The Dwarf with Bad Aim

When I was an edgy little shithead during my pre-teen and teenage years, I laughed my ass off at Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles jokes. The cheese grater was the best book they’ve ever read. The fastest thing to go on land was their speedboats. The best way to torture them is to rearrange the furniture. Get it? Because they’re blind? Oh-ho-ho-ho! Blindness is so funny, isn’t it? You know who probably wouldn’t think those jokes are funny? The level one dwarf fighter I played as during a D&D campaign in the 90’s. I don’t remember a whole lot about that campaign, so the details might be a little fuzzy. Hell, I don’t even remember the dwarf’s name. Let’s call him Clark. Not very fantasy-like, but fuck it, I’m calling him Clark anyways because I like the name Clark.

So why is it that a level one dwarf fighter named Clark wouldn’t have a sense of humor about blindness jokes? It’s not like he’s blind himself. He could surely set his empathy aside for a few chuckles, right? Well, not exactly. He could see just fine, but you wouldn’t know that from how often he missed his enemies during combat situations. He had this hulking battleaxe that could rip any monster to shreds. The original Axe Body Spray could have been Clark slashing a poor son of a bitch goblin in half…emphases on could have been.

The campaign was DMed by my brother James and played by me and his friends Nathan and Chris. I don’t remember their characters or their names. I don’t remember what the name of the campaign was (it was pre-written by Wizards of the Coast). All I remember about the campaign is that it used to be really popular among D&D nerds in the 90’s. The players had to transport a prisoner to the gallows only to find out that an elf thief was a mole in the group all along. Now the end goal is to send them both to the guillotine. There would be our fair share of obstacles along the way, all of which required Clark and his comrades to swing their weapons and actually hit something for a change. Nathan and Chris’s characters hit their targets with a sniper’s precision. Clark? Not so much.

The first battle during this prisoner transport was already underway with some bandits wanting to steal our riches. Clark had the opportunity to swing his axe and shed some blood all over the forest’s most beautiful features. He swung his axe…and missed. He swung again…and missed. He swung yet again…and missed. Nathan and Chris’s characters picked up Clark’s slack and left the bandits’ corpses stacked a mile high. And then we encountered some gnomes with a broken down war machine. The gnomes naturally blamed us for their misfortune and attacked right away. Clark swung his axe…and missed. He swung again…and missed. I put the twenty-sided die in my mouth and spit it out hoping it would improve the result. Not only did Clark miss again, but I got chewed out for being weird and getting saliva on the dice.

There were many battles to be fought whether it was with knights, mages, or the prisoners themselves. The story was the same: Clark swung his axe and missed horribly. There was even a time when I rolled a nat-one and had to skip an extra turn to pick up my weapon again. Nathan and Chris’s characters did the heavy lifting for me and laid waste to our enemies. Yada, yada, yada, the prisoners were executed and everything was happy in fantasy land. By the time the campaign ended, I had tears in my eyes due to how poorly Clark performed in battle. Every swing he took, he missed like a bitch. He let his team down, though his teammates didn’t show any hint of anger at him. But Clark knew he deserved their scorn if they had any. He was just extra weight freeloading experience points from their labor. As the tears poured from my eyes, I bemoaned the fact that I wouldn’t get any experience points. But James gave me some anyways, though I didn’t do anything significant to deserve them.

Because this was the 90’s and wisdom wasn’t my strong suit at the time, I didn’t see an opportunity for a compelling story when it came to Clark’s misfortune. All I saw was a series of misses. It wouldn’t be acceptable in a game of Final Fantasy IV or Chrono Trigger, because that’s how your characters die. But Clark lived through it all. He leeched off of his friends and never once paid them back. If there was a story to be had there, my younger self couldn’t see it and no, that’s not a blindness joke.

So…now that everything happened and Clark is a broken man, where does he go from here? As a wiser storyteller than I was in the 90’s, I see many angles this can take. Obviously, Clark is overwhelmed with guilt. But how does he handle it? Does he train harder and get better? Does he use his pay from the campaign to sign up for fighting classes? Does he push himself beyond what he’s capable of and jeopardize his health? 

Or does he let the guilt take a stronger hold of him and instead of using it as inspiration, he uses it as an excuse to quit. Maybe Clark retires from adventuring altogether. Maybe he spends his money on alcohol to silence his guilty conscience. Maybe he meets a woman who finds him attractive, but he pushes her away because he “can’t satisfy her”. Ever hear the phrase “those who can’t do, teach?” What if Clark feels so guilty that he thinks he would suck as a teacher as well as a real-world fighter?

What you have to remember as a D&D player is that this is a story above all else. It’s more than just swinging axes, casting spells, and slaying dragons. Everything is an opportunity for a story. And when your characters go through those stories with newfound experience, they, you guessed it, gain experience points. And then those characters develop into three-dimensional people. They feel real despite the fact that they’re in a fantasy setting. They feel human despite being a dwarf, elf, or orc. They have thoughts, opinions, dreams, ambitions, and goals. Sometimes those goals are self-destructive, sometimes they reach beyond the cosmos. The more you develop your story and your characters, the more invested you and your audience will become. If you only care about your misses and failures, that’s all your audience will care about as well.

