Stand Your Ground, Warrior...and Prepare for the CATACLYSM OF AGONY! (LOL)

 

Suris vs. Katie Hopkins: Hot Crowd

 

No One Else Is Living This Way

Ghostly music swirled in Commander Bright’s brain, though the instrument of choice was whirring noises from his waking dizziness. He would have checked for a massive lump on his head if not for his hands being restrained behind his back. Any oxygen he managed to muster up came through his snotty nose as his mouth was obstructed. He wanted to wiggle around to break free from his new bondage, but the duct tape was too powerful, squeezing him down like a Gundam’s hand.

Bright’s darkened vision let just a little bit of light in at a time and eventually his salty eyes gave him the blurry, distorted shape of someone he used to know. Long gone was the innocent young man that he tried to push into becoming a true soldier. In his place was wide-eyed psychosis, a teenaged boy wearing not his uniform, but a wife-beater tank top, dirty brown pants, and a glazed over expression. Amuro Ray had gone off the deep end, but Bright had already known that the minute he could no longer move his body or express anger through his words.

Amuro’s superior wiggled around in his chair some more, but to no avail.  He was too weak from the dizziness and lack of oxygen. But he couldn’t find it within himself to accept defeat so easily. There had to be a method to Amuro’s madness. Something had to make him tick aside from the constant battle fatigue when he took his Gundam into any given war zone. Bright’s exhausted mind wouldn’t allow him to search so easily for answers.

“Guess what?” Amuro leaned his face closer to Bright’s. “I forgot to make my bed today.” The young man chuckled through his nose, a privilege not afforded to the bound and gagged Bright for fear of passing into darkness yet again. The joke wasn’t even that funny to begin with. Amuro wasn’t done there. 

“But of course…that’s hardly my only infraction.” He produced a file folder and thumbed through the pages like he was shuffling cards. “That’s a lot of pages for just one person. It’s almost like…you’re obsessed with me or something. I’m sure you have a lot to say about me.”

He pulled one of the pages out. “Amuro Ray. Sixteen years old. Gundam pilot. Received several infractions for behavioral issues, which include, but are not limited to insubordination, questioning authority (which is the same as insubordination, I don’t know why you’d put those two together), hijacking military property, desertion, aggravated assault, and aggravated mayhem. Has several psychological issues such as high-functioning autism, depression, post-traumatic stress…

“Do you really want me to keep reading this? We’d be here for hours if we went over everything. Wait a minute…” He looked around in mock disbelief. “There’s no file cabinet. How am I supposed to file this page with no cabinet? I’m sure it has to go somewhere.” He stared menacingly at Bright’s left thigh, causing his bound and gagged victim’s heart to thump loudly like a useless beacon to nobody coming to rescue him.

Amuro produced a staple gun from his back pocket and stapled the lone sheet of paper to Bright’s thigh. The Commander screamed so powerfully through his gag that his throat began to take more damage than his wound. His eyes watered and burned down his cheeks. 

“What? You don’t think that’s a good place for it?” More gagged screaming from Bright. “I agree. Let’s put it somewhere else.” Amuro ripped out the staple and this time the gagged screaming nearly caused Bright’s head to split open. The Commander cared little about the oxygen leaving his body in a gust of tears and snot. Amuro didn’t care either as he continued to taunt his former superior.

“Well, look at this! You got blood all over the page. How is anybody supposed to read about my horrible deeds when there’s blood everywhere? How is anybody supposed to judge me if they can’t see what’s there? This page needs to drip-dry. And I have just the place to hang it.” He stapled the non-bloody side of the page to Bright’s crotch and this time the screaming was high-pitched, like a female dragon wanting desperately to unleash her fireball. Speaking of fiery balls, Bright’s genitals bled more profusely than his thigh.

Amuro continued to taunt him. “Nah, that’s not going to dry it off. Let’s hang it somewhere else.” He ripped out the staple and Bright’s voice nearly blew like a bomb as he shrieked in pain. Seconds of torture turned to minutes. Minutes turned to hours. Hours turned to days, weeks, months, and years. In reality, it had only been a few seconds of agony, but it might as well have been eternal damnation.

The teasing wasn’t over, as Amuro pulled a bottle of liquor from the shadows of whatever room they were in. “Am I even old enough to drink this?” He popped off the top and did it anyway, teenaged years be damned. His innocence was gone long before he took his first sip. He held it out to the still screaming Bright. “Want some?” Amuro proceeded to splash the alcohol on Bright’s groin and leg wounds. The stinging pain was like a thousand scorpions digging into his body with their claymore tails. The bacteria was dead and Bright wished he was.

Amuro splashed the alcohol in Bright’s face, which would have spelt the end for his oxygen supply if the tape gag didn’t get saggy and fall off. “Stop! Stop! Stop!” Bright screamed. The growls of agony were replaced by raspy, rapid-fire breathing. The blood in his gums pooled up and gave him a nice taste of nickels and dimes.

“I’m sorry, what was that? You want me stop? You had enough?” Amuro slapped Bright and reddened his already strawberry cheeks. “Come on, Bright!” Amuro slapped him again and again. “You can’t grow up unless you get slapped! If you’re depressed, snap out of it! Isn’t that what you said to me?” Amuro suddenly calmed down, but not in a charitable way. “My own father wouldn’t even hit me.”

Bright shot a snot rocket on the floor and breathed heavily as he spoke. “You can slap me and staple me all you want, but your head voices aren’t going away!” Amuro grew sullen in his once arrogant facial expression. “You think you’re the only one who has war flashbacks?! You think the rest of us aren’t hurting just as much as you are?! This is war, Amuro! Everybody’s feeling it! You’re the only one who’d even think about torturing me over this! You’re the only one with the staple gun right now! No one else is living this way…”

Amuro backed up, stunned in silence.

Bright spit a wad of blood on the floor. “See? You’re backing up because you know it’s true! Torturing me isn’t a substitute for therapy! Never has been, never will be! You can kill me for all I care, but no matter where you go, you take the pain with you!” Bright smiled through red and pink teeth. “You know what the best part about all of this is? Your trauma will only get worse once you go to prison. All that time alone in your prison cell with nothing but your thoughts. Your loud…destructive…violent thoughts…They’re all yours. They’ll only get louder. And louder.”

Amuro clutched his brown head of hair and doubled over in pain. “Stop it! Just shut your mouth! I’ll staple your lips shut if I have to!”

“What kind of nightmares do you have, anyways? Bombs going off? Getting shot at with lasers? Nearly dying every single time you’re out on the battlefield? Oh, I bet you hate those explosions, Amuro. I bet you absolutely HATE combat!” Bright started making bomb noises with whatever was left of his throat and mouth.

“I said stop! No more! SHUT UP!” Amuro broke the liquor bottle against the wall, fashioning it into a knife. He slowly crept towards his hostage with wildness in his eyes and spittle foaming on his lips. “You were the one who made me this way! You wanted me to be a soldier! You wouldn’t let me rest when I needed to! You’re the one who fucked with my mind!”

“Yeah…I am…And you know what? I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. Except this time, when I slap the hell out of you…I’m going for a knockout!”

“STOP IT! SHUT UP!”

“Or what?! What are you going to do, Amuro?! You’re going to keep wrestling with your mind until it gives you want you want?! Good luck with that! Face it, Amuro…you can kill me…you can kill my whole crew if you want to…but your mind…will always be a shitty place to be!”

Amuro couldn’t deny his head voices any longer. He turned the broken bottle on himself and sliced his own throat open. Bright’s voice may have been raw from death growling into a tape gag, but at least he couldn’t compare his throat pain to Amuro’s. The once brilliant Gundam pilot now laid on the ground in a pool of his own biological sludge, finally free from the prison of his own mind.

