Phil Labonte from All That Remains

 

Beautiful Monster Official Soundtrack

 Commonsense dictates that I should be in bed right now considering it’s about two in the morning. But instead, I put together my official soundtrack for Beautiful Monster. There are twenty songs on this list and they total up to an hour and eighteen minutes of play time. Starting with…

1. “Beautiful Monster” by Otherwise (no shit, Sherlock)

2. “Between You and Nowhere” by Hellyeah

3. “Crying Out” by Shinedown

4. “The Dark of You” by Breaking Benjamin

5. “Death” by Demon Hunter

6. “Don’t Leave Me Now” by Pink Floyd

7. “For You” by Marko Hietala

8. “Frozen” by Within Temptation

9. “Fuck Love” by All That Remains

10. “Heavy” by Linkin Park

11. “Holding My Breath” by Alien Weaponry

12. “A Little Bit Off” by Five Finger Death Punch

13. “Love Is Blue” by Paul Mauriat (of course)

14. “My Immortal” by Evanescence

15. “Nothing’s Fair in Love and War” by Three Days Grace

16. “Say Goodnight” by Gemini Syndrome

17. “Scarlet” by In This Moment

18. “Sickened” by Disturbed

19. “Volcanic” by Death Angel

20. “You Love Me ‘Cause I Hate You” by Lacuna Coil

Captain Evil

***CAPTAIN EVIL***

More often than not, when I’m writing a blog entry like this one, I like to joke about how nobody would take a villain named Captain Evil seriously. Who is Captain Evil? He’s my punch line for any villain who is evil for the sake of being evil. No motivations, no ambitions, no personality, just evil, evil, evil. Stomping on kittens, blowing up buildings, shooting up schools, all for the sake of being a massive dick. Do villains like these exist? Of course they do, but they’re mostly in golden age videogames and children’s cartoons.

If Bowser from the Mario Brothers franchise was renamed Captain Evil, nobody would even notice. He too has a one-track mind with not much dimension to him. Kidnapping Princess Peach seems to be his only motivation in life. But what does he do with her? Is he in love with her? Does it turn out at long last that Bowser is a horny incel? And if he’s really this big ass turtle warrior with a spiked shell and fiery breath, how come he has incompetent minions do his bidding for him? I know the early Mario games weren’t intended for deep thinking, but when you’re writing your own story, you really have no choice but to question a lot of these Captain Evil tropes.

But enough about Bowser and his two dimensions (both in terms of sprite graphics and character development). What about an actual person named Captain Evil? Is it really possible to redeem such a character? His name already gives off vibes of being a villain, much like the name Sweet Pea would lead you to believe she’s a protagonist. But what’s in a name? Does it say Captain Evil on his driver’s license? What if it’s just a catchy nickname? What if the guy who uses that name isn’t really evil, but just a really tough son of a bitch?

What if Captain Evil was the name of a military drill instructor who screamed at his privates all the time? Feel free to take that however you want. What if Captain Evil was a mixed-martial artist with an aggressive fighting style? What if Captain Evil was an actual supervillain? Could he still have multiple layers in his character development? Sure, he can! Maybe he doesn’t see being evil as a bad thing. Maybe he admits he’s evil and just doesn’t give a shit. Maybe it’s the world around him who gave him this label and he’s just rolling with it.

But the thing about multi-layered villains as that they don’t actually believe they’re the bad guy in their story. In fact, nobody in this world sees themselves as a villain despite the fact that they might do shitty things from time to time. Everybody has an original point of view, everybody has their own version of right and wrong, and our differences clash often. So even a guy with the name Captain Evil couldn’t see himself as a true villain if he has any chance at being multi-layered.

If you must make Captain Evil sympathetic, do it in a way that doesn’t involve a troubled past that leads nowhere. It’s a tired trope that only matters if executed correctly. If Captain Evil’s parents were killed, it has to lead to somewhere. If Captain Evil was bullied in school, it has to figure into the story somehow. If you’re just piling on problems for the sake of making a villain into a victim, you’re not doing yourself or your character any favors.

