Bijou Birdwing

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THE BASICS

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Name: Bijou Birdwing

Nicknames: Little Birdie

Gender: Cisgender Female

Age: 27

Birth Date: 473 AM

Birth Place: Xavier Village

Currently Living In: Drifter

Species: Elf

Ethnicity / Race: Green skin

Citizenship: Honey Valley

Religion / Beliefs: Conspiracy theorist

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FAMILY

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Father: Unknown

Age: Unknown

Relationship: Absent

Mother: Betsy Birdwing

Age: Unknown

Relationship: Abandonment

Sister: Juliet Birdwing

Age: 32

Relationship: Abandonment

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PHYSICAL FEATURES:

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Height: 5’5”

Weight: 100 lbs.

Frame / Build: Frail

Hair length: Scraggly

Hair color: Brunette

Eye shape: Milky

Eye color: Purple

Complexion: Early wrinkles

Face size: Narrow

Voice type: Screeching

Foot size: Women’s 7

Tattoo(s): None

Scar(s): Facial bruises

Any other identifying mark(s): Missing teeth

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SOCIO / ECONOMIC / POLITICAL

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Political Affiliation: Unaffiliated

Economic Class: Drifter

Social Class: Impoverished

Occupation: Drifter

Income: Whatever she begs for

Residence: None

Transportation: Feet

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INTERESTS

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Favorite Food(s): Bananas and apple sauce

Favorite Sport: Doesn’t watch sports

Favorite Book: Can’t read

Favorite Show: TV isn’t a thing yet

Favorite Music: Violin

Favorite Colors: Gray and black

Clothing Style / Preferences: Torn leather vest, dirty pants, and ripped sandals

Hobbies: Playing pool, using recreational drugs, and throwing darts

Role Model(s): The voices in her head

Likes: Sunny days and lying on the beach

Dislikes: Rainy weather and having to sleep in garbage bins

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PERSONALITY

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Good Qualities / Trait(s): Potential for creativity and storytelling skills

Vices / Negative Trait(s): Schizophrenia, universal distrust, quick anger, and addiction

Strengths: Good fighter, intimidating, and strong survival instincts

Weaknesses: Criticism, legitimate authority, submitting to head voices, abandonment trauma

Habits / Idiosyncrasies / Quirks: Shaking and head snapping

Phobia / Fears: Getting too attached only to be let down again

Loves: Independence and disrespecting authority

Hates: Llewellyn Xavier, her sister, her parents, and anybody who tries to help her

Select one personality type below that best describes your character:

Originator (ENFP) – Inventive and idea people. Love to argue to show off their skills and intelligence. Prefers the startup phase of a project where the risks and problems are greater, than turning over the lead to someone else once these are solved. Enthusiastic, idealistic, and creative. Great people skills. Excited by new ideas, but bored with details. Open-minded and flexible, and able to make others enthusiastic over their ideas and projects.

Define your character’s personality based on the following aspects:

a. Physically: Offensive appearance and poor hygiene

b. Psychologically: Psychotic and brash

c. Spiritually: Worships the voices in her head and doesn’t want to lose her “last friends left”

d. Emotionally: Quick to anger and cries easily out of frustration

e. Socially: Llewellyn pities her and wants to help while most Morgan Town citizens despise her

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HISTORY

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1. Describe the character’s childhood. Bijou spent most of her life in poverty due to her mother being locked up in Morgan Town and her sister selling out to the Atwood Queendom. The trauma and self-blame led her to developing schizophrenia and drifting from town to town without a life plan. She has a strong distrust of anybody who would dare take her “friends” away.

2. Name the good incidents that have happened in the character’s life. How has this shaped her personality? Before her sister abandoned her, they would play with dolls together and that shaped Bijou’s creative potential (which eventually went to waste).

3. Name bad experiences that have happened in the character’s life. How has this shaped her personality? Abandonment led to trauma and psychosis, which in turn led to a mass distrust of anybody getting near her. Her distrust was validated in the form of beatings from Morgan Town’s snobby citizens when she asked them for money.

4. What is the character doing when first introduced? What are her goals at this point? Do these goals change at any point in the story? Bijou reluctantly attends a Magetan sermon conducted by Llewellyn and has an episode at the end of it. Her goal is to survive another day on her own without help from her elven brethren. The goal changes to wanting to assassinate Llewellyn for what Bijou describes as “smothering behavior”.

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STORY DEVELOPMENT:

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CHARACTER ARCHETYPE: (Put an X on all applicable boxes)

[X] Addict (Conspicuous Consumer, Glutton, Workaholic–see also Gambler)

[X] Antagonist (Opposing View, not necessarily the Evil Bad — see also Villain)

[X] Beggar (Homeless person/ Indigent)

[X] Saboteur

[X] Seeker (Wanderer, Vagabond, Nomad)

[X] Storyteller (Minstrel, Narrator)

[X] Thief (Swindler, Con Artist, Pickpocket, Burglar, Robin Hood)

[X] Trickster (Puck, Provocateur)

[X] Turncoat

[X] Victim

[X] Villain / Shadow (Big Bad of the story; see also Antagonist)

1. What are the motivations for the character’s actions? The voices in her head and a strong distrust of everyone around her.

2. What are the character’s goals / ambition / dreams? To survive another day and prove that she can make it on her own, that she never needed Juliet or anyone else.

3. What external conflicts would you wish for the character to overcome? What are the obstacles in the character’s path that might make this difficult? Find a way to assassinate Llewellyn Xavier. She can’t, because she knows she’ll be caught and forced to go to therapy.

4. What inner conflicts would you wish for the character to overcome? What are the obstacles in the character’s path that might make this difficult? Pleasing her head voices. They’re so negative that they’re never really satisfied and it’s a continuous cycle of anger and abuse.

Character theme song: “My Own Hell” by Five Finger Death Punch

Cutthroats Love Unemployment

With Hustle Culture constantly in everyone’s faces, it’s hard not to come to the false realization that capitalism loves you as much as you love it. Rise and grind! Work, work, work! Breaking every bone in your body means more money! Meanwhile, you have next to nothing in your bank account because the surgery needed to fix those bones…that’ll cost you a small fortune. But if you’re a mercenary for hire in my 2002 home brew RPG Cutthroat, broken bones and small fortunes are just another part of the job. In which case, capitalism loves you so much that it’ll give you a kiss on your owie when you get shot in the chest or stabbed in the leg.

The year 2002 was one where I gave less than a shit about politics. I knew I didn’t want to conform to society. I knew that people should be treated fairly. I also used to believe in the death penalty because I wanted it to apply to my high school bullies. As someone who didn’t give two fucks about politics, let alone someone who was old enough to vote, it showed in my world-building techniques when I put together the rules for Cutthroat. In the distant future, every continent on planet earth not named Antarctica waged war against each other. Why? Fuck if I know. Maybe war is just fun for these autocrats. Maybe there is some growing tension between North America and Africa because of…reasons? Maybe Europe and Asia want to start lobbing grenades at each other because…they’re bored?

If I had more storytelling skills back in 2002, coming up with a reason for intercontinental war would have been easy-breezy-lemon-squeezy. Maybe South America wants revenge on North America because of an assassination or terrorist attack. Maybe Africa wants revenge on Australia because the latter has resources that Africa wouldn’t otherwise have without taking them by force. Maybe Asia wants to bomb the shit out of Europe because superpower flexing is more important than perpetual peace. There are lots of reasons to go to war. Pick one, damn it!

Throwing together a bullshit reason for intercontinental war wouldn’t have been that hard. But even if the guns for hire weren’t believers in each continent’s political ambitions, money will always be a motivator for anybody who wants to eat and have a roof over their heads. Which is why when I ran this RPG in 2002, I was baffled by the reactions of my players when their characters were approached by job recruiters. One character (we’ll call him Clyde) ran away and tried to hide in a shadowy alleyway. Another character (we’ll call him Ninjo) slaughtered his recruiter in the bathroom. Cutthroats must really love unemployment! Either that or they’d rather work at Burger Monarch or Taco Hell and get emotionally scarred instead of physically. So how about we take a look at these two scenarios and try to determine why Clyde and Ninjo were so allergic to employment opportunities.