Bright’s breathing slowed down and his neck stopped radiating with pain like a nuclear rod. Every breath he took was one of relief. The pain in his crotch and thigh was completely forgotten about during his moments of bravery, but not when he tried to undo his tape. Squirming went from being a mere chore to a marathon in hell as pain shot throughout his entire body. But free himself from the tape he did. And then he collapsed on the floor with nothing to entertain his senses but the boots of his rescuers, who almost came too late.

He lost track of how much time had passed since he’d been asleep in the hospital. He thought for sure he had slipped past heaven’s gates. But the only part of heaven he could experience at that moment was the softness of his bed cushioning his aching body. Everything else felt like being engulfed in flames, whether it was the wrappings on his wounds, the tubes coming out of his skin, or his pounding headache.

The nurses turned around to check his progress…and every last one of them had Amuro’s face. They even had Amuro’s voice. Everywhere Bright looked, he saw his torturer, who once took on the role of the one being tortured. It had to be an illusion, right? It had to be his mind playing tricks on him. That was the only explanation for this. 

In which case…everything Bright said about Amuro’s traumatic hallucinations came to fruition…for him as well. He gave away his own prophecy. The physical torture was over. The psychological hell was just beginning. Maybe taking Gundams onto the battlefield wasn’t a great idea after all. Bright wanted to shout his newfound insanity from the rooftops, but shouting required a little more vocal power than he was afforded. He was a prisoner of his own mind…and it would be like that for the rest of his life. The broken bottle sounded better with every passing day in the hospital.

Hell Don't Need Me

Millions of years of evolution came unraveling for Harrison. Tufts of brown fur covered his already battered body. A tail protruded from his backside like a sword’s exit wound. His teeth sharpened and bulged from his gums in the same sword-like manner. His wild staring eyes grew bloodshot with rage and agony. His ham-like fists pounded against his cage as the anger within him built like dynamite. There was no more begging and pleading for the mercy of his eco-terrorist cohorts. The damage was done. Harrison was no more. In his place was a primitive savage with a thirst for blood and a nose for seeking out his prey. The more he punched the cage door, the hotter his rage became. And then…the door fell off.

There were other apes like him trapped in adjacent cages, pounding and growling for freedom. Harrison paid them no mind. His mother wanted a savage beast and she was about to get one. No plan of action. No intricate designs for revenge, just the love of revenge itself. Once he was free, with monkeys screaming in the background like his own personal cheerleaders, he pounded on the steel door to the prison room, creating little dents with each passing blow. Another series of punches, another dose of hot blood flowing through him. One dent turned into a crater of violence. And then, just like the door to his cage, this new door flew off like a leaf on a breeze.

Harrison sniffed around and perked his pointy ears up, but detected no signs of life, just an empty spaceship hallway complete with pipes and wires. More doors. More computer screens. More mumbo jumbo that used to mean something during his life as an eco-terrorist. Those days were long behind him, unlike the pipe he ripped off the wall with ease, which was right in front of him. Harrison smacked the steel pipe in his palm and bashed it off the floor several times, creating new dents where there were previously none. He howled and squeaked with a combination of excitement and anger. He loved this new weapon. He would love it even more once it struck somebody’s flesh.

And then…the common monkey scents grew stronger…and stronger. Harrison already knew he was basically occupying a zoo…but this animal prison had new blood…familiar blood…He took deeper whiffs to make sure he was locked onto this primal smell. His target burned into focus. They were all congregating down the hall. The excitement bubbling within Harrison caused even more primal screams and bashes of his lead pipe as he ran like a lunatic towards his destination. Another door to the cockpit? Where has he heard this story before? Harrison bashed his pipe against the door over and over again, creating the loudest thuds a prehistoric savage could possibly make. The deafening pounds didn’t create dents this time, but little explosions. Pieces of metal became lodged in his fur. Some got in his face, but Harrison didn’t bother wiping it away.

A few more bashes later and the door, much like Harrison’s evolutionary decline, was history. There they were, all in the cockpit like one big happy family. Except they too had prehistoric violence coursing through their veins. The monkey virus had gotten to all of them. His three brothers’ scents were powerful enough to knock a buzzard off of a shit wagon. But his mother…the revered leader of a once powerful terrorist unit…the perfume and glamour had given way to a pungent odor that no mother should have. Every guilty party was gathered in one convenient room, all of them swinging around and bashing the environment around them. They didn’t even try to acknowledge Harrison’s presence. Maybe he was too far gone after all. But if that was true…how did he utter the words, “Hell don’t need me!”

Brother number one was the first to feel Harrison’s wrath in the form of a tail chomp so bloody that the limb fell off. The furry attachment flailed around like a crazy cobra while the brother screamed and writhed in agony. The other two brothers flew into battle with their anvil fists ready to disfigure any face they came across. Harrison bashed one of their ribcages in with the steel pipe and got pounced by the other brother. Harrison’s attacker leaned his face in with monster teeth bared, prepping to take a bite of delicious animal meat. Harrison held the pipe to his brother’s throat and pushed as hard as he could, drawing a small amount of blood from his mouth. Then the victim took the role of the bully as he bit his attacker’s finger off and spit it in his eye. Once Harrison was free, he wailed on his brother with the steel pipe over and over again until he was nothing more than a pile of shattered bones and pooling blood.

Harrison surveyed the damage he did in that small moment of white hot anger. His first brother passed out on the floor bleeding profusely from his tail, gangrene not too far behind. The brother with the shattered ribcage took his last breaths in the form of punctured wheezes. The less said about the third brother, the better. Harrison raised his lead pipe to the sky and roared like the savage he was meant to become. He even bashed the steel floor a few more times just to make sure he got all of his primal instincts out of his system. They were, but not in the way he had anticipated. Another cry sounded off in the room, but this one was tear-laden and shaky.

The mother monkey sat in the pilot’s seat of the ship with pleading and sorrow in her eyes. She got on her hands and knees begging for forgiveness, begging for a second chance despite the fact it would never be possible after these transformations. Wetness dropped from her bloodshot eyes and mucous splashed the floor beneath her. She even extended her arms for a peaceful hug, mother to son, just like the way it should have been.

Harrison’s former human side clouded his mind during this sympathetic display. He was feeling things again. His heart ached. His eyes dewed up when he took a second look at his fallen brothers. He snorted mucous upon locking eyes with his mother. “M…M…Mom?” This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Families weren’t supposed to treat each other this way. Everyone was in the wrong. Everyone had something to be guilty over. This was what it meant to be human, even if that particular DNA was a small percentage. Harrison dropped the pipe and embraced his mother, the two of them shedding tears on each other’s furry shoulders. They could start over and track down the bastard who did this to them.

But then the mother took a big bite out of Harrison’s right ear, gnawing it completely off and causing a rainstorm of blood to soak his fur. The mother bit him again, this time on the cheek. And again in the other ear. And again on the nose. Harrison tried to howl in pain, but blood was pouring onto his tongue and censoring his animalistic speech. His heart was broken. His stomach ached with betrayal. Screwed over twice by his own mother. This would be his legacy going forward. He started out as an incompetent eco-terrorist and he would die as a dumb ass monkey. With most of his face bloody and eaten, now wouldn’t be the good time for a head butt. Then again, logic wasn’t the animal kingdom’s strong suit, not even in the human world.

