badly. A heavy metal concert had turned into a day of trauma and death for those who just wanted a good time. Religious wars never did anybody any good. Two deities waged war and it was the public who paid the price. Marilyn Manson’s lyrics knew all about this phenomenon, oddly enough.

Bouncing Between Fantasy and Contemporary

***BOUNCING BETWEEN FANTASY AND CONTEMPORARY***

Whenever I’m trying to decide what’s next to write, I always ask myself what I’m not writing enough of or what I’m writing too much of. I’ll go through entire phases where I write just contemporary or just gory fantasy on-and-off. In 2018 alone, I’ve written three first draft novels that could be classified as drama. Silent Warrior is a high school drama that takes place in the present day and Incelbordination would also fall under the educational category.

Beautiful Monster? Well, that technically could be classified as a fantasy since it had elves, but there’s no magic system. Plus, the focus of the story was more about Windham’s PTSD rather than a mystical journey of sorts. I guess Beautiful Monster would be more of a drama than a fantasy in that respect, though one could debate that it falls under magical realism.

What about 2019? What have I written since January of this year? American Darkness 3 stories, yes, of course. I’ve rewritten Beautiful Monster from the ground up and I still consider it to be more drama than fantasy. Emilio & Marigold could technically be a fantasy by virtue of the lead villain being a giant who lives in the clouds. But in reality, that was more dramatic than fantastic as well since I’ve basically turned the story into one big debate over soft vs. hard parenting.

Commonsense would dictate that the genre of a story shouldn’t matter to me as long as the story itself is a compelling and entertaining read. Maybe I have done pretty well for myself with these dramas I’ve written over the last year and a half. But here’s where it starts to get tricky. Because I’ve been away from the fantasy genre for so long, I’ve found myself…I don’t want to say losing interest, because that will always be my bread and butter. It’s just that I haven’t had enough fantasy material in my diet, that’s all. When a muscle in your body doesn’t get enough exercise, it atrophies. Same thing goes for interest in the fantasy genre.

Another reason for me wanting to get back into the fantasy genre seems petty on the surface until you consider I’ve been a trusting fan of this celebrity for over a decade prior to his live TV rant. Of course, I’m talking about Bill Maher. I recently gave up watching his shows. I don’t even watch his New Rules segments on You Tube anymore. My loss of love for him has been a long time coming, with his many prejudiced statements about millennials, transsexuals, Middle Easterners, feminists, fat people, and other groups of people being prominent reasons why.

But then he threw a huge hissyfit about people who enjoy Stan Lee’s work, labeling them as “immature” and “idiotic”. Superheroes, fantasy creatures, and sci-fi adventures are my livelihood and Bill Maher just shit all over it because he’s a crabby old Baby Boomer. Getting back into the fantasy genre just to piss him off? Good enough reason for me! Goodbye, Bill Maher. You used to be cool, now you’re just a shitty old man. I’m a geeky millennial and I’m proud of it!

So…what kinds of things could I start writing again now that I’m awaiting the right opportunity to have Beautiful Monster critiqued? Well, I don’t want to work on a full-blown novel right away, because I’ll have my hands full with editing the shit out of this new version of Beautiful Monster. Plus, I’m not quite done getting Emilio & Marigold into tiptop shape. What about short stories? Poison Tongue Tales 3? Sure, I can do that! In fact, here’s a synopsis for what will be my contest entry for the WSS this week. It’s called “3:16” and it’s for a “Black Widow” prompt.

CHARACTERS:

1. Death Marshal, Mummy Hammer Fighter
2. JoJo Tornado, Human Aeromancer
3. Marilyn Manson and His Band
4. Audience and Bouncers

PROMPT CONFORMITY: The venue is called The Black Widow Amphitheater and it has a dark fantasy gimmick, complete with bouncers in hooded robes and Halloween lighting.

SYNOPSIS: A Marilyn Manson concert is taking place at an outdoor festival, which prompts conservative wizard JoJo to try and knock the electricity out with her wind magic. Her reckless spell casting causes her to tip over a stage prop onto the statue grave of an ancient creature known as Death Marshal, thus waking the angry beast from his sleep. Because Death Marshal is a mummy, he inherits knowledge and wisdom on the fly. He picks up a discarded Stone Cold Steve Austin T-shirt and takes on the Bionic Redneck persona as he “stomps a mud hole” into JoJo and “walks it dry”.

