Butch Coolidge from Pulp Fiction vs. The Quartering: Happy Belated Pride Month!

 

Imane Khelif vs. Melania Trump: No, That's Not a Boxing Match, Unfortunately

 

Molly Carlson vs. Mike Tyson

 

Subway Smackdown

The damage to Venice Reyes’ car was sickening: side view mirrors shattered into pebbles, the windshield reduced to snowflakes, the metal twisted and bent, the tires punctured, and the top of the car caved in completely. What other method of transportation was there to get her to her next modeling gig? As she thought of the ultimate answer, her stomach burned with anxiety and her skin welled up with goose bumps. She had to take the subway train. She threw up in her mouth a little bit at the thought of it.

Venice boarded the train wearing a red cocktail dress and black heels, obviously dressing for the job she had. She wasn’t onboard for a few seconds when the stench finally assaulted her nostrils: monstrous body odor, stale food, vomit, urine, and shit. The sexy model contributed to this mess when she doubled over and threw up bile on the already disgusting floor.

The monsters, orcs, ogres, and goblins riding the train with her laughed like hyenas with sore throats. Venice gave them all a frightened smile as she grabbed onto one of the overhead hand railings, struggling to keep herself standing straight. The subway train lurched forward and the model fell right on her ass into the puddle she puked up. The slimy skinned and diaper odor monsters laughed yet again at her plight, this time causing her to shed a few silent tears.

Venice once again grabbed hold of the railing and managed to stay up this time. Her dress was a disaster. How was she supposed to do a convincing photo shoot with her clothes in such horrible condition? She needed the money, smashed car aside. If only she could have caught the bastard who did that to her vehicle. Venice was a lover, not a fighter, but even she would have been capable of reducing a punk ass vandal to blood chunks if given the opportunity. Damn that vandal and damn this subway!

After a few minutes of being lost in her own thoughts, she was accosted by a throaty laugh behind her. She begged whatever god was up there that the monster wasn’t interested in her. She slowly turned around with tears in her eyes and snot in her nose to see a seven foot tall piece of bloody meat named Khan Shou, a famous boxer she had seen on television a few times when there was nothing else on.

Television didn’t do Khan justice. Venice looked like a small child standing next to him. His shark-toothed grin sent chills up her spine. His swollen red body was dripping with green slime. Venice secretly begged for this subway ride to be over, but it was just beginning.

“You must be Venice Reyes. Yeah, you’re definitely her! I’m a big fan of your work!” said Khan as he held out a magazine with her on the cover. The publication was covered in red and green goops as well as goop from a more intimate place. “Will you give me an autograph? I’ll pay you whatever you want: fifty credits, a hundred credits, two-hundred credits, hell, I’ll give you my life savings if you’re willing to do a little more for me!” Khan licked his lipless mouth with a combination of hunger and lust.

The model stared at her monstrous assailant with wide eyes, a quivering body, and a terrified smile as she held up her hands defensively and slowly backed away, obviously giving a no answer. As she backpedaled, she tripped over a homeless orc’s legs, prompting the passengers to laugh at her some more and prompting the orc to yell, “Watch it, bitch!”

Venice gently and apologetically giggled at the orc before standing up and stumbling toward the women’s bathroom, slamming the door and locking it tightly. Compared to the outside of the bathroom, this tiny stall smelled like a botanical garden. Venice used this opportunity to take deep breaths in and out and enjoy the beautiful air. She sat down on the toilet shaking and clutching her knees to her chest, still feeling the trauma of riding this subway.

Khan ripped the door off the bathroom and tossed it aside like it was a piece of paper, not caring who he hit with it. Venice screamed in horror as the seven foot creature said to her, “It’s not exactly the mile-high club. More like the six-feet under club. Either way, I’m a happy guy. Come on, pretty girl, what do you say? Are you ready for some goddamn fun?!”

“Hey, shit head!” yelled the homeless orc from before, who was now sporting a giant lump on his forehead. “Watch where you’re throwing that fucking door! You almost gave me a concussion, asshole!”

“Who are you calling an asshole, you queer?!” yelled Khan as he and the orc were pushing and shoving each other with the subway passengers cheering them on like animals.