Harrison head butted his mother in the face and cracked her skull, causing her to spit out her sharpest front fangs. The two of them punched and wrestled each other, causing even more blood to stain the already dirty battlefield. Bones cracked. Organs sloshed around. Vomit projected from the mother’s mouth after a vicious kick to the stomach. Despite having cracked teeth himself, Harrison took one last bite out of his mother’s tail, ripping it off and bleeding her dry. The rage-filled demeanor in the mother monkey’s eyes rolled backwards to reveal dizziness and defeat. She stumbled around aimlessly while Harrison dragged his battered body over to the steel pipe before picking it up.

Once the mother plopped backwards on the ground, Harrison dragged his knuckles and his weapon across the ground, creating annoying screeching sounds in doing so, before raising the pipe in the air to deliver the final blow. “Hell…don’t…need…ME!” When Harrison brought the pipe down across his mother’s sternum and exploded her heart, he fell with her, though that was more owed to the sudden shaking of the spaceship they were in. Harrison’s dizzy eyes shifted in and out of focus as the turbulence jostled him around. The mild turbulence became a full on crash, launching Harrison through the windshield and onto the pavement.

This was it. With glass fragments stuck in his fur and blood pouring all over his body, Harrison could finally rest knowing his family was burning in hell. But then a familiar scent awakened him. His eyes slowly opened and his vision was obscured by tears and blood. It was a painstaking process pulling himself to his feet. But drag his body he did, leaving a smattering of life juices across the pavement.

Somebody else’s broken body laid on the sidewalk. All life was completely gone from this new corpse’s eyes, his fingers stuck in a gun position, his blue suit and tie a mess, and his puffy hair ripped and torn. Upon whiffing even deeper, Harrison recognized the familiar scent as the bounty hunter who unleashed his mother’s own monkey virus on the family. Spike Spiegel his name was, right?

Harrison, still holding onto his pipe, gritted his shattered teeth and crawled slowly towards Spike’s prone body. He raised the pipe in the air as if to write the final chapter of this story, despite that chapter already passing. One bash and Harrison’s revenge would be complete. And then…the human side took over once more. Harrison tossed the lead pipe aside and instead cradled Spike’s head in his lap, once again repeating the symbolic words, “Hell…don’t…need…me…” The monkey’s head swam as his vision blacked out. That would be his final act as a living creature: forgiveness for his former enemy. Why? Because it just felt right. It felt…human, at best. Evolution had taken root once again, more so in those last few seconds of life than a million years ever could.

“Hell…don’t…need…me…”

It's a Free World

***IT’S A FREE WORLD***

Your writing career can be an amazing time in your life full of magic, adventure, and wonder, not unlike the worlds you create through your craft. But at the same time, it isn’t all rainbows and Skittles. More like Martian death rays and dick. Sooner or later, you as a writer will have to come to terms with the fact that criticism is inevitable, whether it’s constructive feedback from your beta readers or malicious trolling from a faceless bastard. Does it hurt no matter how well-intentioned it is? Always. It’s like saying the sun’s going to come up tomorrow. Everybody knows that. We all feel at least some sensitivity when it comes to what we produce. To be fair, your career won’t rise or fall based on one bad review or even a hundred. How you react to those reviews? That’s a little closer to a career killer if you’re too aggressive.

While I still get anxious feelings in my gut at the thought of being judged, I’m not anywhere close to being as bad at taking criticism as I was all throughout the 2000’s. I was a fucking monster when it came to responding to my critics. That’s part of the reason why I consider the 2000’s to be the hardest decade of my life: because I wouldn’t let anybody teach me how to better myself. I incorrectly assumed my critics were out to play with my brain like silly putty and mold me into something I’m not. Being a soul-dead conformist is bad. Being a better artist and a better person is something we should all strive for. So I guess I would be conforming to commonsense and decency, by that definition.

My first “traumatic episode” with criticism came in 2001, where I attended an anime/sci-fi/fantasy convention called INCON. One of the attractions at this event was having your manuscript critiqued by five different professional authors. What did I submit to this critique session? A Starcraft rip-off known as The Earth Campaign, which sounds more like an eco-terrorist group than a legitimate space opera. The first pro-author’s main complaint was that there weren’t enough visuals in my writing, a.k.a. not enough showing and too much telling. The second pro-author’s complaint was that my characters were making stupid decisions.

Basically, my manuscript TOLD the audience that a space rebel scissor kicked a glass pod and almost broke his ankle rather than opening it a reasonable way, thus he was “thinking with his gonads”. Mild sexism aside, I walked away after the first two authors said their peace and was a teary mess for the rest of the night. I sang Pink Floyd songs on the fire exit for good measure. I had it in my head that the only reason I had fight scenes at all in my book was because of my male organs and not because I genuinely like that stuff. Well-intentioned criticism, but I took it the wrong way and that set the tone for the rest of the 2000’s.

Fast forward to 2004 where I took a creative writing class at Olympic College. Admittedly, this was not a safe, nurturing environment for any author because the students had no limits on the harshness of their criticisms. If they wanted to insult me, they could. If they wanted to destroy my self-esteem, they could go nuts. That’s exactly what happened when I wrote a medieval fantasy story where a witch hunter tried to recruit an acrobatic thief into his guild, to no success whatsoever. The chapter ended with a guerrilla army hiding under a pile of leaves springing to life in an attempt to test the acrobat’s kung fu skills. Yes, those were real errors in my story. Everyone in the class had all criticisms for me and no praise, a stark contrast to other authors who got at least some praise.

The worst of my criticisms came from a guy who simply said my story “sucked”. No context. No reasons. Just that it “sucked”. To be fair to him, it did, anachronisms and telling instead of showing aside. While I regret not taking my criticism in an appropriate way, I wouldn’t have developed my newfound skills as a poet if this didn’t happen. I wrote an insult poem about the guy who said my story sucked, where I detailed all the ways in which I would fuck his female relatives while comparing him to a Lord of the Rings hobbit. The poem was rubbish, but it was good start. Sucking at something is the first step to being sort of good at something.

Whether I was getting bad grades in college or negative comments on Deviant Art, my descent into madness spiraled out of control for the rest of the 2000’s. I screamed at my Deviant Art critics and wrote more angry poetry about them, detailing how I would once again fuck their female relatives while comparing them to people with Down’s Syndrome and sewer mutants. I silently seethed when one of my creative writing teachers gave me a C in her class despite me following her orders not to write R-rated offensiveness. So much anger and rage built up inside of me that taking any sort of mild criticism would result in the tongue-lashing from hell.

And then the 2000’s climaxed with the worst of the worst, both in terms of my own crass behavior and also in terms of the criticism I’ve received on Deviant Art. Two days after Christmas in 2009, I opened my inbox to find that several Deviants were angry about a comedic essay I wrote called “Class of ‘13”, named after Green Day lyrics. In this essay, I fantasized about being an autocratic schoolteacher who would whip my students if they talked like “text-messaging queens” in their creative writing projects. I derided an entire generation for growing up with technology, basically condemning myself as a 24-year-old Boomer.

I eventually deleted my essay and apologized, but not before I screamed at my critics to “get in a circle and butt fuck each other”. I also wrote an angry poem about one of these critics where I told him to “drink gasoline”. As one critic so rightfully put it, “Change or die!” From that day on, I decided no online battle was worth fighting because fighting never solved anything. Nobody changed their mind because I told them to “suck a dick” or “eat my shit”. When given the choice to change or die, I chose to change. The battering my mind took wasn’t worth it, but it was just what I needed.