It’d be worth it just to watch Bill Maher shit his pants. Then again, he does that enough already, which is why he probably wears Depends underneath his Men’s Warehouse suit every time he goes on TV. Is “3:16” the most philosophically powered story I’ve ever written? Will it make you question life? No! It’s just for fucking fun! Enjoy yourselves! I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight! By the way, my sign-off phrase is what the narrator says in the closing credits for Tales From the Dark Side, another TV show that is likely to trigger Bill Maher. Man, I’m really letting him have it tonight! Goddamn, that feels good!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“I have seen the mystics play there once or twice, but I knew they had a reason. Enchantment plays its cards all right. Hand in hand with the workings of the season. Legends can be now and forever teaching us to love for goodness sake. Legends can be now and forever loved by the sun. Two and two go so close together whether there is hope that is torn apart. In the words of all that’s singing. Hand in hand, the beginning is at the start. Legends can be now and forever teaching us to reach for goodness sake. Legends can be now and forever loved by the sun. Who sings of all of love’s eternity? Whose shines so bright in all the songs of love’s unending spells? Only lightning strikes all that’s evil, teaching us to love for goodness sake. Hear the music of love eternal teaching us to reach for goodness sake. Legends can be now and forever teaching us to love for goodness sake. Sweet songs of youth. The wise. The meeting of all wisdom. To believe in the good in man.”

-Tangerine Dream singing “Loved By the Sun”, another piece of art that will drive Bill Maher bat shit insane-

***POST-SCRIPT***

Remember a blog entry I wrote months ago about my Muse of the Year for 2019? I thought it was going to be Dita Von Teese. I thought she was going to bring my creativity to new heights. But then I just ran back into the proverbial arms of 2018’s MotY, Sarah-Jane Redmond, who played Lucy Butler on the 1990’s TV show Millennium. Hey, there’s another show that will make Bill Maher’s head explode! It’s technically in the thriller category, but it has occult elements in it, such as Lucy Butler being a demon from hell who only uses her human form to seduce men into doing awful things.

Toll Free Call

VERSE 1

It’s a toll free call in a free country

Please give us all of your hush money

Don’t lawyer up or try anything funny

Or we’ll be Elmer Fudd to your Bugs Bunny

VERSE 2

It’s a toll free call from Synchrony Bank

“Of course!” said a Young Turk named Cenk

Preying on the poor like it’s some kind of war

It’s really getting old, let’s go ahead and snore

VERSE 3

It’s a toll free call from Washington State

The kind that will stimulate your rage and hate

Don’t you wish you could reach through the phone

And snap the robo caller’s pencil neck bone?

VERSE 4

It’s a toll free call from the Russian president

Or a North Korean dictator that hell has sent

Or a Saudi Arabian prince who wants to convince

You to vote against your wishes in words not minced

VERSE 5

Rip the goddamn cable right out of the wall

And never ever get another toll free call

Tell your phone company they can suck a big one

If they want to go to war, then have some bloody fun

The Big Kids

VERSE 1

Face Book liars who never retire

Instagram trolls looking for holes

Twitter tough guys in disguise

Big kids, big dicks, Heisman prize

Pushing skinny geeks to the ground

Reading their poetry in public out loud

Trolling them online all the damn time

Big trucks, big nuts, excused from crime

CHROUS 1

You are!

The big kids!

The hot shits!

The jock twins!

VERSE 2

All you motherfuckers look exactly the same

With your internet perfection and easy fame

Violent pranks played on those of lower rank

Suicidal wet dreams for the victims it seems

Black belts, letter jackets, everything you want

Money, cheerleaders, whatever you can rob

Counting down the days until summer vacation

We take out our aggression on the Playstation

EXTENDED CHROUS 1

You are!

The big kids!

The hot shits!

The jock twins!

You are!

The jarheads!

The well-fed!

The hand-led!