Everything has a story behind it whether you see it or not, even the ordinary aspects of life. That bookshelf you’ve got in your room? It has seen a lot during its time. It was crafted by creative hands. It’s had many owners who used it for purposes other than storing books. It’s collected dust and formed cracks in the wood and paint. There will be a day when your bookshelf breaks down completely and has to spend its final days in a landfill somewhere. Or the wood from the shelves could be refashioned into something else like a nightstand or even firewood for a camping trip. If an ordinary bookshelf can have this much of a story behind it, so can Clark. But Clark is not an inanimate object. He’s a person with thoughts and feelings. How he deals with his thoughts and feelings is what will determine how three-dimensional he really is. Okay, Clark, so you missed all of your shots and let your teammates down. What will you do next? That’s a story very much worth telling.

But maybe Clark can’t do a whole lot anymore because he really is going blind. Maybe it’s time for him to put down the axe before he hurts someone he didn’t intend to. Maybe he has to spend his time in a home for disabled dwarves. But then Clark has to deal with ableism and people who whine about how their tax money is being spent. If the aggression against him gets so bad, he might have to pick up his axe again to defend himself. But he’ll have help from that woman who found him attractive. She’ll guide his every step and he’ll get progressively better at swinging his axe and murdering ableist assholes. And then…he’ll believe in himself again. His self-esteem will grant him the willingness to marry that woman and start a family with her. And just like that…you have a compelling, three-dimensional story about Clark a.k.a. The Dwarf with Bad Aim!

Hotheadedness

***HOTHEADEDNESS***

I can count the number of travesties going on in this world on one hand…and the other hand…and my toes…and my teeth…and my hair. I may talk briefly about them online, but that’s about it. People always say that taking calculated risks is better than being passive in the shadows. They say if you don’t take risks, you haven’t really lived at all. Is that true? What if you choose to live safely because every one of your risks has ended badly? Am I suddenly supposed to live up to someone else’s standards of bravery by having more shitty results? Is it too much to ask that at least one of my bold risks pays 100% interest? So yes, I’ve lived in my safe place for several years now and I like it just fine.

Basically, what the failure of these risks boil down to is that I’m extremely hotheaded when it comes to confrontation and debate. Every time I’m challenged, my blood goes cold, my stomach feels ill, my mouth goes dry, and my Benedict Arnold of a brain shuts down when I need it the most. Once all is said and done, I dwell on these confrontations for several days, weeks, or even months. As I’ve stated several times, I’m autistic and schizophrenic, so that means a huge increase in sensitivity. The more sensitive you are to negative stimuli, the more you’ll want to avoid them.

If you were a psychologist trying to pick my brain, I guess you could say that the reason I love writing violent stories so much is because I secretly wish I could do those horrible things to my opponents. If I had the muscles and heavy weaponry of my favorite barbarian Deus Shadowheart, there would be a lot of dead bodies lying around. If I had the power of psychomancy like Tony Castle did, I could simply make my opponents feel just as sensitive and nervous as me. Writing violent stories is my own personal way of making gratuitous bloodshed legal.

But writing bloody stories doesn’t really solve anything, does it. Come to think of it, punching a guy in the face doesn’t do much either. Anger begets more anger. Hate begets more hate. While I realize how powerful of a force love can be, when I get into hotheaded mode, I’m not thinking about love. I’m either thinking about getting the hell out of my situation or beating some ass. I think even less about love when my schizophrenic mind shoves the incident in my face over the next few days and interferes with my life.

So there you have it, guys. Until there’s a cure for hotheadedness and oversensitivity, you won’t see me in the picket line or on the battlefield. Taking deep breaths does nothing, because while you’re trying to calm yourself down, your opponent will have already made the next move. And then you’re several moves behind and before you know it you’ve been bested by someone who is clearly in the wrong.

The best I can do for the cause is continue to write my bloody stories, pen heartfelt poetry, and vote my ass off. Sharing memes doesn’t do a whole lot, because let’s face it, nobody ever changed their mind because of a stupid meme. At least when I’m creating art from the shadows (a.k.a. “the safe place”), I’m getting some bang for my buck. What do I get for going to people’s houses and telling them what’s what? A black eye? A bruised ego? A bullet in my chest? Those would be preferable to an overly hot head. I’m not just talking about any hot head, but one that could bake a sheet of chocolate chip cookies.

I am by no means a cowardly person. I’m just a guy with awkward brain chemistry and too many lost chances. Even something as simple as applying for a job at What Culture could be considered a calculated risk. It could either mean a lifetime of writing kick-ass articles and being around funny people, or it could mean stressing myself out and not knowing what the hell I’m doing. Seeing as how I have a limited knowledge of pop culture, I’m guessing the latter of those two would be more likely. Why crash and burn when I don’t have to?

Living in a stress-free environment is paramount to the recovery of a mentally disabled human being; every psychologist will tell you this. It’s part of the reason why mental disabilities are grounds for gaining social security benefits: because working in, say, a customer service job would unleash the demons inside. While it is true that level-headed people feel stressed out at work too, disabled people feel it a hundred times worse. We can’t in all good conscious leave these people with no income, so that’s where social security comes in. That’s a talking point I’ll defend until the end, hotheaded or not.

Do I have the power to change the world? I don’t know, buddy, do you? Does anybody? Does any group of people have a loud enough voice to bring change to this mad world? Some people get noticed, some people get ignored. If everybody got noticed, we’d have a much happier world, wouldn’t you agree?

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

It’s a new week at the WSS and wouldn’t you know it, the admins used my prompt suggestion “Inner Voice” (I wonder how I thought of that one). My story this week will be called “Madhouse” and it goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

1. Joe Fields, Artillerist Mercenary
2. Random Hallucinations

PROMPT CONFORMITY: One of Joe’s hallucinations is his inner voice.