I know how ironic it seems to hear me say that since I too struggle with creating sympathetic characters. Then again, these days I struggle with every aspect of the writing game, whether it’s realistic dialogue, showing vs. telling, and of course, creating three-dimensional characters. I’ve been writing since 2002 and I still get it wrong from time to time. It’s almost as though I need someone to hold my hand for me as I cross the street. Although all first drafts by their very nature suck ass, some suck more than others. Some first drafts have an incomplete version of Captain Evil lurking in the background. I know a lot of mine do.

I’m not recommending you actually create a character named Captain Evil, unless of course it’s a challenge you want to undertake. If you like challenges and you like creating chicken salad out of chicken shit, then by all means, go for it. Some people thrive with minimal creative fuel. Some people need more to go by. As for myself, if I ever decide to create my own version of Captain Evil, I’m going to need all the help I can get from beta readers, editors, and Author Tubers with funny and helpful videos (I’m looking at you, Jenna Moreci).

Wait a minute…did I just namedrop Jenna Moreci? In a blog about Captain Evil? Her debut novel “Eve: the Awakening” has a character in it named Captain Ramsey. He was a former Navy Captain who now teaches combat classes at Billington University. He’s tough-minded, he’s hardcore, he’s a no-bullshit kind of guy. He doesn’t accept mediocrity from any of his students, least of all chimeras. Could he accept the nickname Captain Evil even though he’s technically one of the good guys? If we’re going by his no-bullshit attitude alone, then yes, I can see him earning that moniker. And wouldn’t you know it? He’s three-dimensional too!

If Jenna Moreci can successfully create Captain Evil, you can too and so can I! Let’s create an army of Captain Evils together! We’ve got this! No challenge is too big for us! I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight! Anyone who can guess where my new sign-off phrase comes from gets a free cookie. It’ll be a digital cookie, but it’ll have chocolate chips nonetheless. Or if you’re an Oreo guy, you can have that too.

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

I’m looking at all the time stamps in which I completed these twenty-four chapters so far and holy shit, are they spaced out. Twenty-four chapters so far with three remaining on deck. I didn’t begin rewriting Beautiful Monster until late November last year. That means it took me over half a year to rewrite a novel that normally takes me two months at most. I don’t like to beat myself up over little shit, but goddamn, that’s got to be the longest I’ve ever spent on a WIP. Then again, I’ve also had quite a few creative and real life projects on my plate in lieu of Beautiful Monster. My Jack and the Beanstalk parody Emilio & Marigold dominated a good portion of my year. So did reading the shortest books in my library and reviewing them all. So did writing short stories and poems for the WSS on Good Reads. I can’t blame it all on psychological torpor, but since Impostor Syndrome is a bitch….Anyways, I wrote chapter twenty-four earlier today, so I’m a happy motherfucker. Windham finally swears! Yay! And I’m not just talking about damn and hell either. He dropped an F-bomb on Shelly like it was an actual nuclear warhead. You want to know what he said to her? “FUCK LOVE!” Speaking of which…

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Binary lie never scratch it on my skin. But you’d loved to see the mark just to fill the blackness in. I know what you are. You’re the last thing I see as my lungs fill. I’ll be goddamned if you didn’t love the sin while you offer up advice just to keep your secrets in. I know what you are. You’re the last breath I breathe as my lungs fill. Fuck love! It only goes away. There’s no goddamn good in this goodbye you made me say. Don’t love ever again. Fuck love! Your promise was in vain. There’s no goddamn good in this goodbye you made me say. Don’t love ever again. Counting all the days that deception was the game. I lived every day just to keep my promises. I can’t hide the scar. Now my last breath is yours and my lungs fill. Didn’t see the snake that was signaling the change. I’ll be damned for my sleep but still I hold you to blame. Still hold you to. Fuck love!”

-All That Remains singing “Fuck Love”-

***POST-SCRIPT***

Do any All That Remains fans out there get the feeling that “Fuck Love” was written about Oli Herbert’s relationship with his wife before he died? I don’t want to peddle conspiracy theories, but…

Gorgon Death Bitch

The clock on Steve Jones’s dashboard struck midnight while the rain pounded on his windshield like hammers. He clutched the steering wheel with a monstrous grip knowing what was waiting for him beyond that apartment door. He could faintly hear Kathryn Marsh’s radio blasting the coincidental tune “The Thunder Rolls” by All That Remains. How funny would it be if those lyrics about a cheating husband influenced her rage when Steve walked through the door? The last time he sniffed around, there wasn’t a trace of cologne because there was no other woman. But still…

Steve took one last swig of his Jack Daniels and let out an ogre burp before exiting the car for what would be the longest walk of his life. It was only one flight of stairs, but with the alcohol turning his brain into mush, he might as well have been walking on an endless treadmill. He limped up each individual step while maintaining a chokehold on the railing. He dared not peek down to know just how high off the ground he was. Instead he fixed his short brown hair and brushed off his gray hoodie and black jeans before slipping his key in the door and walking through the gates of hell.