While the 2000’s were the hardest decade of my life, the 2010’s were the easiest. Sure, I had my fair share of shitty moments, but the way I responded to criticism was much better. I knew my writing career was stagnating. Nothing of mine was getting published and why would it? My work was mediocre at best and a dumpster fire at worst. Accepting criticism and sometimes shelling out money for it was the only way out of spinning my wheels. The more people I let in, the happier I was and the stronger my writing became. I’ve made many friends along the way and I wouldn’t trade any of them for the world. I’ve gotten a few shitty reviews on my self-published books, but I’ve also gotten some good ones.

While improvement is a necessary part of one’s writing career, it won’t change the fact that nobody is above criticism despite how far they’ve come. That’s something you’re going to have to be okay with if you want a successful career. It’s 2020 and I’ve learned my lessons. In the end, we don’t just live in a “free country”. We live in a free world. Whether you live in America, Canada, England, or even Saudi Arabia, you have the right to say whatever you want about my writing and I won’t hound you for it.

Bad reviews won’t derail somebody’s career; a lack of humility will. I sincerely believe Norman Boutin could have had a successful career despite Empress Theresa being boring as hell, if only he didn’t lash out at everyone who criticized his work. Hell, if he had accepted criticism gracefully, he probably wouldn’t have a boring book to begin with. Same thing goes for Ann Fishman, Onision (sexual crimes be damned), and whoever wrote My Immortal (the Harry Potter fan fiction, not the Evanescence song).

Does criticism hurt? Absolutely. It always will. But do you have to react poorly to it? Never. Hell, you can flat out ignore the trolling if you want. You can even block some of the trolls if they get to be too much. But the louder you scream, the louder the world screams back at you. Isn’t that right, Donald the Magic Dumbass? I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!

***INTERNET DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

(Circa 2018)

ASHLEY: Oh my god, Garrison! I need to convince you to get a Pay Pal account!

GARRISON: In the words of that Steven Crowder meme, “Change my mind.”

ASHLEY: Dude, mailing checks is so 1995.

GARRISON: Congratulations, you’ve won.

ASHLEY: Yay!

***POST-SCRIPT***

See what happens when you accept other people’s advice? You get a PayPal account AND a healthy writing career!

Beach Ball Z

“Ladies and gentiles! The summer season is here and you know what that means: beautiful sunshine, beautiful women, and beautiful ass-beatings! If you’re ready to watch Zoku and Jeeta beat the living hell out of each other, let me hear you scream!” The bombastic announcer got just what he wanted from the crowd at Takanori Beach: loud, energetic, beastly cheers from a pumped up audience.

While Zoku stood in one corner of the ring egging on the crowd with waves of his arms and a shit-eating grin, Jeeta stood in the opposite corner with his arms folded and a gorgon death stare locked on his opponent. I will end you once and for all, Karrottop. Jeeta refused to call Zoku by his government name. It was a matter of pride in the Sojo race, which both Zoku and Jeeta belonged to. That was all they had in common that day, spiky hair and monkey tails be damned.

Jeeta’s jaw tightened in annoyance not only with Zoku’s pandering to the crowd, but also the fact that the announcer in an obnoxious yellow suit refused to shut the hell up as he named off various sponsors for this fight. One of the products was for a pesticide spray that targeted cockroaches, which seemed appropriate considering Jeeta’s thoughts on the announcer. Another product was for Marlboro Cigarettes, though Jeeta considered the announcer’s voice to be more toxic than anything a tobacco company could produce. And the other one was…

“Shut the fuck up and get on with it!” shouted Jeeta, firing a laser beam from his fingertip at the microphone and shattering it into pieces. The audience gasped in horror while the announcer nearly wet himself as he wiggled his hand in pain.

Only then did Zoku get serious about this fight. He unleashed a mile long stare straight into Jeeta’s soul, though the latter responded with a sadistic smile rather than quaking in his boots. As soon as the announcer high-tailed it out of there, the two warriors met in the center of the stone ring and continued staring daggers into each other’s eyes. Zoku cracked his neck on both sides while Jeeta popped his knuckles and wrists even louder.

The audience remained stunned in silence after the microphone was destroyed, but instantly picked back up into high gear once the battle music played over the surround-sound speakers: a heavy metal tune called “X” by HELLYEAH.

That was the warriors’ cue to get in their fighting stances and surround themselves in glowing gold aura. Zoku’s spiked purple hair and green martial arts gi flapped and fluttered in the energy-induced wind while Jeeta’s green spiky hair did the same. Jeeta’s purple Sojo armor clung tightly to him as it was his last line of defense against this suddenly serious-looking fighter standing across from him. Now the audience would see who the real badass was.

When HELLYEAH’s lead singer Chad Gray burst into a fit of heavy metal screams, that served as a cue for Zoku and Jeeta to stop powering up and commence the ass-beatings. Before the first punch was thrown, an inflatable beach ball bounced off of Zoku’s face and he was back to his goofy smiling self.

Jeeta on the other hand expressed his rage with an ursine growl and a hard stomp of the beach ball, popping it like he wished he could have popped Zoku’s dome right at that instance. As the audience erupted into boos, Jeeta pointed at them and shouted, “If I see one more fucking beach ball in that crowd, someone’s getting my boot jammed in their fart box!” Instead of being intimidated, the crowd and Zoku laughed their asses off. The audience even chanted “Fart Box!” over and over again.

“Come on, Jeeta, these guys are having a good time. They paid good money for this. They can do whatever they want!” said Zoku, trying to suppress his laughter to make a point.

“If they want to play with their balls so badly, they can do it behind closed doors like every other pervert out there!” belted Jeeta, earning another round of laughter from the immature crowd. “What the hell are you sacks of protoplasm laughing at now?!”

“Dude, we literally go hunting for Dragon Nuts to make a wish. You don’t get to make testicle jokes.” Zoku couldn’t contain his laughter anymore. He even doubled over and slapped his knees for extra effect. As if Jeeta didn’t have enough reasons to tighten his jaw again, more beach balls were being bounced around within the crowd. “Guys, over here!” Sure enough, one of the audience members bounced a beach ball Zoku’s way and he lightly spiked it back at them.

Jeeta held his head in his hands and attempted to squeeze the headache out like a glob of toothpaste. This sacred fighting tournament had been reduced to childish antics and easy distractions. This was supposed to be the culmination of a heated rivalry between two badass warriors. Instead, they were just “having a good time”. One of the beach balls struck Jeeta in the back of the head and his muscles tightened once more.

“That’s it! I’ve had it with you pieces of shit!” The audience and Zoku watched in awe as Jeeta got into his fighting stance again and weaved golden energy around himself, this time his hair changing colors from green to gold and his spikes standing up straighter. He had gone full Super Sojo and could end this fight with a massive energy blast to his naïve opponent. All of this nonsense could be over in a heartbeat. But then another beach ball bounced off of Jeeta’s head.

Rather than choosing to end this fight, Jeeta flew around the arena and punched the shit out of every beach ball in sight, popping them louder than hand grenades. Children cried. The elderly were on the verge of suffering heart attacks. Mothers and fathers hugged each other and their children for fear Jeeta would commit genocide upon the entire human race. Beach balls exploded left and right until the entire arena was void of distractions. Jeeta had the fearful attention of everyone in sight, including Zoku, who quivered in his green karate trousers.

Slowly Jeeta stalked his opponent, his golden energy glowing brighter and brighter with every angry step taken. Jeeta also formed a monstrous grin as he pantomimed a choke hold with his gloved hands. This would have been sweet comeuppance for a decade-long rivalry. The only way this could have been a more satisfying conclusion was if Zoku shit his pants, which unlike some members of the crowd, he didn’t do…yet. And then…

“I’m sorry, Jeeta,” said the announcer through a new microphone. “The rules clearly state that once you’ve exited the ring, the match is over. This isn’t wrestling and you don’t get a ten count. Therefore, the winner of this match as a result of ring-out: Zoku!”