VERSE 3

Gamer Gate sexism turned up to eleven

Guaranteed your own cloud in the heavens

Guaranteed the keys to your own kingdom

Glass ceiling fantasy for those beneath it

Guaranteed a job for life on the cop squad

Even when we prove you’re just a fraud

Even when the corpses continue to mount

Even when this country starts to go south

EXTENDED CHROUS 2

You are!

The big kids!

The hot shits!

The jock twins!

You are!

The rich pricks!

The big dicks!

The groin kicks!

VERSE 4

Now you’re all alone with a fucking concussion

Everything you read might as well be in Russian

You burned all the bridges, betrayed your bitches

Nobody is left to help you remove your stitches

Football, trucks, money, and booze

Girls, weapons, so sure you’ll never lose

Shallow values and deep graves

You had it all, yet continued to crave

CHORUS 2

You are!

A dead soul!

An asshole!

Left in the cold!

FINAL LINES

The big kids! X4

El Perfecto

VERSE 1

Getting it right on the very first try

Is setting the bar way too fucking high

Black widow parents feeding kids venom

How to score A’s, how to get into heaven

El Perfecto is an out of reach nickname

Anything below that is all a big shame

No time to play, learn how to pray

That your belt bruises will go away

CHORUS

El Perfecto! X4

VERSE 2

Landing a career as a big shot executive

A hot shit CEO who nobody messes with

Is a privilege for those with money and power

A right for those with their name on a tower

Landing a career jockeying a cash register

Is more than just an old political metaphor

It’s a way of life for those who cannot buy

Their way into a private jet flying in the sky

CHORUS

El Perfecto! X4

BRIDGE

Stressed out! You don’t know what to do

So a gun to your skull is what you choose

Stressed out! You don’t know who to trust

In a world where nobody really gives a fuck

Stressed out! You don’t know how to relax

There are so many knives in so many backs

Stressed out! The oligarchy rules your life

They don’t know what it’s like to want to die

VERSE 3

You swear you’ll take a day off next Monday

But your broken down body has become mundane

You swear you’ll see a doctor next Tuesday

But the prices were jacked up twice today

You swear you’ll get married next Wednesday

But you couldn’t satisfy her on your best day

You swear you’ll end the cycle soon enough

But that hollow sunken belly is yours to stuff

CHORUS

El Perfecto! X4

"Siren Slave" by Aurora Styles

BOOK TITLE: Siren Slave

AUTHOR: Aurora Styles

YEAR: 2014

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Erotic Fantasy

GRADE: Pass

Princess Freya masquerades as a loyalist of Roman culture while simultaneously feeding their military secrets to a band of pirate rebels led by Siegfried the Fox, whom she has a massive crush on. She also discovers herself to be a fey creature with magical powers that will help her in her quest. But without full knowledge of how to use those powers, she succumbs to kidnapping at the hands of druid assassins and needs to be rescued by Siegfried. Soon after, the two of them form a master/slave relationship that angers every close-minded conformist who can’t understand BDSM culture. Even Siegfried has doubts from time to time, but he’s determined to do everything in his power to make this relationship work. Freya is determined as well; it was her idea, after all.

Because this book falls under the erotica section, there’s an obligation to deliver when it comes to sexy scenes. While I won’t say exactly what these scenes entail, I will tell you that your wildest fantasies will come true whether you’re living vicariously through Siegfried or Freya. And the best part of their relationship? Despite being a master/slave dynamic, it’s actually healthier than most “normal” relationships out there. They both want this. They both hunger for this. They’re perfect for each other, which is more than I’ll ever say about the Christian Greys and Anastasia Steeles of the erotica genre. The sex can seem a little rough at times, but it’s rough in a good way and not in an uncomfortably cringey way. Aurora Styles knows her stuff!

You know what else she knows all about? Creating a likeable protagonist in the form of Freya. Her knack for puns, alliteration, and snappy one-liners make her dialogue a joy to read. She’s not quirky for the sake of being quirky; her humor is authentic. Any man would be lucky to have her company, let alone Siegfried the Fox. But if you think sober Freya is a lot of fun to be around, try getting her drunk on blueberry ale or white wine. Or better yet, give her one of Hedwig’s not-so-carefully concocted potions. Yes, Freya is clumsy and silly, but those flaws don’t detract from her being a likeable character. As a writer myself, I envy Aurora Styles’s ability to pull that off.