“Where the fuck have you been?” belted Kathryn as she sprawled across the couch in her pink fleece robe while her King Charles puppy licked her hands. “Do you have any goddamn clue what time it is? Jesus, you smell like a brewery!”

“Kathryn, now’s not the time for this dramatic crap. I’ve had a long day and all I want to do is get in bed and forget all about it,” begged Steve while holding his hands up defensively.

He stumbled towards the bedroom slowly and lazily when Kathryn shoved the puppy off of her chest and leaped up to block her boyfriend’s path with her arms akimbo. “I’ve been waiting for you all day long. We were supposed to have dinner together and then go see a movie.” She took in the scent of booze with a scowl and said, “You obviously had other plans.”

“You know what?” slurred Steve. “I did have other plans. Plans that didn’t involve coming home to you every night and getting chewed out for stupid shit! Ever since we got engaged, it’s been the same: fighting, fighting, and more fucking fighting! So excuse me if I don’t feel like hanging out with a crazy chick who wants to keep me on a leash!”

Kathryn shoved Steve and sent him careening backwards. He would have landed on his ass if he didn’t have a firm grip on the back of the couch. Towering over him, she snapped, “We never do anything together anymore! I have to keep you on a short leash because I can’t trust you to be there for me! We’re supposed to get married soon and now you’re going to ruin it for us by drinking yourself to death! I’m sick of this shit, Steve!”

Amidst rapid-fire dog barking, Steve pulled himself to his feet, but not without tripping forward and almost landing face first into Kathryn’s chest. “Kitty-Kat, just shut the fuck up before you make my headache worse than it already is.”

Kathryn slapped Steve across the face and sent him rolling onto the couch. “How can you talk to me that way?!” she angrily sobbed. “The Steve I know would never have said that to anyone, let alone his own fiancé! You’ve changed! You’ve fucking changed! You can either check into rehab or I’ll drop this wedding like a bad habit!” When the dog continued to voice his opinion, his owner shouted, “Shut up, you stupid dog!” and earned a whine and a crouch from the little pooch.

Steve’s burning fury caused him to grab one of the couch pillows and thrash everything in sight with it, whether it be the coffee table, the TV, or Kathryn herself. He threw the soft weapon to the ground and shouted, “That’s it! I’ve had it with you! You want to end this relationship?! You want to throw it all away over stupid shit?! You got it! Good riddance! I’d be better off jacking it to internet porn than spending another night in the sack with you, you gorgon death bitch!”

Kathryn’s cheeks flushed into a brighter shade of pink than her bathrobe. Tears poured from her eyes with more intensity than the weather outside. “The Thunder Rolls” meant more to her now than it did when she was waiting for Steve to come home. She curled up into a ball on the floor and dampened her knees with sorrowful liquids. Steve wouldn’t be deterred by such a “pitiful” display as he crossed his arms and stood over her like a giant terrorizing villagers. He wasn’t staggering anymore despite the strong scent of alcohol blowing around the house like disgusting perfume.

“How could you?” Kathryn whimpered. “Why would you say that to me? Don’t you love me anymore? Does our marriage mean nothing to you?” Even with the biblical flood of tears, Steve hadn’t moved an inch. It was only when poisonous snakes grew from her scalp that he slowly staggered backwards and fell on his ass.

Now it was Steve’s turn to shed tears of misery and fear. “What the hell?” he asked as the dog’s barking picked up steam yet again.

The snakes in Kathryn’s hair slithered, spit venom, and chewed at the air. Her skin whitened to a pale shade of marble. When she nipped up and roared to the sky, neon red lights shot from her eyes and turned every fly whirling above her into little pebbles. Their corpses rolled across the ground like a game of craps. Steve had already turned around and covered his head so that he didn’t have to look into her eyes. Her demonic voice, on the other hand, was as clear as day. “You want a gorgon death bitch?! I’ll give you one, you little shit! You’re going to put a ring on me whether you want to or not!”