The crowd erupted into cheers while Zoku pranced and leapt in the air like his disqualification victory was the greatest one he racked up. Jeeta’s jaw went from tensing up to being on the floor. His eyes widened at his own stupidity. All it took for him to lose this match was being distracted by a few beach balls.

As Zoku was being presented with a bronze trophy by some bikini clad ladies, Jeeta once again held everyone’s fearful attention by shouting, “This is bullshit!” He breathed in a raspy voice while tense silence hung over the sandy arena. “This whole thing was a sham from the beginning!” Pointing an accusatory finger at Zoku, Jeeta said, “You put those beach balls there on purpose just so you can get an easy victory! How much did you pay those jackasses, anyways? A hundred? A thousand? A hundred thousand?”

Zoku chuckled nervously and scratched the back of his head. “More like five hundred thousand.” Jeeta’s jaw was on the floor once again. “Yeah, I kind of had to teach you a lesson there, buddy.”

“A lesson?! There’s not a scratch on me! You didn’t do anything! You just sat there and played with your ball…I mean…you just fooled around throughout the whole match!”

“Exactly! And you took the bait, Jeeta,” said Zoku more confidently with his arms folded. “Whenever we go hunting for Dragon Nuts together, you’re always getting distracted by our opponents taunting you. You don’t know how to control your temper, so it costs us every time. We could have wished for anything we wanted if we had those Dragon Nuts. But somebody else took them away because you were too busy choking on your pride. What would you have wished for anyways? Immortality? A higher power level? A cure for your wife’s cancer?”

The crowd gasped while Jeeta’s golden energy dissipated and his head hung low. Even his spiky hair stopped flapping and returned to its normal green color.

“That’s right, Jeeta, you should be ashamed! You let everyone down at your own expense! It’s sad I had to go through all of this just to teach you that. I would rather you learn this on your own, but you’re too thick-headed!”

The crowd chanted Zoku’s name while the lonely Jeeta let out a sigh, his pride and his ego deflated by words that have never been truer. He had to learn his lesson. He had to turn a new leaf. He couldn’t let it go any longer. But no…He powered up yet again and sent the crowd into a terrified hissyfit. “I’m going to kill you anyways, Karrottop!”

That didn’t happen. A beach ball bounced off of Jeeta’s head and he turned around to pop it. But the minute he bent over, Zoku rushed up and kicked him in the ass, sending him flying through the air. Zoku teleported and double axe handled Jeeta in the back, kneed him in the stomach, and punched the shit out of him until Jeeta’s body launched into the sand like a lawn dart, his legs sticking out and kicking frantically.

“Get me out of here!” shouted Jeeta with a mouthful of sand.

“Sorry, Jeeta…I can’t help you anymore. You couldn’t even help yourself. You fell for the same trick over and over again and didn’t learn anything. Now I’m fucking the porn stars and you’re getting the crabs!”

The audience laughed as crabs came up to Jeeta and pinched his legs, causing the prideful Sojo to scream and yelp more painfully than when Zoku was pounding him. The only reason the crabs left Jeeta alone was because the tide came pouring in, adding some gurgles and bubbles to his already muffled dialogue. Jeeta did manage to get one piece of coherent dialogue out before he was declared the ultimate loser: “I FUCKING HATE BEACH BALLS!”

The Real World: Anime

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“You want to win the war? Know what you’re fighting for!”

-Slipknot singing “Custer”-

***THE REAL WORLD: ANIME***

Remember a few blog entries ago how I asked you, my lovely audience, how you can tell the difference between what’s worth defending and what’s worth surrendering? Well, the same can be said for any kind of dispute whether it’s with yourself or other people. It’s all about risk vs. reward. But in order to achieve this goal, you have to absolutely know what it is you’re fighting for, just like Slipknot says in that song. If it’s a political climate, what are you trying to accomplish: convincing an unwilling debate opponent to see things another way or convincing an entire congress to do the right thing?

When I was a teenager, I took no interest in politics, so I waged my wars over the next best thing: internet disputes. I fought over everything whether it was worth the risk or not. If anything, I was fighting over a bruised ego and I was obsessed with making my offender pay. It’s not like telling someone off over a computer screen is going to change anything, but my teenaged self didn’t have the wisdom to know that. Thus we have one of my most notorious internet disputes, The Real World: Anime.

From 2001 to 2004 and again in 2005, I was a rabidly zealous member of Play By Web, a text-based RPG site where users could set up message boards based on genre or gaming system whether it’s sci-fi, D&D, Vampire: the Masquerade, etc. I have no idea what possessed me to join The Real World: Anime, because I hadn’t seen one episode of The Real World to know what the hell was going on. I guess I joined because I was an anime nut and really into shows like the Gundam series and Cowboy Bebop.

I take the role of Spike Spiegel from Cowboy Bebop and role-played him within the confines of this game. My posts were only a few sentences long and they didn’t quite live up to the Spike Spiegel character, to be honest. Sarah, one of the admins for that group, sent me a private message asking me to play him better, because the co-admin was a lot tougher than her with regard to rules and regulations.

Rational-thinking adult Garrison would have said, “No problem!” and did the right thing. But hormonal teenager Garrison, complete with a hair-trigger temper, fired the first shot in what would be an uphill verbal war between myself and the admins. My opening line? “You’re damn right I’m pissed off!” I can’t remember how the middle of the rant went, but it ended with, “You’re not going to fucking toy with me!”

Can you believe we actually came to a peaceful resolution to that argument? I actually apologized to the admins! But then Under Siege, Pt. 2 came weeks later when the admins banned me from the game for being too out of character with my portrayal of Spike Spiegel. I basically portrayed him as a jumpy weird ass who listened to Al Green rather than a smooth-talker who listened to Yoko Kanno. That was the end of my run, but not the end of the war.

Instead of being nice and taking the high road, I told the tougher of the two admins to go fuck herself after a long rant detailing how her criticisms were lies and her tough love was just an excuse to be nasty. Also, being the brave and steadfast guy I was, I told her I wouldn’t be reading any more posts from the thread I used to rant against her. That was the public forum way of blocking her from posting more messages.

So let’s see what all of this online vitriol actually accomplished. I was still banned from the game, the admins didn’t change their viewpoints, and I still sucked at playing Spike Spiegel from a fan’s perspective. I fought a war based on a bruised ego and it ended badly. Sarah and tough-chick: 1, Garrison: 0. Slipknot’s prophetic lyrics for “Custer” wouldn’t come for another thirteen years, but it’s not like I would have listened anyways except for the heavy beats.

I would go on to pick more online fights in the 2000’s and I would lose every single one of them. No realistic goals, no strategy, all offence, and no defense. Sometimes it’s important to just let things go. That’s what I’m doing now that we’re in the 2010’s and I’m at peace because of it. Imagine that: life becomes less stressful when you don’t argue over stupid shit. If you’re going to argue over something, net neutrality and tax overhaul are good places to start, so as long as your vocabulary isn’t limited to words that have “tard” in them. We’ve got ears, say cheers!

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Speaking of uncomfortable trips into my past, the next Dark Fantasy Warrior to be drawn is Jacob Kruger from my messiest first draft novel to this day, Filter Feeder. He’s a clam fisherman with his weapon of choice being a big ass metal anchor. How he manages to carry that into battle and use it efficiently is a fucking miracle. I guess his muscles really are that big. Goddamn, I’ve got a lot of muscle-bound guys in my stories!