First, we have Clyde. He’s kicking it in England having a drink at the bar. He’s no doubt looking for his next paycheck so that he can have more alcoholic beverages to fuck up his liver. But when he’s approached by two trench-coat wearing men who call out his name, his first instinct…is to run away from them. Granted, the two men look incredibly suspicious in their trench coats. They could have been carrying weapons in their pockets. But if they were, they didn’t pull them out. Instead they were like, “Hey, come back! Wait up!”, begging and pleading for Clyde to slow down. But instead of slowing down and listening to reason, he runs into an alleyway looking for a nice hiding place in the shadows…on a hot sunny day when shadows won’t do shit to help you.

Surprise, surprise, the trench coat guys find him and explain that they were only approaching Clyde to give him a job. A nice, big fat contract that will guarantee him enough beer to keep him permanently pissing until the end of time. Clyde eventually saw the light, sunny day aside. I know now that trench coat guys who know your name will always look suspicious, but if you run away from your job recruiter and they have to blow out their lungs to hire you, you’d be lucky if you got the job in the first place. Imagine going into a job interview and then running out of the boss man’s office because you think he looks a little too weird for you.

Actually, now that I think about it, it makes perfect sense. Young people are starting to wake up to the fact that capitalism means more work for less money and maybe running away from the boss man is how they’ll gain any semblance of leverage. Not to sound passive-aggressive, but running away was definitely a genius move on Clyde’s part…mainly because accepting the job and sneaking onto a military base got him gunned down in a storm of bullets and lasers. He should have ran faster.

And then there’s case number two: Ninjo, an assassin for hire based in Japan. No doubt he needs work as well and he doesn’t want to serve cocktails in a pretty dress, so assassinating people is the avenue he wants to go down. There he was enjoying a nice meal in a restaurant when he suddenly had to move to the nearest urinal. Pissing in privacy would have been a heavenly request that he understandably should have been forked over. But then a Mexican in camouflage fatigues uses the urinal next to him and introduces himself as Jet Guile, Ninjo’s would-be employer.

To Ninjo’s credit, there are so many things wrong with this scenario that 16-year-old me didn’t pick up on before putting together this campaign. First of all, what is a Mexican mercenary randomly doing in a Japanese bathroom? Second of all, why is his name Jet Guile and not something…you know…a little closer to his nationality? Thirdly, and this is the most important question of all: why the fuck is he trying to give someone a job interview…in the bathroom?! What, is Jet observing Ninjo’s sniper skills by watching the piss hit the toilet? What if Ninjo had bad diarrhea from the sushi he was eating? What if Ninjo didn’t make it to the toilet on time? Would Jet refuse to hire him for failing to “deactivate a bomb” in his ass? 

In hindsight, this was weird on so many levels. It should come as no surprise that the minute Jet Guile said Ninjo’s name, Ninjo beat the holy fuck out of him and left him a bloody and useless corpse on the bathroom floor. Ninjo may love unemployment, but he loves peeing undisturbed even more. Well, he didn’t get either; three more Mexican mercenaries hired him anyways in spite of what happened to Jet! That’s right: Ninjo got a job despite killing one of his employers. Turned out to be one of his tests, not because I had it planned all along, but because I pulled it out of my ass and made an even bigger mess than Ninjo’s piss puddle and Jet’s bloodbath put together. Imagine if Homer did this to Mr. Burns on an episode of The Simpsons. Work would be less stressful, for sure, but that’s only because scooping prison food is easier than handling nuclear rods.

So…why is it that Clyde and Ninjo were so reluctant to allow their employers to hire them for soldier work? Chasing someone into an alleyway and interviewing someone while they’re draining the lizard are reasonable enough answers to me. Or maybe there is something to be said about not feeding the capitalist machine…in a society where war is the main product. Or…maybe Clyde and Ninjo were supposed to keep their identities a secret and the minute their employers shouted their names, they bailed. And then it hit me like a sack of bricks: war isn’t always fought with soldiers gathering together on a battlefield and shooting at each other. It isn’t always about bombing the fuck out of cities and capitols either. Sometimes a little stealth is paramount to getting a job done. Maybe your enemy will be more easily defeated if they don’t know you’re coming. Keep the name a secret. Keep the employment a secret. Keep everything a secret. The less they know, the less they’ll see coming.

Undercover work should have been my first guess all the way back in 2002. Of course they’re running, because their cover was potentially blown. Of course they’re beating up employers because they could be assassins themselves. Trust and friendship are two of the rarest things you’ll find in war, because the object is to kill or be killed. Sure, you can trust your fellow soldiers, but a complete stranger? That’ll take a little more vetting. I guess the lesson to be learned here is to not lay all of your cards on the table so soon. They call it a poker face for a reason. They also refrain from wearing mirror shades to a poker game. Right, Kim?

Refusing to lay your cards on the table is not only necessary for succeeding in war, but in other aspects of life too. Suppose you do get a job interview that’s not in a bathroom or a dingy alleyway. Sure, you want to be open and honest, but do you really want to let your boss man know everything about you, be it mental illnesses, bad experiences in school, bad experiences with other employers, or divorces you’ve had? Same thing goes for any other activity, whether it’s dating, friendship, or playing a good old fashioned RPG. You want to give them just enough to get a good idea of you, but if you spill too many secrets, then you’ll never get passed the front door.

But that also depends on what secrets you choose to keep and how doing so will negatively affect the relationship. If you’re trying to keep abuse a secret from your peers, it’ll get out one way or another, especially in an argumentative setting. In which case, don’t get into the relationship at all and seek help before you spiral into an early grave. If you have murder-hobo tendencies and you’re playing an RPG where your character kills everyone around them, that’ll derail the game in a big fucking hurry. If you’re an alt-right nutjob and your paladin uses “stand your ground” laws as an excuse to kill innocent orcs to become an oathbreaker, then get some goddamn help!

Your GM doesn’t have to know everything, but they should know enough to decide whether or not they want to play with you. If you put yourself in a situation where it’s you or the GM, then the GM will pull a Clyde and Ninjo and run the fuck away from you. Or they’ll kill you in the bathroom while you’re interrupting their pissing session, one of the two. This is not an instruction manual for narcissists, because fuck them. But if you’re genuinely looking for new opportunities in life and you’re going to make the most of them, then getting your foot in the door is as easy as getting both feet out of bar on the way to a garbage-covered alleyway.

King of Elves and Trees

Every strike of the axe against the Black Forest trees sent a shiver of rage up and down Saito Kabaka’s spine. The gigantic lumberjack’s swings created the deepest wooshing noises and seemed capable of tearing off a person’s head with one slice. But instead of human heads, the massive battleaxe chipped away quickly and efficiently at the thick redwoods. Saito watched from the bushes with a contorted frown, dying on the inside with every chop. This was ecocide. This was murder. The lumberjack wasn’t just chopping down trees; he was violating the spirits of this very forest.

After a while of nausea and gritted teeth, Saito couldn’t stand idly by any longer. When the elf samurai chucked one of his daggers, he forgot instantly that this man-beast was twice his size and ten times as lethal. The dagger missed its mark, but the flannel shirt and jeans wearing titan stumbled back a few paces and sucked in air at a rapid cadence. Saito’s fiery eyes bore a hole through the giant’s nervous baby blues. Decked out in golden leather armor, donning a glowing green crown of plant roots, and drawing his slender katana, the forest guardian made his presence and fury known.

“I don’t intrude into your home and eat your food. I don’t laze on your bed and fuck your wife. I don’t snatch your valuables from underneath your booger-encrusted schnoz. So why then do you believe it’s acceptable to come to my home and cut down my trees?” asked Saito while pointing his blade at the lumberjack. He slashed at the air and continued his slithery oratory with, “This forest is not your urban dystopia. It doesn’t exist so that you could build fancy hotels and burger joints for overfed human scumbags! Take that piece of shit you call a weapon and leave this place before I rip your intestines out and lynch you with them from the same tree you tried to cut down!”

The baldheaded beast of a man’s eyes darted frantically in every direction while cold sweat poured down his forehead. And then the shtick was over when he laughed his ass off and slapped his thick knees with an echoing thud. “Are you kidding me? A teeny tiny elf like you is going to lynch me with my own intestines? Goddamn, you’re a funny motherfucker!” The yuks poured out of his mouth like verbal diarrhea as he struggled to say, “Listen, man: that environmental bullshit is overrated. Take off that stupid hat; it looks fucking ridiculous on you! You might as well walk around with a salad bowl on your head!”