Venice had spent most of the time covering her face in fear until she saw an opportunity. While Khan was distracted, the model got on her knees and crawled beneath the monster’s oversized legs. She then stood back up and ran towards the back exit of the subway. As Khan yelled for her to get back to where he was, Venice didn’t care if the subway was still in transit. Her modeling gig was over the minute she boarded this god-awful train.

She continued to run until she jumped through the back window and landed on the train tracks. The subway train left her behind while she was lying on the tracks covered in glass and blood. Venice was slipping in and out of consciousness while crying softly to herself. She may have gotten to safety, but that didn’t mean her troubles were over. She needed money in the most desperate way. She needed to buy a new car, get a new apartment, and get food in her stomach. She was sure to be late to her modeling gig, not that she was in any condition to be there anyways.

After what seemed like centuries of lying on the train tracks, Venice Reyes slowly picked herself off the ground, pieces of subway glass getting imbedded into her once lovely hands and knees. When she stood, she was on wobbly legs. When she walked, she struggled to stay upright.

“You look like you just had the world’s greatest orgy!” said a familiar throaty voice behind her. Venice silently said, “Oh no!” to herself over and over again as she turned around and saw Khan Shou smiling at her from a short distance. The hideous circus freak thudded and thumped on the train tracks as he stalked his sexual prey, licking his lips like he was about to eat a slab of prime rib.

Venice started running down the tunnel despite wearing heels and despite being in bloody pain. In her mind, she was running faster than a cheetah bolting through the African plains. She looked like a bolt of lightning flashing through the sky. She was a blur to the naked eye. She could see the boarding platform and it looked like the gates of heaven with the light shining down upon it. With one mighty leap, she grabbed hold of the edge and attempted to pull herself to safety.

And then she felt the chokingly tight grip of Khan Shou’s monstrous paws clutching her ankle. Venice screamed at her highest pitch, but nobody was around to hear her, not even the transit cops. She pulled her leg as hard as she could, but her diminutive strength was no match for the vice-like grip of the hellacious ring warrior, who whispered at her sexually and clicked his tongue.

So this was what the life of a famous sex icon was like in a dystopian world. Even in a normal world, Venice would have been treated like a sex slave to the public. Was putting her body out there really worth all of this unwanted attention? Of course not, which was why she took off the high heeled shoe on her good leg and jammed the stiletto in Khan’s left eye.

For a guy who was a brutal ring warrior, Khan showed a childlike lack of toughness when he danced around clutching his smashed eyeball. He screamed and bled all over the train tracks before finally removing the hell with brute force and staring a hole through Venice, who was crab-walking her way toward the platform exit.

Khan Shou growled like a grizzly bear when he said, “I’m going to snap off your arms and legs like the Barbie doll you are! I’m going to chew your brains like a giant wad of fucking bubblegum! I’m going to drink your blood like a bottle of Coors Light! I’m going to…” His lovely oratory was interrupted by a speeding subway train that splattered him all over the platform like a rotten tomato. He smelled just as bad as one too.

Venice laid backwards and breathed deep sighs of relief. The subway ride was over, Khan Shou was a dead man, and Venice Reyes was safe from male perversion. The only question now was, what would she do for money now that her modeling gig was a bust? She didn’t dwell on that too much. She instead closed her eyes and drifted off into a haunted sleep. There were other modeling gigs for someone as beautiful as her. Just a few more photo shoots and she could afford to move onto something else. Maybe she could also afford a therapist. 

Anybody Can Lose One Time

***ANYBODY CAN LOSE ONE TIME***

The title of this journal is a line ripped from the movie “Million Dollar Baby”. The line is used by Morgan Freeman’s character to comfort a welterweight boxer who was thinking of quitting the sport after losing a bitter fight. It took a while, but the boxer eventually came around and continued his career under Morgan Freeman’s tutelage. It’s true for every aspect of life: anybody can lose one time.

To think you can go undefeated in whatever you’re doing for the rest of your life is unrealistic. Without failure, there is no success. Some failures hit harder than others, but none of them are incentives to quit. Failure comes in many forms and is a universal trait among any profession. Here are some examples:

　

Ronda Rousey was the most touted fighter in the UFC, not just as a female, not just as a bantamweight, but as a fighter in general. She was undefeated with twelve victories, many post-fight bonuses, and two championships under her belt. With the exception of her second bout with bitter rival Miesha Tate, all of her twelve victories were achieved in the first round, mostly by arm bar submission. And then came a feared striker named Holly Holm who kicked Ronda in the head and punched her repeatedly until she lost consciousness. That would mark the end of Ronda’s championship reign and the first loss of her career. Anybody can lose one time.

