Social Justice Warrior

The November breeze stung Pete Winger’s face while neon signs were burning his eyeballs. The sound of boots marching on concrete streets was the coup de grace in slowly waking him up from his head-pounding slumber. His first instinct was to roll out of bed and get in his trench coat and hat. Except where he laid was significantly less comfortable than a coil spring mattress. He couldn’t roll off of it either since his wrists and ankles were held in place with steel cables. Struggling for freedom didn’t get him an inch off of the steel surface that made his spine ache.

Pete finally opened his eyes, but not enough to take in the glow of the neon motel signs. Rundown buildings with American flags barely hanging on the doors (if the buildings even had doors). Concrete streets with potholes the size of dinner plates. Windows shattered. Graffiti smeared all over the brick walls. Minorities in ragged clothing out on their porches wondering just what the hell was going on.

Pete had the answer they were looking for. White hooded minions carried him on a steel crucifix while a cowgirl with an AK-47 strapped to her back led the charge. Her annoying voice seemed all too familiar to Pete when she ordered her hooded cohorts to stop. It was her alright. Long brown hair in a ponytail. Curvy hips. A leather biker gang jacket. A cowgirl hat with a feather in it. She was unmistakable. She was none other than Tifa Cody, America’s loudest voice.

Pete struggled some more in his bindings while Miss Cody goose-stepped into the middle of the street to address the impoverished citizens of this ghetto. “Alright, now listen up, y’all!” she belted in her signature southern accent. “It’s November and you know what that means for America: new politicians, same old crap. And in the interest of fairness, I’m here to make sure none of y’all are going to vote illegally in our fine democracy. Voter fraud is as real as it gets. If I catch one of y’all stuffing the ballot boxes this Tuesday, you’re getting an assload of lead!”

As Tifa unhooked her AK-47, Pete groggily said, “Hey there! You think you can get me off of this cross? I mean…Blue Lives Matter, right? Isn’t that what you’re always saying on the radio?”

Tifa pointed her gun at Pete. “Listen, Detective, and I use that word loosely, the operative phrase there is Blue Lives Matter, not Blue States Matter. I respect the authority of real cops who do their damn jobs, not Dick Tracy knockoffs like you who protect snowflakes like these!”

“Miss Cody…do you not see the irony of what you just said?”

Tifa cocked her gun. “What irony, Mr. Pete ‘Left’ Winger?”

“Well…um…You’re getting mad over the fact that poor black people are allowed to vote and yet they’re the snowflakes. Tell me how that adds up.”

Tifa fired a series of warning shots past Pete’s ear and had the minorities ducking for cover, their children screaming and crying. “This ain’t about skin color, you Snowflake Justice Warrior! This is about protecting our democracy from cheaters and thieves! You libtards don’t have a leg to stand on in the facts department, so you try to vote multiple times. And for the record, my stepfather is black, so don’t even try to play the race card with me!”

Pete chuckled nervously. “Okay, so we know you have a stepfather. But do you have any nieces and nephews? And when you visit them on their birthdays in Bumfuck, Alabama, do they refer to you as…Aunt Tifa?” That zinger got a chorus of “oo’s” from the ghetto dwellers.

“Lay him down, guys,” she ordered her robed minions. After they complied, she butt-stroked Pete in the stomach and earned a series of smoker-like coughs. He also spit up a wad of blood-laced saliva. “Your jokes are about as funny as the so-called woke comedians on late night TV. All that PC propaganda is turning your brain into mush. You don’t know how to tell a decent joke anymore because you’re too scared of getting thrown in Twitter jail.”

“Come on, you had to admit that was punderful.”

“I don’t have to admit a goddamn thing. As a matter of fact, boys, stand him up. I’m about to go all Auschwitz on his funny ass!”

As the hooded minions stood up the steel cross, Pete let out a string of, “No’s!” as if they would actually reconsider burning him alive. While he struggled once more to get free, Tifa pulled out a book of matches and struck them all on the collapsing pavement.

Her back turned to the residents, she said, “Are y’all seeing this? This is what happens when you try to fuck with my country! Ain’t no cops coming out to save him because he’s a damn traitor to real Americans, not the handout takers and ballot stuffers! Cops don’t like that shit! That’s why y’all keep getting shot all the damn time!” Tifa turned around momentarily. “Are you shitting me right now?! Are you filming this on your damn phone?!”

Tifa aimed her AK-47 at a shivering black teenager with his smart phone recording her. “This ain’t no comedy bit for your Tik Tok app or whatever the hell you young fuckers love to do! You drop that damn phone or I’m shooting it out of your damn hands!”