Last thing I want to touch on is the creatively-woven fantasy elements this story has. Freya discovers her ability to turn into a dragon/swan/mermaid and that alone is impressive. She’s also nifty with a trident and she can manipulate blood. These abilities don’t make her a Mary-Sue, though, because she’s just as vulnerable as any other character in the story. Plus, she struggles to master these powers completely, especially when each villain is more difficult to fight than the last. But not to worry, because Hedwig the Sea Witch has her potions and seductive magic, Siegfried has his stag transformation and magical panpipes, Hecate and Balor have their own demonic powers, and Woden…well, he’s just a muscle-bound stud with a massive spear and no need to wear anything but a loincloth in freezing weather. All of these characters round each other out with their powers and their unique personalities.

While there are some typos scattered here and there and the mythology is hard to keep track of at times, Siren Slave was an enjoyable read from start to finish. It’s a thick book with long chapters, but they go by so fast because of how easy it is to get lost in the action, violent, dramatic, and sexual. Aurora Styles will get a passing grade for her efforts. This book definitely took a lot of hard work and she should be rewarded for that. Congratulations on the four out of five stars! Don’t let the haters get you down!

The Human Hotdog

BEEP! “Principal Simon? Spencer Pyle is here to see you. It’s not good.”

Quinn Simon sighed. “Send him up.” He pulled a bottle of wine out of his desk drawer and took a few quick sips before putting it back where it belonged. He held the bridge of his nose for what seemed like forever. “What could he possibly want now?” he asked to nobody in particular. This would have been the perfect opportunity to venture into the dreamscape and bypass this unnecessary meeting with the anti-LGBT blogger. Or better yet, it would be a good time to put a gun to his own head and pull the trigger. Different dreamscape, same avoidance of responsibilities.

There was a loud knock at his door and before Quinn had the chance to allow him in, Spencer Pyle burst into the room on his own. The activist’s creepy face quivered with anger. His horseshoe hair seemed to be reverberating with every tremble. And yet, Principal Simon couldn’t be upset anymore. In fact, he smiled when he saw the reason for Spencer’s silent rage: he was covered head to toe in mustard and ketchup, like a human hotdog.

As Quinn struggled to keep his laughter in, Spencer crossed his arms and said, “I’m glad you think this is hilarious, Principal, and I use that term loosely. If this had happened to any one of your PC millennial students, you’d file an anti-bullying report. But since it’s someone who doesn’t agree one hundred percent with your own political views, then I guess it’s pure comedy.”

“I don’t condone violence or harassment of any sort, don’t get me wrong,” said Quinn as he waved his hand defensively. “But if you really want me to punish harassment, I should start by punishing you.”

Spencer slammed his palm on the desk and yelled, “I’ve been punished enough already! You see this suit? It’s going to cost a fucking fortune to get it cleaned! I’m not wearing a Men’s Warehouse piece of shit like you are! I actually pay for the things that I own! I live like a capitalist every day!”

“Fine, then go live like a capitalist at the dry cleaners and hold up your homophobic signs there.”

Sticking a finger in Quinn’s face, Spencer raged, “Colleges are supposed to be places of free speech. They’re supposed to be places where big ideas can thrive. And now your sensitive snowflake students think it’s okay to squirt condiments all over people they have minor disagreements with! You’re doing a great disservice to this generation! You’re turning them into entitled brats!”

Maintaining calmness under fire, Quinn folded his hands on his desk and said, “You have the right to say whatever you want, I agree. Your first amendment rights guarantee you that. However, the first amendment protects you from the LEGAL consequences of free speech, not the social ones. You have the right to speak your mind, but you don’t have the right to be popular. If you had to like everyone’s point of view, that would defeat the purpose of first amendment rights to begin with. You’re not the only one who has free speech rights, Mr. Pyle.”

As soon as Spencer grabbed Quinn’s suit jacket, that was when the principal’s grace under fire gave way to minor nervousness. “Squirting hotdog sauces on people is not considered free speech, you idiot. It’s assault. I’m pressing charges against every single one of those students and you’re going to help me identify them!”

“Assault?” Quinn chuckled. “I don’t see a scratch on you. I’m sorry, but ketchup doesn’t count as real blood.”