***AMERICAN DARKNESS 3***

I guess all of those “Write every day!” memes on Face Book are really starting to sink in, because I already have an idea for the next short story: “Brandi”. It goes like this:

CHARACTER:

1. Dustin Faulk, Lonely Bachelor
2. Adele Faulk, Dustin’s Sister
3. Brandi, Sex Doll

PROMPT CONFORMITY: To be announced.

SYNOPSIS: After finishing college and getting engaged, Adele visits her older brother Dustin to share the news with him and catch up on old times. When she shows up at his apartment, he’s sitting on the couch with an inflatable sex doll named Brandi as a surrogate girlfriend. Adele holds off on the engagement announcement and instead tries to convince Dustin to find a real girlfriend since his behavior is “depressing”. Dustin likes Brandi because she isn’t capable of saying no to him. Rejection is a major source of frustration for Dustin when he tries to court “real women”. When he learns of Adele’s engagement and general life success, he becomes even more withdrawn into his single life microcosm.

FUN FACT: The last name Faulk isn’t meant to be a modified version of the F-word. It’s just a coincidence. I swear on my mother’s grave even though she’s still alive. Hehe!

Everything Is Stolen

***EVERYTHING IS STOLEN***

Just to be clear, this journal entry isn’t about art theft, though it is a horrible thing to do to somebody and those who commit this crime should be punished to the fullest extent. I’m talking more about the interpretation of creative fuel. Inspiration always comes from somewhere whether it’s a book we read, a movie we watch, a videogame we play, or even personal experience. Because we draw inspiration from these and other sources while processing them into our own version of art, there really are no original ideas. In other words, everything is stolen whether we want to admit it or not. The only original thing about our art is our interpretation of the creative fuel.

A few days ago, I drew a picture of my latest dark fantasy warrior, Night Terror. He’s a demonic mask who makes an appearance as the main villain of my short story “Burning Dragon”. The ultimate design looks original enough, but if you take a careful look at the curved eyes and wicked grin, you’ll see exactly where I drew inspiration from. In case you didn’t play that game as a youngster, I’m talking about Phanto from Mario Brothers 2. Adding the doodads from the demon horns to the facial hair to the golden jewelry was my own interpretation of the creative fuel I was given. If I drew Phanto as is, then it would be character theft and that’s a serious offense. I took something from my childhood and made it into something I could call my own. That’s what art really is: an artifact of our thoughts. Hell, the word art is in the word artifact, and artifact is the root word of artificial. It’s not the real thing. It’s a representation of the real thing and has the same aesthetic pleasure as the real thing.

Deus Shadowheart is a character I’ve had since the beginning of my writing career in 2002. He’s a Gary-Stu barbarian with big bulging muscles, long black hair, thick metal armor, and a big fucking weapon of some kind in either hand. I’ve always said that Diablo II was my creative fuel for wanting a barbarian character. But what about the name Deus? That actually comes from the Ronin Warriors anime, which I watched religiously during my freshman year of high school. One of the main villains on that show was a toximancer named Dais (pronounced “DAY-us”). I liked him so much that I thought I should borrow his name for my beastly barbarian. The rest is history.

One last example and I’ll get out of your hair. My most recent short story was a psychological horror called “Madhouse”, where an artillerist mercenary named Joe Fields enters a dusty Japanese temple to track down his target. The metal armor and big ass guns were ripped directly from Starcraft, another computer game I played as a child alongside Diablo II. One of the character classes in Starcraft is a Terran marine, a basic long-range warrior with heavy metal armor and a gigantic gauss rifle. I’ve been accused of stealing from Starcraft before, but then again, as I’ve said at the beginning of this journal, everything is stolen from somewhere.

I even had a multi-genre writing teacher in college named Carlos Martinez who said that great writers steal from other sources. He wasn’t condoning outright plagiarism, but he was encouraging the class to draw inspiration from as many sources as possible. Come to think of it, Carlos was one of my favorite teachers in college. He was always encouraging to me even when I doubted myself. I could have written the worst possible story or poem in the history of mankind and Carlos still would have believed in me. Naturally, I take him seriously when he encourages me to draw inspiration from everywhere.

I’m willing to bet that one of you, my loyal readers, have stolen something before as well, maybe a clever line or a character archetype. As long as you give credit where it’s due and didn’t steal the whole thing, your ass should be covered like a blanket on a pig. See? I stole that blanket on a pig line from a Cricket Wireless commercial. Adios, amigos! Thanks for reading!

***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***

It’s a new week and it’s time for a new story, though as we’ve learned from this journal entry, there’s no such thing as a new story. The prompt is adrenaline and this story just happens to be called “Fire and Fury” (a title I stole from a Skillet song). It goes like this:

 CHARACTERS:

1. Ronis Wakizashi, Strict Sheriff
2. Julie Clay, Traumatized Sailor

PROMPT CONFORMITY: As someone with PTSD, Julie is constantly running on pure adrenaline.

SYNOPSIS: Sheriff Wakizashi is celebrating the closing of his latest criminal case by having breakfast at his favorite restaurant, the Buffalo Brunch. While he’s there, he notices Julie sitting alone at a table acting strange. A waitress accidentally spills coffee on Seaman Clay’s fingers and sets off a traumatic rage in which the sailor holds the entire restaurant hostage. Ronis’s first instinct is to blast her with his double barrel shotgun, but then he decides trying to calm her down and get her to safety is a much better idea. Ronis’s social skills were never top notch, so playing the role of negotiator brings up a bad taste in his mouth.

***DEMON AXE, CHAPTER 10***

Now that Daniel Mercer has finally figured out what his “toy” is for, he plans on holding a concert with Johnny Vega and Sonia Marquez as bouncers. Everybody seems to be onboard with this plan except for Raven, who wants to hunt down Roger Zee before holding anymore events. Raven’s reasoning is that attracting that many people at one time will just give Roger more targets to slash to pieces. Daniel’s twisted logic dictates that Roger isn’t going to make himself easy to find, so why not draw him out? Who has the monopoly on common sense: Raven or Daniel? You be the judge.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Now that Night Terror (a.k.a. Phanto V 2.0) is in the books, the next warrior to be immortalized in a drawing will be Olivia Snow, the elven cryomancer from a story aptly called “The Cryomancer”. For this drawing, I was thinking something along the lines of Frost or Sub-Zero from the Mortal Kombat series. Well, there I go stealing again! I hope the picture looks good with my own interpretations.

***BOOK QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“It’s like thinking you’re having phone sex with Jessica Alba only to find out you’ve been beating it to Bea Arthur.”

-Chris Jericho, author of “A Lion’s Tale: Around the World in Spandex”-

"Never Again" by Marie Krepps

BOOK TITLE: Never Again

AUTHOR: Marie Krepps

YEAR: 2016

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Creature Fantasy

GRADE: Pass

In a medieval world inhabited by animalistic shape-shifters, Lord Sable is the ruler of the Southern Territory, but he is far from a typical politician. Instead of pushing papers behind a desk, he’s brawling with bandits and monsters as a way of protecting his people. He’s also protective of his little daughter, whose mother died after giving birth. Sable is crass, angry, vulgar, and emotionally cold. When another shape-shifter named Nessa comes into his life, the Southern Lord has to choose between keeping his trauma locked up forever and letting someone in to ease his pain. Nessa has pain of her own and wants to run into Sable’s cold, but strong arms. Will these two come together or tear each other apart? Cooperation is a must considering an unknown enemy is targeting Sable and his family.