The teen refused to obey but continued to shiver. Pete knew it was now or never if he was going to save more lives than his own. He wiggled around on the cross some more. He struggled even harder. And harder. The steel bindings cut into his flesh and formed purple scars on his wrists and ankles. But the cross moved just a little bit at a time, so much so that the hooded minions had a hard time keeping it erect. They tried to call Tifa’s name, but she was in the middle of a tirade and had none of it.

Pete wiggled again. And again. His muscles ached and his limbs seemed as though they would fall off. And then…the steel cross lurched forward. “Look out!” shouted one of the minions as the cross landed on top of Tifa, bringing her and Pete into chest-to-chest contact. Her gun was knocked out of her hand, but the book of matches still burned and that tiny spark was enough to weaken the straps on Pete’s right wrist.

“Get off of me, goddamn it! Who do you think you are, Bill Clinton?” Tifa struggled while her hooded thugs ran away from not only the fallen cross, but also the minority residents who began throwing bottles and bricks at them. Some of them got away with no bruises other than their egos. Some of their heads splattered on the pavement. One hooded punk got his back cut up by pieces of glass.

As Tifa squirmed and wiggled to slowly pull herself out from under Pete and the cross, the detective tugged harder on the burning straps. His wrist singed with red hot pain. His skin grew crispy and black. The purple bruises opened up to leak pus and blood. But get his hand free he did. While Tifa crawled towards her AK-47, Pete began to unlatch his other wrist before hunching down and undoing his ankles.

Both Tifa and Pete slithered like snails across the ground while the hooded thugs were still being chased away by the impoverished residents. Tifa was fingertips away from her gun when Pete grabbed hold of her ankles and bear-hugged them. She rained knuckles on Pete’s scalp until she was able to crawl close enough to the AK-47 to grab it. But Pete ignored his head, wrist, and stomach trauma long enough to squirm over to her and get in a tug of war over the weapon.

Tifa elbowed and kneed Pete in the ribs and stomach, but he refused to let go of the automatic rifle. He spit a wad of blood in her eyes and snatched the rifle out of her hands, sharp pain in his chest aside. Despite being temporarily blinded, she slowly pulled herself to her feet and staggered towards one of the abandoned buildings. Which one, Pete couldn’t see because he was too busy curling up in a ball on the ground. Some neighborhood kids pulled him to his feet and supported him. When he asked where Tifa was, they didn’t know.

“Damn it, I can’t believe I’m letting that bitch get away!” Pete’s rib and chest pain sharpened like he was being closed in an iron maiden. He doubled over and spit up more blood, dazed at his surroundings. “Do me a favor, kid. Get me that American flag over there. I got an idea. Just do it!”

The teen retrieved the ratty-looking American flag off of a neighbor’s front porch and handed it to Pete. The detective waved his helpers away for a moment and he was able to stand up on his own two feet, beaten, but not dead.

“Tifa Cody! Get your ass out here and face me, you militia nitwit!” Screaming that caused even more sharp pain to bend him over. Still he waved off the neighborhood kids, who all gathered around with their smart phones to record the action now that Tifa and her stooges were a non-threat.

“So Tifa…you like to call people who don’t agree with you snowflakes, right? You like to call them SJW’s whenever they rightfully complain about being disenfranchised? Well…now it’s your turn to cry, sweetheart! I’m going to raise this flag…and everyone around me…will take a knee. Go on, do it!” The neighborhood residents did just that: get on one knee.

“Oh, that’s not enough to piss you off, Tifa? Sure pissed off the rest of your political flunkies. Wait a minute…I’ve got a better idea. Tifa Cody…if you don’t get your ass out here and surrender…I’m going to do something to this flag that’ll make your precious eyeballs leak like faucets. But what will I do to it? Will I wipe my ass with it? Will I blow my nose on it? Will I cough up blood on it? No…I think I’ll just fill it full of holes with your own assault rifle! And yes, it is an assault rifle no matter how much you say otherwise! I’m counting to three and this flag is going up in smoke! One…two…three!”

On cue, Tifa bolted out of a nearby building and shrieked, “NO!” before tossing a brick at Pete. It didn’t have the chance to smash his face in. It disintegrated into dust the minute Pete pulled the trigger and filled Tifa full of holes. Her bloody carcass dripped and splattered all over the building steps before rolling into the gutter. Everyone in the neighborhood, Pete included, took a moment to breathe heavily, either out of relief or heart-pounding adrenaline.