“It’s still assault, you jackass! I’m taking them all down! And I’ll take you down with them! You see, I’ve got sources on the inside who’ve told me some interesting things about you. They’re telling me that you purposefully distributed those ketchup and mustard bottles just for this occasion.”

“Really? Who are your sources?”

“I don’t have to tell you my sources. I’m a journalist.”

Quinn batted Spencer’s hand away. “Two things. One, you’re not a real journalist. You’re a blogger with a god complex. There’s a difference. And two, citing sources is something we ask of our students all the time when they write expository essays. When they make certain points, the teachers want to be able to fact check them. If the teachers have nothing to fact check, then the students will get F’s. I’m merely fact checking you, Mr. Pyle, that’s all. So who are your sources?”

Instead of giving a definitive answer, Spencer gave Principal Simon a mustard-drenched middle finger.

“I understand,” said Quinn. “So your sources could literally be anybody as far as I know. They could be other students. They could be faculty. They could be secretaries. Or they could be completely summoned from thin air. Your sources could be Mickey Mouse and Hulk Hogan for all I know. Please say your sources aren’t Mickey Mouse and Hulk Hogan.”

With clenched teeth, Spencer said, “They’re not Mickey Mouse and Hulk Hogan. They’re real people.”

“I’m sure they are,” said Quinn sarcastically. “But until you tell me who they are so that I can fact check you, I’m just going to assume that you’re another crazy right-winger peddling conspiracy theories at random. I’ve heard them all and I’m sure I’ll hear more. Barack Obama was born in Kenya. 9/11 was an inside job. Windmills give you cancer. And Principal Quinn Simon is willing to sacrifice a good-paying job just so he can squirt condiments on some bush league blogger who can only win debates by raising his voice.”

“You do want to silence me, Principal. I know you do. That’s why you’re asking me to name my sources, so that you can suspend them or expel them. Wouldn’t want any free thinkers on your campus. They’re not good for your agenda. Besides, if you know full well you didn’t do it, then why do you need to fact check yourself?”

“The burden of proof is on you, Mr. Pyle. You’re the one crazy enough to peddle these conspiracy theories. You’re the one who believes them to your core. If you can’t provide me with proof, then I suggest you leave my office before I call campus security.”

Spencer swatted Quinn’s phone off the desk, instilling even more wide-eyed, shiver-inducing fear in the normally stalwart principal.

Holding his hands up and quivering through his speech, Quinn said, “Take it easy, Mr. Pyle. You said yourself you don’t condone assault. Think about what you’re doing. You don’t want to contradict yourself, do you?”

“You’ve contradicted yourself enough times already, Principal Simon,” growled Spencer. “You don’t give a damn about free speech. You don’t give a damn about my wellbeing or my rights. You don’t give a damn about this country. So what if I don’t like gay people? Does that make me an evil person? Not in the least. I’m doing God’s work. You and your students are on a one-way ticket straight to hell. But hey, you can at least take your condiments with you and roast your weenies over all those open flames. Roasting hotdogs without a barbecue. That sounds like a party to me.”

Quinn was on the verge of shitting his pants upon gazing deeper into Spencer’s psychotic zealot eyes. They were wide. They were bloodshot. They stared daggers into Quinn’s so-called non-existent soul. “You know what?” he stammered. “Here, have something to drink.” With his hands occupied in the drawer, he opened the wine and mixed something in the liquid before pulling out the bottle.

Spencer folded his arms and smiled at his own intimidation tactics. “I had no idea you were allowed to drink on campus, Principal Simon. And here I thought that shit was banned after Brock Turner got his twenty minutes of action.”

“Please, just take a drink and calm down. Your voice is probably dry after all that screaming.”

Spencer yanked the bottle out of Quinn’s hand and chugged half of it before slamming it on the desk. “Oh, that’s some good tasting shit! Nice sparkling red wine. A little too bitter for my tastes, but that’s pretty much what you can expect from all alcoholic beverages.” The sounds of Spencer’s stomach grumbling echoed throughout the room. “Oh dear god…where’s your bathroom?”

“Down the hall and to the left.”