I have to be honest here for a moment. At first I was critical of Lord Sable’s character development. He came off as an abusive jerk-ass who would never survive in a liberal democracy. And then I remembered that the story’s environment is anything but a liberal democracy. This is set in medieval times, which means literacy is at its lowest, ignorance is at its highest, and bigotry is everywhere. Instead of scoffing at Sable’s negative attitude, I’m praising Marie Krepps’ ability to stay true to the times. Even with a fantasy genre label, it’s important to keep things real and believable. High five to Ms. Krepps for doing an awesome job of that! And if you’re still not convinced that Sable is capable of being a decent person, keep reading, you’ll get your moment….sort of.

Another thing that deserves praise is a staple of most of Ms. Krepps’ books, the delicious sex scenes. I won’t say who they feature because that would count as a spoiler. But when the sex happens, you feel every muscle twitch, you feel every drop of sweat, you feel ever orgasmic burst of energy, and you’re hungering for more afterwards. Marie doesn’t just tell you what kind of hot sex is going on; she puts you right there in the middle of the action. I’ve always praised her ability to show instead of tell and these luscious scenes are living proof. She’s been doing these kinds of scenes for a long time now and experience has always been the best teacher. Try to remember: this book is not meant to be pornographic. Try really, really hard to remember!

The final thing I want to comment on is this book’s similarities with the long-running anime Inuyasha, which also takes place in medieval times and features demonic animals. Creative fuel can come from anywhere and Marie Krepps is a lifelong fan of anime, so that’s a lot of inspiration to work with. I often picture what it would be like to have Inuyasha and Lord Sable eat dinner together. There would be a lot of wolfing, a lot of swearing, and a lot of lewd behavior. The difference between them? Sable doesn’t have a “sit” necklace to hold him back. On the contrary, he’s made of 100% raw power with cold emotions to boot. In a way, Sable is also comparable to Koga since they’re both wolf shifters and equally vulgar. It’s always nice to see an author use creative fuel in such an innovative way.

This is a Marie Krepps novel in the truest sense: sex, violence, fantasy, romance, and an invitation to a front row seat for the action. She knows exactly what she’s doing when it comes to hooking in readers and never letting go of her death grip until she damn well wants to. This isn’t the last we’re going to see of Lord Sable, Nessa, and the evildoers who want to tear their world apart. This is only the first in what will eventually be a long series of awesome storytelling, high drama, and explosive action. I think she deserves a passing grade for her effort, don’t you agree? Excellent work, Marie! You’ve done it again!

Caribbean Cutthroats (DJ Rouge and Riff De La Luka)

CANON: Caribbean Cutthroat


NAME: DJ Rouge
AGE: 21
OCCUPATION: Cocaine Harvester


NAME: Riff De La Luka
AGE: 25
OCCUPATION: Street Guitarist


Let me ask you all a practical question. How is it that a West African drug worker (DJ Rouge) becomes part of a team called The Caribbean Cutthroats if those two locales are separated by a big fucking body of water like the Atlantic Ocean? Maybe Mr. Rouge is a Caribbean transplant. Either that or the whole thinking behind this would-be anime series was completely misguided and uneducated.

The idea for the weekly television show Caribbean Cutthroat was conceived after listening to “Peruvian Cocaine” by Immortal Technique and misinterpreting the lyrics. Immortal Technique is an articulate speaker; how exactly does someone like me misunderstand what he’s trying to say?

Because when I first heard the song, I was 19 years old and had the maturity of someone half my age, which meant no research and an unwise worldview. For further insight as to what the hell I was thinking, here’s how the series was supposed to go before I pulled the plug after two episodes.

For the first ten episodes of the anime series, DJ Rouge and Riff De La Luka were going to venture around the Caribbean and into South America drumming up as much cocaine business as possible. This unlikely pairing of the quiet and introverted sword-slinger DJ and the loudmouthed and boisterous capoeira fighter Riff had to constantly watch each other’s backs despite DJ being highly annoyed with his partner’s loud ways. American and Columbian assassins both wanted DJ and Riff’s heads on pikes. Sometimes the two governments had to compete with each other just to see who got the kill.

But DJ and Riff weren’t killed. They were sent to a Colorado prison for all of the drug charges as well as the murders of several government agents. The next ten episodes of Caribbean Cutthroat were supposed to document their time in jail. All the sodomy, all the beatings, and all the heartache of growing old behind bars would have made for a depressing anime series. Sadness and anime weren’t necessarily mutually exclusive, but this was taking it to an entirely different level. And this was going to be for ten whole thirty-minute episodes. That’s 300 minutes of brutal prison action. All for what? A small sense of false hope?

Even though only ten episodes were ordered for Caribbean Cutthroat’s prison point, several decades went by before DJ and Riff were released into American society. They could have been deported back to their respective home countries, but that would have actually made sense and my 19-year-old self wouldn’t have wanted it that way. Instead, old man Riff De La Luka, who somehow retained his positive charm throughout his many decades in prison, found delight in being a toilet cleaner for a local school. If he ever did have pain on the inside, he was doing a damn good job of hiding it.

DJ Rouge made no attempt to hide his own pain. He was miserable upon being released. He somehow found work pumping gas despite the fact that he could never smile or put on a brave face for his customers. Naturally, he didn’t get any tips, only derision from the jerk-off customers. Even his boss thought he was too melodramatic.

All the rage and sorrow boiling inside DJ’s body would eventually explode in the final episode of Caribbean Cutthroat, where he would attempt to commit suicide and make a public example of himself in the process. He wanted his death to have a huge impact on society, but the one person who was finally able to talk him down was old man Riff De La Luka. It was Riff’s positive charm that bonded the two former drug runners together after all this time of being annoyed at each other.

Oh, and can you guess how many episodes were ordered just for this miserable display of sadness? Ten. Altogether, that’s 30 episodes building towards Riff and DJ finally becoming best of friends (Riff had no problems with their relationship, but DJ did). The first ten episodes were fun and adventurous. The next twenty episodes were about sorrow and pathos. You think any TV executive in Japan is going to take this would-be anime seriously enough to produce it? I don’t think so.

Even with all of my fantasies of publishing this anime under a new division of Gracie Films called Gracie Anime, it wasn’t going to unfold. The logo for Gracie Anime would have been a samurai shushing people with his katana instead of his finger while the words “Gracie Anime” would be superimposed on a full moon in the night sky. Good fantasy, but not good enough for reality.

DJ Rouge and Riff De La Luka need new jobs and those jobs aren’t cleaning toilets or pumping gas. They probably won’t be drug smugglers either. These two warriors are the closest things to gaijin samurais I have. Wait a minute. Gaijin samurai? Oh, that opens the door to a lot of possibilities! We already have street samurais in Shadowrun canons and hip-hop samurais in the form of Mugen and Jin from Samurai Champloo. Do you think DJ and Riff deserve a piece of the pie? I do! But sometimes it’s better for the main characters to nibble on the pie crust before eating the whole fucking thing. Wouldn’t want them to get upset tummies.

　

***RANT OF THE DAY***

“There’s a market for everything, man! There’s a market for pet psychologists! There’s a market for twisted shit fetish videos! For nipple rings! For River Dancing! For chocolate-covered roaches! But you can’t find one for hardcore hip-hop?!”

-Immortal Technique-

Rhys Jambi

Pirate culture was something I wasn’t always emotionally invested in. Even after watching two movies from the Pirates of the Caribbean series and watching an anime called One Piece, I couldn’t get behind the culture. What finally changed my mind about it was joining a Good Reads group aptly called Weekly Short Story Contests and Company, which I’m still a proud member of. We posts stories and poems and get awesome feedback whether it’s in the form of praise or critique. But more importantly, this Good Reads group has a pirate motif. It’s not just an internet group; it’s a pirate ship complete with talking mice, roughhousing, and swashbuckling. God, I love the internet!

