Immune to My Own Edge

 I might be the only person in the universe who feels this way…but when I’m writing a controversial scene in either my prose or poetry…I sometimes forget the weight of my own words. I’ve become immune to my own edge, if you will. A cowboy obliterating his opponent with a gatling gun and splashing his guts like a tidal wave? A leonine samurai decapitating a ninja with his katana before sucking the poor bastard’s insides out with the spine as a drinking straw? A femme fatale seducing a man into bed with her before she bites his penis off and shoves it between his ears? These things may be shocking to my audience, but they’re normal to me. They’re so normal to me that I wasn’t even trying when I wrote those descriptions. Now it’s time to crack my knuckles…

The other day I wrote chapter 21 of my fantasy WIP Beautiful Monster. In this chapter, an imprisoned elf reaches through the bars of his cell and grabs a mercenary by his facial hair. He then proceeds to pull this mercenary’s face into the steel bars as hard as humanly possible, getting more aggressive with each tug. The mercenary’s eyeballs pop out, his teeth shatter and roll on the ground, his nose gets plastered to the back of his skull…to put it as delicately as possible, this mercenary is fucked. Too graphic for you all? Well, that’s funny, because this is just another day at the office for me. This is easily as brutal as it gets in my novel and I didn’t even flinch. I’m immune to my own edge.

How did it get to be this way for me? Too many mental illnesses and pills numbing my mind? Too much brainwashing via the television? Not enough flinching when I watched movies like Saw and Hostel? It’s one thing not to care too much if it happens in a fictional setting, but in a documentary or news story? My god, does that shit hurt. I’m not immune to other people’s edges, just my own. If there’s a news story on TV about police brutality (which has become commonplace in America, unfortunately), I’ll get so pissed off that my jaw will be sore from all the clamping down I’m doing. My mind will do more hundred mile an hour laps than a NASCAR track. But if I write about it in one of my stories? Nothing. Not a goddamn thing.

Why is this happening? Is it because I’m in control of my stories and poems and therefore already know the outcome? But what if the outcome is negative? What if a character is so haunted by their PTSD that they hang themselves from the ceiling fan with a chain whip? Will I be immune to that as well? If I’ve written it, yes, I will be. But only if I’ve written it. If I imagine it in my mind, then I’ll cycle through every harmful emotion I can think of, be it sadness, anger, or depression, which coincidentally spells the acronym SAD. Imagining scenes is much more fun than writing them, even with the harmful emotions.

That’s why I never understood it when people say that jokes can only be funny if you, the comedian, are the first to laugh about it. Sometimes I laugh at my own jokes, but not all the time. And yet, whenever I tell a joke I don’t laugh at myself, my audience laughs at it all the same. Want an example of a really disgusting joke? Okay, here it goes. Where do necromancers go to adopt children? An abortion clinic. You may laugh at that joke, you may not. Did I? Maybe a little bit at first, but I don’t hee-haw at it every single time. I must be immune to my own edge again. Here’s a joke I definitely didn’t laugh at, but other people found fucking hilarious. What do you call a Viking who saves people from drowning? Leif Guard. Not the most offensive joke I’ve ever told, but it’ll probably get more laughs than my necromancer joke, and that’s only if you pronounce Leif like you would “life” instead of “leaf” or “layf”.

Okay, so I’m immune to my own violence and comedy, but what about sadness? I can safely say that I’ve never cried at my own scenes before. I’ve had characters rape each other, attack animals, and die by the hundreds. Not one single tear. Then again, it takes a lot for me to cry these days. Well, it used to, anyways. I used to talk about having a 2007 benchmark for the last time I cried and that was because I blew my chances at signing up for Evergreen College. I can safely say that as of 2020, that record has been shattered. It’s not just the American news or the depression of being cooped up in my own home due to Corona Virus. Those things tax the fuck out of my mental energy, sure. But if you want to know what made me cry alone at night with nobody watching…I repeated the words “I love you” and “I’m sorry” over and over again. Who was I declaring my love for? I don’t know. Who was I apologizing to? I don’t know. It could have been anybody. Hell, it could have been my entire audience because I felt like I let them down in some way. I wasn’t immune to that. But writing about the experience? Not one tear drop.