The shivering and cowering Steve opened his eyes ever so slightly to see Kathryn’s shadow creeping up on him. The snakes in her hair all made a lung for him and he rolled out of the way just in time. “Come on, Stevie-Boy!” the gorgon taunted. “I thought you liked putting poison in your body! You do enough of it at the bar, so why not here at home?”

The snakes lunged at him again and one of them managed to snag the back of his hoodie. Steve screamed in almighty terror as he ran behind the couch, leaving a piece of his clothing behind for the snakes to snack on. He tried to run towards the bedroom, but his drunken stupor made athleticism close to impossible. He tripped to the ground and crawled across the carpet like a soldier trying to avoid barbed wire. His heart thundered at a million beats per minute. Sweat and tears rained off of him like a dam after an earthquake. His body trembled and his bladder unleashed another rainstorm upon the ground. He even managed to feel pity for the barking dog behind him.

“I’m sorry, Kathryn! I’m so sorry! Just leave me the fuck alone!” Steve pleaded through a swamp of tears.

He felt a sharp presence clutch the back of his hair and yank him up to his knees. Those same claws mockingly massaged his shoulders while Kathryn whispered sweet nothings in his ears, her cacophony complimented by hissing snakes. “Oh, Steve. You’re so cute when you’re shaking in terror. I knew there was a reason my family loved you so much. They kept pushing me to marry you and now we can be happy together at last! Just you and me, nobody else! No beer, no drugs, no shitty music, just a lifetime of sweet symphonies! Doesn’t that sound like paradise, my darling?”

Even with his mind racing beyond the galaxy itself, Steve could make out the sound of the little puppy gnawing on Kathryn’s ankle, to which the gorgon growled and unleashed her savage stone stare upon the little guy. Steve and Kathryn yelled, “No!” together, which would be the only thing they had in common at this point in the argument.

Steve slowly turned his blistered face to see Kathryn on her knees cradling her stone statue puppy and sobbing once again. “Why?” she blubbered. “Why do I keep doing this to the ones I love? I didn’t mean to, damn it! I just want a happy life! I just want a husband and a puppy-duppy! Is that too much to ask for?”

With his eyebrows furrowed like lightning bolts, the thunder flashed in Steve’s eyes as he saw his opportunity to end this madness. He leapt to his feet, yanked the stone dog out of Kathryn’s hands, and before she could turn around, he smashed the petrified animal over her head multiple times. She screamed in bloody agony while her snakes hissed and nibbled at Steve’s arms and hands. He didn’t give a fuck about the poison or the blood.

A flash of red burned across his retinas as he smashed Kathryn’s head over and over again. The blood splatters and dead snakes were giving him a funny feeling in his wet pants. His eyes bulged and so did his underwear. He laughed like a psychopath as he bathed in the sweet venom of his now dying fiancé. It felt as warm and relaxing to his aching body as a Jacuzzi. He hammered her again and again until the stone dog spilt in two and Kathryn’s head was a pool of shattered bones and splattered brains. For the first time in this relationship, Steve could breathe easy, but he did so with a deep, raspy throat.

His moment of sweet nirvana was interrupted by the sound of his apartment door being kicked down and police officers yelling, “What the hell?!”

Steve’s bulging eyes and psychotic demeanor faded into soberness when he peeked up at the cops. His heart sank to his feet when he saw that Kathryn’s gorgon appearance was no more and the puppy’s stone body was a bloody heap. Beyond the rancid smell of blood and guts, Steve could still identify the alcohol on his own breath and clothes. Goddamn, that was some strong booze.

The officers at the door gazed at Steve with horrified shock and arms akimbo. All Steve could do was shrug his shoulders and say, “It’s not what it looks like.”

Islands

***ISLANDS***

As much as I love talking about beautiful places like Hawaii, I’m not talking about those kinds of islands tonight. The term island can also be used to refer to anybody who feels alone in the world in at least one way. For this journal, the islands I’m talking about are people who are convinced they’re the only members of a certain fan base. I’m sure we’ve all felt like islands before. We feel like we’re the only ones who listen to Seether, the only ones who watch Inuyasha, or the only ones who play with Legos despite being 40 years old. While it is true that the island mentality is only an illusion, the other members of the obscure fandom can be so far out of reach for a lot of people. It’s especially hard when the person isn’t very good at social situations to begin with.