SYNOPSIS: With bulky steel armor and chain guns mounted on either hand, Joe attempts to hunt down a bounty head in the middle of a bamboo forest. He stumbles upon a Japanese-style temple thinking that this is where the criminal is hiding. When he busts down the doors, he finds that nobody is there and he tries to leave. Instead of a clear escape, Joe begins having hallucinations of ghosts, samurais, ninjas, and other warriors attacking him at random angles. The vulgar mercenary begins to slowly go insane as he fights off these tormenting phantoms. Joe is convinced that there’s a conspiracy against him, but this belief only contributes to the degeneration of his mind.

FUN FACT: I guess Mr. Fields secretly has a hot head.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

I’ve tried twice to draw Knox from “Emoticon Artist”, but these attempts were met with me throwing both pieces of paper in the garbage. I’ll eventually find a good model for my orc warrior, just not tonight.

***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Protesting is a lot like having sex. You can scream and be as wild as you want. You can even do it all night long. But if something starts to burn, then maybe it’s time to go to bed.”

-Trevor Noah-

Demon Axe, Chapter 8

Right under their noses. It was a cliché expression, but one that couldn’t have been more true for Daniel and Raven. The portal to the elven world was right under the destroyed bronze statue of King Arthur Triscloud himself. Most audience members and even the bands themselves thought this was just a pretty decoration. Seeing sacrilegious treatment of her father’s centerpiece brought a scowl to Raven’s face. She nevertheless took Daniel’s hand like they were going on a date, to which the Lord of the Pit was sweating bullets. The elf warrior drew her blade, stuck it in the statue’s receptacle, and opened a beautifully-colored blue portal that sucked the two of them in.

Traveling through this portal was like floating in zero gravity. It relaxed Daniel’s stressed out body while Raven remained stoic and brave during transit. Seeing such vibrant shades of blue and being able to taste them reminded Daniel of that acid flashback he had been promised earlier. He even saw a purple breeze blowing through this dark blue netherworld, which left him in an even bigger state of awe. Waves and shapes assaulted his mind and left him feeling peaceful, no trace of trauma or heartache to speak of.

When the duo finally crossed over to the elven world, Daniel still believed he was high on drugs. Just like the portal, the skies were lovely shades of dark blue and purple. The ivory white buildings were twisted like lovely seashells. The roads were paved with silver. The trees and foliage in between buildings and roads were strewn with vibrant, rainbow-like colors. Elf children played in the streets with so much happiness. Elf adults went about their business whether it was blacksmithing, selling fruits and vegetables, or grooming cuddly creatures like horses, cats, and dogs.

“Tell me again how your world was conquered and devastated by the humans,” said Daniel sarcastically.

“Trust me, Daniel, it took us a long time to relocate and rebuild after such an atrocity. The only reason the elven world looks this good is because we managed to hide ourselves for so long. By getting his views on television, Roger Zee has done more harm than good when it comes to us staying hidden in the underground,” said Raven. She took Daniel’s hand once more and said, “Come on. Let’s go see the king.”

As the two of them walked down the street together, this very much was feeling like a date to the heavy metal singer. Sure, they hardly knew each other, but the life of a rock star always meant fast relationships and even faster women. Under ordinary circumstances, Daniel wouldn’t have been so sweaty and jittery. But this was an elf woman. This was the kind of woman he fantasized about when playing D&D as a teenager. He never in his wildest dreams imagined it would come to fruition. But what was he thinking? He was getting too far ahead of himself.

The king’s castle was even lovelier to look at than the rest of the city and that was saying something. Crystalline light blue walls, a golden arch holding the double doors together, the spiral-like towers on all four corners, the emerald dragon statue staring down at the city with a wizened gaze, a castle truly fit for an elven king. The two leather armor-wearing, poleax-wielding guards nodded at Raven before letting her and Daniel inside.

The stained glass decorations, the diamond-like dragon heads on the walls, the soft red carpeted floors (which were comfortable enough to sleep on), all of these led the way to King Arthur Triscloud’s throne in the back of the castle. He was a marvel to behold with his lavish red robes, golden crown encrusted with amethysts, spectacles resting comfortably on the bridge of his nose, his massive blade by his side, wrinkled skin, and lengthy white beard hanging down his chin. His smile was warmer than a tropical breeze when he greeted his daughter and her new charge.

“Thank you for bringing this young man into our world, dearest daughter,” said King Triscloud. “The two of you look like you’ve been through some battles together. But it’s nothing our healers and witchdoctor’s can’t fix.” From out of the shadows, two healers dressed in silky white robes approached Raven and Daniel with baskets of herbs, leaves, and oils. They removed their makeshift bandages and allowed the healers to close their wounds with pasted leaves. The sting of the liquid forced Daniel to wince and drop an F-bomb, but his wounds were sealed over nicely, as well as Raven’s.

“Listen, Mr. Triscloud,” said Daniel. “Your daughter here tells me that she brought me here because you think I’m actually capable of taking down this Roger Zee asshole who’s been cutting up people left and right. Here you are with this army of elves, most of them at least partially trained in combat, yet you want me, a guy with no fighting experience, to do battle with this lunatic. I’ve tried to explain this to Raven here, but she won’t budge. Please talk some sense into your own flesh and blood.” That last remark earned him a backhanded smack in the arm from Raven.

King Triscloud chuckled heartily before saying, “Yes, we do have some of the finest warriors at our disposal, but violence alone is not enough to bring down Roger. He was part of an elite group of soldiers known as The Order of the Spider. Most of these warriors died in our conflict with the humans. Roger survived. Over time he became bitter and disgusted with society in general. He blames humans for desecrating our holy grounds, but at the same time, he blames us for perceived softness and commitment to sinful magic. I trusted him with my life. In turn, he became just as hostile as our invaders.”