Rusev was the most dominant wrecking machine the WWE had ever seen in the year 2014. He went through the entire year without suffering a single pin fall or submission loss. In December of that year, he defeated Sheamus on the WWE Network for his first major championship: the United States Title. The Wrestling Observer Newsletter showed lots of love for Rusev in 2014 by giving him the Most Improved and Best Gimmick (Russian nationalist) awards. And then Rusev had to defend his championship against John Cena at Wrestlemania 31 in 2015. He lost. Badly. Rusev then went on to be part of a humiliating love square storyline that involved his manager Lana, Dolph Ziggler, and Summer Rae. Don’t feel too badly for him, though. He’s now part of a four-man international team of wrestlers called The League of Nations, which also includes Alberto Del Rio (Mexico), King Barrett (England), and Sheamus (Ireland). Anybody can lose one time.

I’m not going to bore you all with another sob story about how I got two-star ratings on Occupy Wrestling and American Darkness. I’d like to go further back in time than that. Before I became the accomplished independent author that I am today, I had to learn about the art of writing and the importance of reading at Western Washington University. I’ve had teachers at Olympic College beforehand praise my writing as the best they’d ever seen. Not the case at WWU. I thought I could blitz through all of my English classes with A’s and B’s forever. Well, by the time I graduated from that school, I did get a lot of A’s and B’s. But I also accumulated four C’s. C’s might not seem like a big deal to most people, but those four C’s hurt me badly and left me angry. My ego had taken a Holly Holm kick to the skull. Though I still get seen as a C student by my peers in today’s world, I know that my hard work will get me to the top one day. Anybody can lose one time.

　

But sometimes one loss isn’t enough. Sometimes you have to have five losses. Six. Seven. Twenty. Fifty. A hundred. Life is not about if you lose the big one; it’s about when. And when that time happens, what will you do? Will you continue to wallow in your sadness or will you pick yourself off the ground, dust yourself off, lock and load, and storm the gates of hell? In the end, it doesn’t matter how hard your failures hit or how close to the end of your life it feels. Your journey doesn’t end until you say it does. Don’t give up. Pick up your battleaxe and swing like a motherfucker. We’ve got ears, say cheers!

　

***POISON TONGUE TALES***

I just submitted a story called “Mastodon”, which marks the 49^th story in the Poison Tongue Tales catalogue. If my math is correct, which it usually is, that means I have one more story to write before I hit my fifty story quota, thus ending the series and getting it ready for Marie Krepps’ lovely eyes and switchblade tongue. The 50^th and final story will be called “Shadow-Pie”, an animal fantasy dedicated to the memory of an elderly black Australian Shepherd dog I used to have back in the mid-2000’s. Here’s the synopsis for that story:

　

CHARACTERS:

　

Lance Bradley, Pawl Bearer
Shadow, Elderly Dog Shaman

　

PROMPT CONFORMITY: N/A

　

SYNOPSIS: Lance takes the ashes of his dead father to Shadow in hopes she will spread them across the desert. In the middle of the ritual, the spirit of Lance’s father possesses Shadow’s mind and causes the dog to attack the forlorn son.

　

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

The short story “Zombie” has certainly seen its fair share of gory goodness and foul language. What it needs now is some drawings of the main characters. Gail Reinhold already has a picture drawn since she used to be part of a novel called “Fireball Nightmare” and a videogame idea called “Final Fantasy Hardcore”. I’m not even going to bother with Deacon Simms since he’s too normal to be a Dark Fantasy Warrior. That just leaves one more character: combat drug zombie Mattie Dent, who used to be part of a longer short story called “Garden of Evil”. Mattie is muscular, defiant, rude, and butt ugly. Most importantly, she’s going to be a lot of fun to draw.

　

***POLITICAL QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“It is no more okay to ask a transgender person about their genitals than it is to ask Jimmy Carter if he’s circumcised, which by the way he is. Smooth as a boiled carrot!”

-John Oliver-