The lumberjack’s chuckle-filled tirade was cut off by a flying shuriken that narrowly missed his ear. But instead of feigning fear again, he dropped his axe and gave an even less sincere double slap on his cheeks with a wide open mouth.

“Perfect timing, Tifa, as usual,” smiled Saito. Floating down to the dirt like a feather was the silken dress wearing, golden haired female elf counterpart Tifa Croft, armed with claw bracers around her wrists and wearing a plant root crown like her fellow guardian. The two of them shared a peck on the lips much to the overdramatic coughing dismay of the seven-foot lumberjack.

“You guys actually fuck in this forest?” the man giant asked. “Is that how these trees grow, by the two of you sprinkling your seeds all over the ground?”

Tifa folded her arms and treated the lumberjack to a ball-shrinking death stare. “You have the sense of humor of a fucking five year old and probably the intelligence of one too. Saito here is the King of Elves and Trees and I am his Queen. Respect the crowns, you ignorant little shit!”

The lumberjack waved his arm dismissively and scoffed, “Well, I see a whole lot of trees out here, but very many elves, so I guess this ugly ass forest could do with some urban development.” He heaved his axe in the air and pointed at various parts of the forest with his weapon. “We can put a Mickey D’s over there, a Chicas Bonitas over there, and maybe a school all the way over there. You liberal whack jobs like schools, right?”

Saito swung his katana in the air and slithered, “And what do you plan on teaching this new generation of ignoramuses: how to eat a whole bucket of fried chicken in less than thirty seconds? Maybe that’s something you can teach the elves of this forest, who will be here sooner than you think.”

“You’d better hope those little pointy-eared fags run for the hills,” smirked the lumberjack while leaning his face into Saito’s. “I wasn’t planning on committing genocide today, but I just might change my mind if the two of you don’t fuck off and leave me to my work. I’m getting a lot of money for this project and I’ll be damned if you two hippies rip it away from me and my family! Remember the name of Rudiger Seran, but fuck it, you two are going to call me Daddy by the time I’m done with you!”

Rudiger threw the first swing of his axe and would have covered the whole forest in blood if Saito and Tifa didn’t duck out of the way in time. The two elves rolled and flipped their way out of every slash that the giant threw. They bounced off of trees hand in hand and found refuge at the top branches. They smiled down upon Rudiger while the lumberjack shouted, “You two cowards better get your asses down here and fight me before I cut this fucker down!”

Saito whispered in Tifa’s pointy ear, “You’ve got the supplies up here right?”

The lovely assassin brushed her hair away and pulled several pinecones out of an otherwise empty bird nest. She grinned, “It wouldn’t be the same without them.” With a wink, a nod, and a kiss, Tifa threw one of the pinecones down upon an unsuspecting Rudiger. The biomass exploded in a flash bang upon making contact with Mr. Seran’s thick skull. The giant hopped and head-banged in pain while belting every swear word known in the English language.

“You’re the best queen a man could ask for,” grinned Saito as he and Tifa threw more flash bang pinecones down upon their assailant. Rudiger tried to smack some of them away like he was playing baseball and managed to hit a few homers out in the distance. Others bounced off of his massive arms and legs while popping like firecrackers. The mighty Seran had struck out and his body ached with redness and scars. The King and Queen hugged each other and laughed like children.

Bruised skin wasn’t the only reason Rudiger was seeing red. He growled through clenched teeth and smacked himself on the cheek so many times he actually bled. His rage became evident in the way he swung his axe at the tree, ripping larger chunks out of the redwood and creating deeper wooshing noises. “Uh-oh!” Tifa quipped while she and Saito held hands and leapt to the next tree just in time for Rudiger’s ecocidal victim to crash to the ground.

Saito’s heart pounded in his chest like a war drum and the cold wetness of Tifa’s hand brought chills racing through his own body. She shook slightly and prompted the king to ask, “Are you okay, my love?”

“I…I think so,” Tifa stuttered before the branch underneath her cracked and crunched, causing her to drop to the forest ground with a resounding thud  Saito tried to hold out his hand and grab her, but all he could do was yell, “No!” as his wife crashed and burned. She lied there in the dirt breathing heavily and coughing up a geyser of blood.

Rudiger hung his battleaxe over his shoulder and strutted around Tifa with a shit-eating grin. “I guess that vegan diet isn’t helping you lose enough weight. And people call me a fat ass!” joked the lumberjack while slapping his knee and chuckling again.

Watching Rudiger Seran belittle his wife clouded Saito’s mind with scathing, bloody thoughts. As defenseless as she was, she still threw her claws around in the air hoping to hit something. Her weakness multiplied when Rudiger stomped on Tifa’s hand and crunched it so that it sounded more violent than when he whacked down the tree. Her screams of agony and shame echoed throughout the forest and caused nearby birds to fly away in fear. She tried to slash Rudiger’s thick ankles with her other claw, but that got stomped on too until there was just a bloody heap underneath his work boots.

Saito tried to remain calm and wait for his perfect opportunity to stealthily strike. But Tifa’s screams filled his gut with nuclear heat. Rudiger’s arrogant laughter filled his nerves with flaming gasoline. The more his heart pumped diesel, the more he forgot about the importance of his samurai training. With katana firmly grasped in both hands, he screamed like a demon and leapt on top of Rudiger with the intent to slash him in two vertically.

Saito could feel the ground hurtling at him at a million miles per hour. The landing was going to break his ankles, but not nearly as badly as he was going to break every bone in Rudiger’s body. And then the lumberjack swung his axe and snapped Saito in two from the waist down. The elf samurai could hear his wife roaring his name in pain as his vision went black and his wrecked body bounced off the tree with a deafening splat.

Even as what was left of him slid slowly and slimily down the tree, he could recall Rudiger asking in a mocking tone where all of the elves were at. The now pouring rain soothed Saito’s burning wounds, but it was already too late for the King of Elves and Trees.

The plant root crown slipped off of his sloppy skull and buried itself into the earth below. The rain poured down violently enough to represent the emotions of Mother Nature herself. She continued to weep as Rudiger thoughtlessly cut down more and more of her trees with vicious whacks while mocking her with cries of, “Where are your elves now, bitch?!” Tears of ecocidal agony turned into monsoons and floods. The crowns formerly worn by Tifa and Saito were drenched with nutrition as they began to take root underneath the forest.

The more Rudiger laughed his ass off, the more the roots spread across the ground. Even in the chilling rain, the arrogant giant chopped and chopped like his paycheck was that important too him. Trees crashed to the earth with sickening pounds, so much so that Rudiger was almost done with his work. But as he jokingly wiped away forehead sweat, he took a look around him and saw that his work was only just beginning.

“What the fuck?” he whispered as the tree stumps grew even more beautiful plants. Not redwoods, not roses, not berry-covered bushes, but the one species Rudiger kept asking for this entire time. Ask and ye shall receive in the form of naked green-skinned elves with blistering red eyes and thorn-covered swords. One by one they blossomed from the stumps and groaned like an army of zombies. Rudiger dropped his axe and cowered on the soaked ground, shivering for reasons other than the temperature.

The pathetic display did nothing to back off the hungry doppelganger elves as they chanted in monstrous unison, “You will feed us! You will feed us! You will feed us!” They closer they marched, the brighter their neon red eyes glowed and the more Rudiger shivered and quaked in his clumsy body. And then, the King and Queen’s beloved army of avengers dined upon the giant’s flesh like the entire menu at one of the lumberjack’s planned Mickey D’s. Rudiger’s flesh tasted more delicious than chocolate cake, meatier than a twenty-pound steak, and juicier than a bottle of Ocean Spray. So much for that vegan diet that Tifa Croft always enjoyed.

Peacemaker

Gerard Killings paced back and forth with his hands tucked in his trench coat pockets. He gazed around at the animal trophies mounted on the wall while shaking his head in disgust. Deer heads, tiger rugs, bear dolls, and fox pelts made this politician’s home feel like an animal graveyard. Protecting Senator Schneider from assassination filled Gerard’s eyes with dollar signs, but his heart with emptiness. He felt no different from a street whore selling her body for cocaine. The mercenary plopped down on the zebra striped couch and ruffled his clean shaven head and face.

He snapped out of his disgusted trance and leapt into business mode when he heard the sound of wood creaking in the next room. Gerard pulled two sais from his trench coat pockets and crept towards the kitchen. When he arrived, he saw that the scene hadn’t been disturbed except by an elderly dog lying on the floor snoozing away. The irony wasn’t lost on Gerard as he shook his head some more while holding the bridge of his nose.