Which brings me to Rhys Jambi, who would have been lost in the dark recesses of my character archives if it wasn’t for me joining the WSS group and being influenced by piracy. Not much is known about Mr. Jambi except via a crappy drawing I did of him in 2006, a time when the men looked like sticks, the women looked like men, and neither of them had a lot of extraordinary details. Rhys didn’t have a story to be a part of, which is probably why he’s only known through that crappy drawing. From what anybody could gather, he had tall spiky hair, baggy pants, sandals, and a giant sword with a crescent hook at the end of it instead of a point, much like the one owned by Tidus from Final Fantasy X.

So now that Mr. Jambi is known only through the drawing, it’s time to give him a personality of some kind. The pirate is not an official Dungeons & Dragons class (at least according to 3.5 edition standards), but if it were, the characters who portrayed it could be any alignment it want as long as it was non-lawful. As it turns out, hostile takeovers of other people’s ships don’t constitute the behavior of people who obey the law. Isn’t that right, Captain Phillips? Okay, that was in poor taste, but you get the point, right?

Despite freely breaking the social contract, pirates can still be either good, evil, or neutral. Once a decision is made in that regard, there still needs to be a decision made whether Rhys Jambi will be chaotic or neutral. Since I only have a small space to make those decisions, I elect that he be a mixture of all those non-lawful alignments. He can rape and pillage one minute and save a kitten from a tree the next. If I’m going to have him undertake an ambiguous alignment like that, it means he can’t do something so horrible he crosses the Moral Event Horizon. Otherwise, Mr. Jambi won’t be believable. I could make him believable if I gave him Multiple Personality Disorder, but I feel like that would be exploiting people with mental illnesses.

Aside from what I’ve already said in this post, Rhys Jambi is a clean slate. I’m sure he’ll adapt comfortably to whatever role I assign him. What could possibly go wrong? It’s like hiring a guy with no job history but a reputable education. Yes, it’s true he’s never had a job before, but he’s young and a go-getter. Shouldn’t that be enough? It sounds like I’m trying to sell this talking point to a future employer, but that ship sailed when I terminated my contract with the Department of Vocational Rehab years ago. Wait a minute, did I just make a ship analogy in a blog post about a pirate? I swear that was an accident. However, if he’s going to be a chaotic pirate, he needs a ship.

　

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Careful where you shoot, because you might hit what you aim for.”

-Linkin Park singing “Keys to the Kingdom”-

Anime Roots

Whenever my niece Reina watches anime on TV, I always make it a point to poke my head in the room and say something along these lines in a high-pitched girl voice: “Yuki yuki suki! Teriyaki fried chicken! Let’s kill the monsters! Yay!” The first time I mocked her shows in this way, she marched up to me and yelled, “Don’t make fun of my show!” before giving me one of her patented tickle attacks on the armpits and belly. Little does Reina know that there was a point in my life where I enjoyed anime just as much as she did. Whenever someone asked me what anime shows I watched, I said, “Just the ones they show on Cartoon Network”. And boy, did Cartoon Network have a huge rolodex of anime back in the late 90’s and mid 2000’s. My very first anime show was a gem from the 90’s called Robotech. I kept falling head over heels in love with Lisa Hayes and Dana Sterling. I never wanted to admit being in love with anybody since I feared gold-diggers back then, but Lisa Hayes and Dana Sterling are both cartoon characters, so I’m pretty much safe. But not all of the anime shows in those days were lovey-dovey kissy-kissy escapades. Most of them were action-packed thrill rides like Dragon Ball Z and Gundam Wing. Just once I would have loved to see Heero Yuy (whilst piloting a giant robot named Wing Zero) battle it out with Vegeta in a knockdown, drag-’em-out blood brawl. Only in nerdy fan fiction would that ever happen. A few years after the emergence of TV-Y7 anime shows, we had something called Adult Swim (before it degenerated into mindless filth). Cowboy Bebop was the premiere anime to come from that programming block. Spike Spiegel was a calm and collected badass and Fay Valentine was a gorgeous bombshell: what else could you want from a show about intergalactic bounty hunting with a jazz soundtrack? Since Cowboy Bebop had tons of success on Adult Swim, we began seeing more anime shows in the TV-14 category such as Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex, Samurai Champloo, and Inuyasha. Rule number one: don’t watch Ghost in the Shell with a schizophrenic brain; you won’t understand a damn part of the plotline. Rule number two: combining a music genre with an action genre will always yield positive results; Samurai Champloo combined hip-hop with, you guessed it, samurai action. Rule number three: give the ASPCA a call every time Kigome uses the sit command on Inuyasha; because Inuyasha has dog ears, that counts as animal cruelty. I guess you want to know if all this gushing over anime is going to go anywhere. It is. I once read a quote on Writer’s Circle that advised aspiring authors to soak in as much media as they could so that they could have inspiration for their books. I spent my entire teenaged life doing just that with anime shows and videogames. While I don’t partake in either of those two mediums much anymore, I am getting things done with my writing in a way that wasn’t possible with limited skills in my teenaged years. Despite how grateful I am to Japanese anime for the inspiration it gave me, I’m still going to haunt Reina every chance I get with the “Yuki yuki suki” quote…whether she’s watching anime or a god-awful show on Disney or Nickelodeon.

　

***JOKE OF THE DAY***

Q: What does Dan Schneider drive to work every day?

A: Toe truck.

"The Robotech Series" by Jack McKinney

If it hadn’t been for the 1990’s, Cartoon Network, and Toonami, I would have never known what Robotech was. From an anime standpoint, Robotech was about big ass robots beating the shit out of invading alien races. Who doesn’t love a story about giant-sized ass-beatings? But then you have the emotional aspect that goes along with just about any anime in existence. There were a lot of romances that were born from these alien wars. And thus we have the phrase, all’s fair in love and war. It was true for the first generation of Robotech where the Space Defense Fortress and her crew were battling the gigantic Zentradi. It continued to be true for the second generation where the Southern Cross were battling the Robotech Masters. And then when the Invid finally turned earth into a biological cum stain, we had Scott Bernard and his tiny group of rebels. Throughout the entire anime, we’ve had action, we’ve had romance, and we’ve had heartbreaking deaths. But the one thing I could never comprehend was why in the second generation story, the Southern Cross defense team were always beating up on Zor. Yes, he was a transplant from the Robotech Masters, but come on, let’s at least let the poor guy’s bruises heal before the next beating. To say Zor was an underdog would be an understatement. To say he was a punching bag would be closer to the truth. But before we get too far off track, I want to give you an answer to a question you probably have for me right now. You’re probably about to ask me, “Garrison, why is an anime from the 1980’s on your blog about fast-paced books?” Because thanks to two authors who wanted to be known collectively as Jack McKinney, the anime was adopted into novel format, which was perfect considering that I needed something to read during silent reading time in middle school and English class in my freshman year of high school. This stint in the Chehalis, Washington school system was LONG before I decided to become a full-time bookworm. I became one in 2009 and my career as an unofficial student bookworm started a decade before that. And I thought to myself, “Well, the classics put me to sleep quicker than a Mike Tyson punch to the jaw, so why not choose something that actually has a special place in my heart: the Robotech series!” And the great thing about this is that aside from some extra curse words and mild gore, the novels were extremely faithful to the anime. No matter what the medium, I will always root for Zor to one day kick his commanding officers in the testicles with a steel-toed boot. And for that, I thank you, Mr. Jack McKinney.

　

***MIXED-MARTIAL ARTS QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Bring it on, come on!”

-Steve Mazzagatti, MMA referee-