“Well, it is nice to know that he’s doing this for a reason and not just because he’s a random asshole,” said Daniel with his hands on his hips. “But what does that have to do with me? What did I do to him that was so disrespectful to his rightwing craziness?”

“He hates artistic endeavors. Your music and your homage to dark magic are both symbols of individuality. Roger wants the world to conform to one nation. He’s no different from any extremist you see on your television sets. Individuality and free thought are both poison to a conformist society. That’s why Roger wants to hunt you down. That’s why you are the only one who can stop him. You’re not going to stop him with fighting skills alone. You’re going to do it through your creativity,” said Arthur.

Daniel made a flat tire noise and shook his head before saying, “You do realize that music doesn’t actually do anything, right? It’s nice to listen to and it gets a lot of people through their days, but how is any of this supposed to stop a guy with a fucking machete?”

“I’m glad you asked, Mr. Mercer,” said Arthur. “In your escape from Roger’s mass murders, you left behind something of value to you and your cause.”

“Oh, now you’re mocking me for leaving my band mates to get slaughtered by this moron?”

“No, no! That’s not what I meant at all!” said the king as he held up his hands defensively. “I’m talking about something entirely different. You want to use music as a weapon? Now you can.” From his robes, Arthur pulled out the battleaxe microphone that Daniel used during the concert. It was now glowing with a golden aura, had crosses and symbols engraved on it, and had the faces of the slain Demon Axe members infused into the blade.

The Lord of the Pit gazed at his microphone with wide eyes, like he had just eaten a bag of psychedelic mushrooms. He slowly approached the king, who held out the microphone in the palms of both hands for Daniel to take. The singer stood back and swung the makeshift axe around, which left a trail of gold dust in its wake. Just when it looked like he was completely hypnotized by this artifact, he said, “Wait a minute,” and tried to use the plastic blade as a weapon on his wrist. No cuts. No wounds. No nothing. Just gold dust. Lots of lots of gold dust.

“Okay, you do realize that this microphone is just a prop and isn’t a real weapon, right? How the hell do you expect me to slash the shit out of Roger Zee with a piece of fucking plastic? His machete, on the other hand, is very fucking real! I might as well have gotten my microphone from Toys R Us!” shouted Daniel.

“Mr. Mercer, that’s not how you use the microphone,” explained Arthur.

“Oh really? Then what am I supposed to do with it? Sprinkle a whole bunch of fairy dust on him? Is he allergic to fairy dust now? Does he have any other allergies I should be aware of? Peanuts? Plants? Animal fur? Seriously, what the fuck were you thinking?”

Raven pleaded, “Daniel, just let him explain what it’s for and then…”

“Explain?!” roared Daniel. “What is there to explain?! It’s a fucking toy! Your wise, loving, all-powerful king gave me a fucking toy to do battle with a goddamn zealot! Anything else would have been better! A lead pipe, a BB gun, even a fucking pocket knife would have been better than this toy! I told you time and time again, Raven, Demon Axe’s gimmick is just that: a gimmick! Dark magic is about as fake as Hollywood tits! It was a motivational tactic, that’s all it was!” He turned to Arthur and shouted, “Thanks for sending me up shits creek without a fucking paddle! You’re a great politician! Hell, you can’t be any worse than that idiot with the fake hair! Fuck this, I’m out of here! Thanks for bringing my toy back!”

Daniel marched out of the castle with Raven following closely behind and pleading with him to stay. Arthur could be heard in the background grunting, “You stupid, selfish, silly man!” The Lord of the Pit ignored him and continued storming through the elven world. With any luck, he could pawn his microphone and travel somewhere that wasn’t infected with terrorism or extreme violence of any kind. He’d have to do some research and apply for a visa, but even living in the dankest, darkest parts of Africa was better than fighting Roger Zee with a piece of glowing plastic.

Stone Cold

It was feeding time for the axe-wielding tribal warrior known as Brutus Warpath. He didn’t feed on just any kind of snack. He wanted blood. He wanted souls. He hungered for vengeance against those who murdered his wife. The hunger was driving him insane. On his path to vengeance, Brutus cleaved through every goblin, ogre, and zombie who dared to stand in his way. All that remained of his path of destruction was an ocean of blood and a mountain of corpses.

But none of those victories would be enough to satisfy the bearskin-wearing, dreadlocked barbarian. For his main course (and maybe his dessert), he wanted no more than the two people directly responsible for the death of his wife: the hog sorcerer Zod Ragefist and the kinky human dark paladin Domino Gunn. The image of those two burned so badly in his mind that they left third degree scars. Brutus’ bloodlust was growing with every moment the image of those two fiends murdering the one he loved tormented his mind. And now it was time for payback.

The anger and hatred within Brutus Warpath had months to build up in his system, probably because it took that long to locate Zod and Domino’s lair. He experienced the aches and pains of his pent up stress such as heart palpitations, headaches, and muscle soreness. Like the tough son of a bitch he was, Brutus pushed these “minor” pains to the backburner and put his game face on.

The lair was actually a hollowed out dragon corpse with the scales, bones, and blood stains preserved with Zod’s dark magic. Was any of this supposed to be intimidating to Brutus? Maybe, but the tensed up warrior readied his battleaxe and entered the mouth of the dragon with a stalking pace.

As he crept down the hallway of this dragon corpse, he could see runic symbols carved into the bones, the magic of which glowed bright orange. Were Zod and Domino expecting him? They should have been. In fact, Brutus didn’t want to wait to seek his revenge anymore. He gritted his teeth, gripped his axe handle tightly, and growled like a lion as he ran down the corridor.