The time to earn his paycheck arrived when Gerard felt a heavy presence crash down from overhead. He dropped his sais and gasped for air as he felt a furry arm wrapped around his neck with a knife pointed into his jugular. A feminine voice whispered, “Don’t even think about it. I’ll slash you from asshole to appetite if you move one inch.”

Gerard didn’t listen. He snatched his assailant’s wrist and chomped down on her arm with the strength of a bear trap. The furry female yelped and back flipped off of her opponent, leaving a smattering of blood across the floor. Gerard used this valuable time to crawl quickly across the floor to retrieve his sais. Before he could lay one finger on them, he felt a knife graze his scalp as it flew into the kitchen cupboard.

The mercenary blinked tightly in pain while pressing a hand to his wound. He opened his eyes just widely enough to see that his assailant was dressed in black ninja gear except for part of her face and arms, which were covered in animal fur (and blood from the bite wound). She angrily whispered, “You’re one dead motherfucker!” before pulling out a katana and lunging towards a seated and prone Gerard. The mercenary moved his head just in time to avoid being decapitated. The fuzzy ninja slashed and lunged some more only to have Gerard tuck and roll out of the way every time.

Mr. Killings, still on his back, kicked the ninja in the head and dazed her long enough for him to wrap both ankles around her neck and flip her over. She crash landed into the kitchen cupboard, but accidentally landed on the sleeping dog. The dog yelped and crawled pathetically across the floor. Both fighters were distracted by the condition of the elderly animal, so much so that the ninja crawled across the floor and petted the little guy. “I’m so sorry,” she gently whispered. “You poor little sweetheart.” The ninja’s petting caused the dog to roll on her back and kick in the air.

“Wait a damn minute here,” said Gerard before he nipped up and ripped the ninja’s mask off to reveal she was a humanoid fox. The ninja gasped and crab-walked backwards, knowing her identity was plain to see. “Why am I not surprised? Misty Blades, anti-hunting activist. You’ve been all over the news talking about using peace and love to advance your cause, yet here you are trying to stick a blade in my fucking neck.”

Misty waved a dismissive paw and scoffed, “Like your politician friend is any better. Have you seen all the animal corpses around his house? And what about you? You’re guarding this place, so you’re every bit as guilty. Now you have to involve a poor little doggy into this.” She petted and kissed the dog some more, much to the little pooch’s smiling delight.

“Do you need help there, Gerard, or can you do it yourself like you were paid to do?” asked Senator Randy Schneider, who stood in the bedroom doorway dressed in a blue bathrobe holding a peacemaker handgun. He had a calm demeanor about him despite finding Misty Blades in his kitchen. “What are you waiting for, Gerard? Must I hold your hand?”

“You’re actually going to listen to this guy?” asked Misty. “I saw you making those faces at the animal trophies. You’re just as disgusted as I am. You could finish this right now if you wanted to.”

Randy sighed, “And how exactly does he plan on doing that, Miss Blades, if that is your real name? I’m the one with the gun and you two are just sitting there with your knives up your asses. That’s the thing about hunting, my friend: you need the best weapons. You think I claimed all of those deer heads with a fucking katana? Hell no. I was smart enough not to bring a knife to a gun fight.”

“Guns are for cowards!” belted Misty. “Killing animals is just as cowardly. Why in the hell would anybody want to support your new bill, Senator? You fucking right-wingers are all the same. You’ll protect an unborn fetus, but you’ll gladly shoot a defenseless creature. Don’t think for a minute that your gun is going to save you now. All the firepower in the world means jack shit without the fighting skills to back them up.”

Randy squeezed off a shot and only managed to tear a piece of fur off of Misty’s cheek before the ninja leapt across the room and held a blade to the politician’s throat. Senator Schneider shook so hard that he could be confused for a Parkinson’s patient. No amount of pathos could wipe the look of white hot, drooling rage from Misty’s vixen face. “Gerard! Help me!” Randy shouted.

“Shut up, you whimpering piece of shit! Stop whining and start listening! When that bill hits the senate floor, that shit is dead on arrival! If it isn’t, then you will be! What do you say/ Senator? Is your life really worth having more animals die in your name?” grimaced Misty.

Little did the ninja know that Randy dropped the peacemaker on the floor and slid it across to Gerard with his foot while shaking in fear. Sure enough, the bodyguard picked it up and cocked it before pointing it at both Misty and Randy.

“Don’t even think about it!” shouted Misty. “You put that thing down or I’ll spill his throat all over the fucking floor! Then maybe I’ll take him down to the taxidermist to get stuffed!”

“Just take the shot, Gerard; she’s going to kill us both anyways!”

“Shut the fuck up! Both of you!” Gerard roared. “I am getting sick and tired of this political bullshit! All I wanted was a paycheck tonight and you two have turned this into a fucking nightmare! Maybe I’ll kill both of you! Or maybe I’ll just kill you, Randy, and leave the fox lady to do her bidding elsewhere! You think I enjoy looking at all of these animal trophies?! They make me sick! In fact, I should probably throw up in that orange face of yours right now! It can’t look any worse than it is now!”

Misty grinned at Gerard’s threat while Randy whimpered a small prayer. This was it. That bill was going to die a nasty horrible death, which could also be said about the pants-pissing Randy Schneider. Gerard seethed with drooling anger like a rabid wolf ready to devour a hunter’s leg. The animal analogy was perfect for the rage bubbling up inside of him. Mother nature was ready to strike with a whirlwind vengeance.

“But then again…as much as I agree with Misty Blades more than anybody else…she doesn’t write my paychecks!” said Gerard before he squeezed off another shot and put a bullet in the fox ninja’s head. Her brains splattered all over the kitchen floor as she fell to her death. The elderly dog crawled over to her and licked her bloody wound like a bowl of puppy chow.

“Dogs are such filthy creatures,” said Randy with a chuckle. “Then again, so was that crazy bitch. You put on a hell of a show, Gerard. You had me going for a minute there. You’ll get that paycheck just like I promised you. Maybe if the bill passes, I’ll throw you an extra bonus so that your cancer-stricken son can go to Disneyland. You only live once, right? Well, I got to get to bed now. You did good tonight, my friend. Oh, and did I mention you’re one hell of an actor?”

“I wasn’t acting at all, Senator. I still think you’re a piece of shit for what you’re doing,” said Gerard as he handed the peacemaker to his boss.

“Correction: I’m a piece of shit who’s going to send your child to Space Mountain before he drifts away to heaven. There’s a difference, you know,” grinned Randy as he accepted the peacemaker and whistled his way back to bed.

“What do you want to do with Misty’s corpse?” asked Gerard.

“I’m sure I can find a nice place for her next to the lion’s head. Goodnight!” said Randy from the bedroom before he flicked off the light and yawned.

Gerard plopped back down on the zebra-striped couch and stared at his blood-covered hands. His whole body felt as though he had just taken a swim in a river of innocent blood. He did it all in the name of his cancerous son’s happiness, but what if he ever found out how he achieved that happiness? Could Gerard keep this secret forever? So many guilty thoughts ran through his mind at a million miles an hour.

A single tear dropped from his eyes and he could do nothing about it but bury his face in his murderous hands. He had no choice, just like anybody voting for Randy Schneider or his opponents. The system owned him. If they wanted him to dress in a turkey suit and dance like a monkey, he would do it if it meant a hefty payday. Maybe he wouldn’t feel nearly as guilty if he sucked dicks for a living. How sad. How relentlessly sad.