Pete slowly turned around and faced the cell phone cameras. “You see that?” He spit out blood and kneeled down in pain. “Crime doesn’t pay…no matter…who you vote for…For all of you…who say…All Lives Matter…clearly Tifa Cody’s didn’t…Don’t believe me?...Just ask her…She…drew…first…blood…” Pete’s vision blackened as he stumbled over face-first onto the ground, bleeding out of the mouth and any other wound her had. The neighbors gathered around to try and help him, but he was a lost cause.

The last thing Pete Winger heard before passing into the afterlife was police sirens off in the distance. This left him with an anxious feeling in his gut. Would these cops do the right thing? Whose side would they take: his or Tifa’s? Would these impoverished voters surrounding Pete become easy casualties? Pete Winger never got an answer to any of these questions. But hopefully whoever was watching the live videos being taken would question everything all at once, including their government. That’s all Detective Pete Winger could ask of them in his weakened state. His duty as a blue life that mattered was complete.

Disneylodeon

“Good morning, members of the press and those of you watching at home. My name is Albert G. Briscoe and I’m the CEO of Disneylodeon Productions. As many of you have already seen in the mainstream media, certain allegations have been levied against me and my organization. I’m here to tell each and every one of you that these allegations are far from true. Our mission here at Disneylodeon is to provide quality entertainment the whole family can enjoy, none of which includes exploitation of any kind. Our actors and production crew are treated fairly and equally. They are paid livable wages and they work in a comfortable environment.”

“Bullshit!” shouted a Hungarian-accented man before cocking his assault rifle. The journalists in the audience scattered about like cockroaches, screaming and cowering against the wall. “Shut up!” the terrorist shouted. “Shut the fuck up!” No screams, only quivering lips and whiny moans.

The only one who wasn’t screaming or running was Albert Briscoe himself, who remained seated at the stage behind his table and microphone. His middle-aged face told the perfect story of guilt and stoicism. He brushed his silver hair back and said, “I bet the shareholders aren’t going to like this.”

The Hungarian pulled his trench coat hood back and revealed his long bearded, bald headed mug to the CEO of Disneylodeon. “The shareholders aren’t going to like shit. But they’re the least of your worries, Mr. Briscoe. Right now you’re looking down the barrel of an AK-fucking-47. If you don’t give me what I want, you’re not going to be looking at shit with a face full of slugs.”

“Who are you?” asked Albert with his hands folded and his attitude calm.

“Vladek Bathory,” the gunner answered. “That last name should sound very familiar to you, Mr. Briscoe. My daughter was the lead actress on one of your shows. I’ve seen just about all I want to see of her in those slutty outfits and bare fucking feet.”

Holding his hands up defensively, Albert said, “Listen, Mr. Bathory, I don’t have that much control over my own directors. I’m just a corporate guy. If you have any grievances against my directors, you should take it up with them.”

“Such a perfect portrait of leadership, throwing your own guys under the bus like that,” said Vladek as he stalked closer to Albert. His hawkish eyes pinpointed on the CEO’s throat, which just engulfed an eight-ball sized lump of saliva. “You’re not fooling anybody. You can sweet talk these journalists all you want, but I want something a little more.” Vladek edged close enough to point the barrel right against Albert’s nose. “You’d better own up to your sins, boss man.”

“Look, Mr. Bathory, I just told you, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Albert with progressively fast speech. “This is out of my hands. I just do corporate work, that’s it.”

“So basically what you’re telling me is that you’re about as useful as steak sauce in India?” asked Vladek rhetorically. When Albert’s face became too frozen in fear to speak up, the gunner smashed the barrel across his nose and splattered blood all over the microphone. The CEO screamed and held his jacket sleeve against the wound, drenching it in a flood of violence.

Vladek grabbed Albert’s tie and yanked him by the neck over the table, sending him crashing to the carpeted floor coughing and wheezing. The Hungarian pressed the barrel against Albert’s cheekbone and belted, “If you’re really that fucking useless, I have no reason to keep you alive!”

“No, wait! Wait! Don’t shoot me! Please don’t fucking shoot me!” begged Albert with a nasally voice. “I can get you the producer who was in charge of your daughter’s TV show! I just need to access my phone, that’s all!”

“Bullshit!” snapped Vladek before smashing the butt of his gun against Albert’s cheek, causing even more pathetic screams of pain. “Like I’m going to let you just call the police and have this all be for naught! You think I’m a fucking idiot, Mr. Briscoe?! Huh?! You think you’re going to get off that easily?! Nobody’s coming to save you or your precious journalists! The TV and radio signals are jammed, including the cameras in this fucking studio! You’ve been talking to a brick wall this whole time!”