Brutus was so blinded by his rage that he failed to notice his legs getting heavier and heavier with each blitz. He thought he could just soldier on and ignore the pain, but then he experienced yet another sharp sensation, this time in his arm. He collapsed to the ground huffing and puffing due to the angry stress he put on himself.

“What’s wrong, Brutus? Don’t tell me you’re getting nervous around a woman like me.” That seductive voice came from none other than Domino Gunn, the female dark paladin whose studded leather armor looked more like a dominatrix’s corset and whose boots looked more suited for someone with a trample fetish. Her weapon of choice, a ball and chain, wasn’t very sexy at all and reminded everyone who screwed with her that they were always in the fight of their lives.

Flanking the lovely, yet dangerous raven haired vixen was someone who could never be accused of loveliness: Zod Ragefist, a humanoid warthog with piercings and runic tattoos everywhere while wearing a red wizard’s robe and carrying a wooden snake staff. Zod and Domino were the last two people Brutus should have been having stress pains around.

As the barbarian was still trying to get his wits about him, Domino leaned down next to him and cuddled him like a small child. “There there, little one. It’ll all be over soon. You can say hi to that bitch wife of yours. But really, why would you want to see her again when you can have all of this? I’ve been watching you, Brutus, and I’ve been studying you. You and I, we both want the same thing. We have the same desires. Now that you’ve finally found us, hehe, I’m going to give you exactly what you want.”

Domino licked Brutus’ dark-complexioned face and that was enough to set him off and for him to ignore his pain once again. The warrior picked up his axe and attempted to chop Domino’s head off, but the crafty dark paladin ducked underneath and threw a shot of her own with her ball and chain, which Brutus also ducked. The two of them threw their hardest shots at each other with such brutal speed and deadly power, yet they both evaded each other’s attacks with acrobatic flips and shimmies.

The single-minded Brutus already forgot that there was another combatant in the room, Zod Ragefist, who was chanting a magic incantation with his throaty pig voice. The warthog pointed his staff and threw a stream of electricity into Brutus’ body, causing him to ball up in pain and scream in dramatic torture. The electricity continued to surge into the barbarian’s body until he collapsed onto the ground and coughed up blood.

Zod and Domino leaned down next to his prone body and the former of the two villains said, “Look at you, barbarian. You’re so blinded by rage that you don’t even know what the hell your swinging at. How can a woman mean that much to you? You walked into a death trap, all by yourself, no less, and somehow you’re okay with this. I knew your wife very well, Brutus. She would never condone this kind of recklessness, even from you.”

Domino added, “You know how in romance novels how the sweet innocent girl tries to fix the coldhearted man? Do you know how often that works? Never! It clearly didn’t work with you. You look like hell, my friend.” Brutus coughed up more blood, but that didn’t stop Domino from snuggling up next to him like they were a couple laying in bed. “But if anybody can change your ways, it just might be me. I’m not going to do it with sweet, diabetes-inducing tactics. My love is tough. My love is hard. And yet, my love…is forever!”

The dominatrix-like dark paladin leaned forward and tongue kissed a vulnerable Brutus, tasting his blood and taking a little bit of his pride along the way. Just like with her previous advances, all this did was anger the barbarian to where he rolled Domino on her back and pinned her arms down with his bloody mouth drooling over her now fearful face.

“Is that why you killed her? So that I would be single again?! You wanted to have me that badly?!” shouted Brutus. “Well, guess what, you crazy bitch. Today is your lucky day. For the first time in a long time, a stud muffin like me…is going to give you head!”

Domino and Zod shared a laugh together before the former said, “Oh, that’s rich. Well, what are you waiting for…stud muffin?”

“Yeah…what am I waiting for. Except I don’t mean THAT kind of head. I had something a little more piggish in mind!” In one fluid motion, Brutus leapt to his feet and threw Domino’s body at Zod, who dropped his staff and caught her in mid-air. With the warthog’s hands too busy to cast spells, Brutus picked up his axe and took the world’s biggest swing. The kind of “head” he was referring to was the one on Zod’s shoulder’s, which fell into Domino’s lap while the evil sorcerer’s body dropped to the ground.

The sight of her master’s head caused Domino to scream like the woman she was and back up against the dragon’s ribs. Brutus looked down on the frightened fighter with his bloody axe ready and his violent expression creepier than ever. Now that he was in a position of power, Brutus felt the need to relax his pose. But as soon as he did, the stress pains hit him again and he was on his knees clutching his aching chest while struggling to breathe.

The sight of her “lover boy” in pain caused Domino to stop screaming and instead adopt an expression full of rage and anger. She crawled on her hands and knees over to Brutus and pulled his head up by the dreadlocks. “Was it worth it?!” she asked. “Did you think getting revenge on me and Zod would bring you peace?! Well, it’s going to give you all the peace you need, because sooner or later, you’re going to die and deserve it! We could have been something together, Brutus! We could have been lovers! But instead you choose to side with that harlot!”

Brutus’ breathing was getting slower while Domino’s was getting angrier. The barbarian smiled a bloody smile and said, “Don’t worry, sweet cheeks. I saved the last dance just for you. We can still be lovers, Domino. In fact…close your eyes and let me give you a kiss!”

The “kiss” ended up being a vampire-like bite into Domino’s throat, which flooded with blood upon breaking the skin. Domino choked while Brutus bathed in bloodlust. This would be a heavenly feeling to take into the afterlife with him. If there was such thing as a heaven, he would be all sexed up for his wife and they would make true love like a couple of wild animals. Only a few more drinks of blood and both warriors were gone, Brutus via heart attack and Domino via suffocation and blood loss. Talk about going down in a blaze of glory.