There are times when I personally feel like an island with the things I love. I’ve yet to find other people on Good Reads who are as zealous about pro-wrestling as I am. I tried to start a Dungeons & Dragons group, but no matter where or how many times I’ve advertised, nobody joined, so I had to close it down. I’ve found a few people at the WSS who enjoy Pantera’s music, but then again, when a layman thinks of heavy metal music, they either think of Pantera or Metallica. I don’t hear a lot of chatter about Soulfly, All That Remains, Slipknot, or Lamb of God.

As a man stranded on this island of weird interests and core values, the logical solution would be to get in a rowboat and sail to faraway lands. But there are several obstacles that lie in the way. The waters are too rough to navigate without being capsized. I have no idea where the hell I’m going when I’m out there. Bringing people to my island is just as hard for them since they lack navigation and aren’t interested in being capsized either. In case you’re wondering, yes, these are analogies and no, I don’t live in Hawaii. I want to live in Hawaii someday, but today’s not the day.

But as you gain more and more interests, the lower the water becomes to expose more land. When the water sinks far down enough, you cease to become an island and you might even become a whole continent. Continents are islands by definition, but they’re much larger because they’re housing different cities and nations. When you increase the size of your land, you include more people and your cities and nations will develop beyond the third world. And though it may be hard on right-wingers in particular, you have to occasionally let some immigrants pass through your borders and spread their ideas to make the population more open-minded. Yes, I’m using analogies again, but I’m putting a lot of faith in you guys to decipher them.

To use literal terms, increasing my interests would be as simple as turning on my TV and surfing my Roku for new shows to watch. It could also mean trying out new computer games since that’s the only gaming platform I have as of today. Well, that’s not entirely true. I do have a Nintendo DS, but I’m pretty sure it’s dated. I could also look for music to listen to outside my heavy metal and new age borders, as long as it’s not disposable pop music or ultra-conservative country songs.

Sailing the rough waters should be as easy as getting off my ass and finding things to do. I certainly have the open schedule to do it, but that’s where my conversations about mental energy come back to bite me in the ass. You know you’re exhausted all the time when you’re too sluggish to sit on your ass and watch TV. Trying new things will require a visit to a sleep clinic to eventually diagnose me with sleep apnea and get me a prescription for an oxygen mask.

But even after I gain all of this energy, I still have to get in the mood to actually try new things. This sounds easy, but for me in particular, it’s not. Trying new things would mean taking a chance against something I might not like or might fail at. I fear failure so much that I’d rather stick to what I’m good at than risk looking like a fool or getting frustrated with what I’m doing. I’ve practiced playing the guitar for a lot of my pre-teen and teenage years. Despite getting an A in my middle school guitar class, I never got better at playing and I eventually gave up on it. It’s weird, because I’m not the best drawer in the world, yet I keep pumping out pictures like hotcakes. But I still get frustrated when trying to play a stupid goddamn guitar. No wonder Pete Townsend likes to smash his instruments.

If I ever decide to stop being an island, it’s going to take some help and convincing from other people. It’s not as simple as saying, “Go to You Tube and check it out!”, because I will likely tell you to go to hell. To use more island analogies, if I’m going to sail rough waters to other foreign lands, I’m going to do it on a Norwegian Cruise Line and not in a rowboat. I’ll be the passenger who cruises the various restaurants, and you, the one who wants me to see these foreign lands, will be the captain of the ship. We’ve got ears, say cheers!

　

***POISON TONGUE TALES***

As of this moment, I have 35 short stories that fall under the sci-fi, fantasy, and horror genres. My goal is the same as with American Darkness and my drama stories: I want to hit the magical number of 50. Because I’m currently suffering from writer’s block when it comes to Blood Brawl, I’m instead going to choose Poison Tongue Tales stories to write without the WSS’s prompts. A man cannot live on movie, book, and wrestling match reviews alone. That, and I’ve pretty much given up on writing character profiles since they all sound the same to me. Here’s a sneak preview of “Harvest Moon”, the next PTT story I will write:

　

CHARACTERS:

　

Ambrose Volta, Witchdoctor
Kendra Callahan, Assassin

　

PROMPT CONFORMITY: I’m doing this without the WSS’s prompts (no offense to those guys; I love them like family).