I Apologize

VERSE 1

Assassins live by a code of silence

Leave no trace of forensic science

Leave behind a trail of violence

Escape the sounds of police sirens

Weapon of choice isn’t a knife or gun

Motive isn’t the thrill of the hunt

Vicarious visions the camera caught

All I did was sit back and watch

CHORUS

I apologize for not being your savior

I apologize for being your traitor

All I had to do was speak my mind

But another innocent got left behind

VERSE 2

You’re all grown up and standing tall

You just can’t wait for your next brawl

Lashing out at everyone in sight

Someone’s going to the hospital tonight

It’s too late to recapture innocence

It’s too late to close the distance

It’s too late to give you your love

You fought like a hawk, slew all the doves

CHORUS

I apologize for not being your savior

I apologize for being your traitor

All I had to do was speak my mind

But another innocent got left behind

VERSE 3

If I could, I’d hug you tightly forever

Tell you it’s okay and never say never

Tell you I’m sorry for shutting my mouth

I’m sorry for taking the easy way out

You won’t forgive me for my deadly sins

You threw my apology in the garbage bin

I can’t blame you for even a short second

Silence is an assassin’s favorite weapon

EXTENDED CHORUS

I apologize for not being your savior

I apologize for being your traitor

All I had to do was speak my mind

But another innocent got left behind

I apologize for leaving you for dead

I apologize for the trauma in your head

I apologize for the monster you’ve become

The pain is now yours to sooth and numb

FINAL LINE

I’m sorry…

"Lament of the Fallen" by Andy Peloquin

BOOK TITLE: Lament of the Fallen

AUTHOR: Andy Peloquin

YEAR: 2016

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Dystopian Fantasy

GRADE: Extra Credit

Once a ruthless contract killer, the demonic Hunter now struggles with the voices in his head, which urge him to kill and feed his magical dagger Soulhunger despite The Hunter’s overwhelming guilt. Traveling aimlessly, The Hunter stumbles upon a battle in which a knight named Sir Danna and her apprentice Visibos are trying to fight off highwaymen. Against the voice’s wishes, The Hunter springs into action and earns the two knights’ trust by defeating the bandits. As the group of three travels together, he must keep his demon heritage a secret since the two knights are sworn hunters of his kind. How long can this charade last? What will be the consequences if he gets caught?

Just like with the Bucelarii book that came before this (Blade of the Destroyer), the battle sequences in Lament of the Fallen are well-thought out and realistic down to the last detail. Andy Peloquin has a black belt in multiple martial arts, so when he talks about sneaking into guards and the effects a simple strike can have on bones, he’s not joking around. The way The Hunter ignores his own suffering in order to win a battle represents the kind of toughness it takes to succeed in martial arts. He could have fire in his lungs, stinging sensations on his skin, and a head full of fog, yet The Hunter somehow manages to push the worst kind of pain to the back of his mind and finish his battles with a bloody passion. His stealthy fighting style and ruthless aggression make The Hunter one of the most feared opponents somebody could have in a fight.

Which brings me to my next point: The Hunter is more than a bloodthirsty killer. Despite his demon heritage, he has more humanity in his pinky finger than most of the people he encounters have in their whole bodies. His struggles to resist the urge to kill are believable and relatable to any reader. His need for friendship despite his murderous vocation makes him even more relatable. He may have the outer shell of a tough-minded killer, but deep inside lies a modicum of innocence that will always steer him towards the right path. He doesn’t kill because he enjoys it. He does it because he must. Maybe the voices in his head enjoy every bloodbath he goes through, but The Hunter is better than the demonic commands that threaten to control him. If you can’t get behind him right away as a reader, you will by the time the story is over.

But there’s one reason why this book has earned my ultra-rare five-star rating: because the voices in The Hunter’s head are reminiscent of modern day schizophrenia, which I have suffered from since 2002. The Hunter just wants his brain to shut the hell up and give him some peace. That’s all I wanted when I first started hearing my own voices as a teenager. I wanted it so badly that I would have committed suicide to obtain it if it hadn’t been for my loved ones talking me down. Because I can relate to The Hunter on a deep level, I want him to succeed in this story. I want him to find answers to his past. I want him to seek revenge on those who wronged him. I want him to find friendship in the unlikeliest places. It’ll be another five hundred years in The Hunter’s world before Risperdal is invented, so living with this sadistic dialogue in his head is even tougher for him. I feel for him and I want nothing but the best for him, despite the fact that he’s an assassin for hire.

Andy Peloquin knocked it out of the park when he wrote “Lament of the Fallen”. Everything about this book is believable from the fight scenes to the emotional traumas to the world building to the street folk’s reactions. You will find a lot of surprises as you flip through these pages and you will have an evil smirk on your face when The Hunter finds success in his journeys. Mr. Peloquin is one creative son of a gun and he deserves the highest praise for his hardest work. I don’t give five-star reviews that often anymore, so enjoy your success, Andy! Hold your head up high (unless of course you’re dodging a roundhouse kick).

Interview with Andy Peloquin: Round Two

1. Do you play videogames? If so, how do they influence your writing?

I'm huge and I'm a gamer, so I guess I'm a huge gamer. I love "run and gun" games, ones without much strategy or planning. Read the way the Hunter interacts with his enemies, and you can see my play style.

I wouldn't say video games have affected or influenced my writing. If anything, books have the greatest influence on what I write. I find that my writing style changes slightly according to the book I'm reading or listening to. Humorous books make the Hunter more sarcastic, while epic books make the sentences more long-winded and detailed.

2. What are your favorite TV shows to watch and how do they influence your writing?

I love ALL the comic book TV shows (The Flash, Arrow, Legends of Tomorrow, Supergirl, Agents of SHIELD, Daredevil), but I also enjoy shows like Suits, Killjoys, The Big Bang Theory, and many more.

I will say that TV shows do affect my writing. As I watch TV, I come to better understand how to dole out information and plots in small quantities in order to keep the reader coming back chapter after chapter, book after book. The serial nature of TV shows helps me to write series better.

3. What advice can you give to an independent author who wants to market his or her book but doesn’t know how?

Ask for help! The majority of what I've learned about marketing has just come from kind people offering advice, feedback, and resources. Facebook, Twitter, forums, YouTube, and random blogs can provide you with a wealth of information that will help you to spread word about your books. The more you learn, the more you can figure out what works and what doesn't.

4. Does world travel influence your writing? If so, what places have you been to?

I was born and raised in Japan, and have traveled Mexico, the U.S. and Canada. I know traveling does influence my work greatly. For example, in the first The Last Bucelarii book, Blade of the Destroyer, the Hunter loves spending time among Snowblossom trees--the Einari version of Japanese cherry blossom (sakura) trees. The arid deserts of Mexico and the southern U.S. helped me to better write the deserts through which the Hunter travels in Book 3, as well as the canyon and mountainous land of Book 2. The more cities I visit, the more I understand how each place is different--a difference I try to infuse into each location the Hunter visits.

5. Do you plan on writing a nonfiction memoir someday?

I do not. While memoirs are a great way to tell an important story about your life, I feel like the stories in my head would be much more interesting than the stories about my past. That being said, I will be writing a dark fiction novel about a cult--sort of a demonized, exaggerated version of the cult I was raised in.

6. How important is pacing when you’re writing a book?

I've found that a good book has both epic fight scenes and slow moments of reflection, heart-pounding races to escape death and slogging through the mud of feelings and emotions. Variations in pace are vital to making a book feel real and interesting.

7. Have you ever written comedy before?

I have not, but I did try to infuse as much humor into my Atlantis novel--In the Days: A Tale of a Forgotten Continent--as possible. I doubt I will ever be as funny as Terry Pratchett or Glen Cook, but I'm pretty sure I could match their level of snark. If only I could think of a character/story that fit it…

8. Do you play pencil-and-paper RPG’s like Dungeons & Dragons? If so, how do they influence your writing?

I LOVED playing D&D when I was younger, though I didn't get a chance to play much. I know the thrill I got from playing the game made me want to write fantasy over sci-fi or mystery fiction.

9. Which is more important to a fight scene in a book: choreography or storytelling?

Both are equally important. While a good fight does need to be choreographed well, it's the storytelling that goes along with the movements and action that makes a fight scene more than just two unimportant characters hacking at each other with weapons.

10. How important is sensitivity to you when you’re reviewing another author’s book?

Unfortunately, I'm not a very sensitive person. I have no problem saying what I think could be improved. I don't bash the book or tear it down, and I won't say "I dislike X element". I'll try to say "I feel X element was lacking" or "X element didn't hold my interest". I'm a bit blunt and harsh, but I've tried to temper my reviews to encourage other authors. If my reviews can help them to improve instead of tearing them down, that's the goal. I know negative, constructive reviews have made my writing much better, so I hope I can do the same for others.

Book Cover:

Tagline/Elevator Pitch:

A faceless, nameless assassin. A forgotten past.  The Hunter of Voramis--a killer devoid of morals, or something else altogether? (The Last Bucelarii--dark fantasy with a look at the underside of human nature)

           

Book Blurb:

The Last Bucelarii (Book 2): Lament of the Fallen

The Hunter of Voramis is no more.