“Please don’t shoot me! I have a wife and daughter at home! They need me!” pleaded Albert with his hands together prayer style.

“Oh, now wives and daughters are important to you!” yelled Vladek when he pressed the barrel against Albert’s throat. He could feel another lump going down the CEO’s gullet and pressing against the gun. “They weren’t important to you before, but now that they’re yours, they’re suddenly bigger than Jesus fucking Christ himself!” Vladek leaned into Albert’s heavily panting face and whispered throatily, “Let me ask you something: are your wife and daughter into the kind of perverted shit you put on television? Does your wife like bare feet? Does your daughter like showing off her sexy soles to complete strangers on TV?!”

“It’s not like that, Mr. Bathory! You’re blowing this way out of proportion!”

“I’ll blow your head out of proportion if you don’t give me a confession!” To show he wasn’t fucking around, Vladek pulled out his smart phone and mounted it on the end of his AK-47. “Stand up, dickhead! Move!” Albert quickly obliged, allowing his nose to drip slowly and painfully. “Now then…with the whole world watching and not just your fucking shareholders…I want you to look into my phone and confess that Disneylodeon is a pervert’s paradise. You’ve got foot fetishes up to yin-yang, you’ve got naked teenagers parading their bodies around, and you’ve got producers and directors getting their jollies off in the background!”

Albert stared down on the floor and took a huge breath, slowly bringing his bloodshot eyes to Vladek’s phone to make the announcement the whole world has been waiting for. “My name is Albert Briscoe…I am the CEO of Disneylodeon…our directors and producers…are a bunch…are a bunch of….I can’t do this…no, wait, wait, wait!...Our directors and producers are foot fetishists and pedophiles. It’s plain to see in the TV-G shows we air on our network…But even more apparent than that…is the raging bulge in Vladek Bathory’s pants!”

“What the?!” shouted Vladek as he looked down at his crotch to see there was indeed a large mass forming.

The lengthy tube steak snapped in half upon contact with Albert’s swift loafer-wearing foot. The Hungarian dropped his assault rifle and doubled over in pain while screaming like his daughter would have in the same situation. Albert rushed to grab the assault rifle and pointed it at the wounded terrorist. “You see that, everyone?!” Mr. Briscoe shouted. “That was an example of the many feet we like to put on the air! And now for the first time in the history of this company, Disneylodeon’s programming will be rated TV-MA for violence! Lots and lots of VIOLENCE!”

That last word was punctuated with Albert unleashing a barrage of bullets into the now bloody and splattered body of Vladek Bathory. The life juices splashed all over Albert’s Armani suit, but the bulging rage in his eyes suggested that was the last thing in the world he was angry over. Journalists stormed out of the building screaming and crying while a familiar face came running inside to kneel by her fallen father.

“Daddy!” the teenaged actress shouted. “Daddy! What happened?!” She cradled her father’s shattered skull in her arms and rocked back and forth while bawling like a baby.

“Who do you think you’re calling daddy, young lady?!” shouted Albert as he pointed the assault rifle at the actress, who gazed up at him with flooding eyes and quivering lips. “From now on, baby girl, you’re going to be calling ME daddy! And if you think your hypocrite ex-father was good with a gun…you should know…I don’t shoot blanks either!” Albert winked at the end of that last sentence before chuckling evilly at the sorrowful girl on the ground.

“You’re a monster, Albert!” sobbed the girl as she wiped her tears and snot away with her bare arm. “You’re a goddamn monster!”

“Monster? Really?” said Albert. “This isn’t about being a monster, honey. This is about business. This is about the American way. And right now…business is booming! When you see your father in hell, be sure to tell him I said thanks for making my shareholders happy!”

A Weasel and a Thief

The early morning darkness did wonders in comforting Private Laurel Tate’s battle scarred mind. Maybe it was the way her platoon snored like little kittens as they laid in their sleeping bags on the desert ground. Maybe it was the vanilla ice cream-like texture of the full moon that night. Maybe it was the way the stars twinkled brightly across her field of vision. Whatever this comfort was, Laurel envied her platoon mates as she marched back and forth with her AK-47 drawn ready to shower any insurgent with bullets at a moment’s notice.