Unleash the Animal

How exactly does an ancient weapon like a blunderbuss take down something magnificent like a rhino or a cheetah? For Joseph Stone, a few creative modifications such as a pump handle and an automatic firing chamber would have been the answer to that question. He tested the weapon out on a family of small rabbits to great success. He dined on their corpses afterwards and was hungry for bigger and better meals. The only place he could find such a gigantic meal was out in the Cracker Box Plains. Rhinos, antelope, buffalo, cheetahs, mmm-mmm-mmm!

Joseph Stone wasn’t the most athletic guy in the world with his belly protruding underneath his flak vest and over the top of his khaki shorts. Then again, he didn’t need to be since his hunting methods were so foolproof he never once had to run away from an animal. Even if he had the body of a Greek god, running away from one of these dangerous animals was damned near impossible.

And speaking of which, as soon as pudgy-buns Joseph spotted his next kill, he ducked down into the tall grass and cranked his modified blunderbuss. After making himself inconspicuous, he looked through the scope on his weapon and could only ask himself, “What the hell?”

It was an anthropomorphic rhino wearing spiked metal armor while carrying a nasty-looking battleaxe with a bone handle and a stone blade. To his animal peers, he was known as Stinger Crushwar, badass barbarian and all around disgusting creature. To Joseph Stone, Stinger was a potential dinner that made his chubby jowls water. He didn’t want to take the shot unless he was sure it would kill the son of a bitch right away.

Stinger stripped off his heavy metal armor and cannon-balled into a pool of silvery, pristine water. Well, the water wasn’t so pristine anymore after that. The dirt and grime on Stinger’s body mixed in with this usually delicious water and turned it into murky sewage. The rhino warrior also let out a monstrous fart that created a bigger splash than the cannonball. “This is the life!” he said to himself.

“You moron! Look what you did to my reflecting pool!” The nails-on-a-chalkboard voice that caught Stinger’s attention was that of an anthropomorphic antelope dressed in blue wizard robes named Rosie Moonbender. She stood there with her hands on her hips and an angry expression that was more wrinkly than a raisin. She went on to say, “I use this pool to mix potions and create spells! And now look what you’ve done! You turned it into your own personal shit hole!”

Stinger let out another rancid blast from his ass and the bubble splashed a little bit of water on Rosie’s robe. The antelope wizard held her clothing with disgust and shock, but not nearly as much as when she saw a gigantic brown turd floating near the top. Stinger smiled at his female rival and said nonchalantly, “You were saying?”

Rosie’s hooves dropped to her sides and clinched tightly as purple electric energy was swirling around her. Whatever spell she was going to cast had almost apocalyptic implications with the nearby tress being blown over and the grass turning the ashes. Stinger didn’t give a second shit how powerful this wizard was and armed himself with his battleaxe. He held the blade to her face while still wading in the sacred pool and said, “Don’t you try nothing funny, bitch! I hunt and skin your kind just for fun!”

A white beam of energy descended upon the rhino barbarian and the antelope wizard and blinded them temporarily until the source of the magic appeared right next to them in black knight’s armor and a red cloak. It was a buffalo paladin named Magnus Hoarfrost and his holier than thou stance led Stinger and Rosie to believe he would play the role of lawman in these wild plains.

“Clearly, a peaceful solution can be accomplished. The two of you are just too stressed out to see it right before your very eyes,” said Magnus in a deceptively calm deep voice. Stinger and Rosie looked at each other in confusion before letting the buffalo knight to continue this oratory. “The good lord has his eyes on everyone here in these holy plains. If you want to make a good impression, you can’t behave like sinful children. All you have to do is believe in the divine light that surrounds you all.”

The mighty religious rhetoric made Stinger yell, “Ha!” before the rhino warrior picked up his nasty turd and tossed it at Magnus, who looked down at the mess on his armor and shook his head before languidly wiping it off. Stinger, being a natural born animalistic migraine, laughed at the paladin with a hoarse and boisterous voice. Despite having her reflecting pool violated, Rosie Moonbender joined in the obnoxious laughter as well.

“Alright, you wild animals!” screamed Magnus Hoarfrost, who was now armed with two maces with spiked metal shells at the end of them. “If you want to act like disgusting sinners, then I shall treat you as such! The bowels of hell are hungry for new souls! You two will do just fine!”

The three-way battle was underway when Magnus threw a bolt of holy lightning down upon Rosie, who countered that spell with relentless glacial spikes. Magnus rained down holy fire upon the antelope wizard, but was met with a tidal wave of black magic. For the longest time, these two magic-slingers exchanged gigantic volleys of energy whether it was fire, ice, lightning, or shadow. They both had a counter for each other and even more surrounding trees were being knocked to the ground or shredded to pieces.

The one thing the two energy-slingers didn’t count on was them each getting a face full of murky water compliments of Stinger Crushwar, who was now out of the pool, fully dressed in his spiky metal armor, carrying his primitive battleaxe, and laughing at them like the sickening man-child he was. He even fell ass-first into the burned grass and didn’t feel a thing.

Rosie and Magnus nodded to each other and then powered up for what was surely to be cosmic chaos. Stinger got his bearings about him and got up into his defensive stance. He angrily charged across the burned grass and swung his axe with caveman passion as the magic users threw their fireballs and ice sickles at him. He smashed the energy shots away like he was playing the world’s most vicious and violent game of baseball.