Alone with the bloodthirsty voices in his head, fleeing the pain of loss, he has one objective: travel north to find Her, the mystery woman who plagues his dreams and haunts his memories.

When he stumbles upon a bandit attack, something within urges him to help. His actions set him at odds with the warrior priests commanded to hunt down the Bucelarii.

Left for dead, the Hunter must travel to Malandria to recover his stolen birthright. There, he is inexorably drawn into direct conflict with the Order of Midas, the faceless, nameless group of magicians that holds the city in a grip of terror. All while struggling to silence the ever-louder voice in his mind that drives him to kill.

From feared assassin to wretched outcast, the Hunter's journey leads him to truths about his forgotten past and the Abiarazi he has pledged to hunt. His discoveries will shed light on who he really is…what he really is.

Fans of Joe Abercrombie, Brandon Sanderson, and Brent Weeks will love the Hunter…

Book Info:

Title: The Last Bucelarii (Book 2): Lament of the Fallen

Author: Andy Peloquin

Official Launch Date: August 19th, 2016

Publication Date: July 21, 2016

Paperback Price: 15.99

Digital Price: 3.99

Pages: 340

ISBN: 1535388668

Buy Links:

Amazon Kindle: Not yet available

Amazon Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/Last-Bucelarii-Book-Lament-Fallen/dp/1535388668/

Amazon Canada: https://www.amazon.ca/Last-Bucelarii-Book-Lament-Fallen/dp/1535388668/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/30973111-lament-of-the-fallen

Book Launch Event:

https://www.facebook.com/events/1756560507952924/

Join my Thunderclap:  https://www.thunderclap.it/projects/44830-the-hunter-rides-again

Bio:

Andy Peloquin: Lover of All Things Dark and Mysterious

Andy Peloquin--a third culture kid to the core--has loved to read since before he could remember. Sherlock Holmes, the Phantom of the Opera, and Father Brown are just a few of the books that ensnared his imagination as a child.

When he discovered science fiction and fantasy through the pages of writers like Edgar Rice Burroughs, J.R.R Tolkien, and Orson Scott Card, he was immediately hooked and hasn't looked back since.

Andy's first attempt at writing produced In the Days: A Tale of the Forgotten Continent. He has learned from the mistakes he made and used the experience to produce Blade of the Destroyer, a book of which he is very proud.

Reading—and now writing—is his favorite escape, and it provides him an outlet for his innate creativity. He is an artist; words are his palette.

His website (http://www.andypeloquin.com) is a second home for him, a place where he can post his thoughts and feelings--along with reviews of books he finds laying around the internet.

He can also be found on his social media pages, such as:

Twitter: https://twitter.com/AndyPeloquin

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/andyqpeloquin

www.linkedin.com/in/andypeloquin/

https://plus.google.com/100885994638914122147/about 

https://www.amazon.com/author/andypeloquin  

https://www.facebook.com/andrew.peloquin.1

10 Things You Need to Know About Me:

1.      Hot wings, ALWAYS!

2.      I never forget a face, but rarely remember a name.

3.      I'm a head taller than the average person (I'm 6' 6")

4.      Marvel > DC

5.      I was born in Japan, and lived there until the age of 14.

6.      Selena Gomez, Skrillex, Simon & Garfunkel, Celine Dion, and Five Finger Death Punch are all in my writing playlist.

7.      Aliens are real, but it's self-centered of us to believe that they would come to visit Earth.

8.      Watching sports: suck. Playing sports: EPIC!

9.      I earned a purple belt in Karate/Hapkido/Taekwondo.

10.  I dislike most Christmas music, aside from Trans-Siberian Orchestra.

A Few of My Favorite Things

Favorite Books: The Gentlemen Bastards by Scott Lynch, The Stormlight Archives by Brandon Sanderson, Sherlock Holmes by A.C. Doyle, Warlord of Mars by E.R. Burroughs

Favorite Songs: Wrong Side of Heaven by Five Finger Death Punch, Prayer by Disturbed, I'm an Albatraoz by AronChupa, Look Down from Les Miserables, Shatter Me by Lindsay Sterling and Lizzi Hale

Favorite Movies: 300, Red Cliff, Shoot Em Up, Love Actually, Princess Bride

Favorite Comics: Anything with Deadpool, Wolverine or Doop in it

Favorite Foods: Hot Wings, Meat-Lover's Salad, A good sandwich (made by me), Yaki Soba, Sushi

Favorite TV Shows: The Flash, Daredevil, Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., Hawaii Five-0, Brooklyn 99, Firefly (too soon!), The Last Ship, The Walking Dead, Game of Thrones

Reviews:

"Creative, gritty, and beautifully dark...fantasy addicts will love it!" -- Peter Story, author of Things Grak Hates -- http://peterjstory.com/

"The fantasy world has a compelling new antihero…the Hunter will terrify and captivate you." - Eve A Floriste, author of Fresh Cut

"From the first words on the page this fantasy holds the reader spellbound even after the book is finished…his character is very well-defined even if his past is a mystery. Root for an assassin? Oh, yes, one must!" -- Carol Conley, for InDTale Magazine

"Oh the carnage! Fantastic bloodthirsty carnage! The fight scenes in this book were fast-paced, detailed and thrilling. I love a good sword fight and there is plenty of that here." -- Ami L. Hart

"One could get lost in this novel for its twisting plots, seemingly endless imagination, dark yet irresistible characters, or the mind-numbing paradox of its simultaneously dark and romantic world. One could follow the long and winding road of the dusky, fierce protagonist and fight tooth and nail not to sympathize with him. One could dance in the dizzying, intricate circles of Peloquin's neo-mythology, or even basque in the black sunlight of a well-crafted gothic novel that both entertains and enlightens." -- Jesse G. Christiansen

Fight to the Death: Mitch McLeod vs. The Hunter

I, Garrison Kelly, challenge you, Andy Peloquin, to a duel to the death! But it is not we who will fight, but our characters…

In the black corner, weighing in at 180 pounds, standing a cool 6 feet tall, the Hunter of Voramis!

Tale of the Tape:

1. ·         Superhuman reflexes, strength, speed--think Captain America, but stronger
2. ·         Thousands of years of weapons training
3. ·         Body has accelerated healing factor--can survive a sword to the heart (can be killed by drowning, iron weapons, beheading, and suffocation)
4. ·         Cannot be killed by anything but iron
5. ·         Accursed dagger that heals him when he kills
6. ·         No magical abilities whatsoever
7. ·         No hesitation to kill if he perceives opponent as a threat/obstacle to his desires--classic anti-hero

In the red corner, from Los Angeles, California, standing 6’4” and weighing in at 268 lbs., “The Hardcore Hero” Mitch McLeod!

Tale of the Tape:

1. Preferred style of fighting is professional wrestling
2. Described by commentators as a "technical brawler", meaning he is proficient in suplexes, throws, and submission holds
3. Can also slug it out for as long as he wants.
4. Being a professional wrestler requires mental and physical toughness, which he has in spades.
5.  It took an entire roster of monsters and demons just to send him to the ICU and he still delivered his story's final blow.

Two enter the ring, only one can leave alive!

How would Mitch McLeod kill the Hunter? Since professional wrestling requires toughness and endurance, Mitch will absorb two strikes from The Hunter's sword just to deliver one massive superman punch. Once the Hunter is wounded, Mitch can pass through his defenses and perform bone-crunching wrestling moves like the piledriver, the body slam, the belly-to-belly suplex, and even a Texas Cloverleaf submission hold.

To kill Mitch McLeod: The Hunter would try to overwhelm him with his inhuman speed, strength, and skill. All he has to do is pierce him skin with Soulhunger, and the dagger will consume his soul. Not even someone with considerable magical abilities can survive Soulhunger's bite--it was created to kill demons. 

Who would win?

Because he can last longer than any opponent The Hunter has ever faced. Mitch could shake the ropes Ultimate Warrior-style and find his second wind, his third wind, and every wind after that until he finally delivers a spine-jarring power-bomb and paralyzes The Hunter like he did to a seven footer named Jack Finnegan.

But not even the mighty fists of the technical brawler can put the Hunter down for long. No matter how many times McLeod takes him to the ground, the Hunter will get back up. With every taste of McLeod's blood, Soulhunger floods the Hunter with strength and healing and weakens the wrestler. Mitch McLeod may be the greatest warrior to enter the ring, but the Hunter has defeated demons.