There seemed to be no need for such a brutal weapon that moment. It was surprisingly quiet for a war-torn desert. No bombs going off, no machinegun fire, just peace and quiet. Because of the strangeness of it all, Laurel had to be extra vigilant and the caffeine pills she took before her shift would help her do that. Every once and a while she would drift off while she was on her feet, but only for a few seconds at best. A lifetime of drinking coffee made her somewhat immune to these military-grade caffeine pills. Nevertheless, she remained steadfast in her night watch.

She reached for the radio on her hip and said into it, “Coast is clear, over.” But when she hit the button, the entire device popped like a balloon and gave Laurel a quick jump scare. “What the hell?” she asked herself as she saw that her radio was indeed a clown’s balloon. With wide eyes and a tight trigger finger, she looked around at her platoon and saw that their weapons had been replaced by balloon animals and their radios were replaced with bicycle helmets.

“Hey! Wake up! We’ve been made!” shouted Laurel, but the mechanical snoring continued. “I said wake up, goddamn it! We’re under attack!” Still no answer from the drowsy crew. “Fucking morons! Wake your asses up, now!” she barked with even more sauce in her voice. She even squeezed off a few rounds of her assault rifle in the air, but that too turned out to be an exploding balloon animal. “What the fuck is going on here?!” she asked while tightly squeezing the remains of her inflatable giraffe.

“You can yell all you want, sweetheart, but they ain’t waking up!” said a cartoon voice with two honks of a bicycle horn to follow. Private Tate’s what-the-fuck face was cranked up to eleven when she saw a tiny gnome in a clown suit waving at her and peddling a child’s bike with a wagon full of AK-47’s and other military equipment. “Turn that frown upside down! Without these bad boys, you won’t have to go to war anymore! Smile, you silly goose!” From the gnome clown’s gigantic sleeves shot a volley of crepe paper in Laurel’s now red hot face.

The marine private slowly wiped the paper off her face while maintaining a contorted look of disgust and vitriol. “You little shit weasel! You better give that shit back or else…”

“Or else what? You’ll get a spanking from your daddy?” mocked the gnome with a sarcastic hand of concern over his mouth. “You really need to loosen up, baby cakes! Here, have some music to brighten your day!” The clown flipped the switch on a radio mounted to his handle bars and played church organ circus music. He laughed like a hyena and started peddling away in his little bicycle while waving goodbye.

While she wouldn’t get “a spanking from her daddy”, Laurel would get an earful from her commanding officer if she allowed this little freak of nature to get away so easily with expensive military equipment. Physical training until her body resembled a skeleton. A firing squad that put more holes in her than a mesh fence. God knows how many years in a military prison that would rival most shit houses. Any one of these possibilities shook Laurel to her core and her nerves fired off like the assault rifles stolen from her platoon.

“Get over here, you little creep!” grunted Private Tate through gritted teeth while she darted after her thief at a deadlier speed than when she ran obstacles in boot camp. With every ounce of strength she pumped into her thick legs, she crept inches closer to her elusive assailant. Her heart pumped at a million beats per minute and sweat poured from her brow like a water park. She reached out her hand only inches away from her slick thief’s rainbow-colored hair. Two fingertips turned into three and three turned into an entire handful of clown hair.

With one clean jerk, Private Tate yanked the little fucker off of his bike and started raining punches down on his face. She could feel the molten lead pumping through her veins as well as the blood and juices splashing against her already red eyes and face. She finally relented her attack when she saw that she had been punching a watermelon this entire time. The burgundy in her face flashed a mixture of boiling anger and douche chills of embarrassment.

Standing right beside her and laughing like a lunatic, the gnome clown said, “Gotcha! I gotcha good, didn’t I!” before cooling off Laurel’s face with a spray of lapel water. The clown rolled on the floor laughing and kicking the air while slamming his fists into the desert sand.

With her anger hot enough to make her head explode like a car bomb, Laurel finally got her hands wrapped around the little bastard’s throat and squeezed so hard that the gnome’s facial redness was easily visible through his white makeup. “Alright, you little shit head! Tell me who you are and what the fuck you’re doing here! I’ll make your death quick and painless if you listen to reason!”

The clown’s head popped in balloon fashion once again and his real head slid through the neck of his jacket. “Gotcha again!” said the diminutive booger as he rolled around laughing yet again. Laurel could do nothing but remain on her knees and watch this nut job with burning red eyes.

Upon witnessing the marine’s frustration, the clown stopped laughing and changed his expression to mock sadness. “Aww, what’s wrong? Don’t be sad, little girl. I’m just having some fun with you tonight. I suppose introductions are in order. My name is Ozzy May. Nice to meet you!” The two of them shook hands only for Laurel to get a jolt in her fingers and for Ozzy to have another reason to chuckle and hee-haw.