　

SYNOPSIS: Kendra has been hired to protect a funeral home that has been broken into several times over the past few days. During her patrol, she catches the culprit, Ambrose, in the act of harvesting spirit energy from the corpses and stealing valuable objects off of them. Kendra and Ambrose battle it out together in a war of martial arts vs. magic. The fight gets interesting when Ambrose reveals what he plans on doing with the harvested energy.

　

In addition to writing new stories, I will also be editing old ones. The next one I edit is “Ascension”, a barbarian story which will eventually have a new title since the old one doesn’t fit.

　

***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“I caught a snake one time. I skinned it and drank its blood. It’s in a better place now.”

-Braun Strowman, the Wyatt Family’s “Face of Destruction”-

Snitch

Lucas Morgan had just completed his geometry assignments for the evening and was left mentally exhausted afterwards. All the blond-haired All That Remains T-shirt-wearing teen wanted was to take a nap and forget the whole day ever happened. He kicked off his boots and plopped backwards on his comfy bed. His body was perpendicular to the bed itself, but he was so tired it didn’t matter how he slept it off.

He could have passed out right then and there if it hadn’t been for the obnoxious sound of his smart phone ringing. Technically, he could have chosen his own ring tone, but instead he had the standard buzzing that was normally associated with house phones. Lucas groaned and whined as he sat up in his bed and languidly reached over to the computer desk to answer his phone. His eyes were so fuzzy that he didn’t bother to look to see who was calling; he answered it anyways.

“Hello?”

“Good evening, sir, I’m looking for Mr. Maurice Morgan.”

“He’s not here right now.”

“I know that, but where is he? Does he have a work number I can reach him at? Maybe a cell phone number?”

Lucas’s eyebrows furrowed as he asked, “Who is this?”

“My name is Officer Ben Gilmour and I work with the Paulson City Police Department. It’s important that I get a hold of your father. And for the rest of this conversation, let me be the one who asks the questions. Now, I’ll ask you again: does Maurice Morgan have a cell phone or work number I can reach him at?”

“I don’t keep track of those things.”

Ben let out a sigh and said, “Not being very helpful today, are you, son.”

The condescending tone sent Lucas into a screaming rampage. “Why the hell should I help you with anything?! I told you I don’t know how to get a hold of him! That sort of thing is on my mom’s cell phone, but she’s not here either; she’s in the hospital!”

“Mr. Morgan, there must be something around the house that will tell you an alternative way of getting a hold of your father. You’re obviously not looking very hard, so let me make this clear to you. Either you cooperate with us or…”

Lucas’s screams were demonic at this point, “Or what?! You’re going to arrest me?! I’m not going to testify against my own dad! That would make me a snitch and a traitor to my family! Don’t ever call this number again, you piece of shit!”

Nobody would be calling that number again, because Lucas threw his cell phone against his computer desk out of frustration and shattered the screen. He breathed heavily in anger and sat back down on his bed to try and calm down. But try as he might, his intense breathing was accompanied by monstrous groans and growls.

And then the house phone rang and Lucas was pissed off once more. He growled like an ogre and stomped his way out to the kitchen to answer his house phone. The Morgan family had caller ID, but Lucas was too far into his rage to look at the screen. He answered anyways and yelled, “What?!”

It was Officer Ben Gilmour yet again. “I’m going to forgive that little outburst just a few minutes ago, but from this point on, if you screw with me again, I will come to your house and place you under arrest.”

Lucas’s angry speech was accompanied by high pitched bursts when he said, “I’m not doing anything wrong, damn it! There’s nothing illegal about not giving you information!”

“Actually, yes, there is something illegal about it. It’s called Obstruction of Justice and it holds a penalty of up to two years in prison. Two years doesn’t sound like a lot of time, but in prison, everything slows down and nobody is going to give you rest. Trust me, Mr. Morgan, you wouldn’t last five minutes in a place like that. Just do the right thing and tell me how I can get a hold of your father.”

“My dad didn’t do anything wrong either! He’s an innocent man and I’m not going to let you take him away from me!”