One of the ice sickles bounced off of Stinger’s axe and impaled Rosie through her stomach. She gagged and coughed as blood was pouring out of her wound and her mouth at a rapid pace. The mystical diva dropped to her knees and plopped over onto her face as she took her final blood-covered breaths.

Magnus looked on at his “partner’s” death with Shakespearean shock when his mouth dropped open in dramatic fashion. He reached both maces to the sky and shouted, “Why?! Why, my dear lord?! Why would you take this fine young girl away from this earth?! She could have been saved! She could have listened to your divine word! She could have…”

The excessively dramatic speech was cut short when Stinger sneaked up behind Magnus and chopped his head off with one swing of his blade. The buffalo’s head rolled while the body shot blood out of its neck and fell to the ground with a loud thud. Stinger looked around at what he just did and raised his own fists to the skies to give out a barbaric war cry. “Hell yeah! That’s what I’m talking about! Now let’s see about getting back in that pool!”

After Stinger let out two casual laughs, his head exploded from his shoulders and his body dropped to the ground with blood leaking into the shit-infested reflecting pool. The whole time they were bickering, neither one of these three could pay any notice to the one person who could spell doom for these entire plains: Joseph Stone.

The hunter stood proudly over all three meaty animal corpses and nodded viciously before saying, “Yep! I’m going to be eating well tonight! Mmm-mmm-mmm!” He then started singing meaningless “doos” and “duns” to himself as he gathered pieces of the knocked over trees to build a bonfire. The blunderbuss he used to blow off Stinger’s head also had another creative feature attached to it: a flamethrower for barbecuing the meat that he loved so much.

Cooking the three corpses and eating them all took anywhere between three to four hours total. Joseph Stone’s appetite was that big. He sat on his ass with his flak vest open and his sauce-stained gut hanging down. He had dipping sauce, blood, and little shreds of meat hanging all around him for what was indeed a satisfying meal.

What wasn’t so satisfying was the fact that Joseph had a hard time sitting up. He could roll over and push himself off all he wanted to, but he was so glutinous that he was stuck on the ground. His heart rate began to accelerate and his skin was getting sweaty and cold. He crawled aimlessly with his sausage fingers over his boobed chest until he could crawl no more. That was when he accidentally plunged himself into the diarrhea pool and drowned while having a heart attack at the same time. To say that there were no winners in this battle for nothing was putting it mildly.

Atlas Venom

NAME: Atlas Venom
AGE: 53
OCCUPATION: Dragon Barbarian
CANON: Zeromancer (both incarnations)


It shouldn’t be a secret anymore that my favorite character class in any RPG setting is the barbarian. It’s been that way since I’ve played Hero Quest in the early 1990’s, Diablo II in the early 2000’s, and Dungeons & Dragons 3.5 Edition in 2010. I also happen to be a big fan of dragons. They’re big, they’re nasty, and they breathe fire. It wouldn’t matter if it was a real dragon or one in humanoid form, fuck it, I love them anyways.

What do you get when you combine a favorite class with a favorite race? You get Atlas Venom, Dragon Barbarian. He’s got the scales and fire breath of a dragon and the heavy metal armor and giant battleaxe of a barbarian. You talk about crossover heaven? That’s it, man. End of story. Atlas motherfucking Venom.

As you can tell from his canon, Zeromancer had two different incarnations. One of them was as a movie script in 2009, which served as a prequel to Tower of Heaven, Tower of Hell, and No Towers No Bullshit. Zeromancer explained the origins of the trench coat wearing and machete wielding magi assassins as well as those of the Demonic family bloodline.

But more importantly, it had Atlas Venom as a side character. He was everything you could ever want in a heroic ally: big, strong, powerful, and capable of mowing enemies down while creating a thunderstorm of blood around him. Of course, this was before I knew what a Gary-Stu was. Atlas was very much a Gary-Stu since he just appeared out of nowhere without a background story and only his fighting skills to lend to the party.

The other incarnation of Zeromancer was a four-act novel, each act containing a completely different set of characters only for them to come together in the fourth and final one. Atlas could have just as easily created a storm of blood with his battleaxe prowess and fiery breath. But since he was billed as the main villain of act one, if he did this, we’d have no characters. I often wondered what would have happened if Atlas just went nuts and flattened an entire continent full of people.

The heroes of act one were no slouches, don’t get me wrong. Kento Bladecaptain was a robotic knight who was just getting the hang of feeling emotions despite warnings against it from his dark magic masters Calco and Tazz. The two wizards were so pissed off with Kento that they actually aligned themselves with Atlas Venom.

So now we’ve got a pissed off dragon barbarian and two dark wizards who team up to kick the shit out of the good guys. If it wasn’t for the hyperbolic writing style I employed throughout this story, I could have had an epic confrontation here. Why would I ever think hyperbole was an acceptable writing style? Maybe in comedies, but not if I wanted to be taken seriously as an action-fantasy author.

If I ever decide to use this overly powerful Gary-Stu in my novels again, he’ll definitely be a villain and he’ll need some personality. It’s not enough for him to be a pissed off dragon barbarian who rages through entire planets and slaughters everyone in his path. He needs a reason. He needs strategies. He needs minions. If he was just a mindless berserker, he wouldn’t need to be called Atlas Venom. He could just be a nameless force of nature. But I don’t want that for Atlas. I want him to be a respectable villain.

For a villain of that power to be believable, we have to go back to his barbaric roots. I know I mentioned Hero Quest as one of my influences, but Diablo II was the biggest influence I had when it came to my love of barbarians. And Diablo II had a pain in the ass mega demon for a final boss: Diablo himself. This guy would shoot flame circles and streams of lightning at the players and kill them off instantly. He could do it forever and ever since enemies don’t have a mana pocket.