As soon as Spencer booked it towards the bathroom, one of Principal Simon’s secretaries entered with concern on her face, especially after seeing the multi-lined phone laying on the floor. There were also ketchup and mustard stains on Quinn’s own suit jacket, in the shape of someone’s hand, no less. “Is everything alright, sir?” she asked.

“Call the police, Betty. Spencer Pyle’s going berserk. Do it on your smart phone. We need to get everyone out of here before he’s done using the bathroom.”

Quinn’s plan worked like a charm. The most anal activist on the planet was unplugged with Imodium AD. Quinn could be pretty anal too sometimes, but not enough to need the entire packet of pills.

Hokey Tonk

VERSE 1

If you want to be a real American hero

You need to sign up for the Big Ass War

The number of terrorists alive will be zero

They’ll all explode like July the Fourth

VERSE 2

If you don’t have a Social Security number

It means you were born in the back of a truck

Working through sickness will quench your hunger

This is America and here we don’t give a fuck

VERSE 3

If you want to own a big fucking machinegun

You have to be whiter than the Ku Klux Klan

Just pull the trigger and have an ass-load of fun

Teach your son to shoot so he can be a big man

VERSE 4

If you think this song is anything but a joke

You’re less educated than the state of Alabama

Blind patriotism is nothing more than a hoax

Especially when the racist judge bangs his hammer

FINAL LINE

Yee-haw, bitches! Roll Tide!

Whatever the fuck that means…

Prisoner of My Own Mind

VERSE 1

This ain’t no dreamscape, I need an escape

A vacation from my self-destructive fate

My mind is a prison, my soul is the warden

My empty eyes have the stare of a gorgon

Every detail is chosen for me in advance

Who will I befriend? With whom will I dance?

When do I get to express my creative freedom?

When do I get to win this war on my demons?

CHORUS

I’m a prisoner of my own mind

The life sentence is always mine

I’m a prisoner of my own soul

Orange suit slave is my only role

VERSE 2

A permanent lock that slows down the clock

Another head for the executioner’s chopping block

Another statistic on a government pie chart

Another nightmare that tears me the fuck apart

CHORUS

I’m a prisoner of my own mind

The life sentence is always mine

I’m a prisoner of my own soul

Orange suit slave is my only role

BRIDGE

Life sentence or death sentence?

Witness testimony or DNA evidence?

Solitary confinement or general population?

Another day of psychological taxation

EXTENDED CHORUS

I’m a prisoner of my own mind

The life sentence is always mine

I’m a prisoner of my own soul

Orange suit slave is my only role

I’m sitting in the electric chair

A head scalped of all its hair

Freedom, take me to a better place

Where everything’s at a slower pace

Bipolar Rock n' Roller

MOVIE TITLE: Bipolar Rock n’ Roller

DIRECTOR: Haris Usanovic

YEAR: 2018

GENRE: Sports Documentary

RATING: TV-MA for language

GRADE: Extra Credit

Canadian farm boy Mauro Ranallo wanted to be a sports announcer since he was just a little kid. With unlimited energy and an infectious attitude, he was a perfect fit from an early age. However, the stresses of fame along with the death of his best friend Michael caused him to have a breakdown when he was nineteen years old. He was later diagnosed with bipolar disorder, a mental illness that hospitalized him eight times over his lifespan. He still tried to maintain an announcing career despite his ups and downs. In today’s world he is a much-appreciated part of WWE NXT’s commentary team. The Wrestling Observer Newsletter has awarded him Best Television Announcer from 2015 through 2017 and it’s easy to understand why: his passion is genuine and his energy is unstoppable.

You don’t have to be a sports junkie in order to appreciate Mauro Ranallo’s struggles. Bipolar disorder and mental illness in general is a life sentence for all it affects. Even with medication, exercise, therapy, and doing all the right things, you can still have high days and low days. Some days you feel like you can take on the world and other days you just want to stay in bed and never wake up again. Watching Mauro have a depressive episode where he cries is heartbreaking. You feel for this man. You want him to get better. You want him to live the life he’s always wanted to live. Every failure and every rock bottom moment will hit you hard. If it doesn’t, you need to have your pulse checked. My brother and I both suffer from mental illnesses and Mauro’s episodes are all too familiar, whether it’s the tiredness, the crying, or the suicidal thoughts. Nobody wants to see Mauro Ranallo commit suicide, but he came very close to doing so on several occasions.