“That’s where I call bullshit, Mr. Morgan. We have snapshot evidence of your father murdering another police officer in cold blood. The photos suggest he took the officer’s own gun and shot him in the face. Your father is facing life imprisonment, maybe even the death penalty if there is a God in heaven.”

Lucas took a while to digest this new information with wide eyes and nervous breathing. His heart raced as he thought of his father being a cop slayer. Was it possible? Did he really know his own father? Was this all just bullshit? The teenager’s frightened energy caused his voice to soften as he said, “You’re full of shit!”

“I assure you, son, we’re not. I’d love to show you the pictures myself. In fact, I’ll show them to you when I come down to your house and arrest you for Obstruction of Justice. How does that sound?”

“Lucas! Give me the goddamn phone!” said Maurice Morgan, who was standing in the kitchen wearing a trench coat and a pissed off facial expression. The teenaged son was so emotional that he failed to hear his own father come in through the front door. His arm shivered as he handed the phone cradle to his dad. The kid was so sweaty that the phone almost fell out of his hand.

As the child became teary-eyed, Maurice wrapped an arm around him and patted him on the back for comfort. For Officer Ben Gilmour, however, there would be no comfort; only scorn. The father spoke vengefully into the phone when he said, “Listen, you sick bastard, I don’t care how much power that police badge gives you. You never talk to a teenage boy like that, especially not my son. He’s not the criminal of this household.”

A silence fell over the conversation and then Maurice said, “I am, Officer. I have nothing to hide anymore. Your snapshots proved I killed that cop. What your cute little photographs don’t say, however, is that I shot that cop because he was beating up my wife for jaywalking. So she runs a red light and gets put in the hospital by this sociopath? Where’s the justice in that?!”

Ben said, “Listen, Maurice, if you have a problem with one of our officers, then you need to go through the proper channels to make sure that officer gets his punishment. You don’t shoot a cop right in the fucking face like that!”

Maurice explosively said, “Then who will, damn it?! Who’s going to bring justice to a man whose worst punishment is a paid vacation and desk duty?! I know how your system works! Cops can get away with anything these days! Anything! Well, let me tell you something, copper! You can slap the cuffs on me all you want! Hell, I’ll wait right here for you in the comfort of my own home! But if you arrest me, then once I get a chance in court, I’m going to drag your entire department to the gates of hell with me! Not just the officer who beat my wife, but the entire goddamn department! I won’t get an ounce of sleep until each and every one of you are burning in hell!”

After a shocked silence, Ben said, “You let me know how that whole ‘gates of hell’ thing works out for you, Maurice. I hope you have the best lawyer money can buy. Good luck, buddy. You’re going to need it.” Officer Gilmour hung up and the heated conversation was over.

Maurice and Lucas were still embracing each other with the father breathing demonically and the son choking back tears of sorrow and fear. They both said, “I love you!” to each other for what would be the last time in their lives before the police came knocking on the Morgan family’s door.