While I feel nothing when I write my own controversial scenes, my audience feels everything. I’ve had people tell me they cried at my sadder stories. I’ve had people tell me they had chills up and down their spines at my lovey-dovey poems. I’ve had people cringe in pain as they read my more violent poems and stories. I say these things not to brag, but as a warning to anybody reading this piece of nonfiction. You have no idea how powerful your words can be to another person, for better or worse. A simple, “Hi” can be the difference between isolation and a pick-me-up. A tweet can be the difference between connecting with your audience and losing them forever. If a salutation and a tweet can have that much impact on someone’s life, imagine how a whole book can make them feel.

You know…maybe that’s why I was crying and apologizing that one night I broke my 2007 record. Maybe I felt like my books were having a negative impact on people’s lives. I know that’s not true since book sales have been piss-poor since I became a pro. But what if my sales spiked one day and my audience was angered by what I had written? What if Debra Winter’s characterization in Occupy Wrestling was deemed unintentionally misogynistic? What if my poems bored my audience to tears because of how the lyrics resemble corporately-produced rock songs? What if my depictions of rape and assault in Poison Tongue Tales were done in an insensitive way? Can I do anything about these problems now that the books are published? I could, but Amazon is making me jump through hoops just to make cosmetic changes to one of my poetry books. But even if Amazon was 100% cooperative, that would mean redoing six published books and always being behind because I’d be overwhelmed with work. It seems like a lazy copout, but it’s reality. I don’t have the energy to micromanage every single book I’ve published, especially when they’ve been on the market for so long.

But…what if someone didn’t see my writing in an offensive light? What if somebody loved it regardless of all of my negative thoughts? Art is subjective, after all. What’s disgusting to one person could be bliss to another. Yeah, I’m immune to my own edge, but I’m not immune to my own worrying after the fact. Maybe that needs to change. Maybe I should start holding my head high. But in the middle of the cluster-fuck known as 2020? That won’t be easy. But that’s one advantage to having immunity to the most controversial parts of my writing: I can get lost in the process and escape from the world, even if only for a little while. Maybe I can find that nugget of joy among the sea of diarrhea. Isn’t that why we write in the first place? Isn’t that why people say, “Write drunk, edit sober”? Don’t worry about the technicalities now, just barf onto the page and be happy for just a little while. I guess I’m not an uncaring sociopath after all. I’m just looking for joy where I can find it. If that joy includes evoking strong emotions from my readers, then goddamn it, I’ll embrace that shit until the day I die.

Disillusionment

CHORUS
Disillusionment
Disappointment
Disenchantment
Disenfranchisement

VERSE 1
Never forget the platinum rule
Don’t be taken for a bloody fool
Pedestals weren’t meant to go that high
Same level as the angels in the sky
When they destroy what you love
When you’re theirs to push and shove
When you’re locked in an institution
Still don’t realize your own disillusion

CHORUS
Disillusionment
Disappointment
Disenchantment
Disenfranchisement

VERSE 2
Was it sex appeal that turned you on?
Was manipulation part of the con?
Money and fame that fucked your brain?
Word salad that made this seem so sane?
Should I slap your face to wake you up?
Should I scream about how much this sucks?
Your tragic tale has a deadly conclusion
Yet you can’t realize your own disillusion

CHORUS
Disillusionment
Disappointment
Disenchantment
Disenfranchisement

VERSE 3
The planet’s on fire, the air is poison
Shit goes beyond mere disappointment
No money in your bank, here come the tanks
Got a rifle in your hand like you’re in the ranks
Head in the sand like a number one fan
Idol cheats a system that fucks a lesser man
Wakey wakey, wakey! Eggs and bacey!
But you say to the reaper, “Come and take me!”

FINAL VERSE
You tried to hide!
Opened wide and lied!
You died for pride!
False god never cried!