“I give up. I fucking give up,” said Laurel with a low and solemn voice. “I didn’t sign up for this goofy shit. I’m supposed to be shooting terrorists, not little shit stains like you!”

Ozzy nipped up and sat on the seat of his bicycle with his legs crossed and big red feet swinging. “So what of it? You want to go home? You want to see your husband and daughter again? Have you finally had enough of this god awful war that nobody needs to be fighting?”

“I need to fight it!” barked Laurel. “I joined the marines so that I could protect my country and if I have to protect it from little punks like you, then I’ll gladly do it!”

Ozzy May rested his jaw on his fingertips and said, “Really? Who told you that? A politician? A recruiter? A TV pundit? Come on, little girl, you can’t really be serious about all of that rhetoric. The only reason why there aren’t any bullets flying tonight is because nobody’s alive to shoot them. I’m not just talking about whackos with bombs. I’m talking about women and children too. You’ve seen their bodies up close and you can’t get those images out of your mind. Those aren’t caffeine pills you’re taking. That’s trauma medication!”

Laurel’s facial expression melted into softness upon realizing that this little guy had a point. The tears were building in her eyes, but she didn’t want them flooding and Ozzy noticed that. She couldn’t let this clown see her cry. Instead her sorrow turned to rage when she bolted to her feet and spear tackled Ozzy to the ground with her fist raised high. “What do you know about the shit going on in my head?! Huh?! What makes you a fucking authority?!”

“I know this because that’s how my gnomish race was wiped out,” said Ozzy with rare seriousness in his voice. “Too many of them were blown to bits while others lynched themselves into a peaceful death. That’s the reality of war, but no politician will ever tell you that. But of course, what does a gnome like me know about war? I’m too small to fight other people’s battles for them. Even if I wanted to be a soldier, nobody would recruit me because I’m small enough to get my ass kicked by normal sized men. If you need proof, just look at you and that raised fist!”

Slowly lowering her hand, Laurel’s tears burst from her eyes, but she refused to sob in front of this tiny man. “Why are you telling me these things? You’re just a clown. You’re here to torment me!”

“Exactly!” said Ozzy. “If I don’t set you straight, these desert warriors will. I’d much rather you’d be pranked by a clown instead of blown up by a rocket launcher. Is that really what it’s going to take to get you home? A blown off leg? A mindful of shitty memories? A hole in your chest the size of a sewer lid? Or maybe you prefer to travel home in a wooden box with an American flag draped over it!”

Even more tears poured from Laurel’s eyes as she rolled onto her back and gazed at the night sky. It still looked beautiful despite her tormented mind. She could have more nights like this if she came home alive and well to a family that depended on her for income and love. She didn’t want to admit it, but Ozzy May was right. But the more she pushed away his talking points, the stronger they hit her.

“How the fuck am I supposed to go home now?” asked Laurel wearily. “It’s not like my commanding officer is just going to let me go. He’ll probably punish the shit out of me before that happens.”

Wrapping his tiny arm around her shoulders, Ozzy said, “Did I mention that those weren’t caffeine pills you were taking? At least those are allowed. Illegally obtained prescription drugs? Not so much. The marines don’t want drug addicted trauma victims on their team. They want young healthy soldiers who can run into battle and beat some ass with the best of them. Your CO will find out sooner or later. But in your case, it’s as soon as you decide to wake up!”

That final sentence was punctuated with a cream pie to Laurel’s face. She coughed and spit up the pieces of whipped cream before angrily wiping it from her field of vision. By the time her eyes were clear enough to see, it was the break of dawn and her once snoring marine friends were gathered all around her with scornful looks in their eyes. Was this whole thing just a dream? A fucked up god awful dream about midget clowns?

One of them had a prescription bottle of pills with the name Dr. Ozzy May on the top of the label. That same marine knelt down to Laurel’s side and said with stern conviction, “We need to talk.”

“Am…am I busted?” asked Laurel.

“You’re goddamn right you are,” said the head marine.

Ninja

The rain poured down on the helpless African diamond miners like the tears of those sent to heaven by Andrew Bradley’s bullets and grenades. A whole line of skinny workers were on their knees with their arms bound behind their backs and their heads down in shame. Some of them were so skinny that their bones were visible. Some of them didn’t have arms or hands. Some of them were as young as seven years old. All of them shivered at both the sensation of cold rain and the fear of the mercenary for hire standing behind them with an AK-47 in hand.