Winner: The Hunter. In the end, Soulhunger claims all souls.

Want to find out more about this cold-blooded killer who would dare challenge the former KDW World Heavyweight Champion to the death? Click here https://www.amazon.com/Blade-Destroyer-Last-Bucelarii-Book-ebook/dp/B012EI9M4A  to read about The Hunter.

http://andypeloquin.com/  

Who do YOU think would win? Did we get the match-up right? Leave a comment below and let me know.

Scarecrow Justice

Living out in the middle of nowhere had many benefits. For the Cobra Strike Militia and their top hit man Edward Bell, it meant freedom from federal agents. But even the motorcycle-riding assassin knew that such liberties were at risk. Something had to be done to make sure certain government officials didn’t make it to their elections. For such “urgent matters”, there was a pistol with a silencer at the end of it stowed in the duffel bag in the side car of the motorcycle, along with other kick-ass toys of destruction.

It was the perfect day for riding through the countryside. The sun was shining brightly upon the cornfields. The only thing breaking the silence for Edward Bell was his bike engine, which was purring like the machinegun he kept in his duffel bag. Unfortunately for him, it was also popping and banging like one. Soon enough, the motorcycle was slowing down and all Edward could say was, “Goddamn it!” when he pulled over to the side of the desolate road.

Such colorful language continued to pour from Edward’s mouth like a flood of obscenities. He loved his motorcycle and couldn’t stand to watch it break down, especially since the time window in between assassinations was getting thin. He ripped the duffel bag out of the side car with his muscular, tattooed hands and unzipped it before searching through its contents for repair tools.

A middle aged white guy with a gray ponytail and black paramilitary gear fixing his bike on the side of the road would have looked suspicious to a lot of people. Edward would have had the solitude he needed if it hadn’t been for the sounds of throaty whispering coming from the cornfields. He stopped turning the wrench on his engine and looked around with a “What the hell?” expression on his bearded face. He dismissed it with a wave of his hand and went back to work with the wrench.

And then the throaty whispers were getting louder. Edward was starting to think he was going insane. He stood up with his monkey wrench held like a weapon and looked around to see where the noise was coming from. He couldn’t find the source and his heart began to beat loudly in his chest. He wiped a cool sweat as it trickled down his forehead into his eyes. The anxiety continued to build as those angry whispers were tormenting him like an acute case of schizophrenia.

“Where the hell are you?! Show yourself! I’ve got enough guns in my bag to rip your ass to shreds! And I love shooting my guns! I don’t give a damn what the government says!” And yet when he was searching through his duffel bag to find his silencer pistol, he was fumbling with it even though it was in plain sight. When he finally had a good grip on it, he felt a hand made from straw grabbing his shoulder from within the cornfields.

Edward had nearly pissed himself as he screamed and crab-walked backwards in blood-chilling fear, leaving his guns to the mercy of whoever grabbed him. Instead of a “Yankee fed”, it was a living, breathing, gossamer and straw-covered scarecrow with a carved pumpkin for a head. His carved eyes were glowing bright orange and his elongated teeth were drooling with blood. He also had several large spiders crawling all over his body and he didn’t even care.

As Edward Bell’s heart beat even faster and his sweaty body rained with salty fluids, he tried to sound brave when he threatened the hideous monster before him when he said, “You stay away from my gun bag! I have the right to have those!”

“Relax. Take a deep breath. I don’t want your pathetic little guns,” said the scarecrow in a demonic whisper. He crept like a zombie across the road with Edward continuing to scoot backwards in underwear-shitting fear. “My name is Cackle-Puss. Laugh at my name if you want, but I’m not going anywhere until I get something from you. It’s something I’ve wanted since you began your career as a hit man.”

The militia assassin was able to calm down long enough to question the legitimacy of Cackle-Puss’s monster status. He stood up, dusted his flak vest and camouflage pants off, and said, “What a damn minute here! There ain’t no such thing as ghosts! This is all a bunch of hocus pocus bullshit! There ain’t nothing stopping me from sticking my boot up your straw ass right now, bitch!”

He marched up to the scarecrow to do just that before Cackle-Puss shape-shifted into someone Edward recognized right away. It was the politician he was sent to kill: John Merton, Democrat of Paulson City. “Do you really want to kill me, Mr. Bell? Is a 12% tax on cigarettes really going to limit your freedom that much? Would you really take me away from my wife and children over something as stupid as politics? I’ve been in this game many times, but you’re the first who wanted to kill me over it. I’m a father and a husband. You have no right to…”

Before the hallucination of John Merton could finish his sentence, Edward took a swing and clocked him in the jaw, knocking him to the ground with a puddle of blood in his wake. The hit man arrogantly chuckled to himself as he knelt down and pulled the politician’s hair to show his face. Except it wasn’t his face anymore. Cackle-Puss had morphed into a beautiful young blond woman and had a pregnant belly to go with the new form.

The woman said, “Why would you do this to me, Edward? I was your wife for ten long years. We were going to have a family together. You started getting drunk every night and then you killed me and our son. I wanted to leave you, but you wouldn’t let me. Why, Edward? After all these years, why?!”

The hit man was now terrified once again as he shakily released his grip on his ex-wife’s hair. He looked down at her pregnant belly and saw a bloody wound in place of their unborn son. Edward Bell backed up slowly on wobbly legs and breathed heavily. Soon that breathing became angry. His brows furrowed and his fists clenched when he said, “This is all a trick! This is bullshit! Magic doesn’t exist! Not in my world! You think you’ve got one over on me, Cackle-Puss?! Don’t insult me, you sick bastard!”

He was about to bring his combat boot down on the morphing scarecrow’s face, but stopped midway through when there was yet another transformation. It was a little Basset hound with a bruised body, bloody jowls, a slashed ear, and a shaky body. The little guy whined and pleaded with Edward, who in turn started trembling in fear as he dropped to his knees and allowed tears to form in his eyes.

“Hey there, little guy,” said the assassin with a quivering mouth. “I didn’t mean to do all that nasty stuff to you. You were just at the wrong place at the wrong time. It was never anything personal. You believe me, right?”

Edward reached his bloody hand out to try and pet the battered puppy, but then Cackle-Puss transformed back into his scarecrow form and the militia nitwit got a bite from the pumpkin-head’s bloody fangs instead. Edward backpedaled and howled in pain while clutching his chomped hand. He fell back on his ass while Cackle-Puss stalked him slowly with fiery eyes and a malicious smile.

“So that’s your answer to everybody you’ve killed. It’s never personal. It’s all part of the job, right?” said the scarecrow. “Because little doggies are a threat to your freedom. So is your wife. So is your unborn child. And so is a politician who also happens to be a family man. How many more must die before you’re satisfied with your ill-gotten constitutional rights? How many guns must you fire for the sake of freedom? How many more? How many more? How many more?!”

Cackle-Puss kept repeating that last question, but in the voices of everybody Edward Bell killed along his path to a free America. The paramilitary soldier clutched his skull and rocked back and forth in schizophrenic agony. He couldn’t stand these voices. He couldn’t stand the fact that Cackle-Puss was right. So he made yet another excuse for himself when he jumped to his feet and threw a flying kick at the scarecrow’s pumpkin head, knocking it off his shoulders.

The head was still screaming in pain, but the body was kneeling down while the spiders and gossamers were fading away. Still in berserk mode, Edward Bell finally pulled his silencer pistol out of his bag and fired several rounds into Cackle-Puss’s body. And then Edward pulled out an automatic rifle and peppered it in bullets. And then he pulled out a shotgun and blasted the hell out of the spiders and gossamers. He pulled out every gun in his bag and emptied it on the scarecrow while its pumpkin head pleaded for mercy using the voices of Edward’s victims.

In the mess of spider corpses, bloody straw, and broken cobwebs, Edward knelt down and raised his fists to the sky before letting out a barbaric war cry. Cackle-Puss’s head, which was still alive, was watching this scene in horror and still sobbing in the victims’ voices. The hit man picked up the pumpkin head and stared into its devilish eyes. “Where’s your bag of magic tricks now, you sick son of a bitch?! Where’s your necromancy?! Who are you going to change into now?! Huh?! You think you’re fucking tough?!”