Creep Street

Streets of darkness, perfect targets
Hoot and holler like a wild man
Call them “hotties”, grab their bodies
Creep Street is in style, man
Get rejected, get defensive
When she tells you to, “Fuck off!”
Alpha male with a baby’s wail
Never ever to be sucked off
Grab her arm, do your harm
Purple circles on her bicep
You entitled little child
You know she doesn’t like it
Throw her down, make her drown
In your disgusting fluids
Traumatize until you realize
You’re nothing but human sewage
Cops do nothing, her brain is numbing
Did you get your hot desires?
So romantic, necromantic
Accuse her of being a liar
Shoot you dead, bullet in your head
That’s what we all should do
There’s no magic in street harassment
Who’s the next victim you choose?
Blond or brunette? Moans or music?
Long legs or ample breasts?
It doesn’t matter, dick gets fatter
She’s face down just like the rest
Creep Street blues, call it fake news
You’ll get away with it this time
But Karma’s a bitch, a scratch to itch
Your life ain’t worth a thin dime

Wooden Puppet Man

INTRO DIALOGUE
You know…I figured something out today…The reason why thin is in…is because the lighter you are…the easier it is to carry you on puppet strings…It all makes sense now…

VERSE 1
You dance on the stage
And live in a cage
Like a wooden puppet man!
Nose grows when you lie
Kiss innocence goodbye
Like a wooden puppet man!
Hand goes up your ass
You’re obedient in class
Like a wooden puppet man!
Ventriloquism
Sadomasochism
Like a wooden puppet man!

CHORUS
Slice through your strings
It’s your own song to sing
Listen closely to your heart
I think it needs a restart

VERSE 2
You’re not made of flesh
But your wounds are fresh
Like a wooden puppet man!
Can’t wipe your own ass
Without a hall pass
Like a wooden puppet man!
Can’t spend your own money
Can’t sex up your honey
You’re just a wooden puppet man!
Where’s all the appeal?
Short end of the deal
You’re just a wooden puppet man!

CHORUS
Slice through your strings
It’s your own song to sing
Listen closely to your heart
I think it needs a restart

BRIDGE
When you wish upon the rings of Saturn
You’d better make it fucking matter
When you wish upon the sands of Mars
Don’t let them dictate who you are
When you wish upon the flames of Venus
You’re the one who makes the edict
When you wish upon the shithole of Earth
Get out of your coffin and rise from the dirt

FINAL VERSE
From the moment of birth
You know your own worth
You’re not a wooden puppet man
There’s a steep price to pay
If you give it all away
Don’t be a wooden puppet man

Why I Don't Believe in Aliens

I don’t want it to seem like I’m breaking a longstanding oath to the Jedi order, because in order to do that, I’d have to acknowledge the slim possibility of Jedi knights being real. I’d have to watch Star Wars and Star Trek like they’re documentaries. I’d have to play Starcraft like I’m reviving Kriegspiel. These things that I’ve mentioned are labeled as science-fiction, keyword there being fiction. If they were nonfiction, our world would be fucked, even more so than it is now in the year 2020 with Corona Virus and governmental tyranny. Okay, so we MIGHT have a Jabba the Hutt look-alike in the oval office right now, but that’s as close to admitting the realness of aliens that you will get from me. That’s right. I can’t believe I have to say this, but I’m going to anyways. My name is Garrison…and I don’t believe in aliens. Never have, never will.

Aliens do make for some interesting creative fuel, I’ll admit. I played the hell out of Starcraft from 2000 to 2001. I slashed the shit out of everyone with the Protoss zealots’ photon blades. I ate space marines alive with the Zerg’s blade-fanged Ultralisk creature. Every piece of fiction I’ve ever written during that time period was basically Starcraft thievery, which I would get defensive about because I didn’t want to get stuck in a frivolous copyright lawsuit. But let’s be real: Zerglings, Ultralisks, Hydralisks, Protoss dragoons, Protoss carriers, Protoss templars, they can only be enjoyed on a fictional basis. If these biological monstrosities existed in the real world, they would ransack the shit out of earth and we’d be completely defenseless. How’s that Space Force working out for you, Mr. President?