Concert Dreams

When I go to sleep at night, a common dream I have is going to a concert of some sort. The people at the concert vary from large crowds to one or two people. The bands also vary wildly. One dream, I saw a concert headlined by Korn, Skillet, and Immortal Technique. Can you imagine those three in one show? A libertarian nu metal band, a Christian conservative rock band, and an atheist liberal rapper all under one roof. If Seattle didn’t have riot problems before, they’ve got them once again. You think that’s crazy? How about going to a Three Days Grace concert in a college lecture hall where the opening act is a black and white movie about old ladies. Or perhaps you’d rather see Anthony Jeselnik do standup comedy in a college lecture hall while playing a really old Final Fantasy game. Or maybe you’d rather watch a Pink Floyd show where they flaunt faceless masks like muscles at the beach. Either way, you’re in for a show if you’re living in my subconscious. These dreams are obviously telling me to go to a rock concert. It has to be more of a deep message than that. Maybe the diversity in political and religious views in each band is an archetype telling me to embrace differences. Maybe the concert I go to where nobody’s there indicates that I have nobody to talk to when I go to a real concert. There certainly is no shortage of beautiful ladies in black skirts or jean shorts, but they’re far out of reach for someone of my means. I do plan on going to a concert again someday. Hell, I already missed three chances at cool concerts in the past year and a half. In 2012, I could have seen Nightwish at the Showbox SoDo, but instead I went on vacation with my family to New Mexico to ride horses and get yelled at by my mom for screaming in pain. Skillet was playing at the Tacoma Dome not too long ago. How they stayed out of my radar, I’ll never know. Soulfly was playing in Seattle to promote their Savages album, but that one fell out of my radar as well. I wish ignorance was the only reason I missed the Soulfly concert. Truth is, I don’t want to go back to Seattle for anything. The last time I was there was to see Papa Roach at the Showbox Market. The concert got out at midnight and it was time to call my mom for a ride. My calls kept going to her voicemail. I stood out in the streets of Seattle for one full hour without transportation. During that hour, I was cold, I had to listen to drunken metal heads scream their asses off, and a punk teenager threatened to shoot me. I was mad about the latter of those for three months before I got over it. Concert offers are enticing, especially when they come from within. They’re fun. They’re energetic. They’re experiences that will last a lifetime. But you know what? It’s going to take a lot for me to return to Seattle. Maybe if the Showbox was featuring lesbian sex between Jeanne Sagan from All That Remains and Floor Jansen from Nightwish, just maybe I could be talked into going. But the last time I checked, Jeanne Sagan and Floor Jansen were not sexual objects. They’re musicians. Musicians play music. There better be some damn good music playing in Seattle or Tacoma. Otherwise, my subconscious will be my new favorite venue.

　

***CONCERT QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“This is our tribe, not your tribe, motherfucker!”

-Max Cavalera from Soulfly-

"Not Gonna Die" by Skillet

I’m not a Christian. I’m not even religious. In the immortal words of Bill Maher, saying atheism is a religion is like saying abstinence is a sex position. Having gotten these items off my chest, my nonreligious status doesn’t deter me away from the beautiful and inspirational music of Skillet. If you listen carefully to the lyrics from “Collide” on, you’ll notice that rarely do they actually mention Jesus or God by name. So that means the lyrics of the songs in which they’re professing their love to someone could be directed at anybody (at least in the atheist listener’s mind). They could be directed at a girlfriend or a wife. John Cooper singing the lyrics “My heart hurts for you” strikes a romantic chord whether that was the intention or not. Before I knew that “Lucy” was a pro-life anthem, I figured it to just be a song about missing people in general, whether they’re dead or simply out of your life. Even though Skillet is considered Christian rock, the listener doesn’t necessarily have to interpret the lyrics as religious. Everybody makes their own interpretations and nobody’s going to tell them otherwise. Let me tell you what the song “Not Gonna Die” means to me. It may be a call to believe in Jesus harder than you already do, but to me, it’s simply an anthem of not throwing in the towel when life becomes too hard to handle. When you give up, you “whisper goodbye” and “flat-line”. But when you “stand and fight forever”, your hard work will bear fruit. It makes me wish this song came out between 2007 and 2009 instead of smack-dab in the middle of 2013. I could have listened to this song forever when I was feeling lonely in college and missing my family. So instead of wishing in one hand and shitting in the other, I used “Not Gonna Die” as inspiration for a short story of the same title. Mario Gustafson, the lead character, finds himself in a similar situation as I was back in my college days. Mario was alone in his dorm room with no one to talk to and his family so many miles away. The difference between me and Mario is that the latter finds his “American family” (he’s a Swedish exchange student) in the form of an unhappy girlfriend of his roommate. Mario takes advantage of Tammy (the girlfriend’s) fragile situation and the two of them form a semi-romantic friendship that is sure to last them at least until the end of college. I’ve never been more jealous of a fictional character in my life. I had a few female friends in college, but we didn’t talk a lot then and we don’t talk a lot now that we have this wonderful invention called Face Book. Do you have a piece of music that speaks to you this way? If so, don’t hesitate to make art out of the inspiration you feel. You might have an idea one day and then it’ll fade away with a quickness if you don’t write it down fast enough. Even for those of you who aren’t “musical people”, if not a beautiful song, then a beautiful movie, TV show, book, or videogame. Find inspiration in something, goddamn it! Heh, I said “goddamn it” in a blog about Christian music. Hehe!

　

***DEPRESSING JOKE OF THE DAY***

Q: What do romance and All That Remains have in common?

A: A War You Cannot Win.