“Alright, you little wankers, listen up!” said Andrew Bradley in his tone-deaf English accent. “I came here for one reason and one reason only: the Ninja Ruby is here in this exact diamond mine. I’d better get some answers as to where the hell it is or else all of you are getting bullets! Not excuses, not questions, but bullets! Bullets in your head! Bullets in your back! Bullets up your arse!”

With his muscular and hairy body, black tank top, camouflage pants, and eye patch over his right eye, Andrew was a specimen of intimidation. The worst part about that? He could back it up. When he wasn’t getting answers from the bound up miners, he took the butt of his rifle and smashed it in the back of a random worker’s head. The worker screamed in pain as he laid on the ground with his wound bleeding like crazy.

“Consider that your final warning, you little twerps! If I don’t hear an answer soon, I’m going to start shooting!” screamed Andrew as he fired his automatic rifle in the sky and laughed his ass off.

And then a shuriken flew past the scene and lopped off the tip of the AK-47. Another one flew past and exploded the ammo card. One more flew by and was centimeters away from taking off Andrew’s trigger finger if he didn’t drop his weapon in time.

One of the workers smiled up at Andrew and said, “You want to know where the Ninja Ruby is? You can find it on that cave. There’s just one problem: you won’t make it out alive!”

“Is that a threat? Huh? Is that a threat?!” Andrew roared when he pulled out a bowie knife and held it to the smiling worker’s throat. “You’d better wipe that god-awful grin off your face or else you’ll get a Columbian necktie! We’ll see if you’ll be smiling after that!”

A blowgun dart whizzed by and struck Andrew in his thick leg. He hopped away from the “smart-assed” worker and grimaced in pain. With one swift jerk, he pulled the dart from his leg and allowed it to bleed minimally. He stared down the cave with gritted yellow teeth and a death grip on his knife’s handle. “That’s it! You want to screw around with me! I’ll slash your fucking head off and drink your nigger blood!”

Andrew marched into the cave and lit up his club-like flashlight. No matter where he shined it, he couldn’t find even the slightest clue as to where the perpetrator might be. “Alright, you little pansy!” shouted the mercenary. “I’ve had just about enough of your smart-assed trickery! If you won’t come out of here with your hands raised to the sky, I’ll blast this goddamn cave back to the Stone Age! I’ve got enough dynamite in my truck to shake the entire earth to its core!”

“That won’t be necessary, my friend.” Andrew turned around and saw that the source of the deep-voiced dialogue came from a man dressed in multi-colored robes with a demon’s mask over his face and a katana in his hand. “My name is DJ Rouge. You wanted to know where the Ninja’s Ruby was. Here it is. Come and take it.” DJ removed his eye patch and revealed a beautiful red gem in his socket.

Andrew looked at the ruby with O-mouthed awe as it shined brightly enough to illuminate the whole cave. DJ pulled the gem out of his eye socket and threw it out of the entrance to the cave, darkening the atmosphere yet again except for Andrew’s flashlight. “What are you waiting for? Go fetch, you hideous dog!” said DJ.

“You cheeky little bastard!” yelled Andrew as he charged up to DJ while swinging wildly with his bowie knife and flashlight. Every blow he threw scraped dust off the cave walls and ground, sometimes even taking whole stones. But never once did Andrew hit his target, who was moving with acrobatic quickness and calm stealth.

“You can’t play defense forever, you little swine!” yelled Andrew. He was right. DJ slashed the mercenary’s flashlight in half with his blade and darkened the room once more. The only light remaining was at the entrance, which was still somewhat dim due to this cold weather. “Where are you?! Where are you, you little bastard?!” bellowed Andrew.

With darkness as his ally, DJ threw knees and elbows to Andrew’s ribs, stomach, and face. Each blow shook the brute’s body and made a resounding thud. But even with a few crunches here and there, Andrew boldly said, “Is that all you’ve got?!” DJ then threw a sweep kick and knocked the British warrior on his ass.

Instead of growling in pain, Andrew did so in frustration and got up immediately to throw random punches and kicks in the dark. Not one of them found its target and instead all he got were DJ’s kicks to his thick legs, almost buckling his knees. “Where are you, you little creep?!” yelled Andrew Bradley.

The mercenary threw another uppercut, but this time hit the ceiling with such force that a rock came down and bonked DJ Rouge on the head, prompting him to let out a small “Ow!” That one mistake was enough for Andrew to grab DJ around his throat and pin him against the wall with brutal force.

The mercenary squeezed with such force that he could feel DJ’s throat becoming thinner and his neck bones popping. “You hear that, you little shit?! That’s the sound of your own undoing! Are you ready to tap out?! Are you ready to give up?! Huh?! Huh?! HUH?!”