I know I’m going to hear the argument somewhere down the line, “Well, Garrison, are you so arrogant that you believe earthlings are the only ones who exist in the universe?” Until I see otherwise, yes, I am. Where are all these lizard people that I keep hearing about? Where are the goopy Martians with their slime-covered bodies and bug eyes? When is Darth Vader going to destroy the world with his Death Star? I don’t see any of these things. I don’t pick up on them with my other senses either. If I can’t sense them in any way, I’m not going to believe in them just because there’s a small chance they MIGHT exist outside of the Milky Way.

I treat extraterrestrial life with the same amount of skepticism that I do religious deities, which is to say I’m an atheist through and through. If I don’t believe God, Allah, or Shiva exist, why would I suddenly believe that aliens exist? Religion and alien culture have the same amount of proof to convince me, which is to say none at all. This is just my take on it, though. If other people want to practice religion or believe in wacky ideas, I’m not going to try and stop them. Me personally? I refuse to believe in something I have no proof exists. And as long as we’re crossing gods and aliens off the list, where’s all the zeal for other fantasy and sci-fi creatures? What about ogres? What about goblins? Or elves? Or dragons? Or big ass tarantulas? How come the people who put so much stock into aliens don’t believe in those things as well? “Are you so arrogant that you believe elves don’t share this world with us?”

Like I said before: aliens should be treated as fictional characters in enjoyable science-fiction. They should not influence politics on any level. We should not have radio show hosts and podcasters spouting conspiracy theories about aliens poisoning our drinking water or shoving rods up our asses. We shouldn’t have conspiracy theories about anything else as well, whether it’s Obama being from Kenya, the earth being flat, pizza shops being safe havens for pedophiles, or COVID-19 being a hoax designed to derail conservatives. The silliness alone seems harmless and can even be explored in filmmaking or story writing, but the minute people start dying in the real world over them, that’s when I have a problem. Hundreds of thousands of people have died from COVID-19 because the public and its politicians aren’t taking it seriously. What does this have to do with aliens? I don’t know, but I bet their existence could be shoehorned into these theories to gain political leverage. It’s happened before and it’ll happen again.

You know what I really love about alien culture? This idea of anal probing, which was made popular by that season one episode of South Park where Cartman gets a metal rod shoved up his ass. Later in the episode, the rod expands into a satellite dish that communicates with extraterrestrials. Please tell me you don’t think South Park is nonfiction. Just laugh at the comedy. Don’t take it too seriously. Matt Stone and Trey Parker, the creators of the show, don’t take life too seriously and they would encourage their audience to follow suit. Nobody’s going to shove a glowing metal rod up your ass. If they do, you’re probably stuck in a BDSM dungeon. Or the pawn shop from Pulp Fiction, one of the two.

I know I’m ranting and raving over here, but I actually have a message to go along with this aggression. If you’re going to believe in something, don’t use that as an excuse to hurt others. You can believe in Jesus all you want, but don’t beat up LGBT members because of it. You can believe in aliens all you want, but don’t use that as an excuse to influence world politics and radicalize already unstable people. Do whatever you want to do as long as it doesn’t hurt anybody else.

Nobody will mind if you watch Star Trek: the Original Series and be blown away by the philosophical nature of it. Nobody will mind if you enjoyed all nine episodes of Star Wars instead of just episodes four through six. Nobody will mind if you play Starcraft until your ass is sore from sitting for so long (and not because the Protoss shoved a photon rod up your anus). If we could all just agree to get along and not hurt each other, the world would be a better place. Write that sci-fi novel. Write that lizard man movie script. Put together a videogame about venomous blobs of goo from Jupiter and Saturn. Do what Nickelback did in the song “Million Miles an Hour” and travel through the galaxy after taking that “everlasting pill”. Do what you want and don’t be a dick!