What made him even more dangerous was Diablo’s motivation: bringing evil to the world. The middle ages were already a tough time for a lot of people, but with Diablo at the helm, it’s nonstop hell. What if Atlas Venom had a similar motivation? What if his form of hellish evil was his barbarian tribe of disgustingly powerful monsters? He might even be able to steal a catchphrase: “Not even death can save you from me!” It’s not enough just to kill someone; Atlas has to send chills down their spine. He can do that if I give him the breathing room to.

One of the ways I made Atlas creepy in the second Zeromancer was by giving him the facial features of a clown. He was still a hideous dragon, but he had clown features as well with white face paint, a goofy nose, and colorful hair. As if clowns needed more reasons to be scary, right? Perhaps it was overkill. Perhaps it was me trying too hard to make him an intimidating villain. If I actually believed the latter, then that’s basically me surrendering to the idea that we can’t have dragon clown barbarians. I say we can. It’s possible if you picture it in your mind. Pennywise and Ronald McDonald would shit their pants at the sight of Atlas Venom if he adopted a clown gimmick. Ooo, talk dirty to me!

If I reincarnate Atlas Venom, I’m going to attempt to have my cake and eat it too. He fits every archetype I could ever love in a dark fantasy character, dragons, clowns, and barbarians aside. With this many archetypes, he could actually be a believable villain with the creepy dialogue and disgusting facial expressions. I believe in him!

　

***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

RESTAURANT MANAGER: Quit being a hero! You’re going to get us all killed! Give him what he wants so we can all get out of here!

JULES: Shut the fuck up, fat man! This ain’t none of your goddamn business!

-Pulp Fiction-

Corey Darkside

NAME: Corey Darkside
AGE: 35
OCCUPATION: Barbarian Gangster
CANON: Gangs of Kingston


Do you know very many barbarians named Corey? Even female ones; be honest. Can you picture someone with that given name charging at you with a big fucking battleaxe and splitting you like a log? If this was the year 2010 and I was still writing screenplays, then I would have made this a new trend. But in order for that trend to catch on, the movie script I write has to be successful, as in it has to be made into an actual, dee-dee-dee, movie! Port Orchard isn’t exactly a cinematic town and Hollywood is God knows how many miles away, so screenplays aren’t my best option. But a regular novel with a barbaric badass named Corey Darkside? That’s a little more workable.

Today’s criminal gangs aren’t known for being liberal-minded towards women. Politicians of the middle ages were even more sexist during their time in power. Combine these two elements and you have to wonder how a woman like Corey Darkside gets involved in a gang in the first place. She’s 6’5”, muscular, carries a giant battleaxe, and has a limited sex appeal. Needless to say, Corey would never be “sexed in”, not in a million years. And yet, she somehow became the faithful girlfriend of dwarf barbarian Edge Warbringer and the co-leader of his criminal empire. I know dwarves aren’t thought of as having high standards of beauty or charisma, so this relationship might actually work.

Edge and Corey were born for battle. If you don’t believe them, take a look at the mile high pile of dead bodies they leave behind. In the screenplay Gangs of Kingston, the streets are littered with corpses of gangsters and innocent people alike to where tripping over somebody’s bloody arm isn’t unheard of. The main character, an elf warrior named Jonah Jeriqee, had to side-wind past these big ass piles just to get something to drink at the pub. Going to the pub is a bad idea in and of itself since that’s where most of the violence happens. In fact, there’s not one square inch of Kingston that doesn’t reek of death, past, present, or future. You can thank Corey Darkside for at least part of that violence.

Would you believe it if I told you that Jonah Jeriqee actually survived an encounter with Corey? In Edge’s own underground mosh pit, no less! But how is that possible? Being an elf, Jonah is a skinny twig, so watching him swing a giant barbed club like he does looks ridiculous. Corey Darkside, on the other hand, looks more than comfortable when she swings her tower-sized battleaxe. There’s only one way to survive a battle with this war-torn beast of a woman: run. After a few cheap shots here and there, Jonah got out of there with his life, despite the fact that Corey is a faster runner than he is.

Trickery and stealth will not guarantee you a convincing victory, however, which is why Corey is still a threat to anybody she crosses. When she wins a battle, she fucking wins. Everyone else either barely survives by the skin of their teeth or gets ripped up like a piece of paper. It should make perfect sense that she be a high-profile villain in any story she’s a part of. She has the last name Darkside, for Christ’s sake! There’s no way an ultra-powerful warrior like this has any room for character development like a hero would. She’s like Deus Shadowheart with tits and a vagina: every fight with her has Deus Ex Machina implications.

The only way I could picture Corey Darkside as a believable hero would be if she was a professional wrestler. There were many large women before her who became successful with their size and god-like athleticism: Chyna, Awesome Kong, Beth Phoenix, Natalya, and Charlotte just to name a few. But if Corey is going to be a believable hero in the world of wrestling, she’s going to have to have a thick skin, especially if she gets a Most Overrated Wrestler award from the Wrestling Observer Newsletter. It may seem like a chump change award, but those awards are possible because the majority of wrestling fans vote for that shit. Size isn’t everything, but character is. Therefore, Corey is more likely to be a villainous barbarian gangster than a heroic professional wrestler. Well, I gave it a shot.

　

***WRESTLING JOKE OF THE DAY***

Q: What do you call a Samoan wrestler who eats cheap noodles?
A: Ramen Reigns.