DJ was on the verge of passing out or having his neck snapped when the sound of a loud explosion boomed across the mine fields. Andrew’s grip weakened as he started to worry. “Oh no!” he yelled out before releasing the chokehold and running out of the mine. He could hear DJ coughing violently with bloodily, but the music to Andrew’s ears was ruined when he saw his truck bursting into flames.

“No! No, no, no!” yelled Andrew. He dropped to his knees and cried pathetically, though the African workers would have no sympathy for him. They stood around the explosion with their arms folded and their expressions angry.

“What was that you said about having enough explosions to shake the earth?” said one of the workers in a mocking tone.

“Oh, go to hell, you little jerk-offs!” cried Andrew. “All I wanted was a little ruby for my bosses! It wasn’t personal! It was just business!”

“Ruby? You mean this?” said the worker as he pulled out the brightly shining stone. “Go ahead. Take it. It’s yours.” Except he didn’t just hand it over. He threw the gem right into Andrew’s good eye and caused him to scream pathetically some more. His eye was squished like an olive and all he could do was roll around like a wounded animal.

And then the gem was ripped from Andrew’s good eye and a blade was held to his throat. DJ’s familiar voice said, “These people you held captive. They were never meant to be slaves for your corporate banks. I came here to free them. They’re not just ‘cheeky bastards’. They’re hard workers who deserve much better than the treatment you gave them today.”

“I’ll give you whatever you want! Just don’t hurt me! I’ll never come by here again!” pleaded Andrew.

“Anything I want, huh? Alright then. Tell me who you work for and I might let you go.”

The next morning at Babylon Bank, the chubby, white-haired CEO received a package in his office. He smiled at it with his saggy jowls and opened it up like it was a Christmas present. It was delivered by Andrew Bradley, so he was expecting a brightly shining Ninja Ruby. Instead all he got was pieces of Andrew’s hair and his heart. A bloody, sloppy heart that would have been cold even without the dry ice. The CEO screamed in a tone-deaf voice that would have woken up the dead, including Andrew Bradley.

Dreams About Fighting Criminals

I haven’t been in a fight since 2003. I’m not talking about a pitty-patty slap fest, I’m talking about a real, down in the dirt, drag-out brawl. In 2003 when I had my last fight, I punched my opponent in the face and then he ended up dragging me to the floor and returning the favor tenfold. Ever since then, I’ve thought about getting in more fights, but I’ve never actually done it. It could be that I’ve developed allergies to a jail cell and the people who occupy it. But lord knows there were plenty of people in my life worth kicking the shit out of. I could do it too if I put my mind to it. This must be the reason why I keep having dreams at night about getting in fights with criminals. Not just anybody, but criminals. High school bullies, street thugs, people who think they’re street thugs, and just plain guys from Seattle: in my dream’s theater, they all want a piece of me. Every time they look for a battle with me, they always lose. I’ve done everything in these subconscious battles from twisting them into submission holds to breaking their necks to just plain delivering punches and kicks. Hell, there was even one dream where I collected the scalps of everybody I fought. What exactly do these dreams mean? Do they mean that it’s time to kick some ass again? I’d like to think so, but again, I’m not looking forward to a life in prison. That reminds me of a little trope about growing up. When you’re a kid and you get in a fight, you get a time out. When you’re a pre-teen, you get a one day vacation from school. When you’re a full-blown teenager, you get a five day vacation from school. But when you’re an adult, that vacation can last anywhere from a short-lived night to a 25-year sentence behind bars. The lesson here is that the older you get, the worse the punishment. If you have people to beat up, do it before you’re old enough to go to prison for a life sentence. This is especially important if you come from a poor family. Matt Taibbi wrote an entire book about how poor people are punished worse than rich people. If you’re a working class black lady and you slap your cheating boyfriend, you’ll go to jail for a long, long time. If you’re a rich white cocksucker who molested his children, the judge will give you probation because rich people “don’t do well in prison”. No wonder I have so many dreams about fighting people: there are lots of people to fight and lots of anger to go around. But this is just the dream world. In the real world, I do all my fighting through my short stories. I have characters who fight for their lives, for justice, for love, and for honor. They don’t always do it with an AK-47 and a Sherman tank. Sometimes they just scream with all their soul power and that’s often enough.

　

***FACE BOOK POST OF THE DAY***

“If Mike Tyson asks permission to do something, is it wrong to tell him to knock himself out?”

-Me-