If you have anything you want to add to this conversation, speak now before the UFO comes to my house and pulls me onboard with their tractor beam! Ooo, I know! Why do UFO’s have to be circular disks? Why can’t they be any other shape? How about a cylinder? How about a trapezoid? How about a pyramid? Imagine a pyramid-shaped vessel that could spin in circles like a drill and mine our precious resources from the depths of the planet. Now that’s a hell of a novel prompt! Don’t worry, I’m not trying to stir shit up and make you even more paranoid than you already are. But just imagine the possibilities of a spinning pyramid ship helmed by elven warlocks and dragon necromancers. Imagine that they’re harvesting our oil to fuel an even greater weapon to use against the ogre and Protoss alliance, crushing their oppressors once and for all! Now there’re no excuses for a blank page!

Dark Side of the Ring

TV SHOW TITLE: Dark Side of the Ring
PRODUCER: Viceland
YEARS: 2019-2020
GENRE: Wrestling Documentary
RATING: TV-14 for language and violence
GRADE: Extra Credit

Is it any wonder why Dark Side of the Ring was voted Best Wrestling Documentary in the 2019 Wrestling Observer Newsletter awards? I wouldn’t be surprised if it became the first ever two-time winner in the 2020 awards, whenever they come out. Viceland might rack up an undefeated streak if they keep putting out new seasons, which they should if they haven’t already. There isn’t a single bad episode in this entire series. Every story will fascinate you whether you remember that particular generation of wrestling or not. I’m not old enough to remember Bruiser Brody and the early days of The Fabulous Moolah, yet I was engrossed in their stories all the same. Dark Side of the Ring might even invoke those same feelings within non-wrestling fans. The episodes are dour and depressing enough to milk even the toughest eyeballs dry. Are these sixteen episodes of pure sadness and anguish appropriate during the COVID-19 pandemic? Will they worsen the world population’s already strained mental health? Well, that’s the biggest knock on this show, but I would argue that feeling sadness is part of the human experience and it beats being numb all the time. But that’s just me talking.

If it’s sadness you’re looking for, check out the first two episodes of season two, which deal with the Chris Benoit double-murder-suicide. There’s no clear explanation as to why Chris did what he did, but the documentary does a good enough job of exploring every avenue there is to consider. Wrestling was his first and last profession, which means lots of concussions along the way, especially when chair shots to the head were commonplace in the 90’s and 2000’s. Chris also had substance abuse issues, particularly with steroids. He also had wear and tear from being on the road all the time. And he lost his best friend Eddie Guerrero in 2005. It wasn’t just one thing that sent him over the edge. It was life in general. Murdering his wife and son before killing himself was disgusting enough, but his other son David Benoit had to bear the brunt of it all. Watching David fall to pieces as he was being interviewed was heartbreaking to watch. He needed those shoulder squeezes from Chavo Guerrero (the last person Chris Benoit texted before he died). David needed that long embrace with his aunt. He wanted to feel good about going to wrestling shows again. The emotions of everybody interviewed in these two episodes were like a punch to the stomach from a loaded boxing glove. I came so close to crying myself.

Another time when I almost lost it was when I watched Owen Hart’s episode. Owen was portrayed as a friendly guy who made everyone around him happy, including his family. But in the ring, he was a technical wrestling genius who could also fly through the air. Think of the possibilities that could have been if he hadn’t fallen to his death at the Over the Edge pay-per-view in 1999. This wasn’t just a tragic accident. This was blatant negligence on the part of not only the riggers who hooked Owen up to the harness, but also on the part of WWE in general for making Owen go through with his unnecessary stunt. It’s bad enough that the world lost a loving human being, but it’s made even worse when Vince McMahon, the owner of WWE, continued the Over the Edge show anyways and tried to screw over Owen’s wife in court when she wanted to sue. The cesspool of emotions you will feel from watching this will range from sadness to anger to depression to borderline insanity. This death didn’t need to happen and Viceland did a great job of making sure that point came across and that Vince McMahon looked like the scumbag he was and still is today. He just discarded Owen like a piece of meat. If your blood isn’t boiling after this episode is over, you don’t have a soul.