But on the other side of his long and exhausting journey is a light at the end of the tunnel. By virtue of conquering his demons and doing what he loves most for a living, Mauro Ranallo is an inspiration to us all. If he can follow his passions, the rest of us can too. If he can open up about his struggles, we all should be taking notes. He reminds us over and over again that people with mental illness are not alone in this world. We’re not crazy. We’re not stereotypes. We’re living, breathing human beings and three-dimensional characters. If we have to do art therapy to get through our days, then so be it. If we have to take medication, it has to be done. If we have to find a place to live where marijuana is legal, by all means, go for it. If you can see tomorrow, you must be doing something right.

Mauro Ranallo was not a perfect human being growing up. His behavior made a lot of people angry from coworkers to family members to his ex-girlfriend. But hearing his story from beginning to end gives humanity to all the “crazy” behavior. I love three-dimensional people. I love it when the ordinary becomes the extraordinary. I love it when the underdog can conquer it all, which is really what sports like MMA and pro-wrestling are all about, really. For those reasons, Bipolar Rock n’ Roller gets an extra credit grade. We love you, Mauro. Don’t ever doubt yourself again.

Smells Like a Brewery

“The director will be here really soon, guys, really soon!” said Riley Steel with limited conviction as she stared at her watch. Putting on a red cocktail dress and high heeled sandals for nothing wasn’t her idea of a productive day. She tapped her foot while other crew members and actors milled around waiting for their director to come. The stage was all set. Everyone was ready to go. “Where the hell is he?” And then the repugnant odor of alcohol assaulted her nostrils like a boxing champion’s knockout uppercut. “Oh no,” said Riley while shaking her head in shame.

Fashionably late, Director Devon Rollins came staggering into the studio with a beer bottle in one hand and a whole lot of nothing in the other. This was what his cinematic masterpiece Marble Halls meant to him. This was what he signed a contract for: so that he could show up whenever he wanted to in ridiculously baggy clothes, disheveled brown hair, stubble on his face, and a beer stench that could be whiffed from space.

Devon stood in front of his director’s chair and hummed while battering his lips up and down with his index finger. In the most offensively ableist voice imaginable, he said, “Why’s…everybody…always picking…on…me?” He took a seat in his chair and fell on the back of his neck, much to the shock and horror of everyone on set.

“Good God almighty,” said Riley with shock in her eyes as she watched Devon struggle to get up and reposition his chair.

He got an A for effort, but then stumbled over the chair again and just laid on the floor defeated and dizzy. Throughout all of his drunken posturing, he still managed to keep his beer bottle in his hand. Another A for effort for an acting job that was surely an acquired taste, just like the alcohol that he was smashed on.

Riley’s lips curled with anger as she kicked off her uncomfortable heels and marched over to her drunken director. She kneeled down and grabbed him by his Star Wars T-shirt before shaking and slapping the shit out of him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?! You smell like a goddamn brewery! We’ve been waiting for you since ten-thirty this morning!”

Burping and slurring his words, Devon said, “I can’t do this anymore, Linda” before dunking his head backwards and falling asleep.

Riley growled before grabbing her director’s greasy hair and slamming his head against the floor once just to wake him up. After Devon yelled to indicate he was awake, his actress tore into him some more. “It’s Riley, not Linda, you idiot! Pull yourself together, for god’s sake!”

“Sure thing, Tina!” said Devon with an obnoxious burp and a thumbs up.

Riley shook her head and watched as actors and crew members filed out of the studio, not wanting any more of Devon’s shit. “Are you happy now?” she asked rhetorically. “Look at them! They’re walking out on you and I should probably do the same thing. The only thing keeping me from doing so is a little something called a contract. You know, that thing you sign which legally binds you to work on Marble Halls. This is your project, Devon! You have to do it professionally! Otherwise, we’re screwed!”

Devon took a few moments to catch his breath, which still reeked worse than a frat boy’s asshole after doing a tampon chug. “Divas…you’re all divas…”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nobody will do what I say, Tiffany. I give them one direction and they tell me no like they’ve got a choice. I’m the director. I call the shots! If I have to be a North Carolina dictator, then so be it!” Devon ended his rant with another burp, this time with liquid bubbling up in his throat.