The sounds of police sirens filled the air and Edward turned his head around to give an evil look at the red and blue flashing lights coming his way. Cackle-Puss laughed at him and said, “How many more, Edward? How many more?”

“How many more? I’ll take them all down in a blaze of glory! And you, Cackle-Puss…you’re just another casualty in the war on America!” said Edward before punching the pumpkin head and getting blood and brains all over his hand. He chucked the monster head aside and picked up another shotgun he kept in his bag. “Let’s do this shit!” He pumped the gun ready to go.

Except there would be no suicide by cop this afternoon. Those weren’t cop lights coming his way. Those were ambulance lights. All the guns in the world couldn’t keep Edward Bell from finding himself in a straightjacket in a padded cell while repeating the words of Cackle-Puss. No one believed his scarecrow story. They believed his antigovernment rhetoric even less.

A man of Edward’s insanity possessing that many guns would be even bigger campaign fuel for John Merton’s election. Edward Bell affected change alright, but not in the way he would have liked. Being in a mental institution for the rest of his life wasn’t exactly a desired outcome. The worst part about it? He gets visitation hours every night. His only visitor? Cackle-Puss, bringer of scarecrow justice!

Harvest Moon

The orange and red harvest moon was the only thing bright about the medieval night in the city of Tristan. Everything else seemed dark, damp, and gloomy. The Red Warrior Funeral Home was no different. Yes, the bodies were preserved in neat, comfortable bedding within their casket homes. It was the living who suffered the brunt of the foul stenches, ripped curtains, and occasional mice crawling across the floor. Even the tarantulas weaving webs in the corners of this place weren’t immune to the pungent atmosphere as evidenced by their corpses being littered all over the stone floors and walls.

The only person who could take in all of this gloominess and come out of it feeling somewhat neutral was Kendra Callahan, assassin for hire. With dark robes and a hood surrounding her and only an oil lantern guiding her way, her combat boots clanked off the stone floors of the funeral home. If somebody was down here defiling the corpses, she would be the first one to notice and that person would get the shit kicked out of him or her.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” she thought to herself as she made her rounds. Guarding this funeral home would have been a cakewalk and she could have had the rest of the evening to herself. How would she have filled that time? Reading? Sharpening her blades? Staying in shape? No. This evening wouldn’t afford her the luxury of a comfortable home, because someone was down here.

The sight squeak of a coffin lid put Kendra Callahan in defensive mode. She got in a fighting stance and drew her steel poison-tipped claws. This sudden racket wasn’t caused by a mere mouse or spider. The intruder was as careful as any stealth artist should be. Kendra took a few more steps and shone her lamp in the general vicinity of the noise.

As soon as the light danced in the right places, the quick and light sounds of footsteps could be heard skittering across the floor. Someone was definitely there and Kendra was determined to give this intruder a taste of her poison. She reached into her belt and chucked a shuriken in where she believed the burglar was standing.

The sounds of pierced flesh and dripping blood put a smile on Kendra’s face. She jogged over with her lamp to see just what had happened, but it wasn’t what she expected at all. A flare of green light illuminated the entire funeral home. The source of such brilliant magic was a witchdoctor dressed in a demon mask and velvet red wizard robes. He gently pulled the shuriken out of his stomach and his wound healed over as if nothing happened.

“What the hell are you doing down here, Ambrose?” said Kendra sternly. The man she was referring to was Ambrose Volta, a delightfully eccentric wizard who didn’t mind delving into his darker side every once and a while.

“Do forgive my abrupt entrance, Miss Callahan, and I shall forgive the shuriken in my stomach. You know why I’m here,” said Ambrose.

“Actually, I don’t have a single fucking clue, but I can take a wild guess and say that you’re down here to get it on with your new undead girlfriend,” said Kendra with a smart-assed smile.

“I would never do such a thing and you know that to be true, my dear,” said Ambrose. “What is true, however, is that these preserved corpses concern me. Their souls are forever trapped in these caskets, a prison for the afterlife of sorts. No more will they suffer. After I work my magic, these souls will find a new and more comfortable place to rest: the Harvest Moon. It’s what religious folks refer to as heaven up there. But the Harvest Moon welcomes everyone and gives them a second chance at peace and beauty, not just those who conform to a certain ideal.”

A confused look formed on Kendra’s face when she said, “And I’m supposed to believe all of this, why? It’s almost like you’re asking me to conform to something I don’t trust myself. Well, there’s a reason why I’m wearing these claws and there’s a reason I’m patrolling this funeral home. Intruders are to be killed on sight. Well, Ambrose, you’re an intruder, so I guess I’ll have to kill you now.”

Kendra started the battle by bolting toward Ambrose and throwing her clawed fists in every direction he planned on going. One scrape from these weapons and even a powerful mage like Ambrose would have keeled over from the poison. And yet, he dodged every slash and every roundhouse kick that followed with so much ease that Kendra hit the wooden caskets instead and knocked a few corpses over.

Ambrose wagged his finger at his nemesis and said, “Naughty, naughty!” He then stretched out his fingers and shot a ball of black sludge in Kendra’s face. The assassin rolled around on her back trying to scream and peel through the tar. The mice and tarantulas were attracted to the scent of this goop and congregated around her face to nibble and chew her snow white flesh.

“Now, where was I before you so rudely interrupted me?” said Ambrose Volta as he turned his attention to one of the corpses that got knocked over. He knelt beside what looked like a young man in his 20’s and shot two bolts of purple lightning in his face.

By this time, Kendra Callahan peeled off the sticky sludge and crushed most of the mice and spiders that were eating her face. The end result was a visage full of nasty-looking battle scars, the same visage that wore an angry expression as the clawed warrior charged at Ambrose again.

She threw rapid-fire punches and kicks at the shaman while he was in the middle of casting his spells. This time there was no easy defense. Ambrose took every slash and every bone-crunching kick and rolled over on his back bloody and beaten. This felt too much like a hollow victory for Kendra. No way it could be over that easy.

She was right. The orange soul of the young man Ambrose was working on floated out of its host body and clutched Kendra around the neck. The soul screamed in a fiery voice, “You idiot! Some of us are trying to get to the Harvest Moon! Meanwhile, all you’re worried about is some shallow payment of gold and silver!”

The soul released its grip and dropped Kendra to the ground, where she hacked and wheezed as she held her throat and tried to suck in oxygen. The soul was laid to rest once more. But it didn’t go back into its own body. The flaming spirit was orally sucked in by the now sitting up Ambrose Volta. The vile wizard stood up and dusted himself off as if he didn’t just get his ass brutally beaten.

As soon as Kendra recovered most of her oxygen and gingerly stood back up herself, she saw Ambrose standing before her with his hands on his hips shaking his head. She freaked out when she said, “No! No! That’s impossible! Why won’t you die, damn it?!” She bum rushed the wizard again, this time with even faster kicks and punches. Her strikes would have been enough to kill most people instantly, but Ambrose concocted a whirlwind cocoon around himself and felt nothing.

Once the assassin tired herself out and stood hunched over, she saw that her adversary took off his demon mask and revealed himself to be a smiling old man with stringy white hair. At least that was one side of his face. The other side held the half-visage of a rotten black skeleton with a glowing orange eye. Even though she was a hardened warrior with virtually no emotions, Kendra Callahan knew it was time to be scared and showed it by shivering violently.

“Miss Callahan,” said Ambrose Volta in a syrupy voice. “I think the two of us have had enough, wouldn’t you agree?” The wizard held out his fingertips and telepathically threw Kendra against the wall, which conveniently enough had deer antlers mounted against it. The tough bones pierced through the clawed fighter and she bled out and died instantly, never once letting out a scream because her powerful lungs were punctured like balloons. The battle was over and all that was left for Kendra’s vision was a field of darkness.

Hours had passed in this dark plain. Not a single noise. Not a single sensation. And then out of nowhere, she heard gentle voices telling her to wake up from her dream. Kendra slowly opened her eyes and allowed them to adjust to the orange morning sky. She slowly stood up and found herself in a field of multi-colored autumn leaves. The voices that comforted her were those of the corpses in the funeral home, their bodies healed and their faces gently smiling.

“Where am I?” asked a weary Kendra Callahan.

A young girl grabbed her by the hand, which no longer had a claw, but a velvet red glove. The girl smiled brightly and gently said, “You’re on the Harvest Moon. Welcome to your new home!” And what a heavenly home it was.