Want a completely different emotion to haunt your mind? Try fear. You’ll get all the fear you came for when you watch New Jack’s episode. He has a permanently angry face made even more hideous by the scars on his forehead from busting himself open for his craft. New Jack wasn’t just a wrestler. He legitimately tried to hurt and kill his opponents if he didn’t like them. He legitimately felt anger towards the all-white crowds when he used racism to draw heel heat. When he talks about incidents such as slicing Mass Transit, throwing Vic Grimes off of a scaffold after tasing him, and beating Gypsy Joe’s face in with a bladed baseball bat, he does so with the attitude of either a psychopath or a sociopath. If New Jack did these things in an ordinary job setting, he would be in prison for the rest of his life. He came across like an uncaring murderer, which was further fueled by his back story of growing up in an abusive home. New Jack legitimately terrifies me and Viceland’s documentary on him intensified that feeling tenfold. Now that he’s a bounty hunter, this would be a good time to pay your bail before he beats the daylights out of you and drags you to justice that way.

There is a chance that you’ll become disillusioned with wrestling by the time you’ve watched all sixteen episodes. It’s a sliver of a chance, but a chance nonetheless. Whether you do or not, you’re not walking away from your viewing experienced unscathed. You’ll be angry, terrified, and sorrowful for a long time to come. I don’t want to say you’ll get PTSD from watching Dark Side of the Ring, but you’ll definitely have a lot to think about, probably when you’re lying awake at night or crying yourself to sleep. Dark Side of the Ring seasons one and two get an extra credit grade from me for not only keeping my interest as a wrestling fan, but opening my eyes to the sick world behind the scenes. I’m happy I never became a professional wrestler. I’ve considered it in my high school days, but I’m glad I never followed through on those dreams, or should I say nightmares.

I'm Fine

CHORUS
I’m fine!
I’m fine!
Nothing is wrong!
I’m fine!

VERSE 1
You broke your oath to do no harm
When I waved you off with my charm
For more answers, you twisted my arm
Until the cows came home to the farm
Is it suicide or just a matter of pride?
Do I keep it all tucked away inside?
Are these the tears I’m trying to hide?
Nothing is wrong! I’m fucking fine!

CHORUS
I’m fine!
I’m fine!
Nothing is wrong!
I’m fine!

VERSE 2
When everything is stuck in past tense
From prehistory to way back when
A trauma drama from the middle ages
Or the bloodstains on my diary pages
I swear it’s all just an overreaction
No need to call the white coat faction
You can chalk it up to artistic passion
I’m doing fine! I’m gaining traction!

CHORUS
I’m fine!
I’m fine!
Nothing is wrong!
I’m fine!

VERSE 3
What goes on in my head and heart
Can be summed up as a work of art
There’s no need to come to my rescue
“I’m Superman here to defend you!”
“I’m Wonder Woman! I love your soul!
“I’m the Human Torch! Get out of the cold!”
“I’m Batman here for your fifty-one-fifty!”
I’m fucking fine! I’m not dying or sickly!

EXTENDED CHORUS
I’m fine!
I’m fine!
Nothing is wrong!
I’m fine!
I’m dandy!
I’m manly!
Everything’s fucked!
This sucks!

FINAL VERSE
Push me for answers? Are you the necromancer?
If I pass your test, can I get my Master’s?
If I confess the darkest parts of my mind
Is there a Hold Harmless form to be signed?