Riley made a disgusted face. “So that’s why you started drinking? Because nobody will do what they’re told? In case you hadn’t noticed, Marble Halls is a team effort. It’s not just a bunch of people doing what they’re told. We have input. We have feelings. We have reservations. For example…do you remember that day I refused to do a nude scene for you?”

“Yeah…I remember…you’re a diva too, Rebecca. It’s part of the script. If the script says take your clothes off, then you take your clothes off.”

Riley folded her arms. “Yeah, the script does say that. The script, by the way, that you wrote from beginning to end, by yourself, with no criticism from others. If anybody has the power to negotiate with his own actors, it’s you. Besides, why does that script even need a nude scene anyways? How does it advance the story? Are you sure you didn’t just put it in there because you don’t know how internet porn works?”

“…Ouch, Ronda. Very, very ouch…”

“Truth hurts, doesn’t it?”

“No, I actually mean ouch. Get your knee off my gut!”

Riley stood up and backed away just in time to watch Devon spit up a fountain of barf, covering his own face and chest in biological sludge. He breathed heavily after that while his lead actress could only look on in pity. She shook her head. “Go home, Devon. You’re drunk. Nobody wants to be around you right now. Just go home and sleep it off. We’ll pick up again tomorrow and hopefully you’ll be sober by then.”

“But…what about that contract thingamabob? Isn’t the executioner producer going to be pissed?” Another burp erupted from Devon’s mouth as did a wad of bile.

“To be honest, I’ll take my chances with the EXECUTIVE producer. I’m sure he’ll give me a way out of my contract after what you did today. Besides, if anybody is getting blamed for all of this, it’s you, Mr. North Carolina dictator!” She picked up her heels and tried to leave the studio.

“Wait!” mumbled Devon as he clutched his actress’s ankle. “Don’t go! I…I…”

“You what? You want me to convince the cast and crew to come back? You want me to convince the executive producer not to blacklist or sue your ass? Let go of my damn ankle, Harvey Weinstein!”

“No, that’s not what I meant!” Devon coughed and got some acidic spittle on Riley’s bare foot. “I mean…I need someone to drive me home.”

“I’ll call you a taxi.”

“No…I want you to be the one who drives me.”

Riley scoffed. “Yeah, like I’m going to let you stink up my nice Volvo with your beer and vomit breath. You can sleep on the floor for all I care.”

“Wait! Wait, please…I’m not looking for a way home…I want you to take me to Paradise Rehab.”

Riley’s expression softened as she kneeled down beside her director. “You want to check into rehab?”

“I do…I really do…listen to me just for a moment. I know I’m blitzed right now, but I still have something to say.” Devon took a while to catch his rotten breath. “This drinking problem has been going on for a long time now. This is really the first time I came to the set drunk. All the pressure from upper management…all the arguing with the crew members…the deadlines that are impossible to meet…the beer was the only way I could manage my depression.”

“You’ve been depressed this whole time and you didn’t tell any of us?”

“What do you guys care? I’m just another pig who demands nude scenes, which are totally part of the plot, by the way. I don’t give these orders because I want a bunch of brainwashed slaves. I give them because…I want Marble Halls to be the best movie it can possibly be. And when we draw the big money and win the Oscars…I want to share them all with you and the crew. Yes, I know I’m drunk right now…but I mean every word that I say.” There was a teary twinkle in his eye to validate his true feelings.

Riley’s face was etched with pity once again. She wanted to believe these words despite the alcoholic influence. She wanted to believe Devon Rollins had a good side to him. She wanted to believe that his nude scenes were completely necessary. Although she was fighting not to believe those things, she knew that nothing would be accomplished by leaving him on the floor to be sued and fired. Besides, if what he said about depression was true, then he was just as human as the rebellious cast members.

“Come on, Devon. I’m taking you to rehab.” She wrapped his arm around the back of her neck and struggled to lift him to his feet.

“Thank you, Riley. Thank you so much. I won’t let you down….you know, any more than I already have.”

“No problem, Devon. Just do me a favor: don’t barf all over my expensive leather seats.”