"Force of Nature" by C.J. Box

BOOK TITLE: Force of Nature
AUTHOR: C.J. Box
YEAR: 2012
GENRE: Fiction
SUBGENRE: Mystery Thriller
GRADE: Extra Credit

I don’t give five-star reviews very often. When I do, it’s because the book wasn’t just likeable, but it moved me in some way. I’ve always known Mr. Box to be a competent writer, but I wasn’t expecting to be completely blown away by this piece of fiction. The action and drama in this mystery made me feel alive. It heightened senses within me that were otherwise dulled by the COVID-19 pandemic going on and all the psychological fallout from that. Why wouldn’t this book be exciting? You’ve got a hardnosed warrior named Nate Romanowski who’s in a cat and mouse game with his former commander. You’ve got the always professional Game Warden Joe Pickett, whose family is being threatened by this bloody struggle. You’ve got increased paranoia and distrust among people who are supposed to be supportive of Joe and Nate. You’ve got all the makings of a tried-and-true thriller turned up to twenty. Bloody violence, enigmatic characters, betrayal, and no reason to believe that Nate and Joe are capable of winning. Do they? You’ll ask yourself that question all throughout this reading experience. You’ll have doubts as your anxiety increases. If they do win (and that’s a big if), you’d better believe they’re walking away with trauma and scars.

Speaking of trauma, the way C.J. Box portrays Nate Romanowski is just as disturbing and cold as the character himself. He’s not just an emotionless killer. He’s got an entire history behind him that bubbles to the surface far too often for the reader’s comfort. The military training he had to endure, the fallout with his father, and the coldness required for training falcons, they all will send a chill up and down your spine as if you’re actually trapped in Wyoming’s winter weather. You’ll be eternally grateful that Nate is one of the good guys, because if he for some reason turned evil, this world would turn into a bloodbath. Sometimes you wonder if his innocence is completely gone and maybe he does have evil tendencies. He’s a shades-of-gray hero, but those shades are darker than the night sky. If you ever see Nate Romanowski in real life, you’d better turn the other way and run. He’s got his morals for sure, but he’s also got a heart of stone that could make even the toughest of tough guys knock their knees together in fear. If you think he’s all bark and no bite, just watch the way he tortures people to get what he wants and how quickly he can kill someone in a life-or-death brawl.

The minor role characters can be just as compelling to read about. The one I feel like I have to talk about the most is Pam Kelly, whose husband Paul and son Stumpy were murdered by Nate after they tried to assassinate him. When Pam was younger, she had her starry eyes set on a handsome superstar cowboy. She even carried his baby, who grew up to be Stumpy. But instead of landing a country stud, she settled on Paul and led a mediocre life. Pam was angry when Paul and Stumpy were killed, not because of them, but because she felt like she threw her life away on those two and had nothing to show for it. Old and fat in today’s world, she doesn’t have a chance at starting over and has to clean up the mess left behind by the only two men in her life. While Pam isn’t the kindest character in the book, she is one of the most sympathetic. I’m fat myself and am looking down the barrel of wasted opportunities. Pam’s characterization hit me hard, even if we don’t get to see a lot of her.

Joe Pickett is always a reliable character when it comes to likeability. He’s professional, he’s intelligent, he always knows what to say and when to say it, and he’s a family man at heart who goes the extra mile for those he loves. April, Joe’s adopted daughter, is as bratty and nasty as she has ever been, even going so far as to mock her sister Lucy for missing her high school play. Lucy and Sheridan both have their own projects outside of home and when a monkey wrench is thrown in their plans, they have no problem with showing their disappointment and rage. Marybeth is a caring wife, nurturing mother, and efficient librarian, the latter of which will come into play when she’s being stalked at her place of work (another source of dramatic tension). Kyle McLanahan is a cartoonish redneck Sheriff who somehow keeps getting public praise despite his idiocy. Aside from April, there’s not a character in this book that I felt slowed the pace of the story. Everybody has a role and everybody plays their role with undying commitment. Seriously, though, somebody please give April the spanking of the century.

Out of every book I’ve read from C.J. Box’s catalogue, Force of Nature is without a doubt my favorite among them. Will there be others that exceed or meet that standard? I’m sure Mr. Box can figure out a way to make that happen. He truly earned every award and every word of praise he’s racked up over the years. Even people with opposing political views from Box will get a kick out of his mysteries. They’re well-written, they’re enjoyable, they’ve got splendid character work, and Force of Nature in particular stands out the most in terms of quality. Five stars out of five for this brilliant piece of fiction!